Revenge
Tri-Stone Trilogy, Book Two
Anne L. Parks
Fireside Publishing, LLC
Contents
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Epilogue
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Acknowledgments
About the Author
Also by Anne L. Parks
Copyright © 2017 by Anne L. Parks
All rights reserved.
No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.
Chapter One
Nothing can hurt me here.
The prayer is silent, and as peaceful as the trail I jog through the woods. The air is brisk this morning. A slight breeze catches the fall leaves, making them sway gently to their resting place on the forest floor. The sky is a brilliant array of vivid colors—blue and violet bleed into red and orange, in a way only a dreaming mind can envision.
My pace is slow this morning. My legs may as well have twenty pound weights on them. I shuffle my feet along the trail. My thigh muscles burn with each stride. I'm sucking in air as if each breath is my last. I ran to clear my head, center my soul. All that has changed now. I've taken off so much time because of him.
John Sysco.
My ex-boyfriend. The man who abused me, stalked me. Shot me.
He invaded my life like a cancer, infecting every facet of it, poisoning the love Alex and I had found.
Twigs snap beneath my feet. The branches groan and creak overhead. The undergrowth binds my ankles. With every step I take, they twist farther up my legs. The tendrils slice through my skin. I stumble, dizzy and disoriented. Images of the vines—paralyzing me, covering me, cocooning me—flood my vision. My heart thumps, my breathing erratic, and every part of my body trembles.
Thunder booms above. Ominous storm clouds roll across the sky in waves, and eclipse the sun. The fresh air is earthy, and I'm pretty sure there is a thin layer of dirt coating the inside of my mouth, getting thicker with every inhale. A white lightning bolt scars the gray atmosphere. A second thunderclap sends a shiver down my spine—not because its close, but because it's a voice calling out.
"Kylie!"
My heart explodes, sending waves of pain through my chest. I yank at the vines snaking around my legs, and bust through the underbrush. My limbs shake, but I can't stop moving. Not now. I've been here before. I know what happens if I don't keep going.
If John finds me, he will finish what he started. He will kill me. And I know in my heart, the very depths of my soul, he will not let me die peacefully. He will torture me, string me up by my wrists. Whip me with that damn flogger. The skin tearing, hanging in shreds from my back. And the louder my screams bounce off the walls in the enclosed space, the wider he will grin. He'll cut me down, the smell of blood mixing with his sweat and arousal, as he forces himself inside of me. It is his own distorted sexual fulfillment. To conquer and control me, like he did so many times, and he will enjoy watching me suffer before he finally takes my life.
A black figure steps onto the trail in front of me. Acid swirls in my stomach, and I can taste the bile rising in my throat. My chest seizes as I release the last gasp of air in my lungs. I shuffle backward, never taking my eyes off the menacing figure.
He steps toward me. Adrenaline rushes through my body. I run, forcing my feet to move faster. But the black figure advances on me. He is within a few feet when the trees break and we are in an open field. The wildflowers that usually bloom in vibrant colors are subdued, various shades of the stone sky. They are wilting, withering. Dying.
They mirror my fate.
Something moves. I turn my head. My pulse races, the sound of my heartbeat thumping in my ears.
"No, no, no!" The screams ring through my head.
Alex stands in the middle of the field, gaze fixed on something in the distance.
"Alex!"
He doesn't hear me. He continues to stare into the abyss, oblivious to the threat that exists.
That's when I see him. John. He struts toward Alex. I sprint in their direction but cover no ground.
"Alex! Run!"
He turns to me, his eyes soft, a smile across his lips. He looks so happy. So completely content.
John looms next to him, an uncloaked grim reaper. But Alex doesn't seem to take notice.
Why doesn't he run? Doesn't he see John? Doesn't he realize John will kill him?
Or perhaps he just doesn't care, accepting his inevitable fate.
A throaty groan escapes my chest. My cheeks are wet with tears, sobs racking my body.
"Kylie," Alex mouths.
John raises his hand level with Alex's chest, the black gun barrel targeting his heart. I shout at Alex, pleading with him to get away.
"I love you, Kylie. I will always love you." The words are silent, heard only by my heart and soul.
The gunshot blast mixes with my cries. Alex grasps his chest. Bright red—the only color in the macabre landscape—soaks his shirt. He drops to his knees, crumpling to the ground.
Searing pain rips through my chest. I cover my heart, sinking my finger into the small hole in the center. It's wet, hot. Blood rolls down my arm in several streams, dripping onto the ground. My life is nothing more than a bright red pool at my feet.
John looms in front of me. A wicked smile crosses his face. He caresses my cheek. His lips are moving, but the words are distant and hollow. Everything around me is out of focus, spinning. I want to run away. I want to curl into a ball and die. I want to kill him.
He survived. Or returned from hell to haunt me. It doesn't matter what the truth is...he was right. He will never leave me alone.
I blink in pitch darkness.
Groping the soft ground around me, I untangle my legs from the silky vines, freeing them from the satiny bed sheets.
Low light suddenly bathes me from the lamp on the nightstand. Alex is beside me, his arms encircling me, consoling me, his lips gentle and warm against my ear.
"Shhh...Kylie. Everything's okay."
I want to scream, "Nothing is okay!" but only a soft whimper emerges. I hazard a look at his chest, expecting to see the blood-soaked shirt. But it is bright, white, and without a wrinkle marring it. I rest my hand against his heart, reveling in its strong beat against my palm.
He's alive.
I am desperately trying to separate fact from fiction. Dream from reality. "Did John shoot you, Alex?"
"No, baby." He takes my hand from his heart and kisses it tenderly before moving it to my side. The skin is soft but lumpy. "He shot you. Here, just below your ribs. Do you remember?"
A dam bursts, the memories a raging river threatening to pull me under and drown me. Disjointed scenes. John talking to Alex. Waving the gun. Professing we would always be together, even if it meant in death. Sentencing Alex to a life of regret and guilt, kn
owing he was the cause.
The shot was so loud, the sound waves hitting me before the bullet did. Everything slowed, and time stilled. John had missed me. I was breathless, weightless. Warmth radiated through my chest.
Pain spread along my side, burning a path through my body, where the bullet hit me.
Alex caught me as I fell into darkness. I woke in the hospital weeks later from a coma caused by a closed head injury. I've been recovering—mentally and physically—ever since.
"You were having a nightmare." Alex lifts my chin and forces me to look at him.
I'm lost in his eyes, seeking the strength he always provides. "It was so real. John was on the trail. He had a gun."
"He can't hurt you anymore, Kylie." Alex's voice is soft, but his jaw tightens.
"He's gone?" My voice is scratchy and dry.
Alex stills, his muscles suddenly rigid. He exhales, dropping his shoulders. "Yes."
"Forever?"
"Forever, baby."
I drop my head against his chest and grasp his shirt. My heartbeat slows. Breathing becomes natural, easy. This man. He is my rock. My safety net. The one whom I love more than anyone in the world.
He lays us down on the bed. I nestle into his side, and rest my arm across his chest. I close my eyes and take a deep breath.
John is dead. He's gone forever. He can't hurt us ever again.
Lightly pressing my lips against Alex's shirt, I move them up to his neck, and taste the saltiness of his skin. I skim the edge of his jaw with my fingers, the stubble like sandpaper, the light scent of his sweat mixing with his musky, woodsy cologne. I shift my hips, and nestle my leg between his, rubbing my knee along the inside of his thigh.
I want him. I crave the way he makes me feel alive when we make love, how our bodies become so intertwined, as if we are one, hearts fused together by the deep love we share. I have been needing it for so long.
Alex takes my hand, removes it from his face, and places it safely back on his chest with a gentle pat. He pulls his head away and I'm unable to kiss his neck.
"Kylie, not tonight."
I groan and roll onto my back, take a deep breath, and hold onto it for a moment before letting it rush out of my lungs. All the tension I released a moment earlier floods my body once again. A wave of nausea hits me. My stomach muscles convulse. I clench my jaw to keep from screaming, and force back my tears.
Alex pulls my hands from my face. "I'm sorry, baby. I have an early conference call on this new venture, and we are at a tenuous point in negotiations. I want to get some sleep so I'm ready for it. Okay?"
I study his face—dark circles under his eyes, eyebrows drawn together. He tosses and turns through most of the night, and rarely gets any sleep. Stress his constant companion over the last couple of months. Watching John shoot me, waiting to see if I survived the surgery to remove the bullet, and worried that I might never wake from the coma.
None of this has been easy on him.
I nod, smile, and close my eyes. When will Alex and I finally renew the connection we had before John ruined our lives? Images of our lives right before the shooting mix with scenes of what could-be. Was I right all along? Is happiness as fleeting as the setting sun on the horizon? There one minute and gone in the blink of an eye?
I roll onto my side with my back to Alex, bury my face in the pillow, and cry.
The hot water cascades over my body and washes away the memories of the nightmare. My therapist, Dr. Watson, assures me that one day the night terrors will cease and my life will return to normal. No more midnight hauntings from John.
I pray that day comes soon. Nothing will stand in the way of Alex and me truly being happy.
I get out of the shower, dry off, and dress. I need coffee. Desperately. I head out of the bedroom towards the kitchen. Voices drift from Alex's study, and I stop outside the door.
"She's still having the same nightmare," Alex says. "She wakes up screaming, convinced I'm the one who John shot."
"Well, she's been through a lot. All of it pretty traumatic." Jake. Always the calming voice of reason.
I stop just outside the door. If they see me, they'll clam up and act as if everything is normal, when nothing is normal anymore. Not since the day John shot me and Jake killed him.
Alex sighs. "But it's been three weeks since she came out of the coma..."
"She didn't only survive a gunshot wound, sir. She also took a significant crack to the head against that rock."
"Those injuries have healed. That's not the problem."
Alex's words are thick, his voice toneless. He lets out a long, low sigh. His shoulders slump more, the gleam in his eye is rarely apparent these days, and his incredible inner light has dimmed. This has taken a toll on him.
"Give it time," Jake says. "She's working through the PTSD. She's strong...and stubborn. She'll never let John Sysco keep her from getting well. But this is Kylie, boss, and she will decide when she is ready to let go and move on.
I back down the hall quietly and out of sight. Jake's footsteps echo through the foyer. Then I silently step into Alex's study.
I love it in here. It's warm and comfortable, despite the dark mahogany walls, floors, and massive desk. The deep plush light-colored rugs provide a homey feel to the space and break up what could be a dreary space. It also feels incredibly soft as my bare feet sink in. I breathe in the tantalizing scent of the lemon wood oil and the earthy oak of Alex's cologne.
"Hey, baby. How long have you been up?" Alex is behind his desk, the light streaming in around him from the large windows facing the front circular drive. He saunters over to me, brushes the hair from my forehead, and kisses it.
"Long enough to take a hot shower." I glance at the leather couch. Pillow. Blanket. Alex slept in here last night—again.
Alex shifts next to me. "I was restless last night after you fell back to sleep. I didn't want to wake you, so I came in here and tried to get some rest." His voice is soft, but lacks its usual confidence.
I gaze into his eyes, but he immediately looks away. He's lying to me. He didn't want to stay in bed with me, probably fearing I would try to come on to him again. My heart seizes. I hate the thought of Alex not wanting me anymore. If we can just get past this—if he will open up and let me back in—things will get back to normal. If we make love, Alex will remember how great we are together.
Tipping my face to his, I kiss him softly on the lips. He doesn't pull away. A surge of heat and excitement courses through me. I move my hands to the back of his head, deepening the kiss. A low groan escapes his chest. I step into him. Feeling his body against mine sends a shiver up my spine.
Alex glides his hands up my arms, tightly grasping my shoulders. He pulls my hands to his lips and steps away from me. "I'm starving. Want to see what's for breakfast?"
Before I can answer, he turns and starts out the door, pulling me along behind him.
My heart plummets, and I swear I can feel it dying.
Once again, he distanced himself from me when I tried to get even a little bit intimate with him. Something has shifted in our relationship. We used to joke, tease each other, and flirt. I miss his playful grin, and the way he would wink at me when I was upset with him. We still kiss, but it's usually only quick pecks, not the long, passionate kisses we used to share.
We sleep together, snuggle all night long. But we never have sex. Hell, we don't even make out anymore. We are apparently in a very loving, committed, but completely platonic relationship.
I want to ball up my fists and pound on his chest. Scream at the top of my voice, "You're breaking my heart! Why can't you let me love you?" I never would've accepted this life before the shooting. I'm weak and it's all because of John.
Alex pledged to love me forever, to always be committed to me. He will never break a promise, even if it means living with a woman he doesn't love.
I'm not sure what scares me more—staying or leaving.
Alex is talking, but I'm not really listeni
ng to what he's saying. My brain is fuzzy, and I'm completely distracted. All I can do is stare at him—study the way his lips form words, his smile when he says something he thinks will make me happy, and the movement of his throat when he swallows coffee. One look from him with those stunning blue eyes and I still melt into a puddle on the floor.
Maggie takes the plates from in front of us. I'm suddenly aware of other things going on around me. Jake pouring coffee and talking with Thomas. The morning news on the huge fat screen in the family room. A picture of Alex pops onto the screen.
"Christopher Terry follows the investigation, trial, and conviction of James Wells. Wells was convicted in the nineteen eighty murder of Ellen Stone Wells. Many may remember this case, which involved the parents of local businessman, Alex Stone. Yesterday, Mr. Stone was announced as the two-thousand-fifteen recipient of the Philanthropist of the Year. The three hour investigative report will air on Sunday at nine p. m. Now, let's go to Dan Rogers with a look at traffic this morning."
I stare at Alex. He finishes his coffee and reads the paper as if the news report never came on.
"Did you know about this, Alex?"
"Yes, I was informed yesterday about the award. I meant to tell you, but it slipped my mind."
I walk around the table, slide onto his lap, and rest my hands on his shoulders. "You forgot you're going to receive one of the most prestigious awards in the city?"
He runs his hands up my thighs, rests them on my hips, and tips his head back to look at me."It's not a big deal, Kylie. It's just another reason for rich people to get out their formal attire and drink cheap champagne."
"It's a very big deal. You deserve this recognition after all you have donated to all your charities. If people knew even half of what you have given anonymously…" I lean forward and kiss his lips. "I'm so proud of you."
"Thank you, baby." He tries to lift me off his lap, but I'm not done talking, and not going anywhere yet.
"Okay, now what about the other story? Did you have any idea that was in the works?"
Revenge: Tri-Stone Trilogy, Book Two Page 1