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Their eyes meet across the room in the cacophony of the party; through the crowds of dancing people, flashing kaleidoscopes of disco light and tumultous cheering that makes Tara want nothing more than to curl into a ball and shrivel.
But those eyes—they give her pause.
Just for a moment.
Deep grey irises that set a different sort of ambiguity and appeal to cigarette smoke, with bare specks of hazel and green that are only noticeable when up close. Before, Tara would confidently agree that she is often given that opportunity to count those specks. But ever since the attacks… everything in her life seems to be falling apart.
Even her friendships.
Just the thought of Wes is enough to crush her heart.
In the cacophony of the party, across the room—Amber’s eyes meet hers.
Then, she parts the crowd. There is no hesitation in the way Amber pushes past people, even jostling some people with others sending annoyed looks her way. But she does not take her eyes off of Tara, resolute and confident in her strides.
She looks the same as she usually does.
Though her face appears much harsher and gaunt—but who wouldn’t be? With all the attacks and the threat of the murderer about?
Silky dark hair falls past smooth shoulders like thick curtains of the eldritch abyss, with the reflection of lights gleaming off the scarce wave through her locks. Everything else remains mostly the same; her strong posture, the simple tee that she could absolutely rock, and those hard eyes of jewel that could kill if looks could.
Right now, her eyes are anything but as she slows down in front of Tara.
She feels Sam tense behind her, along with Richie’s presence by the door. Tara tilts her head back slightly to meet those smoky grey eyes, suddenly hyper aware of how she must look. The last time she looked in a mirror, she could barely recognize the person staring back at her; a pallid and gaunt face, and thick smears of purple beneath her sleep-deprived eyes. Her frame is thin and bonier in her wheelchair, and Tara can’t help but feel incredibly small.
“Amber.” The words barely make it past Tara’s lips before Amber leans down to meet her height.
She barely registers the touch of arms around her body before Amber squeezes her into a tight embrace, pressing her face into the crook of her neck.
And in that moment, Tara suddenly forgets everything.
The world is swept away in a mist of nothingness; forget Samantha, forget Richie, forget the people. She forgets the fact that she is in a wheelchair—a husk of the strong girl she used to be, and the constant ache in her hand and legs. She forgets the distance that has garnered between them—she forgets how different of a girl she stands today than a couple of weeks ago.
Tara forgets the threat of the murderer breathing down her neck.
“Tara.” Gentle words brush by Tara’s ear, quiet with little to no interpretation of what she was trying to convey with those words.
While Tara and Amber never considered each other best friends, there was something different about Amber to Tara than the others. Sure, they all had their charms; Chad had his energy; Liv with her positivity; Wes was all entirely too innocent; with Mindy always bringing her wittiness and sarcasm into the group.
But Amber… Tara could never pinpoint exactly what she brought to her.
Tara breathes in shakily, inhaling Amber’s scent of lavender and desperately trying to drown out her stench of blood that had burned themselves into Tara’s senses permanently. Her anxiety from the stuffiness and noise in the room subdues—as it always does whenever she’s with Amber—and Tara feels like she can breathe again.
Amber’s warmth fades away, to Tara’s dismay, as she pulls back first. Her eyes are unreadable—as it always is with her—but there is the slight softness present in those smoky irises. She rests a slender hand almost protectively on the side of Tara’s wheelchair, before shooting a closely-lipped glare to Sam and Richie behind her.
It only lasts a moment before Amber glances back down to Tara, furrowing her brows.
“What are you doing here?” Amber says bluntly—not unkindly, but Tara knows she means well. “Shouldn’t you be the hospital, Tara?”
“They discharged me.” Tara swallows, before adding on. “I… I need my spare inhaler I left at your house.”
Grey irises fixate on Tara’s expression, and she resists the urge to squirm in her wheelchair. It’s strange enough that she has to tell Amber something as important as this rather than her knowing already, because Tara tells Amber everything.
Well, she used to… before all of this happened.
“Why? Are you going somewhere?”
Tara can feel Sam’s gaze boring into the back of her head. Her fingernails dig into the skin on her hand. Sam was adamant about the secrecy and urgency of them moving out of Woodsboro. Tara understood, obviously.
But this is Amber.
Yet the silence has gone on far too long, as those grey eyes watch her carefully before Amber’s lips press together tightly.
“Right. I guess it’s fine if you… can’t tell me.” Typically, it’s hard to read Amber but Tara can see the discomfort and forcedness as she shrugs.
Guilt swamps her chest momentarily; not only is she leaving Amber, she’s also not telling her anything about it. It’s clear it’s not only her who has felt the rift since Tara has been hospitalised. She wonders if Sam will agree to let her at least say goodbye…
The expression on Amber’s face is hard, and the words almost come spilling out of Tara’s mouth in guilt. But then, she turns around before cupping her mouth.
“Alright, the party’s over!” Amber’s voice has always been quite powerful, for all the vocal lessons her parents forced her to take. The groans by all the people do nothing to deter her as she continues. “Get out!”
Something in Tara’s sternum shifts slightly as she takes note of the way Amber had absolutely zero hesitation to kick everyone out of her house when Tara needed her help. Amber is never usually forthcoming to people but when it comes to Tara, she finds that she bends a little easier.
She never understood why.
A vexed frown takes on Amber’s face as she continues to yell at people to get out of her house with a sense of urgency.
“Come on, everyone.” Richie calls out from behind Tara, drawing the attention of all the crowds as he sits his tall figure against the door in annoyance. “Tara here has had at least two murder attempts on her—same with Sam. Do you teens really want to have targets painted over your heads too?”
Though the phrasing is painfully vulgar to have Tara wincing at his insensitivity, the silence is loud. Amber’s eyes lock with Tara’s for a fraction of a second, before the corner of her stoic lips turn up ever-so slightly. Tara fights back the smile tugging at her lips simply because of Amber’s amusement.
“That was my nicest way of saying it.” Richie huffs, before raising his voice. “Alright—everybody, get the fuck out!”
The presence of an adult has people listening this time, with a chorus of party pooper and killjoy passing over the sullen crowd. But they do begin to make their way towards the door, as per Richie’s oh-so gentlemanly manner of, holding it open for them with the same look on his sharp face.
“C’mon.” She doesn’t even notice when Amber has stepped behind her automatically, resuming the role of taking her wheelchair to push her forward. “It’s in my room.”
“W—wait.” Tara says quickly, spinning around almost too fast that the pain in her abdomen intensifies—but she ignores it. “I can do it myself. You don’t need to—”
“I’ll take you there.” Amber says firmly, in that way of hers that means it’s final.
Tara shuts up after that, not thinking it’s any worth it to try argue. If it were Liv or Chad, maybe Tara would have at least tried—though it would be like sailing rocks over wooden blocks whenever she tries arguing with Chad.
Amber doesn’t smile at her again, but there’s that small curve to her narrow almond-shaped eyes—almost a twinkle. Just because Tara can never read Amber, doesn’t mean Amber can’t read her, unfortunately.
“Like hell you’re taking my sister to your room alone.”
Under any other circumstances and perhaps in a different timeline, heat would’ve crept to Tara’s cheeks at the implications of Sam’s words. But Tara knows that’s not what she’s worried about; Sam is under some kind of belief that the murderer is amongst Tara’s group of friends.
Which is ridiculous, considering this is Amber, of all people.
Sam has stepped forward, a possessive hand creeping out to bring pause to Tara’s wheelchair. She stands quite taller than Amber. Her eyes that never quite seemed to match Tara’s met Amber’s with equal ferocity.
Electricity almost seems to crackle in the air between their hard gazes.
“Sam.” Tara says quietly.
“What? You got a problem with me being with your sister alone, Carpenter?” Amber’s voice has taken on that snarling ferocity that she often uses on people that Tara has yet to ever be on the receiving side of; she is quite thankful for that, too.
“What do you think?” Sam’s grip tightens.
“I think you need to calm down and just accept the fact your sister likes me more than she does you.” Amber says flatly, as Tara’s eyes widen. “After all, I wouldn’t leave her when she needed me most.”
Sam’s expression contorts. “You little—”
“Both of you, stop it.” Tara interjects sharply, craning her head over as both their gazes flick down to her. “Sam and Richie can come with us—is that okay, Amber?”
Amber presses her lips into a thin line.
“I suppose so. Not like we’re gonna be long anyway.”
It’s another one of those times she wishes that she isn’t confined to this stupid wheelchair. It isn’t too much of a difference but it feels that way when they’re standing up—distant from her in their own conversations while she can only sit and barely contribute. The walk through the hallways of Amber’s home to her room is filled with terse silence, before Richie drops off to a different room halfway there. Tara can tell she wants to go after him, but she still sticks close to Tara’s side just like she promise dshe would.
Tara has only been to Amber’s home a couple of times. And while there is nothing visually wrong about it—it’s a beautiful place—Tara has always felt uneasy whenever she stayed far too long over at Amber’s house. Apparently, it was an old house that Amber’s parents bought and that was all Tara knew.
(It felt like people were watching her, all the time. But they were always alone in Amber’s house.)
“I’ll wait outside.” Sam says distractedly, and her gaze constantly flicks over to the hallways that Richie left. “Don’t shut the door behind you.”
Amber rolls her eyes, but obliges.
The silence of the house permeates strongly now, with the absence of the people in her house. It’s almost strange how quickly everybody left—though more stranger when Tara wonders why Amber had been throwning a party, considering everything that was happening. Amber pushes Tara’s wheelchair inside her room after opening the door. Tara doesn’t pay it any mind when she lets the door only open marginally.
Amber’s room has always been… desolate, if that is the word to use.
While Tara’s room has art prints and posters of her favourite bands across the walls as any regular teenager does, Amber’s room looks like a hotel room. The walls are spotlessly white, as well are her sheets. Despite the polarity of it, Tara has always felt at peace whenever she came over Amber’s house.
But not today, for some reason. Tara attributes it to everything that has happened; there really is no place where she can feel safe anymore.
There’s a singular desk with an adjacent shelf that holds everything neatly together.
Amber has always been a very neat person.
Organised, straightforward and neat.
Tara’s eyes flicker over to the small Stab CD sitting uncharacteristically opened on her desk, just as Amber walks over to shut it inside a drawer.
“Sorry.” Amber remarks, turning to face Tara again with her hand resting on the desk behind her. “It’s a little messy; I wasn’t expecting anyone to come in.”
A little messy.
Amber’s room is quite literally spotless and the definition of organised, excluding the leftover CD sitting on her table.
Tara only looks over to her.
“You’re watching Stab?” Tara asks quietly.
At a time like this? The question goes unsaid. There’s a moment of silence as Tara just looks at her best friend. Amber remains silent—she has always been able to read Tara well by the way Amber’s lips pinch together slightly.
“It’s a good franchise.” Amber responds without missing a beat, her eyes trailing across Tara’s bare face. “At least, the first few.”
There’s a twinge of annoyance in Amber’s last few words.
“Your inhaler.” Amber says, when another silence has fallen over them. “You left it on my bedside left time you were here.”
Tara does recall it; their impromptu sleepover a few weeks ago before Tara got fucking stabbed. It was thunderstorming, and the electricity had gone out. It was warmer to huddle together on Amber’s bed than sleep in Tara’s usual bag on the ground. It was one of the things that set Amber different when Tara considered her friends. It was normal for them to come over and do things like that together.
It was nice while it lasted.
Tara nods, before wheeling herself over to the other side of Amber’s bed. Amber easily slings her long legs over her bed, reaching the other side more quickly than Tara. She stands in front of Tara then, blocking her bedside table from Tara’s reach.
Unreadable smoky irises simply face Tara.
“Amber?” Tara says hesitantly, craning her head over.
Amber doesn’t respond. She doesn’t blink as her eyes seem to take in Tara fully for what must be the first time in a few weeks. The exposure causes a light flush to dust over Tara’s cheeks; unsure whether she’s flustered or uncomfortable by Amber’s observation of her—in a manner that reminds Tara of the way people would look at animals in zoos.
“Sit.” Amber responds, patting her bed. “I’ll get the inhaler for you.”
“I’m—”
“It’s all the way at the bottom of my drawers, Tara.” Amber interjects again, with that firmness in her voice. “I’ll get it.”
It only bewilders Tara momentarily. Her eyes flick back to the half-opened door, then back to Amber’s expression.
“Sit, Tara.” Amber’s voice softens, as does her usual hard gaze. “Please?”
Oh. A lump of guilt forms in Tara’s throat.
Tara obliges then. She sets her hands to the sides of her wheelchair—wincing at the sharp pain in her left hand—before being caught off-guard when Amber scoops her up with her strong hands beneath her armpits. She doesn’t even get a chance to protest before Amber deposits her on the bed wordlessly, before turning back to the bedside and kneeling to pull out the last drawer.
Tara stares at her in silence. The sheets are soft beneath her.
Amber rifles through the drawer, her lithe fingers flicking past what must be several household possessions. The ambient light reflects off her silky hair like shimmering glass, in a way that is almost mesmerising. Tara’s eyes find the strong curve of Amber’s neckline beneath the loose tee that drapes off her shoulders.
If they do move out of Woodsboro, Tara will most likely never see Amber again.
What if she gets attacked by Ghostface?
Tara’s gut squeezes. She is unsure of the pattern of victims when it comes to victims as done by the Stab movies serving as the inspiration for these crazed murderers, but she would never forgive herself if something happened to Amber.
It wouldn’t be her fault—Tara knows that.
It’s just…
“Did you only need your reliever or preventer?” Amber rises to her feet, with two inhalers in her hands; one in teal, and the other in bright red.
Tara finds her eyes locked with Amber’s then, the underlying question clear in her almost-innocent inquiry.
“Both.” Tara answers, feeling the way Amber’s eyes fall heavy on her then as her own avert.
“I see.”
She knows.
She knows I’m leaving her behind.
All of a sudden, Tara feels the mattress shift as weight is added on the other side. Her eyes flick up once more, startled by Amber’s sudden proximity. Her eyes are not full of judgement or betrayal as Tara had expected…
Well, Tara could never really read Amber so she doesn’t know what to say.
Amber sets the teal inhaler onto the bed, before lifting the red one. She takes off the cap, before looking over to Tara. “Open.”
Tara parts her mouth—because she trusts Amber. It’s not necessary for anyone else to administer her inhaler to her, and she normally wouldn’t let anyone else do it for her because it’s uncomfortable. Whenever emergency paramedics administer the medicine to her forcefully, they always clank at her teeth weird and shove it in too deep.
But not Amber.
Amber has done this more times than Tara has counted, and they’re not always necessary. It’s just another thing that Amber does for Tara, that the others don’t. Another thing that sets them apart.
But something about this time feels different.
And it’s not just the fact that this might be the last time that Amber will ever do it.
Tara tries not to move, even when Amber’s gentle touch on her cheek lights her skin on fire. Her slender fingers slide to cup her jaw, tilting her head back. She doesn’t miss the way Amber’s thumb presses to the corner of her mouth ever-so slightly. Tara’s eyes are slightly ajar and wide when Amber presses the inhaler to her parted mouth. She doesn’t let it hit her teeth, or shove it in too deeply. Just enough for Tara’s lips to wrap around the inhaler, before Amber presses the canister to administer the medicine.
The mist settles the discomfort in Tara’s lungs, just as a prevention for the time being as she sighs.
Amber lowers the inhaler, but her hand remains on Tara’s cheek.
Tara stares into Amber’s eyes wordlessly, unsure of what to do. The sensation of Amber’s thumb caressing her cheek distracts her, but only for a few moments before her hand falls away too.
“You’re trying to leave Woodsboro, aren’t you?”
Organised, straightforward and neat.
Amber has always been very blunt and straight to the point. Tara doesn’t correct her on trying to leave Woodsboro to leaving Woodsboro, only staring up at her as she bites her lip. Even now, she can’t even tell what Amber is thinking, or what she’s trying to get out of this.
“Yes.” Tara answers honestly, truthfully.
Sam’s concern is accounted for, but leaving Amber in the dark before she left for good would be a horrible thing to do. If anything, Tara would probably have to cut all contact with everyone she knows back in Woodsboro once she leaves.
Amber’s silence does not speak volumes, because Tara does not understand it. Tara shifts on the bed, pressing her own lips together. She looks up at Amber nervously, who stares back at her with an unreadable expression.
“You could come with us.” The words come out of Tara’s mouth before she can even stop to think about it.
Amber arches an eyebrow, but the faucet has already been turned. “Sam wants us to go far into the countryside or even a different state, so Ghostface can’t follow us.”
“Come with us, Amber.” Tara doesn’t hold back the note of plea in her voice, staring up at her best friend. “So… so you can be safe from him too.”
(Because if Tara left to the countryside and caught wind that Amber Freeman had been killed in cold blood at her own home, she would never forgive herself. Wes and Judy’s death was enough, but Amber?)
(Her first friend—her best friend?)
Tara desperately hopes the following silence is Amber mulling it over. There’s a furrow to her brows, and for some strange reason, an almost curve ghosting the corner of her mouth.
“Safe?” Amber repeats, as the curve lengthens across her lips. “I hate to break it to you, but you probably won’t even be safe from Ghostface even if you move countries.”
Tara deflates, frowning.
“It’s cute you want me to come with you too but it’s no good, Tara.” Amber sighs.
“Oh.” Tara echoes.
She’s probably right.
So what does that make this? Our goodbye?
For a last meeting, it seems to be filled with an assortment of silences all across. The words are just frozen on the tip of Tara’s tongue; everything she wants to say to Amber before she leaves her forever.
Thank you for everything.
In the midst of her own richocheting thoughts, Tara doesn’t register the touch on her bandaged hand until her wrist lifts in the air out of her own will. Amber’s digits curl delicately around her wrist, having lifted it up to her face.
Tara doesn’t protest as Amber seems to observe the damage caused to her hand, her brows beginning to contort.
“He got you right through the middle here?” Amber murmurs, tapping her index finger gently on the centre of her palm.
“Yeah.”
“You won’t be able to play guitar for me anymore.”
Somehow, the absurdity of Amber’s words—that there’s a whole mass murderer out on the loose, and Tara has survived his stabbings twice, and that’s what she’s worried about—makes Tara break into a quiet giggle.
“Pffft—”
Amber’s eyes are sparkling now, in that way that it only does whenever they’re in the comfort and privacy of one of their rooms. Tara uses her other hand that isn’t bandaged or occupied by Amber to cover her mouth, her lips forming a grin.
“I guess you just have to start singing solo then.” Tara tilts her head at Amber.
Memories of the first night over at Tara’s house, when Amber spotted the sleek black guitar sitting in the corner of Tara’s room. She had played for Amber that night; it was just a couple of chords and fingerpicking but she glimpsed that sparkle in Amber’s eyes for the first time. A few weeks after, Amber invited Tara to one of her singing recitals. Her parents put her into opera at a young age, but the techniques still applied to Western music.
It was almost bittersweet to think back on it now. Tara hasn’t been in her own house for a few weeks or months now. That guitar would forever sit there gaining dust. Even if Tara’s hand healed, the knife severed clean nerves through her palm.
Amber’s eyes fixate particularly on Tara’s hand, as she lifts it closer at eye-level for inspection. Tara doesn’t say anything, aware of the almost-closed door behind them. She wonders if Amber had done that on purpose, just to buy them a few more minutes of privacy.
(Before they had to say goodbye.)
Tara watches Amber inspect her hand wordlessly. Her lashes have always been particularly long, in a way that Tara isn’t sure if she envied or adored on her. The proximity now, Tara can see all the small flecks of hazel and green in her grey eyes.
(She wonders if this is her last time ever being able to see them.)
A warm and gentle sensation envelops her digits as Tara is brought back down to earth. Amber’s lips are pressed to the base of Tara’s fingers, all while maintaining eye contact with Tara as she does so.
Somewhere in Tara’s sternum, something stutters sharply.
The feeling is so incredibly foreign that Tara is sent reeling, but tries to school her face. There have only been a few times where Tara has wondered what Amber’s lips felt like; given their soft, glossy and heart-shaped appearance that only other girls could dream of having.
A fierce flush has washed over her cheeks when Amber lifts her lips from Tara’s fingers. She finds herself missing the warmth almost instantly.
“What are you doing?” is all Tara can manage before Amber leans in even closer.
She is not unused to close proximity with Amber. Neither of them are particularly physical contact people, but they do get physically close. Like that one impromptu sleepover, where Amber had let Tara curl up to her for warmth. Or the times where Amber will sling an arm around Tara’s shoulder casually, before tugging her closer. Or hold her hand as she leads Tara through a busy part of the city they’re exploring.
Tara’s attention is drawn to Amber’s greyish eyes again. She has seen them close, but this is the closest she has ever seen them, with Amber’s straight nose inches away from her own. It’s only now that Tara realises that the flecks in Amber’s smoky eyes are not hazel and green, but golden and green.
“You know, I never noticed you had freckles until the end of last semester.” Amber’s touch makes itself known once more on Tara’s bare cheek, her thumb gliding across the smooth surface.
“They’re real pretty.”
Tara’s breath hitches, but she stays quiet.
Somewhere in the back of Tara’s mind, she knows where this is going.
(Or inferring, or desperately hoping that this will go, because—)
“Pretty?” Tara’s brow furrows.
Amber smiles—not the fake ones she gives to those bitches talking behind her back, or the placating ones whenever Chad is being stupid. A rare, true smile—or the truest Tara has seen—where her eyes curve and her dimples show.
Amber gives her a non-committal hum.
Somewhere in the back of Tara’s mind again, she is pulling out files of memories that she recalls about Amber. She knows that Amber likes boys, obviously. She doesn’t date around like Liv, so there’s only been two boys she has dated from the beginning of highschool till now.
And she thinks that Amber likes girls too.
(Hoping?)
Well, Amber has never shown any explicit like to anyone, or any preference to any girls. Around last semester, Mindy mentioned Amber having a summer fling and mentioned a she casually—Tara is unsure if she misheard it.
But time moved on, and nobody ever brought it up. After she broke up with her second boyfriend, and since Amber and Tara began getting close—as Wes had proclaimed their basic things like sleepovers and late night calls—Amber hasn’t dated anyone else yet. Amber usually doesn’t show affection or care to anyone, preferring her regular bluntness and the fact that she did not give a single fuck about anyone even if they were friends.
Except with Tara.
“Do you think I’m pretty?”
Amber’s smile widens. If Tara weren’t entranced by the smokiness of her beautiful eyes, or how bold her lips looked in this lighting—she would’ve found the widening curve of her lips a bit jarring… if not predatory.
Even then, the canines poking out as she smiles does nothing but make Tara’s heart beat a little faster.
Then, Amber kisses her.
Amber pulls her in with her sure touch on Tara’s cheek, pressing their lips together firmly. A gasp of surprise escapes Tara’s throat, but is muffled by Amber’s insistent mouth pressing against her own.
Her senses are swamped over by Amber, Amber and Amber—the engulfing scent of lavender, the intensity of her lips, her hand on her cheek, and her hand that has suddenly gained a possessive grip on Tara’s waist as she presses their bodies firmly against one another.
Amber doesn’t taste of anything, except maybe a little sharpness from the alcohol she probably had. But her desire is rough, her kiss anything but gentle in comparison to the way she had held and kissed Tara’s fingertips before. A wet heat probes at the base of Tara’s lips, and she parts them without another thought. Amber’s tongue presses inside firmly, as she kisses her like time was running out before the end of the world.
Tara isn’t sure whether she had leant back, or Amber had pushed forward; but she finds herself laying on her back with Amber over her. Amber does not let up, with her hands pinned on either side of Tara’s head and their lips pressed together. Her silky hair falls over them like a curtain of privacy, as Amber cups Tara’s cheek once more and tilts her head slightly.
The lack of air gets to Tara, as she moans against Amber’s lips weakly. Amber is stubborn, holding on for longer than necessary before she finally parts her lips from Tara’s. A silver string of saliva connects their bottom lips as Tara pants.
Tara has to take a moment to regain her composure, breathing through her nose heavily. She can feel Amber’s own breaths against her lips, but her eyes are even more heavy in their gaze on Tara. Pretty dark eyes stare down at her hungrily, full of a heat that Tara has never seen on Amber before. Her chest rises and falls as Amber watches Tara from above, hands bunching up the sheets on either side of her head.
Amber’s lips twist again, as she cocks her head. “What do you think, Tara?”
She doesn’t get a chance to ask what Amber is alluding to when warm lips press against her jaw. Amber has tilted her head to the side with the hand cupping her cheek, letting her press a kiss to her face.
Multiple follow promptly as Amber trails down her jaw to the curve, before dropping down to her neck. A gasp is barely muffled from Tara’s lips when Amber presses a kiss to the pulsing artery on her neck—the most sensitive part. It doesn’t seem to deter her at all, if anything—it seems to spur Amber on.
One of her own hands has come to thread through Amber’s hair, gripping the base and pressing her head closer to Tara’s neck. Tara stares dazedly at the ceiling, biting on her lip hard to stop the soft utterances from her mouth everytime Amber kisses her neck. She is very aware of the small space by the open door, and how wall insulation does not work if there is an opening.
Her mind is blissed out for the most of it, forgetting everything she wanted to tell Amber and everything else that was happening. Fuck, if Amber kept going, Tara would probably forget her own name by the end of it.
All of a sudden, a sharp stab of pain shoots through her neck as a cry rips itself from Tara’s mouth.
“W—wait, Amber—” Tara’s mouth feels strange and dry when she’s come to realise that Amber bit her.
Her blood roars in her ear with a stampeding heartbeat as her lithe fingertips of her bandaged curl around Amber’s locks of hair, tugging. The sting of it isn’t so bad—it’s the fact that Amber isn’t letting up and—
“Amber, stop—stop.”
Suddenly, it’s almost like blood permeates the air again as the intoxicating lavender of Amber’s hair takes an iron grip of Tara’s lungs like the congesting squeeze of her asthma.
It’s too much.
It hurts.
The flattening of Amber’s tongue across her neck would’ve drawn a deeper heat in a her stomach if she had done it only a few moments ago and if it weren’t so bruising, the weight of her body pinning Tara helplessly to the mattress.
Teeth come into contact with her skin again, and this time Tara’s body arches in desperation—her pleads falling on deaf ears. Her heartbeat is hiccuping at a breakneck pace that should wrought concern, rising slowly as fear, an estranged visitor, pulls her underneath.
“Amber, Amber!”
This is unlike Amber. Amber takes, but Amber knew when to stop.
Which is why Tara was never afraid when it came to Amber.
Except now.
Her gentle, questioning touch had turned gruesome; almost as if Amber plans to tear the fabric of Tara’s skin with her teeth. The comforting presence and weight of her body had become an anvil above Tara, locking her in place like a prisoner—bent to Amber’s will.
And the worst part is, Tara cannot do anything.
There was only one another time where she was rendered helpless like this—unable to be—
With a pulse of adrenaline, both of Tara’s hands tighten in Amber’s hair and yanks her head upwards sharply. The bruising pressure disappears from Tara’s throat in relief, and her swamped senses suddenly clear again.
Amber’s half-lidded eyes bear down on her from above, as she pants; she does not pant like a woman in desire, but rather… a predator. And yet above all, it’s the softness in her eyes that Tara notices is gone—replaced with a jewel-like coldness that Tara couldn’t recognize.
The coil of desire has long left Tara’s stomach, replaced with a gripping whisper in her ear that tells her she needs to leave.
The light catches the sharp glint of Amber’s canines… and the glint in her dark eyes.
If she wasn’t halfway to kissing Tara unconscious a few minutes ago, Tara would’ve thought the glint in her eyes almost looked…
Murderous.
Tara’s awareness extends; how tight Amber’s fingers are gripping the bedsheets on either side of her head like vices, her knuckles whitened; how small she is beneath Amber…and that look on her face like she wants to—
A scream pierces the long silence of Amber’s house like a siren’s wail, stretching long and far.
Tara instantly recognizes that scream—that bell-like voice of her sister.
She scrambles to get up, instantly breaking the trance on Amber. Amber doesn’t waste anymore time, supporting Tara on her crutches and sliding back into the careful and quiet persona she had held before; as if nothing had happened.
All the while as the adrenalina bursts through Tara’s veins, she can only wonder just what was that look on Amber’s face.
If that scream hadn’t let out, would she have stopped?
…
And when Amber pulls out the gun to shoot Liv in the face, a little part of Tara’s horror on the inside is unsurprised—in expectation of this outcome.