Page 2 of The Stolen Bride

Except, in seconds the fury downgraded to mild irritation with a tinge of dismay. Over the years, I’d trainedmyself to suppress any strong surge of emotion automatically. A process that always left me feeling as if I wore someone else’s skin.

“Don’t challenge me,” the man said, as cool as could be. “My beast won’t like it.”

I wasted no time asking pointless questions about his so-called beast, and I didn’t run. He would pay for breaking into my home and draining my vodka. On a mission to teach him the error of his ways, I kicked, aiming for his smug face, exactly as I’d learned in my bargain basement self-defense class.

Ow, ow, ow! His rock hard jaw almost broke my bones. I’d forgotten I wasn’t wearing shoes.

Meanwhile, he absorbed the blow as if I’d merely patted his cheek. He didn’t even move to stop a second strike. No, he took another sip of the vodka.

“This is good,” he remarked, toasting me.

“I know,” I grumbled after stumbling back. Okay, so, perhaps Ishouldrun.

Yes, yes.Go!I turned on my heel and sprinted–nope. I slammed into his hard body and ricocheted backward. But. How had he gotten in front of me so quickly?

“I told you not to issue a challenge,” he grated, stepping closer, erasing the distance between us.

“Challenging a madman and escaping a dangerous situation isn’t the same thing.” As I retreated, I stretched out my arms to ward him off.

He followed me. “I suppose you’re right. I’m still irked.”

“Who are you? Why are you here?” The backs of my knees hit the chair he’d just vacated, and down I fell. “How do you know who I am?” I huffed.

He crossed his arms over his massive chest. “I have no plans to harm you. Relax.”

“Yeah. Believing an intruder isn’t on my To Do list.” Wait. I knew him. Well, I didn’tknow himknow him, but I’d seen him on the news just yesterday. Malachi Cromwell, a former footballer turned action movie star known for his incredible tackles, unbeatable speed and roguish charm. Women all over America melted over his muscles and perfect face. Shoulder-length brown hair with the slightest wave framed heavily lashed, menace-filled amber eyes and a stubborn chin shadowed by a trim beard.

“We’re going to talk,” he stated, his firm command allowing no argument.

I didn’t care who he was or what tone he used. I had zero interest in a conversation. “Sure, sure.” I darted my gaze for a weapon, any weapon. An e-reader. Tube of lip balm. Box of tissues. Lavender scented candle. Not exactly helpful. “A talk.”

“Your name is Clover Deering. You are twenty-eight years old, the adopted daughter of James and Morgan Deering, both of whom are deceased. Formerly engaged to Benjamin Dolittle, who you only dated because you liked his name.”

My attention whipped to Malachi, my cheeks burning. “The part about Benjamin isn’t true.” Had I liked the thought of becoming Mrs. Dolittle, pet groomer? Yes. Anyone would. Growing up, I’d adored the stories of the little boy who conversed with pets and grew up to become a doctor in San Francisco. “You don’t know me, so this, whatever it is you’re doing, isn’t helping your cause.”

“I know you in ways you don’t know yourself. You’re better off without Dolittle. He did nothing to help you advance the greater good.”

Anger flared anew. I’d often heard my parents whisper about “the greater good.” And my dreams…

“Do you comprehend what a sentinel is, Clover?” Malachi asked. “Though you prefer to use the term ‘berserker’.”

Uh… Had he checked my online search history or library card?

As a child, I’d had a royal temper. Kind of violent, even. Okay, super violent. Anytime I’d gotten mad, toys had gotten decimated. And yes, I’d hurt people. At some point, Mom had begun telling me cautionary tales that featured berserkers gone wild and the consequences they’d faced.

As a teenager, I’d started dreaming of one berserker in particular. A fierce, faceless man in black leather. I always pledged my life to him, then woke up as joyous as I was disturbed, convinced I’d somehow glimpsed a snippet of my future. Which, of course, I hadn’t.

Anyway. For the wellbeing of my loved ones, I’d taught myself to bottle and bury my emotions in a never-ending abyss. Rather than act like a berserker, I got my fix reading books about them. From historical texts to romance novels.

So. No wonder Malachi clocked my secret passion. All he’d had to do was glance at the shelf in the living room displaying handmade berserker action figures I’d bought online. A Viking ship model I’d made in the summer between ninth and tenth grade. Or the bear, wolf and boar figurines I’d acquired, the very animals said to be tied to every “rage warrior.”

“Clover,” my unwanted companion prompted.

“Yes,” I said, ready to end this exchange. “I’d bet everyone in the world knows what a berserker is.”

He narrowed his eyes, and his lashes nearly fused together. “Tell me.”

I licked my lips. “You should leave my house. You won’t like what happens if you stay.” If I had to, I would unearthand uncork a bottle of rage, and he would pay dearly for his crime.

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