Chapter 20
TWENTY
VIOLET
My gaze darted around my bedroom for what had to be the hundredth time.
Yesterday, in between my bickering with Lykos and my visit to his wife, every last item had been brought in from the hotel and arranged like I’d always been here.
I should have been outraged that someone had invaded my privacy, but the anger never came.
All I could think about was what I had seen both times I visited Amara. The image clung to me, sharp and unrelenting. And then Aria. I had finally met her, spoken to her, and made a promise to her.
Night had settled fully over the house. The walls held their silence, but my thoughts refused to follow suit. They surged and clashed, loud as a storm breaking against the rocky shore.
Over and over, the same thought played: Lykos’s wife had tried to kill Aria and Dimitros.
“God, what am I supposed to do?” I whispered.
My education urged me toward compassion—to help heal and save the broken soul. But something else entirely bared its teeth. That instinct didn’t care for fairness or redemption. It cared about protecting those most vulnerable.
I was no Jane Eyre, and morality, I’d learned, was a luxury afforded only to those untouched by desire, love, and family ties. My conscience was biased, and I was a mess because of it.
I would not walk away untouched, but this time I wouldn’t walk away regardless of the cost to me. My main concern was the safety of my daughter, and her main threat was my own father who vowed no child of mine would live and continue the family line.
Maybe I could lay it all out on the table and Lykos would help. After all, he was very protective and he’d kept her safe so far. It wouldn’t hurt to try. Right?
The thought settled into me with a steady certainty.
I padded into the bathroom, the cold floor grounding me with each step. I showered and moved robotically through my skincare routine, and when I returned to the bedroom, my eyes fell on my phone resting on the nightstand.
The screen was dark and I just stood there, staring at it, tempted by habit.
But I didn’t reach for it.
Instead, I slipped beneath the covers and lay flat on my back, staring up at the ceiling. The darkness pressed all around me, conjuring the phantom echo of the videos I usually played at night.
And still, I didn’t reach for my phone.
Instead, I lay there in the quiet, eyes fixed on the ceiling, thoughts circling endlessly as sleep stayed just out of reach.
Six nights without my baby.
I lay on my back, staring at the dot on the ceiling. Sophie had gone to meet up with her cousin and I was grateful for it. I couldn’t handle her pity. Dealing with my own was tearing me apart.
The whole place was too quiet, but it was in no way peaceful. It made the sorrow in my soul and voices in my head all the louder. It made my ears ring and pushed against my ribs, making me painfully aware that I was forever changed. Empty.
My baby was no longer with me.
I reached for my phone on the nightstand and slid it open, searching through my videos. The dimly lit screen stayed on and low, rhythmic breathing filled the space.
It didn’t make me feel better, but still I closed my eyes as it played.
Inhale. Exhale.
I couldn’t turn it off. I needed to hear my baby breathe.
I closed my eyes, pretending she was here with me. Pretending that I could feel her warmth and weight on my chest.
Slowly, I felt myself drifting off. Pain was here, but so was she, comforting me like I used to comfort her. She loved to sleep on my chest, listening to my heartbeat.
Then a cry sounded off.
My eyes flew open and I jolted into a half-sitting position. My heart pounded, and I was already turning to get to her.
But she wasn’t here.
It was just my phone, playing my video.
“It’s okay,” I whispered into the empty room.
The crying stopped and soft breaths returned. In and out. In and out.
Last week, baby clothes, bottles, and blankets crowded every inch of this space. Sophie had cleared it all out, and I was grateful for it, but I ached to smell the blanket with my newborn’s scent on it.
I closed my eyes again, listening for my daughter. Waiting for that cry. The sign that she was alive.
Inhale and exhale.
The cycle repeated. It was vicious, torturous.
But I couldn’t stop, and this… this would become my nightly routine.
Sleep came in fragments, and some nights, my dreams and memories blurred together. Every time I drifted too far, the cry found me again, dragging me back to reality with empty arms.
Over and over.
The endless nights were my enemy. Silence was the loudest of all, because war raged within me, explosive and loud, while its thorns dug into my skin and drew blood.
I was desperate to reach my baby, but the more I tried, the harder they wrapped around my heart and my throat, making it impossible to breathe.
I jolted awake, my skin slick with sweat. My breaths came fast and shallow, as if I’d been running from something I couldn’t escape.
I blinked, confused, my eyes darting around the dark room, searching with motherly instinct. The space beside me was empty.
My heart lurched, the loss of it stealing my breath away. But then everything shifted.
For the first time in a decade, she was close. Here, almost within my reach.
I could throw off the covers and walk down the hall. I could stand in the doorway and watch her sleep.
Except, if I got caught, I might be sent away. So, I stayed put and blinked my tears back, staring at the ceiling and telling myself my nightmare might soon end.