NO GOOD DOCTOR

N I CO L E S NOW

ICE LIPS PRESS

 Content copyright © Nicole Snow. All rights reserved.

Published in the United States of America.

First published in July, 2019.

Disclaimer: The following book is a work of fiction. Any resemblance characters in this story may

have to real people is only coincidental.

Please respect this author's hard work! No section of this book may be reproduced or copied without

permission. Exception for brief quotations used in reviews or promotions. This book is licensed for

your personal enjoyment only. Thanks!

Cover Design – CoverLuv. Photo by Rafa G. Catala.

 CONTENTS

About the Book

1. Barking Up the Wrong Tree (Ember)

2. Dog Days (Doc)

3. Gone to the Dogs (Ember)

4. Like Cats and Dogs (Doc)

5. Resting My Dogs (Ember)

6. Beware of Dog (Doc)

7. Old Dog, New Tricks (Ember)

8. Wool of Bat, Tongue of Dog (Doc)

9. Dogging My Steps (Ember)

10. Mad Dog Blues (Doc)

11. Paws for Thought (Ember)

12. Ruff Riding (Doc)

13. Dog Eat Dog (Ember)

14. Hounded (Doc)

15. Not Here For Your Dogma (Ember)

16. Let Sleeping Dogs Lie (Doc)

17. A Dog In Heat (Ember)

18. Done Dog Dirty (Doc)

19. Die Like a Dog (Ember)

20. In the Doghouse (Doc)

21. Dog Bite (Ember)

22. Dogfight (Doc)

23. The Hounds of Hell (Ember)

24. All Good Dogs (Doc)

25. Dog-Gone Right (Ember)

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About Nicole Snow

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 ABOUT THE BOOK

Dashing. Jacked. Bad tempered. My new boss, everybody.

Now what's the cure for smitten?

Pinch me. I can't believe I'm working under him.

Dr. Gray Caldwell. Hottest, swooniest, stormiest bachelor ever.

Insanely tall. Unfair perfection. Intimidating abs and X-ray glares.

Doc puts the animal back in veterinarian.

My dream job should be all puppies and kittens.

Turns out, my new boss hates three things:

1. Small town drama. Baby, we've got tons.

2. Pets in distress – and he's their hero every time.

3. Anybody poking around his past. Like me. Oh, crud.

But how could I resist the best mystery in Heart's Edge?

I wish I had. Unraveling Gray is a dangerous game.

One wrong move could end our little town.

Plus this gorgeous, complicated grump plays for keeps.

I barely recognize the man he becomes vowing to protect me.

A beastly shield who sets every rule on fire.

Then one stolen, five alarm kiss sends my whole world spinning.

Hello, trouble. Farewell, sanity.

What if it's not the good doctor who claims me – but the bad one?
 1

BARKING UP THE WRONG TREE (EMBER)

I ’m really confused right now.

It’s my first day on the job, and I’ve already seen three animals that

aren’t even sick at all.

I mean, I’m glad. I never want to see animals in pain; it’s part of the

reason I became a vet tech.

But this doesn’t make sense.

None of these critters have come in for a routine checkup, new

vaccinations, or any of the usual reasons you bring a healthy pet in.

Every last one of their owners is so worried about Mr. Lucky’s gout or

Purrbles’ upset stomach or any number of other ailments. And every time, it

turns out to be nothing, a figment of their imagination.

Basically, I’ve got a waiting room full of women with fat, happy cats,

dogs, birds, even one lizard, every last one of them in perfect health.

Every last one of their owners hoping to be seen by someone other than

me.

And the woman waiting right now for me to finish checking her St.

Bernard for a nonexistent splinter in his paw looks extremely disappointed

that I’m not the good doctor she came for. I’d say Arielle Christianson is

one annoying client, but she’s kept it tame compared to a few who came

through earlier.

She’s only asked me three times when he’ll be in, after all.

Dr. Caldwell.
 “Doc” to everyone in Heart’s Edge. I don’t think anyone knows his first

name, and I doubt he’d tell me if I asked. He’s the strangest man I’ve ever

met, for all two seconds I’ve spent talking to him.

Did I say this doesn’t make sense?

Maybe it’s more that I just don’t get it.

I don’t get stuffing your pet into a carrier and ferrying them across town

just for a slim chance you might get to flirt with the hottest vet ever.

But half the town’s female population is here trying to catch a glimpse

of him.

God. It’s like being on a season of The Bachelor, only I’m not in the

running.

I’m a camera tech or something, watching with a kind of confused

fascination as they try to win the attention of Heart’s Edge’s most eligible

bachelor.

And I try not to be too obvious now, watching as the door to the exam

room opens, and Doc comes striding in.

He’s tall. No-nonsense. Honestly, kind of intimidating.

He’s got this almost militant stride, and shoulders that could pop out the

seams of his lab coat. When he moves, the air goes electric, and it’s like half

the freaking universe grinds to a stop waiting for his every word.

The woman waiting next to the table, tapping her foot impatiently and

surveying her nails, perks immediately, straightening up, arching her spine

in a way that makes her chest and butt thrust out in opposite directions. She

smiles with her eyes so seductively half-lidded and her lips just a little bit

pursed I want to roll my eyes right out of my head.

Before Doc even gets a chance to say anything, Arielle pushes herself

forward, laying a hand on his arm and pouting up at him. “Oh, I’m so glad

you’re here, Dr. Caldwell. She—” a little pronoun spoken like a dirty curse,

“—said there’s nothing wrong with my Jake, and I just know I saw him

limping this morning.”

Doc glances toward me, his green eyes cutting and sharp. Whatever else

about him makes pulses race around this man, there’s no denying the power

of those eyes.

They’re as clear as sea glass. Just as reflective and strange, like he’s

washed up on shore here in Heart’s Edge filled with all the secrets of the

deep.
 I immediately look away, focusing on the St. Bernard, trying to pretend I

just somehow never heard the conversation going on right over my short

little head.

“You’re fine, aren’t you, Jake?” I murmur to the dog. He lolls his tongue

happily when I scratch behind his ruff, working my way up to the sweet spot

behind his ears. “You’re just getting a little old and probably had a bit of

vertigo this morning.”

Doc remains silent for a moment but maneuvers smoothly out of the

woman’s grasp, making it so elegant it doesn’t even seem like an insult.

“Ms. Delwen, your assessment?”

Suddenly all eyes are on me, and my stomach drops out. I bite my lip,

keeping my gaze on the dog. “Well...you noticed him limping when he stood

up, right?”

Arielle sniffs, lifting her nose in the air. “Yeah, but what does that have

to do with it?”

I smile. Just because she wants to be rude doesn’t mean I have to be rude

back – and I can’t be, anyway. This is my job, and the customer is always

right.

Plus, I want to make a good impression on my first day, even if I haven’t

had a chance to do more than run interference for The Bachelor so far.

Although to me, Jake here – with his soft, clean-smelling fur and lovely

lopsided doggy grin – is more my customer than his owner.

“It stopped shortly after, right?” I ask.

She frowns. She’s actually trying to remember, earnest and thoughtful,

her brows knitting, and it eases something worried inside me that she cares

enough to try. “Hm, maybe...”

Arielle glances at Doc nervously now.

It’s not hard to tell she’s torn between actually being worried about Jake,

and not wanting to be embarrassed by getting caught fishing to see if the

doctor is in, out, or sexually available.

I hate having to be the one to tell her that her dog actually does need

attention, especially when I’m new in town and trying not to alienate

anyone.

But Doc’s watching me, she’s watching him, and I think Jake’s busy

watching that glass jar of doggie treats across the room.

Somebody has to worry about poor Jake, drool and all, right?
 I scratch underneath the dog’s collar. “His file says he’s eleven now,

yeah? For a breed this size, he’s almost eighty in dog years, and he’s got the

same issues as an eighty-year-old man. Don’t you, boy?” He nudges my

cheek with his cold, wet nose and belts out an agreeable yip. “You’re just

not as spry as you used to be. When you stand, you just have to limber up

the joints before you can walk a bit.”

Arielle looks confused. Doc turns those piercing green eyes on her

instead of me, and I can breathe again without them cutting holes right

through me. “As Ms. Delwen said, Jake’s simply aging naturally, but we can

use an X-Ray to find out if he has arthritis and rule out anything else.”

As he speaks, he reaches over without looking. His hand passes so close

to my jaw I feel it raising prickly goosebumps all over.

I have to fight not to flinch away from the surprising heat it rouses.

He’s not paying attention to me, though. He’s busy stroking his hand

down Jake’s back, his long, capable workman’s fingers moving over the

dog’s body with a touch so gentle it doesn’t seem to belong to the man

looking rather icily at the dog’s owner with his expression completely blank,

turning his face into a princely mask of frost.

I’m so caught up looking at him that I don’t realize when he starts to

draw his hand back from Jake – and that hand grazes my jaw.

Completely accidental, but it sends a jolt through me.

This time, I jerk back like I did something wrong. Like he’s going to

think I leaned into him deliberately and tried to make that happen and I—

Oh, crud.

My heel turns.

My stomach drops.

And my balance tilts sideways, because I might just be the clumsiest girl

on earth and it’s a miracle I can even walk in flats.

I get half a second of the world flashing by – and Jake staring down at

me with an alarmed bark, bouncing up on his paws like he’ll dash to save

me, if only he had hands – before I’m dropping, crashing toward the floor.

But the bruising impact of tile on skin never comes.

A powerful arm from nowhere hooks around my waist, catching me so

firmly I don’t even have a chance to feel the whiplash as Doc captures me in

a strong hold and smoothly loops me up so swiftly my head reels. I blink

dizzily, clutch at his arm, gasping, my stomach and my heart bouncing

against each other.

For just a second we’re pressed together.

My entire body molded against his side, like we’ve been melted together

by pure heat. It’s like leaning against a stone pillar, only stone doesn’t move

with subtle flexions of muscle as he stabilizes my footing like he’s

maneuvering a doll.

Holy hell. I can’t decide whether I’m grateful or if I’ll never live this

down.

I might as well be a mannequin, I guess. I’m not breathing, not moving,

my limbs locked with...surprise. Yup, that’s it. Surprise.

Because the last thing I’ll do is admit I felt anything else.

Or maybe my bones are just searing to ash from the scorching, hateful

glare Arielle gives me, while I stare dazedly up at Doc with my ears burning

and my eyes wide.

“Miss Delwen,” he says coolly, looking down at me with his expression

never changing. “Are you all right?”

I suck in a sharp, cold breath that practically slaps me across the face

with its sting, breaking my trance. Oh.

Oh, God. I nearly just faceplanted the floor right in front of my new boss

and a customer.

I can’t look at either of them. I brace my hands against Doc’s arm and

push away, managing somehow to keep my balance – if only because I

switch to clutching Jake, hugging the massive dog and burying my face in

his warm fur. I’m even grateful for the warm, wet tongue rolling over my

cheek reassuringly.

“I’m fine,” I mumble. “Just tripped.”

Over empty floor. Right.

Please, I beg. Please let it go.

There’s silence then, before Arielle reaches over to scratch Jake’s jaw,

making his tail lash so hard it’s a miracle he doesn’t take off like a

helicopter.

“So, what should I do, Doc?” she asks. “Does he need medication?”

“Ms. Delwen?” Doc asks mildly.

I swallow what feels like a boulder in my throat. I’m hardly in any mood

to talk right now, when I could slink under the exam table and die from
sheer mortification.

I’m not qualified for this after all. I’m not –

Oh.

That’s when it hits me – what he’s doing.

He’s pointedly deferring to me, intentionally, because Arielle here

dismissed my assessment as unimportant and turned to him instead.

And maybe he’s giving me a chance to save face after that little mishap.

I don’t even know what to say.

I’m just a tech; he’s the vet. The Menagerie is his practice, and with so

much more experience I’d rather defer to him, too. I know my stuff, sure,

but not so well that he’s got to be that kind of sadist just to make her

uncomfortable for doubting me.

But I can feel them both looking at me, waiting, so I raise my head from

the dog’s flank, turning to face them, and clear my throat, making myself

speak.

Suddenly I’m the uncomfortable one, and I duck my head again, using

Jake to hide as I rub my cheek to his ruff.

At least he’s happy.

“Everything in the house should be at his level,” I say.

I start off mumbling, but manage to smooth out as I pick up steam,

plucking things from memory and trying to think what’s best for Jake.

“That’s true even if it’s arthritis and not just old age. Getting up and down

from sofas and beds will be harder for him, but you can make it easier by

making sure any high places where he likes to rest or play have a special

low-impact doggie stair he can climb, and by moving things he needs

regularly low to the ground. That way he doesn’t have to strain himself by

climbing, or deal with any pain from dropping down.”

“Very good, Ms. Delwen. I couldn’t have said it better.” There’s not a

single touch of bright approval in that husky growl, but he’s got a sort of

velvet-chocolate voice that makes your name sound like something dirty

even though it’s nearly toneless. I just hide my blush against Jake, and the

dog leans on me hard with a content whine.

Then I freeze.

For just a second, Doc reaches over to stroke the dog’s fur again and

stops just short of touching my cheek a second time, close enough to make
my skin shiver, before his hand falls away. Thankfully, I manage not to spin

myself into another fall this time, but...

Nuh-uh. Nope. No.

I don’t know anything about Doc. Anything about men.

And the last thing I’m going to do is start getting breathless over my

weird, imposing new boss when I haven’t even finished working here one

full day.

Especially when I still don’t understand why he hired me, after nothing

but a couple emails and a phone interview that took less than ten minutes.

Doc tilts his head, regarding Jake’s owner over his glasses. “I’ll

prescribe an oral anti-inflammatory that should help Jake’s mobility, and we

should discuss changes in his diet. Certain foods, especially foods with grain

additives, can increase inflammation of the joints and ligaments.”

Arielle nods, looking at the St. Bernard worriedly. “O-okay. I didn’t

realize...will it be hard to get him to take the pills?”

I half expect to hear a curt Ms. Delwen, deferring to me again – but

instead Doc’s voice softens as he speaks not to the woman, but to the dog,

his touch warm as he scratches behind Jake’s ears. “You’ll be a good boy,”

he says, coaxing as if the dog can understand him.

Heck, I’m beginning to wonder if maybe Jake can, when his tail wags

twice as hard and makes me shake since I’m still leaning against the

massive St. Bernard – and massive definitely isn’t a word that would

describe me.

“With a few pill pouches, you won’t even know any medicine’s going

down the hatch, now will you?” Doc rubs the dog’s head briskly.

Jake answers with a resounding, confident bark, and his owner breaks

out in a smile. “Hear that, Jakie? You’re going to be okay,” she says. “You

really are.”

“He absolutely will,” Doc answers with smooth confidence, then extends

one arm gracefully toward the door. “Let me talk to my receptionist and

write up your prescription. We’ll schedule his X-rays for this week, as well.”

She nods quickly, then lets Doc shepherd her from the room. He follows

her out but pauses for a second, looking back at me.

Just a sliver of green visible over his shoulder, shadowed by the sardonic

arch of his brows. I hold completely still, practically hiding behind the St.

Bernard, eyes wide and waiting for him to say something.

 But he doesn’t say a word.

He just makes a soft “ch” sound under his breath, then sweeps out in a

last snapping flare of his lab coat.

I let out my shaky breath and press my forehead against Jake’s. “Well,” I

whisper. “That was weird.”

A wet, warm, raspy tongue slides over my cheek. I laugh, shoving gently

at Jake’s oversized, shaggy head. Even if my boss is cold and strange and

makes me feel way too jumpy every time he’s around...

The clients aren’t half bad. It’s just their owners that make this job hard.

“Come on,” I say, wrapping my arms around Jake so I can help him

down from the table without straining his weathered joints. “Let’s get you

back on your leash and send you home, boy.”

Out in the lobby, Arielle waits as I lead him out and hand him over,

while Doc murmurs with Pam, the receptionist, over scheduling.

We’re such a small practice we don’t have much equipment and it’s

expensive to operate, so sometimes more complicated procedures have a

waiting list. But it looks like we’ll get Jake in again soon. While I’m trying

not to be obvious about peering at the screen over Pam’s shoulder, every

other woman in the room fixes their eyes on Doc, watching him, waiting to

see which name he’ll call next.

He still doesn’t say a thing.

Still.

He just finishes with Pam, turns around, and walks into the back without

looking at anyone.

A collective sigh sweeps through the room. Shaking my head, I lean my

arms against the counter and dip my head to murmur to Pam. “Is it like this

every day?”

She chuckles, reaching up to tuck her graying curly locks back without

hardly missing a beat in her machine-gun typing. “Only Friday afternoons,

hun.” Her slow Southern drawl says she’s not from this little Northwestern

mountain town, but then neither am I. “People get out of work early and,

well, single ladies get bored when we’re not exactly a nightclub town and the

only entertainment on weekends is Brody’s.”

I peek surreptitiously over my shoulder at the cluster of hopefuls. “Does

it ever work? Bringing their pets in.”

 She eyes me cannily and smiles, pleasant but shrewd. “Are you trying to

find out if the good doctor is single, Ember?”

“No!” I hiss, eyes widening, shaking my head, my heart leaping up into

the back of my throat. “And don’t say that so loud!”

She might as well paint a target on my back.

I’m not about to piss off every single woman in Heart’s Edge by even

pretending to compete for their man of the hour.

Having Jake’s owner glaring at me was bad enough.

Besides, someone as cold and restrained as Dr. Caldwell would never

look at me, anyway.

He looks like he’d date...I don’t even know. Some icy, elegant redhead

with sultry lips.

I’m too small, too young, too mousy.

I’m wallpaper. I blend in, September Delwen style, and people don’t

really pay attention to me.

That’s why I like animals so much. They don’t need you to be

spectacular or witty or cute or sexy –

or able to walk a straight line without tripping over your own toes – to

love you.

They just need you to love them back.

Still, it amazes me that all it takes is one strange, mysteriously gorgeous

man to pull in this many people in a town this small. The cozy size of

Heart’s Edge is the whole reason I moved here.

I wanted to spread my wings, leave the nest, and find a place to start my

life without my mother hovering over my shoulder, but I didn’t want the

overwhelming noise and press of a big city.

I just want to find home.

But let’s be honest, I’m searching for the impossible.

In my heart, home is a place where Dad never died. A place where

things are better when he’s around.

And that place won’t ever exist again.

I can’t go back there.

So I decided to go somewhere else.

As I watch Pam call the next client, only for the woman to practically

launch into the back with her wild-eyed and very confused cat, I stop and

wonder.
 What if I’ve wandered into a whole other kind of trouble?

Nah.

Dr. Caldwell is just my boss. I don’t have to worry about his crazy

dealings with the rest of the town. I just need to show up on time, do my job,

and be good to people’s pets.

Easy as pie.

OR NO T .

My back sure as heck doesn’t feel easy by the time we close up and I’m

finishing after-hours cleanup. So many kennels to be scrubbed, and even

when I’m done there’s still paperwork to review, prescription call-ins to

verify, and records to check against the database entries in our patient

tracking system.

But just as I’m plowing through it at Pam’s workstation to start closing

things out, the front door of The Menagerie opens with a faint jingle of the

bell. I look up as a woman steps inside with a soft click of heels, a plain tan

carrier hanging from one of her well-manicured hands.

My eyes widen. You know the feeling when someone just totally doesn’t

fit?

Yeah. She’s like a stiletto in human form, and I don’t even have to be a

local to know she’s not from around here. The locals dressed to impress.

She’s dressed to slay.

All black, her tight black bob framing a severe, model-worthy face

graven with the calm authority of creeping age. But just because she’s older

doesn’t mean she’s not beautiful, sleek, elegant.

Kind of like Doc.

Her stylish black coat, black stockings, and simple heels make her look

like she just stepped out of a catalog. She’s smooth. She’s lethal. She’s

stunning.

And just like Doc, she’s got that aloof, careful air around her that spills

out into the room, like she’s got a thousand secrets, but she’ll never tell you

a single one. Not unless she kills you.

 And her smile? It’s almost knowing as her sharp, dark grey eyes land on

me. “Good evening. Is the doctor in?”

I blink, shaking myself from my bewilderment and telling myself to stop

freaking staring.

Offering her an apologetic smile, I fold my hands together. “I think he’s

already gone for the day, and we closed about half an hour ago. Unless it’s

an emergency, you can come back in the morning or make an appointment

for–”

“I really don’t know if it’s an emergency,” she replies coolly, even if that

smile remains. All teeth. Sharp. “I’m not a veterinarian. I do think the

doctor could tell me if my Baxter needs emergency medical care.”

Baxter, I realize, is the cat in the carrier – as jet-black as her clothes and

hair, this little midnight inkblot whose only distinguishable feature is a pair

of wide, curious golden eyes peering through the wire mesh door.

I bite my lip. It’s after hours, but what if her furry little munchkin needs

help?

I can’t turn this woman away. If she really, really wants to see Doc,

though, taking a look at Baxter might be enough to placate her until she can

come back tomorrow.

So I stand.

Catch my foot in the spokes of the chair.

Wobble.

And catch myself on the desk.

Awesome.

Clumsy me might just be my natural state.

Honestly, it’s a miracle they ever let me handle sharp objects in

veterinary school.

Acting like nothing happened, I drag a smile up from the last dregs of

energy I have left after an insanely long day. “Go ahead and bring Baxter in

the back,” I say. “I’ll have a look.”

Her eyes narrow. She watches me cautiously, considering – I don’t know

what.

I don’t really think I’m much to look at, so I don’t know why she’s

staring at me that way, but after a moment she deigns to nod.

“Thank you,” she says, and sweeps past me toward the exam room

without a second glance.

 It’s then that I notice she’s wearing gloves. Long black leather gloves,

when it’s late spring and getting hot out. Too hot for that long black coat,

too, with its feathery fur collar.

But she’s still as cool as ice.

Weird.

I follow her into the back, where she’s set the carrier on the exam table.

Slipping my fingers through the carrier door, I let Baxter sniff them gently.

He – or she? – is almost too big for the kitten-sized carrier but doesn’t

seem bothered. The cat just smells my fingers before butting its head

imperiously against them.

“So what’s wrong with Baxter?”

“She started throwing up everywhere,” the woman says. She’s quiet,

distracted, looking around the sterile examining room with a thoughtful,

critical eye. “I haven’t changed her food or her treats, so I’m worried she ate

something poisonous.”

I carefully ease the carrier door open. Baxter eyes me, but then takes the

opportunity to slink out, immediately thrusting her head against my palm

and making no attempt to escape the table as some pets do when they feel

threatened in a strange place.

It’s not hard to tell she’s a social kitty. The way she purrs and relaxes for

me even though my scent is new gives it away.

Even if this woman doesn’t know enough to get her cat an adult-sized

carrier, she’s clearly spent a lot of time giving Baxter affection and care.

Which is hard to imagine.

It’s also pretty clear there’s nothing wrong with this cat at all.

Weirder.

Is this stranger another one of Doc’s hopefuls? She’d make unlucky

number thirteen today.

I’m not even going to contemplate how fitting that is, considering how

she looks like the Grim Reaper’s latest Tinder date.

Still, I make a point of looking the cat over. “Hm...do you have any lilies

around your house? Any flowers at all?” I ask, checking Baxter’s eyes.

Dilated pupils often indicate animals are poisoned, but Baxter’s are

perfectly normal and react like they should, contracting and expanding as I

flick my little pocket pen light over her face. “Lilies are the most common

troublemakers, but azaleas and tulips are close runners-up. A lot of people
don’t realize until they get a bouquet and the petals start falling off, and one

of their pets gets curious and eats them.”

“No,” the woman says tonelessly. “I don’t keep flowers. Too high

maintenance.”

“And I doubt anyone’s sent you any, have they?” A voice drifts across

the room, echoing coolly from behind us.

Uh-oh.

I suck in a breath, pivoting quickly. The woman stays calm, turning, like

she just expects to find Doc standing there in the doorway.

And watching us with his eyes narrowed, his mouth set in a thin line.

I don’t have to know him to know there’s something different about him.

He’s been stiff and withdrawn from the moment I met him, but right now –

despite his cool control – he practically bristles.

Like a green-eyed jaguar crouched in the shadows, completely

motionless. Yet his entire body primes for the instant he’ll pounce and

strike. His gaze goes over me, his eyes locked on the stranger with a focused

intensity.

It’s not hard to tell.

These two have history.

“So let’s hear it,” he says with a sort of hard-edged indifference, subtly

mocking. “What brings you back here?”

“Baxter,” the woman answers airily. “I think all the stress of moving

must be getting to her. She’s throwing up constantly, and really...she’s so

skittish. Quiet. Hardly any appetite.”

There’s something pointed in the way she says it, in the way she looks at

him.

Wowza. There are two conversations going on right now.

The one I can hear. And then the one I’m totally oblivious to.

I’d might as well not be in the room.

Doc inclines his head slightly. “I take it my assistant has already looked

at your cat?”

“Oh, she’s been looking,” the woman retorts, eyes glittering. “Isn’t she a

bit young for you, Doctor? Or have I been wrong about your appetites all

this time?”

That I don’t miss. It’s about as subtle as a brick to the face.

Holy crap.
 Worse, I blush up to my ears, my whole body burning hot. I’m not sure

how I wound up in the crossfire between my new boss and this wraith of a

woman, but here I am.

Shaking my head quickly, I dart a look at Doc. He can’t possibly think

it’s anything but a joke thrown at him by this lady who clearly has a mean

axe to grind.

“I’m sorry, I...it’s not. I d-don’t–”

Apparently, I don’t know anything right now except all about slurring

my words.

“That’s enough, Ms. Delwen,” he interrupts, still not looking at me.

But if I’m not mistaken, there’s almost a touch of gentleness in his

voice, the same tone he uses with animals while ignoring the humans

attached to them. “If you could wait in my office, I’ll handle Baxter and our

guest.”

Somehow, I don’t think Baxter is the one he intends to handle here. And

the way he says guest might be the kindest substitute for bitch I’ve ever

heard in my life.

I’m frozen for another moment. This has to be the weirdest day of work

in my life, and when I was sixteen, a naked flasher in a trench coat showed

up at my ice cream shop during my first shift and demanded two scoops of

Rocky Road in the middle of his hairy chest. I gulp hard, heart hammering,

then nod quickly.

“S-sure,” I manage. “Excuse me.”

And without another word, I go skittering from the room, tumbling

through the door, managing to bang my shoulder on the frame. But I don’t

breathe again until the door shuts behind me, latching firmly and cutting off

one last hard, strange look from Doc.

Can a girl kill herself with too much shame? I think we’re coming close

to finding out.

I slump against the wall, pressing a hand over my chest. Something

about that little encounter has my heart rate going full roar, ramping up to a

hundred miles an hour.

Some people fight with bluster and force and shouting and violence. Not

today. Even if there’s no denying there’d been a battle in there, a

confrontation that took place in nothing but silence, knowing looks, and

lingering words.
 I couldn’t tell if Doc and that woman hated each other, or something

more.

Maybe a bitter ex?

Or maybe they’re still together, and things aren’t going that well.

Ugh. I don’t know anything about him, honestly. The possibilities are

endless.

A sour smile pulls at my lips. Because if that’s his taste in women...

The hopeful ladies of Heart’s Edge won’t catch up in a million years.

I lift my head, though, at the sound of voices from inside. They’re

muffled. Secretive.

I can’t make out many words. Not enough to figure out what’s going on,

but it doesn’t sound like a lover’s quarrel.

I catch something about the number nine, and something that sounds

like...strike team? Huh?

Strike team.

That’s military terminology.

Or police.

A team of people sent in to do a job quickly and efficiently, and then get

out fast with as few dead bodies as possible. More emphasis on the time

than the body bag count, if thriller flicks have taught me anything.

Now I’m just confused.

Why on earth would a small-town vet, no matter how handsome, be

talking about strike teams with a woman who just showed up with a barfy

cat?

And just what have I gotten myself into, signing on to work here?

Deep trouble, I realize when the door opens so abruptly, I jump with a

little squeak, stumbling to one side, then right myself and clap my hand over

my mouth.

The woman emerges with her cat carrier. She pauses mid-stride when

she sees me, looking down her nose briefly, before turning and walking

away.

There’s not a single sound save for the deafening click of heels on tile

and a single plaintive mewl from Baxter.

Why do I feel like I just dodged a bullet? I take a few shaky breaths.

Standing there, while that woman looked at me like I was trash, felt like

being locked in gunsights, my entire body tingling with nerves.

 Then another jolt hits me as Doc’s voice comes from behind me.

“Ms. Delwen,” he says flatly, “I believe we need to have a chat about

proper clinical procedure.”

 2

DOG DAYS (DOC)

H iring a new vet tech was, I think, a stunning mistake.

Especially one as young, fragile, utterly guileless – and utterly

clumsy – as this one.

Ember.

The name on the application form was September, but from the moment

we met, she’d told me to call her Ember.

The name suits her.

She’s just a small glimmer of warmth against a vast and echoing

darkness, barely flickering in and out like a tiny firefly.

And she’s staring up at me in abject terror now, her blue eyes so wide in

her heart-shaped, sweetly innocent face that she looks like a little girl who’s

just seen the bogeyman for the first time.

At least she didn’t fall this time.

God damn it.

Part of me wants to discipline her for clearly eavesdropping on a private

conversation.

But it’s extremely hard to be cold, to be cruel, to someone who looks

like she’d crumple in an even slightly blustery wind.

It’s not Ember’s fault I’m so pissed, anyway.

It’s Fuchsia’s.

It’s been years, and she hasn’t changed. She’s the same woman, just a

touch older, a touch more stately, a touch deadlier.

 She still has that damnable talent for ambushing people at the worst

possible time, and then slicing them open with the razor edge of her tongue.

I don’t want her here again. Not in Heart’s Edge, not in my life, and

certainly not with the baggage and demons she brings with her. Definitely

not because the fact that she’s back at all means nothing good.

But at the moment, I have other problems.

Like the girl waiting for me to tell her she’s fired when honestly?

I can’t afford to lose her.

Not after my last tech quit. Ran off to Oklahoma to be with some fellow

she met on some asinine dating site.

There’s no choice. I don’t have time to handle the volume The

Menagerie gets alone, and Ember conducted herself admirably today with

the Friday flood.

She did her job, between tripping over her own feet and nearly walking

into a wall once or twice.

I’m not sure how this girl has survived to adulthood.

Or how she hasn’t nearly killed herself working with animals, but it’s

almost like the moment she’s got someone’s pet in her hands, there’s magic.

It soothes her.

Calms her.

It’s interesting to watch how she loses her shakiness and unsteadiness,

her lack of coordination and her jumpiness. Those blue eyes focus, warm,

completely locked on whatever beast is in her care.

Considering how few job prospects and even fewer potential candidates

there are in a one-horse town like Heart’s Edge, I can’t afford to lose her.

Hell, I can’t afford to scare her off, either.

I sigh, shaking my head, tempering the sharp words on the tip of my

tongue. “No more clients after closing time, Ms. Delwen,” I say. “Unless it’s

a true emergency, tell them to come back in the morning.”

“I...of course, Doctor, I’m sorry.” She ducks her head, tucking a lock of

platinum blond hair – nearly white, soft and shining in the light to make a

luminous halo around her face – behind her ear. “She was just really

insistent.”

Fuck. She’s rather like that. I’m quite aware, thank you very much.

But I keep my thoughts to myself, and instead brush past her to hold

open the door to the waiting room. “I’ll walk you to your car.”
 She blinks, darting me a quick, wide-eyed look, then glancing away.

Is this girl blushing? Can my day get any worse?

Apparently, it can, because her cheeks turn lively pink, her lashes

lowering. I hope to every god in heaven she hasn’t taken Fuchsia’s barbed

words to heart about my supposedly lecherous intentions.

“O-oh, um...” she stammers. “You don’t have to do that! I’ll be fine.”

I hold a sigh, still grabbing the door. “Heart’s Edge may be a small town,

but we do live in interesting times, and you’re still a young woman on her

own after dark.” When she still hesitates, I add, “I’m leaving anyway.

Whatever computer work you have left can wait.”

That seems to be enough to convince her. She nods, biting her lip,

leaving it wet and gleaming. “Right. Sure. Okay. Let me just get my bag.”

She scurries into the little closet that doubles as a locker room, then

emerges with a petite pale green duffel bag embroidered with blue flowers.

Slinging it over her shoulder, she glances at me without quite making eye

contact, then ducks through the door and past me, her body lightly brushing

against mine.

She’s so small. So fragile. She barely comes up to my ribs, and the bones

of her wrists and collarbones are delicate against pale skin.

Perhaps that fragility, that delicacy, are why I feel the need to escort her

into the descending evening.

I follow her out into the parking lot where she climbs into a little sea

green Audi and offers me a small, shy smile. “I’m good now. Thanks. See

you in the morning?”

“Of course, Ms. Delwen.”

“Ember,” she says softly. “You can call me Ember.”

“Ember,” I agree, if only to keep the peace. Then she smiles brilliantly,

that soft pink blush returning, bringing color to her ivory cheeks. I’m on the

verge of having to look the hell away before that smile makes my blood lava.

“I won’t ask your first name,” she says. “But I hope it’s okay to call you

Doc?”

I only nod my head once and turn away.

At this point, to the entire town of Heart’s Edge, “Doc” is my name.

Guess I prefer it that way.

Better to let the man known as Gray Caldwell fade away forever, into the

howling ghosts of my past.

 Just as I unlock and open my own older Ford truck, there’s this

wheezing, sputtering gasp from behind me.

Ember’s car.

Along with a litany of shoot, darn, heck, and oh nos coming from the

open driver’s side window as she gives it another go, only for it to fail.

Just fucking lovely.

Another dead car, and another damsel in distress. That’s what ended

with my friend Warren getting married not that long ago.

Seems to be a pattern around here.

If I didn’t know better from firsthand experience, I’d start to think

Heart’s Edge was one of those strange little towns where gravity stopped

working and cars mysteriously stalled in the middle of the road; where

watches lost time and people saw strange lights in the sky, while mysterious

military vehicles moved in and out of town driven by nameless men who are

never seen again.

But I know the real truth about Heart’s Edge.

And I can promise you, it’s not aliens.

The rest, though, is definitely sinister enough to warrant a mention or

two on Coast to Coast AM by some crank caller who’ll never be believed.

I turn back, watching her for a few seconds as she tries the key again and

again.

This shouldn’t be my responsibility – except she is.

Besides being my new hire, she’s a young woman alone in a strange

town, having only moved here three days ago. She told me she’d only been

to Heart’s Edge a few times before in the interview.

I didn’t ask why or what could make her pack up shop and move to a

place like this. Most people don’t even know this town exists, but she

apparently has family here. In fact, the only thing I know about her is that

she’s related to Felicity Randall, owner of The Nest, which serves up the

coffee that fuels most of the town.

I don’t need to know anything else.

“You’ll flood the engine,” I say, stepping closer. “Stop. Let’s look under

the hood, and I’ll give you a jump.”

She lets go of the key with a troubled look, peeking through the window

at me. “What if the jump doesn’t work?”

“It’ll work,” I promise.

 It’s got to. We both need a break after the day we’ve had.

IT D O E S N ’ T WO R K .

Not even after stripping out of my lab coat, rolling up my sleeves, and

spending the next twenty minutes ratcheting about under the hood. I’ve

checked the hoses and gaskets. Everything is properly connected, nothing

slipped or burst or leaking. No puddles under the front tires.

I think I’ve brought dogs back from the brink of death far more easily

than this.

Hooking up her battery to mine and trying a jump? Just results in more

wheezing, coughing, and sputtering.

Only some of it’s the engine, after I get a face full of belching black

smoke.

After the fourth try, I have to concede defeat. Straightening, I brush at

the grease on my forearms and soot on my jaw. “You’ll have to call the

garage in the morning. I can give you a ride home.”

“A ride?” She clutches at the strap of her bag. She’s been standing there

watching me silently the entire time, tiny inside the lab coat that nearly

dwarfs her elfin frame. “You don’t have to do that, Doc. I can just call an

Uber.”

“This is Heart’s Edge, Ember. We don’t have regular taxi service, let

alone ride shares.” I almost want to smile – almost. “When everything’s in

walking distance, you don’t need a cab.”

She blinks. “But...it’s miles to my place. That’s not walking distance.”

“It is in a mountain town.” I pull the passenger side door of my truck

open. “Come on.”

After hesitating – she’s so timid, this tiny nightingale of a woman with

her dainty, darting movements – she finally climbs up in my truck and

settles in the passenger seat. I take my place behind the wheel and lean over

to fetch some napkins from the glove compartment.

When my wrist brushes the denim over her knees, she makes a soft

sound, clutching her bag tighter in her lap, then holding perfectly still until I

pull back and wipe at the grease on my hands.

 “So where are you staying?” I ask.

“Oh, for right now, I’m at the Charming Inn,” she says. “I’m there until I

can get a place of my own. My cousin tipped me off that off-season rentals

are actually cheaper than an apartment right now.”

“Ah, Charming. Good choice.”

I’m suddenly even more glad I hadn’t left her to her own devices or in a

stranger’s hands. The Inn is a few miles outside town and off the beaten

path, down a lonely stretch of highway where no young woman should ever

walk alone.

“Buckle your seat belt,” I say.

She obliges with fumbling fingers, hands that had been so steady on the

animals she handled today suddenly turn nervous and unsure. I wait until

I’m sure she’s secure before starting my truck and backing out of the lot,

taking to the main road that’ll lead us to the highway and the inn.

Silence is king. For her it’s a nervous silence, her fingers always

plucking at her bag.

For me, silence is the norm. Preferable. I don’t know when I stopped

talking more than I need to or when I came to have so little to say.

Maybe when I knew certain words out of my mouth would have to be

redacted, the secrets that surround this small town smothered with my voice.

We’ve just made the turnoff from Main onto the highway, chasing the

twin spots of my headlights down the yellow-striped highway, when she

speaks. “So, um, are you okay?”

I arch a brow, glancing at her. “Why wouldn’t I be?”

“Just that woman. With Baxter. And then dealing with my car after

that...” Ember’s looking out the window, her brows drawn together in a

worried line, her pink little mouth soft with concern. “It seemed like she

upset you. Like you knew her.”

“You spoke with her as much as I did,” I deflect. “She was a client.

Apparently, new to town. She mentioned moving. Why would that upset

me?”

“I don’t know.” She trails off, her eyes narrowing before she ducks her

head, tucking her hair behind one ear with a self-deprecating little smile.

“Ignore me. I fuss over everything. I guess I just thought maybe...”

“You thought?”
 “That you might be in some kind of trouble,” she whispers. “That you

might need help. Ridiculous, I know.”

“And how would you help me?” I retort before I can stop myself, then

swear softly under my breath.

It’s instinct. This need to shove any implications of trouble, of history, of

past problems away from me as quickly as possible.

Trouble is, those problems might not stay buried where they belong

much longer.

I don’t know why Fuchsia’s in town.

Frankly, I don’t care. I just need her to get the hell out.

And I also don’t need someone as young as Ember Delwen getting

wrapped up in the disaster Fuchsia inevitably brings.

If you could make a human being bad news incarnate, Fuchsia would do

a mighty fine job.

And I can’t shake the sense of foreboding that trouble is about to return

to Heart’s Edge, hot on Fuchsia Delaney’s heels.

I expect Ember to retreat into silence. Instead, she smiles a strange, sad,

wistful smirk that shadows her meek face. “I guess you’re right. What could

I do for someone like you?”

“Someone like me? And what am I like?”

She shakes her head slightly. “It’s nothing.”

“No, Ember. Do enlighten me.”

Damn it. There’s that cold, cutting edge to my voice again. I can’t stop it.

Not after I was ambushed by a monster today.

That’s got to be why this sweet girl gets under my skin.

Maybe why I care what she thinks of someone like me, and how she

might see me.

She takes a shaky breath, peeking at me from the corner of her eye,

watching me through the windswept tumble of her hair. She’s all natural like

a flower child, letting her hair grow wild and free without any particular

style. There’s a softness to it, to her, that makes her seem like this unspoiled

thing waiting to be plucked.

Sullied, if she gets too close to me.

Defiled.

“Oh, I didn’t mean anything bad.” Again, she bites that pink lower lip. A

terrible distraction I can’t let pull me from the road. “It’s just...you know,
Doc. All those women waiting for you...”

“They were waiting for me because I’m the vet, and their pets needed to

be seen.”

That strange smile flickers across her lips again. “Their pets were fine,

Dr. Caldwell. Every last one of them.”

“Better than being sick. Are you implying our clients have designs on

me, Ember?”

She makes a soft, unhappy sound, then looks out the window again.

“I’m sorry,” she nearly whispers. “I shouldn’t have said anything.”

I frown. I don’t get her. I don’t understand this quiet sense of unrest

hovering around her, like a delicate shawl draped over her slim shoulders.

And I shouldn’t ask this, but I do anyway.

“Ember?” I murmur. “What’s really bothering you?”

Silence. Silence, then another trembling breath, her lashes dipping

downward. “Arielle, I guess. Jake’s owner was there to see you, and you had

to defend me in front of her. Because I was that useless and incompetent.”

“Hardly.” I frown. “You did a fine job, and I refused to let her disrespect

the expertise of one of my employees.”

“What expertise?” she answers, with a touch of unexpected bitterness.

“I’m barely out of college, and barely have my vet tech license. I’m nothing.

Not yet.”

I’m nothing.

I’ve never heard two words said with such heartfelt conviction.

And I wonder exactly what made her believe them.

“I wouldn’t have hired you if you were nothing,” I tell her. “Your

resume, including your apprenticeships, spoke quite well for you. I need

someone I can trust to work without endless supervision and constant

shepherding. You’ve already proven capable on your first day. I can’t have

my clients trying to sidestep you to run to me for every tiny thing when

you’re perfectly capable of handling them on your own, simply due to their

own...biases.”

I bite my tongue when it wants to say desires. I’m not stupid. She’s more

right than she knows, but I’ll hardly just admit it. Because I’ve been

snapping at my buddy, Warren, for years when he calls my clients 'groupies,'

and if he ever heard me give it a shred of truth, I’d never hear the end of it.

I half expect a deflection from Ember, some self-deprecating comment.

 Instead, she just stares at me, the pensive lines fading from her face to

leave her quiet, startled, her eyes a little wide.

Hellfire, she’s blushing again.

I don’t know if I wish she wouldn’t do it so much – or just wish I didn’t

notice the way it turns her into a little porcelain doll, all pert features and

crafted curves. I just wish it didn’t make me want to throw this truck to the

side of the road and bite her–

“Wow. You really have that much faith in me, Doc?” she asks softly.

“Faith is something earned, or something given,” I say, scolding myself

for such ridiculous lust. “I’m choosing to give it to you, Ember, but you’re

well on your way to earning it, too.”

There’s that silence again.

She looks down, staring at her knees, and says nothing. At least there’s

the faint outline of a smile on her face.

I hold my tongue as I take the last turn onto the small winding path that

runs alongside the tall, stately main house and cozy little cottages that make

up the sprawling property of Charming Inn. The air feels heavy between us.

Feels like something more exists between my own words. Something I

can’t quite understand but can’t look too closely at, either.

Fuck, I can’t start thinking of Ember outside any professional capacity,

but I need to make sure she feels welcome. Safe enough to stay.

The clinic is too busy. I might not admit that the women who bring their

pets in are trying to lure me to their bedrooms, but I can’t deny it, either.

The Menagerie’s been even busier since I was branded one of the town’s

unlikely heroes simply for my involvement in bringing down a local drug

lord and helping Warren save his now-wife Haley and her niece from an

untimely end.

I’m not fond of the attention. Not for doing what anyone would in that

situation.

The right thing.

The necessary thing to save not one, but two lives.

But the popularity that comes with publicity isn’t going away any time

soon. Small towns have long memories. I need Ember with me to keep the

practice running smoothly.

Especially now that I may need to step away from my clinic to do a little

work on the side and track down why Fuchsia is back in Heart’s Edge.
 Ember still hasn’t said anything by the time I pull the truck to a stop and

kill the engine. “Will you be okay from here?” I ask.

She starts as if I’ve just pulled her from a dream. Her expression is

distant, strange, before clearing as she looks at me oddly, then glances out

the window. “Yeah! My cabin’s just over there. I’m not that helpless.”

She points.

I don’t look.

“Certainly not,” I tell her.

I need the distraction. I damn sure don’t need to know where she’s

staying, where she sleeps at night.

Keeping my gaze on the steering wheel, I listen to the sound of the

truck’s door popping open on the side.

“So I guess I’ll see you tomorrow?” she murmurs, then adds with a

touch of shy humor, “if you still actually want me to show up.”

I don’t say anything, just nod firmly.

This is a strange moment, here and now. I don’t know what to do with it.

How I fit into the shape of it.

“Thanks for the ride,” she sighs. “Good night, Doc.”

“Goodnight, Ember,” I repeat mechanically, listening as the truck door

closes and latches.

Then, I let myself look.

Watching her as she walks away, now and then glancing back toward me,

blue eyes gleaming like distant stars in the dark.

And I don’t leave until she opens her cabin’s front door and steps safely

inside, leaving me alone in the darkness of the night.

Alone with my demons.

Determined to track down Fuchsia Delaney’s trail.

That’s why I’m sitting here like a plank of wood, trying not to let my

guts wrench when I think of Ember. If she knew half the things I did, she’d

have a thousand more worries than a rough first day.

Like everybody else, she’s innocent of what went down nearly a decade

ago.

How close the entire town came to being burned off the face of the

earth. Fire and blood and fear.

I can’t let that come back to this peaceful place and hurt sweet, fragile

creatures like Ember.

 My jaw clenches as I start my truck again.

One way or another, I’ll find Fuchsia and put an end to whatever she

thinks she’s about to do here in Heart’s Edge.

 3

GONE TO THE DOGS (EMBER)

I don’t know how I’m supposed to show my face in the office today after

last night.

I don’t know what I was thinking.

But for just a minute, underneath that glacial mask, Doc had a look I

never expected to see on his chiseled mask.

Like he was in pain.

Like there was something buried deep inside him that was still hurting,

trying to crawl its way out. Something like a bullet wound that healed over a

long time ago with shrapnel still inside.

Only instead of eating at his flesh, it’s scratching at his heart.

Go ahead and say it’s silly. Maybe I was hallucinating, and even if I

wasn’t, I don’t have any business wondering about a beast of a boss I’ve only

had for a day.

But for just one brief second, I know what I wanted.

I just wanted to make it better.

No, I don’t know anything about him, and it’s not my place, and yada,

yada, yada.

Too bad I went and opened my mouth anyway. All raw impulse.

That’s totally not like me.

Doc looked as startled as I felt when I asked if I could help. A different

kind of glint ran through his emerald eyes.

 I’m still trying to decide if it was genuine surprise or the look he gives a

crazy woman.

Honestly, I’m surprised he didn’t tell me to pack up my lab coat and stay

home, especially after I tripped and literally stumbled my way through

yesterday. And then let in a stranger he wanted nothing to do with.

He’s probably afraid I’ll accidentally burn the practice down next.

But since he hasn’t said a word – not one phone call, email, or text – I

guess I’m still supposed to report in for the Saturday shift, and hope it’s not

too awkward.

Right.

Saturdays were part of the deal with this job. It’s six days a week, twelve

hours a day, and if I didn’t love animals so much and the pay wasn’t so

good...

It wouldn’t be worth it, I tell myself.

Not even knowing Doc works longer and handles Sundays all by

himself.

Not even to spend twelve hours a day with the Dr. Caldwell.

I’m a far cry from those sly, confident women with so much elegance

and poise who hang around him, but there’s this weird feeling I get.

Or maybe it was just that last night I was upset and stranded, and he

came to my rescue, an unlikely knight in shining armor, and that feeling was

me not being used to anyone trying to save me at all.

Not even from my own worst decisions.

Let alone a random twist of fate that left my car dead in the parking lot

of the clinic.

I guess I’ll find out today if he even wants me around.

And if the dreaded feeling in my chest – fluttery, like soft wings

brushing inside me – comes back, or if it was just a silly, passing thing I can

get past to do my job without a thousand distractions.

If I can get to my job, that is.

I still don’t have a car, and my Audi is a lifeless hunk of metal miles

away in the clinic parking lot.

Thankfully, there’s Haley Ford. One of the owners of Charming Inn,

along with her husband Warren, a huge, bearded man with a brash, but

kindly attitude.

I’ve heard whispers about Warren since I showed up in Heart’s Edge.

 Something about busting a drug ring and Doc being involved? But I’ve

barely seen him since he always seems to be in and out, busy with the

property’s constant renovations.

Haley, though, has been sweet as pie. For the few days I’ve been here,

settling in, she’s been out to my cabin with her infant son on her hip,

making sure I’m comfortable and feeling welcome.

I get it, she told me when we first met – and I told her I’d be staying a

while, if that was okay. She’d smiled at me. One of those infectious smiles

you can’t help but give back. I’m a transplant, too. My car dumped me here,

and then somehow, I stayed. I never meant to make Heart’s Edge home,

but...it kind of claimed me.

I can see that now.

I can see how a place like this could claim someone with its quiet, its

beauty, its soft blue sky on rugged mountaintops.

It just sneaks up until one day you can’t think of waking up anywhere

without the sight of tall peaks and marching virgin forest, or low sloping

valleys and the rustic, weathered buildings.

But right now, I don’t have time for sightseeing.

I need to get to work on time.

I finish getting dressed – a little pleated skirt today, something light and

breezy as I was sweating in my jeans yesterday, and a tank top – before

pulling on my lab coat. Then I sling my bag over my shoulder and scatter to

the porch. I’ll just pop up by the big house and see if Haley’s around and not

too busy.

If she is, well...

Guess I’ll find out firsthand about walking distance in a small town after

all.

I barely make it off the porch, room key in hand, before something

moves.

A familiar ash grey Ford truck comes rumbling down the road in a

plume of dust.

Doc.

What the–?

He pulls right up outside the gate to the little wooden fence alongside

the property, draping one elbow against the open driver’s side window and

watching me in expectant silence.

 My heart does a weird little flip that tells me that strange, fluttery feeling

isn’t just last night, or the weirdness of all this short-circuiting my senses –

and my better judgment.

Oh. Wait.

It finally dawns on me between gawking at him and desperately trying to

stop.

Doc’s come to pick me up and take me to work.

I freeze in place, blinking.

I don’t even know what to make of that.

If I’d been worried about that target on my back before, now it’s going to

turn into a bright red bullseye if there are already clients waiting when we

get to the clinic.

A terrible feeling hits as I cross the yard and cut through the fence and

quietly climb up into his tall truck.

Today I’ve just become the enemy of every single woman in Heart’s

Edge. Awesome.

It makes my stomach tight when I think about the fact that it suddenly

bothers me, knowing there’ll be another dozen of them in the clinic today

like it’s some warped reality show. 'Accidentally' brushing against Doc’s

arm, bending forward just enough to offer a view down the front of their

plunging necklines, standing just a little too close to him with their shirts

pulled down to show the edges of their lacy little push-up bras.

Ugh.

I try not to be obvious about peeking down at my more modest tank top.

It’s not that I’m flat or anything. It’s that I work in a field that requires a

lot of mobility without my chest getting in the way.

So while my bras are cute little pastel cotton, they’re still more for

function than form.

And my tank top only shows a hint of cleavage because frankly, with

pets, it’s safety first. It’s hilariously easy for something gross to fall down

there when an animal decides he wants to get in your face.

“So,” Doc says.

I blink, jumping and lifting my head sharply.

Oh my God.

Oh my God, I’m just sitting here eyeballing my own boobs like he isn’t

even there.
 I can practically feel the blush right down my chest. I peek at him from

the corner of my eye.

He’s not looking at me, thank God. Eyes on the road, hands two and ten

on the wheel.

He’s so stiff and upright, but he somehow manages to make it look

rough around the edges. Without his lab coat he’s less of a stern, icy doctor

and more of just a man.

“Just” a small-town Adonis.

Broad-shouldered, quiet, and earthy. The sunlight reflects in soft arcs off

the dark-brown hair curving over his thick, muscly forearms, and on the

backs of his oddly scarred knuckles.

He has the build and touch of someone who’s used to working hard for a

living. Where does he find the time to work out? It’s as easy to picture him

on a farm working with animals as I can in the lab and a more sterile,

clinical setting.

And there’s something about his face.

He’s so gorgeous it hurts with those thick, lazy eyelashes that make his

eyes seem sly. His lips are thin slivers framed by the barest hint of five

o’clock stubble, juxtaposed against the harshly masculine edges defining a

straight, stern nose, an arrogant jaw, a thoughtful brow.

Then there’s that halo of kindness.

Something I don’t think he realizes is there whenever he blanks himself

out in such a cold, distant way.

“So?” I venture.

“I owe you an apology for last night,” he says stiffly, his voice even and

toneless. “I hardly made a professional first impression, Ms. Delwen. As

your employer, I shouldn’t have snapped at you.”

Wow. I wasn’t expecting an apology. Or really, any acknowledgment at

all.

I look down, playing with my bag’s strap. “I’m sorry, too,” I say. “I

shouldn’t have asked you something so personal. It wasn’t professional of

me. It just really threw me off. The whole thing. Weirdest first day of my

life, and I...I guess she just left me...”

I don’t know the word for the uneasy feeling that strange woman gave

me.

This prickle, almost like a premonition, but I can’t say that.

 So I just finish, “...unsettled.”

Doc says nothing.

I kind of didn’t expect him to.

Whoever that woman was, she’s his business, not mine. I need to keep

my nose out of it.

Fortunately, we don’t get mobbed first thing once we arrive at the clinic.

There’s time to slip into my lab coat and do a quick sterile scrub on my

hands, gloving up, before I see my first patient.

It’s an adorable black lab named Mickey whose owner, a middle-aged

woman named Phyllis, is a bit friendlier than Doc’s other hopefuls.

Oh, she’s right there with the flirty looks and coy smiles and not-so-

subtle sallies that he answers with clinical disinterest and pointedly literal

responses that make me grin behind my hand.

But Phyllis treats this less like a flirt-to-the-death competition and more

like some sort of amusing entertainment.

Though as I lean in to peer into her dog’s ears, checking up after a

cleaning to get rid of the last of a respiratory infection, she sways against me

and whispers in my ear.

“Short skirt,” she teases wickedly. “Smart idea, with legs like those. I’ll

have to try that next time. My gams still have a little pump in them after all

these years.”

I sputter so suddenly that Mickey shies away from me, giving me an odd

look. I drop the scope and immediately scratch under his jaw to soothe him,

giving Phyllis a wide-eyed glance.

“Oh, no. I’m not—” I manage to hiss, darting a quick look over my

shoulder. Luckily, Doc’s off fiddling with X-rays or something, nowhere in

sight.

“Why not?” Phyllis asks, eyes glittering. “He’s not getting any younger.”

“Exactly,” I bite off. “He’s like, twice my age.”

“Oh, not that much older, dear.” She pats my shoulder. “Just old enough

to make it dirty.”

I choke out a squeak, my cheeks on fire, blood rushing to my head so

fast I feel dizzy.

Stammering, spluttering, I turn away and pick up the scope to focus on

Mickey again.
 “So I’m going to give y-you a bottle of e-ear wash,” I say, trying – and

failing – to keep my voice steady. Trying to mimic Doc, who can be ice cold

no matter what anyone says to him. “If you use it once a day, y-you should

get rid of the last of the infection and prevent any waxy build-up.”

Yes. That’s exactly what I need to be thinking about right now.

Gross, waxy stuff in a dog’s ears.

Not the tense, thoughtful way Doc’s jaw tightens when he’s brooding.

Not the thickness and roughness of his hands, the hard knots of his

knuckles as he grips the steering wheel with his piston hips slouched

forward in the driver’s seat.

Not how he’s able to flay me open with a single green-eyed glance.

Not – oh.

Oh, crap.

I’m turning into one of the women out in the lobby, aren’t I? One of his

fluttering hopefuls.

God.

Please tell me I’m not doing this.

And I keep my mind firmly on my job for the rest of the day, not even

looking at Doc. I keep my head down and try like holy Hades to be the best

freaking vet tech this town has ever seen.

I try not to even be alone in the exam room with him during lulls in our

clients. Not unless there’s an animal between us.

But even then, I’m jumping out of my skin. Every single time his hand

brushes mine as we gently hold a kitten for her first vaccination rounds – or

when his fingers curl over mine to help me carefully restrain and soothe an

extremely large, very anxious Great Dane with practically twice my body

mass.

It shouldn’t be different from touching any other animal.

All part of the job.

But even through the sterile gloves, his fingers are so warm. So tight. So

enthralling.

Things have quieted down by afternoon, thankfully. My thoughts are

more on paperwork than the boss. I’ve managed to make my heart stop

racing nonstop for the silliest reasons.

Until the door bursts open, swinging wildly.

 A man comes in covered in blood that leaves my heart tumbling forward

for very non-silly reasons indeed.

It’s not his blood.

It belongs to the chocolate brown boxer lying limp in his arms, the poor

baby whining in pain and twitching feebly while the man’s wife and two

daughters come trailing in, wide-eyed and crying.

There’s barely a moment for explanations – the dog was sideswiped by a

car speeding through downtown – before my entire world narrows on the

boxer. Doc is there in seconds, gloving up next to me.

We’re quiet, so quiet. We don’t need to say a word as we work over the

boxer in silent tandem, prepping him for emergency surgery as quickly as

we can.

It’s like Doc gets it. Like he’s tuned to the same wavelength as this

precious, hurting dog.

And like I get him.

Every time he needs me, I’m there, with antiseptic or surgical scissors.

Every second I have a moment of doubt, he’s holding me in place with

his quiet, calm commands. He’s totally in control, like there’s no reason to

panic, no reason to worry.

Because as long as it’s in his hands, somehow, some way, it’ll be all

right.

And together, we save that poor sweet baby’s life.

It’s tense. Touch-and-go as we stop the bleeding, as we debride external

wounds, as we find the internal damage, as we work to make sure the boxer

will survive his worst injuries long enough for us to tend to the lesser ones.

We sedate him so he won’t feel a thing until he wakes up, and then work

ourselves ragged, making damn sure he will wake up.

It’s surgery and stitches everywhere, tackling one thing after the next.

I don’t know how long it takes. Hours that feel like days, an eternity

working over this poor beat-up dog – until bit by bit, he doesn’t look so bad

anymore. Wounds stitched closed, breathing smoothing out, blood washed

away until by the time he’s bandaged up and draped in a blanket, he just

looks like a sleeping lump of puppy sweetness.

And as I snip the thread on the last stitch, I can’t help but smile. My

entire body feels wrung out and exhausted from the tension, sweat dripping
down my spine and soaking the cap I’ve used to tie my hair back for surgery,

but wow.

Wow, I feel good.

We saved him.

The two of us together pulled off something really, really good.

I lift my gaze to Doc’s as he pulls his bloody gloves off his scarred

hands and tugs his surgical mask down. There’s something strange in his

eyes, something I don’t quite understand, but it warms me inside.

I think it might be – approval?

And his deep, husky voice is soft as he asks, “Would you like to inform

the family that he’ll be all right?”

I nod quickly, breathlessly, and I’m out the door like a shot with my

smile still stretching from ear to ear.

When the nervous, waiting family sees me, they bolt up out of their

seats. I don’t have to say a word for them to take one look at my face and

start grinning. The daughters start bawling, while the wife steps forward,

clasping her hands together hopefully.

“Momo?”

“He’s going to be okay,” I answer, and she lets out a breathless laugh,

pressing her hands to her mouth, her eyes gleaming.

“Thank you,” the husband says, hand clutched to his chest. “Thank you

so much.”

“Don’t thank me.” I shake my head and belatedly remember to peel my

own bloody gloves off, discreetly turning them inside out to hide the red

blotches. “We just did what we’re here for. He’ll need plenty of rest for a

while, and medications and intravenous care, but he’s going to pull through.

You’ve got one tough pup.”

“If you don’t mind,” Doc says over my shoulder, emerging through the

swinging doors, “I’d actually like to keep him for a few days. We have the

facilities to administer necessary intravenous nutrients and medicines more

easily than you can at home, plus I’d like to keep an eye on his vitals.”

The husband nods quickly. “Absolutely. Of course, Doc, thank you. How

much do we owe you?”

“I won’t accept payment in cash today.” Doc pulls his glasses off and

tucks them in the pocket of his lab coat, eyes gleaming oddly. “But I think

we could barter. Mitch, please meet Ember, my new vet tech.”

 Mitch and I blink at each other.

I...have no earthly idea what’s going on here.

Barter?

What does that have to do with me?

Mitch seems just as confused, but he offers me a work-worn, friendly

hand and a smile. “Nice to meet you.”

“Same,” I answer faintly, shaking his hand, then glancing at Doc.

“Mitch,” Doc says, “is the town’s new mechanic. He owns the only

garage in town, something we’ve sorely lacked since some trouble closed

down the old one last year.”

Oh.

That’s when it sinks in.

Barter.

Barter, with my dead car sitting in the parking lot.

I pull my hand back, curling it in the collar of my lab coat. “Oh, wait.

That’s not necessary, Doc, I don’t...I think...”

“It’s the most expedient thing for both of you. That’s what I think.” Doc

sounds whiskey smooth and calm and logical, hard to argue with. “The type

of veterinary care provided could run into the tens of thousands without pet

insurance, and having recently bought the garage, I don’t think Mitch is in

the position for that kind of outlay. Ember, you’ll need a vehicle. I can’t pick

you up every day. Since I doubt, after moving here, you can afford thousands

in repairs, either, we have a date with common sense.”

“A trade,” Mitch concludes, face brightening. “I could do that. What’s

wrong with your car, ma’am?”

“I don’t know.” I wrinkle my nose. “It’s not that old, but it had a lot of

wear on it when I bought it.”

“Used?” Mitch asks.

“Yeah. Police auction, and they said it used to belong to a Lyft driver, so

it’s got a few hundred thousand miles on it.”

He whistles appreciatively. “Ridden hard and put away wet, damn. But I

bet you got it for a song.”

I smile faintly. “Few hundred bucks. It got me out here, at least.”

“Well, I’ll make sure it gets you around a little longer. It’s the least I can

do for your help with Momo.”

I clear my throat, looking away. I just feel strange right now.

 My heart twists, flutters, thumps.

Is this happening? Doc really just gave up the cost of an expensive

medical procedure, just to get my car fixed for free?

I’m floored.

Luckily, Mitch is just as nice, talking to me and putting me at ease,

making me feel welcome as part of this little town.

“I didn’t really do much,” I answer quietly, rubbing the back of my neck.

“I’m just the assistant. Doc did all the important work.”

“Don’t let her fool you,” Doc says. “She has good, steady hands and an

ear to match. I couldn’t have saved Momo without her.”

I suck in a sharp breath.

Holy crap. It’s like he enjoys making me blush, my chest clenching and

my face smoking hot.

Clearing my throat, I change the subject quickly and offer Mitch and his

family a smile. “Would you like to come visit with Momo before we put him

in a kennel? He’s sleeping comfortably, but if you’re careful you can still pet

him.”

They brighten immediately with a chorus of agreement, and I take them

in the back and show them where it’s safe to touch Momo.

Maybe I’m imagining it, but even sedated and unconscious?

The boxer seems to rest easier and happier with his family crowded

around him.

It’s closing time when I finally gently usher them out, with a promise

from Mitch to come back in the morning with a tow truck for my Audi.

Together, Doc and I carefully move Momo onto a padded cart, then get him

settled in one of the larger recovery kennels with rounded sides and padded

walls and a hookup to a liquid IV that will keep him nourished until he’s

feeling well enough to eat solid food again.

I linger over his unconscious form, gently sweeping my fingers over his

soft ears and smoothing my hand over the top of his head. Doc stands at my

shoulder, watching in that quietly attentive way he has.

But there’s something softer about it right now.

Something more gentle than the cold, forbidding stares I’ve seen over

the past couple of days.

I feel like there’s this peace between us, and I can’t help but smile as I

stroke my fingertip down the bridge of Momo’s nose and murmur, “Thank
you. For helping out with my car.”

“It’s nothing,” he says.

But when I’m not looking at his face, at that withdrawn expression of

his, I’m almost in the zone called Doctor Caldwell.

I can just let his velvety voice roll over me with something warmer than

dismissive words.

Even when he says, “Let’s clean up, and I’ll drive you home.”

“Sure,” I answer with a smile, pulling myself away from Momo.

“Thanks.”

This time he doesn’t contradict me as we settle in to finish cleaning up

and closing out the clinic.

We don’t say anything, but the radio speaks for us. It’s on some oldies

station, the music mellow and quiet, blending us together to its rhythm while

we work around each other.

But my breath catches in my throat as the song rolls fluidly from an old

Elvis tune to Nat King Cole.

“It’s Only A Paper Moon.”

Dad loved that song once upon a time, back in another life.

It was one of his favorites when he’d talk about music theory and

generational hits in his classes, comparing and contrasting performances by

Nat King Cole and his daughter, Natalie Cole.

My throat closes as I stop and listen, fingers curled against the handle of

the broom.

A shudder zips up my spine. It kind of feels like Dad’s reaching out to

me now, even though that sounds silly. But silly or not, it’s a comfort.

I can almost hear him, telling me everything will be fine, right here in

little old Heart’s Edge.

 4

LIKE CATS AND DOGS (DOC)

I shouldn’t be here.

Parked outside the Charming Inn, watching Ember Delwen climb the

steps of her rental cabin.

Too bad there’s something in me that says not to let her out of my sight.

Not until I’m sure she’s safe.

Fuck. I shouldn’t care this much.

She’s an employee I hired sight unseen, and this is only her second day

on the job.

All I’m worried about, I tell myself, is doing a favor for one of my

employees.

I can’t afford to lose her help. I know that. I’ve told myself the same

thing from the moment that timid, tiny thing walked in the front door of my

clinic and introduced herself as Ember, with a soft-fingered handshake and

eyes that never quite met my own.

But today proved it even more, when she demonstrated steady hands and

a calm demeanor during a surgical crisis.

That shy, soft, innocent fluttering disappeared, leaving behind a quiet

calm, measured and thoughtful and entirely capable. No flinching at the

sight of blood. No emotional interference in critical, life-saving decisions.

Momo the boxer is alive in large part thanks to her.

She always knew what to do in every moment, in every circumstance,

and I never needed to ask for a single instrument or tell her what to do
during surgery.

She was just there, complementing my every move in perfect tandem,

the womanly distraction I don’t want but the shadow I need.

Still, I can’t be here, watching as she stops on her doorstep and looks

back at me with a wistful, thoughtful smile, this damnable wash of pink in

her cheeks, before she ducks her head and slips inside.

Rather, slips on the goddamn threshold. Over nothing.

There’s not even a doorjamb or a bit of weathered stripping there. It’s

just smooth plank floorboards, almost seamless from the deck to the interior

flooring.

Just how?

First instinct has me reaching for the door of my truck as Ember

windmills forward – but she catches herself on the doorframe, snapping her

hands out to grasp on hard, stopping herself from falling face first at the last

second. Eyes wide, she slowly straightens, craning her head over her

shoulder to peek at me, wondering if I saw.

I definitely did.

Sighing, I resist the urge to shake my head, both at her and myself,

rubbing my temples as she ducks into the cabin and shuts the door. Her slim

figure lingers through the glass door and broad front windows before

moving merrily through the living room.

Shit, I don’t have time for this.

Not tonight, and not ever.

Ember’s far too young for me. Her resume pinpointed her age at twenty-

four or twenty-five, while I’m closer to forty.

There can’t be anything between us.

There couldn’t be even if our ages weren’t so far apart.

I can’t forget why I came to Heart’s Edge, or why I stayed.

Definitely not to engage in fucking dalliances with shy, soft women who

look at me from under a fringe of lashes the color of honey and sunlight on

wheat. I can have that anytime on a daily basis in the office, if I wanted. But

those desperate women are easy to resist.

Ember? She’s a damn distraction, a firefly of light and heat in my mind.

I know why I’m here, and why I stay. It’s to keep this town safe.

To protect it from the monster I unleashed so many years ago.

 I can’t do that unless I manage to hunt down Fuchsia Delaney and find

out just which ill wind blew her my way.

Frankly, I don’t have time for that, either. But some inconveniences don’t

wait when it could mean lives.

I put my truck into gear and do a tight U-turn on the little dirt path, then

send it rolling toward the main highway again – only to stop as a familiar

vehicle jerks to a stop in front of me.

Warren gets out of his own truck in front of the main house, lifting his

hand in a wave.

I have to stop. I don’t want to, but I have to. Because after the questions I

asked him last night, if I act like I’m hiding something, it’ll just make a

bloodhound like Warren curious.

He’s already made a few too many educated guesses when I’d asked

about any new arrivals, and if they might be staying at the Charming Inn. I

never should’ve said anything to him years ago. Not a damn word about the

Paradise Hotel, and how I came to this place.

No one new at the inn, he’d reported.

No one but that little bit of glowing embers in the dark.

That sweet firefly-girl, glimmering ephemeral and bright.

Now, as I stop and roll the window of my truck down, Warren leans his

forearms on the door and offers me an easy smile. “Hey, Doc. Been asking

around for you.”

“About?” I ask neutrally.

One thing I’ve learned over the years, perhaps instilled by the Army:

never assume the direction of a question or comment.

Not when you can easily give away too much in your response.

“The new arrivals you asked me about,” he answers casually.

“Grandma’s still practically the group telephone of the town, and people tell

her everything.” He smirks. “Especially the news about some Black Widow

lady in a fur-lined coat, parading around the grocery store like she owns it

and looking down her nose at everybody when she can’t find herself an aged

Camembert.”

Fuck it all to hell.

That’s Fuchsia, all right. I swallow a groan.

The fact that she’s not being particularly covert, announcing her

presence in town? It can only mean a number of things.

 One, an operation is underway – and Heart’s Edge is about to get

steamrolled under it. Everything else is secondary to accomplishing the

mission in the circles she runs in.

Two, she’s here on her own, without the resources she needs to be more

stealthy.

Or three. She’s trying to bait me and knows the only way to get under

my skin is to do things that make people ask questions about her...and me.

Snarling, I grind my teeth. Warren watches me, his thick brow

furrowing. “Hey. Man. You know her? Who is she? Talk to me.”

I shake my head. “No one.”

“Bull. I don’t believe that for a red second. You don’t get this worked up

over no one, Doc. Hell, I think I almost saw a facial expression there.”

I glance up, giving him a flat, disgusted look. “You’re not funny.”

“My wife thinks I am. And my boy thinks I’m a damn riot.”

“I’ll let you know when an infant’s tastes are the gold standard for wit.”

He snorts a laugh, but his smile turns concerned. Troubled, maybe.

“Seriously, man. Are you in some shit? I can help. I owe you one for that

crap last year, saving my ass at the cliff–”

“I’m fine, War. There’s nothing worth worrying about. She’s just...an old

friend from way back when I was still enlisted.” I nearly bite my tongue

until I taste iron.

The word friend bites like the bitterest lie. I can’t fucking stand it,

referring to that hell witch as anything like a friend.

But it’s the best I can do, right now, to keep Warren from getting

involved.

“I think she’s in some trouble with an ex,” I add.

That’s one way to put it. But if I say any more, it’ll be an obvious lie,

and I don’t want to do that to a real friend like Warren.

It’s curious how people volunteer more information when they’re

constructing a lie than when they’re telling the truth, a desperate effort to

convince the listener.

Warren looks like he doesn’t believe me anyway, but he lets it go with a

final word. “So that’s why you’re so worried about where she’s staying?”

I take the easy out. “Yeah. That’s it.”

“Well, Heart’s Edge is a one-trick town. Only one hotel now, and you’re

at it. If she’s not with us, then she’s got to be staying with someone else she
knows.”

It’s a bit of a prod, but one I let slide.

Especially when I feel sick thinking of that one line.

Only one hotel. Now.

Warren must know quite well that Fuchsia’s not staying with me –

though I’m fairly certain she’s not with anyone else in the town proper,

either.

Which leaves me with...what, exactly? The old, burnt-down hotel down

in the valley. The silver mine?

She wouldn’t be out there, would she?

The place is a ruin. What could possibly be left at the Paradise Hotel

that’d attract the interest of Fuchsia, or the people who pull her strings?

“Hey, hey. Earth to Dr. Caldwell.” Warren waves a hand in front of my

face. “You with me?”

“My apologies. I’m just dog-tired.” I offer a thin-lipped smile, the best I

can muster. “I should head home. Thanks, Warren. You’ve been more help

than you know.”

I L E AV E H I M T H E R E , like that.

Before he can ask any damning questions I don’t know how to answer.

I should head home, but not yet. One, if anyone’s watching me, I don’t

want to lead them straight to my house.

Two, I’ve got a few things to do at the only place that feels like a

sanctum.

The Menagerie is my safe haven. It’s where I spend most of my life, the

focus of most of my thoughts.

It’s also where I keep the remnants of my past, tucked away somewhere

I can keep a close eye on them at all times. But it becomes all too painfully

clear that someone else kept a close eye on me as I pull into the parking lot

next to Ember’s broken-down Audi.

A slip of bright pink paper – fucking fuchsia in color, no less – is tucked

into the door, wedged between the frame.

I don’t have to look to know who it’s from.

 A feeling of numb foreboding and rage sinks inside me as I step out of

my truck and approach the door.

The note looks neatly folded into quarters and flips open on a simple

message.

Meet me tomorrow. Same old time, same old place.

I crumple the paper in my hand, the edges biting my palm, the corners

catching on the rough abrasions of my scars. What bullshit.

Heat flares out my nostrils. The clinic’s glass door throws my reflection

back at me, shadowed and haunted against the darkness.

I don’t even recognize the man in the glass.

The man in the smooth reflection is a dead thing, shaped and twisted by

fury, by nerves, deep lines carved in his face and his bright eyes sunken into

black, bottomless pits.

This is what Fuchsia Delaney does to me.

Turns me into the man in the glass – a demon. A nightmare. A beast.

Every last thing I swore I left behind, long before my troubles could

return to threaten Heart’s Edge. But with her back, here at my doorstep, that

dream’s dashed.

I push my way into the clinic and lock the door firmly behind me. The

lights are down low, turning the place strange and dark and echoing. It

reminds me too much of the old days.

The labs, sterile and cold, frigid white cones of light turning everything

inside stark, hollow, lifeless. Sometimes light can’t paper over real darkness.

Not in those labs I can’t forget, or inside me.

I feel like a different person as I make my way through the empty clinic

to my office in the back. To the false wall, which slides away like a standing

screen to reveal a small chamber with several laptops, a monitor tracking

motion sensors set far out in the valley, firearms, clips of ammo.

For a second, my eyes catch the glint of the pressured, hermetically

sealed medical freezer. The thing only opens with my biometrics and pin.

It’s programmed to internally torch its contents if anyone ever tries to unlock

it using the wrong fingerprint. It’s the only way I dare to keep a monster

here, a demon in the freezer.

But that hell inside just might save lives one day if – God forbid – I ever

need to dredge it up.

 I push past toward the only other thing in here, a single shoebox, empty

except for the compact folding phone rattling around inside.

It’s a burner phone with the branding logo scraped off. It appeared on

my doorstep several years ago, only a single number programmed into it.

One number and a note.

I know who’s on the other end of that line.

Who would answer, if I call. It’s the only way to reach him.

Staring down at the number on the screen, my thumb hovers over the

button, before I hiss to myself and snap the phone shut.

Not today. Not tomorrow. Not yet.

But soon.

Soon, I may need my old friend more than ever, if we’re going to keep

this tiny, innocent town a safe place for fireflies.

 5

RESTING MY DOGS (EMBER)

S ome days, I wonder if I’m flipping adopted.

Because there’s no way I can be related to a woman as loud, as

energetic, and as bold as Barbara Delwen.

I’m amazed the entire coffee shop can’t hear our conversation with her

voice chirping merrily on the other end of my phone. I’m perched on a stool

at The Nest, my cousin’s café and bakery, playing with the crumbled

remnants of a cinnamon roll I have no appetite to eat and waiting for Mitch

to finish with my car in his garage down the street.

It’s been a lazy Sunday, spent talking to Felicity around the few patrons

drifting in and out of the café while Mitch does his best to make my little

Audi go vroom again.

But somehow one phone call, and my mother is already managing to

wear me out.

“I promise,” I tell her. “I’m fine. The cabin’s fine. My car’s not fine, but

it will be before long.”

“Can you imagine, though?” she says. “If something happened to you on

the drive out there, in the middle of those mountains at night, alone with no

cell reception—”

“You’re writing the script for a horror movie, Mom.” I laugh. My

mother is the queen of hyperbole, and you just get used to it after a while.

“Cell reception out here is just fine. My car has OnStar. Even if the Audi

broke down on the way to Heart’s Edge, I’d have had a tow and been safe in
an hour. But it didn’t, so there’s no point worrying about what might’ve

been.”

“Oh, fine.” She sounds sulky, like she always does when I suck the wind

out of her sails and don’t let her have her fun with her macabre flavor of

Agony Aunt scaremongering. “But I still don’t like you being there alone,

Ember. A single girl, on her own in the sticks–”

“I’m not on my own. I have Felicity.”

At the sound of her name, Felicity looks up from whipping the foam on

a cappuccino and offers a smile and a thumbs up.

I continue. “And I’m at work for pretty much every waking hour,

anyway. Nothing’s going to happen to me with Doc on the watch.”

I regret saying his name the moment I open my mouth. Ugh.

But it’s out already, isn’t it?

Mom’s voice sharpens with gleeful curiosity. “Doc, huh? That’s the man

who hired you?”

“Right-o,” I say neutrally. “He’s the boss.”

“And is he single?”

Oh, no. She’s using that tone again.

“I didn’t ask. Not my business.”

Honestly, I wonder. I’ve never seen a ring – though I hate myself for

checking.

But I doubt so many women would be swarming him if he was happily

married, or even had a girlfriend.

On the other hand...I’ve seen reality TV.

They might.

But it’s extremely doubtful, and I can’t be thinking about this. Not that it

stops my mother’s next round of torture.

She clucks her tongue. “Really, Ember. A man who owns his own

veterinary practice must be very responsible and disciplined. I imagine he’d

make a good—”

“No. Don’t even. If you say ‘son-in-law,’ I’m hanging up this phone.”

“Nope,” she says blandly. “I was going to say ‘lover.’”

“Mom!” I nearly shriek – then freeze, my heart almost catapulting

through the roof while I hunch down into my shoulders.

Oh my God, the entire café probably heard that.

 Felicity grins at me, and I press my overheated face into one palm and

groan.

“You can’t say things like that.”

“Why not? Honestly, I didn’t raise you to be this shy. Particularly about

sex.”

“Have you no sense of shame whatsoever?”

“No, dear, menopause took that when it took my eggs.” She snorts. “I

never thought my own daughter would be a twenty-five-year-old virgin.”

“And I never thought my mother would be this eager for me to get laid,”

I hiss back, practically under my breath.

“Well, unless you’re planning to give me grandchildren with a turkey

baster, I don’t see it happening any other way.”

“Aaand that’s enough of that,” Felicity interrupts with a laugh, cutting

off the choking, apoplectic sounds I’m making by sauntering over and

plucking the phone from my hand.

Grinning, she props it between her shoulder and ear, wiping her hands

off on a rag. “Hey, Auntie Barb. What’re you doing to turn Ember that shade

of red?”

“Being horrible,” I hiss, scrubbing my hands over my scalding-hot

cheeks and trying to breathe.

It’s not even that my mom said all that wretched stuff.

It’s that I’m going to remember it every time I see Doc now, and I won’t

be able to look him in the eye at work tomorrow.

Especially when I know just how it feels to have his arm locked tight

around me, and his tall, work-hardened body pressed hot against mine.

It didn’t mean anything, I tell myself.

I’m grateful to Felicity for saving me, though. She’s better at handling

Mom, and even as I hear my mother squeal “Felicity, daaahling!” loud

enough to echo from the phone, Felicity’s adroitly trading salvos with her

and diverts the topic away from me. I catch her eye, sighing and plunking

my chin into my palm.

Thank you, I mouth. She laughs silently.

No problem, she mouths back.

Within a few minutes, Felicity manages to handle my mother into

hanging up the phone, before passing it back to me with a dry smile. “You

can stop doing your best impression of a tomato now.”

 “Tell that to my face,” I mutter, dropping my phone back in my bag.

“God, I don’t know how I turned out this way when I was raised by that

woman.”

“I do.” She folds her arms on the bar-style counter and leans on them,

watching me sympathetically. She’s got a kind, open face, pretty and foxlike,

and I’ve always envied how effortlessly stylish yet down-to-earth she is.

“People say the apple doesn’t fall far from the tree, ya know. But apples that

land in the tree’s shade often don’t get enough sunlight for their seeds to

grow. I mean, not unless something else picks them up and carries them

away somewhere where the seeds can grow on their own. Maybe a bird or a

squirrel or something.”

“Thanks. That was both a terrible extended metaphor, and a twisty way

of saying my diva of a mother overshadowed me, so now I’m a shy mess.”

“Hey, I was trying to be nicer than that.” She grins, her eyes twinkling.

“But you can’t get farther from her shadow than Heart’s Edge. Might as well

do a little growing.”

“Don’t you start, too. I mean if you really want to get into the apple

thing...apple seeds only get carried somewhere else because the fruit’s sweet

enough for wild animals to eat them.” I raise both brows. “I’m not enticing

anyone to eat me any time soon. Or crap me out.”

“Now there’s the part of you that’s Auntie Barb.” She lets out a

spluttering chuckle, shaking her head. “But really...there’s only a few single

guys over the age of eighteen in town right now, so your options are either

being a stepmom, hooking up with the college guys who drive in for shots at

Brody’s every weekend, or getting eviscerated by the pack of wild jackals

after Doc.”

“I’ll take option four: none of the above, and single is fine. I don’t even

want to think about Doc that way. I have to work with him.”

But the idea’s already there, inside me. Totally where it shouldn’t be.

Memories where there shouldn’t be any.

Those gentle, scarred hands of his, the almost-touches, him showing up

to give me a ride, the quiet way he told me I...I’m worth something.

It still feels surreal to hear.

Just for being me.

“Hey, lady? What’s with that dreamy look, huh?”

 I blink, snapping to. “Wh-what? I—nothing! I don’t have a dreamy

look!”

“Uh-huh.”

“I don’t.” Clearing my throat, I move on quickly. “Anyway, thanks for

the job tip. I’d never have found any kind of posting this far out on my

own.”

“Don’t thank me. I honestly don’t even know how you can work with

that man. Sometimes I feel like I signed you up for corporal punishment.”

I frown. “Nah, it hasn’t been that bad. I mean the jackals have been a

little much, but truly?”

Felicity tilts her head. “So Doc hasn’t driven you crazy yet?”

Not the way you think.

“He’s been good to work with,” I say carefully, shaking my head. “He’s

good with animals. I don’t get it, what’s the problem?”

“He’s just frustrating. Too tough to crack. Mister X. Nobody around here

really knows him except Warren and Blake, and they aren’t talking. Not even

small-town hospitality has pried him open. He’s been here so long, and

yet...talk about questions.” She shrugs, turning the rag over between her

fingers. “He’s mixed up in something, I think. After that mess last summer, I

probably don’t even want to know what, but it’s just a little maddening

having Doc Caldwell cold-shoulder everyone with a smile.”

“Yeah, he does that sometimes.” I can’t help smiling myself. “It’s

actually pretty fascinating and funny at the same time. He manages to

deflect these lovestruck women all day without ever insulting them, until

they’re left standing there blinking and wondering what happened while he

just walks away.”

“You’d think they’d give up sooner or later.” She smirks. “But when

you’re that easy on the eyes, I guess the flock’s gonna swarm.”

I don’t know what to say to that.

No way. I’m not thinking about how easy Doc is to look at.

Not those sharp, glittering jade eyes that seem like they could soften at

any moment.

Not that lazy mouth that seems made for sensuous things instead of

formal, clipped words.

Not his halo of stubble, so rough and yet so right. It’s the lone chink in

his professional armor that completes the whole package with an awesome
finish.

Stop. Let me just white this image out of my mind, blank it out in a

mental snowstorm, and move on.

“So,” I say, changing the subject rather pointedly. “How’s this place

doing?”

I glance around the coffee shop. It’s not very busy for the Sunday brunch

hour, only a little over a dozen patrons – or maybe that’s my city

expectations, and this is normal.

It’s a cute place, charming and full of honeyed sunlight, everything in

soft autumn colors with bits of bronze, copper, and iron filigree making

curling, vine-inspired designs everywhere. It should be full of people,

laughter, warmth.

Not on the verge of shutting down, killing everything my cousin has

worked her tail off for.

I let my gaze drift back to her. “Mom told me what happened with your

investor and...the whole mess with the drug busts. And murder.”

She wrinkles her nose. “I’m just glad that’s over, and people aren’t

spreading rumors about me sleeping with the guy for his money anymore.

He was married.”

I make a face. “People said that?”

“That’s the other side of everyone knowing everyone in a small town,”

she says dryly. “Sure, they treat you like family and love to help, but they’re

going to talk about you like shit, too. Like I’d ever screw a guy, let alone a

married guy with kids, just for a little cash flow.” She presses her lips

together. “Sad that he died, though. He was a really nice guy, just trying to

find a way to help me revive this place.”

I lean my arms on the counter. “Not much luck there, huh?”

“Eh, we’ll see. I don’t want to take out any straight-up loans, as I don’t

know when I’ll be able to pay them back – but an investor arrangement isn’t

half bad, and I might have someone lined up.” She smiles, her eyes

gleaming eagerly. “There’s this guy who’s been sniffing around town. New

guy, I think, but I guess with most of Bress Holdings dissolving, there’s a lot

of opportunities for people to buy things up real cheap and make a profit.

He’s offering me better terms than the bank, at least.”

“And here I thought I was the only mysterious new arrival in town.

Bleh.”
 Thinking of mysterious new arrivals has me thinking of that woman

again. Wondering about her and about her obvious connection to Doc.

And although I know I’m going to get teased about it, I ask, “Hey, Fel?

Seriously, what kind of shady stuff is Doc involved in? Should I be worried,

working for him?”

“Ah, so now she shows what’s truly on her mind.” Felicity straightens,

folding her arms over her chest. There’s a sudden air of excitement about

her, and she looks around quickly before leaning in, telling me a secret.

“Has anyone told you the legend of Nine yet?”

I blink, recoiling a little. “No? Nine what? Like nine ghosts, nine serial

murders, nine–”

“Nine’s not a number. Nine’s a man.” Her voice drops to a hushed stage

whisper, her eyes widening. “Or he used to be a man. Some people think

he’s turned into some kind of monster, like a government experiment. The

stories get really crazy and I don’t know about the wacky paranormal stuff.

All I know is he killed the mayor and burned down the old Paradise Hotel

years ago. That part’s true. Then he turned himself in, ranting and raving

about the ‘things’ getting out...that was before he escaped prison and

vanished into the wild. Probably your run-of-the-mill lunatic. They say he’s

still out there, though, and the only one who knows what really happened

the night of the big fire is Doc Caldwell. He was there, Ember. He’s

admitted that much, but he’s not talking.”

Despite myself, a shiver flares down my spine. I try to laugh it off.

“C’mon. Murders, arson, and secret government monsters? Here? This is

more like Mayberry, not Law and Order – and it’s sure as heck not The X-

Files.”

But Felicity just smiles, her girlish excitement disappearing into an odd,

quiet bitterness that leaves me distinctly unsettled. “If you think Heart’s

Edge is all flowers and mountain air, girl, you’ve just scratched the surface,”

she says. “This town has a lot of secrets, and you’d better get used to them,

fast, if you want to survive.”

 6

BEWARE OF DOG (DOC)

I already know this is a terrible damn idea.

But I’m here now. Waiting. And there’s no backing out.

The night is pitch-black. Moonless. The service road that once led to the

Paradise Hotel is nothing but a dark snaking line through the trees along the

base of the hills, winding toward the valley where the ruins lie, nothing but

broken kindling that seems like it should burst into smoldering flames once

more at any moment.

I’ve parked my truck so far off the shoulder it’s practically in the ditch,

smothered in shadow and keeping me concealed.

I need to see her before she sees me. I have to be prepared. Ready for

any and all surprises, every last bit of heaping bullshit she can sling.

My old service pistol – still primed and ready – is holstered at my hip in

plain view. My phone, more concealed, waiting with Blake and Warren’s

contacts pulled up, ready to call them at the slightest tap.

Even if it’s just to let them overhear what’s happening, and infer that I

might just need a little backup.

I don’t want to get them involved, if I can help it.

Not in my mess. Not in my secrets.

But if it’s necessary to keep the town safe, I’ll do what I must. For

Heart’s Edge, the stakes are always high.

It’s over an hour before I finally see the creeping headlights breaking

over the hill.

 Just like Fuchsia. She enjoys keeping men waiting, in more ways than

one.

But a familiar, battle-hardened, wary tension flows through me as I take

in the black SUV that crests the hill, growling toward me like a funeral on

wheels. Blackout windows. Glossy, sleek finish that manages to shine even

in the dark. The type of vehicle that’s supposed to be nondescript but has

become such a symbol of military power and espionage and wicked dealings

that it practically screams something sinister.

Part of me expects the rear window to roll down a crack. Then all I’ll

see is the quiet mouth of a silencer before I have half a second to duck and

save my life or be swallowed up in the world of blackness in front of me.

Instead, the SUV pulls off to the opposite side of the road from me and

parks. The rear passenger door on the left side opens, which tells me she’s

not alone.

She has a driver. Someone she must trust with whatever she’s come here

to say, to do, to demand.

Or it’s someone disposable enough that she doesn’t mind getting rid of

him later, silencing anything he knows.

Fuchsia steps out, one heel at a time, as black as the night itself in a

sleek sheath dress and stockings, dressed for a corporate meeting rather than

a secret rendezvous. Her dark attire makes her face seem like pale bone,

floating toward me with cool, gliding elegance as she crosses the empty road

with the only sound between us the click of her heels on the asphalt.

With a pointed, lofty little half-smile, she stops next to the window of

my truck and taps her nails on the glass.

Fuck.

Reluctantly, I stab the switch and roll the window down. I’d rather speak

to her through it. I don’t even want to breathe the same air as her. But I’d

rather get this over with quickly, without any lethal misunderstandings.

Even so, I say nothing as she waits expectantly, before with a sigh she

arches a brow.

“Really, Caldwell? You’ve no manners,” she says. “Relax. I’m not here

to kill you.”

“The fact that it’s even an option should tell you why I can’t relax,” I

bite off. “You must be deranged to think anyone could relax after the lunacy

that happened here.”

 “Most people don’t know about that ‘lunacy,’ as you call it,” she snaps

back sharply. “And we intend to keep it that way.”

We?

Who the fuck is we?

“If you intend to keep it that way,” I answer flatly, “then leave. Get out of

town. Heart’s Edge doesn’t need another tragedy. I don’t know why you’re

here, but I know it won’t end well.”

“Do you really think my intentions are so nefarious?” Her innocent blink

is as false as her eyelashes, though the eyelashes are far more artfully

applied. “Honestly. If I intended to do anything bad, if I were working on

Galentron’s behalf, would I have simply announced my presence so

spectacularly?”

“Don’t.” It comes out in a hiss through vise-like teeth I suddenly can’t

seem to unclench. “Don’t ever say that name again. Not here. Not in my

presence.” My hands twitch, digging into the steering wheel. “I don’t know

or care what kind of game you’re playing. All I know is I want you gone.”

“Do you?” She folds her arms gracefully against the door of my truck,

leaning in. I can smell her perfume, a bitter mixture of cardamom and

vanilla, itching at my nostrils. It takes everything in me not to flinch away in

disgust and hold my ground. “But there’s another name we could be

discussing.” Her smile is far too controlled, too knowing. “Nine. We find

him, and we end this for good.”

“There’s nothing to end.” I look at her coldly. Her airs don’t affect me,

the femme fatale act falling flat when I see no appeal in her manipulation

and cruelty. “This already ended long ago. I’m not helping you revive it.

Leave this town.”

“Why, Sheriff, you gone’ go run a li’l helpless lady off like that?” she

pantomimes in a mocking falsetto drawl, fluttering her fingers before her

mouth – before the act drops like a falling curtain and it’s nothing but a

razor smile and cold, dark grey eyes. “Enough with the valiant small-town

protector act. Don’t forget I know who you really are, Doctor. You’re

someone who wants revenge.”

I go stock-still. My spine is stiff, my skin tight as I eyeball her warily.

“There’s no one to take revenge against. An unspeakable tragedy

happened, and now there’s nothing left to do but move on.”

 “Just like that? Even though the real culprits were never held

accountable?” she lilts. “The people who brought the pathogen here to this

town you’ve grown so fond of. Doesn’t it eat your little heart to bits,

knowing they’re still working for Galentron and making millions?”

“And if I tried to do something about it, it’d bring the entire company

down on this town like an anvil to crush all evidence,” I point out sharply.

“No. My vindication isn’t worth the danger it would put these people in. I

have no appetite for revenge, Fuchsia. Or for any of the things you seem to

think I want.”

“But we could stop them if we work together,” she urges. She’s oddly

persuasive in a way that doesn’t suit her. Fuchsia is an intimidator, a

dominator, and she doesn’t make passionate cases for empathetic causes.

“You, Nine, and li’l old me are the only witnesses. The only ones who know

what truly happened, when there’s no official record of the truth. If we put

out a joint statement, leaked it live online, they wouldn’t be able to bury it

fast enough. It would go viral, millions of copies duplicating that they could

never take down. With that kind of publicity, Heart’s Edge would never be a

target again.”

“You obviously think the good denizens of the internet care about a

nowhere town like this far more than they do.” I thin my lips. “Have you

ever actually used social media at your age?”

Her eyes narrow to vicious slits, yet another act falling away to leave the

cold snake underneath. “You’ll see things my way soon enough. Especially

since I’m not the only one back in town.”

A low growl builds in the back of my throat, but I’m not rising to the

bait. I won’t ask her who she means. I won’t let her dangle me on a hook

and drag me around wherever she pleases. Whatever’s going on with her,

I’m not getting involved.

No matter how much she tries to manipulate me.

I say nothing as she gives me a long, meaningful look and then

straightens, pulling back from my truck and turning away.

Giving me her back that way is a message.

She couldn’t have missed the pistol on my hip, yet walking away with

her back exposed says she either knows I won’t cross that line and shoot her

– or she’s not afraid of me, no matter what I do.

She should be.

 Anyone who walks the wrong edge and endangers my town should be.

She’s almost back to her SUV when she stops, looking back at me,

thoughtful. “Do you really hate me so very much, Gray?” she asks softly.

I don’t answer.

Just roll up the window of my truck, flick on my headlights, and pull the

hell away from the curb.

In the rear-view mirror, she stands in the middle of the street: confident,

proud, disdainful, watching me with a silent message in her very stare.

But all I can see, all I can hear, are flames.

Flames, and the savage screams of my burning friend, melting alive.

Phantom pain twinges in my fingers, then numbness.

I only wish I could numb everything else like these scars.

T H AT W ISH CO M E S BACK T E N FO L D after an afternoon appointment back at

The Menagerie, three days later.

When my hand is bleeding from sharp little hedgehog teeth, and it’s

taking everything in me not to burst out swearing in front of the little boy

apologizing profusely for Porky’s bad behavior. I can’t really blame the

spiteful little spineball.

I’d bite anyone shoving needles in my ass, too, vaccinations or not.

That doesn’t mean I particularly enjoyed those two vicious front teeth

sinking into the ball of my thumb.

I manage to politely excuse myself with a reassuring murmur for the boy.

Then I duck out of the room and stalk into the back, cupping my hand to

keep from dripping blood on the floor.

I hear her before I see her. Ember’s voice, a soft lilt, a melody,

whispering something about make believe and self-belief.

I stop outside the door, frowning, trying to place the song.

Ah. It’s an old Nat King Cole classic. A bit before her time. I catch my

curiosity sparking and crush it down with a scowl, pushing into the room.

She glances up from wiping down several more delicate bits of

equipment with sterile cloths, her singing voice faltering, but I brush past
her to the sink. Plunging my hand under the stream of ice water is a relief,

almost instantly numbing the pain.

Ember sets her work down, rising with her brows knit together. “Doc?

What happened?”

“Hedgehog bite,” I answer, turning my hand and watching the blood turn

thin and pink, then washing away from the gnarled skin of my hand with

morbid fascination. “Not rabid, thankfully. Just annoyed over his

vaccinations.”

“It could still get infected. Here.”

Suddenly her hands are on mine – sure and confident rather than shy and

nervous.

Like I’m one of the injured or sick animals who brings out this side in

her. Ember wraps my hand in a towel, her thumb pressing down gently

through the terrycloth at a point just below the bite to slow the bleeding.

All I feel is the warmth and softness of her touch, the strange tight

sensation in my chest, the way my pulse speeds up just enough to make

breathing so wrong.

Damn.

I let out a breath explosively as she picks up a bottle with a mix of

iodine and a few other things guaranteed to kill any germs, peels the towel

back, and pours the burning cleaning solution over my hand.

I grind my teeth on a hiss as it soaks into the wound, trying not to focus

on the pain. That’ll just make me snap, and I’ve been difficult enough to

work with over the last few days for reasons that have nothing to do with

her.

After my last little encounter with Fuchsia, I haven’t been myself. Or

maybe I’ve just been a version of myself I wanted to forget.

Everything in me is on high alert, trying to reawaken old military

training that tells me to remember situational awareness, threat assessment,

tactical crisis response. Then it hits me how insane that is.

Goddammit, I’m just trying to make sure people’s puppies have their

fucking shots over here. Not play soldier.

I can’t help watching her, distracting myself as she looks over the wound

critically, dabbing away the dark-brown stain of iodine. She’s singing again

softly, almost under her breath. Her eyes are heavy, lids half-lowered, their
pensive gaze focused on her hands as she works me over like some little

Cinderella.

Her voice is undeniable. She’s had some kind of voice training.

For just a second, I wonder what it’d be like to let the Fuchsia shit go.

Just sit here, her fingers gliding over mine, enjoying the sensation as she

sings my ears to some special slice of heaven I’m not sure I deserve.

Then I shut that line of thought down again mighty fast.

No. I can’t wonder about Ember Delwen.

I also can’t seem to stop myself from thinking, watching those capable

hands delicately searching the wound, her skin so pale against mine, her

touch so gentle despite the searing pain.

“You’ve got talent,” I murmur while she uses a bit of gauze to wipe the

last of the blood from my hand. I’m not even sure if I’m praising her as a

vet, or as a singer. “You could be anywhere else but here.”

She smiles faintly. “But why would I want to be?”

“Because there’s more to life than chasing after wild animals and letting

them mangle you like this.”

She falters, looking down at our hands. A pained crease appears between

her brows, and I wonder what I’ve said to upset her.

After a few silent moments, she murmurs, “You sound like my father.

He’d always tell me there was more to life than chasing problems that would

find you anyway. Why go looking, when you could just be happy instead?”

“Wise man,” I tell her with a nod.

“He was.” Her voice is tight, thick. “He passed a few years ago.”

It’s strange to me how she says it so openly.

We barely know each other, yet here she is, showing me these fragile

emotions, this painful loss behind a warmth etched so clearly on her face, in

her voice, in her eyes.

This is a delicate creature. She wears her feelings like a butterfly flaunts

its colors, things delicate and sweet and just as easily crushed.

And I can’t return in kind, no matter this quiet between us that seems to

say it’s safe.

All I can say is, “I’m sorry.”

And for once, I mean it.

I never meant to dig up old, hurtful memories. I know damn well what

it’s like to walk face-first into a pain you thought you’d buried ten feet deep
– only for it to sink those needling, painful teeth in all over again.

“It’s okay, Doc. No worries.”

She’s been working over my hand with a pair of micro forceps, and

slowly extracts a tiny, slim hedgehog spike I hadn’t realized was in the bite.

Looks like the little bastard managed to stab me, too.

Once it’s out, bright blood wells again, making me think far too much of

Fuchsia.

How fucking easily she could leave this girl’s blood spilling across the

floor, if I’m not careful.

How many other men and girls and children she could murder just as

easily, if I let her have free rein.

While Ember swabs the blood, her fingers stroking like silk over the heel

of my palm, she continues, “My dad was a music teacher. He loved it. Any

instrument, he could play without having hardly ever touched it, and he

could never quite teach that to anyone...but he tried. He tried to share his

love, and if he couldn’t give them his natural talent, he’d teach them how to

use that love to better themselves. I think...maybe that’s one of the best ways

to learn anything. Through love. I know it’s a little sappy, I guess, but it was

love for him that taught me to sing. It always made me so happy, but...” She

swallows, the delicate feathers of her lashes trembling. “After he died, I just

haven’t been able to find that feeling again.”

“And you want to,” I ask softly. “Is that it?”

“Yeah. Something like that.”

I feel like I should offer something here.

Some small word of gentle comfort. Some wisdom about grief, and how

it never leaves us, but how over time we begin to start living again.

As long as it doesn’t hollow you out, a dark voice growls in the back of

my mind. As long as it doesn’t leave you empty – and worthless.

I pinch my jaw as those last two words become my own father’s voice.

Fuck.

No, I can’t offer this firefly-girl platitudes.

My comfort would be a lie, when I’m a storm, barely in control of my

grief, my rage, my pain.

I’ve only learned to shut them away. Lock them up so tight it’s like I’m

holding acid.

That’s my expertise, and Dr. Caldwell’s lessons aren’t transferable.

 They’re not any lesson I want to teach this bright young thing.

Shut herself away? She was made to shine.

But I can’t stand to lie to her, either.

So I stand silently, asking myself how I could possibly give someone like

her any peace, how someone as broken as me could offer a single damn

word that might help hold her together. She lifts her head, smiling bravely,

staring at me – or is it through me?

Her eyes are wet, yet she’s pulling herself together with a sweetness and

warmth like none I’ve ever seen. I almost don’t know what the fuck to do

when she suddenly changes the subject.

“I don’t think you’ll need stitches, but wow, he got you good, didn’t he?”

Oh.

My hand. Right.

Suddenly I’m far too aware of my scars against her pale, flawless skin,

wondering if I’ll have a few more no thanks to Sonic the Ass-hog.

It’s not just damaged skin. It’s the legacy of my own hard, hurtful

memories. And perhaps the way her thumb traces over one swirl of scar

tissue as she pulls the bloodied gauze away for a final look, staring just a

little too long at those marks on my hand.

It’s not hard to tell she wants to ask.

But she doesn’t.

Good. I can’t give up that story for anyone.

“I’ve had worse,” I grumble, watching her drop the gauze and pick up a

tube of Neosporin. It stings less than the iodine, at least, as she slathers it

on, and it’s easier for me to untense and hold still. “So is that why you’re in

Heart’s Edge? Looking for that feeling again, somewhere far from home? I

can’t imagine what else could draw anyone out here.”

“Nah, it’s a nice place. The inn seems to get a lot of vacationers.”

“That’s just it. Heart’s Edge is somewhere you vacation. Not where you

put down roots and stay. Many people your age are just aching to get out.”

“Well, good thing I’m not most people my age.” Her voice sounds

wistful. She peels the tape off the back of a small gauze bandage pack and

presses it over the wound. Melancholy, yet dreaming. “I want somewhere

quiet. Somewhere simple, where I can just settle and build a life that doesn’t

worry about the small things. Maybe even fall in love.”

I snort.
 I can’t stop it. It just comes right out in an angry huff.

I know quite well she won’t fall in love here, unless she’s willing to wait

for quite a few young men to grow old enough that she can play cougar once

she’s old enough.

Unless we’ve got more new guests I don’t know about, Blake and I are

practically the only bachelor options old enough to drink.

Blake, ballbuster that he is, is far too busy trying not to make his

daughter hate him as a single dad, while I’m far too busy trying not to hate

myself.

And she’s too young for me, I remind myself.

Anyone who thinks it’s appropriate to wear those minuscule tennis skirts

she’s been sporting at the office, flashing slender, willowy legs, is too damn

young for me.

Too young, and too vulnerable to the danger I could bring into her life.

She’s staring at me now, her head cocked. Waiting for an explanation.

“The world doesn’t work that way,” I say, pulling my hand free from

hers and telling myself it’s not reluctantly. Or that my skin doesn’t feel cold

without her touch. “Changing where you are won’t change that simple fact.

Nothing’s so neat or simplistic, Ember. Not life, not love. Running from your

problems just means being in a new place with the same problems.”

She gives me a long look, letting her hands drop, before her lips twist

with a touch of cynicism. “You know, you’re an amazing actor.”

I raise both brows. “I’m not sure I understand what you mean?”

“These women come in here every single day thinking if they melt the

ice over your polite, distant mask, they’ll find a man with a warm, beating

heart underneath.” That cynical twist of her lips actually turns into a grin,

then – sweet, playful, lighting up her eyes. “Little do they know what’s

really underneath that ice is a big, snarly grouch.”

I blink. Fucking hell.

Is this girl teasing me?

That’s enough to make me scowl. “People are never who you expect

them to be,” I say. “And that’s where we all make our mistakes. Projecting

our hopes onto someone when it’s only surface deep. Those women, all they

want is a surface reflection to smile back. That’s all they look for in a man.

They aren’t here for the real me. They’re here for the damn silly fantasy
they’ve concocted to fill in the gaps on a surface that gives them nothing

else.”

“Yeah?” she asks softly. “But that means there used to be something in

those gaps. So what happened to cut them out of you?”

I don’t answer because I can’t. Because she doesn’t belong in that part of

my life. No one does.

Without a word, I make my knees work and walk away, heading out

front to lock up.

No surprise, I feel her eyes on me the whole time as I’m exiting the

room.

Her eyes. The weight of all her questions.

They’re full and bright, glowing with an insight someone her age

shouldn’t have. I really can’t let someone like her get under my skin. I can’t

let her get tangled up with me, or see who, what, I really am.

She deserves better, and she’ll have it, Doc-free.

I’m not risking anyone getting killed again.

Not because of me.

 7

OLD DOG, NEW TRICKS (EMBER)

I really don’t know how he does it.

With summer creeping in, it’s getting hot outside. Standard laws of

physics mean that when placed in an environment whose ambient

temperature is warmer than freezing, even by one degree, things should

change. Ice should melt.

But not our resident Ice King.

Even when one day edges toward ninety degrees, he’s still just as frosty,

day in and day out.

It’s almost entertaining to watch. And Pam and I are watching, while we

take our lunch break in a little side room that’s mostly used for storage, but

at least has a coffee pot, a microwave, and comfy chairs.

Plus, a really great view of the front lobby.

Doc stands next to the reception desk, so tall he has to bow his head to

meet the eyes of the woman simpering up at him with an armful of

wriggling skunk. It’s this adorable little beast, bright-eyed and straight out of

Bambi, but holy Toledo, I hope she got its scent glands removed before she

adopted it.

Or I’m not coming off break until she leaves.

Pam pops a bite of lasagna in her mouth, never taking her eyes off them

as she leans in to whisper conspiratorially to me, chewing the whole time.

“It’s disgusting, ain’t it?”

 I choke on one of my crispy veggie straws, trying not to laugh, and take

a quick swig of my crème soda to wash it down. “Pam. Be nice. I’m sure

she’s perfectly sweet.”

“Oh, I ain’t calling her disgusting, sugar.” She arches a brow pointedly.

“I’m saying it’s disgusting he’d even give them the time of day when you’re

right here.” She preens, primping her hair. “And me, of course. My Roger

wouldn’t mind giving me a hall pass for one night, I’ll tell you what.”

“Pam!” I splutter, coughing – and this time I have to thump my chest

before I can breathe again, wheezing with laughter.

Then Doc looks over his shoulder, pinning us both with a sharp,

disapproving look.

We freeze. I plaster on my best hey-there-awesomesauce innocent

expression, while Pam just smiles warmly and wiggles her fingers. Doc curls

his upper lip.

His back turns stonily to us again, while we collapse against each other

in a fit of whispery giggles.

It shouldn’t be so funny.

But somehow, over quiet nights, after seeing the adorable curmudgeon

underneath that cold exterior...I just can’t find those sternly disapproving

looks scary anymore.

Especially when just today I’ve had to bandage him up for the third time.

And here I thought I was clumsy.

But when Doc gets in the zone, he’ll let an animal bite, claw, scratch, or

peck him to pieces if it means giving them their care. His appetite just might

be endless for the punishment dished out by our wilder patients.

It’s not all bad. I don’t really mind those quiet moments with his intense

green eyes on me, watching while I clean his wounds and try not to linger on

running my hands over the fascinating texture of his scars.

But I flick Pam’s arm, whispering behind my hand. “You’ve got to stop

saying things like that.”

She gives a thin smile. Okay, fine, maybe I’ll admit it’s helped a lot over

the last two weeks.

When I first came here, I was shy and nervous and so sure I didn’t

belong.

I still get shaky around Doc, especially when he stands too close to me,

and every tiny goosebump on my body stands up in breathless prickles, but

I’m not jumping at every sound anymore or trying to self-efface myself out

of the room.

A lot of it has to do with Pam. Her shameless humor would make

anyone feel welcome, I swear.

And as long as she’s busy teasing me about Doc, I can treat this tight,

fluttery feeling in the pit of my stomach like a joke.

It has to be a joke, right? Nothing could ever happen between us, not in

a gazillion years. But the way my heart beats around him, the way my

breaths catch when those hard, forbidding looks linger a little longer than I

think they probably should...

Not real.

It’s not freaking real.

It’s just me and my imagination, looking for something to anchor my

world, after Dad’s death sent it spinning and it never quite slowed down.

I don’t know if I could ever figure Doc out, anyway.

He’s such an enigma: so kind to animals, frostily polite to customers,

gruffly dismissive with me and Pam.

I think the only time I’ve ever seen him defrost with an actual human

being was the other day when Haley and Warren brought their aging orange

tabby Mozart in for a routine checkup and a refresh on his vaccinations. My

jaw dropped when Doc greeted Mozart like an old friend, saying they had a

‘special relationship.’ There’d actually been teasing.

Warren bringing up their old fishing trips, and Doc biting back that he

couldn’t call them fishing trips when Warren never actually caught any fish.

He never smiled. Never laughed. Still that same biting, sardonic tone.

But there was something about it.

Something warm, something familiar, something that said Warren and

Hay are people who matter in his life, and guess what?

It makes me happy.

Really, really happy just knowing that no matter how cold Doc pretends

to be on the surface, he has people to care about and people who care about

him.

Not that it’s any of my business, I remind myself.

After all, it shouldn’t matter to me who is or isn’t in Doc Caldwell’s life.

But I can’t help a touch of satisfaction when that pretty girl with her

skunk slinks away with her tail between her legs, obviously disappointed at
being rebuffed. Score one for the Ice King.

Too bad there’s a little twinge of my disappointment, too. She looks like

me.

Tiny, petite, blonde, though her hair is cut into a cute little pageboy

while mine’s like an outdated old Jennifer Aniston if only because I let old

layers grow out and never bothered doing anything with it after. Go ahead

and judge, but I like a touch of the untamed hippie flower child look when it

saves me visits to the salon.

Still...there’s more than a slight similarity between me and that girl. And

if she didn’t even ping his armor when she was trying so hard?

A snowball on the devil’s skillet has a better chance than I do, just being

part of his fringe environment, trying to stay out of his way.

But my lunch break’s over and at least I’m no longer worried about

spooking a skunk with a built-in stink bomb. So with one more playful

nudge for Pam, I get up to toss my sandwich bag away and reclaim my lab

coat – only to freeze as the bell over the door jingles.

My ears burn when I hear my name echoing across the reception room

in a familiar melodramatically sing-song voice.

“I’m heeere, Ember darling!”

Oh, no.

Oh, God.

Mom.

And just like usual, she’s making her entrance like Liza stinking

Minnelli.

That’s the problem when your dad was a music teacher, and your mom’s

a former Broadway performer, and even after retiring, it’s still a one-way

ticket to cringe-ville.

She’s always got to put on a show. Old habits and something about dying

hard.

I just know I’ve got to intercept her before she runs into Doc and turns

that show into a sideshow.

If I can just make myself go out there when I’m still locked up in a

paralyzed, stiff knot with my fingers clenching against my sweaty palms and

my heart thumping far too hard.

Pam arches a brow, eyeing me skeptically. “I take it you’ve got yourself a

visitor?”
 I wince. “Considering she gave birth to me, yeah.”

“Aw, don’t like your Ma?”

“I love her,” I offer with a wan smile. “Liking her? Kinda comes and

goes.”

“September Delwen? I know you’re here,” echoes louder from the

reception area.

Shoot me.

I don’t even have to look to know everyone in the waiting room is

probably staring, gawking at my mother, and she’s probably enjoying it. She

loves having an audience, even when that audience is wondering if she

needs to be committed. “I saw that horrible trash car of yours out in the

parking lot. Don’t make me come looking.”

“I’m back here, Mom,” I call reluctantly, leaning out the break room

door, beckoning to her quickly. Thankfully, Doc seems to have gone to

ground with that finely-honed sense for danger, nowhere in sight. “Come

here. And lower your voice, please. You’ll spook the animals.”

Her broad, fiendish grin says she might actually enjoy the scene she’d

create – barking and yowling everywhere, hissing, fur puffing, and feathers

flying all over the place.

I won’t lie.

It’s creepy seeing a face that looks so much like my own, lit up with

such devilishly wicked glee.

Felicity’s words come back to me, and I think this apple didn’t just fall

far from the tree. I think it ran right away from it.

Mom comes sauntering over to me with exaggerated prancing steps, her

blue eyes bright, and spreads her arms. “Ember, daaahling. Give your

mother a hug.”

Groaning, I let her sweep me up into a tight hug, and bury my face

against her shoulder, hugging her back.

I do love her.

She exhausts me, and sometimes we just don’t get each other because

we’re so different. That’s another thing that makes it so hard with Dad gone.

He was like me – quiet, soft-spoken, restrained.

But he understood Mom. He complemented her perfectly, and even

brought the odd tear to her eye when he’d curl up with her and his guitar.

They loved each other so much, real storybook stuff.

 He was love, and he was our translator and intermediary. The glue that

made us work, helped us bond together.

Without him, it’s hardly the same. Mom and I are more like cats and

dogs trying to communicate without knowing each other’s language.

We don’t mean each other any harm, but we tend to accidentally hurt

each other anyway.

“Hi, Mom,” I mumble against her shoulder. “What a surprise. What’re

you doing here?”

“A girl can’t surprise her one and only best daughter?”

“Um, a little hard not to be your best daughter when I’m the only kid

you have.”

“Ember.” She pulls back, gripping me by the shoulders, staring with a

warm smile that only half masks her honest and genuine concern. “I was

worried about you here. That’s all.”

I smile up at her. “I know you were. But I promise there’s no reason to

be. This place is so small they only have a few cops. Nothing’s going to

happen to me here.”

“Things happen to vulnerable young ladies everywhere, young lady, and

I don’t like the idea that there are barely any officers around to handle it if

something does.” She clucks her tongue, then takes a look around.

Sigh. I can feel Pam watching discreetly from the break room with a sort

of good-natured yet entirely carnivorous interest. I just know my mother’s

going to be the talk of the local diner and primary gossip spot by evening.

“So. This is where you work? It smells like dog.”

“It’s a vet’s office.” I can’t help a tired laugh. “I like the smell, honestly.

Warm, clean fur, and happy animals.”

“Well, if it’s what you like, dear.” But she’s already distracted, craning to

peer out into the waiting area. “And where’s this big bossman of yours,

hmmm?”

“Probably off doing his job. Which I should be, too, if I want to keep

mine.” I plaster on my best no-nonsense smile. “I love you, Mom, but really.

I was supposed to be back on duty five minutes ago and there are patients

waiting to be see—”

I realize my mother has stopped listening the second the door swings

open from the back and the main exam room.

 Doc comes striding out with his cell phone pressed tight to his ear, his

face set in those forbidding, fierce lines that make him look so formidable

and just a little thrillingly dangerous.

Holy hell.

He never gets obviously angry, but there’s a shift that comes over him

that makes him vibrate with a dark and masculine energy, seeming to fill the

room with his presence and make everyone aware of just how imposing,

how strong, how tall this quiet animal doctor and his silently lethal presence

truly are.

Every woman in the room perks up in more ways than one. You’d think

the temperature had just dropped fifteen degrees, judging by certain tight t-

shirts.

My mother’s no different, watching this green-eyed slinking serpent of a

man with her own eyes wide and her chest heaving, a hand fluttering to her

throat and her cheeks turning pink. I’d be horrified seeing my mother this

way if I didn’t know a good half of it was a stage act she doesn’t know how

to turn off.

The fluttering coquette. The damsel in distress. The tease.

But most of all, just the woman who loves being adored by men.

“Oh my,” she breathes. “That’s Mr. Bossypants?”

“In the flesh,” I say dryly, stuffing my hands in the pockets of my lab

coat.

It’s excruciating. I wonder if I looked that thunderstruck the first time I

met him. But Mom’s actually doing me a favor right now because my fond

disgust with her is helping keep my own racing pulse under control, helping

stop me from turning into the blushing, silent wreck I usually am around

him.

But I should’ve been more on alert, I suppose, because I don’t get a

second to step forward and run interference. Because just as Doc hangs up

his phone and slips it into his pocket, my mother thrusts herself into his

path.

Uh-oh.

He looks preoccupied, stormy, focused, but that doesn’t stop her from

bustling forward with her best smile and her hand outstretched.

“Hi,” she says. “You must be–”

 “Leaving,” he says curtly, without even looking at her outstretched hand.

“I’m sorry, you’ll need to see my assistant for the moment.”

My mother lets out a sweet little falsetto laugh. “Oh, darling, no. I’m not

one of your lovely customers. You don’t see the resemblance? We could be

sisters, you know.”

Next thing I know my mother’s arm is around my shoulders and she’s

dragging me over to hug against her side and...I think I might just die.

Sisters?

Right.

Closing my eyes, I rub my eyelids, then take a deep breath. Might as

well get this over with before I find out if Doc really can lose his temper.

“Doc, sorry. Mom, Dr. Caldwell, my boss—” I stress, hoping she’ll

behave herself, “—and Doc, this is my mom. Barbara Delwen.”

That makes Doc draw up short. His gaze flicks between us, completely

unreadable, before he nods a bit less abruptly.

“Ms. Delwen,” he says, cool and smooth. “It’s a pleasure to meet you,

and while Ember has been doing a wonderful job here at The Menagerie,

I’m afraid I truly can’t stay to exchange pleasantries. Something’s come up.

Very important.” His gaze flicks to me over my mother’s head. “Please take

the next appointment, Ember. I’ll return before closing.”

I blink. My throat tightens a smidge. I can’t help but be worried that

something’s seriously wrong, but I know he’ll just shut me out if I even try

to ask.

God. I shouldn’t want to find out; this isn’t my business.

I bite my lip, then nod. “O-okay. I’m on it.”

“Thanks,” he bites off crisply, and then he actually bows, though briefly

and hurried. “Ms. Delwen. Miss Delwen.”

Then he’s gone, sweeping from the room in that way he has that seems

to burn an imprint of his presence behind, leaving even the animals silent in

his wake.

My mother stares after him as the front door swings shut and he

vanishes into his truck, barely visible through the glass.

“Well,” she says. “That was odd.”

“He’s like that. You get used to it.” Tucking my hair back, I eye her

harshly. “Seriously, Mom, what are you doing here?”

 My mother tears herself from watching the door and turns her smile on

me once more. “Stop being so suspicious, darling. I was on my way to

Missoula for a weekend with your Auntie Trish.”

Palm, meet face. That won’t end well. My mother’s other sister, the

staunchly single Patricia, gets on with my mother less like a house on fire

and more like one ready to collapse.

Maybe it was best Mom took a detour to Heart’s Edge.

But that feeling dries up into nothing but grim dread as her smile

widens.

“But. Well.” Matter-of-fact, but ever-so-sweetly insistent. “Now that I’ve

seen the local scenery, I might just stick around a while longer. Take in the

sights. Maybe meet someone. You wouldn’t mind letting me stay a

while...would you, Ember?”

I groan.

She has all the subtly of a rodeo clown. I know what she really means.

She’s asking if I wouldn’t mind a little competition.

I’ve already told myself I’m so not in the running for Doc’s attentions.

And yet...

The notion of my mother swooping in on him leaves me unsettled,

uncomfortable. I don’t have a right to be possessive.

I don’t have a right to anything.

But even as I mumble something agreeable to my mother, anything to

get her out the door so I can get back to work where I belong, a stroke of

pure insanity crosses my mind.

I can’t help the resentful, rebellious thought of but he’s mine.

 8

WOOL OF BAT, TONGUE OF DOG (DOC)

I can’t believe she’s forced my hand like this.

Arranging a public meeting with Nine. In broad daylight. In the

middle of downtown Heart’s Edge.

Fuck.

Not only can I not believe she’s forced my hand like this, but I can’t

believe Nine would go along with it. Not when he’d likely be arrested on

sight or worse.

It’s probably a goddamn bluff, but it’s a risk I can’t take.

So here I am, pulling up outside the ARCO that’s the only game in town

when it comes to gas and easy convenience store shopping. Her jet-black

SUV is parked in front of the pumps.

With the blackout windows rolled up, I can’t tell if she drove it herself or

if she has a driver with her once again.

But I can tell she’s faking filling up the tank, when I doubt she’d ever

condescend to get her hands dirty or risk her manicure.

Don’t get me wrong.

Fuchsia is dangerous. She could kill a man with her bare hands. But

she’ll find a way to do it without so much as running her pantyhose or

getting a single splatter of blood on her designer skirt.

Today’s designer skirt is grey, a break from the usual assassin’s black, a

sheath that hugs her body as she leans against the SUV and waits with cool
impatience. It’s so damn gaudy and out of place I shake my head, and think

of Ember, even when I don’t want to.

She doesn’t have to resort to this shit to seem sexy. That little firefly

woman draws my eye like flame, whether she’s dressed to ruin or wearing a

paper bag. All thoughts I damn sure can’t afford right now.

Fuchsia doesn’t even glance my way as I pull the truck into the opposite

bank of pumps.

Discretion is a must. I can’t be seen talking to her in public. I don’t want

to be seen talking to her in public.

Still, this is the perfect place for pantomime, pretending to go about our

own business while exchanging murmurs as we pass. I shake my head at

how absurd it seems, creeping around like spies from some Cold War flick.

Not something I ever thought I’d be doing in this little town.

There’s no sign of Nine, thank fuck.

Either he’s in the car, or she bluffed to get me to meet her again.

I just have to keep my control through this, bite my tongue until it’s over

– unless I see a good opportunity for running her out of town myself.

Slowly, I get out of my truck. Inside the ARCO, through the broad front

glass windows, the boy working the register – Jeremy, I treated his pug last

week to prevent mange along with a good deworming – catches sight of me

and waves enthusiastically. I spare a brief nod, then go about the business of

refilling my tank.

This is why caution is king.

I know everyone in this town, and everyone in this town thinks they

know me.

On the other side of the pump, Fuchsia turns and pretends to fiddle with

the touchscreen and card reader over her payment. Then her voice drifts

through the pump station, quiet like she’s murmuring to herself.

“So is this how you treat all your old friends, Gray?” she asks, soft but

mocking. “So cruel. You don’t even want to be seen in public.”

“Don’t insult me by insinuating we’re friends,” I throw back, snarling

low. “Or that we ever were. I have actual friends now. Not that you’d know

what that’s like. You have people who are useful to you, and people you

leave to die.”

She clucks her tongue with a wounded sound. “Now, now. Neither you

nor Nine died, did you? And I had no use for you...at the time.”
 My hand clenches on the gas pump. This sociopath could make me burst

a vein. I have to force my grip to relax. Swallowing another growl, I stare

down at the scars on my hands.

Scars that are there thanks to her.

“What use? You’re implying that you have one for me now?”

“I’ve already told you why I’m here. It’s time for Gale—oh, I’m sorry,

the company to go down, and I can’t convince our old circle, but you could.”

She sighs. “We were all so close, once. And if you don’t want to be the

public face of this, maybe he will. It may even exonerate him for all the

trouble he’s in. I just need a messenger the people trust.”

With a snort under my breath, I turn my back on her to slot the pump

into my truck, speaking over my shoulder in an idle murmur. “Because you

know that your presentation is somewhere between Cruella de Vil and

Maleficent.”

“I had no idea you were such an aficionado of kids’ films.” Her tone is

amused, but coldly so. She turns a black card over between her fingers; not

quite a debit card, but an access card, gleaming dark. “But yes. I’m aware

my demeanor can be...off-putting to some. The message would be better

delivered by someone else. Someone kinder.”

“Trouble is,” I say, “I don’t trust your message. Where’s this sudden

altruism coming from? You had no problem letting Galentron continue

reaping the rewards for years. You don’t have a change of heart unless it

benefits you.”

“Oh, Gray. You wound me so deeply.” She flutters a hand to her chest.

“Even Nine was kinder.”

“So you have spoken to him.”

“Of course! He refused to come into town, though. Afraid of his own

shadow, or something.”

“You – fuck. So you lied to get me to meet you. Again.”

A playful pout flits across her lips, but it’s like poison candy. “You do

have a rather firm way of rejecting a girl.”

“Enough.” I rip the gas pump from the tank and shove it back into the

holder, glaring at her through the digital screens and control panels around

us. “I’m done with games. No circumlocution, no twisting words, no

bullshit. Be straight with me. Tell me the real reason you’re here. If you
actually tell me the truth for once in your life, I might consider working

with you one-on-one to sort this out. Leave Nine out of it.”

Her smile is so icy, darkly triumphant. She parts her lips, no doubt ready

to deliver some half-truth she thinks is a killing stroke.

Then she stops as my phone vibrates in my pocket.

I’ve never been more grateful for Pam in my life.

But all thoughts of gratitude vanish as I pull the phone out of my pocket

and scan the text. Emergency 911—priority, get back ASAP!

Fuck.

If it’s something Ember and Pam can’t handle together, it’s life or death.

I drop my phone back in my pocket and jam my debit card into the

pump, tapping quickly. “Don’t,” I say sharply, holding up my free hand.

“Don’t say a word. You’re not my problem right now. I have other priorities.

This conversation can wait.”

For some reason, that only makes her smile more, but she doesn’t say a

word.

Fuchsia only bides her time and her silence when there’s something in it

for her.

And as I finish quickly, turn my back on her, get back in my truck, and

speed off as fast as I can without getting pulled over, I wonder.

I wonder exactly what she’s getting out of this by dangling me on a

string.

THE SC E N E at The Menagerie is nothing short of nightmarish when I walk

in.

Several frightened women are huddled in the far corner of the reception

room, clinging to each other and their hysterically barking and screeching

pets, rattling something about a snake and how they don’t want to die.

From the back, I can already hear the source of the problem.

Blake goddamned Silverton.

“Don’t squeeze him like that!” Blake shouts. “He’s choking, dammit, he

doesn’t need CPR!”

 “How else do you expect me to get the ball out of his throat?” Ember

snaps back, a note of panic in her voice – but also a touch of firmness, a

sharpness I’ve never heard her exhibit around me. “He’s a boa constrictor.

They constrict. He’s not going to relax voluntarily.”

“Goddammit, how do you expect me to—”

Damn it all.

That exchange tells me everything I need to know, and I know I’m not in

for a good time.

Blake is here with his daughter’s boa constrictor, Mr. Hissyfit – and

whatever’s wrong with the damned snake is making Blake throw a hissy fit

for the ages.

Pam might be the only calm one here. She doesn’t even look up from her

computer as she waves me toward the back.

I’m already shrugging my lab coat back on, removing a pair of sterile

nitrile gloves from the wad of them I keep in my pocket. I snap the first one

on pointedly loud, making it smack against my wrist and commanding the

attention of the room as I step into the back.

“Mr. Silverton,” I say firmly, raising my voice for the first time in what

feels like forever. “If you could stop verbally abusing my assista—”

I stop.

Then I just stare.

Mr. Hissyfit has grown since I saw him last. The albino boa constrictor,

a fat thing in various shades of ivory and gold and banana-yellow, is now

well over eleven feet long – and currently coiled around both my assistant

and my so-called friend, thrashing fiercely while both struggle to pin him

down to the table and deal with the obstruction that’s swelling his throat, a

good foot down from the back of his skull, out to the size of a basketball.

Actually, I think it is a basketball.

I’ll ask questions later.

Right now, I may just have to save this snake’s life before he chokes my

assistant and his owner to death. Especially since Ember’s so tiny, the boa

constrictor could easily snap her up for its next meal.

“Pam!” I snap, yanking my other glove on. “We need another pair of

hands, stat. Scrub up. Blake, out.”

Blake jerks his head up to glare at me, brow furrowed under his messy

crop of rusty-brown hair. “But I—”

 “Out,” I command. “My clinic. Trust me, you’ll just be in the way.”

With a resentful look, he manages to unloop himself from the snake and

goes straggling out, trying to hide his old war limp that always flares up

under stress. That’s exactly why I don’t need him here. I won’t have him

injuring himself tensing his entire body to struggle with the powerful,

muscular coils of a boa constrictor.

I take his place instantly, catching the snake around the throat and

looking at Ember.

“Grip him in one place and hold firmly, please. Don’t try to fight him off

you, he’ll just squeeze tighter. We’re going to gently straighten him out so

we can loosen his airways. Pam,” I throw over my shoulder as she comes

bustling in. “I’ll need a muscle relaxant and a mild sedative.”

“Of course, Doc.”

Ember lifts her head as she struggles to get the boa constrictor under

control. The only reason this snake isn’t dead right now is because of his

breed. Constrictors are made to stretch their throats to swallow enormous

things, but the rubber of a ball will catch and stick. It’ll never break down in

its digestive acids.

We have to move. We don’t have much time.

It’s not hard to see on her face that she knows it, too – wide eyed, sweat

beading on her brow, plush lips trembling and parted on rapid, shallow

breaths.

She’s afraid.

Not of the snake, but for him.

“Ember?” No response, so I say it again, more firmly. “Ember.”

Her head snaps toward me, and she stares. “Y-yes?”

“You’ve got this,” I say. “We’ve got this. Are you with me?”

There’s a hazy moment where uncertainty flickers in her eyes, before

they clear, and she presses her lips together, stilling their trembling as she

takes a more steady grip on the constrictor’s coils. “I’m with you,” she says,

voice stronger, firmer.

“Very good, then.” I take a strong grip just below the obstruction,

pinning the snake down gently. “Let’s get started.”

Wrong choice of words because suddenly I’m not in The Menagerie.

 Twenty-Three Years Ago

“L ET ’ S G ET STA RT E D .”

My father stands over me, his massive bulk towering when I’m fourteen

and haven’t hit my growth spurt yet. I’m standing at attention, shoulders

square.

I’m not allowed to stand any other way.

Spine stiff, hands at my sides, head down because to look him in the eye

is a challenge.

And challenges are met with violence, daring me to be strong enough to

fight back.

I’m staring at my feet.

Then he thrusts my report card in front of my face. A line of A+ grades,

picture perfect...until that damning B+ in English that left me both dragging

my feet on my way home, afraid what would happen if I showed up late or

displayed the smallest sign of fear. Of weakness.

“To begin with,” he barks off with that drill sergeant cadence he never

lost even in retirement, “what did you do wrong?”

I cringe.

I fucking hate this part.

It’s the first part of any formal dressing-down because he expects me to

know the rules well enough to know how I’ve violated every single one, and

to stand accountable for my personal failings – of which he says there are

many – without needing to be told.

Having to be told what I did wrong, he often tells me, lacks self-

awareness.

And he wants me to know all my flaws right down to their shape and

size and smell.

He wants me to be aware of how much he didn’t want me, and the only

reason I’m alive is because he was, in his words, man enough to do the right
thing. Which I guess means putting a roof over my head and Mom’s with all

the charisma of a tyrant.

“Dad, wait, I...” I have to stop, breathe in, steady my voice. No weakness

or I might end up spending a week in the shed out back with nothing but a

thin pallet and a bucket to piss in and one meal a day. “I didn’t study

enough.”

“And why didn’t you study enough?”

Shit. Not studying enough was the easy answer. I don’t know what else

he wants.

It’s the obvious one, because obviously if I’d studied enough, I would’ve

gotten an A+ in that class too.

But the only answer I can think of to explain it? I was too busy studying

for other classes. It’s all I do when I’m not in school. I only get to do stuff

like read comic books at lunch when I snag them from my friends.

I don’t watch TV. I don’t play video games. I’m not allowed to do either.

I just study, and the only way I could’ve done more is to sleep less.

I barely sleep five fucking hours a night as it is. I don’t think that’s

normal.

But he’s waiting, and the silence builds between us like raging

thunderheads. I bite my lip, then stop.

Careful. That’s another sign of weakness.

Then my brain hits on something. Something I can offer up to placate

him, a way for me to be wrong so he can tell me he’s right like the loud,

angry god he always pretends to be.

“When I went to Timmy’s pool party in April,” I whisper, then flinch

when he barks at me.

“Speak up, boy. Don’t mewl it. I wanna hear this.”

I clear my throat, swallowing, and say more firmly, “Timmy’s birthday

pool party in April. I guess...I could’ve spent that day studying.”

“You’re damn right you could have, Gray. But you had to go be frivolous

instead, and now look at you! A B-fucking-plus. I didn’t raise you to be a B-

plus boy. You think B-plus was good enough when I was at the Academy? If

I hadn’t paid attention, I’d have wound up in some jungle snake pit, a

prisoner, letting those bastards rip out my teeth.” He smacks his fist into his

palm hard enough to make my heart jump and my stomach bottom out, but I

manage not to flinch this time, holding rigidly still.

 Shit. Not again. Not more talk about the war, his medals. A big,

screaming display of the unresolved rage he brought home from overseas as

Colonel Caldwell.

“Thing is, I thought I could whip you into shape, just like the USAF did

to me. Turn a fucking sow’s ear into a silk purse. Make a man out of you.

But I’m starting to think I was wrong. You start with bad materials, you’re

gonna get a half-ass result. And you’re a goddamned half-ass result. I don’t

think you’ll ever amount to anything, no matter what I do.”

I bite my lip so hard this harsh, iron taste fills my mouth.

It shouldn’t hurt. I’m used to this crap by now.

I’ve told myself I don’t care a thousand times.

I don’t need his approval, and I’m just trying to survive long enough to

get out of here on my own. But there’s still this hard, dull pain in the pit of

my stomach.

Underneath that, though...there’s also hope.

Because maybe he’s giving up. Maybe he’ll let me off easier today.

Maybe he’s so disgusted he’ll even stop trying to shape me into the

image of the son he always wanted and I can never be.

Maybe then he’ll finally leave me alone to be a normal teenage boy, and

we can just avoid each other until I graduate high school and never have to

look at him again.

Only, of course he speaks again, once more smacking his fist against his

palm with a sharp impact that makes my entire body twist up in a knot,

demanding I run.

“Except,” he says, looking down at me with a sneer, “I’m not a quitter.

And nothing’s useless if you break it down enough to be able to put it back

together as something better. I guess we haven’t broken you down enough,

so we’re gonna have to try harder. Drop, Gray,” he commands. “And give me

five hundred.”

I snap my head up, staring at him, sucking in a breath. “F-five

hundred?”

He’s never made me do more than a hundred push-ups at once before.

But in my shock, I’ve made a fatal mistake. A huge one.

Eye contact. Crap.

And his eyes gleam with evil delight as he smiles slowly, cruelly,

grinding his fists together until his knuckles make terrible, ominous
crunching sounds.

“You wanna fight me, boy?” he says, soft and promising. “Then drop

and give me a thousand. One thousand push-ups, good form, and then let’s

just see if you can stand up enough to fight, Mr. Man.”

I STO O D up to fight that day.

Because after a thousand push-ups, I was so fucking angry that even

though my nose was dripping and I was nearly vomiting, even though I

couldn’t feel my arms or legs and my palms were scraped raw by the

concrete garage floor, I hated him so much I would’ve killed him then, if I

could.

I’d have killed my own father.

He knocked me down with one blow.

And I got up and kept fighting anyway.

Because no matter what he thought of me, that’s who I am.

A fighter. Not a quitter. As strong as him – stronger – without his

sadistic, self-righteous overgrown bully attitude.

And I’m not quitting on this damn snake, even if it takes hours of work

to get the ball – a dodgeball, I’d been wrong – free from his throat.

With the muscle relaxants and sedatives, we’re able to get the boa

constrictor relaxed and strapped to the table, and then it’s hours of

alternating careful tissue massage between me and Ember while Pam

forcibly kept Blake from the room.

Even so, I could hear him the entire time, snarling about his daughter

never forgiving him if he doesn’t come back home with her leviathan beast.

Bit by bit, Ember and I massaged the ball forward and back up the boa

constrictor’s esophagus.

It’s nearly closing time before I can make out the wet, glistening,

textured red that’s something other than the snake’s inner esophageal tract.

There. The ball.

I quickly snap my hand out for a scalpel, and Ember responds instantly,

placing it in my hand.
 We couldn’t risk using a needle to do this earlier. Not when the snake

might’ve choked on the deflated rubber, but now with a quick incision I pop

the ball and then press down gently on the snake’s back to make the

dodgeball deflate in a rush of air coming out through the reptile’s clamped-

open jaws.

When I hold my hand out next, Ember’s right there with one of the large

pairs of forceps, and I gingerly catch the rubber of the deflated dodgeball

and slowly ease it out.

Within minutes I’m dropping the dripping, mangled mess into a

specimen pan, then finally letting out my pent-up breath, snapping off my

gloves, pulling my mask down around my throat.

“Once the sedatives wear off,” I say, “he’ll have a bit of a sore throat, but

within a week he’ll forget this ever happened.”

Blake manages to pop his head through the double doors, face drawn

and worried. “He’s all right? Mr. Hissyfit’s gonna live?”

“Yes,” I say, flicking him an irritable look. “But we need to have a talk

about pet-proofing your home if you’re going to keep something as exotic as

an adult albino boa constrictor in the house with a minor.”

“We take good care of him!” Blake protested. “There was just...just an

accident and–”

“Please remember that adult boa constrictors aren’t bunnies. They’re

able to unhinge their jaws to an alarming degree.” I narrow my eyes. “Now

get out. Go home. Reassure your daughter. I’ll call you when your snake is

out of recovery and ready to go home.”

Blake deflates like the oversized human puppy he is, bowing his head.

“Sure, Doc,” he mumbles. “Thank you.” Then he perks, lifting his head

again. “Wait, while I have you, what do you know about beekeepi—”

“Out,” I snarl, and he skitters off with an awkward yip, leaving the

double doors swinging shut behind him.

With a sigh, I turn back toward Ember and Mr. Hissyfit, already trying

to work out how we’re going to transport a snake that size between us

without aggravating his injuries.

Only, I find a pair of sharp, furious blue eyes glaring up at me.

I blink, tilting my head. “Something you want to say, Ms. Delwen?”

“Don’t—don’t you Miss Delwen me!” she bites off.

Apparently, that would be a yes.

 Firefly or not, she’s a hornet today. All fury, simmering with her color

high, her little pink mouth drawn up in an angry knot, she yanks her lab coat

off and flings it down on the table, revealing a rather sheer tank top that

clings to her willowy body above another of those indecently short tennis

skirts that stop just barely below the flare of her hips.

That skirt sways now as she plants her hands on her hips and takes two

stalking steps toward me, before jabbing an accusatory finger my way.

“Do you have any clue how freaked out I was? You should’ve been here!

This is your practice. Your job. You don’t leave an inexperienced tech alone

with an emergency like that! He could have died, and I wouldn’t have had

any idea what to do!”

I can only stare at her. As meek as she can be, the quiet way she dances

and skitters around me like a little mouse, I’d never expected to see her so

livid.

Angry enough to stand up to me.

Angry enough to take me to task.

Angry enough to shove her hands against my chest as she stalks closer

still.

“What was so important that you had to run off like that, anyway?” she

demands. “Pam said you were probably with that...that woman again. Is she

more important than your job? Are you running out to have a fling, or is she

like, an ex-wife or something?”

The idea of me with Fuchsia is so preposterous it doesn’t instantly click

who she means. Then, stomach turning, I raise both brows. “Don’t be

ridiculous.”

“If anyone’s being ridiculous, Doc, it’s you.” She shoves at my chest

again, so hot with frustration her eyes are wet, her expression breathtakingly

angry. “I get you have your secrets, your life, but I need you here when

things like this happen! I can’t handle it on my own. I don’t have the

experience.”

She starts to shove me again, but this time I catch her wrists, stopping

her. “Are you quite finished?” I bite off.

Ember stills in the strangest way.

She’s not tense, no.

It’s as though she’s suddenly become aware of me and gone completely

motionless, just looking up at me as if she’s never seen me before.

 There are so many emotions raging across her face that I actually can’t

quite understand them, fury mingled with something else to leave her

flushed, her lips parted on words that don’t come.

For some reason, I can’t stop looking at those parted lips. Her hair has

come loose from its cap in soft platinum wisps that tease down against her

cheeks, kissing at the corners of pink, glistening lips that only gleam softer

as she darts her tongue nervously over them.

Just the sight of that red tongue-tip makes my heart throb violently,

makes me painfully aware of the fragility of her wrists against my grip, her

pulse racing against my fingertips in rapid flutters.

She stares at me with her eyes wide. Their blue is so clear, so vivid, it’s

like looking at the sun shining through the most sapphire of waters.

I don’t realize I’m leaning closer to her until her breaths catch and she

looks away quickly. I catch myself, my blood pounding, and take a shaky

breath of my own. One that feels like I can taste her nervousness, her

shyness, on the air and rolling over my tongue.

“S-sorry,” she whispers, a gentle quiver in her voice. She stares

somewhere to the side and down but makes no attempt to pull her wrists

from my grasp. “Sorry. I guess you’re right. I shouldn’t be prying at your

life.”

“No. No...you’re right.”

There’s a passing tightness in my chest, and then I force myself to let go

of my light grasp on her wrists to catch her hands, gripping them in mine.

Hers are so small and warm, like there’s this current under her skin.

“My personal affairs are my personal affairs,” I say, “and I shouldn’t be

putting them ahead of my patients—or my staff. Thanks for the reminder.”

She says nothing. Those wide blue eyes return to me, looking up with

something like warmth.

Something I haven’t seen in so long that I’ve almost forgotten what it

looks like.

Something I don’t deserve.

And I can’t let this girl make me need that. Particularly not from her.

And so, before she can say anything, before she can make me need or worse,

want, I make my move.

I gently release her hands and step back. One brief nod, and then I’m

gone, turning my back on this quiet wisp of a girl who challenges me in

ways no other ever has.

The way she looks at me tells me she thinks I’m more than what I am.

A better man. A better human. That she expects so much more of me,

when if she knew me, truly knew me, she’d forget the snake. She’d forget

every animal I’ve ever saved.

For the things I’ve done, she’d never forgive me for my crimes.
 9

DOGGING MY STEPS (EMBER)

I f my mother ever goes missing, I might as well confess.

I did it. Guilty as charged.

Because if she asks me one more freaking question about Doc, I’m

going to strangle her.

I don’t want to think about him right now. I’ve been trying not to think

about him for days, but even a week later, I can still feel the imprint of his

heated fingers against my wrists like he’s bound me up in shackles of

burning iron.

While his hands were on me, my heart nearly jumped right out of my

chest. My whole body burned with a heat I swore was going to burn me

down, every last bit of me prickling and so very aware of him so close. Up

in my business after I’d gotten up in his in this breathless, electric way.

Holy Hannah. Where do I even begin?

That handsome face, those sensuous, wicked lips that can be so cold and

yet looked so hot, the breadth of his shoulders, how easily he could

overpower me without even trying.

Okay. Deep breath.

I may be a virgin, but I’m not dead.

For just a brief second, I’d wanted him to push me down on the steel lab

table right next to the sedated snake, and...you get the idea. A wicked, wild

rush right out of a romance novel, my guilty pleasure in college.

 The problem is, Mom’s got plenty of grand ideas of her own, and I

really don’t want to talk about Doc.

Then again, I don’t need to. Not when a picture says a thousand words.

I think my mother’s got an entire novel’s worth of pictures on her phone

by now. She’s been trying and totally failing at hiding the fact she’s snapping

them every time she’s dropped into the office for the day to make sure I’m

eating.

Sure. That was her excuse. Treating me like a five-year-old.

Talk about saving face. Shameless or not, she can’t admit that she was

really, truly there to steal yet another clandestine photo of my boss in his

natural environment.

Which she’s happy to show me now as she leans across our table at The

Nest. Her eyes glitter in the low, intimate mood lighting that’s been staged

for the charity fundraiser that’s drawn the entire town out tonight. It almost

feels like city life again, with all the extravagant decorations, the glitzy stage

lighting, and everyone in their best dresses and suits.

Honestly, I feel a little underdressed in a layered, gauzy sundress, but no

one’s really paying attention to me except Mom.

“Look,” she crows in a mock whisper. “This one’s gotten over six

hundred likes in just a few hours! Six hundred, Ember! Your ma’s a star.”

“Uh-huh,” I mumble, then stiffen, jerking my gaze away from the

podium where Felicity’s standing next to this slick, polished guy she told me

was her new investor, Everett Peters.

Wait a minute...likes?

What likes?

I suck in a breath, snatching at her phone. “Whoa. Mom. No. I...please

tell me you haven’t been uploading Doc’s photos online?”

“Oh, stop.” She waves a hand at me. “It’s no big deal. It’s just Instagram.

Everybody uses it these days.”

“Mom!”

I stare in horror at the photo of Doc caught in a dramatic turn with his

lab coat flaring around him and the late afternoon sunlight catching on glints

of tired stubble along his strong, determined jaw. The number 623 is

highlighted in red next to the little heart icon, but that’s nothing.

As I swipe through, I see more and more pics of Doc, from broodingly

gorgeous face shots to full-body cut-from-life poses to close-ups on his

working hands or on his sinful mouth as he nibbles on the arm of his

glasses. Some only have a few hundred likes, but that one with his lips has

reached over four thousand, and even as I stare, it ticks up a few more,

notifications popping up in the corner of the screen.

Crap, crap, crap, and also crap.

I cover my mouth with one hand, my stomach plummeting into my

knees.

“Oh my God, Mom—you can’t post these without his permission!

Millions of people can see this stuff online!”

“Oh, not millions,” she says, ever-so-humbly. “Not yet, anyway. I only

have twenty-six thousand followers. Not that many.”

“Not...that...many...” I echo, my voice dull.

God, I feel faint. Pressing my palm to my forehead, groaning, I push the

phone back at her with a hiss. “Delete it. All of it, Mom. And don’t ever let

him find out you’ve been doing this. You’re practically a stalker.”

“I’m just giving the lovely people what they want.” She pouts at me,

then huffs and folds her arms over her chest. “Fine. Fine. Buuut...” With a

sly smile, she picks up her phone and aims it toward Everett Peters. “Maybe

I can find a lovely replacement model right here.”

“Mom, stop.”

But I already know she’s not going to listen – and I’m not going to push

her about it too hard.

My mom’s not as big a cougar as she sounds, honestly. The whole man-

hungry diva thing is just an act, kind of a defensive shield. Something she

drew around her to help her cope after Dad. I suppose I can excuse the

creepy Peters thing, too, at least he’s closer to her own age than Doc.

She just doesn’t deal with negative emotions well, and likes to treat

everything like it’s a stage act, and anything serious is just the greatest

laugh.

That includes her sailing around, ogling every available young man in a

ten-mile radius – not that Everett’s young. He’s got to be in his fifties, but

he’s got that dashing rakish movie star thing going on that makes you not

care – and surreptitiously adjusting her bra to plump up her breasts under

her little sequined top.

Fine, whatever. If she wants to take pictures of Peters, it’s better than

taking pictures of Doc.

 At least Mom stalking Felicity’s investor won’t get me fired.

And he doesn’t seem like the type to get upset enough to withdraw his

support over something so silly, especially considering he’s matching every

donation dollar for dollar. The tally glows above us on a big digital screen,

while he and Felicity play the crowd like it’s a game show. I have to hand it

to my cousin; she knows how to get people excited. Not to mention wired

with all the complementary coffee.

It’s a charity auction, with the main prize being the use of The Nest for a

catered evening affair of the winner’s choice, free of charge. I can’t help but

think that the cost of all the lights and decorations probably would’ve

covered half of Felicity’s bills alone, and I never really understand the

matching-for-charity thing when Peters could probably afford the full

amount himself without all this fuss and fanfare.

But if it gets my cousin what she needs, I won’t complain.

Still, I’m dreading Peters’ next round by our table and my mother

making big fluttery calf-eyes at him. Ugh.

I’m also so distracted watching him charm another table that I don’t

even realize I have company until a sheepish “Hi, Ember” draws my

attention.

I turn my head to see Blake Silverton watching me like a little boy who’s

hoping he’s off punishment, a little shamefaced smile buried in his coppery-

brown beard, broad shoulders hunched, hands stuffed in his pockets. He’s no

Doc, but he’s handsome in his own rugged blue-collar way.

Behind him, there’s a teenage girl who looks like she’s a little annoyed

that hipster brought the eighties back in fashion. But she reluctantly plays

along, from her punky sheaf of blue-and-pink segmented hair that’s been

shaved in the back to her ripped miniskirt over black tights to the rebel jut of

a lower lip painted dead-rose-petal reddish-black.

I guess she’s the real owner of Mr. Hissyfit, and the reason why Blake

was losing his shit on me at the office – and why he still looks so apologetic

now, even though I really don’t hold it against him.

Our pets are our babies. We’re not rational about them. Feathers or fur

or scales, they’re the center of entire worlds.

So I answer his smile with one of my own, stirring my straw in my

drink. “Hey, Blake. Hey...?” I crane around him to offer the young girl a

smile.
 She flings me a sullen look, but after a moment relents enough to offer,

“Andrea.”

“Hey, Andrea. How’s Mr. Hissyfit?”

Her eyes widen before that sullen glare turns into a worried look and she

goes from hardcore rebel-punk to soft teenage girl immediately. “He’s still

having trouble swallowing,” she almost whimpers.

“Well, that’s normal for a little while, but he’ll be okay as long as you

keep feeding him small portions. You can do that, right?”

She nods quickly, wide-eyed, then wrinkles her nose. “Chopping up

dead mice is really gross.”

“I know,” I say dryly. “Want to know a trick to it?”

She nods again, perking up. “Please.”

“Freeze them first,” I say. “Then you’re just handling mouse-sicles, and

it’s not so messy and doesn’t make you feel so bad. It’s easier to cut them

into cubes small enough for Mr. Hissyfit, too.”

“Oh!” Andrea brightens. “That’s...not a bad idea!”

“Good one,” Blake agrees, his smile warming. “Seriously, Ember,

thanks so much for everything you did.”

“It was only partly me,” I demur, my face burning, and I duck my head.

“The rest of it was Doc.”

Blake chuckles. “Where the hell is he, anyway? He should at least make

an effort to turn out tonight.”

“I have no clue. He doesn’t really tell me when he...”

I’d just leaned down to take a sip from my drink, lips parted over the

straw when I detect movement. I’m still frozen in the same pose, my voice

drying up in my throat, as the door to The Nest swings open and Doc comes

striding in.

Speak of the very handsome devil. I’ve seen him out of his lab coat

before, usually in old jeans and a t-shirt, but this?

My heart hurts in the best way just to look at him. Everything about him

makes me want to forget the looking part and go straight to touching.

He’s wearing designer jeans, casually cut and well-fitted, with a stylish

button-down shirt over them. You’d think Doc would be so straight-laced

he’d tuck his shirt in, but he’s left it untucked but smoothly buttoned so that

its very stitching highlights the breadth of his shoulders and chest, the taper
down to his narrow waist and hips, the strain of thick biceps against the thin

linen, the hard-corded bulge of his forearms past the cuffed sleeves.

Oh. My. Wow.

No exaggeration. He’s practically indecent when the material is white

and he’s tanned enough that I can tell he’s not wearing an undershirt

underneath. Not the way it clings to him.

I can practically see his naked skin, too, even pick out the faint paler

shadow of a few scars against cut muscle. My mouth goes hot with this

sudden need to do something I can’t define when I’ve never even touched a

man in my life.

But Jesus, every part of me wants to.

Then I catch my mother lighting up, twisting to line up her phone just

right. You can call her many things, but persistent is usually near the top of

the list.

“Mom,” I hiss, and she winces, dimpling at me with zero shame.

“Come onnn,” she whispers. “Just a quick one. My feed would go wild

for this.”

“No,” I say firmly.

But she isn’t wrong. I can’t peel my eyes off him.

Hell, I almost want to take a picture myself, just to capture this moment

and keep it a little longer.

Maybe it’s because I’m staring at him like a creep that I notice the

moment his gaze lands on Peters. Everett Peters has managed to work the

room around close enough to our table that he’s corralled Blake, and he’s

even gotten a smile or two out of Andrea.

Warren’s there, too. I didn’t see him come in, his infant son on his hip

and Haley on his arm, but then it’s hard to see everything going on when

I’m having to babysit my horny mother.

There’s something weird about the way Doc stares at Peters, though.

His expression hardens from smooth neutrality to a sort of rigid mask,

heavy lines seaming around his mouth. His brows knit like storm clouds.

He’s only three steps inside the café, the door not even fully closed behind

him yet, but he turns around and reaches for the handle and pulls it open.

Uh-oh. He’s going to leave.

Until Blake spots him and lifts his arm in a wave. “Doc! Hey, we’re over

here!”
 Doc goes stiff, his shoulders hunching, head bowing. The sigh that goes

through him seems mighty and resigned, and I can see the instant he realizes

he has no choice.

When he finally turns back, that pleasantly neutral yet still unrevealing

expression I’m used to returns.

It’s really kind of fascinating how he does it.

He doesn’t want to let anyone in, so he doesn’t.

He doesn’t want to fake niceties, so he doesn’t.

He just says as little as possible, and yet somehow he manages to exude

this sense of quiet deflection. Instead of being a cold rejection, it’s just a

polite sidestep that people don’t even notice because they’re just caught up

in his magnetism and willing to do anything to stay in his presence, even if

that presence is silent and completely closed off to them.

I guess this is what people call charisma.

Or maybe he just leaves so many enticing blanks for people to fill in.

And they do, filling them with everything they want to see, making him

whatever they want him to be. Painting their own man on a blank slate.

Just like he said about the jackals.

But I wonder...maybe his friends – because there’s no doubting Warren

and Blake are his friends, it’s just something different about the way they

are with him – are just so used to him that it’s easy to accept him the way he

is, and he blends in smoothly with their group.

It’s not hard to tell he’s making nice, playing it cool, and maybe Peters

doesn’t notice that frostiness drops a few degrees in temperature when Doc

has to speak to him as part of the little social group they’ve formed,

hovering around Blake’s table.

Look at me. Watching and analyzing his every move.

And here I am making fun of Mom for being a creep stalker.

I’m curious, too. Doc seems to have something against Peters, but as far

as I know, Peters is even newer in town than I am, so how could Doc have

possibly formed a grudge already?

Then again...that woman in black is new in town, too, and those two

definitely have history.

Is this part of that? Whatever his beef is with her?

Is Peters somehow associated with that creepy woman and her black cat,

and maybe that’s why Doc wanted to leave before he was spotted?
 My head spins with wild conspiracies when there’s an easier way to

satisfy my curiosity.

Especially when he separates from the group, heading for the little self-

serve espresso machine tucked in a back corner, well away from the crowd.

My mother’s too busy capturing shots of Peters to notice me slipping out

of my seat and heading off. I feel like I’m cornering Doc. But when we’re

alone, it’s the only time he’ll drop the mask around me and...and finally be a

real freaking person.

It bothers me how much I want him to be that.

How much I’d kill to see underneath his facade, even if what’s hiding

there might be terrifying and ugly.

Do I even want to know? Yes.

Because I can’t believe a man who’s as gentle with animals as Doc

Caldwell could hide away anything so dark, so frightening, so awful.

I let that thought make me brave as I slip next to him with a little smile,

lacing my fingers together behind my back. “Hi.”

He stiffens. “Ms. Delwen,” he says without looking up, then frowns and

flicks the side of the espresso machine. “This damn thing seems to be

running on empty. Everybody must’ve got their cup of Joe before I showed

up.”

I can’t help how my smile softens. He’s so stuffy sometimes, but it’s

adorable in its own way. “It probably just needs the beans refilled.” I toss my

head toward the back. “C’mon. I’ll show you where they are in storage.”

He balks, finally looking at me, eyeing me strangely. “I don’t think the

owner wants you rummaging around back there.”

“Considering she’s my cousin, I really don’t think she’ll care.” I bounce

on my cute little cork wedge sandals. Big mistake.

I wobble sharply with a little squeak, and suddenly remember I’m in the

running for klutz of the century. Me wearing any kind of heel is practically

suicidal. Catching my balance, I take a step back, into the overhanging

shadow of the Employees Only door. “This way.”

He follows me slowly, ducking his towering height under the door. “I

knew you were related, but how did I not know Felicity Randall was your

cousin?”

“I don’t know, since there’s practically a town phone tree, and you guys

really suck at keeping secrets.” I flash him a smile over my shoulder as I

lead him into the back storage room. It’s a long, narrow place, dimly lit,

filled with the almost comforting scent of coffee beans and fresh grounds,

heady and aromatic, huge sacks of them stacked up everywhere with their

mouths slouching open. “Interesting. So you can remember to call my

cousin by her first name, but not me, huh?”

“Ah, I’m sorry. Ember.”

Part of me regrets asking. The other part, no way. I shouldn’t feel such a

shiver at the way he stresses my name, that chocolate voice coating it in

dark, hot sweetness.

Biting my lip, I take a step deeper into the room, tilting my head up at

him. I don’t know what’s got me so playful tonight. Maybe the tiny hint of

Kahlua in my coffee. “So, what do you want?”

For just a moment the strangest expression crosses his face.

I’ve gotten used to catching those micro-expressions, faint hints that slip

through when the mask cracks, but this one’s new, one I’ve never seen.

And if I really wanted to fool myself, to lie like a crazy lady...I might

almost think it was heat.

Pure, drilling heat staring into me with an intensity that makes my entire

body quiver.

Then it’s gone, as he blinks quizzically, lofting thick, decisive brows.

“Pardon?”

“The coffee,” I manage to say, though my mouth and throat feel too dry.

I have to look away from him as I gesture to the bag. “There’s regular

espresso beans, different roasts, different flavors...”

“Ah, okay.” He clears his throat. “I’m a simple man. I’m fine with a dark

roast. It’s more about the caffeine than the flavor.”

I pry open a bag of dark roast and lean over to dig inside for the scoop.

The scent pours out so strong, so rich, it’s almost dizzying. “I was

wondering when you ever sleep. Do you? Or is it just coffee and adrenaline

all the time?”

He actually chuckles briefly. A quiet rumble that makes me think of the

way summer storms come in slow and rolling, drawing out the sound of

thunder. “I sleep, Mi—Ember.”

There it is again.

That frantic shiver down my spine, my name rolling off the tip of his

tongue like he can taste it.

 I scoop up a hefty amount of beans and feel around somewhere above

for a large foam cup to dump them in, trying to keep my attention on my

hands and nothing else. “I was starting to wonder if you were sleep-deprived

and ready to head home a second after you got here. Or was it Peters that

almost chased you off?”

That thunder of laughter cuts off as if I’ve gone deaf. I can hear the

stiffness in his voice, as he says, “Peters? I don’t know what you’re talking

about.”

It always makes me nervous, facing him down when he shuts off like

that, but I turn around, looking up at him, offering a pensive smile. “You

gave him a weird look back there, I think. Right before you were going to

walk out.”

His eyes narrow as he locks me in emerald green. And is that a bit of red

coloring the tips of his ears?

“I didn’t think anybody saw.”

I grin. “I did. Sooo…why were you giving Peters the evil eye?”

“I wouldn’t call it the evil eye,” he corrects sternly – but when I just

smile at him, because I know he’s deflecting, he sighs, fixing me with an

exasperated look and shifting to lean his shoulder against one of the shelves,

folding his arms over his chest and pulling that shirt wonderfully tight

against his swarthy skin.

I can’t help but be pleased.

Nearly a week ago, he’d have walked away from me rather than bother

with my teasing.

And I really don’t think he’d be so free answering. “I do know Everett

Peters. We have a work history of sorts, from a very long time ago. Thing is,

he shouldn’t be here. Heart’s Edge isn’t the time or place for him anymore.

This town’s already seen enough tragedy for the trouble he brings.”

Tragedy? What?

It’s not just the weirdness of the words. His whole tone. He sounds

so...tired, I realize.

Rather than angry or dismissive or sardonic or cold like the usual Doc

Caldwell, this gorgeous man in front of me just sounds drained. Like Peters

represents some terrible wave that’s ground him down and he can barely

stand more of it.

I don’t understand. Maybe I can’t.

 I want to ask, but I can’t do that either.

Curious or not, I can’t push down on that weight that’s already crushing

him. I don’t have the heart or the courage.

Honestly, that scares me a little, a weird little thrill making my heart

beat faster in a way that’s wonderful and terrible.

Because while I’m a little afraid of the strange secrets in Heart’s Edge,

the ones Doc might hold a few keys to, that’s not the reason I’m holding

back.

I’m far more scared how much I want to take care of him.

His pain rises to the surface again, and it seems to call to me as if I’m a

siren and he’s the sea and if I just try, I can soothe the storm surging up

from his depths.

But he’s not the sea, even if he’s a quiet surface over a powerful and

destructive tempest.

A man like Doc is more like Everest. He’s an insurmountable mountain.

I once heard almost three hundred people have died trying to climb Mt.

Everest. Every year, around a thousand people try to scale the icy peaks, and

over half of them give up, every time. It’s too cold, too hostile, too

unforgiving, and they can’t breathe.

A lot like the way I can’t breathe around Doc, and I’m afraid if I keep

trying to climb higher and higher and higher, scaling to this impossible peak

where I might actually be able to find him instead of the icy layers of

defense, I could be undone.

I might just end up falling hopelessly until my heart shatters like those

climbers on the icy rocks.

So I’m not expecting it when he narrows his eyes, looking at me for a

long pause – long enough to make me feel like he can see right through my

strappy little layered dress, like there’s something naked and exposed about

me. Then he finally speaks again.

“If you’re really so interested in my affairs, Miss Del—Ember...there’s a

price.”

I blink, confusion rippling through me. “A price?”

“Yeah,” he says. “You have to escape this spectacle and come with me

for a beer at Brody’s across the street.”

“Brody’s? But...”

My heart rockets, strange and wild, tying my tongue in knots.

 I know what I should say.

I shouldn’t. I really can’t leave my mother here, plus any number of

other things that would be responsible and safe when there’s something

about Doc that tells me he’s totally unsafe with his secrets and those cold

penetrating looks that tell me nothing but seem to see everything.

Then he offers me his hand.

Broad, weathered, palm up, his fingers gently curled and calling to me.

Oh, God. I’ve watched those hands work every day. I’ve held them while

I washed away blood and bandaged his wounds, felt them brush against me

in idle contact that still made me shiver and made my stomach tighten and

turn so hot I can’t even stand it.

I shouldn’t take that hand.

I shouldn’t leave with him.

But I’m already reaching out, aren’t I?

And when my fingers touch the center of his palm, I feel a certain

electric sizzle rush through me as I feel his heat, his roughness.

And I just know how absolutely screwed I am when his hand closes

around mine, enveloping it in strength, in the sheer size of his long, thick

fingers.

I’ll go anywhere he wants to lead me, without a second thought.

 10

MAD DOG BLUES (DOC)

I must be out of my mind, taking this firefly slip of a girl out for a drink.

I tell myself she’s an excuse to escape.

A reason to get away from The Nest and watching all those people fawn

over Everett fucking Peters because all they see is that slick, dignified,

charming surface. The public persona makes it so easy to accept him at face

value. They don’t know him for what he is.

They don’t know what the demon did, what he wanted to do, so long

ago.

Or what he’ll do again, if he’s allowed to worm his way under the skin

of Heart’s Edge and make himself a part of this town like the parasite he is.

I can’t let that happen.

For now, I don’t know what to do about it, so I just need air.

I have a feeling if I’d tried to sneak out, Ember would’ve noticed and

followed me. Inviting her along is just easier and saves us both the drama.

That’s all this is.

That’s all it can be.

I refuse to let myself linger on the way she’s been watching me through

her lashes with her blue eyes glimmering as soft and bright as the stars

overhead. Or the way her cheeks turn a soft pink, every time I catch her gaze

from the corner of my eye.

We cross the street together, heading for the local pub beneath the night

sky.
 She’s quite the contradiction, Ms. September Delwen.

All shy, soft air and nervousness, this anxious little thing who’s so

unsure of herself until you put her in a lab coat and show her an animal in

pain. Then suddenly she’s firm but gentle hands and soothing, confident

words. All action without hesitation as she does what’s needed to help every

animal our clients trust in her care.

Or until you leave us alone.

Then she becomes this insatiable fountain of innocent, wide-eyed

curiosity, watching me like I’m some strange beast she’s never seen before

in her life and she’s utterly fascinated to learn more about.

Goddamn. What is it about me that brings that out in her?

Or is she like this around any single older man? A fucked up thought

that tastes bitter in my mind.

So much that where her hand stays clasped in mine, my fingers tighten,

until I realize what I’m doing and relax my grip on that velvet hand pressed

so warm against my palm.

I don’t like thinking of her that way.

Doing it aligns her with those women I’ve overheard her and Pam

calling 'the jackals.' Not a single one of my admirers has the slightest clue

who I am, or what.

Only that I’m single, eligible by their definitions, and attractive.

The last part is true. I’m not blind. I grew up with good looks that bring

women like honey brings bees.

Ember isn’t like that, though. She’s not the generic, starry-eyed, oh-my-

God-he’s-so-hot chick who just wants to scale my bones.

She actually wants to know me, and all my secrets.

Maybe that’s just the trouble.

I damned well can’t let her.

AS W E ST E P into the pub, I make myself let go of her hand.

The weathered wooden space is mostly deserted. Almost everyone is at

The Nest enjoying our small-town version of a glitzy night on the town.
 Ember hovers close to my side as we order drinks at the bar – a simple

draft beer on tap for myself, her a bottle of a more delicate citrus brew –

before we head out to the patio.

I prefer the space out here on the opposite side of the pub from the

street. It puts the building between us and the annoying sight of The Nest

and its festivities. Besides, since it’s on a bit of a rise over a slope leading

down a hill, it offers a gorgeous view into the valley.

It swallows up the rest of the world except me and Ember and the

sprawling expanse of a velvet night sky that’s shadowed and full of

whispers, with the moon turned dark, refusing to show its face.

I just wish for one thing every time I look down into that valley at night.

I wish it wasn’t there. I wish I didn’t home in instinctively on the

featureless black mass, the scorched, overgrown remnants of the Paradise

Hotel.

Fuck. Even worse, I wonder if somewhere out there, hidden in the forest

in the mountains and hills around the town, is he looking in?

Looking out over the same view and remembering the night that

destroyed our lives?

“You look like you could see a thousand miles and still not find what

you’re looking for,” Ember murmurs, leaning her elbows against the railing

of the patio and looking out across the same view.

Her expression is pensive, and yet there’s an odd little smile playing

about her lips, thoughtful and a touch sad. It’s painfully warm out tonight,

spring threatening summer in rising temperatures. Sweat begins to bead on

her pale shoulders as fast as condensation beads on the bottle she lightly

taps against the weathered wooden railing.

On her shoulders, on her throat, delicate droplets slip down over her

skin.

Tearing my gaze away, I force myself to watch the skyline, the distant

black silhouettes of mountains set against the deep-blue glow of the

horizon, and not the way her tumble of pale-blonde hair clings to the

dampness of her throat, her shoulders, her sweat-misted jaw.

It’s most definitely too warm out here, my skin burning and tight the

longer I stand close to her.

“Not much to see out here,” I murmur, taking a pull off my beer. “But it

feels like there are ghosts everywhere anyway.”

 “Is Peters one of those ghosts?” she asks.

“You could say that, but ghosts aren’t real. It’s more that he’s a fucking

monster in the flesh.”

Shit. I don’t mean to let that out so harshly, so viciously, but maybe

something about those ruins out there sparks my hatred.

I know she’s looking before I even turn, and who could blame her?

Ember stares at me, her eyes so wide, the honey-blonde fringe of her lashes

trembling in such surprise, lips parted like she doesn’t know what just hit

her. I almost smile.

She always seems so skittish whenever I behave like a human being.

Almost makes me want to do it more often, just to see that wide-eyed,

utterly charming look.

No, that’s a bad train of thought.

I pull myself back on topic, and add, “He’s a con man. He’s come here

before, bringing shady investment deals with bad lenders before he skips out

and leaves his victims deep in debt. Many lose everything they have, when

he was supposed to help them. Peters just takes. A total damn parasite.”

It’s a cover story. An easy one, but one that sits foul on my tongue when

I know the truth.

The last time I saw Peters, he was smiling, even though his eyes were

cold, flinty, and nearly inhuman behind the single hard clear window in the

headgear of his biohazard suit.

In his gloved hands, vials of SP-73. He’d been unwilling to handle the

lethal, newly bioengineered virus with his bare hands, just like any sane

person.

But the demon was willing to risk letting it escape. Then guiding it

toward innocent human beings.

“Hey, Doc?” she says softly, pulling me from my reverie. Then that soft

hand is on my wrist, just the lightest touch regrounding me.

I look down.

My hand, above her fingers, is ridged and stark, white-knuckling the

mug.

Fuck.

I’m letting my emotions get the better of me. And they chew through me

a little more when I speak again.

“Gray,” I murmur, without thinking. “My name’s Gray.”

 I don’t know why I say it. My chest goes tight the moment I do. It makes

me feel like a man again, to say that name instead of my shielding alias, the

character I play called Doc.

It reminds me I’m human, I think. Not this ghost caught in a single

moment of burning, cataclysmic rage that defines my past forever.

Damn. Why does this girl make me want to remember that?

What it means to be a man, instead of a shade made of lies and careful

half-truths?

“Gray,” she repeats, her eyes sparkling with warmth as she sighs my

name like she can taste it, this soft breath slipping over her tongue past pink

lips. “I like it.”

“Don’t get too familiar with it,” I growl, then clear my throat, looking

away from her sharply and taking a single step. I’m drifting, but it serves to

pull me away from the gentle warming touch of her fingertips. “Sorry. I

must be channeling Warren tonight. He’s quite the Neanderthal sometimes,

and he recently had his own trouble to deal with in town. The man was

practically beating his chest.”

She chuckles softly. “I can’t really see you doing that.”

“No? You don’t think I have my primitive side?”

Her soft laughter floats over the night like quiet, chiming music. “If you

want to prove me wrong, please, feel free.”

“You’ll have to wait a long time to see my temper get that hot, Ember.”

“Then I’ll wait.” She props her arm on the railing, resting her chin in her

palm and taking a sip of her beer. That shy smile is back, thoughtful and

distant. “I really don’t have any reason to leave Heart’s Edge, right now...and

I kinda like my job.”

Fuck. That shouldn’t worry me as much as it does.

But with both Fuchsia and Peters back in town, I can sense war on the

horizon.

Heart’s Edge is about to become a battlefield. With too many old ghosts

like Fuchsia and Peters back, it’s only a matter of when. I just know Ember

Delwen shouldn’t get caught in the crossfire.

“Heart’s Edge isn’t really a place where most newcomers stay,” I

murmur against the rim of my mug. “And it’s probably not a good place for

you. Not forever.”

“You stayed,” she points out softly.

 “I had my reasons.”

“Yeah? And those–”

“Those are things you don’t need to get involved in.” I shake my head.

“What I’m dealing with...Ember, it’s not your fight.”

“Funny, I don’t know if I even have a ‘fight’ right now. It’s more like I

feel directionless. With no purpose, almost, even if I do love my job, you

know? Don’t think that I don’t.” Her lips quirk a touch cynical, eyes lidding

as she taps the mouth of her beer bottle against that pretty red mouth. “But

trying to figure you out, at least, keeps my mother focused on something

besides my love life. Or lack thereof.”

I arch both brows. “Your mother’s trying to figure me out?”

“Mom’s practically stalking you.” She ducks her head, peeking at me

sidelong through the tumble of her windswept hair. “Sorry. She’s

just...ridiculous. But seriously, if you see her with her phone out, run.”

“Why?”

“I don’t think I should answer. That’s not something you want to be

involved in.”

I swallow a rough laugh. Little imp.

She’s peeking at me, smiling, and I’m tempted to take the bait. Hell, I’m

tempted by too many things when it comes to her, and there are so many

questions on the tip of my tongue – her mother, her future, her love life.

Is she seeing someone right now? Someone she left behind? Is there

someone for her to see here, when...well, I suppose the college boys who

frequent this town would be closer to her age.

It’s a sobering reminder that she’s far too young for me, and I shouldn’t

care.

I know damn well asking about her anything is inappropriate on a

personal and professional level. As many times as I’ve reminded her that my

business is none of hers, I need to remember the same thing.

Clearing my throat, I divert the subject. “You might want to warn your

cousin about Peters. Tonight may be a charity event, but if it goes any

further than this, it could be bad news.”

“I don’t think she intends to let it.” Ember shrugs, tossing her hair back.

“She’s so proud about accepting help. This was the only way she’d let Peters

do anything for her. Loans are out of the question.”

Loans? Bullshit.
 Tell her the truth, I snarl at myself.

That it’s not Peters and his bad money Felicity needs to worry about. It’s

Peters and his bad intentions. He won’t just ruin her business. He could

destroy her life and he won’t stop there.

He’ll possibly get her and any number of people in this town killed, if

he’s allowed to go unchecked.

But I can’t bring myself to say that.

I can’t just scare her over what may or may not be nothing, when I’m

sure she won’t believe me anyway.

Hell, I wouldn’t believe the truth.

Wild stories of secret experiments, cover-ups, hidden labs...if it weren’t

so real, I’d think I hallucinated a nightmare.

If I were her, I’d ask just how strong my beer was, or what I’ve been

smoking.

I realize I’ve stopped talking, and she’s watching me, that curious light

still so bright in her eyes.

I don’t know what to say, so I simply ask, “How much do you know

about Heart’s Edge?”

“Not a ton,” she says. “I know my aunt and uncle moved here decades

ago when there were supposed to be these huge job opportunities here, but

something went wrong and it all dried up, so yeah. But they loved the town

so much they stayed, opened The Nest, and had Felicity. Other than that, all

I know is you.”

“There’s not much to know. Unless you like silly local legends about

love and throwing flowers off a cliff when two people promise each other

forever.” I take another sip of my beer, letting the loamy, rich taste of it roll

over my tongue as I watch the sky. “Your aunt and uncle were right, though.

The scenery here is some of the most stunning I’ve ever seen in my life.

Spring always brings Heart’s Edge to life. The entire town blooms, and

there’s nothing but quiet fields of flowers blanketing everything in shades of

pink and blue and purple.”

She says nothing. It’s a comfortable silence between us.

Just the sounds of night, and both of us occupying our places in it,

looking up at the sky as the stars slowly inch their way across the heavens

with the gradual whirl of the earth.

 After a while, though, she murmurs, “I like that.” Her smile turns soft,

thoughtful, that pensive and hurting edge gone. “The way you speak about

here, I mean. It’s almost lyrical. I’ve never heard you like that before. Happy

about something besides the animals.”

My throat tightens.

I tell myself not to look at her, but I can’t help it.

It must be the beer making my tongue loose, making me forget myself.

Tearing down walls I’ve put up for a damn good reason.

But it’s not just the booze that makes me see the stars in her eyes like

they’ve fallen to glow against the quiet night between her lashes. It’s not just

the beer that makes me intensely aware of the way she looks at me, or how

it rouses something dark and heady in my blood.

It’s not just the damn beer that makes me lean closer to her, until I can

feel her body heat kissing my skin, making every drop in my vein churn like

molten steel.

“Ember—”

“Oh, yoo-hooooo!” a woman’s warbling, crooning voice echoes over the

night, breaking the spell between us.

Shit.

I retreat a step back from Ember, sucking in a breath. We hadn’t even

been that close, but somehow it felt like something was drawn between us.

But that tether snaps, now, and we stare at each other for a few frozen

moments before she looks away with a faint, sheepish laugh, her damnable

trademark blush back.

This girl blushes like the leaves turning red, and I shouldn’t find it so

entrancing.

“Brace yourself,” she murmurs. “You’re in for it now.”

I wince. That voice is vaguely familiar, and I’m right when the door to

the patio swings open and Barbara Delwen leans out with a seeking look,

her blue eyes blazing with a far more gleeful curiosity than her daughter’s.

When her gaze lands on me, the way she lights up makes me feel like

she’d happily pick me up and devour me in one bite. Damn.

“There you are,” she says with a coy little flip of her hand. “You thought

I didn’t notice the two of you sneaking off?”

“I kind of hoped,” Ember mutters with dry humor, wrapping one arm

around herself, taking a sudden deep drink of her beer.

 “That’s just not fair.” Next thing I know I’ve got Barbara on my arm,

hooking her hand in the crook of my elbow and practically snuggling herself

against my side. “You don’t get to hog a man this gorgeous all to yourself,

September.”

Fuck me. I don’t know if I want to run for my life, or kiss this overly

gregarious hellion of a woman.

She saved us, whether she knows it or not.

For just a moment, something was building between us. Something that

can’t be.

And Barbara, damn her for interrupting, has impeccable timing.

Maybe that’s why I don’t flinch and immediately hide when she holds

her phone up in front of us and lays her head to my shoulder. “Smile, Dr.

Caldwell,” she chirps.

I don’t smile.

But I endure it while she snaps a few selfies of us, then laughs and

gleefully taps her thumbs over her screen, pulling away from me, her eyes

glued to her iPhone. “Now this...this should net me a few thousand more

followers.”

I stiffen, dread realization sinking in. “Followers?”

“Don’t you know I’ve got the hottest new Instagram account out there?”

Smirking, she swipes her screen, then holds it up for me to see. “The

Heart’s Edge Heartthrobs!”

I stare in frozen horror. My own face is in several thumbnails, but she’s

managed to catch Blake and Warren a few times, too. Christ, Warren’s a

married man.

I can’t even hold back the fury.

“Ms. Delwen,” I say firmly. “That is inappropriate.”

She flutters her lashes at me in a way that reminds me of Ember, but

with the innocence stripped away – deliberate coyness, a touch cloying but

too playful to be offensive. “Aw, seriously? You won’t humor a harmless old

woman?”

Part of me wants to snap at her to delete them – then I remember Ember,

singing in the back room at the clinic.

The wistful way she talked about her late father, the music teacher, taken

too early.
 As much as losing her father must have hurt Ember, it had to be worse

for Barbara. This woman, his widow, must be hurting, too.

Who am I to deny her these insane, playful pastimes, if they ease some

agony?

Sighing, sniffing, I look away, out over the vista. “If you must—”

I don’t even get the words out before there’s another flash and an

artificial camera shutter sound. I flinch, cringing inwardly, while she lets out

a triumphant squeal. “Oh my yes! That brooding profile is just perfect.”

Over Barbara’s shoulder, Ember offers me an apologetic smile. “Now

you know why I ran away. Shame she followed me.”

“Oh, don’t say those things about your mother.” Barbara flicks her arm,

then beams at me. “So. Doc. How old are you, anyway?”

Finally. That’s my cue to leave.

“Old enough not to answer that question,” I deflect, dipping a brief bow,

nodding to both Ember and her mother. “Just realized I forgot to leave my

donation for the fundraiser, and I believe they’ll be wrapping up soon.”

For a moment, as I stand, I catch Ember’s eye. There’s an amused sense

of knowing there, one I understand, and yet I can’t help but retreat. It feels

like we’re having a private conversation in a silent language of our own.

The lingering way she held my eyes sticks with me as I slip back inside

the pub, returning the half-empty beer mug, and then escape into the night.

Peters is, thankfully, ensconced in a gaggle of women when I return, and

they’re keeping each other busy enough that no one notices me as I stop by a

very tired-looking Felicity’s table to slip her a check. She offers me a

grateful but troubled smile, and I wonder if her relationship with Peters is

going sour already.

Whatever. I need to keep my nose out of it.

I wish a small-town loan shark was my only problem.

But there’s no turning back time now.

No room for regrets, when regrets don’t change anything – and regrets

aren’t living.

Except when they’re all I have, I guess this isn’t much of a life, either.

It’s purgatory, the place where I belong.

And I’d be a fool to let myself think for a second it’s anything else.
 Eight Years Ago

EVEN T H RO U GH T H E H A Z M AT S U I T , I swear I can smell Fuchsia’s perfume.

It’s a soft floral scent, unobtrusive.

It used to remind me of my mother, but over the years of working with

her, it’s soured into something else. Some kind of sickly trigger that makes

my gorge rise with disgust for everything it represents.

All it takes is one faint whiff – I think it’s jasmine and something else,

maybe lotus – to immediately take me to that hard, cold, hateful place where

I regret every choice I’ve ever made that led me to this point.

This wasn’t where I was supposed to wind up after doing my duty in

Army medical. Ever since the day I signed up for a highly classified position

with a Galentron recruiter, my life has been a gradual descent down an

endless black hole.

Here I am. They promised me the world. I wonder if they’ve taken my

soul.

Right now, Fuchsia stands outside the wire cage where the test batch of

rhesus monkeys lies twitching.

Dying.

I can’t look at them.

I can’t stand to see them in pain I’ve helped inflict, whether directly or

indirectly. I’m not the one who infected them with the lethal agent, no, but

the fact that I’m working on this shit at all?

Fuck. I feel like I’ll have to do penance with a million animals someday

to undo the pure hell my expertise has inflicted on others.

I can’t truly hear much through the insulating layer of my hazmat suit,

but I can still hear them. Their wheezing breaths.

And it makes me fucking sick.

Yet Fuchsia seems wholly unaffected, observing them clinically,

comparing what her eyes take in against the tablet in her hand and a full

pathogen report compiled by yours truly.

 “Decreased respiration,” she murmurs, preoccupied. “Weakness. Several

exhibit spontaneous rupturing of arterial membranes in the eyes, resulting in

profuse bleeding from the sockets. It’s fascinating, really, how quickly it

accelerates once it hits the terminal stage. I’m also seeing increased mucosal

production around the nostrils and mouth; they may actually be choking to

death on their own secretions. Considering the genetic similarities between

the rhesus and human subjects...wow.”

Wow. It’s the tone that makes me want to punch her in the face. It slips

out of her mouth with all the finesse of a whore in heat.

I can’t even bear to think what she’s contemplating. Death is a high for

her, for too many people in Galentron. Because lives are sacrificed here for

the almighty dollar, testing cures for top secret military clients who’d not-so-

secretly love to build a disease that couldn’t be cured at all.

And I can’t look at those suffering animals anymore.

I turn away, disgust a thick, clotted thing in the back of my throat. It

doesn’t taste like bile.

It tastes like shame, sour and heavy.

“You shouldn’t sound so happy,” I snap without thinking.

“Don’t be soft, Caldwell. This was the mission.” Her voice is cold as

steel at my back, with a subtle mocking edge. “We’re here to prevent a

human outbreak, remember? Not cause one. Considering where we

confiscated the first sample of SP-73, it could have devastating effects if it

was ever unleashed Stateside. We need to understand how it works, so we

can understand how to stop it. That’s why we’re doing this.”

Bullshit. I don’t believe for a second her motives are so altruistic.

Neither are the company’s.

Not Galentron. The hefty nine-figure sums that come with government

contracts, and a mandate straight from the military makes it clear where the

true motives – and morals – are.

No military organization spends this much testing how to stop a

pathogen.

They just want to learn the most effective way to use it against the

people of their choosing.

“Besides,” she adds in the laden silence between us. “Once you see it

live, you’ll understand why this is necessary.”

 Alarm crashes over me in an icy flood. “What do you mean, live? Who

could we possibly run live trials on? Or did the CDC give approval for

testing on human tissue cultures?”

“We don’t need any of that.” It’s almost smug. I can’t see her face past

the suit, but I can still imagine the cold glint in her eyes, the callous

disregard for human life. “We have the perfect testing ground in a tiny slice

of mountains almost no one ever passes through...right here in Heart’s

Edge.”

My blood freezes.

I can’t fucking process what she’s saying. It was one thing knowing in

the back of my mind that this 'defense' project was really about offense as

long as the potential fallout was theoretical, the victims distant and faceless

things, as if I could somehow pretend it wouldn’t happen so long as it was

just theory and not reality.

And maybe, one day in the future, if I saw on the news that a city

somewhere has been wiped out by a new Black Plague, I could still pretend

I didn’t know anything and turn a blind eye like a fucking coward.

But these people – here, in this town that we’ve infested like maggots

with our secret lab, this place full of rustic charm and kindness?

It’s too goddamned real.

It’s as real as it should’ve been from the start, and it strips away any

layer of denial to tell me I can’t keep doing this.

I never should’ve done it in the first place, signed up to be here, but I’d

been young and bought into all these starry-eyed daydreams about making a

name for myself in defense medical research.

About making the world better through science.

Better.

That’s a joke now at Galentron.

I can’t stay here. I can’t talk to her.

I don’t know what the hell I’m going to do yet, but right now I need

some air.

Without a word, I walk away from Fuchsia, barely even letting myself

think until I’m out of the lab, through the clean room, out of my hazmat

suit, and outside.

It’s night. I lose track of time deep in that lab, where day and night are

governed by whether or not the lights are switched on or off. I’d say it’s
fucked up my biological clock, but I’ve always been a night owl so that’s not

really true.

And it’s a relief, right now, to step outside into the star-strewn darkness.

The world always feels bigger at night – bigger and quieter. Daylight can

be downright oppressive, a crushing thing, a hungry thing that squeezes the

world smaller and drowns it out with the fast-paced noise of life.

The night lets the world open up to breathe, soft and slow.

I try to breathe soft and slow myself as I step outside the Paradise Hotel

and shake a cigarette out of the pack in my pocket. It’s a habit I’ve tried to

break, but I can’t, not since Iraq.

Sometimes I’d be at it for hours – bandaging wounds, inspecting limbs,

doing triage to determine who’d live and who’d die, and it felt like I took all

that pain inside me and then lit it up and burned it and blew it out as smoke

when I found five minutes for a cigarette.

I wish I could do that now.

Just take all this trouble inside me and torch it into vapor, exhale it out

through my lips. But I can’t even light up when I can’t find my Zippo.

Then a familiar voice speaks at my shoulder, enough to make me jump.

“What the fuck, Gray? Looks like you’ve seen a ghost. Here, buddy.”

Rough, gruff, but still my damned friend, the security guard.

But when he reaches over my shoulder to offer me a light, it’s not the

hand I know with a hint of dark tattoos.

It’s a charred mess, blackened skin peeled back from raw meat, the flesh

still steaming, bleeding all over the silver lighter in his hand.

IT’S A F U CK I NG N I GH T M A R E , I realize as I snap awake, jerking up in bed

with my breaths coming shallow in the back of my throat and my heart

pounding. The flashbacks from the lab were real enough, pieces from life

before the fire.

Despite the muggy, sweltering heat of the night, I’m covered in frozen

sweat, making the sheets mat to my thighs and my torso. I press a hand

against my chest, feeling my heart slamming against my palm with a dull

thud-thud-thud.
 Fuck.

I barely remember falling asleep after straggling home from The Nest

with Ember on my mind. There’s no denying the nightmares are so vivid I

can still smell tobacco smoke, though.

Except that’s not a memory.

The smell of real tobacco infiltrates my nose, drifting in from the living

room.

I’m not alone in my house.

Old instincts kick in hard. Alertness. My hand starts to creep toward the

edge of my mattress. My gun, hidden underneath.

I hold stock-still...but then deflate as a smugly refined voice drifts down

the hall.

“Having a rough night, Gray?”

Everett Peters.

I don’t want to know how he got into my place without tripping the

alarm.

All I know is he’s trouble, and I want him gone.

Growling to myself, I swing my legs out of bed and drag on a pair of

jeans and the button-down I’d stripped out of just hours ago and left draped

over an easy chair. Part of me wants to stomp out there in my boxers just to

be rude, but the smarter half of my brain says to leave nothing unguarded.

So I slip my gun into the waistband of my jeans, tucked under my shirt,

before I take several wary steps down the hall.

Peters is still just as slick as ever in his five-thousand-dollar suit, with

his graying hair smoothed back and his neatly trimmed beard framing the

cigar hanging from his lips. He sits in my recliner like he owns the place,

patent leather shoes shining flawlessly in the low light.

As he sees me, his brows lift, a slow smile spreading across his lips –

one that fills me with total dread and disgust.

“Dr. Gray Caldwell,” he says with pleasure. “Have a seat, please. Let’s

you and I have a talk. We’ve got a lot of catching up to do.”

 11

PAWS FOR THOUGHT (EMBER)

T he Menagerie feels strange without Doc.

He’ll be here soon. I just couldn’t sleep this morning. I’ve been

restless ever since that night at The Nest.

When I try to lie down, to relax, to drift off to sleep, I don’t have an easy

time.

The second my brain goes idle, I remember his hand wrapped around

mine. I remember his heat, his gaze, his stern, chiseled face. The way his

voice descended to a soft, growling burr when he said, Gray. My name’s

Gray.

And the odd intimacy of that silence we shared, him looking up at the

stars while I tried not to be too obvious that I was actually looking at him.

Holy hell. That memory has me so restless and stir-crazy that I’m up

before dawn every day, and today I decided I might as well put that energy

to good use, come in early, and get started on prep for the day.

Everything has to be cleaned and sterilized constantly at an animal

clinic. I’ve also got to check the appointment logs for the day to see if any

injections or other treatments need to be prepared in advance, especially

ones that have to be dissolved in solution.

We’ve got a few residents staying with us for a bit, including Momo, and

I spend a little time with the boxer, scratching behind his ears. He’s doing so

much better. He still has a lot of bandages that I have to keep sterilized and
changed frequently, but he can stand up on his own to eat now and has been

moved from a restraint cage into a normal kennel that lets him move around.

He’s a lucky little guy. Not one broken bone, even after a full-speed

impact.

I smile because I know he’ll keep recovering just fine.

Slipping my fingers through the bars, I crouch in front of his kennel and

smile as he sniffs, then licks my fingers. “Good boy!” I whisper. “You’re

gonna be just fine, and then you get to go home to your family soon. They

miss you like mad.”

Momo answers with a low, happy whine, ducking his head under my

hand so I can get to the good places behind his ears. He should be

discharged within a week. Such a sweet baby.

The dog stops, though, ears pricking, at a faint noise from the front. I

glance up, looking toward the door.

Pam must be in early, too, probably getting settled in for the day at the

reception desk with an iced something-or-other. I think I might go over to

The Nest and grab a coffee, too, and I should see if she wants anything else.

With one last scratch for Momo, I stand, dusting my hands off on my lab

coat, then slip out into the lobby.

Of course it’s not Pam. Lucky me.

It’s the bitch in black with her sharp, silver-streaked bob and that mouth

that seems made for cruelty, waiting impatiently. Only this time there’s no

Baxter with her.

She’s alone.

And when her gaze lands on me, her lips curl into a mocking smile, her

eyes narrowing, hard as stones. Totally eerie.

I freeze where I stand.

I suddenly feel like a rabbit that’s sighted a wolf, and my heart thumps

as hard as a rabbit’s hind legs breaking into a full sprint. She gives me a

sideways, lingering look, the amusement clear in her lofty expression, in the

arrogant tilt of her chin, before she sweeps a slow look around the lobby.

“My, my,” she says, nearly purring. “Your boss is quite the difficult man

to get a hold of these days. Not haunting the back room this time?”

I swallow and force myself to speak – to be professional, even if

something about this woman and her connections to Doc terrifies me. She

hasn’t actually done anything, though, so I have to play nice.

 “He’s not in for the day yet, I’m afraid. If you want to wait, he should be

here soon.”

I’m amazed my voice doesn’t tremble when my knees are shaking.

I think she can tell, from the cat-eyed, predatory way she looks at me,

like she’s trying to decide if she wants to bat me around a little longer or just

gobble me up outright.

“I really don’t have time to wait around for him,” she says with an airy

flick of her fingers. I bristle, because there’s an implication there I can’t

quite pinpoint but it’s definitely an insult. “But maybe you can take a

message for me?”

Ugh. Do I have to? I mean, really?

She steps toward me, and I instinctively step back.

Call it ridiculous or flighty or my own vivid imagination. There’s just

something in the back of my mind screaming run.

Something’s not right here. I slip my hand defensively into the pocket of

my lab coat, intending to hit the emergency call button and dial 9-11.

This might be a skeleton crew cop town, but right now I’d rather have a

single cop here with me than be alone with this witchy, menacing,

demanding woman who looks like she could snap my neck with one of her

black-gloved hands and then disappear, leaving no evidence.

But I never manage to hit the button because the front door slams open.

I jump with a soft cry, clutching at my chest. Lovely timing.

She goes still, but hardly reacts, a bored but satisfied expression crossing

her face.

Doc steps inside, this towering figure vibrating with a fury like nothing

I’ve ever seen.

Holy crap.

I’d said before I couldn’t imagine Doc’s Neanderthal side. But I’m

seeing it now. He’s huge and bristling, every muscle in his body hardened,

drawn so tight their thickness bulges against his clothing, his face so hard he

might as well be cut granite. If he came here to chew bubblegum and kick

ass like in a silly old movie...well, I think he never had any bubblegum.

There’s something violent, something flashing in those lightning-green

eyes. He looks down at the mystery woman, curling his lip something fierce.

No, something frightening.

 And something that makes my insides tremble for a wholly different

reason. Primal doesn’t begin to describe him like this.

This Gray Caldwell reaches down to some place dark and hungry inside

me. Especially when he speaks in a low, seething growl, rumbling with

animalistic threat. “Get the fuck out.”

It’s quiet, but absolute. Total. Commanding.

I’m shivering, prickles rippling over my skin, but the stranger remains as

cool as ever, turning to face him with a sort of cool, dismissive impatience.

“Honestly, Caldwell? You—”

“No.” He cuts her off in no uncertain terms, his low voice razor-sharp

and slicing just as deep. “Get out, I said. Stay away from my clinic—and

stay the fuck away from Ember, too.”

This time the woman lifts both brows with a sneer of her lips. “So she’s

Ember now? How impressive. You’re very protective of this little mouse of a

girl.”

“Damn right,” he says, taking a step closer to her, his entire body a wall

of quiet anger, radiating dark, heady masculinity. The fact that he admits it,

that he wants to protect me...holy hell.

But he’s not done.

“Think about what I’ll do for the people I want to protect, Fuchsia.

Think long and hard.” His bright eyes hint at a few of those merciless,

savage extremes.

The woman, Fuchsia, just sighs and brushes her hair back. “So hostile. I

see Peters has been feeding you his usual lies about little ol’ me.”

“I don’t need Peters to know you for exactly what you are.” Slowly,

Doc’s hands clench into white-knuckled fists. “I won’t tell you again. Out.

Now.”

She fixes him with a long, measuring look, then shrugs one shoulder,

tossing her head and sauntering past him.

“You’ll come around sooner or later,” she throws back over her shoulder,

pushing the door open. But she’s not done.

Because she leans outside and retrieves something.

A shoebox, apparently.

There’s something inside, too, something moving. Beating around

frantically enough to make it jostle in her hand, frightened squeaks and

shrieks coming from inside, sad enough to twist my heart.

 She tosses the shoebox onto the closest chair with total disregard.

“I found this,” she says silkily. “Right out on the walk. Such a fragile,

colorful little thing. It’ll be in good hands with you, even if yours are a touch

clumsy...right?”

I don’t know why I feel like that’s somehow directed not just at him, but

at me.

But whatever heat he’d roused in my blood freezes as her chilling eyes

slide over me. A knowing quirk of her mouth mocks me before she slips out

and lets the door swing closed in her wake. I feel like I’ve just been through

a furious storm.

I only stay frozen a minute longer.

Whatever’s in that box is going to hurt itself if we don’t move. It’s

flapping around frantically. So much the box is about to bounce right off the

chair.

I glance at Doc worriedly. He’s standing there rigid, breathing hard, but

finally he nods and joins me, striding toward the chair. I clasp the box and

hold it still, and he gingerly lifts the lid off, both of us leaning back slightly

just in case something comes blasting out.

Something tries.

The poor hummingbird inside flops on its one good wing, desperately

trying to fly.

It takes all of three seconds to find out why. It’s the other wing, hanging

at an odd angle, immobile. The bone looks clearly broken close to the main

joint.

Poor thing! I nearly whimper with hurt sympathy, reaching in instantly

to clasp its body in my hand, spreading my fingers around the broken wing

while gently pinning the other wing to its jewel-toned, glittering side so it

can’t thrash around and hurt itself more. It stops fighting immediately but

opens its long, narrow beak in the saddest little squeak ever as I cradle it in

my hands.

“Gray!” I murmur pleadingly, not even thinking about the intimate use

of his name.

He lets out a rough sigh, raking a hand back through his dark hair, then

nods tightly, rising to his feet. “We’ll fix it up. Come on.”

I want to know what’s happening, want to know why that woman is

making veiled threats toward both of us, and how she knows Peters or what
Peters might’ve told Doc about her. But this poor little feathered jewel’s life

comes first.

He tosses his head toward the back and, cradling the crying

hummingbird gingerly, I follow him as quick as I can. This bird’s life is in

his capable hands now.

And honestly? So is my heart.

Because every time I look at him over the table as we gently bind and

splint the bird’s wing, when our eyes meet, it happens. My pulse races. My

breath catches.

My whole freaking world pops a screw loose and comes undone.

I remember him saying he’ll protect me.

Just as much as he’ll protect every small, precious thing that winds up in

his care.

I’m not sure what’s racing faster – my mind or my heart.

Because the more I think about it, the more it frightens and thrills me,

wondering what Gray freaking Caldwell would do to protect someone like

me, if push came to shove.

IT’S NO T long before the hummingbird is splinted and safely settled in an

artificial nest in a tiny cage.

We’ve set up a special dropper of sugar water with a little honey mixed

in close by. Just so it doesn’t have to go far to feed.

I’ve given it a very mild sedative, enough so it won’t try to fly when it’s

splinted. Hopefully by the time the sedative wears off, it’ll realize it’s no

longer in pain and will calm down and wait until it heals. It needs time, plus

a little peace and quiet.

Now for the bad news: it’s going to have to be watched around the clock,

and have its “nectar” constantly refilled. It’s a full-time job, which isn’t easy

when we’ve got other creatures to care for.

“Doc?” I ask, reaching in to stroke my fingertip over the brilliant,

reflective emerald facets of the hummingbird’s head. “What are we going to

do with this little guy?”

 He thinks for a long moment, silent as he strips his gloves off with a

distant, thoughtful frown. “Bring the cage.”

I blink, looking up at him. “Huh? Where are you going?”

“We,” he says firmly. “I need you to hold the cage steady in the truck.”

He tosses his head toward the door, fishing in his pocket for his keys. “Let’s

go.”

I don’t even know what’s happening. It shouldn’t shiver me right down

to my core when he’s so demanding, so in control, so spontaneous.

But Lord help me, it does.

So I carefully pick up the hummingbird’s cage, careful not to jostle it,

and turn to follow Doc from The Menagerie without even questioning again

just where it is we’re going.

I get my answer soon anyway, after a brief drive beneath the morning

sun, the light reflecting off the highway and silence between us in the warm

cabin of the truck. The whole mood feels so intense it’s like it has weight,

substance.

Like I can wrap myself in it, and it’s strange and hot and comforting, but

also so new it makes my entire body feel far too sensitive to the slightest

rush of air bringing Doc closer. Like when he changes gears or drapes an

arm across the back of the seat, his worn fingers dangling so dangerously,

deliciously close to the nape of my neck.

Gawd.

I’m surprised, though, when he pulls into the lane leading to the

Charming Inn.

Wait. Is he dropping me at home?

No, it turns out.

We’re here to see Ms. Wilma.

I only met the woman once, when I was first checking in. From what I

understand, she’s the former owner of the inn and Warren’s grandmother,

but since she’s handed over a lot of control to Warren and Haley, she mostly

stays off stage in her old world.

She struck me as stately and warm then. The impression remains now as

she reaches out to grip both of Doc’s hands in a firm, friendly, welcoming

grasp before offering me a bright-eyed, thoughtful smile as she leans in to

peer at the wounded hummingbird.

 “Now what do we have here, dearie?” she asks, then straightens,

beckoning to us. “Come, come inside. It’s getting too warm to be standing

out on the porch. You can tell me about our new friend over cold lemonade.”

A bit wide-eyed, I follow her and Doc into the elegant shadows and

stately hallways of the main house. Most of it was an old hotel once, I think,

but there’s a part in the back for family quarters.

I’ve never been back there in my few short weeks here, and I can’t help

but feel a touch out of place as she ushers us into the kitchen and settles us

down at a doily-draped kitchen table.

It’s some comfort that Doc looks just as stiff and awkward as I feel. I

catch his eye as I set the hummingbird’s cage down, flashing him a little

secret smile.

And for half a second, he smiles back. And my heart stops. And I can

feel my cheeks ignite like the sun.

Then Ms. Wilma serves us these tall, condensation-beaded glasses of

lemonade, and settling down next to me, folds her prim hands on the table.

She peers in, focusing on the quiet, drowsing hummingbird. That’s the

sedative working – birds usually don’t sleep during the day, which is why

most pet owners cover over their cages with a heavy cloth to fool them into

thinking it’s night when they want birds to sleep.

Wilma makes a little cooing sound, curling her fingertip against the wire

of the cage.

“Now,” she says. “What happened to this pretty little darling?”

I glance at Doc, but he’s silent – doing that thing again where he lets me

take the lead.

I clear my throat, and say, “We’re not sure. He was brought in with a

broken wing, but...we just don’t have the resources to watch him full time.

He’s going to need to be watched constantly, and while it’s okay to refill his

dropper, sometimes he’ll need to be manually fed.”

“And the only one around with enough time on her hands is a retired old

woman who spends all her days in her garden, is that it?” Ms. Wilma asks

slyly, and I flush.

“Oh, no. I didn’t, I don’t mean—”

“I do,” Doc says. “Ma’am, I’m after a favor. Would you mind looking

after him until he recovers? His wing should heal naturally on its own as

long as it’s properly splinted and immobilized.”

 “Look at him, still calling me ma’am after all these years,” Ms. Wilma

teases, leaning closer to me. “That’s how you know you’ve got a proper

gentleman. Even if I do wonder at his manners. The first time he brings a

girl around, and he doesn’t even introduce us properly!”

Oh God. Oh God. Oh God.

That flush in my cheeks roars so hot it’s like I’ve got dual suns stuck to

my face, and it must be the heat that melts my tongue. “No, I mean, I’m not

—I don’t—he’s...”

“She’s my employee, Ms. Wilma. My new vet tech,” Doc blurts out

quickly, his eyes a little too wide. “And I believe you know that!”

“Yes, yes, we’ve met!” I throw in, sputtering helplessly. “When I first

rented the place.”

She just watches us with that knowing little smile, and that’s when it hits

me. So obvious in hindsight I could pull my own hair out.

She’s baiting us.

Probably because she wants to see how we react to the idea of being

more than just boss and employee. And we just took it all hook, line, and

sinker.

I make an exasperated half-hiss. “Ms. Wilma!”

She bursts into soft, delighted laughter. “Oh, don’t look so scandalized.

Let an old woman have her fun. I do like to get this one riled up. He never,

ever smiles.” She clucks her tongue at a glowering, almost sullen Doc, and

mock whispers conspiratorially to me. “He’s a good one, you know. He just

doesn’t want to admit it. You be careful and snatch him up before one of

those greedy guts gets their claws into him first.”

“Ms. Wilma!” I gasp, and then I can’t stand it anymore – I press my face

into my hands.

It’s the only hiding place I’ve got, and I don’t want to see if Doc’s even

looking at me right now. Let alone the look on his face.

Just imagining it already has my stomach swarming with butterflies, and

I just...I can’t. I’m not ready for this torture, even if it seems a little familiar.

She’s as bad as my mother.

Doc interrupts sternly. “So does this mean you’ll be able to care for the

bird, ma’am?”

“Oh, tosh,” she says. “Of course! I’ve a million of these lovely boys and

girls in my atrium and plenty of food. I’ll make him right at home and nurse
him back to health.”

“Thank you,” he says, and I peek over my fingers nervously.

“Thanks!” I manage, more like a squeak than a real word.

Ms. Wilma gives me one of those long, measuring looks that makes me

feel like she can see the weight of my soul, then smiles kindly and pats my

arm. “Forgive my teasing. With Warren married off and giving me great-

grandchildren, I need someone new to meddle with.”

I smile weakly. “It’s fine,” I manage in a trailing mumble.

It’s so not fine.

Not when I’ve tried like hell to keep my mind out of Doc’s gutter, and

it’s not helping when everyone keeps pushing me back in.

But I manage to fumble my way through a few more pleasantries, and

thankfully Ms. Wilma leaves me alone. She shifts, asking Doc about his

practice and other little things that make me realize he’s been part of this

town for a long time.

Funny. He acts like he’s a stranger to it, like he doesn’t belong here, but I

think he’s the only one who thinks that way.

Finally, when our lemonades are just yellow-tinted ice cubes in the

bottom of our glasses, we leave the hummingbird with Ms. Wilma Ford and

head out into the morning sunlight. Standing on the porch of Charming Inn,

I blow out a sigh and rest my hands on my hips.

“Well,” I say, “that was something.”

He makes a soft tsk sound under his breath. “Some people seem to grow

more immature with age.”

I grin. “Hasn’t helped you, old man.”

A slit-eyed, not entirely serious look slides toward me. “Impudent

child.”

Somehow, that takes the wind out of my sails.

I know there’s fifteen years’ difference between us, but I wonder. Does

he really just see me like a child?

I bite my lip, folding my arms over my chest and look away, toward the

gorgeous cliff drop-off that I hear gave Heart’s Edge its name thanks to its

curving shape. There’s nothing like pretty scenery for cover while I gather

my thoughts.

“Listen,” I murmur. “So I was checking during morning prep, and

noticed we don’t have any scheduled appointments today. Pam can page us
for a walk-in, right?”

He gives me a strange look. “Why? What’re you suggesting?”

“Playing hooky for a little bit.” I offer a faint smile. “You work in that

clinic six to seven days a week. When was your last real day off?”

“I’m the only veterinarian in town, Ember. Long weeks come with the

territory.”

“And this isn’t that big a town, Doc. There can’t be sick animals every

single day of the week, and half the people we see are just faking it so they

can get at you. And if anyone really needs you, you’re a phone call and a

mile’s drive away,” I point out. “I mean, we’re already here. Come hang out

at my place for a bit. Enjoy the view from somewhere besides your office.”

I fully expect him to say no.

He’s so guarded. Even if sometimes I wonder at those long, heated looks

he gives me, the way his hand lingered on mine when he’d held it, so many

things that say he might just see me as a woman and not just a bratty young

employee to mentor, I shouldn’t get ideas.

I can’t really fool myself into thinking he might actually be interested in

me.

He sighs, tilting his head back, looking up at the sun. The heated rays

wash over his face, drawing out every weathered line, every suntanned

slope, every subtle scar.

I can’t help lingering on his hands, too.

Those scarred marks, deep lines and punctures promising a mystery.

What happened to him there?

Would Peters and that Fuchsia lady know?

“One hour, Ember,” he says. “One damn hour, and then we go right back

to work.”

I brighten. I can’t help myself. It’s hard not to be happy. More and more,

it feels like he’s actually choosing to spend time around me of his own free

will. And if we start to do that, spend a little time talking, laughing together,

it could...oh.

Oh, no.

I bite my bottom lip, wondering. When exactly did I fall so head over

heels for this man? He’s still nothing but a mystery wrapped in an enigma

wrapped in one frustrating gorgeous shell.

 I tamp down my excitement, but smile, start to reach for his hand, then

stop myself, taking a few skipping steps backward down the porch steps.

“Come on, then. My cabin’s this way.”

We step down onto the cute little worn dirt trails that meander through

the grounds to the vacation cabins, following the pathway to mine. It used to

be a duplex, I guess, but Haley told me last summer they turned the central

wall into half-walls and partitions to convert it to a family unit.

Lucky me, it’s all mine. A quiet, two-bedroom place with rustic wooden

slats and massive floor-to-ceiling windows that let in plenty of light, a lovely

view, and understated, comfortable earth-toned furniture.

I haven’t done much to personalize it, though, other than tossing out a

few personal effects here and there. For now, I’ve settled in and it’s just

cozy. Private. Peaceful.

And it’s nice to have Doc in what’s essentially my space, my first real

guest besides Mom, as I unlock the door and let us both inside.

He glances around briefly in a polite, unobtrusive way. I offer a smile.

“You can sit wherever you want. Do you want a drink? Coffee? Did you have

time for breakfast?”

He levers his tall frame down to settle on the couch with powerful thighs

casually spread. It makes me think of how he looks behind the wheel of his

truck, the cold formality of the lab coat stripped away, leaving this rugged

mountain man in well-worn jeans, his narrow hips slouched forward, broad

shoulders leaning back against the couch seat.

“You don’t have to treat me like formal company, Ember. It’s fine to just

relax.”

“It’s not really formal, just...you know, wanting you to be comfortable

and all.” I shrug, ducking my head sheepishly. “And you look like the kind

of man who always remembers coffee and forgets breakfast.”

He arches both brows with a self-mocking cant of his head. “Depends on

what you’re calling breakfast.”

“Coffee doesn’t count. House rule.”

That actually gets a burst of genuine laughter from him, startled and

rumbling so deep, my chest tightens. “Am I that damn obvious?”

I bite my lip on a smile. “Do you like French toast?”

“I can’t say I’ve had it in long enough to remember.”

“Then let’s find out!”

 I’m already digging through the fridge, pulling out eggs, milk, butter. I

don’t do that lazy French toast where it’s just buttered up bread with

cinnamon and sugar sprinkled on top. My French toast goes all out, all the

flipping way to Paris and home again.

Today, we’re gonna do this right.

He watches me with curious interest as I attack the pantry, too, lining up

everything I need on the counter and the stove. “Would you like a little

help?”

I pause, flicking him a startled look. “French toast is kind of a one-

person job, unless you want to whisk eggs?”

“I think I could manage that without setting the kitchen on fire.”

I just hold up a fork, raising both brows. “Be my guest.”

He rises off the couch and moves forward. Then it’s just me and his

body heat in the kitchen, walled in by the L-shaped counter, moving around

each other with an ease that’s new and familiar.

It reminds me how we work together at the office, the way we always

seem to know where the other person is, always gliding smoothly in tandem.

He works hard on whisking the eggs, and I start mixing together

granulated sugar and cinnamon, setting aside a separate tin of powdered

sugar while I keep an eye on the butter melting slowly in the pan. When it’s

time, I take one bowl of whisked raw egg from him and leave him to start on

another, nearly glowing with warmth when our hands brush as he hands

over the bowl.

And Gray doesn’t pull away like he’s just touched something forbidden,

like he has in the past.

Oh, mama.

We’re quiet the entire time, but it’s a comfy quiet. The kind that says

good vibes, good waves, and lots of good looks.

As I start dipping slices of bread in the egg batter and laying them in the

skillet to sizzle, though, I glance over at him uncertainly.

“So is she really that bad?”

He glances up from cracking eggs. “Who?”

“That woman who keeps coming around. Fuchsia.”

His hand clenches so suddenly he crushes the egg in his palm, fragments

falling into the bowl like dust. Cursing, he shakes his hand off, and with an

apologetic wince, I rip off a paper towel and offer it to him.

 “Sorry,” I mutter. “I shouldn’t have brought it up.”

He scrubs his hand off, then moves to the sink and turns the water on,

pumping soap into his palm. “Why are we talking about her, anyway?” he

asks tightly. “I thought you wanted to relax.”

Ouch, he’s right. And I’m busted, my curiosity running over my inner

cat.

“Well, you seemed pretty mad to see her,” I whisper cautiously, keeping

one eye on him, one on the skillet, my brows wrinkling. “But she was nice

enough to bring the hummingbird in for treatment. Someone who’d do that

can’t be all bad...right?”

“For all either of us knows, she crushed that poor hummer beneath her

heel just to have something to taunt us with.”

I wince; the very idea makes my heart hurt. “You’re serious. But how do

you know someone so cruel, then?”

“Does it matter, Ember?”

“When you’re threatening her to protect me...maybe a little.” I barely

remember to flip the French toast in the pan so it can cook easily – moving

the spatula around absently, its tantalizing scent rising between us, mocking

the suddenly tense air. “What could she do that I’d need protecting from,

Gray?”

He says nothing for several long seconds as he dumps out the shell-filled

bowl of eggs in the garbage disposal and rinses it, then returns to the counter

to crack open another one.

“Don’t worry about it,” he says, his dark eyes on his hands, gaze

shuttered. Shielded. It’s like a transformation. That moment when I know

I’m dealing with Doc, my boss, not Gray, the man. “I’ll handle it, trust me.

She won’t fucking touch you. Ever.”

My lips tremble a little. I don’t even know what to say.

There’s a quiet vehemence every time he mentions her that drives home

just how serious this is. That worries me. Also makes me realize my

instincts about that woman were right.

It’s no comfort. I was right to be afraid, alone with her.

Maybe I should’ve called the police, even after Doc showed up.

We don’t say anything else, just finish up the French toast – egg-

battering each slice, then shaking mixed cinnamon and granulated sugar
over it for texture, adding the perfect extra touch of powdered sugar and

dribbles of honey. It’s not quite a hostile silence.

But it’s tense.

I can’t help but think...if this had been just a couple of weeks ago, he’d

have left at the slightest question. Is this progress? Hard to call it that, but

maybe.

There’s no stopping curiosity. There’s something about him that draws

me in, this magnetism, and it’s like I want to know him, but I know it’ll only

happen on his terms. I just don’t know what those terms are, and I’m

starting to feel desperate trying to find out.

While we’re settling in at the breakfast table over coffee and toast, I have

a thought that makes me shudder. Am I like them? Just like the jackals at

the clinic?

Infatuated with him for no good reason other than that he’s there and

insanely attractive? Infatuated with the way his mystique makes me see what

I want to see when really, he’s just a man who wants to be left alone?

No, I decide, watching him from under my lashes as we eat. Doc nods a

few times, enjoying his food, which makes me smile back.

Nope. It’s not his mystique, that’s more of a frustrating obstacle. It’s the

bits of the real Doc – of Gray – that he lets me see.

The kindness, steadiness, and strength in his hands, whether he’s

working with an injured dog or saving me from face-planting on the front

step of The Menagerie.

How he went out of his way, from day one, to make sure I was taken

care of – even though he didn’t have to. I was just his newly hired employee.

A stranger.

Then this mysterious duty he feels to protect Heart’s Edge from

whatever secrets he’s keeping.

He’s kind.

Underneath that cold exterior, that formal stiffness, is a kind man with a

soft heart that’s hurting so, so much.

I don’t know what hurt him. I may never know what hurt him.

I just want to see him smile.

To me, that’s more real than anything to do with lusting after a pretty

face and next to the only eligible bachelor in town.

 He glances up at me, catching my eye. Those brilliant green eyes pin me

in place, a reminder I’ve been staring. I clear my throat, ducking my head.

“Good grub,” he says quietly. It’s not just a nicety, there’s serious

appreciation in his voice that says he means it. “I don’t think I’ve ever had

French toast quite like this. Where’d you learn to make it this way?”

“My dad,” I answer and my throat knots at just the memory. “He grew

up poor, and the way they made French toast was to just butter up regular

toast and toss sugar on it. When he was in a better position when he was

older...” I smile faintly, breaking off a corner of my last piece. “He learned

the proper way to make it, the fancy way, but he always said the texture was

never right with just powdered sugar. So he’d add both regular sugar and

powdered, plus cinnamon. And that, he said, was heaven.”

When he looks at me again, it’s with that quiet that says he understands

pain. Viscerally. He gets all the small personal hurts that make up life and

memories and loss.

“You must miss him a great deal,” Doc says.

“It’s hard not to, you know?” I push the corner of my toast around in

lingering pools of honey, staring at it. “He was the glue of our family.

Without him, we just don’t hold together as well.”

“Fair. Mind if I ask how he passed?” The gentleness in Doc’s words

nearly breaks me when he asks, my eyes stinging.

“Heart attack.” I hate saying the words out loud.

It makes them real, makes them final, and I don’t think I’ve ever had to

before.

People already knew, anyone who ever mattered, anyone in our family.

For me to have to tell Gray makes it this scary, definite thing I can hold in

my hand. Equally as small as this piece of French toast and so big I feel like

it’ll swell up and crush me.

I blink away my burning eyes, the wetness gathering in their corners.

“H-he died right in front of my mom, you know? It hit her so hard she’s

never been the same, though she tries to pretend, but I know she’s not okay.

Not really.”

I lift my head, finally letting myself look at him. I’m expecting that

closed, neutral expression, his oh-so-polite, not-quite-disinterest that lets

people talk at him without him having to engage. Maybe I almost want that

here.
 Anything else feels like it’ll force me to pull myself together and stop

falling apart like this.

But instead, he’s watching me with shadowed green eyes that are so

warm with understanding it impales me. Stabs me in the soul with

sympathy.

The hard lines of his face soften, open in a way I’ve never seen them

before, and then he’s moving.

He’s holding out his hand to me again. Resting it on the table between

us, outstretched and upturned, those curled fingers inviting.

Offering. Offering solace.

I’m not sure if his touch will break me or hold me together, but I can’t

deny it. I feel so sick inside, so hollowed out with the grief I never quite let

myself face. After a few shaky moments, I slip my hand into his warm,

inviting fingers and let them envelop mine in his strength.

What the hell, Ember? This is your boss. You know that, right?

I do. I also know Doc Caldwell wraps me up in his heat and steadiness

and power. His touch brings order to my chaos.

“I was such a jerk,” I whisper, staring down at his tanned knuckles

curled against my pale skin. “Right before he died, we got in a fight over

something so stupid I don’t even remember what it was about. Part of me

thinks...”

“That you killed him,” he finishes for me. Coming from anyone else, it’d

feel like an accusation.

From him, it feels like understanding.

More, it feels like forgiveness. The kind that says there was never

anything to forgive in the first place.

Jesus. He knows what it’s like to beat yourself to a pulp over something

that happened to someone you care for, something that was out of your

control, but the pain and loss won’t let you see reason or stop eating you

alive.

“Yes,” I say, choking on the word, swallowing it back. “You’re right. I

just...I want to hear him singing again, playing again. Just one more time.”

“Is that his?” he asks gently.

I look up, following his line of sight to the sofa – and the violin case

propped against it, resting closed with the soft, well-cared-for leather
shining in the morning light. I’m grateful for the distraction, nodding and

biting my lip.

“It was his,” I murmur back. “He gave it to me years ago, after he taught

me to play. I’ve never wanted another one. It’s his touch in every line of it.

Like he shaped the very thinness of the wood, and he’s in the very sounds it

makes. I haven’t played it in forever, honestly, but I can’t let it go, either.”

He squeezes my fingers, his thumb stroking along the edge of my palm,

then asks, “May I?”

What the what? I’ve imagined Gray as many things, but a musician?

I’m so startled all I can do is nod.

He squeezes my hand one last time, and then slips to his feet, rising to

that towering height that can be so intimidating sometimes and so inviting at

others. He becomes this big protective tree of a man inviting living creatures

to shelter in his shade. And today, that creature is me.

He crosses the room on three languid, powerful strides, and picks up the

violin case with gentle hands. The very same care he puts in everything. It’s

there, no mistaking it, even in how he handles the violin case, delicately

unlatching the buckles and lifting out the gleaming, curving violin like he’s

just found some priceless treasure.

Oh, wow. It warms something deep inside me, seeing the way he carries

the violin, the way he runs his fingers along the bowstring gently and traces

the shining line of the bow itself.

Doc may not be a man of many words, but he always shows his care

through touch.

And with a reverent grip, he lifts the violin out, props it against his

shoulder, and settles to sit on the arm of the couch. Then it begins. He starts

to play.

If you could make sound into the world's sweetest honey, I think it’d be

like this.

It’s lilting. Delicate. Hypnotic.

It makes me think of the way his voice softened when he talked about

spring in Heart’s Edge, and how it transforms the entire town as the flowers

bloom like bursting rainbows.

Those flowers freaking bloom from his fingertips now, soft petals of

music drifting through the air and falling down in gentle flurries, and I

listen. Rapt, completely mesmerized.

 It should feel wrong to let another man play my violin, my father’s

violin. But whatever else this strange, spontaneous thing is, it feels totally

right.

Something Dad always said comes back to me. Music was never meant

to die with its maker.

It’s never been right to let the instrument sit around untouched,

dishonoring his memory by silencing its sound.

Everything in me is keyed up tight, so tight, and I don’t even realize I’ve

drifted toward him, standing and leaving my plate behind, until I’m so close

I could touch him. So dang close I feel the vibrato of every mournful,

quivering note on my skin, shivering over me and giving me such delicious

goosebumps.

It’s like every point on my body pricks aware of him, feeling him,

soaking in these emotions as physical things caressing me through sound.

When the music finally trails off, when he slowly sets the violin down

into his lap, I melt back into the silence and open my eyes just in time. His

eyes drift open, too, green-hazed and smoky and dark, locked on mine.

I’m so close to him somehow, the distance vanishing between us, until I

could rest my hands on his chest if I wanted to.

If I dared to.

And as he leans toward me, as the space between us trembles and sings

like a struck bowstring, my heart goes wild. My lips part, my eyes tilt to his

mouth as it draws closer, closer, his breaths so ragged I can hear them.

I’ve never let myself truly linger on his mouth for long. Because then I’ll

want it too much, his upper lip all firm and defined with a sharp, near

perfect V dip in the center.

It’s slightly fuller than his lower lip, making the little peak right at the

center overhang so temptingly, this soft bit of flesh demanding to be nibbled

and bitten and...

Oh. Oh, God.

He’s so close I can feel his breath against my lips, my cheeks, and my

heart is about to pound right out of my chest. He parts his lips like he might

just whisper Ember, and then –

And then he suddenly draws back sharply, sucking in a heavy breath, his

pupils dilating.
 He just stares at me, his face as blankly bewildered as I feel, probably

wondering what in the heck just happened. I wish I knew.

Pressing a hand over my racing heart, I try to keep it from beating out of

my chest while he looks away firmly, focusing his attention on replacing the

violin and bow in the case just as carefully as he’d removed them.

After a strained moment he asks, “Want to go for a walk?”

“Sure,” I say faintly. A walk. Ha, ha.

Crud, I need the air.

Space.

Something to clear my head.

But nothing does it like the sudden alert sense of wariness, worry, and

dread when he says tensely, “Good. I’d like to show you something.”
 12

RUFF RIDING (DOC)

I just almost fucking kissed Ember Delwen.

A girl almost half my age.

A shy, sweet slip of a thing who knows nothing about the real me, and

looks at me with these soft doe eyes that seem to see a better man than what

I truly am.

Not to mention my employee. It’s incredible how that’s so low on the

list.

Yeah, I’m going straight to hell.

The special abyss from legend, Tartarus, reserved mostly for people who

talk at the theater and interrupt movies.

Even worse, she’s still with me at my own damn invitation. Long after I

should’ve just excused myself and had the good sense to leave.

We’re silent as we cross the grass to the fence, then slip out and take the

path down into the valley that gives Heart’s Edge its soul. The rising

daylight, the sun arcing toward its noon peak one bit at a time, turns

everything a brassy shade of gold. Everything from the nodding flowers to

the dun rock of the cliff faces to the tree trunks rising up the hills on one

side seem to bend toward the light.

The trail takes us down to the base of the half-heart cliff looking out

over the mountains and ridges and slopes. It’s slow going with neither of us

wearing proper boots. At least it’s a nice distraction from that tingling
feeling that still lingers between us like static in the air, this silent awareness

that we almost did the unthinkable.

“Hey, Doc?”

I damn near jump out of my skin once she finally speaks, pausing and

lingering with her hand on a slim birch tree trunk. She looks at me curiously

before she picks her way over a fallen log.

Of fucking course it catches her foot and she pitches forward, barely

catching herself in time with a squeak before I can even lunge over to save

her.

Clearing her throat, she straightens, brushing it off like a cat pretending

it didn’t just slip off a shelf.

“So where’d you learn to play like that? The violin, I mean.”

I’d tensed up at the sound of her voice, unsure what she wanted, but now

I relax, damn glad it’s a safer question than I’d expected.

“The Army,” I answer. “My old man wanted to drive me into the Air

Force like him, but I chose being a grunt. Honestly, I don’t remember how I

learned. Never had any formal lessons. It must’ve happened during those

long nights when there was nothing to do but wait and hope too many

people wouldn’t die. We’d talk. Pass around instruments. Smoke. Play cards.

I picked up an old violin my buddy had and took to it. Got real good over

time. The wounded boys started asking me for requests. Something to

distract them from the pain, the fear, the boredom of recovery.”

It’s an old memory, one the color and flavor of Iraqi dust, and still not as

bitter as some of my newer ones. Even if the military was all about death

and war – not to mention sticking it to my asshole father – those were

simpler times than the past wicked decade of my life.

Days when you knew who people were, what they wanted. Who you

could trust.

Days when you knew yourself, without being hollowed out by regret and

horror and secrets.

Ember doesn’t ask me anything else until we reach the foot of the cliff.

From here, the rock turns into a tall wall of red and yellow sedimentary rock

with tufts of weeds and trees clinging to it all the way down a steep slope. It

ends in a field of lively green grass, dotted with spring flowers that make a

speckled carpet bending into the valley proper.

 Ember presses close to the cliff face, following its curve, one small hand

trailing over the stone as she looks high up to the edge.

“Felicity told me about this,” she says, her eyes bright, delighted. “About

the lovers who promised to be together forever here, throwing flowers over

the edge. And how kids do it now all the time when they like someone.”

“There’s zero basis in fact for that legend.” I snort, annoyed sometimes

at how this town clings to the sappiest things. But I guess that’s better than

clinging more than it already does to monsters who aren’t all make-believe.

She glances at me, amusement dancing on her lips. “Which tells me you

were curious enough to look it up?”

I scowl at her, looking away, but wish I hadn’t. Because across the

valley, buried against the far slope, I see it.

The ruins.

Remnants of the Paradise Hotel, scattered cinders and jutting black

spears of burnt wood. If I’m ever sent to hell for almost kissing this girl, I

know where to find its gate.

For the briefest second, I’m back there.

The screams, the worst part is the screams, rising above the crackling

flames, so many people I can’t tell who, but I know that smell of charring

flesh is my fault, my fault, my fucking fault, the thickness of smoke crawling

up inside me and I’m ready to let it fill me, choke me off, leave me here to

slip away among the blaring alarms and total chaos—

Fuck!

The guilt hits my gut like a lead slug, even though I know it’s irrational.

Still, lives were lost because of me. There’s no hiding that.

People were fucking sacrificed in more ways than one to save the good

people of Heart’s Edge.

Logically, I know it’s the needs of the many over the needs of the few;

the lives of the innocent over demons planning to harm them. But the loss of

any life is a hideous fucking thing, and when it becomes a necessity to stop

more killing, morals take on too many shades to follow.

You’d better be damned sure there was no better way, first.

I’m still not sure there was no better way.

I still don’t know if I saved them or damned myself.

I shouldn’t have come out here. Shouldn’t have brought her out here.
 My past and present collide in slow motion, and I can’t deal with the

emotions it’s rousing. I can’t trust myself around her, and I need to get away

before I forget exactly why, when part of me is painfully aware of her in

every moment.

Ember reminds me too much of a flower child again, walking among the

high grass that skims up to her knees, her soft ruffled short dress trailing

behind her in subtle whispers of hot summer breeze, her expression

completely absorbed. She picks out one flower after another.

She’s alternating them, one blue, one pink, arranging them carefully into

a little bunch between her fingers. A small, pleased smile curves her petal-

pink lips.

She’s so good.

So pure, she can be so happily rapt playing among the flowers. It’s

incredible, considering less than half an hour ago I’d almost kissed her like

a damn fool. Almost tainted her.

Now if I touch that purity, I’ll turn it black.

I study her for a long minute, then rip my gaze away and look up at the

sky, squinting at the sun. “We should head back. Another hour and it’ll be

too warm to be outside without shade. You’re too pale to be here without

sunscreen now.”

“Aw, really? I’ll blame it on home. We don’t get sun in the Seattle area,”

she teases, then tilts her head back into the breeze, eyes lidding, as she

breathes in and spreads her arms with the flowers dangling from one hand.

“That’s why I love it out here. It’s so bright.”

You’re the real brightness, firefly, I think. Then I shake my head and

make myself turn away and begin the walk back to the trail.

After a while she follows me, catching up to walk side-by-side, watching

me curiously and twirling her flowers. Pointedly, she picks one out to tuck in

her hair, baby blue nestling against sunny blonde and bringing out the light

in her sky-blue eyes.

“Was this what you wanted to show me? The cliff?”

“Ah...” I clear my throat, mind going into overdrive.

Shit. I’d forgotten about that.

I don’t even know what I’d intended anymore.

To bring her out here, show her the ruins, and tell her the truth? Show

her how preposterous I can be? Show her why she should stay the hell away
from me, maybe.

Too bad those memories went crashing down, the words locked up

inside me, the second I saw what’s left of Paradise.

“Yes,” I answer slowly after a hesitant moment. It’s better this way. “The

view. Most people never see the bottom of the cliff or take it in up close and

personal.”

“I like it.” She accepts my bull with a bright smile, just that easy. “So,”

she continues, “are you going to the theater this weekend?”

I frown. “Why would I? What theater?”

“The old one’s reopening in town, I heard.” She shrugs. “Apparently,

Peters overhauled it. Felicity’s really excited.”

Then she stretches up on her toes, reaching up, and something cool

kisses behind my ear.

One of the flowers, I realize, a pink one, its stem tickling, and its petals

nestling into my hair, her soft fingertips brushing the curve of my ear,

making it tingle before she pulls away, looking entirely too pleased with

herself. Good goddamn.

For once, I can’t quite focus on her allure. Not when my body goes cold

despite the day’s balmy heat.

She knows how to focus my attention, I’ll give her that.

She also knows exactly how to make sure I’ll show up to keep an eye on

Peters.

I T ’ S evening by the time I’m alone again.

Our hour is more than up. It’s time to reopen the clinic.

Ember and I dance around each other for the rest of a day that’s

mercifully busy enough to keep us from being alone together, but just slow

enough to give me time to think.

To notice little things like the way her hair skims her jaw when she turns

too fast, or the flare of her lab coat against those slim, pale legs on steps that

make her flit like a butterfly.

A blue morpho. That’s what she is to me.

 This bright, rare, delicate thing, flitting through my life, soon to be gone

again. Far too capable of delivering the worst case of smurf-blue balls I’ve

ever had in my life.

I ignore the ache below my belt line, waiting for her to finally go home

for the day.

Then it’s just me and the secret panel in my office. That shoebox with

the burner phone inside on a shelf, perched next to the lethal freezer.

Plus one secret flask of emergency whiskey I keep in my desk drawer,

the taste of it scouring, bracing, giving me courage to dial the only number

programmed into the cheap phone.

It takes me half the flask before I take a deep breath, find my courage,

hit Call, and wait.

There’s a hard knot in the pit of my stomach. It only tightens like a

spring as the line rings – then clicks.

At first, I’m not even sure it worked. Maybe the damn thing went dead

or goes to a disconnected number now.

Then I hear it. The sound of harsh breathing, and an even harsher voice,

gravelly and seared. “Yeah?”

“Hey,” I say, my throat dry. “Long time.”

He chuckles. “That’s been your choice. I’ve been here all along. Doing

my thing.”

“Yeah...” What the fuck do I say?

After a long silence, he says, “You need something, don’t you?”

“No. Not quite. Not me.” I lean my elbow on my desk, staring down at

the shine of the lamp off the silvery metal of the flask. If I close my eyes, I

can almost forget, if it wasn’t for the thickness, the scrape of his voice, the

sound of permanent damage to his vocal cords. “It’s more like I wanted to

give you a heads-up.”

“That the battle-axe and the weasel are back?”

I smile faintly. “You see everything, I guess.”

“Not everything. Enough.” He pauses, then says, “I don’t know what

they’re doing in town. It worries me a lot.”

“I don’t know either. Fuchsia keeps trying to corner me away from the

town to tell me something apparently too important for a phone call or five

minutes at a gas station.” I snort bitterly. “And Peters, he’s playing the

philanthropist, buying up and renovating struggling businesses in town.”

 “Heart’s Edge is half-dead businesses,” he grinds out. “Is there such a

thing as majority ownership of a town?”

“Politically, that’s a technical no. Doesn’t change the fact he’d have

enough economic power to influence decisions about the town if he wants,

without a—”

Fuck. I almost say the word mayor. Heart’s Edge hasn’t had a mayor

since...

Yeah.

But I can’t bring that up to him. Not now.

He knows what I’ll say, and there’s no point in hurting him more. I clear

my throat and continue on. “With three councillors standing in for local

government, it’s not hard for him to win a seat on the board. Or, hell, full

control if he pumps enough into their re-election campaigns.”

“The question is why. If he wants to use Heart’s Edge as a staging

ground again, he’s out of his fucking mind.”

“That’s what I’m afraid of,” I whisper, taking another rough swig of the

whiskey. “And that I won’t be able to stop it this time. Listen to me, man...”

“Yeah?”

“I...” Fuck. I drag a hand over my face, then press my face into my palm,

forcing out words I’ve held onto for years. “I’m sorry. For everything. For

the way it went down.”

Whatever else I expected, I’m not expecting a laugh.

Rough, gritty like sandpaper, but still he laughs, and it’s good-natured

and teasing.

“The fuck are you apologizing for, Gray?” he asks. “You’re not the one

who did this to me. You’re not the one who turned me into the monster of

Heart’s Edge. You saved me. You pulled me out of the fire. And now maybe

it’s my turn to return the favor.”

Before I can ask what he means, the line goes dead.

I’m left staring at the phone, the blank screen, with a strange, sick

feeling in my chest and a sense of foreboding building up inside me.

A storm is coming to Heart’s Edge. No doubt whatsoever.

I just fear for the people caught in its wake.

 13

DOG EAT DOG (EMBER)

T hat creepy-ass woman is back.

I part the blinds of the examining room in the back of the clinic,

the one we almost never use because it only has the one tiny window and

seems too cramped for some of the bigger animals. I try to be sneaky about

peeking out, but of course, I stumble and shake the blinds so violently I give

myself away.

Fuchsia isn’t trying to be sneaky at all. She just cruises past the clinic in

a pitch-black SUV, driving so slow it’s obvious she’s watching the place.

It’s been obvious for three freaking days. That’s how long she’s been

doing this. And Doc either hasn’t noticed or he’s actively ignoring her.

Really, I’ve been afraid to ask him about it. He seems heavier since that

day at Charming Inn and our walk through the valley. So many things

weighing on his mind, on his soul, and I don’t want to make it worse for

him. I’ve already pried enough.

But deep down, I’m dying to know just what’s going on with him and

Heart’s Edge. Sometimes this town feels like a great big oyster clamped shut

around a pearl, holding in all its secrets.

Is it bad that part of me just wants to know?

Meanwhile, another part of me tingles intuition. Something’s coming,

something potentially massive, and I need to be ready. I get the same

sensation now as I did when I was ten years old, on a road trip with my

parents to Branson for this special music festival.

 Dad barely kept our car ahead of the unsettled sky descending over the

Iowa plains. Later, we heard those green funnels reaching down became

violent twisters.

That time, I had Dad’s good judgment and happy distraction singing to

make everything okay, to override the sick, rising fear in my belly that made

me wonder if anything would ever be okay again.

Not here. Not now. Even if Doc makes me feel a thousand times safer, I

have to be ready to protect myself. Protect Felicity, too.

Even return the favor and protect Doc, if he’ll let me.

I guess that’s why I don’t say anything about Fuchsia when I notice her.

That, and he’s said he has it under control.

Still...she has to know he’s not here.

He’s out on a house call for someone’s horse at a ranch a bit farther

away on the outskirts of town. His car’s not even in the lot. Pam and I do our

best holding down the fort. It’s a quiet day with the practice so empty it’s

almost dead.

But she’s there, comically conspicuous, gliding down the street like

some kind of stalker, and I wonder if it’s not Doc she’s checking out at all.

Does she have some interest in The Menagerie?

Does she want to use the building for something – or want someone

inside? Even – oh, God – me?

I can’t imagine, but since I have no clue what Doc’s history is with her,

my brain is happy to supply possibilities.

Maybe she’s a secret government spy. Or a terrorist planning to plant a

bomb here. The veterinary practice is in a fairly central location in town, as

discreet as it looks on the outside. If Fuchsia wanted to do as much damage

as possible, the blast radius around the building would be ideal. But—

But ugh. Listen to me going off the deep end.

What could any terrorist or femme fatale spy possibly want here in

Heart’s Edge?

What would they get out of blowing things up? The only people who’d

truly care about the lives lost are the good people in town, and it would

hardly be a blip on the national radar.

Maybe that’s why.

They wouldn’t want to send a message.

They’d want to go unnoticed.

 Whatever it is…maybe Heart’s Edge is a testing ground before they go

bigger with—

“Oh my God, Ember, stop,” I whisper to myself. I sound like some kind

of Tom Clancy novel. Or like Mom.

I’ll blame it on my nerves.

Even if I know I’m being silly, it doesn’t make this easier. Or change the

fact that she’s there, hidden behind the blackout windows of the SUV,

terrifying as ever with her oversized shades and flat, almost mannequin

expression.

Eventually, though, when she does another cruising drive-by of the

clinic, she doesn’t turn at the end of the block like she did before. She just

keeps going. Where?

I peek over my shoulder. No one else here except Pam. Impulse feeds

nervous excitement into my veins as I go dodging out to the reception area,

shedding my lab coat.

“Taking my lunch a little early!” I call, diving out the front door. I have

to hurry before I lose her, damn it. Even if she keeps up that low, creepy-

crawly speed, she’s putting plenty of distance between her vehicle and the

clinic. At this rate, I’ll have to burst my lungs trying to catch up to her on

foot.

My car’s too noticeable.

I guess now I’m trying to play spy myself.

Pam barely has a chance to bark out something muddled after me before

I’m spilling out into the late morning sun and sprinting down the street,

running parallel to where I’d seen Fuchsia’s SUV. I catch a glimpse of it,

sunlight glinting off black like it’s a shiny beetle. I pick up speed, panting,

lungs scouring as I go chasing after her.

Fuchsia takes a turn off toward a place where the hills part, and an old

service road winds down toward the valley. I think there used to be a hotel

or something there, but it burned down ages ago, the ruins still standing

there like sticks of kindling.

I lose sight of her for a second, but there’s only one way to go on that

service road.

Ignoring the branches scratching at my bare arms, trying not to make too

much noise, I dive into the trees along the roadside, taking cover in the

brush. Fighting to keep out of sight as I plunge on after her.

 It’s quieter now.

Every so often, through the trunks, I hear the sound of her engine or

catch a glimpse of the truck...right before it turns off on a narrow path that

vanishes into the trees at the base of the hill.

I slow down, trying to calm my heaving, noisy breaths, and creep

forward, careful not to make a sound. I can see something through the trees,

a regular, hard-edged shape at odds with all the fuzzy soft edges of leaves

and bushes and branches.

It’s a cabin, I think? Yeah.

One that’s been left in awful shape, hidden away off the service road.

One of its walls looks caved in, the roof sagging, the glass long broken out

of the windows. I guess it’s been abandoned forever, but I wonder...is this

where she’s been staying?

There’s a large luxury military-style tent next to it, tons of camping

supplies, even a fire.

Holy hell. I try not to gasp, realizing this elegant, lethal woman has been

camping out in a derelict cabin like some kind of drifter.

The idea makes me dizzy. Confused. Something here isn’t adding up at

all.

Especially when I catch sight of her, just past the collapsed wall

and...she’s not alone.

There’s a man with her. A huge, hulking bear of a man, who’d dwarf

even Doc – who’s a tower, a Titan – wearing a thick hoodie that covers most

of his body. I can only see him from behind, but he’s got his sleeve pulled

back, baring his arm.

Then I see the whorls of scars and ink burned into his skin like storm

fronts. He’s a human hurricane engraved with damage branded forever into

his flesh.

Just like Doc’s hands? I shudder.

Looking closer, it seems like this man covered over his scars with

tattoos, turning himself into a brutal work of art.

Fuchsia is wearing gloves – sterile nitrile just like the ones at the office –

and she’s holding the man’s arm steady while she inserts a syringe just

inside the crook of his elbow. It’s some kind of...exam?

There’s an old table next to them, so broken it’s tilting to one side. But

holding steady enough to support a number of vials, many of them already

filled with what I guess is his blood, judging by the dark red liquid shining

inside.

That ice-cold chill rockets up my spine again. I catch my breath,

pressing a hand to my mouth.

What’s she doing to him? Some kind of experiment?

Whatever it is, I don’t think I should be seeing this. I feel like I’ve just

walked in on some arcane ritual run by a witch who’ll probably kill me if

she finds out I’m here. But I want to know, I need to know just what in blue

blazes is going on?

Holding my breath, pulse jackhammering, I back away slowly, ducking

down low.

Just in time to hear a twig crack as I hunker down. Crap.

Fuchsia stiffens. The beast-man whips around to look over his shoulder,

his face just an angry shadow under his hood.

It takes a second to dawn on me that it wasn’t my clumsy feet that made

the sound. A second later, I don’t get a chance to think about anything at all.

Over half a dozen men in suits and sunglasses come swarming out of the

trees like angry hornets, weapons drawn, moving low and purposeful with

bad intent in every line of their bodies. Holy–

I let out a little scream because I just can’t help myself, and I freeze in

place, lifting my hands, waiting to be shot, shouted at, told to hold still.

But they don’t even look at me.

They just keep coming in.

They close in on the house, surrounding it, as quick and efficient as a

SWAT unit. One man stops mid-stride, head whipping toward me. So, this is

how my life ends.

I keep waiting for the inevitable gun to go up and fire before I even

know it. But he cocks his head, looking confused, like he’s seen something

totally out of place. Taking another hesitant step toward me, he pauses,

jerking his gaze back to one of his companions as they bark out an order I

can’t quite hear.

Now – now, or I’m never going to get another chance.

Cold sweat beads out all over my body. It’s the only thing I’m aware of

as I turn and run.

I get about five or ten feet. Too bad klutz karma catches up with me and

snags my heel on something gnarled. I trip over a fallen branch, tumbling

down onto my face in some leaves.

Damn!

Fear ricochets through me. There’s a painful twinge in my ankle, but not

so bad it stops me from pushing up on my hands, scrambling to my feet, and

taking off again. Panic does wondrous things to the body.

I don’t even try to hide my movements this time. There’s nothing but the

searing burn of my lungs and a voice roaring go go go in my head.

My only thought is escape, and I go crashing through the trees, shoving

branches and bushes and God knows what else out of my way, ignoring the

nasty sting as they whip back against me and scratch open my arms, my

face, my legs.

I never should’ve come here.

I never should’ve pried into Doc’s business.

I don’t know what I thought I was doing, trying to be smart and clever

and brave following Fuchsia.

I just know I’ve got to get back into town, safe around other people, safe

from this nightmare.

Pausing for a second, I glance around. Frantically looking for the path

Doc and I followed that leads back up the hills and around the cliff back to

Charming Inn. It’s got to be around here somewhere, there’s only so much

valley and so much forest, but I’m not seeing it. I’m flipping lost.

There’re just trees, trees, and yup, more trees.

Big piney trees sloping up, tall leafy trees sloping down, baby trees

nipping at my ankles. I crash to a halt in a small clearing, leaning over and

clutching my knees and panting desperately, rubbing at my sore ankle. My

ears perk up, trying to hear the rest of the world around the dull roar of my

own pulse.

Quiet.

I don’t think anyone’s following me?

I don’t hear shouts or feet shifting the ground in pursuit, and I doubt that

many men could chase me without making a sound. I’m still afraid, so

afraid. My thighs are clenched up and my stomach tangles in knots, but I

take a second to assess where I am.

Running blind won’t get me anywhere.

I have a choice. It’s up or down.

 Up could take me farther away from where I want to go and get me more

lost than I already am. Or it could take me to the top of the cliff.

If I made it, I’d at least get to a vantage point where I can see over the

valley and the town well enough to reorient myself.

Down, though...down could take me deeper into the valley, into the

shade. A good place to get bewildered among the trees, though it’s also

closer to the main highway.

Down might just take me to the base of the path leading up the side of

the cliff. Or it could bring me into the open clearing at the bottom of the

valley, making me an easy target scurrying through the scrub brush in plain

sight.

Or – better idea! – I could stop being an idiot and just call Pam to help

find me.

As long as she’s been in Heart’s Edge, she could probably tell me

exactly where I am just from the description of some leaves.

Except I really am an idiot. I skim my hands over my skirt and top, and

there’s no damn phone. I’d left it in the pocket of my lab coat – the same

one I ripped off as I went tearing out of the office, trying to be Miss Super-

Spy.

Oh, crud.

Okay. Crap. Think.

I’m out here with no phone. Kinda sorta lost. With only two real

options.

I can go up or down; I just can’t keep going straight, or I’ll probably

wander forever in circles. The town is up, the highway is down, and either

way, I’m going to find a path back to civilization.

My legs hurt too much to climb. Even if I don’t think my ankle is

sprained, it’s still bent enough that putting too much strain on it will just

make things worse. That’s why I let pain do the talking.

Down it is.

I start picking my way down the slope at a snail’s pace, careful in my

strappy summer sandals. At least I didn’t wear wedges today, just flats, or I’d

really be in trouble and probably in danger of a broken leg.

I take it slow. I don’t want to slip and end up sliding dozens of yards

down the rocky slope, but I also don’t want to miss the sound of someone

creeping up on me through the trees. Even going slow, even telling myself
those men weren’t there for me – they’d actually seemed confused to find

me there – I just can’t shake the constant sense of fear riding my back.

Every leaf fluttering as a bird takes off, every bouncing branch as a

squirrel goes bounding across it, every dang rabbit I startle into rocketing off

into the brush makes me jump, makes me nearly scream, shocks the breath

out of me. I’m worried I’ll have a heart attack before I make it anywhere.

I don’t know how long I’ve been out here by the time I’m ready to

collapse.

No one tells you that nonstop terror is totally exhausting. And paired up

with a major gauntlet to run, it’s practically deadly.

It’s hard to tell time by the light shifting through the canopy of leaves

overhead, filtering the sun. It makes it hard to see where it is in the sky, and

after so much tedious, monotonous climbing down and down and down, my

legs are aching and I feel like I’ve been out here for hours.

But that’s not possible, is it?

Yes, these mountains and the forests stretch on for hundreds upon

thousands of acres, but in the landscape around Heart’s Edge, it seems like

it’s impossible to go very far without breaking out into an area cleared by

logging, open for the highway, or with some kind of path leading into town

or into the clearing, easily passable areas of the valley.

And when I realize the light filtering through the trees is starting to turn

bluish-purple, my heart stops. Crap times a hundred.

The sun is setting. It’s turning into twilight, and I’m no closer to finding

my way out of here. My brain goes into overdrive with questions I hate

asking.

Do people still get lost in the woods and die in twenty-first-century

America? It’s the era of always-on pinpoint GPS, phones that are powerful

microcomputers, satellites able to look down and see a dime on a

sidewalk...and I’ve got none of those backing me up.

I don’t even have a compass. It could be the twenty-first century or the

first as far as I’m concerned. But I guess if it was the first century, I’d

probably be wearing furs and would at least know how to hunt with my

knife and find food and water.

The thought of myself as an ancient woman skulking around in the

woods makes me giggle, before I choke it back with a soft near-sob. God.

I’m really losing it.

 I’m going hysterical, marooned out here and scared out of my wits, my

ankle hurting more and more with every step. My laughter trails into a

whimper, then a sniffle. I wrap my arms around myself, looking up at the

hints of deepening sky I can see through the trees.

Almost night. That’s when the hunters come out. Cougars, wolves, shady

people with devious intentions – and I know these woods are crawling with

them.

I have to keep moving and just hope anything out here stays the hell

away because even as short as I am, I’m still bigger than they are.

Unless it’s a bear.

I really hope I don’t run into a bear.

My legs are numb save for the one aching part I wish would catch up to

the rest of me, but I keep walking anyway. Numb sounds better than the

biting soreness that makes me want to drop where I stand. I’m dirty, sweaty,

hungry, thirsty, and officially miserable.

It’s going to be the dehydration that kills me if I’m out here too long,

really.

Dehydration, or bears.

It’s not long before twilight fades to night. Then it’s all haunting

shadows and panicked shivers as I try not to read anything into every sound,

every whisper of the breeze over my shoulder. The last thing I need to do is

start conjuring up ghosts to go with the very real dangers out here.

No one ever said the forest around Heart’s Edge is haunted – only the

old mine.

Maybe I’ll be the town’s first ghost. Or maybe that monster, Nine, will

materialize out of the darkness and carry me away to his demon lair.

I know, okay? But being morbid is the only way I can keep from

freaking myself out until I’m paralyzed.

At one point I stop, sit down in the middle of a clearing, and just bawl

my eyes out. It’s less fear and hopelessness and more frustration. There’s

still some part of me that believes it’s just not possible for me to die out here

like this, and I just have to keep trying.

So I let myself have my cathartic pity cry, then make myself stop so I’m

not wasting precious fluid, and get back up and try.

I’ll only fail if I give up.

So I can’t.
 Though I’m starting to wonder if I should maybe try to sleep for a bit

and keep going in the morning when I’m rested, and I can see straight.

Maybe if I just get a pile of leaves together and burrow down into them,

maybe curl up against the trunk of a tree, I’ll be fine. I might even climb a

tree so I’m far off the ground, away from any predators that might trip over

me in the dark. But just as I start thinking about looking for a good spot to

bed down, I see it.

Light through the trees. Several bright, gleaming, unmistakable lights.

Flashlights, I think, sweeping back and forth.

My first thought isn’t that it’s a rescue party.

Not when no one knows I’m out here, and no one would even think to

look. I live alone, my mother’s staying in her own separate cabin, and there’s

no reason for Doc, Pam, Felicity, or anyone else to think Hey, I haven’t seen

Ember in a few hours, let’s mount a search party in the woods.

My first thought is it’s those men, coming back to finish the job. Men

with guns.

The panic that had dulled to a quiet ache flares up again. I stumble a few

steps back, barely breathing, then turn and plunge away through the trees,

shoving at branches as fast as I can.

I don’t care about being quiet anymore.

I care about getting away, and sobbing breaths rise in my throat as I

fight my way on mindlessly. I’m almost drained, run so ragged with panic

and stress it’s hard to even care anymore.

I’m so tired, I can’t think, and it seems like a small mercy.

All I can do is run, struggle my way past the fear threatening to swallow

me. Those men are going to shoot me, or worse. They’ll capture me, tie me

up, do their worst, frantic for info on Doc because they think I know things I

can’t possibly know. And they won’t take no for an answer.

I shouldn’t have ever gotten involved in the secrets surrounding Doc.

I shouldn’t have ever tried to learn more about him.

I shouldn’t have ever gotten involved in his past.

I should’ve left well enough alone.

Because I couldn’t stay away from one man and his secrets, because of

my own insatiable curiosity and desperate need to know that attractive,

infuriating enigma of a man, I’m here. Doomed to die alone in the woods.

And no one will even mourn me except Mom and maybe Felicity.
 Adrenaline floods everything, ice cold fear like water sloshing in my

veins. I’m whimpering, careening back and forth, stumbling, my weary legs

threatening to collapse under me. But when a huge, lumbering shape steps

out of the woods in front of me, I still find it in me to swerve away,

screaming as I spin, fall to my knees, scramble forward with my hands

digging into the fallen leaves, then thrust myself forward and away.

Only for thick, cruel arms to wrap around me from behind, trapping me.

This is it.

I’m done.

Screaming, kicking and twisting, elbowing, I fight as best I can. Those

arms are thick and immovable. There’s a voice growling something at me,

but I’m too far gone. Nothing makes sense anymore, and I just don’t want to

die—

“Ember!” Doc repeats, tightening his grip on me, his voice dark and

urgent in my ear. “It’s me. It’s me, calm down. I’ve come to take you home.”

That’s when it hits me. I know that voice.

Him. Doc. Gray.

He came to find me, to save me.

Those flashlights were people trying to bring me home safe, Doc out

here with them.

Just twelve hours ago, that would’ve taken my breath away and made my

hopeless crush kick into overdrive.

Just twelve hours ago, I’d have killed to feel his amazing arms around

me the way they are now, so wonderfully tight with his body pressed hot

against my back, enveloping me.

But just twelve hours ago, I hadn’t seen Fuchsia drawing blood from

some strange man. Right before half a dozen men with guns stormed in and

scared me out of my mind.

It was just something interesting, something fun, before, even if Fuchsia

creeped me out.

But the blood, the guns, the running...they made it far too real.

She saw me there. I know she did. She probably thinks I know

something now.

Those armed men saw my face, too.

If they think I could tell their secrets, whatever they’re hiding, trying to

cover up, what chance do I have? What would they do to keep me quiet?
How could I ever have a normal life again without being someone’s target?

God. I should’ve left well enough alone. Some secrets are better off

buried.

And now I’m beginning to understand just what Doc was trying to

protect me from.
 14

HOUNDED (DOC)

E mber and I are goddamn

perceptive than she generally lets on.

lucky that Pam’s much smarter and

She sees a great deal at the clinic and says very little about it, and I

should’ve known she’d have picked up on the fact that Fuchsia Delaney was

a.) trouble, and b.) hanging around The Menagerie with dire intent, even if I

was stonewalling and intending to shut her out.

I also should’ve known she’d have picked up on Ember’s fascination

with my own tragic backstory, and the lengths she might go to dig up the

parts I’m not telling her.

So when Ember went tearing out on foot right after Fuchsia just spent

another morning casing the office, I’m grateful someone noticed.

It’s a good thing Pam put two and two together, or we might’ve never

figured out where Ember vanished until it was too late, and the search and

rescue dogs were sniffing at her bones.

I barely take a moment to let Blake, Warren, and a few other helpful

souls know that I’ve found her – that she just got lost. I’m too busy

wrapping her up in my coat and bundling her into my truck. It worries me

how silent she is, how she lets me maneuver her like a doll as I tuck her into

the seat belt, how she avoids looking directly at me, and flinches when I

touch her.

Fuck.

She’s shaking.
 She’s shaking her little heart out, and everything in me says I’ve got to

do whatever it takes to make her know she’s safe. She’s safe again, dammit,

and I won’t let anything happen to her again.

I can’t take her back to her place in this state. It’s not secure, what with

all those windows and doors with the glass insets. I’d rather have her

somewhere I know has been vetted and locked down.

That leaves one option: my place.

“Ember?” I say as I shut myself in the driver’s side and start the engine.

“I’m going to take you home with me. Is that all right?”

She says nothing. Just stares blankly out the window, the tracks of tears

dried beneath her eyes.

Fuck me.

I need to find out what happened to her. What did she see?

If she’d just gotten lost, she wouldn’t be in this kind of shock. She

wouldn’t have been so terrified when I found her. And with Fuchsia

involved, I know it might be a minor miracle I’ve got her back alive.

There’s no telling what Ember saw, what she was subjected to. The very

thought makes me white-knuckle the wheel, my jaw pinched in fury.

I hold my tongue until we’ve made the drive back to my place. Even

though I know it’s secure and nothing’s tripped the alarms, I tell her, “Stay

here, I’ll be right back.” I do a quick perimeter search around the yard, my

hand hovering loose at my side, ready to go for the gun tucked in the back of

my jeans.

Coast clear.

No sign of surveillance anywhere. No hint anyone’s been tampering with

anything enough to bug or trap my house.

It’s as secure as it’s going to get.

I return to Ember quickly. I don’t feel right leaving her alone for more

than a second, though I’m not sure how much comfort my presence is to her

right now. I pull the passenger door of my truck open and reach in to

unbuckle her, then take one of her cold, limp hands.

“I’m going to pick you up, all right?”

Still, she says nothing. Just looks at me, her pale-blue eyes haunted.

For a second, my balls crawl up my stomach. I’m worried the ghosts of

my past have shattered that innocence, that sweetness, that light.

 Slipping my arms under her, I lift her against my chest and squeeze. She

weighs practically nothing, this beautiful wisp fluttering against me, limp in

my arms. I carry her into my living room and then bend to set her down on

the couch, sitting her carefully upright.

She won’t quite look at me, staring down at her lap, her hands. I clasp

her fingers, gripping both hands in mine, and sink down to one knee in front

of her, looking up.

“Ember,” I coax, trying to bring her back to me. “What happened?

How’d you get lost?”

She doesn’t say anything, but after a long pause, her gaze drags to me,

flickering as her eyes focus before shuttering over again.

“Fuchsia,” she whispers, the first word she’s said since I found her and

she stopped screaming, stopped crying.

Black clouds boil inside me, and I squeeze her hands tighter. Fuck, if

that demon hurt her, I might end up like Nine. A rampaging outcast hellbent

on revenge, on justice.

“Did she hurt you? Did she threaten you?”

“I...I don’t know, Gray.” Her voice is so small, practically disappearing

as each word drops past her lips. “She was with this man. A tall, huge man.

I think he was burned.” She stares at my hands; at my scars. “It was like an

exam. They were in this old cabin that was falling apart. She took his blood,

and then...and then these men came out of the woods with guns.”

Everything in me goes tense. I squeeze her hands tighter. “They attacked

you?”

“N-no.” She shakes her head woodenly. “I think they were after Fuchsia.

I just...ran. And then I got lost.”

I frown, unsure what to think. Armed men after Fuchsia? Or were they

after someone else?

The man she was with, maybe, who could only be one person.

Nine.

Our local legend made flesh.

And once upon a time, one of my best friends, when he had a different

name.

Considering his fugitive status, it makes a horrific kind of sense. What

doesn’t make sense is Fuchsia Delaney taking Nine’s blood in the middle of

the goddamn woods – and Nine letting her.

 I never thought I’d see the day where he’d ever cooperate with Fuchsia

again. Not after the pure, dark hell he suffered partly at her hands.

Which makes me think I’m missing a crucial piece. There are stakes in

this fucked up game I don’t know about. Something reeks, and I may just

have to grant Fuchsia’s requests after all if only to stay informed and keep

her meddling out of this town. Assuming I can even find her again.

Assuming she hasn’t been captured herself.

Shit. Were those men with Galentron? With Peters?

Or is it someone else, vigilantes finally trying to capture Nine and bring

him to their so-called justice?

I can’t think about that right now. I need to take care of Ember.

I stroke my thumbs over her knuckles, meeting those shell-shocked eyes,

wishing I could pull my darkness out of her. I’ve spent most of the last

decade as a healer. Some say the things I do with animals are damn near

miraculous. Do I have it in me to do something for this tender, deliriously

sweet firefly?

I still don’t understand. Not completely. How innocent is she, that just

the sight of Nine, of those men with guns, could reduce her to this state?

And how fucking terrible am I? The asshole, the failure who couldn’t

protect her from this small glimpse of the world I live in? Sour guilt engulfs

me like a shadow.

It’s hard to remember, right now, that she’s not mine to protect. Mine

and not mine don’t matter when I’ve let her get caught in my secret riptide,

all because she makes me go too soft to shut her out where she belongs.

“If I run you a bath, will you be okay cleaning yourself up?” I ask. “You

can borrow something of mine to wear. I’ll check your injuries once you’re

clean.”

Ember only nods slowly.

For just a moment, though, her hands tighten on mine, squeezing,

clutching, holding me tight.

Damn. She might despise me by morning, but she’s clinging to me now.

I stand, weaving my fingers into her hair, leaning in to press my lips to

the top of her head. “Be right back,” I say. “I won’t be out of your sight for

more than a minute. You need me, you need anything, just call my name.”

Just another nod, wordless.

 I know Ember. I know that in crisis mode, she finds her strength, her

calm, and that she’ll find her way back from this and recover.

Fireflies are durable creatures. They have to be to burn so bright against

the vast darkness. Sometimes they even put the stars to shame.

For her, for this woman, I swear I’ll make her glow.

I damn sure can’t stand seeing her like this.

I pull away slowly and head into the bathroom to run the hot water and

lay out towels. While the bathtub fills, I pull the cabinet behind the mirror

open and check the first aid kit, then lay it on the edge of the sink. When I

pass through the living room on the way to my bedroom, her eyes track me,

and again when I return to the bathroom to set out one of my old button-

downs that she can wrap herself up in once she’s clean.

By then the tub is full. I shut off the steaming water and return to her,

sinking down on one knee in front of her again. She’s not made a single

sound this whole time.

I’m sorry, I want to say. I’m so fucking sorry.

But instead I ask, “You need me to carry you to the bath?”

She lifts her head, giving me a long look. Her eyes brim over; her lips

part like she might say something, but she looks away sharply.

She stands.

And walks away from me, her steps shaky, without looking back.

I sit down on the sofa and drag a hand over my face, groaning to myself.

What a fucking mess.

While she bathes, I make a phone call to Warren. I don’t trust those men

not to make a follow-up sweep looking for Ember once their business with

Fuchsia wraps up.

I also don’t trust Fuchsia not to hunt Ember down herself to find out

what she saw. Warren’s on high alert by the time I’m done talking. He

promises me everything I want to hear.

No one will get in or out of Charming Inn tonight without him knowing.

He says he’s put Blake on watch for backup, if needed.

Next, I try the other number. The number from the burner phone; the

number that’ll give me Nine.

He doesn’t pick up.

I can think of far too many reasons why not.

 Then I hear a click and look up as the door to the bathroom opens.

Ember steps out damp, her hair wet and straggling everywhere, darkening

the shoulders of the pale-blue cotton button-down wrapped around her and

dwarfing her so much that the hem falls past her knees, the sleeves falling

over her hands no matter how much she pushes them up.

The flare of possession I feel at seeing that slender, honey-sweet body

wrapped up in nothing but my shirt, her slim, lovely legs bare and gleaming,

is marred by the gravity of the situation. For a minute my head damn near

pops up from spinning.

I come back when I notice the scratches on her skin. I beckon to her, sit

her down gently on the couch, and go to work disinfecting the rips in her

perfection, salving them over. I bandage one deeper cut down the outside of

her calf and wrap up a strained ankle. She’s so small, so fragile under me.

She’s unresponsive, save for curling into herself.

When I’m done, I close the first aid kit and toss it on the coffee table,

leaning to meet her eyes. “Can you sleep? I promise it’ll all seem like a bad

dream by morning, when it sinks in that you’re safe.”

Her head tilts. Her faded blue eyes meet mine.

Am I? they’re asking. Am I really safe?

My jaw tightens. But she nods once more, and this time I can’t stop

myself. I reach out and scoop her up, gliding her softness into my arms,

resting her against my chest, close to my war drumming heart. After a tense

moment, she goes loose, laying her head on my shoulder.

It shouldn’t ease something inside me, but it does.

I carry her into my bedroom and lay her down in my king-sized bed.

She’s so small in the center of it, dwarfed, this lovely young woman in my

bed for all the wrong reasons. Fuck.

She sits numbly for a moment, then shifts to crawl under the covers,

burrowing like a chipmunk into a nest until she’s nothing but a lump in the

blankets and a tangle of blonde hair drifting out, wide eyes peering at me

over the edges of the sheets.

“Stay?” she whispers. “Until I fall asleep.”

“Of course,” I answer, settling in the easy chair to watch over her.

She curls herself up even smaller, looking so tiny and vulnerable that I

can’t help myself.

 I kick my shoes off a minute later and ease into the bed with her, folding

my body around hers and drawing her close.

It’s as much to comfort myself as to comfort her – to feel that she’s

there, real, alive, safe. After a tense moment, she flings herself into me,

gasping out these soft, hurt, broken sounds. That’s when I realize she’s

crying.

Hiding her face against my chest and draining her pain.

I let her. I curl my hand against the back of her neck and hold her close

while she shakes against me. I don’t move for anything until her shaking

stops, slowly, one haggard breath at a time Finally, this lovely firefly girl in

my arms is sound asleep. At peace. Mine for tonight and maybe forever.

I shouldn’t think crazier than what we’ve already been through. Damn if

holding her doesn’t reach down inside me and press down on something

primal, something fierce, something that makes me want to beat the living

pulp out of every last thing that’d ever hurt her. Whether that’s snakes like

Fuchsia or mysterious strike teams or just the grief of losing her old man.

Sleep really will put things in perspective. Ember must’ve short-

circuited, shocked herself numb, been far too frightened out there lost,

alone, with no idea that those men – who I suspect were Galentron mercs –

likely weren’t after her and would’ve left her alone.

Does it even matter? The more I try to hide from her, the more I hurt

her.

She deserves better. She deserves the truth. But how the fuck can I give

it to her?

How can I tell her what happened then if I need to prevent it from

happening again?

I DON’T MEAN to fall asleep, but it’s damn hard not to with her in my arms.

There’s something about Ember Delwen that makes peace wash over me,

what with her slender body tucked against mine and the way she holds on to

me.

Even if I’d wanted to get up and let her go, I couldn’t have.

I don’t want to.

 I don’t get a choice in the morning, either. The sound of someone

knocking on my door jerks me awake instantly. I instinctively tighten my

protective hold on her.

Ember lets out a sleepy moan, while I lift my head, opening my eyes and

glancing toward the door of my bedroom, telling myself to stand down.

Trouble wouldn’t come knocking. It’d be far more likely to ram down

the door.

“Stay here,” I tell her, carefully disentangling myself.

She blinks at me sleepily, but she’s already gone again by the time I slip

out of bed and tuck the covers around her. Last night took far too much out

of her, and one night’s sleep won’t be enough to erase the agony.

I’m wary, making my way to the front door and peering out the

peephole, hand drifting to my back, my gun, a precaution.

Barbara Delwen’s lively blue eyes make me relax.

At least until I open the door and see who she’s brought with her. Sheriff

Wentworth Langley. Also Everett Peters.

Fuck.

“Where’s my Ember?” Barbara asks breathlessly, face pale, and I step

aside to let her in, gesturing toward my room.

“Sleeping,” I say. It does no good because Barbara rushes past me like

the wind.

I hear a soft cry of Ember! followed by a sleepy, confused Mom? Then

my gaze turns to the Sheriff. He nods to me sort of ruefully.

“Doc,” he says, clearing his throat. “Sorry to bother you, but I’ve been

hearing some real weird stories around town, and with your girl getting lost

last night, I just wanted to see if it was connected. Mind if I have a chat with

her?”

My girl? Christ. I wonder how much of Heart’s Edge is running their

mouths besides Langley. Still, a part of me wishes those two words were

true, while a saner portion of my brain screams no way.

“Just don’t upset her,” I growl, tossing my head to grant him permission

to enter.

Not so much for Peters.

I step outside onto the front stoop, blocking the prick, crowding him

back. He moves just enough for me to yank the screen door closed behind

me.
 Fuck him. He’s already walked into my house uninvited once.

I’m not laying out the red carpet to let him in again. Not until I get

answers.

We lock eyes for several moments through the screen. His expression

seems so deliberately neutral and pleasantly bland, it’s calculated to piss me

off.

“Start talking,” I say low, struggling to keep my voice even, struggling

not to let my anger erupt. “What have you done?”

“Calm down, Gray,” Peters says affably, as if this is a goddamned stroll

in the park and I’m overreacting. Right. Men with guns storming Heart’s

Edge is not a fucking day in the posies. “If you’d been willing to talk to us,

we’d have happily kept you in the loop so you could’ve avoided nasty

surprises like this.”

“Define ‘this,’” I bite off. “Because right now ‘this’ is a vulnerable

young woman scared for her life after thinking men I suspect belong to you

want to kill her.”

“They wouldn’t have laid a hand on her. I don’t know who they were,

but we know how mercenary teams work. They’re professionals, the same as

you and me. Neither Fuchsia nor I nor anybody else are interested in that

girl or this town, and you’re...incidental.” He says it so calmly, with such a

bite-me smile the insult seems nuclear. “We only needed you to flush out

Nine. He’s the one we’re here for. And probably what that strike team was

really after.”

“That’s not reassuring.”

“It should be.” Peters’ smile grows – and this time it’s his true smile.

Self-satisfied, anticipatory, promising, cold. Something I saw in another time

and place as hell descended. “Now, as a doctor, I thought you’d love to know

this – we’ve found something very, very interesting in Nine’s blood.”

I shouldn’t rise to the bait.

Still, I’m curious, worried, hoping like hell that whatever they want Nine

for involves a brief visit and then getting out of town.

I eye him, then say slowly, “Explain.”

“You’ll recall after the...incident, let’s call it,” he says it like he’s doing

me a favor, not saying more. “Our friend, Nine, spent some time in police

custody in the hospital burn unit? Right before he went to prison?”

I nod. How could I ever forget?

 “Well, they took blood samples there and stored them. It turns out he

was exposed to live SP-73.”

My heart goes still, my body cold. It’s like day turns to night inside me,

ice enclosing my body. “Goddamn. Are you saying he’s a carrier—”

“That’s just it,” Peters says, his eyes twinkling. “He’s not. He was

infected and survived with nary a symptom. He’s immune, Gray. And his

blood could prove very useful in controlling and curing an outbreak, should

anything like SP-73 ever be used on American soil.”

My lungs lock up. My world implodes. Time itself freezes as all the

horrific implications slam my brain one by one.

It’s hard to remember to breathe again.

Shit. The worst possibility is if Nine was a passive carrier, he could’ve

infected this entire town a dozen times over. It wouldn’t take much for the

dormant virus to jump to someone else during his brief nighttime forays into

town. But I heard what happened months ago, when he supposedly brought

Warren and Haley’s niece, Tara, home after she got lost in the woods.

The girl never got sick. She couldn’t stop raving about the monster man

who saved her, and she even did a paper on it.

Not a carrier then, but something else. Apparently, he’s immune enough

to render the virus completely inert, which opens far too many possibilities.

It also makes his blood worth a fucking fortune for greedy, cutthroat

mercenaries like Peters and Fuchsia.

“You want to get your hands on his blood? You want to sell it to the

assholes who’ll pay you handsomely,” I whisper with a frown, pressing my

knuckles to my mouth.

“So does Fuchsia,” Peters says grimly. “Which is why she’s here—same

as me. She’s come to cull Nine’s DNA for profit. I’m here to stop her. That

blood could save millions of lives in the right hands.”

I say nothing. I don’t trust his altruism in the slightest.

He’s here for his own ends, and he’s framing Fuchsia as the problem so

he can try to win me over to his side. Stack the odds in his favor.

Idiot.

I’ll never side with either of them or anyone but the good people of

Heart’s Edge.

“So the armed response?” I press. “That was you, trying to intervene

with her?”
 “Ah.” He makes a soft, disgruntled sound. “I’m afraid I wasn’t behind

that, and don’t know who was. Possibly someone else from Galentron who

hasn’t made themselves known at this point in time. Another player, another

pawn. But I can still promise you they aren’t interested in that girl, or in

stacking up more civilian collateral damage.”

Bull. That’s a sobering thought, though – that someone else might be in

Heart’s Edge, pursuing their own agenda. I have a short list of suspects, and

Everett Peters is always at the top of it.

I can’t trust a single word that comes out of his mouth. In a clipped tone,

I say, “Thanks. Now if you wouldn’t mind getting the fuck off my porch...”

He dips briefly in a mocking bow, pressing his hand to his throat. “I’m

here to help.”

I don’t believe that at all.

I don’t say a word, either, just watch him turn to walk away with a

lightness in his step that makes me wonder what he’s really so happy about.

Sheriff Langley stays a bit longer, Barbara Delwen longer still. While

I’m glad that her mother holding her and smoothing her hair back helps

Ember look less scared out of her skin, a selfish part of me hopes she

doesn’t leave with Barbara.

She’s better off with me. It’s easier knowing she’s safe.

As long as she’s in my sight, I can keep Fuchsia, Peters, and anyone else

away from her.

After spending some time satisfying herself that Ember’s in one piece,

Barbara gently lays her back against the pillows with a kiss to her cheek, and

then straightens, crossing the room and looking up at me with beseeching

eyes.

“She’s a little fragile right now,” she murmurs softly. Gone are the

brassy, warbling tones or the teasing. “Be gentle, okay?”

I realize, then, that I’m not the only one who wears a mask. For once,

she’s being real.

This is my first time meeting the real Barbara Delwen, the person

behind the persona she wears to cope with the grief over losing her husband.

The thought of anything happening to her daughter must’ve horrified her.

Most people put on masks for reasons, after all. To protect themselves

from hurt, to hide their pain from other people. They’re a way we survive.

Only, at some point, my mask stopped protecting anyone.

 Now, it’s started causing harm.

That’s still on my mind as I nod, offering Barbara a tired smile. “I just

want to keep her safe, ma’am.”

“I know. I know the type of man you are.” With a wan smile, she curls

her hand against my arm, gripping my skin warmly. “Thanks for humoring

me, Dr. Caldwell. I’ll be back to check in on her later.”

I’m not sure what to make of that – of her assessment of what type of

man I am.

There’s no time to make anything of it. I have Ember to focus on, and

after I watch Barbara walk away down the hall and listen to the front door

open and close, I sink down on the edge of the bed.

Ember’s curled up on her side, watching me with wide, thoughtful eyes.

They aren’t red or rimmed from tears anymore, but there’s still a certain

wariness that wasn’t there before, a new layer and facet to Ember’s own

mask.

I hate that I put it there. Me and my clusterfuck of a past.

“Hey,” I murmur, at a loss for anything else to say.

“Hey,” she answers tonelessly, then lowers her eyes, staring at the curl of

her fingers against the pillow, tangled up in the golden spill of her shining

hair. “I didn’t tell her anything,” she promises. “I don’t know what’s going

on, Gray. What you’re caught up in. But it seems like the kind of thing

where you don’t tell people much if you can help it. I told the Sheriff I was

out for a hike and thought I nearly got shot by hunters. A misunderstanding,

an accident, I said.”

Even if it came at such a cost, I can’t help but be grateful.

Ember herself is proof positive that when people get too deep in my

business, they suffer – and I’d rather keep Langley, her mother, and the rest

of the town out of it.

I look at her for a second, my temples throbbing. We’re here, aren’t we?

The point where ignorance, where keeping her in the dark, is only doing

more harm.

Suppressing a sigh, I offer her my hand, even as I wonder if I’m really

doing what’s right for me, for her, for everyone in Heart’s Edge.

“Will you come with me today?” I ask. “I’ll close the clinic and let the

volunteers have at the emergencies. We need to talk, Ember. And we have

somewhere important to be.”

 15

NOT HERE FOR YOUR DOGMA (EMBER)

B y the light of day, I feel a little silly.

Especially when the first thing I thought, when Doc offered to take

me somewhere with him, was that he was taking me somewhere to get rid of

me.

Somewhere, maybe, where nobody would ever find me in a new life

under a fake ID.

I’m starting to think I watch too many thriller movies. And maybe my

mother’s not the only drama queen in the family.

I think I have a right to be wary, though. Uncertain.

Anyone besides a hardened soldier would be nervous after several men

with guns came rushing at them, and I qualify pretty well as anyone. I feel

like my whole world just shifted on its axis, exposing realities that I’ve

never dared imagine before.

In one of those realities, I slept the night in Dr. Gray Caldwell’s strong

arms.

In Gray’s bed.

In Gray’s flipping shirt, which I’m currently using as a sort of makeshift

dress until we can stop by my cabin for a change of clothes. Dear Lord.

I told myself last night that I was done with Doc and his secrets. Over it,

hands washed, so ready to pretend none of this ever happened.

But the truth is, I really almost am as bad as his jackals at the clinic.

Because all it takes is a whiff of his scent baked into that shirt to make me
feel twisty and hot inside. The thin fabric rubs my whole body, a forbidden

caress, wrapped around me with its oversized fabric shifting against my

skin.

Maybe it’s the leftover adrenaline, but there’s a serious pulsing in my

thighs now, a wet burn growing against my panties, my nipples hardening to

peaks that ache every time the fabric of my borrowed shirt rubs against

them.

Considering how easily I overheat every time Doc does something that

reminds me he’s so much more than a mild-mannered vet, and there’s a dark

side to him most people don’t see...

I’m starting to wonder if I’m some kind of weird thrill chaser.

Or am I just so fatally head over heels for this man that all it takes is his

borrowed shirt against my naked skin to turn me on? To make me ignite?

I’m almost grateful to escape from him for a few minutes, after he lets

me off at my cabin at Charming, but he waits outside with the air of a man

determined to guard my every step.

Holy wow. So he really was serious about protecting me.

I head inside, and in my bedroom I take a moment to wash off quickly

before throwing on a comfortable pair of cutoff shorts, a t-shirt, and a light

jacket for good measure, then a pair of sensible hiking boots. If I’m going to

end up running over mountainsides today, then I’m definitely doing it in the

right shoes this time. My ankle could use the support of the tight-laced

boots, anyway.

This time, I check four times to make sure my phone stays where it

belongs, tucked in my pocket. Doc brought my lab coat from the office and

salvaged it.

It’s a little amazing, really. Feels like people just took care of things for

me while I was out cold in Doc’s arms. My phone is fully charged, and my

Audi rests parked in the lane outside the cabin. I guess someone drove it

from the clinic. I’ll probably never know who, because I’m realizing in

Heart’s Edge who doesn’t matter.

Everyone pitches in for everyone, one way or another. This place has

that small-town-with-a-big-heart hospitality in spades.

I feel more human and less like a fragile bit of glass by the time I step

outside and back into Doc’s truck. He gives me a long look as I settle in, but

says nothing as we pull out. I let my gaze drift out the window, watching as
we make our way up the highway, toward the main road. Everything looks

so peaceful here, with the flowers lining the road and people going about

their business at the feed store, the diner, the little grocer.

So innocent on the surface. It’s hard to believe anything dark lurks

beneath the surface. But I can’t deny it, not after yesterday.

I’m okay until Doc pulls off on the same service road that Fuchsia did.

Then I’m tense.

I’m tense, coiled, holding my breath, thighs tight and ready to run.

This place – the entire valley, really – screams danger now. I can’t help

how my pulse ratchets up as we draw closer and closer to the area where

those men almost shot me.

At that turn-off into the woods, Doc stops, giving me a curious look. “Is

this where she turned?” he asks.

I nod slowly, staring frozen at the tree-lined tunnel into the woods. Doc

reaches over, his hand resting against the seat next to my thigh, this heavy

warmth that reminds me he’s here, he’s badass, and he won’t let anything

happen.

“I know this isn’t easy. I just want to have a quick look around,” he says.

“I can step out here and you can wait, or you can come with me.”

“W-with you!” I blurt out almost too fast.

No way would I consider anything else. I don’t want to be alone out

here.

He only nods and turns his truck down the narrow path, following the

wheel-ruts left behind by the SUV and maybe generations of vehicles

before.

The shadows close over us. My pulse skips and flutters, but I keep an

eye on my surroundings, this time noting markers I can use to find my way

out without getting lost.

Not that I think Doc would let me get lost, but I just feel like I should’ve

been smarter. I wish I’d thought about things like this before chasing after

Fuchsia, instead of just following an impulse and getting caught up in the

rush.

I won’t make that mistake again.

He slows as the outline of the cabin’s peaked, collapsing roof shows

through the trees. But there’s no one here.

Fuchsia’s SUV is gone. Vanished.

 There’s no sign of the men with guns, or the tall man with the scars and

the tattoos.

It’s eerie. Almost like it never happened except for in my own

imagination, but the table she was using is still there. So are the remnants of

a recent campfire, charred and blackened bits of wood resting in the pit.

Then I see the grass. All around the cabin, it’s trampled, like many feet

stomped all over it.

Doc parks where Fuchsia’s SUV used to be, then gets out, moving

slowly, his gaze scanning around critically with a slow, piercing sweep. I can

see him as the soldier he once was. Even if he was a doctor, he still had the

military combat training that makes him fierce, formidable, this warrior on

the hunt.

I watch him through the windshield as he takes several long strides,

soaking in his concentration, his ferocity, the sharp thoughtful focus

transforming his features. Slowly, I get out of the truck and shift to lean

against the hood. I don’t want to be in the way, I just want to be near him.

He circles the house, scanning the ground, the tumbles of wood bits, the

old odds and ends left around the place. It looks like dishes, bent nails,

other things I can’t identify. He steps over the collapsed wall and inside,

then sinks down into a crouch, running his fingers over the blast of soot

from a campfire against the concrete floor, before he calls over his shoulder

to me.

“You say she was camping here?”

I nod, wrapping my arms around myself. “She had a tent.”

His lips flicker in a faint, sardonic smile. “Say what you will, but you’ve

got to admire a woman looking so put together while she lives out of a tent.”

I can’t help giggling. “Maybe she’s found a new career? Rustic fashion

tips.”

“We’d all be better off if she chose it over what she does now.”

“Which is?”

He glances up, holding me in those vivid green eyes. I expect him to

deflect me, but he only answers, “Something between corporate spy and

assassin.”

I wince. “Oh, God. Has she really ever killed people?”

“Probably, and more still that I’m certain I don’t know about. Not by

pulling triggers herself, mostly by her actions. She’s responsible for many,
many lives...and so am I.”

I suck in a rough breath, my heart twisting with a quiet ache.

“I have trouble believing that.”

“There are many things you won’t believe about me, Ember.” He sifts

ashes through his fingertips, looking down at them pensively, then stands

and paces over to study the table off to one side of the room. “I’m trying to

rectify that, if I can ever find the words. But don’t doubt that everything I

tell you is true.”

I bite my lip. “What about the burned man? Nine? Has he killed people,

too?”

“Only one, and it was self-defense.” He shakes his head. “Nine’s

reputation grows like a mammoth in the telling...he’s nothing but a victim in

all of this.”

I frown. “So it is him? Nine? That’s really his name? The one everybody

talks about?”

“It might as well be, now.” He lifts his head, looking at me, a certain

pensive sorrow haunting his eyes, the line of his brow. “You’ve heard the

legends of the monster of Heart’s Edge?”

“Only a little,” I admit. “Things people whisper about in the diner, and

once I heard he rescued Haley’s niece? Felicity said he’s like...some kind of

escaped convict? And he used to work with the government?”

“All the legends are true and false, but about the only part with a shred

of fact is that he did save Tara when she was lost in these woods.” Doc slips

his hands into the pockets of his jeans, his pensive gaze turned somewhere

else.

Somewhere far away. I realize he’s looking out across the valley again, a

glint in his eye like he can see a thousand miles.

“Nine’s a man, sure enough. A good man who earned a bad name. And

a long time ago, before Fuchsia and her ilk nearly destroyed Heart’s

Edge...he was one of my closest friends.”

Holy hell. I don’t know what to say.

He seems lost in the past, buried in it, really. Part of me wants to go over

and comfort him. But part of me also wants to give him his space and his

words, without crowding in on him anymore without being invited.

And part of me nearly shrieks at the top of my lungs as something black

darts at me. Just a small dark blur like a shadow without an owner.
 I scream, flopping away, my heart pounding nails. Doc whips around

sharply, starting quickly toward me, biting off, “Ember!”

I can’t respond. I’m frozen, staring at this thing as it stops moving.

Then a pair of wide gold eyes stare up at me, a pink tongue darting out

against a black nose. “Mew?”

Baxter. Oh my God, Baxter.

Fuchsia’s freaking cat.

I hiss out a huge sigh of relief, sucking in several more steadying

breaths. I sink down into a crouch and offer the sleek black cat my fingers.

She sniffs them, lifting her little face so her teeth show, and then her fluffy

head butts under my palm. I melt into scratching behind her ears until she

purrs.

“Did you get left behind, sweetheart?” I murmur. “Did that mean, scary

witch-lady leave you like the awful person she is?”

“It’s entirely possible,” Doc answers. “Or it’s possible she was taken and

had no choice but to abandon her pet.”

I frown. “Taken? Who would be after her?”

“That’s part of everything I need to tell you.” He stops next to me and

bends to run one hand down Baxter’s back, making her spine arch. “She

looks hungry. Let’s take her home. Once we’re done out here, we can feed

her and find her a bed.”

Finally, a good idea. “Okay!”

I give Baxter one more scratch behind the ears, looping my arms

underneath her furry bulk and lifting her up against my chest. She’s a bigger

cat than she looks with that slimming black fur, heavy, but she melts against

me like a happy blob. I hug her against my chest and stand, carrying her

toward the truck.

“Let’s get you nice and comfortable, baby girl,” I murmur, spilling her

onto the seat before climbing in after her.

I end up with a free lap warmer for the rest of the drive. Baxter stays

curled up, a soft black lump on my thighs, purring fit to shake through me as

I stroke her.

Doc stays silent, so silent, his jaw tight. But I realize, as I look up from

playing with the cat, that we’re not heading back into town.

We’re making a detour, driving deeper into the valley.

 There’s an old road here I hadn’t noticed before, buried under dust and

debris. The cracked pavement bleeds its dust-stains into the yellow,

overgrown earth, grit gathered in its nooks and hollows and clinging there.

The road leads toward the burned ruins of a building I’ve noticed before,

that I heard was once an old hotel. But it’s the mountain face next to it that’s

really eerie. There’s some kind of hole there, a tunnel into the dark rock, the

mouth of it so black that not even the morning sun can pierce it to illuminate

what’s inside.

I feel a chill. Doc pulls up not far from the ruins of the building and

parks the truck. He just sits there for a long time, his weathered hands on

the steering wheel, gripping tight, his gaze locked on those ruins.

“Gray?” I ask softly, hugging Baxter closer. “Where are we?”

“What used to be the Paradise Hotel,” he answers grimly. “The place

where my life changed forever.”

 16

LET SLEEPING DOGS LIE (DOC)

Eight Years Ago

I don’t know how I can tell something’s wrong the instant I step into the

lab.

Everything looks the same. People in lab coats and hazmat suits bustling

around, murmuring over clipboards and comparing notes on screens,

pushing sample carts down the white-lit hallways. A large pallet full of

cages goes trundling past, full of sedated, half-asleep rhesus monkeys.

Healthy. Alive.

The next test batch.

It makes my stomach turn, knowing what’s in store for them, but that’s

not what’s making my spine prickle and my skin tighten.

It’s almost like a scent in the air. Or a static tingle.

Like the way the whole atmosphere gets so heavy and still with ozone

you can smell it, right before a huge tornado comes crashing down like an

angry fist. And today I think that tornado may be aiming straight at my head.

It doesn’t take long to notice. No one will look at me.

It’s subtle, but there. Not like people are preoccupied as they stream past

me down the halls.

 More like they’re deliberately trying not to see me. Acting like I’m

suddenly as infectious as SP-73, and whatever has contaminated me will

plague them if they so much as make eye contact.

I wonder, then, what Fuchsia’s been saying.

Gossiping about 'the bleeding heart doctor,' who’s gone soft just when

things are getting real. Do I have a pink slip coming? Maybe that’s what I

need to feel human again.

I suppose if it was too bad, I wouldn’t be standing here right now,

watching Galentron personnel go about their business. There would have

been a rustle outside my quarters as I tried to sleep, restlessly during the day

when we’re on reverse hours here, working at night, sleeping during the day.

I might have heard something. I might not.

Then there’d be a black bag over my head. A drive out to a heavily

guarded airstrip somewhere near Missoula with a one-way pass to a city of

my choice and orders never to come back.

Or would the hood have stayed over my head as they dropped me in

some secluded place? And then nothing.

I doubt I’d have even heard the bullet coming.

Still, I know Leo will at least be straight with me about what he’s heard.

He always is. He may be a security guard, but he’s got high-level clearance,

and he overhears things around the bunks. If anyone can give me a heads-up

about what’s barreling my way, it’s him.

And he knows what I know.

About the virus.

About the planned staged epidemic.

About what Galentron’s willing to do to see how their demon toy

performs in the field.

He’s just as pissed off about it as I am. Just as unsure what to do, even

though we’ve both decided, without saying it, that we have to do something.

The problem is, I can’t find him.

He’s always late for his shifts, usually stealing a smoke or slipping off to

town to steal a few minutes with his girl, the mayor’s daughter. This time,

he’s not on the outdoor loading dock where I usually find him puffing away

at a pack of Lucky Strikes.

I’d worry about cancer killing me, he always says, giving me that wry,

tired smile of his, but I know Galentron will do it first.

 I wish that line wasn’t so fucking real.

I’m trying not to think about it, now, as I make my way down the hall to

my own lab – the sterile high-containment unit, limited in access to me,

Fuchsia, a few other researchers, plus high-level administrators and military

outsiders. It’s the vault where SP-73 is cultivated and stored, kept in an

inert, mostly harmless state at subzero temperatures.

It takes heat to make it active.

Heat for it to grow.

Like the heat of a human body.

Then it comes alive at a horrifying, unnatural speed. It seems to grow

deadlier with every test. In the latest rounds, it starts to cause catastrophic

organ damage and killing fever in under an hour or two. With humans, who

knows what it’ll do.

I’m picturing so many human bodies right now.

The pretty waitress I see at the diner sometimes on my rare forays into

town. The blustering Mayor Bell, who we meet with now and then to

discuss keeping our secrets under wraps. The quiet, earthy townsfolk

moving in and out of the shops, blissfully unaware there’s a monster in their

town.

Leo himself, even though I know he’s fine.

He’s fine, dammit.

He’s probably just in his CO’s office getting fitted for a new asshole after

being late for the millionth time to his shift. That’s it, I tell myself.

That’s got to be all this is.

Yet as I lift my access card to enter back into the lab, I still. This tight,

prickling sensation sizzles through me, winding higher, until I feel like a

thin string pulled too taut, poised on the verge of snapping.

The outer door’s open.

Just a crack, the sliding door shifted aside by an inch, but the red lock

light over the access card reader is blue, and the door hangs open when no

one should be in here yet.

I’m always the first one in the high security area. Always.

Every sense I have sharpens, goes on high alert. I thrust myself to one

side of the door, keeping out of sight as I crane to look through the crack

and see who’s inside.

 I probably look ridiculous to the people going about their business in the

hall – or maybe they just think I’ve gone crazy, which is probably already

circulating anyway. I don’t know what I’m expecting to see.

No one can get in or out of the Galentron facility without top secret

security clearance, and if there’s some kind of corporate spy here, they

wouldn’t be this blatant, this bold. It’s probably Fuchsia, doing something

unorthodox.

Only it’s not Fuchsia.

It’s a man.

Not one of my lab assistants, either – two are female, and Greg is a slim

reed of a man. Not this hulking brute, so big he can barely even fit the

personal protective equipment he’s wearing, the white jumpsuit that would

be a pillowy mess on anyone else clinging tight to his body, outlining the

tactical gear underneath.

Fuck.

I know that build. I know that voice, drifting through the crack in the

door in soft, almost manic mutters. I know that step, determined and deadly.

Leo.

And he’s got the containment freezer with SP-73 open, rummaging

around inside it like a bear with its paw in a beehive, while puffs of cold air

smoke out around him and sink, heavy, down to the floor.

My heart does a sickening nosedive. There’s no instant danger, not when

the freezer is nitrogen-cooled and a little room temperature air seeping in

won’t raise the virus’ own temperature enough to activate it.

But shit, knowing how angry he was when we talked yesterday, knowing

how volatile his temper can be, knowing what he might do if he felt like he

had no choice?

We’re boned.

I don’t want to know what he’d do with the hundreds of vials lined up

neatly inside the freezer case.

Or what’ll happen if he tries to destroy them improperly, and leaks them

into the environment, instead. Or even worse, makes them airborne.

“Leo!” I growl his name, shoving the door open the rest of the way and

then rushing inside. Furtive. Quick. Determined.

There isn’t much time.

 I keep a sharp eye out, looking over my shoulder before slamming the

door shut. I’ll have to dig up security footage later, if I can get access. I need

to destroy all record of him breaking into the lab, and whatever else happens

in this conversation. “What the hell are you doing?”

He stiffens but doesn’t look back at me. The clink and rattle of vials

stops, and some tiny part of me relaxes. The test tubes are shatterproof, but

the animal inside me that hears the menacing clatter of glass doesn’t want to

register that. It’s just glad the sound that warns of a savage substance

coming out has stopped.

“Gray?” he says hoarsely. There’s something strange in his voice,

something dark. “Gray, is that you?”

I frown. How does he not recognize my voice instantly? Is it the suit?

We’ve known each other for years.

“Yeah,” I answer carefully. “It’s me, Leo. Talk to me. What’s wrong?

What’re you doing with the SP-73 sample?”

He turns very slowly. Almost moving like a robot.

Holding a vial of SP-73 tight in his hand. Fuck.

I’m not wearing any personal protective equipment. I didn’t have time,

not when I realized the lab was breached.

And I realize, staring at his wide eyes through the faceplate of his suit,

he’s not himself. He’s in shock.

Something is very, very wrong, and I need to be extremely careful

because the man in front of me isn’t my friend. Right now, his mind is gone,

and he isn’t anyone I know.

This man is a cornered, frightened, angry animal. There’s no telling

what he’ll do if he feels threatened.

“It’s all wrong, Gray,” he whispers, his fingers tightening convulsively

on the test tube. He’s trembling. So is his voice, that rough, deep cadence

reduced to a broken whisper.

There’s something red on his face, too. Blood.

I can barely see it past his mask, but it’s streaked down his cheek.

I don’t have any earthly idea whose it is.

Maybe his own. Maybe not.

My heart just goes cold. Something terrible happened to my friend. As

soon as I get that test tube out of his hand and the SP-73 secured, and make

sure we aren’t heading for prison, I’ll murder whoever did it.
 “What’s wrong?” I coax again, taking a careful step closer – then

stopping when he tenses, hand tightening convulsively on the vial. The glass

is shatterproof but not totally unbreakable.

Shatterproof only protects against drops or knocking it out of the stand.

Squeeze it hard enough, and the tube fragments into a million pieces.

Shards that could cut through the suit. Through skin. Deadly fragments

that could expose Leo to the virus that could be warming up right now in his

hot little hand.

He shakes his head quickly. “Don’t,” he says, hateful and thick. “Don’t

fucking come any closer!”

“I’m not.” I hold up both hands, a peace gesture, keeping my voice calm

and steady and soothing. “I’m not coming closer. I’m right here. I’m with

you, Leo. Now just tell me what happened, why you’re bleeding.”

His dark eyes close, that window into his face like peering into an

anguished soul. “It’s...it’s not my blood. Not my goddamn blood at all.”

Fuck.

Chills cut through me. I take a slow breath. “Tell me whose blood,

then?”

Leo opens his eyes, staring at me, pleading with me to understand. “The

fucking mayor’s,” he spits out quickly. “I couldn’t...I had to do it. He had

Clarissa. He was going to...Gray, h-he had to die. She begged me to stay

after I did it. Begged me to leave with her. But I had to do something,

dammit! Had to save this town from this...shit.”

His eyes flit down like daggers, staring at the substance in the test tube. I

swallow, choking what feels like a boulder down my throat.

“Why?” All these people in this town, and he was so angry at the

possible loss of life...why would he kill the mayor? Especially when he’s

damn well in love with the man’s daughter, and sneaks off every chance he

can get to see her? “Leo, what did Mayor Bell do?”

“He’s part of it!” he snarls, and I flinch while his fingers pinch the vial

again. “He fucking knew—he knew when Galentron came in. He was

complicit, and he already planned to get himself and his family out

before...before...”

“Before the test phase was activated,” I finish, dawning horror filling me.

Jesus Christ. The mayor had an escape plan. And he was going to leave

this entire town to die.

 For how much money, I wonder? How much is worth sacrificing Heart’s

Edge?

Nearly a thousand souls, all of them trusting an elected official to protect

them who’d served forever, to have their best interests in mind. Galentron

came to Heart’s Edge with so many promises – that they’d revitalize the

town, bring new jobs, throw new money into the economy when they paid

so much to buy out occupancy at the town-owned hotel.

It’s all been lies. Mayor Bell has been part of this from the start. He

enabled everything.

If he wasn’t already dead, I might’ve killed him myself.

But I can’t focus on that right now. I risk a step closer to Leo, releasing

my breath from a tightening chest. He doesn’t go tense again.

“Okay,” I say. “Okay, so you tried to get him to stop this, but there’s

more layers than that. We can’t do anything drastic, Leo. Not in this lab.” I

hope saying his name again and again will bring him down from this trance,

reminding him who he really is. Who he is to me, my friend and confidante.

“We have to work from the inside. You know that, or they’ll stop us before

we can take a single step.”

“No, Gray. No fucking time. They were gonna release it. They can’t stop

us now. Not if they’re all dead,” he growls, raising his arm over his head

before flinging it down sharply, fingers going lax on the test tube.

My instincts take over before my mind can react.

I dive toward him, slamming him back against the freezer, knocking the

door closed and making the tubes inside rattle violently, clutching his arm –

and forcing his hand to tighten spasmodically, clutching the test tube instead

of letting go.

Gasping haggardly, almost spitting, he fights me, struggling against my

weight. Even if he’s bigger than me – a behemoth, this big massive hulk of a

man – I’m still tall and strong and fast. I grasp one of his shoulders, driving

my fingers into pure muscle, pinning him back against the freezer while I

fight like hell for the test tube.

I just need to get it out of his hand. Locked away safely. Then we can

talk.

“Dammit, Gray!” he roars, thrusting his knee against me, trying to force

me back. “You know this is the only way!”

 “Wrong!” I wheeze out a breath as his knee strikes my solar plexus,

arching back, but not letting him go. I hurl my entire weight into him,

slamming his arm up over his head, ramming it into the freezer. “We can’t

kill people, Leo! Not even these assholes who deserve it.”

We’re so close. Locked eye to eye, his gaze boring into mine as I reach

up, trying to pull the test tube from his hand.

“Even to save lives?” he whispers. “Why are our lives worth more than

theirs? Why do we get to live while they have to die? For what? Money?

Goddamn why?”

I don’t have an answer.

For a moment, with that heavy question rattling my head, I lose it.

I falter, break my focus, and that’s when he sees his chance.

He rips away from me, shoving me back so hard I stumble, tumble,

crash to the ground so hard I see stars.

Shit. I don’t even need to see to hear the tinkle, the eggshell crack, of

shattering glass. Or to hear the sound of my pulse roaring in my ears,

ramping up in a rush of adrenaline, horror, sickness.

No fear, oddly enough.

The instant I heard that shattering sound, my fear evaporated. Replaced

with a sense of purpose.

I open my eyes, staring at the vial at Leo’s feet. It’s nothing but

fragments now, tiny gleaming bits and a pool of pale yellow liquid, thick

and viscous still – cold enough to be a plasmid, instead of the active fluid

teeming with a living viral payload.

Maybe there’s still time.

Except Leo rips the mask off his suit, his hair sticking up in rough

tangles streaked with blood, that savage red mark down his cheek like war

paint. He stares at me with desperate eyes turned insane, dark with fury.

“Well,” he says. “This is it. I guess we’re both infected now.”

It’s all I hear. A second later, the alarms start blaring, red lights flashing

over the lab, turning it into a nightmare hellscape.

The containment system.

Galentron may be murderous, but they’re all about control – and finely

tuned sensors capable of detecting the virus are embedded everywhere, at

all levels, accurate down to the microscopic level. The slightest hint of any
RNA outside of an enclosed, controlled environment, and the gloves come

off.

Total lockdown.

“No, not yet,” I say, and launch myself to my feet, away from Leo and

the puddle of virus, throwing myself at the control panel that runs the lab’s

systems and the lockdown procedure.

If I can just get into the system in time, enter my override codes, I can

prevent the lockdown and get everyone out of here. No one has to die except

maybe me and Leo, since we’re directly exposed. But the lockdown will trap

everyone where they are, preventing anyone from leaving. Although this

virus wasn’t designed to go airborne, anything in a fluid suspension can

evaporate and cause disaster.

The air systems are designed to make every room a closed system, so no

airborne particles can get to the rest of the facility. Nothing escapes this

environment unless we want it to.

But malfunctions happen.

I can’t risk it, I think.

I’ll figure out the karma of my best friend trying to kill me with a virus I

nurtured later.

Right now, the system’s not responding. No matter how fast I tap at the

screen and the keyboard, it’s faster, locking me out one subsystem at a time

as I try to get into security access controls, environmental handling,

something.

The only thing it will let me see is the facility-wide security monitoring

system.

My breath seizes in my chest, watching all these people – human, no

matter how morally rotted some might be, others just as trapped in

circumstance as I am – panic. The robotic voice of the lockdown system

orders them to shelter in place.

They know they’re going to die.

If the security system determines enough of us have been exposed,

there’s no recourse. It’ll gas us all to death before the virus itself can kill us

in a matter of minutes. This stuff is slow to warm, but once it gets going,

into your system, it’s the fastest killing disease on Earth.

I’ve got to prevent it somehow.

 My blood pumps so hard I feel like my entire body throbs as I drive my

hands over the keyboard, looking for any backdoors in the system. Any

faults in the programming I can take advantage of to stop this.

There – there! – the sprinkler system. Fire suppression. Turning it on

will help to dampen any toxic gasses in the air and could possibly even short

out the lockdown systems. All the electronics in the facility will get soaked.

Some of them are waterproof.

I’m hoping a lot of them aren’t.

Slamming down on the authentication, I trigger a fire drill with the

option for sprinkler override set to yes, yes, a million fucking yeses and then

look up sharply with a gasp.

Overhead, the sprinkler heads fire on with a sharp hiss and water sprays

everywhere, soaking us in an instant like a thunderstorm breaking hot and

wild.

“What’re you doing?” Leo gasps. “Why—”

I whirl to face him. “Nobody has to die today,” I snarl. “There’s a better

way. There always has to be a better way—”

He looks at me gravely.

It’s the look of a man, a soldier, willing to die for what he believes in.

For just a moment, I wonder where he finds the courage.

“Sometimes looking for a better way just means stepping out of the way

of men willing to take action,” he says, slow and certain. “And it means

cowardice, when the guys with that power want to use it against the people

we’re supposed to protect.”

That hits hard.

Hard and painful and true. We’re both ex-military. Serve and protect.

It’s why we both enlisted. It’s why we lived it.

Trying to do what was right. Trying to protect our country. Trying to

save the people, the land we love from anyone who might harm it with this

research. That’s what we thought we were doing.

Then we got caught up in the truth of this corruption and their corporate

handlers.

Then the ideal we gave our lives for chewed us up and spat us the fuck

out as different creatures.

And I wonder who I am, that I’d forgotten what it felt like to be willing

to die for my beliefs if they meant doing the right thing.

 But before I can say another word, I smell smoke.

There’s a terrible bright spark behind me, one of the centrifuges shorting

out.

Electricity leaps like lightning, lashing out in a violent, bright, blinding

explosion, snapping across the banks of machinery. Holy fuck.

The shockwave hits me like an uppercut, throws me back, slams me into

Leo, and then whips both of us away from the frozen containment unit and

that shattered vial. We hit the wall hard, both of us grunting, bruising force

knocking my breath out of my lungs.

Then everything goes dark.

E XC E P T I’ M NO T U NCO N SC I O US , even though I’m very disoriented.

Flashing red emergency lights kick in, illuminating the lab in a blood-

red hellscape.

First the lights, and then the flames.

Crackling fire torches high, crawling up the wall and the ceiling from the

fried machinery, smoke billowing out in choking waves that are already

stinging my nostrils and crawling down my throat, making me cough, the

smell of burning rubber fucking noxious. And the sprinklers have cut off.

Great.

I’m guessing whatever I did, or whatever the flames did, shorted out

their electronic controls. Anything might happen now.

My eyes are stinging. I cover my mouth with my sleeve, turning to my

friend.

“Leo, we’ve got to—”

Oh, fuck.

He’s slumped against the wall, more blood coursing down his face. Only

this time, there’s no doubt it’s his, from where his head struck the wall. He’s

conscious, his eyes open, but it’s not hard to tell he’s not really there.

I’ve got to get us out of here.

Struggling not to breathe too deep, squinting against the smoke rapidly

filling the lab, I struggle to my feet, grab one of his hefty arms, and drag
him across the floor. The hiss of his jumpsuit follows like a snake’s warning,

but I keep moving.

I’ve got to get him away from the containment unit. Whenever the

flames get there, we’re fucked.

It’s not the fire I’m worried about.

It’s whenever those flames hit the gas vials in the coolant tanks inside

and superheat them. The reaction will blow this place to kingdom come.

The only silver lining is, the fire will incinerate the virus before it goes

airborne, that much I’m certain. No more SP-73.

But there’ll be a moment where it will fly out everywhere as those vials

pop like balloons. We don’t want to be anywhere near it when that happens.

I drop Leo against the wall next to the door and try the door access

panel. It’s locked, completely fried, the lights dead. The door won’t budge.

Snarling, I slam my fist at the metal.

Fine. Only one way out.

Pulling the sleeve of my lab coat over my hand, I smash my fist down on

the access panel.

It comes apart in a shower of sparks, circuits ripping away, and whatever

was holding the latch together releases with a soft popping sound. The door

groans open just an inch.

That’s all I need, and I dig my fingers in, set my shoulders to it, and

heave-ho.

Forcing it one inch at a time, the door grinds open. Wider.

Straining like mad, gritting my teeth, I throw all my strength against the

steel, a snarl rising in the back of my throat. I can hear shouts for help rising

throughout the facility – and more smoke billows down the hallway,

collecting against the high white ceiling, turning it into a pillowing sky of

black.

The other electronics must’ve caught on fire. The others are trapped, no

thanks to me, dammit.

I don’t know how I’ll ever get everyone out. How I’m even going to get

Leo out.

But I have to try.

With one last hard heave that makes my entire body hurt as my muscles

shout in protest, I shove the door open wide enough to squeeze through,

then reach back for Leo. One grunt and strain and tug at a time, I manage to
wedge him into the hallway, gasping for breath – then regretting it when I

inhale smoke and break out coughing. Shit.

Shit.

It’s hotter than a furnace in here. So hot, sweat crawls down my spine

and heat soars up my neck, wet stinging drops clouding my vision.

I can’t slow down. I can’t stop. I won’t stop.

Hooking my hands under Leo’s arms, I drag him toward the door

leading to the emergency exit, and the rising stairwell shaft that’ll take us

out of the facility.

And then I leave him there.

Just for a moment.

There’s something I have to do.

I race back to the lab door, set my shoulder against it, and force it shut

again, trying to make sure it seals as much as possible to contain the SP-73

when the vials explode.

Then I race down the hallway again, shielding my hands with my lab

coat sleeves and smashing as many access panels as possible. Again and

again, my fists crash down in terrible explosions of pain, but I don’t care.

I’m past the torture.

Even when the bits of metal and jagged circuitry rip through the fabric

of my sleeves and tear my hands open, I keep going. I bleed to stop this shit.

I have to give these people a fighting chance.

I don’t want anyone to die. Not on either side of the lines we’ve drawn.

But as I hit the end of the hallway, a massive thudding boom rises up

from below me, shaking the floor like an earthquake and flinging me to the

ground.

The generators. Something must have sparked the goddamned

generators, set off their fuel and – oh.

Oh, fuck.

The lower floors, the storage areas, the residential units, everything

buried down in the earth under the upper lab levels, not to mention the top-

secret quarantine areas...it’s like I’m standing on the roof of hell.

That’s a haiku I remember from college. Issho, I think.

In this world, we walk on the roof of hell, gazing at flowers.

I don’t remember the Japanese, the proper syllables in the right

language, but I remember the English translation. I remember thinking of it

the first time I saw spring come to Heart’s Edge, all these flowers blooming

across the land, and meanwhile below ground, Galentron made the

apocalypse.

I’m not sure why that comes to me so suddenly, staring blankly at the

tile with my cheek pressed to the cold surface, my head ringing, something

warm and wet that isn’t sweat trickling down my brow.

Blood and shock. Or maybe concussion.

But make no mistake: this is hell, and Heart’s Edge – with its pretty

flowers everywhere – is its roof, and right now that roof is caving in.

I hear screams.

Rising up through the floor, tinny and quiet and distant, but there. The

burning souls of the damned, deep in the pit.

It’s too late to save them now.

I just hope I at least managed to help the people on this floor.

I hope I keep fighting and resist the urge to die, fall down and meet my

maker while the facility burns around me. We probably just have minutes

before some government containment crew arrives to make sure 'nothing'

ever happened here.

Burning alive would be my punishment for engineering this. For going

along complacently for too long with SP-73, turning a blind eye to what they

intended until there was no damn ignoring it any longer.

But I can’t ignore it any longer. A groan from the end of the hallway

that’s turned into an obstacle course of beams, fire, dangling cables, hellish

black smoke, tells me I can’t.

Because whatever drove Leo to this point, that’s partly my fault, too.

I can’t just leave him to his fate.

Even though my body protests, screams with every movement, even

though I’m weak and battered and broken, I drag myself up and force my

way through the debris toward Leo.

The ceiling beams have collapsed on him. He’s trapped – trapped and

burning, and it’s a mercy that he’s barely conscious.

No time to think. I throw myself at the burning beams, grappling them

with my bare hands, ignoring how those flames lick my skin, searing my

fingerprints off. I can hardly see him past the fire engulfing him, his entire

body, burning away his protective suit and eating into the tactical gear

underneath.
 Come on, Leo. We have to go!

Around us the flames rise higher and higher. I can’t breathe in this

smoke, every inhale scours my lungs, but I won’t abandon him.

Either we get out together, or I die here with my friend.

The next few minutes are a blur as I push and bend and hurl as much as

I can away from him. Fighting the blackness pulling at my brain.

There’s almost nothing left of the man I once knew by the time I heave

the last beam off him with a massive push that feels like it breaks something

inside me, some crucial part of me ripping. Snarling, I tear my bloody lab

coat off and throw it over him, using it to smother the flames, but

underneath it’s only black char and burning.

And his eyes.

They’re open, barely.

He’s alive, breaths rasping past his lips.

God. It isn’t much in all this horror, but I’ll take it. As long as he

survives, he can heal. His body, if nothing else.

I keep the lab coat wrapped around him to shield his body, then kick the

door to the stairwell open and drag him out. I can see a few other shadowy

figures through the smoke, struggling from the rooms they’d been locked in,

and I raise my voice, trying to shout. My throat’s almost burned hoarse by

the smoke.

“This way!” I roar. “This way, the emergency exit!”

I hear the voices growing closer. Good.

But I can’t focus on them for long. My entire world narrows to the man

at my feet.

It’s just me, Leo, the stairs, and a ticking clock as I calculate how long

it’ll take the fuel-driven, raging flames from below to blast this place to

smithereens. Especially when one of the labs has a small nuclear core

driving some of the more sensitive, high-powered equipment.

If containment breaches on that, fuck. Forget the virus. It could level the

entire valley.

My legs are numb, trying to buckle. I ignore them, force them to

function anyway, force myself up one step at a time with Leo limping behind

me. I just barely keep him up so his head doesn’t bang on the steps as I haul

him up by his arm.

 If the lab was hell, this is purgatory, an endless, frantic climb toward the

thin square of light above.

That light should be white, blue, gold – the color of electric lights, the

color of the sky.

It’s orange.

And I realize why after what feels like hours and must’ve been urgent,

frightened minutes as other escapees dart past without even stopping to

help. I go stumbling out into the open, falling from the smaller hole cut into

the earth next to the massive shaft that leads down into the facility. The

night sky arches over me, full of stars, untouched and untainted by the

darkness inside me, the darkness burned into my flesh.

And the Paradise Hotel above the lab, where many of the higher-ups

stay, is on fire.

I’m too exhausted to care. Collapsing next to Leo’s smoking, groaning

body, I hit the ground and suck harsh breaths of fresh, clean air, struggling

to pull myself together.

We have to get away from here, before the inevitable explosion. We need

distance. But I can’t fucking move.

I’m too broken, too weary, and I hate that we’ve come so far only to end

here, watching the hotel go up in flames, splintering in on itself in huge

whumps of sparks.

One more minute.

One more damn minute, and I’ll drag us to safety.

I can’t move anymore. My reserves are spent. I don’t have any choice.

I close my eyes, take a deep breath, muster my last scrap of willpower,

then start dragging to my feet, opening my eyes.

Only to freeze at the sound of chambers loading, safeties flicking off.

What now? I go still, forcing myself to look. I want to laugh.

We’re surrounded.

Tactical teams in black gear, all of them grim-faced behind their bio

warfare masks and pointing heavy-duty weapons at me.

At Leo, as if he can do anything.

I realize there are others, too. Everyone who escaped has been

surrounded, herded together, frightened, sobbing people streaked in ash and

holding their hands behind their heads, bodies bowed, meek, begging to live.

Fuck Galentron. I won’t beg.

 But I won’t fight, either.

My hands fold together behind my head, watching them, feeling like I’m

dead already as I wait.

“Take ’em!” the man in the lead barks, distinguishable from the others

only by the pins on his collar. “Clean up this mess and let’s get to the

bottom of this.”

It turned out getting to the bottom of this meant blaming Leo.

No matter what I told them when they interrogated me, Leo was their

scapegoat. Their excuse. Their reason for a nightmare he never caused – not

completely.

They let me go. I quit, same as most of the others who escaped.

Leo wasn’t given the option. He was captured, thrown in jail, sealed

away for life until he forced his way out.

And Heart’s Edge had its new monster.

Someone to blame for the fire. The mayor’s murder. The cover-up that

followed.

We made this mess together, but he paid the price.

Only now, years later, whatever deal with the devil let me walk free is

catching up with me.

Now, it’s finally time for my debts to come due.

 17

A DOG IN HEAT (EMBER)

C onsider me speechless. What do I even say after something like that?

I’ve always known Gray held entire worlds inside him. Bright

galaxies. Dark, secret universes I never imagined I’d get to explore. I

thought I’d just see them distantly the way we see constellations in the sky,

struggling to understand them from those little sparks and faint outlines that

tell us nothing of their burning truth.

I never believed his vastness would open up to me this way.

Sitting in the truck next to him, I’d watched the bright blue sky,

following clouds streaking across in playful little skitters. The ruins of the

hotel look so small in this sunlight.

It’s unassuming and old and tired. Just a broken memory belonging to

someone else, charred into nothing along with its secrets. And I’d listened

while he reconstructed what the hotel once was alongside the secret lab

underneath it and the old mine.

God. What once took place down in that black hole in the earth...what

almost happened to this town, if it wasn’t for him. I still can’t comprehend it.

It’s insane. It’s wild. It’s intense. It totally defies belief, and I don’t even

know how to process it. I shouldn’t even believe something so crazy, but he

spoke with a tone and a truth I couldn’t forget in ten lifetimes.

This is Gray.

He’s not crazy.

He doesn’t lie.
 He might keep secrets, he might go Dr. Broodypants, he might try to

protect people with half-truths sometimes but...he doesn’t lie.

Which means all of this is real. His history, the darkness in this town,

the terrible things that may be yet to come if Fuchsia being back here is any

indication.

“Gray, I...”

I shake my head. I’m still lost for words. I want to tell him it’s okay. I

want to tell him I don’t judge him for any of this. That I understand how the

pain haunts him and how terrible it must’ve been to carry it with him

constantly. How much it must’ve broken him every day, knowing there was

nothing he could do to bring any of this to light, or to help his tortured

friend.

He stares blankly across the landscape, his hands resting loosely on the

steering wheel. That’s how he’s been this whole time, his handsome face

emptied of all expression. Trying, but not trying to shut himself off from

these memories; from the darkness. He tried to pretend he still could.

But I heard the bitterness of his words.

I saw the way the hurt shone in his eyes. The way his shoulders tensed,

straining to hold up the weight of this brutal past threatening to break him.

He feels this as intensely as he did the very first day it happened. I know

it.

And now that he’s shared it with me, I won’t leave him alone with it.

His fingers tighten on the steering wheel and then relax again. Without

looking at me, he murmurs, “It’s all right. If you hate me – if you want to

leave, I’ll take you back. Bring you home.”

“No,” I blurt out. It’s the first certain thing I can manage, still struggling

to process all of this. “I don’t hate you, Gray. I don’t hate you. I don’t blame

you for keeping it in, I...”

Words fail me again, so I do the only thing I know how.

I unbuckle my seat belt and fling myself against him, wrapping my arms

around his shoulders and pulling him to me.

I’m not asking him to comfort me.

I’m asking him to come to me, because someone desperately needs to

comfort him. If only he’ll let me.

He goes stiffer for just a minute. I expect him to pull away. To fight me

back and continue to let the acid hurt inside him eat his soul.
 But he doesn’t move.

Instead, he goes slowly lax against me, and my heart both breaks and

sings as he buries his face against my throat and wraps his arms around my

waist. He’s so massive, so strong, I feel like I’m being swallowed up inside

him, and yet it’s everywhere I want to be. It makes sense now, why I’ve

stuck with this and didn’t run, even when the insanity over the past forty-

eight hours made me question spending another minute in Heart’s Edge.

I’m here for Gray Caldwell. Giving him the solace for the secrets I’ve

yearned for since the first time I saw him and realized something.

He’s just as big a beast as the animals under our care. And like them,

maybe he needs a gentle touch to heal.

I curl myself around him until we’re tangled together. He holds me

tighter, bringing my whole world into him, and I stroke my fingers through

his hair, weaving the dark strands and soothing in long, slow caresses.

Then very quietly, even though it feels too loud in the silence of the

enclosed cabin, I do more.

I sing.

It makes my cheeks heat, makes me feel silly at first, but I just want to

ease him the way music has always eased me. I sing about paper moons over

a cardboard sea. I sing about bubbles with a rainbow in it. I sing about

canvas skies over muslin trees.

I sing about how bad I wish he’d believe in me.

The quiet song – so familiar, bringing up so many memories, late nights

with Dad as our fireplace flickers and my mother hums along and everything

is quiet in our chaotic family for once – soothes something raw inside me.

God, do I hope it soothes him too.

Especially when slowly, his heavy weight relaxes against me. Slowly that

death grip around him begins to ease, until he’s just holding me.

Really, truly holding me in his strength and his heat; holding me against

him like he’ll die before he ever lets me go. The low growl rumbling in his

throat fades, and he’s simply silent against me, his breaths curling against

my throat, making me aware of every place where our bodies press together.

When the song ends, though, after the last note finally slips past my lips,

Gray sighs, shifting against me.

“Don’t stop, Ember,” he growls. “Don’t fucking stop. You’ve got a

beautiful voice. It helps make everything go away, if only for a little while.”
 I think that’s when my heart splits in two, even though I’m beaming like

the sun.

Smiling faintly, murmuring into his hair, I try not to tear up. Just hearing

him say those words is so close to a kiss that my lips tingle, burn. “That’s

the end of the song,” I whisper. “I could start over.”

“Is starting over even possible?” he asks softly – and I know he doesn’t

mean the song.

He means everything else. What happened with the lab, with Nine, with

Fuchsia...he means him.

I linger for a few long moments, still stroking my fingers through his

hair, daring to follow them down to curl my hand against the back of his

neck. His skin is so warm, so weathered, the texture fascinating my skin.

“I think,” I say, “if you want to and you try really hard, anything’s

possible. I know that sounds cheap but–”

“I don’t know if I can,” he says, his voice full of thunder. “Goddamn, I

don’t know.”

I feel his words rumble through me, his lips ghosting against the air over

my throat, and my body tingles, my breaths uneven.

“Not as long as Fuchsia’s still out there. Not as long as Nine’s still a

fugitive. The old story hasn’t finished, it doesn’t have an ending. How could

I ever start a new chapter?”

“Does it have to be you?” I ask tentatively. “Do you have to carry this?

End this?”

“No one else can.” He shakes his head, the rough stubble of his cheek

against my shoulder, my throat, a soft and yet thrilling scrape. “I’m the only

one who knows the whole truth and can handle it properly. Nine, he’d be

arrested on sight, and Fuchsia – who the hell knows what she’s really after.

The only one I trust to protect this town, protect you, is me, Ember.”

My breath catches. My eyes widen. And then I just stare at him as he

lifts his head slowly, those intense green eyes fused to mine.

Before, they seemed like sea glass. Glacial green ice, the color of a

frozen pond.

But there’s nothing cold about them now. Nothing frigid. Now, there’s

fire.

Doc’s gaze burns with a quiet heat, the same storm from so many years

ago still raging inside him.

 He’s all torment, all passion, all broken.

And I realize, then, that I’ve been lying to myself from the moment I

saw him. I don’t just want to open him up and look in on all his secrets. I

want them to be mine.

I want to be part of Gray’s story, however it ends.

I’m not sure who kisses who first.

I’ve never kissed anyone in my life, but it’s like I know this man with

some deep, intimate part of me that tells me how to meet him, how to touch

him, how to grasp on tight and let myself be swept away with him as his

mouth descends on mine and teaches me what it means to truly burn.

Holy, holy hell.

I’m breathless as he takes my lips with his and consumes me, his hot

flesh stroking mine, these new sensations and new sweetness teach me

wicked things. Like how my mouth can be every bit as sensitive as more

delicate parts of my body.

It feels obscene the way he licks and caresses my lips, the way he makes

them throb until I sigh and shudder and part them for him in a way that feels

so much more intimate than just a kiss.

It’s more like I’m opening my entire body to let him in. I feel it in my

thighs and in my breasts and in the pit of my belly and then much deeper as

his tongue steals into my mouth. He attacks my tongue with strokes so

luscious, I arch with an involuntary moan, winding my arms tighter around

him and throbbing right between my thighs in all the best, most delicious,

wettest ways.

I—

“Mrowr?” Baxter says, right before a paw reaches over the back of the

seat from the rear cab storage and bobs me on the top of the head.

Oh, crud. The cat. I’d totally forgotten her.

We break apart with startled sounds, staring at each other, then at the

pair of wide golden eyes peering irritably at us.

Then we both burst into quiet laughter, my palm holding in my giggles

and failing, Gray’s rich, baritone chuckle rolling over me.

But he doesn’t let me go.

If anything, he leans harder into me, resting his brow to mine, his

breaths coming hard and harsh. “I think she’s hungry,” he whispers

raggedly, and I bite my lip.

 “So am I,” I answer, and his eyes fly wide, staring at me.

“Ember...”

It guts me hearing my name on his lips in that hoarse, hungry tone, that

spark of heat making the two worlds collide inside me. I lick my lips and

taste him, this raw hot dose of masculinity and something like heady

bourbon slipping past my lips, and shudder.

“Please,” I whisper. “You...you mess me up, Gray. And I just want to feel

everything around you, and I want to feel more.”

“How?” Those brilliant green eyes search mine, his marvelous, full

mouth shaping almost disbelieving words. “How can you want me when I’m

so–”

“Don’t.” I press my fingers to his lips – they feel so good, so warm

against my skin – and offer a small smile. “Don’t you dare say old. And

don’t say any of the other things you’re going to say about yourself. All the

things in your past...I know they hurt, but they made you who you are. And

who you are, to me, is pretty close to perfect.”

He lets out a slow, seething breath that sounds almost pained, his body

tense against mine, but I can feel more than that.

I can feel how hard he is.

It’s thick and hot and pulsing, resting against my stomach, nearly

burning through his jeans and my shorts, and I’m suddenly far too aware

how easy it would be for him to drag my shorts and panties aside and let me

know exactly how it’d feel for him to own me, teach me things about my

body I’ve never known.

I can almost feel it, the sensation of something thick and hard slipping

between my legs, gliding inside me, stretching me – and suddenly it’s

insanely hard to breathe. I can’t look away from him. My every breath in is

just a shallow, hot thing that makes my lips pulse with angry need for

another kiss.

Gray...Gray, please.

His gaze dips down, lingering over my tank top, and I flush as I realize

my nipples are hard, pressing against the fabric, the texture of my bra

teasing against them until I nearly throb and moan with the friction that

makes me far too aware of how much I want the cloth replaced with his

fingers.

Or his mouth.
 I’ve never been this dirty-minded before, but he brings it out in me. He

makes me shiver. He makes me need.

And he makes me brave, too, as I push myself up just enough to brush

my lips across his and whisper, “Take me home, Gray.”

I see the moment when it clicks – what I mean, what I want.

I expect him to say no.

But instead, he dips his head like a handsome vampire accepting my

invitation in – and presses his lips to my throat.

Oh. My. God.

I’ve never felt anything this sinful in my life as his mouth closes over my

pulse, and he gently draws the flesh between his teeth to suck in rhythm with

the pounding roar of my bloodstream. I feel it all over my body: drawing,

pulling, reaching down deep, and with a soft cry, I clutch at his hair, his

shoulders, arching against him. I rub my body against his in total wanton

desperation until my breasts crush close and tingle with heavy, hot

sensations, until my panties slip up inside me, creasing my folds and

rubbing and teasing until I’m slick fire.

That imaginary sensation burns inside me still, this raging ache to be

pierced and filled, to learn what it’s like to have his hot flesh inside me, and

I gasp roughly, closing my eyes tight.

“Gray!”

Slowly his lips depart my flesh, leaving a burning, damp spot on my skin

that draws all my senses to it, this livid torch of awareness. And even with

my eyes closed, I can feel, hear the slow, dark, hungry smile in his voice.

“That’s what I wanted to hear. I had to know you were sure.”

Slowly, his arms untangle, and his body heat leaves me, but he doesn’t,

his hands gently setting me upright. I open my eyes, watching him dazedly,

trying to put myself back together – but I can’t stop trembling with

anticipation, with need, as he settles himself behind the wheel and starts the

ignition.

“Buckle up,” he says.

Finally, the Ford backs up, retreating from the ruins. From the

memories. From the fear that hovers over Heart’s Edge.

Suddenly, it’s hard to make out the darkness. As long as I’m with him, I

can only see light.

I DON’T THINK I’ve ever seen a cat more confused than Baxter in my life.

Maybe because she picked up on the breathless tension in the air

between us as we drove back to town. Cats are sensitive to those kinds of

things, and we were probably giving off energy that made her fur stand on

end as we tried not to look at each other.

All while I fidgeted, rubbing my thighs together. I couldn’t help myself,

not when I didn’t want this tight, hot feeling inside me to stop, but now and

then I couldn’t stop the little moan that came up as my panties teased wetly

against me.

Every time, Gray nearly jolted the car to a stop as his foot hit the brake

too hard.

The cat probably didn’t enjoy getting tossed around like that, either.

Or maybe it’s just that ever since we arrived at his house, she was

plunged into a whirlwind.

I barely had a moment to take in his cozy cottage again. I hadn’t really

been looking before, but it was a sort of sparsely comfortable place in

weathered driftwood tones, minimalist without being empty or lifeless.

I caught a glimpse of the laundry room while Gray settled the cat in

with a bed made out of a laundry basket and a few old blankets, a litter box,

a can of wet food and a bowl of dry, plus some water. He lingered to scratch

behind her ears, just half a second out of the approximately three point five

minutes he took to get her settled in a breathless rush while I stood

awkwardly in the living room. Watching and – okay, guilty – counting.

Now, here he is, looking at me with his eyes still just a little too wide,

his broad chest heaving just a little too fast, and God, he’s so ripped. So

gorgeous. So everything.

I’ve tried hard all this time not to look at him as a man, but I can’t stop

myself. He’s so virile, so raw, so large, and I’m suddenly aware of how

young and small I am next to him. This wisp of fluff next to this massive oak

of a man, him weathered and stable and steady while I’m light and flighty

and so easily blown away.

I want to run my fingers over every inch of him, trace the breadth of his

shoulders, the hard rises of his chest, the chisels of his abdomen outlined
through his clinging shirt. I want to feel the weight of his cock in my palm,

freed from the tight confines of those jeans that sit so narrowly on his

angular piston hips.

I want to feel his red-hot lips all over my body, leaving scorch marks.

And I never want those blazing green eyes to look at anyone but me.

But I’m frozen in place, watching him, aching to melt away the distance

between us. His scarred hands clench so tight, and he takes a step toward

me, then stops as if yanked back on a leash that’s barely able to hold him,

straining in place.

“Ember,” he says thickly, swallowing hard.

It’s a question. Unspoken, and yet I know. And I know my answer.

One step. One step and the distance between us seems to break, and I let

out a shuddering sigh as I drift closer. “Please,” I breathe. “Please.”

There’s only one moment. Only one moment of hesitation, of questions,

of doubt – and then we crash together.

We meet like hurricanes, coming together in a kiss like a storm front.

His fingers cup my jaw, my face, the thick texture of those scars electrifying

my skin. His hands bury themselves in my hair, tilt my head back, open me

until I can only surrender to the dominance in his touch.

For all his gentleness with animals, so yielding, so soft, he’s a different

beast with me.

This isn’t the good doctor anymore. This man demands absolute control.

And I give it willingly, melting. He holds my entire body in the palm of

his hand.

I’m mindless. I’m desperate. I grasp at his shirt, tugging with needy

little sounds that melt into the devouring claim of his lips, only to go weak-

kneed as he bites my mouth, chasing everything but submission from my

mind.

He knows how to use his teeth to make me dizzy, grazing and teasing. I

feel like I’m being devoured from the inside out, the mark on my neck and

the wetness between my thighs pulsing in rhythm. My nipples want his

fingers, his tongue, so bad it almost hurts.

I feel something lick down my inner thighs and realize I’m dripping.

Just one kiss, those heavy hands in my hair, stroking down to my scalp

and I’m gone. Wet for him, burning for him, already ready to come.
 I can feel it winding tight inside me, this sensation like something

coiling tighter and tighter until it’s going to snap. I try so hard to fight it off

when I want to feel this forever. I don’t want to break too soon, but as his

hands glide down my shoulders, my spine, seeming to shape me with his

touch, I can’t resist.

A searing shudder rolls through me, like an earthquake made flesh.

And then those broad, strong hands curl over my butt, grip hard, dig into

my skin. They pull me into him and grind me against that hard, thick ridge

of his cock bulging through his jeans.

With a gasp, I shatter.

I don’t know how to describe it.

Like I’m being picked up and wrung apart until I’m just wet heat

everywhere, my body convulsing and my flesh clenching up. Like every part

of me is a fist trying to squeeze all the pleasure out of me. Like I’m tingling

and sparking and jolting and screaming.

Then I’m rising up on my toes, whimpering, keening, licking needily

and helplessly at his lips as he kisses me so much deeper, plunging his

tongue against mine until he’s thrusting into my mouth, thrusting into my

wet, fluttering folds, and he hasn’t even touched me there. But I’m a hot

mess anyway.

I clutch at his shoulders, struggling to even stand. After a moment, he

breaks back, looking down at me with a scorching, smoky gaze, his eyes

dilated and lit, his mouth such a sexual curl that it feels dirty just looking at

it. As the last of the wave passes through me, I go limp, his arms barely

holding me up, and he stares at me with something like wonder, struggling

to catch his breath.

“Ember, did you come?” he breathes, a quiet and sinful growl.

I thought I’d felt hot before, but it’s nothing compared to the flush of

embarrassment that goes through me. I look away, lowering my eyes. “S-

sorry...”

“Don’t be.” Fervent, but so very warm, he curls his knuckles under my

chin, gently nudging my face toward his. “Don’t ever be sorry. Do you know

what the fuck it does to me, knowing I can make you come with a kiss?”

Oh, I know.

I know because I feel it.

 And the strange, wild riptide that coursed through me just makes me

want more.

His cock is so hard against my stomach, my ribs. It makes me painfully

aware of how small I am.

How large he is.

How he’s going to break me – and how much I want him to.

Especially when he bows his head, bringing his mouth closer to my ear,

wet and warm and teasing against my skin. That chocolate voice of his goes

right through me, reaching deep, making me nearly hurt with how sensitive

my wrung-out body is.

“Let’s do it again,” he whispers, so much dark promise in those words.

The delicious relish, the anticipation, makes me shiver with something

almost like fear but so much better. “And again, and again, until you’re just

a soaked mess for me.”

Oh, hell.

I’m done. Those simple words blaze through my mind, and a heatwave

sweeps through me.

“Gray.” I nearly moan his name, digging my fingers against his

shoulders. “D-don’t tease me like that.”

“Why not?” His chuckle is a vibrating rumble, a tremor, a full-body

caress. “I think you like it, Firefly.” His lips tease over that mark on my

throat, making it burn, and I let out a soft gasp, eyes slipping closed, head

tilting back to bare my throat to him in willing offering. “Are you a virgin,

Ember?” he whispers against my skin.

I bite my lip. “Maybe.”

“No maybes.”

And then he’s gathering me up. Those hands are so sure on my body,

lifting me with an easy strength that makes me feel so small, so sheltered, so

eclipsed by him. He carries me against his chest, and I feel his heartbeat,

resting my palm over it.

So loud. So wild. So ready.

It mirrors mine perfectly, rushing fast and hot and telling me I’m not

alone in this frenzied feeling that’s surging through my veins, taking me

over. If this is how sex with him starts, I can’t even imagine where it ends.

“Tell me if this is your first time, sweet girl,” he says, his gaze never

leaving me, enveloping me in warmth as he turns to carry me to his

bedroom.

The way my bottom lip tucks into my teeth is all the answer he needs.

My cheeks feel like they might burn right off my face.

Doc smiles. He actually flipping smiles, and it’s kind and sexy and

intense.

“Good. I want to make sure it’s one you’ll never forget.”

He’s so gentle. Any fear or doubt I might’ve had at the idea of my first

time with him?

It’s gone, swept away in those powerful, corded arms.

The way he looks at me, the way he holds me, I know he’ll never hurt

me. I know he means every steaming word, every promise, every feral kiss

he brands against my lips.

And I nod, burying my beet-red face against his chest to hide, twining

my arms around his neck, holding on to him for dear life.

“Guilty. It’s my first,” I whisper, muffling the words against his shirt.

“And I think I...I want it to be you, Gray. I can’t imagine it happening any

other way.”

I don’t even have to look at his eyes to know I’m bathed in fierce

emerald green. His only answer is a low rumble storming through his chest

and vibrating into me. It’s an animalistic sound of so many decadent things

pouring out.

Need.

Possession.

Appreciation.

He growls like I’ve just given him something special, and it warms me

inside. I’ve officially turned into a messy little knot of emotion, twisted up

every which way by kisses and green-eyed perfection.

Then that warmth turns into a breathless flurry. He tumbles me down,

and I land on my back on his bed.

My eyes pop open. Oh my God.

He’s so tall towering over me, looking down, and I feel so vulnerable

and exposed, lying here against the massive expanse of quilt and bed sheets

with those beastly eyes raking over my entire body.

This man really is an animal doctor in every sense of the word.

Biting my lip, I kick my boots off – and the movement draws his gaze

like a wolf tracking prey, his eyes trailing down the length of my bare legs
like one more touch, as if he’s caressing my skin.

But I’m distracted as he catches the hem of his t-shirt in those brutal

hands and pulls it up. It’s almost hypnotic, watching the way his body flexes

and flows, the movement pulling his abdomen taut and making the knots of

hard muscle there ripple, drawing the sinew of his waist tight.

It’s a dangerous tease as the fabric lifts up over his chest, his tight

pectorals, exposing their broad expanse, and the sharp V of chest hair. It

trails into a dark line spearing down his tight abs, into the waist of his jeans.

Then there’s that torso. His shoulders and arms bunch like writhing

granite as he tears the shirt away fully and drops it to the floor, leaving his

upper body bared completely.

My mouth practically waters.

Is it even sane to have a need this strong?

I want to taste him. To bite him. To lick all the hell over.

And as he watches me, breathing hard, his huge chest rising and falling,

I push myself up on my knees, slinking forward toward him, then grip his

thighs to pull myself up his body. His legs cord and bunch underneath my

palms, straining against the denim, as I find my courage.

“Ember?” he growls my name.

I press a kiss just above his navel, cheeks heating like mad when a little

moan slips out my mouth.

He groans, weaving a hand into my hair. “September, fuck...”

Pausing, I look up at him from under my lashes. “Can I? I’ve never...you

know, I’ve never touched a man before.”

I trace a finger over a puckered scar just above his hip. It’s not hard to

tell it’s a gunshot wound, very old, maybe from his Army days. And every

imperfection just makes him more gorgeous, makes me want him more –

soft scars from war, the burn marks on his hands, the shape and texture of

them telling me how he was hurt on the outside, when my deepest need

aches to soothe the hurts on the inside.

“You’re so hot,” I whisper, pressing my mouth to his abs again.

The tortured groan he lets out as I lick my way over his stomach is

enough to make me quiver and crave so much more. I never thought it

would make me feel good to touch someone else like this, but every time his

taste rolls over my tongue, every time I feel the texture of his skin against
my lips, something silky and raw strokes my entire body from the inside

out.

I’ve felt so empty for so long. Now I can’t help spreading my knees to

try to ease the wet heat building between my thighs as I nibble at his skin,

working my way up over his ribs to press a kiss right in the center of his

pectorals.

With a low, rough noise in the back of his throat and a ragged breath, he

strokes his fingers down my jaw – and I just can’t help myself.

Turning my head, I catch his fingertips between my teeth, licking at

them.

He sucks in a sharp breath, exhaling a curse. “Goddamn, Firefly.”

I look up to find him watching me, eyes locked, and I don’t break my

own eye contact as I part my lips and let them slide fully over one of his

fingers, taking it into my mouth, exploring it with my teeth and my tongue.

Go ahead and call me insane. I don’t care. I lick his scars, worship them,

working my mouth over his fingertip, and God everything in me just

trembles at the way his eyes sharpen, nearly devouring me with every look.

At the clinic, he always wants to hide them. I’ve noticed he dons gloves

before we really need them, and he usually has his hands in his pockets or

tucked behind a clipboard.

Not today.

Not now.

With me, not ever.

I won’t let Gray hide a single glorious inch of his body, and I jealously

want to show him how wonderfully sexy he is. Every last hulking bit of him.

There’s only a subtle warning, a twitch of his jaw, before I realize I’ve

pushed him to the breaking point.

Before he growls, yanking his hand free from my mouth and pushing me

down to my back on the bed, his weight bearing down on mine and tearing a

startled little sound from my lips.

Holy hell.

I barely remember falling asleep in his arms last night, his body

wrapped around me. It’s nothing like this – the full pressure of him crushing

down raw and hot and hard, the sensation of him molded against me,

trapping me, making me so small underneath him. It’s like a full body

eclipse by a beast, as sexy as it is sinful.

 I barely have a split second to gasp before his mouth crashes down on

mine, kissing me in that devouring way he has, stealing my senses, my

mind. When he moves against me, his entire body is an earthquake.

Tremors blast through me. Tremors. And it’s damn near seismic when

his cock drags against my hips, nudges between my thighs.

He rips at my tank top and shorts with another low growl. I swear it’s

like his hands are melting my clothing away, they’re that hot, that branding –

and suddenly it’s just my panties and bra and my very naked skin against

his, denim rubbing between my thighs.

My legs spread wide around his hips until they ache. That’s how much I

have to strain to fit around him. I don’t know what’s happening, just that

we’re moving together and he’s biting my throat and everything feels so hot,

so hot, and he’s not even inside me yet but it feels like sex anyway.

I rock and writhe and grind with him, becoming sheer friction.

“Ember,” he gasps, his hands hard on my hips, my thighs, those soft

scars leaving teasing trails of sensation all over my body.

Then I realize he’s sliding down, and every whisper of my name comes

with a kiss, a nip, marking all over my shoulders, my collarbones, my chest.

“Ember, Firefly...”

I’m writhing. We’re talking fingers in his hair, full body electric, nothing

but sizzle pulsing everywhere. Each time he bites me, kisses me, I jolt with

a tiny sound, then toss my head back as another snarly bite presses right

between my breasts. His five o’clock shadow scratches against the cups of

my bra, teasing downward, baring my flesh.

And then, oh God, his mouth.

Gray’s mouth sinks gently into my right breast, making me feel just how

different the sensation is when nerve endings fire with hot washing fireburst

pleasure. I’m moaning helplessly as he nibbles his way toward the peak of

my nipple and then pulls it into his mouth.

Oh, wow!

Wow. Wow. Wow.

I’ve never felt anything like the drawing, tugging, urgent sweetness as he

sucks with a growl and rolls it between his teeth, his lips, toying and teasing

until it’s so hard, throbbing, and I’m whimpering and kicking and writhing

and so wild with it.

 It’s like somehow this phantom hand is touching my clit and reaching up

inside me, guided to the rhythm of that sucking mouth, every point of my

body connected and connected to him.

He’s going to kill me. I can’t even breathe. I’m just gasping wildly,

fisting my fingers in his hair, but Gray doesn’t stop.

Even when he lets my nipple go, I can still feel it tingling, contracting

and tightening as wetness cools in the air, and my stomach sucks in on a

fierce breath as his mouth goes lower.

He traces kisses over my belly, his stubble scraping and taunting me,

deliciously needling my skin, and then I realize where he’s heading.

No. He’s...he’s not going to...?

Oh, but he is.

The wicked spark in his eyes tells me everything between my legs just

became fair game.

And before I can squeak a protest, the shame making me wild when my

panties are this drenched and I don’t want him seeing how soaked I really

am, it’s too late.

One thick finger traces over my panties, his knuckle nudging the lace

against flesh so sensitive and swollen I feel like I’m made out of cream and

soft things.

My hips jerk up sharply, my thighs clenching at his shoulders. “Gray!”

Hearing his name just seems to urge him on. Faster. Harder. Hungrier.

Snarling, he tugs my panties aside, baring me to him, and then he dips

his head down and tastes.

His tongue is the devil. All wildfire and hot sin, and I forget everything

but his name on my lips as he swirls and teases, delves and thrusts, caresses

and sucks. My pussy just might never come down from this sweet insanity.

His lips close around my clit slowly, and all it takes is that one little

touch to set me off, arching my back off the bed so violently I’m barely held

in place. My head tosses back against the sheets, and my toes curl up in the

fabric, muscles I didn’t freaking know I had tightening and quivering and

screaming so hot I’m ready to fall apart.

Mindlessly, I thrust my hips toward his mouth, letting him take me

higher and higher as his tongue slips inside me. He savors me in wet-hot

caresses and raw lust and oh – I never thought a man’s tongue could make

me feel this good, this dirty, this right.

 And nothing stops him. Not my moans, not my whimpers, not my

writhing hips.

There’s just his rough texture tracing my inner walls, touching virgin

territory.

Not even my own fingers have ever felt so perfect, so sinful. He starts

thrusting in and out, nearly taunting me with this pantomime but never quite

giving what my body craves like a drug.

“Oh, God. Gray!” I whimper, lifting my hips, mad for release.

“Come for me again, little Firefly,” he murmurs. “Let me fucking taste

you.”

I scream.

I scream as my O hits, digging my nails into his shoulders and wrapping

my legs around his back as that convulsing feeling rockets through me again.

It’s like lightning and the calm after the storm all at once. It’s agony and

relief. It’s a whole dizzy contradiction of hot, sweet things I don’t have time

to contemplate because I’m too busy coming on Gray Caldwell’s mouth.

Mostly, it’s just pure, sweet, terrifyingly perfect pain and pleasure.

He licks every drop that spills out of me with a deep, growling sound,

halfway torturing me as he drags that rough, tantalizing tongue over my

steaming flesh.

Shuddering, weak, I curl forward, nearly wrapping around his head,

fingers tugging helplessly at his hair. With one last deep, long lick that half

probes inside me and makes my entire body jerk, Gray pushes himself up,

looking like the cat that got the cream, his lips glistening with...

Me, I realize, my heart twisting up as I stare up at him breathlessly,

dazed.

That’s me, slick and wet and gleaming on his mouth.

And he gives me back to myself as he leans down and presses the

inferno still on his lips to mine.

This time, his kiss tastes different. It’s gentle and deliberate, him

brushing our lips together so the thick, slick liquid that’s both of us

combined teases against my mouth, rubs off on my skin, until I instinctively

dart my tongue out to taste.

Musky-sweet with a touch of tartness, strange, and my face burns

knowing that I’m tasting myself as much as I’m tasting him. Holy Toledo,
it’s too much, and I break back with a gasp, looking up at him, my pulse

racing.

“Gray...” I can barely find my voice, my throat aching from moaning,

from gasping. “That’s really dirty...”

“Wrong, beautiful. It’s never been so pure.” His gaze softens, grazing his

knuckles down my cheek. “It’s just you and me, Firefly. You’re allowed to

love it as much as I do.”

Oh. My. God.

His next kiss is deeper – so deep, so intimate, it’s like he pours himself

inside me. And I can finally sense what he’s talking about, this wonderful,

fiery heat, this searing that’s all us. Just him and me and nothing else.

It rocks me to my core.

Another moan slips out my throat as I give myself up to it, letting my

tongue twine with his until I’m so lost in him, I don’t know if I’ll ever come

up for air. Drowning in Gray – there are worse ways to die, right?

But slowly he breaks back, one last nibble of my lower lip seeming to

plump and prime my flesh.

“Well?” he asks softly, and I look up into those green eyes that could so

easily swallow me whole. “Still feel dirty, Ember?”

“Maybe a little,” I whisper. “And...I think I like it.”

And I mean that so much about everything.

This madness, here, being with him like this when I’d thought he was

Mr. Unreachable, when I’d thought I was nothing and no one, and yet he

kisses me like I’m his entire world.

It’s sweeter than I ever could’ve imagined.

Then Gray does it. He gives me one of his rare smiles, genuine and

warm and almost boyish, and I just know I’ve fallen hard, fallen deep.

“Now you know how hard it was for me to stop,” he teases, leaning

down to brush the tip of his nose to mine. “So let me take that taste back

from you.”

His kiss is tender, so tender, and filled with that mingled taste of us, and

I’m so lost in it I almost don’t realize when his hands begin to stroke over

my body. He shapes me and warms me and brings me into him until we fit

together nice and snug.

I love the feel of his muscles moving underneath my palms, the feel of

every flex and flow against my entire body, the hard, lovely width of his
chest teasing against my nipples, crushing my breasts to him, the ripples of

his abdomen teasing against my stomach and hips.

It’s like he’s both soothing me and guiding me gently into that molten-

warm feeling of arousal all over again – and if I’d thought he’d wrung me

dry, I was wrong, so wrong.

I’m soaking wet for him all over again. When he strokes his hand over

my hip, down my thigh, I’m so ready. His fingers turn upward, flicking and

teasing my panties again, destroying me so beautifully one little piece at a

time.

Then his hand delves in, cupping hot over the mound between my thighs.

He gives my pussy a gentle squeeze that lifts my hips sharply. Soft, sweet

bliss envelops every nerve, makes my hips sing.

And when he dips two fingers where his touch only explored and teased

before, he shows me how good it feels to be filled.

His fingers are thick. The subtle roughness of his scars leaps out in

scoring, deliciously hot flames as he slides inside me slowly, twisting and

plunging and searching.

It’s like he opens me up in ways I’ve never been cracked before, parting

my flesh and caressing me deeper. It’s too intimate. Too wild.

It’s so raw it burns, being explored, exposed, owned from within. This is

a storm, whipped up by a master and turned on my flesh.

I can only clutch at him as he starts pumping his fingers in this deep,

hard, searching rhythm, a taste of what I know I’m in for when that thick

cock finally takes me.

Gray’s fingers are almost too much, but I can’t stop myself from rising to

meet them, throwing my hips in little shudders and lifting up into every

thrusting caress.

He’s so gentle with me and yet so unforgiving, so relentless. His touch

nearly punishes me with sweeping pleasure, as if teaching me the limits of

what my body can endure.

It’s so good, so good, but I don’t want to come again. Not yet. Not until I

have him completely, and with a keening sound I bite at his shoulder, rake

my nails down his back, begging him with my touch when I’ve lost all

words, lost all reason.

Gray, please. Please!

I don’t just want fingers.

 I want all of him.

He slows and then stops, his fingers still buried deep inside me. One

fingertip touches something that makes me quiver like the strings of my

violin, deep and vibrating to the point of soul-rending pain.

“Do you want me, Firefly-girl?” he murmurs, his voice rough with

amusement. But it’s so much more, this seething warmth that could burn me

to pieces, soft against my ear. “Are you ready?”

I find my voice then.

I find one word.

“Yes,” I breathe, only for him to steal it from me with a kiss.

He kisses like there’s no tomorrow as he strips away the last of my

clothing, teasing my bra and my panties from my flesh until I’m naked

against him, underneath him. I’m ready, so ready, when he kicks his jeans

and boxers off. Then we’re nothing but skin and flesh and sinew and tangled

limbs, and there’s nothing else between us. No clothing. No secrets. No lies.

No fear.

Because I realize now that in his own way, this titan of a man has been

afraid of having this with me.

I may be small, I may be young, I may be inexperienced...

But Doc gave me the power to touch his broken, tired heart. I get why

that terrifies him so much.

If only he could understand I’d never do anything to harm him.

He’s gorgeously bronze in the afternoon light drifting through the

windows over the bed as he positions himself over me. His body fits

between my thighs just right. His heat warms me, sinking deep beneath my

skin.

For a second, there’s just those hunter-green eyes and a gaze that feels

like forever. His hips roll, pressing into mine.

Finally, finally, I feel the firmness of his cock, the velvety-hot flesh, the

thick ridges of the veins, the heavy flare of the swollen head. His entire shaft

rests against my hips and stomach, dripping against my skin with this clear

fluid that smells so hot and thick. It drifts into me and ignites some

desperate, needy core that makes me crave him more than ever, this hunger

gnawing me almost numb.

There’s a question in his eyes, as he looks down, hesitating for just a

moment – only to close his eyes sharply with a small, almost shocked sound
as I give in to my curiosity and touch.

His cock feels so hot against my fingers. I flush hellfire red, exploring

him, watching the way tension rolls through his body in twitching, rippling

shudders.

“Ember,” he growls, almost a warning, and I bite my lip and curl my

fingers against his cheek.

“Please,” I breathe, and draw him down to kiss him. “You know I want

this.”

He gives me one breath. One moment to feel like I’m in control, tasting

him and letting myself savor everything he is.

Then the storm takes me up into its wilds again.

And this time, there’s no hope of not being swept away.

Gray consumes me with delving tongue and stroking lips, while those

firm hands on my body maneuver me, guide me, spread my legs just a little

wider.

Suddenly that heated cock glides between my folds, the underside of his

shaft spreading me, and I shiver as I feel his heartbeat throbbing through the

thick vein on the underside, burning right into me.

Deep, long strokes glide along me, dripping his heat onto my pussy,

rubbing my slickness onto him until we’re a mixed mess of wet-burning

flesh.

On his next stroke, his cockhead fits against me, pressing its pulsing tip

right to that hot empty place inside me that’s clenching and waiting in such

needy ways.

My breaths catch in the back of my throat. My moan blends between our

lips as he grasps my hips, lifts me up, and sinks inside.

His fingers and tongue were nothing compared to this. To this molten

feeling of being split open, like his flesh pours inside me to fill every space

and reminds me with every waking breath how good he feels.

He’s so thick I feel like I’m too small for him. But it’s like my flesh

knows what to do even when I don’t, stretching to accommodate his girth.

He surges deeper and deeper and deeper in this slow liquid glide. My body

seems to mold around him, reshape to take him, until I swear I was made for

him.

And him for me.

 It’s the most glorious feeling I’ve ever known, his heat melting me from

inside, radiating through me. For every inch that thrusts inside, I just want

more when I can still feel places that are empty, and I need him to fill them.

There’s no pain, no discomfort. I lose myself completely, clutching at

him, rising up to meet him, gasping out his name so needy, so hungrily,

rubbing my thighs against his hips and squirming until I feel him writhe and

caress inside me.

God. It’s so good I catch myself crying out mindlessly, feeling like a

little animal in heat, bursting with desire and ready to scream myself to

pieces.

Then – oh, mama, then – suddenly there’s one last push. A jolt of

pleasure snapping wild and deep through me, and our bodies lock together.

I feel so much of him in such excruciating, perfect detail. From the flared

edges of his head spreading my depths to how thick the base of his shaft is,

parting my folds, holding me open and rubbing my clit as he settles inside

me with a deep, guttural groan.

For a single shuddering breath, he holds, and even if his voice is silent, I

feel the shape of my name on lips that imprint mine.

Ember.

Then he shatters me. His body begins to move – and takes mine with it.

He’s a human riptide: dragging me deep, drowning me in his heat and

piston thrusts. Doc makes love like he lives – intense, slow and measured at

first, but then frantic as soon as the tether barely holding him back snaps.

I want this so much it’s killing me, and I can’t breathe as Gray thrusts,

these devastating taunts where he pulls out of me slowly, so slowly. I feel

every inch of him gliding inside me and every pulsing empty place he leaves

behind, only to drive in deep and swift as if he’s piercing me with a sword-

thrust, filling me again and giving pleasure in these explosive rushes that

make me scream.

Gasping, shuddering, I writhe against him with utter abandon. All my

muscles clenching up inside as if I can keep him there, hold him inside me,

stop him from pulling out again, but he’s unstoppable.

The mild-mannered doctor is gone. This is Doc, Gray the wild beast. All

strength and animalistic fire, all passion and masculinity, everything I need

in every touch, in every slow, hot surge inside me.

He drives me to the brink again and again.

 I wanted to last longer. I thought after he’d made me come a few times, I

could hold out, I could wring a few more minutes of this from my aching

flesh when I never want it to end.

But I can’t resist. He’s too powerful. He’s too perfect. He feels too

flipping good.

He feels too right.

And as he drives into me harder, harder, scorching my clit with his

friction, pushing me to the bed, enveloping me in the fire and strength of his

body over and over, I can’t hold on.

I snap.

I’m totally undone. I know how it feels to lock my body around him and

imprint his shape on me from the inside, and it’s the best sensation I’ve ever

known.

I’m going up in flames, the embers inside me ignited to a firestorm.

But this time I take him with me.

As I tense, as I clench, as I convulse and thrash and writhe beneath him,

he goes rigid, a heavy sound catching in the back of his throat, one that

starts as a soft growl and builds to a roar. His entire body turns to granite,

but no stone is this molten or vibrant or downright sexy.

And, his tiger eyes locked on mine, we both overflow.

We break together, and I feel him spilling inside me, his body mixing

with mine until we’re one in sex and heat and churning passion.

Oh, Gray. Yes.

My eyes sting with blurring tears – not of pain, but of pleasure,

happiness, longing.

It’s more than I ever hoped it would be.

He’s more than I ever hoped he would be.

And after tonight, I never want to imagine anything with Gray that

doesn’t end in forever.

 18

DONE DOG DIRTY (DOC)

T his girl.

I feel like Goliath, and she – this small butterfly thing, this woman

who should be powerless but still has the strength to move the mountains of

grief and self-recrimination living inside me – has brought me down low.

Like it or not, I’m tamed to her kiss, to her softness, to her touch. Even

if I fuck her like the devil, all I feel is this angel’s grace in every taste of her

skin.

Frankly, I don’t think I want it any other way.

Last night, watching her discover what it means to feel pleasure, was one

of the greatest goddamn experiences of my life. To be able to give her that,

to see her face transform with confusion, curiosity, desire, then sheer

ecstasy; to taste her again and again and watch her give herself to me with

such abandon...fuck.

No doubt about it. She’s changed me. A second fire sweeping through

my life, leaving smoke in its wake.

The first fire left nothing but damaged wreckage inside me.

But it’s like hers has scoured me clean, burning away all the scars and

pain and darkness to leave only fresh, new earth where something new can

grow.

I want to tell myself I’m too old for her. I’m too broken.

Except it would feel like a lie.

 It would feel like dishonoring her faith. This trust I can’t believe she has

for me after knowing my past.

She’s made it so clear she accepts me just as I am, no matter what I

might’ve done before.

No matter what fucked up burdens I carry.

No matter the dark purpose that still hovers over me, demanding I

answer old demons and make things right for the people of Heart’s Edge.

Though we only fell asleep a few hours ago after a night tangled in

sweat-soaked sheets, discovering each other’s bodies again and again, I’m

up with the dawn light. I prop my head up and watch the light streaming in

from the window, falling over her sleeping form.

Ember’s so pale in my arms, her pearl skin and platinum hair too

beautiful for this life. But the sunlight gives her color, turning her the

softest, most luminescent shade of white gold all over.

She hasn’t noticed, on the nightstand, the wilted pink flower resting

there.

The one that she put in my hair, that day we walked to the base of the

cliff where lovers cast their deepest wishes over the edge.

So I lean over her, catching the stem of the flower, and tuck it into her

hair, weaving it along the locks until the darkened pink petals rest against

her hair as if it grew there naturally.

She stirs lightly at the touch, letting out a soft yawn, murmuring before

snuggling deeper into me. Then she cracks one eye open, bright blue turned

dark with sleep, peeking at me drowsily through the fringe of her honey-

colored lashes.

That blush – the same blush that caught my attention her first day on the

job, and probably damned me from the start – returns, and she offers me a

tiny, shy smile.

“Hi,” she murmurs.

I can’t help but chuckle. “Hi, Firefly. Sleep well?”

She nods eagerly. I tuck her hair back behind one ear, grazing the curve

with a lingering touch.

I can’t help myself, she’s so soft all over, and there’s something

fascinating about the contrast of her velvety skin with the roughness of my

touch. I feel as if I’m at once defiling her and worshiping her, every time I

caress her skin.

 Especially when she shivers at the slightest touch and makes me want to

completely saturate her in sex and sensuality all over again.

There’s something about her, this bright-eyed innocence.

Last night, every time I touched her, it was like the first time all over

again.

This wonder she expressed in every touch. The surprise and delight at

her own pleasure turned my dick to diamond.

Damn. I can’t help wondering if she’ll always be like this in the years to

come.

An idea that’s equal parts ridiculous and sad.

As if I could have years with her.

As if she’d want me for that long, when I’m so broken, claiming her

could only be a curse. Hell, it was danger that put her in this bed next to me

in the first place. How can I live with that? How can I believe she wants me

when I’m the reason she got to star in a thriller scene she never wanted?

Fuck.

She might, you fool, some dark, faint part of me whispers. She could

want you, Gray, if you’d just 'man up' like the children say and ask her.

I try not to snort. It’s a younger voice speaking I don’t recognize as part

of myself. A more hopeful, determined voice I haven’t heard in so many

years.

After I punched my old man in the face and lived through the war, I

thought I could do anything. I thought I’d come home stronger from Iraq, a

survivor amid the pain and the bullets and the first big scar I got taking a hot

round during an ambush. I thought nothing could be worse than those lives I

saved – or the few I couldn’t – good men and women bleeding out on dusty

roads as I desperately tried to do hopeless surgeries in hell.

I still had hope then, before Galentron stole it. That night with the fire,

the destruction, the fear, and Leo gutted me out, leaving something hollow.

Or something that should be.

Because I think what scares me is what that voice could be. It might be

hope, returning from the void far too soon.

She’s still watching me, though, misty-eyed and sweet. Goddamn, she

makes me smile so much, this unexpected light in the darkness called my

life.

“How you feeling?” I ask.

 “Good,” she murmurs and shifts her body to tangle a little closer to

mine, naked under the bed sheets. Little minx. “A little sore, but...” She

ducks her head, biting her lip in that fetching way she has. “Not too sore, if

you catch my drift.”

Mercy. It’s like she knows how to pull my every string, capturing my

attention until I’m nearly growling, vibrating with the hint of what she’s

suggesting. “You want more? Because if you wanted to wear down my

caffeine fix with something way more worthy of waking up for, you’ve done

it.”

She dimples, her cheeks growing redder. “I’m just saying I’m not too

sore.”

“Brat.”

With a rumble that’s trying not to be a laugh, I roll her over, tumbling

her back to the bed and pinning her under me. Her reaction is instant – a

sharp, indrawn breath that makes her chest heave, those rosy pink nipples

peaking, her blush deepening and her lips parting as she looks up at me with

dilated, glittering eyes.

I could devour her whole, this tiny morsel savored as a single sweet bite.

My dick jerks something fierce, but there’s a question hanging on my lips

that’ll determine how much of a lightning fuck or a slow burn this will be.

“We have work,” I remind her. Honestly, reminding myself, especially

when she moves underneath me, her naked flesh gliding soft and enticing

against my rapidly hardening cock.

I shouldn’t love how small she is under me.

But it just makes it that much more pleasurable to completely and utterly

possess her and fill her when her entire body has to strain to take me. I feel

like I’m imprinting myself on her body, making her mine.

“Do we?” she asks breathlessly. “It’s Saturday, Gray. You have your

phone...there are the volunteers...”

I touch my fingers to her lips, trail them down to her throat. “Are you

suggesting we take the weekend off?”

That teasing smile flares on her pink lips again, almost taunting. “When

was the last time you did? You could use a little break.”

Then she moves again underneath me, spreading her slender, shapely,

ever-so-plush thighs to flank my hips, and suddenly it’s not just soft skin

against me. It’s soft, wet skin, a pussy begging for relief, and I can smell her
arousal, feel how slick she is against my cock, hounding me to delve inside

her and make her arch with my name on her lips.

“Or maybe just a little…stress relief,” she finishes, a wicked, husky edge

to her voice.

Fuck. She’s taken to lovemaking like a fish to water.

It just makes me crave her more, how wholeheartedly she gives herself

over, surrenders her body to mine.

This is the part where I should be a sane person.

I should tell myself this is only sex. Two coworkers experimenting. A

mistake, maybe, but a beautifully wild one.

Too bad the way she entrances me with every little thing about her, the

way I’ve been refusing to let myself truly see her as a woman for weeks for

fear of giving in, just makes me a raving madman.

It’s not just sex, dammit.

Maybe I’m not sure what it is, but it’s definitely not just sex.

Right now, though, sex is definitely first and foremost as I lower myself

over her and fit our bodies together more. She moans for me real sweet

while I drive into her. I reach down, clasp her ass, pulling her up my shaft.

Then I run my fingers along the length of her arms to watch her shiver and

her flesh prickle as I coax her wrists up over her head.

“Wouldn’t mind letting off a little steam,” I growl, leaning down to take

her lips for my own. “Know any good workouts, Firefly?”

Her hips grind into mine, meeting my first thrust. That’s all the

encouragement I need to find out how hard we can push this bed before it

breaks.

I drive into her while I attack her mouth. For the next twenty minutes,

we’re all twining tongues and lashing hips, thunder growls and piercing

screams, manic passion boiling over.

I bring her off once and hold back the fire in my balls while she comes

on my cock. Then I flip her over, mount her from behind, and sink my teeth

into the soft, lush part of her hot little ear. “Hold on, Firefly. Here the hell

we go.”

Her hands fly up and clench the sheets while I fuck lightning through

her body. Her delectable ass grinds under me as I bring myself down with

deep, clit-teasing thrusts, snarling as she clenches around every inch of me.
 She comes for me once, then twice, her nipples seething in my hands.

That’s all I can take before my inner beast tears out of me, and I mess us

both up something exquisite.

I’m fucking her right to the brink, holding on tight, bed shaking wildly

underneath us as my own fire licks up my balls and electrifies my spine.

Then I’m coming harder than I’ve ever come in my life, deep inside Ember

Delwen, thunder pouring out my throat even faster than my seed.

If this sweetness milking my cock for all its worth ends up killing me,

remember I died happy. Remember I spent our waking hours pulling every

bit of pleasure I could from our flesh and surrendered to the addiction like a

man does to a fine cigar.

I have no plans of going in to work today – or letting her out of my bed.

By the time we’re done, I’ll know the taste of every inch of her body and

how beautifully she sings as I lay claim.

WE’VE WO R N ourselves out hours later.

The sun sets through the blinds, casting the entire room in brassy

shades.

Baxter is asleep on our feet. During one of our breaks for food – even if

we ended up making a mess on the kitchen table, feeding each other little

slices of charcuterie naked and then just spilling everything on the floor

when we turned the table into an improv bed – we let the cat out to explore.

She’s had the night to familiarize herself with the sounds and scents of

the house in an enclosed space, so she should feel safer let out into the larger

open areas around here.

She’s made herself right at home. She’s an affectionate cat, and I have

trouble believing who owns her. I’ve never known Fuchsia to spare affection

for anyone or anything.

After that cold memory of her looking in at the rhesus monkeys with

zero compassion or empathy for their suffering, it’s hard to think she could

ever care for this cat.

So then, who the fuck did she steal her from? Who socialized her this

well?
 And what happened to Fuchsia that made her just leave the cat behind?

I don’t want to think about her. I don’t want to wonder.

I sure as hell don’t want to worry about that ice-cold monster of a

woman again. Whatever happened to her, she deserved what she got, and I

hope it hurts somewhere.

I close my eyes, groaning to myself, pushing a tight hand through my

hair.

Even now, I can’t think that way. Major league bitch or not, she’s another

life, and I can’t stand to see anyone else die. Not without due process.

Maybe that has something to do with the girl drowsing in my arms right

now.

There’s a part of me that wants to see what she sees today. A scarred

man worthy of redemption, who wants to save this little world called Heart’s

Edge from burning down all over again. And I know Ember wouldn’t want

to see Fuchsia dead, no matter how much the woman terrorized and haunted

her.

“Hey,” Ember mumbles sleepily, poking me in the center of my chest.

“You’re brooding.”

I smile faintly. “How can you tell so easily?’

“You’re tense.” With a shy little giggle, she smooths her hands over my

chest. “You’re always rock-hard, but...it’s different.”

“Rock-hard?” I arch a brow, beyond ready to tumble her onto her back

again, but she catches me with a finger over my mouth first.

“No,” she says, though it’s not hard to tell that she’s trying not to laugh,

her eyes glittering. “I can barely walk, and honestly, I don’t want to find out

if it’s possible to wear out my birth control.”

I smile a touch sheepishly. “Shit. I probably should’ve asked about that

before we...ah.”

“Oh, I think you remembered after round six.”

I can’t help a touch of pride. “Have we really gone that many times?”

“Nope. More. That's just how many before you asked me. I think we’re

up to nine now.” She mock glares at me. “So maybe give it a rest before you

chafe. Friction burns happen, you know.”

I can’t help myself, bursting into laughter.

She makes me laugh so easily. For such a timid girl, she’s sweetly

irreverent, a sort of innocent, playful humor so different from the more

cynical people I’m surrounded by. I adore the way she approaches

everything.

It’s like a breath of fresh air when she coaxes me to pull the proverbial

stick out of my rear.

“All right, then,” I say, meeting her eyes as she grins. “What would you

rather do?”

“Sleep for a year, maybe,” she says dryly, then laughs. “Or we could go

on a date.”

“A date.” I arch a brow. “Where’s there to go on a date in Heart’s Edge?”

“Anywhere. A walk in the meadows could be a date, a night under the

stars.” She says it so breathlessly it’s like she’s singing the words even

without a melody, entranced by the very idea. “A coffee shop visit, maybe.

Dinner at the diner. Brody’s. Orrr...”

Here it comes. I knew she was leading up to something.

I can’t help but wince when she finishes. “Or we could check out the

theater opening tonight? They’re doing Fiddler on the Roof, I think.”

I close my eyes with a sigh.

Just like that, reality comes crashing in, bursting this quiet little bubble

of sunlit bliss.

Because the old theater is now owned by Everett Peters. I don’t want to

patronize any of the endeavors he’s using as cover for his unwelcome stay in

Heart’s Edge.

Still, I do need to get to the bottom of what’s going on here, and why

he’s truly back in town.

I guess it’s a good opportunity to snoop around a little.

Opening my eyes, I regard her with a tired smile. “Who’s ‘they?’ Half

the reason the theater died years ago is because we don’t exactly have a

thriving arts community.”

“There’s a high school theater club. Apparently, half their parents are

former hopefuls.” She laughs. “So it’ll be amateur night, but it’ll be fun!”

“All right, all right, Firefly.” I groan. “I’ll take you back to your place so

you can get dressed.”

THIS DAT E M I GH T NO T B E S U C H a bad idea.

Not when I get to see Ember practically shining. She’s wearing a

shimmery little sheath dress, spangles stitched into the moonlight-colored

fabric. It’s loose enough to turn her body into a wicked suggestion, and

clings so every movement she makes turns that suggestion into a damn

invitation.

Her hair is pinned up, too. All that does is bare the marks I’ve left on her

throat, and a flare of possession goes through me.

She’s so guileless, so proud, risking those marks for all to see.

Any other woman would try to cover them, out of propriety or

embarrassment.

I’m not sure she even realizes with how adorably clumsy she is. And

honestly, I’m too much of an animal to tell her.

I don’t want her to cover them up. More than anything, I don’t want her

to be ashamed of her sexuality just as she’s discovering it, learning what a

tempting little creature she can be for me.

I’m a little plainer, in a button-down and slacks, but I’m at least wearing

nice shoes and a belt. We’ll likely be overdressed, but she wanted to dress up

in her kitten heels and thigh-skimming dress, and there was absolutely no

reason not to.

She draws more than a few looks as we pull up outside the theater just

before eight o’clock. The show’s set to start at eight thirty, more than

enough time to get seated.

I’m a little surprised to see the renovations. I’ve been so wrapped up in

my own suspense and hammering Ember to the bed that I didn’t even notice

the construction on the dilapidated building.

New look, new life.

Old rotting wood is long gone, replaced with fresh beams coated in blue

paint against white planking, framing a brand new marquee board. It’s not

quite finished, scaffolding still erected on the sides of the building, but when

we step into the lobby, it smells like new carpet and fresh paint, and

everything is clean, the running lights along the floor brand new.

It’s a packed house. Totally full tonight. Half the town must’ve turned

out for this.

Not even this many people showed up for the fundraiser at The Nest.
 There’s something strange about seeing the entirety of Heart’s Edge here

– talking, laughing, together. It’s like it embodies the spirit of the small

town and its warmth and hospitality.

I’m glad I’m the only one who knows the sourness of the ulterior

motives behind it.

Let them have this moment, even if it comes from Everett Peters.

They don’t need to know the price of this happiness, so long as I can

stop that man from collecting what he thinks is his real due.

I wonder if I’m sticking my head in the sand. Maybe by trying to protect

these people, I’m actually endangering them.

Should I tell them the peril they’re in? A man with vested interest in a

virus that can liquify a human being in hours as long as it just has the heat

to warm up?

Fuck.

Maybe my real mistake already happened. Being informed about this

years ago might’ve been better. Might have led to a better, less deadly

outcome.

Maybe if I’d gone to the townsfolk and told them the truth, Nine

wouldn’t be the broken man he is now, a ghost legend hiding in the woods.

Maybe I wouldn’t be so broken, either.

And maybe Fuchsia actually has a point.

Is her change of heart real? Is she right, that we need to go public with

what’s happening here in Heart’s Edge and Galentron’s potentially revived

plans?

There’s no easy way. It’s a trillion-dollar company with hands in every

pot from business to government to finance. Life as I knew it, definitely over

if I ever leaked, and if I did, they could very well shut it down and bury me

in an unmarked grave somewhere before I breathed a single word to the

world.

Still, what if? The question gnaws at my bones.

What if they’re already planning to bring SP-73 here again, and these

people die because I didn’t fucking—

“Hey,” Ember says, tugging on my arm. “You, mister, are stuck inside

your head.”

I pull myself from my thoughts, looking down at her and chuckling. “I

can’t well be inside someone else’s.”

 “You know what I mean, Doc.” She laughs. “We came here to have fun.

You can brood on your own time.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

She’s right. I know she’s right, even if allowing myself to be more aware

of my surroundings also makes me conscious of something else.

Damn near everyone’s staring at us tonight. We may have given the

gossip mill so much fuel it’ll spin right off into the sky.

Yes, we walked in together. Yes, she’s on my arm. Yes, it’s a date.

Clearly, we’ve stolen the show.

That’s the downside of small towns. Everyone wants to know your

business, and sometimes tell you how to run it.

“Come,” I say, nudging her toward the double doors leading to the actual

stage and auditorium seating. “Let’s find somewhere a little more private to

sit. A few too many people are looking in. No need to take the limelight

from the poor people working their asses off to get this place ready.”

“Looking? Glaring, you mean,” she whispers, leaning closer to me. “I

think I’ve just become public enemy number one.”

I laugh under my breath. “Afraid of the jackals?”

Her eyes widen, and she flushes a bright red, staring up at me. “You

knew we call them that?”

“Pam isn’t exactly quiet. The walls of the break room are thin, Firefly.”

“Oh, God.” With a groan and a dry smile, she tugs on my arm. “Fine.

Come on, then.”

She turns to lead me to the doors.

I should see it coming. She manages to trip over thin air and goes

stumbling forward.

It’s an Ember thing, I’ve decided.

Lucky her, I’m there, catching her around the waist and lifting her up,

holding her against my side until she finds her footing, tugging my arm tight.

With a shaky gasp, she blows a loose strand of hair out of her face, her eyes

wide.

“Crap. Maybe heels weren’t the best idea.”

“I could carry you, beautiful,” I deadpan, and she goes even brighter

crimson.

“Oh my God, you’re as embarrassing as my mother.” She tugs my arm

again. “Come on.”

 Keeping my smile to myself, I follow her into the darkened theater. We

find seats a few rows back from the front, close enough for a good view of

everything but far enough back that we won’t be overwhelmed or have to

crane our necks to see the stage.

Before long everyone else starts filing in, as ushers – high school kids in

ill-fitted shirts, sashes, and bow ties that look scavenged from a secondhand

seventies shop – move through the crowd, telling everyone it’s time. Ember

snuggles happily against my side, resting her head on my shoulder.

We don’t speak.

We don’t have to.

With Ember, it’s easy to just be quiet. To just be.

I enjoy the warmth of her against my side as I settle in to wait for the

lights to go down, the curtain to go up, and the show to start.

I’m surprised by how fun the show is, even if it’s not quite for the

reasons the players intend. It’s strange to me to realize I recognize everyone

up on stage, from Andrea Silverton to old Mr. Corrigan who runs the bait

and tackle shop.

All this time, I’ve thought of myself as a stranger to Heart’s Edge,

lurking on the fringes.

But I know these people. I care for them. And I laugh with them now as

they flub through their lines and ad lib and sing off-key. It’s a fucking mess,

but all that matters is that everyone is enjoying themselves.

Everyone is together.

It’s easier to sink into that, to enjoy a small-town moment, with Ember

at my side. She makes me forget so many of my troubles as Doc. She makes

me a new man as Gray again.

It’s something about her fresh outlook on life. The sweet, wonderful way

she views things. Her hope. Her optimism. Even her shyness.

I don’t remember what it’s like to be uncertain. The Menagerie

would’ve collapsed a long time ago if not for my constant presence,

oversight, and decisions.

I also don’t remember what it’s like to care so much what other people

think of me.

I’ve resigned myself to this role I’ve occupied for so long, keeping

people at a distance, putting on a false face. Hiding a truth that could be

lethal for this town.

 Still, these people have accepted me with open warmth, making me part

of their town even as I told myself I’d be forever apart.

Looking down at the lovely girl at my side, I find her eyes wet, gleaming,

but she’s smiling as she silently mouths the words to “Now I Have

Everything.”

I shift our position so I can wrap my arm around her shoulders,

gathering her against my side as I lean down to whisper against her ear.

“You all right?”

“Yes.” Her voice is barely a whisper. She turns into me and presses

close, one hand against my chest. “I just...this reminds me of Dad. Of Dad

and Mom when they were happy. And it’s nice to finally enjoy it again. It

used to make me sad, anytime I’d hear their old songs, but now it’s just this

sweet, perfect memory, and it’s so good.”

The emotion in her voice strikes a pang in my chest. Pulling her close,

she smiles, and I just hold her, breathing in her scent. I let her cling to me

while she watches the play with rapture in her eyes.

It should be our moment. Sweet perfection.

If only there weren’t this vicious edge in the room making everything

tense.

I can’t help but scan the crowd not long after she mentions her mother.

We haven’t seen her tonight, which is more than a little weird. Just an idle

thought, searching for Barbara Delwen among the throng.

When I see her, my blood runs cold.

She, too, is looking up at the stage with shining, damp eyes, so much

like Ember it’s weirdly striking.

She, too, mouths the words to the song. In some ways I can see her as

she once was, pretty and alive like her daughter.

Ember told me she was once a Broadway actress, beloved on the stage,

and there’s a passion for it that runs through her even now, sharpening every

line of her body.

But that’s not what makes me sick. That’s not what makes me feel fear

for this woman who means so much to the girl who’s working her hold

deeper into my heart.

It’s the man at her side, the monster, his hand on her arm with

possessive intent.

Everett fucking Peters.

I D O N ’ T WA N T to push my dark thoughts onto Ember.

Not when she’s damn near radiant on the drive back to my house after

the show. It’s like the lights and music and energy filled her up so much that

she can’t hold it all in, and now she’s overflowing.

I’m quieter, thinking back to the theater. Peters. Barbara Delwen. A

pairing that can’t be anything but bad news.

What does he want with her? Is it just an idle fling to pass the time?

Or is he using her for some deeper purpose?

I don’t know. I need to do some digging.

Maybe alert Warren and Blake. My friends are out on the town more

than I am, especially War, and they might be able to keep a protective eye

out on Barbara and make sure Peters doesn’t intend to hurt her.

That would mean telling them the truth, though.

The truth of me.

The truth of my past.

The truth of this town that even they, Heart’s Edge natives, don’t actually

know.

It’s a brutal thought just imagining letting it out. Still, if Ember can

accept me so easily, I can trust my friends with something like this, can’t I?

Shit. It seems I do remember what it’s like to care what people think of

me.

There’s even a part of me that suddenly wants them to know me. The

real me.

For once in my life, it’s just dimly possible to imagine others in this

town trusting me, accepting me and my horror show of a past.

What strange, strange things this girl awakened in me.

“You know,” Ember says, looking out the window with a smile playing

on her lips, “Sometimes I don’t think you know how to stop brooding,

Gray.”

I glance over at her, smirking, keeping one eye on the road. “That’s a

hazard of being me.”

She laughs, a delighted little sound. “Is this a trait of the wild Gray in

his natural habit? Should I be documenting this for posterity? Such a little-
known species.”

“Are you calling me a wild animal, Firefly?”

She turns her face toward me with a grin, shining in the moonlight. “If I

am?”

“Don’t make me prove it.” My eyes linger on her lips. They’re a little

redder than normal, even without lipstick, and I can’t help but think that’s

my handiwork. “You asked me to give you a break, remember.”

“I did. Buuut...” She toys her fingers together, watching me through her

lashes, this sweet little vixen of moonlight and silver. “I never said how long

of a break.”

Damn if I don’t grin. “Lovely. I’ve created a monster.”

“Or maybe brought out a little of my inner animal, too.”

I steal another look at her. She’s practically smoldering, that delicate

blush in her cheeks, her eyes dilated and dark with this look that makes me

throb, her teeth toying at the soft, yielding flesh of her lower lip.

Fuck. If I don’t have a full heart for her to slay anymore, she just might

kill my body a thousand times over.

When we take another curve in the road, another idea hits me. Turning

my truck off at the next street, heading away from the town, I drive us

toward the slopes leading down to the valley.

She blinks, turning her head to look out the window. “Where are we

going?”

“You’ll see,” I whisper. “And you’ll like this surprise detour a whole lot

more than the last, I promise.”

Slowly, I take one hand off the steering wheel, reaching over to offer it to

her. Her big blue eyes fix on me, bewildered.

Asking Ember to trust me – to trust that I wouldn’t take her anywhere

where she might come to harm. Or have to listen to another nightmare from

my own life.

After a moment, she slips her fingers into mine, and laces them together

so warmly, linking us as one.

It’s not a far drive. Not when it’s a cozy little mountain town to begin

with, but I take us as far as the truck can go on the paved roads, then pull off

to the side and disentangle our hands long enough for me to get out and

round to the passenger side to lift her down to the street. She looks up at me

with a wide-eyed, wondering gaze, eyes turned to moonstone in the starlight.

 She laces her fingers in mine again and follows me as I turn to lead her

off the road, into the fields.

Ember had her chance to meet the real me. Now, I want her to meet the

real Heart’s Edge in all its springtime glory.

I lead her to the meadows full of flowers at the base of the heart-edged

cliff, where tiny blue and pink petals are strewn across the grass. Plentiful as

the stars overhead – or is it the fireflies that can light up a summer sky?

Drawing her out under the moonlight, which turns the grass silver and

makes the flowers glow like colorful, jeweled dust, I lean to tease her lips

with a soft brush.

She winds her arms around my neck, her sweet-silk fingers playing down

my nape, making me shiver, steaming my blood. My cock instantly comes

alive and hungry.

“Here?” she whispers, molding her slender body to mine, her curves all

soft invitation.

“Where else would two animals fuck together?” I ask, nipping at her

lower lip and drawing her deeper into me.

Goddamn, I need her against me tonight. I need every glorious inch of

her under me.

It’s like when our flesh comes together, I remember what it’s like to be

alive.

I’ve been dead inside for far too long.

Tonight, beneath the moon, beneath the stars, with her, I want to forget

the past that’s staring me in the face. I want to live.

She rises up on her toes, the gentle tug of her hands begging me to come

down to meet her, and I don’t need to be asked twice.

I lift her up into my arms, take her mouth, and make her mine.

If this night is silver, her kiss is pure fire, lighting me up inside and

igniting my deepest core, making my heart throb in a mighty pulse against

my chest.

It’s primal. It’s hungry. It’s strange. It’s reverent.

It’s as wild as we are now, diving into our deepest passions and clutching

each other with a ferocity that makes us feral, the way our mouths crash and

tangle, the way our heat mingles until we’re scorched together. Body to body

and soul to soul.

 Every tremor and moan in her gets echoed in the throb of my dick, in the

ache in my flesh to have her, hold her, possess her, keep her.

I’d meant to go slow at first. But there’s nothing slow about us tearing at

each other’s clothes, my shirt shedding away so her hands can race over my

flesh like she’s defining me with her touch. Then it’s my turn, and I rip her

dress over her head, leaving her in nothing but panties, gloriously wet

beneath the moonlight glowing off her curves in silver edges.

For just a second, I pull myself back from ravishing her, breathless with

the taste of her kiss on my lips, and let myself just look.

Let myself take in every inch of her body, every sweetness of her flesh,

branding Ember on my memory forever.

That’s when I realize I’ve accepted what I’ll do.

I’ve accepted that I’m going to fight Peters to the bitter end, if it means

saving this town and the people in it. For Heart’s Edge. For every creature

I’ve ever healed. For Ember.

I’ve accepted some things are worth fighting for with every amount of

courage and conviction.

And if that fight kills me, so what?

I’ll die remembering Ember.

I’ll die remembering this night.

I’ll die remembering this burn.

She’s downright luminous. It’s the only word to describe her while she

stands before me without the slightest shame. Her skin is this unblemished

white silk, delicate and lush with her smallness, yet thick, rounded curves

that float free without her breezy little dresses and skirts.

Her legs are long, her waist high, the dip of her ribs leading into a soft

swell of belly, her lace panties plunging down in manic temptation. Pointing

toward the gap between her thighs and the warm shape of her eager pussy

outlined in damp fabric.

Her tits are full and heavy. Expectant. Pert, firm nipples in a deep, rosy

shade that stands out all the more for her paleness, and her hair lays in soft

wisps against her neck as the wind teases it free from its twist.

Then there’s her face.

She’s so delicate, her full heart in those fragile features, her eyes so wide

and staring up at me with such trust and desire. I lay her down against the
flowers, and she reaches for me without hesitation, silently asking me to

come to her.

To be hers.

I sink down to my knees over her, kissing the bend of her own knee, her

inner thigh. After taking her again and again I’m learning her body as well

as I know my own.

I made a proper study, knowing her anatomy. That’s the knowledge I put

to work now as I find every place I know will make her sigh, will make her

stretch like a cat, will make her arch and cling to me with her fingers

kneading into my hair and my name on her lips.

I kiss and nibble and lick her inner thighs, the soft crease where they

join to her hips, skirting around the warmth of delectable wet flesh that calls

to me until she begs with the arch of her spine and the sound of her

whimpering sighs.

Still, I won’t satisfy her.

Still, I won’t satisfy myself, drawing this out as I leave gentle, bitten

kisses over her stomach, drawing my teeth together just hard enough for her

to feel a delicious pressure before letting go with a final lick, working my

way upward.

Her ribs. Her breasts. Her shoulders. Her throat. Her mouth.

All mine tonight. All mine forever.

I kiss her deep, drinking her sweetness, then slip her panties aside and

slide my fingers into her depths.

She’s hot, silky-wet, ready for me already. She moans against my mouth

and goes lax as I explore her, sliding deep and slow, taking my time,

building a rhythm that she matches. Our bodies do this carnal dance to

soundless music between us, and I never want our song to end.

This is what I love most – how this girl surrenders so blissfully, her

lashes fluttering against her cheeks as she goes completely limp and pliant,

allowing me into her in so many ways.

Her mouth is soft, seductive heat as I finally plunge into those warm

depths and taste, probe, caress. Her body welcomes me with a gasp, her

mouth gripping at my fingers and sucking them deep, begging for more. I

can smell her desire, its sweetness growing hotter and hotter, richer and

richer, as more and more wetness spills over my fingers.

Goddamn, she’s so beautiful.

 And I have trouble saying those words, but I know she can feel them in

the way I touch her. In the way I kiss. In the way my cock grinds against her

clit, damn near frantic to bring her off.

She thinks she knows sore? Oh, sweet hell, after tonight I want to carry

Ember into work.

It’s a perfect night for lust. The late spring air swelters, yet compared to

us, the breeze seems cool as I give in to what we both crave.

One more hypnotic kiss and I finally yield to those insistent tuggings

and the clasp of her thighs against my hips, shedding the last of my clothes

to leave us naked as animals beneath the sky, against the grass.

There’s nothing in here but us, the flowers, the call of quiet night birds,

the heavens above.

Beneath the quiet moonlight, I sink into her body, groaning as her heat

envelops me, welcoming me home.

I only feel right when I’m this deep inside her.

It’s so easy to fill this girl, to find my way to her depths, to sink in to the

hilt until it’s like I’m being swallowed by molten liquid fire. The tight

pressure and suckling warmth around my cock spreads through my entire

body in a heated rush, leaving me shuddering, struggling to keep control and

not rut her into the ground like an unhinged beast.

But I can’t stop myself. I couldn’t stop this beautiful fuckery for

anything.

For just a minute, we’re soft and reverent, meeting each other’s eyes with

something almost like rapture and understanding.

Then she makes a soft, choked sound. I fill her to the brim, our bodies

locked together, fused at this base, primal level. Her nails bite my back. Her

teeth needle my shoulder.

That’s it, little Firefly. If we’re animals, let’s be wild.

A low snarl builds inside me. I brace my hands in the grass and the dirt,

fingers curling and digging deep. I feel something primitive, something

savage, something hungry and dominant rippling through me, electrifying

my flesh. It drives my dick, my thrust, my kisses into this woman, then

drives the sanity out of my brain with it.

I know what comes next.

I rut into her, a beast in heat, demanding that she be mine, demanding

that she submit, straining to fill her and relishing in every high, broken
sound that slips past her lips. We crash together in a sweat-slick tangle, her

body clenching me so tight it’s nearly painful, and I only want more.

Every kiss is teeth and dueling tongues. Every thrust is a war of seething

flesh and hunger and pure raw friction that tears at my senses and drives me

faster, faster, deeper. Like I’ll mark her inside where she can never stop

feeling me, never stop wanting me.

Need is a vicious thing riding my back, and it sinks its teeth into me as

roughly as she does, and goddamn I feel like I’m defiling her innocence,

tainting her purity, but I want to.

I want to fucking mark her. I want her kept.

I want to break her, then put her back together again and shelter her,

shield her, hold her while she lights up my night forever and goddamned

ever.

I just want her.

And that crazed want ruins Dr. Jekyll and makes me a thing like Mr.

Hyde. My pleasure rips through me in an explosion that feels as though it

scours me down to ash.

My cock aches as I fill her in one last hard, driving, needy thrust.

She meets me with a high sweet scream in the back of her throat, tossing

her head back. She convulses and spasms around me, locking me inside her,

every ripple of her drenched pussy wringing me for more and more until I

can’t fucking stand it.

When I empty myself into her O, it’s like turning myself inside out.

I give her my all. I give her everything. I give her a wish and a mark and

a promise in fiery seed.

I give her myself. Raw and honest, nothing held back.

Hide anything from her again? No. Not when my sweet, breathless

firefly sweeps away my endless night.

 19

DIE LIKE A DOG (EMBER)

I t took Pam all of one minute to figure out Doc and I had...you know.

I mean, maybe she already knew. After we went to the theater

together, me with those marks on my neck, clinging on his arm, it’s pretty

obvious, isn’t it?

The whole town gossip tree probably lit up like Christmas. There’s

almost no doubt since last night.

Or maybe it’s just that we showed up to work together in his truck.

Or maybe it’s that I’m using one of his shirts as a dress, tied at the waist

with one of his belts to make it a sort of shabby, walk-of-shame chic.

But the knowing smirk on her face has me blushing. So I try to ignore

her and head toward the back to retrieve a spare lab coat. Her voice trails

after me, edged with good-natured laughter and teasing.

“Interesting weekend?” she calls. “You’re practically walking on air.”

“Am not!” I fire back, and she laughs wickedly.

“I wasn’t talking to you,” she says. “I was talking to Doc.”

Gray goes stiff mid-stride as he passes the breakroom where I’m

rummaging around in a locker for a lab coat. He glances in at me, wide-

eyed, his formal, elegant mask completely off-kilter, then shoots a peevish

look over his shoulder.

“I,” he says frostily, “am most certainly not air walking.”

In the carrier dangling from his hand, Baxter lets out a little mew, as if

to say, oh, yes, you are.

 I just hide my grin, ducking behind a locker door, and shrug into a lab

coat before putting on my most professional face and skipping out to join

him in the main exam room.

Baxter is a little more skittish than she was at Doc’s house. Maybe she

remembers the last time she was here, how tense things were between

Fuchsia and Doc while they glared daggers at each other over the black cat.

We both spend some time stroking and soothing her. This time when our

hands brush, caressing the cat, I don’t jerk away like I’ve been static-

shocked.

I just linger, as soothed by his touch as the little furball with us, feeling a

sweet warmth burst inside me that I can touch him like that.

Slowly, Baxter calms down, until – with Doc holding her gently,

carefully keeping her still on the table – I can run the RFID chip reader over

her shoulders. Gray mentioned it last night after we made it back to bed and

plucked the flowers out of my hair. He wondered who really owns her if it

isn’t Fuchsia.

I suggested she might be chipped.

So here we are, and here’s the reader, beeping its confirmation with a

little green light.

I take it to the terminal on one side of the room and connect it with a

USB cable, then load the last scan into the chip reader software.

I instantly frown. The info that comes up on screen as it downloads the

data linked with the chip’s code from the national registry isn’t what I

expect.

The name registered to Baxter isn’t Fuchsia Delaney.

It’s a Lindsey Peters of Tacoma, Washington.

Peters?

My frown deepens. I briefly saw Everett Peters with my mother last

night, and he’d been pretty flirty. “Gray? Is Everett Peters married?”

His face instantly turns to stone. Mentioning Peters does that, but it

bothers me less than it used to. Instead of being hurt that he’s turned so

cold, it just worries me when I know how much Peters upsets him, and why.

“I don’t know,” he says tightly. Under his palm, Baxter bristles, her fur

standing up a little as she picks up on his mood. “He never really let us in on

his personal life. Why?”

 “Because Baxter apparently belongs to someone named Lindsey Peters.

I mean, it’s a pretty common surname, but it’s also too much of a

coincidence.” I glance at him, biting my lip. “Hey, she’ll bite you if you

keep that up.”

He blinks, looking confused, then looks down at the cat and sighs,

reaching up to scratch underneath Baxter’s jaw until the cat’s eyes lid with

pleasure. “Sorry,” he growls, though I’m not sure if it’s to me or the cat. To

me, though, he says, “Is there a number listed?”

“Yep. Looks like a Washington number.”

“Would you mind calling it?”

My stomach flips. “Why me?”

“Because it’s entirely possible she might recognize my number or my

voice, if Everett Peters ever mentioned his business in Heart’s Edge.”

“Oh.”

I take a deep breath. This...this is like some serious espionage stuff. Spy

stuff.

Calling people to get intel and sneaking around? I’ve never done

anything like this before.

It’s exciting.

It’s a little scary if Peters is really as bad as Doc hints.

But I nod, plucking my phone from the breast pocket of my makeshift

dress, and glance at the screen one more time to tap the number in before

hitting Call.

A woman picks up after two rings. I half expect it to be Fuchsia, coldly

mocking and laughing at me for falling for her ruse over some made-up

woman named Lindsey Peters, a cover for whatever she’s really doing...but

this woman’s voice is new, and pleasantly polite as she asks, “Hello?”

“Hi, is this—” My voice cracks, squeaks. I cast Doc a wide-eyed,

apologetic glance, but he nods encouragingly. Heart thumping, I clear my

throat and try again. “Hi, is this Mrs. Lindsey Peters?”

She sounds puzzled, but not upset. “This is, may I ask who’s calling?”

I try to put my best smile in my voice. “Hi, this is Ember Delwen. I’m

with The Menagerie veterinary practice in Montana. We’ve picked up your

cat, Baxter, and the information on the chip reader came back with this

number.”
 “My cat?” She sounds totally gobsmacked. “We’ve never had a cat. No

one in my family does. We’re all deathly allergic.”

My stomach sours.

I take a risk, then, trying to keep my voice neutral and calm. “Do you

think maybe your husband once had a cat? Did Everett give her away before

your marriage and her new owners just didn’t change the registry info?”

“No, I don’t think so...” She sounds confused, then her voice sharpens.

“How did you know my husband’s name?”

Oh. Oh, crap. Um.

I fumble for a second, brain racing, before continuing, “Oh, his name’s

on the registry too. You’re listed as co-owners in the database.”

“Co-owners?” Lindsey still sounds puzzled and a bit suspicious. “I think

maybe there’s an error in the registry. Maybe our stuff got switched with

someone else’s. We did have a dog once, before we had to give it away since

I’m allergic to that, too.”

“Probably,” I say brightly. I’m glad she filled in that blank because I

don’t know if I’d have been able to. Phew. “Anyway, sorry to bother you.

We’ll do our best to find Baxter’s proper owners, and thanks for your help!”

I’m practically chirping and manic at this point, but I’m also terrified of

tripping up and giving myself away.

And I don’t let out my breath until she says “Sure, have a nice day” and

hangs up, leaving the phone dead and quiet in my hand.

I slump against the wall, pressing a hand to my chest. “Well...that felt

like a heart attack and a half,” I say, shaking my head. “That was definitely

Everett Peters’ wife...but they’ve never had a cat. She’s allergic.”

Doc frowns, looking down at Baxter and stroking his long, capable

fingers down her back. “Very odd indeed.”

“Yeah, it’s kinda weird.” I fold my arms over my chest. “So now we

know Fuchsia’s got a cat chipped in his name that he doesn’t own, and she

doesn’t seem like a cat person. Or an animal person. Or a person person.” I

bite my lip. “Gray?”

He lifts his gaze to me, brows knitting together. “What’s wrong?”

“My mom...” I rub the back of my neck, looking away. “She seems to

really like Mr. Peters. But something’s super fishy with him, with all this.

Should I be worried for her?”

 Gray regards me gravely, as if considering his answer. “Honestly, yes.”

He presses his lips together on a frown. “I was thinking, last night, of asking

Warren and Blake to help keep a closer eye on her considering they’re in

town more frequently than me. Still, perhaps it’d be wiser to just speak to

her and tell her the potential dangers of keeping company with that fucking

snake.”

I smile faintly. “The danger just might make him more attractive to her,

you know.”

Gray sighs in exaggerated exasperation. “How are you related to that wo

—”

I raise an eyebrow. He mouths a silent oh.

I can’t lie: Gray’s delicious mystery, even when it scares me, is part of

his mystique. But with him, I know there’s a good, human heart beneath the

surface. Whatever skeletons Peters has in his closet could be a lot more

worrisome, putting Mom in real danger.

“If you’d like, Firefly, we can sit down with Barbara together. Tell her–”

The sound of the back door banging open cuts him off – and nearly

makes my heart jump out of my chest. I jerk up with a low shriek, stagger,

then clutch at the edge of the table before my balance sends me tilting. Only

Doc’s firm hands on her keep Baxter from bolting. The cat hisses, arching

her back, her tail puffing out.

I know how she feels.

Especially when a familiar male voice – Warren’s? – roars from the back

of the clinic.

“Doc!” he barks. “You’d better get your ass out here right the fuck now.”

Gray and I exchange wide-eyed looks before he nudges the cat toward

me. “Not this again, that’s practically his catch phrase. I’ll be right back. Get

her back in her carrier, please.”

Then he’s gone, bolting for the door.

I manage to catch Baxter before she makes a break for it. Then with

arms full of annoyed, squirmy black cat pushing at me, I maneuver her back

into the carrier and shut the door. With the kitty secured, I race after Gray.

I should know better by now.

I should stop chasing after his secrets and myriad disasters.

But this time I’m chasing him, because whatever he’s facing, whatever

Warren’s brought to his doorstep, I can’t just leave him alone to face it.
 I catch up just as Warren and Blake come shouldering in, carrying

something ungainly between them, draped in black and smelling like blood.

My heart stops, and my lungs seize. I don’t want to breath in and inhale

that scent again.

I stop in the middle of the hallway, clapping my hands over my mouth

and staring at something – someone – far too big to be an animal.

Oh, God.

It’s Fuchsia.

Unconscious, her skin white as chalk. And even though her clothes are

black, it’s not hard to tell the dark liquid matting the fabric to her skin is

blood.

Gray stares at her, his face twisted with conflict, torn. “Warren, what the

fuck?”

“No fucking clue,” Warren snarls. “Maybe you can explain after you

stop her from dying.”

“This isn’t a human hospital!” Doc fires back. “Dammit, War, I’m a

veterinarian, not a–”

“Hospitals involve cops,” Blake interrupts, holding up Fuchsia’s feet,

“and from the questions you’ve been asking, cops would be an awful bad

idea. You’re a doctor, man. Former military. You know how to handle this.

So let’s handle it.”

Doc stares for just a second longer, a conflicted line cutting through his

handsome features. Then a transformation passes over him – a certain calm

I’ve only seen in the operating room when he’s working over a critically

injured animal. He nods and gestures toward the back examining room.

“This way. There’s a table large enough for her in there.” Then his gaze

snaps to me: clear, cool green, yet not cold, not closed. Just composed,

steady, focused. “Ember, will you assist?”

Holy hell. I’ve never worked on a human being before.

Never had to do a surgery where a person’s life hangs in the balance. But

Gray needs me, and I won’t leave him to handle this alone.

Taking a shaky breath, I nod. “I’ll tell Pam to keep people in the front,

scrub up, and meet you in surgery.”

“Thanks,” he says sharply, then turns to direct Warren and Blake down

the hall.
I STA N D RO O T E D for another minute, then gather myself up and sprint to the

front.

There’s only a few people in the waiting room, but they stare at me as I

lean out through the swinging doors and gasp to Pam, “We’re closed for

now. Emergency surgery. Send everyone home and ask them to come back

tomorrow. Stay up here.”

Pam doesn’t get a second to ask. In a flash, I’m diving into the back

again, thrusting my hands under the sink to sterilize them and snapping on

gloves and a cap.

Heading back into that exam room to do my job, I put my game face on.

Even if this sure as heck wasn’t what I was hired for, it’s critical work. It

could help Doc get to the bottom of the weirdness going on.

I walk in on Blake pacing, shaking his head, watching as Doc carefully

cuts Fuchsia’s dress open. Her bloody fur-lined coat has been stripped off,

cast aside to the floor.

“I don’t know, man,” Blake says. “I just don’t know. We were doing a

fire drill up at the school with my crew, and I was checking out alternate

escape routes and found her dumped in the alley behind the place. Literally

with the trash. I thought she was fucking dead at first, you know? And I was

like, how do I keep the kids from seeing this? What the hell do I do? And

then she sat up like a damn corpse, lifted her head, and groaned one word.

‘Baxter.’ Who the fuck’s Baxter? So I called War, the smart one with shit

like this.”

Gray lifts his head, giving me a heavy look.

Baxter.

No freaking way. How is that cat suddenly the center of all of this?

But he looks down again, studying what looks like a puckered, bloody

hole punctured in the woman’s side.

“No,” he murmurs absently, that cool, cultured tone back, subtly

mocking. “I’m the smart one today with shit like this, Blake. I’ll thank you

to be quiet while we work. Ember, we have a bullet wound that appears to

be from a nine millimeter. Entry but no exit wound. I estimate from the

bleeding that she’s nicked a major artery but avoided any internal organs.
I’ll need your help to stop the bleeding and extract the bullet. We may have

to cauterize to prevent her from bleeding out.”

I thought I’d be more panicked than this, staring at a savagely wounded

human body.

But the second he describes the situation, I know what to do.

I know what tools we have on hand.

So I push past the two men watching helplessly to snag the prepped

surgical cart and wheel it over to the table, looking down at the wound while

Gray probes it gently with his gloved fingers.

“Anesthetic?” I ask, and he nods. His glasses start to slip down his nose,

and I reach to push them up, settling them and carefully hooking the elastic

band on the back of his cap to hold them in place.

“Thank you,” he says absently. “We’ll use a local anesthetic. The

Zycortal should work just as well on her as it does on a dog. It’s not

normally fit for human use, but since we’re improvising...”

“Understood.”

I’m hardly aware of the men in the room as I prep the syringe, upping

the dosage a little for a human patient. Not too much.

He isn’t kidding, this stuff hasn’t been approved for clinical use in

humans. I don’t want to kill her with any accidental side effects from being

maybe the first human trial.

Gray moves aside, making room for me as I carefully slip the needle into

her skin. She moans faintly but doesn’t wake. We wait a few moments,

counting out the seconds, waiting for the anesthetic to take effect.

Fuchsia groans again and then goes limp. And that’s our cue. Now, the

real work begins.

I’ve done a bullet extraction once, in vet school, during one of my

apprenticeships. Some jerkface had been sport shooting out in the woods

and thought it was cute to take aim at someone’s horse.

Later he said he thought the horse would hear the gunshot, startle, and

run, figuring there was no chance he could’ve hit it.

Wrong. The bullet embedded solidly in the horse’s flank.

Without intervention, it would’ve had to be put down.

That was the most tense surgery of my career, and the bullet hadn’t even

hit an artery. It was still hard to extract it from the sedated, drowsing horse
without accidentally nicking any major veins and starting an irreparable

bleed.

That, though, was nothing compared to this.

A woman is a lot smaller than a horse. Plus, the human body is far more

delicate, and the location of this bullet wound – we’re working around her

stomach, her pancreas, her kidneys, trying to avoid any major organs as we

make careful incisions, clamping her open.

Sweat beads thick on my brow.

I’m the one on hemostat duty, controlling her bleeding and now and

then inserting sponges and swabs of gauze to keep the surgical incision clear

for Gray. I can see the nick in her artery, and keep it from draining her out

while Gray goes after the bullet.

My body couldn’t be hotter or clammier right now.

But my mind is cool. Clear. Focused.

I’ll panic later, after I’m sure she’ll live.

After what feels like hours – and this time it may actually be hours – he

finally comes up with a round golden slug covered in shimmering red and

drops it into the specimen pan. There’s a deafening clang.

Then it’s the worst part of all.

The clamp and the cauterizing.

Old-school cauterizing involved a hot iron applied directly to flesh. At

least we’re more modern than that, but it’s still awful.

There’s a clamp. A tiny clamp that goes on the artery over the wound,

and then an electrical current, and then the awful smell of burning flesh.

When we’re done, she’s no longer pumping blood in the awful bright red

spurts that indicate her life is bleeding out.

Just a little more cleanup, a little more work to make sure we’ve handled

all the damage and haven’t left anything inside that might hurt her later.

Then it’s time to close her up.

Just a line of stitches up her abdomen, so unassuming you’d never think

the poor woman was lying here just a few minutes ago with her life pouring

out of her, hovering between life and death.

I’m still not sure she’ll make it.

We’ve pulled her back from the brink, but I don’t know yet if she’s going

to live.

She could still fall.

 Crash.

And I don’t know if we’ll be able to bring her back next time, if she

flatlines.

The heart monitors here aren’t made for humans any more than the other

equipment, but it works. We get the table padded out to make it more

comfortable, then cover her over with a sheet and hook her up to watch her

vitals.

A minute later, it’s nothing but me and Doc, stripping our gloves off to

clasp hands desperately, leaning against each other while out in the hall,

Warren and Blake talk in low, urgent murmurs.

It feels like they’re in another world.

Outside are the questions of what’s going on, who she is, how Doc

knows her.

In here, it’s just the question of whether or not she’ll live?

Who shot her?

And the long, steady beep of the heart monitor, telling us she’s hanging

on.

If we’re willing to wait for our answers, if we can stay here as an anchor

to keep her alive, she might just hang on.

 20

IN THE DOGHOUSE (DOC)

Eight Years Ago: One Day Before Hell

I can’t make Leo listen to reason.

I never should’ve told him anything.

Not about SP-73. Not about the field testing plan. Not about the doom

waiting for Heart’s Edge.

Except I’m not his only source. He heard it from Clarissa, somehow or

other, info she must’ve gotten from her father, Mayor Bell.

He’s pacing my room in the Paradise Hotel, furious. Who could blame

him?

This is his hometown, after all. As fond as I’ve become of the little

place, to him it’s more personal. It’s like threatening his very own flesh and

blood. He’s willing to die to defend this place.

It’s not until tomorrow that I’ll realize he’s willing to kill, as well, when

he steps into the lab and accidentally unleashes hell.

For now, there’s only the faintest sense of foreboding prickling down my

spine as he smacks his fist into his palm, stops, and glares out the window.

“I’ll fucking talk to him,” he says. “Make his greedy ass listen to reason.

Right after I get Clarissa and her sister the hell out of town.”

I frown, shaking my head. “Talk to who?”

 “Mayor Fuckface,” Leo says grimly. “Whether he damn well likes it or

not. Clarissa wasn’t meant to know about any of this, Gray. It just happened.

Her old man’s as twisted as they come, but still...I can’t believe he’d

condone something like this knowingly. Human fucking testing.”

He gives me a fierce look. I stand up, raking a hand through my hair, gut

churning because I know there’s no way any of this ends well.

“He wants money, prestige. Can’t believe he’d take a deal that’d end in

his whole fucking town burning.” He growls deep in the back of his throat.

“I’d never have come to town working for this outfit if I’d thought they’d

hurt anyone here. This was just supposed to be a classified lab gig. Not...not

live–”

“Biological warfare,” I finish. The words taste sick, hollow,

unbelievable. I’m cold inside. I shake my head, watching him helplessly. “I

don’t think it’s a good idea, Leo. If people know about this, if we just put it

out there, it could cause a panic. There’s got to be a way to stop it without

turning the town into a stampede. People will get hurt.”

“And they won’t get hurt if that virus gets out? You told me what it

does,” he snarls. “As if they won’t die?”

“They won’t,” I promise. “I won’t let it happen.”

I’m telling him the truth. I just don’t know how to stop it yet.

How the fuck do I stop a massive multinational corporation with billions

of dollars and half of congress in their pockets?

How can one man stand in the path of a freight train hurtling toward

destruction and hope to stop it?

I don’t know. But I have to do something, before Leo does.

All Leo has is passion, fury, and secondhand information.

I’m the only one who knows how deadly the virus truly is, how it

behaves, how to handle it to prevent lost lives. I can’t let him go charging off

to do something reckless.

If I can’t stand between Heart’s Edge and disaster, I can at least stand

between Leo Regis and tragedy.

Stop him from bringing this all down on our heads, so we can work

together to find a real answer in the chaos.

Soon. Very, very soon.

Because the clock is ticking down by the hour.

 Galentron keeps getting reinforcements for something big, and time’s

running out.

I T ’ S a little strange to be dreaming about Leo – about Nine – when there’s a

soft mouth pressed to mine, coaxing me out of the nightmare, the savage

world of memories, and toward the light of day.

Or more like the light of my exam room, technically. It’s dark through

the window, and I’m slumped in a chair against the wall, having dozed off

after hours of watching Fuchsia in silence and waiting for her to wake up.

My eyes drift open not on her, though, but on the warm, worried blue

eyes watching me, hovering so close.

Ember.

Firefly kissing me, touching my cheek, coaxing me awake.

Her lips part for the sweetness that’s like a cool drink of water in a

burning desert oasis.

But it’s not her voice, but Fuchsia’s, that echoes over the room in a

disgusted groan. “Please get a room, you two,” she slurs out, pain edging

every word. “I already feel enough like vomiting.”

I sigh, reaching up to tuck Ember’s hair back. “I take it she’s awake.”

“She is,” Ember answers wryly, lips quirking. “But I almost wish she

wasn’t.”

Behind her, Fuchsia lets out another groan before biting off sardonically,

“I’m more likely to thank you for saving my life if the peanut gallery can

keep its commentary to itself.”

Ember looks over her shoulder. “Were you born this crabby, lady, or was

that part of your military training?”

“CIA,” Fuchsia hisses, almost offended. “As if I’d ever associate myself

with meat for the grinder.”

I sigh, raising a hand.

“Enough,” I snap wearily. “Fuchsia, if you’re well enough to be a

sarcastic bitch, then you’re well enough to tell me who shot you.”

“Who do you think?” She lolls her head against the makeshift pillow

we’d made of folded blankets, her tired, hollow eyes drifting toward me.
Even exhausted and hurting, her gaze bristles with intelligence. “Peters.”

I arch a brow. “Everett Peters shot you? Him, personally?”

“Oh, you know he didn’t get his own hands dirty.” Her voice is hoarse,

raspy, and Ember gets up quickly, fills a cup from the sink, and presses it to

Fuchsia’s lips. Fuchsia sips weakly at the water, then says more clearly,

“One of his hired suits, I mean. Silencer and a Beretta in the back alley. Left

me for dead. As if anyone would believe I was a victim of a common

mugging in this town. So tasteless and bland. No art for deception at all.”

“You can criticize their technique when you’re in a more stable

condition,” I mutter. “But first, since we did save your life, you can repay

our kindness by being honest for once in your life and telling me the truth

about what’s going on. Directly. No more games.”

“Forgive me if old habits die hard,” she growls irritably, but then sighs.

“Fine.” Her gaze flicks to Ember. “Your puppy, too?”

Ember glares, plopping herself down fearlessly into the seat next to me,

folding her arms over her chest and lifting her chin stubbornly, bravely, a

little petulantly. “Woof.”

Fuchsia wrinkles her nose. “My God, Gray, your tastes have worsened in

your old age.”

“Shut your yap. You never knew what my tastes were to start with,” I

growl.

“To be fair, I thought you were a sexless eunuch, and preferred to think

of you that way,” she retorts, then closes her eyes, slumping back against the

pillow. It’s obvious this is wearing her out, and as much as I despise her, I

don’t want to kill her with conversation. So when she asks, “Where do you

want to start?”

I answer, “At the beginning. Facts only. No more bullshit.”

She waves a hand weakly – or tries to – one hand twitching against her

hip before falling still. “Whatever. Okay...”

Her eyes open once more. She looks wearily up at the ceiling.

It’s the first time I’ve ever seen her appear anything but perfectly put

together, polished and lethal. She just looks like a woman now, rather than a

force of nature, human and frail, pale and exhausted.

We wait, letting her gather herself, before she begins. “Look, you were

right. I came back here for Nine and his miraculous blood. I’m not here on

behalf of Galentron, though. I’m here for a few rather secretive government
contacts who no longer trust Peters or Galentron to be reliable in the event

of an outbreak. Let’s just say that certain...foreign interests with mighty

deep pockets may be swaying Galentron’s loyalty.”

Ember sucks in a breath. “Oh, God. Are you saying a foreign country

could bribe Galentron into handing over a sample of SP-73? Or even

unleashing it?”

That disgusted look crosses Fuchsia’s face once more, but this time it’s

most definitely aimed at me. “Just how much did you tell this little girl?”

“Everything,” I fire back. “Because I trust her. Now continue.”

“I don’t remember you having the authority to give me orders, medic.

That’s above your pay grade.”

“Maybe so, but if you want more anesthetic...”

“Gray,” Ember mutters from the corner of her mouth, “canine anesthetic

can be dangerous for humans. We really don’t want to give her anymore.”

“I have a stash of Septocaine in the back,” I whisper back. “But she

doesn’t need to know it unless she cooperates.”

“I can hear you, you know,” Fuchsia adds with an offended sniff.

“You’re two feet away, not in the other room.”

I arch a brow. “Are you in pain?”

She stares at me flatly, eyes cold. “Yes.”

“Then talk,” I say. “The faster you finish your story, the faster I give you

the good stuff so you can get some rest and heal.”

“How altruistic. A true humanitarian. I might almost believe you’re

concerned for my life.” But she lets out another groaning sigh, then

continues. “Peters outsmarted me.” It’s grudging, a thing she clearly hates to

admit, eyes flashing with a touch of anger. “The bastard slipped in under my

nose and captured the prize.”

I jolt, sitting forward quickly, a rush of adrenaline shooting through me.

“He’s got Leo?”

She nods, her head barely moving. “I overheard the goon who shot me

speaking into his earpiece. He said, ‘Target two silenced, target one

acquired, transporting to designated location.’” She smirks weakly. “I don’t

have to hear his name to know target one is Nine.”

Fuck.

I stand, fists clenching. Then Ember’s hand goes on my arm, soft,

reminding me to keep myself under control. “Where? Where’d he take

him?”

“It’s obvious you were never in intelligence. Just a medic.” Even now

she’s contemptuous. “Really, Gray. Think. Where has he taken an interest?

Where would it be easy to hide someone in this town?”

Before I can answer, Ember does. She puts two and two together as

quickly as I do. “The theater,” she gasps. “If you wanted to hide someone,

the rigging under the stage goes really deep. You could even build under

there.”

“Well, now.” Fuchsia’s smile is cold. “There might be something to this

little ant of a girl after all. But figuring that out won’t help you, Gray.

There’s no way you’ll get in. Not with me out of commission. You were

never a real soldier – and Peters has a few too many friends with guns for

you to Rambo your way past.”

“He’s not the only one with friends.”

I have people. People who care about me. People I care about.

And if I ask with honesty, they’ll help me save Nine. Help me save my

old friend, Leo.

I know they will.

I pace toward the door. “Stay with her,” I tell Ember. “I’ll be right back

with the anesthetic.”

“Wait!” Ember says, standing, folding her arms over her chest with a

thoughtful frown. “What about Baxter?”

The way Fuchsia lifts her brows is just a little too innocent and

calculated. “What about my darling?” she lilts in a cloying lisp.

Ember makes a face. “Ew. Don’t do that. It’s creepy.”

Fuchsia chuckles, then trails into a raspy cough before subsiding with a

wince. “You deserved it after that disgusting little display of affection. But

you really are a clever little thing, if you’ve figured out the cat. I just can’t

believe you haven’t figured out why.”

I rub my temples. “You realize every unnecessary word while you taunt

and gloat is another delay in getting you some medicine?”

“Some pleasures are worth the pain, Gray.” But after a moment, Fuchsia

answers more clearly, the mocking lilt gone from her voice. “Little Baxter’s

a test subject just like Nine, Gray. And just like Nine...she’s a survivor.

Immune to agent SP-73. Her antibodies might be used to synthesize a

human-compatible vaccine. It’ll take a few more steps than his blood
considering cross-species issues, but...that cat is our backup. Our fail-safe.

She came along for the ride to cross-compare results with Nine.”

“One cat to save the human race,” Ember says with a touch of tired

humor.

“Something like that,” Fuchsia says. “I brought in Nine for scientific

purposes and a little company that doesn’t speak unless spoken to, until you

interrupted so rudely.”

“My rudeness saved your cat’s life,” Ember throws back with a bravery I

hadn’t expected of her – when I should have.

She’s shy. She’s not a coward. Even fireflies can burn so bright they

blind.

But Fuchsia actually lights up for a moment, sucking in a quick breath.

“You have her?”

“She’s in the other room,” Ember answers. “Fat, happy, and safe.”

Fuchsia’s eyes close, and she lets out a rough breath. “Good.” Then she

stiffens. “For the sake of the operation, of course.”

“Of course,” I mutter.

Heaven forbid she actually care about an animal, or any other living

creature.

I suppose Fuchsia might be part human after all, and only three-fourths

a murderous fucking Cylon.

The silence is broken by a trill from Ember’s pocket, almost ominous in

the tense and laden stillness between us. She fishes her phone out, glancing

at the screen, before her expression clears.

“It’s my mom,” she says, turning away and holding up a finger as she

lifts the phone to her ear. “Just a sec.”

I turn my attention back to Fuchsia. “Anything else I should know?” I

ask. “Or do you want to rest?”

“Nothing of importance,” she says, trying – and again failing – to wave a

hand dismissively. “Go on. Play white knight. Try to save the day. Get

yourself and your little girlfriend and her mother killed.”

“No one’s dying today. Or any day.” I exchange a long look with Ember

while she murmurs into the phone, then nods. “I’ll be right back,” I say,

then turn to let myself out into the hallway.

Where Warren and Blake are waiting, their eyes full of questions.

Fuck. I knew this day would come.

 I owe my friends answers, once and for all.

“Y O U ,” Warren says, “have got to be out of your fucking mind.”

“Perhaps,” I answer, “but that still doesn’t solve the problem at hand.”

We’re sitting in the break room, after I took a moment to find a proper

anesthetic and administer it to Fuchsia. It’s a testament to how weak she

actually is that within seconds she passed out, giving in to exhaustion now

that the pain was no longer keeping her from the edge of unconsciousness.

I’ll have to see what I can do about rigging up a glucose IV for her,

unless she can stand to eat. Maybe work through a few underground

channels to get some fresh blood for a transfusion.

I can’t believe I’m looking after this woman and trying to save her life.

Right now, though, I have many more lives to focus on than Fuchsia’s.

Mainly, Nine’s and the rest of the town’s. Blake, though, is actually

grinning.

“Hot damn. I knew it,” he says. “I knew the Legend of Nine wasn’t just a

campfire story, and I knew you had the inside scoop. Why didn’t you ever

tell us before?”

“I don’t know,” I say flatly. “Why didn’t I ever tell you about the time

my closest friend murdered the mayor for complying with a corporate plot to

infect the town with a plague, right before I blew up a facility full of deadly

super-virus and burned the Paradise Hotel to the ground?”

Blake, at least, has the grace to look sheepish.

“Shitfire,” he says. “That’s a fair point, I guess.”

Warren seems more grave, dragging a hand over his face. “This is a fuck

of a lot more than you ever told me about knowing Nine years ago. So the

gist of it is...the fuckface who authorized using Heart’s Edge as a testing

ground is back in town and after the only man alive with antibodies in his

blood. Which means he just might be planning to test that shit again.”

“If not here, then somewhere else,” I say. “Either way, we’re the only

ones outside Galentron who know about it and can stop it.”

“So?” Warren’s got that ready look to him, tense, the adrenaline and

battle-charged stance of the soldier. It’s never left him, even after all these
years, especially after the bad blood that went down last year. “What’s the

plan, Doc?”

He’s not the one who hesitates.

I do.

Suddenly I’m questioning the wisdom of asking them for help. Not

because I don’t trust them.

Because I care about them.

I love them like brothers. It makes me fucking sick to think about either

of them coming to harm or worse to help me.

Warren, barely out of his honeymoon phase, has an infant son with

Haley. Blake has his teenage daughter, Andrea, and he’s all she’s got in the

world. Both of my closest friends have families, and dealing with Peters

could lead them into catastrophic, fatal danger.

I can’t endanger them like that.

I can’t take them away from the people who love them.

The fact that they haven’t turned away from me, haven’t blamed me, is

plenty. Having their support and their insight is enough.

But this time, we’ll have to do this through the right channels. Before

any reckless decisions hurt anyone else the way they hurt Leo. Too much

action and not enough thought is how we got ourselves into this mess.

“Langley,” I say. “We’ll go to the Sheriff. I know he’s practically Barney

Fife, but he can call in precincts from larger towns. Light up the phones and

bring in reinforcements.”

“What about the Feds?” Blake asks. “FBI? The CIA?”

I shake my head. “We can’t trust anyone with the federal agencies. They

may be in bed with Galentron,” I point out. “That woman you brought in

was CIA. You see how well that protected her.”

“Fuck,” Blake says, scratching at his beard. “High stakes and bad odds

and no wild card.”

“Exactly,” I answer. “If we call in the big guns, we may find them turned

on us.”

Warren is grim, his mouth set in a displeased line. “It’ll take too long to

mobilize police from the other precincts. I could probably get a few of my

bounty hunting contacts in here faster, and we won’t have to convince them

we aren’t crazy, talking about some X-Files shit. We’ll just have to pay

them.”
 “Because I’m rolling in money from my military pension and neutering

animals,” I retort. I shake my head. “War, I don’t think you should get that

deeply involved in this—”

I don’t get the chance to finish. The door bursts open.

Ember’s just standing there, breathless, her face almost white with

worry, her eyes a little too wide for her face. Warren goes tense, sitting up a

little, looking at her, waiting. Blake stares, but it’s a long, thoughtful look

before he glances at me, arching a brow.

Yes, she’s wearing my shirt as a dress. This is not the time for this right

now.

Blake never did have a sense of what was appropriate, the irreverent

wank.

But we all know a woman in distress. Ember’s my main concern. Her

gaze darts to me, almost pleading.

I stand, reaching for her hand. “Ember? What’s wrong?”

“My mother,” she spills out breathlessly, and pure dread tightens my gut.

“She...she was weird, Gray. Maybe I’m reading too much into this, but I

have a bad feeling.”

Twining her fingers in mine, I lead her back to my chair, sit her down

gently, and sink down to one knee, clasping both her hands and looking up

at her. “Slow down. Breathe. Tell me everything.”

Ember’s lips tremble. I grip her hands tighter, waiting her out, letting her

compose herself while I stroke my thumbs over her knuckles.

She takes a deep breath, then nods. “She sounded funny. Kept asking

where we were but wouldn’t tell me why – and she kept asking if I was still

with you. And it wasn’t like...” She flushes, glancing at Blake and Warren,

before her gaze darts back to me. “You know. You know how she is.” She

swallows thickly. “There were these weird pauses, too. Almost like she was

listening to someone else.”

My heart dives silently into my guts. I don’t like the sound of this at all,

but I listen as Ember continues.

“And she said I had to come meet her at The Nest. With you.” She

shakes her head quickly, her voice quivering. “It was how she said it. Not

like she wanted us to come. Like we had to. Like it was really important.”

Warren strokes his beard, growling low. “Sounds fishy as hell to me.”

Ember bites her lip, her eyes welling. “Please, Gray. My mom...”
 “It’s all right, Ember.” I gather her closer, pulling her shivering frame

against me. “We won’t let anything happen to her. I swear.”

Warren stands with another growl. “So I’m gonna ask you again, Doc.

What’s our plan? Langley’s only one man. I don’t know where the deputies

of his fucked off to, but they haven’t been seen for days. Sounds like we’ve

got too much ground to cover.”

I look at them past Ember, helplessness nearly swamping me. “I don’t

want to put you in danger. You have families—”

“So does Ember,” Blake says firmly. “And we’re not gonna leave her

family to get hurt. Fuck, you’re our family too. So you just tell us where you

need us and cut the martyr bullshit.”

Fucking hell.

I don’t deserve friends like this.

Thankfully, I’ve got them because that ticking doomsday timer just sped

up. So I’m going to take them while I have them.

I nod firmly and stand, taking Ember’s hand and pulling her close

against my side. “The two of you check out the theater and see what you can

find,” I say. “Ember and I will play along. If they don’t realize we’re onto

them, it’ll buy us some time.”

Ember looks up at me, her eyes dark with worry. “Time to do what?”

“Figure out how we stop them,” I say. “And put an end to this nightmare

once and for all.”

 21

DOG BITE (EMBER)

I get the feeling this isn’t the first time Doc has used Pam to cover for

some of his more secretive business.

Because he knows just how to bribe her with a promise of a bakery box

from some fancy one-of-a-kind place two towns over to talk her into

keeping an eye on Fuchsia without asking questions.

Honestly, I’m a little scared for Fuchsia if she wakes up with Pam

watching over her.

If there’s anyone who won’t take that witchy-woman’s lip, it’s Pam. But

if there’s anyone I’m truly worried about right now, it’s my mother.

The Nest is dark when we pull up outside the café in Gray’s truck.

One look tells me it’s wrong.

It’s barely early evening. Felicity never closes up until it’s time for things

to hit full swing at Brody’s across the street, drawing her customers away,

people migrating over to swap evening coffees for dinner and beers.

No mistake, the café is empty. Not a single car in the lot, not even the

rental my mother drove here. I can see Felicity’s old beat-up station wagon

out back, its hind end sticking out from behind the building.

If she’s here cleaning up, though, why’s everything so dark? So lifeless?

I reach across the truck for Gray’s hand. “I don’t like this,” I whisper.

“Don’t feel good about it.”

“Something’s definitely off,” he says, squeezing my hand reassuringly.

“It’ll be all right, Ember.”

 “Don’t.” I feel like crying. I feel like screaming, actually, but it’s all a

knot caught in my throat, strangling my breath. “Please don’t say that. That’s

what they said when Dad was in the hospital. I wasn’t all right.”

“I’m sorry.” The gentleness in his voice says he means it. Still, it doesn’t

ease the raw fear scraping inside me. He squeezes my hand once more, then

releases it. “Let’s go take a look inside. Stay close behind me.”

I nod, and it takes me a frozen moment to climb, stiff-legged, out of the

truck. Gray moves with a confidence I can’t emulate, this feral strength in

every stride that practically dares anyone to get in his way, to threaten

what’s his.

I’m glad he’s standing between me and whatever waits on the other side

of this door.

If Felicity had just closed up, the front door should be locked. But it

swings wide open at Gray’s touch, the bell over the door jingling in an eerie

silence.

We step slowly inside the shadows. I can’t hear a single thing over my

own dull beating heart.

God, I don’t like this. I can’t breathe, and I nearly clutch the back of

Gray’s shirt as we step slowly deeper inside, my chest hurting and my eyes

darting around everywhere.

Every silhouette, to me, might be a big man with a gun, waiting to shoot

us the instant our backs are turned.

But the café is truly empty.

Not another living soul. Not even when we lean over the bar and peek

behind it.

“Barbara?” Gray raises his voice carefully, slowly turning, sharp eyes

scanning the room. “We’re here, just like you asked.”

Nothing.

Until a muffled sound like a scream comes tearing from the back.

I nearly rocket right out of my skin, then take off, bolting, racing toward

the storerooms while Gray calls “Ember!”

I won’t stop. I can’t.

Not if that scream was my mother. Not if someone’s hurting her.

I burst the door of the first storeroom open, but it’s empty. Just sacks of

beans and stacks of foam cups strewn around.

 Breathless, I charge into the next, elbowing the door open – nearly

smacking my cousin Felicity square in the face.

She’s lying on her side, hog-tied with her wrists behind her back and her

legs tucked up with her ankles bound together, a wadded towel stuffed in her

mouth. Her eyes are wide in the darkness, gleaming, tears shining in angry

red tracks down her face. My heart wrenches.

“Felicity!”

I drop to my knees, easing the gag out of her mouth carefully, just as

Gray comes bolting in after me, staring at us breathlessly for a minute before

he steps around us and sinks down next to me. He starts working at the

knots in the ropes with his big, strong hands.

Poor Felicity sucks in a gasp as I tug the gag out, her chest heaving.

“Ember!” she chokes out, her voice thick. “Thank G-God you’re here

—”

“Are you okay?” I blurt out. “Who did this to you? Where’s my mom?”

“Those fucking creeps in masks.” She lets out a pained sound, wincing,

as the ropes around her wrists loosen. Slowly, she hisses as she brings her

arms around, rubbing at her shoulders. Red bracelets of abraded flesh circle

her wrists.

“What creeps, girl? Talk to me.” I lay a reassuring hand on her shoulder,

offering a squeeze.

While Doc starts on the knots around her ankles, she tells us more.

“Aunt Barb tried to get away after they made her do that call. She was going

to warn you not to come, but...” She bites her lip, sniffing. “They caught her.

They took her. I don’t even know where. We have to call the police.”

“But she was still alive when you saw her last?” I say breathlessly.

“Please say she was alive.”

She nods quickly. “They were a little rough with her, but they didn’t hurt

her.”

“They won’t,” Gray says grimly, releasing the last of the ropes and

helping Felicity into sitting upright shakily. “They’ve realized we know.

Dead hostages are useless to demons. Live hostages are leverage to get us to

either keep our mouths shut, or walk into a trap where they can kill us off

one by one before we expose them.”

“The theater,” I say, standing quickly. “If they took Nine to the theater,

they probably took my mom there too. If we just—”

 “There’s no we, Firefly.”

Gray gives me a look I’ve never seen before, and I realize I’m seeing a

Gray I’ve only met once before.

Gray the soldier, the warrior, the hella protective beast.

Fuchsia lied when she said he wasn’t a real soldier. Dead wrong. I’ve

kissed the outline of an old bullet on his body. I’ve worshiped those scarred

fingers.

Doc has seen some serious crap, and he’ll fight like mad to avoid some

more.

Because I can see it in every line of him right now.

He’s ready, bristling to fight, even if it means a dance with death.

The thought of losing him terrifies me so much that my voice dries up,

my throat closes, and I can only watch as he stands. Grim determination

makes his entire body tense, vibrating with battle-readiness.

“I won’t let you walk into this,” he says. “It’s too dangerous, Ember. I’ll

go. I’ll get Nine, bring your mother home, and make sure Peters is stopped.

Stay here.”

I shake my head sharply. My voice comes back in a desperate rush.

“You know I can’t,” tumbles out of me. “I can’t let you go alone, Gray.”

“And I can’t let you get hurt because of a problem I created.” He steps

closer to me, gripping both my hands, clasping them so tight against his

chest. “Stay, Ember. Stay safe and trust me to do what needs to be done. Let

me end this.”

I want to scream no! I want to beg him not to go, but someone has to

deal with this insanity.

And what do I know about weapons or negotiations with scary men or

drag down fights? I’ll only be in the way, won’t I?

That sick realization sinks inside me like a stone plunging to the bottom

of a cold, dark pool.

There’s nothing I can do that would help this situation. I have to let him

go.

Let him go, and hope.

“Just kiss me first,” I whisper.

I don’t dare say kiss me in case it’s the last time.

But that’s what it feels like as he sweeps me close and drags me against

him. My body molds to the hard, tense V-line of his. As his mouth descends
to claim mine, and he kisses me like I’m his first and last hope for anything

good in the world, I hold on. I pull at him, begging with my lips and tongue

beyond words for him to come back safe. Come back to me.

Please come back and mess me up again, Gray. Please make everything

right in my world.

It’s a kiss that lances my heart, tearing at my soul, and it’s over far too

soon.

Gray pulls back with one last fierce, smoldering look, and I can’t beg

him for one more because time is running thin. I can’t hold him back from

destiny.

He flicks a look at Felicity, who’s huddled on the floor, watching us with

haunted eyes. “Stay out of sight,” he says. “And watch over her. Both of you

stick together. You call Haley, Pam, Sheriff Langley, Ms. Wilma, somebody

if there’s even a whiff of trouble, you hear?”

We lock eyes. I nod once, soaking in that gorgeous, quintessential Gray

Caldwell green sparkling like gemstone in his eyes.

Then he’s gone.

Just...gone, walking out of the room with a sense of purpose moving his

bones, and we’re alone.

I HELP Felicity stand and guide her over to sit on a stack of unopened coffee

bean sacks for something better than the unforgiving floor. The seating area

out front is too open, too visible from the street, with the entire front of the

café nothing but floor-to-ceiling windows.

We’re stuck here in this tiny, windowless room.

Waiting.

While Felicity rubs the feeling back into her legs, I curl in on myself,

staring down at the floor.

I hate this feeling. It’s dark and heavy and awful, wedging below my

ribs.

And for some reason, it’s too familiar.

I’ve felt this way before. Years ago, sitting in a hospital waiting room,

surrounded by the silence of grief both present and future, waiting for
something to happen.

TV always makes hospital waiting rooms seem like places of hope,

where tense, anxious people hold out for a miracle. Soon the doctor comes

out and tells them there’s been one, and their loved one is saved by the

wonder of science and prayer.

There’s always a miracle in make believe. Never any real stakes in their

fear when, in their imaginary world, they have no reason to believe there

won’t be a final-hour save.

Meanwhile, in reality, hospital rooms are places of dread. Emptiness.

Terror.

Miracles are few and far between.

There are just lonely people waiting to find out just how bad it’ll be.

And I remember waiting, thinking that maybe something could still

happen, even though I knew it wouldn’t. I knew, and yet still I hoped, still I

waited, still I begged with everything in me for the doctor to come out and

say, It was touch and go, but we saved him. We saved your father.

The doctor would be a handsome genius like Doc with a magic touch

that could save anyone and a smile that would make me faint.

Only, this doctor was a tired-looking older man with a stoop to his

shoulders that said he’d seen too many deaths, watched patients slip through

his fingers while he’d tried and tried and tried to hold on to them, but they

were just these ephemeral nothings he couldn’t grasp tight enough to keep

them alive.

I’m sorry, he’d said. He was too far gone. There was too much damage

to the heart wall. We tried to resuscitate him, but...I’m sorry. We just

couldn’t bring him back.

That’s what this feels like, this yawning silence.

It’s the same familiar bleakness, the same heaviness in the hospital

waiting room, wanting some other outcome but knowing that inevitably,

death was coming.

I can’t accept that again. I won’t accept it today. Not anymore than I can

just sit here waiting for death to find me. Or Gray.

It’s been too long. Ugh.

Digging my phone out while Felicity watches me curiously, I dial Gray’s

number.

Please pick up. Please, please, please.

 Some small signal, even if it’s just answering the phone in his pocket so

I can hear what’s going on and know he’s alive, he’s okay, he hasn’t walked

into a trap or been shot on sight.

I know he’s the one they really want.

He’s the only one who knows everything.

From what Gray’s told me, he knows things even Fuchsia doesn’t know.

That makes this so dangerous, if Peters is really behind this whole thing.

If Galentron with its ginormous resources wants to pick up where it left off

without being exposed, it’ll be like moving a mountain to stop them.

People with money, people who don’t care about wiping out an entire

town don’t stop with warnings. They kill people who might be a problem.

Not to mention any pawns who might get in their way.

Like me.

Like my mother.

I think the only reason they didn’t kill Felicity was because if someone

found her body too fast, their cover would be blown.

But I feel like I’m frozen inside as Gray’s phone rings again and again

and again, then goes straight to voicemail. I close my eyes, taking a deep

breath, praying for...I don’t even know.

Strength? Clarity? Something.

Gray can’t be dead.

He can’t be.

I hang up without leaving a voicemail, hugging my phone to my chest,

trying to think. Think. I don’t know what to do, but I can’t just stand here

and wait for death.

Shooting to my feet, I reach for Felicity’s hand. “Come on.”

She staggers up, rubbing her leg, still unsteady but finding her footing.

“Ember—hey, wait! Where are we going?”

“To find Gray,” I say. “And to save my mom. We can’t just let this go

down with no backup.”

We’re in Felicity’s station wagon before she pauses, giving me a puzzled

look. “Um...Ember? I know you’re upset, but in case you hadn’t noticed,

we’re not exactly a SWAT-girl duo. We don’t know anything about this...this

shitfest that’s crashed down on our heads. Oh, and who’s Gray?”

I almost smile. Almost.

Everything hurts inside right now. I’m scared – so scared.

 I just hope I’m not running toward death with Felicity in my wake.

“You know him,” I say. “He’s the one who vaccinated your Pekinese.

Now let’s go.”

She looks confused, but then sighs, shaking her head and turning the key

in the ignition. “Hold on to your butt,” she mutters, backing the rickety

station wagon out of the alley.

But a terrible sense of foreboding falls over me as we pull up outside the

theater.

What seemed so bright and cheerful just the other night now seems

haunted, with the scaffolding framing the unfinished portions of the

reconstruction and the plastic sheeting tacked onto it flapping in the evening

wind. The theater’s super dark, too, which should be normal, with no shows

tonight and probably no rehearsals.

Still, it just feels ominous.

I lick my lips, staring at the theater as we park across the street. “You

know this place,” I whisper. “You’re from this town. Is there a back entrance

we can sneak through?”

“There’s a staff exit around back, I think.” Felicity is tense, her fingers

white-knuckled on the steering wheel. “Em...you know I love Aunt Barb,

but are you sure you want to go in there? Shouldn’t we call the cops?”

“Will they get here in time? Langley has like half a dozen guys tops,

doesn’t he?”

“Yeah, good point. Honestly, the sheriff’s probably already drunk,

settled in for an evening at Brody’s.” She takes a deep breath, squaring her

shoulders. “Girl squad to the rescue, then?”

I let out a weak, shaky laugh that sounds only about half as scared as I

feel. It’s absolutely as insane as it sounds, but we might be the only hope

Gray and his friends have.

“Girl squad to the rescue,” I croak out, then push the car door open and

let adrenaline carry me to my feet. “Let’s hit it.”

There’s really nowhere for us to hide.

We scurry across the street as quick as we can, then duck around the

side of the building. If there’s anyone watching for us, they’d see us coming

from a mile away. But the alleyway looks empty as we peer inside.

There’s only one safety light over the door. A dim cone framing a dirty

blue-painted metal doorway corroded with rust and old black trash bags
piled against the brick wall.

“I don’t see anyone,” I whisper.

“Same,” Felicity whispers back. “It’s too quiet. Do you really think

there’s someone...down there?”

We stare into the blackness ahead, visible through the tiny slit window

in the door. I swallow, knowing there’re people inside. It’s way too

organized to be foundation work, or any real renovation under the old

theater. This is more like staring down a mineshaft engineered with high

tech supports and faint LED lights to hide some hidden treasure.

“Go for it?” Felicity whispers, giving my hand a squeeze.

“Right-o. Off we go.”

We dart into the narrow lane and bolt for the door. I get one hand on the

rusted handle, pulling back on it, when I hear a click that’s too loud to be

the latch.

And it’s behind us.

I freeze. My blood turns to ice water, but my bones are pure glaciers,

locking me in place with my breaths drying in my throat and my body rigid.

At my side, Felicity goes motionless, save for her wide, terrified eyes

rolling toward me.

I wait for someone to say hands up. Or don’t move.

Or just the damning explosion of a gunshot, the last sound I’ll hear

before everything goes dark and I’m just...gone.

But there’s only a single footstep.

Then the feeling of something snapping down over my head. Some

thick, dark cloth that blacks out the world and muffles my scream as my

world condenses to the inside of a featureless black bag and the shrill

frightened cry of my cousin’s voice.

There’s nothing in the swarming darkness except my own regret.

Felicity, Gray, Mom – I’m sorry.

 22

DOGFIGHT (DOC)

I never thought I’d see the day where I’d have to trust Blake goddamned

Silverton with fireworks.

His daughter, Andrea, maybe. Blake himself?

Never.

But right now, the fireworks that have been stored in a cool, dark shed at

the Charming Inn, waiting for the annual Fourth of July fireworks over the

famous cliffs, are our best chance for a distraction.

And the only chance for a three-man army to have any hope of taking

down the dozen or more men swarming around the storage entrance. It’s

built into the structure like a cellar door, adjacent to one of the two alleys

flanking the theater.

We’ve got fireworks, muscle, plus a little special silver bullet of my own

that I fished out of the secured freezer in my clinic’s secret closet. I’ve been

saving it just for this day.

There’s a massive truck parked in the alley, all the way in the back and

just out of sight. The men are just shadows in the darkness, hard to pick out

unless you’re looking for them.

I’m looking for them, all right.

I’m marking every last one of those pricks.

If I have my way, they’ll all walk out of here in handcuffs.

Not the plan they’ve obviously decided on: leaving Heart’s Edge in that

van, probably with Nine and Barbara Delwen trapped in the back like rats in
a cage.

“So,” Blake drawls. “There’s at least twelve of them and twice as many

guns. There’s three of us and, oh, three guns and a whole crate full of

poppers. Tell me you’re not thinking what I think you’re thinking, Doc?”

“You got any better ideas?” I ask.

“Nah, but I’m not supposed to be the smart one.”

“It’ll work,” Warren says. “Fireworks are just explosives used for

entertainment. We’ve got an entire armada in the back of this truck.”

“Yeah, but War.” Blake looks dubious.

“But?” I ask.

“How the hell am I supposed to ram the truck and light them up? Like,

this isn’t the Fourth. I’m not standing around with a box of goddamn

matches popping off sparklers one at a time. They’ll shoot me before I can

even spark up.”

Warren grins. “Oh, ye of little faith.” He tosses his head toward the

back. “Park somewhere out of their sight, and let’s get to work.”

Work, in this instance, means one thing.

Rolling out a thin, flexible, highly flammable fuse cord to each and

every last one of the fireworks in the crate in the back of the truck. Then we

wire them together, light one end.

And the entire chain goes up like New Year’s.

It’s a safer bet than anything else, though the other option is to just

throw a match in the whole box. The fuse cable gives Blake a chance to get

safely away while Peters’ men panic. The goal is to disable the truck.

Distract the guards. Give us a way in with as much mayhem as possible in

the process.

Mayhem usually isn’t my brand.

I’m supposed to be the calm one. The cool one. The safe, stable one.

Too bad I’ve already burned down one Heart’s Edge timeless landmark.

It’s hardly a tragedy to take another one out with a bang.

Plus, the added bonus that the noise and flames will attract the police

and fire departments from all over the valley faster than a 9-11 call would.

They’ll have no choice but to take it seriously.

And I know these assholes won’t call the police themselves.

Not unless they want a small-town kidnapping tarnishing Galentron’s

public image in a way that just won’t disappear after the news media gets
hold of it.

We’re almost done wiring everything together when the sound of

another roaring engine alerts us, and the twin gleams of headlights. Warren

hisses, while I bite off, “Behind the truck!”

We duck to the other side of the truck and past the truck bed, peering

over the upper edge as a car comes cruising down the street.

A station wagon I recognize.

Felicity?

Dread premonition fills my veins with ice. Then confused anger. What

the fuck?

No. No.

I told Felicity to stay with Ember. Which means if Felicity is here...

So’s Ember.

Fuck. Me.

I watch tensely as the station wagon pulls up outside the theater and

parks on the other side of the street. Warren swears as the doors open and

the girls step out. They’re wide-eyed, breathless, half frozen with fear.

“Ember!” I hiss, trying to catch her attention without giving us all away,

rising up a bit higher above the truck, but they’re already flitting away,

racing across the street, into the other alley on the opposite side of the

building.

I dart around the truck and start to take off after them.

Warren grabs my arm and hauls me back forcefully just as the men in

black suits come swarming around the front of the building and flood into

the alley after the girls.

“No!” I snarl, but Warren has both my arms, dragging me back with all

his strength, biting off words in my ear.

“Stay low!” he says. “You can’t help them if you get shot.”

“What if they shoot—”

“They won’t,” Blake says in an uncharacteristic moment of grim, quiet

clarity, watching tensely. “They don’t want to leave a body trail. Bad for

PR.”

My heart sinks, then swells with rage, blood pounding hot and hard

through me as a few moments later, the swarm of men emerge from the

alley again.

Ember and Felicity are in tow.

 Their arms tied behind their backs, black bags over their heads,

stumbling as they’re shoved forward with guns pressed to the smalls of their

backs. Shit, shit.

And Ember – bless her, damn her – manages to trip over the edge of the

front walk, her legs buckling from under her as she goes down.

Of course she does.

Of course.

And if not for Warren’s grip on me, holding me back, I’d be charging in

there like a bull to catch her, save her, take a fucking bullet for her.

One of the goons grabs her arm and drags her back up violently. For a

red second, I almost break free from Warren, rage swelling through me until

I see blood.

It takes Blake grabbing my arm to haul me back, fighting me in place.

Teeth gritting, I track them as they marshal the girls into the other alley

and creak those cellar doors open, forcing them down.

The one who grabbed her, in particular.

I can’t see his face, but I memorize his height. His build. The way he

walks.

If he left so much as a single mark on her skin, I swear to hell, forget

arresting him.

I’ll kill him with my own bare hands.

“Get off me,” I snarl through my teeth as the girls disappear.

Warily, Warren says, “You can’t go charging in there, man—”

“I said, get off me!” It comes out of me with such fury both Blake and

War jerk back, staring at me as if they’ve never seen me before.

I don’t blame them.

I’m hardly myself.

There’s a frantic, livid desperation inside me – a need to get to Ember

above all else.

But if I lose it, I’ll just get her killed.

I take a deep breath. “I’m not going to rush in,” I grind out. “But we

have absolutely zero time. Let’s finish this.”

It’s quick and urgent as we work to finish wiring the fireworks into an

explosive daisy chain of disaster.

Then Warren and I step back, concealing ourselves in the shadows. It’s

all on Blake now.

 He flashes a reckless grin and a thumbs-up as he gets behind the wheel

of my truck, reverses it, and lines the ass end up with the mouth of the alley.

I hear the gears grind as he shifts the truck into reverse.

Then he slams his foot down on the gas, and – peering out the window

over his shoulder, driving in a half-blind swerve, aiming the truck like he’s

trying to throw a damned ping pong ball into an eight ounce cup from across

the room – sends it hurtling backward toward the alleyway.

We’re just in the right position to hear the shouts of alarm go up as the

truck comes charging in, blocking off any escape and trapping the men

between my truck and theirs.

I catch a glimpse of one man’s wild eyes behind his ski mask turning red

in the glow of the tail lights.

A second later, the truck smashes into their armored vehicle, and there’s

a great creaking and slamming and crashing of metal that bleeds into the

night, followed by shouts. Gunshots. One scream.

Not Blake’s, thank God.

He’s behind the steering wheel, draped over it, jolted but fine. He flashes

a wild grin as he kicks the window out – the alley’s too narrow to open the

doors – in a showering of glass and pulls himself out on his arms. In a

second he’s up on the ceiling, the end of the fuse wire in one hand, a lighter

in the other.

“Merry Christmas, chucklefucks!” he yells out gleefully.

Then he lights the flame.

Warren rolls his eyes. “Such a child. And he’s supposed to be our trusty

fire chief.”

“He’s our only chance,” I hiss. “Go!”

Together, we dive into the chaos.

In the three split seconds as the fuse burns down, they don’t even see us

coming. They’re confused, crawling out of the mess of two trucks smashed

together, many injured with limbs hanging at odd angles, the smell of blood

in the alley.

We clamber over the wreckage while Blake dives over the hood of the

truck and hits it at a roll, taking the impact on his shoulder. We’ve got a

third pair of hands as we wrench the double doors open and dive into the

stairwell, taking shelter.

 Just as the night goes up in a burst of color and shrieking, whistling

lights.

The scent of gunpowder mixes with blood. Just inside the door, we’re

treated to a show of rainbow sparks billowing up, filling the alleyway in

bright flashes and bouncing wildly off the armored truck, my truck, the

brick walls to either side, trailing flame everywhere.

The men are screaming, shouting, firing their guns at random. It’s

complete fucking bedlam.

Perfect.

Until Warren goes pale, all of a sudden. “Oh, fuck. Do I smell—”

“Gasoline,” I breathe, a whiff of it drifting across my nostrils. “One of

the fuel tanks must’ve–get the doors!”

“On it!”

Blake’s already diving, us with him, grabbing the cellar doors and

hauling the heavy things shut. They’re wood, they’ll burn, but right now

they just need to shield us from the impact as—

Everything goes up in a whoosh so loud it nearly wrecks my eardrums.

The ignition of the fireworks was just a precursor. A warning.

It’s the gas in one of the punctured fuel tanks that turns the night into a

sprawling orange flower that we barely escape, slamming the doors closed

over our heads and then throwing ourselves down the stairs and away.

There’s a massive, concussive shock.

Then screaming.

The stink of roasting flesh.

Shit.

It’s happening again; it’s the same as the facility, the mine, the virus, the

hotel, all those people, all those people dying and it’s my fault, my fault—

“—oc. Doc!” Warren has me by the shoulders, shaking me, and I realize

I’ve been staring up at the thin crack between the doors, and the hellish

bright light flickering through and making thin stripes over the stairwell.

“Snap out of it!”

I suck in a sharp breath, my vision clearing, slamming me back into the

present. I stare at him, then shake my head. “Right. Fuck. The theater’s

going to catch fire—we’ve got to get in, find them, and find us a safer way

out. Let’s go.”

We clatter down the last few steps, where we hit the end and stop.
 There’s a door, but there’s no handle.

Just an access panel.

No way in, no way out without the code.

I stare, pondering, while Warren curses. I only have to think for a second

before I know what to do.

Fuck it.

I did this once, and I can do it again.

I don’t care what it does to my hands – they’re already damaged, and

Ember kisses those scars, touches those scars, loves those scars, so I’ll make

myself a few more saving her life.

Grasping the panel, I dig my fingers in, and rip.

I barely hear Warren’s and Blake’s gasps as the panel tears away in a

shriek of metal and sparking of wires. Something goes fizzle-pop in the

doorframe, and the door itself seems to relax, almost deflating, going loose

in its setting.

There’s no good reason for something like this to be below the old

theater. Peters built this thing for a purpose.

And I find out that purpose as I set my shoulder to the door and shove,

forcing it open in a great creaking, grinding fury.

Only to come face to face with Everett Peters.

He’s holding the mouth of a pistol close, pointed right between my eyes,

a silencer fixed over the barrel.

I go stock-still.

There’s no one in the room for me but Peters, even if I’m vaguely aware

of Nine, Barbara Delwen, and Felicity on the far side of the room, cuffed to

chairs with duct tape over their mouths. The entire place is a dusty, low-

ceiling mess of cross-beams, the area under the stage where actors often rise

up on platforms when they need to appear fast, costumes and rigging

everywhere.

But there are new cables and wires, too – junk hanging everywhere,

pouring out of the ducts.

Peters was clearly preparing this place for something. Intending to use it

in the long term. Meaning to destroy this town again, recklessly or

deliberately.

Fuck.
 I straighten slowly, never taking my eyes off Peters once, keeping my

hands in plain sight.

My hands ache. I’m going to wrap them around his throat and squeeze if

he’s harmed her, and it’ll take more than a gun to stop me.

“Where is she?” I demand, and he smirks.

“You aren’t in any position to ask questions, Gray.”

“Neither are you, asshole,” I bite off. “We can stand here at a stalemate,

if you’d like, but this building will come down around your ears in flames if

you wait too long.”

“Yes, you do seem to have a motif.” He raises his voice, pitching it past

me. “Both of you, out. Hands where I can see them. Then maybe we’ll have

a little chat.”

Slowly, Warren and Blake emerge on either side of me, hands up, faces

set in fierce scowls.

I won’t raise my hands for this puke.

I won’t submit.

I’ve spent too long doing that to Peters, to Fuchsia, to all the hell-beasts

Galentron raised.

His smirk widens, eyes locked with mine as if we’re in some sick mind

meld.

“You know, we were fine just orbiting each other at a distance,” he says

mildly.

From upstairs, something makes the distinct popping sound of new

wood catching fire, still fresh enough for the sap inside to boil and burst. He

doesn’t even flinch, only lowers the gun to level it at my chest, taking a step

back toward Nine, Barbara, and Felicity.

There’s a doorway there, stairs leading up to stage level, likely the only

other exit.

“Really,” Peters continues. “There was no reason for your business to

overlap mine—and if you’d just minded yours, none of us would be in this

situation. I thought you wanted nothing to do with Galentron, Gray.”

I grind my teeth, my jaw aching, my fists slowly clenching. “I want you

the fuck out of my town. That’s what I want.”

“Then you’re in luck! Because I plan to oblige shortly.” His smile is so

oily. “I’m even going to do you a favor. Think fast now, clock’s ticking, I’ll

only make this offer once.”

 “I’ll never make deals with you,” I growl.

“Oh, I think you will, assuming you ever want to see Ember Delwen

again.”

Barbara’s eyes go wide, and her mouth moves against the duct tape. A

muffled cry, but even with the strange and stifled sounds I know what she’s

saying.

Save her, Gray.

Save my daughter!

I start forward one furious step – then freeze as Peters flicks the safety

off.

“Ah-ah, no, you don’t,” he mocks. “You’re going to be a good boy today,

and you’re going to listen. Now. I only want one thing. For you to step aside,

and stay out of my way while Leo here – oh, I’m sorry, we’re all calling him

Nine now, how dramatic – take our leave. He’s all I want. I don’t care about

this little shithole town. I’d happily leave it in my rear-view mirror. In

exchange, we all get to walk out of here without burning to death.” He looks

over his shoulder at Nine with a smirk. “Not that some of us could tell the

difference, I suppose.”

Nine’s only answer is a slow, savage narrowing of his eyes.

It’s all I need.

I take that nano second distraction to lunge.

But I barely make it a few feet forward before Peters swings his gun back

on me – and this time shoves it right between my eyes, pinning me in place

with my teeth bared and every bit of hatred inside me trembling through my

tensed body.

“Will you stop being so tiresome?” Peters says. “All these grand heroics

won’t get you far. I won’t hesitate to kill every last one of you, but it’s not

necessary. Just behave yourself and let me leave. Honestly, why would you

want to save that brute? He’s a wanted man, a murderer. It’s better for the

world if you let me have my way with him.”

“That ‘brute’ is my friend,” I snarl. “And you’re the only monster here.”

Peters just lets out a derisive bark of laughter. “You and your high and

mighty proclamations. Amusing or not, time is short, Gray. Do we have a

deal, or not?”

He’s sweating, I realize. It’s not just nerves.

 Because my body is damp with heat as well, drenched, really, and I

realize why.

The flames are closing in.

I can hear them crackling up above. There’s a crash. Something gives

way and comes thudding down hard enough to shake the roof over our

heads, dust and cobwebs showering down in sandy streams of grit.

Time’s not short. It’s running out.

If we don’t go soon, we’ll lose our only avenue of escape.

I can’t be responsible for so many people burning to death. Not again.

“Just tell me where Ember is,” I force out, “and we have a deal.”

“Barbara knows.” He tosses his head toward the straining woman.

“She’ll tell you once I’m gone and you’re free to remove her gag. Fair?”

I hate it.

I fucking hate it.

Even if it’s the only option I have if I want to get everyone out of here

safe and alive.

That simple fact – not my pride, not my vengeance, not my self-

righteousness – is more important than anything. But only if Nine can

accept it.

I have one chance and only one. To save him, to save everyone.

But first...

I meet his eyes across the room, looking past Peters, silently asking Nine

to understand. Looking for Leo, somewhere under the monster he’s been

branded, the man who was once my closest friend, before the tides of life

ebbed to tear us apart and send our worlds spinning away from each other.

Listen to me, dammit. Follow me. Follow my lead.

He looks at me gravely, a spark of understanding flickering in his eyes.

And he nods, with the faintest hint of a ghost smile.

Small, slow, and unmistakably there.

Accepting.

Grudgingly, I nod too, my jaw so tight I might break a tooth. It’s for

Leo’s acceptance, gratitude, sorrow, so many more things, an

acknowledgment that only he and I comprehend. For Peters, as well, and

reluctantly I drag my gaze back to that vile weasel of a man.

“Go,” I snarl. “Before I change my mind and let us all burn to death

down here just to see you rot. Take him and fucking go.”
 “Doc,” Warren hisses. “You can’t—”

“Don’t,” I throw over my shoulder. “This is my decision to make—mine

and Nine’s. If I have to lose one man to save five people, to save Ember...”

“Fuck, man,” Blake whispers, his brows furrowed, shaking his head in

disbelief.

Give me one more minute.

“Are we done with these noble little speeches, then?” Peters’ smirk is

downright triumphant, and he half-turns, gesturing with the gun, keeping it

pointed in our direction as he barks at Nine. “You. You can walk while tied

to a chair. Come along.”

Nine growls behind the duct tape over his mouth but levers himself

forward, walking hunched over with the chair bound to his back and ass by

his wrists, knotted with rope behind it. Grudgingly, he turns to trudge

toward the stairs. Peters trains the gun on his back, watching me the entire

time with that insufferable smirk.

“Behave. If you try to rush me from behind,” he warns, “I will shoot

him. I can still take blood samples from his steaming corpse fast enough to

get a decent sample. At least this way you’ll know he’s still alive. For now.”

“I won’t come near you,” I snarl. “Go. I can’t stand the sight of your

face. Or are you that eager to burn to death down here with us?”

Peters only laughs. “It’s been a pleasure to see you again, Gray. Nice to

see you grew a backbone over the years.”

Then he turns his back on me.

Just like that.

As if he doesn’t have a thing to fear in the world.

“Now,” Blake whispers, but I lash one arm out, blocking his path.

“No.”

Not yet. Because I have another plan. A better plan.

One that won’t require going anywhere near Everett Peters.

And it’s truly the plan this vile fuck deserves.

I slip my hand into my pocket, feeling for my silver bullet. There’s a

special capped vial there – metal, a syringe almost like a dart, a silver

torpedo shaped with a thick needle meant to deliver an injectable payload

quickly and efficiently.

The thing’s a fuck of a lot heavier than any ordinary syringe. It’s made

for transporting highly secure substances, but that doesn’t mean it can’t have
other uses. It also means it has a thicker needle, perfect for sliding into skin

at just the right angle.

I didn’t bring this here as a weapon. It was a bargaining chip, a last

resort, something to threaten Peters with as living proof of the virus and the

plot if he doesn’t let my Ember go.

That was then. Now, the situation has changed.

This sample was the last thing I scrounged from the lab that awful, fiery

night. It’s been waiting in my hidden freezer at the clinic, secret and sealed,

for almost a decade.

Snarling, I flick the cap off before anyone notices.

Taking aim at Peters’ retreating, arrogant back, I throw.

The makeshift dart whizzes away with a shrill whine, striking Peters so

hard there’s a faint thunk.

A million things happen at once.

But only one of them matters.

Peters stiffens, whirling, hand tightening convulsively on the gun as he

feels the bite.

The gun goes off, a bullet zinging wild, punching up into the ceiling and

hitting something.

Whatever it is must be supporting a heavy load in the stage rigging,

because upstairs, something comes crashing down – bringing the fire

through the roof raining onto us, opening a yawning hole overhead, dumping

flaming debris crashing in front of the exit.

Sparks whirl everywhere, a blast of heat that nearly blows me back.

Nine stumbles backward, staggering with the chair still attached to him,

narrowly missing a massive burning crossbeam that plunges down where

he’d been standing.

Then Peters collapses. The potent dose of SP-73 in the vial courses

through his system and takes hold.

I’d kept it sealed tighter than a drum.

Just in case.

Undeniable proof in case I ever needed to reverse engineer it to find a

cure, if these sick bastards let it loose to hurt innocent people.

But it’s served a better purpose now. The viral dose is ten times stronger

than anything ever tested in the lab. The virus always moves like wildfire,

replicating at a frightening pace, but in these numbers? It’s nearly instant.

 I won’t lie.

I enjoy watching Peters convulse, his entire body going pale, his veins

and tendons standing out, clammy sweat breaking across his body as his

internals hemorrhage. His hands are claws, swiping at the air, and he gasps

roughly, shivering, twitching.

“Y-you...you...”

“Gave back what was always rightfully yours,” I mutter. “Enjoy.”

Then I turn away from his last dying throes. This stuff isn’t airborne and

it isn’t active for long. The pathogen was made to kill rapidly and dissipate

within an hour or two, leaving ground zero ripe for occupation. I know the

fire will consume it too, but we need to get the hell out of here.

Besides, I can’t waste another minute on him.

Not when I’m here to save lives rather than destroy them.

“Help them!” I snap at Warren and Blake, jerking my head toward

Felicity, Barbara, and Nine. “But steer clear of Peters. Don’t touch him.

Don’t go near him. He may be infectious.”

Warren stares at Peters grimly, his face a dark mask. Blake is paler, more

horrified, his eyes a little too wide.

“Fuck, man,” he rasps. “What is that shit?”

“What they’d planned for all of us,” I say, striding forward to drop to my

knees in front of Barbara Delwen.

“Where is she?” I ask, tearing the tape from her mouth as gently as I

can.

There’s no time to delay; the fire’s roaring in, leaping higher all the time.

Stray costumes and rigging and beams catch fire, spreading from the falling

debris above. The entire theater is coming down with the familiar taste of

choking smoke, the sting in my eyes, and we only have minutes, if that.

“Where did he take her?”

The moment her mouth is free, Barbara gasps out, sobbing and shaking

her head.

“Barbara?!” I grab her shoulder, gently shaking her.

“He lied,” she sputters, coughing on smoke, forcing herself to speak. “I

don’t know, Doc! I don’t know where he hid her!”

Fuck.

I swear up a storm, launching to my feet and circling her chair to rip at

the ropes binding her as she struggles to get free, making it harder as she
pulls the knots tight. But I manage to tear the ropes away from her, and she

stumbles to her feet, toward Felicity and Nine, who come loose as Warren

and Blake untie them.

“Go!” I bark, thrusting an arm toward the blocked exit. “Clear the debris

and get them out!”

Nine starts toward me, stretching a pleading hand out, his other arm over

his mouth, his sleeve over his nostrils and lips. The women are suffocating

in here.

Warren and Blake struggle to breathe as they fight to shove aside the

burning debris without catching fire themselves, but Nine won’t budge.

“Dammit, Gray, I’m not gonna leave you here! You didn’t leave me.”

“Yes, you fucking are,” I snarl. “I didn’t drag you out of that fire only to

lose you in another one, Leo. Go.”

He stares at me with pleading eyes. “Why? What’re you going to do?”

“Find Ember,” I say. “I’m not leaving until I do.”

 23

THE HOUNDS OF HELL (EMBER)

E verything is black.

Black as fear.

Black as a nightmare.

Black as creeping death.

I tried to run from it, and it chased me, stalking me into the dark. Now

my heart beats to the terrible rhythm of its bony steps. The rushing heat

feels too much like the Reaper’s breath.

I don’t even know how close the fire is with this black bag still tied over

my head, in whatever strange space I’ve been stuffed into.

It’s cramped. I know that much. My hands are cuffed behind my back.

But I hear voices.

Gray first. Furious. Shouting.

Then Peters, abruptly cut off.

Finally, others.

Right before there’s more smoke, more fire, searing my nostrils worse

with every breath. God, no.

The fire crackles louder, and the heat becomes blistering.

I scream against the duct tape over my mouth. A gunshot rings through

the walls around me, muffled but too close.

Then there’s a crash that shakes the concrete floor beneath me like a

plane crash.
 And I sob, curling in on myself, unable to even do that when the cuffs

binding my wrists are looped around something cold and metal. Even if I

wanted to get up, to kick the door down, to try to run blind and hope I could

find my way out, I can’t.

I’m trapped here.

Silenced.

I’m going to die.

And no one will even know I was here. They’ll just find my charred

body in the theater’s ruins. One more piece of brittle slag they can’t identify.

Not like this, I beg, sobbing, struggling around the duct tape when I can’t

even breathe. I can’t die like this.

Not just because of me.

Because of Gray.

Because of that beautiful, wonderful man who hid so much passion

behind his stony exterior, so much warmth, poetry in his voice, and lyrics in

his thoughts.

If he loses someone else in a fire, just like the way he lost his faith, his

hope, his friend...I shut my eyes, the tears stinging even hotter than the

invading heat.

It’ll break him. I know it will.

He’ll bury all that beauty away again where he’ll never find it.

I don’t want to be the thing that ruins him.

I don’t want to die, either, but I’m really struggling to find a way around

that.

And I can’t give up. Hell no.

I’m not the kind of girl who goes silently. I can’t just make a martyr out

of myself and gracefully expire.

If I go, it’ll be kicking and screaming. Shouting my last fading breath for

help, praying there’s someone, anyone who can Get. Me. Out. Of. Here.

So I scream bloody murder, even when hardly anything makes it past the

tape sealing my lips. And I kick. I punch, I bite at my gag.

Thrashing my feet, thumping my shoes against the wall, I push.

I’m still wearing the same freaking tennis shoes I had on for work,

comfortable for moving around the clinic all day. They make a mighty,

almost satisfying thud against the walls that echoes back.

Wood.
 It’s wood I’m hitting, wooden walls, and they make a nice, loud racket

as I kick and kick and kick.

I can’t hear the voices anymore, not Peters, not anyone.

Until suddenly something splinters next to me.

Gray?

“Ember!” He’s shouting my name, but it’s choked, raw. He must be

breathing smoke. One reason I’m lucky is because I’m on the floor, sealed

away low where the smoke from the flames can’t make me a coughing mess.

I can hear crackling fire nearby, but it won’t reach me – not instantly.

“Ember!”

Doc’s voice again.

“I’m here!” I try to shout, but my lips won’t move, and the duct tape

muffles the sound.

Crap!

So I slam my feet against the wall again, kicking as hard as humanly

possible, smashing out patterns like words, hoping he’ll notice.

Hoping he’ll hear.

Here-I-am-here-I-am-HERE-I-AM. I smash-smash-smash the same

message again and again, and I can’t stop sobbing but I can’t stop trying,

either.

I don’t hear him again. My heart leaps into my throat.

Pausing, I listen, begging wordlessly for him to find me.

“Gray?” I whimper against the duct tape.

Honestly, I don’t know if I want him to find me or want him to escape

before the theater burns so bad it collapses on him.

I give one more stomping sequence, desperate, tired, my legs aching.

I can see light now – this bright glow filtering through the bag, and if the

flames are that close, their light must be visible under and around the door,

wherever I am. I don’t have much time.

Here-I-am! I stomp against the wood one more time.

Nothing.

Until there’s a sudden click like a latch, a rush of hot air pouring over

me, the sounds suddenly louder, then the groaning flames and the roar of

burning air and his voice.

“Ember!” Gray cries.

 No flame compares to the cozy warmth of his body suddenly next to

mine, his hands on me. The bag rips off my head, the tape from my mouth,

and I lose it.

“Gray, Gray. Oh my God.” I sob as he gathers me against him, pulling

me as close as he can when the cuffs yank me back every time he tries.

I’m in a storage closet, I realize. A tight storage space built beneath the

stage.

Worse, I’m cuffed to some kind of drainage pipe that’s been welded to

the wall. It won’t even bend when Gray snarls and yanks against it, pulling

at the chain.

“Fuck!” he growls, ripping at it like he’d snap it with his bare hands, if

only he could. “The goddamn key. Peters, he must—”

“No!” I gasp. “I heard—I heard what you did, if he’s contagious—”

“I don’t care.” Gray looks at me fiercely, haloed in gold, angry orange

fire reflecting off his skin, burnishing those frantic green eyes framed by

fire. He cups my face in his palms. “I’ll get you out of here, Firefly. Even if I

wind up infecting myself. You’re worth it.”

I shake my head fiercely. “Gray, don’t—don’t—”

“A man has to stand for something, or he’s nothing. I’ve found what

holds me up, and always will.”

Then he kisses me while I break into a crying mess: fierce, swift, heavy,

dark, needy, promising.

I’m so scared it’s the very last kiss.

But the touch of his lips swears it’s not.

He pulls back, staring hard into my eyes. “I love you, Ember Delwen,”

he whispers. “That’s what I’m willing to stand and fight and die for.”

Then he’s gone.

HE L E AV E S me sobbing after him, straining, struggling against the chains of

my cuffs.

I can’t let him do this for me. It’s a human flipping sacrifice. There’s no

chance against a virus so swift and deadly it can kill a person like lightning.

Doc can’t do this.

 Because – surprise! – I love him, too. I love him even more since he’s

practically announced he’s the other half of my soul.

And I can’t stand him dying horribly, murdered by the very thing he’s

already given so much to protect this town from.

He’s gone for a terrifying eternity.

I strain desperately on the tips of my toes before I flump down again. I

can barely see him through the door, just a sharp-moving shape hunched

over the body of a man that looks terrible, frightening. I hope I never, ever

have to see Gray like that.

But then I realize he’s wearing gloves.

He’s wearing gloves!

That brilliant, gorgeous, sexy damned doctor of a man had neoprene

gloves in his pocket like he always does. Whew.

There’s something else in his hand, too.

A bent piece of metal. Probably some debris that came down in the fire,

the chaos, and genius that he is, he’s fashioned it into a makeshift hook.

It helps him handle Peters’ body gingerly, searching, digging in his

pockets, and then —

A triumphant sound rips from Gray's throat.

Giving the keys a good pass over the radiating fire, he snatches them up

into one hand. He walks back slowly and waits for what seems like forever

after carefully plucking off his gloves and tossing them into the fire.

He returns just as the ceiling overhead showers sparks. I kick back,

shying away as burning rain drifts down around me.

The whole place is screaming as it comes apart. The building creaks and

groans and grunts like it’s a tree caught in a terrible wind. My stomach

twists.

It’s going to collapse.

It’s going to crash down on us.

“Gray!” I gasp, looking up at him, searching for any sign of infection.

“Are you?”

He shakes his head, giving me a reassuring smile – albeit strained, his

face streaked in soot – as he reaches around me to search for the lock on the

cuffs. “I waited after touching the metal. If I was going to show symptoms,

I’d be a mess on the floor already. It’s fast-acting, the viral load I gave him.

Near instantaneous. I’m fine, Ember. I’m fine.”

 I bite my lips, staring at him in wonder. I’ve never heard of a plague so

fast, so deadly, so unforgiving.

But then, I’d never met a beast-man until I fell for Gray. No surprise, it

takes an impossible man to ward off an unthinkable horror.

His hands work quickly, loosening the cuffs, their hard edges biting

against my wrists, then easing and falling away. He’s got me by the wrist

now. That safe, wonderful strength hauling me to my feet, holding me steady

and stable as he pulls me toward the door and out to the main area under the

stage.

“Now let’s get the fuck out of here.”

Mind blank, heart thudding as wildly as the building crashing around us

in pieces, I follow his lead.

Keeping my arm over my nose and mouth, I stumble a little, but for once

I don’t fall.

Today, this man’s kind stability is all I need to hold steady.

We dash through smoke, through fire, my eyes stinging and half-blind.

My lungs ache, the heat licks around us and hurts so much until it feels

like I’m boiling, boiling – but then we’re racing upstairs, into the main

theater, so much fire everywhere. And even as we rush out into aisles

flanked by burning seats, a massive section of the roof caves in right in our

wake, sending flaming debris plummeting down.

It hits so hard it rocks the whole theater like an earthquake, flinging us

to the ground.

I land hard on Gray with a cry, his arms coming around me tight,

sheltering me as we skid and roll, then tumble to a halt. Coughing, aching, I

push myself up gingerly, looking back at the massive burning rubble where

we’d been standing.

Fear suddenly leaps to life inside me in sharp, bright flares.

“There’s no time,” Gray gasps, taking my arm and helping me up. “Let’s

go!”

We run.

Still stumbling, we dodge falling debris that makes me scream every

time it’s a near miss. The exit has never seemed so far away.

We struggle toward the double doors out into the lobby, slamming

against them.
 The pressure bounces us right back as the chain and padlock holding

them closed from the other side make them rock and reverberate in their

frame. It won’t open.

Great.

Just freaking great, we’re trapped in here, and I scream in frustration,

beating against the doors while Gray curses, slamming his fist against the

hard surface.

We were so close.

So close.

I’m going to die here now.

But at least I’ll die with the man I love.

I just need to say it. I need him to hear it at least one time before the

flames engulf us, and with a wretched sob, I reach for his hand, squeezing

tight, tracing his scars.

“Gray, Gray, I—”

“Over here!” a voice I don’t recognize calls out, gruff and ragged and

masculine, as if he’s been choking on smoke his whole life.

We both whirl.

It’s the tall man. The scarred man. The beast I saw with Fuchsia.

Nine.

He’s there at the side exit, that door where Felicity and I were caught,

leaning in from the outside and beckoning to us with one thick, burly arm.

“Hurry!” he roars.

Gray and I exchange a look, breathless and hopeful.

Then we link our hands together and run.

It’s only a few yards. Only a few seconds.

But they’re the longest seconds of my life. We clamber over fallen beams

and skirt walls of flame that nearly singe the hair from my nostrils.

I’m dizzy, too much smoke in my lungs, in my head, but I can’t stop

now. Gray won’t let me stop, his warm, supportive hands hold me up as we

fight our way to the door and burst free.

Outside.

Back under the cold moonlight, the clean air. People appear swiftly –

Mom, Felicity, both of them sobbing, dragging me into hugs, crying

“Ember, Ember” again and again.

 We cling to each other in a weeping, messy heap of emotions. Relief,

terror, adrenaline, and confusion.

We’re safe.

God, we’re safe, and even as my mother and cousin hold fast to me,

Gray and Warren and Blake and Nine give each other long, grave looks.

Then they clap each other on the shoulder in wordless acknowledgment.

A minute later, new sounds split the night. Sirens, probably from every

emergency vehicle several towns over. Gray lifts his head sharply, and nearly

everyone looks at Nine.

He takes a slow step backward. “I can’t be here,” he says raggedly,

gravelly and deep, shaking his head. “Not when they get here. Gotta go.

This ain’t the right day or right time for this shit.”

“We should all go,” Gray says firmly. “I’d rather not be arrested on the

spot. We can explain everything to Langley later, once they’ve had a chance

to dig deeper to uncover the truth. Although I’m sure they’ll wonder why

my totaled truck is burning in the other alley.”

“We can take my car!” Felicity says, fumbling in her pocket for her keys.

“Come on!”

We all start forward, but Blake hangs back, shaking his head. The

building is still burning right at our side, but with the brick wall between us

and the flames it feels like it’s happening in another world, another life.

“I gotta help with this,” he says solemnly. “Putting out the heat’s what I

do best.”

For some reason, that makes me smile. Gone is the older goof of a man

struggling to be a father, replaced by a soldier on duty.

“I’ll get my crew together. Y’all get moving. I won’t say a word about

you being here, big guy.” He nods at Nine.

There’s a nervous moment, then more nods all around.

Finally, we’re off, breaking for Felicity’s car in a rush and piling in,

nearly buzzing with the high.

Tonight could’ve ended far differently.

Far more terribly.

But instead, thanks to Gray, the best thing ever happened.

We lived.
 24

ALL GOOD DOGS (DOC)

I haven’t been able to take my eyes or my hands off Ember ever since our

brush with hell.

Not for the entire drive to the outskirts of town. We take back roads to

avoid the cop cars and EMTs still streaming into town.

Five fire trucks pass us. All of them courtesy of Blake’s years-long

campaign to give Heart’s Edge more firefighting power than it really needs

after Paradise burned and damn near took the whole town with it.

I keep Firefly’s hand clasped in mine the whole way, her body tucked

close against my side.

Even though she’s clearly exhausted, in shock, trembling with the

enormity of walking away alive, she clings just as close to me. Every tiny

touch, every glance through her lashes reminds me she’s here.

She’s safe.

I saved her.

I protected her, and everyone else.

Just the way I wish I had so many years ago.

I also made the bastard chiefly responsible for the dark cloud threatening

this town pay, once and for all, at the hands of his own demons. I watched

the fire before we scuttled, making sure it incinerated every last bit of him

and that basement so there wasn’t a chance anyone would ever come into

contact with SP-73.

 The fire was surface-of-the-sun hot. They’ll be lucky to even recover

ashes from Peters.

And with everything curling up in smoke, reaching into the night sky,

the world feels both shattered and right-side up again.

For the first time in a long damn time, my mind’s clear.

I can see better now. I can see myself. How I let guilt and self-

recrimination cripple me. How I shut out my friends for far too long, and a

town that only ever wanted to accept me, secrets and all.

How I held myself back from being who I was meant to be. How it took

this beautiful, marvelous girl shivering against my side to pry my eyes open

and scream, look!

Now, I can’t unsee it.

I was never meant for timid, safe decisions. For hedging my bets. That’s

not how I’m built.

I was always meant to do the right thing. To follow my conscience to hell

and back, and now after so many years, that conscience is crystal clear.

Tearing my gaze from watching Ember starting to snooze against my

side, I see Felicity pull off onto the edge of the service road. Her eyes go to

the rear-view mirror, looking at Nine curiously where he slouches in the

passenger seat.

It’s not hard to tell Felicity is burning up with questions about him,

about everything that happened tonight, but all she asks is, “Is this far

enough?”

Nine lifts his head from his mute brooding, glancing through the

windshield. He’s pulled his hood up again, nothing visible of his face but a

glint of his dark, almost amethyst-flecked eyes and a hint of his chin.

“Yeah,” he says gruffly. “Don’t think anyone will spot me out here.

Thanks.”

He pushes the car door open and steps out. I suck in a deep breath and

stick my hand out.

“Wait,” I say, and he snaps back, peering into the back seat at me. “We

need to talk, Leo.”

He hesitates, then nods stiffly, before turning to trudge up toward the

small bluff rising off the side of the road. It’s a place that looks out over the

valley, offering many glimpses into paths leading off into the woods like a

maze, this dark fairy realm in the trees.

 I look down at Ember, giving her a small squeeze.

We were all crammed back here in the station wagon, me and Ember in

the third row of seats squeezed in by the wheel wells, Warren and Barbara

squished together in the middle seats. She offers me a faint smile, pressing

her hand against my chest.

“Go,” she murmurs, yawning. “I’ll be okay. I may get out and stretch my

legs. And explain to my family what the heck is going on.”

“I’ll be right back. Promise. You won’t be out of my sight again, tonight

or ever.”

Leaning down, I kiss the top of her head. Even saturated in the scent of

smoke and sweat and fear, she still smells amazing.

This indefinable thing that ignites my heart, making it easier to breathe.

Reluctantly, I let her go and open the door, stepping into the night. Even

with summer coming on strong, the breeze is still cool coming down from

the mountains, helping ease a faint singed, crackling dryness on my skin

that tells me I probably came a little closer to roasting alive than I’d like to

admit.

I linger to take it in for a moment, looking up at the stars. Then I turn,

climbing the bluff where Nine forms a melancholy silhouette, looking out

across the valley of our memories.

We stand there for several long minutes in silence, just watching the

skyline.

Fuck. I’ll never forget the tragedy that took place below, but tonight it

looks different.

The sight of that gaping hole in the mountainside, the ruined wreck of

the hotel, no longer has the power to haunt me.

They’re just places.

What took place there is long past.

“So,” Nine finally says, breaking the silence. “Hell of a night.”

I can’t help chuckling. So does he, and then we’re full-on laughing, a

cathartic thing that frees some of the tension built up from the mad flight of

life or death.

It’s been a long time since we laughed together.

And I remember how young we were once, trading idiotic jokes over

beers after work, and challenging each other to games of gin with an old

deck of cards someone left in the lab.

 As our laughter trails off, I sigh.

“Hell of a time,” I echo, slipping my hands into my pockets. “It’s beyond

past time for it to be over.”

“But it’s not over for all of us,” he says, gazing out over the valley.

“It could be.” I hesitate, then continue. “Peters’ death will open a lot of

inquiries. I may have to stand trial to prove it was justified homicide to save

Ember, Warren, Barbara, Felicity...and you, if you’ll let me explain, Leo.

Those questions could make people start asking questions about Galentron.

And if they do, I’m going to come clean. I’ll spill every secret I know to the

right authorities. The lab. SP-73. The test plot. Everything.” I smile grimly.

“Fuchsia might even be willing to back me up with hard evidence. I think

there’s still a piece of a soul left under her scales.”

He lets out a bitter snort. “That’ll be the day.”

“I know.” I let my gaze trail over the silhouette of the mountains. “But

the point is...you could stay, Leo. You could have a life again in the light, in

the world, right here in town. Once people learn the truth about what

happened at the hotel, no court in the world would prosecute you.”

He’s silent for some time. I let him have his thoughts, the air blowing

easy between us.

But finally he says, “Thanks, but no thanks. There’s no explaining

Mayor Bell without proof that asshole was involved, what I did to him.

Fuck, and Clarissa...”

For a second, I open my mouth. But I see the dark, wounded look in his

eyes, too much like poking the gaping wound of some animal.

I fucking hate to admit it, but he’s right. I’m at a loss. With him, it’s

more than just Galentron, even if they were the core of the hell we share.

He’s missing a rock-solid alibi for murder, however justified, and the

woman he loved. And after nearly losing Ember tonight, and coming far too

close to scaring her away, I know how that feels. It’s a minor miracle he’s

even fucking standing, let alone living a rough, mysterious life as a wild man

that would put every survival show finalist to shame.

“Leo, if you’ll just give me a few days to think, maybe I can–”

“No, Gray.” It’s low, heartfelt, a touch of raw emotion in his gritty voice.

“It’s not the right time. Not yet. I won’t give up. Someday, I’ll be back to

sort my shit. Not now.”

 “Why?” I ask in a low voice, reaching for his arm and squeezing.

“What’s really keeping you out here, wandering the mountains and popping

up around town like a ghost?”

“It’s fucking complicated. Don’t even have the words to explain, but I

think in your own way, you get it.”

I follow the way his head turns, looking down the slope, toward where

the entourage in the station wagon waits, gathered around it. Ember,

Barbara, and Felicity are still clinging to each other while Ember mouths

words I can’t hear in that breathless way she has, animated, her eyes on fire

even from this distance. Warren stands off to the side, the protective mastiff

hound watching over them even though there’s no one out here but us.

I linger on Ember.

Yes, dammit. In some strange, heart-wrenching ways, I do understand.

Leo makes a gruff sound. “Don’t put your life on hold any longer for me,

man. I can see you’re ready to just...”

“Just?”

“Fly,” he says. “You’ve been limping on the ground so long, but you’re

ready to fly now. You know what you have to do. Be good to her.”

His back turns, and I hear his heavy footsteps over the brush fade to

nothing.

I linger a little longer, watching that bright, beautiful girl I nearly lost

tonight gesture, while her family stares at her with wide, disbelieving eyes.

He’s too right.

Maybe living out there among the wild for so long has given him some

weird, deeper truths like a monk straight out of legend.

I know what I want to do next.

With Ember, I won’t hesitate any longer.

SMALL TOW N S like Heart’s Edge are like a pond.

When you drop a stone in, it can’t help but make ripples.

How far those ripples go depends on the size of the rock. They may

radiate just a few inches – or they could splash all the way to shore, bounce
off the earth and stone and grass, and roll back in counter-ripples and cross-

ripples and tall waves.

But sooner or later, the pond always smooths again, and the stone sinks

away like it was never there.

After a few weeks of chaos and questions and nonstop local media

attention, the ripples in Heart’s Edge are finally starting to smooth away to

return to normal.

Relatively normal, I suppose, considering I can’t go anywhere in public

without getting mobbed or teased by folks who are starting to call me some

kind of hometown hero.

How ludicrous.

It’s not like I was the only one there that night. Warren and Blake share

just as much responsibility, but since War’s happily married and Blake

won’t be caught dead dating again while he’s got his daughter to raise,

somehow they avoid the annoying attention that gets thrown my way.

Despite the fact that I’ve made my feelings for Ember crystal clear.

I’m taken. Today, tomorrow, forever.

Just because I haven’t put a ring on it yet doesn’t mean I’m available.

And it’s one more good reason I mean to as soon as the right opportunity

presents itself.

Things have just been busy.

Especially since last week, when Fuchsia Delaney became the second

person in the history of Heart’s Edge to escape our tiny prison.

Amazingly enough, the small-town lockup actually has a medical ward,

and she was transferred there for recovery after we rescued her from Pam’s

clutches. She’d always managed to avoid answering questions by pretending

to be too weak, disoriented from blood loss.

Then one day she was gone.

Gone in the loosest sense of the word. She’s still out there somewhere in

the wind.

One day, I know she’ll be back.

I know something else, too. She’s not getting the cat back.

I think of Baxter as our own, now. She’s officially adopted us, and I’ve

gotten used to waking up with that lump of black fur warming our toes.

Almost as easily as I’ve gotten rather used to waking up with Ember in my

arms.
 She looks up at me with her eyes so full of warmth, each day. And each

day it seems like she wants to say something to me, but then falters,

hesitates, and presses her lips to mine, kissing something soft and sweet into

my skin, something she can tell me with touch alone.

She’s looking at me that way again, now, as we stand on the cliff looking

out over the valley and the meadows full of flowers scattered like bright

confetti.

We’ve brought the hummingbird we rescued a while ago. It’s flitting and

darting about the cage in my hands. It’s whole again, nursed back to health

by Ms. Wilma’s caring hand.

And just like me, it’s ready to fly.

We stand together, looking out over the vista. The mountains, the sky,

the dizzying beauty of it all, yet none of it matches the bright, happy peace I

feel when we’re together.

We don’t even need words as I hold the cage high and she opens the

delicate wire door.

The hummingbird hesitates for a moment until it sees a window of

pristine blue.

Then it’s off.

A jewel in flight, racing through the sky, soaring high and slowly

tumbling toward the sweet nectar of the flowers below.

For some time, we linger, the bird cage on the ground, standing hand in

hand.

I’m ready, I swear.

I’m ready and yet my throat still feels like cotton, my heart beats too

hard, and it takes too damn long before I find the nerve to look down at her

and whisper, “Ember—”

She glances up, her eyes wide, murmuring, “Gray…I wanted to—”

We both break off, then laugh. I squeeze her hand. “You first, Firefly.”

“No—no, it can wait. It’s silly.”

“I’m sure it isn’t.” With a smile, I draw her closer. “Whatever it is,

Ember, you can tell me.”

She goes still, looking up at me with those wide eyes. They’re as blue as

the sky reflected in clear, still water, and I see myself in them.

I see someone who isn’t afraid to love her, and never will be again.
 She’s nervous, her fingertips shaky against my palm, her lashes

trembling. I wait, letting her gather herself.

She takes a deep breath, looking away, lowering her eyes and tucking her

hair behind her ear.

“Well, that night everything happened, I wanted to tell you...” Another

deep breath, shivering and slow, her cheeks coloring with a blush that can

catch my attention at any moment. “I love you,” she rushes out.

It’s so quick and yet it’s also a tumble of words that picks up my pulse

and carries it forward. She swallows, her voice thick, staring down at the

drop-off. “I wanted to say it in the fire, but I was so scared. I couldn’t stand

dying without you knowing I love you, but then Nine was there and it

just...it never seemed like the right time. I was scared you’d only said it

because you thought we were going to die, too, and you didn’t mean it and–”

“Firefly. I meant every word. More than anything else I’ve ever said in

my life,” I growl with everything in me. My heart soars as high, as bright, as

fast as the jewel-bright wings of that little hummingbird.

She loves me.

And I love her, too. It’s now or never.

“If that wasn’t true...” I pull away from her just enough to free my hands

and drop to one knee, fishing the ring box from my pocket. Her eyes widen,

a gasp rounding her mouth, her fingers flying to cover her lips as I flip the

lid open on the delicate silver filigree engagement ring. “If it wasn’t true, I

wouldn’t have brought you here for this.”

“Gray!” Her eyes dart from the ring, to me, to the ring, to me, her blush

so fiery red it’s like she’s one with the sunset, blooming in nature’s splendor

all around us. “You don’t...you can’t possibly mean...”

“I do.” Even if it’s too early to say those particular words, I can’t help

but smile. “I love you, September Delwen. And if you’ll have me, I’ll marry

you. I’ve wasted too much time denying everything. Life. Love. You. But I’m

done wasting you, Ember. Can’t make that mistake. You’re meant to be kept.

Cherished.” I clear my throat, and even if I’m trying to sound calm as I

make it official, my entire body tingles with anticipation. “So, Ember,

Firefly, will you marry m—”

Next thing I know, I’m toppled on my back.

Somehow, this little pint-sized teacup of a girl tackles me backward into

the flowers along the edge of the cliff, crying out “Yes!” as she buries her
face in my chest and hugs me tight.

I flump down on the grass and peonies in a shower of displaced petals,

staring up at the sky, trying to figure out how up just turned sideways.

And how the damn ring box just went tumbling from my fingers and fell

over the edge.

Then I remember. Because Ember. That’s how.

Perfectly clumsy. Beautifully spontaneous. Eternally mine, ring or not.

I can’t stop myself from laughing, wrapping my arms around her and

squeezing her tight. “Well,” I say, “there goes six months’ mortgage on the

clinic.”

“Oops! Oh, no.” She pushes herself up, bracing her hands on my chest,

looking down at me sheepishly. She’s biting her lip, trying to restrain her

brilliant smile, but it’s useless. “Sorry, um...do you still want to marry me?”

“Always,” I answer, without a second’s hesitation. “We’ll find the ring

later. For right now,” I curl my hand against the back of her neck, drawing

her down toward me. “I just want to kiss my fiancée.”

That one word, fiancée, makes her light up so brilliantly it’s like she’ll

combust.

There’s this happy squeal spilling out of her as we collide. Our lips meet

and meld with a warmth that could rival the burning sun.

Once, I lost myself in flame.

Then in flame, I was reborn.

Now, it’s flame where I find her, my Firefly, this sweet ember that

ignited the spark inside me and taught me how to live again.

I kiss her with all the incandescent passion rolling through me, the love

that cannot be quenched, blazing eternal as the stars. I’ve claimed her, and

she’s claimed me, and nothing can ever tear us apart.

Not now, or ever.

Our lips part only when there’s no air left to share between us, and she

opens her eyes, looking down at me with all the sweetness and warmth that

drew me to her the first day she tumbled into my arms.

“I know what else we can throw over the edge,” she says, a playful smile

parting her lips. “Feel like cementing an old town legend?”

It takes me a second to realize what she means – and when I do, I groan.

That old story about the lover’s leap, and how many hopeful romantics

throw their flowers over the cliff, praying if they do, it’ll mean their love will
last forever.

It’s a silly story. An urban legend.

But it’s also a story of hope.

And I finally understand what it means to hope, to wish, to want for

something with everything in you.

I hope for, wish for, want forever with Ember.

So I take her hand, our fingers full of peonies, petals, and delicate stems.

The ring doesn’t even matter right now. Maybe it can stay there for a

little while, buried among the flowers, covered over slowly in the blowing

petals of a thousand lovers’ dreams.

We’ve got all that matters right now. Us.

My heart jackhammers something fierce as we toss our flowers into the

wind and make a promise.

Forever.
 25

DOG-GONE RIGHT (EMBER)

M usic has always made me think of my Dad.

When I was a little girl, it was a joyous memory. A memory

filled with light and love and laughter the way only a child’s memories can

be, innocent and untainted and a little naïve, but beautiful.

Growing older, it tempered into a fonder warmth, a strong family bond.

And then it shattered the night he died.

Until even as I remembered the happy times, even as I thought of the joy

music brought into our lives, all I could think of every time I sang, every

time I heard his favorite songs, was agony. The pain of loss.

This is the first time in a long while I’ve been able to sing, and once

again think of nothing but joy.

I think if Dad could be here for my wedding, it would make him happy.

I like to think that he’s looking down at me even now as I stand at the

altar set up in the grass mixed in among the flowers below Heart’s Edge

cliff. We’re in the valley and it’s never been more beautiful.

I look up at my husband-to-be, standing opposite me, so handsome in

his tuxedo with the flowers waving in pink and blue dots around his ankles,

tangling in the train of my clinging sheer lace and silk dress.

This is almost where the ring landed, the day he proposed to me.

This very spot.

So once we found it after a frantic search, we decided to take it as a

message and make our vows official right here.

 Except I’m not saying my vows.

I’m singing them.

Maybe it’s silly. Maybe it’s cheesy. I don’t care.

I feel like loving Gray gave me my voice back, and I want to give it back

to him on the day we make our bond permanent and lasting.

So as the priest gives us our moment to say our vows, that’s when he

hands me the mic hidden in his robe, an arrangement we made in secret

beforehand.

It wouldn’t be my wedding day without one thing. I promptly drop it,

fumbling when I try to catch it in both hands, and it goes tumbling down to

the strip of white satin laid across the grass as our aisle.

The crowd in the rows of flower-decked white folding chairs laugh

fondly – our friends, my family, Gray’s family, his mother in the front row,

his father conspicuously absent.

Honestly, I’m glad, after the things he told me about how the man raised

him. About how one day his mother just divorced him and ran.

About how he learned from his father the kind of man he doesn’t want

to be and made that his model for how he’ll treat me.

I have no doubts there. Even after months together, he treats me like I’m

the most precious thing in his world.

And when I met his mother, she welcomed me like I was her own

daughter.

Right before I dropped the gift basket I’d brought, scattering flowers and

fruit all over her front walk.

It’s a me thing.

It’s not going to change.

Lucky me, Gray doesn’t want it to.

His smile is full of so much warmth as he bends to retrieve the

microphone and presses it into my hands, watching me curiously, the glitter

in his eyes silently asking what I’m up to.

“I believe this is yours?” he teases gently. Another soft laugh ripples

through the crowd.

My mother even manages to laugh between crying, checking out the

single men in the crowd, snapping pictures of Gray’s best men lined up in

their tuxes for her Instagram, and elbowing Felicity to ask when it’s her

turn.
 That’s a her thing.

And I wouldn’t ask her to change, either.

I know she wishes Dad could be here to see this. I’m about to show her,

in my own way, he is.

Right on cue, I lift the microphone to my lips and sing.

It’s the same old song again, the one I loved almost as much as Dad.

“It’s Only a Paper Moon.”

The first song Gray ever heard me sing, the first song I ever sang for him,

and I think that moment made this song more than just my father’s, but my

own.

Just like how Natalie Cole made the song hers, singing her father’s

music.

There’s something in it only I can bring, some deep emotion that

threatens to make me tear up whenever I sing for Gray and ask him, one

more time, to believe in me.

To make our moons as real as the moon up in the night and our skies all

endless blue. To make our seas boundless and true.

And our dreams? That part isn’t really in the song.

But I hope after hearing this, he’ll believe in them enough to make them

real, to make them right, to make them ours forever.

Yep, that’s my vow for our special day.

It’s all the joy inside me given form, all the heart I can pour into every

note.

After today, life gradually goes back to normal.

We’ll have our honeymoon, sailing along the Danube through Germany,

Austria, Romania, touring the quiet, sleepy villages there and finding out if

the flowers grow the same in the meadows far away.

When we come home, I’ll finish moving my things into his place, and

then we’ll go back to the practice as partners.

Every day it’ll be the same awesomeness.

Waking up together. Working together. Taking care of the furry,

feathered, scaly population of Heart’s Edge, whenever I’m not volunteering

as choreographer and director at the new community theater going up next

year.

To some, it might be an ordinary life, an unremarkable one.

 But I just know, with everything in my heart, it’s anything but normal or

bland or unfulfilling.

Every day with Gray will be extraordinary.

Zero doubt.

By the time the last note trails off, his hunter-green eyes are so bright,

his smile so alive. I flush, ducking my head shyly, letting the microphone

drop as I whisper, “That’s it. That’s my vow to you.”

He smiles again and nods, all the wonder and acceptance in his gaze.

“Then this is mine to you.”

Then he buries his fingers in my hair, tangling them in my flower-strewn

veil, and draws me in for a deep kiss.

Gray has always been an intensely physical man, saying so much more,

showing so much more in touch than he sometimes does in words. It’s no

different now.

He kisses me with a slow, sultry reverence that makes me gasp. His

tongue glides over mine, filling me with a heat that has nothing to do with

lust. Well, not everything to do with it.

That kiss is every bit of him.

Nothing held back.

No masks. No deceptions. No denials.

What he gives me with that touch, with that vow, is Gray freaking

Caldwell personified.

It’s the raw honesty of who he is, and a promise that he’ll never hide

anything from me ever again.

There’s so much pure, intense emotion in the sizzle of his lips, in the

way he traces my mouth so softly, it brings tears to my eyes and takes my

breath away.

It’s almost too much to endure, bright and warm and tearing me to

pieces. I’m nearly delirious by the time the pastor clears his throat.

“Now, now,” he teases softly, even if Gray must’ve warned him this was

coming. “It’s not quite time for that yet.”

We break apart with breathless laughs, and I sniff, wiping at my eyes.

Gray meets my gaze, green sparkling like blown glass catching the sun.

Do you understand? he mouths, a secret just for us, and I can’t stop my

smile.

I do, I mouth back, and his smile brightens until it outshines the sun.
 And then I have the chance to say it again, as our officiant resumes the

litany, reciting off those famous words.

To have and to hold, in sickness and in health, for richer and for poorer,

till death do us part.

Does he? Do I?

“I do,” he says with total conviction.

“I do,” I echo, with everything in me.

This time, when we kiss, it’s full of passion, of promise, a thing that we

make together in the heady and breathless tangle of our lips, in the clutch of

our hands.

Around us is music and laughter, applause and joy, but we’re in our own

little world, lifted up by the happiness our people have for us.

The rings on our fingers are just a symbol.

The true bonds are the ones we make together, when I can’t tell where

he ends and I begin.

Suddenly, though, it’s a whirlwind. Our wedding turns into a full-on

party.

Everyone wants to congratulate the newlyweds, wish us well, offer us

drinks, food, gifts. The ceremony rolls seamlessly over into an open-air

reception, and we dance like fairy children in the flowers. My mother steals

my husband for a dance, and from the indulgent laughter, I know she’s

flirting, saying inappropriate things, but I don’t care.

Mom adores Gray. Treats him like family. And that means everything to

me. To give her someone else to love.

I actually end up dancing with Warren, then Blake, before Haley herself

takes me for a spin just to prove she’s a better dancer than her husband.

Eventually, though, the reception breaks down into quiet socializing, and we

glide among groups, my arm hooked in Gray’s. We stop and speak with all

our guests, thanking them for all the kind gifts that make it so easy for a

new couple to start a life together.

Most of them involve coffee. Thanks, Felicity.

It’s almost like everyone just knows we’re both workaholics, though, and

there’ll be no settling into life as a happy homemaker for me.

Gray and I are always up with the dawn, out the door together, chugging

our breakfast in his shiny new truck on the way to the clinic.
 It’s funny how people come to know you so well in a small town. I

guess, deep down, that’s why I like it.

LITTLE BY LITTLE, evening becomes night, and the string lights hanging

around the meadow switch on.

We manage to steal a quiet moment together, looking out over the valley,

leaning hard on each other to catch our breaths. I study him and realize what

he’s thinking.

I feel a presence, one unseen, shadowy but watching. I can’t help looking

over my shoulder into the darkness of the trees, searching, before I rest my

cheek to Gray’s shoulder.

“I’m sorry Nine couldn’t be here,” I tell him, leaning hard on his arm,

and he rests his chin to the top of my head.

“One day,” he murmurs. “But until then, I’ll do everything for him I

can.”

“I know you will. Because you’re a good man, Gray Caldwell.” I smile,

snuggling deeper into him. “My man.”

“Oh?” he lilts teasingly. “Possessive now, are we?”

“I stole you from the jackals. So, yeah, I think that counts.” I hook my

arm firmly in his. “And I’m going to keep you for a good, long while.”

He bursts into laughter, then – that rich, warm, full-bodied laughter that

was once so rare and now lights up my day.

“Ah, Firefly,” he growls, drawing me up to kiss me. “You act like it was

almost impossible. Truth is, the moment you walked into my clinic, nobody

else ever had a chance.”

NO ONE ever tells you your own wedding is exhausting.

I’m worn out and never want to see another pair of heels again by the

time we stop back at the house to change into comfortable travel clothes and

fetch our bags.

 We’d meant to run off in a faux-kidnapping, traditional style, toward the

end of the reception, but so many people wanted to talk to us and

congratulate us and love us.

We couldn’t just pull away until the end of the night.

We still have time to catch our flight to Austria and make our cruise

ship.

I just think I might sleep the entire flight, rather than basking in the

afterglow of being the newly-minted Mrs. Ember Caldwell.

Basking can come after I’ve had a nap.

I end up dozing in the airport, barely waking up long enough to board

the flight before I crash out again, snuggled against Gray’s side. I’m not sure

if he sleeps at all on the trip, or just spends the hours quietly watching the

lights of the world go by below.

It’s a happy, calm eternity before we touch down in Passau on the

German-Austrian border.

We’ve got a wonderful week planned in Vienna, Bratislava, Budapest,

but what I want to see most are the smaller towns along the rivers, the

places that make real homes in every street just like Heart’s Edge.

I will. Soon.

But another kind of wonder captures me while boarding our cruise ship

on the Danube and being escorted to the honeymoon suite.

It’s all silver and blue, like moonlight and water.

From the sunken bath to the ornate decorations, you’d never think we

were on a boat, but rather a state-of-the-art luxury hotel. And with a little

whimper of delight, I drop my bags and toss myself onto the lush bed,

stretching out limbs made sore by a twelve-hour flight until I no longer feel a

single cramp.

Aw, yeah.

The deep, plush mattress soaks all the aches and pains right out of me.

My husband – God, I love saying that, my husband – is more reserved,

following me into the room and setting our bags neatly aside before

loosening his shirt’s collar. He sinks down on the edge of the bed, leaning

over to watch me with a touch of wickedness in his eyes.

“Hello, wife,” he whispers softly.

I’ll admit it: I shiver a little inside, way more thrilled than I should be

just hearing it.

 Wife. His. Forever.

“Hello, husband,” I murmur back, reaching up to trace my fingertips

over his lips. “Don’t look at me like that.”

He kisses my fingers, capturing my hand and stroking his thumb over

my palm. “Like what?”

“Like you’re thinking about consummating our marriage this very

second.”

Gray laughs, a low, deep chuckle, sinful in his chocolate baritone.

“Woman, I’ve been thinking of consummating our marriage since the

instant you said I do.” His eyes gleam darkly, hot green, as he bends down

toward me, bringing his delicious mouth within reach. “This is just the first

time I’ve managed to get you on a bed since we said our vows.”

“Welllll...” I draw the word out softly. “Technically, it’s not

consummating our vows if I’m not still in my wedding lingerie, is it?”

“That’s a formality. But if you’d like to show me if you’re still wearing

it...” His gaze slips down my body, across my clinging tank top and the cute

little white capris I like because of how they hug my thighs. “Are you?”

His fingertip hooks in the waist of my capris, tugging gently, and I

smirk.

“Actually, it’s worse,” I say, pushing myself up, leaning to whisper in his

ear with my best teasing tone. “I’m not wearing anything under this at all.”

His gaze sharpens. A growl rumbles in his chest. One possessive, thickly

scarred hand curls against my hip, his very strength making me feel delicate

and small.

“Are you trying to bait me, wife?”

“Yes, husband,” I say, nipping at his ear. “And it’s working.”

Oh, God, is it working.

In a split second, he shoves me down on my back in a rough breath,

tumbling down so fast it almost winds me as he moves over me. His full

cock strains between my legs.

It’s like he’s desperate, wild to prove for himself that I’m naked

underneath my clothes.

He doesn’t even strip me before he ignites.

Raging heat on my neck, his hands rough on my skin, and it only takes

one graze of his hand across my breasts to make my nipples peak, magically

sensitive without the shielding layer of my bra, and when his knee nudges
between my thighs, the capris push up between my folds and rub and rub

and rub.

I think we set a new record, being this wet for Gray this fast.

I’m totally indecent.

I’ve been insanely wet this whole time, but as long as he wasn’t turning

me on, no one could tell.

Now, though...

My nipples strain against my thin tank top. I’m soaking my capris, so

ready for him already with just the lightest touch. He does that to me.

Ever since the first time he touched me, I’ve done nothing but crave.

And ever since he proposed, I’ve been rampant. Jumping him every

chance I get if the night doesn’t end in him slamming me against the nearest

wall.

But today, the start of our honeymoon? Watch the heck out.

I’m addicted to him. Shamelessly hooked to the pleasure he gives, the

heat he taught me, the way he touches my body like he’ll make sure I never

crave another’s flesh against my skin.

And he shows me how well he knows me as he teases my clothes away,

leaving me naked against the silvery-soft embroidered satin duvet of our

fancy bed.

This feels more raw, somehow.

More real.

My body more sensitive, more hotly attuned to him.

But it feels like my first time in forever tasting him, touching him,

feeling him as his wife.

This is my first time drawing him to me as my husband, kissing him

with the knowledge that this man – this strange, frustrating, wonderful,

kind, protective man – has promised himself to me and only me for the rest

of our natural lives.

The power in that truth is enough to leave me shaken, flayed raw as I

kiss him deep, tasting him the way he so often tastes me, only to go limp as

his mouth seizes mine and teases me into submission.

I’m helpless beneath him. He pins my wrists to the bed over my head

with one broad hand, leaving me at the mercy of his every devouring,

scorching touch, kiss, bite.

He once taught me what my body was capable of.

 But now it feels like he’s showing me something new all over again,

taking me to new heights I never knew existed.

My mind goes blank as pleasure rolls through me again and again.

It’s a tide washing in and out, over and over, eroding my ability to

control myself until I’m a writhing mess as Gray gently digs at my throat

with his teeth, sucks at my nipples, leaves those sweet, maddening bites all

over my breast, my stomach, my waist, my thighs.

My pussy hurts with want. Combusts underneath his touch.

His fingers are cruel in their sweetness, in how he knows every place to

caress and probe. He’s mastered me, making me clench my thighs together,

then spreads them apart so I beg.

I plead for his touch, for his everything, and as much as he seems to

enjoy tormenting me, even he has limits.

There’s a wild glint, a fire in his eyes that says he’s coming undone like

me.

And I live for the moment when he finally snaps.

It’s something about the way I say his name when he pushes me to a

certain brink.

“Gray!” I taste it, rolling it on my tongue as surely as licking his flesh.

He shudders, growling deep, almost punishing me with the plunge of his

fingers inside me and making me cry out, thrashing against the bed, fighting

the hand crushing my wrists into the sheets. Oh, holy hell.

I’m liquid. I’m fire. I’m a thousand contradictions in this storm of

pleasure and desire, and I want to become the storm itself if he’ll just

flipping fill me.

It’s like he knows I can’t take anymore. The thrust of his fingers stops. I

still feel him, though.

I still feel that rhythm pulsing through me like I’ve absorbed the sway

and flow of the boat, this echo of what I really want. I’m always so shy

about asking for what I want, but today, I can’t be.

Today I wrap my thighs around his hips, lift myself against him, and rub

my entire dripping-wet slit against the length of his cock, painting him in

me, stroking myself with him.

“Fucking hell, Firefly,” Gray snarls. His head falls, hanging between his

shoulders, suffering and straining to control himself.

One mighty thrust is all it takes.

 He drives himself into me, spearing so deep in a single hard shock that I

feel him engulfing my pussy. Pleasure ripples through me from my pulsing

core all the way to the tips of my fingers and toes.

I scream. I clutch him with my thighs. I throw my hips and pull him

deeper.

And, of course, I remember that animal night under the stars, and the

beast that had me then possesses me now as I give myself to him with total

abandon.

I’ll always give myself like this.

Everything I have, everything I am, everything I love, it’s property of

Gray Caldwell now.

His.

And I show him with my body. My voice. My bright, rolling eyes.

With how I open for him, taking him deeper, begging him for every

brutality and tenderness and savagery he can gift to me.

When I say his name over and over again, reminding him with every

thrust that tears me open and pierces me deep and marks me from inside,

it’s permanent.

I belong to Gray Caldwell. In all his complexity, in all his strangeness, in

all the wonder and mystery that his secrets give to me. It doesn’t matter what

he hides from the world. It doesn’t matter what’s in his past.

What matters is in his heart, and what’s in his heart is mine, as much as

what’s in my heart is his.

That’s how we go down, crashing headlong into ecstasy together. I’m a

full body throb as he pins me down, baring his teeth, emptying himself in

me with a roar that everyone else on board can probably hear.

No shame. Not even when he pulls me into his arms with a parting,

affectionate smack on one buttcheek.

“Goddamn, Firefly. What have you done to me?” It just might be the

happiest question in the world. I see how his eyes twinkle as he wraps my

hair around his fingers and brings me in for a kiss.

Isn’t that the mystery? The same thing I wonder about what he’s done to

me.

Maybe in our long life ahead, together, we’ll figure it out.

And maybe if we ever find an answer, we’ll do the impossible – love

more truly, more deeply, more beautifully than this sweetness we share right
now.

Is it even possible to do better than perfection?

With Gray, I think the wild, impossible answer might be a yes.

TH ANKS FO R R E A D I NG No Good Doctor! Look for more Heroes of

Heart's Edge coming soon.

Hungry for more Doc and Ember?

Sign up for my newsletter to check out their small town married life

years later in this fun flash forward read. - https://dl.bookfunnel.com/

dp1e6l4bwn
 Then read on for a preview of another Heart's Edge badass, Warren Ford

in No Perfect Hero.
 NO PERFECT HERO PREVIEW

Drop Down With The Top Down (Haley)

There’s nothing like a drive across the Pacific Northwest with the top down

and the summer wind in your hair to make a girl feel human again.

Sure, it’s a little bit of a cliché.

The typical girls’ road trip, me and my niece in a convertible sipping

strawberry smoothies every hundred miles, the sun beaming down on us like

Zeus blowing a kiss. It's too perfect.

You'd almost think I'm totally not running away from my problems,

darting off to the middle of nowhere to find myself after a colossal

heartbreak.

But when you walk in on your ex-fiancé with your ex-best-friend-ex-

bridesmaid in a fitting room with the ugly bridesmaid’s dress you paid for

hiked up around her hips and his untailored tux down around his ankles...

You earn the right to be a cliché.

I’d say I’ve earned a lot more than that.

Especially after I found my layoff notice sitting in my inbox.

Right-sizing. That's what they called the terminations at the massive

faceless mega-corporation I called my day job. I was out the door with an

awkward hug and a mumbled half apology from my supervisor.

Then – oh, but then – everything really went to hell in a handbasket.

My side gig – my true passion – got tanked when the gallery I’d been

working with practically pitched my paintings in a dumpster.

 Low sales, they said. Lack of interest.

They might as well have pulled an Angela Bassett.

Get your shit, get your shit, and get out.

So I got my shit.

I packed it in the back of my sister’s borrowed classic convertible – a

pretty midnight blue shimmer 1988 Ford Mustang. I kidnapped my sister’s

ten-year-old daughter, Tara, because she’s better company than some

backstabbing, fiancé-stealing best friend anyway.

And now that I’m knee-deep into being a cliché, I wish we were leaving

Vegas.

But we're actually leaving Seattle so I can start a new life in Chicago.

We'll steal a spare room at my old college friend Julie’s house for a month

or two until I can get a new job and pay the rent on a place of my own.

I’ll give the kid back eventually, I guess.

In a few weeks, when her parents get home from Hawaii.

I’ll care about responsibility later.

Right now, I’ve got the mountains on the horizon, tall trees all around,

the wind in my hair, the sun on my back, and enough of a grudge against life

that I’m good with not making big decisions for a while.

I’ll figure out what to do after I get to Chicago and see what the local

job ads serve up. It’s a big city. Lots of opportunities.

Until then, I’ll enjoy the drive. The open road.

Sweet freedom I've prepaid for with a savage bee sting to the heart.

Tara snoozes half asleep in the passenger seat, her dark brown hair

whipping across her face. She’s a sun baby, dozing in the heat, curled up like

a cat perched on a summer stone.

The radio shifts as we pass out of one zone into another, and she stirs at

the crackle, yawning and scrubbing at one eye. “Auntie Hay?” she mumbles.

I hate when she calls me that. Mostly because it makes me feel old when

my first instinct is to say hay is for horses, baby – and twenty-five is way too

young to be throwing out that spinster crap.

But she’s too adorable for me to twig her about it, so I glance over from

watching the road, offering her a smile. “Morning.”

She blinks at me drowsily. “It’s afternoon...isn't it?”

“Not to you, apparently.” I check the GPS.

 We’re just past Lolo National Forest and Missoula after a quick pit stop

in Glacier National Park for Tara's sake. We swung up to Whitefish to take

in the scenery. Next stop should be Billings. There's maybe a day or two of

driving to Chicago after that, but it’s not time to look for a hotel for the night

just yet.

Tara's little hand goes over her yawning mouth.

“You hungry? There might be a place to stop in the next hour or so.”

Tara scrunches up her nose. “Maybe. I kinda need to pee,” she

complains, and I bite back a laugh.

There’s just something about kids and their shameless honesty.

I could use a little honesty in my life again.

I glance back at the GPS. There’s a town up ahead, not even named, just

a little dot on the map and an off-ramp marker in about five minutes.

They’ll have a gas station, at least. Hopefully a sanitary one – or some

kind of restaurant.

I squint through the windshield, picking out the reflective green sign in

the distance, and merge over into the right lane to take the off-ramp that

leads down through a dense, tree-lined slope of land.

But just as we’re cruising onto the ramp, the Ford starts to sputter.

My stomach sinks.

Uh-oh. That’s never a good sign.

This beast is still moving, though.

I manage to get to the bottom of the off-ramp where the road curves

around toward a little town in the distance, picturesque and dusty and a little

too Norman Rockwell. Almost like it’s been plucked out of those ubiquitous

paintings in hotel rooms by artists you’ve never heard of but who’ve

probably made a killing selling enough prints for every last Motel 6 down

every stretch of Highway Americana.

I’m just not sure we’re going to make that Rockwellian little town.

Not when the Mustang keeps coughing and slowing and when I curse,

mashing my foot against the gas pedal, all I get is Tara gasping and

whispering, “Swear jar!” and not an ounce more juice.

At least we make the turn.

And manage to coast forward about another hundred feet before the last

little bit of oomph I get out of the Mustang sends us floating over onto the

shoulder like an oversized yacht caught in a current.

 That’s what it feels like, trying to maneuver this long, bulky car after its

get-up-and-go just got-up-and-went. Exactly like trying to steer a big, heavy

boat against the current, but that boat doesn’t want to go anywhere but

down.

The Mustang sputters out with a little grunt, like it’s settling in and

telling me it’s giving up.

I try the key in the ignition, but the engine only makes a wheezing,

rattling sound without turning over. Well, crap.

Craaaaaaaaap.

My sister’s going to kill me if I killed her car. It was a gift from her

husband on her thirtieth birthday.

She's one of the lucky ones who found a guy who gets her. Instead of

sleeping with her best friend, John buys her gifts that suit her tastes.

She must’ve snagged the last good one. Because I swear every man I’ve

met in the last five years – including the one I'd planned to marry – is trash.

Okay. Whew.

I’m bitter. I’m angry. Breathe in, breathe out.

Life goes on.

That's what I keep telling myself, a daily mantra.

And surely my brother-in-law can’t really be the last decent man on

Earth.

I have bigger worries right now, anyway.

Clenching my fists on the steering wheel, I stare between them. “Well,

kiddo,” I say. “Hope you don’t mind peeing on the side of the road.”

“Why can’t I go there?” she asks. “I bet they have a bathroom.”

She’s leaning over the passenger side door and squinting across the field

to the right of the car. I follow her gaze, squinting through the light.

I hadn’t even noticed where we’d pulled off, too focused on trying to

make the damn car move.

But there’s some kind of...hotel? Inn?

I’m not sure what it is, but it looks like a vacation lodger’s dream.

There’s a tall three-story house set far back in the field, lined with columns

in the front. It's surrounded by well-tended greenery. Pretty shade trees are

scattered across the manicured lawn, precisely spaced along little cobbled

paths leading between a cluster of cottages, some singles, some duplexes.

 The entire portrait is set against the backdrop of distant, smoky-looking

mountain ranges beyond a steep cliff, and that Rockwellian feeling gets even

stronger as I catch the sign hanging from a post up ahead.

Charming Inn.

Huh.

Well, maybe the name fits because it is charming.

Even if a city slicker girl like me probably sticks out like a sore thumb

here, I hope the locals will be friendly. At least hospitable enough to let a

kid use their bathroom.

I can’t let Tara suffer much longer. She’s squirming around, thighs

pressed together, and I flash her a smile and get out of the car, slamming the

door and reaching in the back for my overnight bag and her backpack.

“Come on,” I say and offer her my hand. “Let’s go meet the locals.”

We push the quaint little white picket fence open and quick-time it up

the central walk to the main house. It’s an old plantation-style building,

really strange to see here in Middle America, but it’s been fitted out to be a

hotel, it looks like.

There's a little bronze plaque to one side of the door, listing the lobby

hours. When we step inside the carpeted, Victorian-furnished lobby, a small

bell over the door rings. Behind the broad, glossy front desk, a faint snort

sounds.

Followed by a crash, as the sleeping occupant of a tipped-back chair

jerks and goes tumbling down to the floor.

Tara gasps with surprise – then squeaks, whimpering, dancing from foot

to foot and clutching my hand tighter. “Auntie Hay...”

I glance around quickly, then notice the sign on the far wall with the

little male and female symbols and an arrow. “There, sweetie,” I urge,

pointing. “Down the hall. Go.”

Tara takes off at a crab-legged trot. I watch her for a moment, then lean

over the front desk, peeking in tentatively. “Um, hello? Sir? Are you okay?”

A rheumy-eyed older man pushes himself up off the burgundy-carpeted

floor, using the toppled wing chair to haul himself upright before grunting

and flipping it over to stand properly again.

He spikes his short-cropped silvering hair with one hand, leaning on the

chair with the other, eyeballing me as if he's not quite sure what to make of

me before grunting and offering a reluctant smile.

 “I’m fine, ma'am. Takes more than a tumble to kill this old ticker.” He

thumps his narrow, reedy chest. “Something I can help you with?”

“I hope so.” I flash a smile. “My niece needed to use your restroom,

sorry. But we’re in a little trouble. Our car broke down right outside your

inn, and I'm afraid we're stuck.”

“Well, now...”

He rubs his stubbled chin. He’s very jowly for such a thin, willowy man,

like his face is melting. I know that look and try not to let my own frown

show. He’s a heavy drinker, and it’s aging him fast.

I'll never forget that look for anything after Dad...

I don’t know if it makes me feel softer toward the old man. Or just more

bitter toward the first man who taught me people would always find a way to

destroy themselves, and usually they don't have to look real hard to find it.

Dad grabbed the first opportunity when life went sour, one bottle at a

time.

But the stranger smiles again, disarming and almost self-deprecating, as

if he knows the picture he presents and how people judge. He shrugs.

“We’ve got a mechanic here in town. Good ‘un, too. It’s late in the day, and

you might get a tow, but you’re not getting a fix to get out of here by

sundown. We’re all booked up on short stay rooms...but we’ve got a half-

duplex available in one of the extended stay vacation rentals. It’s even got a

mountain view.”

I frown. As nice as it sounds, I know it means money.

I’m operating on a limited budget since I basically tossed most of what I

own and took off on my last paycheck, plus what I could sell back from the

wedding that never happened and ate my entire savings.

I’ll have to pay for the car repair, too. I’m crunching numbers in my

head, and it doesn’t look good. “I don’t know if I can afford something like

that.”

“It’s all I’ve got, and we’re the only hotel in town.” He folds his arms on

the counter and leans toward me. I catch a faint whiff of rum, but not

enough to drive me back. “Listen. I’m not about to let a lady in distress and

a little girl sleep in their dang car in a strange town. I’ll give you a

discounted rate. Only charge you what I would for a single room. How’s that

sound?”

I twist my lips. “Name your rate.”

 “Sixty-five per night. How's that sound?”

I whistle softly. That’s really not bad at all.

Back in Seattle, sixty-five dollars a night wouldn’t even get you one of

those cheap motels with the anonymously painted prints. More like the kind

of place where people pay to live there by the week and police are in the

parking lot every night. A place like this – half an entire duplex?

Yeah. I’d say we just lucked out when it comes to places to break down.

I look out the window, pretending to mull it over a little longer.

What do I have to lose?

The scenery’s nice, the atmosphere’s pretty, the lodgings are cheap...and

I could use a little downtime somewhere quiet and relaxing to get past my

Bitter Betty stage and move on with life.

Maybe it's meant to be.

I nod, imagining the next week. We’ll stay until the Mustang’s fixed,

then onward to Billings.

“All right. Sold,” I say, digging in my purse for my wallet and my credit

card. “Who’s in the other side of the duplex, by the way? Just so I won’t

bother them.”

“Oh—him.” The way he says it is a half snort. Almost ominous, but he

waves it off with a shake of his head. “Don’t worry, miss. He’ll keep to

himself. He’s just a harmless grouch. Minds his own business 'cause that's

all he ever minds. You probably won’t even see him.”

I arch a brow but pass my credit card across with a shrug.

Everybody’s got their own way of doing things, and I’m not one to

judge. I’ll likely want to be left alone myself, minus the always entertaining

company of my pint-sized sidekick.

“Is it too late to call the mechanic to at least get a quote?” I ask,

watching him punch in my information on the keyboard behind the desk.

“Nah. I’ll ring him up for you while y'all get settled. I need your number

anyway for the register.”

“Thanks.” I rattle off my number quickly, along with my old home

address and billing zip code.

Technically, I guess right now I’m homeless. I wasted no time walking

the hell out and breaking our lease after Eddy's two-timing escapades, but

the old Seattle digits will do for now.

 While my trusty attendant hums to himself, I turn around, taking in the

room around me.

This place has a soft touch to it, little vases full of fresh-cut pink peonies

everywhere, gauzy white curtains draped over the windows so the sunlight

makes them glow as it streams in. The light gives the room a sort of quiet,

muted radiance.

It’s nice. I’d like to paint the special way the light beams in, turning

almost misty as it slants across the carpet. Whoever owns this place has an

eye for comfort, and I throw a glance back at the front desk, suspecting it's

not him.

Perfect timing. The old man’s done, printing out my receipt to sign, and

pushing a key across the desk just as Tara comes out of the bathroom,

moving in that prim, princess-like way that says she’s got her groove back

with her bladder weighing a pound less, thank you very much.

I toss her a grin and turn to thank the old man, swiping the key and my

card in exchange for a pen scribble.

“Thanks,” I say. “What’s your name?”

“Flynn,” he answers. “Flynn Bitters. At your service anytime.”

“Thanks, Mr. Bitters,” I say, lifting my hand in a wave. “Just have the

mechanic give me a call. No need to rush, we can probably stay a few days.”

Tara looks up at me with wide eyes as we step outside into the brisk,

warm summer afternoon. “We’re...staying here?”

“Just for a little while,” I answer. “Call it a mini-vacay until the car’s

straightened out. We’ll soak up the sun, kick up our feet, maybe take in the

sights and try some local food. This place looks fun.”

She wrinkles her nose. “I dunno, Auntie Hay. It’s so tiny...there wasn’t

even a name on Google.”

“There was a name on the sign we passed,” I point out and grin. “My

darling tagalong, welcome to the illustrious town of Heart’s Edge.”

The numbered duplex cabin we’ve been assigned to is actually around the

back of the main plantation house, almost toward the far edge of the

property.
 Good. Plenty of privacy.

It’s one of the larger cottages, made of unfinished dark wood, maybe

cedar or fir. Just looking at it screams it's modernly simplistic and sweetly

rustic with its wooden siding and wraparound porch and tall floor-to-ceiling

windows to the sides and back.

But what really gives it soul is the view. The whole unit looks out on a

long slope leading down to a cliff with a stunning valley view rolling right

up the foot of the mountains.

My heart does a somersault when I'm really able to stop and breathe and

take it in.

There’s even a hot tub out back. I find it while we're scouting around the

little porch, which is settled right in the middle. So, no question that the

occupants of both sides either have to share or come up with some kind of

scheduling agreement. There’s no one around, though, so once we’re tucked

away and settled in, I might just take a little dip to get rid of the soreness

from driving.

Once we’ve finished snooping around outside, we step back up the porch

stairs and try the key in the lock on the left side. It jiggles and...doesn't do

anything.

No go. Weird.

Bitters must've told us the wrong number. He told us we were Cabin 31-

A, not 31-B.

No big deal. I slip the key into the lock for 31-B on the right side, and it

twists open immediately.

We step into a cozy space, full of light shining off soft wood tones, with

furniture in dark, earthy, welcoming shades. It’s a little like Martha Stewart

meets Mountain Home Magazine, and I’m loving the vibe.

My niece creeps in shyly behind me, peering around.

“We're fine. Looks newer in here than I would've guessed.” I flash Tara a

disarming smile and dump my bag on the sofa. “Let’s check out the beds.

This place looks big enough that we might even get separate bedrooms.”

“If we don’t,” she says chirpily, already heading toward the hall, “we can

just act like it’s a sleepover!”

I can’t help watching her fondly as I follow.

She’s so resilient, so adaptable, putting the best face on everything. I

miss when I was still that bright and optimistic and easily excited. But heck,
maybe I can take a life lesson or two from a ten-year-old bumblebee.

Find the bright side to everything, appreciate new, and just move on.

But I'm too busy moving into the first bedroom off the hall to guess

what's coming.

A big, rough hand grips my shoulder, spins me around, and the wall

thumps hard against my back.

Holy –

Before I even have time to blink, there's a behemoth on me, a charging

bull, appearing out of nowhere, walling me off in muscle and pine scent and

dark, wily ink.

I'm too shocked to even scream.

So I yelp instead, my heart rocketing up the back of my throat, my pulse

spiking.

Half a second later, I'm staring up into a grim, tight-locked, sharply

handsome face and livid, hard blue eyes that bore into me as this giant of a

man bears down.

He tightens his grip. Pins me to the wall with enough strength to make

me feel like a gnat and enough body heat to make me feel like I’ve stepped

into a furnace, burning off him in waves that touch me from head to toe.

“How the fuck did you get in here?” he demands, snarling low, a

vibrating growl I can practically feel slamming into me. “Who sent you?

Does Bress know? Is he coming?”

Holy hell.

This is new, and I'm frozen.

I’m not used to oversized men grabbing me and barking questions.

My brain can’t decide between panic and anger or whether this asshole

is getting handsy with me.

It settles on deer in headlights. Or maybe possum. Yep, that’s me.

Trigger my fight or flight instinct, and I don’t do either.

I just lock up.

Don’t ever ask me to have your back in a bar fight. I’m useless.

Tara’s more useful, though, because as she comes out of the other

bedroom and gets one look at us, she belts out a shriek that could lift roofs

for the next mile.

The giant whips back, letting go of one of my shoulders and whirling

toward her.
 Then I guess I’m not so useless after all.

Because the very second it looks like he’s even thinking about going

near Tara, everything in me fires up and I shove his other hand away

roughly, glowering.

“Get your hands off me, you prick!” I snap.

He just blinks, dumbfounded, his massive fists suddenly hanging at his

sides.

He’s tall – Redwood tall, to the point where I’m not quite sure how he

fits in the hallway when his head is almost brushing the ceiling, his black

hair a tangle just an inch away from the stucco.

His t-shirt looks more like something he painted on over thick, corded

muscle with not an ounce of softness over chisels hard enough to cut

someone. The blue fabric seems only subtly different from the texture of the

tattoos snaking down his thick, bulging arms – a maze of patterns, stylized

letters, and one simple one with the name Jenna etched in tiny script.

He drags a hand over his bearded face, the calluses on his palms audibly

scraping against his stubble, still staring at Tara.

“Fuck. That,” he growls, “is a kid.”

“No shit, Sherlock,” I bite off. “And she’s with me. Stay away from her.”

He jerks back toward me.

Big mistake.

Without waiting around for another opportunity, I smash my purse

across his bluntly handsome jaw, whipping it across his face hard enough to

hopefully leave fucking alligator hide imprints in his swarthy skin.

He staggers back with a grunt. I dash past him, grabbing Tara’s hand and

bolting for the door. “Come on!”

I should’ve known I wouldn’t get far. Goliath may be huge, but he moves

like a cobra – lightning quick and lethal. We make it three steps back to the

living room before he’s dodging around us, cutting us off, blocking the exit.

Tara and I both draw up short, stumbling back.

“Move,” I growl, hefting my purse again threateningly.

Sure, it can't do much damage, but I doubt it’s fun eating a face full of

leather.

Goliath folds his arms over his chest, squaring himself up and looking

down at me sternly. “Not till I get some answers, lady,” he snarls.

 “Answers to what? I just walked in here, and you started throwing me

around like a freaking ping pong ball!”

“Yeah. You walked into my suite so—”

“Correction: it’s our suite,” I fling back, my face hot with frustration,

brandishing the key like a tiny dagger. “Bought and paid for. I don’t know

what the hell you’re doing in here. Maybe you should be the one giving

some answers.”

Before I can even pull back, he yanks the key out of my hand.

Son of a—

“God damn.” He swears, peering at the key, then scrubs one hand over

his face with a tired groan. When he looks at me again, he actually looks

apologetic, his sky-blue eyes darkening to a simmering liquid cobalt. “Flynn

gave you the wrong key. Sorry.” His jaw tightens. “Move along. I’ll get this

straightened out.”

I bite my lip. I really don’t like being ordered around like this.

But I also don’t want to be standing in the middle of the Incredibly

Pissed Off Hulk's living space.

Reluctantly, I drag myself outside as he throws the door open for us,

Tara trailing in my wake.

God. I really hope he prefers keeping to himself. Because the thought of

spending a few days bumping into this jackass again just put a major damper

on my idea of a relaxing mini-vacation.

But as he steps out onto the porch, slams the door, and locks it, I can’t

help lingering on the tight taper of his body as he walks away.

Why is it always the hot ones with personalities like an acid bath?

Even if he’s a jackass, he’s nice to look at.

Those jeans love his hips too much, and they seem pretty fond of his

thighs, too.

His shoulders roll as he lopes with that kind of powerful strength that

says half of it comes from learning to carry and manage his own massive

bulk.

And his ink...Lord have mercy. We're talking tattoos so wild, so intense,

so intricate they call to my artist's soul like a raging fire lures every moth.

I only got a few good looks at his scowling face, and it wasn't half bad

either.
 Midnight-blue eyes. Trimmed beard. Hair just a little too dark and thick,

joining with his beard to form a rough halo of explosive testosterone around

his face.

So there’s something about that.

Something I like.

Maybe it's because Eddy was nothing like him, skinny and refined and

boy pretty.

Maybe it's because Eddy hid his rotten personality too well, while Mr.

Goliath wears his asshole badge on his sleeve.

Maybe it's because I'm still just trying to decipher what the hell even

happened.

See? I am picking up Tara’s habits, looking at the bright side.

Tara frowns, draping herself against the porch railing, watching him go.

“He was kind of a butt, wasn't he, Auntie Hay?”

“Swear jar,” I remind her and sigh, leaning next to her. “I think he’s our

new neighbor for the next few days.”

“Where’s he going?”

“I guess,” I say, “he’s going to swap our key.”

I can't shake that gnawing feeling as we stand around a little longer.

Please, just this once, let something go right.

Please just let the key swap be the end of my drama with this caveman

and his temper tantrums.

Want to read more? Get No Perfect Hero HERE!

 ABOUT NICOLE SNOW

Nicole Snow is a Wall Street Journal and USA Today bestselling author. She found her love of writing

by hashing out love scenes on lunch breaks and plotting her great escape from boardrooms. Her work

roared onto the indie romance scene in 2014 with her Grizzlies MC series.

Since then Snow aims for the very best in growly, heart-of-gold alpha heroes, unbelievable suspense,

and swoon storms aplenty.

Already hooked on her stuff? Sign up for her newsletter here for exclusive offers and more from your

favorite characters!

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Her website is nicolesnowbooks.com

Got a question or comment on her work? Reach her anytime at nicole@nicolesnowbooks.com

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MORE BOOKS BY NICOLE

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