Table of Contents
Title Page
Hateful Desire
Copyright
Dedication
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
A word from the author...
Thank you for purchasing this publication of The Wild Rose Press, Inc.
Praise for Marianne Willis
“Interesting and fun story. I absolutely love HATEFUL DESIRE. This was well written with great dialogue and good pacing.”
~Jena Baxter
~*~
“I found myself looking forward to reading more. I love the conflict. The character development is extremely nice and I love how Marianne pushed the plot along very subtly. Very nice indeed.”
~D.C Stone
~*~
“I’m tickled to death to read characters who don’t get along but are undoubtedly attracted to each other! The interaction between Amber and Chay is brilliant!”
~Sarah Few
~*~
“As usual, Marianne’s writing is perfect, her sense of humor wonderful, and her characters both unlikeable and lovable at the same time.”
~Louise Michel
~*~
“This is such a fun story. I love how Amber has this dangerous, but totally hot, werewolf stuck with her for the next week. It’s the perfect set-up for all kinds of problems and tension.”
~Kara White
~*~
“I am really hooked on this story. I can feel the tension between the two main characters. These two are like water and oil!”
~Aurora St. Clair
Hateful Desire
by
Marianne Willis
The Bonded Series, Book Two
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales, is entirely coincidental.
Hateful Desire
COPYRIGHT © 2014 by Marianne Willis
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission of the author or The Wild Rose Press, Inc. except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews.
Contact Information: [email protected]
Cover Art by Debbie Taylor
The Wild Rose Press, Inc.
PO Box 708
Adams Basin, NY 14410-0708
Visit us at www.thewildrosepress.com
Publishing History
First Black Rose Edition, 2014
Print ISBN 978-1-62830-579-1
Digital ISBN 978-1-62830-580-7
The Bonded Series, Book Two
Published in the United States of America
Dedication
To my gorgeous cousin, Ashleigh:
From the moment I showed you the first chapter of
this book, you expressed nothing but excitement.
Your praise was a wonderful encouragement,
and I’ll never forget our personal jokes related
to the character names.
Thanks for being you, Ash.
You have a smile that lights up a room—
don’t ever lose it.
This one is for you,
Love, Marianne
xox
Chapter 1
Patience had never been her strongest virtue.
Soft hisses did little to distract from the taunting silence. Tremors thrummed through her finger as Amber circled one manicured nail over the stainless steel counter. The green glow on the microwave changed from nine fifty-nine to ten p.m. Her brother should have been here by now.
Hot, fat tears slid down her cheeks, and she swiped at them with a fist. Stop crying, she chided, flattening her palms against the cold surface. If her mother were here, she would remark how sobbing was for weaklings.
Someone knocked at the front. Lucas…about time. She shot through the living room, gripped the hem of her shirt and dabbed the excess moisture on her face.
Colours flashing from the muted television revealed a repeat comedy show. She extended her fingers to switch it off, but paused at the picture atop of the coffee table. Her chin trembled. She’d captured that photo at the beach, Rachel buried neck-deep in sand while Brianna lounged beside her.
The next frame was of the three of them on a girls’ night, in pajamas, reclined on the living room carpet. Not too long ago, the two most important women in her life filled this house with chatter and laughter. Now, one was dead and the other missing.
Impatient tapping interrupted her thoughts.
“Coming.” She crossed the foyer and unlocked the door.
Hands in his pockets, brown hair styled in its usual neat cut, except for the front cowlick, which had annoyed her since childhood. Even now, her fingers itched to snatch a pair of scissors and snip the irritating lock.
Lucas yawned, his brilliant blue eyes drooped…the same colour blue as hers, but she frowned at the grey circles beneath his. A red hue smeared his cheeks, perhaps from staying out in the sun too long.
Several grey moths orbited the bright, buzzing porch light. He swiped one away. “Are you going to invite me in?”
“Of course, come in.”
Lucas wiped his shoes on the mat and stepped inside. A swift, dark shadow dashing past the side of the house made her poke her head out further. No one stood on the street. It must have been Mittens, the annoying cat across the road.
She wended into the kitchen, turning off the TV with a snap of her fingers along the way. Lucas helped himself to a seat, dropping his keys in a loud clatter atop the dining table.
“How have you been?” They never hung out. Not all siblings did, but she knew of a few who made it a weekly ritual to catch up over dinner.
“Ah, you know…” He trailed off with an apathetic tone.
She didn’t, hence the reason for asking. “May I get you a drink?” She nodded toward the refrigerator, but lowered into the chair when he ignored the question. Instead, he grimaced, neck curved, and nose scrunched in distaste.
“What’s that odour?”
The scent of leftover takeaway was faint, but noticeable. A pile of dirty dishes neglected from the night before sat by the sink. Heat submerged her cheeks, and no doubt matched the redness of his. “I, um, haven’t found time to do the house cleaning.”
He shook his head. She recognised the negative action, the one that deplored excuses. Lack of housework wasn’t the reason she invited him here. “So, how’d it go with the members of the Elite, the Smith clan and the Bradford clan? What about the Thompsons?”
“Yeah, I spoke with them.”
She would have contacted the families herself, but Lucas associated with the Elite on a regular basis. The Elite. Oh, how she loathed the term, hated how her people were forced into three hierarchical ranks; Elite…those with advanced power; Ordinaire, those who possessed adequate skills; and the lowest, Morsel, those with mild abilities.
The only rank higher than Elite was the Primes. That family lineage, however, dated back to the first original witches. The Johnson clan had been Elites for centuries, and as her Ma always scolded: If we do drop in rank, it will be because of you, Amber.
“Well?”
Lucas rested his elbows on the table. “Most want to help, but need somewhere to start. None of them are keen to go on some manhunt without any clues.”
How was she meant to find one? She had run out of ideas. Missing-person posters hung all over town, and she’d spoken to the staff at the teashop, twice. Desperate times had called for desperate spells; she attempted connecting herself to Brianna spiritually, but failed…or had she. “The dream,” she mumbled.
“What dream?”
“Given all the spells I’ve performed recently, the dream I had the other night could have been a vision of Brianna and the night she disappeared.”
One eyebrow arched. “Do you remember what happened?”
“Yes. Brianna was at the teashop and…she looked frightened.”
No shift in that passive expression, or the slightest hint of distress. “Who or what scared her?”
“I tried to see, but the vision faded quicker than it emerged.”
Lucas rolled his eyes. “All you focus on is Brianna. You obviously had a nightmare.”
Of course he believed she was too powerless for visions. Then again, she might be. How many times had she flunked in witchcraft? Lucas made a point.
The quicksand of hopelessness weighed her down, but she held onto a single glimmer of hope. A great witch mastered their skills and was consistent with practicing the craft. Amber had never been referred to as a great witch. Only once had she succeeded in an advanced spell…but no one must ever learn her secret.
“Ma and Pa are worried about you.”
She snorted. Their parents, concerned about her? “Why?”
“They’re not happy with the amount of hours you’ve put into this. Ma says you must focus on your job and improve your craft. Let the police deal with the investigation. I agree with them. Why don’t you pack your things and go home?”
The police had done nothing but assume Brianna vanished into thin air, and this place was more of a home than the two-story house she’d lived in all her life. “I’m not going anywhere.”
In fact, she should stay here permanently. “After Rachel died, Brianna and I discussed me moving in, so she wouldn’t have to live here all alone. I must be here when Brianna returns.”
“If she returns,” Lucas muttered.
She scowled at him.
“Don’t forget,” her brother added. “We don’t know what happened. Brianna might have left on her own accord. She’d suffered so much in the last month, losing her sister in that tragic way. Ever consider she needed a break, some time alone?”
“Brianna, leaving without telling anyone, not to mention in the middle of her shift?” If the outrage in her tone didn’t reveal how insane he sounded, no doubt her furrowed brow would. “Ma told you to say this, too?” Her parents might be difficult at times, but were they so careless not to worry about their niece?
“No.” He pinched the bridge of his nose. “But they asked how long this will go on?”
“What do you mean?”
“This thing with Brianna,” he supplied.
Her fists clenched under the table. She tasted bile. “However long it takes. We will find her.”
“And what if we can’t?”
Don’t ponder that. She hated when Lucas resembled their parents, as if he feared showing compassion or pity because others might deem him weak. To be a part of the Johnson clan was an endless competition; you must be better than the best and stare down at anyone who was not as powerful. Ha, not long ago she, too, considered herself heartless. The difference between her and them, however, was she no longer disdained others.
“I understand what you’re trying to do,” he added.
She threw up her arms. “What now?”
He balanced his chair on its back legs. “You want to be the hero. You suppose our parents will be proud.”
“I’m not doing this for them—”
The wooden legs slapped the floor. He straightened, flicking a lock of hair from his eyes. “Want their praise? Do well with your witchcraft. Satisfy them in that, and you’ll satisfy them in everything.”
Oh, but she did very well. The spell she conducted killed the bastard vampire, Tristan…Brianna’s moitié—a weird French word which translated to half—being her cousin was the other half of Tristan’s soul. The plan had been absurd, but Brianna was desperate, and so Amber conceded.
Who could blame her cousin? Destined to a murderer, not just any, but the one who killed Rachel. This all happened a few months ago at the Annual Armistice Celebration in France, a reconciliation gathering of witches, werewolves and vampires.
Brianna had met the handsome council member at the function, and later spotted him kissing Rachel, right before he drank her to death.
Amber still remembered long ago, leaping with giddy excitement at the prospect of another cousin. A ten-year-old Rachel had also been thrilled to gain a sister. When her uncle and aunt died in a car accident several years after the adoption, it destroyed the girls. For a long time, Brianna and Rachel relied on each other. Until the scum, Tristan, took away the one sibling Brianna had.
So, yes, she helped snuff the guy. Witches’ law forbade vindictive death spells. If the clans learned of this, she’d be made an outcast. Her parents would disown her, and she’d never again be allowed to practice magic.
“Besides,” her brother added, making little circles with his fingertip along the table. She frowned at the coincidental action. “Brianna’s a tough woman. For someone with no power, she has more courage and spirit than most witches I know. Too bad she isn’t one. She would’ve done the Johnson name proud.”
Amber squirmed, shifting her focus to the heavy weight of his glare. The look he gave fixed her to the seat. Did he insinuate she possessed no courage or spirit?
Um, what about her cheerleading days? For crying out loud, she might not be the greatest witch in existence, but witchcraft made her feel…well…worthy.
A thrill skyrocketed whenever she performed, a sensation so exhilarating, like that time she bungee-jumped. The spiritual warmness was addictive, and she craved desperately to perfect her skill.
“I have to go.” Lucas stood, snatching the set of keys. “Josh and I were out all day fishing at Hickory Creek, and I’m meant to meet him soon.”
That explained the sunburn and his exhaustion. “You could invite him here. I’m about to clean, and then head out to buy some groceries, but that won’t take me long.”
“Can’t. I already agreed to meet him at Dan’s for drinks.”
Of course he made time for friends. What did she assume; he wanted to hang out with his younger sister? Her shoulders sagged.
“We’ll talk soon. Don’t disappoint the family.” He kissed her forehead, then left.
The caution of his words sank in as she sat there. A tumble dryer of nerves swirled in her stomach. No one must ever find out about the poisoning spell that killed Tristan.
****
An eleven-hour flight left Chayton aching and fatigued. He desired nothing more than to return home, sprawl out on the couch in his socks and boxers, and watch the sports channel. Instead, he kept his promise to his new vampire ally.
He locked his truck and strode down the dark street of Silverbrook Drive. A slight breeze embraced the hot midnight air. Other than two stray cats rummaging through scraps in the garbage, silence dominated the secluded street.
Why the hell did this involve Amber Johnson? He bit the inside of his cheek, and suppressed the growl rumbling in his throat. Her name alone surged heat up his arms, fuelling his animosity.
I found several numbers in whitepages.com, Ian had told him over the phone a few minutes before Chayton boarded his flight from Paris. If you want, I can text them to you?
I don’t plan on reading the letter to her during the flight. Stop being a lazy mutt and track her.
How do you suppose I do that?
Write a post on her Facebook page, he’d offered dryly. Why else would I call a werewolf to
trace her?
You mean scent this witch out. Are you serious? Where the hell am I to start?
Knoxville. Missing person posters of Brianna Johnson are all around the town. Amber put those notices up. Follow her scent and report to me ASAP. Got it?
Knoxville? Did you say Knoxville? Are you crazy! You know it’s a two-hour drive from Qualla? And my wrestling show is about to start.
Ian, don’t push me.
Fine, but you owe me, big time. Man, the shit I do for you.
When he received a call—four hours later—Ian explained how he travelled to Knoxville, found the posters with contact details below for an Amber Johnson and the Knoxville Police Station, then traced the scent of a young female to a decent-size condo.
Some warlock was at her door when I arrived, I don’t think they saw me. Thanks for putting my ass on the line. You know witches give me the creeps.
Stop your whining, and tell me what you found.
She hasn’t been living there long. Her scent was sharp, but fresh.
Perhaps the condo belonged to Brianna, and Amber chose to stay in case her cousin returned. Not a chance, because Brianna remained in Désuet with Tristan. Otherwise, the letter Chayton was about to deliver would be pointless. He tugged his phone out of the front pocket, reread the text with the address Ian sent, and assessed the line of faded brick and timber homes.
The tin box stood a foot away, and he inwardly cursed for not posting the damn thing. Why hadn’t he? Perhaps, if he caught a glimpse of the girl he had not seen in years…
His gaze climbed the set of cement stairs as he contemplated the idea. Hell, no. He’d rather walk along hot coals than confront Amber in person. Smacking the letter in the slit, he sighed. There, done.
He whirled around. A woman traipsed up the footpath, her blue eyes met with his and widened. Many years ago, some people had described those irises as ocean or aqua blue, but in his opinion, they resembled azure flames, a reminder of how easily she could burn others without effort. She clutched a grocery bag in one hand, and in the other, a set of keys swung from her pinkie.
Busted, big time. The idea of being caught seemed less important when his gaze travelled over toned thighs hugged in cream shorts. She slowed to a stop, her attention veered to the mailbox, then returned to him.
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