Chapter 9
SHANNON.
I stayed put on the bed. I couldn't move even an inch. It felt like the whole house had silent, invisible eyes watching me, dissecting every tiny piece of fear pulsing through me. Every creak in the walls made my body jerk.
I kept staring at my phone, waiting for Valerie’s name to flash across the screen. But it didn’t. Not a single call. Not even a text.
“Come on, Val,” I whispered to no one. My voice sounded brittle and foreign.
I felt all alone in the world at the moment. George hadn’t called either. It had been over two hours since he left for the airport. Two long, endless hours. He was supposed to text when he landed. Or, was there a delay?
I sniffed and wiped the tears off my face. I pulled my knees to my chest and wrapped my arms around them, rocking slightly like it would somehow quiet the storm inside my chest. My stomach growled. I was thirsty and hungry. But I'd never be able to go to the kitchen and fix something to eat.
All the doors and windows were tightly shut. But they didn't really do anything to help my anxiety.
The bedroom was the only place that felt remotely safe. The bed, the locked door, the thin illusion of control.
But even here, I could still feel that pressure. That strange, suffocating weight, like someone else was in the house, or like something was waiting just beyond the walls, patiently listening to my cries.
I buried my face in my knees and squeezed my eyes shut when I remembered I had fruit juice on the table. The one I had quickly grabbed from the kitchen while George was leaving the house. My eyes darted toward the small table near the window, and I swear it felt too far away from me.
I hesitated. My legs felt heavy, but thirst won.
I forced myself off the bed, my legs trembling so badly that the carpet felt like it was swaying under me.
I was dying of thirst, and just the sight of it made my throat ache.
My fingers shook as I reached for the pack.
I realized I hadn’t brought a glass. My hands trembled around the carton. Screw it. I wasn’t going back into that kitchen.
I tore the cap open and drank straight from the pack.
The first gulp was relief. The second was comfort. The third felt like an old habit.
The sweetness hit my tongue, and for the first time all night, something in me relaxed.
I took another gulp.
And another.
I kept going until the pack was half empty.
I sighed and set it down, my nerves slowly unwinding. “See?” I muttered weakly. “You’re fine, Shan. Just tired. You’re okay.”
I almost laughed at how stupid I’d been — paranoid and starving in my own home. I dropped the juice on the table, turned, and sank back onto the bed, picking up my phone again.
The light from the screen flickered across my face as I scrolled aimlessly, trying to distract myself.
But then… something felt wrong.
At first, it was subtle. A lazy heaviness was crawling up my fingertips, like my hands were made of lead.
A strange warmth spread through my veins. My fingers twitched, the phone slipping out of my grip and hitting the sheets. My vision blurred. The corners of the room began to soften, tilt.
“What the...”
My words slurred. My lips felt numb. The phone slid off the bed with a thud. I tried to reach for it, but my arm wouldn’t move. Neither would my legs. My body went heavy, like wet sand.
My breathing hitched. My eyes darted around wildly, but my head wouldn’t turn. Panic screamed inside me, but my mouth wouldn’t open. I couldn’t even blink fast enough.
It felt like being trapped inside my own body.
I could still feel, still see, but I couldn’t move.
Something moved in the hallway.
The sound of soft footsteps hit me.
Thud.
Pause.
Thud.
Pause.
Thud.
My heart slammed against my ribs, screaming at a body that wouldn’t move. I couldn’t lift my head. I couldn’t do anything.
Then, click… One by one, the lights flickered out.
A chill ran down my spine so sharp it hurt.
The entire room plunged into darkness except for the small night lamp beside my bed, its faint orange glow spilling across the floor.
The footsteps stopped outside my door.
And then — creak.
The handle turned.
The door opened slowly and soundlessly, and a figure stepped inside. Broad shoulders. Tall frame. Movements way too calm and too controlled.
He didn’t rush. He wasn't even sneaking around. He walked in like he owned the entire place. Like he owned me. The kind of confidence that made fear crawl right out of you.
He came closer until the light hit his face — and even through my haze, I saw him.
That jawline. Those cold, terrifying baby-blue eyes. That quiet, almost affectionate tilt of his head.
Kenai.
My pulse exploded inside me, but my body wouldn’t respond.
He stopped right beside the bed, staring down at me for what felt like forever. Then he crouched, his shadow swallowing me whole.
His face hovered inches from mine. His breath brushed against my cheek.
His voice came low, rough, and familiar enough to make my blood run cold.
“Hello, dear sister,” he whispered, his perfectly shaped, thin lips curling into a slow, cruel smile. “It’s time to talk.”
The air left my lungs.
He reached out, brushed his fingers against my cheek, and whispered,
“You shouldn’t have drunk the juice.”