The room was silent now, the furious storm that had raged through the night finally spent. Heavy breaths mingled in the stillness, the air thick with the scent of sweat and something else; regret, tension, exhaustion. Amara lay limp against the tangled sheets, her body drained, every muscle aching, her mind numb to everything but the dull throb of pain and the emptiness that followed.
She didn't have the strength to think, to fight, or even to cry. Her eyelids fluttered closed, but sleep offered no comfort only a fragile escape from the chaos inside her.
Caden's breathing steadied beside her, slower now, less ragged, but his mind was a whirlwind he couldn't quiet. The haze of anger and desire that had consumed him earlier was replaced by a cold, creeping guilt. The fierce control he'd exerted, the words he'd shouted, the roughness he'd unleashed it all pressed down on him like a weight he could barely carry.
Morning light filtered softly through the curtains, casting long pale stripes across the rumpled bed. The world outside was calm, indifferent to the violence and passion that had unfolded behind these walls.
Caden was the first to wake.
He stirred slowly, the ache in his muscles a dull reminder of the night's storm. For a moment, he lay still, eyes closed, willing himself to forget the tempest that had driven him. But then he turned; just enough to see her.
Amara.
She lay curled up on her side, her breath shallow, her skin pale beneath the soft cotton of her nightdress. But the fragile beauty of her sleeping form was shattered by the marks his hands had left; bruises blooming like dark flowers on her arms, a faint welt near her jaw, the tender curve of her shoulder reddened and raw.
His heart clenched painfully.
Each mark told a story. The weight of his anger, the sharp edges of his control, the fury he'd lost to in moments he now hated.
He swallowed hard, fighting the surge of self-loathing that threatened to break him.
Gods, what have I done? His mind cursed itself, racing through memories; her gasps, her protests, the way she'd shut down, the tears she hadn't cried. The fight in her eyes that had finally faded into silent resignation.
"Amara," he whispered, voice raw and uncertain, leaning closer. She murmured something unintelligible, a soft sound caught between a sigh and a moan.
Caden's mind replayed every moment, every harsh word, every touch driven by fury rather than love. He hated the man he'd become beast, tyrant, tormentor and feared he'd lost her forever to the darkness inside him.
But as he watched her fragile breathing, he made a silent promise to himself a vow that this wouldn't be the end. That somehow, he would find a way back from the edge, for both their sakes.
For now, he simply stayed by her side, his hand resting lightly on hers, feeling the faint pulse of life and hope beneath the bruises.
The storm had passed, but its aftermath lingered a fragile, painful beginning to something uncertain and raw.
His mind spiraled back, unwilling but unable to resist, to every harsh word he'd shouted in the dark, every desperate grasp for control that had crushed her spirit bit by bit. "You're a beast." The words echoed in his ears, once like a slap, now a relentless drumbeat in his conscience.
He remembered the fire in her eyes, the fierce, unyielding defiance that had flickered even as fear wrapped around her like a cold shadow. She hadn't surrendered easily. Not truly.
And yet, somewhere along the way, she had stopped fighting. His relentless anger had worn her down, had pushed her into silence, into stillness—a silence that screamed louder than any shouted argument ever could.
The weight of that silence crushed him now.
His gaze traced the curve of her face the soft line of her jaw, the faint tremor in her eyelashes, the way her lips parted slightly as she struggled for breath even in sleep. His own breath hitched, a raw ache blossoming deep in his chest.
What have I done to you?
A sudden memory flashed sharply, like lightning tearing through a dark sky.
It was hours ago her voice trembling as she fought to be heard over the storm inside him. "You don't care. You only care about what you want." The words, though whispered, had sliced through his fury like a blade.
His fingers clenched instinctively, nails biting into his palm. The truth in her voice was undeniable. He had been blinded by his rage, by his need to dominate, to control, and in doing so, he'd forgotten the woman beside him the one who had once been full of life, light, and laughter.
He leaned back slightly, eyes closing as he tried to steady the chaos swirling within him. Every breath was a battle—a war between the part of him that longed to protect her and the darker self that had nearly destroyed them both last night.
He reached for her, hesitant, guilt gnawing at his insides with every inch his hand moved. The tips of his fingers brushed her arm and he flinched.
She was burning.
Not warm. Not slightly feverish.
Burning hot.
"Shit—" The word escaped his lips like a gasp, laced with horror.
Amara shifted ever so slightly, a sharp, broken sound escaping from her throat part moan, part whimper, utterly raw and helpless. Her eyes didn't open, but her lips parted, as if trying to speak. No words came. Just another pained noise that tore into him like a knife.
Caden's breath caught. No. No, no, no. He reached out again, pressing the back of his hand to her forehead. The heat radiating from her skin was unnatural, almost scalding.
Panic rose in his chest, fast and uncontrollable.
His mind flashed back to the night before, the roughness of his hands, the way she had cried out beneath him, the way she'd eventually stopped moving, stopped speaking. He had collapsed beside her like a man possessed, too far gone to register what he had done, too full of shame to acknowledge the damage.
And now here she was, her body giving in while his own guilt threatened to consume him.
"Amara," he whispered, voice shaking as he brushed hair from her clammy forehead. "Please. Say something."
Another soft, broken sound. Her body tensed beneath his touch, just for a moment, before sagging again into stillness.
He felt the walls closing in around him, the air turning thick. His vision blurred for a second as he pulled away, standing up too quickly, pacing the room in frantic circles. The memories came back with brutal clarity, every time he'd raised his voice, every time his hands had gripped too tightly, every time she'd flinched when he moved too fast.
I lost control.
I became the very thing I swore I'd never be.
He stared at her fragile form on the bed, skin flushed, breathing shallow. The guilt was overwhelming, but it wasn't just guilt anymore. It was fear. Pure, unfiltered fear that he had broken something too important to ever fix.
That he had broken her.
Grabbing the glass of water from the nightstand, he sat beside her again, his hands trembling. He soaked the corner of a towel with cool water and gently dabbed it along her temples, down the slope of her neck, her collarbone, and shoulders. She didn't move, couldn't, but a small, pained sound escaped her lips. It wasn't a word. Just a raw exhale, strained and broken.
Her skin was burning, hot with fever, almost scalding under his touch.
"God," he whispered. His throat tightened.
Caden stood abruptly, moving to the wardrobe, pulling out a fresh, soft cotton nightshirt. He worked gently, carefully, changing her clothes as if she might shatter with a single wrong move. Every new bruise, every darkened spot on her skin, stole another breath from his lungs.
Once she was settled again beneath the covers, he sat back and stared at her for a long moment. Her face was pale and drawn, but the fever had painted her cheeks a stark red.
He knew she couldn't wait. He had to do something.
With trembling fingers, Caden grabbed his phone and dialed the number he never thought he'd have to call.
Dr. Lyle Harren picked up on the second ring. "Harren here."
"It's Caden." His voice cracked. "I—I need you to come. It's urgent. It's... it's Amara."
A pause on the other end. "I'll be there in fifteen."
Caden barely whispered his thanks before ending the call.
But the relief was short-lived.
Because now, there was someone else he had to face.
Mr. Whitmore.
His grandfather.
The man who had raised him like a son; and who loved Amara like the granddaughter he never had.
The man who trusted Caden. Who believed in him. Who thought, somehow, he could carry the family name forward with honor.
Caden's thumb hovered over the contact. His heart thundered in his chest.
How could he explain this? How could he tell the truth before someone else did? Before Dr. Harren said something... or before Amara spoke up when she was strong enough to?
He couldn't let his grandfather hear it from someone else.
With a breath that felt like it might tear his ribs apart, Caden pressed the call button.
The phone rang once. Twice.
And then Mr. Whitmore's warm, familiar voice answered: "Caden, my boy. Everything all right?"
Caden's mouth opened. But no words came.
Only the pounding of his guilt.
Only the sound of the storm he'd created, finally crashing down around him.