Claire's POV
Silence weighed heavily over the room—suffocating, almost alive.
My breathing was still unsteady. My wrist burned, as if something were still pulsing there, still beating—an unfamiliar heat, unsettling… yet strangely familiar.
Mom was the first to speak, her voice far too calm to be reassuring.
"Claire… why did you say Avery's name?"
I frowned.
I didn't even know how to answer.
"I… I don't know. It just came out. Like… it was instinctive."
Grandfather stepped forward, intrigued.
"Avery? Who is this Avery?"
"A friend," I replied, trying to steady my voice.
Dad spoke immediately—of course he did.
"And what does your friend have to do with this?" he said, gesturing toward the shattered chandelier above us.
My throat tightened.
I wanted to scream.
To tell him he never understood anything.
I lifted my head, staring at my trembling fingers.
"The vision," I murmured. "The one I told you about, Mom… the reason we're here."
A sudden realization hit me.
"It came from her."
Silence fell instantly.
Grandmother, arms crossed and chin lifted, narrowed her eyes.
"What do you mean, it came from her?"
"I don't know… but it was Avery. I'm sure of it."
Dad let out a heavy sigh, as if I were still a child making things up.
"She's human, your friend?" he asked, almost mocking.
I stared at him.
His tone. His look.
Something inside me bristled.
"Yes… I think."
"Then it makes no sense," he said. "You're imagining things again."
Anger surged through me.
"I'm not imagining anything! The last time I felt all of this—the burning, the migraine, the cold, the shock—it was the day of my vision. And that vision was Avery."
My voice shook—not with fear, but with certainty.
Dad raised his hands, irritated.
"Just because you experience similar sensations doesn't mean you're connected, Claire! You're mixing everything up, like you always do."
"Like I always do?" Mom repeated, clenching her fists.
"You've never listened to her. Never!
Not even when she was crying for help!"
"Because she dramatizes everything!" he snapped.
"And you encourage her—"
"Oh, shut up, Marc."
Mom's voice cracked through the air like a whip.
The argument exploded instantly.
I looked away.
Always them.
Always the same words, the same accusations.
Always me in the middle.
Grandmother clapped her hands sharply.
"Enough."
Everyone froze.
Her cold gaze settled on me.
"Show me your wrist."
I stepped closer, my throat tight.
Grandfather took my hand, gently turned my wrist—
His face went rigid.
He exchanged a heavy look with his wife.
Then Grandmother examined the mark herself.
For a brief moment, even she seemed shaken.
Dad took a step forward.
"What? What is it?"
Rachelle inhaled deeply, then said:
"What's happening?"
She pointed at my wrist.
"Your daughter… your foolish daughter… has bound herself to her friend."
I froze.
The word echoed in my mind.
Bound.
My heart pounded so hard it felt like it was shaking my chest apart.
All I managed to whisper was:
"How…?"
---
It was impossible. How could it be possible?
My heart was racing, my fingers still trembling around my wrist.
My mother, clearly thinking the same thing I was, spoke up:
"I thought you had blocked her powers."
"They are blocked, yes—but not erased," my grandmother replied tiredly. "And that's not the worst part."
"What do you mean?" my father asked, confused.
My grandfather sighed and nodded toward my wrist.
"Look."
My father leaned closer, and his face drained of color.
The same horrified expression his parents wore.
"That's not possible…"
A cold knot formed in my stomach. Judging by their reactions, this was bad. Very bad.
"Call your friend. Now," my grandfather ordered.
"Why?" I asked, confused.
"Do as he says—quickly," my grandmother snapped.
"Go on, sweetheart," Mom added softly. "Please."
I pulled out my phone despite my shaking hands. I dialed Avery's number.
Once.
Twice.
Three times.
Nothing.
"She's not answering…" I whispered.
The tension in the room spiked. And as if my father had been waiting for that exact moment, he exploded:
"There you go! Couldn't you just have normal friends? No—you had to surround yourself with problematic people who—"
"Stop!" Mom cut in, stepping between us. "You're not helping!"
Another argument broke out. And this time, it was the icy voice of the Davis matriarch that cut straight through it:
"Instead of looking for someone to blame, focus on how to get us out of the mess your offspring has dragged us into. Because if he finds out…"
Her gaze hardened.
"This could cost us all our heads."
A heavy silence fell.
I glanced down at my wrist—the mark was already fading, as if it had never been there.
Taking advantage of the chaos, I stepped away from the group. I searched for a more reliable number.
Jackson's.
He picked up almost immediately.
"Claire?"
"I don't have time to explain… I need your help. Now."
---