side.
“Lovely.” Battery acid sarcasm reflected in her voice.
She ignored the spilled contents, and clutched the note.
Fourth house on left.
House?
What the fuck?
That was not a house. That was a hut. A shack. Made of tin and wood, and probably spit.
The grass had grown tall, waist-high, except for a narrow path’s worth of real estate leading to the front door.
Here goes nothing.
She stepped into the path, feeling more like she’d stepped into another world, another time, even. At the end of the path, past the tall weeds, she could see her ultimate goal. The hut.
Step by step, mindful of snakes, Mac made her way, finally stopping at a front door that looked like it couldn’t withstand a knock, for fear the wood might collapse.
Mac rapped her knuckles on the doorjamb instead, feeling certain it, at least, could withstand a bit of pressure.
The door opened to a woman unlike any she’d ever seen.
This is his cousin?
Long white-blond hair. Eyes so light a blue that they were almost indistinguishable from her whites. Her skin was a dusky tan color, offsetting the eeriness of her irises.
She was attired in a long white gown, flowing to her ankles. Her feet were in sandals composed of strings—or weed cuttings.
She returned Mac’s stare, not saying a word, not moving, no expression on her face.
Mac regained her composure, tried to hide her shock at seeing the woman. “Larsen sent me.”
“You’re MacKenzie Clarity.” Her voice was accentless, her tone remained neutral.
She wasn’t asking a question. She was telling Mac she knew who she was.
Creepy.
Mac nodded. “Larsen said you could help me.”
“Yes. He mentioned. The bear shifter’s woman.”
Ugh. Thanks for the reminder.
“That’s right.”
“Your aura is strong. The bond is strong. Why do you need it dissolved?”
Is that really any of your business?
But she couldn’t say that, so she opted for, “He had other plans.”
The cousin— what the hell is her name? —narrowed her eyes. “Odd.”
“You are…”
“Ciara.”
“So, can you help me?”
“I can give you what you need.”
That’s what Larsen said.
Ciara motioned her inside.
The inside was much better than the outside. Clean, state of the art accessories—coffee machine, fridge, stove. For a one-room shack, someone had spent quite a bit to make the inside as comfortable as possible.
So why the dilapidated, deteriorated outside? Why make it look like something you’d never want to go in? To discourage thieves, trespassers?
“You live here?”
“No.”
That’s it? That’s all she’s going to say?
Ciara wore a forbidding look on her face, clearly in place to dissuade more questions and prevent prying.
Ciara handed her a robe that reminded her of the one she’d worn the last time she’d visited a day spa. “Put this on.”
A few questions buzzed in Mac’s mind. Starting with, why? Yet for some damned reason, she couldn’t get any of the questions to come out of her mouth.
Ciara pointed toward a door. “You can change in there.”
The restroom was the same as the rest of the interior. Modern. Clean. Untouched. Unlived in.
With quite a bit of trepidation, Mac shrugged out of her top, left her bra on, and slipped the robe over it.
She came out of the restroom, the questions on the tip of her tongue.
Ciara had taken out a kit. It looked like a tackle box, the biggest she’d ever seen. And she had a table that reminded her of the ones she’d lain on when she’d been to the day spa.
“What are we going to do?”
Ciara was plugging in an instrument.
Mac eyeballed it. She’d seen enough TV to know what the hell that was.
A tattoo gun.
What the hell is she doing with that?
Mac gave the instrument the stinkeye. “I’m not sure you’re—I’m not—what are—?” She couldn’t even put a phrase together, much less a whole sentence.
“This is part of the procedure. The formula is in the ink. The tattoo will keep it sealed
Quentin Bates
W. Somerset Maugham
Tina Folsom
Chloe Plume
Gail Dayton
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Annelise Freisenbruch
Wynter Daniels
K. Ryan
Cate Dean