Chapter 151

Emily

I’m small again.

It hits me before I even realize what’s happening—the absence of weight pulling at my belly, the smoothness of my arms and legs, my tiny hands curling into fists I haven’t seen in years. I glance down and the pale nightdress brushes against knees that feel too knobby, too frail. My heart lurches.

I know this place. It is a home that my mother and I wished to desperately escape from. This is a home filled with the nightmares of my past, the weight of my father’s sins as they follow me at every turn of my life.

The dreamscape dragged me to this damned place, one that feels as if it was plucked from the depths of my memories.

The house is dim, lit by the soft flicker of a lamp on the counter. Shadows creep over the walls, long and shifting, just like they did when I was a little girl. And there they are — my parents — standing in the kitchen, their voices pitched low at first, sharp edges hidden under whispers.

“Margaret, you have to listen—” my father begins, his voice rough and desperate.

“No, Philip, I have listened,” my mother’s words slice through the dark like broken glass. Her voice brings me back to the sweet memories I shared with her before she died. Now, her voice serves as a reminder of what I have lost. “I listened when you said it was an accident. I listened when you swore you didn’t mean it. But Derek is dead — and it was no accident.”

The name hits me like a stone in the gut. Derek. My cousin. The air thickens, heavy and choking. I’ve had this dream before, but it never gets easier.

My child-body trembles with the memory of fear. I press back into the corner, trying to vanish into the shadows, but their voices only grow louder.

“Don’t you dare say that!” my father raises his voice, his tone raw and defensive. “I didn’t mean to kill him! I would never hurt Derek—”

“You shoved him off that slide, Philip! You did it in anger, and you know it. Children don’t fall from that height and just…walk away. He died because of you!” my mother bitterly laughs. She shakes her head at him and places her hands on her hips, unable to believe what it is that she is hearing right now.

My mother looks in my direction. Her expression softens. My heart lurches towards her, wanting me to pull her forward and to give her one last hug.

I have to remind myself that this isn’t real. The scene in front of me comes from my own mind. I have to tell myself that it is not my mother that stands in front of me but rather a phantom from my past.

Her hand twitches toward me, extending me the last bit of comfort that she can gift to me in this hellscape. Panic crackles through my veins. She wants to reach me, to protect me, but I already know what comes next. Father sees her movement, and before she can touch me, he snaps.

“Don’t you dare,” he growls, shoving her back.

“I don’t want her to see, Philip!” she screams back.

He strikes her. He strikes her harder than I remembered him hitting her.

The sound is sickening, a crack of flesh against flesh. I squeeze my eyes shut, but the noises pour in anyway. The thud of her body hitting the floor, her cry of pain, the dull repeated rhythm of fists finding their target. My ears ring with it, my chest tightening as if someone’s tying ropes around my ribs.

I want to scream. I want to run but I’m frozen, small and powerless, just like I was then.

When I finally force my eyes open, he’s standing over her, chest heaving, hand trembling. For a moment, I think he might stop. For a moment, I let myself hope.

Then his head turns and his eyes lock on me.

The air leaves my lungs. I shrink back against the wall, but he’s already moving, his steps echoing like thunder. In his hand — no, both hands — he’s carrying something. A cup. Porcelain white, delicate, filled to the brim with tea that steams faintly in the dim light.

I remember this. Fuck, I remember this as if it were yesterday.

“Emily,” his voice is soft now, too soft, dripping with a tenderness that feels wrong after what I’ve just heard. “Sweet girl. You have to drink.”

“No,” I shake my head violently, curls whipping against my face.

“Yes,” he kneels, pressing the cup into my tiny hands. The porcelain is warm, searing my palms, anchoring me in the nightmare. His face looms close, eyes dark, mouth twisting into a smile that doesn’t reach them.

There is a flicker of recognition in his eyes. It is as if he is staring at the current me instead of the little girl he once knew.

“Your wolf was never meant to be put to sleep. This tea was supposed to ease your memories, not take away your wolf. This is the way back,” my father whispers.

“No!” My voice cracks, high and desperate.

But his fingers tighten around mine, forcing the cup to my lips. The bitter scent of the tea fills my nose, and when the rim presses against my mouth, I gag. I thrash, but his grip is iron. The liquid burns its way across my tongue as he tips the cup, forcing me to swallow.

Somewhere behind him, my mother moans weakly, but I can’t reach her. I can’t even reach myself. The taste coats my throat, heavy and cloying, dragging me down into the dark.

And then…I wake up.

My eyes fly open, the dream shattering like glass. The ceiling above me swims into focus, rough wooden beams blurred by the tears spilling down my cheeks. My chest heaves as I suck in ragged breaths, the air of the waking world thick and too sharp.

I’m not a little girl anymore. My hands are not small. They fly instinctively to my belly, to the swell of my baby bump, as if to reassure myself, to remind myself what’s real. The warmth of life stirs faintly beneath my palms, but my body won’t stop trembling.

“Oh God,” I whisper. My voice is barely audible, shaking. “Oh God, oh God…”

The dream lingers, vivid and raw. My father’s voice, my mother’s screams, the taste of tea I can still feel coating my throat.

It all clings to me, refusing to let go. Panic claws its way up my chest, tearing into me, and I curl forward, gasping.

“Emily!” Madame Wanda’s voice cuts through the haze, sharp and urgent. She’s there, hovering by my side, eyes wide and searching my face. Her presence is grounding, but only barely. My body isn’t responding, my mind is a whirlpool of past and present crashing together.

Something shifts inside me. A low, twisting ache, deep and undeniable. Then another. Stronger. I freeze.

My hands move to my belly again, pressing against the curve, and I know. I know before I even manage to form the words.

“Madame Wanda,” I gasp, my eyes locking onto hers, wide with fear and certainty. “My water just broke.”