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Rosie launches into a completely unhinged version of how I magically appeared when she went to show Uncle Kian that the goats and ducks learned to follow her around when she’s in her fur, which, under any other circumstances might’ve made me laugh.

Might’ve.

But not now.

Not when my chest is a graveyard full of shattered hope.

Because I believed in the dream.

God help me, I believed.

See, I’ve been a book girlie since I was old enough to read words off a page.

Romance novels raised me more than most people ever did.

They were my escape when life turned dark.

When we moved to Dry Creek.

When Mom got sick.

When everything inside me wanted to fall apart.

Books saved my life.

Especially the paranormal ones.

Shifters.

Fated mates.

Wild devotion.

Fierce protectiveness.

Love so primal it bends Fate.

That was my escape.

That was my fantasy.

And when Kian told me he was a Shifter, and I was his mate, some part of me thought—this is it.

My story.

My happy-ever-after.

Boy meets girl.

Fated connection.

Obstacles, sure. Like those jerks at the bar. But the main characters always overcome them, and love wins.

That’s how it goes. Right?

Except nobody talks about the dark parts.

Not like this.