of it.
He managed to right himself on the bike, start her up, and ease onto the road back home.
To Holly’s house, he corrected. It wasn’t his home. Home was a place you could stay and share with those you loved. A place that belonged to you. He didn’t belong anywhere.
He somehow made it to the farmhouse and parked his motorcycle in the driveway. Teleportation would have been so handy if he had control over when he could use it. He slid off the bike, and using the porch railing for support, wobbled to the front door. Once inside he aimed for his bedroom, but was hit with a pain in his stomach so intense he collapsed to the ground in the living room. He crawled ahead a few more feet, but his insides spasmed, and the burning grew to such a level that he curled up into a ball on the hard, hickory floor. He pressed his cheek into the cool wood, but nothing eased the fire in his stomach.
He wished for death, but knew it wouldn’t come. He wouldn’t be granted that sweet reprieve.
He wished for Holly, but knew she’d never want him. He was no better than the demons he hunted. Holly was an angel. Demons and angels didn’t live happily ever after.
Chapter Eight
Holly pushed her key into the lock on her front door and let out a hiss when she realized it wasn’t locked.
“Nice, Keane,” she said. “Maybe you don’t care about my home, but I do.”
Shaking her head, she opened the door and stepped into the house. Leaning against the door once she’d closed it, she shut her eyes and inhaled. The smell of lavender potpourri welcomed her home and a smile slid across her lips.
“Love you, Mother and Dad, but it’s good to be home.”
She let her overnight bag fall to her feet. It was late Sunday afternoon, and though her parents had begged her to stay another day, she had desperately wanted to come back home. She needed to be in her own space. She needed to be away from Luke whom she had seriously reconsidered sleeping with. Twice.
Maybe she would swing back to the beach house and have her way with him next weekend. At least he didn’t leave her front door unlocked.
She picked up her bag and headed for the laundry room, but something wasn’t right in the house. Too quiet. Too empty for the middle of the morning on a bright sunny day.
“Keane?” She waited by the couch, listening. Birds chirped outside. Sugar, a stray, white cat she often fed, scratched at the back porch door. Her grandmother’s antique clock on the mantel above the fireplace tick-tick-ticked. Every normal house sound was there except the ones she’d actually missed while at the beach house. Change jingling in a pocket. The whisper of a newspaper page being turned. The creak of a loose floorboard in the guest bedroom. All sounds only Keane made.
Holly set her bag down on the couch and peeked into the kitchen. No Keane. She poked her head out to the porch swing where he liked to sit sometimes. He wasn’t there either. Coming back inside, she jogged to the hallway and stumbled over—
“Keane!” She kneeled down next to his body sprawled on the hallway floor. She brushed his hair back with shaky fingers and gently shook his shoulder. “Keane.”
His legs were pulled up to his chest and one arm was slung across his stomach. His dark brows were creased as if he were in pain. Had a target hurt him? Did he get cut with one of his own daggers? Holly quickly looked around but didn’t see any blood. She pressed a hand to his head, but felt no fever. She wasn’t sure he could get a fever.
“Keane, what’s wrong?” She hated not knowing how to help him. She hated wanting to help him.
He rolled over so he was on his back and sucked in a sharp breath. Again, Holly checked him for wounds and found none.
“Stomach.” His voice was gravelly.
Holly moved his arm. “You’re stomach hurts? Why?”
His eyes fluttered open for a moment. The blue that she had been picturing all weekend was washed out, like faded denim. He didn’t actually
He managed to right himself on the bike, start her up, and ease onto the road back home.
To Holly’s house, he corrected. It wasn’t his home. Home was a place you could stay and share with those you loved. A place that belonged to you. He didn’t belong anywhere.
He somehow made it to the farmhouse and parked his motorcycle in the driveway. Teleportation would have been so handy if he had control over when he could use it. He slid off the bike, and using the porch railing for support, wobbled to the front door. Once inside he aimed for his bedroom, but was hit with a pain in his stomach so intense he collapsed to the ground in the living room. He crawled ahead a few more feet, but his insides spasmed, and the burning grew to such a level that he curled up into a ball on the hard, hickory floor. He pressed his cheek into the cool wood, but nothing eased the fire in his stomach.
He wished for death, but knew it wouldn’t come. He wouldn’t be granted that sweet reprieve.
He wished for Holly, but knew she’d never want him. He was no better than the demons he hunted. Holly was an angel. Demons and angels didn’t live happily ever after.
Chapter Eight
Holly pushed her key into the lock on her front door and let out a hiss when she realized it wasn’t locked.
“Nice, Keane,” she said. “Maybe you don’t care about my home, but I do.”
Shaking her head, she opened the door and stepped into the house. Leaning against the door once she’d closed it, she shut her eyes and inhaled. The smell of lavender potpourri welcomed her home and a smile slid across her lips.
“Love you, Mother and Dad, but it’s good to be home.”
She let her overnight bag fall to her feet. It was late Sunday afternoon, and though her parents had begged her to stay another day, she had desperately wanted to come back home. She needed to be in her own space. She needed to be away from Luke whom she had seriously reconsidered sleeping with. Twice.
Maybe she would swing back to the beach house and have her way with him next weekend. At least he didn’t leave her front door unlocked.
She picked up her bag and headed for the laundry room, but something wasn’t right in the house. Too quiet. Too empty for the middle of the morning on a bright sunny day.
“Keane?” She waited by the couch, listening. Birds chirped outside. Sugar, a stray, white cat she often fed, scratched at the back porch door. Her grandmother’s antique clock on the mantel above the fireplace tick-tick-ticked. Every normal house sound was there except the ones she’d actually missed while at the beach house. Change jingling in a pocket. The whisper of a newspaper page being turned. The creak of a loose floorboard in the guest bedroom. All sounds only Keane made.
Holly set her bag down on the couch and peeked into the kitchen. No Keane. She poked her head out to the porch swing where he liked to sit sometimes. He wasn’t there either. Coming back inside, she jogged to the hallway and stumbled over—
“Keane!” She kneeled down next to his body sprawled on the hallway floor. She brushed his hair back with shaky fingers and gently shook his shoulder. “Keane.”
His legs were pulled up to his chest and one arm was slung across his stomach. His dark brows were creased as if he were in pain. Had a target hurt him? Did he get cut with one of his own daggers? Holly quickly looked around but didn’t see any blood. She pressed a hand to his head, but felt no fever. She wasn’t sure he could get a fever.
“Keane, what’s wrong?” She hated not knowing how to help him. She hated wanting to help him.
He rolled over so he was on his back and sucked in a sharp breath. Again, Holly checked him for wounds and found none.
“Stomach.” His voice was gravelly.
Holly moved his arm. “You’re stomach hurts? Why?”
His eyes fluttered open for a moment. The blue that she had been picturing all weekend was washed out, like faded denim. He didn’t actually
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