Chosen

Chapter One

Here we are! Chapter One! Finally, right?

Regardless, I hope you enjoy this now that the ACTUAL story has started. Remember Triple F? I just typed it, like, five minutes ago so I hope you do.

Unfortunately, I'll not be able to update as much as I'd like. I'm a student, and studies kinda come before chapters. Sorry, but ya know. Priorities and all that.

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"Okay. So . . . who is he again?"

Natasha rolled her pale blue eyes and groaned. "Emma, this has been on for half an hour! Have you just been sitting there, staring into space? It's so fucking obvious!"

"Don't swear," I replied primly, popping a grape in my mouth. Our eyes were both glued to the small flat-screen TV - gift from my dad - sitting on the little coffee table amid catalogs and study books. "And it's not obvious to me."

Tasha tore a bite off a pancake angrily. "Seriously. Why do I bother?" she asked our ceiling.

Unrepentant, I grinned and bumped her shoulder with my own. "Talking to your imaginary friend?" I teased.

"I don't have an imaginary friend."

"Sure you do. They all are."

"Even you?"

I nodded earnestly. "Yup. I'm a reflection of your consciousness. And I'm here to tell you to kill everyone."

"Everyone?"

"Everyone," I said solemnly.

Tasha burst out laughing and tossed a grape at my head. "You're so full of it." I grinned at her, then we both turned back to the cop show happening on screen with all that entailed - dramatic, angst ridden detectives with issues up the wazoo, cheesy lines, predictable plots and the semi-attractive love interest.

This had become sort of a habit of ours. Every morning, we'd make pancakes and fruit salad together then watch this crappy old cop show until either our brains fried or it was time to go. We used to only manage to squeeze in one episode, or the end of one. But lately it had escalated to two or three. I glanced over at my best friend, and worried my lip at the bags under her eyes.

It was my fault. For the past three weeks I'd been having these really bizarre dreams. They weren't nightmares, or anything really scary or exciting. What was strange about them was that they focused around one person - one very hot, large and rather intimidating person. I'd never met the guy, never seen him before. But now whenever I went to sleep, I saw him and it was wreaking havoc on my life. I'd even taken sleeping pills last night to see if that would stop the dreams, but it hadn't worked.

I could still see him. His glowing golden eyes. They followed me everywhere I went and they were driving me insane. Hell, I was seeing them right now - Detective Stone's cold blue eyes had suddenly changed to a molten gold. And his clean-shaven, slightly round face now had stubble and a hard edge. Was he taller now?

"Emma? Emma! Anyone in there?" Tasha waved a hand in front of my face and I jerked back into the cushions of our sofa.

"Hey! What are you doing?"

Tasha raised an eyebrow. "Are you kidding me? You just went all 'coma patient'."

"Huh? Ugh, nevermind. So, anyway, who is this guy?" I waved a hand at the screen, where the guy in question was sipping sherry pompously while checking out his next victim.

"Alright, look. He's her long lost son. She gave him up for adoption when she was sixteen and he found his way back to her."

I scowled. "What? But he kissed her! Like . . . you know . . ."

"Like he wanted to have sex with her? Well, he's a twisted little bastard. I mean, just look at that haircut. It has psycho written all over it."

"No swearing. And ew. Does he know? That she's his mother?" Tasha nodded, completely engrossed in the incest that was happening on-screen. I just took a bite of pancake, cursing the dark-haired, golden-eyed stranger for my insomnia. If I'd been sleeping normally, I could've skipped this creepy episode.

It ended quickly. Detective Stone, his eyes back to blue, saved the day and now the creepy son was in jail and the poor, traumatized mother was sharing her sorrows with her young and relatively handsome new husband. Happy ever after.

With a sigh, I heaved off the couch and took the dishes into our little kitchenette and piled them into the sink. Staring at the growing pile, I contemplated whether I should wash them now or wait until dinner so I could get all the dishes in one fell swoop. Before I could decide, Tasha spoke up from behind me, her voice serious. "I take it you're still having those dreams."

I tensed, fingers digging into the countertop. She was my best friend, practically my sister. It wasn't that I didn't trust her. I just . . . didn't want to talk about it. I didn't like it. I liked keeping my dream guy private. My own little secret. It almost seemed cruel to drag my little fantasy into the harsh light of reality.

Jesus. What was wrong with me? They were just dreams. And I'd already said some things to Tasha anyway. A week ago, I'd told her that I'd been having these repetitive dreams about some guy I didn't know. Talking about it more wouldn't hurt, I convinced myself. I think.

I shrugged casually and turned to face her. "Yeah, every night."

She fiddled with the ends of her red hair, sloppily tied into a French braid. "What happens in them? Like, is it repetitive or . . ."

I sipped my nearly-cold coffee. "Nope. It's different every time. But it isn't exactly exciting or anything. It's, uh, pretty mundane actually."

Her brow furrowed. "Mundane how?"

Biting my lip, I tried to think of examples, the glimpses just seemed to slip past my fingertips. "Like . . . um . . . walking. Him just walking. Or sitting and talking. Making something in the kitchen. Sleeping. Just normal stuff."

Tasha gave me a small smirk. "That is . . . really weird."

I snorted. "Yeah. Tell me about it." In a bid to change the conversation, I asked, "So, I heard you talking on the phone last night for ages. Anyone I know?"

"Nosy," she teased. "And yeah. It was Michael, remember him?" Vaguely. One of her classmates. I think he had Harry Potter style glasses. "His sister just got chosen."

I choked on my coffee. Holy . . . wow. Chosen. That was a big deal. A big, scary deal. She'd been picked to be a werewolf mate. I hadn't known anyone that had been picked. It had been a small, buried fear ever since I'd heard about the arrangement between the werewolves and the humans. I knew it happened. Sometimes there'd been stories on the news. But this was the closest it had ever come.

"How is Michael doing?" I asked.

Tasha shook her head. "Not good. One minute he was talking to her on the phone, the next someone was ringing her doorbell and telling her she was about to get hitched to some wolf-man."

I blew out a breath. And for absolutely no reason, the man with the golden eyes popped into my head. Although through most of my dreams I'd only been an observer, at times . . . at times it felt like he'd known I was watching.

My thoughts were interrupted by a knock on the door.