Feral: Book One

by DeHaven, Velvet

  Feral

  Book One

  by Velvet DeHaven

  Copyright © 2014 by Velvet DeHaven

  Summary: This is part one of an ongoing serial. University student Sofia Capriola, newly arrived back home from England, finds herself wildly attracted to and quite caught up in a relationship with one of her professors. But their relationship isn’t the only secret he is hiding…

  All rights reserved. Except as permitted under the U.S. Copyright Act of 1976, no part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form without the prior written permission of the copyright holder.

  This book is a work of fiction. The names, characters, and events depicted herein are products of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to persons, living or dead, or to actual events is entirely coincidental.

  Table of Contents

  One

  Two

  Three

  Four

  Five

  Six

  Seven

  Eight

  About the Author

  I dreamt of a long dress, fabric pooling about my ankle and lifting slightly whenever a particularly strong gust of wind blew my way. I dreamt of a picnic, of wine and cheese and the flushed smile of a man whose face I couldn’t fully focus on. I dreamt of happiness with warm laughter and the weight of affection stirred beneath my breastbone. I dreamt of the light pressure of his lips against my own.

  At the edges of my sight, the first hint of flames began to creep in.

  ONE

  I sighed in relief when the pilot announced our flight would be landing at Hartsfield-Jackson International in approximately an hour and a half, and let my head fall back against the blue, padded headrest. The plane was crowded and confining, and after eight fitful hours wedged between a mother with screaming infant and a businessman who smelled like cheap booze, I longed to plant my feet on solid ground and see my own mother and best friend again.

  I’d enjoyed my time in England. My trip had been undoubtedly therapeutic when it came to chasing away lingering demons from my personal life, but I had never been very far from home before. The need to see my family and friends again had intensified greatly since halfway through the now-completed semester, when I’d started really missing them.

  It was unusual for students who were not several semesters into the technical portion of their programs to study overseas, but after I explained to my mother that I desperately needed time away from the stressful situation I found myself in, she was able to pull some strings—perks of a few prominent connections she had.

  While I had a general idea of what I wanted to do with my life, I wasn’t entirely sure of what specific field I wanted to work in, and I hoped being away from home, away from the pressure of what was expected of me, would allow me a clearer view of my options. Of course, the principle reason was so I could escape all the gossip that surrounded my breakup with my high school sweetheart, Colton Malver.

  At twenty-two, it was painful to realize that while I was maturing beyond a teenage mindset and attitude, leaving all of the adolescent drama behind, my boyfriend remained static. More than that, I had become aware that what I’d once thought was romantic, youthful attention was nothing more than demanding jealousy. Never during my high school career had I realized Cole was a pretentious, condescending asshole. I should have. Our past was littered with such tell-tale moments, like when we attended junior prom at Atlanta's revolving Sun Dial restaurant.

  You can learn a lot about someone by how they treat wait staff, and that night’s events should have been a warning. The fact that he’d called the waiter an unpleasant slur when he walked away, simply for trying to list the ingredients of the soup to me, wasn't exactly impressive, though I hadn’t really given it much notice at the time. Back then, I'd thought his interruptions and insistence on ordering for me were his attempts to be charming and chivalrous, but in hindsight, I realized there was nothing romantic about speaking over my orders to the waiter to demand he serve me a drink I didn't want.

  It wasn’t healthy to have that sort of relationship during my youth, but to continue after having recognized the destructive traits was foolish as well as detrimental.

  So I had ended our relationship—much to my ex’s ire.

  It really was no one’s business, but I came from a small, southern town and knew it wouldn’t remain private for long. Sure enough, once the town gossip (and my own personal tormentor) got wind of the news, rumors started spreading like wildfire. The worst ones depicted me as a cheating bitch, pregnant with another guy’s baby. And the worst part of that entire situation was that while Cole never corroborated the rumors, he never denied them either; he simply allowed everyone to turn me into a nasty villain.

  Thankfully, my father and my close friends, the people who meant something to me, knew the truth and did not allow the gossip to paint their opinions of me. They knew me, and that was all that mattered, would ever matter to them.

  Unsurprisingly, my father was furious with Cole. He had never liked him to begin with, had seen what I could not in my adolescence, but he had tolerated him, as I was completely smitten by the captain of the basketball team. When the rumors first started, he wanted to hunt him down with a shotgun. My father might be flighty, but he always meant business when it came to me. And while he probably wouldn’t have actually shot Cole, I didn’t want him to get in trouble with the law. I appealed to his good sense and the memory of my mother, and he reluctantly agreed to drop it.

  My mother had passed away several years before. I’d always been close with her, closer than with my father. I remembered her tender smiles and the way she always had a snack ready for me when I got home from school – even though she usually had to work. But even with her busy schedule, she’d never been too busy to sing along to the radio with me or stop and have tea parties with me and my stuffed animals.

  I had been so close to her, and I took her sudden death harder than my family would have ever imagined. It took quite a while for me to finally come to grips with her death, but sometime during my junior year, after nearly thirty-one months of therapy, I was finally able to find some peace with the circumstances of her passing.

  The fact that Cole had mentioned my mother in the fight which ensued after our breakup, and that some of the people in our town had dared to comment about how disappointed my mother would be in me if he had known I’d cheated on my boyfriend and gotten pregnant by another man, was beyond appalling.

  I could remember one of the few times he’d acted like a caring lover, holding me while I cried on the anniversary of her death. I had told him everything that night about the events which led to her death, about how it was my mother’s own fault, about how I was angry and bitter. I told him everything. So I found it disgusting and infuriating, not to mentioning heartbreaking, when he dared tell me I had overreacted to the tragedy and to “get over it”.

  For the most part, I could handle the ugly looks from the people in our small town. I even held my peace when I was buying groceries one day when my dad was working late, and the cashier, who had known me since I was born, made a harsh comment about my supposed promiscuity under his breath. I could ignore the sermons every Sunday, in which there were constant references to sex before marriage and having children out of wedlock. I managed to shoulder through all of it, until I tried to talk to Cole about the situation and the discussion dissolved into a brutal argument.

  When he told me my mother died because she couldn’t get away from the house, from me and my father fast enough every time she was on call, I knew I was done. That shot was the deciding factor in my decision to leave my home for four months, and it was a good four months over all.

  My time abroad was beneficial i
n allowing me to deal with my anger and pain without the constant stares, behind-my-back-chitchat and blatant comments. It wouldn’t make dealing with the rude and hurtful gossip any better now that I was back, but for now, it gave me a chance to purge the root of my emotions and prepare myself to handle whatever happened upon my return.

  Overall, my trip allowed me to find peace, and I was happy.

  I smiled when I saw my best friend, Brianna “Brie” Hartwin, and my father waiting on the other side of the fabric tape. I felt a little silly for doing so, but I couldn’t help but wave—I hadn’t seen either of them in what seemed like a life time.

  Everyone said I looked exactly like my mother, because I had her heart-shaped face, the cognac-brown color of her eyes and her black hair. Indeed, the only real difference in our more obvious features was that my black curls had been bleached in some places and dyed magenta. But I saw more of my father in my face than my mother, as I had his nose and my doe-shaped eyes were deeply set into my skull. I also knew that my full lips were not my mother’s.

  I quickly collected my luggage, looping the straps of my largest non-rolling bag over the handle of one of the mobile cases and draping the other over my shoulder before making my way to the two people I had missed on my lengthy sojourn. When I came to a stop, I could only stare for a few moments at my best friend.

  Her once shoulder-length hair was gone. The red locks had been shorn at a sharp angle, the front framing her face down to her chin with the back wildly spiked.

  “You cut your hair.”

  It was probably one of the most inane comments I had ever made in my life, and with a brilliant grin on her face, she confirmed my silent thoughts. “Yeah. I’d been thinking about it for a couple of weeks, but I thought I’d wait and do it just before you came home. Surprise!”

  “Yeah, it really is, but I like it. It suits you,” I said through a laugh.

  Brie grabbed the bag hanging from my shoulder while my mother took the lighter rolling luggage. “So, did you meet any hot British guys?”

  “Plenty. None I was interested in, but they were there.” I smirked at her annoyed expression. “Really, Brie, what did you think would happen? I’d go over there and find the new love of my life?”

  “No, but I thought you’d at least have some fun,” she retorted waspishly.

  “I broke up with Cole less than a year ago,” I said solemnly, before a small smile tugged the corners of my lips. “But there was this really cute blond I saw at a club a few times. He was a fantastic dancer.” I shot her a smug look. “Happy?”

  “Very.”

  I noticed my father had been silent through the whole exchange, probably with some version of not my baby girl trickling through his mind, and I nudged him gently. “Do you wanna go out to eat tonight? My treat! We can do Italian. How’s Aunt Bell?”

  “Her doctor said she’s doing good,” Dad answered. “Belinda goes back for a check-up on Monday. And despite what you and your mother think, Olive Garden does not qualify as real Italian. Nonna Iacoba would roll over in her grave,” he griped. “How about sushi instead?”

  I really wasn’t in the mood for sushi at that particular moment, but I agreed anyway to make him happy.

  The drive home was slow thanks to weekend traffic, but it gave me the opportunity to discuss my studies and, more importantly, all the sight-seeing I had done on my days off. My father wanted to know about the architecture, art, and more refined facets of the culture, and Brie wanted to know about the party scenes and the nightlife, so by the time we made it home almost two hours later, I’d discussed almost every major event that occurred and sight I’d seen in my time over there.

  I only took a few minutes after dumping my bags in the living room to change into a fresh pair of shorts and a different top to match my sandals before glancing in the mirror to determine whether or not I wanted to put on any makeup. All it took was a shout to hurry up from Brie to make up my mind.

  For the most part, dinner was a pleasant affair, but at one point during the evening, I knew I had to ask the obvious question: What had happened with my ex-boyfriend when I left?

  My question seemed to create a moment of awkwardness at the table, and after it passed, I was surprised to learn that Cole had started looking for out-of-state colleges after my departure and left mere months after I had, halfway through the spring semester. Rumors had soon died down without their source of inspiration, and I was more than comforted by the fact that I would no longer have to deal with Cole’s sarcastic and patronizing comments or the town’s cutting words about being a disappointment to my father.

  Despite the unhappy topic of Cole, the conversation soon progressed to more pleasant subjects, and the night ended on a high note. I was relaxed and happy, and without the weight of homesickness and the discomfort of spending the summer in a strange bed, I was able to fall into a deep slumber with ease. It was the first time in a good three weeks I had slept serenely throughout the night.

  Late college registration seemed to grow more exhausting with each passing year, mentally and physically, not to mention monetarily. The paperwork was a nightmare every single time, and buying books and equipment was its own special brand of hell. Standing in the seemingly endless line of people was enough to give you a migraine, and waiting to meet with instructors when you already knew what you needed to take was enough to make a saint curse. I was just glad that I wouldn’t have to participate in this lurid ritual for another three months. I wondered again what I’d been thinking when I agreed to take summer courses. Did I really want to get ahead that badly? I sighed. Mostly the summer classes were to offset the disruption in my schedule caused by the study abroad. It wasn’t that the classes didn’t transfer. It was more that it threw some things out of the nice easy boxes they liked to put you in for earning your degree.

  I practically snatched the schedule away from the registrar in my irritation, ready to get my books and go home, and began picking my way through the crowds. Regrettably, haste makes waste, or in my case, unfortunate accidents.

  I slammed into a firm something, and given the multitude of people in the room, I was fairly certain it was a person. However, unlike the other half of our two-party collision, I landed squarely on my jean-clad butt, which was pretty damn painful due to the hardness of the floor meeting my flesh-padded tailbone. There was no doubt in my mind it was going to hurt to walk for a few days to come.

  I swore under my breath and attempted to clamber to my feet, knowing my cheeks were flaming and thanking whatever possible deities were out there that this had not happened while my hands were full of a couple hundred dollars worth of textbooks and lab and clinical equipment.

  When a pale hand appeared in front of my face, I didn’t hesitate to take it, even if I was embarrassed beyond words. I could only hope that I didn’t have to share a class with any of the people who were presently in the same room as I. Once on my feet, I tugged my dark shirt down into place from where it had ridden up ever-so-slightly before glancing up at the person whom I had mistakenly ploughed into, and what I saw took my breath away.

  The man was unquestionably attractive and appeared to be in his mid-thirties, and given my size in comparison to his, I wagered he was probably six foot even, possibly six-one. He wore a belt in the loops of the black slacks that seemed to be hanging deliciously low on equally delicious hips, and a deep, oxford-blue shirt, sans tie. I couldn’t help but notice the first two buttons were undone, and I immediately scolded myself for taking way too much pleasure in the little hint of the pearly-mocha skin revealed there. Indeed, while his facial structure reminded me faintly of someone of Italian descent, the lightness of his skin did not quite fit, reminding me of a wood elf or some other mythical creature.

  His hair was a dark shade of coffee, which was not an uncommon color for someone of potential Italian descent, and the thick—dear God, was it thick!—layered mane brushed his collar temptingly. Then there were his bright eyes, which were the most unusual sha
de I had ever seen in my life. They reminded me of the hyacinths that my nonna, my grandmother, grew in her flower gardens.

  He was beautiful, absolutely beautiful. It was the only word I could think of to describe him.

  “I do apologize,” he said with a hint of accent I couldn’t identify. “I should have been paying consideration to where I was walking.” A small smile tugged at the corner of his lips. “Particularly with the crowds that are about today.”

  I shook my head. “No, it’s my fault. I let my frustration at—” I waved at the throngs of people both inside and outside the office— “this get to me. It’s my fault. I’m sorry, Mister…?”

  “Treviso,” he supplied, offering his hand. “Simon Treviso.”

  So he is Italian!

  Apparently during my ruminations, I had been quiet for too long, and I could tell from his raised eyebrow that a response was welcome. “Sofia. Sofia Capriola. It’s a pleasure to meet you, Mister Treviso, though it would’ve been nicer under less embarrassing circumstances.”

  “Please, call me Simon.”

  “Simon, then.” I glanced around and gave a sigh at the crowd before returning my attention to him. “Well, it really was nice to meet you, Simon, but I’m afraid I have to go give my arm to the bookstore now.”

  “Yes,” he chuckled. “It does seem universities’ suppliers of printed knowledge do enjoy extorting what little money students have remaining. And it was indeed a pleasure, Miss Capriola.”

  There was something about his manner which reminded me of an old Victorian gentleman. I half suspected if he had been wearing a hat, he would have pinched the brim and tipped his head in some silent acknowledgement. However, I kept that thought to myself, and simply smiled, nodded my goodbye, and made my way out of the crowded office, more aware of the people surrounding me now than I had been before my uncomfortable spill and pleasant introduction.