Chapter 42

FORTY-TWO

XERO

It took every ounce of willpower to tear myself away from Amethyst and leave her in Isabel’s care. Our attention was already divided enough with the explosion at the asylum and the driver trying to escape via helicopter.

I rush back to the bridge, where the four operatives I left in charge of the drones are glued to their laptop screens.

“Jynxson,” I say through my Bluetooth headset. “Report.”

“Looks like the asylum had a gas leak,” he replies. “Major casualties on their side. Minor injuries on ours.”

“What do you need?” I ask.

“It’s already settled. Dennis is currently en route to transport the injured hostages.”

“Good.” I turn to one of the operatives at the laptop. “Status on the helicopter?”

“Its passengers are armed with machine guns. This drone has taken damage to its targeting system.”

“Can you stabilize it?” I ask.

He shakes his head. “Impossible. And the other drone’s weapon mount is toast. We’ve lost tracking and fire control.”

I clench my teeth. In other words, we’re flying blind and defenseless. “And the drones we sent to the asylum?”

“Already en route to the helicopter. Should be there in three minutes.”

Time is against us. I sent a team to pursue the car, but they’re ill equipped to handle an aerial assault, let alone take down a helicopter. At best, they can shoot at the driver when he finally emerges.

“Hey, Xero,” Tyler says in the Bluetooth. “Just re-established contact with Camila. She’s asking what you want to do about the men left behind in the penthouse.”

“Stay clear until further notice.”

I have a hunch that the helicopter personnel are attacking the drones instead of flying to safety because they’re protecting Father. Why else would they leave the investors’ meet and greet to help out a simple driver? Father is in the front seat, within killing range. Any other time, I would rush to assist in his capture or to kill him outright, but my priority is Amethyst.

“Keep me updated,” I say as I leave the bridge.

When I return to where I left Amethyst, Isabel has her laid out on a cot, covered in blankets, and is cutting through the bandage on her leg. The skin beneath the fabric is marred with red and inflamed cuts.

My feet root to the floor, the sight hitting me like a punch to the chest. “What the hell did they do to her?”

“These are incisions.” She runs a pad of gauze over each laceration. “They’re too precise and shallow to be anything else but torture.”

“How was she able to escape in this condition?”

She sighs, the sound carrying a weight of sorrow. “They would have injected her with painkillers, and antifibrinolytics to stop her from bleeding out, and any manner of stimulants to keep her functional but capable of suffering.”

My mind conjures up a vivid image of Amethyst, helpless and trapped in that straitjacket, drugged against her will and forced to endure relentless torture and pain. Hot fury charges through my veins, pulsing with each beat of my heart.

Nostrils flaring, I demand, “What else have you discovered?”

“It’s going to take a while to tend to all these wounds, to see which need stitching. I’ve already drawn blood to be sent to the lab for analysis, but from what I can tell, she’s been starved, dehydrated, and drugged.”

I clench my fist, my knuckles tightening as I suppress the urge to tear the infirmary apart. The question I shouldn’t ask fills my chest with flames, and I can’t hold back. I have to know. My throat is raw, but the words feel like sandpaper as I force out, “And what about the sexual trauma?”

She raises her head, her eyes glassy. “That’s next on my list to check. I want to stabilize her before gathering DNA and checking for injuries, but you’ll need to leave.”

“No.” My voice comes out cracked. “I’m not leaving her side.”

Her expression hardens. “Then stay on the other side of the curtain. She’s endured hell and doesn’t need an audience.”

Isabel sets down her forceps and gauze, bustles across the room, and picks up a surgical drape pack. After unfolding it with an annoyed snap, she sets it up, creating a thin barrier between myself and Amethyst’s broken body.

Sighing, I comb my fingers through the foliage tangled in her curls, while Isabel resumes her work on the other side of the curtain. The amount of debris caught in her hair tells me how much it took to escape the asylum.

I pluck out the leaves and twigs and feathers, each item telling its own story. As I brush off orange pollen scattered into her blonde strands, I loosen flakes of dried blood. The black side of her hair hides a layer of dirt that cakes my fingertips.

What could have motivated such cruelty to my beautiful little house-bound ghost, and from her own twin sister?

Grief weighs my steps as I walk to the sink and wash my hands before returning with the items I need to clean her face.

I snap on a pair of sterile gloves, my fingers trembling with a mix of fear and fury. Fury that Father has once again hurt a woman I love and fear that she might never be the same.

My heart aches as I tend to what’s caked on her beautiful face, revealing a network of fine cuts. What did they do to her? How many men? Will she ever recover? With each swipe of the antiseptic-soaked gauze, I want to wash away all her pain and suffering.

It’s futile. Amethyst was already fragile. She won’t easily recover from such horrific abuse. Not without my help.

The vengeance I’ll unleash will be so unfathomable that no one will dare lay a finger on her again. Those who harmed her will cower at the mere mention of her name because my revenge will know no bounds.

I will line up those men, bind them like an offering, and serve them to my little goddess as a mark of my undying devotion. And if she wants to kill them herself, I will hand her the instruments of torture and make her my queen of retribution.

Dolly might once have been a victim, but the way she targeted Amethyst is unforgivable. My little ghost needs to punish her twin, just as I plan on punishing Father.

Finally, Isabel emerges from behind the curtain. I can’t remember the last time I saw my sister looking so grim or unable to meet my gaze.

“What is it?” I ask.

“We’ve done all we can for now,” she murmurs. “The rest depends on the results of the toxicology report… And on Amethyst.”

My throat becomes too tight to form words. Nodding my thanks, I remain silent, swallowing hard when Isabel squeezes my arm before leaving.

The door clicks shut, and I turn back to Amethyst. She looks so angelic in her forced slumber, but it’s only a matter of time before she awakens and those pretty features contort with pain.

“We’ll get through this,” I murmur, more to myself than anyone else.

Saving Amethyst is only the first step in what’s going to be a long journey. The ordeal she suffered might have opened wounds her mother tried to seal with electroshock therapy and drugs.

We’ll work through her trauma together, step by painful step. I will never give up on my little ghost, no matter her mental state.