Chapter One
“...do you believe in fate...”
The voice was almost a whisper.
“...we are fated, the three of us...”
This was a different voice, slightly deeper than the first.Again, the words blew through her mind like a warm breeze, bringing with it the scent of the forest on a summer’s day.It was the strangest thing to hear these voices and not be able to imagine the speaker.
“No!Oh Goddess, please...”
This voice was feminine, filled with horror and pain.Fear slammed into her, as if the blood froze within her veins.
“...don’t leave me!You promised...”
Grief.So strong, so pure it consumed her.
“...you are meant for me!”
A third man spoke.This man’s voice was accented and the sound of it filled her with rage.Again, she couldn’t see the man’s face, but somehow she knew his intent was evil.
“...then I can do nothing more than send you to them...”
There was a flash of white light and then nothing but a sea of pain.
****
Willow Anderson satup with a gasp, one hand clutching her chest, the other fumbling for the lamp on her bedside table.Good God!She had never been shot in the chest before, but if anyone asked her what it might feel like, she would have described it like this.Every breath burned, stabbing through her ribs as though her lungs were trying to claw their way out.After what felt like an eternity—but was likely less than a minute—the pain began to ebb.She forced herself to breathe slowly, scanning the dark corners of her apartment for anything that could explain what the hell had just happened.
Her racing heart thudded against her sternum, a drumbeat of panic.Never in her life had she experienced such a nightmare.She’d once read that if you died in your dreams, you died in real life—or maybe she’d seen it in that old horror movie with the scarred, scissor-gloved maniac.Either way, she had never really believed it.But right now, with the echo of pain still lingering in her chest, she wasn’t so sure.
Giving up on sleep, Willow shoved the blankets aside and swung her legs to the floor.Her toes brushed the rug, cool against her skin, before she jammed her feet into her slippers.An orange and white paw darted out from under the bed and swiped at her heel with surprising ferocity, followed by a growl that sounded far too judgmental for a cat.
“Yeah, I know, Hugo.”Willow sighed as she shuffled toward the fridge.“It’s too damn early.If you can drag your royal ass out to the kitchen, I’ll share my milk with you.”
Hugo, true to his feline nature, sauntered out moments later, tail flicking like a metronome of disdain.Willow poured milk into a glass for herself and into a saucer for him.He sat primly on the linoleum, staring up at her as though she were his servant rather than his human.
“You’re welcome, Your Majesty,” she muttered, handing over the saucer.Hugo dipped his head, drinking with exaggerated care, the very picture of smug satisfaction.
Leaning against the counter, Willow glanced around her tiny studio apartment.When she first moved in three years ago, one of the movers joked it wasn’t big enough to swing a cat.She snorted softly at the memory and glanced at Hugo.As if sensing her gaze, he paused mid-sip and turned, his ginger, white and black face daring her to even try it.
“As if I ever would,” Willow murmured with a wink before he resumed his midnight feast.
Her smile faded as her thoughts drifted back to the dream.It wasn’t the most vivid she’d ever had—there had been no clear images, only blurs of light and three distinct voices—but it was certainly the most powerful.The emotions those voices had stirred in her had been overwhelming, almost alien.The men’s voices had made her feel cherished and loved—two things she had never truly known.Which was exactly why she knew the dream couldn’t possibly be true.
And yet, even as she told herself that, the memory of their voices lingered.The first had sounded like devotion made flesh, wrapping around her like the warmth of a hearth in winter.The second had promised destiny, heavy with a certainty that sent a shiver racing down her spine.And the third—the accented one—had been darker, threaded with possession that felt more like a chain than a vow.
Why did they feel familiar?Why did my heart ache as though I’d lost them before I had ever known them?
The woman’s voice, though...it had carried a thick Southern drawl, one Willow had never heard in person.Yet she had felt the speaker’s pain and fear as if they were her own.Ridiculous, of course.She was a New Yorker through and through, with the accent to prove it.
She rinsed her glass and left it in the sink, muttering, “Maybe I’m just going crazy, Hugo.Turning twenty-five in three days, still single and already imagining voices in my head.Pretty soon I’ll be the cautionary tale people whisper about—the woman who talks to her cat like he’s her boyfriend.”
Hugo meowed, a short, sharp sound that Willow chose to interpret as judgmental agreement.
“Don’t you start,” she warned him with a crooked smile.“You’re the reason I don’t date.No man is going to compete with a cat who thinks he owns the bed.”
She climbed back under the covers and to her surprise, Hugo leapt up after her.A rare treat, since he usually preferred lurking beneath the bed to launch sneak attacks on her slippers.He kneaded her thigh with his paws before curling into the space between her stomach and legs.She scratched behind his ear, earning a deep rumbling purr that filled the room.
