Who is Amara?
“I can’t do that. I’ve tasted her,” the other man goads. “And she tastes perfect.”
Who are they arguing about?
“And she’s tight as hell when I buried myself inside her.” It’s the deeper voice I hear this time. He finishes with a cruel laugh.
The other man growls low. I can hear an accent. “You didn’t.”
“I did.” The smugness dripping from the deep tone is like poison. “You’re not special to her.”
The tension thickens; I can almost feel it crackling in the air.
“I’m going to fucking kill you—she is mine.”
There’s a deep chuckle. “And I’m going to give you a warning right now, Caleb. Touch Amara again and I will kill you,” the deep voice hisses. Then I remember he was called Dom.
A rush of nausea rumbles in my stomach as I listen to Dom making his threat. Even if I could open my eyes, I wouldn’t right now. I can’t let them know I can hear them.
“Oh, I know you make good on your threats, Dom. And maybe it was you... Maybe it was you who tried to kill Amara,” Caleb replies.
I can’t listen to this. I don’t want to hear a man threaten another or worse. I certainly don’t want to know that one of them might have tried to kill Amara.
The door swings open with a creak.
My heart is pounding against my breastbone when footsteps press across a hard floor.
“Oh Dad! Look at her! She looks so bad!” a young girl’s voice quivers with sorrow as she bursts into the room.
I try to open my eyes to see who she’s talking about, but the thread holding them down keeps them shut.
Her sobs hit me hard in the chest, but I can’t move. Can’t speak. I feel like I’m stuck in this suffocating silence.
“She’ll wake soon, Poppy.”
Did Dom say Poppy was Caleb’s daughter?
He’s very quiet—Dom. At least, he and Caleb have stopped arguing since the girl came into the room.
Maybe I’m not awake?
Am I dreaming?
There is no way this pain could exist in a dream; it’s too real.
The world spins again as darkness threatens to reclaim me. I settle deeper into whatever abyss awaits me as her cries fade away…
A too-bright light pierces into my brain. It’s sharp, and I squint as a figure leans over me and into my eyes.
A man wearing a white coat writes something on a clipboard. Then he shines the light into my eyes again, and I flinch.
“Amara?” he asks, his voice steady but filled with concern. “Can you hear me?”
I want to respond, but words elude me. Instead, I blink at him.
He exchanges glances with someone behind him. “The results came back, and we have confirmation that the accident has caused post-traumatic amnesia,” he explains to the woman in the wide black pants and off-the-shoulder matching top who stands beside him.
Her sleek dark hair frames her face like a crown.
