Enthralled: Paranormal Diversions (Wicked Lovely 5.50)

Now, standing inside the darkened kitchen with the lights still off, he no longer measured his steps by distance but by weight, each one pulling him down, drawing him deeper into despair.

One. On the other side of the couch, he could see a limp hand on the floor, white even in the shadows of the stark room.

Two. Three. It was Connie, her face pale and her eyes wide as a crimson puddle of her own blood crusted around her.

Four, five, six. More blood. Everywhere, blood.

Now was the time Rafe should call out for her—for Sophie— but his voice felt thick, his airway too tight to find enough space for it to pass. Nausea gripped him, making him suddenly dizzy. He wasn’t ready to know if Sophie could answer.

But it didn’t matter what he wanted.

Twelve. He slipped past Sophie’s mother, lying in the small living area, as he scanned the house, looking inside the tiny bathroom with a dirty tub and chipped porcelain sink, a linen closet housing an ancient hot water heater and only a handful of towels. Until he came to a closed door.

Blood rushed past his ears, and his heart hammered against the walls of his chest.

He squeezed his eyes shut as he pushed open the door. He didn’t know if he could do this, if he could handle what might be inside.

As he opened them again, he released a heavy breath. The sparsely furnished bedroom was empty.

Outside, he thought in a rush. They must still be outside.

He told himself not to look as he passed the dead woman in the living room, but it was impossible not to. He might not even have realized it was Connie, save for the bleached blond hair that was now matted with clumps of her own flesh and bones and blood.

At the back door, he hesitated again, listening to the night, hoping for a clue but picking up nothing. He strained against the godforsaken blackness, even darker back here than out at the road, where there was at least a break in the trees to allow the light from the moon overhead. But after a moment, once his eyes adjusted, he could see a break here too. Ahead, a small clearing had been carved out for a rickety-looking shed that stood beneath the towering trees, clutched in the grasp of barbed blackberry vines that threatened to consume it.

Rafe froze, suddenly unable to take another forward step. He was still unsure where Sophie’s father might be, and he’d already witnessed what the man was capable of. His lungs felt brittle, like they were made from crisp parchment and were no longer capable of true function. He waited there, trying to decide which need would cause him to move first: his need to breathe or this new, all-consuming fear that gripped him.

He had known death, and understood it; the dreams had helped with that. When his mother had gotten sick, when the cancer had metastasized, spreading violently throughout her body—unstoppable—he had known. He had seen what it had done to her, even when she’d tried her best to hide it . . . tried to keep it a secret from him.

He’d watched her while he slept—in his dreams—seeing what the drugs were doing to her as she cried and vomited, whimpered and pulled clumps of her own hair from her head. He’d watched night after night, seeing her lose the battle to the disease, along with her will to fight.

All the while, her brave front never faltered. She smiled and squeezed his hand whenever he came into the room, and he pretended not to notice when her fingers no longer had the strength to curl around his. Instead, he squeezed hard enough for the both of them.

And when he knew she couldn’t do it for herself, he gave her permission, whispering softly against the sharp bones of her too-thin cheek, “It’s okay, Mom. I’ll be all right, I promise. Aunt Jenny will take good care of me.”

He had been there when she’d taken her last shuddering breath, releasing it on a ghastly sigh.

But he had never considered the possibility of his own death before this very moment, standing here beneath the dark Montana sky. He had never entertained the notion that he wasn’t indestructible. Until now. Now he felt differently. Now, after seeing the bloodied body of Sophie’s mother, he knew differently.

His dreams could be dangerous. He could be in danger.

He gasped for air, no longer able to sustain himself on sheer will alone.

That moment freed him and he found his stride again as his desire to find her—to find Sophie—was renewed.

His boots dug into the earth beneath his feet as he searched everywhere.

“Sophie!” He finally yelled, no longer able to stop himself. Desperation was clear as his voice cracked. “Sophie! Answer me, Sophie!”

He almost didn’t notice the soft scrape beneath his boot, the metallic scuff that he felt more than heard. It could easily have been a coin, dropped carelessly in the soil, but Rafe didn’t think so, and as he bent down to get a better look, his stomach revolted.

It was he

rs. The necklace. The ring he’d put on a chain for her to wear.

His hand hovered just above it. He was afraid to touch it, afraid to let his fingers close around it.

If he touched it, if his skin made contact with it, he would know for sure.