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Chapter 87
Wyatt
When I can see again, I crawl on all fours while my heart is aching with the knowledge Maeve is hurt. I'm a hybrid, and my skin is burning. One of my legs is hurting tremendously—nothing important. It will heal in mere minutes, but Maeve won't heal if she is injured.
She is a human who might need a hospital—Shit, I shouldn't have taken her with me! I won't forgive myself if she is dead or injured! I'm already responsible for my mother's death, and now maybe I've also murdered Maeve.
I'm such a monster!
A fucking idiot!
Maeve isn't a superhero—why the hell did I bring her here?!
"Maeve!" I call her name through the smoke, making my way forward over rocks and debris from the mansion. White fragments are circling in the air like snow, and I cough as I crawl. My heart is beating a mile per minute. "Maeve?!"
"Fucking shit! That hurt!" Bob swears to the right of me, and I watch him stand up, entirely unscathed as if
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WyattI approach the hybrid town through the forest with my skin bleeding and pants leaving my body. My exhaustion is rising, and my thoughts are scattered, running wild with worry as I clutch Maeve to my body. She was so close to dying. Shit. I will never let her go again, never look away!"Wyatt..." Maeve chuckles a little. Her head slumps to my shoulder, where she rests with her eyes closed. It's beyond me how she can appear so peaceful after what we have survived. "You can slow down. No one is chasing us, and we are both alive.""But you are-..." I stop talking, confused about the growing smile on Maeve's lips. Why does she seem so entertained? It's annoying not to know!"I'm what?" Her hand strokes over my chest, and she digs her cheek into my naked skin, inhaling my scent. My heart swells. I care about her so much, and she is injured because of me. "Well… I'm alive, Wyatt. I'm grateful for that, and if I'm blind, then so what? At least you ca
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Maeve Wyatt gently places me down on a bed. The innkeeper told us to get some rest before she attempts to heal my eyes. She used up most of her stamina, patching up my wounds and stopping the bleeding—it no longer feels like I'm leaking. "I shouldn't have brought you with me," Wyatt says as he crashes down behind me. "It's my fault that Bob and Garett died." His sheer weight got me tumbling into him, and his arm falls over me, holding me in place. It sounds like he is crying. It breaks my heart because I feel at ease with him, safe. He is like a giant teddy bear, but right now, he is vulnerable, and it tears me apart. I suck oxygen into my lungs, fully aware of my heartache. "Hey," I whisper at Wyatt, holding his shaking hand. "It's not your fault that they died—we didn't know Marcus had a bomb, and Bob made his own decision to save me." "I know, I'm just..." He is breathing into my neck with his curly locks brushing against me. It tickles. I
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White debris flies everywhere, and then a hand comes in through the cracks, unlocking the bathroom door from the outside. My father's presence is enough to pour gasoline onto the spark of terror within me, and then it turns into a flame. He is such a rotten man. All I ever did was offer him my hand, a smile, and my heart, but this man can't be satisfied. My father is a perfectionist, constantly searching for new reasons to hate me, punish me for not being like her, the original Amelia. "Did you think you could get away from me?" My father snorts as if someone had said something funny. My blood runs cold. "Looks like someone needs to be taught some manners!" The imposing man approaches, and I hold my breath as the fight or flight response kicks in. Part of me wants to try skipping past my father, while the brighter part of my brain knows I can't win against him; he is too big and too darn strong. Why did he even pick a fight, to begin with? I h
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The last couple of days have been the best ones in my life. Where melancholy once raged, there are sparkles of hope, and it grows every time I open one of Ryan's messages. Ryan has blown my mind. He is sexy, funny, and supposedly hot, according to himself. I can't remember how I went through a day in the mansion without him humoring me during the day. And at night, god the man knows how to make me laugh with his perverted humor and desire to get to know the real me, Amelia the clone. Simply thinking about Ryan sets my heart on a furious fire capable of even burning down my inner fears. I no longer care or cry when my father hurts me because I know Ryan will be there later to cheer me up. Whenever I talk with Ryan, happiness skitters along my skin like the feet of young children, the man is the kindest soul I've ever spoken with. And I'm falling hard and fast—it's almost scary. I've been locked inside my room for what feels like eternities, but things
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