Bound by Blood. Samara Hayden

Preface

(Samarra pov)

I've often wished to live in a fantasy world, like I'm sure many other people do.

Fantasy worlds always seemed less… complicated.

There's a heroine who doesn't know she's the hero.

A soldier who protects her with his dying breath.

And a villain, boyfriend-shaped, just to really mess with your head.

They fight.

They love.

They win.

They live.

Simple.

So much less complicated than packing up your entire life into mismatched boxes, driving until the scenery blurs, and starting over in yet another town where no one knows your name, but everyone eventually learns your weirdness.

My life isn't a fairy tale.

It's not even a one-star-rated novel.

It's that book you kind of start reading, get bored halfway through, and abandon on a coffee table forever.

At least… it was.

The moment we moved to Mill Hollow, that all changed.

Chapter One: Rain and Other Bad Omens

Mill Hollow smells like wet earth and old secrets.

That was my first thought when we crossed the town line. No welcome sign, no cheerful slogan. Just rain. Relentless, quiet rain that felt less like weather and more like a metaphor for my life.

"Home sweet nowhere," I muttered, pressing my forehead against the fogged-up car window.

"You're being dramatic," Derrick said from the driver's seat. "It's charming."

"Of course you'd think that. You think abandoned gas stations are 'full of character.'"

"They are," he replied calmly. "That one back there had integrity."

I snorted. Derrick has this way of saying ridiculous things with complete sincerity. It's unsettling. But comforting. Like if the world ended tomorrow, he'd nod and say, 'Well, at least traffic will be better.'

The town slid into view slowly, old brick buildings, narrow streets, and trees crowding in from every side like they were eavesdropping. Everything looked… muted. As if someone had turned the saturation down on reality.

From the back seat, Catherine didn't comment.

She rarely does.

She sat perfectly still, hands folded in her lap, eyes tracking the treeline as if counting something only she could see. Catherine has this way of being present without being present. Like a shadow that learned manners.

If Derrick is the voice that fills silence, Catherine is the reason silence exists in the first place.

"You're staring again," I said.

"I'm watching," she corrected, without looking at me.

"Same thing."

"No," Derrick said. "It's not."

I sighed and turned back to the window.

We crossed an old rail road and a shiver ran down my spine. The air suddenly feeling so much colder.

I rubbed my arms.

Catherine noticed.

She always notices.

"Ground yourself," she said quietly.

"I am grounded."

"You're dissociating."

"I'm observing dramatically," I corrected, rolling my eyes.

Derrick smiled. Catherine didn't.

She reached into her coat pocket and pressed something cold and metallic into my palm — a small, worn token etched with symbols I wasn't allowed to ask about.

"Just in case," she said.

I curled my fingers around it automatically.

I never ask what the 'cases' are anymore.

We turned up a small dirt road and drive through the thick line of trees all the way to a small clearing.

When the car stops in front of the house, Catherine gets out first. She scans the street, the windows, the forest line. Not paranoid. Methodical.

"This is it?" I asked.

"This is it," Derrick said.

Catherine nodded once. "It definitely has… history."

"All it needs is a new coat of paint," Derrick said dryly.

"It looks like it needs an exorcism" I try for jokey, but it came out way too judgy.