Chapter Three
Sam
Basil started yowling before Sam even got his key in the lock.
“I know, I know.” Sam pushed the door open with his hip, dropping his messenger bag on the small bench in the entryway, as he nudged the door closed again. “You’re starving, absolutely wasting away. It’s a tragedy, I tell you. A tragedy.”
The tabby wound between his ankles, nearly tripping him as he headed for the kitchen. The cottage still smelled faintly of the lavender his mother had loved, even two years after she’d passed. Sam had kept her herb garden growing in the backyard, though he’d never quite mastered her green thumb.
“You literally have dry food in your bowl.” Sam pointed at the evidence.
Basil sat, tail swishing, and delivered another plaintive meow that suggested Sam was committing feline abuse.
“Fine.” Sam grabbed a can from the cupboard. Just the pop of the lid sent Basil into raptures, figure-eighting around Sam’s legs as he kept up his grumbling. “You’re ridiculous. You know that?”
He scooped the food into Basil’s bowl, and the cat attacked it like he hadn’t eaten in days instead of hours. Sam watched him for a moment as he relaxed in the quiet. His cat was spoiled, dramatic at times, and ridiculous at others, but he wouldn’t be without him.
Sam’s stomach grumbled, reminding him he needed to eat as well.
Fortunately, he already had the perfect meal - the fancy mushroom tortellini he’d grabbed on sale last week, because he was too tired to cook anything that required any actual effort.
He filled a pot with water, set it to boil, and leaned against the counter while he waited.
It’d been a busy shift at the coffee shop.
The tourist season always brought crowds - people wanting their Instagram-worthy lattes and asking where to find the best hiking trails.
Sam liked the energy of it, the steady stream of faces and small conversations that never went deep enough to require much from him.
Though sometimes he wondered what it would be like if someone actually stayed. Actually saw him as more than the friendly barista with a ready smile.
You’re getting maudlin. He shook his head and dumped the tortellini into the boiling water.
Ten minutes later, he settled at his tiny kitchen table with his laptop, a bowl of pasta with butter and parmesan, and Basil already making a move for his lap.
“Absolutely not. You just ate.”
Basil purred and climbed up anyway, settling into a warm loaf across Sam’s thighs. His claws pricked through Sam’s jeans as he kneaded, eyes half-closed in contentment.
Sam sighed and opened his laptop one-handed, his fork in the other. The document stared back at him. He was at Chapter Twelve, where his dragon shifter finally confessed to his fated mate that they were destined to be together. Romantic. Impossible. Everything Sam wanted and knew he’d never have.
Kieran’s heart stone blazed beneath his shirt, pulsing with golden light that matched the warmth spreading through his chest. “You don’t understand,” he said, voice rough with barely controlled desire. “You’re mine. You’ve always been mine.”
Sam snorted softly and took a bite of his pasta. As if anyone would ever look at him as if he were precious, longing to claim him as theirs for all eternity.
“You’re too nice,” his friend Emma had said last week. “And let’s be honest, Sam - you’re soft and sweet. Guys want mysterious and brooding, not a barista who rescues spiders instead of squashing them.”
Basil’s purr rumbled against his stomach.
Sam scratched behind the cat’s ears and turned back to his ridiculous fantasy where beautiful paranormal men fell in love at first sight and bonds formed with magical certainty.
It was all just fiction, Sam knew that, but his fingers moved across the keyboard anyway, spinning dreams into words while Basil claimed his warmth and the cottage settled into evening quiet around them.
/~/~/~/~/
Sam scrolled up through the chapter, rereading the setup. He now had three vampire brothers - Kieran, Dante, and Alaric - who’d spent centuries together, incomplete, searching for the fourth piece of their bond.
He’d changed them from dragons to vampires, figuring that lots of authors wrote about dragons and he liked to keep his stories interesting.
His fingers hovered over the keys. He was at a crucial part of the story - the confession moment. Sam knew he needed to get it right, so that the emotion felt real even if the premise was pure fantasy.
“We should tell him,” Kieran said, watching their mate through the café window. The human had no idea three immortals had been following him for days, drawn by an instinct older than memory.
Dante shook his head. “He’ll run. Humans don’t understand bonds like ours.”
“Then we make him understand.” Alaric’s voice carried certainty, the kind that came from waiting three hundred years. “He’s ours. That’s not a choice - it’s fate.”
Sam paused, tapping his fork against the bowl, worried that the last line was too aggressive. He’d read enough romance to know the line between possessive-sexy and possessive-creepy was thinner than tissue paper.
“What do you think, Basil?” He cleared his throat and read the dialogue aloud, giving each vampire a slightly different inflection. “Too much? Does Alaric sound unhinged?”
Basil’s purr deepened, eyes still closed.
“Right. Good talk.”
Sam kept writing, letting the scene unfold. The three vampires arguing strategy while their oblivious mate served coffee and smiled at customers who’d never see him as anything special. Just nice Sam. Friendly Sam. Too-soft-to-be-interesting Sam.
He shook off the thought and dove back into the fantasy.
“Look at him,” Kieran breathed. Their mate laughed at something a customer said, face lighting up with genuine warmth. “He’s perfect.”
“Too perfect for us,” Dante muttered. “What would someone like that want with monsters?”
Alaric’s hand found Dante’s shoulder and squeezed. “He’s meant for us. The bond doesn’t lie.”
Sam sat back, rereading the exchange. His pasta had gone cold, but Basil radiated enough heat to keep his lap warm. Outside, the evening light faded to purple-gray, and somewhere down the street, a dog barked.
“Would you believe it?” Sam asked the cat. “Three gorgeous paranormals - powerful, immortal, probably stupidly attractive - and they want someone ordinary. Someone who’s just...there.”
Basil’s purr never wavered. His paws flexed, claws pricking through denim.
“You’re a terrible editor. You approve of everything.”
But Sam smiled anyway and kept typing. He was at the good part, the moment where his characters took the leap and trusted that something as intangible as fate could be real. That a bond could form without logic or reason, just certainty blazing bright enough to guide them home.
Kieran pushed away from the window. “We approach him. Tonight. Together.”
“And say what?” Dante challenged. “Hello, stranger, you’re our destined mate, and we’ve been stalking you for a week?”
“We tell the truth.” Alaric moved toward the door, purpose in every line of his body. “We tell him he’s ours, and we’re his, and nothing in this world or the next will change that.”
Sam paused, fingers still on the keys. His chest felt tight - the good kind of tight that came from writing something that mattered, even if it was just silly paranormal romance no one would ever read.
“Too cheesy?” he asked Basil.
The purr continued, steady and content.
“Yeah. I think so too.”
He saved the document and finally ate another bite of cold pasta, already planning the next scene where his ordinary human protagonist would meet three vampires and discover he’d been fated all along. It was pure fantasy, but gods, Sam wished it were real.
/~/~/~/~/
And I’m done for the day.
Saving the document one more time, Sam watched the little spinning wheel confirm his words were safe. So far, twenty-three thousand words of romance that would never see the light of day.
Sighing, Sam closed the laptop and set his bowl aside as he stood up. Basil protested the movement with a meep but resettled, claiming the warm spot Sam’s thigh had left on the chair.
It’s such a lovely idea, he thought as he washed his few dishes and left them on the counter.
Not necessarily three gorgeous immortals with mystical bonds and centuries of devotion - Sam wasn’t that far gone.
But even just one person in his life would be nice.
Someone who’d texted him during the day for no reason, someone who’d laugh at the stories Sam told about his shift at the Daily Bean, and who’d care that Mrs. Patterson had finally tried the lavender latte he’d been recommending for weeks.
Someone who’d chosen him. Sam pushed his glasses up and rubbed his eyes. Twenty-seven felt young when he woke up in the morning, but it felt old at night when he sat alone at his kitchen table, writing romance for fictional characters because real romance seemed about as likely as vampires.
It’s not like Sam hadn’t tried. He’d downloaded the apps, filled out the profiles, and swiped right on guys who seemed decent.
There had been a few conversations that had fizzled out quickly and one coffee date that had been reasonably pleasant until the guy checked his phone every five minutes and cut things short with a vague “I’ll text you. ” He never did, of course.
Emma meant well with her comments - too nice, too soft - but Sam had already done the math.
He wasn’t tall, he wasn’t built, and he worked at a coffee shop, not at some impressive office career.
He wrote romance novels in his spare time that he’d never publish because who’d want to read them anyway?
His freckles and wavy hair were cute when he was twelve. At twenty-seven, they just made him look younger than he was, and a lot less serious.
“It’s fine,” Sam said to the cat. “I’m fine. I have you. I have my cottage. I have my job.”
And he did have his stories where ordinary people got swept up in extraordinary love. Where fate existed, bonds formed effortlessly, and someone looked at the protagonist and saw a mate instead of a nice guy who makes decent coffee. It was pure escapism, but it was still fun.
Drying his hands, Sam leaned against the counter, looking around his compact kitchen.
Everything was exactly as he’d left it that morning, and it was likely it would be left the same tomorrow morning.
He had no one to share space with, to negotiate cabinet organization, or argue about whose turn it was to take out the trash. It was always his turn.
He’d accepted it, mostly. Some people found their person, some even got their grand romance. Sam had his quiet life, his cat, and his stories.
It could be a lot worse. Sam knew that. He wasn’t miserable. He had friends and regulars at the shop who brightened when they saw him. Between his home, work, and everything else, he had enough.
But gods, some nights Sam wondered what it would be like to have someone choose him. Not because of mystical bonds or destiny, just because they wanted to. Because they looked at Sam Brown with his rounded face, soft middle, and ordinary life, and thought, yes, him.
“Pathetic,” Sam muttered, but without any heat. Basil meowed, probably agreeing.
Flipping off the kitchen light, Sam headed for the living room, leaving his laptop closed on the table. Tomorrow he’d write the meeting scene, the moment where his protagonist discovered he was loved beyond reason.
Tonight, he’d read someone else’s happy ending and pretend that was enough.
Sam yawned as he headed down the narrow hallway to the bathroom, Basil trotting behind like a fuzzy shadow. The cat had a routine as strict as Sam’s - bathroom time meant perching on the sink counter and judging Sam’s nighttime ablutions with green-eyed intensity.
Sam squeezed toothpaste onto his brush and met Basil’s stare in the mirror. “Yeah, I know. I’ve definitely got a touch of the dramatics tonight.”
Basil’s tail swished once.
The minty foam filled Sam’s mouth as he scrubbed, thinking about the scene he’d written.
The way Kieran had looked at his mate like the human hung the moon, like centuries of waiting had led to that one special person.
Sam spat and rinsed, reality settling back over him.
No one looked at anyone like that, not in real life.
He was reaching for the towel when Basil’s whole body went rigid, his ears swiveling forward. The cat launched from the counter to the windowsill, pressing his nose against the glass.
“What are you looking at?”
Sam moved to the window, peering into the darkness beyond his front garden.
The street looked empty - just the amber glow of streetlights casting pools on the pavement.
Mrs. Channing’s porch light was on across the way and above him, he could hear the rustling leaves of the oak tree that dropped acorns on his roof every autumn.
Nothing unusual, in other words. But Basil’s pupils had gone wide, and his tail puffed to twice its normal size.
“It’s probably just a raccoon.” Sam scratched behind the cat’s ears. “Or that stray tom that’s been coming around.”
The cat didn’t relax, tracking something Sam couldn’t see.
Down the street, hidden in shadows between streetlights, the Range Rover sat with its engine off.
Three dragons debated in hushed voices - Rux wanted to knock on the door immediately, Mabon insisted they needed a strategy, and Urien suggested they were all losing their minds sitting in the car like stalkers.
But Sam saw none of that - just an empty street and darkness.
He gave up trying to spot whatever had Basil’s attention and headed to the bedroom, flipping off lights as he went.
The cottage settled around him with familiar creaks and whispers - the radiator ticking, the wind against the windows, the soft padding of Basil’s paws following him down the hall.
Whatever had attracted his cat’s attention at the window was clearly gone, or Basil had given up and decided bed sounded like a better idea.
Sam’s bedroom was exactly as he’d left it this morning. The bed was unmade because he’d been running late. The book was still on the nightstand - a paranormal romance he was halfway through, and the reading lamp casting warm light over the rumpled sheets.
He changed into his sleep shirt and crawled under the covers, the mattress dipping as Basil jumped up and circled three times before settling against Sam’s hip. The weight was comfortably familiar. At least the cat had chosen him, even if it was mostly because Sam operated the can opener.
Sam reached for his book, then paused. He’d read enough romance for one night - lived in enough fantasy worlds while his real one stayed stubbornly ordinary.
Ignoring the book he turned off the lamp instead. Basil’s purr rumbled against his leg as Sam closed his eyes. Tomorrow was another day of the same-old, same-old, and for that, Sam needed his sleep.