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.