Chapter 63 This is Where it Happened – Aurora
THIS IS WHERE IT HAPPENED
AURORA
Everything hurts.
There's a stiffness in my limbs that's borderline paralytic and my shoulder aches with every echoing thud of my pulse.
The discomfort grows sharper as I wake, rooting me into a new reality that smells like cold stone and something musty and feels hard beneath my body.
My eyes burn when they open, crossing and blurring as they slowly discern the rectangle of light high above me.
The sun shines through it, bathing the space in an ivory glow that should bring warmth into the room, but there's only an icy chill where my body lies against a marble floor.
It takes longer than it should to bring awareness into my fingertips, then arms, then torso, and I groan as I force myself over onto one side.
I grimace when the movement sends a jolt of pain through my shoulder and head, but don't stop. My arm shakes when I press into my palm, pushing myself to check my surroundings.
Where the hell am I?
I remember being dragged into a vehicle by the fucker, Coyote. My forehead stings, and I prod the wound there with cautious fingers, finding it crusted over with a layer of dried blood, still swollen and tender.
My stomach lurches, but there's nothing to bring up when I gag, and I remember something else.
A boat?
I couldn't be sure because there were no windows in the close space where they stuffed me, but that rocking, heaving sensation…
My throat bobs. I was sick a lot. I do remember that. I was sick until I lost consciousness again.
And now I'm here.
Wherever the fuck here is.
I clench my teeth as I work to get my stiff legs under me and stagger up to my feet, holding my fucked shoulder to stop it from aching so badly.
There's a bed, I notice.
A big one with a wooden canopy.
Next to it is a Persian rug. An empty nightstand.
The rest of the room is massive, with its walls rounded on one side and its ceiling domed so that the single skylight is enough to light the entire space—even without a single window on any of its walls.
There are two doors. One open, wooden. The other metal and shut.
It's somehow familiar even though I'm so certain I've never been here before.
The sense of familiarity crawl under my skin like something alive.
I know this place.
Not from being here, but from somewhere else.
Someone else’s nightmares.
I try the handle of the metal door, but unsurprisingly, it's locked up tight.
The other leads to a bathroom. There's a sink, a toilet, and a showerhead in an alcove without a curtain or even a pane of glass separating it from the rest of the space. It's tiled in a deep maroon red that makes it look dark even when I flick on the overhead light.
I take a moment to drink some water from the faucet and cup some against the angry wound on my forehead. It's not until I leave the bathroom that I notice the woodwork I saw on the bedposts and frame isn't woodwork at all.
My fingers trace the tally marks carved into the wood. Hundreds of them. Maybe thousands. Each one of them a day.
Each one a day Elijah woke up in this room and didn’t know if he would ever leave it.
My fingers recoil and my skin chills, growing damp with a cold sweat.
I shake my head, stalking to the center of the room, spinning on my heel to look again. Closer this time.
The bed. The tally marks. The skylight. The locked door.
My eyes race along the walls, along the ivory marble bench set into the base of them. Stopping only when I find what I'm looking for.
In a trance, I close the distance and slump onto my knees, reaching toward the missing section of stone.
This is where he did it.
This is the place where Elijah picked up a heavy, jagged stone and decided he would rather mutilate himself—rather die—than paint another stroke for the man who imprisoned him.
The edges are rough under my fingertips, and I swear I can feel the echoes of his despair soaked into the stone.
I choke back a heavy sob and blink away the dampness in my eyes, snatching my hand back to press my closed fist to my chest.
We should've listened to him.
"I'm so sorry, Elijah."
I know in my soul that he'll always blame himself for not fighting harder to stop me.
The door groans behind me and I lurch to my feet, pressing my back to the wall as I search for something to use to defend myself with and find nothing.
One man holds the door open while two others I don't recognize enter, but Ambrose enters after them, and it all comes smashing back into brutal, blinding clarity.
My mother. The team he sent after my guys.
The hatred in my heart knows no limits, burning away the stiffness and pain.
"You fucking bastard!"
I don't make it more than five steps before I'm restrained, but it doesn't stop me from trying. Not even when it feels like they'll rip my shoulder back out of its socket.
I spit at him, and he looks at the offensive wad on the tile by his feet with haughty disdain.
"I see I have my work cut out for me." He clucks his tongue. "This sort of disrespect will not be tolerated, Aurora."
"Fuck you!"
He tsks me and extends a hand toward the man still at the door. "I'll take that, Jared."
The guard at the door frowns disappointedly, lines deepening in his forehead as he unclasps a coil from his belt and hands it to Ambrose.
"I'm happy to do it, sir," he offers as the long piece of tightly woven leather uncoils.
Ambrose shakes his head, taking the whip. "This time it's personal, Jared. And I'm developing a taste for it, I think."
The guard's jaw twitches with clear disappointment as he nods to his commander, and I commit his face and name to memory because it sounds like this is the walking corpse who hurt my Elijah.
He has brown eyes and a scar on his right brow. When he catches me staring at him, I don't blink.
"On your knees," Ambrose says, giving the whip a tentative flick against the tile.
Despite trying not to, I flinch at the sharp snap, and my stomach sours.
"Make sure you get this," Ambrose says, moving into place behind me as his men drag me to the center of the floor.
I don't understand what he means until the doorman comes to stand to my right and I catch the tiny red light glowing in the center of his vest. A bodycam.
"A little to the left," Ambrose says. "Make sure I'm not in the frame."
The guard shifts and I gasp as the back of my shirt is torn down the middle and thrown open, exposing my back to Ambrose as he twirls the whip against the tile.
Anticipation pricks at every nerve ending, but I clench my jaw as tight as I can and I close my eyes.
There's only one reason he would film this, and I will not give him a single scream to send to them.
I will not cry. I will not beg.
I will give him nothing.
Not a single sound he can use to break the men I love.
And then, somehow, someday, I will feel the grip of that whip in my palm, and there will be no mercy when I carve a line into his flesh for every line he carved into Elijah. And into me.
"Do it!" I shout. "Do it, you pathetic fucking coward!"
The first lash hits, and it's like lightning and fire in my blood. A symphony of hurt vibrating in my bones and rattling my teeth.
But knowing Seven, Elijah, and Atticus could be forced to see this, I clench my teeth and choke back a whimper. I picture them alive. Back home with Ellie and Céline and Julian. Whole and safe.
I know they'll fight to find me, and I need to fight just as hard to get back to them.
When the second lash strikes, I squeeze my eyes shut and vow that I will not make a fucking sound.