Chapter Nine Amethyst
It’s the afternoon and the cabin is too quiet. I’ve been pacing for hours. Since she left. Since the door closed and she was gone. Really gone. Not coming back tonight. Not coming back for days. Maybe longer. The thought makes my skin crawl.
I pace. Back and forth. Back and forth. The floorboards creak under my weight.
Same path. Over and over. Wearing a groove into the wood.
Into myself. The communicator is on the table.
I can see it from here. Small. Black. Inert.
Waiting. Like I’m waiting. Hours until eight.
Eight PM. That’s when she checks in. That’s the protocol. Every day. Eight PM.
I know because I’ve already counted the hours.
Counted them twice. Three times. It’s not even three yet.
Five hours twenty-six minutes. Three hundred and twenty-six minutes.
Nineteen thousand five hundred sixty seconds.
I know because I can’t stop counting. Can’t stop thinking about it. Can’t stop watching the clock.
I grab the communicator. Sit down. Hold it. The weight of it in my palm. Solid. Real. The only connection I have to her. The only proof she’s still out there. Still alive. Still coming back.
I stare at the clock on the wall. 2:47 PM.
Thirteen minutes have passed since I last checked.
Thirteen minutes. It felt like an hour. My jaw clenches.
I haven’t eaten. Haven’t slept. Haven’t done anything but pace and watch and wait.
The predator inside me is restless. Pacing its own cage.
Hungry. Not for food. For her. For contact.
For proof that she’s still there. That she hasn’t gone dark.
That she hasn’t been compromised. That she’s not lying in some basement bleeding out while I sit here watching a fucking clock.
No. Stop. She’s fine. She’s tactical. She’s smart. She’s— The thought spirals anyway.
The predator roars. Wants to move. Wants to hunt. Wants to burn the organization to the ground and pull her out and keep her here where she’s safe. Where I can see her. Where I can touch her. Where she can’t disappear.
I grip the communicator tighter. My knuckles go white.
The promise I made echoes. If she goes dark, I’ll burn it all down.
Kill everyone. Can’t guarantee my control.
Not a threat. A certainty. A promise. I meant every word.
And if she doesn’t check in at eight— No.
She will. She promised. Every day. Eight PM.
She’ll be there. I look at the clock again.
2:51 PM.
Four minutes. Four fucking minutes have passed. I stand up. Pace. The communicator still in my hand. Gripping it like it might disappear. Like she might disappear. The cabin feels smaller. The walls closer. The air thinner. Too small for this much waiting.
3:15 PM
I’ve moved to the window. Staring out at the trees. The forest. The place where I hunted her. Where I felt whole for the first time in days. Where she gave me permission to be what I am. And now she’s gone. And I’m here. Waiting.
The communicator is on the windowsill. I keep glancing at it.
Making sure it’s still there. Making sure it hasn’t died.
Making sure the battery hasn’t failed. Making sure nothing has gone wrong.
Everything could go wrong. The organization could have found her.
Could have realized she’s not what she claims to be. Could have— Stop.
She’s fine. She’s in. She’s safe. She has to be.
The first check-in still isn’t for hours.
There’s just waiting. This fucking waiting is driving me nuts.
But I can’t do anything. I can’t even fucking go anywhere.
I can only wait and listen to the clock as it ticks on by.
There’s no other sound. Just the clock. Me and this fucking clock.
I start pacing again. Back to window. Grab the communicator. Sit. Watch the clock. 3:22 PM. Three hours and thirty-eight minutes until eight. Two hundred and eighteen minutes. Thirteen thousand and eighty seconds.
4:47 PM
I haven’t moved. Not really. Just shifted positions. From the table to the couch. From the couch to the floor. Back to the table. The communicator is always in my hand.
Always.
I can’t put it down. The second I do, she’ll call.
The second I look away, something will happen.
She’ll call and I won’t hear it. She’ll need me and I won’t be there.
She’ll go dark and I won’t know. So I hold it.
Grip it. Keep it close. The clock says 4:47 PM.
Three hours and thirteen minutes. One hundred and ninety-three minutes.
Eleven thousand five hundred and eighty seconds.
The predator is getting louder. Angrier.
The leash is fraying. I can feel it. The edges of control slipping.
The hunger getting sharper. The need getting more desperate.
What if she doesn’t call? What if something goes wrong? What if—
The promise surfaces again. I’ll burn it all down.
Kill everyone. Can’t guarantee my control.
I meant it. Every word. If she goes dark, I will lose it.
Completely. Utterly. The predator will break free and I won’t be able to stop it.
Won’t want to stop it. Will let it consume everything.
The organization. The targets. Everyone.
Everything. Until she’s back. Until I have her back.
Until I know she’s safe. I look at the communicator. Still silent. Still waiting.
6:33 PM
One hour and twenty-seven minutes. Eighty-seven minutes.
Five thousand two hundred and twenty seconds.
My hands are shaking. I don’t know when that started.
Don’t know if it’s hunger or fear or the predator clawing at the cage.
Probably all three. The cabin is dark. I haven’t turned on lights.
Just the gray afternoon bleeding through the windows.
Getting darker. Getting closer to eight.
Getting closer to the moment when she either calls or doesn’t.
When she either checks in or goes dark. When I either stay leashed or break free.
The thought is almost peaceful. The certainty of it.
If she doesn’t call, I know exactly what I’ll do.
I’ll move. I’ll hunt. I’ll burn. No hesitation.
No mercy. No control. Just the predator.
Just the hunger. Just the need to get her back.
I grip the communicator tighter. My palm is sweating.
My heart is racing. My breathing is shallow.
All the physical symptoms of a predator about to strike.
Except I’m not striking. I’m waiting. Holding on. Barely.
7:52 PM
Eight minutes. Four hundred and eighty seconds. I’m at the window again. Staring out at the darkening forest. The trees are shadows now. The sky is purple. Almost black. Almost night. Almost eight.
My hands are steady now. Eerily steady. The predator has stopped pacing. Has gone quiet. Waiting. Coiled. Ready. If she doesn’t call—
The thought is complete. Certain. I know what I’ll do.
I know exactly what I’ll do. They’ll understand.
They know what happens when I lose her. They’ve seen the aftermath before.
They know what I am. They know what happens when I lose her.
They know I can’t be stopped. Won’t be stopped.
The communicator is in my hand. My grip is firm.
My jaw is clenched. My breathing is controlled.
All the calm of a predator about to strike.
The clock ticks. The seconds pass. The moment approaches.
7:59 PM
One minute. Sixty seconds. I’m holding my breath. Literally holding it. My chest is tight. My muscles are coiled. The predator is at the surface. Barely contained. One more second. One more breath. One more moment. And then— Silence.
8:00 PM
The communicator is silent. I’m staring at it. Waiting. The clock on the wall reads 8:00. Exactly.
Eight.
She said eight. Promised eight.
Eight.
But the communicator doesn’t crackle. Doesn’t signal. Doesn’t do anything. Just sits there. Black. Inert. Dead. My jaw clenches.
8:00:15 PM
Fifteen seconds past. The predator shifts. Restless. She said eight. She promised. But there’s nothing. Nothing but silence. Nothing but the clock ticking. Nothing but the hunger growing sharper. Meaner. More desperate. I grip the communicator tighter. My knuckles go white.
8:00:30 PM
Thirty seconds. Half a minute. My breathing is shallow.
My heart is racing. The promise echoes. If she goes dark, I’ll burn it all down.
Kill everyone. Can’t guarantee my control.
Not a threat. A certainty. And she’s going dark.
The leash is fraying. Unraveling. The predator claws. Scratches. Demands.
8:00:37 PM
Thirty-seven seconds past eight. I’m on my feet.
Can’t sit still. Can’t breathe right. Can’t think.
My grip on the communicator is so tight I think it might break.
I don’t care. If it breaks, I’ll— The communicator crackles.
Static. Just static. My breath catches. The static continues.
Stretches. Agonizes. Then her voice. Calm. Professional.
“I’m in. I’m safe. Tomorrow."
The words hit like a physical force. I stop moving. Stop breathing. Stop everything. Just listen. Just hear her. Just know she’s alive. She’s there
“Kade?"
Her voice is different now. Softer. Waiting for my response. I can’t speak. Can’t form words. Can’t do anything but breathe.
“Tomorrow," I finally say. My voice is rough. Broken. Barely human.
“Tomorrow," she repeats.
The connection cuts. Silence. I’m still holding the communicator. Still gripping it like a lifeline. My hands are shaking. But different now. Relief. Not fear. Relief.
She’s safe. She’s there. She’ll be coming back. Don’t know when yet. But, I can hold on until tomorrow. I can. I have to.
I sit down slowly. The predator retreats. Sated. For now. I have to remind myself that being there could possibly get her killed. They know me. Known of me for years. Watched me.
I set the communicator on the table carefully.
Like it’s fragile. Like it might break. Like it’s the only thing keeping me tethered to her.
Because it is. Twenty-four hours. That’s how long until the next check-in.
Twenty-four hours until I hear her voice again.
Until I know she’s still alive. Still coming back.
Still mine. I can survive twenty-four hours. I’ve survived worse. I think.
I can survive one more day. One more night.
One more stretch of hours bleeding into each other.
Waiting. Pacing. Holding the communicator like a lifeline.
Counting down the seconds until eight PM tomorrow.
Until her voice comes through the static.
Until I know she’s safe. Until I can breathe again.
For a moment. Just a moment. Before the waiting starts all over again.