Amara (Reapers MC Book 12) by Elizabeth Knox

Author:Elizabeth Knox [Knox, Elizabeth]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Knox Publishing
Published: 2020-06-28T23:00:00+00:00

Chapter Fourteen

Time does not heal all wounds; there are those that remain painfully open

~ Elie Wiesel

Amara

One Month Later . . .

I toss and turn in my bed, pulling my arms up and stretch. It’s part of my typical morning routine. After a few moments of silence, I muster up the motivation to get out of bed and start the day.

I leave my bedroom and head for the shared bathroom in the suite. Opening the door, I grab my comb and pull it through my hair, getting out those nasty tangles that happen overnight. Staring at my reflection in the mirror, I realize the bags under my eyes are growing bigger every night. I’ve been trying to sleep, but I’d be lying if I said it was easy.

I think about her all the time. I wonder if she’s smiled yet, if she can laugh, what her cry sounds like. If I’m not thinking about her when I’m awake, I’m dreaming about her. Do other women who’ve given up their children feel this way as well? Is it natural, or is it some sort of punishment?

I turn on the water and wait a few moments for it to get hot, then splash it on my face to jolt me awake. The water does little to make me feel any different. I leave the bathroom and head over to the espresso machine Francisco put in the suite for me. He’s been so kind, kinder than he should’ve ever been if you ask me. I have the blood of his enemy running through my veins.

He had been away with Eduardo on a trip in Venezuela, but he ended up calling Dante to handle his business. He left the morning after the baby was born and I haven’t seen him since.

A few days after her birth Francisco had come back here and I was introduced to Angel and Javier. Angel is a very clean-cut man. He wears expensive suits just as his father does, combs his hair back and gels it in the picture-perfect manner. Javier on the other hand, or Javi as he prefers to be called . . . he’s very similar to Dante and I. With one look I could tell the man’s been in prison many times. He has three tear drops on his face, which is either a signifier he’s killed three men, or he’s been in the slammer for that long.

Eduardo has been checking on me every few days. I don’t know why he hasn’t gone back to the States yet, though I’m appreciative of him being here. Part of me thinks he doesn’t want to leave me alone. Hell, he knows I’m not okay. Anyone who looks at me can tell.

The door behind me creaks as I finish making my hazelnut latte. I thought I wanted an espresso at first, but a latte sounds much better. I’m pouring the frothy steamed milk into the cup and hear the distinct sounds of footsteps approaching.

“I didn’t know you were a coffee girl, mi reyna.

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