Chapter 13 Amara #2
The first page is a list of names. Women’s names, some with a line through them, some circled. In the margin, in red pen: "ERASED." Next to the circled names, a date and a note: "COMPLIANT," "brEEDING," "TRANSFERRED."
I scan down the page. One name—CASEY GREENWOOD—has three stars next to it, and the word "SUICIDE" underlined.
There are photos attached. Most are faces, clipped from yearbooks, smiling and oblivious.
On some, someone has scratched out the eyes with a ballpoint pen.
There are notes: "Failure to produce. Failure to comply.
Failure to breed." Some pages are stamped "EXPUNGED," the letters so dark they bleed through to the next sheet.
I take pictures of every page, my hands moving on their own. The camera shutter is loud in the silence. I want to cry, but it feels useless. There’s nothing left in me to mourn.
I keep flipping. Some files are older, yellowed with age. Some are recent. I find Dahlia’s, Eve’s, Isolde’s, Ophelia’s. I snap a photo of each, just in case. The back of the drawer is full of empty folders, waiting for the next crop of girls.
I realize, with a sudden jolt, that most of the names here never graduated. Most are just gone.
I hear footsteps in the hallway outside.
I freeze.
They’re not running, not sneaking—just walking, heavy and certain. I scramble for a hiding spot, my mind blank with panic. The only place is behind the tall cabinet at the end of the row, wedged tight against the wall. I slide in, and try to calm my breathing.
The door to the records room opens with a hydraulic sigh.
Two men enter. I know the voices instantly.
My father. Mr. Steele.
I hold my breath.
Marcus is speaking first, voice cold and clipped. "She’ll comply, especially after today’s exam. She’s too soft to rebel."
Steele laughs, the sound thick. "All of them are, until they’re not. You know Roth is a risk, right?"
My father replies, "We’re already making arrangements. Once the Hunt is concluded, we’ll move Amara to a better match. Roth is a liability, but he’s useful for now. The merger keeps the Board happy. After that, he can go wherever he wants—Pineridge, the gutter, a grave. It doesn’t matter."
Steele: "And if he resists?"
"Let him. He’s soft, like his father. If he tries to run, we’ll send the teams. Like we always do."
They pause by the desk. I can hear the rustle of files, the metallic slam of a drawer.
Steele again, lower now: "What about your daughter? You care what happens to her?"
"I care about the line. Nothing else. If she survives the Hunt, she’ll do her duty. If not, there’s always Dalton. He’s not a pureblood but he will do. He’s made enough money that no one will care."
A pause. Steele: "You’re a cold bastard, Marcus."
A dry chuckle. "That’s why I’m in charge."
I feel sick. I want to puke, or scream, or run at them with a letter opener. Instead, I stay still, pressed flat against the plaster, not even breathing.
They shuffle papers for another minute. Then the footsteps recede. The door closes with a thud.
I wait, counting to fifty, then a hundred. I wait until I’m shaking with cold and rage.
Climbing out from behind the cabinet, my hair stuck to my face with sweat.
I gather every file I can find, stuffing them into a grocery bag left on the desk.
I take the hard drive from the computer, ripping it out with a snap and a twist. I pull all the photos off the wall and shove them into the bag, too.
When I’m done, I look at the room. The cabinet is open, the desk covered in blank space. The room looks naked, exposed.
I want to light it all on fire. I want to burn every record, every trace. But I can’t do it alone.
So I take the bag and leave.
The walk back to my dorm is the longest of my life. Every window is dark; every hallway echoes with the click of my shoes and the dull thump of my pulse. The bag thumps against my leg with every step, full of stolen files, each one a weight that tethers me to this nightmare.
I don’t try to be quiet. I want someone to see me. I want them to know.
By the time I reach my hall, my head is buzzing with too much information and not enough air. I fumble with the key, drop it, pick it up with numb fingers, and open the door.
The room is the same as I left it. I shut the door and lean against it, waiting for the room to stop spinning.
I drop the bag on the bed and go to the window. I look out, searching for signs of life—lights, shadows, movement—but there’s nothing. The world outside is empty.
There’s a knock at the door that interrupts my thoughts.
I freeze, every muscle locking. For a second, I think it’s security, or my father, or some faceless guard sent to drag me away. I think about running, about jumping out the window, but my body refuses to move.
The knock comes again, softer this time.
I creep to the door and press my ear to it. On the other side, I hear nothing. No breathing, no shuffling, just the silence of someone who’s very, very good at waiting.
I open the door a crack.
Julian is there, leaning against the jamb, arms folded, a black backpack over his shoulders. His hair is damp and messy, eyes bruised and wild, mouth set in a line so tight it looks like it might split. He looks like he hasn’t slept in days, but every part of him is awake, vibrating with energy.
He sees me and smiles.
"Hey there, baby girl," he says, voice low.
I don’t answer.
He eyes the duffel bag, the mess on the bed, then looks back at me. "You ready?"
"For what?"
He sighs, like the question doesn’t matter. He reaches behind him and takes off the backpack, reaching in and brings out something white—a dress, folded over his arm, and a pair of shoes balanced on top. He holds them out to me, not waiting for me to accept or refuse.
I take them, the fabric cold and slippery in my hands.
"I’m not wearing this," I say.
"You are," he says, and there’s no room for argument. "It’s time."
He moves into the room, shoulders brushing the doorframe. He closes the door behind him, then turns to face me. He’s so close I can smell him—cologne and blood and something darkly sweet.
Danger.
I clench the dress tighter. "What is this for?"
He steps closer, until we’re only a breath apart. His eyes are everywhere—on my mouth, my hands, my throat, the pulse jumping under my skin.
"Tradition," he says. "And you look fucking perfect in white."
The words land like a slap. I flush, anger and something else burning in my face.
He reaches out, runs a finger down my cheek, then under my chin, tilting my head up. His hand is rough, knuckles bruised and cut. He’s not gentle, but he’s not cruel, either. He’s just certain.
He leans in, voice a growl: "Get dressed. We don’t have much time."
I pull away, the dress still clutched to my chest. I duck into the bathroom, slamming the door behind me. My hands are shaking so hard I can barely unzip my hoodie.
I strip, tossing the clothes onto the floor, and slide the dress over my head. It’s simple—sleeveless, high neck, falls just above the knee. The shoes are white, too, low-top sneakers with brand new laces. I look like a terrified bride.
I look in the mirror. My eyes are red, hair tangled. There’s a mark on my neck, a bruise from where the doctor’s hand forced my head to the side. I touch it, and remember what I am: not a person. A womb.
A product.
I go back into the room. Julian is standing at the window, watching the world outside.
He turns when he hears me. His eyes go wide, then narrow. He steps forward and circles me, slow, like a wolf casing prey.
"You hate it," he says.
"I hate you," I say.
He grins. "Good. Hate is honest."
He puts his hands on my waist and pulls me close. I stiffen, but he doesn’t care. He buries his face in my neck, breath hot against my skin, then pulls back and kisses me—hard.
I want to bite him back. I want to rip him apart.
Instead, I let him kiss me. And then I kiss him back, begging to feel something other than fear. Something alive.
When he pulls away, we’re both panting.
He grabs my hand and leads me out of the room, out of the building, into the dark. He doesn’t look back. I follow.
The campus is empty. The world is empty. It’s just me and him, moving through the night.
We walk across the quad, past the chapel, toward the woods at the edge of campus. The moon is high, the sky is clear. I can hear my own heartbeat, loud as a drum.
We reach the tree line, and Julian stops. He turns to me, fingers still tangled in mine.
"You know what happens next?" he asks.
"No," I say. "And I don’t care."
He laughs, a deep rumble that spreads through his chest. "That’s my girl."
Then he leans in, presses his mouth to my ear, and whispers: "We’ve got a surprise for you."