Till Death Do Us Part: A Paranormal Why Choose Romance (Vows Duet Book 1)

Chapter 4

Present Day

I’m standing with hands on my hips when Rhea jerks the door open. Everything about her is hurried and flushed, like she ran around a track a few times before finally opening the door.

Well, everything but her eyes, anyway.

Rhea’s eyes have always been hauntingly beautiful. They’re a deep brown, but it’s like the color sits at the bottom of a well, the edges of her irises lined with thick black and the color darkening the closer it gets to her pupil. It reminds me of that faerie book series I read last year where with the one twin rejects her mate and they both end up with a black ring around their eyes.

Despite the rest of her appearing flustered, right now those eyes look completely unaffected. I’ve always been jealous of how well Rhea can hide her emotions. Mine are written on my face for everyone to see.

“Sorry. I overslept,” Rhea says mildly, stepping back to let me in.

I grab my bag and yank the wheels over the small step into the house. As soon as I’m in, she closes the door behind me. She’s only half turned from turning the deadbolt when I launch myself at her, hugging her tight.

“I was so worried about you!”

Rhea awkwardly pats my shoulder with one hand. “I’ve been working a lot of hours,” she replies. “Just slept through my alarms.”

When she doesn’t embrace me back, I step away, my fingers going to the tips of my ponytail to fidget. “It’s okay,” I say, making myself be cheerful. “It was nice to walk after being stuck on the bus for a couple of hours.”

Rhea nods and then lifts her arms out, her eyes not meeting mine. “This is it. Living room is here. Kitchen is through there. I need to clean off the table,” she adds, mumbling as we shuffle that way.

Dragging my suitcase with us, I take in her cluttered kitchen and dining room. I don’t say it, but I’m surprised by how messy it is. We aren’t allowed to leave anything cluttered at home.

But we’re not home anymore. I keep forgetting.

“I know it’s not much,” Rhea continues, abandoning the narrow-eyed stare at the two-seater kitchen table and turning toward the hallway. “But you’re welcome to use anything here. Except…just don’t go into my room, okay? I like my privacy.”

“Of course,” I say, nodding. “I get it. I won’t go into your room at all.”

“And don’t bring anyone back here. I just want it to be the two of us together when we’re home.”

“Okay,” I say, dragging the word out and catching Rhea’s attention. I open my mouth and close it, trying to keep the words contained. I fail. “What about Jimmy? He was here earlier.”

She frowns at me. “Who’s Jimmy?”

I shuffle my feet, feeling awkward. “He’s not your boyfriend?”

“I don’t have a boyfriend.”

“Oh. I thought…” I’m so stinking confused. “Maybe I misunderstood him.”

I know I didn’t misunderstand him. But now that I’m thinking about it, he never said he was Rhea’s boyfriend, just that he wasn’t stalking her. She clearly doesn’t know who I’m talking about. I feel curiosity and apprehension battle inside my belly.

“Anyway,” Rhea dismisses, shrugging. “Just don’t bring anyone back here. Especially boys. I’ll have to chop their dicks off if they try to touch my baby sister.”

My mouth drops open. “Rhea!” I gasp.

“What?”

I glance around, paranoid that someone other than me heard her. “Don’t say that! That’s a terrible word! You shouldn’t say the D-word.”

“Nova, Dad isn’t here. You can say whatever you want,” she says, her lips twisting into a mocking smirk. “I won’t tell.” She waggles her eyebrows at me.

The implication that I can curse here makes the ache in my belly from before turn straight to cramps. “I can’t.”

But Rhea has already moved on, her hips swaying as she walks to the first door in the hall. “You will,” she says. “He’s not here to hit you. You’ll start living a little more now that he’s not around to watch your every move.” She gestures to the room beyond an open door. “This is your room.”

I spare a glance for my new space, noting the sturdy-looking desk and wooden chair that will be perfect for studying. But I tear my attention away, still stuck on our previous topic of conversation, hating that I feel like I should defend Dad.

“He hasn’t hit me in a while.”

She snorts. “How long? A week?”

I lick my dry lips. “Three. But…”

The way I trail off catches her attention and she whirls on me, nearly nose-to-nose with me. “But what?” she demands.

One of the rare times I can read Rhea is when she’s angry, and right now she’s furious. Her anger makes my tongue heavy, makes me feel afraid to speak the words I want to. Instead, I show her the but by pushing my t-shirt sleeves up, showing her the handprints on either bicep.

Rhea studies my arms, calming immediately, then rolls her eyes. “Oh. It’s just bruises. They’ll fade.”

It would have hurt less to have her punch me in the gut. I swallow hard, my chin dropping to my chest. I don’t know what I expected. I do know what I wanted. It was selfish of me to want her to fawn over me and tell me she’d protect me.

“Okay,” I murmur. I don’t manage to keep the sorrow from my voice.

Rhea doesn’t seem to notice, pointing as she moves down the hall. “Moving on. Your room. Bathroom. My room, there. I’m going to go get some more sleep before I have to go to work in a couple of hours.”

My nod isn’t finished before she has disappeared into her room, the door handle rattling as she locks it from within. I stand in the same spot for a long minute before pulling my luggage into the room she deemed mine with a sigh.

This wasn’t exactly the reunion I dreamed of.

I don’t do as I should and put my things away, leaving the bag to be unpacked later. I collapse on the bed instead, pleasantly surprised that the mattress is quiet and relatively comfortable.

I stare at the ceiling for a couple of minutes before the tears try to come. My eyes burn with the need to release them, but I stubbornly refuse. I refuse to start out my new life crying. I’ve wasted so many tears in my life thus far. It’s a silly response, crying. It does nothing but provoke already angry people.

I shiver suddenly, the hairs on my arms standing on end. Frigid air washes over me, a big difference from the moderate temperature the house was when I walked in a few minutes ago. My teeth clench together to keep them from chattering.

Not now.

I focus on my breathing. I breathe in for five seconds, hold for three seconds, and then release for as long as I can. Repeat.

The air seems to only grow colder, sending my heart into a skittering pace.

And then…

I hear a growl. It’s not an animal. It’s the growl of an angry man. I’ve heard one just like it from Dad for as long as I can remember. That is the sound of someone getting ready to beat me for not minding.

It sends me jerking upright. I frantically search the room, looking for the culprit of the growl. I see nothing, but that means nothing. This isn’t the first time I haven’t been able to see someone in the room with me. In fact, that might be worse because I can’t ask for help to deal with ghosts who growl at me.

The first time I saw one, I was six. When I told Dad about my mom coming to visit me a few days after she died, he took a belt to me for making up stories.

I never mentioned being able to see her again. Even after I had to grieve her all over again, when she suddenly started glowing with icy blue light a month after she died, gave me a big smile, and then disappeared for good. I kept it from Rhea, after the way she mocked me for telling Dad.

Over time, I’ve seen my fair share of ghosts. They are sometimes obvious, milling around with the living without a single person noticing. Sometimes, though, the only signs are the telltale chill of the air when one is present; flickering lights; that uneasy feeling that someone is near when the room is empty. Those are the ones who seem to be full of hate and rage.

I learned quickly that if I ignored them, ghosts wouldn’t notice me. They’re used to being invisible to the living—I just pretend and let them believe I don’t see them either. It’s easier that way, and less scary.

All I know is the kid from The Sixth Sense was a brave soul for talking with ghosts.

I am not brave.

I still see nothing. With a shaky breath, I curl up on my side. I don’t stop looking for the ghost who is present in here with me. He—the growl sounded manly—obviously noticed me, and I reacted. The chill in the air tells me he is still here, which means he’s watching me. There is going to be no fooling this one.

I shiver again and hug myself, rubbing at my arms. I should be singing hallelujah for how chilly it is in here while the heat blazes a hundred-plus degrees outside. Ghost chills are a whole new level of cold, though. It almost burns.

“Nova.”

A shriek escapes me before I can stop it, my body instinctually crawling away from my whispered name until I ram into the headboard. My body trembles uncontrollably when the light flickers ominously. I can only focus on one thought:

He knows my name.

They’ve never known my name—not since Mom.

“Behind you.”

I pitch forward, curling up in a ball, refusing to look back. I clamp my hands over my ears and squeeze my eyes closed so tight that my eyeballs hurt.

“Not real, not real, not real,” I say to myself, rocking. Maybe if I just repeat it over and over, the ghost will believe me and leave. “It’s not real. It’s all in my head.”

The atmosphere shifts after a second, and I stop talking. I don’t open my eyes, well aware that even though it feels different, the air is still frigid.

Someone is still here.

I lie unmoving, praying for the mildly uncomfortable warmth of the house to return. After several minutes of, ironically, playing dead and refusing to move, my prayers are answered. The chill recedes.

I cautiously move my hands and open my eyes. My heart thuds as I look around, afraid of…I don’t know. Do I think the Boogeyman is going to be standing in the corner? Maybe. I roll off the bed, forcing myself to not think about something being under the bed and grabbing my ankles.

The room is clear. Nothing moves. Nothing grabs me. No more whispers. There’s nothing in here besides me, the furniture, and my suitcase. I frown as I lift the latter and lay it on the bed.

I’m alone. Just like I wanted.

So why does that make me feel so darn sad?