The Lost and the Chosen (The Lost Sentinel Book 1)

by Ivy Asher

  The Lost and the Chosen

  The Lost Sentinel Book One

  Ivy Asher

  Contents

  Dedication

  Summary

  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

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Chapter 36

  Chapter 37

  Chapter 38

  Chapter 39

  Chapter 40

  Chapter 41

  Thanks for Reading

  Acknowledgments

  About the Author

  Copyright © 2018 Ivy Asher

  All rights reserved. This book or parts thereof may not be reproduced in any form, stored in any retrieval system, or transmitted in any form by any means—electronic, mechanical, photocopy, recording, or otherwise—without prior written permission of the author, except in cases of a reviewer quoting brief passages in a review.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, businesses, companies, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  Edited by Denise Krekling

  Cover Design by Germancreative

  For the ones who believed I could,

  so I did.

  Summary

  My name is Vinna, and I’ve been keeping a lot of secrets.

  You would too if you'd experienced some of the weird shit I have: red-eyed monsters chasing me, markings on my body appearing out of nowhere, a strange power that crackles colorfully over my skin from time to time, and don't get me started on the weapons I can conjure up almost out of nowhere.

  Lucky for me, I have yet to meet someone whose ass I couldn't kick, inside the ring or out of it. I put that to the test when I run headfirst into a fight that brings all my secrets, and reality as I know it, crashing down around me.

  Now, I'm looking for answers and trying to piece together what the hell is going on. Paranormal is my new way of life. It's not going to be easy, and I'm not exactly welcome.

  That is, until I meet the boys, and trust me, they are anything but boyish.

  I'm up against elders who think I’m too powerful, a family who views me as a threat, and something lurking in the shadows that's been coming for me my whole life.

  There’s not a chance in hell I’m going down without a fight. I’m not lost anymore, and I'm about to show this world exactly what I can do.

  Author’s Note: This is the first book in The Lost Sentinel Series and ends with a cliffhanger. This book is a medium burn reverse harem story, intended for ages 18 years and older. This story contains strong language, sexual situations, and violence.

  Book two coming in January

  1

  I shut the locker door, the sound echoing off the concrete walls of the empty room. I tuck earbuds into my ears, press play on my phone, and my playlist picks up where it left off at the end of yesterday’s workout. Flyleaf’s “All Around Me” trickles into my ears. I turn up the volume and let the music coax out my inner beast, as I mentally map out how I’m going to dominate this match.

  Talon always makes fun of this part of my pre-fight routine. He doesn’t understand my need to visualize beating the shit out of someone, especially when I don’t know who my opponent is yet. Unfortunately, it’s just one of the many things I’m not able to explain to him.

  Traces of whatever it is that exists inside of me light up throughout my body. The mysterious spark of ability stretches out inside of me like a languid cat, and as much as I revel in this flow of power, I’m careful to keep it in check. If I welcome in too much, it will flood me and turn me into the human version of a Fourth of July sparkler. That would thoroughly fuck up the I’m just like everyone else act I’m trying to maintain.

  The smell of whatever cleaner they use to battle the residual odor of sweaty bodies sits heavy but pleasant in the air. I breathe in the clean lemony smell as I methodically stretch and prepare my body for the fight. I don’t know what it says about me, but I find the pungent scent of this room comforting. My brain links it with hard work and success. I swear, every gym I’ve ever worked out in, and every locker room I’ve ever used has this same citrusy smell.

  The growly part of “I’m so Sick” begins to stream into my ears, when the metal door clangs open, and in walks Talon. He looks like he should be walking into a boardroom instead of this concrete, lemon-scented locker room. His suit is custom-made and pristine, at odds with the old, gruff, Viking vibe the rest of him exudes.

  He had long hair the first time I met him. The blond locks danced in the wind, and ocean blue eyes stared up at me, as I stood on top of his SUV with a rock in my hand. I was fifteen and homeless, running from a couple of assholes who got pissed that I dared to fight back when their group tried to steal my backpack.

  Talon wears his hair buzzed now, his beard shorter, more well-kept. The facial hair does little to conceal his square jaw or sharp nose. I discovered over the years that his blue eyes only ever seem to soften for me. Everyone else gets the ruthlessly cold and calculating side of Talon. Me? I get the protector and friend. At six feet two inches, he’s tall enough to hulk over me, and everything about him--from his size to the way he carries himself--oozes, don’t fuck with me.

  “You ready?” He asks, and I nod.

  “Good. Take your time. Give a good show. Then fucking annihilate him," he coaches me, the instructions unnecessary.

  I grunt in approval at his viciousness, though I can’t help but roll my eyes, too. This isn’t some choreographed dance, and he knows it. Talon chuckles, reading my thoughts from the expression on my face. The driver that brought me here still stands in the corner of the room. His spine stiffens at the sound of Talon’s mirth, as if his laughter equates to a death sentence. For all I know, that could be true.

  Outside of training and fighting I keep my nose out of Talon’s business, but he could definitely be the type to deal out laughter with death. I’m not so cavalier about it, but I don’t have any qualms about death either. I roll my neck in an attempt to alleviate the anticipation I feel. This always happens to me before a fight. It’s not nerves, and even the word anticipation doesn’t quite capture the true essence of the feeling. It’s more a drive to get on with it, a need to attack.

  “There’s my little warrior, let that bloodlust soak into you, and let’s do this," Talon encourages.

  He hugs me and gives a playful tug to the end of one of my Dutch braids. I punch him in the side, but I don’t put any power behind it, and he laughs. I don’t know what it’s like to have parents that give a shit about you. I never met my father, and Beth--my egg donor--threw me away, like the garbage she always told me I was.

  Talon’s the closest I’ll ever get to experience how a parent shou
ld act. I have no idea why he plucked me from the roof of his car and off the streets of Vegas, but I’m thankful every day for everything he’s done for me.

  Veering away from the sentimental direction of my thoughts, I clear my mind and slap my game face on. In the world of shady underground deals and cold brutality, where Talon and I live, pretty thoughts and indulgent memories have no place. I refocus and bounce in place to warm my muscles and get loose.

  The roar of the crowd reaches us through the thick walls of the room, and it’s clear from the noise that someone in the current fight just took a serious hit. The concrete muffles the shouts from the spectators, but it’s easy enough to get a sense of what’s going on. Talon grows edgy as my match looms closer.

  We sit in companionable silence, until someone pounds twice on the metal door, indicating it’s time. Talon turns to me, his fathomless blue eyes taking my measure. I catch a flash of sadness in his gaze as he seems to find whatever he’s looking for and turns away. With a resolute nod, he leads me out of the locker room.

  Entrances to a match can vary depending on the venue and scale of the fight. Today, there’s not much fanfare other than some lighting and the sound system. The booming resonance of an announcer bellows out my name, Vinna Aylin, and I walk into the shadow-soaked room at my introduction.

  The spotlight trained on me makes it difficult to gauge how big of a crowd fills the arena. Their shouts of support or disdain wrap around me like a blanket, cocooning me in their aggression. The octagon cage sits in the middle of the cavernous warehouse, bathed in light, and Talon and I stride towards it with confidence.

  The door to the cage opens, and I turn to Talon. I wrap my arms around his waist, sneaking in one last hug before I enter. I’m the first to arrive, and I wait for my opponent’s entrance into the arena to be announced. Shouts of my name bombard me, but I ignore them as my gaze sweeps over the crowd, assessing the details of the room.

  My eyes land on a man watching me with such a quiet intensity that it sets off an alarm in my brain. I’m not sure why this man’s acute scrutiny stands out amidst the other bloodthirsty fans who are watching and waiting, but something about him sets me on edge. Based on his tawny complexion and dark hair, I’d guess he’s Middle Eastern. His honey brown eyes are fixed on me, and they shine with a predatory gleam.

  The man smiles, but it’s all lips and no teeth. There’s no flash of fang or reddening of his eyes, which would make it easy to confirm my suspicions. I call them fanged fuckers, but I doubt that’s how they refer to themselves. My best guess would be they’re some kind of vampire, but none of the ones I’ve killed ever tried to eat me; for some reason they just wanted to take me.

  Instinctually, I want to group this man in with the other fanged fuckers I’ve run into over the years, and I trust my gut when it tells me this black-haired whiskey-eyed spectator represents a threat to me.

  The first time one of them attacked me, I was fourteen. It would have been easy to dismiss the speed and strength, or the glowing eyes as some kind of shock-induced hallucination, but I knew better than to try and convince myself that I mistook what I saw. That it was impossible. After all, if not for the impossible things I was capable of, that thing would have taken me wherever or to whomever it wanted.

  I fight my desire to show this man that I’m the predator and not the prey, but I don’t want to tip my hand. If he is what I think he is, it’s only a matter of time before the fucker comes for me. Then he’ll learn. Then, he’ll die like all the others.

  2

  The booming voice of the announcer pulls me away from my thoughts and from the eyes of the man whom I’ve marked for death. The deep bass of the announcer’s voice introduces my opponent, and I hone in and refocus my attention on his entrance.

  A large group of men move toward the cage. I can’t help the small smile that takes over my face when the entourage splits apart in what has to be a practiced move. Clearly, I was wrong, and this is a choreographed dance after all. I try to rein in my amusement and adopt a more fitting badass demeanor, but now I’m picturing these big, burly dudes breaking into a flash mob.

  Tonight’s opponent ambles towards the entrance. The word huge comes to mind but doesn’t quite encapsulate just how big this motherfucker is. The spotlight emphasizes his muscles and the thick veins that sit almost snake-like under his skin. He either spends ninety percent of his day in the gym, or he’s on a first name basis with steroids. My guess would be both.

  He enters the cage and looks me over, dismissing me as a threat in about two seconds. He then turns to the crowd and lets loose a ridiculous roar. Oh yeah, there’s some definite roid rage going on.

  The ref calls us to the center of the ring to give us our instructions. It’s the typical no biting, hair pulling, or shots to the junk speech, and I tune him out as I assess the beast of a man across from me. He’s colossal, and a hit from him is going to come with some serious damage. If he’s fast on top of that, then he’ll definitely make me work for the win.

  My bloodlust simmers inside of me, and I revel in the potential for a challenge.

  I make eye contact with colossus for the first time. He licks his lips and starts air kissing, then flicking his tongue at me. Is this guy serious? I roll my eyes and look around for Talon, so I can throw him a where’d you find this guy? look.

  Talon’s usually standing front and center, but I can’t seem to find him in the crowd. I do catch a glimpse of a guy who’s staring at me with so much tension that it borders on panic. I’m used to seeing this look on people’s faces. If they’re new to the fights, it can seriously freak people out to see all five foot eight inches of me in the ring with a big scary looking dude like the one I’m about to fight.

  I smile and wink at the guy, hoping he’ll relax a little, but it doesn’t seem to work. He looks like he’s seconds away from trying to haul me out of this ring. Oh, ye of little faith. He’s about to find out that there’s no part of me that’s a damsel, and nothing about this match has me distressed.

  “I hope you’re still smiling when I pin you down and fuck you right here, in front of this crowd," Colossal Douche sneers at me.

  He grabs the crotch of his shorts, drawing my attention to the sad excuse for an erection he’s sporting. I know Talon told me to take my time and put on a good show. But this piece of shit needs to learn some manners.

  The ref finishes his instructions and the Colossal Douche and I touch knuckles before separating. The adrenaline coursing through me rubs up against the nameless power that lives inside me, and my power sits up like an overeager puppy, ready and waiting to be called on.

  The ref drops his raised hand, signaling for us to start and I immediately move in. Colossal Douche roars and charges me. He holds his arms out in a useless Frankenstein stance as he stomps closer, aiming to wrap his arms around me. Quick as lightning, I lift my foot up on his thigh and use it as leverage to climb his massive frame like a jungle gym.

  His arms squeeze closed, but he only manages to trap one of my legs. I climb high enough up his torso to give myself a clear shot at his unguarded head and face. I punch him hard multiple times in quick succession, each hit lands on the sweet spot of his temple. The hits daze him, and his hold on my thigh relaxes.

  I drop down to the floor as Colossal Douche takes a few staggering, unsteady steps backward. He teeters, but doesn’t go down. I stay on the offensive and attack again, searching for a good opening. He swings for me when I get close, but it’s wild and doesn’t connect.

  I grab his arm and use his swing against him, pulling him off balance before slamming my elbow into his forearm. Colossal Douche lumbers forward from the impact, still trying to clear his head. I grab onto his shoulder and pull myself up to knee him in the ribs. He makes a rookie mistake and bends to the side, trying to protect his ribs, which provides me another clear shot at his head. Dumbass.

  I slam my knee into his face. A loud crunching sound bounces around the chain link enclosure, and I ju
mp back to avoid the explosion of blood and cartilage. He falls backward onto the mat, out cold, and I bounce a little as his massive frame crashes to the ground. The ref rushes to check on him and signals for the medics to take over.

  An odd rumble rises from Colossal Douche’s entourage, but I ignore it as I pull out my mouth guard. I scan the crowd of cheering fans that remain on their feet until I find the guy who looked so worried before. He stares at me wide-eyed, with a dumbfounded look on his face. I answer his misjudgment with a smug smile.

  Someone tosses me a towel, and I wipe my hands of sweat and blood. The ref declares me the winner, and I exit the cage among the flurry of activity from people trying to revive my opponent. I look for the man who set off all my alarm bells earlier, but I don’t see him anywhere.

  Security escorts me away from all the commotion and back toward the locker room I dressed in earlier. I don’t find Talon waiting to congratulate me in his usual position by the door. I don’t see him anywhere which sends a trickle of unease through me. The driver-turned-henchman who brought me here stands in Talon’s place, so instead, I follow him back to the locker room.

  “Where’s Talon?” I ask, as soon as the metal door clangs shut behind me.