vehement

27

• AMALIA •

I wake up, disorientated.

     Enzo is laying beside me, not holding onto me but close enough that I don't have to reach for him.

     I sit up, my stomach beginning to ache immediately. I clench my eyes shut, exhaling a shaky breath.

     I need the toilet. Badly.

     I dig my palms into the mattress and pull myself into a standing position. I groan quietly, my eyes stinging with tears.

     I choke out a sob, which I muffle with my hand so it's not loud enough to stir Enzo from his sleep. I place a hand on the nightstand and practice balance for a second before taking a small step.

     I release a cry as I fall to the ground, my whole body seizing up as pain shoots to all my limbs. The door is slammed open after a few seconds, and I look up to see my father, along with Archer, standing in the doorway.

     "What happened?" My father asks, turning the light on. "Amalia? Are you okay, sweetheart?"

     "Turn the light off! Enzo's asleep!" I exclaim.

     He turns it off, and Archers silhouette rushes over to me. My father is close behind. They each take one of my arms and guide me to sit back down on the bed.

     "What happened?" My father repeats.

     "I needed the toilet." I groan. "I think one of my stitches have come off, or something." I say, my voice shaky.

     "Okay, I'll call someone to come check them for you, baby." My father says gently. "I'll be back in a second, alright?"

     I nod meekly, and he leaves the room. Archer looks down at me.

     "Are you okay?" He asks.

     "I'm fine." I grit out.

     I go to stand again, but he sets a large hand on my shoulder and gently guides me back down. "Clearly it isn't the best idea for you to be walking." He tells me.

     "Am I supposed to piss the bed?" I ask.

     He leans down and, in one swoop, lifts me up. My eyes widen, feeling his bare chest against my arm. A blush tinges my cheeks pink and suddenly all pain is forgotten.

     Wordlessly he carries me to the bathroom, setting me down, and I suddenly feel so weak and embarrassed that I want to cry. I have to be carried to the bathroom because I can't walk—because I allowed the man I thought was my husband to lock my son and I away before I could get my child free of him.

     "Shout me when you're done." He says.

     He walks out, and I make quick work of using the toilet. I lean forward to wash my hands in the sink, then dry them off on a hand towel. Despite what Archer said, I set my hand on the edge of the sink and pull myself up again.

     "Oh, God," I whisper, setting my other hand onto it in order to give myself some more stability. I look at myself in the mirror, my eyes widening.