Chapter Twenty-four Amethyst #4
“I’m not asking to be alone with him. I’m not asking for privacy. I just need to talk to him. Face to face."
The Raven doesn’t move. Doesn’t speak. I can see her calculating. Weighing.
“Please," I add. Quieter. “I need to finish this. All of it. And that includes Marcus."
More silence. Then she picks up her phone. Types something. Quick. Efficient.
“One hour," she says. “Jake will be there. Armed. If I see any sign that you’re compromised—emotionally or physically—it ends immediately."
“Thank you."
“Don’t thank me yet."
She looks at me directly. “Marcus isn’t the person you knew. Whatever friendship you had—it’s gone. He made his choice."
“I know."
“Do you?"
I meet her eyes.
“Yes."
She studies me for another moment. Then nods.
“One hour. Room three. Down the hall, second door on the left."
I turn to leave.
“Amethyst."
I stop. Look back.
“If he gets in your head," she says. “If he makes you doubt yourself, doubt Kade, doubt any of this—you walk away. Understood?"
“Understood."
Not much time. I nod. Leave. Walk back to the room. Close the door behind me.
One hour.
To shower.
To dress.
To look like someone who isn’t held together by painkillers, caffeine, and pure spite.
The bathroom is small. Clinical. White tile. Fluorescent light. I turn on the shower. Wait for the water to heat. Start undressing. The shirt comes off first. Slow. Careful. Lifting my arms sends fire through my ribs. Sharp. Immediate. I breathe through it. Count.
One.
Two.
Three.
The shirt drops to the floor. Pants next. Easier. I can bend at the waist if I’m careful. If I don’t twist. Don’t breathe too deep. The bandage on my shoulder is spotted with blood. Old. Dried. I leave it. The Raven said they’d change it after. After I talk to Marcus. After I finish this.
The shower is hot. Almost too hot. Steam fills the small space. I step under the spray. Let it hit my back. My shoulders. Avoid the ribs.
The water stings the cuts on my arms. My collarbone. Shallow. Enzo’s knife work. Meant to hurt. Not to kill. Not yet.
I close my eyes. Breathe. The water runs red for a moment. Then pink. Then clear. I wash carefully. Methodically.
Try to avoid the bandage which is nearly impossible with how many there are. I avoid putting pressure on my ribs. Every movement is calculated. Deliberate. Shampoo. Rinse. Conditioner. Rinse. Soap. Rinse. The routine is grounding. Normal. Something I can control.
Getting out is harder than getting in. I have to twist. Have to reach for the towel.
The movement pulls at my ribs. Sharp. Breathtaking.
I freeze. Wait for the pain to subside. It doesn’t.
Not really. Just dulls. Becomes manageable.
I wrap the towel around myself. Careful.
Slow. Look at my reflection in the mirror.
The steam has fogged it. I wipe it clear with my hand.
Stare. Pale. Bruised. Bandaged. Exhausted.
This is what Marcus will see if I’m careless.Weak.
Damaged.
Vulnerable.
I can be all three.
He just doesn’t get to know.
I dry off. Pat. Don’t rub. Rubbing hurts. Everything hurts. But I’ve had worse. I’ve survived worse. This is nothing. I tell myself that. Over and over. This is nothing.
Getting dressed is a study in pain management. Sports bra first. I have to lift my arms. Have to pull it over my head. The ribs scream. I ignore them. Breathe through it. Count.
One.
Two.
Three.
The bra settles into place. Compression. Support. It helps. A little. Underwear. Easier. Pants. Black. Tactical. Pockets. I can bend at the waist for this. Careful. Controlled. Don’t twist.
The waistband sits just below the worst of the bruising. Shirt next. Long-sleeved. Black. Fitted but not tight. I have to lift my arms again. Thread them through the sleeves. Pull it over my head. The pain is white-hot. Blinding.
I stop.
Breathe.
Wait.
It passes. Slowly.
I pull the shirt down. Smooth it. Check the mirror. Better. The bruises are hidden. The bandage is covered.
I look exhausted.
Damaged. But not defeated. That will have to be enough.
Boots. I sit on the edge of the bed. Bend forward. Slow. Careful. Lace them up. The movement pulls at my ribs. Every breath is shallow. Controlled. I finish. Stand. Test my balance. Steady. Good.
I look at myself in the mirror one more time. Hair damp. Pulled back. Face clean. Expression neutral. I look like someone in control. Someone who has been tortured. Shot at. Someone who can walk into a room and face a traitor without flinching. I can do this. I have to do this.
I check the time. Forty-three minutes since The Raven texted Jake. Seventeen minutes left. Enough time to get there. To compose myself. To lock everything away except the mission. I take one more breath. Deep as I can manage. My ribs protest. I ignore them. Open the door.
Step into the hallway.
Ignore the pain. Ignore the exhaustion. Ignore the part of me that wants to stay besides Kade’s bed.
Marcus is waiting. So are the answers. And if he knows something that can lead me to Enzo—
I’m going to get it. One way or another.
There isn’t much that survives betrayal. Trust isn’t one of them.