Page 119 of I Will Mend You

“Go ahead,” I reply, taking my eyes from the screens.

“Is Amethyst live on social media right now?”

I glance toward the bathroom door, hearing running water. “Why do you ask?”

“Then it’s Dolly. She’s cloned Amethyst’s profile and is live streaming a murder confession.”

SIXTY

AMETHYST

I enter the bathroom, feeling like I’m walking on clouds. It’s a bright space with white countertops, matching tiles, and a large glass enclosure for the shower.

Another of my abusers is dead. Somehow, I don’t think my mind will resurrect him as a hallucination. He’s too insignificant, and I needed to spill his blood. Good fucking riddance.

All four crew members who helped in the force feeding are dead, as is Grunt. Xero would have mentioned if he’d captured Delta or Dolly. I make a mental note to ask him about Barrett, Seth, and Locke.

A figure moves in my periphery, making me flinch, even though it’s my own reflection. I turn to look at myself, and my stomach lurches.

This spectrophobia doesn’t make sense. It’s Dolly I fear, not myself, yet my brain hasn’t caught up to the fact that I have an identical twin.

With a sigh, I peel off my blood-soaked clothes and place them in the laundry basket before stepping into the shower. Thebandages on my limbs are now replaced by waterproof bandaids over the deeper cuts which split open during my struggles.

The hot spray hits my skin with a satisfying sting, washing away Proctor’s stench. I turn all the knobs, increasing the pressure until the water hits my flesh like a hundred tiny fists.

What I wouldn’t give for Xero to appear behind me and wrap his strong arms around my waist. I want to feel his warm breath on my neck, and his hard body press into my back. His large hands would wash away the stains of my past, and he would reassure me in his deep, soothing voice, that everything will be alright.

That’s not going to happen. I have more lines scored into my body than a map of the New Alderney subway, and more trauma than a demolition site. Killing my enemies might give me a measure of satisfaction, but I’m damaged beyond repair.

I reach for the shampoo and work it into my hair with vigorous strokes, trying to scrub away the smell of blood and fear. The lather drips down my face, stinging my eyes, but I barely feel it over the sting in my heart. I rinse and repeat, watching the frothy white bubbles swirl down the drain with the faintest tinge of pink.

A knock sounds on the door. I freeze, my heart stuttering. Ice water sluices through my veins, negating the heat of the hot shower.

He can’t see me like this.

“Amethyst?” Xero’s voice filters through the door.

Squeezing my eyes shut, I suck in deep, frantic breaths, trying to slow down my racing heart. I’ll lose him if he discovers the mess they’ve made of my body. He’ll turn away from me, disgusted. Xero already knows about me and his father. Now that I’ve confirmed that, he might be thinking about sending me away. Seeing me disfigured might be the last straw. My chest tightens with every exhale, fueling my mounting panic.

“Are you alright, little ghost?” he asks, the words laced with concern.

“I’m fine,” I call back, my voice rising several octaves. With trembling fingers, I twist the knobs, cut off the hot spray, and grab a robe.

Rushing to the door on legs as brittle as twigs, I pull the robe around my body and fasten it tight. My fingers pause over the handle. I force in another breath and gather my composure before pulling it open.

He stands on the other side, a towering figure commanding every molecule of my attention. His piercing pale eyes lock onto mine, as if trying to unravel the emotions I struggle to conceal.

Forcing a smile, I ask, “What’s up?”

“Let’s dry your hair.” Eyes softening, he steps forward, and I skitter to the side.

Ignoring my jumpiness, he strides past, reaches beneath the bathroom counter, and pulls out a stool. “Sit.”

The soft authority in his voice has me lowering myself on the seat. I dip my head as he drapes a soft towel over my shoulders and works another through my unruly wet curls. His touch is feather-light, barely grazing my scalp, and an oddly comforting balm over my frazzled nerves.

My cheeks heat as I think about the last time he dried my hair, when he fucked my mouth and came down my throat. Shivers run down my spine, and I shift uncomfortably on my seat.

“You’re trembling,” he murmurs.

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