Spellbound Fate: A Fantasy Shifter Romance, page 1
Spellbound Fate
Paige Darden
Copyright © 2025 Paige Darden
All rights reserved
The characters and events portrayed in this book are fictitious. Any similarity to real persons, living or dead, is coincidental and not intended by the author.
No part of this book may be reproduced, or stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without express written permission of the publisher.
Cover design by: Karen Thomas
Library of Congress Control Number: 2018675309
Printed in the United States of America
Chapter One
Darkness seeped through the canopy of trees along the dirt road, pooling in the hollows and stretching across the path until Emery had no choice but to flick on her headlights. The amber beams barely pierced the gloom, illuminating little more than the damp leaves spiraling across the rutted road. She cursed softly under her breath. If only her supernatural powers could shorten a drive. The long trek from London to Glass River, Scotland, was bad enough, but the last stretch—a winding lane cutting through dense, towering woods—made her muscles ache with tension. Still, the promise of her new start kept her moving forward.
A wan smile tugged at her lips as Frankie Laine crooned from the Austin’s stereo. She hummed along, letting the melody ease her nerves, though her knuckles remained tight on the wheel. Outside, the wet smell of decaying leaves and early frost seeped in through the vents. It clung to her, mingling with the faint scent of her lavender hand cream. Even inside the car, where she was warm enough in her coat, she shivered. Winter came early this far north, and for the first time in her life, she’d be spending it utterly alone.
The road curved sharply, and she downshifted, her headlights sweeping across the unmistakable silhouette of Pine Cottage. Squat and sturdy, it huddled in a clearing surrounded by Scotch pines and gnarled oaks, their branches black against the silver sky. No light beckoned from the windows, but Emery hadn’t expected one. Her coven, newly inherited along with this cottage, had their own business to attend to on a full moon. If there was one thing she understood, it was duty.
The Austin’s engine sputtered into silence as she turned it off, the stillness of the forest closing in like a heavy blanket. The tick-tick of cooling metal echoed faintly, loud in the hush. Emery leaned back in her seat, stretching her stiff neck. The ache in her shoulders reminded her of long shifts at the hospital, her hair pulled back into a merciless bun that left her scalp tender. Now her ponytail brushed her shoulders, loose and unfamiliar, as though it, too, was trying to adjust to this new life.
Grabbing her bag from the passenger seat, she stepped out into the chill air. The straps dug into her arm, and the top of her brand-new electric blender peeked out, an absurd splash of modernity against the rustic backdrop. She stretched again, the cool night nipping at her skin, and looked up.
The moon, round and impossibly bright, hovered just above the treetops, bathing the clearing in silvery light. Her breath hitched as a long, mournful howl floated on the wind. She paused, hand tightening on her bag. No wolves in Scotland, she reminded herself firmly. Probably just a farmer’s dog. Still, the sound sent a shiver down her spine.
“Damn you, Emily,” she muttered as she trudged up the uneven path to the front door. Her cousin’s untimely death had left Emery in this mess—inheritance or no, she hadn’t wanted to pick up the threads of a life she’d long since left behind. Witchcraft had been Emily’s domain, not hers. Emery had abandoned it at sixteen, choosing instead the path of medicine and war. At eighteen, she’d lied about her age and enlisted as a nurse, throwing herself into tending the shattered men returning from the front.
Even now, years later, their screams echoed in her mind.
The key turned smoothly in the lock, and the door swung open with a soft creak. Darkness, scented faintly of sandalwood and aged wood, greeted her. She fumbled for the light switch, her fingers brushing cool plaster until she found the buttons. Relief swept through her as the room flooded with warm light.
It was cozy, she had to admit, with its fireplace, mismatched furniture, and books crammed onto every available shelf. A colorful rug brightened the space, soft underfoot, and a hallway led toward what she assumed were the bedroom and loo.
She dropped her bag onto the rug, its contents shifting with a dull thud. Fatigue clawed at her, every muscle begging for rest. But there was no time for indulgence. A witch always performed a ritual under the full moon, and her coven—however distant—would know if she shirked her duty. The wind would whisper it, or the water, or the flicker of a candle. And while the earth might remain loyal to her as her chosen element, Emery’s connection to it was tenuous at best.
Her gaze caught on a glint of black atop a mahogany table. A snowflake obsidian, dark and polished, rested there, its surface speckled with white like stars frozen in stone. She hovered her hand over it, feeling the faint pulse of its energy against her palm. Picking it up, she sighed as the tension in her shoulders melted away.
Setting the stone aside, her fingers brushed a slim burgundy book lying beneath it. It fell open to a page marked with a neat note:
Welcome, Emery. We can’t wait to meet you. Here is a simple ritual to get you started.
Her lips tightened. Barely ten minutes in the cottage, and her coven had already assigned her homework. The spell scrawled on the page was simple enough—except for the requirement to perform it skyclad.
“Naked? You must be joking,” she muttered. The very idea made her shiver. Or maybe her embarrassment would keep her warm enough. She’d hadn’t been naked outside of a bath in ten years. When she’d been nineteen and spending most day’s up to her elbows in blood, she agreed to marry the first man who’d asked her. James had been a soldier, of course, and had looked smart in his uniform. She’d seen him out of it a few times and he’d been pleased enough with her for the few nights they’d had together, but then he’d gone and died and that had been that.
She swiped a finger beneath her eyes, brushing away the betraying tear. Exhaustion, she told herself firmly. It was just the drive, the isolation, and perhaps the haunting quiet of the forest. James had been gone for a decade. Ten long years to bury dreams and suppress the ache of his absence. There was no sense crying now over hopes turned to ash.
Kneeling beside her bag, Emery reached for a familiar object: her wand. It had been crafted with care and a teenager’s determination beneath a willow tree when she was just fourteen. The slender wood had weathered time well, the tiger’s-eye stones embedded in its handle still catching the light with their amber warmth. She curled her fingers around it, feeling the faint sizzle of its energy—a comforting, latent hum of something she could barely control.
Setting the wand aside, Emery shrugged out of her jacket and reached for the cloak she’d unpacked earlier. The fabric was heavy and enveloping, falling over her blouse and skirt like a shield against the chill. Her fingers moved through the contents of Emily’s meticulously organized magical supplies, plucking out a candle and matches with ease. Emily had always been precise, even as a child. The orderliness grated on Emery as much now as it had when she was handed Emily’s old clothes, shoes, and books as a girl.
Now, she thought wryly, she had inherited Emily’s hand-me-down power.
And it would have to be enough.
The Glass River Coven was the last of its kind in Britain, its roots older than the stones of Stonehenge. They were her only connection to this fragmented world of magic. If she failed to measure up, there would be no second chances, no alternate paths. She would be left adrift, cast back to the hospital, to the suffocating routine of long hours, bloodied linens, and the grim battle against mortality.
Her scalp tingled at the phantom memory of her old starched cap.
No. Emery clenched her fists. She couldn’t go back.
Gathering her supplies, she strode toward the rear door of the cottage. A flashlight sat on the kitchen counter, and she grabbed it, testing its beam. The sharp brightness momentarily dazzled her, and she blinked away the spots dancing in her vision. Small mercies.
Outside, the wind tugged at her cloak and teased strands of hair from her ponytail. She swept the flashlight’s beam across the garden, taking in the untidy lawn scattered with leaves and the dilapidated shed to one side. There was no obvious place for a ritual.
Turning in a slow circle, she let her gaze roam until it caught on a narrow gap in the treeline. A path. It cut through the forest, dark and silent, beckoning like an unspoken challenge.
Her pulse quickened. Trails like this always led somewhere—perhaps a clearing, maybe even a ritual space. Unless, of course, it led to a hidden cliff, one she’d tumble over in her ignorance. She snorted softly at the absurdity of the thought. Emily wouldn’t leave behind a path to certain doom.
Would she?
The forest loomed, an ink-black void beyond the edge of the garden. Tales of spirits, sprites, and fairies skittered through Emery’s mind, whispers of childhood fears. Fairies didn’t steal grown women, did they? Or was she fooling herself?
She squared her shoulders. She’d stood among the bloodied and the dying. Faced the wails of men who would never walk again. She wasn’t about to be undone by trees and old stories.
With a determined stride, she crossed the garden, her shoes crunching on the damp leaves. At the edge of the forest, she hesitated. The owl’s soft hoot echoed from the branches, making her heart jump.
“Stop being a ninny,” she muttered, her voice steady and even—the same tone she’d used to calm unruly patients. The owl hooted again, a disgruntled reply. She sighed. “Not you, me.”
Inhaling deeply, she stepped onto the path. The forest enveloped her, a cocoon of earthy darkness. The dirt trail beneath her feet was firm, the ground dry and free of stones. She likened it to walking down the hallways of her parents’ London flat—a thought that both comforted and disoriented her.
The path opened into a clearing. The moon had emerged from the clouds, casting silvery light over the space. A tree stump sat in the center, its flat top inviting as a makeshift altar. A brook gurgled softly nearby, and to one side, a massive stone jutted from the earth, its smooth face reaching skyward.
Emery approached the stone, drawn by an invisible pull. She stretched out her hands, feeling as though unseen threads were tugging her forward. Her palms hovered over the surface, and power radiated beneath her fingers—ancient and vast, like a slumbering giant. But something held her back, a barrier she couldn’t penetrate.
With a frustrated groan, she leaned her forehead against the rock. The mossy scent filled her lungs, grounding her, even as doubt gnawed at her edges. If she couldn’t connect with the earth, she couldn’t perform magic. And if she failed here...
A sharp crack echoed through the clearing. Emery spun, her heart leaping to her throat. A buck emerged from the shadows, its antlers gleaming like silver in the moonlight. It stepped with deliberate grace, its dark eyes locking onto hers.
Warmth rippled over her skin, a deep, primal awareness. The stag saw her. Not just her presence, but her being.
“Hello, Cernunnos,” she whispered, the name of the Celtic horned god slipping from her lips like a prayer.
The stag flicked its ears and vanished as silently as it had come.
Emery staggered back toward the stump, a strange heat coursing through her veins. She tore off her clothes, piece by piece, until her skin was bared to the cold night air. Yet she didn’t feel the chill. Instead, she felt alive.
The candle’s flame leapt to life, casting flickering shadows as she raised her wand high. With the moonlight caressing her face and the pulse of the earth beneath her, Emery began to chant, her voice steady and sure.
Chapter Two
Fall was the best time of year. The animals were plump and hearty after a summer of feasting, their flesh rich and flavorful, and the weather hadn’t yet turned to the biting cold that forced Callan to seek out shelter. The chill in the air only invigorated him as he moved beneath a canopy of trees shedding their golden leaves, their whispering descent matching the soft thuds of his padded feet. His thick wolf’s coat was far superior to any human jacket, keeping the cold at bay with ease.
It had been years—decades even—since he’d taken his human form, long enough that he scarcely remembered what it felt like to wear clothing or to walk on two legs. Those memories were fading, just as his connection to his human self had dimmed over time. He was a wolf now, through and through, which might have been a fatal problem in Scotland, a country that had hunted its wolves to extinction over two hundred years ago. But he kept to the wilds of the Highlands, far from human settlements. His ruddy coat, a patchwork of autumn tones, let him pass for a stray dog to the rare hiker or shepherd who might glimpse him. Most never saw him at all.
That suited Callan fine. He avoided humans with the same zeal he had in the days when he’d walked among them. Humanity had disappointed him enough to last several lifetimes. The war—endless and brutal—had shown him the ugliest faces of mankind, and he wanted no part of it anymore.
Still, there were things he missed. Shepherd’s pie, steaming and savory. Haggis, rich and spiced. The buttery mash of bangers and mash. His stomach growled at the memories, loud enough to pull him from the reverie. Hunger was a primal need, and it demanded attention.
He paused at a creek, its clear water sparkling under the full moon. Lowering his head, Callan drank deeply, the icy chill of the stream sharp against his tongue. It grounded him, focusing his senses. As he lapped at the water, the soft pattering of tiny feet reached his ears. He froze, muscles taut as he tilted his head to pinpoint the source.
Dinner.
The wind carried the scent to him—a water vole. His nose twitched, and his mouth watered. Small but perfect. Sliding low to the ground, he crept forward, each movement deliberate and silent. His ears swiveled to catch every sound, his senses fine-tuned to the vole’s darting movements amid the leaf litter.
The vole scurried closer, pausing to sniff the air, unaware of the predator lying in wait. Callan’s legs tensed, every muscle coiled. The moment came, and he pounced, jaws snapping—only to come up empty as the vole darted away in a blur of motion.
Adrenaline surged, and Callan gave chase, his paws splashing through mud and water as he bounded along the creek bank. The vole zigzagged, its tiny body quick and unpredictable, but Callan’s instincts guided him. His stomach growled again, urging him onward.
Then the wind shifted, sweeping past him with a scent so powerful it obliterated all thought of the vole. He skidded to a halt, claws digging into the earth. The scent was an intoxicating blend of breaking ice, delicate ferns, and the richness of forest loam. It was more than a scent—it was a calling, an anchor that sent his pulse racing and his blood aflame.
Home. Mate.
His mate.
A red haze of instinct consumed him, obliterating rational thought. He charged forward, driven by a need deeper than hunger, deeper than any primal urge he’d ever known. The forest blurred as he sprinted, thorns raking his sides and cold streams splashing his fur, but nothing slowed him.
Then he saw her.
She stood in a moonlit clearing, her arms raised in a gesture of power, her naked form radiant beneath the night sky. Her scent was stronger now, almost overwhelming, and Callan’s entire being sang with recognition. She was his, as surely as the stars belonged to the heavens. His hindquarters quivered as his tail wagged uncontrollably, and a wild joy surged through him. This was everything he had stopped hoping for, everything he’d resigned himself to never finding.
Without hesitation, he bounded past the standing stone at the edge of the clearing and skidded to her feet, rolling onto his back in pure submission. His tongue lolled from his mouth, and he bared his throat to her, offering himself completely. The part of his mind that was still human bubbled with half-formed imaginings—of her beneath him, beside him, their lives entwined in ways he had forgotten how to dream of.
She screamed.
Callan froze, his ears flattening against his skull. The sound pierced his euphoria, but he forced himself to stay still, stretching his neck further to show he meant no harm. He hoped she’d see his devotion, understand the bond between them, but her reaction was... not what he’d expected.
The scream turned to laughter, a lilting, melodic sound that washed over him. He relaxed slightly, his tail wagging again as hope sparked anew. She spoke then, her voice clipped and English.
“Go away,” she said, waving a hand as if dismissing a bothersome stray. “I’m busy.”
Callan whined, low and plaintive, his instincts wrestling with his memory. He needed to remember what his mother had told him long ago. Witches didn’t recognize the bond right away—not until he... bedded her. His ears perked up at the thought, but the excitement bubbling through him refused to let him shift into his human form just yet.
With a huff, he continued to present himself submissively, his golden eyes pleading.
“Oh, fine,” she muttered, shaking her head. “I was mostly done anyway.”
She turned to retrieve a pair of knickers, her movements deliberate and calm, though Callan couldn’t fathom why she would want to cover herself. Every inch of her called to him, and the idea of her donning clothes felt almost offensive. Yet she dressed, pulling on her garments with practiced ease. Her scent lingered in the air, driving him mad with want.
She slung a cloak around her shoulders, gathered her things into a bag, and began to walk away.
