Amara’s POV
The hospital reeked of antiseptic and stale blood.
My boots echoed against the sterile floors as I rushed through the corridors.
I didn’t slow down.
I couldn’t.
“Emergency — I’m looking for my mother — she was brought in—”
The receptionist pointed without glancing up.
“Third floor, room 314.”
I shoved through the elevator doors before they fully opened.
And I stopped breathing.
My mother lay motionless on the narrow bed, a thin white sheet pulled to her chest.
Her skin had taken on the translucent quality that came when human blood grew too thin, too weak.
You could trace every delicate bone beneath the surface, see the dark hollows carved deep beneath her eyes.
Her hair, damp with the sweat of whatever collapse had taken her at the diner, clung to her temples like wet silk.
Her chest rose.
Fell.
Rose again.
Barely perceptible.
“Mom?”
She didn’t stir.
Her eyelids didn’t even flutter.
“Miss Wellington?”
I turned sharply.
A middle-aged doctor in a pristine coat stood behind me, his expression carefully controlled.
The kind of face medical professionals wore when they were about to shatter your world.
“Yes.
I’m her daughter.
What happened?
What’s wrong with her?”
He gestured toward the hallway, away from her bedside.
I didn’t want to leave her alone.
But I followed.
He clasped his hands behind his back, studying me with practiced sympathy.
“I’ll be direct.
I believe you’d prefer honesty.”
“Yes.”
“Your mother’s body is failing her.”
The words hit like ice water, sharp and foreign, as if he were speaking about someone else entirely.
“She collapsed from exhaustion, yes.
But that’s merely a symptom.
Not the root cause.” He paused, his gaze searching mine.
“How long has it been since her blood contract was severed?”
My throat constricted.
“A long time,” I managed to whisper.
“Far too long.”
He nodded with grim understanding.
“Some humans survive the breaking of a blood bond.
Most don’t.
She’s been fighting to stay alive for you, I suspect.
Her will has been extraordinary.
But the human body can only endure that kind of spiritual trauma for so long.
When a vampire’s blood claim is violently severed, the human partner suffers cascading organ failure.
The connection that once sustained her is gone.”
“How long does she have?”
“Not long.
Perhaps a bit longer, if her determination remains strong.” His voice remained gentle, but it offered no comfort.
“I’m deeply sorry.”
I set my jaw and met his eyes directly.
“She won’t give up.”
“I didn’t suggest she would.”
“She won’t.
She wouldn’t dare.
She has me to live for.”
“I know she does.”
I pushed past him and returned to her side.
I took her hand in mine.
Her fingers felt fragile as bird bones, cold as winter stone.
“Mom,” I whispered urgently.
“Can you hear me?
You have to stay with me.”
Footsteps approached.
Then orderlies appeared.
Paperwork was handled somewhere beyond my awareness.
They transferred her to a wheeled gurney, and I gripped the metal rail as we moved toward the elevators.
The doors opened onto a corridor that seemed to belong in a different hospital entirely.
Plush carpeting.
Warm, ambient lighting.
A nurse in an immaculate uniform who actually offered a genuine smile.
They wheeled her into a private suite.
IV tubes snaked from her arms.
Monitoring equipment beeped in slow, steady intervals.
A genuine window overlooked the city.
A chair that looked like it belonged in someone’s living room rather than a medical facility.
I stood frozen in the doorway, staring.
We couldn’t afford this room.
Our insurance wouldn’t cover the doorknob of this place.
I walked back into the hallway.
Nigel was standing near the elevator bank, hands folded at his sides, motionless as carved stone.
“Nigel.”
“Amara.”
I approached him directly, refusing to look away.
“Did you arrange this room?
Or did he?”
“I follow Prince Killian’s directives.”
“That’s not an answer.”
“It’s the only one you’ll receive from me.”
I laughed bitterly.
“You know what’s fascinating about your arrogant prince?” I pulled a crumpled cigarette from my jacket pocket and tucked it behind my ear.
“One moment he declares I’m not worthy of his acknowledgment.
The next he’s paying for private medical suites.
Such erratic behavior.
Which version is the real Killian?”
Nigel’s jaw tightened visibly.
“Why is a lieutenant acting as a bodyguard?” I continued.
“Don’t you have clan duties to handle?
Or does he not trust you with anything important?”
“Watch your tone.”
“I’m watching it perfectly fine.”
We stared each other down.
Then his shoulders dropped fractionally.
Something almost resembling pity flickered behind his eyes, and I despised it.
“Go outside,” he said quietly.
“Smoke.
Get some air.
Your mother is receiving excellent care.”
I went outside.
I leaned against the brick exterior wall near the service entrance and lit the cigarette I’d tucked behind my ear.
My hands trembled slightly.
The smoke burned my lungs.
I welcomed the sensation.
Darkness had fully settled by the time I finally returned to our trailer.
The porch light flickered erratically, as it always did.
Inside, the kitchen sat empty and cold.
I opened the refrigerator.
A jar of peanut butter, nearly finished.
Half a loaf of bread growing stale around the edges.
I made a sandwich while standing at the counter.
I ate it the same way.
I chewed mechanically, tasting nothing.
Then I changed clothes.
An oversized t-shirt that had once belonged to my father, softened by countless washes.
Cotton shorts.
I dragged my trigonometry textbook to the kitchen table and opened it where I’d left off.
Sine.
Cosine.
Tangent.
Mathematics didn’t care about my personal catastrophes.
Numbers remained constant and reliable.
I worked through several problems before I felt it.
That crawling awareness at the base of my skull.
I looked up.
Across the trailer lot, beneath the flickering streetlamp, two massive figures sat in perfect stillness.
Vampires in their surveillance positions, no longer bothering to hide their presence.
Their eyes gleamed like molten gold in the darkness, fixed directly on my door. Enjoying the story? Read on at g.com.
A sharp knock interrupted the silence.
I startled.
I limped to the door and cracked it open.
A delivery man in a crisp uniform stood on my steps, cradling a long white box in both arms.
The package was easily the length of my torso.
“Amara Wellington?”
“That’s me.”
“Please sign here.”
I scrawled my signature.
He handed over the box, tipped his cap politely, and walked back down the concrete steps before disappearing into the night.
I carried the box inside and set it on the kitchen table beside my homework.
It felt heavier than its size suggested.
I lifted the lid carefully.
Tissue paper.
Cream-colored and pristine.
Folded with meticulous precision.
On top lay a small envelope, thick and expensive, my name written across the front in sharp, elegant strokes.
I tore it open.
Wear this tomorrow evening.
We have a formal gathering.
Someone will collect you at sunset.
No signature.
None was necessary.
I set the note aside.
I peeled back the tissue paper layers.
And I froze completely.
The fabric inside was midnight blue.
Deep, nearly black, until light caught its surface and it shimmered like dark water under starlight.
Silk.
Genuine silk.
My fingertips recognized the quality before my mind processed it.
Beneath the dress, nestled in separate tissue layers, lay a pair of designer heels.
The kind I’d only seen in glossy magazines abandoned in diner booths.
This dress cost more than we made in months.
He forces me into hiding, then sends me silk gowns.
I closed the lid firmly.
I returned to the window.
The two vampires remained in their positions, golden eyes trained on my entrance.
I drew the curtain slowly.
Deliberately.
Making sure they witnessed the gesture.
Sleep came fitfully.
I dreamed of my mother’s hand growing cold in mine, and woke with tears on my cheeks.
Gray dawn light was just beginning to filter across the kitchen table when I sat up.
The white box remained where I’d left it.
The note lay beside it.
None of it had been a nightmare.
I splashed cold water on my face.
I pulled on jeans and carefully laced my sneakers.
I was going to the hospital.
I would sit beside her bed, hold her hand, and be there when she opened her eyes.
I grabbed my bag from the counter.
Then it came.
A voice sliding cold and sharp into my mind, uninvited, the way a mental intrusion feels when someone more powerful decides they have the right to enter your thoughts.
Amara Wellington.
Report to the school immediately.
Principal Foster.
I stood frozen with my hand on the door handle.