by Elara Skye
Ethereal
Ties
Elara Skye
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
Copyright © 2019 Elara Skye
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or used in any manner without written permission of the copyright owner except for the use of quotations in a book review.
Cover design by Maria Spada
ISBN: 9781677482061
CONTENTS
Acknowledgments
i
Chapter One
1
Chapter Two
9
Chapter Three
18
Chapter Four
30
Chapter Five
36
Chapter Six
56
Chapter Seven
70
Chapter Eight
80
Chapter Nine
89
Chapter Ten
96
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-One
Chapter Twenty-Two
Chapter Twenty-Three
Chapter Twenty-Four
Chapter Twenty-Five
Epilogue
109
128
136
143
148
155
165
176
188
206
212
225
234
241
254
270
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
First, thank you to the creative professionals I work with. To the authors, artists, designers, journalists, advertisers, and editors that inspire me daily, as well as the editorial team that helped put this work together.
Thank you to my closest friends, who tolerated my midnight rants and read all my works—particularly the unpublished ones, when I was just getting started and needed the support.
Thank you to my mother, for holding me to the highest standards and instilling that nothing is impossible if I work hard enough.
Thank you to my father, for enabling me to follow my dreams and demanding I don’t live my life without them.
And, finally, thank you to you—the reader. Your voice is invaluable, it guides a writer across every page. I did my best to listen.
Chapter One
The night began as it always did—with a string of tasks and a signature buzz.
In a flurry of movement, Amelia blew down the length of the bar, a balancing act with two carafes in her hands. Glittering bottles of alcohol and glass lined her on either side of the busy counter, but they ranked low on the list of stimulating distractions. There was the rumble of idle talk, the clinking of other bartenders at work, and the television sets blaring holiday commercials above the ornate bar. All the senses came alive at once, and Amelia loved it. Such quaint, comfortable discord in one rustic little bar.
“Hey, watch it,” Cat—her best friend and roommate—warned her mirthfully.
“Whoops,” Amelia yelped, twisting nimbly to avoid the tray in her friend’s hand. “My bad.”
She set the carafes safely beside the register, seeing in the corner of her eye that another pair of guests had settled into the window corner of her section. Amelia was nothing if not a multitasker, noting how the two men—both brunettes, from what she could make out—stood out instantly against the crowd, laughing and cheering in a celebratory fashion.
Others had taken notice as well, shooting double-takes across the bar. Some stared with pronounced interest—not unlike Amelia—though for different reasons. Right off-bat, the two of them were young, handsome, and seemingly wealthy. Corporate executives, Amelia suspected—a seasoned eye would catch the air of appraisal about them, serving to confirm her assumptions. They were assuredly the type to be noticed in such a setting, all dressed up in their expensive-looking clothes.
And if these latent observations were correct—which was likely, as Amelia knew the type—then they were hardly the first to wander into her bar. By now, she knew that interacting with these suited business types could go in any direction, depending on their level of civility toward working people. Of course, had any number of them known her true identity in those instances, the course might’ve been guaranteed. Though Amelia made sure that never happened.
One sat down while the other leaned against the counter, his smile fading slowly as their excitement tapered with some conversation. Amelia tightened her honey-colored ponytail and strode in their direction, ready for another round of work.
“Hey, guys.” She coasted in autopilot mode. “What can I get you?”
The seated one replied with a grin, “Black Russian. Please.”
Amelia nodded, impressed, and wondered if he could handle that drink. “And for you?”
The taller one merely padded his fingers on the counter, suddenly looking around for something out the window. She watched as he ran a hand through his dark, tousled locks, and wondered if he recognized someone on the street. Or perhaps he simply liked the sight of snowfall, just like she did. It took a moment for him to register that she was speaking to him at all, and pair of light, emerald eyes finally swept to her. They widened with acknowledgement, as though noticing her for the first time.
“Oh, I’m so sorry.” He shot her a charming, polite smile, with an accent that she couldn’t make out. “Just water for me, please. Thank you.”
“I beg your goddamn pardon,” the friend scoffed. “You’re not drinking with me?”
The padding slowed, stopping completely while Amelia watched the exchange. She realized then that the man took a turn at studying her intently, with something of a familiar expression. Perfectly harmless at face value—thoughtful and passively evaluative—but Amelia knew better. She disliked the ulterior meaning behind that look, reflecting in his eyes as he appraised her. Amelia refrained from frowning—she resented being assessed in this tacit fashion but was all too familiar with it anyway. It prompted a taciturn response, and Amelia confronted the look with nothing more than an acknowledging smile.
Further proof to the accuracy of her observations, though the current exchange was infrequent—Amelia had forfeited her inheritance, her career path, and what was left of her family since the last time she’d been obliged to offer this particular smile.
“Alright, fine,” the man finally said to his friend. “You’re right, I suppose it can’t hurt. Day’s accomplishments call for something interesting.”
Amelia arched a brow at him. “So, what can I get you?”
“Your pick.” He shrugged.
My pick?
Amelia sighed. People who offered her such sovereignty never knew what they were getting into, though it had the potential of being entertaining.
She arched a brow. “You sure you want me to give me that kind of power?”
“He’s at his leisure,” his friend answered with a grin. “Have at it. Honestly. Do it for me—before he changes his mind.”
“Alright,” She pushed off the counter, restraining a mischievous smirk. “But you’re putting fate in a mood tonight.”
The man smiled as she turned away, pulling cinnamon, Bailey’s, butterscotch schnapps, and 151-proof rum off the shelf. One Black Russian for the sitting gentleman, and a
bright little cocktail called a Bailey’s Comet for the friend—her favorite to make when the aim was entertainment. She prepared the drinks in a matter of minutes and set both down onto the counter, reaching for the multi-purpose lighter tucked away nearby.
A hand was already reaching for the Bailey’s Comet when she looked back. “Hold on there, kiddo,” Amelia quipped, nearly tapping his outstretched hand with her own. “Give it a sec. It’s not ready.”
“Really?” The man’s green eyes narrowed with interest, while the friend merely waited—watching with a hearty look of approval. “How’s that?”
“This here’s a Bailey’s Comet. It’s fun to make, but I need to put it out before you drink it.”
“Put it out?”
She held the lighter up, leaning forward to ignite the top layer. Fire plumed across it, snagging their attention, while she reached for the cinnamon. A healthy dash of the powder released a blaze of sparks into the air.
“Wow,” the man crooned, eyeing the popping cloud. “How lovely. This is effort well-spent—thank you.”
“Sure.” Amelia smiled, fiddling with the lighter. “Thanks for humoring me.”
“Of course.” He smiled impishly as his gaze cut to her, “Here’s to your impeccable humor.” The man said as he swiped the drink off the counter—the top layer still burning—and sipped it slowly.
Amelia’s stomach lurched. “Oh, my god, wait—”
It was too late. He took down the contents of the glass while her face turned utterly pale, heart pounding as she waited for those regal features to twist. First-degree burn—that’s what he was in for. Her breathing slowed to a stop as the liquid disappeared past his lips, while the friend eyed them both amusedly. Music continued to thrum around them, but everything skidded into silence inside her head.
Finally, the man set the glass back down on the counter with a clang. “Not bad—Amelia,” he said, glancing at her name tag. “Not bad at all.”
His friend pressed his lips together, scanning for her reaction. Meanwhile, Amelia stared wide-eyed, her heart racing with a panic that had yet to subside. “Jesus Christ, are you okay?” She was almost afraid to ask.
“Never better,” he answered smoothly, leaning forward to set a card down on the counter. “Though I think that’ll be all for the night, so take your time and leave yourself a generous tip.”
Amelia nodded, needing a moment to gather herself. And another to rationalize what just happened—how it happened—though it was asking for too much. The crowd grew with an influx of people, and Cat called out her name repeatedly from somewhere across the bar. Her voice didn’t come in a panic, but Amelia realized quickly that she’d left her friend without any support. Another coworker had come in without her noticing, but her other customers were left unattended for some time. Amelia looked down at the silver card laying on the counter, then back up at the man who put it there.
“Okay...” she sighed, suddenly feeling a bit drained. She did her best to grin politely as she slated the metal piece off the counter, noting that the card was cold and heavy in her hand.
One good look revealed the reason—it was a Triple-Platinum credit card, which came with a hundred-thousand-dollar credit line, at minimum. Most people didn’t even know these cards existed, save for the pockets of upper society that could afford them. Not unlike Amelia, at one time.
While shuffling toward the register, her focus narrowed as she turned it over, searching curiously for a name. The metal flopped heavily in her hand, revealing its owner, and Amelia nearly stumbled the moment she read the name.
Finn Regis.
For a moment, she didn’t believe it. Even as she reread it. Such an unlikely ghost from the past—an impending business affiliate, who knew nothing of her as a rising professional rival.
Amelia looked back, scanning his handsome features.
Back in the days of white-collar work, she’d heard breathtaking rumors about this man. All part of her induction into the workplace, whilst following the path her dissolute father had paved. One that would’ve ended with her name on a dotted line, taking over Hart Corporation when it was time for him to retire. She never met Finn in person, but she’d heard numerous times that his company—Orchard Enterprises—was to be dealt with cautiously, all contracts read to the finest print. However charming he was reputed to be in life, the man was rumored to be cold and ruthless, sparing no mercy when things boiled down to profit and business. And if this was Finn, then there was a good chance that the man beside him was Alaric Sae—his business partner.
Bits of their veneer further confirmed their identities; the decadent watches, the designer coats, the expensive phone in Finn’s hand...
Why the generous tip, then? And how the hell did he just sip a flaming cocktail like it was nothing? Amelia was tempted to ask once the shock subsided. Judgement dictated that the wiser option would be to avoid drawing more attention to herself. Men like Finn had a presence in every major city around the world—the odds were low that they’d end up here at the same time, so she simply needed to ride out this encounter.
Amelia still grimaced, feeling a bit grossed out. Not by the man, but by how close she suddenly felt to the Var Hart name—which she abandoned in favor of Varis. She’d seen their last names side-by-side on many contracts in the past, handed to her by the chief financial officer of her father’s company—a position she was approaching at the time and actively being trained for. If things had gone as planned, she would’ve become the world’s youngest woman to assume that role.
Still, it would have been interesting to see the look on Finn’s face if he learned that Amelia Varis—the bartender that served him—was really Amelia Var Hart. A fallen angel of corporate America. What would he have said, having found her swimming willfully around rock bottom? Having inexplicably turned down her inheritance, and the bright, corporate future that came with it? It was the future he already had.
Amelia schooled her features as she turned back toward them with the credit card, ready to hand it back with trained politeness. Though, at that moment, they appeared not to care that she was approaching. In fact, there was newfound somberness in both of their expressions. Amelia surmised that whatever they were looking at on one of their phones must have been bad—really bad—to earn such graveness.
Alaric abandoned his drink at the table as he took the phone from Finn, showing more frustration and anxiety than his partner did.
“Here you go,” she muttered reluctantly, setting the check down on the counter in front of Finn.
He offered a kindly grin as he took it from her, masking his displeasure with professional etiquette. “Thank you.”
“Hey, Amelia,” Cat crooned her name as she walked by—dangerously—sending shivers down her spine.
Damn. She wasn’t usually this inattentive at work. But then again, such distracting encounters were also infrequent. Cat would understand when she heard the full story, Amelia was sure of that. Her roommate was the only person that knew about her past. To add to that, men like Finn and Alaric never stayed in one city for long, so the odds of seeing them again were mercifully low. Therefore, there was no reason not to put them out of her mind and continue with her shift.
So, she did. And moments later, Finn and Alaric were gone by the time she looked back. After closing out the check, Amelia approached the empty counter to collect their empty glasses. The receipt they left behind was elegantly signed, the tip space left untouched. She’d left it blank as well, having forgotten to fill it in, but a hundred-dollar bill was folded neatly under the weight of the half-drunk cocktail.
Strange.
Chapter Two
Finn enjoyed the distraction, while it lasted.
After all the centuries he spent on Earth, there wasn’t much that amused him anymore—every conversation had been had, every adventure lived—but the look on that woman’s face was priceless. Humans were most amusing when confronted by inexplicable things, and it was one event that Finn never
grew tired of witnessing. By all rights, an average person should have suffered significant burns from the little stunt he pulled. And the way Amelia’s amber eyes widened, the way her jaw fell in shock when she saw that he was unharmed…all her thoughts skidded to a stop at that moment. It was priceless.
Though perhaps it was more stressful for her than he intended. And as far as humans went, she seemed like pleasant company. Perhaps he would go back, if the night allowed it.
Leaving behind a hearty tip, Finn and Alaric traversed the blizzard outside, which continued to clog the roads relentlessly. Slowly but surely, they made their way to Orchard Enterprises under cover of frost fall. It was Alaric’s insistence on stopping for a drink—ever the persistent one, though he knew one drink could never inebriate them—that made them inadvertently late to a meeting that neither wanted to attend. Not at the end of a good day, after closing out a multi-million-dollar deal.
Their guests, conversely, were unfortunately prompt—early, even. Finn knew it the moment they stepped into the glossy lobby of Orchard Enterprises. Judging by his growing nausea and the distinctly putrid bile that rose in his throat, the whole building felt contaminated all the way to the forty-second floor.
“Gentlemen,” he mused when they finally sauntered through his office door. Finn pointedly tossed his gloves on the coffee table in the center of the room, where two demons were seated on a nearby couch. One of them glanced down at the gloves, while the important one—Alastair—kept his eyes fixed on the angels.
