by Aliya DalRae
The
Fallen Cross
Pack Series
Aliya DalRae
The Fallen Cross Pack Series Box Set Copyright © 2018 by Aliya DalRae
All rights reserved.
First Edition, 2018
This is a work of fiction. All names, characters, organizations, 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, places, locations, events or establishments is purely coincidental.
Cover by RM Designs
ISBN: 1722159340
ISBN-13: 978-1722159344
This series is dedicated to my readers. Thank you for making this so much fun!
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
Thank you to RM Designs for another amazing cover.
To my Fabulous friends and colleagues, for all your support and encouragement.
And To Kirk, my Immortal Beloved: You make me want to be a better person.
Table of Contents
Bitter Beginnings
Bitter Challenge
Bitter Loss
Bitter End
About the Author
Bitter
Beginnings
Chapter One
P atrick O’Connell was a happy man.
Looking around the tiny apartment he shared with his wife and young daughter, he couldn’t believe how lucky he was. Sure it was small, barely more than a couple of rooms and a john. The wallpaper was faded and peeling around the edges, and there wasn’t enough Windex in the world to clean the grunge off of the windows. But it was theirs.
They were getting a bargain, too. This wasn’t the crappiest area of downtown Dayton, and for the price they were paying, they could be in a much worse situation.
Maggie was on the couch, engrossed in the latest episode of Jeopardy. Every so often he would hear her shout the questions: “What is Sweden?” Then, “Who is Edgar Allen Poe?”
She was beautiful, his Maggie, with shiny red hair, captivating green eyes, and a figure that even nine months of pregnancy hadn’t destroyed. She was his world.
Patrick crept up behind the sofa, leaned over and kissed her cheek, nibbling his way to her neck where he inhaled deeply. She smelled faintly of baby shampoo, but her underlying scent was all woman.
With a playful rawr he flopped himself over the back of the couch, landing with his head squarely in her lap.
Maggie let out a squeal, then giggled as he burrowed his face in her belly.
“Stop it,” she laughed. “You’ll wake the baby.” But she was running her fingers through his hair, knowing what a turn-on that was for him.
He didn’t stop.
“Jessica’s fine,” he mumbled, raising her shirt and planting sloppy kisses on her stomach, nipping and tickling her because he knew it would keep her laughing. “I just looked in on her. She’s perfect.”
“You’re perfect,” Maggie said, and she leaned over to claim his lips with her own.
Much clothes-tugging and skin-touching later, the two laid tangled together on top of the cushions, both thoroughly satisfied in their lovemaking, and in their life.
Jessica had been a surprise, albeit a happy one. When eighteen-year-old Maggie had come to him five years ago and told him she was expecting, he’d been terrified. There was never any doubt that the two would be spending their lives together. From the moment they met, theirs was a bond that would not be broken, but a baby would change everything.
And so she had.
Neither Maggie nor Patrick had any family to speak of. Maggie was a product of the system, having been in and out of foster homes like they came equipped with a revolving door. Patrick had left home when he was sixteen and never looked back.
Now they had each other and they had Jessica. It was all the family a person could ever ask for.
“You made me miss Final Jeopardy,” Maggie teased as she smoothed a lock of Patrick’s hair from his eyes.
“Yeah,” he grinned. “But it was worth it.”
Maggie was studying him now, an odd look about her that gave him pause. “What is it?”
“I don’t know,” she said, then added, “Jessica said you were leaving us.”
Patrick was floored. “Why on earth would she say that?”
“Beats me,” Maggie shrugged, then pulled him into her arms hugging him like she was afraid to let him go. “She says the strangest things sometimes.”
“Well, you know I’m not going anywhere.” He leaned back to plant a loud smooch on her lips. “Except to the corner to buy a pack of cigarettes.”
With a roguish wink, he sat up and reached for his jeans.
“You know you should quit that nasty habit.”
“Yep, I do,” he said, blowing off her comment for the millionth time. “Do you want anything?”
“You know what I want,” Maggie said, and reached a hand out to brush his arm.
“Yeah, yeah, I know what you want,” Patrick laughed, and he did. He knew everything about Maggie, and she about him. They were soul mates. He knew that sounded corny, but it was the truth.
He pulled on his shirt and shoes, and headed for the door. “I’ll be right back.”
“Be careful,” she said, because she always said this when they parted ways.
“I will,” he promised. “I love you.”
She had turned around on the couch and had her arms folded on the back of it, her chin resting on her hands as she watched him. She was smiling when she spoke, and that smile said it all. “I love you more.”
“I love you the most.” Patrick grinned as he closed the door behind him.
Life was so perfect.
Chapter Two
P atrick left the store with a pack of Marlboros, a Payday, a Slim Jim, and a spring in his step. The candy bar, Maggie’s favorite, was in his shirt pocket along with the jerky, and he smacked the unopened box of cancer sticks on his palm as he made his way home.
He’d walked this path a thousand times, so in spite of the occasional prostitute or drug dealer, he felt relatively safe with his surroundings. He knew most of the night people by name, and their attitudes generally ranged from friendly to indifferent when they saw him walk by. The working girls knew he was a one-woman man, and the drug dealers were confident he would mind his own business.
Not necessarily the neighborhood he wanted Jessica to go to school in, but his goal was to have them out of Dayton and into the suburbs by the time their daughter reached kindergarten age. They still had a couple of years for that, and they were saving every penny they could to reach that goal.
Maybe Maggie was right, he thought as he lit a cigarette and pocketed his lighter. If he gave up smoking they could put all that extra money toward the cause. Something to consider.
He blew out a stream of smoke and watched it disappear into the cool spring night. As he passed the mouth of an alleyway some motion caught his eye. He was already moving on—nothing to see here—when he heard something whimpering.
Patrick had a good heart. Maggie often said it was going to do him in one of these days, but it never stopped him from offering his help if he felt it was needed. This was one of those times.
Afraid that someone was in trouble, he stopped just past the alley and listened. If it was Duronda with one of her tricks, he certainly didn’t want to interfere, but this had sounded different.
There it was again.
Patrick edged back to the alleyway, and took a peek. He could tell now that the sound was more animal than human. More like a dog, maybe.
He took a few steps into the dead-end lane and stopped again to listen. Yes. Definitely a dog.
> “Hey boy,” he called softly, hoping to lure the animal out. “Come here, pup.”
And there it was. It was big for a stray, but when it came limping out into the dim light, Patrick knew he had to help.
“Come here, boy. Let me see what’s happened.”
The dog hesitated, its ears twitching, an obviously injured paw in the air, and then it took a step backward.
Not sure what else to do, Patrick grabbed the beef stick and opened it, stuffing the wrapper in his hip pocket.
The dog lifted its nose in the air. It looked like it’d seen better days, so Patrick wasn’t surprised when the poor thing took a hesitant limp toward him.
Patrick was slow in his approach, but the dog took more steps backward than it did forward. Eventually they ended up at the end of the alley, with nowhere else to go.
Mindful of backing a stray, hungry dog into a corner, Patrick eased off a bit to give the animal some room. He knelt down on one knee and held the treat out as far as he could, so the dog wouldn’t feel like it had to come right up to him.
Patrick never had a chance to reconsider. Encouraged when the dog started toward him, he spoke softly and waved the processed meat snack a little to entice the creature.
Two things happened in very quick succession. The dog grabbed the beef stick, practically swallowing it whole, and then its eyes flashed yellow, bathing the dark alley with an unholy glow.
Patrick stumbled backward, but slipped on something slimy and fell on his ass. The dog was growling now, no longer looking pathetic, its lips pulled back baring enormous canines dripping with saliva.
Patrick scrambled to stand up, but the snarling dog was on him before he could blink, knocking him flat on the ground with powerful, clawed feet. The animal stood over him, its nose inches from Patrick’s, its fetid breath filling his mouth with the taste of beef jerky and raw meat.
Patrick blinked as the dog flicked its tongue over its muzzle, but when he tried to move again, the creature dragged its claws down Patrick’s chest, shredding shirt, skin and all.
Maggie was right. Maggie was always right, but here again was proof. He was too kind for his own good.
Patrick made one final attempt to escape the clutches of the yellow-eyed beast, but it was no use. His last thoughts before the animal’s powerful jaws closed around his throat were of Jessica’s prophetic words.
Chapter Three
I t was the pain that brought Patrick back to consciousness. Sharp pains, dull aches, piercing, throbbing, torturous agony.
He tried to roll over, but his muscles weren’t working. It was a stretch to coax his eyelids into cooperating, and when they did, he snapped them closed again. Bright light filled the room, wherever he was, and the intensity of it stabbed his eyes straight through to his brain, increasing his anguish a hundredfold.
He laid where he was, not moving a muscle, until the itching became unbearable. He managed to get his fingers moving, pulling them into loose fists, and found them full of…straw. He cranked his eyes open once again, and made the tremendous effort of raising a hand into his field of vision.
Yep. Straw. That would explain the itching.
He allowed his hand to drop to the floor and tried again to roll to his side. It hurt—God, did it hurt—but he managed it. He was even able to force himself up on an elbow, giving him a better perspective of where he was.
Kind of.
He was in a barn of some sort, specifically in what appeared to be a horse’s stall, though unlike any stall he’d ever seen before. The bottom half was made of wood, but the top half was framed out with silver bars, like a prison only shinier. The door was split in two so that the upper half—the barred half—could be opened while keeping the occupant safely inside. Assuming the occupant was a horse.
Both halves were closed at the moment, but he didn’t see why he wouldn’t be able to open it up and walk out.
Except when he tried to stand, his body was still giving him the “no go” sign.
Patrick rolled onto his back, the straw poking his bare skin relentlessly, and somehow seeking out every open wound he had.
Wait a minute. Where were his clothes?
With no ability or desire to sit up again, Patrick patted himself from head to hip.
Yep again. He was naked.
How the hell had he gotten here?
The sound of a door opening and closing, followed by light footsteps, had him scrambling for the corner and covering himself as best he could. He wasn’t about to lay there exposed to the world when he had no idea who was out there or what they wanted with him.
“You’re awake.” A woman with shaggy brown hair and eyes the color of good chocolate was leaning against the bottom half of the door, a gloved hand wrapped around a silver bar on the top.
“Who are you?”
“Name’s Nadia. What’s yours?”
“P-patrick.” He was hoarse, and each word felt like a razor blade sliding from his throat.
“Well, Patrick, you’re healing up nice enough. That’s a good sign.” When he didn’t respond, Nadia continued. “If I come in there, are you going to behave yourself and let me look at your wounds?”
Patrick thought a moment. He was buck-ass naked and that scrabble into the corner had taken every last ounce of energy he’d had. Out of options for the time being, he nodded.
Nadia stuck a key into a lock Patrick hadn’t seen, opened the door, then closed it securely behind her. He noticed that she didn’t lock it again from the inside, but figured she knew as well as he did what kind of state he was in. He wasn’t going anywhere just yet.
She was carrying an old fashioned doctor’s bag which she placed on the floor just out of Patrick’s reach. She removed the gloves and placed them inside the bag, then knelt beside him and lifted one of his arms. She turned it over, apparently evaluating the multitude of cuts and bruises that covered the appendage, then gently returned it to its place in his lap. She repeated the procedure with his other arm and both of his legs.
In spite of the care she was taking, each rise and turn triggered gut-wrenching stabs of pain that ricocheted throughout his body. She picked straw out of the larger wounds as she went, paying extra attention to the gouges on his chest and abdomen.
Patrick followed her movements, seeing each of his injuries as she examined them. What the hell happened to me?
“Can you lean forward?” she asked, drawing him out of his headspace. It was like she was speaking Swahili.
She placed a small hand on his shoulder and pulled, forcing him to bend enough for her to get a look at his back.
“Most of your injuries are on the front,” she said, as though they were two people in a bar, having a conversation. “There are a few scratches on your shoulders, here and here, but for the most part, I think you’re okay back there.”
Patrick nodded again, trying to force a memory—any memory—to the front of his mind.
Jessica.
It wasn’t what he was hoping for. He would have liked to remember what had brought him here, why he was all cut up and being held prisoner in a horse stall.
Instead, a vision of pure joy filled his mind, the memory of his daughter laughing as she dug her fingers into her first birthday cake. Maggie was there, his Maggie, cuddling their little girl, smiling up at him.
These were happy scenes, and yet his chest filled with dread as he choked back a sob.
“…really are healing up well. The Alpha will be so happy to hear that you aren’t going to die.”
Wait, what? Alpha? What the hell did that mean?
“Who are you again?” Patrick managed the words in a raspy whisper.
“Don’t worry about it,” Nadia said as she rummaged through her leather bag. “I’ll get some of this ointment on you, and you’ll be healed up in no time.”
Patrick lay dazed as she rubbed a greasy substance on his wounds, and he barely noticed when she stood to go.
“I’m gonna have them bring you some clothes.
You should be all right to dress now. Not that I mind you naked,” she added with a wink.
The stall door opened and closed again, and Patrick heard the key turning, once again locking him inside this makeshift prison and leaving him alone with his memories.
Chapter Four
S ometime later—an hour? A week?—Patrick woke to the sound of voices. Male this time, and nowhere in the vicinity of friendly.
“Stop prancing around, Dewey. You’re driving me fucking nuts.” This sounded like an order, given by a man who expected it to be followed.
“Sorry, Boss,” was the answer, apparently from Dewey. “It’s just I’ve never made one before. They’re usually dead by now. I’m a little excited is all.”
“Nevertheless, you’re acting like a puppy with a weak bladder. If you don’t calm down you won’t live to see your next change. Am I clear?”
“Clear, Boss. Super clear.”
A face peered into the stall, and Patrick was certain it was Dewey. The man had brown hair, a shade or two darker than Patrick’s and a bit on the long side. It looked like it hadn’t been washed in a month of Sundays. His face was gaunt with sunken eyes, but there was a gleam in those eyes that said more about the man than his disheveled appearance did. This was a person who enjoyed torturing small animals or anything weaker than him. It was right there for anyone to see, if they took the time to look.
“It’s awake, Boss!” Dewey rubbed his hands together in obvious glee, then reached out and grabbed the bars. Patrick heard a hiss, and a puff of smoke rose from the man’s hands as he jerked them away and howled in pain.
They’re poisoned. That explained a lot, and Patrick was glad he hadn’t been strong enough to examine them more closely.
