by May Dawson
Left alone, I thought about the flames closing in on me while I slept. Despite the distance between my mother and me, she had saved me from the monster that haunted me, the flames that seemed to appear in my wake now. The smoke could have overwhelmed me in the sleep, and I could have slipped away into that dreamland where I would chase Ash forever. I wished I could tell my mother thank you for not letting me die. But I didn’t want to say a word to her and have her shake her head and turn away. I would show her I appreciated her. I would do the dishes and fold the laundry and stop setting things on fire. Somehow.
I pulled my knees up to my chest, hugging myself against the morning chill. The first rays of morning light washed the sky with a soft yellow glow over the trees and rooftops. It was beautiful. It always seemed odd to me that the sun kept rising when my sister was dead and my world was all wrong. I knew I should go to bed, but the thought of walking back into the house, which smelled of smoke and soot, made my chest tighten all over again.
What the hell was my mom talking about? I was so close to being an adult. I was going to college in the fall. It was across town, but I had every intention of living in the dorm. I rubbed my hand across my face. My eyes were hot and bleary.
And when I opened them again, there was a man standing at the end of the driveway.
I pressed the palm of my hand to my chest, almost jumping out of my skin; my heart fluttered wildly, and I could feel its rapid beat through my shirt. Where the hell had he come from?
He was tall and broad-shouldered, lean at the waist, dressed in a flannel shirt and dark wash jeans and motorcycle boots. From here I couldn’t see his face well, but I got the general impression of high cheekbones, a determined jaw, and ruffled dark-blond hair. He was cute.
Too bad he was also creepy.
I jumped to my feet and made a run for the front door. I’d rather choke on the acrid scent in the house than stay out here with the guy who was staring at me for no reason. At least, no good reason.
“Ellis, wait,” he said. His voice was low and calm, but somehow I heard it even with the distance between us. He had a rough, gravelly voice. Sexy.
It didn’t matter how sexy he sounded. He shouldn’t know my name.
I twisted the doorknob in my hand, but it didn’t turn. My palm slipped over the cool metal, trying it again, frantically.
Mom had locked me out.
I banged on the door with my fist, and then, hoping that my mother was on my way, I turned around to see where he was.
He stood at the bottom of the porch steps. His hands were shoved into his jeans pockets, his posture relaxed. “I’m not going to hurt you, Ellis. Relax.”
“Well, you seem to know me,” I said. “And I don’t remember us meeting. Who the hell are you?”
“Maybe you just don’t remember me yet.” He had deep green eyes, lushly lashed; they couldn’t have been in sharper contrast to that chiseled, masculine face.
“I’d remember you.” My voice came out deadpan. It was true. He was too Hollywood-gorgeous to forget.
His lips quirked up. How old was he? A few years older than me, maybe? His shoulders were broad and his arms were thickly muscled, unlike most boys my age, but there was something lean and boyish about his frame too. And his face was young. Young and handsome.
“My name’s Ryker,” he said, crossing those muscular arms over his chest. “I would shake your hand, but I can’t.”
“Why’s that?” Not that I wanted him to come any closer. Still keeping my eyes on him, I slapped the wooden door with my hand. Come on, Mom. You might hate me, but it’s really going to embarrass you if I’m murdered on the front porch. Imagine what that will do to property values.
“I’m not really here,” he said. “Listen. Some men coming for you. Don’t fight them. Just let them take you.”
“They? You’re going to have to be more specific.” My voice came out surprisingly crisp. My 11th grade English teacher had despised the use of The Faceless They, as she called it; we always had to name who they were before we could use the word. Gosh, that was a good year; my sister was alive, my mother still hugged me goodnight, I didn’t accidentally start fires in my sleep, and terrifying-but-handsome men never showed up on my doorstep.
“I would tell you, but you might try to explain it to your mother. She thinks she called some residential treatment facility for wayward mutants, that you’re going to spend the summer camping and surrender your power, Firestarter.” He glanced down the street, then back at me; those green eyes stared into mine intensely. “Don’t be afraid. I’ll be there. And we’ll escape together.”
Don’t be afraid was not helpful advice when he was the one making me afraid.
“My kind of problem? Escape? Together?” All my questions blurred together. My voice broke on together. I banged on the door again, even though I no longer had much hope in my mother.
His eyes widened in response to my panic, although his voice was still low and cool. “Don’t be scared. I’ll explain it all.”
“Yeah, let’s do that. Right now,” I said. “Because you telling me not to be scared is really just freaking me out. That is not effective.”
“Sorry,” he said, but he glanced down the road. His eyes stared at something in the distance, and his jaw set in response.
I followed his line of vision and saw a white panel van turn down the road. I turned back to him, a question already on my lips.
He was gone.
I banged on the door again, watching as the van slowly rolled down the road. It was probably a carpet cleaner or an HVAC company. Perfectly ordinary. But Ryker’s words had set me on edge.
The van didn’t even come to a stop before the side hatch flew open. An enormous man, tall and broad and heavy, jumped out onto the pavement. He looked around briefly, getting his bearings, and his gaze settled on me.
Behind him, a second man jumped out. This one didn’t hesitate; he followed the first man, who was barreling across the lawn.
My stomach twisted.
Don’t fight them, Ryker had said.
I didn’t trust him either.
I turned and ran for the side of the porch. As soon as I planted my hand on the smooth wood, I heaved myself over the porch railing. My feet hit the grass hard, my knees buckling, and I caught myself, kneeling, before I pushed off again. My ankle throbbed like I had twisted it.
I ran so hard that my chest strained and my legs ached, my arms pumping, and then someone tackled me from behind. Hard. Tackled me. My head thumped into the dirt, all the force of my body behind it. I almost somersaulted. The man came down heavily on top of me. I scrambled in the grass, trying to get my knees beneath me.
A beefy arm wrapped around my throat. I breathed in a bad scent for a second, sweet cologne and oniony body odor, and then he squeezed. I could still draw ragged breaths, but his bicep was pressed into one side of my neck and his forearm on the other. My fingers scrabbled at his muscular arm, trying to get free, but I couldn’t break loose
“Don’t hurt the girl,” someone said.
“It’s just a blood choke.” The voice was close, in my ear. “And even so. Don’t kill the girl. Be precise.”
“I guess you’re right.” The other voice was amused. “She’s going to get hurt a whole lot.”
I raked my fingernails against this guy’s arms and heard him grunt in pain. I was trying to draw blood. To mark him. To shove his DNA under my fingernails. If I disappeared forever as if the hand of God had plucked me out of this sleepy suburb, maybe someday, someone would figure out what had happened to me.
The world went dark.
To read more, download Wild Angels today, book one in the complete paranormal reverse harem series Her Wild Angels.
About the Author
May Dawson’s first crush was Indiana Jones, and it wasn’t just for Harrison Ford’s rugged good looks. She’s always been drawn to adventure, and she found it in Bali and the Antarctic, traveling widely before she settled down to raise tw
o red-haired munchkins/hooligans. These days you can find her embracing a very different kind of adventure: love. Living it. Writing it.
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