by JL Madore
Ronnie gasped as she looked at herself in the mirror.
She’d only seen her mother’s hand-embroidered gown in wedding pictures, and the images paled next to the real deal. Ivory silk flowed to the floor with tone-on-tone beading on the bodice and around the wrists.
“Now careful, kitten,” her father said, slipping behind her while she stared into the full-length mirror. “No tears. We don’t want to muss the masterpiece.”
“Daddy? You’re here?”
He kissed the back of her head and wrapped his arms tight around her waist. “I would never miss giving my daughter away at her wedding.”
“Does that mean you approve?”
Her dad sighed. “The man saved your life. I don’t know how, and I honestly don’t need to know. He and his friends can do and see things I don’t understand. You love him. He obviously loves you. And you’re getting better. That’s all I can ask for. It’s more than I hoped for. So, yes, I approve.”
Ronnie hugged him close and, in that moment, she wasn’t the strong, independent woman he’d raised her to be.
She was his little girl—his kitten.
“Now, come on.” He pulled out his handkerchief, dabbed his eyes and held it out for her. “Your carriage awaits.”
Cassi, Austin, and Kyrian were waiting in the foyer, dressed to perfection and giddy. And, to her amazement, there really was a horse-drawn carriage waiting.
They clopped from the front door of the homestead, around the track to the arena. She laughed as Kyrian jumped to the gravel drive to help them all down. “That was a short trip.”
Kyrian winked. “It’s cold out here, but he wanted you to be able to make an entrance.”
The five of them stepped into the arena and she couldn’t believe the transformation. The soft footing had been covered by hardwood, the ring was lit, and the space was decorated with twinkling indoor trees and magnolias. The whole place smelled of magnolia blooms.
“Your mother would have loved this,” her daddy said. “She always loved a good party.”
Ronnie nodded and linked her arm with his “Daddy, do me a favor when you get home?”
He folded his hand over hers and smiled. “Anything, kitten. Name it.”
“When you have one of those moments when you feel Mama with you, don’t rationalize. I think she is there with you, and I’d like you to tell her about my wedding. I’ll send you pictures, and maybe you could even point them out.
He blinked quickly and nodded. “I can do that. I think she’d like to hear all about your day.”
Ronnie swallowed and nodded to Kyrian. “Let’s get this party started.”
Zander met them under the arch of the entrance trellis and took his wife’s arm. Kyrian took Cassi’s next, and she followed, arm and arm with the man who, until recently, filled the largest part of her heart. “I love you, Daddy.”
As the six of them closed in on the center of the ballroom floor, she realized there were guests there too. Danel’s warrior brothers, a redhead sitting with a dangerous looking man, half a dozen people she didn’t recognize, Joan and Terri from the coffee shop, the detective friend of theirs, Colt Creed, three very striking drag queens dressed like Skittles . . . and the homeless man who’d helped her get Danel into her car.
“This is a very eclectic group,” her father whispered.
Yep. She’d always felt like a misfit toy and now, with Danel, she’d found her place. It wasn’t normal. It wasn’t even something she could talk about. But she belonged.
When her gaze met Danel’s, all thought vanished from her mind. She still wasn’t used to seeing him with tattoos and wings but since the moment she woke up after his transition, she’d been changed too. Thank you, Lady Divinity.
He stood there, his expression far too erotic for the gathering of family and friends. Gawd, he was stunning . . . the white color of his dress shirt contrasting the warm bronze of his Persian heritage, the cut of his suit showing off just how fit he was, the sparkle of light and love in his eyes he’d been missing in all those nights he’d come in for coffee.
“You are one beautifully-made man,” she said, stepping away from her father. “Despite your stubborn brooding and general oblivion, you came around in the end. I’m thankful to know the man you’ve become.”
He winked and took both her hands in his. “Veronica Rose Hennington, you brought my entire existence into harmony. Your body, your soul, and your aura are all perfectly tuned to mine. You don’t just complete me but complement me. You enhance every nuance of what makes me who I am. And I am madly, and hopelessly, in love with you.”
She reached up on her tiptoes, her lips just inches from his.
“True story.”
THANK YOU FOR READING
I sincerely hope you enjoyed Danel and Ronnie’s story in, Watcher Reborn. If you’d like to share your thoughts on the novel please leave a rating or review on Amazon. Reviews help other readers find books. I appreciate all reviews and look forward to reading your thoughts.
In gratitude,
JL
Social Media
Amazon – www.amazon.com/J.L.-Madore/e/B00CGCR4UO
Facebook – www.facebook.com/JLMadore
My web page – www.jlmadore.com
JL’s Email – [email protected]
Reader Group – JL Series Updates
Other Books
The Scourge Survivor Series (Fantasy)
Book 1 – Blaze Ignites
Book 2 – Ursa Unearthed
Book 3 – Torrent of Tears
Book 4 – Blind Spirit
Book 5 – Fate’s Journey – Summer 2018
The Watchers of the Gray Series (Paranormal)
Book 1 – Watcher Untethered (Zander)
Book 2 – Watcher Redeemed (Kyrian)
Book 3 – Watcher Reborn (Danel)
Book 4 – Watcher Divided (Phoenix) – Summer 2018
In the Shadow (Roman Time-Slip – Episodic Serial)
Episode 1 – Back In Time
Episode 2 – A Strange New World
Episode 3 – Pompeii
Episode 4 – Vesuvius Erupts
Episode 5 – Allies, Enemies, and New Beginnings
Author Notes
Written on 22/04/2018
As a novelist of many genres of romance—fantasy, paranormal, timeslip historical, and contemporary—I love to twist Alpha heroes and kick-ass heroines into chaotic, hilarious, and magical situations, and make them really work for a Happily Ever After.
As of the time I’m writing this, we’re enjoying the first day of double-digit spring temperatures – 14 Celsius. It isn’t balmy but it’s better than what we’ve endured this far into April. Enough already.
I’ve started book 4 in the Watchers of the Gray series, Watcher Divided—Phoenix’s story. I’m looking forward to where that strong and silent male takes us. And am finishing off book 5 for my Scourge Survivor series, Fate’s Journey.
Hey, for those of you who’ve read my fantasy series, did you like the crossover with Cara? Lol, the oracles are too fun.
On a serious note, I chose cystinosis as Ronnie’s struggle because my cousin’s girl fights that fight. She’s strong and spirited and despite the horrible disease she’s fought, since 10 months old, she lives life. It’s not just her that fights, her parents, her family, and her extended community all rally to support her. When companies and governments allow the cost of life-saving meds to exceed the ability of people to pay for them, there is a problem. End rant.
Thank you to my Beta readers / Super fan street team members: Janna, Laura, Jarica, and Amy.
IN THE SHADOW- Episode 1
I kicked my legs over the railing and crouched in the shadowed corner of the third-floor terrace. My bad shoulder ached like a bitch, my ribs not faring much better with a mini blowtorch poking into my side. I adjusted the strap of my backpack and caught my breath. The first time I’d visited the estate, this series of French doors lit up like a beacon.
&
nbsp; Least secure point, they beamed. Four-peak grappling hook, and a fifty-foot rope. Not that I planned on robbing them at the time. That would have been rude.
Noticing these things was how I was hardwired.
Invisible, under the darkness of two a.m., I bundled my rope and listened to the house speaking. The sprinklers tending the grounds and gardens let off a steady pst pst pst while the bank of air-conditioners corralled outside the staff entrance hummed a white-noise lullaby in the distance.
Inside, not a peep.
The reading nook on the other side of the bank of six glass doors terminated a wide, paneled hallway. Long ago abandoned as a place of edification for the elite, the hand-crafted, mahogany bookshelves and first-edition spines now offered another kind of secluded escape, a public yet private alcove for quick and dirty acts of flagrant sexual behavior.
Tonight, though, those French doors offered an in and out of a different sort—a straight shot to payback and reclaiming my professional pride.
Eight months had passed since I’d last been inside, but I banked on the fact that the security contact I’d clipped to the alarm feed still lay in wait. Whether targeting a residence, auction house, museum, or tomb, two key factors went into a successful break-in: long-range planning and the ability to adapt on the fly.
I had both.
From the outside pocket of my worn, canvas backpack, I retrieved the transmitting device and held it above the door’s lock plate. I initialized the signal and the tiny red indicator lights danced across the screen. While I waited, I hummed in my head and scanned the lunar-lit landscape.
The moon waned over the peak of the rooftop, abandoning the end of the east wing to glorious darkness.
I straightened and shook out my legs.
The dancing red lights switched to green, and I exchanged tools. My suction cup was a dinosaur, true, but hadn’t let me down yet. On the glass pane, immediately below the latch, I pressed for contact. A leisurely around-the-world spin with the glass cutter and voila, the porthole created was a perfect entry point. I reached to one of the potted boxwoods flanking the doors, set the glass disk in the dirt, and then snaked my arm through the opening.
With a gloved hand, I flicked the latch and stepped inside.
From my earliest memories, my mom had fitted me with tiny, silk gloves whenever we left our apartment. She’d trained me not to touch, scolded me for doing so, but not for the same reasons as other children. My mother had it too—the touch.
I often wondered if others in our family had it or if we two were unique. I never got the chance to ask.
Slipping inside, I pressed the doors closed and left the latch unhooked, just in case. Cat burglar was an apt term because, in yoga pants, a black long-sleeve hoodie, and soft-soled shoes, I was every bit as stealthy as a feline.
I smiled at a childhood memory.
For my twelfth birthday, right before my mom’s big vanishing act, the two of us attended the musical production of Cats. Mom had joked that with my pale skin, bright red hair, and morbid tendency to wear black and skulk in the shadows, I’d nail the part of Rumpelteazer, the mischievous thieving cat.
Funny, how life imitated art.
With the tools zipped into their sectioned pockets, I slipped my backpack onto my shoulders. On the balls of my feet, I jogged down the Oriental rug and zeroed in on the last bedroom on the left.
The center of the wide corridor was pitch-black, my path lit on either side like an airline runway of artwork. Soft display lights illuminated works by Rembrandt, Monet, and Rubens, as well as marble busts from ancient Greece, and vases that dated back to the Ming Dynasty. Those treasures belonged to the matriarch of the Matheson household, a shrewd businesswoman. I had no beef with her, nor would I touch her belongings.
People might call me a thief, but I considered myself a relic liberator and adhered to a code. Mrs. Matheson’s son, however, didn’t understand the first thing about honor among thieves.
At the end of the corridor, I placed a hand on the heavy wood panel, twisted the ornate doorknob, and eased inside. Damn. Enclosed in the darkness of his suite, my sense of smell heightened, and Tyson’s cologne triggered a Pavlovian ache. It aroused a want I no longer wanted and an annoyance that he still affected me.
The fragrance was expensive, of course, and though it didn’t overpower, the essence lured me in despite better judgment.
Yeah, just Ty had himself.
I rocked my head side-to-side, rolled my shoulders, and got back in the game. The click of my headlamp, and a quick pan of the suite, confirmed nothing had changed: museum grade Louis XIV furniture, bookshelves with texts he’d never opened, and a massive canopy bed I avoided looking at all together.
The space was staged and barely ever used.
Lucky for me, Tyson avoided the home front unless sucked back for mandatory Matheson social engagements. A playboy jet-setter to his designer core.
Heading straight to the mini-bar against the interior wall, I removed three bottles of champagne from the top rack and laid them on the plush carpet. The mechanism to release the wall-latch hid along the back, just behind the—click.
With two hands, I gripped the granite top of the bar and swung it free from the ebony and gold, damask wall covering. The safe installed behind the billionaire booze rack was a standard two-foot cube. The model was a tough nut to crack, though not impenetrable if you’d done your homework.
The size of the safe ruled out stashing large items, but I preferred smaller antiquities anyway; ones which fit into my locket, jacket lining, or backpack.
I left big game for ego-strokers who liked to get caught.
With a flip of my wrist, my Fitbit read 2:07 a.m. Almost three hours before the staff started to prep the household for the day. If all went well, this would be a one and done, and I wouldn’t need to break out the blowtorch.
Either way, there was time.
A tap on the face of the Fitbit prompted the next screen and sweet . . . two birds—one stone. Running up from the back lane of the estate, followed by the hand-over-hand climb up three flights, got me a third of the way to my daily step goal.
See, crime did pay.
Annnnd it paid remarkably well.
I grabbed the tablet from the side pocket of my bag and used Tyson’s tracking passcode to verify that his Maserati remained downtown. Listed as a contributor to last night’s auction, he’d likely charmed some deep-pocket female collector into the wee hours, securing his next job. Him staying in the city apartment and sexing up his next mark was standard operating procedure.
From the whispers on the street, he’d scored a choice, religious relic, and fanned the flames of a bidding war.
I put the tablet screen to sleep and it blacked. Stashing it away, I pulled open the Ziploc baggie and took off my leather gloves. Careful not to damage it, I slid on the latex thumb I’d prepared in his honor. Tyson left enough fingerprints around my loft to fool a hundred biometric readers.
Something to think about before you screw someone over.
I pressed the thumb against the scan pad, and the light glowed green. Next, the keypad. As a man of habit, Tyson used three numeric passcodes on rotation—not that he knew I knew that—but I did.
I punched in the first set of numbers, and . . . no love.
I settled onto my knees, cleared the screen, and tried again.
Nada.
“Resistance is futile,” I whispered. I would cut this steel box to scraps if I needed to, but scores would be settled. Pressing in the digits for door number three, I held my breath.
The two locking bolts clunked as they released, and my heart fluttered. “Burn me once, shame on you. Burn me twice, yeah, no, don’t think so.”
The hidden hinges creaked as the door eased open. The sound seemed deafening in the silence of a sleepy mansion, yet was hardly a sound at all. I adjusted the angle of my headlamp and leaned in. The safe’s bottom floor held ladies’ jewelry, raw gemstones, platinum watches, and a
couple dozen collector’s coins. The Spanish doubloons on the top shelf were common; the reliquary cross seemed to be in rough but salvageable shape; ooh sweet, the brass gargoyle knocker had potential.
I didn’t touch those with bare hands, to avoid triggering my gift prematurely.
I withdrew my hand as I spotted another item. The handgun on the second shelf chilled me. Ty was a lover, not a fighter.
That thought sparked an erotic cocktail of images, and oooh what a lover he was. I cursed. I didn’t need memories mucking up my brain with strawberries and orgasms while hot on the trail of revenge.
I cut that shit off quick and forced myself to focus.
A cloth-wrapped bundle sat in the back corner of the second shelf. Cradled in my palms, I brought it to my lap and peeled back the protective layers. Inch by inch, I revealed a heavily tarnished, yet remarkably well-preserved, gold censer. Similar in size and shape to a small, metal tureen, the intricate vine work carved into the body left delicate holes for incense smoke to escape. The chains to swing the vessel during a religious service were missing. Otherwise, it was remarkably intact.
“And the angel took the censer,” I said, examining it closer, “and filled it with fire of the altar, and cast it into the earth: and there were voices, and thunderings, and lightnings, and an earthquake.”
I suspended my palm above the rounded belly of the piece, and the hair on my arms stood on end. Energy arced to my skin. “Oh, you have lots to say. What would you like to show me, my precious?”