To the extent that the image or images on the cover of this book depict a person or persons, such person or persons are merely models, and are not intended to portray any character or characters featured in the book.
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ISBN: 978-1-4967-4836-2 (ebook)
ISBN: 978-1-4967-4835-5
This new dark romance series wouldn’t be the same without Alexandra Nicolajsen, Alicia Condon, and Lauren Jernigan, who not only inspired but also played a pivotal role in its development, even with an enchanting recommendation to “add a touch of magic, won’t you?” Thank you for your support, great ideas, and faith that the story would come together.
I hope you like it.
PROLOGUE
Thorn
The shadows shift uneasily in the chilly night as I prowl against the brick buildings, rainwater dripping from the eaves high above. Accustomed to swallowing interlopers, the dark mass slithers inches away from my flesh.
For now, I have better things to worry about, so I tolerate the shadows, and they know it.
The moon breaks through the clouds above, glittering on the wet asphalt and torn pieces of trash littering the sidewalks. Palo Alto is one of my least favorite places in the world, full of too much money and too little sense. The giggling crowds exiting the bars instinctively keep their leather loafers and spiked Prada heels away from the tendrils of shadows twisting against the worn bricks, and thus away from me.
All prey have survival instincts.
I’ve timed my arrival perfectly, yet my heart rate increases as I stalk between narrow alleys and finally turn, halting across the street from the Urban Elixir, the city’s hottest new nightclub, my back to the building, my shoulders rock hard. The garish pink and green lights from the neon sign above the main door flicker in time to the pounding music from inside.
A drunk trips by, mumbling, and the taste of sodden tobacco fills my mouth. Fire lances through me and I growl in warning. The man scurries down the street and out of sight.
The taste slowly dissipates, leaving my tongue singed.
Then she emerges from the bar. Alana Rose Beaumont. The paparazzi rush forward, hampered by the velvet ropes and security guards that protect the glitterati from the commoners. It’s a dance unchanged through the ages.
My body settles as much as possible considering time isn’t on my side. Even now, my hands are degrees colder than they were a month ago. But she’s all that matters. I hate when she’s out of my sight.
Tonight she’s wearing a sparkly yellow dress, if it can be called such. Thin spaghetti straps hold up a generous bodice that narrows impossibly to her tiny waist and barely reaches the tops of her golden thighs. For a petite woman, her legs are surprisingly long, with five-inch pink heels giving her added height.
I’ve dreamed of those legs wrapped around me.
As is her custom on a night like this, she allows one of her assistants to lead her to the side and a waiting camera crew. Well, a waiting woman, often seen with Alana, and her smart phone. The woman’s name is Rosalie. She’s twenty-five, was raised by her janitor grandfather, and has a cat named Bruiser. I know everything about her, as she is often in Alana’s vicinity. She poses no threat to Alana, or she’d already be dead.
“What would you like to say to your followers?” Rosalie asks, holding her phone in front of her face. Rain dots her thick black hair but she ignores it, remaining in the best position to film.
Alana smiles. “That the Urban is the place to be.”
I tap my earbuds to zero in on Alana’s Aquarius Social media account, although I can hear above the flashing cameras and people jockeying into position to get closer to her. Aquarius is an emotional-intelligence platform that works on a combination of live video and popular sounds with a much simpler algorithm than my own social media company, but their AI capabilities are close to matching mine, which is a concern for tomorrow.
Tonight is about the woman.
She chuckles, and the throaty sound shoots right to my balls. More importantly, my mouth fills with the taste of honey. Pure, sweet honey. Then she continues speaking, and I nearly groan from the delicious words. “Make sure when you come by that you have an Urban gin martini because they’re fabulous,” she says as if speaking to a treasured friend. Millions of them, actually.
Her hair, a wild and teased mahogany that cascades down her back, flows in the slight breeze as if alive. But it’s her eyes. Those deep, dark, impossibly beautiful eyes that only a moron would call mere hazel. There is no color, no description, no label that accurately describes the hue.
Except . . . haunting.
That’s what she does. She haunts my days and my dreams, and she hasn’t a clue.
The voices around her start to resonate through my EarPods, and with them different tastes prick my tongue. I swallow and push all sounds except her sweet voice away. It’s the only taste I want.
A hint of danger rides the wind, and I look around, seeing nothing amiss. Is there somebody else watching her? Do they not sense me? I have no problem taking out not only threats but rivals.
She continues speaking to her nearly six million followers, and I can feel the power in those numbers. A power most people will never realize exists.
Rosalie lifts the phone higher. “I noticed that Stacia and Corinda Rendale failed to attend this grand opening. The sisters are normally first to find the hottest parties.”
Alana’s eyes widen and she leans toward the phone as if about to tell a great secret. “I heard that the sisters”—she looks around as if to make sure nobody is listening, although, of course, millions are—“were possibly not invited.”
Rosalie properly gasps. A slight taste of strawberries slides across my tongue, but I push the tang aside to enjoy Alana’s tartness at the moment.
