The house was quiet when they finally got back.
Not the comfortable kind of quiet—but the heavy, late-night stillness that settled after grief had finished exhausting everyone it touched.
Charlie went to bed without much conversation. He looked drained, like the day had taken something from him that sleep wouldn't easily return. His footsteps faded down the hallway, his bedroom door closing with a soft, final sound.
Bella lingered for a moment near the stairs, the book clutched tightly to her chest. She looked like she wanted to say something—anything—but the words stayed trapped behind her lips. After a second, she murmured a quiet goodnight and disappeared into her room.
And Amara—
Amara went upstairs first.
She changed out of her damp clothes, swapping them for something soft and familiar, washing her face and running cool water over her wrists like she was trying to rinse the day off her skin. She stared at her reflection for a moment longer than necessary, eyes tired, thoughts heavier than her body felt.
Then she went back downstairs.
The kitchen felt subdued, almost like it was holding its breath. The hum of the refrigerator sounded louder than usual. She moved on autopilot—filling the kettle, waiting for it to heat, scooping coffee with practiced motions. When the steam rose and the rich, bitter scent filled the air, something in her chest loosened just a little.
She wrapped her hands around the mug, letting the warmth seep into her palms.
After today, she needed it.
Coffee in hand, Amara climbed the stairs again, each step creaking softly beneath her feet, and finally returned to her room.
She closed the door gently behind her and crossed the space on quiet feet, stopping by the window. Outside, the forest loomed dark and endless, its edges blurred by a light, persistent rain. Drops slid down the glass in thin trails, catching the dim glow of the porch light before disappearing into shadow.
She held the steaming mug in both hands.
Strong. Hot. Just bitter enough to keep her grounded.
After today… she really needed it...
Amara inhaled slowly.
Held it.
Then released the breath like she was letting go of something tightly knotted inside her chest—something she hadn't even realized she'd been carrying all day.
She took a sip.
She took a sip.
Warmth spread instantly—through her fingers first, then down her throat, settling somewhere deep in her chest like an anchor.
The coffee was strong, slightly bitter, grounding in a way nothing else seemed to be right now. She sighed without realizing it, her shoulders finally dropping for the first time since…
Since everything.
"Okay," she murmured softly to herself, staring into the rain-streaked glass. "Okay. Still alive."
Her eyes drifted back to the forest.
Waylon is gone.
The thought returned with quiet cruelty, settling heavy in her mind. It felt unreal in the way loss often did—too sudden, too final, too unfair. Victoria. James. Names she didn't fully understand yet, but ones her instincts already marked as dangerous.
Even without knowing the full story—without having read the books, without having any roadmap of how this world was supposed to unfold—Amara could feel it in her bones.
This wasn't an ending.
This was the beginning.
She frowned into her mug, watching steam curl upward like unanswered questions.
Bella definitely figured it out by now. That book she'd bought? There was absolutely no way Bella Swan read something and didn't obsessively analyze every detail with that impressively overworked, danger-magnet brain of hers. By morning, she'd probably have mental diagrams connecting pale skin, cold hands, golden eyes, mysterious disappearances—
Cullens = vampires.
Cold ones.
Conclusion reached.
"Of course," Amara muttered, taking another sip, "with her luck, that realization is just going to invite more chaos. Because why wouldn't it?"
She leaned her forehead lightly against the cool glass, eyes unfocused as the rain traced crooked paths downward.
More danger was coming.
She could feel it—low and persistent, like a warning humming beneath her skin.
And then—completely unhelpful and poorly timed—her thoughts drifted.
Lucien.
She scowled faintly at her reflection in the window.
Of course he had to show up in her head now. The looks he gave her, like he was actually listening. The way he stood steady tonight when everything else felt like it was collapsing inward. The warmth beneath the charm, beneath the immortal calm.
He likes me, she thought with a small grimace. That much is obvious.
The real problem was—
What am I supposed to do about it?
Getting involved with a vampire definitely did not rank high on the list of "smart survival choices." Not when this world already felt like a minefield she'd been dropped into without instructions.
And yet…
Her thoughts shifted, softer now.Bella—awkward, sweet, endlessly kind.Charlie—gruff on the surface, gentle underneath, who treated her like she belonged without ever making her ask.
This was her family now.
Messy. Human. Real.
She couldn't leave them.
Couldn't walk away just to keep herself safe—not when safety had already proven to be such a fragile, laughable illusion.
Amara sighed again, rubbing her temple with one finger.
"Everything is supernatural," she muttered. "And I don't even know what I'm feeling anymore."
She lifted the mug for another sip—
A long, distant howl sliced through the night.
Amara froze.
Her eyes snapped back to the forest.
Another howl followed—low, resonant, rolling through the trees like it knew exactly where she was standing.
She stared into the darkness, unimpressed.
"…You have got to be kidding me."
The sound came again.
Amara narrowed her eyes suspiciously at the shadows beyond the glass.
"Do you have a problem with me or something?" she asked the forest flatly.
"Because this is starting to feel very targeted."
As if offended, the howl echoed once more—louder, closer.
She let out a huff, reached forward, and slid the window shut with a decisive click.
"Honestly," she muttered while tugging the curtains closed, "this wolf must have some personal issue with me. Why else would you ruin my perfectly good sulking time, huh? Idiot."
She tried to sound annoyed.
But the truth was, something colder curled quietly in her stomach.
Because once could be a coincidence.
Twice, maybe.
But every time?
Every single time she stood at the window too long, every time her thoughts drifted too deep into the forest, that howl came—sharp, deliberate, perfectly timed.
Like it knew.
Like it was watching her back.
After looking at the room and taking some deep breaths....
The room instantly felt smaller. Warmer. Safer.
For now.
She turned away from the window quickly, as if that alone could shake the unease, and only then realized her coffee was gone. She set the empty mug on her bedside table with a soft clink, kicked off her shoes, and crawled into bed. The mattress dipped beneath her weight, the sheets already warm, soft, welcoming—comforting in a way only familiar things could be.
She shifted around, tugging the blanket up to her chin like it was a protective shield against vampires, wolves, fate, and all her increasingly questionable life decisions.
Her body finally relaxed.
Turning onto her side, she hugged a pillow close, nestling into it as if it could keep the world—and the forest—at bay.
Still, her thoughts lingered.
Her eyelids fluttered, heavy with exhaustion. Half asleep, half drifting, she mumbled into the fabric, voice slurred and soft—
"Tomorrow… I'll figure it out…"
A pause.
"…Probably."
Her breathing evened out as rain tapped gently against the roof, steady and distant. Wrapped in warmth and fatigue, Amara slipped into sleep—trying not to think about how something out there always seemed to know when she was looking.
Completely unaware that something inside her had already begun to stir.
And that the world beyond her closed curtains was still watching.
Waiting.
Not even close to being done with her.
Outside, the rain continued to fall, soft and patient, washing the world in silver and shadow.
And then—
A howl rose from the forest.
Low. Lingering. Not sharp this time, not warning or challenge—but something quieter.
Almost… careful.
It carried through the trees, through the rain, through the night air like a message meant for someone who could no longer hear it.
Amara didn't stir.
Didn't flinch.
She slept on, peaceful and unaware, the faintest crease between her brows slowly smoothing as the warmth of the bed chased away the day's weight.
The howl faded.
The forest went still again.
And for tonight—just tonight—whatever watched from the dark allowed her this small mercy.
Sleep.
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