The growl from deep within the wolves throat nearly collapses my heart. It’s the last thing I remember until I awake in the house on the bed with Chenille by my side. “What happened?”
“You were bit, I pulled you in the property line using some magic and you walked just making it into the bed before you started thrashing. I placed a bubble spell around you so you couldn’t do any harm to you or me. You slept for almost 49 hours. Now you are awake. How do you feel?” She places on my arm and rubs the new scar that is above my wrist.
Two years later....
“Chenille, he’s beautiful!” I hold our newborn son out toward her.
“I always knew he would be. Just look at you.” She teases, looking in my eyes while touching his cheek.
“It’s all you babe. I love you. I love our life.” I lean down and kiss her soft lips.
“And I love you.” She whispers.
Soul Kiss
Kat Parrish
CHAPTER ONE
Ripley had warned me that Parker was going to be at her party but I went anyway.
I’d even bought a new dress for the occasion—expensive psychological armor for what I was afraid was going to be a battle. And even though I normally didn’t wear much makeup, I’d gone full Kabuki tonight, right down to the false eyelashes and the contouring.
I knew it was pathetic but my shaky self-esteem needed shoring up. I wanted him to see what he was missing and I wanted to show him I was doing just fine without him.
I wanted to look hot.
I’d spent hours fussing with my hair.
Wear it up? Wear it down? Straighten it? Curl it?
Shave it all off?
I’d finally decided to just let it air dry to bring out the natural waves I usually kept under tight restraint. I wore it in a French braid at work and pulled it back in a ponytail the rest of the time. At night I piled it in a messy bun just so I wouldn’t wake up with a mouthful of hair.
Wearing my hair down just wasn’t my usual style.
But I’d worn my hair down for Parker.
He liked to run his fingers through it while he talked dirty to me. That had always felt good—like his fingertips were generating little electrical sparks that were hotwired straight into my crotch.
But Parker also liked to pull my hair. Hard.
And not always during sex when the endorphins were flowing. Sometimes he’d just grab a handful in his fist and pull me to him in a show of possessive dominance that had an ugly tinge of sadism.
I’d told him I didn’t like it when he did that, but he’d just laughed. “Sure you do,” he said and pulled harder, sometimes so hard I thought he was going to yank it out by the bloody roots.
That should have been my cue to leave, but instead I made excuses for him. It’s just sex play, I told myself. Don’t be such a baby.
Deep down inside, though, I knew that Parker liked the hurting more than the sex and I didn’t like knowing that I knew that and still stayed.
Thinking about the months it took me to finally break away made me rethink the wisdom of coming to Ripley’s party. Of seeing Parker again. My relationship for him was just as addictive as my brother’s need for painkillers…and just as destructive.
The closer I got to Ripley’s condo, the more I just wanted to turn around, drive back to my apartment, microwave some hot chocolate, and download some movies.
But I hadn’t missed one of Ripley’s Christmas parties since our freshman year and I wasn’t going to let the thought of running into my ex scare me away from this one.
Ripley was one of my oldest friends and her parties were epic. But I couldn’t help but wonder why she had invited Parker after all I’d told her about the way he’d treated me.
She’d once dated his brother, but that relationship had long since faded into the rearview and Jared wasn’t still in the guest rotation, so I had to wonder why Parker was still around.
Maybe sisterhood isn’t as powerful as I liked to think.
And I didn’t like thinking about that.
***
I shouldered my way past a little knot of smokers in Ripley’s tiny courtyard and pushed open the door to her condo. I loved her place. She’d bought it with the money from a recurring role on Grimm, and rented out the spare bedroom to help pay the mortgage now that the show was off the air.
I’d never met her current roommate—they only seemed to last for a couple of months—and lately Ripley had been making noises about me moving in with her, pointing out that her spare bedroom was bigger than my entire studio.
It was tempting but a little intimidating.
Ripley’s place always looked like it had been “curated” for maximum Instagram impact, but in a good way. She had a minimalist style that was offset by her bold use of color and she had a real knack for locating vintage finds that would have looked ratty in anyone else’s living room but looked fabulously eclectic in hers. I coveted the pair of Egyptian Revival lamps she’d found on eBay and displayed on either side of a faux Empire-style chaise that was upholstered in a deep burgundy velvet. Instead of the posters most of her friends had on their walls, she had real art. Most of the pieces were original, things she’d bought at art walks and on Etsy, and though nothing had cost more than $25, the overall effect was stunning.
Everything about the room, like everything about Ripley, made a bold statement and spoke of self-confident style.
I so wanted to be like Ripley, someone who knew who she was and what she was doing.
I think she saw me as something of a project, the sort of friend you sometimes adopt because you feel sorry for them and want to try out your transformative skills.
Ripley was all about the life hacks and the little tricks but so far the most useful things she’d taught me were how to shine a pair of shoes with a glob of peanut butter and how to give a blow job. It had been a while since I’d used either skill.
The music was bumping as I walked in, cranked up so loud it vibrated in my bones. The energy was infectious. People were shoulder dancing and moving in place because there wasn’t enough space to actually move very much. There were so many people crammed into the living room that I had to edge sideways through the crowd. I didn’t see Ripley anywhere, but I saw Parker.
Of course I saw Parker.
He was standing by a faux fireplace, red cup in hand, gazing down at someone I couldn’t see until the crowd shifted and I got a glimpse of a petite woman gazing up at him adoringly.
I recognized the expression. I’d worn it often enough myself.
I didn’t know her. She looked young, like high school young, like jailbait young, but maybe it was just the dim light.
She was a pale-skinned strawberry blonde, her hair a glorious rose gold that tumbled across her milky-white bare shoulders. The skin-tight black halter number she was wearing wasn’t very practical for the Pacific Northwest in December, but I couldn’t talk. My new dress was a barely-there slip of red silk chiffon with a wrap about as substantial as a cloud. It wouldn’t have kept me warm in a sauna.
I could see the girl’s cupid’s bow mouth moving as she said something to Parker.
Parker had to bend toward her as she spoke because she was so tiny. Even in her heels she barely reached Parker’s shoulder. He probably liked that. He and I had stood eye to eye when I was in heels. Eye to eye and yet, we’d never been equals.
At least not by his measure.