The Crescent Moon: Soulbond Series Book 1 Read online

  Trapped in a tangle of sheets, I tumbled to the floor with a solid thump.

  Confused and jittery, I freed myself from the sheets, stood, and yanked open the blinds. The soft glow of morning flooded the room. The light did little to slow my racing heart. I focused on breathing. One, deep inhale. Two, exhale...

  My heart rate slowed.

  Vena amoris. The man's voice echoed in my mind. I grabbed my phone from the nightstand and spoke into the voice search. "What is vena amoris?"

  Scanning the screen, I found the Latin phrase meant "vein of love," which ran directly from the ring finger to the heart. I remembered the piercing pain in my heart followed by such loving warmth.

  My heart somersaulted into my stomach then swam back to its place.

  The man had whispered those beautiful words to me. Vena amoris.

  My wrist throbbed. I pushed up the sleeve of my pajamas. A distinct, crescent-shaped imprint on my skin shimmered a silvery white.

  My heart stopped. The crescent moon had not been present before I fell asleep, and I hadn't hit anything hard enough to cause such a mark.

  I touched my chest, felt the steady thumping of my heart resume. Warmth spread from my heart to my fingertips. The recollection of the intruder's voice soothed the searing tingles. He had awakened a longing inside me. He tried to save me. He felt safe!

  I shook my hand back and forth, as if flicking off a speck of dirt. But the scar remained. With a slight caress, I traced its outline, causing warm tendrils to dance through my body.

  "Does part of me run through his veins like part of him runs through mine?"

  ***

  I hurried through the parking lot. My gaze darted around, constantly searching for something. I wasn't sure if I was looking for the creature from the dungeon or the man who saved me. Either one had my heart racing, but for different reasons. I jumped at noises and sought the shadows for monsters. Deserted.

  My heart rate slowed. I unlocked the door to the bakery. Normally, I loved to surround myself with the comfort of baking, but today, I was not in the mood to deal with customers, employees, or anyone else who dared to walk into my line of sight. This is so not my employee-of-the-year attitude!

  I was tired. Exhausted. And confused as hell! The imprint tingled as it had ever since the man whispered those words to me last night. Vena amoris! Such loving words for such a pain in my ass. He was constantly on my mind. His emotions ran through me. He was as confused as I was, but there was also a spark there. A longing I had never allowed myself to feel. And it irritated me.

  Walking into the kitchen, I turned on the peaceful compositions of Bach and sighed. Not today. I needed something strong, powerful, maybe a little hard core to match the jumble of emotions warring inside me. Grabbing my iPod, I flipped to my guilty pleasure folder. The one that housed Metallica. The heavy metal consumed the quiet. I cranked up the volume louder and began to bake.

  The basic routine had me contemplating my night terrors. When my hand tingled, I thought of the man. Again. Shit! I ran a shaky hand through my hair.

  He made me feel safe. The only other thing in this world that made me feel secure was this little bakery. My escape for a decade. Here, nothing reminded me of my old self. A whore's daughter with an unknown father and no other family or friends. I was secluded. Alone. And I liked it. Or thought I did until this man joined my inner self.

  I was not a whore.

  I was not a cursed soul.

  I was not a product of evil.

  Can I be loved? Cherished? My hometown only pretended to love me. As long as my mother lived, they had to accept the white witch's bastard child — the community's words, not mine or my mother's.

  No, we loved each other as only a mother and daughter could. But to the coven I meant nothing. However, the white witch was irreplaceable.

  I thumped and rolled out the dough and then lathered butter across the top. I sprinkled cinnamon sugar on top and carefully rolled the dough. The tangy scent of yeast and cinnamon filled the air. I grabbed the knife, cut the rolls, and systematically placed them on the baking sheet.

  A glimmer of light, reflecting off the blade, triggered memories of my mother's death.

  The ordinary kitchen knife vanished.

  A bloody, eight-inch, pure steel butcher's knife hung from the door's lintel. A doorway that my mother and I joyfully had entered just that morning. Discussing purity spells and the coven that she needed to protect.

  With each drop of blood reality crashed down on my younger self.

  The crowd cursed and shouted. I was exiled.

  Alone. Like always.

  The coven blamed me, but I had walked into the massacre. My stomach rolled. Blood littered our tiny, one-bedroom trailer. The metallic scent had bile rising in my throat.

  No body was ever found, but no one could have survived that much blood loss. I shed no more tears for my mother's death. I couldn't. But I grinned at my banished status. I savored the day I left the coven.

  Ever since, I vowed to never let anyone hurt me again. I kept my distance and remained on my own. A witch with no coven, no love, no family. It sounded lonely. In ways it was, but it was my life. A life I worked hard to maintain.

  At sixteen, I had welcomed the adventure. At twenty-eight, I was livid with the superstitious, pretentious bastards and their "I will judge thee" methodology.

  I placed the cinnamon rolls into the oven, careful not to slam the door and ruin their perfection. The calming effort was more than I could handle and the poor timer took the brunt of my force as I slammed it on the counter. The buzzer went off. I huffed a breath and more cautiously set the timer a second time.

  Unlike my hometown, Fitzwater had proclaimed me their "little baker." Nadia, the owner of the bakery, always flushed with pride at my nickname. I laughed. Now that lady was a character.

  I washed my mixing bowls and meticulously cleaned the counters, sink, and equipment.

  The timer screeched for attention.

  I carefully placed my famous cinnamon rolls on the counter and went in search of powdered sugar for the glaze. Glancing at the clock, I moved faster. I was fifteen minutes from opening the doors and behind schedule. A rare event that had become more common with the sleepless nights.

  I spied the powdered sugar on the top shelf next to Mitchell's stash of cigarettes. A six-foot high shelf that I couldn't reach at five-foot three. I fisted my hands and stomped my foot.

  Scolding my assistant for placing items on the top shelves only encouraged his childish behavior. Hell, sometimes I found my favorite spatula up there.

  The breeze of the air conditioner cooled my temper as I approached the small stepladder. I loved the elevated ceiling for its ventilation and air conditioning, but the designer assumed all bakers were giants.

  I carried the stepladder over to the shelf. Stepping on the top step, I stretched, barely reaching the bag with my fingertips. I slipped and grabbed the shelf for balance. Blowing loose tendrils of black hair from my face, I tried again. My hand closed over the bag. Biting my bottom lip, I pulled it off the shelf.

  A cold hand stroked down my back. "Need help, sweet cakes?"

  I jerked backward, lost my balance, and tumbled from the stepladder.

  The burning at my wrist amplified from annoying to scorching. The sensation stark. Fast. Debilitating. My stomach lurched. My chest tightened. As Mitchell's strong arms wrapped around me, the pain increased. The crescent moon seared my skin. Gasping for breath, I planted my feet on the ground, placed my hands firmly on his chest, and pushed with all my might. He tumbled backwards. The pain eased.

  "What the hell? I was trying to help prevent a worker's compensation claim." Mitchell took a step forward, reaching for me. "Are you okay?"

  I backed away and raised my hands with the palms out, signaling STOP. I wasn't okay. I was not myself today, and it wasn't Mitchell's fault.

  Covering the imprint with my other hand, I took several more steps and sat on the floor. Bowing my
head, I closed my eyes and tried to focus on anything but the pain.

  Mitchell hovered over me. The thought of him touching me, even innocently, made my stomach churn. I recoiled.

  I don't know why my body reacted this way toward him. Normally, we had an easy banter between us. Sure, sometimes I felt he wanted more, but most of the time he respected my no-dating policy.

  Mitchell was lean, the typical surfer-boy stereotype with gleaming blond, highlighted hair and blinding white teeth. His golden amber gaze landed on mine. I turned my head. I once thought he was beautiful and attractive for a preppy guy. Today... Today, he was sickening.

  "It's okay. Just give me a second," I said, trying to tamp down my body's reaction. But my emotions were heightened. My feelings twined with another's. The only man I wanted near me was one I didn't know. One who saved me from the boundaries of a dungeon.

  Mitchell ignored my warning and reached for my hand. A crackle sparked through the air and shocked him. He shook his hand. "What the fuck?"

  Too weak to laugh at his grim expression, I settled for a feeble smile. "Must be static electricity."

  Was it? I rubbed the back of my neck, massaging an imaginary kink. "Will you please get Nadia? I must've caught something. Maybe the flu."

  Mitchell did care for me in his own way and that mattered. He was safe. My body just no longer recognized that.

  I forced myself to my feet. Using the walls for guidance, I inched my way to Nadia's office where a large, comfortable couch called my name.

  Nadia sashayed through the door. Her 1950’s beehive hairstyle bobbled with each forward motion. Unidentified debris clung to random gray hairs, resembling an exploded bird's nest. "Honey, Mitch claims you're dying!"

  Chills overtook my body. Coldness chattered my bones, releasing the heat.

  Nadia grabbed my wrist and turned it slightly. "Oh my, it's beginning."

  Chapter Two

  Liam

  I jolted awake, the pain in my wrist a reminder of the nightmare. Damn, I hope the woman escaped.

  While lying in bed, I outlined the smooth edges of the silvery crescent moon with my finger. The light touch warmed my soul. Even with super strength, I couldn't break down a cement wall.

  I never believed in soulbonds. In happily ever after. In love at first sight.

  But now...

  Can it be?

  "Vena amoris," I said. An irresistible force that united two souls into one.

  I shook my head. My particular pack had not seen a true bonding of souls in over twenty years, and I wasn't one to dwell on childhood myths of shifters gaining power through love. Strength came from hard work and dedication to your body, your animal, and your magic. Not some imaginary bond.

  But the moon, so clearly engraved on my wrist, stirred thoughts of those myths.

  Will my magical powers increase?

  Am I now bonded to some stranger trapped in a dungeon?

  No folklore ever mentioned a soulbond being activated through a dream. The bond required a mating of souls that accepted each other fully. Not two complete strangers. Was this woman even a shifter? Did she know of our kind?

  Stepping into the shower, I sent a telepathic message. Connor, I need you to report to my house immediately.

  If anyone knew about soulbonding, it would be my second-in-command. He was a strength to be reckoned with and believed that soulbonds would help our pack survive the new threats of infertility and our ability to shift. Each year our animals became smaller, weaker. As alpha, I tried to be strong for the whole pack, but my strength could only carry us for so long.

  Over the past few months, Connor had made it his mission to seek out a soul mate. He failed horribly, and it became somewhat of a joke among the pack, but at least he was trying. I couldn't allow myself to believe in the fantasy of true love.

  I stepped from the cold shower and walked to the bedroom, the morning breeze drying my damp skin. The crescent moon, noticeable against my tanned skin, was a death sentence. My gut twisted. The rebels deemed all bondings a threat and would declare another war against shifters and witches. Their attack would be ferocious.

  Yet knowing I could be soulbonded excited me. Is this the answer for shifters' continued survival? Assuming we survived the rebels.

  "Liam, get your ass dressed!" Connor marched through the bedroom door, disregarding proper etiquette like knocking. Pack life was a brotherhood and meant limited privacy.

  I grabbed a pair of faded jeans from the closet. The crescent moon pulsed continuously. The sensation caused a low rumble to escape from my lips. Fear — not my own — permeated my body.

  "Something is wrong." Even in fear, I was in tune with the strange woman in my dream.

  "Is someone dying?"Connor leaned against the door frame. He appeared relaxed, but his muscles bunched together like coils. "You never call this early unless there's an emergency."

  The signal from the imprint grew weaker and weaker, the effects fading until I became more myself. With the loss of the woman's emotions, the vibrancy of the connection I had felt a moment ago left me a hollow shell. The woman was gone, although I was beginning to believe she was mine.

  I rolled my shoulders and rubbed the back of my neck. "What do you know about soulbonding?"

  "Odd question, but I'll play along." With an uncertain grin, Connor looked around the room. "Unless this is a ruse and you guys are pranking me."

  I needed answers and motioned him to continue.

  "Okay, okay." Connor swiped a muscled hand through his dark hair. "My great-great-grandfather claims he survived being soulbonded only because the damned rebels killed his mate. That destroyed his power and, therefore, they let him live. My parents were soulbonded and always said that one could feel the other, and when they were connected through the bond, nothing could stop them. But they didn't survive the attacks." He frowned and knitted his brows. "Why?"

  I wasn't sure where to start without sounding completely foolish. I held out my wrist. "I think I may be infected."

  "No shit!" Connor grabbed my arm. The imprint heated slightly at his touch, but I pushed down the unwelcome side effect. "Well, this just turned seven shades of dangerous. How?"

  Pulling back my arm, I looped my thumbs into my jean's front pockets and tried to temper the conflicting emotions running through my body.

  "It's been decades since the rebels attacked the shifter population." I twisted my wrist and watched the imprint flicker. Who else would have terrorized the woman in my dream? She must be powerful if she garnered their attention prior to being soulbonded. If her power was strong before, what was it like now? I shuddered.

  "Yes, but" — Connor pointed to my wrist — "this wasn't present before. And now, the rebels have a reason to attack again. Have you spoken with 'Doc'?" He emphasized the name with air quotes. Doc wasn't his favorite person. He often compared their mentor to an erratic riddler.

  A knock at the main door interrupted us.

  "Did you call anyone?" I asked.

  "No, you interrupted my morning run."

  Connor followed me down the hallway, through the comfortable living room, and into the massive foyer.

  The front door opened and a spicy redhead barreled through, the sway of her hips exaggerating each step.

  "Aylin, what the hell are you doing here?" I asked. It was unusual to see our enforcer before the early hours of noon or one, or, most recently, four in the afternoon. Her position within the pack had her up most nights handling the shifters with a grace that only she possessed, and a ferocity that scared even me sometimes.

  "I..." Aylin inhaled.

  Is she sniffing me?

  "I had to see you."

  With a seductive wink, she ran her manicured nails down my bare chest, slowing briefly at the well-defined grooves of my six-pack. An electrical tingle merged with my blood, painfully heating each spot she touched. She twitched at the sparks, but continued her downward path.

  I stepped back, grabbing her wrist in a fl
uid motion. The crescent moon pulsed. I lifted her chin and studied her dilated pupils. "Are you on drugs?"

  She was a disciplined enforcer, my third-in-command. She didn't usually do drugs, but she sure in hell wouldn't come onto me either. Aylin was a seasoned, disciplined pack member. There were boundaries among our ranks, and no one crossed them. Ever.

  But Aylin just had. Why?

  "Connor, where was she stationed last night?"I asked.

  He looked from Aylin tome with a frown. "She had border patrol last night, but the pack was quiet. I'm unaware of any disputes or fights that broke out. The full moon isn't for another week."