Your Lycan or Mine? (Broken Heart Book 14) (7 page)

“
N
O
. FUCKING. WAY.”
Nor examined the pair of sassy silver heels. “Ferragamos. In my size.” He looked in the second shoe box and squealed. “Jimmy Choo. And pink! Oh, honey, what did you do? Hold up an Orange County housewife at knife point?”

“I’m dating a billionaire,” said Ash.

Jarod put his arm around Ash and gave her smacking kiss. “She’s totally in love with me.”

Ash couldn’t stop the blush. “I barely like you.”

Jarod dipped his head down toward her ear. “Liar.”

She blushed harder.

“Oh. Em. Gee. Ash getting embarrassed?” Nor pretended to wipe away an imaginary tear. “Our little soul shifter is all grown up.”

“Ha,
ha.
” Ash pointed to the shoes. “Keep it up and I’ll return those.”

“Over my dead body.” Nor sat up, his plumped pillows falling to the wayside. His Highness was shored up in a king-sized bed, waited on hand and foot. Even though he looked a helluva lot better than he had a week ago, he was still too pale. After Lilith was destroyed, Brigid had managed to break the demon curse and save him, but Nor wasn’t quite fully healed.

“So when’s the wedding?” asked Nor, his expression innocent.

“We’re leaving.” Ash grabbed Jarod by the arm and jerked him toward the door.

“I want to be maid of honor,” called out Nor. “I expect Prada, Jarod.
Prada
!”

Ash yanked Jarod out into the hallway of the Three Sisters Bed and Breakfast. She shut the door and blew out a relieved breath.

Jarod spun her around and took her into his arms. “Tell me you love me.”

“You love me.”

“Natasha…”

“Okay,” she said. She grabbed his face and pulled him down to hers. “I love you.”

She kissed him, putting her heart, and yes, her very own soul, into it. She pulled back, grinning like an idiot, and said, “I want my wedding dress to be made out of white leather.”

“Whatever you want, my love,” said Jarod. “Whatever you need.”

“You,” she said. “Just you.”

M
ichele Bardsley
is
a
New York Times
and
USA Today
bestselling author of paranormal romance. When she’s not writing sexy tales of otherworldly love, she watches “Supernatural,” consumes chocolate, crochets hats, reads on her Kindle, and spends time with her husband and their fur babies.

S
IXTEEN-YEAR-OLD
Natasha Nelson
paused at the backyard gate. At nearly one in the morning, nothing stirred, not even her dog, Jack. Her hand rested on the latch as she listened for the terrier. If he barked, he might wake Mom and Dad.

The sweet scent of honeysuckle wafted from the vines entwining the metal fence. She leaned down and tugged off a yellow blossom. Gently she pinched the stamen and withdrew it, licking away the pearl of nectar on its end.

Her mother had taught her how to do that.

Guilt crimped her stomach. She looked at the desecrated flower and wished she hadn’t plucked it, hadn’t stolen its honey. The yellow petals were already browning and curling inward. Sighing, she tossed it to the ground.

She unlatched the gate. As she pushed it open, the hinges squealed loudly. Crap! She stepped inside the backyard. Heart pounding, she stood still and listened for the rumbling yell of her father or the tapping of her mother’s slippered foot on the back porch.

Wait a minute. When she’d crept out of her bedroom window a few hours ago, the front and back porch lights had been on. She hadn’t even noticed the lack of illumination until now, a sure sign of her guilt. Or maybe it was that she’d always been able to see well in the dark. Her dad teased her about this quirk, calling her “cat eyes.” It didn’t help that her eye color hovered between gray and blue.

She pressed a palm against her warbling belly and studied the shadowy exterior of the house. It was a simple, one-story, three-bedroom house. It looked liked the others in the neighborhood. Normal. Plain. Boring.

Her gaze drifted away from the house and up to the sky. The full moon stared at her like the round eye of God. She felt that awful judgment of a deity she didn’t know. Her parents were scientists, pragmatic to their very cores. They said that religion was for the superstitious and the weak-minded. But secretly, she believed that there was something, maybe someone, all-knowing and intelligent watching over the Earth. Watching over her. Judging her.

Sighing deeply, she trudged toward her bedroom window. Her room was in the back, just off the kitchen. Her parents slept in the bedroom in front of the house. Nerves jumping, she put her hand on the windowsill. The curtain blocked her view.

Oh, c’mon. If her parents weren’t such stick-in-the-mud jerks, she wouldn’t have had to sneak out to go to Rick’s party.

Her face warmed. Rick Huntson was so nice. He had the bluest eyes and the cutest dimpled chin. Tonight, he’d almost kissed her. Just remembering the close call in the kitchen, when he’d gotten her the second beer and leaned toward her, his eyes dipping to her mouth, made her feel all tingly and wonderful.

But his lips hadn’t brushed hers. Instead, he said that he liked her T-shirt, which was blue and said “Baby Doll” in a glittery scroll across her chest. Her jean shorts were faded and tight. She’d given herself a pedicure—her toenails were sparkly blue—and wore black flip-flops.

Now, she felt unprotected in the summer clothing, as if she needed armor and shield to face what lay ahead. Even though it was nearly May, the air felt chilly. Her flesh goosepimpled and she rubbed her bare arms.

The window slid open easily. Tashie pushed aside the curtain and peered inside. She saw the familiar shapes of her bedroom: the twin bed with its fake occupant; the desk with its pile of books and papers; the listing floor lamp; and the boom box pushed against the closet door.

Nothing looked disturbed. Grinning with relief, she climbed inside and shut the window. She tossed off her flip-flops and thought about how to retrieve Jack. She wanted the companionship tonight. He was probably tucked into her parent’s room, snoring away.

Quickly, she went into her private bathroom and rubbed off her make-up then she put on her pajamas. At least if her parents woke-up, she’d look as if she’d been tucked into bed all night.

When she opened her bedroom door and stepped into the kitchen, her skin prickled. The house was eerily quiet and too dark.

Something felt … wrong.

Think it through, Tashie. Fear can always be displaced by logic. Remembering her father’s advice steadied her. She tip-toed to the light switch and flicked it. The florescent bulbs kicked on and she looked around the kitchen. The normalcy of its yellow wallpaper and neat counters settled her.

She walked through the dining room and into the hallway. To the right was her Mom’s office. Her Dad’s lab equipment and other geekoid stuff took up most of the basement. She veered left then, as quietly as she could, Tashie turned the handle and opened the door.

Blech. It smelled terrible.

Her eyes roved over the inner darkness.

She saw the prone forms of her parents in their beds, and there, stretched between them, slept Jack. For a long moment, she stared.

“Mom? Dad?”

Her parents didn’t stir.

Her heart pounded crazily as she flipped on the lights. Neither her mother nor father jolted up and admonished her for waking them.

She hurried to the bed, drew back the covers.

Blood. On them, on the bed, on Tashie’s hands. She screamed and backed away, trying to process the horror. No, no, it wasn’t true. Her eyes were playing tricks on her.

“J-jack?” She stumbled forward and reached out. She wanted to grab him, wanted to drag him away from the carnage, but he felt wrong. Like a toy that had lost its stuffing.

He was dead, too.

Someone had killed her dog. Someone had killed her parents. She fell to her knees and emptied her stomach, the fermented smell of vomit mixing with that awful rusted scent of blood.

She greedily sucked in oxygen as tears squeezed from her eyes. Bile rose in her throat and she tasted yeasty-sour beer. For a second, she thought she would puke again.

“Natasha.”

She rolled onto her side and stared up at the thin creature with its round head and stick-like limbs. His eyes were red, his skin green, and his clothes tattered. He smelled like mold. He looked like death.

Her death.

“You were not here,” he said in an incredibly beautiful voice—an angel’s voice that did not match his devil’s body. “So, I had a snack. Your mother tasted especially delicious—as I imagine you will taste.”

“Get away from me!” She tried to kick at him, but he merely laughed. He bent down and grabbed her by the throat, lifting her easily, as if she weighed nothing. She flailed, trying to strike him with hands and feet.

“You will give me great power, my beautiful girl. With your blood, I will no longer live in the shadows. I will be revered. Feared.”

He was crazy.

He was a psycho serial killer.

He was strong.

With his hand squeezing the breath out of her, she couldn’t scream. Her limbs grew too heavy to move.

“Look at me, sweet Natasha.”

She lifted her eyes to his monster gaze. Her stomach cramped so painfully, she opened her mouth to cry out. Only a rasp escaped. The pain throbbed through her unmercifully. Every nerve ending felt on fire.

And still she could not break the stare of the creature holding her.

I’m dying. He’s killing me.

The pain welded her to the man. She felt … connected. Now, she could feel his shock, the coldness of his flesh, the fetid breath his wizened lungs, the double beats of two hearts.

Blue light erupted from her skin. Tendrils elongated and stretched, wrapping around him.

“No!” he shouted. “No!”

Tashie felt as though she had shouted the words. She was fused to him. His evil tasted as horrid as the bile crowding her throat.

The blue light glowed brighter and brighter. Through her terror and her graying vision, Tashie saw a strange, red radiance pulsing like a heartbeat. The small luminous globe radiated in the center of his being. It was so pretty. So warm. So alive.

She reached for it. Not with her arms, but with her mind. She plucked it from him, as if she were merely pulling off a ripe apple from an old tree.

He released her. She collapsed to the floor, inhaling in shaky breaths. She felt electrified.

Her gaze landed on the heap lying a foot away.

Tashie crawled to where the monster had fallen. She gripped a shoe and yanked, but there was no need. It was no longer attached to anything.

The murderer was gone.

W
HEN TASHIE AWOKE
, she found herself in a room she didn’t recognize. Everything was white—the walls, the floor, the bed, the covers. Even though there were no beeping machines or IVs hooked up to her arm, she realized she must be in a hospital.

She felt sick, both hot and cold, and she shivered so hard her teeth chattered. A light blanket covered her and she simultaneously wanted to kick it off and draw it up to her chin.

A gentle hand pressed against her sweaty brow.

“Mom?”

The woman who knelt beside the bed was not her mother. She was dressed in a white robe, like the one Gandalf wore in that Lord of the Rings movie. Around her neck was a thick gold chain. Dangling from it was a glittering symbol: Two snakes winding through a heart pierced with a sword. What was she? A nun? A nurse? A professor at Hogwart’s?

“I don’t feel good.” Tashie could barely get the words out. Her throat was so dry she felt as though she’d swallowed cotton.

“I know, Natasha. But your suffering will soon pass.”

Tashie believed the woman. Her soothing voice was filled with confidence and sympathy.

“My name is Gwendolyn.” The woman looked ageless. She wasn’t young, wasn’t old. She wore no make-up and her shiny brown hair was tucked into one long braid. Her brown eyes were filled with concern. Whoever she was, this mystery lady, she seemed truly worried about Tashie.

“Where are my mom and dad?”

“They’re dead.”

The unflinching confirmation of her worst nightmare brought all the memories flooding back. Mom and Dad sprawled in the bloodied bed. Jack’s lifeless body. The creature so intent on killing her. Only she had somehow killed him. Hot tears fell and the sorrowful cry like that of a wounded animal escaped.

“No,” she cried. It wasn’t true. She had dreamed everything, the way she was dreaming now.
Wake up, Tashie. Wake up!
“No.”

“Yes, Natasha. The sooner you deal with it, the sooner you can heal.” Her no-nonsense tone was not unkind.

Tashie’s mind, her body, her entire being rebelled against the idea of Mom and Dad being dead. How could she live in a world without her parents?

I hate you. I hate you. I hate you.

Those were the last words she had uttered to them. Oh, God.

Tashie leaned over the edge of the bed and vomited.