14. Amal
AMAL
I’m picking up my discarded dress to put it back on when Jet emerges from the bathroom after a quick shower, a towel tied low around his hips.
“Closet,” he says, heading there himself.
I raise my eyebrows, not understanding.
“Joe had one of the staff pick up some things for you.”
“Joe the bellman?” I ask. He nods and I follow him into the enormous walk-in closet where I see a few of his things hanging and beside them, half a dozen hangers with women’s clothes with all their tags still on.
I look through the dresses and see jeans and sweaters on a shelf as well. “When did you do this?”
He pulls on a pair of jeans over his boxers, and I watch his muscles flex as he zips them. He’s beautiful. Does he even know it? And those tattoos and scars, I want to have time to study them. Trace them. I want to know him. Know every inch of him.
“I’ve been here for almost a week.”
“And you had no doubt I’d come with you.”
“I wasn’t going to give you the option not to.”
“Of course not. Dumb question.”
“If you don’t like them, you can pick out your own things once we’re home.”
“Home as in Devil’s Peak?”
He nods.
“What about school? My classes—”
“You’ve missed the entirety of the last semester, so we’ll figure out school later.”
Well, that’s about right so I don’t argue. I shift my gaze back to the clothes and pull a black sweater dress off the hanger. One thing at a time.
“Bras and panties are in that drawer, although honestly, I’m fine if you want to go without.”
“I’m sure you are.” I look through the drawer of underthings.
In the months I’ve been here, I’ve been rotating through the few things I brought and spent most of my money on my second-hand cloak because Florida’s climate is a little different than Edinburgh.
And I loved it the instant I saw it. All these things?
They’re nice, high-quality things. Although I guess I wouldn’t expect anything less from Jethro Blackstone.
Jet pulls a charcoal cashmere sweater over his head then walks back into the bedroom to discuss something, probably the bullet holes, with Malcom. After I dress, I join them to a whistle from Malcom.
“Respect,” Malcom says and I mock-curtsy.
“Just keep an eye on your gun around her,” Jet says, looking me over appreciatively before extending his arm to wrap his hand around the back of my neck. “Ready for dinner?”
I nod, hungry, and we walk out to the hallway where another of his soldiers is waiting by the elevators. We ride down in silence, the soldier standing in the back corner. Jet doesn’t have his gun with him but I’m sure the soldier is armed.
“How many men did you bring?”
“Eight.”
“Does Cassian know yet?”
“Which part?”
“Any of it.”
“I sent a text to say you’re safe. We’ll surprise him with our happy news when we see him.”
“Not sure how happy he’ll find it but okay.”
Joe comes rushing toward us when he sees Jet. He must be a good tipper. “They’re ready for you in the dining room, Mr. Blackstone. I’m holding your preferred table at the back.”
“Great, thanks. Oh, small issue with the room,” Jet says and I snort. “Just put the repairs on my bill.”
Joe looks from Jet to me and back, but Jet doesn’t wait for a response.
He just walks me to the dining room where the hostess is clearly waiting for us.
Well, from the way she’s looking at him, she’s waiting for Jet.
I roll my eyes. She leads us to our table.
Once we’re seated, we’re handed menus which I open but Jet leaves untouched.
I feel him watching me as I study the menu.
“When did you learn to shoot like that?”
“Malek did one thing right,” I say, not looking up.
“I don’t think I’ve ever heard you call him your father.”
“And you never will.” I close the menu as a waiter comes to take our order.
“Do you know what you want?” Jet asks me.
“The mussels to start and the special for dinner with a side of fries please,” I say, hungry.
I haven’t been starving myself, but I’ve also been too busy to be paying much attention to my diet since I’ve been here.
The limited funds didn’t help. Edinburgh is expensive.
But also, I was here on a mission and knew my time could be cut short.
Someone was going to find me. It was just a matter of time. I know I’m lucky it was Jet.
I know I’ve lost a few pounds just by how my clothes fit, and now, sitting in this restaurant with the wonderful smells, it’s all I can do to squeeze my stomach muscles to stop it from growling embarrassingly.
“I’ll have the special too. No starter for me. And a bottle of my usual wine,” Jet orders.
“Yes, Sir.” The waiter takes our menus and I watch Jet. He looks completely at ease here.
On the heels of the waiter is another who sets a basket of bread down along with various butters. I pick up a roll and tear it into two, butter it generously then take a big bite. When I’ve finished it, I glance at the second roll.
“Aren’t you going to eat?” I ask him.
He pushes the basket toward me. “Go ahead. Try the other butter. It’s better.”
I take the roll and he’s right, the other butter is even better than the first. The wine comes as I’m finishing off the bread and once the waiter pours, Jet orders more bread. I pick up my wine glass, and we sit watching each other from our opposite sides of the table.
“Tell me what you’re doing here, Amal. Why Scotland?”
Well, I knew I’d have to answer at some point. “I don’t know,” I start and it’s not completely a lie. “My mother was from here.”
His eyebrows furrow as he studies me. I keep talking but I can’t tell him much more than that. I’m too ashamed.
“The diary. My mom’s diary. I found it after everything. When we were leaving the house, I was packing things up and I found it.” I don’t mention why she left Scotland. The truth of it makes me feel a little sick.
“So you’re looking for family?”
I shrug a shoulder and put food into my mouth to buy a moment. “I don’t know. Maybe I want to know why she was the way she was. Maybe I want to know why she died the way she did.”
He studies me. Don’t make me say it, I think. I beg. Don’t make me say the words out loud.
“Those names in your notebook?” he asks. Does he know she took her own life? Is that why he’s not pushing?
“Connections I’d made through diary entries,” I say, that part being true.
“What was your plan then? If you found family.”
“If my mother’s family is here, if they’d be willing to take Daniel, I could bring him here. He could forget all about Malek. He’s young enough. And Cassian wouldn’t have to hurt him. He’d never have to see him again.”
“Cassian isn’t going to hurt Daniel.”
“Not yet. Not while he’s young. But later, you don’t know. And there’s another reason. I’m not entirely stupid, Jet. I want to erase Malek’s existence from my brother’s memory. I don’t want him growing up thinking he’s a monster.”
“Do you think you’re a monster then?”
I don’t expect that question. Not at all. And certainly not as casually as it’s asked.
When I don’t answer, he leans toward me. “Because you decide who you are, Amal. The blood in your veins doesn’t define you. Your choices do. Your actions do.”
He says it with such conviction, such fierce belief, that all I can do is listen. It takes everything in me to keep my eyes from filling with tears. I don’t want to show Jet how this upsets me because he doesn’t know the half of it.
The monster within the monster.
“Do you like being called the Devil?” I ask without consciously thinking of the question but wanting to know. Because I have a feeling he embraces it. He’s at home in his skin.
“First of all, I don’t think you’re stupid,” Jet says, choosing to focus on that part of what I said rather than any other. “Reckless but not stupid.”
A waiter interrupts to deliver my mussels and as soon as I smell the garlic and wine sauce, I’m hungry again and I start to eat.
“Good?” Jet asks as I lick sauce off my finger.
I nod, my mouth full. “You want one?”
“No, you enjoy them.” He digs his phone out of his pocket and checks the screen before shifting his attention back to me. “And I’ve never thought about it. Being called the Devil. Now that I do, I suppose I don’t care what anyone thinks of me. They can all fuck off.”
“How easy it must be to be able to live that way.”
“It’s a choice to not care. You can make the same choice.”
“My options are different.”
“You’re my wife. No one can touch you.”
“Why did you marry me? If Cassian didn’t sanction it, he’s going to be pissed. Not to mention you having saddled yourself with, well, me. Especially considering what Malek did.” I point to his scar but I don’t have to. “He almost killed you. All of you.”
“I don’t care who your father is. You’re not him.”
“Don’t call him my father.”
“Either way, you’re not him.”
I shrug a shoulder. “Why, though? You could have just followed orders and taken me back. Why not do that?”
He sips his wine. The waiter comes to clear away my starter before setting down our steaks.
“Why, Jet?”
Jet reaches across the table to touch my wedding band before sitting back again, fingers playing absently with the ring while he studies me intently.
“You were right a few months ago. At my house.”
“What do you mean?”
“I did want you to see my scars. The ink. I wanted you to see me, Amal. You’re the only one I want to show myself to.”
A beat passes and it’s like it’s just me and him in this dining room. Like no one else is here in the world with us.
My chest aches at this revelation. This confession. It hurts for him and in some way, I feel closer than ever to him for saying it. For wanting me to be the one who saw him. I know how much the truth takes. I know what it costs to be seen. To want it. To say the words aloud.
I wish I were as courageous as him.
“Why?” I ask, my voice not sounding quite like me.
“Maybe because we’re both damaged. Maybe because we know what it is to be on the outside looking in.
” He pauses, considering his words, careful with them and what he says next has every hair on my body standing on end for the truth of it.
For the raw vulnerability in speaking the words aloud.
“Because we both know what it’s like to be unwanted. ”