by Eden Butler
Claiming Serenity
Copyright © 2014 Eden Butler
Edited by Sharon B. Browning
Cover Design by Steven Novack
Copy Edits by Karen Chapman
Interior Design by Angela McLaurin, Fictional Formats
All rights reserved as permitted under the U.S. Copyright Act of 1976. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, transmitted in any form or by any means, or stored in a database or retrieval system, without the prior permission of the Author. For information regarding subsidiary rights, please contact the Author Publisher.
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is coincidental.
The author acknowledges the copyrighted or trademarked status and trademark owners of the following word-marks and references mentioned in this work of fiction:
Locales: Gatlinburg, Tennessee; Nashville, Tennessee; New Orleans, Louisiana; Parsons School of Design; New York City; Chattanooga, Tennessee; the Knoxville Zoo; Maryville, Tennessee; Jackson, Tennessee Entities: Patrón tequila, Skype, CrossFit, Inc., Mercedes-Benz, BMW AG, Kool-Aid, Band-Aid, “Chuck” Taylor hightop by Converse, Coach, World of Warcraft, XBox, FBI, All Blacks New Zealand National rugby team, the Auckland Blues rugby team, the Waikato Chiefs rugby team Personalities: Chris Hemsworth, Nancy Sinatra Media: “Bang, Bang (My Baby Shot Me Down)” by Cliff Richard, Marvel’s “The Avengers”, Buffy the Vampire Slayer, the TARDIS (Doctor Who); Pixar Miscellaneous: Alcoholics Anonymous (AA).
If you have a copy of this book that is watermarked or does not have a cover, know that it is stolen property. Please support authors by purchasing their books, not stealing them.
Seriously, karma is real and if you steal books, the Internet Gods will spread their wrath of nasty viruses on your devices and the author will laugh and laugh at the poetic justice.
Also by Eden Butler
Chasing Serenity, Book 1
Behind the Pitch, a novella (Book 1.5)
Finding Serenity, Book 2
Claiming Serenity (Serenity Series Book #3)
Thin Love (Thin Love #1)
My Beloved—A Thin Love Novella
Thick Love (Thin Love #2), August 2015
PROLOGUE
ONE
TWO
THREE
FOUR
FIVE
SIX
SEVEN
EIGHT
NINE
TEN
ELEVEN
TWELVE
THIRTEEN
FOURTEEN
FIFTEEN
INTERLUDE
SIXTEEN
SEVENTEEN
EIGHTEEN
NINETEEN
TWENTY
TWENTY-ONE
TWENTY-TWO
TWENTY-THREE
TWENTY-FOUR
TWENTY-FIVE
EPILOGUE
ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
The Serenity Series
“Butler writes with a stylistic, descriptive flair that emphasizes the burdens of carrying physical and emotional wounds. She creates characters destined for each other and ready for life’s lessons. Chasing Serenity holds promise that the series roll-out will create Serenity-aholics.”
—Michelle Monkou, USA Today
“I loved this book! The hero is a tatted up Irish rugby player who has traveled to the states to play for college. Like the heroine he has a tragic past and when Autumn and Declan meet sparks fly! Nice to read a book that is anything but predictable.”
—Kele Moon, author of the Battered Hearts series
“This book explores emotional heartache, but on different levels. It’s not just about romantic love, but about the love of family (and “family” takes on a whole new meaning. It encompasses friends, too). From disconnect to possible re-connect. From old scars that refuse to heal, to potential emotional mending. You’ll feel it, deep.”
—Maryse Black, Maryse’s Book Blog
“Eden Butler has captivated my heart. From the town she created with its love of rugby to its foundation of friendship and family, I find I wish I could hop on a bus and stay there a while. The characters as flawed yet beautiful, broken yet unbelievably strong. Layers of intense feelings are still trapped in my heart.”
—Nichole Hart, Sizzling Pages Romance Reviews”
The Thin Love Series
“Read [Thin Love] in one sitting! Without a doubt, my favorite dynamic of bad boy meets feisty good girl. Superb writing!”
—Penelope Douglas New York Times bestselling author of Bully and Until You
“Thin Love is more than just a book. It’s more than a story. It’s a journey—an experience that grabs you by the gut and won’t let go until it’s ready to release you. And damn, what a release it is. Eden Butler nailed it.”
—Lila Felix, bestselling author of Love and Skate
“By far my favorite Eden Butler novel. Keira and Kona’s chemistry is electric and leaps off the pages!”
—Chelle Bliss, USA Today Bestselling Author of the Men of Inked series
“I felt so connected to these characters and this story that it almost felt too personal to share it with anyone. But rest assured, I will be shouting the praises of Thin Love and Mrs. Butler from the rooftops so that I can make sure others experience what I have.”
—Lori Westhaver, Red’s Book Blog
“There is a bold mission when [Butler] puts pen to paper to grab our attention, open our hearts, and engage our imagination. Butler didn’t hold back with crafting these characters from different cultures, tossing in some major adversity, and challenging them to dig deep for inner strength. At the end of the day, Thin Love is hearty blend for the soul.”
—Michelle Monkou, USA Today
For Sabrina Rome, Kari Millet and Nina Martinez—
Fierce warrior woman.
Two Days Ago…
It was the too large, manly foot resting on her chin that woke her.
Layla sprawled over a flattened pillow, a crick pinching her neck, head pounding something fierce and an anonymous male foot resting right against her chin.
Shit, she thought, trying to decipher the smells of the room. There was a chance, but only a slight one, that Walter, her on-again, off-again boyfriend, had somehow convinced her to come back to his apartment for what was a continuous cycle of “We Need To Talk” chats. Those had been lasting a good month now. But she would never be in Walter’s bed and she had to believe he would be too proper, too gentlemanly, to fall asleep with his foot slapped against her face. Besides, the room did not smell like Walter. It smelled, in fact, of stinky male—soiled socks and athletic gear that had not been tended to in quite a while. Layla knew the stench. Her father’s constant flow of rugby players on the university squad he coached made that particular smell familiar. Stinky, male and very familiar.
With that idea in her thundering head, and the throb aching behind her eyes growing worse, Layla tried to hold onto the sparse flashes of memory that replayed the previous night’s disconnected events.
A fight with Walter. Her screaming over his judgmental opinions about her friends and then… sitting on the tailgate of someone’s pickup?
There had been liquor, the cotton ball texture of her mouth told her that much, Patrón was a possible culprit and then…
Oh, Sweet baby Jesus in Heaven please, please no.
Donovan.
Donovan the Demon.
Donovan who Layla hated with the intensity of eleventy billion suns.
Dear Lord, she prayed, if you make this not my reality, I promise to stop drinking. M
uch. I promise to never, ever to say the F word, ever in my life again. I promise to stop cheating on my Chemistry exams. I promise to…
The low grunt from under the covers and the movement of that offending foot from her face, stopped Layla cold.
Please, please, please. Thank you. Your friend, Layla, she hurried to finish.
The lump under the covers didn’t do more than roll on its side and after keeping still and silent for a full minute, Layla was able to take a shaky inventory of herself. She pulled up the worn chenille blanket and surveyed underneath.
Fuck, fuck fuckity fuck!
She was completely and utterly naked and the realization had her head pounding double time. Naked, except for her shoes. Or, one of her shoes. Layla lifted her foot from underneath the blanket, away from the snoring lump, and spotted one of her black Jimmy sandals. The other rested next to her discarded clothes on the floor. Eyes moving around the room, all vestiges that she did not do something immensely stupid vanished. She knew the room. Less than two months before she snuck in there and situated a large bucket of oil-based fluorescent green paint onto the top of the open door. It had been one prank among dozens she’d visited on Donovan Donley since their unspoken prank war began. She’d finished up by slicking his bathroom floor with butter and only felt mild shame over the sprained ankle Donovan had suffered in the process.
The giant shit should have never stolen my puppy.
Escape from her mortification and that lump grunting under the covers was forefront on her mind. The sooner she could begin her walk of utter humiliating shame, the faster she could ignore that she ever let him touch her. Oh God. She let Donovan Donley touch her. Or did she? Layla squeezed her scratchy eyes shut, trying desperately to focus on the pickup and the laughing—she remembered there had been a lot of laughing and flirting? No. She would never flirt with him. Arrogant, bullheaded, humiliating bastard that he was. Never.
She had to know what had happened. The whole being naked bit didn’t give her much hope that they passed out before anything truly nefarious could take place, but maybe they had, maybe they’d both been too drunk to finish the deed. Maybe… there were no maybes about it, not when Layla slithered a bit unsteadily from the bed and her foot brushed against something cold on the floor. Condom wrapper. An open condom wrapper.
She took a moment, her throbbing, pulsing head held in her hands, to let reality settle in. She had sex with Donovan. Something she vowed to God and Buddha and Santa Claus that she would never do. Donovan, who tortured her all through high school. Donovan, who Layla only managed to escape when she and her parents went to Ireland for six months so her father could scout new recruits for the squad. Donovan Freaking Donley, who had only given her a reprieve from his constant bullying because he didn’t want her father to find out how much he pestered her.
That had changed when one of her friends, Autumn, began dating Donovan’s best friend, Declan. Then their paths converged and one snarky comment from Layla about how Donovan only managed to get on the university squad because of his father’s deep pockets had stirred the smoldering fires of contempt.
The war had begun anew.
But unlike high school, Layla wouldn’t simply take his shit. She wasn’t a skinny, nervous kid anymore. She wouldn’t sit back and let Donovan ruin her college experience. She retaliated, oh, buddy had she retaliated.
God, what had she been thinking? Well, she told herself, you weren’t, you drunk slut.
The Donovan lump on the bed grunted in his sleep, he may have farted, Layla couldn’t tell from the low mumble of his voice and his bare feet sliding against the mattress. It wouldn’t surprise her, disgusting cretin that he was. But she didn’t want to face him, to see that smug, satisfied grin when he woke up. She moved as quickly as her pounding head would let her, darting around his disgustingly grungy room to sift through her wrinkled clothes and make quiet attempts to dress before he noticed that she was awake.
God hates me, she thought when she realized her bra was right next to where she believed his head was. She couldn’t leave it. That bra was ridiculously expensive and Layla knew better than to leave evidence of their night together. That would give the Demon way too much satisfaction.
Sighing, Layla padded to the edge of the bed, right to where she spotted the red strap of her bra sticking out from under the blanket and gave it a gentle tug. She almost had it, allowed herself to believe that this little effort would be easier than she thought, until the end stretched as it caught underneath Donovan’s head when he rolled onto his back. The blanket slid off his face and Layla yelped, surprised that his eyes were open and staring straight up at her. She released the bra and the elastic popped, slapping him right on his nose.
“Ow.” Donovan brushed the offending garment aside and then his gaze landed on Layla’s shocked face, just inches from the mattress. A yawn, then a swipe of his large fingers over his eyes and Donovan smiled. Oh, she wanted to slap that stupid grin off his face. “Morning.”
“Don’t you ‘morning’ me, Donley.” She shoved his head out of the way to grab her bra.
“What’s wrong with you?”
Layla could give him a list and a quick retort, one itched the tip of her tongue, but then Donovan sat up and the blanket fell from his naked body. Thought, logical excuses, reasons why she hated Donovan flitted from her mind. He didn’t face her when he left the bed, when he stretched and Layla got a clear view of Donovan’s wide, strong back. There were faint scratch marks down the center of his back, over his shoulders that she suspected weren’t there before last night. Her eyes slipped lower, down the slope of his spine to his muscular ass. Layla’s breath became ragged, disjointed and for the life of her, she couldn’t make her eyes move away from the hard, tempting planes of his delicious ass.
His shaggy blonde hair was mussed from sleep and Donovan ran his fingers through those thick curls before he popped his large neck. He had predictable, tribal tattoos on his shoulder, God, doesn’t every guy over the age of seventeen, and when he turned, lifted his arms over his head in yet another stretch, she spotted the Irish flag on his left pec and the looping scroll of Never Again underneath it.
Layla lowered her gaze to the smooth contours of his tight stomach and the sharp indentions below his hips then to the stiffening…
“Like what you see?”
She snorted out a rheumy laugh before she turned to finish dressing, aware again of the pounding in her head. “Not remotely.” She blinked twice, tried to expunge the provocative image from her mind, and was annoyed when it wasn’t burned out completely. Her back stiffened when Donovan slipped his finger underneath her bra strap, helping her pull it over her shoulder.
“That’s not what you said last night.”
“I most certainly did not,” she said, giving his ribs a jab with an elbow and stepping away from his meddlesome fingers.
“Oh I remember a lot of things you said last night, princess.” Donovan jerked back, ducked out of the way when Layla threw her shoe at his face. “What’s the matter? Embarrassed now?” This time, when she slung her other shoe at him, he caught it.
“This is a freaking nightmare.” As she slipped her shirt over her head, it got caught on her earring and when Donovan tried to help her, she slapped his hand away. “For once in your life, please, do me a favor.” He sat on the bed, still naked, and Layla’s attention returned to his lap, to the thick, veiny, stop it, idiot. Focus. The posters on the wall were all of half-naked, hopelessly PhotoShopped women and Layla concentrated on a particularly busty brunette licking a melting ice cream cone. “Would you mind getting dressed?”
His laugh was light, highly amused and Layla forced herself to sift through the discarded clothes and dirty sneakers to retrieve her purse. Donovan cleared his throat, now wearing a pair of plaid boxers and a worn Cavanagh Rugby t-shirt. Begrudgingly, Layla’s eyes shot to his boxers and the tented arch of the thin material. Hey, idiot, stop looking! When he offered another salacious grin, she threw h
er purse at him and it dropped to the floor.
“How in God’s name did this,” she waved flippantly between the two of them, “happen?” If she hadn’t known the arrogant jackass better, she’d have said Donovan was annoyed that the details were foggy for her. His narrow blue eyes sharpened, cut to her face as though he was trying to sort out if she was just messing with him and then Donovan frowned, pulling his full lips into a severe line.
“What do you mean? We talked about this. We talked for two hours straight.” He leaned back on his bed, thick, corded forearms behind him before that frown twisted into a contemptuous smile. “I mean, we talked between you licking on my neck and me biting your ear until you almost came—”
“Ew, ew, oh God… ew!” She decided right then that she didn’t want to know the details. And when a shudder ran across her shoulders, Layla turned, headed toward the door, but stopped short when she remembered her purse.
Donovan snatched it from the floor and held it behind his back so that she couldn’t get to it. “Cut the shit, brat. Don’t act like you didn’t enjoy yourself. You rattled the fucking windows last night.”
“It’s not like I remember it, you jackass.” She pushed his chest, angry, when he lifted her purse above his head and out of her reach. “I can’t believe you’d take advantage of me like that, Donovan. That’s low even for you.”
He dropped his arm, and his face paled, as though he couldn’t believe what she claimed he did to her. “Take advantage? Bullshit, Layla, you had your hands down my pants before we even made it through the door. I tried to say no, but you…”
“Don’t you dare put this on me.” She punched his shoulder until he dropped her purse. But as she denied wanting him, or God forbid, touching him, small flashes of memory cluttered her less than clear thoughts.
