ราชาแวมไพร์อย่างฉัน ย้อนเวลากลับมาทำไมถึงลำบากนัก

The first sound every morning was the creak of the floorboard outside her door. Fiona Grayman had learned to measure the day by that sound. Soft meant Quin was in a mood to pretend. Heavy and deliberate meant Maxwell had already decided she had done something wrong before she even opened her eyes.

Today the floorboard groaned under weight.

She sat up before the door handle turned. The thin mattress protested. Her room was barely larger than a closet, the single window covered by a faded sheet that never quite blocked the Texas sun. A water stain spread across the ceiling like a map of somewhere she would never go. She kept her few belongings in a cardboard box under the bed: two changes of clothes, a broken pencil, and the small black notebook she had stolen from the school library two years ago.

The door opened. Maxwell filled the frame.

“Downstairs. Now.”

No greeting. No reason. Just the order.

Fiona swung her legs over the side of the bed. The floor was cold. She pulled on yesterday’s jeans and a long sleeved shirt that still smelled faintly of bleach from the last time Quin had decided her clothes were “filthy.” Her gray eyes stayed lowered as she passed him. Looking up invited things.

The kitchen smelled of burnt coffee and old grease. Quin stood at the counter with her back turned, stirring something that was not for Fiona. A single piece of dry toast sat on a cracked plate at the far end of the table.

“Eat,” Quin said without turning. “Then the barn. The stalls aren’t going to clean themselves, and I won’t have the neighbors thinking we raise animals in filth.”

Fiona sat. The toast was stale. She forced it down in small bites, counting the seconds between each one the way her father used to count evidence bags. The memory of him still came in fragments his badge on the nightstand, the way he used to say slow down and look again, Fi, but the rest of that night stayed locked behind a wall she could not climb.

Maxwell leaned against the doorway, arms crossed. “You’re slower every day. Maybe we should start waking you earlier.”

She kept chewing.

Outside, the village was already waking. Through the dirty kitchen window she could see the Miller house across the road. Mrs. Miller stood on the porch kissing her two children on the forehead before they ran for the school bus. The image landed like a bruise. Fiona looked away.

The barn sat behind the house, its wood gray and splintered. The air inside was thick with the smell of hay, manure, and something sour that never quite left. Fiona took the pitchfork from its nail and began the stalls. Her arms ached by the third one. Sweat slid down her spine. She worked in silence, listening to the distant sound of children’s laughter from the road. Everyone else’s children were loved out loud. She had learned to make herself quiet enough that love was not required.

Her mind catalogued without permission. The broken latch on the third stall had been fixed yesterday, yet the wood around the screws looked freshly splintered, as if someone had forced it open again during the night. A boot print in the soft dirt near the back wall was too large for Maxwell’s. She stared at it longer than she should have. Her father’s voice whispered in the back of her skull: Details matter. The ones that don’t belong matter most.

She wiped her forehead with the back of her wrist and kept working.

School was a two mile walk. The road was dusty, lined with mesquite and the occasional weathered fence. Other students passed her in cars or in loud groups, their voices bright. Fiona kept to the shoulder, head down, gray eyes flicking over everything. Old man Harrow’s truck had a new dent in the rear bumper. The church sign had been changed overnight to a verse about obedience. A black SUV she had never seen before sat parked beneath the water tower, engine off, windows tinted too dark for a place this small.

Her stomach tightened.

She filed the SUV away in the same place she kept the boot print.

At school she moved through the halls like a ghost. Teachers rarely called on her. Other students rarely looked at her. That was safer. During lunch she sat at the far end of the outdoor picnic tables with a book she was not reading. Her notebook stayed hidden in the bottom of her bag. She wrote in it only at night, when the house finally went quiet.

The afternoon dragged. When the final bell rang she walked home the long way, past the creek where the water ran low and brown. She paused on the wooden bridge and stared at her reflection. Thin face. Dark circles. The small scar above her left eyebrow that Maxwell had given her when she was twelve for spilling milk. She touched it once, lightly, then kept walking.

The house was silent when she returned. That was never good.

Quin was waiting in the living room, arms folded, a sweet public smile already practiced for later if anyone stopped by.

“The stalls were still dirty,” she said. “Maxwell checked.”

Fiona knew they had not been. She had left them clean. The accusation was the point.

“I’m sorry,” she said, because the alternative was worse.

Quin stepped closer. The slap came fast and open handed, sharp enough to turn Fiona’s head. The second one followed before the sting fully registered. Fiona’s ear rang. She kept her eyes on the floorboards.

“Sorry doesn’t clean anything,” Quin whispered. “Get the belt from the kitchen drawer. Then go to your room and wait.”

Fiona obeyed. Her hands did not shake until she was alone in the hallway. She had learned long ago that shaking only made it last longer.

The belt was old leather, cracked in places. She carried it upstairs and sat on the edge of the bed. Footsteps climbed the stairs slowly. Maxwell entered without speaking. He took the belt from her hands. The first strike landed across the backs of her thighs. She bit the inside of her cheek and counted. She always counted. Numbers were cleaner than words.

When it was over he left the belt on the floor and closed the door. Fiona stayed still until the house settled again. Then she pulled the notebook from under the mattress and wrote in small, precise letters:

Boot print in barn: size 12 or larger, not Maxwell’s. Black SUV under water tower, no plates visible from road. Latch on third stall forced. Slap at 4:12. Belt after.

She underlined the SUV twice.

Night came heavy and humid. The sheet over her window moved with the weak breeze. Somewhere in the distance a dog barked once and went quiet. Fiona lay on her stomach because her legs still burned. She kept the notebook open beside her pillow, pencil ready.

A soft metallic sound reached her from outside like a gate latch being lifted carefully, as if the person on the other side did not want to be heard.

She sat up.

The sound did not repeat.

But the air in the room had changed. The same shift she used to feel when her father came home from a case that had gone wrong. The quiet before something broke.

Fiona closed the notebook and slipped it back under the mattress. She moved to the window and lifted the edge of the sheet just enough to see the dark yard.

Nothing moved.

Yet the feeling remained, cold and certain, settling between her shoulder blades.

Someone was out there.

And whoever it was had already decided she was worth watching.