The Monster

by Shen, L. J.

  Troy put a hand on my shoulder.

  “Time to go, son.”

  “All right, Dad.”

  It was the first time I called him Dad, but I knew it was not going to be the last.

  I turned around and followed him, feeling him smiling, even with his back to me.

  For the first time since I was born, I felt something foreign and addictive.

  I belonged.

  “Just for the record, I will never forgive you.” My mother scooped her Hermes bag from the chapel’s floor, her heels clicking provocatively as she sashayed outside.

  My father stood behind her, shrugging helplessly, a what-can-you-do expression on his face. Troy and Sparrow were behind them, gathering their belongings.

  “She can and will forgive you. Dinner is at eight. Please don’t be late.” He kissed both my cheeks, giving Sam, who stood by my side, a firm handshake.

  Belle was the next person to slide out of her pew.

  “I can’t believe you.” She bristled in delight, clutching my arms, shaking me a little. “You actually went ahead with it.”

  “A Vegas wedding.” Persephone slid from the same pew, Cillian standing right next to her. Persy held her tummy, in which my next nephew or niece was cooking quite nicely. “Who would have thought?”

  “I would,” Sam cut harshly through everyone’s coos and murmurs. “Seeing as Aisling wasn’t the only person to get married today. Besides, it was a classy Vegas wedding.”

  “That’s an oxymoron,” Cillian pointed out.

  “No, he is right. It was totally classy.” Sailor’s face popped out of nowhere. Hunter stood close to her. “Nothing says elegance quite like being married by Elvis himself while a bunch of aging men dressed like *NSync sing a botched karaoke version of ‘It’s Gonna Be Me’ in the background. Isn’t that what Prince William and Kate did for their wedding?” Sailor frowned, curling her fingers under her chin thoughtfully.

  “I do believe Wills and Kate had Take That wannabes singing ‘Relight my Fire’ at the reception,” Devon interrupted, clearing his throat. The British man seemed so out of place at the cheesy chapel, I let out a giggle.

  “We couldn’t afford to wait.” I bit down on my lip. “My residency is starting in a couple of weeks, and I wouldn’t have time to plan my lunch breaks, let alone a wedding, not to mention—”

  “I knocked her up.” Sam delivered the news flatly, no hint of emotions in his voice. I whipped my head toward him, shocked that he let our secret out and grateful that my parents weren’t in our vicinity anymore.

  Sam kept his eyes on our friends, not me, while I very possibly blushed myself into an early grave inside my respectable white dress.

  “Aisling wanted to wait until her residency was over, but my sperm had other ideas.”

  “What do you mean?” Persy frowned, her hand moving in circles around her belly.

  “Did the condom break?” Belle interfered, keeping it blunt. “Do you buy cheap-ass johnnies, Samuel? Or did you poke holes in it with a needle? I heard a rock star autobiography where something like that happened to him. Okay, fine, watched a movie.”

  “Phew,” Hunter laughed, “for a second there I thought you started reading.”

  “I’m sorry, isn’t the illiterate idiot convention next door?” Cillian inquired tersely. “I believe Samuel and Aisling are trying to break the news of a new pregnancy in the family.”

  “Hell, bro,” Hunter snorted. “I’m just trying to take your mind off the fact that Brennan sexed our baby sister up.”

  “Hunter!” Everyone shrieked in unison, other than Emmabelle, who laughed, enjoying herself, and Devon, who was too busy staring at Belle to care what everyone was saying.

  “Anyway, no.” I shook my head. “I was on the pill and was very good about it. There’s always a very slight chance the pill won’t work. And I guess it happened to me.” I grinned, looking up at Sam while he pressed a proud kiss to my forehead.

  Two months after Sam told Vasily Mikhailov he could have Brookline back, we went out to celebrate the fact I got accepted to a nearby hospital to begin my residency. It was my favorite Thai place, and even though we had a wonderful time, I went to bed feeling ill. When I woke up the next morning, I puked my guts out and figured something must have upset my stomach.

  But then it happened the morning after.

  And after.

  And after.

  “When’s the last time you had your period?” Sam had questioned when I closed in on a week of throwing up each morning and feeling miraculously better during the rest of the day. “Because we’ve been having sex every day for at least nine weeks in a row now.”

  I’d scrunched my nose, thinking about it.

  My cycles were pretty regular, and besides, I was on the pill.

  “I can’t be pregnant,” I’d said finally.

  “Can’t or don’t want to be?” Sam had raised an eyebrow.

  “Both?” I’d winced, but deep down I knew there wouldn’t be one part of me that would be upset if I found out I was pregnant.

  “I’ll go get us a pregnancy test right now.”

  “Thank you.”

  And here we were a week later, married in Vegas in front of our closest friends and family. I’d always imagined having a grand, fancy wedding, but as soon as I realized I was pregnant, I knew a massive wedding wasn’t what I wanted. It was simply what was expected of me. What I really wanted was to be married to the man of my dreams as soon as humanly possible.

  The man who had given me a new ferret for my last birthday and didn’t even look surprised or put off by the fact I had named it Shelly, after my previous ferret.

  Besides, as Sam had pointed out, he won our marriage in a card game. It was only fitting we would get married in the gambling capital of the world. The symmetry of the narrative pleased me.

  Two monsters, promising their lives to one another in Sin City.

  “I bet Sam managed to knock you up somehow when he realized the kind of wedding your parents wanted you to have would take half a century to plan.” Sailor laughed, side-eyeing her brother knowingly.

  I looked up to my husband and noticed the sly smile on his face.

  He couldn’t have.

  He wouldn’t … would he?

  Cocking my head slightly, I narrowed my eyes at him.

  “Sam?” I asked.

  My husband pressed a kiss to my mouth.

  “I’m the fixer,” was all he said, keeping it at that.

  I had never told anyone what the last thing Ms. B told me right after she demanded I stop visiting to help her.

  “I can’t handle you anymore, but one day you’ll find a man who can. And when you find him, mon cheri, you hold onto him, no matter what, for he will bend to your will, even though he’ll put up a fight.”

  I opened my eyes, looked up at my husband of ten minutes, and smiled.

  I feared no evil.

  But I did fall in love with one.

  Four months later.

  Cillian dropped his cards on the table in Badland’s card room, glancing at his phone with a frown. “I’m out.”

  “You’re out?” Hunter echoed, eyeing his older brother with apparent shock. “You’re never out.”

  “I am when my wife’s water breaks.” Cillian tossed his cards onto Hunter’s lap, his shoulder brushing mine as I leaned over the table to grab another card. Cillian stopped to raise his finger toward me in warning.

  “Your smug smirk is unwarranted, Brennan. Not only are you next, but knowing my sister, she’ll have four children at the very least. Good luck getting some sleep in the next decade or so.”

  He made a quick exit before I could respond that nothing could persuade me a pregnant Aisling was a bad idea. Nix had never been hornier in her entire fucking life. I was on-call three times a day for dick duty, even though she was still working long hours at the hospital most days.

  She also turned out to have a sweet tooth, which meant I had to feed her candy and
chocolate whenever her heart desired.

  At night, I’d slip under the covers next to her and press my hand to her swollen stomach, feeling my son kicking up a storm. He was so alive and happy inside her, I couldn’t wait to meet him.

  “As it happens, my revenge for the smirk-fest just walked through the door in the shape of your very pregnant wife. Hello, sis,” I heard Cillian drawl behind my back. I turned around to find Nix standing there just as Cillian bent to kiss her on the cheek, her belly poking out in her scrubs, a tired smile on her face.

  “Five games of blackjack, Brennan?” She offered me a hand, drawing curious glances from all the men around us.

  I very rarely stayed at Badlands after dark these days, and when I did, it was mostly to keep my brothers-in-law in check.

  “What’s the stakes?” I eyed her skeptically. “Make it worth my while, Mrs. Brennan. I already have everything I need.”

  She sauntered toward me, a taunting smirk on her face, and bent toward my ear. The whole room held its breath.

  “You’ll get to rip off the red satin lingerie I’m wearing right now if you win,” she whispered.

  Nix leaned backward, straightening her back.

  “And if you win?” I asked nonchalantly.

  She wasn’t going to win.

  I always won.

  “I want us to buy a house. I like our apartment fine, don’t get me wrong, but I want somewhere big and spacious.”

  “Somewhere to fit all the kids you are planning on giving him,” Hunter coughed into his fist in the background, drawing laughter.

  Aisling offered me her hand again, staring at me under her soot-black eyelashes. “What do you say?”

  I took her hand and shook it.

  She didn’t have to know I’d already purchased the land right next to her parents’ house and that I was going to build the house of her dreams there.

  Just like she didn’t know about that night at the carnival, when I had locked myself in the portable restroom after kissing her because for the first time since I was nine, facing the world was too much.

  Lust lingers, love stays.

  Lust is impatient, love waits.

  Lust burns, love warms.

  Lust destroys, but love? Love kills.

  S.A.B.

  I was wrong. Love didn’t kill me. Love saved me.

  Aisling was going to find out about both my surprises soon.

  But not yet.

  Not until I tore the satin lingerie off of her.

  And showed her that everyone could love.

  But monsters? We loved a little harder.

  The End

  Thank you so much for taking the time to read this book. I loved telling the story of Sam and Aisling, and the moment I wrote The End was bittersweet, since this series means so much to me.

  I couldn’t have done this without my amazing team of editors: Tamara Mataya, Paige Maroney Smith, and Angela Marshall Smith. Special thanks to Tijuana Turner, Vanessa Villegas, Lana Kart, Chelsea Humphrey and Amy Halter for reading this book beforehand.

  Kimberly Brower, Jenn Watson, Catherine Anderson—thank you so much for all you do.

  Stacey Ryan Blake and Letitia Hasser—your work is beyond amazing, I am so grateful to have you.

  And to you, the readers, bloggers and supporters. I couldn’t have done this without you.

  Please consider leaving a brief, honest review before you move on to your next book adventure.

  Love,

  L.J. Shen.

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  Sinners of Saint:

  Defy (#0.1)

  Vicious (#1)

  Ruckus (#2)

  Scandalous (#3)

  Bane (#4)

  All Saints High:

  Pretty Reckless (#1)

  Broken Knight (#2)

  Angry God (#3)

  Boston Belles:

  The Hunter (#1)

  The Villain (#2)

  The Monster (#3)

  The Take (#4, TBA 2021)

  Standalones:

  Tyed

  Sparrow

  Blood to Dust

  Midnight Blue

  Dirty Headlines

  In the Unlikely Event

  The Kiss Thief

  Playing with Fire

  The Devil Wears Black

  Before you go, here’s a small excerpt of Pretty Reckless. If you enjoy the world of Boston Belles, you will love All Saints High…

  It started with a lemonade

  And ended with my heart

  This, my pretty reckless rival, is how our screwed-up story starts

  Age Fourteen.

  The tiles under my feet shake as a herd of ballerinas blazes past me, their feet pounding like artillery in the distance.

  Brown hair. Black hair. Straight hair. Red hair. Curly hair. They blur into a rainbow of trims and scrunchies. My eyes are searching for the blond head I’d like to bash against the well-worn floor.

  Feel free not to be here today, Queen Bitch.

  I stand frozen on the threshold of my mother’s ballet studio, my pale pink leotard sticking to my ribs. My white duffel bag dangles from my shoulder. My tight bun makes my scalp burn. Whenever I let my hair down, my golden locks fall off in chunks on the bathroom floor. I tell Mom it’s from messing with my hair too much, but that’s BS. And if she gave a damn—really gave one, not just pretended to—she’d know this, too.

  I wiggle my banged-up toes in my pointe shoes, swallowing the ball of anxiety in my throat. Via isn’t here. Thank you, Marx.

  Girls torpedo past me, bumping into my shoulders. I feel their giggles in my empty stomach. My duffel bag falls with a thud. My classmates are leaner, longer, and more flexible with rod-straight backs like an exclamation mark. Me? I’m small and muscular like a question mark. Always unsure and on the verge of snapping. My face is not stoic and regal; it’s traitorous and unpredictable. Some wear their hearts on their sleeves—I wear mine on my mouth. I smile with my teeth when I’m happy, and when my mom looks at me, I’m always happy.

  “You should really take gymnastics or cheer, Lovebug. It suits you so much better than ballet.”

  But Mom sometimes says things that dig at my self-esteem. There’s a rounded dent on its surface now, the shape of her words, and that’s where I keep my anger.

  Melody Green-Followhill is a former ballerina who broke her leg during her first week at Juilliard when she was eighteen. Ballet has been expected of me since the day I was born. And—just my luck—I happen to be exceptionally bad at it.

  Enter Via Scully.

  Also fourteen, Via is everything I strive to be. Taller, blonder, and skinnier. Worst of all, her natural talent makes my dancing look like an insult to leotards all over the world.

  Three months ago, Via received a letter from the Royal Ballet Academy asking her to audition. Four weeks ago—she did. Her hotshot parents couldn’t get the time off work, so my mom jumped at the chance to fly her on a weeklong trip to London. Now the entire class is waiting to hear if Via is going to study at the Royal Ballet Academy. Word around the studio is she has it in the bag. Even the Ukrainian danseur Alexei Petrov—a sixteen-year-old prodigy who is like the Justin Bieber of ballet—posted an IG story with her after the audition.

  Looking forward to creating magic together.

  It wouldn’t surprise me to learn Via can do magic. She’s always been a witch.

  “Lovebug, stop fretting by the door. You’re blocking everyone’s way,” my mother singsongs with her back to me. I can see her reflection through the floor-to-ceiling mirror. She’s frowning at the attendance sheet and glancing at the door, hoping to see Via.

  Sorry, Mom. Just your spawn over here.

  Via is always late, and my mother, who never tolerates tardiness, lets her get away with it.

  I bend down to pick up my duffel bag and pad into the studio. A shiny barre frames the room, and a floor-to-ceiling window
displays downtown Todos Santos in all its photogenic, upper-crust glory. Peach-colored benches grace tree-lined streets, and crystal blue towers sparkle like the thin line where the ocean kisses the sky.

  I hear the door squeaking open and squeeze my eyes shut.

  Please don’t be here.

  “Via! We’ve been waiting for you,” Mom’s chirp is like a BB gun shooting me in the back, and I tumble over my own feet from the shockwave. Snorts explode all over the room. I manage to grip the barre, pulling myself up a second before my knees hit the floor. Flushed, I grasp it in one hand and slide into a sloppy plié.

  “Lovebug, be a darling and make some room for Via,” Mom purrs.

  Symbolically, Mother, I’d love for Via to make my ass some room, too.

  Of course, her precious prodigy isn’t wearing her ballet gear today even though she owns Italian-imported leotards other girls can only dream of. Via clearly comes from money because even rich people don’t like shelling out two hundred bucks for a basic leotard. Other than Mom—who probably figures I’ll never be a true ballerina so the least she can do is dress me up like one.

  Today, Via is wearing a cropped yellow Tweety Bird shirt and ripped leggings. Her eyes are red, and her hair is a mess. Does she even make an effort?

  She throws me a patronizing smirk. “Lovebug.”

  “Puppy,” I retort.

  “Puppy?” She snorts.

  “I’d call you a bitch, but let’s admit it, your bite doesn’t really have teeth.”

  I readjust my shoes, pretending that I’m over her. I’m not over her. She monopolizes my mother’s time, and she’s been on my case way before I started talking back. Via attends another school in San Diego. She claims it’s because her parents think the kids in Todos Santos are too sheltered and spoiled. Her parents want her to grow up with real people.