Chapter 27

Chapter Twenty-Seven

B eeping.

Stupid beeping.

I wanted to sleep. I wanted to keep dreaming of gray eyes and black ink and a wicked, wicked tongue. But the beeping wouldn't stop, slow and constant, pulling me from my heaven as an unwanted wake up call growing louder and louder until I could no longer ignore it.

A twinge came in my throat, on the side of my neck and it sent my eyelids wide with the image of Ambrose's finger on the trigger.

"Oh, thank god." Ambrose smiled, shifting on the foot of his bed to brush a strand of hair from my face. We were in his room, I realized, with a plethora of hospital equipment on either side—an IV, vitals monitor, and god knew what else—all of which were attached to me. "Hello, darling. How are you feeling?"

"I don't know yet," I replied, my voice gravel from the dryness in my throat. "I hurt, I think?" The stupid beeping continued and I glared in its direction.

He chuckled with little humor. "Yes, I imagine so. Please, have some water." He brought a glass to my lips, allowing me to take the smallest sip to wet my poor desert of a mouth. It cooled all the way down, tearing a grateful groan from my chest.

"Your father." I finally managed after swallowing in vast relief.

"All taken care of, my love. I promise you, and every other woman who sets foot on this campus, are safe from now on."

Emotion swelled, bright and hot, in my chest. "He's…dead?"

Ambrose merely nodded, his eyes hardening a fraction.

"Thank you. For everything." The tears slipped out, only a few from my dehydration but enough for release. "I love you." I gripped his wrists with what little strength I possessed just to drive home the point. "I love you so much and it terrified me to think I might not get the chance to tell you."

The corner of that incredible mouth tipped upward and he brought my knuckles to it. "I know. If it hadn't been for you, I'm not sure I would have been brave enough to do what I did. I owe you more than I can ever repay. Oakwood itself is indebted to you, you allowed it to be freed of that cursed society and the stain it's left on our history."

I shook my head to protest, flinching. Searing bolts of agony hurtled up and down the length of my neck. "Fuck, that hurts."

"Brian nicked your left artery, just barely, but enough that by the time I got you to the medical hall, you needed a transfusion. Any longer and I'm afraid I would have lost you." His misty gaze fell to our interlocked hands.

"But you didn't," I reminded him, unable to fight my smile. "You didn't lose me. You saved me, you saved all those women, all the women who'll come after us. That was you. "

"I wish I would have been there sooner," he murmured, drawing idle circles on the back of my hand with his thumb.

"It doesn't matter. You still came, and you still did what you did. "

"I did. My father locked me in his fucking private quarters, it took Robert ages to find the key. I was worried I might be too late."

"You weren't," I assured him. "Don't dwell on it. You made it in time, you did more than enough."

There was a quiet pause save for the thrum of equipment. He never moved, staring down at our hands with an unblinking and haunted gaze.

"Are you okay?" I pressed.

Ambrose nodded.

"White Dove is…over?"

He chuckled darkly. "Yes, over enough I suppose. But you nearly died, you're hooked up to all these machines—" he motioned about the room—"and you're asking me if I'm okay?"

My brows stitched. "Of course, I am. You might not have been physically harmed but you killed your father. That's—that's got to be difficult to process."

"Yes…well…‘ There is nothing either good or bad, but thinking makes it so. ' I have chosen not to think about it." His shoulder bunched, the difficulty of his situation sat so blatant upon them, his mind had clearly been whirring to wrap itself around it all.

I offered him a squeeze, weak as it was. I needed him to know that he wasn't alone. "I'm here." I reminded him. "I'm here and you don't have to go through it on your own."

"I know. I am thankful for that, for you , truly. I don't know that I would have made it otherwise." Ambrose smiled softly.

"How's Walt?" I managed after a beat. I wanted to see him, to know for myself that he was okay.

"I'll let him tell you himself." He came to his feet, but not before planting a tender kiss on my forehead. "I have to be careful with you for a while, it would seem."

"Is he here?" I asked, shifting myself to sit more upright with great difficulty.

"Try not to move too much, my love. Yes, he and Sam are downstairs. We haven't much left your side the last few days."

" Days ?" I repeated, balking as the machine echoed my frantic heartbeat.

"It's November third, you've not been out too long."

"My parents?" The uneasy contraction of my stomach had me fighting the urge to vomit, and I wasn't sure how well that would bode with my stitches. "My classes!"

"Let me get Walt." He left briskly, returning a few moments later with my brother and Sam, both of who looked rather haggard in their matching sweatpants and OU hoodies.

"Vivian!" Sam squealed. She wrapped her arms over my shoulders and buried her face in my hair, careful to avoid my bandaged neck. "Oh, I'm so glad you're awake!"

"Let her breathe, Christ." Walt muttered, flopping on the bed beside me.

"How are you?" I asked Sam, searching her coppery eyes. "Are you mad at him?"

"No, no." She cast a rather unimpressed look toward Walt. "I'm not angry. I'm just glad he didn't do it. How are you ?"

"Okay, I think." I directed my question toward my brother, letting Ambrose sink into the free space beside me. "Well?"

"Don't worry about me, Viv. I didn't kill anyone, I'm not a part of some sick cult." He offered Ambrose an appreciative look. "And my sister is alive. It's all I can ask for."

"Did you tell Dad?" I leaned against Ambrose as best as I could given the wrap around my throat.

"I did."

"And?"

"It's Dad, Viv. He was disgusted that there was even an intervention, that White Dove could possibly be disbanded." His shoulders sagged and those eyes—which mirrored so much my own—bored deep, begging me to understand. "They haven't called, they don't care. They're irritated that this cult is broken more than anything."

I sighed, letting the hurt sink into my gut, letting it wash over me in its putrid wave of sadness. "It was stupid, I thought maybe they'd be…relieved that I wasn't fucking murdered. Silly me."

"I am," Ambrose murmured softly, brushing the corner of my mouth with his lips, sending a shiver down my spine and an ache echoing in my stitches. "I'm relieved you're here."

Sam smiled. "Me, too! Fuck your parents, they're trash anyway."

"Trash doesn't quite seem to sum them up sometimes," Walt interjected.

We all laughed low, with an edge. There was a haunting in their eyes, one I felt in my own soul, one that I knew would take years to leave—if ever. But they were here, Walt and Sam, but most of all Ambrose.

And that was enough.