Jealous Rage (Monsters Within #2)

Chapter 1

ELLE

Fury Hill, New Hampshire, is a dead town.

Even if it wanted to come to life, I suspect resuscitation would be difficult given the only two places open past ten on the weekend are Lethe’s, a little brick bar the local college kids frequent, and a tiny gas station off the highway that smells like old doughnuts and wet floors.

Or maybe I’m just bitter. Coming from a massive city like LA to some Podunk with a gloomy film clinging to the air will do that to a person.

I scan the plethora of trinkets and travel-size items available to purchase at the convenience store attached to the gas station. The one thing I stopped in to find, though, is the only thing they seem to be out of.

There’s ChapStick in every color and flavor, wet wipes, solar-powered dash decorations that fidget while you drive. They even have a variety of birth control products—from condoms to sponges and spermicides, if you’ve got a late-night, last-minute need, the Fury Hill Stop N Go has you covered.

Which makes sense, I guess, considering the biggest draw to the town is Avernia College, and statistically speaking, one in every four college students gets an STI. Options for prevention are smart.

But there are no lighters.

Not the cheap BICs you can grab in a five-pack. Not the kitchen ones with the handles. Not even a Zippo or box of matches.

Sighing, I lean forward and press my forehead into the top shelf.

This is so pathetic.

Ten months ago, I was waking up at my beachfront apartment with a heart full of dreams.

Nine months ago, someone went out of their way to crush them.

It’s a strange feeling, watching everything you’ve ever wanted go up in flames before you’ve even managed to grab on to it. Grieving something that didn’t really belong to you is both pointless and unending.

What’s worse, I wonder—the actual end of your life or a metaphorical death you relive every time you open your eyes?

I wouldn’t be in Fury Hill at all if my parents hadn’t expressed grave concern over my mental state when I moved back in with them. They had relatives over daily, subtly checking my wrists and keeping me from the internet as if I was one sleazy tabloid article away from ending it all myself.

As if I’d let a man have that satisfaction.

A throat clears beside me, and I jump. My jacket sleeve gets caught on the shelf corner, and it pulls away from the stand it’s attached to, sending the contraception flying.

I let out a squeal, grabbing for the metal at the same time a large, veiny hand appears, catching it before it can collapse. Warmth seeps into my side as a second hand joins, fitting the hooks back into place with a satisfying click.

Breathing hard, I glance at the stranger, my chest constricting as I scan his profile: a smooth, chiseled jaw that could easily be on display in some art museum right now, medium brown hair that’s tousled from the wind, or maybe his fingers, and soft lips with the slightest bow in the center that I could fit the tip of my pinkie in.

He turns to me, and my breathing stalls entirely as I meet his eyes. Soft and guarded, the color of raw jade, they rove over my face as if inspecting me for injury.

I want to cut myself on any of the sharp angles of his face, but it’s the eyes I can’t look away from.

The man clears his throat again. I blink, waiting for one of us to speak, though my tongue won’t unstick from the roof of my mouth to do so.

This is what movie stars wish they looked like. Adonis in a modern body. A man the ancient Greeks would write epic poems about. Michelangelo would have killed to immortalize such perfection in stone.

Silently, he offers me a black box. I swivel my gaze down, taking in the dark red sweater he has on, the umber chinos, pausing to admire the hands again as my stomach cramps.

Whether it’s from the visceral attraction I’m feeling or PMS, I can’t be sure. Not that I’m paying much attention to my body other than the heat radiating through me.

“I didn’t mean to startle you,” he says, averting his eyes. “Here’s your…”

Pink stains his lightly tanned features as he trails off, flushing his entire face.

Finally, I look down at the box he’s attempting to offer.

A vibrator.

Of course.

Of course they sell them here and that’s the item he happened to pick up.

I shake my head. “Oh, no, that’s not mine.”

“Well, not yet. You haven’t paid for it, presumably.”

Yep, PMS cramps. Definitely not getting fluttery feelings from this guy. “I wasn’t going to pay for it.”

“I’m not sure this is worth a theft charge,” he says, turning the box in his hands. The text on the side says Personal Massager; Thirteen Different Pulsating Modes to Satisfy. “Despite the messaging here, nothing at the Stop N Go lasts terribly long.”

“Maybe I don’t need longevity.”

Jesus Christ, what am I even saying? I don’t have a hair-trigger clit, and it’s not like this man asked.

He stares at me for a beat, an unreadable expression on his face. The flush from before seems to dissipate a little, the natural color of his skin returning slowly.

I sway on my feet. “Um, besides, like I said, I wasn’t getting that.”

Both our gazes slide to the condoms dangling at eye level, some still swinging from the earlier commotion. His brows quirk as if in understanding, and I groan internally.

“Wait, no—”

“Hey.” He places the box on a lower shelf, where I somehow missed an entire row of personal massagers. “I’m not judging.”

Before I can say anything more, he moves down the aisle toward the ready-made deli food.

My throat feels funny as I watch him crouch down, peering at the individual pizzas.

“Staring is impolite,” he notes without glancing at me.

“I…” My palms are sweaty, and I have no idea why I’m getting so tongue-tied. I’ve been performing onstage for audiences for as long as I can remember; talking to strangers has never been a hardship. “So is judging.”

“But I said I wasn’t judging.”

“With judgment in your eyes.”

His nostrils twitch as if in amusement. “Sounds like projection to me.”

“Projection? You think I’m judging myself?”

He doesn’t reply, instead reaching for a box of pizza, lifting it to read the ingredients.

Irritated, I turn away and pick up the items that have fallen to the ground. When I straighten, I hit my head on the shelf, displacing it once more. The man catches it again before the heavy piece can fall on top of me.

The edges are sharp, and he grabs it right as the corner scrapes my cheek, hauling it out of the way.

“You’re quite clumsy,” he says, holding the pizza in one hand and the shelf in the other. “Get what you needed this time? I think they cost a little less if you buy in bulk.”

I hold up my fists, which are clutching a dozen single-packs of condoms. They fall to the ground when I open my fingers. “There’s that nonjudgment again.”

“What you do in your free time is none of my business,” he says, shrugging.

“There’s nothing wrong with casual sex.”

Something flashes in his eyes for the briefest moment, an eclipse that’s gone by the time I blink. “Never said there was.”

“In fact,” I continue, my nerves jumbling up the longer I’m in his presence, “a woman should always take precautions into her own hands. You can’t solely rely on a man to be prepared or safe.”

He doesn’t say anything.

For some reason, I keep talking. “Besides, birth control is pro-feminist, even if some of the methods aren’t.”

“Is that so?”

“Yes. Like the IUD? Novel invention, barbaric insertion practices. Most doctors don’t even offer pain medicine before the procedure, and they try to downplay the horrors. I’ve heard stories, you know? My aunts, my friends, my cousin—”

“Not personal experience?”

A shiver skates down my spine. “No. I take the pill religiously. Have since I was fifteen. Although back then, it was for these really awful periods I’d get, where the cramping was so bad I’d vomit, and there was no other way to alleviate my suffering.

It cut into my rehearsals for community productions, kept me from going out with friends.

Turned out to be endometriosis, which explained a lot. ”

He continues staring at me, his expression blank, and I scream inside.

Someone shoot me in the face. Please.

For some reason, I can’t seem to stop myself.

“But back to the casual sex—”

An employee in a gray uniform comes out, their blue eyes wide as they approach the aisle. They say something to the man in a different language, and he replies easily, setting the shelf on the ground.

The employee exhales, offering a timid smile before heading to the front of the store again to continue counting lottery tickets.

“Was that French?” I ask, peering up at the man. He’s got at least eight inches on me, nearly as tall as my father, which feels sort of rare. The men in my family have always felt like giants compared to the average people I stumbled upon growing up or even in LA.

“Oui,” he replies, abandoning me once more to peruse the other end of the aisle. “My maternal grandmother was originally from France. She taught it to us to keep us connected to our heritage.”

Huh. I wonder what that feels like.

“Are you from around here?”

“Born and raised.” He still doesn’t refocus on me. “Am I correct to assume you’re not?”

“What would make you think that?”

“Grandeur Playhouse jacket.” His gaze flickers to me for a split second, and he nods at the insignia embroidered on the breast of my hoodie. “Not many people from Fury Hill know about LA community theater. Especially not enough to have its merch.”

“Then how do you know about it?”

He says nothing, which I find infuriating. Here I’ve already spilled half my life story, and all I know about him is that he has French ancestry and is from Fury Hill, which I could have guessed.

A man who looks like that doesn’t show up in a place like this by choice. He must have deep family ties or financial obligations.