AMORA'S POV;
The silence after he left was as heavy as the confusion swirling in my mind. Zale. The name echoed in the empty room, bouncing off the luxurious walls like a secret whispered into a void. I sat there, frozen, my heart still pounding from the intensity of the conversation. Nothing made sense, and yet, in a strange way, everything seemed to shift.
I wasn't sure what I had expected when I asked for his name, but the word felt like it carried a weight far beyond what I could comprehend. Zale. It wasn't just a name; it felt like a key to something—something vast and complex, hidden beneath the surface.
But I wasn't ready for whatever door it unlocked. Not yet.
The exhaustion settled in, tugging at me, pulling me toward the bed. I could still smell him—vanilla and lemon, a scent that clung to the sheets and the air around me. A scent that made me feel... safe, in a way I didn't understand. I crawled under the covers, letting the softness of the bed engulf me. My body ached, my muscles heavy and sore, but my mind wouldn't rest.
I replayed the conversation over and over again, dissecting every word, every glance, every unspoken tension. He had called me important. Important? What could that possibly mean?
I wasn't special. I wasn't anyone worth protecting.
And yet, there was a certainty in his voice, in the way he looked at me—as if he saw something I couldn't. Something I didn't want to see.
The darkness in his eyes, the raw intensity that flickered beneath the surface—there was more to Zale than just power. There was something deeper, something he wasn't telling me. He had saved me, taken me from the nightmare I'd been living, but at what cost? And why? Why would someone like him care?
I curled into myself, staring at the ceiling, my mind racing. The quiet of the room felt too loud, too overwhelming. I closed my eyes, but all I could see was my father's face—angry, disappointed, hateful. His voice rang in my ears, the words he spat at me every day echoing in the corners of my mind.
You're worthless.
You're nothing.
You'll never be good enough.
I felt the familiar knot tighten in my chest, the one that had been there for as long as I could remember. But for the first time, there was another voice—Zale's—cutting through the darkness.
"You were barely surviving."
The words felt like a punch to the gut because they were true. I had been surviving. Not living. Not really. Every day had been a battle—a battle just to exist. To breathe. To not break completely under the weight of my father's anger.
But now? Now, I wasn't sure what I was supposed to do. Zale said I was safe here, but what did that mean? I wasn't free. I was trapped in a different kind of cage, one made of confusion and unanswered questions.
As the night wore on, sleep remained elusive. My thoughts kept circling back to him—Zale. Who was he? He had this power about him, this presence that made everything else seem small in comparison. But there was something more. Something that pulled at me, that made me want to understand him even though I barely knew him.
I remembered the way his gaze softened when he told me to heal, the flicker of vulnerability in his eyes, as if he understood pain in a way most people couldn't. As if he had his own wounds, hidden beneath that cold exterior.
And then there was Wilder. There had been a moment, brief but telling, when Wilder looked at Zale with something like concern. Like there was more going on than I realized.
What was I caught up in?
I didn't know if I wanted the answers or if I was better off staying ignorant. But ignorance wouldn't save me. Not in this place. Not with him.
I sighed, rolling over in the bed, pulling the covers tighter around me. My eyes drifted toward the window, where the moonlight filtered through the curtains. The world outside was quiet, peaceful even, and for a brief moment, I let myself believe that maybe—just maybe—I could find peace here, too.
But peace was a fragile thing, and I knew it wouldn't last. Not with the storm brewing beneath the surface. Not with Zale keeping so many secrets.
I had to figure out where I stood in all of this—who I was to him and why he thought I was important.
The morning light streamed in through the tall windows, casting a golden glow over the room. The soft silk sheets felt unfamiliar against my skin, far removed from the coarse blankets I was used to at home. I stirred slowly, trying to shake off the remnants of restless dreams that had plagued my sleep. The events of yesterday played in my mind like a broken record—Zale's cryptic words, the overwhelming confusion, and the haunting feeling that nothing in my life would ever be the same again.
For a brief moment, I let myself sink back into the bed, its softness beckoning me to forget. But forgetting was a luxury I couldn't afford. I was too far from home—too far from everything I knew—and the uncertainty of it all wrapped itself around my chest like a vice. My body felt heavy with exhaustion, but there was no time to linger in the comfort of the unfamiliar bed.
I was just beginning to sit up, the ache in my muscles reminding me of the tension I'd carried all night, when a quiet knock came at the door. My heart skipped a beat, and for a second, I considered ignoring it. But curiosity won out, and before I could think it through, my voice found its way out.
"Come in," I called softly, wincing at how hoarse and uncertain I sounded. My throat felt dry, my voice cracking with the weight of everything I still didn't understand.
The door creaked open, and to my surprise, it wasn't Zale or Wilder standing there. A young woman stepped into the room, her head bowed respectfully. She was dressed in a neat, simple maid's uniform, her presence quiet and unobtrusive. Despite the gentle look on her face, the sight of her filled me with a sudden, overwhelming anxiety. My pulse quickened, and I instinctively pulled the blanket tighter around myself, my arms disappearing beneath the thick fabric.
"Good morning, Miss," she said in a soft, pleasant voice. "I've been sent to assist you with your morning routine. If you'd like, I can prepare your bath or help you with your clothes."
Her words hung in the air, but I barely heard them. The room seemed to shrink around me, the walls pressing closer, suffocating. All I could focus on was the thought of someone seeing me—of her seeing me. My scars. My skin.
"No," I blurted out, my voice sharp and panicked. The response came before I could stop it, and it cut through the quiet of the room like a knife. The maid froze, startled by the suddenness of my rejection. I could see the confusion flicker across her face, but she quickly schooled her features into polite neutrality. Her hands, which had been folded neatly in front of her, twitched slightly, but she didn't retreat.
"Of course, Miss," she replied, her voice even and composed. "I'm only here to help. If you prefer to be left alone, I'll respect that."
I nodded, my throat tight as I tried to steady my breathing. "Yes. I don't need any help," I said, more quietly now, trying to mask the tremor in my voice. I couldn't let her know how much the idea of someone—anyone—touching me or seeing me like that terrified me.
But she didn't leave immediately. Her eyes flickered with something—a trace of empathy, perhaps—and she took a cautious step forward. "I can leave the bath running for you if you like. Or perhaps bring breakfast? I know the Alpha would want you to be comfortable—"
"No," I cut her off again, this time more gently, though my voice was still laced with tension. I hated how defensive I sounded, but I couldn't help it. "I just... I don't need anything."
The maid bowed her head slightly, her expression softening as if she understood, though I doubted she truly could. "As you wish, Miss," she said quietly. "I'll be just outside should you change your mind."
With that, she turned and left the room, the door clicking softly shut behind her. I let out a breath I hadn't realized I'd been holding, the tension in my chest slowly easing as I found myself alone once more. But the quiet didn't bring relief. Instead, it left me alone with my thoughts, the memories, and the shame that clawed at me from beneath the surface.
I lowered the blanket, glancing down at my arms, where pale, jagged scars crisscrossed my skin like an intricate, broken roadmap of my past. Each one told a story, a story that was etched into me, a story I couldn't erase. They were reminders of the life I'd lived, the battles I'd fought, and the things I'd endured. But to me, they weren't just scars. They were secrets. Secrets I wasn't ready to share with anyone—especially not here, in this strange, luxurious world where people bowed and treated me as if I were someone important. Someone who mattered.
I traced one of the longer scars with my fingertip, the roughness of the skin a familiar contrast to the soft sheets beneath me. My mind drifted to the night I'd gotten it, a memory I'd tried to bury so deep it no longer haunted me. But here, in this unfamiliar room, surrounded by the unknown, those memories threatened to bubble to the surface once more.
I shook my head, pushing them away. Now wasn't the time to think about that. Not when there were so many other questions that needed answering—about this place, about Zale, and about why I was here. And yet, despite the whirlpool of confusion in my mind, the thought of facing any of those questions head-on seemed impossible. I wasn't ready. Not yet.
I stood up slowly, the blanket still wrapped around me like a protective shield. The maid had mentioned a bath, and though I didn't want anyone's help, I could at least take advantage of the privacy. Maybe the warm water would help me clear my mind, give me a moment of peace in the storm of uncertainty that surrounded me.
As I moved toward the adjoining bathroom, I caught a glimpse of myself in the ornate mirror that hung on the wall. The person staring back at me seemed like a stranger—tired, hollow, and worn down by everything that had happened. My reflection felt like a reminder of all that I'd been through, and all that I still didn't understand.
But as I stared at my reflection, I also realized something else—something I hadn't allowed myself to admit until now.
I wasn't just afraid of the scars on my skin. I was afraid of what they represented. Of the girl I had been. Of the pain I had endured. And most of all, I was afraid that no matter how far I ran, no matter how different my life became, I would never be able to escape that girl. I would never be able to escape the past.
Tearing my gaze away from the mirror, I hurried into the bathroom, determined to drown those thoughts in the warmth of the water. I turned on the faucet, the sound of rushing water filling the space and offering a temporary distraction from the turmoil in my mind.
As the tub filled, I glanced back toward the door, half-expecting the maid to return. But she didn't. I was alone, truly alone for the first time since waking up in this strange new world. And yet, despite the solitude, I couldn't shake the feeling that eyes were still on me, watching, waiting for me to make sense of it all. To heal, as Zale had said.
But how does one heal when the wounds are still so fresh? When the scars are more than just skin-deep?
I didn't have the answers to those questions. Not yet.
But maybe, just maybe, I would find them in time