The Sacrifice: Forbidden, Book 1

by Samantha Sommersby

  She knelt down beside me and took my hand. “Pray.”

  “I’m not sure I can believe in God anymore,” I admitted.

  “That’s okay,” she said. “He believes in you.”

  “Katherine?”

  Katherine’s eyes fluttered open. “Wes?”

  “Yes, love. I’m right here. How do you feel?”

  “Tired,” said Katherine. “And thirsty.”

  “Here you go.” I reached for a cup of water, placed a straw in it and offered it to her. “You have some broken ribs. One punctured a lung. I was so afraid that I was going to lose both of you. You’re going to be fine. It’s over.”

  “The baby?”

  I sat down on the edge of the bed, leaned down and touched my forehead to hers. “I’m so bloody sorry, love. We lost the baby.”

  Katherine started to cry. I wanted to cry too, to cry again. But I couldn’t, I wouldn’t. Not until I admitted my failure.

  “I’m sorry, Katherine. So sorry that I couldn’t, that I didn’t… I should never have left you alone in that house.”

  “No. Don’t do that. Don’t blame yourself. This isn’t your fault. Damien?”

  “He’s gone.”

  “Gone? Dead?”

  I nodded.

  “He hit Laura on the back of the head.”

  “And Stanley. They’re both fine. Just mild concussions. Will had surgery yesterday. He had a fractured tibia. Jennifer took him home last night.”

  “What about Charles?”

  Charles, the boy I’d grown up with, the brother I never had, the man I’d left to die alone, drowning in his own blood. The lump in my throat was impossible to swallow.

  “Wes?”

  I started to cry. I’d failed so miserably.

  “Is Charles…dead?”

  I nodded. “You wouldn’t have made it either if the neighbors hadn’t called 999 when they heard the explosion.”

  “I’m so sorry, Wes.”

  We held on to one another, providing comfort, taking solace, realizing it was the only thing we could do, the only thing left to do. Hours passed. Night came. Katherine and I both drifted in and out of sleep, murmuring words to one another in the darkness that were meant to chase away the pain. Only when the sun rose again, the pain was still there. I had a feeling it always would be, a persistent reminder.

  Finally, after what seemed like an eternity, Katherine opened her eyes.

  “Morning,” I said, trying for a smile.

  “Morning. Do you think they’ll let me go home?”

  Home. The place I’d most recently called home was burnt to the ground. The one I’d grown up in was now splattered with dust, debris, blood and haunting memories.

  “I’m not sure I can go back to Atherton House just yet,” I admitted. “It’s a shambles and…”

  “I was thinking of my home,” she said.

  My stomach lurched and my heart clenched.

  “You want to go back to California?”

  “Not alone. With you. I want us to go to California. There’s a wedding being planned there, remember?”

  “I remember,” I said. “I’ll go anywhere you want to go, love.”

  “Anywhere?”

  I nodded. “Anywhere. Wherever you are? That’s home.”

  Epilogue

  Seven months later

  Even before the taxi rounded the fountain at the end of the historic Laurel Street Bridge and pulled in front of the San Diego Museum of Art, I could see that the parking lot was surprisingly empty. “I thought more people would be here for opening night.”

  “This is our opening night. It opens to the public tomorrow.”

  “Sunday?” I quickly paid the driver, then stepped out of the car, offering Katherine my hand.

  “Father’s Day. Mom wanted you to be the first to see it. I have to tell you, she’s never been so nervous about an exhibit before.”

  Katherine and I walked hand in hand up the stairs to the tall doors of the grand museum. As we approached the doors they opened, and a security guard greeted us. “Dr. and Mrs. Atherton, take your time.”

  I paused just inside the entryway in front of the sweeping staircase by the water fountain. The area was replete with orchids of every variety, reminding me immediately of my mother and the hours she would joyfully spend in the conservatory tending to them. I paused for a moment, suddenly awash in memories. Then I noticed Katherine waiting for me. She was standing in the entry to the room on the left. The iridescent silver and gold threads of her simple gown enhanced her already glowing skin and honey blonde hair. She tilted her head in invitation toward the inside of the room and disappeared within.

  I was powerless to do anything but follow her. I rounded the corner to find her standing in front of a large wall. It was covered in black shantung silk, like the walls in my parents’ bedroom. On it hung a huge gilt frame. Painted within the frame, on a blood red background, was an excerpt from a journal Julia had found in my father’s studio, something that he’d written during the last few days of his life:

  “Since the moment I laid eyes on Margo she captivated me completely: the curve of her breast, the angle of her nose, the color of her eyes, the depth of her soul. I would have given her anything she wanted. I would have been her willing slave. I would have played the hero. She was everything to me, my inspiration, my reason, my life, my wife.”

  The words before me blurred. The flood of emotion was unexpected and slightly embarrassing. Although they’d been gone for some time, I still missed them, and their love, deeply. I stepped back and brushed the tears from my face.

  “Are you all right?” Katherine reached for my hand.

  “I don’t know. It’s so personal.”

  “It’s beautiful. It’s inspiring.”

  “Inspiring?”

  “You don’t have any idea? Do you?”

  “What?”

  Katherine walked around the corner and I followed, walking into the center of a large room. This one contained the red velvet chaise, encased under glass in the middle, with paintings of my mother lying upon it on the surrounding walls.

  “Do you have any idea how many real love stories there are these days? Do you have any idea what little it all has come to mean for most people? How many people have just forgotten the point of it all?”

  “Katherine, what my parents found in each other, it was rare.”

  “No. That’s what you don’t get.” She walked over to a small table I hadn’t noticed in the corner of the room. A table containing an ice bucket with a bottle of champagne. Katherine picked up the bottle and poured out two glasses.

  “It wasn’t that they found one another in the first place that’s so special. It’s that they continued to find things in one another. That’s what people need to know is possible, be reminded of. That love can be lasting. That’s what this exhibit celebrates.”

  I crouched down in front of the encased chaise, untied my bowtie and unbuttoned the top two buttons of my shirt. Then I read the plaque displayed inside the case, explaining the history of the piece.

  “You’re being uncharacteristically quiet. What do you think?”

  Katherine handed me a glass of champagne.

  I took a sip, then resisted the urge to spit it back into the glass.

  “No good?”

  “Have you tried it? It’s bloody awful!” I walked over to the table and pulled the bottle out of the ice to examine it. “I hope they don’t intend to serve this tomorrow.”

  The instant I recognized the label I froze. It was the same one that Charles had served to us the night of the Black and White Ball.

  “I know it’s a day early.”

  I spun around. “We’re going to have a baby?”

  Katherine nodded. “Happy Father’s Day.”

  I took her glass of champagne from her, set it next to mine on the table, then said it again. “We’re going to have a baby.”

  “I thought we covered that,” she said, stepping back
, a smile lighting up her face.

  I walked toward her. “A baby. You’re pregnant.”

  Katherine walked backward until the wall pressed up against her. “Are you okay?”

  “Okay? Are you kidding? I’m probably the happiest man alive!” I laced my fingers through hers and lifted both hands above her head. “No, scratch that. Definitely the happiest man alive!” I crushed my mouth to hers, then began to inch up her gown.

  “What are you doing?” Katherine panted.

  I lavished kisses on her neck and throat as my hands caressed one thigh, fingering the top of her stocking.

  “Groping you. Pay no attention.” I started to nibble on her earlobe.

  “Wes, stop, I think they have surveillance cameras in here.”

  “Oh, really?” I gave her ass a firm squeeze and at the same time nudged her legs even farther apart.

  “Yes!” Katherine began to stiffen.

  “I won’t leave here without the tapes. Promise.”

  “You’re impossible.”

  “Just think, if we ever get hard up for money we can get a web site, charge people to watch the videos, then act all surprised and indignant in front of the press.”

  “But, your mother, it feels like she’s watching!”

  That made me smile. “Are you kidding? My parents would so appreciate this.”

  She pushed me away. “We could get arrested!”

  “Nah! They’ll just deport me.”

  Katherine started laughing.

  “How did I get to be so lucky?”

  She sobered quickly. “Are you just trying to soften me up so you can have museum sex?”

  “What? No! Of course not.”

  Katherine raised an eyebrow.

  “Am I that transparent?”

  “Take me home?”

  “I’ll take you home, Mrs. Atherton. I’ll take you any number of ways. Let’s get out of here.” I pulled out my mobile from my jacket pocket. “What’s the number for the taxi service?”

  “I’ll ask one of the security guys to call for us.” Katherine kissed me on the cheek then used her thumb to wipe off the remnants of her lipstick.

  As she turned to leave I reached for her hand and held her back.

  “Thank you.”

  “For what?”

  I’d said it on impulse, not because of anything specific, but because my heart was close to bursting with gratitude. Suddenly I felt choked up, tongue-tied.

  Katherine was looking expectantly at me.

  I thought about all that she’d given me thus far, all that I had to look forward to. We all experience those turning points in life. That one seemingly mundane moment that we later look back on and with certainty realize has defined the rest.

  “For taking the Tube,” I finally said, recognizing that from the moment I looked into her bright green eyes that day in the Tube, my life had been utterly transformed, irrevocably changed.

  “You’re thanking me for using public transportation?”

  I nodded.

  “You’re a little weird sometimes, Dr. Atherton.”

  I wrapped my arm around her waist and pulled her close so that her body was flush with mine. “But you’re in love with me anyways.”

  She nodded. “Yes. I am.”

  “Forever and always?”

  “Till the end of the world.”

  About the Author

  Samantha Sommersby lives in San Diego with her husband and teenaged son. She is the author of multiple novels and novellas including the critically acclaimed Forbidden series. In 2007 Samantha left what she used to call her “real life” day job as a psychotherapist to pursue writing full-time. She now happily spends her days immersed in the world of the Forbidden, a world where vampires, werewolves and demons are real, where magic is possible, and where love still conquers all.

  To learn more about Samantha Sommersby, to follow her on Myspace, Facebook, Twitter, or Yahoo, or to sign up for her monthly newsletter, visit www.samanthasommersby.com. You may contact the author through her website or by sending an email to samantha@samanthasommersby.com.

  Look for these titles by Samantha Sommersby

  Coming Soon:

  Forbidden: The Ascension

  Forbidden: The Revolution

  Forbidden: The Temptation

  Shelter from the Storm

  In the beginning there is always darkness…

  Divinity in Chains

  © 2008 Danielle Devon

  Aramon’s blood runs hot for the ravishingly beautiful Eliyn, the mysterious young woman who seemed to appear like magic out of the woods, lost and alone. But as Garde Lumia of the kingdom of Kinra, he is bound by duty to his country and the divine family he has sworn to protect. Aramon must marry according to his high station, the laws of the kingdom have no care for the desires of his heart.

  Eliyn lost the only family she has ever known to the barbaric Viscans, and is grateful to the royal family for taking in. She knows Aramon would willingly defy his king to bond with her if she would only say the word, but she is mindful of her low-born status. All she can ever have of him are nights of forbidden passion.

  Then a dark ship appears on the horizon, a ship bearing Araqael, the Night Lord cast from the heavens by the goddess herself. The centerpiece of his plot for revenge is his intended bride—Eliyn. The world would be hers to command if only she would take her place at his side. She must choose between the demon who could offer her everything and the man who could offer her nothing but his heart.

  But Divinity has other plans…

  Enjoy the following excerpt for Divinity in Chains:

  The curtains billowed in the soft night breeze, drawing away from the window for a moment so that he could see into the room beyond. She sat at the vanity, her back to him, her long dark hair dripping down her back in soft waves.

  The curtains fell against the window again, blocking his view.

  Aramon pressed forward, daring to take the fabric in his hand and gently pull it aside. He could see her reaching out for a dagger, her fingertips slipping over the hilt of the blade. She took hold of the weapon, drawing it up so that it stood on its tip while she twirled it in circles. He didn’t know what her intentions were with the dagger, but he could almost feel the despair rippling through her like a bitter mountain stream… Cold and calculated, wearing at the edges of her soul as the water wears upon the rocks.

  He leaned against the framing, his arms crossed about his chest as the curtain stirred in the breeze behind him. “It is a curse to take ones life before one has truly lived,” he said.

  Her fingers released the dagger so that it fell with a heavy clang against the vanity. She turned slowly, casting a long, breathless glance over her shoulder at him. She pressed her palm to her heart as though she were pinning it down beneath her chest. She said nothing as she turned slowly back around, her fingers working over the blade again, drawing it up so that the handle rested solidly in her palm.

  She rose then and Aramon took a moment to let his gaze drip down her body. Her gown slipped off one shoulder and marble-like skin glowed under the lamplight, the fire sending a soft orangish hue to flush across her body.

  She turned slowly, dagger clutched dangerously beneath an iron fist even as it hung limply at her side. She met his gaze, pupils as black as the night drowning in a cerulean sea flashed with an intoxicating mix of hatred and desire. Her tongue darted out from between her lips, trailing across the plump flesh so that it glimmered with moisture beneath the flicker of the lamp. She did not press forward but did not back away. She stood her ground, her gaze locked on his. She lifted her chin defiantly. “You are mistaken about my intentions.”

  “Death is not to be played with.”

  “I am not toying with death, merely with the choice.”

  “The choice?”

  “To take one’s own life…” Her words trailed off as through she were pondering the thought. “I may not have a choice in the life I am given, but I have a choi
ce in whether I wish to live it.”

  Aramon took a step forward, daring to close the distance between them despite the dagger in her hand. He was compelled, drawn to her like the stars are drawn to the heavens. He couldn’t have said why, he was simply drawn. Silently she spoke to him, her heart calling out to him though her lips hadn’t uttered such a word. It was foolishness he knew, his mind was tired, his body weak, his nerves tinged with a strange desire. Still, he could not deny it anymore than he could deny himself breath. “You would choose death over this life?”

  Her grip tightened on the dagger as he approached, his steps slow, methodical. She stood her ground, her chin lifting higher as if to signal her strength even as tears welled in her vivid eyes. “No,” she said simply. “I merely choose to debate the choice. What would you choose if you were me?”

  Her question had him pausing midstep, his dark brow cocking as he considered her. “Pardon?”

  “Would you choose to be a slave with no control over your own life? Or would you choose freedom, even if freedom was offered only in death?” Her hand trembled, her voice raising half an octave so that it poured over him like a bird’s song.

  A smile curled on Aramon’s lips, and again he dared to take a step forward. Closing the distance between them, he stopped just a breath away. He towered above her so that he had to bow his head and tilt his gaze downward just to meet her upturned face.

  She was small, delicately framed, and he remembered how easily she had settled against him as he had escorted her into the garden. Her body fitting into his as though they were cut from the same mold, fitting together as two perfect pieces. It was her small stature, as much as her expressive beauty and bold tongue that excited him.

  He felt her breath, heavy and quick as it was expelled and drawn in with the frantic beat of her heart. It was warm against his skin, teasing him, daring him to capture her lips with his and draw into him that very breath. So sweet she smelled, like chamomile, the scent not perfumed but natural, wafting up from her hair, from the very surface of her skin. Her scent was drawn with rapture, the soft, small curves of her body etched for a man’s delight. “You are not a slave, Eliyn.” His voice came out ragged and strained, surprising even him. “You are free to make your own choices as we all are. You are free to live, free to die.”