The Emperor (Dark Verse 3)

She couldn’t move.

Amara blinked her eyes open to an unfamiliar room, déjà-vu hitting her hard, as her heartbeat escalated in panic. The sudden sound of beeping had her looking to the side, to see some kind of monitor with wires, the kind that she’d seen in movies.

Hospital.

She was in the hospital.

Memories assaulted her and she took a deep breath, pushing them back into a vault.

Not now. Not now. Not now. 

“Mumu?”

The voice had her eyes flying to see her mother at the door, her eyes wet and swollen, and Amara felt a noise leave her chest. Her mother ran to her, careful of the tubes going in her body, and hugged her tight to her chest, petting her hair like she always did.

Amara broke.

Wailing, her body remembering the pain and her mind remembering the moment it splintered, Amara sobbed as her mother held her, gentling her with kisses to her head, murmuring soft words to her that didn’t make any sense. They didn’t have to. Her mother was there and Amara was safe and loved and that was all that mattered. She could feel her mother crying with her and it was that which made her pull back to really see her. Her green eyes were shimmering with pain for her daughter, her mouth still in a gentle line, her ma looked exhausted and heartbroken and so, so loving.

Amara took a deep breath as her mother wiped her tears with her hand.

“We’ll get through this, Mumu,” her mother told her gently.

She opened her mouth to speak when a throat cleared from the door and a woman her mother’s age, clearly the doctor, entered the room.

“I’m glad to see you’re awake, Amara,” the doctor gave her a gentle smile. “How are you feeling?”

Amara started to speak when the doctor shook her head. “No, don’t speak yet. Just nod or shake your head, okay?”

She felt her mother squeeze her hand. Confused, Amara agreed.

“Do you know what day it is?” the doctor asked.

Amara shook her head.

“It’s January 6th,” the lady informed her.

Amara’s mind went reeling. Her last memory before her abduction had been in December. How? Her confusion must have been evident on her face as the doctor spoke again. “You were taken for over three days. And you’ve been here for two weeks under an induced coma.”

Shock filtered through her system.

“Your body was severely traumatized and needed to begin its healing process,” the doctor went on. “We felt under the circumstances, it would be best for both your mind and body to rest for a bit.”

Amara grit her teeth, processing everything she was being told.

“Your mother mentioned you’ve always had a low pain threshold?”

Amara nodded. She had never realized how low of a threshold it had been until the monsters had her.

The doctor continued with sympathy in her eyes. “That is probably why some of your injuries had such severe reactions. I’m sorry for everything you went through, Amara. But there is more I need to tell you. Is it alright if I continue?”

Amara liked the fact that the doctor asked her the question, giving her a choice. She looked at her mother, sitting strong beside her, and gave the doctor a nod.

“You have some acid burns and cuts on your back, sides, and feet that will more than likely scar,” the doctor went on. “The worst of the scarring will be over your wrists. The good news is that they’re all healing very well. You can have cosmetic surgery down the line to minimize them if you want.”

Amara looked down at her wrists and feet, wrapped in white gauze. She was probably on pain killers since she couldn’t feel anything more than a twinge.

“Amara?” the doctor called, calling her attention back to herself, her eyes even more sympathetic. “You cannot use your voice for at least the next month. Your screaming severely damaged your vocal cords, to the point we had to do surgery. It happens in extremely rare cases but I feel your low pain threshold resulted in that.”

Amara swallowed, panic filling her again as she squeezed her mother’s hand.

“It’s okay, baby,” her mother comforted from the side, her tone telling her she already knew all of this.

She opened her mouth and closed it again.

“You’ll be able to speak again once it’s all healed, don’t worry,” the doctor reassured her. “But it is more than likely that your pitch range will be limited.”

Amara took a deep breath, taking it all in.

The doctor continued. “We also tested you for sexual assault and filed a report, as we have to in cases like this. Police will want to talk to you once you’re ready. But no one outside your mother knows here. Do you want me to inform anyone else?”

No. No, she absolutely didn’t want anyone to know. The shame curled inside her like a snake, and she shook her head vigorously.

The doctor gave a small smile in understanding. “Okay. But I recommend you talk to a therapist about everything. Your body will heal but your mind needs to as well. You’ve been through something traumatic and therapy can genuinely help you. I’ll leave the contact information for someone who specializes in such cases with your mother. Would you consider that?”

She didn’t know, but she nodded nonetheless. The doctor gave her a soft smile and told her to rest, before leaving her with her mother.

She wondered if her mother had reached out to her father about any of it.

Her mother pushed her hair back from her face in a gesture Amara knew in her bones.

“There were a few people here to see you. Vin was outside too,” her mother told her softly. “Do you want me to tell him anything?”

He would already carry the guilt of the incident on his shoulders. He didn’t need to know she’d been violated as well. She shook her head.

Her mother smiled. “I’ll send him in when he’s back, and then you rest, okay?”

She nodded.

“Don’t lose your heart, my baby,” her mother told her, and Amara felt her eyes burn as the meaning of the words finally dawned upon her.

When the door opened a few minutes later, Amara turned her head expecting to see her friend, and instead found a somber, deadly boy with blue eyes standing there, the boy who had saved her. Tristan.

Swallowing, she watched as he entered the room, closing the door behind him, and went to the wall opposite her, maybe to make her feel not crowded. He should have known that after everything he had done for her, she trusted him with her life.

He was dressed in a simple black t-shirt and jeans and as he leaned against the wall, he pushed his hands into the pockets, his eyes considering her quietly.

She wanted to thank him – for coming to look for her, for finding her, for covering her with the jacket off his back, for getting her to safety. She wanted to say so many things to him but couldn’t, so she simply gave him a little smile.

He watched the smile for a moment before speaking, his tone still as gentle as it had been when he found her. “Have the doctors told you what happened?”

That was the most words she’d heard from him. Amara nodded.

“Your mother knows everything?”

She nodded again.

“Are they treating you okay?”

The hospital, he meant. It was almost sweet of him to ask. Amara mutely said yes.

“Good,” he pushed off from the wall, heading to the door.

Amara must have made some kind of noise because he paused with his hand on the knob, and looked at her. She didn’t want anyone to know everything besides her mother. He knew and she pleaded with him silently to reassure her that he’d keep it between them.

“I won’t tell anyone,” he told her softly, before walking out the door.

She trusted that. If he said he would keep her secret, it would go to the grave with him. 

Vin had come into her room after her Tristan left, a bandage on his cheek where he’d been cut, and Amara had tried to smile for him. And for the first time, she’d seen her friend break down at her feet, hiccupping ‘I’m sorry’ over and over.

Amara had wanted to tell him it wasn’t his fault, that he had nothing to be sorry about, but had simply settled for squeezing his hand until he had calmed down and told her she was going to heal if it killed him.

She’d almost smiled at that.

Now, alone in the room since visiting hours were over, Amara stared up at the ceiling and tried not to let memories penetrate her mind. It was hard. So hard. She felt filthy, like her skin wasn’t her own anymore, like the guilt and pain and shame she felt for something that wasn’t her fault would never leave her alone. It was hard to ignore the memories, but she tried. Maybe, the doctor was right. Maybe talking to a therapist could help her keep the demons at bay.

The door to the room opened, and Amara kept staring up, waiting for the medication to lull her back to sleep. It was probably just the nurse coming in to check her vitals as she’d been coming every two hours. After a long minute, when she didn’t hear anything, Amara turned her head to the side.

And felt her heart stop.

Dante Maroni sat on the chair in the room, looking absolutely wrecked. His tie was askew, his shirt crushed, his hair in disarray, and his eyes wild. Her breath caught in her chest. She’d never seen him look like this before.

Her heart started to pound and the monitor beeped, matching its rhythm, embarrassingly telling both of them that she was affected by his presence. She didn’t want him to see her like this, not lying in a hospital bed, wounded and broken and not herself. She didn’t even know who ‘herself’ was anymore. It was probably a good thing she couldn’t talk at the moment. She wouldn’t know what to say. Memories of him over the years threaded with the memories of questions she’d been asked about him, over and over again, questions she had refused to answer.

Him kissing the pink-haired girl – does he have anyone that could be used against him?

Him burying her dead body – should we tell him his little girlfriend is here?

Him standing shirtless early morning at his door – does he talk any business with you?

Him holding her arms, asking her what was wrong – does Dante Maroni have a weakness?

Memories after memories, linking, shifting, changing.

Amara focused on his gaze, trying to root herself in the room so she wouldn’t lose herself in her head.

The storm in his eyes focused on her – not her bandages, not her neck, but on her eyes.

She didn’t know what he was trying to find inside her, what he was seeing in that moment. Her own storm, perhaps. She was a heartbeat away from dispersing into the thin air, pieces of her lost forever on the winds.

“They’re dead.”

His voice jerked her back to the moment.

The words penetrated the space between them.

They were dead.

They. Were. Dead.

Gone.

She didn’t know how. She didn’t know when. She didn’t care.

They had paid.

Her vision blurred.

Something raw, visceral trapped itself in her chest.

They had paid.

Her breathing escalated, lips trembling with a scream lodged in her damaged throat. She wanted to howl in agony, in vindication, so loud everyone in the world would hear her.

They. Had. Paid.

Her hands started to shake.

He saw it. He saw it and stood up swiftly from the chair, coming to her in three strides. Going down on his haunches, he took her small, gauze-wrapped hand in his larger one, holding her eyes with an intensity she had never felt in her life.

He looked at her hands, tracing the bandages, then at her feet wrapped in the same, before bringing those dark, dark eyes back to her.

“You’re not going to walk through life, Amara,” he uttered roughly, each word a vow that cemented itself in her heart. “You’ll dance through it. And I’ll fucking remove anyone who tries to break your rhythm. I promise you.”

Amara felt a tear slip out the side of her eye, his words seeping into her soul, wrapping around her in a fierce, warm, protective cocoon. She didn’t know why he was there, or why he had felt the need to vindicate her, or why she was important enough for him to make that promise, or why he had come to tell her that himself, but in that moment, she was just a girl and he was just a boy, and somehow, their broken pieces matched.