Who was she?
Coming to a stop by the lake, she looked up at the sky, hoping for an answer she knew wasn’t coming.
Someone came to stand by her side.
Amara turned her face, slightly surprised to see Tristan standing there, looking up at the stars too. This was another new development. For some reason, after the incident, he’d just become more present in her life. He never spoke to her, not much, but he was always there in the periphery, lingering, letting her know he was there.
And he never stared at her.
Amara looked at him, wondering how he did it. She had heard of his screams over the years from the staff. Sheknew he had scars of his own, and she wondered how he lived like this with all the memories in his head.
“How do you do it?” she voiced the question to him, hating the way her sound didn’t even come out properly. “How do you forget?”
He was silent for a beat, his eyes on the stars. “You don’t.”
Amara swallowed, looking back up at the sky.
“You need to find something or someone to live for,” he spoke quietly beside her, his tone the same gentle one he always used with her. “Something or someone who makes you want to push through all the shit the world will throw at you.”
Amara paused for a beat, considering his words. “You have someone you live for?”
“Yeah.”
With that, Tristan turned and left her alone, mulling over his advice. He was right. That’s what she was missing – something to live for, something that was just hers.
Inhaling the crisp, fresh air of the night, she shook off her morose thoughts and headed back towards the staff quarters which were mostly empty since everyone was at the party.
Dante’s dark house made her pause.
Even though he had become a constant in her life, she had never actually been inside his house. The closest had been years ago when she’d brought him cookies early in the morning and he had answered the door in all his shirtless glory. God, she’d been a fool for him then.
She was still a fool for him, just a more traumatized fool.
Curious, Amara looked around her to see no one was around and climbed the steps to his door. Her hand went on the knob and for the first time in a long time, she felt a thrill shoot up her spine. Checking one final time to see if anyone saw her, she turned the knob and sneaked into the darkened house, quietly shutting the door behind her.
She probably shouldn’t be invading his privacy like she was, but her curiosity overrode her common sense. There was just one light turned on in the kitchen area, and Amara looked around, seeing the space in its entirety.
The kitchen was about the size of her living room, with wooden panels and granite countertops, the island some kind of stone with four stools on one side. There was also a small dining table for four people off to the side before the backdoor. Though clean, the place looked cozy, lived in.
Inquisitive, she walked deeper into the house guided by the single light, coming to a stop at the stairs. Pausing briefly, telling herself everyone was at the party, Amara ascended quietly, her eyes exploring on the way. There were two rooms on the floor, both with their doors shut, and knowing one of them was his bedroom, Amara stayed clear, not wanting to invade his privacy to that extent.
A small set of stairs to the side went higher up to an open space she couldn’t see.
She climbed up, letting her eyes adjust to the dark the higher she went.
It smelled different in there – like wet earth and wax. It was quite pleasant actually.
Running her hands up the wall, she came to a switch and flicked the light on, turning to face the room.
And froze.
Sculptures, dozens of them, littered the area.
Amara felt her eyes widen as the surprise hit her, her gaze taking in everything in the room. There was a workbench with tools, and a window, and nothing but sculptures. So many sculptures – some finished, some half-done, some with a plastic sheet over them. There was everything from small vases to busts to two full-blown statues, all varying in degrees of skill.
Dazed, she walked forward towards one of the busts, a woman with a half-finished face, taking in the rough textures over the skin that had yet to be polished. She raised her hand to touch it, to feel what it felt like when suddenly, she became aware that she wasn’t alone.
Spinning on spot, her eyes flew to the entrance to see Dante Maroni leaning casually against the doorjamb with his hands in his pant pockets, still dressed in the beautiful tux he’d worn for the party, his hair swiped back from his face, pushing his cheekbones and jawline into sharp relief, his dark eyes on her.
Amara swallowed, her heart pounding as a flush covered her face. She almost opened her mouth to speak before biting her tongue, remembering she couldn’t let him hear her voice. Eyes to the floor, she rushed towards the exit, hoping to simply get out. She expected him to step to the side so she could pass, as he had done countless times before.
He didn’t. He stayed exactly as he was, forcing her to stop or barrel into him.
Amara felt her blood rushing to her ears, her chest starting to heave as her breathing escalated.
“Look at me,” came the soft command from above her.
Amara closed her eyes for a second, before giving him her eyes, to find him watching her with an intensity that had become harder and harder to ignore as the weeks went by. He looked at her like that more often, like a condemned soul being offered salvation, like a blind man seeing the sun. That look always flared in his eyes before he caged it in. Usually, he was charming and easy-going with everyone else that she saw him interacting with, but with her, there was that intensity she never saw him have with anyone else either. Just with her. And every time she felt his eyes on her, she knew the look she’d find in them.
“Are you scared?” he asked her, his voice rough, his words rolling over her in the quiet of the room.
No, she wasn’t scared. She was hungry for something she shouldn’t be.
Amara shook her head.
He straightened, taking a step closer to her, close enough that she could feel dwarfed in his presence. Amara loved that about him, that he was the only man she knew who could make her feel so small, so protected.
She watched as he slowly raised his hand, slow enough that she could stop him if she wanted, and hooked his index finger in her scarf, tugging it down her neck.
The skin underneath exposed.
Her breasts heaved.
Heart hammering inside her chest, Amara fisted the sides of her dress to keep her hands from doing anything they shouldn’t. She watched him, his dark eyes never wavering from hers even as he exposed her scar to the light in the room, the scar she always hid from everyone.
His gaze never flickered down to it, their eyes locked on each other as he touched the skin with his index finger.
A soft, barely-there touch.
It seared her, from the point of his finger to her flesh, burning and not in a way that was painful. No. It was decadent, like the warmest of fires that seeped into her cold soul, kindling her chilled bones, warming her from the inside out.
His dark eyes, still the most beautiful she had ever seen, focused on her own as he deliberately brushed her scar again, almost as though he was learning its texture.
A small shiver went down her spine, raising goosebumps on her arms and making her breasts feel heavy for the first time with such wild arousal. It was a heady sensation – almost enough to want to make her close her eyes and luxuriate in the feel of the body she usually hated so much.