Chapter 1
Lily
You have arrived! announces my GPS.
“Yes. I. Freaking. Have!” I reply to my disembodied friend.
Her little-miss-sunshine positivity has been grating on my nerves for the past few hours, but honestly, if she had a hand, I’d high-five her right now.
I pull up alongside a narrow driveway, flop back against the headrest, and exhale a long breath.
My eyes are burning, and there’s enough adrenaline in my system to power an entire football team.
But I made it.
I darn well made it.
All the way here. Twelve hours of white-knuckle driving, sustained by gas station snacks and the same ten power pop anthems playing on a loop. Not bad, considering I only got my license a week ago.
Screw you, Daddy.
Not suggestible. Weak. Incapable of supporting myself, after all, huh?
I wish he could see me now—
Except, I’m praying I never lay eyes on the guy again.
Or the asshole he was planning to gift me to as part of a business deal.
“You got it, grrrl,” growls Shaney Briggs from the car’s speakers.
“Yeah, I got it!” I echo, and before I know it, I’m fist pumping at the car’s dark interior.
Wow. What’s gotten into me? I’ve never done a fist pump in my life before.
But then, I’ve never escaped from my father’s clutches before.
Escaped to what, though? I turn off the audio and peer through the gathering dusk at a pair of tall, wrought-iron gates.
There’s a plaque on the left, half-hidden by ivy, but I can just make out the number 34.
My GPS friend has gotten me to the correct address, at least. But if I’m not mistaken, I can also make out a bunch of chains and a padlock hanging between the gates. My heart sinks.
I jump out of the car and take a closer look. Yup—it’s a padlock. And of course, I don’t have a key. Or any ninja lock-breaking skills.
I cling onto the gates, squinting down the driveway. It curves sharply to the right, so I can’t see what lies at the end of it. Could be dangerous climbing over without knowing what’s on the other side.
Well, I’ve stolen my dad’s car, escaped the family compound, and driven twelve hours. Is a little detail like that going to stop me now?
Hells no.
I tuck in the laces of my sneakers so they don’t get caught, and before I lose my nerve, I start scaling the fancy ironwork.
Four steps and I’m up. That wasn’t so hard. I swing a leg over the top, scramble down the other side, and land in the dirt with a thud. Easy. I dust some rusty paint flecks from my hands.
As I walk up the crunching gravel driveway, thunder rumbles in the distance and the sky darkens. Crap. Storm clouds have been chasing me all the way up here, and it looks like they’re about to drop. Hope it doesn’t take long to figure out how to get inside—
I stop dead, shivers cascading through me.
Because there’s the house:
A big, two-story Victorian. Steeply sloping roof, shutters at the windows, a wraparound porch, and a balcony on the second story. Various shades of green, and a ton of white gingerbread trim.
This is it—the house where my mom was raised. Where she lived until her dad took the whole family away when she was sixteen years old. I stand for a moment, taking it all in, while I rub at the gooseflesh on my forearms.
Doesn’t look like it’s occupied, thank goodness. There’s no outdoor furniture in sight, no lights showing through the windows or the fanlight above the sturdy front door. And no vehicles parked in the driveway.
Welcome home.
I jump and look around wildly. “Who said that?” It was like someone whispered it in my ear. In a voice that sounded a lot like my mom’s. But that’s not possible, because she’s dead—
Boom!
Thunder tears across the sky right overhead.
Here it comes.
I cast around. Bluebird. I need to find a bluebird.
Along with the deeds to this place—which my mom passed on to me on her deathbed—she whispered something about a key and a bluebird. I don’t know what I’m looking for, but I sure hope I’ll know it when I see it.
The yard is a wild tangle of overgrown flowerbeds and potted plants. I dive right in.
Ten minutes later, my arms are scratched to shit and throbbing with nettle stings, but I don’t find anything bluebird-like. There’s an alleyway at the side of the house, though. I open a metal gate and slip through.
Unease creeps up my spine. The backyard is beautifully landscaped, with lush flowerbeds and all kinds of ornamental features.
If this place is abandoned, who’s been tending to it?
What if the house isn’t empty? What if my mom made a mistake?
Her thoughts were real scattered before she died.
I pull a copy of the deeds out of my purse and examine it for the hundredth time.
It’s an old, tattered document, but there’s my mom’s name typed out, with her tiny, neat signature beneath it.
This is her house, her legacy. Her own parents put the deeds in her name, and she kept it all these years as a secret from my father.
Another boom of thunder shakes the heavens, followed by a flash.
I turn in time to catch a fork of lightning striking the ground, not so far away.
Darn. It’s real close. As I sprint up the rear porch steps, the sky rumbles and crackles.
My forearms are prickling like crazy and I have the weirdest sense it’s driving me toward the house.
And there—right in the corner of the porch is a white ceramic plant holder, decorated with little blue birds.
My heart leaps. I crouch down and feel around the dry earth and roots.
Whatever used to grow in there has been dead for a long time.
Finally, my fingers close around something metal, shoved down between the plastic interior pot and the holder. An old-fashioned key.
The key to the house. I clutch it in my fist triumphantly.
Craaack! goes the heavens, and the rain comes down in a deluge. Brutal. The wind whips about, driving it toward the porch.
I yank open a creaking screen door and shove the key into the rusty old lock on the back door. It fits—just. I wiggle and wiggle it, and finally it turns. I swing the door wide, adrenaline fizzing in my stomach—
A rush of air hits me. Not musty or moldy, but kind of fresh.
Crap, it’s dark, though. I can hardly see six feet in front of me. I fumble around for a light switch. There, to the right of the door. I flick it and light from an overhead bulb floods the hallway.
And I freeze.
The electricity should’ve gotten disconnected years ago. I was prepared for the house to basically be a shell. That’s why I brought a torch, sleeping mat and a sleeping bag, along with enough packaged foods to last me a couple of days.
Well, that’s weird.
“Hello?” I call.
My voice echoes back to me through the silence. I sense I’m alone here. But there’s a scent. Male? I lift my nose and inhale hard, but I’m only a half-breed and my sense of smell is weak as shit.
I step inside the house, the nape of my neck tingling.
What if I surprise someone?
Should I have brought something to protect myself with? A knife?
Is it legal to shoot intruders in this state?
Probably.
You’re not an intruder, I remind myself. You’re the rightful owner of the property.
I pass through a tiled hallway, flicking on lights as I go. Several doors lead off it.
There’s a kitchen. Retro, but cozy-looking, with an island in the middle.
Mom.
Her presence rushes back to me, and suddenly I can hardly breathe. She was only a teenager when she left this house, but I swear I can feel her here. I picture her standing at the old-fashioned stove, stirring a pan, and the image is so bright in my mind.
Blinking back tears, I look around. The fridge is empty, and there’s no food in the cupboards—just a bunch of plates, glasses and silverware.
Something’s wrong here, though. The house isn’t dusty, musty, and broken down, like I expected.
It looks like someone’s been taking care of it.
I race through the lower story, faster and faster, opening the other doors—bathroom, toilet, storage room. All clean and cared for.
When I reach the living room, I skid to a stop.
That male scent is stronger here. And he smells good. Like leather and spice. Each inhalation fills my veins with a little hit of pleasure. I shake my head. What the heck? A sexy-smelling intruder? I must be delirious after all that driving.
And I should probably get the hell out of here, in case he’s still here. Go find some official, who deals with this kind of stuff and can confirm that I really am the owner.
But where am I going to sleep tonight? I don’t have money to pay for stuff. My father has always made sure I don’t have any kind of independence.
This is your house, I remind myself, as I climb the creaking old staircase at the end of the hallway. My heart is pounding as I poke my head into the rooms on the upper story: a huge bathroom—old-style, spotlessly clean. A master bedroom.
I stop dead in the doorway, ice shooting down my spine.
Because the king-size bed is made up. Not perfectly, but casually, like someone got out of bed this morning and flung the comforter back over it.
What the hell?
I creep over to it on trembling legs. The comforter is crisp and clean, but the right-hand pillow has an indentation in the middle.
Without thinking, I bring my face close to it and inhale.
That scent fills my nostrils. Spicy, leathery.
Outdoorsy, but mysterious. I inhale again…
and again—because each inhalation brings a heady rush of yearning.
I jerk upright. Seriously, what the ever-loving hell?
Something is very wrong. There’s not just an intruder, but somebody lives here.
Bang!
I gasp and go still. What was that? It sounded a lot like a door banging against a wall.
“Who’s there?” a voice booms.
Shit.
“Don’t make me come and look for you!”
It’s not a man’s voice. It’s the voice of a god. Like thunder, personified. I look around the room in a panic. Should I hide? Jump out of the window?
Heavy footsteps pound across the lower story. Then there’s a creak, like he’s climbing the stairs.
I open the closet door and jump in. Shutting myself in the dark, I tune my ears in.
The footsteps get louder and louder. The hinge on the bedroom door creaks, and I hear someone take a long, deep sniff. He’s a shapeshifter?
Will he be able to hear my heart pounding? Terror grips me and I hold my breath.
The footsteps recede, and continue along the passageway.
Now or never.
I open the closet door and burst out.
No time for subtlety. I make a run for the stairs, and skid down the polished risers, almost falling on my ass. Then I sprint to the front door, praying the lock’s not complicated. I grab a latch, turn it, and thank goodness, the door opens and a rush of wet air hits me.
“Hey!” the voice booms from behind me.
Nope. Not stopping.
I go faster. Just need to make it over the gate.
The rain is falling down in sheets. Like Zeus tipped a bucket of water over the world. I dart between a massive motorbike that’s now parked up in the driveway and a gnarled old tree.
Craaack! There’s an awful tearing sound and a blinding flash explodes right in front of my eyes.
I stagger backward. What’s happening?
Something else launches into me. Strong cables wrap around my waist.
Then I’m tumbling to the ground, turning over and over.
I come to a stop.
I’m lying on the ground—or at least, I think I am—and a man seems to be lying on top of me.
A real big man. But somehow his weight is not crushing me, and his hand seems to be between the back of my head and the ground.
Black eyes blaze into mine, intense and furious.
I glimpse thick black eyebrows, a dark beard, and wet black hair.
Hella scary. But also incredibly good-looking.
Definitely a god, I think dazedly. Like he came down with the thunder and lightning.
“Did I get struck by lightning?” I mutter.
There’s a flash of white teeth. “Nope. But you came damn close,” says a growly voice that vibrates right through me. “But what are you doing here?”
“What are you doing here?”
His thick eyebrows tug together. “You’ve sure got a smart mouth for someone who almost got turned to a pile of ash. Right now, I’m saving your life, girlie—”
A flare of orange catches my eye, off to the right. Burning.
“The tree’s on fire!” I gasp. My heart lurches again. If he hadn’t pulled me away just now, I would’ve been toast as well.
“The old cherry tree,” he says, and even in the midst of this totally confusing moment, I hear regret in his voice. “It’ll burn itself out. Either that or the rain will extinguish it.”
He turns his attention back to me. “Now, you’re going to tell me what you’ve been doing creeping around in my house like a raccoon.”
“Your house?”
His irises spark and sizzle, like they’ve taken up some of that fire into them. “Yup, my house.”
“It’s my house. So, actually, you’re trespassing,” I bite out.
“I don’t think so.” He gives a derisive laugh.
Then he lifts himself up, off of me. “Come on.” He holds out his hand, and I’m too dazed to do anything but cling on to it and let him help me to my feet.
As the heat from his body peels away from me, I shiver.
I’m soaked to the skin, and I feel like a drowned rat.
Meanwhile, he’s wearing a black leather jacket and motorcycle pants, which have protected him from the deluge, and somehow his wet hair looks sexy, plastered to his face.
I blink as I take him in. He’s huge—bigger than any human I’ve seen before.
Dark, forbidding, and radiating wild, animal strength.
A big Alpha wolf. The trace of shifter I carry inside me knows it instinctively.
Sparks of attraction light me from head to toe. He’s way too old for me, and totally out of my league. But he’s the hottest guy I’ve seen in my life.
He looks right back at me and emotions shift through those glittering black eyes—hostility, confusion, recognition.
Suddenly, he looks like he’s seen a ghost.
His frown deepens. “Elizabeth?” he mutters.