“Or maybe it was a tragic accident,” I say, not wanting to believe someone did this on purpose. The alternative is too terrifying to contemplate. But did someone want me dead?
“A tragic accident would be preferable,” Milly agrees, but her tone suggests she doesn’t believe it.
I study her face, searching for familiarity. Unlike with Poppy, there’s something about Milly that feels right. Safe.
“I trust you,” I tell her, surprising myself with how much I mean it.
Milly holds me close and kisses my temple. I don’t tell her how much it hurts because it’s also soothing. “Thank you. I love you, Amara. You can trust me and Lia. I give you my word, but don’t trust anyone else until I find out more.”
“Are you trying to find out more?” I ask her.
“Lia and I are going to find out who did this to you, Amara.”
22
Dom
I carry Amara outsideto the pool area, cradling her carefully against my chest. Her body feels fragile in my arms, lighter than I remember. The bruises on her face have faded from angry purple to a sickly yellow, but they still make my blood boil every time I look at them.
“You don’t have to carry me,” she protests weakly. “I can walk.”
“You can barely stand without getting dizzy,” I remind her, my voice gentler than I use with anyone else. “Let me do this.”
I ease her into the cushioned lounge chair, sliding a pillow behind her back. She grimaces as she settles in, and I immediately adjust the pillow.
“Better?” I ask, hovering over her.
She nods, squinting against the sunlight. I adjust the umbrella, casting her in a comfortable shade.
The ocean breeze lifts her hair, and for a moment, she closes her eyes, seeming to savor the fresh air.
“You need this,” I tell her. “Being cooped up inside isn’t good for healing.”
When she opens her eyes again, she’s studying me with that curious, cautious look she’s had since waking up in the hospital. Like I’m a puzzle she’s trying to solve.
“Why do you grimace?” I ask, noticing the tiny flinch she tries to hide.
“My ribs hurt when I breathe too deeply,” she admits. “The doctors said they’re bruised, not broken, but I’m not sure.”
I clench my jaw. I’m going to kill whoever put her in this state.
“So you’re not my dad,” she says, staring at me. The sun catches the blue in her eyes—her real mother, Aurora’s eyes.
“You’re my stepdad.”
“That’s right, Amara,” I tell her, settling into the chair beside her, watching how the breeze lifts strands of her dark hair.
“Do I have a dad? Or is he dead?” she asks suddenly.
I shake my head. “He’s alive, and he came to the hospital to visit you.”
“I don’t remember.”
“You were unconscious.”
Her eyes narrow slightly. “Can I talk to him?”
“I’ll contact him for you. Because I’m sure your mother hasn’t since you arrived home.”
