Eight Lives (Match Made In Hell Book 1)

by Autumn Breeze

  “Yeah,” he replied. His brows pulled down as he tipped his head back, searching my face for answers I wasn’t sure I had as I pushed my fingers into his hair, finding one of his ears. He turned into my touch, his chest rumbling. “I wished I had thumbs or was able to give you a hug, and I was human again.”

  “Try it in reverse,” I told him.

  He closed his eyes. And in the next second, there was no man in my lap.

  Instead, there was a cat.

  I laughed softly, scratching behind his ear. “It seems you owe a demon a solid.”

  Edmund Sykes had once been a human who was cursed by a spiteful witch to live his life as a cat. Now, he was a shapeshifter, doomed or blessed, depending on who you asked, to live his life as half man, half beast, trapped as neither cat nor man because he’d made a deal with a demon.

  Shifting in my lap, he turned into a man once more. The chair rolled, sending us into a bookcase as he settled on my thighs. I curled my arm around his body to keep him from falling backwards. He bowed his head, pressing his face into my chest. His cat ears tickled my chin and jaw as he curled his fingers in my shirt.

  “I . . . I told him I love you,” he whispered.

  I pulled back. His cheeks turned pink, and he ducked his head, trying to hide himself.

  A smile tugged at my lips, and I pulled him closer. My heart swelled with joy.

  He loved me. I’d known. Or I’d suspected, at least. It was different hearing it though.

  “I’m a little offended you told him before you told me,” I teased, sliding my hand up his side as I drew him as close as I could in our awkward position.

  He shook his head, twisting his fingers in my shirt. “I . . . I love you, Anselm.”

  “I love you, Edmund,” I said softly, pressing my lips against his temple.

  I had loved him for so long. He was the reason I was alive.

  He’d saved me. And I supposed I’d saved him.

  Maybe we weren’t really a match made in Hell after all?

  ABOUT AUTUMN BREEZE

  ❝Autumn Breeze is a bestselling LGBT+ author and current Radish Content Provider. She is also the winner of a 2015 Watty Award, a former Wattpad Star, with more than 70K followers on her combined Wattpad accounts @Autumn_Breeze and @HonestDying. She was featured in Cosmo in 2017 for “My Lessons with the Sexy Dance Instructor," and she worked as a Freelance Writer for 20th Century Fox on, “A Cure for Wellness: Seeking A Cure.”

  When Autumn isn’t putting words to paper, she is often spending time with her husband and son, cooking, gardening, playing video games or being suffocated by her obese dog Bristol.❞

  Join autumn’s facebook group ASK AUTUMN for a free After The I Do: Meeting At The Fault Line #1 bookmark!

  www.authorautumnbreeze.com

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  ABOUT ASHLEY CHAMBLEE

  ❝Ashley Chamblee is a bestselling author with 10+ years of experience who specializes in writing horror, fantasy, paranormal, and romance with LGBT themes. Currently, she has 45K+ followers on her combined Wattpad accounts @EzraWinn and @HonestDying.

  When Ashley isn’t writing she is either working with special needs adults, playing video games, reading or spending time with friends and family. ❞

  Twitter: @AshCham88

  Instagram: @AuthorAshleyCham

  CHAPTER ONE OF

  AUTUMN BREEZE’S

  AFTER THE

  I DO

  chapter one

  Maybe marriage to Everett Dawson won’t be so bad, I think, pulling on the bowtie that feels like a noose around my neck. The arrangement will end the bloody war that has plagued Necropolis for months. Innocent people will be spared. With at least two of the ruling families at peace, everything will go back to normal.

  What is normal? Marriage to a Vârcolac?

  This feels like the most abnormal thing in the world.

  But, it will undoubtedly save countless lives.

  For years, the war has bubbled just under the surface in our home metropolis, taking over precious city blocks and controlling the products the community needs to sustain itself.

  It wasn’t a war over the city, or the commodities, so much as . . . bad blood between families.

  Romeo and Juliet of the modern era—or so my younger sister likes to say.

  A senseless fight because two families hate each other for being different. A fight that has been passed from father to son, trailing down the generations like blue eyes and blond hair. It is just a war to be had because it is within our nature to fight, to bleed, to kill for . . . killing’s sake.

  That is all supposed to end now.

  Of all the things to happen to me in our centuries-long family feud, Everett isn’t the worst. Thus far, he has proven to be a quiet sort of man.

  Throughout the ceremony, he refused to meet my gaze. Once or twice, I thought he was going to protest, but he soldiered through. I almost feel like a bastard for not allowing my sister to marry him, as my father first suggested when this peace agreement was initially brokered between our families.

  What's done is done, though; we’ve exchanged vows and rings.

  But not a single word to one another.

  At some point, we will have to speak. Maybe after a couple of conversations, we will find a friendly sort of pattern, learn to live in peace together.

  Unlike my father—though he has tried to teach me—I don’t hate the Vârcolaci Clan. They, much like mine, are just trying to survive in an ever-changing world.

  I smile to myself, finding some happiness in how things have turned out. Sophia will be able to find someone she loves to spend her life with. My little sister deserves that. Perhaps Everett could have made her happy, but she would have always felt the burden of duty and never loved him the way a wife should love her husband. I have a feeling he would have never loved her properly as well, and Sophia deserves to be loved.

  There is a knock on the door.

  Turning, I adjust my cuffs. “Come in.”

  The door opens wide, revealing my father and his long-time rival, head of the Vârcolac Clan, David Dawson. The pair look uncomfortable in each other's company, but definitely much more at ease than the boy behind them.

  Everett’s shaggy brown hair falls around his oval face, hiding his eyes as he looks toward the ground with slumped shoulders. He doesn’t agree with this union but he will come to terms with the arrangement; I already have.

  “The papers,” Father speaks, walking further into the room with a folder.

  I take it from his extended arm, flipping the file open.

  Inside is the wedding contract that has already been signed, binding Everett and I together for the rest of our days. On the other side, the agreement our parents, and whomever else was necessary, bickered over until all parties were satisfied.

  There had been a lot of bickering.

  I frown, scanning the text. “This isn’t what I agreed to.” Father has the audacity to look ashamed. “Sharing a bed? Being faithful and committed to our vows? Children in ten years' time to solidify the bond? This is ludicrous.”

  They are crazy if they think this will suit. How can they expect any of this from Everett and me? We are strangers in every sense of the word. And now they want us to share a bed, share all the comforts of marriage, without knowing a single thing about each other. It is pure madness. Adding children to the mix is . . . preposterous.

  What is the point to any of it? Why do we need to share a bed, maintain a proper marriage? Are children really necessary to maintain peace? How can they expect our union to produce children that will be claimed by both sides of the bloodline, anyway? They’ve all lost their minds and I’ll be damned before I jump into the deep end with them.

  “Thanos—” Father begins.

 
I toss the folder. It thumps against his chest before fluttering to the floor. He bends over to retrieve it, as calm and put together as always. That is what makes him a fearsome Moroi.

  I, however, have long ago stopped fearing him.

  “If you want peace that badly, I suggest you two marry.”

  Father’s jaw ticks; I meet his hard stare, unflinching. He drops the folder on the table that separates us. It lands with a hard, resonating thump; the sound has a lot in common with a trapdoor slamming shut.

  “You will do your duty as the next head of this clan,” he orders before turning and leaving with David on his heels, as if he is a newly trained lap dog.

  Everett watches them depart, flinching when the door slams shut and eventually meets my gaze. His eyes are clear like a midday sky. The color is striking against his sun-kissed skin.

  I sigh. I’ll do my duty; that is final.

  Not just because it is necessary, but because I volunteered for the task of bringing peace to our clans. The wedding has already been performed so even if I don’t agree to the new terms, Everett is still my husband. At the end of the reception, he will still come home with me.

  Except now, he will be sharing my bed instead of sleeping in the guest room.

  For better or worse, right?

  Pulling the papers forward, I sign with a flourish before dating the contract.

  My soul has been given away—signed away, quite literally.

  Everett’s name is already in place.

  They came for him first, presenting an agreement he damn well knew we didn’t agree to. Instead of protesting, he signed. Maybe he tried to protest and his father told him he’d do his duty and that was the end of it, as mine had just done.

  Snapping the folder close, I stand upright and realize this is our first moment alone. We have been surrounded by people from the moment my father’s plan was enacted and agreed to by David.

  Family, a wedding planner, and caterers have always kept us firmly across the room from each other. I’ve never tried to bridge that gap, but maybe I should have. This moment wouldn’t be so painfully awkward if we’d exchanged greetings before vows . . . maybe.

  Clearing my throat, I straighten my back. Everett finds something incredibly interesting about the floor once more. Maybe he refuses to look up because he doesn’t wish to acknowledge me. Our clans have a long history—five hundred years to be exact—of ignoring one another unless there is bloodshed.

  Today, the bloodshed will end permanently. This marriage sees to that. Friendship can see to the rest, hopefully.

  “So . . . I don’t know about you, but I could use a drink.”

  As far as first words go, I know those are terrible.

  They are all I have, though.

  Everett’s mouth opens and closes several times. “A drink.”

  Crossing to my father’s whiskey cabinet, I pull down two glasses and his best bottle. Amber liquid splashes into the bottom of the first tumbler.

  Everett hasn’t come any closer so I cross back to him, holding the container out. He extends his hand slowly; I lift an eyebrow at the tremble in his fingers. The boy is terrified.

  “I don’t bite,” I assure him. He recoils, the liquid in his cup sloshing against the sides. The reaction is so severe that I take a step back in surprise.

  He seems to breathe a little easier; I can’t say the same.

  My throat constricts and I try to swallow around the lump that forms. Shame won’t serve me well in the coming years and neither will guilt, so why do both bubble in my stomach?

  “Drink,” I say.

  Everett tips his glass back as if controlled by puppet strings. I do the same, enjoying the pleasant burn in my esophagus. Before long, it disappears to be replaced by acid.

  Passing Father’s cherry oak desk, moving toward the cabinet, I withdraw the same bottle and fill the glass with more than just a finger or two of the beverage. It goes down just as quickly as the two fingers from earlier.

  Father will be disappointed I’m not taking a moment to savor the flavor. But father isn’t the one married to a mouse. My mother is a fierce woman who never learned her place, if you hear my paternal grandfather tell it. She has steel for a backbone and knives for a tongue. To tangle with her takes more than courage; you need a death wish.

  My father may be the head of our family, but she is his equal in every way. The person I married is supposed to be that. Not—I glance at Everett who is still peering at the floor—him.

  Filling the cup again, I only take a moment to let the last drink settle before swallowing the whole glass again. It hits my stomach the same way a car would a brick wall.

  Wedding cake is not a good base. Drunk isn’t any way to spend my wedding night, but I can’t think of a single other way to endure it.

  “Do you always drink so heavily?”

  I look toward Everett, not sure he spoke at all. Holding the empty tumbler to his chest, his fingers are wrapped around the container as if maybe it holds the answers to all his troubles. Maybe it does. Whiskey can be a great escape.

  “Only when I get married,” I answer his inquiry.

  “And do you do that often?” Everett asks, just as quietly, but there is a sarcastic lilt to his voice, a flash of sharp wit that could cut to the bone if given the chance.

  I set the glass and whiskey down before I can be tempted to take another drink to head. It is never a good idea to deal with anyone—especially a Vârcolac—drunk.

  “Are you against an occasional beverage?” I question. He doesn’t wince, I notice.

  Is it only when I am close enough to reach for him that he grows scared?

  “What I find to be occasional, you may not,” he replies.

  I walk forward, coming to a stop in front of him.

  “And what do you find occasional?”

  Everett shrinks back, curling into himself. “I—”

  He swallows hard, his knuckles going white. Spider cracks appear on the glass. I reach out. The cracks spread before the tumbler shatters. Everett’s fingers fall open as he yelps in pain; glass showers to the floor while several pieces stay embedded in his hand. Red swells around the crystals, wells in his palm and runs down his wrist.

  He looks up, horrified, and stumbles away. Grasping his shoulder, I yank him forward, hard. He whimpers, his eyes wide. What is he so scared of?

  “My father will slaughter us both if you get a drop on this carpet.”

  Dragging him across the room, I push Everett into the leather chair behind the desk. He trembles like a leaf caught in a tornado.

  Later, we can address his unease, if it can even be classified so casually. Now isn’t the time when he is in danger of bringing about the fall of my father’s sanity.

  Grabbing the edge of the curtain, I yank on it, causing an edge to tear.

  “Mother, however, will thank us for destroying this eyesore,” I tell him, trying to ease his mind with humor.

  It doesn’t work.

  Kneeling, I tuck some of the fabric under his bloody palm. It quivers, causing vital fluid to overflow the side. Everett whimpers, sliding his other hand over the damage. I grasp his wrist, tugging, but he’s strong and refuses to release himself.

  “You’re only causing more damage. Stop being difficult,” I snap.

  “This is all your fault,” he counters, strength replacing the timid squawk in his voice. I lift an eyebrow.

  How did he come to that conclusion? I might have given him the glass, but I didn’t tell him to squeeze the crystal so hard it shattered.

  The fault is his and his alone.

  “I’ve done nothing.”

  He scoffs at my denial and I hear everything I need to in the single sound. It speaks volumes louder than anything else tonight. I have a feeling it is going to chase me across the years of our marriage.

  “You volunteered,” he declares. I married him, forced this union between us despite the fact that I knew he privately protested. As far as he is con
cerned, I am to blame for everything that has or will occur.

  If condemning me makes this easier for him, so be it.

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