by Liza Street
Her breath hitched as the house came into view. In her mind, the big farmhouse had been nothing but charred rubble, but there it was, rising up from the ground.
A crowd of people stood on a patio by the side of the house, and as one unit they rushed forward, eagerly standing around the car. Starla stepped out, wondering if this was how celebrities felt as they climbed from a limo to stand on the red carpet, surrounded by photographers and fans.
So far they were a group of nameless faces, but they shuffled her forward into the house. Starla turned, looking for her parents. They each gave her a smile and followed behind.
Once inside, the crush of her brothers and sisters all pressing into her was surreal. The last time she saw them, their bodies were going up in smoke from a fire she’d started. Every night for nearly twenty years she’d had nightmares of their blackened corpses pointing skeletal fingers in her direction. Your fault, Starla. Your fault.
Last week, a phone call had changed everything. “Can I please speak to Starla? Starla Fournier?”
“This is Starla.”
“Oh my god, it’s really her,” the man had said, sounding farther away. He wasn’t talking to her, but to someone else.
“I’m sorry,” Starla had said, “but what is this about?” Outside the small Florida tract home she shared with her parents, the occasional car passed by. A fly had been stuck inside and buzzed against the window. She was starting to feel trapped, herself, wanting to go for a run as a mountain lion, wanting to get free of her body and the confines of the house. The sooner the call was over, the better.
“This is your brother, Gabriel.”
“I don’t know what kind of sick joke you’re playing—”
“No, hear me out.”
She’d almost hung up the phone, but something about the way he spoke made her pause. “I’m listening.”
It had turned out that in some kind of B-movie-worthy scheme, the “nice” man who had taken her from her burned house and family had actually kidnapped her and hypnotized her into believing her entire family was dead. Meanwhile, the way he’d taken her had suggested to her family that Starla had been brutally murdered, although her body had never been recovered.
She’d never been recovered because she’d been right here, living in Florida, trying to forget the ghosts of her past.
She hadn’t wanted to talk to Gabriel for long. There was so much information. Her birth parents and Aunt Nan had passed, which filled her with a new, separate grief. But her brothers and sisters were all very much alive and they had very much wanted to see her. She’d agreed to come out for this visit to reunite with her family, on the condition that her adoptive parents were also welcome. And now she was here, trapped in this horde of people, wondering if she’d ever sort out who was who.
“Okay, folks, let the woman breathe,” an unfamiliar female voice said from across the room.
The press of bodies lessened, and although everyone was still within arm’s length, Starla could breathe a little easier.
Starla shot a thankful expression at the woman, who wore cut-off jeans and a green t-shirt. The woman’s blond hair was up in a messy bun, and a girl who looked seven or eight stood at her side, staring at Starla with unabashed interest.
“I’m Ava,” the woman said, holding out a hand. “Jude is my mate. This is our daughter, Chloe.”
Starla shook Ava’s hand, then turned to the girl. For some reason, she felt like it would be easier to talk to a kid than to the adults. “Hi, Chloe. How are you?”
“Good. I’m glad you’re back.”
“Aw, thanks.” Starla’s intuition had been right. This was easy, talking to Chloe. “How old are you?”
“I’m six.”
“Ooh, what a special age. You’ll be doing your betrothal ceremony next year, right?”
Chloe wrinkled her nose, and Ava’s eyes went round in shock.
“My what?” Chloe asked.
Starla’s cheeks felt hot. “Right. Sorry. I forgot the Sierra Pride doesn’t do things that way.”
“It’s different in the Everglades Pride?” Ava asked.
Starla nodded, but inside she was thinking, Very different.
Luckily there’d been enough extra chatter going on throughout the room that no one seemed to have overheard the awkward exchange. There were other unfamiliar women in the room, and unfamiliar men, as well. Even two babies, and the tall Asian woman looked like she was midway through a pregnancy. The living room of her childhood home—the home she’d believed burned to the ground—was full of people. Her birth pride had grown, and was still growing.
Two young women got closer, and Starla recognized them by scent, if not by sight. “Chloe and Justine,” she whispered. The twins. They’d been just four years old when Starla had killed them—or when she’d thought she killed them.
Being here, surrounded by all the people she’d thought dead, was making everything come back. All the screams that had tormented her, all the smoke, all the bright flames. She’d learned a week ago that those terrifying memories had been a lie, but a week wasn’t enough to erase nineteen years of false memories.
Mom and Dad—her adoptive parents—stood awkwardly near the doorway, so Starla went to them and shyly started to introduce them around. As they went, Starla learned the names of the strangers in the room—the mates and babies of her brothers and sisters.
Her mom’s hand was warm and dry in her own, and her dad’s almond-y scent was a balm. Thank goodness the two of them had both come along with her. Mom and Dad would go back to Florida tomorrow, to “allow Starla a chance to get reacquainted with her family and assure them of her happiness in Florida,” as the Pride Elders had agreed to. At least, in the meantime, her parents served as a solid transition between the two worlds.
Lunch was announced, with her youngest brother, Maverick, offering her a bet on his barbecue sauce tasting better than anything she’d ever tried. She shook her head again, trying to get rid of the feeling of surreality—the last time she saw Maverick, he was two, and she’d never imagined him aging beyond that.
Everyone hurried out to the patio. Starla’s mouth dropped open. When she was a kid, the patio had been a low deck of worn planks, with some splintered benches and chairs. Now it was smooth flagstone, with a pergola overhead, twinkle lights woven into it. The outdoor furniture had been expertly made, and she wondered which of her family members was a carpenter. But when she brushed against Blake, she felt too shy to ask.
Her parents were ahead, at the other end of the potluck-style table, filling their plates and making small talk with Jude and Ava.
“Doing okay?” Blake asked, squeezing her arm.
“Yeah,” Starla said. She could ask him now about the patio furniture. She could ask him about his life, about those twin babies who smelled like him. She could ask him how he met his mate, the dark-haired woman with the twinkling blue eyes. She could ask him anything—except she couldn’t manage to open her mouth to say anything else.
The love was present here—she felt it, and she felt buoyed by it. But at the same time, these were strangers who had all moved on while she was stuck in memories of their deaths.
She had a three-day visit to get over all of that, and then she’d probably never see them again.
*
The Sierra Pride Series
Fierce Wanderer
Fierce Heartbreaker
Fierce Protector
Fierce Player
Fierce Dancer
Fierce Informer
Fierce Survivor
Fierce Lover (due out December 2016)
About Liza
Website
Blog
Twitter
Liza got her start in romance by sneak-reading her grandma’s paperbacks. Years later, she tried her own hand as a ghostwriter of romance. It wasn’t long before she heard the call of the wild—the call of shapeshifters, to be exact—and she couldn’t resist developing her own series. Now she divides her time
between freelance editing, ghostwriting, and the mountain lion shifters in the Sierra Pride.
A Note from Liza
Thank you for reading Fierce Survivor! One thing I’ve learned in this business is that reviews help authors a whole lot. If you loved Fierce Survivor (and even if you didn’t!), an honest review would be an immense favor.
If reviews aren’t your thing, I thank you anyway for doing me the honor of reading my book.
Love,
Liza
Acknowledgments
Fierce Survivor and the Sierra Pride series would not have been possible without the loving guidance and spot-on feedback given by my critique partners: Tori Knightwood, Pat, Kary, Shyla, Alythia, and Rochelle. Thank you! You awesome women have helped my dream come true! Special thanks to my fellow authors and reviewers: Alexandria Warwick, Liberty Gilmore, and Sibyl Eisley. And finally, many thanks to my friends and family for listening to me obsess about these characters for months. And to J—thank you for your understanding and your encouragement. I couldn’t do this without you.
Copyright
Fierce Survivor, Book 7 of the Sierra Pride
by Liza Street
Copyright 2016 Liza Street. All rights reserved.
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental or used fictitiously.
Table of Contents
Fierce Survivor
Description
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Epilogue
Free Book!
The Sierra Pride Series
About Liza
A Note from Liza
Copyright
