Once Upon A [Stolen] Time (Stolen Series Book 1)

by Ahsan, Samreen

  STOLEN SERIES I

  BY

  SAMREEN AHSAN

  Copyright © 2015 Samreen Ahsan

  “The curious are always in some danger.

  If you are curious you might never come home.”

  Jeanette Winterson

  TABLE OF CONTENTS

  PREFACE

  PROLOGUE

  CHAPTER 1 – MYRA – APRIL 2015

  CHAPTER 2 – EDWARD – APRIL 1415

  CHAPTER 3 – MYRA – APRIL 2015

  CHAPTER 4 – EDWARD – APRIL 1415

  CHAPTER 5 – MYRA – APRIL 2015

  CHAPTER 6 – EDWARD – APRIL 1415

  CHAPTER 7 – MYRA – APRIL 2015

  CHAPTER 8 – EDWARD – APRIL 1415

  CHAPTER 9 – MYRA – APRIL 2015

  CHAPTER 10 – EDWARD – MAY 1415

  CHAPTER 11 – MYRA – MAY 2015

  CHAPTER 12 – EDWARD – MAY 1415

  CHAPTER 13 – MYRA – JUNE 2015

  EPILOGUE – STEVE – JUNE 2015

  AUTHOR’S NOTE

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  PREFACE

  The characters in this book are purely fictional. Hue Castle and its residents are created solely out of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

  Note: This is book one of the series and ends with a cliff hanger. This book is not suitable for the readers who do not enjoy suspense endings.

  Disclaimer: Licenced image is purchased from Shutterstock.com

  All rights reserved. No part of this work shall be reproduced or distributed without the author's consent.

  PROLOGUE

  Once upon a time, in a distant land, there lived a beast that imprisoned his prey outside of time. He captured her, unraveled her, destroyed her and never let her go.

  Love entrapped his heart; lust stole his soul—leaving nothing but a terrible beast. He was supposed to hunt his prey to sate his appetite, but ultimately fell in love—to remain hungry for eternity.

  She swore to tear down all his defenses and break the tomb he had built around his heart, to make him fall apart, but ultimately she was the one who split her existence into past and present.

  We were captured and deceived by time, which became our greatest enemy. We were struck by a spell, which bound us together. No witch cast that spell. I was born with a curse—a curse that ran in my bloodline—which stole my past, tortured my present, and changed my future.

  A hex to see things that others couldn’t.

  I didn’t know a spell could entangle my fate with another’s without any warning. I never knew I’d always belonged to him...not in this time but many centuries ago. My fate was already sold to his existence.

  I was born to be prey—destined for the hideous black beast.

  “Love isn't something you find.

  Love is something that finds you.”

  Loretta Young

  CHAPTER 1

  MYRA

  APRIL 2015

  There are certain moments in your life when you start questioning your existence.

  Who are you?

  What’s your aim in life?

  What are you doing here?

  Do you really belong here?

  Are you going to make a difference, or just waste your life in ignorance like everyone else?

  When you die, who will remember you?

  With no one to remember your name other than your immediate family, when they die, your name will disappear from history.

  I didn’t want to die like that. I wanted to make a difference. I wanted to make sure my name was written somewhere in history books, so that when I died my name would be either remembered or lost…but some part of history.

  I wanted people to talk about me, think about me, and ask questions about me—even after centuries had passed. Sometimes I wished I were born in medieval times—a real princess, part of the royal family.

  Yes, I was always attracted to the idea of princes, kings, dukes, and knights—anything royal and fancy. My so-called friends in school always told me that I lived in dreams, and there wasn’t any prince coming to my rescue. And honestly, rescue me from what? I wasn’t locked up in any tower guarded by some dragon, so that a prince would come one night to rescue me. I wasn’t even living with a stepmother who treated me like Cinderella. Who was I kidding? I was fooling myself with stupid and impractical fantasies. I lived a life much better than millions of people in this world and still I wanted more? Had I gone insane? What was I hoping for?

  Perhaps I didn’t know myself. After reading so much English literature, poetry and medieval history during my degree program, I had fallen in love with the past. The actual stories of knights—their chivalry, and how noble they were. The princes and kings that existed before the sixteenth century were my fantasies. The men of that time were actual gentlemen, calling a woman ‘lady.’

  Towers, fortresses, castles, and renaissance palaces—they had always held a special place in my heart. Since childhood, every time I had visited a castle, I pictured myself as a princess living there. My parents always encouraged me in my crazy love for these historical places. They had taken me to almost every castle and palace in the UK. Later on, during high school, I had a chance to visit France and Italy, and see their famous architecture. I used to write stories after visiting the castles—creating new characters that had lived in those places.

  Though I was now twenty-two, my fantasies of these castles had not withered. I still got excited when I’d discover and visit a new historical site, maybe an old church, or tower—anything that was built before the nineteenth century. Sometimes my friends used to tease me, saying that I had come from the past and there was no place for me in this twenty-first century. They called me ‘old school.’ Maybe I was old school.

  The only castle that I never got to visit was Hue Castle. The legends said that the castle had been under a wicked spell for eight centuries. It had been abandoned since the mid-fifteenth century, and closed to the public for over two hundred years, under the administration of the British government.

  It is very common in human nature to be tempted by forbidden things. I was completely intrigued and fascinated by the stories of Hue Castle. I didn’t know how much truth they held, but I desperately wanted to get inside the castle and find out. If I went there…would I find ghosts?

  My heart still fluttered every time a new Disney movie came out—I still loved Disney princesses, especially the way they dressed. I still liked to wear those dresses, but was too afraid to wear them in public, even on Halloween. I didn’t want to be a laughingstock among my neighbors. I didn’t have friends as such—just some of the neighbors’ kids, who I made friends with because I enjoyed their innocence.

  Girls of my age were either living with their boyfriends or engaged, or in a serious relationship. My parents really worried about my future. Of course, they had to. After all, I was their only child. All my cousins the same age or older than me had their boyfriends, fiancées, or husbands, and I was the only one still single. Every time I attended a family gathering, all they talked about was my future husband. My parents had tried to set me up for dates many times with good, decent guys from rich families, but I had let them down—as always.

  They had even asked me if I were a lesbian, although they knew that wasn’t the case. My mother had talked to me, tried to show me the reality of the situation: the kind of man I fancy doesn’t exist in the modern world. People these days are not as noble as they used to be. Perhaps she was right. Still, it was my stupid, vague desire to meet someone like that at least once before I died. It wasn’t that I
never got a chance to meet any dukes or real princes. I did meet gentlemen from royal families, who actually lived in those palaces, but meeting them made me less eager to marry anyone. They were not even close to what I had read about them in books.

  Taking early morning runs through London in the spring was a spectacular experience. I loved the smell of morning dew and fresh flowers—the trees exhaling oxygen so we could all breathe. I loved how birds chirped their morning songs and the sun shone through the bright sky, spreading its warmth into every nook of the city.

  Today, I walked back to my family’s house, where my mother was setting the table for Sunday morning breakfast.

  “Hello, my love,” my mother greeted me.

  “Hey, good morning, Mom.” I kissed her on her forehead and ran upstairs for a shower.

  “Come down soon, sweetie. Breakfast is ready.” My mother’s voice followed me up the stairs.

  After my shower, Mom, Dad and I gathered at the table. Dad was busy with his morning newspaper, as usual, and Mom’s eyes were glued to a Sunday morning television show showing some new recipes. My mother, Paula Farrow, loved baking. It was her passion that drove her to start a business and reach the heights of success in a city like London. Paula’s Café was considered to be one of the finest eateries in London. Not only did they make cakes, pastries and cupcakes, but they also provided a lunch menu of sandwiches, croissants, and other deli items. All my life, I had the benefit of bringing the best sandwiches to school. Every morning, from Monday to Friday, my mother managed to produce a huge lineup of breakfast sandwiches, muffins and croissants. Her food was always fresh, because by late morning all her breakfast items were sold out. A lot of people had asked her for franchise options, or to open on the weekends, but as a good wife and dedicated mother, she chose to keep the business small and spend her weekends with her family.

  I was so proud of her. Not that I ever confessed my feelings, but she knew how proud I was. My father, Colton Farrow, had left his job as an editor for a political magazine and joined my mother in her business. I was sure he saw great potential in it. While Mom was busy making food for people, Dad was in charge of the front sales. They made good money, but in all those years, I hadn’t noticed them running after it. They were extremely contented with what they had. When they wanted to take time off, they would close down the bakery for a week and take a family vacation. It was our ritual—once in every quarter of the year, we chose a destination and visited a new place for ten days. It seemed like the vacations kept my parents young and energetic. I hoped when I reached that age, I would have that much energy and enthusiasm. Right now, this idea was distant and blurred. I honestly didn’t have any enthusiasm—any thrill in my life.

  “Wow, something smells really good. What you makin’, honey?” Dad looked up from the paper, his glasses perched on the bridge of his nose.

  “Quiche Florentine.” Mom looked at Dad and exchanged a smile with him. They had this strange, unspoken connection—communicating with each other through their eyes, understanding what the other person meant without saying a single word. It always amazed me how our eyes can talk like that. I craved this connection, but for that I needed to have a partner in crime.

  “Can I help, Mom?” I asked her, pouring a cup of coffee and taking a sip. Heaven!

  “That’s all right, Myra. You can just set up the plates.” Mom knew I had no interest in her cooking, and apparently I was not born with cooking skills. I could hardly make a good pizza. It was a shame that the only child of Paula Farrow was no good at cooking or baking.

  I had this very old-fashioned name. I kept asking Mom why she named me Myra, and this question drained the color out of her face every time I’d ask. She said it was because of my name that I had this unique interest in history and medieval times. How they had fascinated me even when I was two. I remembered when I was seven, I fantasized about being the princess who’d fallen asleep because of a spell, and who would wake up from my true love’s kiss. Every night before going to sleep, this idea used to come into my mind. Or whenever Mom asked me to eat an apple, I had this silly idea that the apple was poisoned and I would fall asleep forever. My parents used to laugh at my imaginings.

  The breakfast was delectable. Dad and I jumped in and started eating like ravenous beasts.

  “Mom, you’re the best baker in the world,” I said in between bites. Mom gave me her sweet smile.

  “Myra…dear…we need to talk to you about something.” Mom exchanged glances with Dad.

  “What?” The quiche was still in my mouth.

  “You need to start taking your life seriously,” Dad said. He took a sip of his coffee. “You’ve recently graduated and—”

  “Dad, I’m going to get a job soon. Don’t worry. I’ve applied at many places. You know I have interviews lined up next week.” I patted his hand.

  “It’s not about your job, honey.” Mom poured coffee into her cup. “We are talking about your marriage here.”

  I was irritated. Not again!

  “You’re twenty-two. All your cousins are either engaged or married, or at least they’re seeing someone. You don’t show any interest in boys, and—”

  “Mom, I don’t know how many frogs I have to kiss in order to get the prince.”

  “Honey, there’s no prince. And you reject even the good ones. Stop living in a fantasy.” She was trying her best to burst my bubble. I knew they weren’t going to support my fantasy any further. It had started bothering them now.

  “You kissed the ugly frog once, my dear,” my dad pointed out. That truth pierced right through me. “Not all men are as bad as he was.”

  He was right. I had kissed an ugly frog once, and the bitter taste of his kiss was still in my mouth, which was not allowing me to let anyone else into my life.

  During high school, I fell in love (or so I thought) with my friend’s elder brother, who was twenty-three at the time. It was that head-over-heels feeling. Sleeping, eating, walking—he was on my mind all the time, and I thought he was my Prince Charming. Until the night after my prom, when he tried to take advantage of my innocent love. I was ready to surrender myself to him in his own bedroom, when another girl who had been his victim came banging on his door. She yelled at his entire family that this pervert misused her and took photos and videos of their sex together. I was half naked at the time, and realized his room had hidden cameras. It was his way of making quick money—seducing girls with his charms and selling those photos to God knows who.

  My father was enraged at this act—although they were our family friends. He filed a complaint against the boy, and his parents were so remorseful that they didn’t even bother to post his bail. He was found guilty and stayed behind bars for six months. Later, we moved to a new neighborhood and lost track of what happened to him. My father was smart enough to get all the photo and video files from him and to make sure any duplicates were deleted. After that, I had locked my heart in a shell and had thrown the key into some unknown well.

  No other man had swept me away after that. And I wasn’t sure if this feeling would last forever or not.

  This discussion had surfaced many times. My parents wanted me to settle down in my life. I knew they were not demanding marriage, but still they wanted me to like someone. None of my cousins or even family friends was living with their parents at my age. They had moved on with their own lives. It wasn’t that my parents wanted to kick me out, nor was I willing to leave my pretty room. And even if I started a job, I’d prefer living with them to living alone in boredom. My mom was a great companion—we could talk about our book heroes and romanticize the idea of meeting those men. We could go out and enjoy window-shopping together. And because of being so close to her, I never felt the need for a sister or any other friend.

  “Myra, there’re so many nice guys out there,” Mom interrupted my thoughts. “We are going for lunch at Mrs. Bernard’s. We’d like you to join us.”

  “And what’s their son’s name?” I asked s
arcastically, while trying to think how to avoid it.

  “Myra, honey, you know Mr. and Mrs. Bernard like you so much.” The truth was, my dad was actually fond of them.

  The Bernard family was one of the richest families in the United Kingdom. And apparently, they were old school too. They wanted to choose the girl for their son, who had gone to the States for a few years to study and work in the 3D animation and gaming industry.

  “Dad, what if their son doesn’t like me?”

  “Well…does it matter, my love?” Dad took a sip of his coffee. “Look at the bright side. The Bernards like you, and in fact, they always treat you as Steve’s wife.”

  “It doesn’t matter to you if the guy is not in love with me?” I couldn’t believe my dad could say anything so ridiculous. “It doesn’t matter to you that I don’t care about him? Forget about it…I don’t even know who he is.”

  “That’s why we’re asking you to come with us. Mrs. Bernard called this morning and asked for you especially. Her son has come home after six years. We’d like you to meet him. See if you guys click with each other. And maybe you would.” I saw sparkles of hope in my mother’s eyes. Didn’t she know I was a hopeless case?

  “All right…” I sighed and gave up. “I’ll come.”

  Mom jumped in her seat with excitement. “That’s wonderful, Myra. Please wear that peach-pink dress. It suits you so much.”

  “Mom!” I gave her an angry look.

  “Okay…okay…I was just suggesting.” She raised her hands in surrender.

  After digging through my entire closet and not being able to find anything suitable to wear to the Bernards’ manor, I decided I’d go for the dress my mom had suggested to me earlier. She was right, actually. It did suit me very well. It gave me this elegant, ladylike look, like someone from the early nineteenth century. The dress also came with a matching hat, which added to its sophistication.