IF | A Novel Page 21

  I clear my throat and remain motionless.

  “Your ability to state the obvious is mind-blowing.”

  The stranger releases a dark chuckle, unnerving me. I shiver in response, and my slight grin falls. My lips press together in annoyance at my reaction to something as simple as his enthralling laughter. It’s like silk.

  Cool.

  Sensual.

  Designed to pull you in and entrance you.

  “I guess I missed the clothing optional portion of the Academy’s handbook,” he counters.

  My stomach clenches in response as his velvety voice drifts over my exposed skin, caressing it. I swallow, in an attempt to keep myself in check and my tone even.

  It is an epic failure.

  “Something to work on, then.” My voice is shaky.

  “What’s that?”

  “Reading.”

  “Reading?”

  “A prerequisite if you’ll be attending the Academy.”

  A beat of silence passes between us before he speaks.

  “Is nudity a habitual behavior of yours?” he questions, with an amused lilt to his tone.

  At the sound of his deep voice, I roll onto my stomach, lift my gaze, and meet his curious expression.

  He’s breathtaking, in a dark and unrefined manner, if you’re into that sort of thing. By the way my breathing has become erratic and my heart rate is spiraling out of control, I guess I’m into it.

  “Yes,” I reply.

  A knowing smirk appears on his full lips. “Nice ass,” he compliments, while his stare runs the length of me.

  I don’t shy away from his open perusal. I’m comfortable with my curves. Self-assurance comes with my title.

  His eyes roam across my body, leaving imprints everywhere they go. I blush uncharacteristically at his heated intensity. My poise cracks as raw desire slithers inside me, crawling into the crevices, choking me.

  Confused by the way my body is responding to him, I pinch my brows. He tilts his head to the side, watching my reaction. There’s something captivating about the way he’s looking at me. He’s drawn to me, but can’t figure out why.

  I notice his self-confidence start to fade. Taking advantage of the fact that he’s lost in his own thoughts, my focus shifts to his mouth, and I stare at a tiny, sexy scar on his upper lip. His breathing is smooth and soft.

  Unlike me, with my unsolicited need to have him whisper dirty things to me, he seems unaffected. Cool and calm. Eerily controlled.

  The stranger runs both of his large hands through his caramel hair, pushing the long pieces on top back in a sleek and sexy manner. The rain has soaked every perfect strand, and they keep attaching themselves to his sun-kissed face. It’s almost as if they never want to let go.

  I narrow my eyes at the wisps. They’re eliciting a pang of jealousy within me. For some unexplainable reason, I feel an overwhelming sense of ownership over him. It’s me who should be the one to touch his slightly scruffy, chiseled face—not those pieces of hair.

  Wait, that isn’t right. I don’t even know him.

  I scrutinize his thick eyebrows and attempt to compose myself. On most guys a brow piercing looks ridiculous. On him, it looks menacing and wild.

  And hot.

  So very, very hot.

  I drop my gaze to the silver and hematite rings adorning his fingers. Like mine, every finger with the exception of his pinky is covered with them. I blink away the idea that our hands match, and instead concentrate on his broad chest, hidden under a white thermal.

  The thin cotton is drenched, allowing me to take in his sculpted body. A pendant sits under his shirt, dangling from a black leather rope, which hangs from his neck.

  Annoyingly, I can’t make out what it is.

  I sigh internally as my eyes trail over his rolled-up sleeves. They’re pulled up to his elbows, showing off the leather-and-chain bracelets he’s wearing on each wrist. At the sight of the familiar adornments, all my internal alarms go off, and something inside of me sinks. I attempt to hide the awareness that has fallen across my expression, and instead fixate on his worn jeans and heavy boots, while planning my escape.

  This guy reeks of danger, and trouble. The air of cockiness he emanates is one I grew up with. It matches my father’s and uncles’.

  It all means this hot specimen is one hundred percent off-limits, and being near him is like being near a bullet that you never saw coming. It wounds you so quickly and deeply that you bleed out without even knowing you’ve been hit.

  I meet his powerful cognac glare and a shaky breath escapes me. I’m startled by the way he’s staring at me.

  Like I’m all he’s longed for.

  A light chill brushes through me. I’m not accustomed to someone looking at me and seeing just me, not my bloodline. I need to get a grip on my erratic emotions.

  Standing, I put my entire unclothed body on display, hoping to throw him off balance. Pushing some of my damp hair behind my ear, I lift a challenging eyebrow at him, daring him not to look at me.

  Unfazed, he holds my gaze with an unwavering stare. A silent pause beats between us.

  Who is this guy?

  “Are you done assessing me?” he asks.

  “You’re a protector?” I point to the shaded Celtic tattoo on his right forearm.

  The symbol binds him to the Spiritual Assembly of Protectors, allowing him to accept divine assignments.

  Of course he’s a protector—he’s here at the Academy.

  Why can’t I think clearly around him?

  The stranger’s expression falls, as if my accusation hurt him somehow. He doesn’t say anything, but dips his chin in response, confirming my theory.

  I take a step back, empathetic to the heavy burden protectors carry. Nervously, my fingers find and play with my own piece of protector jewelry. The silver bracelet sits on my left wrist and is intricately designed with flowers and vines around the band, hiding my smaller, identical Assembly tattoo.

  My aunt Eve gifted the bracelet to me for my eighteenth birthday. It was something her deceased mother Elizabeth, a jewelry designer, had made for her. Aunt Eve had the emeralds, my healing stone, added so they hang off the sides in a pretty and feminine manner. A small watch face was set on top in the hope that I would become more responsible about time management.

  Not one of my strong suits.

  Along with rules, motivation, education—anyway, you get the point.

  It’s crucial that all gargoyles wear something containing their healing stone.

  The mineral rejuvenates us, increases our powers, and heightens our restorative abilities.

  It’s a necessary evil in my book. I despise the leather bands my family wear. They feel more like handcuffs to me than required protector accessories.

  “Tristan,” he says, in a way that slices through me.

  Another unwelcome shiver crosses my skin at the sound of his voice.

  “Serena,” I reply thinly.

  Tristan’s pointed look drops and travels over my body in a palpable manner, as he becomes intimately acquainted once again with my every curve.

  “Are you always so . . . welcoming, Serena?”

  When his eyes finally meet mine, my brow arches.

  “Only to those I like.”

  “So you like me then?” He attempts to hide his smile.

  I hold him with a glare. “Don’t flatter yourself.”

  Tristan cocks his head and crosses his arms over his chest. My focus strays to the streams of rain dripping off his face. He steps closer to me, so close that I trap a breath he’s exhaled in my lungs, when the bare portion of his arm brushes my own.

  Why am I so reactive to him?

  Slowly he bends down, piercing me with an amused expression. “And here I was, completely impressed with myself that I had a beautiful girl naked—and wet—within five minutes of meeting her,” he seduces.

  “That a record for you?” I quip.

  I offer a shy grin, unable to stop myself.r />
  “It would seem so.”

  “Maybe you’re just having an off year,” I surmise.

  Tristan stares at me with an obvious sadness that stretches over us. “You have no idea just how off.”

  My eyes trace his lips. I start to speak, but he abruptly cuts me off when his hands lift to my face, cupping my cheeks. I stop breathing and my eyes widen at the unexpected motion.

  At his touch, a warmth runs through my veins, igniting something foreign within me. His thumb lightly brushes a drop of rain off my bottom lip, and I watch with a rapidly beating heart as he brings the thumb to his mouth and sucks the bead of water off, watching me the entire time.

  “It’s been . . . interesting meeting you, Serena.”

  My name sounds like a test on his lips.

  He releases my face and takes a step back, roughly sliding his hands into the front pockets of his soaked jeans.

  I swallow, regarding him for a moment longer.

  “You too, Tristan.”

  “See you around, raindrop.”

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  The Dark Soul Series

  Silence envelops the room as my reflection peers back at me from the windowpane. The bright sun feels warm on my face, but the air surrounding me is chilly.

  A deep shiver rolls through my body as I stare vacantly at the outside world.

  “There is no reason this has to be difficult, Miss Annandale.”

  Startled by the voice, I blink rapidly and pull my stare away from the dark figure hiding behind a snow-covered tree. An outwardly undetected quiver of fear shudders from within my soul. The figure’s constant presence is the reason my mind has turned dark.

  “Miss Annandale?” the inquisitive voice firmly repeats.

  I exhale and slowly shift my attention to the warm, vibrant gentleman who is assessing me with a curious expression. “I’m sorry, what did you say?” I manage.

  The expensive leather groans under his weight as he sits back in his executive chair, quietly scrutinizing my disposition.

  Dr. Cornelius Foster has been silently studying me since I walked through the door, fingers tented under his strong chin. It’s unnerving.

  Even so, I don’t show my discomfort. I’ve learned that displaying alarm is cause for medication. And the meds only serve to darken my mind further.

  I focus on the prestigious degrees and awards the good doctor proudly showcases on the rich burgundy wall behind his mahogany desk. They’re impressive. He’s impressive.

  None of it matters though. He can’t help me. No one can. “Let’s talk about the voices. Are you still hearing them?” The voices are constant. Never ending. But that isn’t what he wants to hear. The hundreds of thousands of dollars he’s spent on those framed degrees won’t allow the voices to still be there. What he doesn’t grasp is, if years of conventional medical treatments and medication haven’t helped, one hour in a Swiss “healing spa” certainly isn’t going to.

  I fake a smile. “They’re much quieter now.”

  Dr. Foster dips his chin. “And the demons? Do you still see them?”

  I can’t help but notice how bright his crisp, button-down shirt looks against his dark chocolate skin. The white is pure. Ethereal. For a moment, I pretend he’s an angel sent from Heaven to protect me from evil. The light to fight the darkness that has settled deep within the corners of my mind.

  “Hope?” he prompts, using my name.

  “I haven’t seen one since landing in Switzerland,” I lie.

  Dr. Foster’s brow furrows and he runs a large hand over his full beard. The gesture causes me to stare at the few strands of gray mixed in with the black. For a man in his early fifties, Cornelius Foster certainly is easy on the eyes. His features remind me of that actor, Idris Elba. Unlike the other doctors before him, he’s sharp and seems to be able to read me.

  Lost in thought, I suddenly realize he’s now leaning on his desk in front of me, muscular arms crossed, gaze calculating.

  “Hope,” he commands my attention again. “You’re safe here. Our patient-doctor relationship only works if you are candid during our sessions. I can’t help if you don’t truthfully tell me what is going on inside your head. While you are here, I expect open and honest communication. There is no judgment. I’m here to aid in your healing.”

  An awkward silence lingers between us.

  Aid in my healing. Is that what I’m here to do? Heal? If it were only that easy.

  It’s been two years since my twenty-first birthday; for two years my mind has been haunted by visions of suffering, pain, and torture. The images are burned into my memory.

  They aren’t something you heal from. Or forget.

  I squeeze my eyes closed and attempt to push them away, along with the bile that threatens to rise.

  A small knock at the door breaks through our quiet standoff. “Come in,” Dr. Foster answers, without taking his gaze off me. I twist my focus to the girl who slides into his office. With her

  presence, a cold chill spreads through my limbs. The stranger’s brown eyes are vacant. Just like mine.

  She’s young, around my age, and looks to be of Native American heritage. Her straight, brown hair falls to her waist and is parted down the middle. I watch as she robotically flips it over a slender shoulder. The gesture is odd—forced even. There’s no feeling behind it. It’s almost as if someone programmed her to blink, breathe, and move every few seconds as a way for her to appear human.

  “Hope, this is Lore,” Dr. Foster says by way of introduction. “She’ll be your suitemate during your stay here at Shadowbrook.” I frown. “Suitemate? I thought my parents requested a private suite?”

  The psychiatrist smirks. “Human nature thrives on community. I believe it’s healthy to be social. Having a suitemate will be beneficial to your healing. You’ll see.”

  I don’t answer him, as I once again meet Lore’s unresponsive expression.

  “We’re done for the day.” Dr. Foster walks around and sits behind his desk. “Lore will show you around the grounds, and help to get you settled in. I’ll see you tomorrow afternoon for our weekly private session.”

  Relieved at the dismissal, I stand and face my new room- mate. She’s silent as she opens the door and waits for me to walk through. Maybe Lore doesn’t speak. I can understand the desire to remain quiet and keep people at arm’s length. Especially in a place like this.

  As I pass by her to walk through the doorway, I watch as the inky shadows swirl around her aura. At the sight, my breath hitches. No air moves in or out of my lungs.

  Annoyed with my lack of movement, she huffs and steps around me into the hallway, leaving me no choice but to follow at a quick pace.

  The sound of a robotic movement pulls me from the shadowy path my mind is wandering down. My gaze lifts and locks onto a small lens with a flashing red light.

  “Cameras?” I confirm.

  “They’re everywhere,” Lore says flatly, without a look back. My gaze jumps around, taking in each of the small devices as

  we continue to walk down the hallway. The heels of our shoes echo as we step on the elegant hardwood floors.

  Shadowbrook feels like a five-star resort. People are relax- ing everywhere—sprinkled around inviting velvet chaises and chairs. They’re reading, writing, and using tablets in a mundane manner, as if this is a hotel and they’re simply guests enjoying their vacation.

  It’s all so . . . normal.

  Unsettling.

  Lore and I step into a large open room with vaulted ceilings.

  There is a full wall of windows on one side overlooking the retreat grounds and snow-covered mountains, and a baby grand piano on the other side, in front of a roaring fireplace and shelves of books.

  The room is warm and cozy, filled with oversized couches and chairs. The walls, furniture, and accents are decorated in shades of tranquil grayish-blues and dark browns. Game tables are set up, and a gigantic glass chandelier hangs from the middle
of the room.

  I feel my throat tighten a little at the thought of how much like home this room feels.

  I miss Connecticut, my friends, my parents, and my life—be- fore it all fell apart.

  “Do you like it?” Lore asks, uninterested in my answer.

  “It’s like a modern Swiss chalet.” I exhale. “What’s not to like?” “This is the game and lounge area,” Lore continues monotonously. “Where you come to play games . . . and lounge.” She speaks slowly, as if I wouldn’t understand.

  Is this girl serious? By the blank expression settled across her stunning features, it appears she is. “I can see that,” I respond, unable to keep the edge out of my voice.

  She ignores me and I follow her quietly as she guides me through more hallways, until we come to a set of double glass doors. We step closer, and with a whoosh, they slide open to reveal a dining hall. The smell of coffee and baked goods assaults me, conjuring up images of my hometown coffee shop, where I’m currently wishing I was, reading a book.

  “The dining hall is open twenty-four hours for all of your nutritional needs.”

  “Nutritional needs,” I parrot.

  Lore rolls her eyes and focuses on the empty room.

  “Where are the trays and food windows?”

  Her cold glare swings back to me and her brows pinch. “There are servers who take your request and bring it to you once it has been prepared to your liking by our chefs. When you are done, hired staff will remove your used cutlery, china, and glassware for washing.”

  “So, no KP duty?” I quip.

  The last facility I was at required every resident to lend a hand in the kitchen.

  Lore’s expression turns sour. “We are here to heal, not do dishes. This isn’t prison.”

  Speechless, I simply stand there.

  It’s obvious she’s never experienced a real mental health facility. I remain quiet during the tour of the library, outdoor meditation area, spa, and indoor fitness center. At the end, she leads us to our room, which turns out to be a penthouse suite. It has a common area, kitchenette, and two hallways—each leading to a large bedroom on either side of the apartment, with its own private bathroom. It’s very elegant.