Amara couldn't stop shaking. The words from her grandmother's letter ran like poison in her veins, sinking deeper no matter how many times she whispered no. Her chest felt hollow, her body trembling as though she were only a shell.
Her mother knelt beside her on the motel floor, clutching her shoulders. Her face was pale, eyes wide with panic as if she'd been dragged into a nightmare she had hoped to avoid.
"Amara." Her mother's voice cracked. "I told you not to read it."
Amara jerked her head up, eyes burning. "Why, Mom? Why would she how could she write that? She said he wasn't a monster. She said she chose him."
Her mother flinched at the words, but didn't look away. Instead, her hands slid down Amara's arms, gripping them as if she were afraid Amara might disappear.
"Because she did," her mother whispered. "Because that's the truth I've been trying to keep from you."
Amara's breath hitched. She searched her mother's face, waiting for denial, for comfort, for some sign that this was just another nightmare. But her mother's expression only grew heavier, her eyes glossed with tears.
"You need to understand," she said, voice breaking. "Your grandmother… she wasn't only my mother. She was his. For as long as I can remember, Micah was in our house. Not always seen, not always spoken of, but there. A shadow at the edges of everything. She let him in. She trusted him. She loved him, Amara. And she taught me to love him too."
Amara's stomach twisted. "That's sick."
"I know." Her mother's voice rose sharp with desperation. "I fought it. I hated him. I hated the way she looked at him like he was some savior instead of what he really was. He terrified me, Amara. He'd stand at the foot of my bed at night and just watch, like I was prey. And she" Her voice faltered, breaking into a whisper. "She told me to be grateful. She said it was an honor to be seen by him."
Amara's throat went dry. She pressed a hand against her chest, the tether burning there like a brand.
"Why didn't you tell me?" she whispered.
Her mother's eyes shone with guilt. "Because I wanted to believe I could keep you away from it. I thought if I left, if I raised you far from him, if I never spoke his name, then maybe he would forget. Maybe he would lose interest." Her hands tightened on Amara's shoulders. "But he never forgets. He waits. And now now he's found you."
Tears blurred Amara's vision. "But Grandma she made it sound like it wasn't… wrong. Like it was some kind of destiny."
Her mother's voice hardened. "That's the sickness, Amara. That's how he works. He twists you until you think you want the chains he puts on you. He did it to her, and now he's trying to do it to you."
The words should have freed her. But instead, Amara felt the tether pull again, deep and unrelenting. She shook her head violently, pressing her palms to her temples. "I can feel him, Mom. I can feel him even when he's not here. What if I can't fight it? What if she's right? What if he is a part of me?"
Her mother caught her chin, forcing her to meet her eyes. "Listen to me. You are not her. You are not me. You are stronger than both of us. Do you hear me? You don't belong to him. You belong to yourself."
Amara's chest heaved, torn between her mother's fierce conviction and the whispering echo of her grandmother's words: To deny him is to deny yourself.
She wanted to believe her mother. She wanted to fight. But the pull only grew stronger the more she resisted.
And then the lights flickered.
Both of them froze. The air in the room thickened, humming with a low vibration that crawled across Amara's skin.
Her mother stood, pulling Amara with her. "Stay behind me."
The flicker stretched longer this time, plunging the room into near darkness. A shape brushed the edge of Amara's vision, tall and still, standing just beyond the window.
Her mother's voice dropped to a whisper. "He's here."
Amara's heart slammed against her ribs. She tried to speak, but the tether yanked tight, stealing her breath.
From the darkness outside, a voice slid into the room. Calm. Inevitable.
"Blood of my blood," Micah said. "No more running."