Touching Eternity (Touch Series 1.5) (14 page)

With a single, fluid motion, he yanked the sheet off the table. A plume of dust swirled around them, choking them. Amalie coughed.

“
Sorry,” he murmured, swinging the miles of fabric around her, enfolding her completely. Then, he scooted over and wrapped her in his arms, dragging her into his side.

“
Don’t!” she whispered, struggling, arms and legs tangled in the sheets, in him.

“
Are you mad at me?” He drew back to peer into her face. The hurt and confusion in his eyes tore at her.

“
I just want to be alone,” she lied, her words muffled into her knees.

“
Yeah, well, that’s not happening.” His features softened. “What’s the matter, Ams?”

She couldn’t tell him. He would hate her, she knew it.

“
Is it the medication?”

She shook her head.

“
Hey.” He gripped her chin when she tried to hide her face into sheet. “Did someone hurt you?”

She couldn’t say anything. It was so close to the truth. Yet she couldn’t blame her father for what he’d done. She blamed herself. She never should have given him a reason to get angry. She knew how careful she had to be not to upset him. It was her fault her father burned the lily. It was her fault she lost Isaiah’s gift. If she told him that, he would agree. He would blame her. But she had never lied to Isaiah. He was the only one she could trust in her prison, and still, the words were bits of glass lodged in her throat. They cut into her esophagus and drowned her in her own blood. Tears plummeted from her eyes, splashing and soaking the sheets.

Beside her, Isaiah swore. His arms tightened around her.

“
Who?” The single word was a jagged snarl of fury. “Tell me his name! I’ll—”

“
I lost your present.”

He stiffened. She shrank deeper into the folds of the sheet, bracing for his anger.

“
What?”

“
I lost the lily you gave me.” It wasn’t nearly as difficult to say the second time, but it still consumed her with dread. “I’m so sorry. I didn’t mean to.”

His finger worked beneath her chin, lifted her face until she had no choice but to face him. His thumb swept away the tears. The dancing candlelight darkened his eyes, but the corner of his lip was bowed into the tiniest smile.

“
Is that what has you so upset?” He chuckled and pressed his brow against hers when she could only drop her gaze in confession. “Silly thing. I thought I would need to commit murder.”

Against her better judgment, she leaned into him, tucking her face into the curve of his neck. “I thought you would hate me.”

His lips brushed her temple. “I would never, could never hate you, Ams. I…”

She raised her head when he trailed off. “What?”

His eyes glinted in the firelight. His face was a masterpiece of tension. A muscle worked in his jaw as he peered down at her.

“
I love you.”

***

The bang of fist against door jolted Amalie out of her nightmares. She was on her feet in the same instant the door flew open. Two armed guards glowered at her. One was tall and thin, the other short and round. Both looked displeased at being there. The short one bared his yellowed teeth through a tangled mess of facial hair the sick color of bile. Maybe it was the gloom in the room, but even his skin had a yellow tinge to it. The tall one seemed nervous. He kept jittering, darting anxious glances over the room as if expecting a whole army of lunatics to be concealed within. He didn’t seem any less anxious when he realized it was just Amalie. If anything, she could have sworn his fingers tightened around his weapon.

Was she really that much of a threat?

Behind her, the world raged. Shards of rain as sharp as glass spiked off the terrace doors. Lightning split the heavens with every vicious crack. The winds howled, enraged demons seeking blood and vengeance. Below, the ocean boiled, slamming with fury into the cliff side.

It was such a miserable day, yet days like this were always such a comfort.

“The boss wants to see you,” the short one growled, and Amalie really felt the prisoner she was. “Come on then! We haven’t got all bloody day!” He had an accent. Amalie wasn’t familiar with different accents, having never met anyone with one, but he didn’t speak like everyone else. She was almost fascinated.

“It’s not our meeting day,” she told him quietly, mentally counting the days of the week. It was sometimes hard to remember which day it was when you were locked in a room without a calendar or human contact.

“That ain’t what I said,” the short one barked. “I said the boss wants to see you!”

Amalie moved forward, curiosity and dread now piloting her. It was never a good thing when her father summoned her. It was never something she would find pleasant. Her lungs were already aching and she hadn’t made it to the door.
Oh God, please don’t let him use the tank again.

From the corner of her eye, she saw the short one move. His arm shot out, his fingers extended, reaching. She gasped, jerking her entire body out of his reach.

“Don’t touch me!”

Her sudden movement startled the tall one into action. His weapon was out of its holster and in his hands before she could catch her breath. Her heart hammered, boiling in her fears. She edged back several steps.

“Don’t move!” the tall one stuttered. His arm was trembling so violently, Amalie feared he might shoot her without meaning to. For a moment, the idea brought a surge of hope bursting through her. He could put an end to her, to this nightmare, to this eternal torment.

Her feet took her forward without further consent from her brain. Her eyes stayed trained on the barrel now level with her chest. It would be quick. If he didn’t miss. If he didn’t miss. If he shot her just there…please don’t let him miss.

“What are you doing?”

The tall one jolted at the harsh command from the doorway. His arm jerked. The bang was deafening.

Amalie sank to the floor.

Isaiah

Isaiah heard the bang, felt the stab in his chest and nearly buckled under the searing pain.

“What in Pete’s sakes!” Garrison’s irate exclamation from the head of the table never registered.

“Amalie!” Isaiah was on his feet and running out of the dining room.

He had no memory of bolting up the stairs. No memories at all of ever reaching her bedroom, but he was suddenly there, pushing his way past the two blocking him. His eyes were wide and wild as they took in the room in a single sweep before settling on Amalie. She was sitting in the middle of her room, surrounded by a puddle of blood. Her pretty blue dress was dark…everywhere, covered in blood, her blood, and there was a man hovering over her, also covered in her blood. And there was gunpowder in the air, mixed with the stench of sweat and copper.

The world around pulsed him with a violent hue of red. His blood boiled.

“Get away from her!” His snarl shook the room, muffling the thunder of his boots as he charged forward. His fingers closed around the man’s collar, yanked him up and sent him crashing back to the ground with a shove.

“It wasn’t his fault!” Amalie cried.

But Isaiah couldn’t hear her over the pounding of his heart, the roar of his blood in his ears. He dropped down beside her, his hands trembling uncontrollably as he reached for her, too scared to touch her, but needing to. There was so much blood and it kept pouring from somewhere, drenching her.

“Where?” His stupid tongue kept sticking to the roof of his dry mouth and he couldn’t think. Why couldn’t he think? His mind was numb. He was numb. He needed to focus. “Where, Amalie?”

“It’s just a graze,” Amalie whispered, pulling back the hand she was using to clutch her left arm to show him the gash.

It wasn’t deep, thankfully, and it would need stitches, but she would be okay. She would be fine. She would live.

He almost threw up in relief as he sunk down onto his hunches and covered his eyes with one hand. The cold tremors refused to subdue. They kept raking through his body until he was sure he would never be warm again.

“Who did this?” He needed to know. He needed to know so he could kill the bastard. He shot to his feet, rounded on the two by the door. “Who—” then he saw the gun, still smoking, clutched in shaky, bony fingers. “You stupid, son of a—”

Steel bands found their way around him, restraining him, pulling him away from the cowering idiot.

“It was an accident!” someone hissed into his ear. It took him a moment to realize it was the guard he’d thrown to the ground.

“There’s no such thing as accidently shooting someone!” Isaiah growled, shoving him off. “Why the hell did he have his weapon out?”

“S…she…she kept coming at me…” the boy stuttered, looking like he was about to throw up.

“She’s a ninety pound girl!” Isaiah retorted. “What the hell did you think she was going to do to you, you asshole?”

The boy didn’t speak, but his shoulders drew up around his ears.

“What is going on in here?” Garrison appeared in the doorway, looking a little out of place in his white suit, his hands clasped neatly at his back. He observed the room through flat, green eyes, settling a little longer on Amalie before moving to the boy with the gun. “Andrew, isn’t it?”

“Abraham,” the boy corrected. “Sir.”

“Abraham.” Garrison jerked a head to the left. “Could you wait for me in my office, please?”

Abraham ran from the room as though his life depended on it, which it did. Isaiah wasn’t finished contemplating the many ways he could kill him, slowly.

“Henry, please join Abraham in my office,” he told the short guard.

Henry inclined his head and hurried off after his partner.

Garrison turned his eyes on the remaining guard. “Derek, could you please retrieve my medical kit.”

Derek inclined his head and left the room.

Without glancing at Isaiah or Amalie, Garrison crossed the room with only a handful of strides. He stripped out of his blazer, draped it on the bed and disappeared into the bathroom. They heard the water run, shut off, and then Garrison was back with a wet towel in hand. He knelt next to Amalie.

“Move your hand, Amalie,” he instructed, pressing the cloth to the wound when she complied.

Amalie hissed. Isaiah’s gut twisted at the pain contorting her face, darkening her eyes. His hands clenched and unclenched at his sides.

“It’s shallow,” Garrison observed, cleaning away the rivers of crimson running down the length of her arm.

Derek took that moment to return, a leather case in hand.

“Isaiah.” Garrison motioned him over. “Hold this. Put pressure on the area while I get my supplies.”

What little blood Amalie had in her face, washed away. “No, I—”

“Amalie!” Garrison’s tone held no patience for disobedience. “Isaiah?”

Isaiah stepped over and knelt at her side. He tried to ignore her flinch, or the way she shifted her body away from him. He ignored the stabbing hurt as he reached out and replaced Garrison’s grip around her arm. Even through the towel, Amalie twitched as if his touch burned her. The soft muscle beneath his hands stiffened. She averted her face from him. Her hair soft, shiny, a gossamer curtain of silk slipped between them, but it could have been an impenetrable wall of concrete for the way it kept him out.

“Ams…” His fingers grazed the underside of her injured arm.

“Don’t.” She didn’t pull away or yell, but the single whisper was a serrated blade straight in the kidney.

I deserve it
. After what he’d done, he didn’t deserve anything less than her absolute hatred.