Page 29 of Make You Mine

Amerie

Home should never feel like a trap. But tonight, the house looks like a shadow of itself.

It’s a dark and silent shape against the plum backdrop of night. The windows are off, with no sign of life inside, yet I know in my heart… they’re in there .

Declan and my babies are home, and they’re suffering in silence.

It’s like the house has become their prison and the psychotic bitch we’ve hired for a nanny is their warden.

There’s no way Declan would’ve let her answer the phone otherwise, no way he would’ve let her hold Emmett after I was trying to reach him.

She’s done something to him. If I don’t do what she says, she’ll hurt Declan and Willow and Emmett too…

I didn’t even have to think about it. I ripped out my IV and changed into the only pair of clothes I had in the hospital room. Then I waited until the nurses were in the middle of their shift change and slipped down the corridor before any of them ever noticed.

My legs quaked like Jello, feeling like they would give out at any second, but I pushed on until I was outside and able to call a taxi.

I couldn’t risk calling the police or involving anyone else.

Chelsea was unstable enough to impersonate her sister (and maybe hurt her and her husband). She was unstable enough to do things like tamper with my insulin and spend weeks sabotaging my life.

If she thought the walls were closing in, there’s a chance she would do something crazy just to get back at me. She really would hurt Willow or Emmett if she thought I called the cops.

I stop at the edge of the drive and stare up at the house, my skin prickling with dread. This might be the last time I ever walk through the front door. The last time I’m alive and breathing.

There’s no telling what trap will be waiting for me on the inside.

But I’ll walk through fire if it means getting to Declan and the kids.

When I open the front door, the hinges groan like a warning. The air is frigid and cold, like the boiler’s gone out again. The front hall is dark and empty. No sound of laughter or hint of footsteps. Just loud silence only joined by the click of the door shutting behind me.

My footsteps barely make a sound as I start down the hallway.

I know this space so well. Every smudge on the wall, every creak in the floorboards, every photo frame that hangs a little crooked because I’ve promised myself a hundred times I’ll get around to fixing it.

And yet, in this moment, the familiarity feels off.

This is my home, but it doesn’t feel like mine anymore.

It feels like I’ve stepped into some twisted nightmare.

My hand rises to flick the hallway light on, fingers brushing the cool plastic of the switch, but I hesitate.

Something in me—something deeper than fear, something more strategic—says not to.

As if turning on the light would shatter this fragile veil of silence and alert whatever waits in the dark to my presence.

I let my hand fall back to my side and shift my gaze to the staircase, thinking maybe I’ll find them huddled in our bedroom. They might’ve barricaded themselves inside until help comes. I take a step toward the stairs, heart thudding heavy in my chest, and then I hear it.

The soft, high-pitched coo of a baby.

Emmett.

My body freezes, maternal instincts firing off at once. Heart stuttering inside my chest, I pick up on more of his sounds: another quiet little coo, then a sleepy sigh.

But it’s not coming from upstairs; it’s coming from the left where the living room is.

I backtrack, feet carrying me toward the sound before my mind can catch up. I rush into the dark room with eyes scanning the space for any signs of my baby.

“Emmett…?”

Please, God, let him be safe. Let them all be safe.

But instead of finding my baby boy curled up in his playpen like I’d hoped, I find his baby monitor perched on the coffee table, the green light flashing, telling me it’s on. That I’m listening to Emmett somewhere else inside the house.

It’s a trap I’ve walked straight into.

I barely register the shift in the air before it happens. Chelsea lunges at me out of nowhere, raising the sharp object in her hand over her head.

Instinct takes over as I scream and throw myself sideways. My limbs are still weak and jelly-like, worsened now by the panic, but I’m able to narrowly dodge what’s a kitchen knife in her hand.

I crash into the lamp behind the armchair, knocking it over with a loud crack, and then my foot catches on the edge of a potted plant. The ceramic explodes across the floor as soil scatters in a spray of earth.

Chelsea slashes away, a crazed gleam in her eyes, her glasses low on her nose. The knife grazes my shoulder as I scramble backward, desperate to put as much space between us as possible. Sharp pain stings where the blade has cut me, but there’s no time to slow down.

I slide on the crumbles of dirt on the living room floor and dodge more of Chelsea’s maniacal jerks of the knife.

But I’m backing up while she’s charging toward me, so I don’t see what’s behind us. We collide with the coffee table as it hits the back of my knees and I fall over the side of it. Chelsea doesn’t slow her assault and goes sailing forward over it, crashing halfway down on the glass portion.

My shoulder’s bleeding, my vision’s swimming, and every movement feels like it takes twice as much effort, like I’m wading through mud.

I stagger to my feet and don’t bother to go on the offensive. Instead, I make a run for it, dashing toward the door.

Behind me, her voice follows, along with laughter that’s been warped by mania. It’s a sound unlike anything I’ve ever heard: shrill, high-pitched, and tremulous. The kind of laugh you’d hear from someone losing their grip on reality.

“What are you running for, my dear?” she calls, almost singsong, her words floating through the dark. “Don’t you want to stay and finish what we’ve started, Amerie?”

I don’t bother answering her or her shrill, echoing cackle. I rush from the living room into the hall, cutting straight across for the staircase.

My intuition tells me I’ll find Declan and the kids upstairs. She must’ve put them somewhere.

…done something to them.

The thought sends a cold, paralyzing chill down my spine.

I make it up the first few steps when I hear the pounding footsteps from below. The wood creaks under her as she skips her way up and then reaches for a fistful of my hair.

“If you won’t finish this, I will!” she shrieks, grinning devilishly. She brandishes the knife as she yanks the fistful of my hair and jerks my head back.

“Let go of me, you crazy bitch!” I scream, twisting against her hold.

I wrench my hand up and grab for her wrist. The same one that has the knife. My fingers dig into her clammy skin, twisting her arm until she’s crying out in pain and I’ve forced the knife out of her grasp.

It tumbles free, arcing through the air, landing at the foot of the stairs below. Her face goes slack with shock. Mine clenches with rage.

Without thinking, I slam my fist straight into her face.

The blow is painful for us both; my knuckles collide with her glasses, which cracks them open and shatters her glasses.

She lets out a choked grunt as her body reels backward. The heel of her foot teeters on the edge of a stair as she’s about to tip over.

But she refuses to go alone, clamping her hand down on my arm and pulling me with her.

We tumble together, limbs entangled, a mess of rage and fear and flailing limbs crashing down the stairs. My back hits a step, then another. I can’t breathe or see as everything blurs and the air is knocked out of my lungs.

Chelsea’s knee collides with my chin; my elbow connects with something of hers that crunches. The air fills with the sound of flesh and bone against wood, of grunts and gasps and the brutal, uncontrollable chaos of two bodies being thrown against gravity.

By the time we hit the bottom, I don’t even know which way is up. All I can do is gasp through the pain and hope to god I can move before she does.

Seconds drag like hours as I try to lift myself off the floor, my entire body throbbing from the fall. My arms shake under me as I push up on my elbows and manage to get one knee beneath me before collapsing again with a pained gasp.

Across from me, Chelsea groans, coughing hard as she rolls onto her side. She’s sporting a split lip, bruising around her eyes, and a nose that drips blood.

I spot the knife, gleaming under the faint moonlight that streaks into hall, only a few feet from where I landed.

Everything sharpens with focus. I drag myself forward, elbow over elbow like I’m crawling through a battlefield, my eyes fixed on the blade and nothing else.

It feels like it takes years to cover the distance, every inch a war.

Just as I stretch my fingers out toward the handle, Chelsea’s latching onto my ankle to yank me back.

“No!” I scream, kicking at her, trying to shake her loose. But she climbs over me like a damn demon, hair hanging in her face and breath trembling. We grapple on the floor, rolling across the hardwood, grunting and clawing at each other. My hands are fisted her hair. Her knee jabs at my ribs.

I slam my elbow into her face and she lets out a gasp. Seizing the opening, I scramble forward on my hands and knees, fingers fumbling for the knife.

Instead of trying to stop me a second time, Chelsea sets off toward the kitchen. She’s crouched low, half bent over as she hobbles away. Probably to grab another knife to defend herself.

And then I hear it—the same kind of familiar breathy noise I’d heard earlier.

Only this time it’s real.

She steps into the kitchen doorway. She’s holding Emmett and his little limbs are flailing like he’s just been forced wake from a nap. His face is screwed up like he’s seconds away from erupting into a cry.

The moment I see Emmett in her arms, everything inside me stills.