STARLIGHT PROMISE: Bound to the Lycan

AMORA"S POV;

"Mummy, please don't leave me alone!" I scream, my voice cracking as tears stream down my face, hot and uncontrollable. "How am I supposed to live without you?" My sobs break through the words, and the desperation in my voice feels like it's being torn from the depths of my soul. She smiles at me-so warmly, so gently-like she always has, her hands clasped together, the light catching the delicate curve of her fingers. Her favorite red nail polish is painted neatly on her nails, as if even in her final moments she clung to those little things that made her feel alive.

"When you get older, my Bambi, don't stay with your father. Go as far away as you can." Her voice is soft, almost a whisper, but each word lands like a heavy stone in my chest. My brows knit together in confusion, trying to understand why she would say something like that now, of all times. I wipe the snot from my nose with the back of my hand, my face reddened and puffy from crying. Her words leave me baffled, lost, as if the ground beneath me is shifting. "I wish I could spend more years with you, my love, but my body is tired." She exhales a long, heavy sigh, the weight of her exhaustion evident in her voice. "Always remember that I love you," she whispers, and those are the last words she speaks before the darkness pulls me away, wrenching me back to the waking world.

"Not again..." I groan, face-palming myself with a force that's just shy of painful. The sting is sharp, but it pales in comparison to the familiar ache in my heart. I shake it off, trying to push away the lingering emotions. But it's no use. I'm stuck in this unending nightmare, a loop that replays the last moments I shared with my mum over and over again, like a broken record that can't be fixed. It's been years since she passed, but her death clings to me like a shadow, haunting my every step. Every night, it's the same dream, the same agony, as if my mind can't let go of the pain, can't let go of her.

I wipe the cold sweat from my forehead with the sleeve of my worn-out sweater, the fabric rough against my skin. The chill of the morning air seeps through the thin material, reminding me of the harsh reality I've woken up to. I swing my legs over the side of the bed, feeling the hard, uncomfortable mattress beneath me-my nightly reminder that comfort is a luxury I can't afford. I make my bed quickly, the thin layer of cloth I use as a blanket barely enough to cover the battered mattress. It's a ritual, one of the few things I have control over in this life.

I head down the creaky wooden stairs to the kitchen, my feet moving on autopilot, knowing exactly what needs to be done. Breakfast. It's always the same-prepare it early, make sure it's ready before my father even thinks about waking up. The last thing I need is him slapping me senseless for being late. The memory of the last time he was angry with me is still fresh, a bruise that never really heals. He'd bashed my head through the wall because I served him spam instead of bacon. It wasn't even my fault; I wasn't the one who did the grocery shopping that day, but that didn't matter to him. The pain from that day is still etched in my brain like a permanent scar, a reminder of just how dangerous it is to disappoint him.

I should be used to it by now, the fear, the pain, the constant walking on eggshells. But no matter how many times it happens, it never gets easier. It hurts every time he hits me, like a fresh wound that never stops bleeding. But I tell myself it won't be like this forever. Just a few more months, Amora, I think to myself. A few more months, and I'll be eighteen. Then I can run away, leave this nightmare behind, and I won't even look back. The thought gives me a sliver of hope, a light at the end of this dark tunnel.

I hum a low, quiet tune to myself as I scramble the eggs, the sound a small comfort in the silence of the morning. I set the eggs on the plate, adding a few slices of bread and a carton of orange juice-always the same, always routine. I set the table, making sure everything is just the way he likes it. Then I quickly shove my own breakfast into my mouth, barely tasting the food as I chew mechanically. There's no time to savor anything. I have to clean the house before school, and I can't afford to be late.

I move through the house like a whirlwind, tidying up as quickly as I can. The house is two stories with an attic, and there's always something that needs to be done. Dusting, sweeping, straightening up the mess that my father and sister leave behind. It's exhausting, but it's better than facing their wrath. When I'm finally done, I hurry upstairs to take a quick shower, the cold water a sharp contrast to the warmth I crave. I dress in my usual clothes, the worn-out brown shoes looking a little better after I gave them a good wipe. They're old, but they're the best I've got.

I pack my homework into my bag, checking to make sure I've got everything I need for school. I can't afford to forget anything. As I head for the door, I remind myself that I need to leave before my stepsister does. If I don't, it won't be good. She's made it very clear how she feels about me, her words still ringing in my ears: "I don't want people to know we're related. If anyone at school finds out your scrawny little self is in my family tree, I'll kill you."

The memory of her wide nose wrinkling in disgust makes me shudder, and I hurry out the door, not wanting to risk running into her. With a deep breath, I set off for school, the weight of my reality pressing down on me, but that small spark of hope still flickering in my chest. One day, I'll escape this life. One day, I'll be free.

AMORA'S POV ;

Finally, the bell rang, signaling the end of another long day at school. I let out a deep sigh of relief, feeling the weight of the day lift off my shoulders. "Well done, Amora," I whispered to myself, satisfied that I had managed to blend into the background once again, just as I always wanted. Being the unknown student had its perks-no unwanted attention, no drama, just the peace and quiet I craved. It was a small victory in a world that often felt overwhelming.

As I began to pack my books and carefully organize my stationeries into my bag, I allowed myself a brief moment of contentment. The routine was comforting, a familiar pattern that grounded me amidst the chaos of school life. But just as I was lost in my thoughts, a loud, piercing voice shattered my peace.

"Amora!!"

I winced, recognizing the all-too-familiar voice of my best friend, Hazel. "For fuck's sake, Hazel!" I muttered under my breath, feeling a mix of irritation and amusement. She had a knack for making herself heard, whether I wanted to or not.

Hazel bounced over to me, her face lit up with that infectious energy that was impossible to stay mad at. "Can you call me with a human tone for once?" I snapped, trying to keep my voice stern, though I knew it was a losing battle. "You freaked the hell out of me!"

"Sorry, sorry... my bad," Hazel said with a grin that showed she wasn't sorry at all. "But you know calling you like this makes me feel good!"

"It makes me nauseous," I shot back, though there was no real bite in my words. This was Hazel, after all-my loud, exuberant, and endlessly lovable best friend. She was a force of nature, and trying to change her was like trying to stop the wind. Futile and unnecessary.

"Whatever," Hazel said, brushing off my comment with a wave of her hand. "Can I tag along with you today to the library?"

I paused, giving her a mock-serious look. "Hazel... you know you don't have to ask me to come along, right?" I questioned, raising an eyebrow in playful suspicion. It wasn't like Hazel to be so tentative.

"Well..." she hesitated, her usual confidence faltering for just a moment. "I feel bad for taking advantage of you to see David," she confessed, her lips curling into a pout that would have been adorable if it wasn't so transparent.

I couldn't help but smile at that. "You don't have to be," I reassured her, giving her a gentle nudge. "I know your crush on him will die down soon, so enjoy the sight while it lasts."

"Ohhh! My baby, you know me so well! That's why I love you," Hazel cooed, pinching my cheeks in that affectionate way of hers that always made me roll my eyes.

"Okay, okay, stop with the affections," I said, gently swatting her hand away. "Let's go before we're late and I get scolded."

Hazel laughed, linking her arm through mine as we made our way to the library. There was something comforting about her presence, like a bright light that made the world a little less daunting. As we walked together, I realized that despite the noise and the chaos she brought into my life, I wouldn't trade Hazel for anything. She was my balance, my opposite, and somehow, we made the perfect pair.

Every day, as the clock ticked closer to closing time at the library, I felt a bittersweet pang. Leaving the library was like saying goodbye to the one place that brought me true happiness and peace. The quiet rustle of pages, the soft hum of the air conditioning, the scent of old books mingling with fresh coffee-it all felt like a sanctuary, a world where I could escape from everything that weighed me down. But the reality of it all was that the end of my shift signaled the start of a different kind of routine, one I dreaded with every fiber of my being.

Guess what? "It was time to go back to hell".

After collecting my payment from David, who, unlike most people, understood the solace I found here, I set off for home. As I walked, my mind raced with thoughts of what awaited me there. The idea of stepping through that front door, facing the suffocating tension of my father and sister, filled me with a familiar dread. Every evening, it was the same-anxiety gnawing at me, a quiet hope that maybe, just maybe, tonight would be different.

But when I finally arrived home, something unexpected happened. The house was empty. I was alone.

A wave of relief washed over me, and for a moment, I stood still, savoring the silence, the stillness. It was a rare gift, this solitude. A bundle of joy in the midst of my daily turmoil. I quickly made my way to my room, eager to change out of my work clothes and rinse off the day's stress with a quick shower.

"Dinner is always on me," I muttered to myself as I threw on a fresh set of clothes. Phoebe, my sister, never lifted a finger when it came to house chores. It was one of the many things that added to the strain in our household. But tonight, with no one around, I didn't mind. I headed to the kitchen, moving quickly as I prepared dinner. The rhythmic chopping of vegetables, the sizzle of food in the pan-these small tasks gave me a sense of purpose, something to focus on other than the anxiety that often lingered in the back of my mind.

With dinner made, I set the table, ate in the comfort of the empty dining room, and then retreated back to my room. There were assignments to finish, and though the work was tedious, it was a welcome distraction. Anything to keep my mind occupied, to hold off the inevitable confrontation that would come when my father and Phoebe returned.

But, of course, peace never lasted long in our house.

"Amora!!!"

The sound of my name, bellowed from downstairs, pierced through the quiet like a sharp knife. That voice-it was the one I dreaded most, the one that haunted my nightmares. My father. There was no mistaking the slurred, harsh tone. It meant he was drunk again, and that was never a good sign.

Heart pounding, I hurried downstairs. The faster I responded, the less likely I was to provoke his ire. As I entered the living room, I saw him slouched in his usual spot, the only comfortable chair in the room, looking as wasted as ever. The sight was all too familiar, yet it never failed to make my stomach churn.

"Dad? ... You called?" I said softly, trying to keep my voice steady, respectful. Fear and resignation mingled in my chest as I waited for his response, bracing myself for whatever was to come. This was my reality, a far cry from the peace of the library, and there was no escaping it-not really.

About time," he grumbled, his eyes bloodshot and filled with disdain. "Go to the store and get me another bottle of whiskey. I'm out."

Amora's breath caught in her throat. She had been dreading this moment, but it had become all too common. It wasn't just the whiskey; it was everything about him that weighed her down-the way he drained the life out of her, siphoning her hard-earned money for his vices, never giving her anything in return but fear and bruises. She had been hiding her age to buy alcohol for him for far too long, using the little she made from her job at the library to cover the cost when he, as usual, didn't provide her with money.

"Dad," she started, her voice trembling slightly but firm, "I can't keep doing this. I'm not even old enough to buy alcohol, and you never give me money to pay for it. I work hard for what I earn, and I-"

She didn't get to finish her sentence. The words were barely out of her mouth when he moved, quicker than she expected for a man in his state. The back of his hand connected with her cheek with a force that sent her reeling. The impact was so sudden, so violent, that the world around her spun out of control. She stumbled, catching herself on the arm of the couch, her vision blurring as pain radiated through her skull.

"How dare you talk back to me?" he snarled, standing over her, his presence menacing and overpowering. "You think you can lecture me, girl? After everything I've done for you?"

Amora wanted to scream, to shout back at him that he had done nothing for her, that he had taken everything from her instead. But the sting of the slap still lingered, and the sharp, metallic taste of blood filled her mouth where she had bitten her tongue. She could feel tears welling up in her eyes, but she blinked them back, refusing to let him see her cry.

"I don't care how you get it, but you will get me that whiskey," he hissed, his breath hot and foul against her face. "And if you ever talk back to me again, you'll regret it."

Amora nodded numbly, her cheek throbbing where his hand had connected. She couldn't bring herself to speak, afraid that any words would only provoke him further. Her father stared at her for a long moment, his chest heaving with the remnants of his anger, before he finally turned away, dismissing her with a wave of his hand as if she were nothing more than an annoyance.

As she stumbled out of the living room, she felt the weight of her father's contempt bearing down on her, heavier than ever before. The world still tilted on its axis, her mind reeling from the pain and the shock of what had just happened. How much longer could she endure this? How much more could she take before she finally broke under the pressure?

But even as the thought crossed her mind, she knew the answer. Just a few more months, she told herself. A few more months, and she would turn eighteen. And when that day came, she would be gone, far away from this house, this town, and this life that had been nothing but misery. Until then, she would endure. She had to.

Wiping away the blood from her lip, Amora grabbed her jacket and headed out the door, her face still stinging, her resolve hardening with every step she took. She would get the whiskey, as he demanded. But one day soon, she would walk out of this house and never look back. And on that day, she would finally be free.

ZALE'S POV ;

The neon lights of the casino flickered ominously in the humid night air, casting a garish, almost sickly glow over the entrance. It was a stark contrast to the darkness of the world outside, a beacon luring in those desperate enough to gamble away what little they had left. The stench of desperation hit me the moment I stepped inside-thick and cloying, mixed with the acrid scent of alcohol, sweat, and the unmistakable undertone of fear. It was a familiar scent, one that I had encountered countless times before, yet tonight, it felt more oppressive, more suffocating. My heightened senses were assaulted by the cacophony of sound and scent, each one a sharp reminder of why I despised places like this.

Beside me, Wilder, my Beta, moved with the same calculated precision, his eyes scanning the crowded room just as mine did. We were here with a purpose, a mission that demanded focus and ruthlessness. A string of mysterious disappearances had led us to this very casino, whispers of dark dealings and sinister forces hiding beneath the surface. Rumors had circulated within the pack, tales of something dangerous lurking within these walls, something that posed a threat not just to the humans who frequented this den of sin, but to us as well.

The casino was a hive of human activity, a chaotic blend of sights and sounds that would have been overwhelming to anyone without the senses of a Lycan. The clatter of poker chips, the muted thuds of dice rolling across green felt, the occasional shout of triumph or groan of defeat-it all echoed off the marble floors, creating a discordant symphony of vice. My instincts were on high alert, every fiber of my being tuned to the slightest hint of danger, to anything out of the ordinary that might explain the mysterious disappearances. But instead of finding what I was looking for, instead of uncovering the source of the darkness, I found something far more unsettling.

Her.

She stood at the bar, her presence as out of place as a lamb among wolves. She couldn't have been more than eighteen, her youth and innocence stark against the backdrop of the casino's seasoned, hardened patrons. Her wide eyes betrayed her nerves as she handed over a wad of cash to the bartender, the bill clutched tightly in her trembling fingers. There was something almost ethereal about her, something that called to me on a primal level. My wolf stirred within me, a low growl rumbling in my chest as her scent hit me-wildflowers and something so pure it almost made me sick.

Mate.

The word echoed in my mind like a curse, an undeniable truth that sent a wave of fury crashing through me. How could this be? How could the fates be so cruel, so merciless, as to pair me, a Lycan Alpha, with a weak, fragile human? My mate was supposed to be strong, capable of standing by my side in the face of any threat. But this girl... she was nothing but a child, vulnerable and naive, standing in a place where she didn't belong.

She was underage, for gods' sake, and yet here she was, in a casino of all places, trying to buy alcohol as if that would somehow make her grown. My anger flared, burning through my veins like wildfire. Humans were pathetic, fragile creatures-unworthy of the strength we possessed, unworthy of our protection. And yet, here she was, my mate. The one person destined to be mine, the one person I was supposed to protect above all else.

I clenched my fists, my nails biting into my palms as I struggled to control the storm of emotions raging within me. I should have been relieved, elated even, to have found my mate. But all I felt was anger-blistering, consuming anger. This slip of a girl couldn't possibly understand the world I lived in. She was soft, vulnerable-nothing like the fierce, resilient mate I had imagined. And to top it off, she was breaking the law, putting herself in danger for something as trivial as alcohol.

"What is she doing here?" Wilder's voice cut through my thoughts, his gaze following mine to the girl at the bar.

"She's my mate," I snarled, the words tasting bitter on my tongue.

Wilder's eyes widened in shock, his usually stoic expression faltering for a brief moment. But he knew better than to question me when I was like this, when the rage was so close to the surface. He simply nodded, his expression hardening with understanding, as if he could already sense the turmoil within me.

Before I could decide what to do, before I could figure out how to deal with this cruel twist of fate, I saw them-a group of men sidling up to her, their lecherous smiles turning my blood to ice. They were predators, drawn to her like vultures to a carcass, their intentions as clear as the fear that flickered across her face. My wolf bristled with rage, the protective instinct surging to the forefront. They were nothing but scavengers, feeding off the weak and the vulnerable. And she-my mate-was too naive, too innocent to see the danger.

My vision tinged red as I watched them move closer, their laughter low and menacing as they circled her like a pack of hyenas. The very idea of them touching her, of laying their filthy hands on what was mine, sent a violent surge of possessiveness crashing through me. This wasn't how it was supposed to be. My mate wasn't supposed to be a human girl who couldn't even recognize a threat when it was staring her in the face. She wasn't supposed to be someone I had to save from the monsters that lurked in the shadows. But here we were.

A snarl tore from my throat, primal and fierce, as I prepared to intervene. They wouldn't touch her. They wouldn't get the chance. She might be human, she might be fragile, but she was mine. And no one-no one-would take that from me.