Author's Note: I have wanted to write this chapter for a while! And this is probably the chapter a lot of you have been waiting for. There's only one more chapter after this, and then I will have finished my first story. Again, thank you for reviewing.

Love and Obsession

"You are free to go Dr. Rave."

"Amara."

"I'm very sorry Ms. Richards—I wish I could do more."

"Is there any way…?

"Well, Ms. Richards could press charges against Dr. Rave for sexual assault. We will of course appeal, but…well, I wouldn't hope for too much."

"Thank you for trying, Mr. Winters. It…wasn't an easy case."

"I appreciate your generosity, Sgt. Knight—hopefully the rest of your day is better. Ms. Richards?"

"Amara?"

"I suggest you get a restraining order against that doctor. It will be all right."

"Amara…. Don't come any closer, Rave. If you so much as speak to her…"

"Come on, Lucius."

"Amara—Amara, he's gone. Don't shut me out, not again."

When she was very young and still played with dolls and horses, Amara built walls, walls of bricks and blocks and Lincoln logs. They protected her toys. They kept the bad things out—those invisible evils she created, the kind in fairytales. As she got older, she built walls of a different kind. They kept out the world.

"I want to go home, Jonathan." She didn't recognize her own voice.

"Of course—we'll go back to the hotel," Jonathan said, frightened. He lifted her to her feet. She swayed.

"I want to go home."

"Yes, yes, we'll go home," Jonathan muttered, wrapping an arm around her shoulders and guiding her out of the courtroom.

The darkness, that great swallowing darkness, and beyond that a wall far across a mist-covered plain—"Amara"—there was girl, shrouded in a long black cloak—"No, Amara,"—her eyes opened—someone was shaking her—"I am 314."—"That's enough, Amara. Wake up."

Amara blinked and saw Jonathan's worried face a breath away from her own. Jonathan sat perched on the edge of her bed in her hotel room, holding her. The fear in his eyes scared her. "Jonathan?"

"Amara!" he gasped. Relief infused his face, and he hugged her tightly against his chest, burying his face in her hair. Still feeling numb and empty, Amara reached up and laced one arm around his neck. He raised his head, loosening his grip on her.

"Please don't," she whispered, her hold tightening as if he was the anchor holding her to the world, "Don't let go—don't leave me." She could feel tears threatening and blinked furiously, looking anywhere but at him. I won't cry—he may have gotten away—but I won't cry. But a few rebellious tears slipped down her nose and into her lap.

"Amara." Jonathan tipped her face up to his. "I'm staying right here." He kissed her forehead, then her nose, until his lips lightly brushed hers. Amara smiled faintly as he drew back. With a sigh, he rocked her, and she rested her head on his shoulder, listening to him breath. "It'll be all right."

Jonathan held her until her breathing slowed and the arm around his neck went limp and slid into her lap. His shoulder was damp. With her still in his arms, he stood and carried her to the head of the bed, and with one hand, pulled back the covers before he carefully laid her down. In sleep, the premature lines that creased her face were smoothed—she was again that younger, happier girl she had been once. Some of her long, chocolate hair had fallen into her face, and Jonathan smoothed it behind her ear. He withdrew his hand slowly, allowing it to trace the line of her jaw. Her hand reached up and caught his. "Stay," she whispered sleepily, giving his arm a tug. He tried to pull away, but she held fast. Smiling at what Marcus would say, Jonathan lay down on top of the covers, facing her. She rolled onto her stomach and tucked his hand beneath her breast. He moved closer so that their foreheads were almost touching and, for a while, simply watched her sleep—a small smile played about her mouth.

"I love you, Amara," he whispered and closed his eyes.

So close, so close he could have reached out and touched her. He wanted to—had to—be that close to her again…just once more. The need was like a fever, a flame that seared his skin and made his heart race. All night he'd wandered, trying to outrun reporters and the memory of how she felt when he held her, how her eyes spat emerald fire when she was angry or became a foggy green as she held the body of her dead friend. One more time—once and forever. He knew where she was—he'd read the address over and over until he saw it when he closed his eyes: Capital Towers, Room 1361.

Now, Lucius stood at the hotel entrance gazing up at the massive twin towers that sparkled pink and yellow in morning light. He couldn't remember how long he'd been standing there. His eyes fell to the gold-rimmed glass doors before him. Taking a breath, he pushed open the door and stepped into the lobby. He didn't notice the expensive decorations, the plush red carpet beneath his feet, as he crossed to the front desk. The attractive blue Twilek behind the desk looked up—recognition flashed in her silver eyes, but she gave no other indication that she knew him. She smiled pleasantly. "May I help you, sir?" she asked, her voice as silvery as her eyes.

"Yes. I'd like a room."

"Can you give me a name?"

"I'd rather not."

She nodded. "Capital Towers is known for its discreetness, sir. How many nights will you be staying with us?"

"Just one."

Her fingers flashed across the computer. After a moment, the computer emitted a pleasant tone and a slim card. The Twilek slid it across the counter to him. "Check out is at eleven. You may pay then, sir. Have a pleasant stay."

"I will," he replied with a smirk, taking the card, and headed for the lifts.

The hotel was quiet—most of the residents were still asleep when he stepped off the lift onto her floor. Glancing at the room signs, he turned in the direction of room 1361. There was no one in the halls to stop him, no maid, no porter—no one. The hall seemed to stretch on forever, but she was down there, waiting behind one of those doors. The very thought made him hot. 1361. He stopped in front of her door. The gold numbers winked at him. She was on the other side, perhaps sleeping, dreaming of him. He raised his hand to the red wood and knocked.

Amara couldn't stop smiling—big, stupid smiles that she was sure made her look like a complete idiot…or nuts. But I guess I'm already pretty nuts as it is. She'd woken up in Jonathan's arms, and it didn't seem to matter so much that Dr. Rave was free—she could think about that later. For now, she was happy; giddy with the same reckless joy you feel when you race down a steep hill. Curled in the large, comfy chair by the window, she watched the sun rise—the sky was a wash of pale satin pinks and golds as if some fairytale princess had dropped her dress on the horizon after a night of dancing. Jonathan had gone back to his room to change and contact his squad.

And then they were going to leave—leave everything behind and sail the stars. Jonathan had said something about asking for additional time on leave and taking her to Corellia, his home planet. And then, perhaps, we can find Earth. Anything seemed possible at that moment as the sun broke over the skyscrapers and streamed into the room in silky yellow curtains of light.

There was a knock on the door, and her heart leapt. She practically danced over to the door, doing a little pirouette before she opened it, love lighting her eyes like sunlight through a forest canopy. "Jonathan, I told you to take a…" Her voice died when she saw the man standing in the doorway. She tried to slam the door, but Dr. Rave simply placed one hand the door, forcing it open farther. He stepped into the room. She couldn't scream—his hungry blue eyes held hers, and she was paralyzed. He took another step. The door closed behind him, and the spell was broken. She turned to run—she needed a weapon, anything, the blaster—but his hand snaked out and caught her wrist. She whirled and smashed her fist into his face, but he didn't let go. Instead, he jerked her body up against his and pressed her against the wall. She was pinned.

Dr. Rave leaned down and smelled her hair, the blood from his broken nose matting it. He groaned. "I've missed you, 314."

"Sorry I can't say the same, Herr Doctor."

Rave pinched her chin, forcing her to look up at him. He imagined the glow of her eyes when she opened the door. For one glorious moment, he'd thought that smile was for him, but then…

"Jonathan will…"

He slapped her. "Don't say that fucking bastard's name again," he hissed.

She laughed. "Why jealous?"

With a strangled yell, he crushed his lips against hers. She shrieked into his mouth and jammed her knee into his groin. He doubled-over, gasping, and Amara dashed for the door. Just get it open—just get out. But Rave was faster, filled with a mad desperation greater than her own, and he managed to trip her. Amara couldn't catch herself in time, and the air flew from her lungs. She lay stunned and gasping on the floor. Yanking her up, Rave dragged her farther into the room—toward the bed. "No more running, 314." He threw her onto the bed like a doll, and before she could react, something smashed into her shin. She heard the bone snap, but she didn't feel any pain—her heart was racing. She couldn't breath. He crouched over her, the bed sinking under his weight. With his left hand, he grabbed her wrists and forced them above her head; he groped her breasts with his right. "Once more," he panted, grinding himself against her, "Just once more—be mine." One of his legs pressed against her broken shin, and then she felt the cracking, mind-consuming pain. She screamed.

Startled, Dr. Rave loosened his hold on her, and with her strength waning, she managed to shove him away and crawl to the edge of the bed. He followed. Dodging his grasping hands, she slid off the bed and hobbled towards the dresser. The top drawer—the blaster—end it. The bed creaked behind her as he got off it. She wrenched open the drawer and thrust her hand inside. Rave's hand closed on her shoulder. She couldn't feel the blaster. The darkness that swallowed you—not whole, but piece by piece until—the door slammed open. Amara saw the doctor turn—and then red bolts tore into his chest, propelling him backwards, away from her. Jonathan stormed into the room, firing. Dr. Rave was already on the floor, jerking as each shot burned through him—Jonathan wasn't shooting to kill but to torture. A bolt struck his left shoulder, his hip, his knee…and then Rave looked at her. He was dying. A shot to stomach—"Stop," she whispered—to the groin—Not like this, not like Amy—to the arm—not like RL-213—"Stop," she said, louder. But Jonathan couldn't hear her; rage and hatred and fear were pumping through his system. "Jonathan, stop! Please, stop!" she sobbed, grabbing his arm.

His last shot went wide. He lowered his blaster slowly, but did not look at her. "Amara, this is Rave—he…"

"I know," she swallowed hard, and her eyes fell again on Dr. Rave. He was alive—hanging on by the last threads. "I know." Her leg trembled beneath her, ready to give out. She grasped the open drawer, her knuckles white, and took a step forward.

Rave's eyes were clouded and stared, unseeing, in her direction. The fingers on his hand twitched as if he were trying to raise it. His mouth opened, but all that came out was shallow gasp. But when she stepped closer, he regained some of his lucidity. Again the electric cord snapped between them. He saw her: eyes misty green, tears trailing down her cheeks, and he imagined those tears were for him. The world darkened.

Amara watched him die—his eyes glazed over; his body sagged. She felt nothing.

But he kept his worthless eyes on her. She was a blur in his vision, but she was there. She smiled when she opened the door—she let me hold her. He drew in one last rattling breath. "Amara…I ...I love…." The breath was gone. His eyes closed. Dr. Rave was dead.