Chapter Two #2
She sobbed, slamming into the wall at the bottom of the first flight before pushing off and racing down the second.
She cursed herself for leaving the relative safety of Lisa’s apartment, but there was no turning back now.
She burst through the stairwell door and into the foyer, her eyes darting wildly, searching for someone—anyone—who might help.
How had it come to this? Marcus had just been another member of her book club.
Now he was chasing her through the city like some unhinged predator.
She sprinted out of the building, turning left toward the train station.
There would be people there, she told herself.
Safety in numbers. Halfway to the corner, Marcus’s curse rang out behind her, his footsteps pounding closer. Panic clawed at her throat.
She stumbled, tripping hard at the corner. Pain exploded through her knee as it slammed against the concrete. She thought—God help her—she heard him laugh. Refusing to be a statistic, she pushed up, ignoring the pain and forced her legs to move faster.
Ahead, a sign swung over the street. A wooden board, painted with strange, unfamiliar symbols.
She had never noticed it before, though she’d walked this block dozens of times.
The door beneath it stood ajar, light spilling into the night.
Relief surged. She threw herself at the doorway, tumbling through.
For an instant it felt as though she passed through a curtain of warm air before crashing to the floor.
She rolled onto her back, gasping and looked up. Marcus stood outside, face twisted in rage. His eyes—red, glowing, inhuman—burned into her.
“Get out here, Willow,” Marcus roared. His voice carried a hint of a British accent she’d never heard before. He paced before the threshold like a caged animal. Strangely, he didn’t step over it.
“Go away, Marcus,” Willow cried, scrambling backward. “I’m not interested. This has gone way too far.”
He prowled closer but stopped at the door, fury radiating off him. “Come out now. The longer you hide, the angrier I get. And I am already more than a little pissed off that you made me chase you. Again.”
A voice drifted from behind her. Calm. Feminine. “You know, some men don’t have to chase a woman down.”
Willow twisted around. A tall, beautiful blonde woman stood in the doorway to the back room, her unusual blue eyes catching the light.
She smiled at Willow before flicking her gaze to Marcus.
“Some of us like the thrill of the chase, but I’ve only ever been the one pursued, not the pursuer.
Don’t get me wrong—for the right men, with the right ink and all the goods in the right places, I might move quickly in their direction to stake my claim, who wouldn’t right?
But you? You reek of desperation.” Her eyes seemed to shimmer as she glared at Marcus.
“And wickedness. Your stench doesn’t belong in my space. Leave now, before I get angry.”
“Don’t get involved in this, witch,” Marcus spat, lips curling. “This is not your concern. That woman is mine. Destined to me by the Fates. Send her out—or face my wrath.”
The blonde’s smile turned cold. “Don’t lecture me about destiny, cursed one. You can’t manipulate the folds of time without paying the price. Your soul is tainted, your aura toxic and there’s nothing on this earth that can save you.”
Marcus’s gaze snapped back to Willow, his expression twisted. “She can. She was always the key. She belongs to me. Now!”
The words struck Willow like a blow. Belongs.
The echo of the dream she’d had the night before—the voices that had whispered about fate, about bonds that could not be broken—came rushing back.
For a heartbeat, terror tangled with something else, something dangerously close to yearning.
What if this madness was connected? What if fate wasn’t just a word in stories?
“Get used to disappointment,” the blonde said sweetly. With a flick of her hand, the door slammed shut. A blind dropped into place, cutting off Marcus’s snarls.
Willow blinked at her rescuer. The woman arched a brow. “Up you get, sweetness. We’ll head to the back, so we don’t have to listen to him throw his ultra-sized mantrum.”
Still trembling, Willow scrambled to her feet. She cast one last look at the shadow Marcus’s presence left on the other side of the door. “I don’t think he’s going to leave anytime soon.”
“Doesn’t matter,” the woman said breezily, already leading the way down a narrow corridor. “By the time he gets through the shields, we’ll be long gone. Keep up, Willow. It’s not far.”
Willow faltered. “How do you—?”
“Know your name?” the woman asked with a grin. “Didn’t you hear? Big, bad, and evil out there already gave it away. I’m a witch.” She winked and started up a flight of stairs.
Willow shook her head, trailing after her.
“Why the hell not? Marcus’s eyes glowed red.
If demons exist, why not witches?” Her voice cracked, equal parts sarcasm and disbelief.
The words tasted wrong in her mouth. She wanted to laugh at herself, to shove it all away as adrenaline-fueled hallucination.
But the sound of Marcus’s roar, the barrier he hadn’t crossed—those things felt too real to dismiss.
The woman laughed, so hard she had to stop at the landing to catch her breath.
“Oh, you are going to kill me. One day I’ll remind you of that comment and we’ll see who’s laughing then.
” She straightened, still grinning. “Name’s Ursula Addington.
I’ll be your rescuer tonight. We’re heading out that window.
Once we reach Fated Ink, you’ll be safe. ”
Willow’s mind spun. Everything in her screamed that witches didn’t exist, that glowing eyes belonged in horror novels, not real life.
And yet, her knee throbbed from the fall, her lungs burned from the sprint and the memory of Marcus’s inhuman stare gnawed at her certainty.
This wasn’t fiction. This was happening.
And layered beneath the fear, a whisper coiled in her chest: Was this what fate felt like?
Was this the pull she had dreamed about, the one that had felt like both promise and loss?
If so, what terrified her most was not Marcus’s claim, but the truth that part of her wanted to believe fate was real.
She followed Ursula out the window anyway, her body trembling with every step. The night air was sharp, rooftops stretching before them. Behind, a sound rose—a furious roar, animalistic and raw. It froze Willow’s blood.
“What the hell was that?”
Ursula grinned. “That would be Marcus realizing Ursula knows a trick or two.” With that, she darted across the rooftops.
Willow tried to mimic her, stumbling along the way, heart hammering.
Disbelief screamed at her that people didn’t run rooftops, that she should have been at home curled up with Hugo.
But each step reminded her that reality had shifted and she couldn’t claw her way back to the safe, ordinary world she thought she knew.
By the time they reached a rooftop terrace, her breath caught at the sight: greenhouses and rows upon rows of herbs, glowing faintly in the moonlight. For someone like her, it was paradise. And yet, even beauty now felt strange, edged with magic.
“Here we are,” Ursula said, offering her hand.
“I know I’m clumsy as hell,” Willow muttered, “but I can manage one step.”
She tried to move, but couldn’t. Her legs refused to obey. Panic surged; disbelief flared. “No, this isn’t real. This can’t be real.”
Ursula took her arm and the invisible barrier lifted. “That, darling, would be the magic you don’t believe in. Welcome to the truth and your new reality.”
Willow stepped down, reeling. Her chest tightened. The world was no longer what she thought it was. And she wasn’t sure where she fit in it—or if she even wanted to know. But the whisper of fate clung to her, dangerous and alluring, promising that this was only the beginning.
****
Marcus slammed a fist against the barrier, fury clawing through his veins.
The witch’s magic shimmered against his skin, repelling him each time he tried to cross.
He could feel Willow’s presence inside—so close, so achingly his—and yet untouchable.
The cursed barrier mocked him, humming with a power older than his bloodline, daring him to break it.
He paced like a starving predator, eyes burning, breath coming sharp.
She was meant to be his. He had waited, plotted, crossed oceans and centuries of patience and now fate dangled her a hair’s breadth away.
To have her stolen by a meddling witch? Unthinkable.
He remembered the visions, the promises, the endless hunger that only she could sate.
The Fates themselves had whispered her name into his dreams and now he could almost taste her fear—and her soul.
Beneath the fury coiled something softer, twisted but undeniable: desire.
Willow wasn’t only a key to power or prophecy—she was warmth, completion, the missing note in a song he’d been chasing across lifetimes.
His. Always his. The thought of her with anyone else sent shards of rage through him.
She would learn to see it too, he told himself.
She would understand once she surrendered.
Once she stopped fighting what was written.
His hands spread against the wood, palms hissing as the barrier scorched him, but he pressed harder, relishing the pain as proof of his devotion. His jaw clenched, teeth grinding until they ached, yet he didn’t pull back.
He whispered her name like a vow, like a curse, like a prayer twisted with obsession. “Willow.”
Visions swam before his eyes—her lips trembling as she breathed his name, her body yielding, her destiny entwined with his in the way it was always meant to be. He could already imagine the moment she would finally stop resisting and admit the truth. It was inevitable. Fate was inevitable.
The barrier thrummed again, searing deeper and the scent of his own burning flesh filled his lungs.
Pain ripped through him, shredding the last scraps of control.
His body bowed under it, every vein lit with fire.
What tore from his chest was part man, part monster, part broken lover—an unholy roar that split the night, shaking the silence of the street with the sound of his denial and his hunger.