Hanna
I didn’t bother to hang my coat up on the hook as I staggered through the door to the small cabin I shared with Kacidra. I tossed the coat to the floor, the thick fabric falling on the wide-plank floorboards in a wet, snowy heap.
Kacidra wasn’t home. She had spent the last two nights with Pete, who was living in one of the cabins in the village. They were mates, and the connection had been intense, passionate. I saw the pattern, of course. Troy and Maeve. Ernest and Gemma. Even Keaton, the man who was the captain of the boat that both kidnapped and saw Maeve to safety, had found his mate in Maeve’s friend Myla.
Everyone on this prophesied path was finding their mates, including me. This was the definition of fate.
Apparently, Rowan and Maeve were at the center of it all. And then
