Chapter 1
Kyra
I dream of fire and ruin… death and destruction. A man with teal eyes holds me in his arms as I lay dying. I do not know who he is. I only know his gaze holds such intense sadness, it tears at my heart. Ash falls around us like snow as dark clouds roll overhead. I touch his face and brush away the tears that fall from his lashes as I offer him my forgiveness.
“It was not you,” I whisper. “I know it was not you.”
I wake with a start and jerk up in bed. The fog of my nightmares retreats like tides from the shore. I clutch my chest, drawing in several deep breaths as I attempt to calm my rapidly beating heart. When I look down at my palms, I half expect to see blood on my skin, but there is nothing.
It was only a nightmare.
Throwing my legs over the side of the bed, I place my head in my hands. Roughly running my fingers through my hair, I sigh heavily in frustration. I don’t understand why I keep having this horrible dream. What does it mean?
I’ve always had an overactive imagination. That’s part of the reason I decided to pursue my dream of writing. At first, I thought this nightmare was a new story percolating in my head like so many others have done before. But now I’m beginning to wonder. This feels real, somehow—more like a memory than something I imagined.
Some nights it’s so bad, I actually feel as if there is a wound in my side. I wake up panicked and immediately check my torso, expecting to find bleeding, but there is nothing there. I went to a therapist, and they said it’s my mind’s way of trying to resolve some issue or other, but I don’t believe it. Something happened to me—some kind of deep-rooted trauma—to make me relive this same dream almost every single night. I just have to figure out what it is.
Maybe it has something to do with the death of my mother and sister. I went to a seer shortly after they died. She told me something strange about my recurring dreams. She said the man that holds me is my soulmate—the one I’m destined to find. But I’m not entirely sure I believe in such things.
However, it would certainly make a compelling story for one of my books.
A low rumble sounds as the building begins to shake, ripping me from my thoughts. I brace myself on the edge of the bed, waiting for it to stop. It’s over in less than a minute and I’m glad. I hate earthquakes.
It seems like there have been more and more lately over the past few months here in Seattle. I guess we’re lucky that scientists figured out how to suppress the bigger ones that used to plague this part of the world less than one hundred years ago. But still… I’m always a little scared when they happen anyway.
I glance up at my clock and immediately hit the panic button when I realize I’ve overslept.
Somehow, it only takes me fifteen minutes to shower, brush my teeth, and dress. I take a quick glance in the hallway mirror to check that I look okay. My long, blond hair is twisted up in a clip on the back of my head, the best I could do on short notice.
It’s my no-nonsense look for the day. Despite how tired I am, you’d never know it. My blue eyes don’t have even the slightest hint of redness or puffiness around my lids after a shower and a quick cup of coffee. I didn’t have time for makeup, so the several small freckles that cover the bridge of my nose and cheeks are visible, but I don’t care. I put a dab of pink lip gloss on, satisfied I now look presentable, and that’s all that matters.
I cringe when my bag slams into the wall as I spin to lock the door behind me. A quick glance in my satchel reassures me my precious laptop hasn’t broken. Thank goodness.
I’m supposed to meet my best friend for coffee, and I cannot be late. Claire runs on a tight schedule; she plans everything out at least two weeks in advance. Whereas I’m more of a spur-of-the-moment person. I always have been. That’s why I’m surprised we’ve been friends as long as we have, but I suppose it’s because we complement each other in that way.
I don’t want to disappoint her by arriving late for our meet up like I did last week. She’s the closest thing I have to a sister. Besides, if I show up late, she’ll have extra time to flirt with Aris—my favorite barista and sort-of crush for the past few months since he started working there. Apparently, he caught her eye last time we met at the coffee house.
Claire is gorgeous. Every time we go somewhere together, I feel like a mere mortal standing next to her goddess-like beauty. Normally, I wouldn’t care who she flirts with, but this guy is different.
With chestnut hair that falls just below his brow line and emerald eyes, he’s so handsome and charismatic with his signature crooked smile, I have trouble finding words sometimes when I’m around him. But he’s not just my crush, he’s kind of a friend at this point. I spend so much time at the coffee house, writing during the day, we’ve gotten to know each other a bit.
To be honest, I’m kind of hoping maybe we can be more than just friends, but I’m still too nervous to make any sort of move. And Claire goes through boyfriends rather quickly. She loses interest pretty much around the two-week mark and I… don’t like the idea of that happening between her and Aris.
As I race down the hallway, I notice the lift doors closing up ahead. “Wait!” I call out, hoping whoever is inside will hear me. If they don’t, that’s yet another delay I cannot afford while I wait for the next one.
A hand appears on the door, stopping it before it fully closes. I reach them just as they reopen, and when I step inside, I realize the hand is attached to a very handsome man. I’ve seen him a few times before, but we’ve never spoken. He must live on a floor above me somewhere.
“Thanks.” I smile as I step into the lift.
“No problem.” He gives me a shy grin.
I take a moment to study him. He has short-cropped, stark white hair, not at all the natural white of someone with age. No, this guy looks to be maybe my age or just a bit older, so somewhere between twenty-four and twenty-five, I would think. He’s tall with broad shoulders and solidly built of lean muscle that defines his arms and legs. His square jaw could cut glass, and I could lose myself in his violet eyes for days. His cheeks flush as his gaze holds mine.
Heat creeps up my neck to my face, and I quickly avert my eyes. I hate that I blush so easily. It’s the bane of my existence.
“You live on four?” he asks.
“Yeah.” Nervous, I tuck a stray tendril of hair behind my ear. “What floor do you live on?”
“The fifth. I’m in 502. I just moved in a few weeks ago.”
“You’re directly above me,” I reply. “I live in 402. My name’s Kyra.” The moment the words leave my mouth, I fight the urge to facepalm myself. What if he’s some kind of stalker? I’ve just told him my exact apartment number.
A handsome grin curves his lips. “I’m Davin. So, you’re the one who plays all that Beethoven that keeps me up all night.”
My mouth drifts open. Beethoven is my go-to when I need inspiration for my books. Sometimes, I keep it playing in the background while I’m writing.
“You can hear that?”
He nods. “Who couldn’t?”
My mouth drifts open in horror as I realize I’m one of those loud and obnoxious neighbors, and I didn’t even know it. “Oh my gosh. I am so sorry. I didn’t think I had it on that loud.”