Lightning Strikes: A Reverse Harem Paranormal Romance (The Storm Book 1)

by Ripley Proserpina

  Carson returned with an ice pack and held it out. Whitlee—no, Whitney—took it from him. “Thanks,” she said, gaze lingering on him before bouncing between each of us and landing back on Brandon.

  She spent as much time looking at me as she did the others, and her freckled cheeks flushed bright red. “How long before I can leave?” she asked.

  Brandon held her gaze. “Not yet, Whit. You need to rest. Recoup.”

  She gave him a rueful grin, and I wondered how anyone said no to her when she smiled like that. “You know I can’t stay here.” She glanced at the door behind me. “Who knows how long it’ll take for Gil to mount a search party.”

  “Good point,” Carson said. “I’m going to make sure we didn’t leave behind a blindingly obvious trail. Let’s go, Nick.”

  “Why do I have to go?” Nick asked. “None of this was my idea.”

  Whitlee—I liked it and I was just going to stick with that— bit her lip and turned her head to hide her smile. But I saw it. I felt my own lips lift in a grin before I quickly fixed my face. The emotion wasn’t natural and with my scars and plates, I would only appear more horrifying.

  Like a toddler throwing a temper tantrum, Nick stomped across my floor to the door. At the sound, Whitlee stared at him. Then her gaze landed on mine. Her smile went from a grin to full wattage before she winked at me.

  And then, stupid monster that I was, I winked back.

  Immediately, Whit winced, and I wanted to go back in time. But it wasn’t me that had made her grimace. Her movement had caused the clotted wound on her head to reopen. It was the pain that made her look like that. Not my face.

  “We need to clean that,” I said, my voice gruffer than I meant it to be.

  Brandon, who in life had worked construction, and whose mind worked like an engineering marvel, had been helping me in my workshop. He knew his way around now and quickly went to sanitize his hands and get me the equipment I’d need to close the wound.

  Wound care was a necessity for our kind. That which couldn’t be stitched together had to be replaced. Luckily, Whit’s wounds were nowhere near dire enough to merit that skillset.

  “Are you okay?” Whitlee asked me.

  I’d been staring at her. Like the creepy old man I was.

  “How old are you?” I asked.

  She rubbed at her eyes. “How long was I out?”

  That seemed a funny answer to a simple question. “I think no more than a few hours if I have the story correct.”

  She sighed. “Then I’m still twenty-three. It’s my birthday in two days. I’ll be twenty-four then.”

  Wow. I was old enough to be her… older brother. I sighed. Too old for her. I started to glue her head wound with the medical glue. It wasn’t as deep as I feared, and I’d have it closed in no time. It wouldn’t even scar. Why was I thinking about her age anyway? She was a living human woman. They hadn’t liked me when I’d been a living human man. But the younger the crew of Uncontrolled became the older I felt. I might not technically be aging, but it sure felt like I was. This beautiful almost-twenty-four year old reminded me of that.

  She wasn’t going to be interested in my dead self. And if she was in the market for creepy boyfriends, Brandon was a better version of the product. He still had all his limbs. I sighed, looking away. “Happy almost birthday, Whitlee.”

  I realized what I’d said and slowly lifted my gaze to meet hers. She smiled at me. Had she even noticed? Brandon had. He shot me a look that was part accusation, part confusion before he turned his attention back to Whitlee. She would always be that name to me now. The girl who didn’t wince when she looked at me.

  “I need someone to explain this to me.” She turned to dangle her feet off the edge of the table and swayed slightly, her arm catching mine as she tried to right herself. “Sorry.”

  “Easy.” It was everything I could do not to draw this woman into my arms and hold her. I’d never wanted to do anything so much in my life. Then again, I wanted to keep my head on my body. I didn’t think I could full on replace it and Brandon might decapitate me if I did such a thing.

  She laughed. “Leave it to me to concuss myself. Explain to me how this is possible. How are you all… like you are?”

  “I wish I had an explanation. One day one of us just sort of woke up. After that the rest of us, one at a time, woke as well. We came here, following him. His name is Isaiah. We’ve tried to make a life. Or at least a better death. Ever since.”

  Her face fell. “So you really are… Infected? Is it possible that you’re simply recovering? From the illness?”

  “We are dead.” I hated to be the one to say it. “We’re just somehow still here.”

  5

  Whitney

  “We’re just somehow still here.” I repeated the phrase before I glanced at Brandon. “You’re here.”

  “I’m here,” he repeated. “Just dead.”

  I was a smart girl. I knew how the body worked. “So how is this possible then? You said a guy, Isaiah, just woke up one day.” I stared at the equipment in this man’s workshop. “Wait. I’m sorry.” I stuck my hand out to him. “You know my name, but I don’t know yours.”

  “Dante,” he said. He seemed hesitant to take my hand, but I continued to hold it out. Slowly, his gaze on mine as if daring me to pull away, he took my hand.

  His hand was cold, like he’d been outside on a fall day and hadn’t worn gloves. I could feel the rough pads of his fingers, and calluses along his palm. “Dante. One name?” I joked.

  He dropped my hand. “Shelley. Dante Shelley.”

  Brandon cleared his throat, and I took a wobbly step toward him. We’d figure all this reanimation stuff out later, but right now, only one thing mattered. Who could blame me if I exaggerated my wobble a little? Brandon caught me and had me in his arms. I wrapped myself around him, squeezing him and trying to ignore the chill that came off his body.

  “Hey,” I said and pressed my face into his sweater. “This is the greeting I should have given you. I’m so glad you sent for me.”

  He swayed gently from side to side and held on. “I’m so glad you came.”

  Easing back, I stared up at him. In the harsh light of Dante’s workshop, the subtleties I’d noticed back at our spot were glaring. His skin was whiter than white, and around his lips was a faint tinge of blue. Along his forehead, all the way to his ear, was a thick scar and at his neck—I gasped and stood on my tiptoes. “Bran…”

  “It was much worse.” Huge stitches held a piece of—something—against his neck. “A Controlled got a big chunk of me. Dante fixed me up with this.” He touched the spot, and I lifted my hand to it. Softer than the rest of his skin, I tried to discern what it was.

  “It’s a synthetic with the shape and flexibility of skin,” Dante said. “It’s sort of like neoprene, the stuff divers wore. It will maintain its shape in a variety of temperatures.”

  “Very impressive,” I said. “It is similar in shade to Bran’s skin.” My voice caught on the final word, and Brandon’s gaze flashed to mine. I’d never forget this spot. This was the bite that killed him, the one that caused him to bleed out in front of my eyes. I’d watched the blood pour from between his fingers. In my head, his voice on that day echoed, “Run, Whitney! Go!”

  Throwing myself at him, I held him as tight as I could. Brandon’s body was as familiar to me as my own. He was lean muscled and broad shouldered, like a swimmer. I rested my head on his chest in the very place I always put it.

  “I missed you so much, Whit,” he said.

  “Me, too.” No one had mattered to me as much as this man had. It was going to suck so hard to leave him again. “How long do we have?”

  “That’s the thing.” He gave me his sheepish look. “I never intended to be here with you this long. I wanted to tell you I was alive so you wouldn’t mourn me. I hated thinking of you in pain. But now you’re here where you never should have been and I’m not sure exactly what to do. Part of me wants to just r
un off with you and never look back.”

  “But the other part of you knows that you’ll never survive out there with someone alive. You’ll be running every day, every night, until you get her killed.”

  Dante sucked in a breath and turned around as a man I’d not yet seen sauntered into the room. Bran’s gaze fell to the floor. I’d seen him look like that before and it was always within the vicinity of my father. This man, whoever he was, was powerful.

  “John.” Bran cleared his throat and pulled his gaze upward. That was a change. He’d never have managed that much before. “This is Whitney Lake. We’ve had some… issues tonight. Whitney, this is John Reeve. He’s in charge around here.”

  John, tall and black haired with sharp dark eyes that were a direct contrast to the blue tint around them, assessed me quietly before he finally spoke again. “It depends on who you ask. Some people would say I’m not in charge. And what difference does it make if no one listens to me?” He walked like a man who knew he had the attention of everyone in the room and didn’t care. Maybe he even liked it. How important did you have to be to intimidate someone like Dante? He took my hand, drawing it to his lips. I shouldn’t like that he’d initiated contact, but as heat hit my cheeks I realized I did. I really, really did.

  He spoke again. “I can see why Brandon would break so many rules to make you feel better. And I can see why he’d hide it from so many. Can I presume that the sudden exit of Carson and Nick and then Dante from our home tonight was because of you, Bran? If I’d known it was go-find-a-beautiful-woman-night, I might have joined you myself.”

  Bran sighed before visibly swallowing. “I know what rules I’ve broken. If you want to kick me out you can. I was just talking about taking Whitney with me and running for it, as you heard.”

  “I’d hate to think of it. The Controlled would eat her alive. Literally.” An alarm sounded, something like a horn going off. John went very still. “Looks like the Controlled are here right now. You’ll excuse me, Whitney? I have to get rid of them before the presence of their Infection turns my compatriots into hive-minded zombies. I hate to lose my people. It breaks my un-beating heart.”

  Dante left without another word, and after a wink, John followed, leaving me and Brandon, alone.

  “Stay here,” Brandon said, gaze on the door. “They can’t get in.”

  I studied the walls of the workshop. They looked like corrugated metal, not like something that would stand up against a crush of zombies.

  “Does it ever strike you as ironic that a zombie horde sounds exactly the way they did in the movies we watched?” I gave him half a smile, hoping he’d smile in return. Something about his gaze dropping to the floor earlier bothered me. Brandon was strong, even if he didn’t recognize it in himself.

  “You’ll stay?” he asked, his hand on the door.

  “I’ll stay,” I assured him.

  He glanced toward the door and then at me. “I’ll try to blend,” he said. “Brains!” Then he opened the door, slipped out, and was gone as the door closed behind him.

  The alarm had stopped almost as soon as it sounded. Alone, I studied the workshop. Actually, I snooped around the workshop. I opened cupboards and peered inside drawers. Dante was meticulous. Each drawer was organized perfectly. When one investigation revealed a set of wicked looking surgical instruments, I shut it quickly.

  It was one thing to know being undead meant failing bodies, and another thing to see what was necessary to fix it.

  What had it taken to heal Bran? His death had not been quick or painless.

  I gasped at a sudden, sharp stab in my chest and covered the spot with my hand. The hurt had been so quick and so unexpected I thought I’d see a bleeding wound when I glanced down. But there was nothing.

  Something hit the side of the building and the entire structure shook. Backing up to the wall, I hunkered down and stared at the door. If the Infected—Controlled—knocked down these walls, I’d be done for.

  Above my head was the drawer of surgical tools. Shaking, I grasped for the handle and yanked it open. The tools clattered metallically as I swept through the drawer, searching for something sharp. When my fingers closed around something, I pulled it into my lap.

  Scissors. I’d chosen to arm myself with scissors.

  Oh, well. Beggars, and all that.

  An ear-piercing screech grated against the side of the building, like someone was dragging a metal shovel across the outer wall. Moments later, the workshop shook again.

  Forcing myself to stand, I held the scissors in front of me. If the zombies came inside, they’d be slow, and I should be able to get a few of them before they took me down. And if I had no other choice, I could shove the scissors in my jugular. That way I’d be dead before they sunk their teeth into me.

  The door suddenly swung open, and I leapt into action with a war cry. I only had time to register Carson’s wide eyes before his hands deflected my attack and sent me crashing into the floor. “Sorry!”

  My back hit the table, knocking the wind out of me for a second. The chaos outside caught my attention before Carson kicked the door closed. He was at my side immediately, hands hovering over my shoulders. “I’m sorry!” he said. “I’m so sorry!”

  I shook my head, trying to indicate it was okay. After all, I was the one who’d done the impression of a not-so-silent ninja. As I lay there, trying to catch my breath, the truth of Carson’s appearance filtered through my concussed brain. I gasped, my hands covering my mouth.

  I didn’t know how he stood staring at me when he had an iron bar sticking right out of his chest. How was any of this possible?

  6

  Carson

  I followed her gaze to the iron bar in my chest. She stared at me, open-mouthed, and I couldn’t blame her. I groaned. “Damn it.”

  I yanked the bar out and shoved it aside before I strode across the room to where Dante kept his surgical equipment. Grabbing a lot of gauze, I shoved it in the wound. This sucked. “It won’t close on its own, but Dante will fix it. He’ll stitch it up.”

  Whitney visibly swallowed. It had been so long since I’d been around a beautiful woman. In my living years, I’d considered being a priest. My education was spent at parochial schools with other boys. When I’d decided I wasn’t called for religious life, I’d still not spent much time with girls. That was always something I’d meant to change.

  She rose to her feet. “I almost stabbed you. Shouldn’t you do something else for that? Why did you get impaled?”

  “The Controlled are given all kinds of orders. This time it must be to hurt us. I don’t know why. I took a hit. It’s okay. It’ll be fine to wait. I don’t even feel it.”

  She rubbed at her chest. Had she been hurt, too? Before I could ask, she’d crossed the room. “I know basic first aid. If you don’t care that you’ll have an ugly scar I can stitch it.”

  An ugly scar? “I’m loaded with them. We’re all kind of… gross now.”

  She waved her hand. “Look, I don’t understand any of this. As far as I knew, people who died with the Infection or by the hand of a zom… Controlled, they became Controlled. I’ll never forget seeing Brandon get up and walk away with the mob after he died. I didn’t know any of this was possible. That being said, I think you’re all some kind of miracle. Who cares about any of it being pretty?”

  Whitney picked up some green string. It would be better than the time I walked around with neon orange in my arm. We couldn’t be too picky. Dante did the best he could finding medical equipment. I sat on the table and watched her search for something.

  With her back to me, Whitney found a bottle of alcohol and dumped some of it in her hands. She scrubbed them as I watched in disbelief.

  “I don’t mean to sound ungrateful,” I began. “But you don’t need to do that with us.”

  Shaking her hands to air dry them, she faced me. “Don’t need to do what? Sanitize my hands? I was on the shore of the Roanoke River, Carson. I’m pretty damn sure I
need to sanitize.”

  “It’s just… if you’re worried about infection…”

  She snorted. “Oh! I get it. Oh well. Nothing lost, nothing gained. It’s a good habit in any case.” Moving closer, she narrowed her eyes at my chest. “You’re going to have to take your shirt off.”

  Damn. “I’ll just wait for Dante.”

  “You don’t want to show me your skin.” She bit her lip, her attention riveted on my injury.

  “You go right for it, don’t you?” I asked. I’d never spoken to anyone like this in my life. It was sort of… bizarre. “No beating around the bush.”

  Her face flushed as bright as her hair. “Yeah. I’m not great…” She sighed. “I mean—with people—I just sort of bleh whatever I’m thinking.” She made a movement with her fingers, like words exploded from her mouth.

  I chuckled, because I couldn’t be more different. Each word out of my mouth was weighed and measured. Maybe it was a product of being an attorney, but I knew the power a misspoken word could have.

  “I’m covered in dirt,” Whit said suddenly.

  “Huh?” I asked, inarticulately.

  The hand holding the green thread lifted to her face. “All over my face. I know I am because I took a digger into the Roanoke. Did you even notice I’m missing a shoe?”

  I glanced down at her feet. One foot was clad in a sneaker and the other a sock. A sock with a hole. A hole through which her toe poked. “You haven’t met me at my finest.”

  “A hole in the sock is different from a hole in your chest,” I argued.

  “I know,” she said. “I’m just pointing out, you didn’t judge me for my appearance. I won’t judge you either.”

  I decided to go for broke. I needed this beautiful, perfect girl to understand we were two very different creatures. “You did judge me.” I met her gaze, which clouded with confusion. “You ran.”

  “I—” All the color drained away from her face, and she placed the needle and thread on the table next to me. “I’m sorry.” Now she stared at her hands, and I was an asshole.