Mated to my bully

Emma's POV The rain had been falling for three days. Not the soft, romantic rain you see in movies. The cold, heavy, relentless California rain that soaks through your shoes and makes the world look grey. It started the night they died, and it hadn't stopped since. I stood at the edge of two open graves and watched the two most important people in my world get lowered into the mud. "Emma." Aunt Clara's voice was soft. She held a big black umbrella over both of us, but I had stepped forward, out of it. I wanted the rain to hit me. My black dress was already plastered to my skin. My white hair — the same white hair that had gotten me bullied since elementary school — was dark and dripping, hanging in strings around my face. My glasses were completely fogged. I didn't wipe them. If I wiped them, I'd have to see clearly. And I didn't want to see clearly. Two coffins. Polished mahogany. Side by side. Just like Mom and Dad did everything in life. Side by side. The priest's voice droned on. "The Lord giveth and the Lord taketh away..." I dug my nails into my palms so hard I drew blood. _What did He take them away for?_ I wanted to scream. _They were good. They were careful. They never even jaywalked. They volunteered. They loved me._ My mother, Sarah Frost, 45, with her laugh that sounded like wind chimes. My father, Daniel Frost, 48, who could fix anything with duct tape and who taught me how to read before kindergarten because I was "too smart for my own good" and got bored easily. The story the police told me was short. Too short for what it did. Tuesday. 9:47 PM. They were coming home from my father's book club. A pickup truck. Drunk driver. Crossed the center line on Highway 1. Head-on collision. Instant. They didn't suffer. Instant. Like flicking off a light switch. One second my world existed, the next it didn't. I remembered the last thing Mom said to me that morning. I had been complaining about school again. A girl in my class, Jessica, had dumped white paint in my backpack and said, "Now it matches your freak hair, Ghost." I was 20 years old, in community college, and I was still getting bullied for this hair. Hair so white it looked like spun moonlight. Hair that no one else in my family had. Mom had braided it that morning, her fingers gentle. "Emma, listen to me," she had whispered, looking at me in the mirror, her brown eyes so serious. "Your hair is not a curse. It's a promise. One day, you will understand. One day, you will understand why you were never like the other girls, and why we had to keep you hidden here in California." "Hidden from what?" I had laughed, annoyed. She didn't laugh. She just kissed my forehead. "From people who would want to use you. Just promise me, if anything ever happens to us, you will go to your grandmother in Spain. Your real grandmother. Elena. You will go. Don't ask questions. Just go." At the time I thought it was just Mom being dramatic. My mom's mother died years ago. Who was this Elena? Now, standing in the rain, her words made my blood run cold. "...ashes to ashes, dust to dust..." The first clump of wet earth hit my father's coffin. Thud. That was the sound that broke me. A sob tore out of my throat, raw and ugly. Not pretty crying. The kind that makes your whole body shake. Aunt Clara pulled me into her chest and I finally let her, soaking her expensive coat. "They're gone, sweetie. I know. I know." Behind us, the small crowd of mourners started to leave. Neighbors. My parents' friends from work. A few teachers who remembered me as the weird quiet white-haired kid who always had her nose in a book. I was alone. Truly alone for the first time in my 20-year life. Simple, smart, pretty — that's what people said about me. But what did that matter? Simple didn't bring your parents back. Smart didn't stop a drunk driver. Pretty didn't stop people from calling you a freak. After everyone left, I stayed. The gravediggers were waiting politely, leaning on their shovels, giving me space. The rain kept falling. My knees gave out and I knelt in the mud. I didn't care about my dress. "I'm sorry," I whispered to the coffins. "I'm so sorry I was embarrassed about my hair. I'm so sorry I rolled my eyes when you fussed over me. Come back. Please come back." Only the rain answered. A hand touched my shoulder. Not Aunt Clara's. A man's hand. Rough. I flinched and looked up, my glasses smeared. It was Mr. Henderson, my parents' lawyer. He was in his sixties, his face grim, holding a leather briefcase to protect it from the rain. "Emma, we need to go to the office. Now. It's about your parents' final instructions. It was very... specific. And very urgent." He helped me up. My legs were numb. As we walked away from the grave I looked at it one more time before entering the car Mr. Henderson didn't seem to notice. He was too busy ushering me to his car, clutching that briefcase like it contained something dangerous. Inside the car, he handed me the envelope. The same one from before, but now I saw it up close. The paper wasn't just old. It felt like parchment. The wax seal was heavy, dark red. The symbol pressed into it — a wolf's head howling inside a crescent moon — was intricate. It smelled faintly like pine and smoke. Like a forest. "Your mother gave me this three years ago," Mr. Henderson said, starting the car. "She said if they both died before your 21st birthday, I was to give you this and put you on a plane to Asturias, Spain, within 48 hours. She bought the ticket already. You leave tomorrow morning." My heart was hammering so loud I could hear it over the rain. "What is in Spain?" I whispered, holding the envelope like it might burn me. Mr. Henderson's hands tightened on the wheel. "Your grandmother. Elena Frost. And... the truth about what you are, Emma. Your mother said your hair wasn't just hair. Your parents weren't just humans. They were hiding you." The rain hit the windshield harder.