Under His Spell

by Natasha Logan

  Under His Spell

  Natasha Logan

  Contents

  Copyright

  About Under His Spell

  Prologue

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Epilogue

  About the Author, Natasha Logan

  Also by Natasha Logan

  Under His Spell © copyright 2015 by Natasha Logan

  Electronic Printing January 2015

  Coverart Copyright 2014 © L.J. Anderson, Mayhem Cover Creations

  ISBN-13: 978-1-62501-112-1

  ALL RIGHTS RESERVED.

  All books copyrighted to the author and may not be resold or given away without written permission from the author, Natasha Logan.

  This novel is a work of fiction. Any and all characters, events, and places are of the author’s imagination and should not be confused with fact. Any resemblance to persons, living or dead, or events or places is merely coincidence. Novel intended for adults only. Must be 18 years or older to read.

  About Under His Spell

  Paranormal Romance

  Destiny comes with a price.

  Valerie Walsh has gotten more than she bargained for as the new owner of Olivier Manor. The real estate listing said nothing about supernatural tenants, the mysterious old cottage, or a prophecy needing to be fulfilled. Out of everything, perhaps the most unsettling of all is the sexily wicked Troy Olivier.

  Troy doesn’t want his family’s old home, but that doesn’t mean the creatures of the house don’t still want him. He tries to run from the legacy of his family, but the mystery surrounding his past won’t let him leave. Destiny has plans of its own and those plans just might include the captivating Valerie.

  This is a stand alone title originally published in the NY Times and USA Today Bestselling Book: Taming the Alpha. For more information, visit www.NatashaLogan.com

  Prologue

  The Cottage

  Ever since she was old enough to abandon the light of her mother’s eyes, Seri arose early in the mornings. With the first peek of dawn’s radiance winking and fluttering over the countryside, she would disappear into a small stone and vine cottage hidden in the copse of trees behind the manor house in which her family lived. Servants had said that she was drawn to the cottage before then—toddling to it as a young child, reaching for it when she was smaller still. Some even claimed that she dreamt of it in the womb, until the crumbling roof and troubled stone walls became Seri’s alone.

  None knew what she did upon the earthen floors in those long hours, nor what she played. Once she was seen taking an expensive doll into its depths, and that toy never came out again much to the distress of her mother. Servants who dared to peek swore the doll was gone. Some said smashed and buried below the dirt ground, others said hidden behind the stone where only a child could see, yet others said magic had taken the doll. Though the old servants usually attributed magic to every misfortune, and weren’t to be believed.

  Seri had one brother, older by far, son to her father and a woman she’d never known, her father’s first wife. Her mother was a third wife, younger than her husband, and meek and pale as many women of fine breeding were. So frail was Seri’s mother, whom it was whispered she couldn’t bear children before Seri and never again after. Doctors couldn’t explain, priests proclaimed it a miracle, and there were those who whispered of deals made and of evil pacts.

  On a very ordinary spring day when the flowers were in bloom, the sun warm and bright, the air fresh against a cloudless sky, Seri disappeared into her cottage. The young girl was never seen again.

  1

  “You’re trespassing. You shouldn’t be here.”

  Valerie gasped in surprise, startled by the man’s voice. The smooth Southern accent came from behind the crumbling stone cottage. Vines and vegetation had taken over the exterior walls, growing into cracks along the sides, covering what remained of tiny windows. Time caused the stone blocks to lean a little toward the back, but the old home still stood and would most likely endure for another hundred years. Trees lifted around the cottage like a fortress wall, as if the woods stood guard, allowing access only by a narrow worn path that the grass refused to completely overtake.

  Something drew her away from unpacking boxes to come and explore the land around her new home. There was much left to do, and she had writing deadlines, so the break was ill advised. Despite her responsibilities, the feeling had overtaken her. It was an impulse she could not control. The cottage called to her, pulling on the strings of curiosity inside her. The realtor had said nothing about outbuildings, and she wanted to explore inside.

  The man continued, “Didn’t you see the signs?”

  A hand appeared by the bottom edge of the cottage’s corner. The man placed a bottle of whiskey on the ground. His strong fingers slid down the sweaty length of the bottle to land flat on the patch of dirt. His rolled blue flannel sleeve revealed a tanned arm. It was a worker’s hand—calloused fingers and an old scar. Mesmerized, she stared at the fingers. They drew her attention like the cottage had, urging her to move forward. She resisted.

  Valerie slowly backed away. When she’d bought the old house in the middle of nowhere, she’d been told that no one would disturb her. This was her sanctuary. Still, here it was, day two after moving in, and she was being accosted while walking her property.

  The arm flexed, signifying that he was going to stand up. She quickened her retreat while keeping an eye on the cottage. Her heartbeat sped, and her muscles tensed, readying to run.

  Valerie wasn’t sure what she expected when the figure finally emerged, but she didn’t expect him to be handsome. The bottle was only a quarter gone, and the man didn’t appear too drunk as he came before her. He was one of the lucky people who’d been blessed with an ageless face, a face that could have been twenty or forty. The grumpiness of his voice and the seriousness of his eyes made her think he was older.

  The sun had kissed the strong lines of his jaw and cheekbones. Old jeans and worn flannel coupled with the longer style of his hair gave the appearance of manual labor, as did the strength of his body and the ease in which he moved. The brown eyes were soulful when they looked at her, but his expression was stiff and restrained. “You shouldn’t be here, lady. It’s not safe.”

  “Those are my signs now. I’m not trespassing.” Valerie watched him closely, wondering if the prudent thing would be to run for help. He didn’t advance on her threateningly, but he also didn’t smile in welcome. Something kept her from leaving. She was tired of being pushed around. This land belonged to her, as did the decrepit little cottage. Hers. She’d earned it. She’d fought and clawed her way for what she had.

  “You’re Valerie Walsh?” He didn’t seem pleased as he looked her over. The man had her at a disadvantage. She had no clue who he was. “I thought you were moving in next month.”

  “You’ve heard of me?” She crossed her arms over her chest. The gesture was more out of nervousness than aggression.

  “More than I wanted to. Less than I should have.” He laughed softly to himself but hardly seemed to be in good spirits. There was a strength in his expression and gestures, an arrogance as he articulately pronounced his words, which belied the blue-collar attire. “Is it true you’re staying out here alone?”

  “N-no,” Valerie said. She’d always been a horrible liar. Well, unless she was working. Apparently, she could write fiction all day long, making up story after story about how magical creatures were real and among humans, but get her in front of another person and she was about as convincing as a second-rate actress reading lines off a teleprompter. Her father h
ad told her it was her goodness shining through and she should be proud of her honest nature.

  “Right.” He clearly didn’t believe her. “Listen, either you didn’t do your homework, or you are a nut job. Either way, do yourself a favor and stay away from this cottage. There’s a reason no locals wanted to buy this place.” He leaned over to grab the bottle and unscrewed the top. With a tip of the opening toward the cottage, he toasted, “Here’s to you Seri,” and took a drink. When he finished, he offered the bottle in her direction. She shook her head in denial, not taking it.

  “What’s Seri?” she asked.

  “Seri is a who.”

  “Who is Seri?”

  “No one you know.”

  “Fine. Who are you?” Valerie couldn’t discern if the man was trying to frighten her or simply warning her when he’d told her that no one wanted this place.

  “Nobody,” he mumbled, turning toward the woods.

  “No, seriously, who are you?” Valerie demanded. “Enough with being cryptic. Graniten is a small town. You know I’ll find out. You can either be neighborly and tell me who you are, or I can call the police, and they can tell me as they’re arresting you for trespassing on my land.”

  The threat stopped him, and he made his way back toward her.

  “Troy Olivier, ma’am, at your service.” He gave a small bow.

  “As in the owner of Olivier Manor?” She needlessly glanced over her shoulder to the home she’d just purchased.

  “Not anymore.”

  “I meant former owner,” Valerie corrected. She studied him carefully. “This isn’t going to turn into one of those stalk the new owner of your family home scenarios, is it? I was under the impression the owner wanted to sell.”

  “And I was under the impression you were an elderly woman from old Southern money.”

  “I didn’t see a foreclosure on the property. I paid a fair price. I may be from up North, but I can shoot as straight as any good ole boy, so whatever you’re thinking, know I will protect—”

  “No, I’m glad to be done with it.” He didn’t appear concerned by her warning.

  “Then what are you doing here?” Valerie relaxed when he didn’t become aggressive. In fact, the longer she studied him, the more she picked up on the impression of sadness. The impulsive feeling came back, urging her to move closer to him, to the cottage. As she stared, meeting his gaze, she became more aware of him, of herself. “Have we met? I don’t think…”

  “Who knows? Depends on if you believe in reincarnation, I guess.”

  Valerie shook her head in denial. “Only as an interesting concept and a device for fiction.”

  The pull of him drew her closer still. She wanted to touch him, but had no reason to be so forward. Instead, she held out her hand for him to take. “Let’s start over. It’s very nice to meet you, Troy. I promise to take good care of your former home.”

  He glanced at her hand as if it might burn him. Slowly, he reached out. He hesitated a few seconds before clasping his fingers around hers. Tiny sparks snapped between them, shocks of static electricity that should not have been possible. Heat worked up her arm, a burning that was beyond normal attraction. She gasped as her flesh began to turn pink.

  Troy did not release her, and she was unable to pull away. The magnetic pull of their touch fused them together. The sparks increased, following the redness in her arm. That’s when she noticed the same thing was happening to him. His chest heaved like a wild beast trying to catch its breath. His stance was rigid. Her eyes met his. Tiny red lines were in his brown irises.

  “What are you doing?” she managed to whisper. Valerie leaned away from him as if the counterweight would pull her free. The urge to go to him was strong. She fisted her hand to keep from reaching out.

  “Leaving.” He let go of her, and the heat drained down her arm and her skin turned faded back to normal.

  Valerie shook her arm, touching it to assure herself that she was unharmed.

  Troy turned to go, and then stopped. With a heavy sigh, he said, “Just do yourself a favor and stay away from this cottage. Nothing good ever came from this place.”

  And with that, he disappeared among the trees. Valerie rushed forward to look for him, but he had faded into the thick woods. She hugged her arm against her chest and ran back to the safety of her new home.

  * * *

  “Why can’t you just leave me alone?” Troy grimaced as he marched through the trees. At least he was dressed this time. One second he’s on his couch watching football in his apartment about to pour a drink, the next he’s sitting by that damned cottage. He’d hoped that by selling the property he could finally get away from the accursed place. Good thing he didn’t move out of Graniten, or he’d really have a long walk back.

  He’d not been present during the house closing and a lawyer had acted on his behalf. Troy had been too scared that something would have stopped him from selling the place. Though, evidently, the magic emanating from the cottage didn’t care about legal deeds and paperwork. One trigger and the demon’s spell forced him home.

  Oh, but what a lovely trigger Valerie Walsh was with her full mouth and womanly curves. Even before he touched her, he knew what she’d do to him. He’d spent his entire adulthood trying to keep the demon blood in him from simmering. For the most part, it had worked. However, the second he saw her, he knew there was no fighting destiny. This plan had been laid out the day he was born. He had no choice. Prophecies were meant to be fulfilled, and Valerie was part of his.

  There was a part of him that hated selling his family’s land, but it was heavily outweighed by the part of him who just wanted to be free of it. Memories flooded him, not all bad. He’d been happy in early childhood, loved, spoiled, naive. He knew these woods—had chased his sister through them, only later to search them for her body after she’d disappeared. That’s when the happy memories faded into a stark reality. They’d never found Seri. The loss had killed his stepmother. His father, the gigantic bastard, never spoke of her.

  In High School, he came to understand Seri would never be found, for there was nothing to find. That is when he’d realized the awful truth. The cottage’s magic had set its sights on him.

  2

  “Every realm has its legends. This is one of ours,” Valerie read out loud. She hummed thoughtfully to herself, determined to find something that made sense of what she’d felt in the forest near the cottage. No medical database described what had happened—allergic reactions, skin conditions, temporary hallucinations. Nothing fit. For two days she’d tried to unpack, but instead ended up pulling open every door and drawer she could find. She looked behind the antique mirrors. She stepped on floorboards to see if they were loose. She burned sage and chanted some cleansing spell she’d downloaded off the internet. One website hinted at possession. She burned candles to see if the fire turned blue. Supposedly that helped identify ghosts. So far, no ghosts, no evil spirits.

  Then, today, as she was loading her research books onto the bookshelf, she found her first clue. The thick leather-bound tome was clearly old, with English translation written in small print down the margins. She’d found the book wedged behind an antique bookshelf. The print was faded and the paper smelled of time and dust. It might just be a book, but it felt like a clue.

  “Long ago, the only children of two very magical families were meant to marry. Their powerful union would reverse the fate of a dying world. The North King’s daughter, Princess Arabella, was born with the purest of souls, but that soul darkened as all souls must when they lose innocence, and she did not idly sit by the fire awaiting her nuptials.”

  A loud slam sounded, and Valerie jumped in alarm. She hurried to the window seat, peering out into the night. Though the town was only two miles away, she had yet to get used to the country stillness. Tiny fireflies dotted the lawn.

  She eventually turned back to the book. The sound of her own voice filled the room. “The South King’s son, Prince Laurdin, like the men in
his family, was born rambunctious and with a fire in his spirit. His mother could not control him. However, as he grew, he learned to put out the fire, knowing that letting his soul burn too intensely would be his undoing. And so he tamed himself, becoming pious and restrained as all things with too much passion must do to survive.”

  Valerie glanced outside. The fireflies had brightened and increased their numbers.

  “The people of the land, who saw the falling of their world, said that the souls were poorly matched. For in youth, fire and innocence did not play, and in adulthood, piety and darkness did not happily meet.” She turned the page and frowned. The text was too faded to read, and the brittle paper chipped against her fingers.

  “You should not read that. It is nonsense meant to draw you in.”

  Valerie dropped the book as she stood from the window seat, startled. “Mr. Olivier, what are you doing here?” She glanced over him. He stood in red boxer shorts and a gray t-shirt, as if he was getting ready for bed. It was hard enough dealing with the thought of him completely dressed. Now she had to look at his incredibly strong legs and thighs and… Shit. “And what are you wearing? Where are your pants?”

  “You shouldn’t mess with things you don’t understand.” He came forward. She gasped as he neared, scurrying out of the way, lest he tried to touch her again. He wasn’t coming for her. Instead, he grabbed the book. “If you find these things just leave them. Don’t interact. They want to draw you in. It’s like the cottage.” He went to the window. “Dammit. You woke them.”

  Valerie kept her distance but leaned to peek out of the window. Confused, she clarified, “I woke the lightning bugs?”