Page 19 of Massacre
Amber
The sun was barely peeking through the curtains when I opened my eyes to find him sitting in the corner with a glass of whiskey in his hand. A half empty bottle of Hell’s Breath next to him.
Dante was right.
We did look alike.
From the moment he arrived at the clubhouse, he was kind to me. Treated me differently, almost as if he cared. I thought he was my friend. But seeing him now felt as if we were strangers. That I never really knew him at all.
He wasn’t like the other brothers. He rarely talked, but when he did, people listened. He avoided drama, preferring solitude to companionship almost as if he couldn’t stand to be around anyone. Like the pain was too much for him to bear.
There was a heaviness in the air, as if every unspoken word and every memory weighed him down. I watched him in the dim light, the golden liquid catching stray slivers of sun, and wondered if he even knew the truth, or was he like her and kept the truth from me too? The silence stretched, brittle and sharp, until at last he shifted in his seat, his gaze fixed on the swirling amber in his glass rather than on me.
I wanted to ask him what happened—what changed to turn the warmth in his eyes to this cold, quiet distance. But the words caught in my throat, too fragile to survive the weight of his pain. Instead, I sat up and pulled my blanket tighter around myshoulders and listened to the soft, rhythmic ticking of the old clock on the wall.
He cleared his throat, voice rough from either sleep or the whiskey. “You should try to get more rest,” he muttered, still not looking at me.
“You knew, didn’t you?” I whispered, my voice unsteady, unsure I wanted him to answer. “That’s why you stayed. Because of me?”
He slowly nodded. “Yes.”
“Why didn’t you tell me?”
“Because nothing I said would have made a difference. I wasn’t there for you. I didn’t protect you. I failed you.”
He set his glass down, the clink echoing between us like a punctuation mark. His hands, usually so steady, trembled as he pressed them to his knees. For a heartbeat, I thought he might stand, might walk out and leave me in the silence with only my unanswered questions for company. But he stayed, the weight of old regrets anchoring him to the battered chair.
The shadows crept along the wooden floor, stretching and shifting as the sun rose higher. I could hear the distant hum of motorcycles, the world outside moving on, uncaring. Inside, time seemed to slow, every second stretched thin over the ache of what couldn’t be spoken.
“You can’t fail what you didn’t know.”
He smirked at that.
“When I learned you existed and what your life was like, I left everything behind to find you. I just wanted to see you, to get to know you. As time passed, I realized you were happy here. I didn’t want to disrupt that. I didn’t want to cause you anymore pain,” he said finally, each word thick with sorrow. “I don’t know what to say here, Amber. Tell me what to say and I will.”
For a long moment, the only sound was the faint ticking of the clock on the wall and the uneven rhythm of our breath. Isearched his face, hoping for a sign—anything that might make sense of the ache clinging to my ribs. He looked older than I remembered, the lines at his eyes deeper, the stubborn set of his jaw crumbling under the weight of his confession.
I swallowed, my words sharp on my tongue. “I’m not angry at you,” I said, and the truth of it startled us both. “I just... I wish I’d known sooner.”
His shoulders sagged, relief warring with regret. “Me too, sweetheart. Every day.”
Somewhere outside, a bird sang—a thin thread of hope weaving through the stale air. He ran a hand through his hair, fingers catching the silver at his temples. “I can’t change the past, Amber. But I’m here now, if you’ll let me.”
I nodded, not trusting myself to speak, as a lone tear rolled down my cheek. With that gesture, something loosened inside me, fragile and uncertain. The silence that grew between us was different now, threaded with possibility instead of loss. He got up and walked over to my bed and sat, his hand hovering for a moment before settling palm-up, an invitation I wasn’t sure I could accept but didn’t want to refuse.
I stared at his peace offering and before I could think, I threw my arms around his neck, hugging him, and cried as my real dad held me. In his arms, years of pain seemed to wash away, replaced with warmth and joy. It was an odd feeling, one my soul craved and desperately needed. I barely knew this man and yet, I felt as if I’d known him my whole life. There was a comforting solitude in his silence as he held me in his arms while I cried. Not for the life I endured, but for the life I was denied.
After a while, my tears slowed, tapering off into quiet hiccups and shuddering breaths. He didn’t speak, didn’t loosen his embrace; he just let the moment unfold, patient as stone. The room felt lighter now; the air no longer pressed down tight against my chest. I pulled back, embarrassed by the wet patchleft on his shirt, but he smiled, the kind of smile that softened decades and made the room feel safer.
“We can go slow,” he said gently, as if he’d read my mind. “There’s no rush. I’ll be here, however you need.”
I nodded again, this time with more certainty. The ache in my chest had changed shape—not gone, but transformed, like a bruise turning from purple to yellow, sore but healing. For the first time, I believed that maybe healing was possible, that the years ahead might hold something worth hoping for.
The morning light spilled across the floorboards, golden and forgiving. Outside, the world spun on, indifferent, but within these four walls, something fragile had begun to mend. I tucked a strand of hair behind my ear and managed a shaky laugh. “I guess we’ll have to get to know each other, then.”
He grinned, hope flickering in his eyes. “I’d like that, Amber. I’d like that very much.”
There was a tentative knock at the door before it slowly opened, and Dante peeked his head in. “Mind if I come in?”
