Page 1 of Tangled Fates

1

RAVEN

The smell of blood still stained the air as I drew in a deep breath. Birds continued chirping outside, flooding my eardrums as if the pounding in my head hadn’t already attempted to drown them out. I listened as the door closed behind Mr. Michaels, the petulant little lawyer that I knew I’d be seeing more of in the coming days. Or even weeks.

And as I sat there at the kitchen table where I had once enjoyed family meals with both of my parents, vomit crept up the back of my throat.

“Oh, God,” I choked out.

I lunged at the first thing I could find, which was the porcelain sink not seven feet away from me. I gripped the edge of the counter with my quaking hands and braced myself as what felt like my entire life force ejected itself from my throat. I girded my loins and held on tightly, grimacing at the acidic taste of my own gut.

While only one thing shot through my mind.

Daddy was murdered.

My stomach heaved, sending bile projecting up the back of my throat once more. My back locked out as I dropped to my knees, leaning my tired body heavily against the wooden doors of the cabinets beneath the sink itself. The birds continued singing outside, flitting away with their wondrous notes as I tried to block out the scent that filled my nostrils. And as I pulled myself upright once more, I brought up the contents from what seemed like last week.

While electricity coursed through my veins.

How was it possible to murder a wolf shifter? Why had no one gone with my father into Portland in the first place? Had he not trusted anyone with his endeavor? Did he not have enough sense to go with someone if he understood the risks at hand? It was one thing to be ignorant, like myself. But my father knew. He understood what he was doing, and yet, he did it anyway.

Leaving his pack at risk to come after me?

“None of this makes any sense,” I whispered to myself.

Why did you do this to me, Dad?

Anger. Confusion. Fear. It all crashed into me at once and forced my stomach to start jumping once more even though I had nothing else to bring back up. Dry-heaving stomach acid was no joke, and as pain constricted my throat, tears streaked my cheeks. The stench was strong, causing a sort of loop that wouldn’t release its hold on me. I’d be fine, then I’d take in a deep breath, and the smell alone struck up the heaving all over again.

Come on, lovebug. There’s much to do.

Tears caressed my eyes as I managed to jam my face underneath the faucet of the sink. I turned on the cold water, rinsing out my mouth until I knew it was safe to guzzle down the sparkling, clear liquid. I splashed some water in my face, wiping the tears off my skin. I closed my eyes, relishing my father’s voice as I swallowed the knot gathering in the back of my throat. I couldn’t waste any more time wallowing my self-pity and despair, however. It wasn’t the time for tears. The time for grieving had passed.

Now, I had to figure out who in the absolute fuck murdered my father.

“I’m coming for you, you son of a bitch,” I growled to myself.

I shoved myself away from the sink and blazed a trail into the spare bathroom down the hallway that connected the foyer with the living room and the kitchen itself. I wiped my face off, swallowing down the last of the disgusting taste that still lingered in the back of my throat. With every breath, the stench faded. With every swallow, the evidence of my weakness dissipated.

And after gazing at myself in the mirror to take a long, hard look at the dark bags beneath my eyes, I decided to take a walk around my home.

Well, my childhood home, at least.

The urge to call my father’s house “home” again was strong. However, as I traipsed up the stairs, I resisted the temptation. I mean, sure, I’d been staying there, but only out of necessity. I hadn’t ventured into any rooms that didn’t require my attention, and I sure as hell didn’t allow myself to get attached to the memories that still haunted its corridors. I found myself being tugged up the stairs by a force I simply couldn’t explain, though. My senses stood on alert, probably because of the two back-to-back attacks from the bear shifter colony up in the god damn mountains. But as I slinked down the upstairs hallway, growing closer to the wooden double doors that my parents once hid themselves behind every night, it was as if the room itself called out to me.

You’ve got this, Lovebug. I believe in you.

I shook my head free of my father’s voice. After all, it probably wasn’t good that my brain was attempting to communicate with someone who no longer existed. The thought sucker-punched me in the gut, pulling me out of my trance just as I pushed the double doors open. The whoosh of cold air stopped me in my tracks, not because of the feeling, but because of the scent it carried.

Because I swear to hell on high, the scent of my father’s oaky cologne still hung in the air.

“Daddy,” I whispered.

As my eyes slid open, I gazed upon a room I hadn’t thought about in years. And yet, every single memory came rushing back all at once. The bedtime stories I made Mom and Dad read me at night. The way I used to come crashing in between them during thunderstorms that rattled the windows. My toes curled into the navy-blue carpet that hadn’t been changed and I smiled at the four-poster wooden bedframe that still had those cockeyed, sheer white sheets wrapped around the top of them.

“Sweetheart, do we really need those things on the bed? I’ll end up getting tangled in them at night.”

Mom’s giggle rushed over me as the memory taunted me.

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