My Soulmates are IDOLS Books 2+3 | 18+ [SoulBond Series]

322-325: Chapter 15

Amber stood at the edge of a cliff—panelled glass polished to transparency—with nothing to catch her and nowhere to hide.

Her hands were clutching the metal bar—her only form of visible safety; the surface was icy against sweaty, warm palms—skin that left imprints upon the silver. His fans were screaming, his not hers, a constant drone of sound that vibrated to the painful beat of the music. It thrummed from deep within her, shaking up her organs—lungs, liver, and heart. It led to a nausea that churned in her throat.

The panic, it seized her like wildfire.

She could notice a lot more things, like the way the smoke blew at the corners of the stage, or the upset that began in the darkness that was under her. Or perhaps the sound of tech speaking from stage right in jargon, or the jostle of wheels and the slow upward movement of her platform.

But her vision tunnelled to the microphone in her palm.

They were hands that she should recognize from the nicks of white scars and the blister on the thumb. The ring of fiery red. She should remember these hands, had once fingered the scars, and traced the tips.

As his soulmate, she should know who he was.

But she couldn't think, couldn't feel. She could only stare at the ground beneath her feet, watching it shake and tremble. Around her the screams began to dull into white noise—pitched like the shrill violent ringing of a bell. She licked her lips that had gone sticky and dry—but whose lips? Whose body had she stolen?

Whose life did she now hold in her grasp?

She hoped, no, prayed that no one had dropped Rumiko in the exchange. That no one had tried to pick up her crying baby, that no one had held their daughter within arms that would surely tighten and let go as souls were exchanged. Within her mind, so distraught and ruined, there laid a semblance of herself, a feeling of responsibility.

An edge of fear.

As her panicked breaths escaped her in soft whimpers, she felt for his face, traced the nose, the brows and the lips. That was good enough to send flashes of memories dripping through the turmoil. Memories of calmer, more peaceful days with her own hands on his face, her own hands feeling the shape of his mouth and the lids of his eyes. The length of his eyelashes—its flutter sent a spark of recollection through her veins.

Sieon.

Sieon was with Rumiko.

Beneath her the platform moved, and she stumbled into position fingers clasped upon the bar, held so tight her knuckles grew white. Her eyes were violently struck by the blinding gush of light, panned down as if it giving her time to take her place upon the pedestal. Her feet stumbled, moving back, but the platform was rising, and it continued bringing her up into the light.

She was stuck upon the precipice of disaster with nowhere to run.

It stopped high up in the sky— it was a stand, and she was a witch to be burned. She was at the top of the moving stage, staring into the darkness that was a mixture of bouncing lights and spinning effects.

The music swept, entering a crescendo and a spotlight affixed itself upon her, highlighting her every move. She knew without a doubt that all cameras were now focused on her person. And her face, her every move, was broadcasted on the screens behind her. The technician counted away, calling his name.

The screams grew higher, then stuttered as the beat dropped, quelled when her mouth opened and closed.

Lost.

In her ears she heard staff calling his name, repeating the cues. Someone asked if he wanted to do it again. The instrumental continued edged with the soft adlib of her soulmate. It continued just as she was left behind—a lonely boat in the storm. She'd missed his cue, destroyed his solo and she wondered if they would cut the lights if she just waited long enough. She wondered if they would end her misery.