Fated

by Liza James

  Copyright © 2020 by Liza James

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events, locales, and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.

  Editing and Proofreading: Amy Briggs

  Cover Design: BooksMoodsCo

  Contents

  TRIGGER

  FATED

  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

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Chapter 36

  Chapter 37

  Chapter 38

  Chapter 39

  Chapter 40

  Chapter 41

  Chapter 42

  Chapter 43

  Chapter 44

  Epilogue

  Acknowledgments

  Also by Liza James

  About the Author

  TRIGGER

  Trigger Warning: This book confronts potential triggers such as sexual assault, rape, blood and violence. It also contains scenes in which sexual content is explained in explicit detail. Recommended for ages 18+.

  LUNA

  I never asked for this. I never wanted this.

  But I’ve been forced into this life I never knew existed. How do I begin to comprehend the reality of Fallen Angels?

  I’m surrounded by my worst nightmares and greatest fears, but I’ll be damned if I let them control me.

  You’ve consumed me without my permission. Made a home inside of my blood without my asking.

  Now, I'm lost to you in every sense of the word and I'm unsure if I want to find my way out.

  ELIJAH

  I never wanted you.

  I could have lived my entire existence without you and been content.

  But now you’re here and I’m hungry to destroy you.

  Eat you up and taste the demonic shade of your blood.

  Because even if I don’t want you, I can’t help but crave you.

  I prefer my soul embrace the Demon, corrupted with darkness and refined with humanity.

  Spotify Playlist:

  https://geni.us/fatedplaylist

  Everything surrounds me in darkness, swallowing up my senses and causing a thick fog to envelop my mind. The musky scent of wet cement, mold, and infinitely empty rooms fills my nose. I haven’t the faintest idea of where I am. I was blindfolded the minute I was taken outside the small, quaint coffee shop I work at in downtown Brooklyn.

  I remember working the late shift, closing the shop and locking the narrow glass door. At the time, my back was turned to the quiet street behind me and I was ignorant to the shuffling of heavy feet as two incredibly large men crept up without my knowledge.

  I should have known better. This isn’t the first time I was involved in a dangerous back alley incident. It’s been seven years since that destructive night happened. I’ve been slacking off and letting my guard slip far too much recently, the result of refusing to let my mind linger on those revolting memories. I force them back—whenever they rear their ugly little heads—intentionally choosing not to relive them.

  There are moments I wish I hadn’t survived that night.

  And that’s when I drive them back down and remind myself that there had to have been some momentous reason that I’m still alive.

  There has to be more than this.

  Yet here I am, terrified and following what I can only assume is a line of other young women. I can hear their sniffles and cries as we walk down a dark, narrow hallway to what is presumably going to be our death.

  So, maybe it was all for nothing after all.

  The cold chill in the air brushes along my exposed shoulders from the loose, burgundy tank I had worn to work. My intentionally distressed skinny jeans are now easily compared to the rest of my body, also distressed and torn up from the outside. My hands are tied grotesquely tight in front of my waist as I clutch onto the thin fabric of whomever I’m following. I believe she’s doing the same as well. Maybe we’re hoping to find solace and comfort in the simple fact that we aren’t alone in this nightmare.

  As we continue to walk, I quickly assess my injuries. My long, dark, chestnut hair is matted to my forehead in what I think is my own blood. Thin strands fell from my messy top knot when I was grabbed. The men smashed my head against the cement wall when I tried to escape. Their large, calloused hands snaked around my waist and tightly gripped the back of my neck. I knew in that moment I wouldn’t be able to evade another incident like this again. You can’t be that lucky twice in one life.

  Seven years ago, I let the fear take over. I cried, begging them to free me. I remember all too well how that ended. So, now, I’m silent. Even as my insides tremble in anticipation of what exactly I’m headed into. I bite my tongue and push forward. In my mind, I’ve been envisioning countless ways to break free from this line. I ache to release my reddened, sore hands from their knots and tear the blindfold away from my swollen eyes.

  I tried once, when we first arrived at this undisclosed location. I was yanked out from the back of a vehicle. One man clung to me forcefully from behind, his long fingers digging into the skin at my shoulders. When I lurched forward, intending to catch him off guard, I broke away, but another man was already ahead of me.

  He shot out and gripped my hair in his fist, yanking me toward him while my scalp stretched and tore from his hold. I gasp before biting my bottom lip so hard I tasted the metallic tinge of fresh blood inside of my mouth.

  I didn’t want to shout, yelp, or cry out in pain, giving them any sort of satisfaction at my expense. No, I was never giving someone that gratification again. I would never beg for my freedom or to be saved. If I was going to die, I would do it with my chin held high, staring into the eyes of whoever was fucked up enough to do this.

  I’m suddenly shoved forward roughly, stumbling into the girl in front of me as she cries out in fear.

  “Quiet, bitch,” a loud, masculine voice shouts behind us.

  “It’s okay, we’ll get out of this,” I whisper as I dip my lips closely behind her head, trying to offer a slice of reassurance while she cries. It doesn’t help, she doesn’t stop and the others in line start crying as well. I can feel the tension growing around us. It’s thick and black, like long vines winding around our middles and wrapping around our throats. The anticipation of what is happening is a toxic poison infiltrating our lungs.

  Human trafficking? It’s the only logical explanation I can think of. We’re getting shipped overseas and being forced into slavery of whatever kind of debauchery they prefer.

  I hear the fearful protests before those large hands land on my shoulders and tea
r me away from the line. If I have to guess—which I am—we’re being lined up horizontally now. I feel a trembling shoulder brush against my own, my sight still completely blinded by the rough black cloth tied around my face.

  Drip.

  Drip.

  Drip.

  The steady sound of water dripping in the background hits my ears. I’m not sure if we’re underground now, but I don’t recall any staircases. Was it raining outside? Fuck, I can’t remember and right now my mind is racing frantically with whatever we’re about to uncover.

  Suddenly, my knees smash into the cold ground below as I’m shoved down from behind and forced into a kneeling position. If anything kicks me into a small, uncontrollable panic it’s this. I’ve been here before, forced onto my knees when I never should have been. This moment alone sparks the memories I’ve buried in my subconscious, back up and to the forefront of my mind.

  No, no, no. Not again.

  I take a deep breath in and then exhale.

  In.

  Out.

  In.

  Out.

  One by one, our blindfolds are ripped off of our faces as we blink away the darkness and attempt adjusting to the dim lighting. My hands are still tied, so I bring them both up to my face and struggle to rub the fog out of my sight. My eyelashes have caked together in blood, clumped from bottom to top so that it’s nearly impossible to fully open my eyes again. I feel tears prick to break free, not from fear, but from being strained against the fabric for so long.

  At first, I glance to my right, quickly taking count of how many other girls are with me. Four or five of us in total. We’re all knelt down, each of our hands tied together and each of us bleeding from one place or another. A couple of the other girls look a little rougher than I feel, obviously having taken a harder hit when they put up a fight while being abducted.

  I knew better though. The harder you fight, the harder they hit. Last time, I’d fought until there was nothing left. No energy to push forward. No voice to yell out anymore. I screamed and cried and begged, hoping anyone passing by could hear me. But it was wasted, and in the end, I was left alone. Finally, alone.

  So, now? I don’t beg. I don’t cry. I simply don’t give anyone the ability to have that much power over me anymore. Until this moment. Until I was caught off guard relaxing for the briefest second.

  I turn my gaze back to the front and realize we’re in a small room, hardly bigger than the bedroom in my little apartment near the Brooklyn Bridge. The walls are discolored cement slabs, some covered in graffiti and others splattered in a dark pigmented material that I refuse to try and identify.

  Instantly, the drip begins again, so loud in the heavy silence it catches each of our attention and throws my eyes to the corner of the room. A few girls scream, most of them break out into a sob as we realize what’s in front of us.

  I stay quiet, my eyes trained on the dead man who is ruthlessly hanging upside down from the mold covered ceiling. Fear keeps me rooted to the floor, unmoving, unflinching, hell even unblinking, as my mind attempts to process what is happening.

  How the hell did I find myself here?

  His throat was slit, the blood spilled down and over his chin, covering the eyes that are now too swollen to fit inside his sockets and have fallen out. His skin is blue and purple, veins inflamed and sickly while his thick blood soaks what hair he has and slowly, ever so slowly, drips to cold floor below him.

  Drip.

  Drip.

  Drip.

  Not water. Blood.

  Fuck. I need to get out of here.

  I’m usually quicker than this. But something is nagging at me from the inside, pulling at my intentions and diverting them in ways I can’t explain. I was supposed to get in here, get an eye on Amelia and Danner, and then get the hell out. I know she can’t feel me now—not since the bond was severed—but if she sees me, everything will be wasted.

  Amelia and Danner have been lurking through the city lately. Vanishing and reappearing in perplexing places. We have eyes on them constantly, but we’re having a difficult time understanding their motives and solidifying any patterns.

  That’s why I’m here tonight. Ideally, to gain insight on their intentions and what they’ve been working on. I’m the best candidate because I know where she lives due to our history. She hasn’t moved nor has she kept her whereabouts a secret, and I believe that makes her even more dangerous.

  It’s been seven years since she took everything from me, ruining and leaving me for dead after I had so blindly accepted we were created for each other.

  What a fucking joke.

  With her disturbingly long, snow white hair and her milky, pale skin, I was instantly pulled under. I surrendered to her large, glacial blue eyes. I gave her everything—my entire being, along with my heart—for an exchange I assumed was of equal value. How the fuck can you be bonded by blood with a person and not become attached to them? How could she feel my every emotion, how could I feel hers, and yet still be so blinded by my love for her?

  If I’m being completely honest with myself, I fucking knew it was coming before it happened. I can deny the feelings all I want, but I felt the distance in our bond. I sensed the way she began pulling away and I picked up on the tiniest spark of a flame when she met Danner. But I ignored it, slowly cutting off my own emotions with alcohol, and numbing whatever bond we had left.

  Still, no amount of alcohol or drugs can drown out the agonizing physical pain of severing a bond. Nothing will ever compare to the loss of someone who has been ingrained into your DNA, into your veins and the very cells of your being. Nothing can prepare you for having a limb torn from your body while you’re expected to simply shake it off and move forward.

  It’s why I vowed never to initiate a blood bond again. I will gladly fuck my way through New York with baseless one-night stands and hook ups. I will never give anything more than a casual fuck to another woman again. Not because I’m still hung up on Amelia—hell no.

  Simply because I will maintain the control over my own life, preserve the hold and responsibility I have over myself. No one will get that piece of me again because that means giving away a portion of my control.

  I’ll never allow this to happen again.

  Now, as I mask myself in inconspicuous colors and slowly make my way through Amelia’s seemingly innocuous mansion down to the cellars, I’m thankful for what happened all those years ago.

  Because Amelia Traverse is a fucking psychotic train wreck. One that desperately needs to be locked up, if not killed all together. Now that she has bonded with Danner—a fellow Thronie who has devoted himself entirely to her cause—she’s been infuriatingly difficult to nail down.

  She believes she should be the Queen of our race, ironically claiming to be committed to justice and the fair distribution of power. This belief is what got her here in the first place, but only if that distribution of power means she wields all of it. She doesn’t care about our people, or the war we are fighting outside of her ridiculous quest for reign.

  The race’s capital is nestled tightly into the center of downtown Manhattan. It’s based in the old white, neo-gothic cathedral and is constantly overrun or attacked by the cambion demons that have tried to defeat us. Right now, the cathedral is our most important asset—housing all of our intel, organizations, master lists of allies and assumed enemies—yet we’re in a constant war to defend and protect it.

  Instead of joining with us to help us preserve what is rightfully ours, Amelia is focused on overthrowing and obtaining all of the control she can with Danner by her side. She hasn’t built a powerful enough command to successfully overthrow my brother yet, but she’s constantly working on it. She’s strategically engaged behind the scenes, in the dark alleys and isolated corners of our race where she can gain a footing. She’s weaving herself in the lonely strands of their minds in order to manipulate them to her betterment.

  See, we all Fell at one point. We all lost our right and privileg
e to stay where we were created and flourished from. We all made mistakes–ones that some of us regret, ones that I never will—that have the same outcome. They cost us our precious positions in Arcadia above.

  We’re Angels. Fallen and forgotten by those of most importance, but never released from the constant war raging below. The demons work to pull us just a little farther under, until we’re serving and slaves once again as Aeshma—wrath demons designed for war.

  But for an entirely different deity.

  I sense something, a low simmering boil within my blood. It’s incredibly mild and nearly indiscernible, but I feel it all the same. What I don’t understand however, is where it’s coming from.

  I’m not angry, no. I’m scared—yes. Anxious? Absolutely. But this is different, I’m craving something in the slightest of ways. I’ve never done drugs, nothing hard anyway. But I imagine this is what a recovering addict experiences—that nostalgic sentiment of needing a fix but knowing you can never have it. A reminiscent yearning of something more, but also something unobtainable at the same time.