STARLIGHT PROMISE:"Bound to the Lycan"

Chapter 25

AMORA'S POV;
                             It's been three days.

Three days of oppressive silence. Three days of staring at the same walls, tracing the same patterns, walking the same paths in this luxurious prison I once mistook for safety. No one's come for me. No one has said a word, except for him. And even then, the words that pass between us are few and far colder than I ever imagined they would be.

For three days, I've been trapped, locked away in this room like an animal in a cage. It feels like a lifetime. The days blur together in a haze of confusion, fear, and the gnawing feeling that I'm slowly being erased, bit by bit. The window across the room taunts me with glimpses of the outside world—of freedom. The sunlight filters through, casting faint shadows on the floor, but even the light can't reach me in this darkness.

I repeat the same routine over and over, like I'm living in some twisted loop that I can't break free from. I wake up, hoping maybe today will be different, but it never is. I sit. I wait. I cry. The silence presses down on me like a heavy blanket, smothering me, making it hard to breathe.

I want to scream. I want to run. But I can't.

He told me there would be no food, no water—my punishment for running away. My heart clenches every time I think of the way he looked at me, the anger in his eyes, the way his voice sent shivers down my spine. He didn't shout. He didn't rage. But the coldness in his words, the finality in them, was worse than any outburst could have been. It was like he'd made up his mind about me—that I wasn't to be trusted, that I'd crossed a line I couldn't come back from.

Wilder's the only reason I haven't starved. He's been sneaking food in for me, even though he knows the risk. He's careful—so careful—but I don't know how much longer he'll be able to keep it up without being caught. Every time he slips a tray of food through the door, I can see the worry etched on his face, like he's waiting for the moment he gets found out. I should eat. I know I should. But I can't bring myself to do it.

The food sits untouched on the table, the smell wafting through the room, but it turns my stomach. It's like my body knows this is wrong—everything about this is wrong. My mind tells me to survive, to fight, to push through, but my heart... my heart is tired. So, so tired.

I haven't felt this trapped since I was a child—since those days with my father, when the walls of our home felt like they were closing in on me, when I longed to escape the suffocating grip of his control. But even then, even in the worst moments, he let me go outside. He let me breathe. Here, I can't even do that. Here, I'm nothing but a prisoner, kept in the dark, locked away from the world, from life.

My hands tremble as I clutch the sides of my chair, the only sound in the room the faint rasp of my breathing. I can feel the tears welling up again, but I bite them back, refusing to let them fall. I've cried enough. I've broken down enough. It doesn't help. Nothing changes. It never does.

How can someone who says I'm important treat me like this? The question rings in my head, over and over, until it feels like it's pounding behind my eyes, threatening to split my skull. He said I was important. He said I mattered. But is this how you treat something important? You don't lock it away. You don't starve it. You don't leave it to suffer alone.

I thought I understood him. I thought, maybe, there was something more beneath the surface—something worth understanding. But now? Now I'm not so sure. I feel like I'm being punished not for running, but for daring to challenge him. For daring to think I could be free.

The air in the room feels heavier with every passing minute, pressing down on my chest until it's hard to breathe. The walls seem to be closing in on me, the ceiling inching lower, the space shrinking. It's too much. It's all too much. I can't take this anymore. I can't keep pretending I'm okay when I'm not. I can't keep sitting here, waiting for something—anything—to change, when deep down, I know nothing ever will.

Why is the world so cruel to me? What did I do to deserve this? I never asked for any of this. I never asked to be dragged into a world I don't understand, to be tied to someone who keeps me caged like an animal. I've done nothing wrong. I've only ever tried to survive, to make the best of the hand I was dealt. So why? Why does it always end like this? Why am I always the one left broken and alone?

The tears come then, hot and unstoppable, rolling down my cheeks in silent streams. I don't bother wiping them away. What's the point? There's no one here to see me break. No one here to care. I'm just... alone. Completely and utterly alone.

The silence is deafening, and the weight of it crushes me until I feel like I can't breathe. My sobs fill the room, echoing off the walls, but they offer no release. No comfort. Just more pain. I curl in on myself, clutching my knees to my chest, trying to make myself as small as possible. Maybe if I'm small enough, invisible enough, I'll disappear completely. Maybe then, the pain will stop.

And then—just when I think I can't cry anymore, just when I think the world has forgotten me—the door bursts open with a violent crash, slamming against the wall with a force that sends my heart racing. I jump, my body tense and on edge, my breath catching in my throat as I whip my head toward the door.

It's him.

He stands in the doorway, his presence filling the room like a storm cloud, dark and dangerous. His eyes, cold and hard, lock onto mine, and I quickly wipe the tears from my face, trying to hide the evidence of my breakdown. I can't let him see me like this. I can't let him know how close I am to breaking completely.

He can't see me weak. If he sees that, then it's over. Then he'll know he can do whatever he wants to me—that I'm nothing but a broken doll, easy to control, easy to bend to his will. I won't give him that satisfaction.

He strides into the room, his movements purposeful, controlled. There's no warmth in his expression, no trace of the man who once said I mattered to him. All I see is the Alpha—cold, calculating, and in control of everything around him.

"Go and freshen up," he says, his voice devoid of emotion, an order more than a suggestion.

I hesitate for a moment, my mind still spinning from the sudden intrusion, but I know better than to argue. His eyes flicker over me, taking in my tear-streaked face, but he doesn't comment. Instead, he continues, his tone leaving no room for disobedience.

"A maid will come for you in thirty minutes. I'll leave clothes for you. I don't want lateness."

His words hang in the air, heavy with authority. I nod, my throat too tight to form a proper response. I know what this is. It's not kindness. It's not mercy. It's control. He's giving me an order, and he expects me to follow it without question.

He turns and leaves, the door closing behind him with a soft click, and just like that, I'm alone again. Alone with my thoughts. Alone with the knowledge that I'm nothing more than a puppet in his world, a pawn in his game.

The tears threaten to fall again, but I push them down, bury them deep. I won't cry anymore. I won't let him break me, no matter how hard he tries.

But even as I tell myself this, even as I steel myself against the pain, a part of me wonders how much longer I can keep up this facade. How much longer I can pretend to be strong when, deep down, I feel like I'm falling apart.

And as the minutes tick by, I realize something terrifying: I'm running out of time.