The motel room smelled faintly of bleach and stale air. The carpet was frayed near the door, and the humming light above the bed flickered every so often, casting the walls in nervous shadows.
Amara sat cross legged on the bed, staring at the stack of letters spread across the blanket. She had promised herself she wouldn't open another one tonight, not after everything. Her chest still ached with the echo of Micah's voice, his words refusing to leave her mind.
You are mine.
But the ribbon had loosened during the escape, and one letter had slid free, its envelope pale against the others. Unlike the rest, this one bore no date, no postmark. Just her grandmother's looping script across the front: For when you can no longer deny.
Amara's stomach turned. Her fingers itched to push it back under the stack, to pretend she hadn't seen it. But the tether tugged faintly in her chest, urging her to pick it up.
Her mother was in the adjoining room, finally asleep after hours of restless pacing. Amara told herself she would only glance at the letter, maybe read the first line. Just enough to quiet the pull.
Her fingers trembled as she broke the seal.
The paper inside smelled faintly of lavender and age, her grandmother's handwriting flowing in neat, deliberate strokes:
My dearest Amara,
If your eyes find this letter, then the shadows have reached you. Do not be afraid. What you feel inside the pull, the ache is not a curse, but a gift. It means the blood remembers. It means you are strong enough to carry what I could not.
Micah was never a stranger. He is ours. Ours to fear, yes, but also ours to keep. He is the thread woven through our line, the reason the Kesselly name endures when others fade. Love him, hate him it does not matter. He belongs to us, and we to him. That is why I never let him go.
Your mother will tell you only of fear. She has never understood. She ran, as she always runs. But I saw him for what he was: not a monster, but a promise. A promise that death cannot sever what love has bound.
When the time comes, you must not fight him. Fighting is wasted breath. You are the bridge now, the one he has been waiting for. He will not hurt you, not as he hurt others. To you, he will give everything. Because you are his, as I once was.
Do not deny him, my sweet girl. To deny him is to deny yourself.
Amara's hands went cold. The words blurred on the page, her chest tightening until she could barely breathe.
Her grandmother. The woman who had held her through thunderstorms, who smelled of cinnamon and soap, who whispered bedtime stories that carried her into sleep. The woman she had trusted with every secret.
She had belonged to him too.
"No…" Amara whispered, clutching the letter as though she could wring the words out of it. "No, that's not true. She wouldn't…"
But the ache in her chest flared stronger, almost as if the letter itself had awakened it. The tether yanked hard, and Amara's head snapped toward the dark window.
The curtains trembled, though no breeze stirred. Shadows seemed to ripple across the glass, and in them she swore she saw the faint outline of a figure watching.
Her pulse spiked. She stumbled off the bed, clutching the letter, backing away from the window.
"Mom?" Her voice cracked.
There was no answer.
The flickering light above her buzzed louder, each flicker stretching longer until for a moment the room was swallowed in dark. In that instant, she felt it him. Micah. Not outside. Not waiting. Inside.
Her breath came in shallow gasps. The letter slipped from her hand, falling open on the floor.
A whisper brushed her ear. "Now you know."
Amara spun, but no one stood behind her. The room was empty yet every corner pressed close, heavy with his presence.
Her grandmother's words echoed in her mind. Not a monster, but a promise.
The tether pulled so hard it hurt. Her knees buckled, and she pressed her palms to her chest as if she could rip it out.
"Stop!" she cried into the emptiness. "Leave me alone!"
Silence answered. Then, faintly, from the shadows at the window, she heard the softest laugh.
Her mother's door creaked open, and she appeared in the doorway, hair disheveled, eyes wide with alarm. "Amara?"
Amara sank to the floor, trembling, pointing toward the letter on the carpet. "She knew," she whispered hoarsely. "Grandma… she knew him. She chose him."
Her mother's gaze fell on the paper, and her face crumpled. She dropped to her knees beside Amara, pulling her close.
"I told you not to read them," she choked. "I told you."
Amara buried her face in her mother's shoulder, but even in her embrace, she felt it: the tether, burning stronger than ever.
Micah was closer now.
And her grandmother's words had carved themselves into her bones: Do not deny him. To deny him is to deny yourself.