His Temporary Fiancée (The Huxleys #3)

Chapter One

Josh

You’re the most like me.

Mom’s sickening whisper swirls in my head.

I run, my heart pumping wildly with denial and fear.

The wildfire casts an eerie orange glow around the nighttime forest. The acrid smell of burning wood stings my nose.

I look in every direction, quickly scanning the area for the log cabin where Mom took my older brother.

If he hadn’t fought so hard, she would’ve grabbed me and my twin brother Bryce, too.

I have to do my part. Save Ares. And to prove to everyone, especially her, that I’m nothing like her.

Ares, I’m coming!

In a small clearing ahead stands a dilapidated cabin. The door sits skewed, not fitting the frame correctly. The big hinges are covered with thick rust. I can see Ares tied to a chair through the broken window. He’s slumped, his head hanging limply.

Drugged. Mom loves to drug people. She gave us tainted cookies. She probably fed more of them to Ares to make him malleable.

I dash forward, ready to pull him out. I might be younger and smaller, but I can help.

Suddenly, arms wrap around me from behind, trapping me. I twist around. “Let go!”

“My love, stop. For your own good.” Mom’s voice is soft and sweet, her breath brushing over my ear like a feather.

A chill spreads over me, fear keeping me immobile.

“Who do you think you are? A savior?” Amusement brightens her tone. “You aren’t like Bryce. He’s too obedient to know what’s good for him. But you? You’re special.”

“N-n-no.” I barely manage to push the word out.

She gives a thoughtful hum, still holding me tightly from behind. I twist and kick, but can’t get her to let go.

My eyes dart to the cabin. The fire’s too close, the flames licking at the cabin walls greedily. Ares is going to burn to death.

Urgency hammers in my heart. I double my efforts to struggle out of her hold, but she’s like one of those huge snakes.

“He’s going to die!” I scream. “We have to save him!”

“If he dies, he dies. That’s just his fate.”

Her bland reaction makes my stomach clench. “What’s wrong with you? Let me go!”

“No. I’m not letting you throw away your life like that. You know why?” She sighs softly. “Because you’re special.”

My skin crawls. I don’t want to hear her praise. No, no, no. Don’t say it, don’t say it. I try to voice the words, but my throat is too tight.

“Ares is too much like your father. Too rigid, acting like the world’s weight rests on his shoulders.

Bryce is too much of a good boy. Overly sentimental.

Soft-hearted. But you? You’re nothing like them.

” She tightens her arms, pulling me even closer.

I can hardly breathe. “You and I, Josh. We aren’t afraid of doing what must be done.

We’ll go the distance. Together. I recognized your potential when you were just a baby.

And I plan to hone you until you can fully realize your promise.

You’re most like me—the best of my children, the one I’m most proud of.

” She spins me around, holding my face between her strong, hot palms and forcing me to look into her glowing blue eyes.

A deafening crash jolts me out of my daze as the cabin wall in the back collapses. “Ares, no!”

The scream tears from my throat. She cocks an eyebrow as she glances at the fire…slightly distracted. I shove away with a burst of strength and lunge forward. “Ares!” The roof starts to sag. Heat sears my skin, my mouth dry. Tears burn my eyes.

Then the entire structure caves in with a thunderous boom, creating a burst of flame and heat spreading all over the area.

“You can’t run from your destiny, Joshua Huxley. You are my son! Zoe Dunkel’s son! My blood flows in your veins, thicker than any of your brothers’!”

No, no, no—

I spin around, clenching my hand around her neck to stop the flow of her words.

I shove her down, and I’m on her. I raise my fist. Her icy blue gaze slides to it, to the Japanese sashimi knife in my grip.

A corner of her mouth tilts with satisfaction, and the air in my lungs freezes.

Terror knots my throat at the realization that I’m only focused on my fury, reacting just like Mom—

Suddenly, my vision dims.

I blink. Pitch darkness. No fire. Just cold air cooling the clammy coat of sweat on my body. I drop my head into my hands, pressing the heels into my eyes. They come away wet.

A breath shudders out of my lungs. Shit. Another nightmare. It’s the one I have the most frequently. Me trying to save Ares. Mom stopping me. Me trying to kill her—

My head throbs. The dream is mostly just wishful thinking on my part. I never got a chance to save Ares. I never knew where Mom took him after she kidnapped him. My mind fills in the blanks in the dream, so I can try to play the hero…and fail.

I might not have been in the burning forest, but what Mom said was real.

You’re just like me, Josh. You always do whatever necessary to get what you want.

I’m the most proud of you. She told me that so many times when I was growing up.

Her blue eyes glowed with pride—and she surreptitiously rewarded me with an extra chocolate chip cookie whenever I brought home a perfect one hundred on a test. Or did well in athletics.

Except now I understand she wasn’t proud of my accomplishments.

She just loved the fact that every time she looked at me, she saw the core of herself reflected.

The triumph in her eyes when I raised the knife in the dream says everything.

She rejoiced every time I single-mindedly focused on whatever I needed to do, including that one time when I punched an older kid who kept picking on Bryce after I told him to back off.

Dad said that violence wasn’t the answer…

but Mom secretly gave me an extra chocolate bar.

She said Ares was too rigid, Bryce too soft-hearted.

I’d rather be rigid with a soft heart than somebody like her—a complete sociopath who thinks nothing of drugging and kidnapping her own children.

She left Ares to die in a fire. Thankfully he survived, mostly intact.

She claimed she didn’t mean for it to happen, but I don’t believe her.

I don’t believe anything she says. My mother—Zoe Dunkel—is a fucking selfish liar.

Decades-old loathing churns in my heart, along with fear—that maybe she’s right. That deep inside, where it really counts, I am like her.

I flex and unflex my hand. I can still feel the smooth handle of the sashimi knife, the perfectly balanced steel.

When I was fifteen, my stepmother Akiko used a hand-forged knife to slice open a bluefin tuna.

It glided through the thick, resistant flesh like it was cutting through water.

While she marveled at how wonderfully crafted the knife was, I was wondering how well it would slice something that wasn’t tuna.

When I learned Mom was secretly interfering in my dating life, I almost used it on her.

Fueled by teenage hormones and impulses, eliminating her and the emotional turmoil her existence represents seemed like the perfect solution.

If Ares hadn’t happened to send me a text at the precise moment I stood across from the hotel she was staying at, the knife clenched in my hand, I might’ve taken a step I could never undo.

Shaking off the old memories, I put on shorts and head to my basement gym.

It has no windows, just walls covered with spotless mirrors and black rubber matting on the floor.

A heavy bag hangs from the center of the ceiling.

The fluorescent lights make me look unnaturally pasty—like I’m anemic or something.

I stare at my face. It looks exactly like Bryce’s.

The same slightly slanted dark eyebrows.

The straight, high-bridged nose. The chiseled cheekbones from our mother, and our father’s strong jawline.

I step closer to the mirror. Just where does Mom see herself in me?

Is it the eyes? The gray of our eyes came from the Huxley side of the family.

But she never thought Bryce was like her.

There must be something in mine that says I harbor darkness like her. Swallowing, I look away from the reflection.

On the bag, at about shoulder height, is a photo of Mom and me from my toddler years. She smiles straight at the camera—that soulless smile that never reaches her eyes unless she’s hurt somebody.

My eyes are on the smile as I tape my hands and do a few warm-up stretches. Then I go at the bag, taking out all my rage and fear on the rough canvas. My breathing sounds loud in my ears as punches and kicks make the bag jerk on its chain. Mom’s smile doesn’t change. Still soulless, still eerie.

Fuck you, fuck you, fuck you.

I pummel the bag until I start to get sloppy from the exertion. Rivulets of sweat pour down my face and body, my hair stuck to my skull.

Finally, I stop, stretching again, harder this time, while my muscles are warm. I towel the sweat off the floor, then run my fingers along Mom’s face, trace the smile I loathe.

“One of these days,” I whisper, “I’m going to show you I’m nothing like you.”

Her smiling face seems to mock me. A laudable goal, sweetie. But are you capable of it?

I lock the door behind me and take a cold shower. Still, my gut burns uncomfortably. The images from my nightmare keep flashing in my head, pushing away the peace I need to function during the day.