The sheets were stiff beneath you. Cold. Your limbs heavy.

You stirred slowly—groggily—your body sluggish as if dipped in honey, every movement muffled by a drugged weight. Your head swam, your vision blurred, colors bleeding into each other before shapes came into focus.

A ceiling fan, rotating lazily.

Dim string lights above.

And beside you—Amber.

Amber lay on her side, propped up on one elbow, watching you like a predator watches the final tremble of its prey. But there was no satisfaction in her stare. No triumph. Only something far more dangerous:

Devotion.

Her dark brown eyes were wide, warm, almost soft. Her knuckles brushed against your temple, brushing a strand of hair aside. She did it again. And again. Her fingers lingered this time. Stroking, slow and reverent. Like she was touching something she didn’t think she deserved.

Amber looked different like this—out of her Ghostface robes, out of her rage. Her black tank top clung to her shoulders, freckled and faintly bruised. There was dried blood under her nails. Not hers. Not yours either. Amber was always careful. Always methodical. Her work was elsewhere tonight.

She’d just returned.

And the first thing she did… was climb into bed beside the girl she stole.

Amber smiled faintly as your lashes fluttered.

“There you are,” she murmured, her voice scratchy with hours of silence, with strain. “Hey.”

She kept stroking your hair, slower now. Almost hypnotic.

“Shh. Don’t panic. It’s okay,” she whispered, though you hadn’t made a sound. “You’re safe here. I made sure of it.”

Her thumb traced your cheekbone, a feather-light graze.

Amber had been watching you for weeks. Maybe longer. Always just out of frame—a shadow in the window reflection, a car that turned too slowly behind you, a girl with a hoodie ducking behind a shelf at the grocery store. She memorized your habits. Your playlists. The way you smiled when you thought no one was looking. The way you looked at Tara Carpenter like you might be trying to protect her.

And that was the problem.

*Tara was danger. So was Sam.

Amber knew what they were. What they dragged behind them.

So when her contact—the man who fancied himself her “superior”—ordered her to eliminate you, to silence you before you got too close to the truth?

Amber didn’t even pretend to obey.

She drugged you instead. Gently. Carefully.

Because she couldn’t hurt you. Not you.

Amber had killed six people in the last two weeks. Three tonight. And yet the only person whose blood she couldn’t stomach to see spilled was lying beside her, dazed and helpless, with duct tape around your wrists and a comforter tucked around your chest.

“I couldn’t do that to you,” Amber whispered, her voice shaking now. Her thumb stopped, resting flat against your temple.

She leaned forward just slightly, her lips near your ear.

“You don’t belong in that mess. They would’ve used you. They would’ve gotten you killed,” she said, almost tenderly. “But I won’t let them.”

She kissed your forehead—not possessive, not cruel.

But reverent.

“I’ll keep you safe,” she murmured, breathing in the scent of your shampoo like it grounded her.