by Nola Sarina
Wild Hyacinthe
Nola Sarina and Emily Faith
Avon, Massachusetts
This edition published by
Crimson Romance
an imprint of F+W Media, Inc.
10151 Carver Road, Suite 200
Blue Ash, Ohio 45242
www.crimsonromance.com
Copyright © 2013 by Nola Sarina & Emily Faith
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, corporations, institutions, organizations, events, or locales in this novel are either the product of the author's imagination or, if real, used fictitiously. The resemblance of any character to actual persons (living or dead) is entirely coincidental.
ISBN 10: 1-4405-7247-X
ISBN 13: 978-1-4405-7247-0
eISBN 10: 1-44405-7246-1
eISBN 13: 978-1-4405-7246-3
Cover art © 123rf.com/Simone Meijer; istock.com/2happy, istock.com/Yuri_Arcurs
Dedication
To our husbands:
Thank you for your patience, your love, your support, and for tolerating countless hours of interrogation as we tackled this project. We love you both so much.
Acknowledgments
We have so many people to thank it’s hard to know where to start.
To Tim Horton’s in High River: we couldn’t have done it without coffee.
Our families, friends, and beta readers: your patience and support are more appreciated than we know how to express. You’ve put up with the endless questions, the hours of us locked in our own little world, plotting and revising, and you’ve helped us shape the characters of Wild Hyacinthe in more ways than you know. Thank you, we love you so much.
To our husbands: thank you for occupying the little minions so many times so we could work. Your love means the world.
To our incredible literary agent Michelle Johnson: thank you for believing in us and this project. We were both terrified and delighted to submit it to you, and your confidence has brought us here. You’re such an incredible human being, friend, ninja, and *batman*.
To our editors at Crimson Romance: we adore you! Tara, your patience with us as we recovered from the catastrophic flood in High River was amazing, we couldn’t have done it without your understanding. Julie, your attention to detail and your humor in editing made the process such a fun one. We thank the whole team at Crimson Romance for helping the dream of sharing Wild Hyacinthe with readers become reality.
To the bloggers and reviewers: we cherish what you do. Your awesomeness knows no bounds.
To Tim Horton’s again, for being open twenty-four hours.
To every reader supporting us on our journey: keep being the sexy, beautiful people we admire.
Contents
Title Page
Copyright Page
Dedication
Acknowledgments
Chapter 1 - Asher
Chapter 2 – Aria
Chapter 3 - Asher
Chapter 4 - Asher
Chapter 5 - Asher
Chapter 6 – Aria
Chapter 7 - Asher
Chapter 8 – Asher
Chapter 9 – Aria
Chapter 10 - Asher
Chapter 11 - Asher
Chapter 12 – Aria
Chapter 13 - Asher
Chapter 14 - Asher
Chapter 15 – Aria
Chapter 16 - Asher
Chapter 17 – Aria
Chapter 18 – Asher
Chapter 19 - Aria
Chapter 20 - Asher
Chapter 21 – Aria
Chapter 22 - Asher
Chapter 23 – Aria
Chapter 24 – Asher
Chapter 25 – Aria
Chapter 26 – Asher
Chapter 27 - Aria
Chapter 28 - Asher
About the Authors
A Sneak Peek from Crimson Romance
Also Available
Chapter 1 - Asher
The vigorous thrum of orgasm rippled through me from head to toe. Below my weight, thoroughly pinned to the bed, Kellie sighed with happy satisfaction. The transfer of her energy and aura to me began when our bodies connected, though I’m quite sure she didn’t notice. They never noticed until it was far too late to survive the bed of an incubus.
This moment was the worst. For most men, I’m sure it was the best—a beautiful woman beneath me, happy from the pleasure I bestowed upon her, stroking the muscles of my chest with admiration. But I wasn’t most men, and this moment meant I was once again a killer and the worst type of monster. I didn’t want this life of murder for survival. I didn’t want this curse.
But there was no escaping my curse. Every six months—if I was strong enough to hold out that long—I took a woman to my bed and claimed her soul with my body. Kellie was a simple seduction: money, looks, and a charming smile always guaranteed that when I needed to fuel myself, the selection of eager women would be near overload. She jumped into my car as soon as I suggested a romantic getaway to my cabin on the shore of Lake Superior without hesitation. And now, thanks to her enthusiasm, I lay buried inside her body as she admired her killer. Most men would congratulate themselves for a job well done as they kissed the delicious, sweat-sheened breasts of a woman like this. But I was not most men, and I couldn’t enjoy even a heartbeat of the encounter. I lacked the strength to resist the monster in my soul, and I hated every breath that crossed my lips as she inhaled her last tastes of earthly air.
My urges boiled. The predatory nature of my being lurked just beneath my personality, waiting for me to slip up and lose control. The incubus part of me needed to be charged, lest I physically weaken until that side of my soul took over and forced me to fuck and kill. If I didn’t do it, he would do it for me—the incubus, the monster I loathed, always looming over my shoulder and threatening to dominate my body in the worst way for the rest of my life. I couldn’t let him have control. I might be a monster, but the least I could do was reduce the number of kills by keeping ownership of my own body. If I wanted to remain partly a man rather than the pure, vile soul of the monster I had become, I had to do this.
So I kissed Kellie’s forehead and withdrew from her heated center, feeling my eyes blaze. Kellie’s life and silhouette burned brilliant blue before me for only a second—the image of her beautiful skin doubling as it lifted above her body—before her eyelids snapped open and she gasped. It was far too late for her to object. As I withdrew from within her, that double image of her aura lifted further to meet my flesh and I absorbed her into my body, charging my muscles, little, electric zaps of satisfaction jolting through my limbs. Her aura slid into my soul and I gasped above her mouth, taking in the last bits of her life that remained, fueling my body as she let out a strangled grunt from the back of her throat. Then, Kellie was limp beneath me. Spent. Empty. Nothing but a lifeless shell of a woman.
I rose to my feet and felt new life pulsing through me. I was charged and satiated. I looked over Kellie’s corpse, and my heart sank heavily in my chest. Though my body swelled with new strength by the power of her life, there was nothing left of the woman before me. I hated this. Six years of killing had worn on me, though her aura tasted of fresh water to my aching, needy body. I was a murderer. My stomach rolled and I turned away, swallowing bile.
And if I didn’t inhale her, as the needs of the incubus demanded, I’d face a fate much worse than swallowing murder as a sin. I hoped Hell would prove to be a nicer existence than my life. At least there might be no sex in Hell.
I tapped my phone to send Gypsy her cue that I was through and strode into the bathroom for a shower. The triple-sized glass panels around me fogged as the steam filled the room. I stepped int
o the luxury shower: referring to my hideaway as a cabin for the sake of wooing unsuspecting women into my private company was a gross understatement. My heart pounded as I stood under the stream of scalding hot water. I didn’t bother trying to scrub the filth of murder from my hands—or the rest of my body, for that matter. There was no clean enough for me, and I’d scrubbed myself raw enough times to know better. Nothing helped in these moments after a kill. Nothing soothed the guilt or the foul taste in my mouth. I washed my hair and tied a towel low around my hips as I stepped out into the steam.
I heard footsteps outside the bathroom and leaned on the counter. The steamy mirror reflected the haunting I felt, my appearance obscured by the fog as my life had dwindled in importance to the demands of the incubus. I stretched, cracked my neck and felt the energy of murder coursing through my veins, which bulged against my biceps, rippling over and around the muscles with the perfect texture, enticing any woman who spared even half a breath of time to look at me. My physique grew more sculpted with each passing year—a product of my chronic workout habits, I figured. Gypsy disagreed. She felt it was a natural progression of the incubus . . . I became more flawless and attractive with each life I inhaled. I never argued with my twin when it came to the topic of my bizarre, exclusive condition. She could see me objectively, while I could only see the monster that hid behind the unique, starburst pattern of my eyes.
I suppressed the urge to take another shower and scrub. It would do no good. Did all killers find the soothing shower after a kill to be a sarcastic rebuke, a mockery? No amount of expensive shampoo and warmed towels could wash the stench of death from my life. I brushed my teeth instead and took a few deep breaths after I rinsed, willing my pounding heart to slow. I had to carry on, no matter what I’d done or how many times I’d done it. The footsteps outside the door—the sound of my sister helping me in the only way she knew how—reminded me that I had more to live for than just myself. She needed me, so I needed to cope, no matter how impossible it seemed.
The door swung open, clearing the air. Gypsy regarded me in all her standard beauty: medium-dark hair tied neatly at the nape of her neck, an elegant gray suit and high heels. She tilted her head and studied me.
“Clean up’s done,” she informed me, her voice expressionless as ever.
I sighed. “Thanks, Gyp,” I muttered. “As usual.”
Gypsy leaned out of the bathroom and snapped her fingers at Jim and John—the two blond henchmen that handled disposal of all of my victims. They left to wait in the car until Gypsy was done, I supposed. I was eternally grateful for my sister’s efficiency at managing my condition. She was the lucky twin, born normal and free. She was the only person I told, six months after our parents died, when I killed for the first time. The loss of my virginity at age sixteen turned on the appetite of the incubus. Gypsy helped me through it all, knowing I was a killer of the worst sort and assuring me there was nothing I could do about it. It wasn’t my fault, she said. I wasn’t sure I believed her.
“Ready?” Gypsy asked me.
I opened the drawer before me and took out a folded, leather satchel of black powder and a slender scalpel. Gypsy grasped the knife and jerked my arm forward, revealing the tiny rows of black pinpricks tattooed in my skin: my tally of victims, my sins marked in flesh. She punctured the skin that stretched over my solid forearm muscle with the tip of the blade and ignored my grimace at the metal’s bite. Grinding black, powdered ink into the fresh wound, my sister tattooed me with a dot to represent Kellie: victim number forty-three. I refused to allow myself to escape the gravity of my condition, though Gypsy so expertly masked the bodies as mere heart attack sufferers. The journalist in my bedroom being swept away by Jim and John suffered from a severe, hidden eating disorder, so the cause of her death would not be questioned when someone found her back in her own bed with no evidence of my touch. Gypsy wiped off the blade, replaced it in the drawer, and left.
I dressed, made the bed with fresh sheets and followed her out of the cabin.
Chapter 2 – Aria
The pulsing combination of lights, pounding music, and drink glasses slammed on the bar, built a familiar rhythm in my body. I loved this freedom. Here, with the sounds of unreserved socializing around me, it was easy to forget the family I left behind.
I scoffed. Not much of a family. I drained my shot of whiskey and tossed the blue streak of bangs out of my face, scanning the crowd.
Indulging in the fantasies of books used to satisfy me enough that I didn’t seek anything else. Didn’t plan anything but the travels I longed and saved for. The stories swept me deep inside them, the ending always happier than real life, and it kept my mind busy enough to forget the dysfunction of home. I tapped my shot glass on the bar and ordered another, closing my eyes as the alcohol slid through my body, warming me inside. My books weren’t enough, anymore. I needed someone real to sweep me away, and though I knew it wasn’t likely to be the hero of my dreams, all these men around me held no appeal. I felt nothing toward the useless meat who delivered me glances and body-scans from head to toe. When they opened their mouths and asked to buy me a drink, my stomach rolled and I turned away.
Most often, I retreated to my car and dove back into a book, a strange sense of dissatisfaction settling over me as I drifted to sleep in the driver’s seat. Tonight, I took a little extra time in the bar, scanning the masses of people flashing red, purple and green beneath the strobe lights. I wanted to feel something toward one of these guys. I’d spent too long dwelling on the past, and seeking the answers of the future. Now, I just wanted to get laid.
It’s about damn time I take the leap.
I scooted up onto the barstool and let out a sharp curse when my black lace sleeve snagged on a screw protruding from the backrest. I tugged it free and gazed around again, the swirl of alcohol enhancing the colors of the dancers but slowing their motion. I’m wasting my time. I could be sitting in my car with a book, not blowing my money on alcohol. Yet here I was. Seeking something I’d never had before. Seeking something I should have done long ago. But these guys around me, stumbling and reeking of body odor and beer, layering on the saccharine compliments to any set of tits that strolled by, were not what I had in mind. I didn’t want just another in the herd.
What did I want? I glanced at the door of the bar and chewed on the corner of my lip, wondering how many pages I could get in before last call if I left now.
I gazed up at the executive level of the club, the balcony overlooking the general population. It was a part of every bar in which I’d never be fortunate enough to sit. Way too expensive. And a girl with punky, blue-streaked short hair and over-pierced ears didn’t belong up there with the suits and the gowns. I could never hope to attract a man from that level. It worked in the books, but in real life, a poor girl chasing down a rich man just stunk of desperation.
I ran my fingertip around the rim of my shot glass as a blond with endless legs leaned over a table in the balcony where a man dropped an empty glass onto his table, adding his own percussion to the rhythms around me. The blond leaned further and damn near flopped her tits into the guy’s face and I snorted. I’d rather remain a hopeless virgin than stoop to such lows. The guy stirred his ice cubes with the short straw in the glass, his thick arms bulging beneath the black, button-down shirt he wore. He shook his head and waved the woman off. Rejection shown plainly on her face and I couldn’t hide a smirk as she wandered away, insulted.
The man spun around in his chair and leaned on the railing of the balcony, facing me, and my breath caught in my chest. Nearly-buzzed, short, dark hair made his body look even more solid than I’d originally thought. A chiseled jaw, clean-shaven, drew my attention to his mouth as he stroked his chin once, scanning the crowd. He had the look of fighter, his arms thick. I couldn’t make out the color of his eyes, but they were dark and mysterious as he gazed around, his expression somehow less expectant than that of the other men up there. What was that edge to the set of his mouth, that
tightness in the way he peered down? Anger, or envy?
He’s close to my age.
I blinked. One guy caught my interest: one guy with whom I didn’t stand a chance.
His gaze darted straight to me and pierced through my soul. Such darkness . . . such depth. He didn’t look like the shallow voids of men who usually sat up there, peering down on the rest of us. He didn’t have the expression of a man who had everything handed to him glazed in gold.
He looked like a man with a lot on his shoulders. A lot more than merely all that muscle. Damn! Was it the stresses of money, or something more personal that weighted his gaze? His lips tugged up on one side as he looked into my eyes, a half a smile warming the air between us. The grin brought a lighter, boyish charm to his already-stunning looks, and I couldn’t believe this man was smiling at me.
I glanced away, picking up a rocking motion in time with the pounding bass, hoping he hadn’t noticed me staring. Another guy walked by and checked me out, slipping onto the barstool beside me, but I couldn’t concentrate well enough to even level him with a dismissive glare. My heartbeat sprinted faster than the rhythm of the music, hitting harder than the bass, and I couldn’t sway in time to the beat anymore. I felt that gaze still upon me—heavy, dividing me away from the rest of the crowd as though the lights had gone out on everyone else—and I didn’t dare to look up.
Holy crap, holy crap. What do I do? I tucked my bangs behind my ear and wanted to hide, but at the same time, the alcohol—or perhaps that electric glare—lit a fire inside me deep down low, and I crossed my legs. I came here looking for action, and here was more of a man than I could ever ask for, taking an interest in me. A higher caliber man than those on the dance floor. And he couldn’t tear his eyes away.
I knew I should flirt, or look back, or tug the neck of my shirt lower or something, but I couldn’t bring myself to do it. My history was too contrary to a relationship with a man in the executive level of the nicest bar in touristy Duluth.
