Chapter 60 What He Took – Aurora
WHAT HE TOOK
AURORA
"Get her on her feet," Ambrose commands, and I'm manhandled into standing.
At the sound of his voice, my mother pales, her shoulders pulling in and fists clenching as she turns to face him. "Tell that man to take his hands off my daughter."
"You're looking well, Diana. A life on the run suits you."
"You didn't need to hurt her. I said I would come and I'm here."
Diana's attention flits back to me for an instant, locking on to the angry welt growing on the side of my temple.
"You can let her go now. This has nothing to do with her. She's innocent."
"No. She's like you, Diana, a liar. And far from innocent."
"We had a deal!" she shouts at Ambrose, and he lifts a shoulder.
"I don't make deals with people who betray my trust."
For a second, I think she might attack him. She's poised for it. On the balls of her feet. But she backs down and comes to me instead.
Diana takes my arm, speaking through her teeth while she hits and shoves the man holding me, trying to wrench me free. "Let. Her. Go."
All at once, my arms are freed, and the ache as the tension rebounds in my shoulder makes me gasp in pain. I forget all about it when my mother's arms come around me, crushing me tightly to her body.
My breath hitches, and I'm utterly powerless against the wave of emotion that crashes over me, into me, until I'm drowning in it.
"Mom." My voice breaks, and I choke back the burning tears in my throat, but they come anyway.
I'm five years old again.
I'm ten.
I'm fifteen.
I'm every age I spent countless hours imagining this exact moment. She would come for me, and she would say it was all some horrible mistake and she never meant to leave me. She would explain how she always meant to come back, but something happened, and she couldn't.
Over two decades of hating her and missing her and needing her all at the same time.
And now she’s finally here, and none of it matters because we’re both going to die in this room.
"I'm so sorry." She sniffs, holding me tight enough that her body trembles. Or is it me that's trembling?
She smells earthy and warm with something floral, like jasmine. I've always loved the smell of jasmine.
I try to speak, but there's this ball in my throat, and I can’t seem to get any words past it.
Diana brushes her hand over the back of my head, hushing me. It's only then that I realize I'm sobbing, and I swallow the sounds, hiccupping as I fight to keep them contained.
"It's okay." The edge in her voice makes it anything but okay. "No matter what happens, it's not your fault. None of this is."
When I blink through the tears, it's to find Ambrose with his hand raised.
He's watching us, waiting. Why is he waiting?
This is it, I realize, and my eyes widen.
When he notices, his raised hand clenches into a tight fist.
"No."
I cling to her. "No, don't."
Callous hands grip and pull at my shoulders. My arms. But I don't let go.
"Mom."
A shadow passes behind her and she fights as hard as I am to keep the reaching hands from tearing her away from me.
"It's okay," she says, her tone frantic now. "It's okay," she repeats as my feet skid back on the floor and our bodies come apart.
Wildly, I reach for her, catching her hand just long enough to feel the warmth of her palm against mine. Then Coyote rips her away.
And she’s gone.
And I’m screaming.
I whirl on the bastard who had his hands on me with a savagery I didn't even know I was capable of.
The room fills with a scream that I'm not entirely sure is mine as I go for his eyes.
His face. His fucking throat. Using everything Seven taught me in the few hand-to-hand combat lessons we had at the cabin.
But he's so much bigger. So much stronger.
And the panic blaring in my chest makes my movements sloppy and rushed.
I manage to get a good shot at his balls, and he grunts, but gets me around the arms, bear-hugging me to stop me fighting.
I smash my head into his face as hard as I can.
His grip falters enough that I can wrench free as blood pours in a river down his face from his split nose, but I fall to my knees when I turn. Unsteady on my feet as the world tips sideways and spins from the bell ringing in my head.
I scramble to my feet, but my arms are captured from behind, and I'm yanked back.
I freeze when I realize what's happening on the other side of the office.
Diana stands with her arms rigid at her sides, her chest rising and falling slowly, shallowly, as all the color drains from her face.
Behind her stands Coyote, his sidearm pointed directly at the back of her head.
I don't dare breathe or blink.
"She's a fighter, this one," Ambrose muses, calmly going to his wife.
"Don't touch her!" I snap when he reaches to caress her cheek. No, not caress her. He's slipping the necklace around her neck, securing the clasp before meticulously setting the charm against her throat.
She stands perfectly still, the loathing in her ocean eyes crystal clear from across the room.
"If only you hadn't run, Diana. We could've been a family. With your guile and her fire, we'd have been unstoppable together."
Ambrose's hand drops from her collar, and he reaches past her, hand out to Coyote. "Give me your gun."
I shake my head, start trying to pull free again.
No.
No, this isn't going to happen.
"Sir?" Coyote asks, confused.
"This is personal. I'll see it done myself."
I don't wait for Coyote to hand Ambrose the gun. In the struggle, we moved closer to the desk, and I use his grip around my middle to my advantage, lifting my legs to kick against the side of the desk as hard as I can.
It's enough to send us backward until the man holding me connects with the shelves. Glass shatters and wood breaks, and something hard strikes my shoulder, but I ignore the pain as I go for the first sharp object my attention snags on.
The marble tumbler is knocked over as I grab the scissors from it, spilling pens over the desk.
Time skips, and there's only heat and fury as I sink the pointed tip into his meaty neck, not stopping until he isn't fighting. I push deeper until he gurgles and slumps into the broken shelves.
My hand is wet, the scissors slippery in my palm when I turn to charge Ambrose.
The sound of the gunshot is a slap to my senses.
Like a physical blow so hard my chest caves in from the impact.
My mother's head jerks to the left.
Red gore spouts onto the floor.
And her body follows it, buckling, crumpling.
She thuds against the floor, and a pool of rapidly growing red spreads around her, racing down channels of grout, spiderwebbing over the tile.
In my peripheral, I know that Ambrose is tipping his head back, audibly releasing a breath with a sort of reverence. Like this is even better than he imagined it would be. But I can't take my eyes off her.
The scissors slip from my fingers, clanging against the floor.
Her oceanic eyes stare somewhere past me. Through me. Sightless. Lifeless.
I want off this ride.
I want off this fucking ride.
Ambrose plucks a handkerchief from his pocket and wipes his prints from the gun's grip, handing the weapon back to Coyote.
I don't remember going for the sidearm of the dead man behind me, but one second I'm frozen in time, and the next I feel the power of it in my hand.
"Down!" Coyote shouts, charging, and I fire before he's able to stop me. The impact of his shoulder against my sternum knocks the gun from my hand and the air from my lungs.
I see stars, and I don't know which way is up as he rips my shoulder from its socket in an attempt to bring me under control. The sickening sensation of it sitting somewhere it shouldn't is secondary to my visceral need to get my eyes on Ambrose.
A growl rips from my throat when I see him unfurling back to his full height, his hand pressed to his right ear, blood soaking between his fingers.
I scream my fury.
So fucking close.
I'm rewarded for my struggle to get free with a fist twisted into my hair, forcing me to my knees. I claw at Coyote's gloved hand with the one I can still use, but he doesn't let up.
Ambrose's cutting stare lifts to me as he lowers his bloody hand, flicking droplets of crimson onto the floor before wadding up his handkerchief and pressing it to his ear to stop the bleeding.
He steps over the body of his wife like she's nothing, his stare unwaveringly fixed on me as he speaks.
"Have you heard from your team?"
The question is meant for Coyote, who winds his grip on my hair impossibly tighter to hold me still while he calls in for his team.
"Brava Team, come in."
There's a beat of silence, and I yank futilely against his grip, hair pulling from my scalp.
"Nothing, sir."
And I realize what that means.
Despite the soul-deep pit of despair opening up in my stomach, something rises in my throat.
It might be a scream. It might be a sob.
It comes out as laughter.
Disdainful and broken and wrong—so fucking wrong—but I can’t stop it.
It grows in volume until it fills the room. Turning loud—hysteric.
"You…" I smile, eyes stinging. "You fucking idiot."
"Shut her up," Ambrose commands.
"They're all dead!" I shout, and laugh some more until rough fingers grip my jaw and pry my mouth open.
I taste copper as something is stuffed into the back of my throat, pressing on my tongue. I gag against it, realizing what I taste is Ambrose's blood-soaked handkerchief as he releases my jaw.
I release the hand in my hair to try to get it out, but my hands are wrenched backward, and I feel the bite of metal against my wrists.
Ambrose bends to my eye level. "You're lucky I may still have a use for you."
Bile hits the back of my throat, and I fight to get control of it, knowing I'll suffocate if I can't keep it at bay. I try to breathe through my nose, but it's not enough oxygen, and my head gets light, vision blurring.
"I was never able to keep Julian's sons in line, but I think they'll be more inclined to obedience now."
No.
My eyes widen, and Ambrose smiles at the fear he finds there. "Get her out of my sight."