First in a chilling new paranormal romantic suspense series from award-winning author Abbie Roads
He’s found her at last
Cain Killion knows himself to be a damaged man, his only saving grace the extrasensory connection to blood that he uses to catch murderers. His latest case takes a macabre turn when he discovers a familiar and haunting symbol linking the crime to his own horrific past—and only one woman could know what it means.
Only to lose her to a nightmare
Mercy Ledger is brave, resilient, beautiful—and in terrible danger. The moment he sees Mercy, Cain knows he’s the one who can save her. He also knows he’s beyond redemption. But the lines between good and evil blur and the only thing clear to Cain and Mercy is that they belong together. Love is the antidote for blood—but is their bond strong enough to overcome the evil that stalks them?
Abbie Roads is a mental health counselor known for her blunt, honest style of therapy. By night she writes dark emotional novels, always giving her characters the happy ending she wishes for all her clients. Her novels have finaled in RWA contest, including the Golden Heart. She lives with her family in Marion, OH.
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Excerpt
The
first thing Mercy became aware of was her facing throbbing a low level beat.
Her bones ached and her muscles felt too heavy to move. Her side burned with
every inhale and exhale. Her stomach felt oddly distended and empty at the same
time.
And she was
going to milk it for all it was worth.
She
finally had a viable excuse to stay in her room, avoid group, and cancel her
session with Dr. Payne. The flu. She’d tell everyone she had the flu. Couldn’t
be too far from the truth. It wasn’t like she was faking how bad her body felt.
She would spend the entire day lying here, eyes closed pretending to sleep, and
luxuriating the rare bit of isolation.
“Are you
awake?” A masculine voice whispered.
Her
heart slammed against her spine, her muscles leaped. She gasped a sound of
undiluted shock and wrenched her eyes open.
The
world around her had changed. Gone was the sterile room with bars on the
windows. Gone was the stench of industrial cleaning products laced with
cafeteria food. Gone was the entire Center. In its place was a cozy wood
paneled room with a quaint stone fireplace and a man.
His hair
was the color of dark caramel and cut just long enough to be swept messily the
side. His features were angular and hard and so damned masculine it almost hurt
to look at him. His eyes were the color of a changing sky—light in the center
of the iris like a cloudless summer day and dark like a winter’s night toward
the outer edge.
She knew
him. Recognition stabbed her in the neck—in the scar she bore across her throat.
The echo of that past pain stole her breath. She grabbed her throat, hand
pressing over the cold scar. Her heart turned into a battering ram and beat
against the bars of her ribs.
She went
from lying on the bed to fully upright and ready to run.
“You.”
The word was an accusation, a condemnation, a judgment, scraping its way up her
throat and out her lips. She wasn’t going to show him an ounce of fear. He’d
swallowed her fear twenty years ago and enjoyed the flavor.
He
blinked a long lazy closing of his eyes and when he reopened them, the light in
his gaze had been swallowed by the dark. “I’m not him.” He spoke with just as
much conviction as her allegation had contained.
His
words turtle-crawled from her ears to her brain, their meaning finally firing
along her synapse and she understood.
Her body
unclenched and she relaxed against the headboard with an exaggerated sigh. As
the initial in-your-face shock wore off, she could actually see him. See the
humanity in his features.
“I know
you.” Her voice was softer and held a bit of wonder in its palm.
“I’m not
him.” He repeated the sentence, nothing in his tone changing, but she saw
something in his eyes—through his eyes. Sadness. Resolve. And just a hint of
fear. That was her undoing. That he could be scared of her—wow.
“I—I—know.
You’re Cain.” His name came out hard vowels and sharp consonants.
He held
her gaze for moment, then shoved his hands in his jeans pockets and looked down
at the floor.
Silence
stretched between them.
For
years she’d imagined what it would be like to have a conversation with him.
Even from her first glimpse of him as a child on the TV, she’d recognized
something in his eyes. Her eyes had that same scarred look. The look of having
experienced something so painful it marked more than their bodies—it left
gaping wounds on their souls. There was an unspoken solidarity in their shared
pain.
But in
all her fantasies of connecting with the only other person who knew first hand
the evils of Killion, she’d never once thought there’d be this much silence.
Obviously,
it was going to be up to her to make the first move.
“You
know—” She cleared her throat, trying to go for a friendly tone. “—over the
years I had thought about finding you. It always seemed like we had a bad bond
of sorts. I just never did it because I didn’t know how you’d react.”
He
raised his gaze to meet hers, the hard angles of his face easing just a bit.
That got
his attention.
He
looked at the scar on her neck while he spoke. “I’d thought about the same
thing.” His words were spoken with a tentative quality, as if he worried about
her response. “But I always wondered if I would remind you of…” He didn’t say
the name.
“You
look similar to him on the surface, but I see beyond the surface to you.”
She emphasized the word you. Wanted him to understand she didn’t equate
him with his father. “You also look different to me somehow. Maybe it’s your
eyes. Maybe it’s how you look at me. So different than he did.” She held her
hand out to him. “Nice to meet you Cain. I’m Mercy.”
One
second. Two. Three. Four. Five—finally he stepped toward her and grasped her
hand in his. His grip was firm and dry, his skin rough and wonderful, his touch
magnetic and hypnotizing. She got lost in the sensation of total connection. Of
there being no boundaries between them, almost as if their skin muscle and
bones had melded together into one—
He
yanked his hand away from her so suddenly, hers was left out there in midair
still holding the shadow of where his had once been. Something was wrong. She
just didn’t know him well enough to understand.
He aimed
his eyes toward the floor again. “You’ve been pretty sick. You went through the
vomit stage. The fever stage. The drunk flirty stage was my personal favorite.”
A smile almost grabbed a hold of his lips, but missed. “The crying stage.” He
sucked in a breath and spoke while he exhaled. “The scared of me stage.”
The way
he said those last words made him sound more like a little boy trying to be
brave, rather than the six feet of hard muscled male—who also happened to
resemble a serial killer. His tone made her want to reach out to him and offer
comfort, but he was so skittish with her that she didn’t dare.
The
first thing Mercy became aware of was her facing throbbing a low level beat.
Her bones ached and her muscles felt too heavy to move. Her side burned with
every inhale and exhale. Her stomach felt oddly distended and empty at the same
time.
And she was
going to milk it for all it was worth.
She
finally had a viable excuse to stay in her room, avoid group, and cancel her
session with Dr. Payne. The flu. She’d tell everyone she had the flu. Couldn’t
be too far from the truth. It wasn’t like she was faking how bad her body felt.
She would spend the entire day lying here, eyes closed pretending to sleep, and
luxuriating the rare bit of isolation.
“Are you
awake?” A masculine voice whispered.
Her
heart slammed against her spine, her muscles leaped. She gasped a sound of
undiluted shock and wrenched her eyes open.
The
world around her had changed. Gone was the sterile room with bars on the
windows. Gone was the stench of industrial cleaning products laced with
cafeteria food. Gone was the entire Center. In its place was a cozy wood
paneled room with a quaint stone fireplace and a man.
His hair
was the color of dark caramel and cut just long enough to be swept messily the
side. His features were angular and hard and so damned masculine it almost hurt
to look at him. His eyes were the color of a changing sky—light in the center
of the iris like a cloudless summer day and dark like a winter’s night toward
the outer edge.
She knew
him. Recognition stabbed her in the neck—in the scar she bore across her throat.
The echo of that past pain stole her breath. She grabbed her throat, hand
pressing over the cold scar. Her heart turned into a battering ram and beat
against the bars of her ribs.
She went
from lying on the bed to fully upright and ready to run.
“You.”
The word was an accusation, a condemnation, a judgment, scraping its way up her
throat and out her lips. She wasn’t going to show him an ounce of fear. He’d
swallowed her fear twenty years ago and enjoyed the flavor.
He
blinked a long lazy closing of his eyes and when he reopened them, the light in
his gaze had been swallowed by the dark. “I’m not him.” He spoke with just as
much conviction as her allegation had contained.
His
words turtle-crawled from her ears to her brain, their meaning finally firing
along her synapse and she understood.
Her body
unclenched and she relaxed against the headboard with an exaggerated sigh. As
the initial in-your-face shock wore off, she could actually see him. See the
humanity in his features.
Something
his father would never possess. And if he’d intended her harm, she would have
felt the energy of his foul intentions.
“I know
you.” Her voice was softer and held a bit of wonder in its palm.
“I’m not
him.” He repeated the sentence, nothing in his tone changing, but she saw
something in his eyes—through his eyes. Sadness. Resolve. And just a hint of
fear. That was her undoing. That he could be scared of her—wow.
“I—I—know.
You’re Cain.” His name came out hard vowels and sharp consonants.
He held
her gaze for moment, then shoved his hands in his jeans pockets and looked down
at the floor.
Silence
stretched between them.
For
years she’d imagined what it would be like to have a conversation with him.
Even from her first glimpse of him as a child on the TV, she’d recognized
something in his eyes. Her eyes had that same scarred look. The look of having
experienced something so painful it marked more than their bodies—it left
gaping wounds on their souls. There was an unspoken solidarity in their shared
pain.
But in
all her fantasies of connecting with the only other person who knew first hand
the evils of Killion, she’d never once thought there’d be this much silence.
Obviously,
it was going to be up to her to make the first move.
“You
know—” She cleared her throat, trying to go for a friendly tone. “—over the
years I had thought about finding you. It always seemed like we had a bad bond
of sorts. I just never did it because I didn’t know how you’d react.”
He
raised his gaze to meet hers, the hard angles of his face easing just a bit.
That got
his attention.
He
looked at the scar on her neck while he spoke. “I’d thought about the same
thing.” His words were spoken with a tentative quality, as if he worried about
her response. “But I always wondered if I would remind you of…” He didn’t say
the name.
“You
look similar to him on the surface, but I see beyond the surface to you.”
She emphasized the word you. Wanted him to understand she didn’t equate
him with his father. “You also look different to me somehow. Maybe it’s your
eyes. Maybe it’s how you look at me. So different than he did.” She held her
hand out to him. “Nice to meet you Cain. I’m Mercy.”
One
second. Two. Three. Four. Five—finally he stepped toward her and grasped her
hand in his. His grip was firm and dry, his skin rough and wonderful, his touch
magnetic and hypnotizing. She got lost in the sensation of total connection. Of
there being no boundaries between them, almost as if their skin muscle and
bones had melded together into one—
He
yanked his hand away from her so suddenly, hers was left out there in midair
still holding the shadow of where his had once been. Something was wrong. She
just didn’t know him well enough to understand.
He aimed
his eyes toward the floor again. “You’ve been pretty sick. You went through the
vomit stage. The fever stage. The drunk flirty stage was my personal favorite.”
A smile almost grabbed a hold of his lips, but missed. “The crying stage.” He
sucked in a breath and spoke while he exhaled. “The scared of me stage.”
The way
he said those last words made him sound more like a little boy trying to be
brave, rather than the six feet of hard muscled male—who also happened to
resemble a serial killer. His tone made her want to reach out to him and offer
comfort, but he was so skittish with her that she didn’t dare.
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