Chapter 11
11
Anora
I ’m late. Of course I’m late. These damn dreams are getting more intense, and every time I wake up from one, I feel like I’ve run a marathon. They’re so vivid now, it’s like I’m actually there .
I yank a brush through my hair, staring at myself in the cracked bathroom mirror. I look terrible. My hair is a wild, curly mess, frizzed and untamed no matter how much gel or mousse I try to work into it. It’s everywhere, like some kind of lion’s mane spilling down my shoulders and back. I frown at the reflection, running my fingers through the curls again as if that’s going to fix anything.
The dress I picked out is simple—a sleeveless modest blue dress that hugs my curves without revealing too much. It’s the only thing I own that looks remotely presentable for the craft fair today. It’s good enough, or at least, it has to be.
I crouch under the sink and pull out my makeup tray, digging through it in frustration. A tube of concealer catches my hand, and I snatch it up, dabbing it under my eyes to cover the dark shadows clinging to my face. It doesn’t work. Nothing works.
Great. Now I just look like a raccoon who’s given up on life. Perfect.
I slam the concealer down on the sink and grip my scalp, taking a deep breath before I flip out completely. I don’t have time for this. This craft fair is my one shot. I need to sell enough paintings to build a nest egg for me and Sarah. Enough to get us out of this godforsaken building, into someplace decent.
With a growl, I scrub the useless concealer off my face and dry myself down. Fine. I’ll go natural. A little moisturizer, some lip gloss for shine, and I’m done trying to fix the damage that sleep deprivation has done. I leave the bathroom, dragging my feet as I cross back into my tiny, cluttered bedroom.
The twenty paintings I’ve worked on for weeks are spread out across a corner of the room, stacked carefully but staring back at me like they’re mocking my efforts. Imposter syndrome hits hard, twisting in my stomach. Does anyone even care about handmade home decor anymore? Who’s going to want some no-name artist’s work on their walls?
I shove the thoughts down and get to work packaging the paintings. Each one goes into a plastic sleeve to keep it safe from moisture and dust. Once they’re sealed up, I tuck them gently into a long black storage crate with foam dividers to space the canvases out. After everything is loaded up, I click the crate into place on my small rolling cart—just a basic metal frame with wheels, but sturdy enough to support my modest setup.
I grab my coat, sliding my arms into the worn-out sleeves, then wrap my scarf around my neck and tug my hat snugly over my curls. My purse goes over my shoulder, and after making sure I have everything, I pull the cart out of my apartment. Locking the door behind me, I glance toward the out-of-order elevator and sigh. Of course. The damn thing still doesn’t work.
Carefully, I drag the cart down four flights of stairs, the wheels squeaking and rattling with every step. By the time I reach the bottom floor, my arms ache, but I shake it off and head for Sarah’s apartment.
I haven’t checked on her all week, and guilt stings me as I walk down the hall. Between work and prepping for this stupid craft fair, I’ve barely had time to think about her. She’s been here for me so many times in the past. Making sure she’s okay is the least I can do.
When I reach her door, I knock lightly before turning the knob and stepping inside. The familiar scent of her home greets me—warm and faintly floral, like lavender.
She’s walking out of her bedroom as I enter, dressed in a freshly laundered nightgown. Her steps are slow but steady as she makes her way to the old rocking chair in front of her TV. As soon as her eyes land on me, a warm smile lights up her face.
“Anora, dear. What are you doing here? Go out and find yourself a husband,” she teases, waving her hand to shoo me off.
I laugh and close the door behind me, heading straight for the kitchen to check on her groceries. “Not today, Mrs. Sarah,” I call back, opening the fridge.
Milk, eggs, meat, bread—she’s got enough to get through the day, but I make a mental note to grab a few extras at the market after the fair. I glance through the cabinets for good measure, the inventory burned into my brain as I close them and grab a couple of bananas from the counter.
“Maybe some supernatural will catch your scent and whisk you off to Wintermoon!” she pipes up from the living room, her voice playful but tinged with hope. “Then you can stop worrying about an old fart like me.”
I walk back to her with a banana peeled and ready, grinning as I press a kiss to her forehead. “This’ll be good for your bones,” I say, handing her the fruit.
She glares at me but grabs the banana anyway, frowning as she takes a reluctant bite. “Oh, please, Anora. My time has passed, honey. You, though, you’re in your prime. Go live your life, find love.”
The thought of love makes my head hurt. I wave her off, brushing the idea aside.
The only love—real love—I can find is in my dreams. It feels pathetic to admit, but it’s true.
In my dreams, there’s Amir. He’s tall, broad-shouldered, and impossibly striking. His golden eyes practically glow with an intensity that always holds me in place. There’s something about his presence—the way he fills the space around him like he belongs to some ancient world, far beyond anything I’ll ever understand. His rich, dark chocolate skin catches the light, golden tones bleeding through his strong features. His jawline is sharp, dusted with the perfect amount of stubble. His black hair is styled in long, neat locs, falling naturally in a way that radiates effortless beauty.
Every time I wake up, I swear I can still feel him—his gaze, the warmth of his touch.
But Amir isn’t real, and that’s the worst part. All I’ve got in the real world is Mike—the ex who dumped me but still thinks he calls the shots in my life. If this is my reality, I don’t even want it. I wish I could climb back into bed and stay lost in my dreams, letting Amir hold me, letting him be real .
Because if he exists—and I doubt he does—someone like him wouldn’t be here. Not in Detroit. He’d be on Wintermoon, that paradise that seems worlds away from this mess of a city. I hear the stories about how amazing it is there, but that’s all they are to me—stories. I’ll never see it. I’m not fated. I’m just someone who wants to be, someone who daydreams about impossible things.
I don’t know why I keep dreaming of Amir. I can’t explain it. I only know there’s a connection, something I feel in my chest every time I see him in those dreams, like he’s part of me in some way. And last night? That nightmare of slaughter, those dragon shifters destroying everything—I know it’s tied to him somehow.
I want to figure it out, but how? All the real lore, if it even exists, is locked away on Wintermoon. That knowledge isn’t for someone like me.
My thoughts are pulled back to reality when Sarah speaks up. “Where are you off to today, pretty lady?” she asks, her voice light and teasing.
I peel my banana and take a bite, chewing as I lean against the kitchen counter. “Isn’t today your off day? You should be resting,” she adds.
I shrug. “I’m going to that craft fair I signed up for, remember?”
Sarah narrows her eyes at me, giving me her usual disapproving look. “I told you, Anora. You have to stop working overtime to take care of me.”
I huff, ignoring her as I snatch up her banana peel before she can say anything else. “Anora!” she yells after me as I toss both her peel and mine into the trash, tying the bag shut since it’s full.
I don’t want to hear it. We take care of each other, and that’s just how it is. She acts like I’m some kind of martyr, but she does more for me than she realizes. She cooks when I come home too exhausted to think about eating. She folds my laundry when I’ve left it piled up too long. And she’s always here when the crappy days feel like they’ll swallow me whole.
No friends. No money. No Mike—the boyfriend who didn’t think I was worth sticking around for. But I’ve got Sarah. She’s the closest thing I have to family.
She keeps trying to push me away, though. Keeps trying to make me let her go. What am I supposed to do without her? The thought alone fills me with anguish.
“Anora, honey,” she sighs, her tone softer but firm. “This isn’t healthy. I’ve made an appointment with a nursing home. This isn’t your job, honey, taking care of me.”
I feel the sting of tears before they even fall, and when I turn back to her, it’s all I can do to meet her concerned eyes. “What am I supposed to do, Sarah?” I say, my voice cracking as the tears streak my face. “I don’t have anyone. I’ll be all alone.”
The thought of losing Sarah feels like someone’s ripping out a vital organ. She’s been my anchor in this mess of a life, the one constant I could always count on. Without her, what am I? Just another struggling nobody in a city that doesn’t care if I sink or swim. The tears burn hotter now, and I have to look away before they completely overwhelm me.
Sarah reaches for my hand, her grip frail but warm.
“You’re stronger than you think, honey,” she whispers, her voice gentle. “You don’t need me to hold you up anymore. You’ve got wings of your own—you just haven’t spread them yet.”
I want to believe her, but the fear of being truly alone claws at my chest. Still, I force a smile, squeezing her hand before letting go. We both know this conversation isn’t over, but for now, it’s all I can handle.
She sighs again. She sees the pain there, so she decides to let it go—for now. Good. Because I can’t have this conversation today. Not now.
I grab the trash bag and sling it over my arm, then take hold of my rolling cart. “I’ll be back tonight with groceries,” I say, letting my voice sound calmer than I feel as I head for the door.
The moment I step outside, I scowl. Of all the people I could’ve run into, of course, it’s Mike.
He’s leaning casually against his car like he doesn’t have a care in the world, like he hasn’t been the source of so much of my frustration. What is this? Why the sudden interest? What’s his angle? He’s the same guy who left me stranded, dumped me, and made me cry for nights over his crappy treatment. Sure, he paid me back for that ridiculous dinner bill and the Uber I had to take home, but that doesn’t erase the gut punch he delivered that night—or the nights after.
And now here he is, looking polished and put together. All dressed up in a sweater, jeans, and boots, like showing up here is supposed to do something for me. He looks good, I’ll give him that. But looking good doesn’t make him any less of an asshole.
Something about him feels different today - darker, more aggressive. The casual smile doesn’t reach his eyes, and there’s an edge to his movements that sets off warning bells in my head. It reminds me of those nature documentaries where predators stalk their prey, all false calm before the strike.
His presence feels wrong here, like an invasion of the one place I’ve always felt safe. The room seems tainted by his cologne and the underlying scent of his barely contained anger. My instincts scream at me to run, but where would I go? He knows where I live, where I work. He’s made sure I understand exactly how much power he has over my life.
I grab the trash bag off my cart, ignoring him as I head toward the dumpster. Before I can even toss the bag in, he steps forward.
“I’ve got it,” he says, taking the bag from my hand before I have a chance to react. “Go on, get in the car.”
I just stare at him, feeling my annoyance bubble up. Sure, I told him I forgave him for being a jerk after he took me home that night, but forgiveness doesn’t mean I want him around. I don’t want him back. To be honest, I’d rather spend my nights alone obsessing over a made-up dream man like Amir than deal with Mike’s ego again.
“What?” I snap, planting my hands on my hips, glaring at him.
He chuckles like I’m some cute little joke he’s entertaining, jogs to the dumpster, tosses the bag, and comes back way too quickly for my liking.
“You told me about the craft fair the other night,” he says, voice casual like we’re friends. “The streets are still rough for walking and buses. Let me take you.”
I freeze. What? He’s smiling now, rocking on his heels like he’s being so generous, like he didn’t make me miserable before.
“Come on, Anora,” he says, stuffing his hands in his pockets like he’s trying to come off as cool and genuine. “You said you wanted to be courted. Here I am.”
Courted? By him? That thought alone makes me want to laugh. But before I can say anything, his expression hardens, and the casual act slips.
“Anora,” he says sharply, narrowing his eyes at me, “pay attention to the climate you’re in. Guys like me? We’re not doing all this crap anymore. And frankly, we shouldn’t have to. I’m the catch now. You made a demand for me to court you, and here I am. But don’t expect me to grovel or kiss your ass. There’s plenty of other women who’d love to have me.”
That’s it. I glare at him, my temper flaring, and take a step back. “Good to know, Mike. You’re still the same asshole you’ve always been. I’m taking my chances with the bus. Thanks for the offer.”
I grab my cart and start walking, but Mike moves fast. Before I know it, his hand clamps around my arm, and he pulls me back hard, spinning me into his chest.
“Hey! Let go of me,” I snarl, jerking against his grip.
“Stop pissing me off, Anora, and get in the car, ” he growls, dragging me around the car with no room for argument. He throws the passenger door open and shoves me roughly into the seat before slamming it shut.
I sit there for a second, stunned, my heart pounding. I watch as he casually grabs my cart, folds it, and shoves it into the backseat before sliding into the driver’s side. He runs a hand over his sweater, acting like nothing just happened, then starts the engine.
“I need a wife, Anora,” he says, like this is the most logical thing in the world. “A good girl. And these days, good girls are hard to find. You? You’re a hot commodity. You’re young, you’re a virgin,” he says the word like it’s a prize, “no baggage—aside from that old woman you like to play nursemaid to. But that can be handled.”
“I don’t want to date you, Mike,” I say, forcing my voice to stay steady, but my pulse is thrumming in my ears.
He grips the steering wheel tightly and glares at me through the corner of his eye .
“I come from money, Anora,” he says, his voice cold now. “I know your boss. I know the owner of your apartment building. You want to reject me? Fine. Go ahead. But don’t think it won’t cost you. I’m not here for a fling or some one-night stand. If I wanted that, I’d roll up with some cash and pay some girl’s water bill, and she’d spread her legs the same night. But you? You’re asking for courtship.” His hand tightens on the wheel, the leather creaking under his grip. “If I’m offering you marriage, you take it. You don’t exactly have options. What—some shifter from Wintermoon is going to swoop in and whisk you off your feet? What are the odds of that?”
I swallow hard, his words hitting a nerve I wasn’t even aware of. My whole body is tense, my mind racing, but I don’t react. Not now. Not to him. I grab my seatbelt quietly, pulling it over my chest, and click it into place.
“Okay,” I whisper.
It’s all I can do. Don’t snap. Don’t push him. The best way out of this is to keep my head down and my mouth shut.
Mike smirks smugly and puts the car in drive, pulling onto the road. “For the record,” he says, with a scoff I want to slap off his face, “this whole craft fair thing? It’s pointless. You’re not going to sell a single painting today. No one cares about handmade crap.”
I turn, staring out the window as the city streets blur past. My jaw is tight, the acid burning in my stomach, but I keep quiet. As much as I want to scream at him, I stay focused on one thing: figuring out how to get away from him. For good.
The city slides past the window in a blur of gray buildings and winter-bare trees. Each block we drive feels like another link in the chain he’s trying to wrap around me. Marriage? The word sits in my stomach like poison. This isn’t about love or even attraction - it’s about control. He wants to own me, to break whatever spark of independence I have left.
I think about my paintings in the back seat, each one a piece of my soul captured in color and light. They’re more than just art - they’re my dreams of freedom, my hopes for something better than this. Mike can mock them all he wants, but he can’t touch what they mean to me. Maybe that’s why he hates them so much.
My fingers curl into fists in my lap, hidden from his view. I might be trapped in his car right now, playing nice to stay safe, but my mind is already racing ahead, plotting, planning. There has to be a way out. There has to be more than this.