Chapter 9: Welco To Hermia Blackwood’s Life
Niklaus POV
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We dragged Dante toward the Lamborghini, his weight sagging between
and Steffon like a sack of bricks. Just another night cleaning up after my idiot brother.
I glanced back at the biker—the one who’d co out of nowhere to break up the scene. My mouth opened, ready to throw a quick thanks his way, but before the words could escape, he revved the engine and tore off into the night. The roar of the bike echoed for a few monts before fading into the quiet.
I stood there a second longer, watching the taillight disappear into the darkness. "Well, that’s one way to make an exit," I muttered.
"You think they’re from the party?" Steffon asked, his grip slipping as Dante’s drunken weight shifted.
"No idea. And frankly, I don’t care. Let’s just get this idiot ho."
Reaching the car, I shoved Dante into the back seat without ceremony. He flopped onto the leather, a garbled string of nonsense tumbling from his lips—sothing about bikes and girls. Typical.
"You’re such an embarrassnt, Dante," I muttered, leaning in to buckle him up. The seatbelt clicked into place as I gave the back of his head a light slap. "What were you thinking? Or were you even thinking at all?"
Dante groaned, his head lolling to the side. "It’s my birthday, man... let
live."
"Let you live? You’re lucky I’m not leaving you out here," I snapped, the sharp edge in my voice betraying the undercurrent of concern I refused to show.
Steffon slid into the passenger seat, shaking his head. "He’s going to hate himself tomorrow."
"Good," I said, settling behind the wheel. "Maybe he’ll think twice next ti."
The Lamborghini humd to life, the sound smooth and controlled—unlike Dante, who was now half-asleep in the back, mumbling sothing about how the biker was a "legend."
I glanced at him through the rearview mirror, my jaw tight but my irritation easing just a fraction. No matter how much of a reckless fool Dante was tonight, he was still my brother. For all the ruthlessness I showed the world—for enemies and outsiders—there was always a space carved out for my people, even when they were drunken idiots.
The car sliced through the night, the road stretching ahead of us in a dark, endless ribbon. I exhaled slowly, the weight of the evening pressing against my shoulders. It had been a long day, and I wasn’t sure what irritated
more—the pointless party or the ss Dante had beco.
But deep down, I knew the truth.
Annoying or not, this was Dante.
And whether I liked it or not, I’d clean up after him every damn ti.
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Hermia POV
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Morning ca—6:00 a.m.
The pale light of dawn seeps into my room, painting the walls in muted shades of grey and gold. The world outside stirs, birds chirping softly, but inside these four walls, there’s nothing but stillness. An eerie, suffocating stillness.
I lie there, limbs heavy, chest tight. My eyes flutter open, but my body doesn’t respond. A familiar panic blooms instantly—an old, unwelco companion I thought I’d left behind months ago.
I try to move my fingers—just a twitch—but they refuse . My head feels pinned to the pillow, my chest encased in an invisible weight.
I open my mouth to scream, but no sound escapes. My breath catches, shallow and fast, and my heart hamrs against my ribs like a drumbeat.
And then I see it.
Though my room is bathed in the soft glow of early morning, the corner darkens. A shadow stretches upward, shifting and writhing like smoke, forming into a figure. It looms over , faceless—only empty hollows where eyes should be.
A deep, guttural whisper slithers through the air. I can’t make out the words, but the sound itself is enough to send icy dread down my spine.
Not again. Not now. Not here.
The thought rips through my mind, dragging
back to the beginning.
I was thirteen when they sent
to the United States. Alone.
My father claid it was for my own good, to give
the best education money could buy, but even back then, I knew the truth. I was a problem—a burden they could shift across an ocean and forget about.
The house they placed
in was enormous and cold, managed by an assistant who showed up when she pleased and barely acknowledged . Nights in that house were the worst. The silence was too loud, and the shadows stretched farther than they should have.
At first, I tried going to bed early, hoping sleep would be an escape. But sleep rarely ca. The loneliness gnawed at , and my mind spiralled with unspoken questions.
Why hadn’t my mother called? Did my father even rember I existed?
My pillow was often wet with silent tears long before I drifted into uneasy sleep.
And then the nightmares started.
I’d wake up in the middle of the night, heart racing, drenched in sweat. Shapes lurked at the edges of my vision, shadows that felt too solid to be fignts of my imagination.
Sotis, I’d scream and thrash, only to find myself waking again seconds later, with no mory of falling asleep. Other tis, I’d curl into a ball, clinging to my blanket like it could shield
from the monsters in the dark.
But the worst nights were like this one—when I couldn’t move, couldn’t scream, couldn’t escape.
Sleep paralysis.
It beca a cruel torntor, a twisted ga I played alone, gasping for air when it finally released .
Since coming ho, those nights had grown rare. Being surrounded by people—even ones who despised —gave
the illusion of safety. Flimsy as it was, it had kept the shadows at bay.
Until yesterday.
The party. Selena’s taunts. My stepmother’s biting words.
They’d stirred the storm in my mind, and now my body was paying the price.
Back in the present, I lay frozen, my wide eyes darting to the shadow in the corner. It’s closer now, looming over
like a grotesque spectre. The whispers rise, a maddening chorus.
Move! Move, damn it!
I scream the command in my head, willing my fingers to obey. I focus, harder than I ever have, pouring every ounce of willpower into a single, simple motion.
For an agonizing mont, nothing happens.
The shadow leans in, its featureless face re inches from mine. My chest tightens further, my lungs burning for air.
And then—my pinky moves.
It’s small, but it’s enough. The spell shatters.
I gasp sharply, my body jerking free from invisible chains. Air floods my lungs, and I bolt upright, clutching my chest as I drag in ragged breaths. The shadow is gone. The whispers are silent.
The room is just a room again—simple, sunlit, and ordinary.
I press my lips together, rubbing my stiff limbs, still trembling from the aftermath. My gaze flickers to the clock.
6:15 a.m.
With a heavy sigh, I swing my legs off the bed and sit at the edge, steadying my breathing. My hands won’t stop shaking.
"Welco to Hermia Blackwood’s life," I mutter.
Bitter words, laced with a hollow sense of acceptance.
This is my reality. A life where even sleep refuses to grant
peace.
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