Page 4 of Forsaken Desire
Nude, I stretched out like a starfish, and then settled my palm over the tattoo on my rib cage.Lucian.
The name held meaning. Something intangible and elusive. I wasn’t sure if it was a sign from the Moon, or if it was a name based on a show I used to watch, which was Tate’s guess. Either way, it served to give me strength—to ground me.
In prison, I couldn’t shift; my wolf form stifled under constant surveillance. It was different now. I shivered as my bones popped from my shift.
I groaned and writhed against the bed with my paws in the air, rubbing my scent on the mattress. Such freedom. Soon, I’d find a place away from the city to run.
A sudden ache bloomed in my stomach, and it wrenched me out of my wolf form.
I curled into a tight ball. Oh, Moon, no. Please no. A month had passed since I’d hadthisspecific agony happen.
A sour taste coated my tongue. It was the worst thing ever. I detested vomiting, but sometimes, I couldn’t help it. There was no rhyme or reason, just pain and then bouts of vomiting.
The painful flutters faded away just as soon as they arrived.
False alarm.
Thank, Moon—it’s a false alarm.
2
The bus jostled to a stop, and I gripped the rail before I went flying. Luck was on my side. No rain.
The doors hissed open, and I made my escape into the cold morning. My heels clicked on the asphalt while I adjusted the strap of my new bag over my shoulder.
The cheap, thin material I’d found in a gas station near my apartment did the job. I’d be frequenting that little store often since they sold a little of everything.
I squinted into the cloudy sky, and the sun peeked out through the fluff. Such a beautiful sky. I breathed in the crisp air.
Everything was looking up. I’d been in the real world for three days, hyping myself up for my new job. If time sped up a bit, even better. I couldn’t wait to get my first paycheck because it was going toward a cell phone.
The crosswalk light flashed, and I burst forward, my steps loud against the cement from my hurried steps. I wasn’t late, but I needed to get there a little earlier than the beginning of orientation to tell my supervisor about my lack-of-phone situation.
Even from this distance, the building stretched higher than I could have imagined. I couldn’t stop gawking at how big it was. The silver surface glinted, and with each step closer, the angle changed until the sun was behind it, sending spears of light around it like a halo.
Cars pulled up an inclined, curved drive where bellhops helped customers bring their luggage in. Large looping, silver letters spellingReceptioncurved over the see-through doors.
My thighs burned as I hoofed up the hill, keeping my head down as I strode inside the air-conditioned lobby. Wow. I couldn’t stop looking around. I clamped my lips shut and breathed out slowly. I already had the job, but I needed to make a good impression.
I approached the reception desk. A dark-skinned, put-together woman with her hair smoothed into a bun smiled widely at me.
“Welcome to Crescent Hotel. How may I assist you?” I blinked. That scent, the earthier undertone . . . I sucked in a breath. This woman was a shifter. I licked my lips.
Maybe this was a bad idea, but I couldn’t leave. I desperately needed this job.
Her nostrils flared she frowned.
“You’re not from our pa?—”
Loud,obvioussteps encroached. She cut off what she was saying as a thin woman strode up to us, her hands clasped in front of her.
“Ms. Zhao,” she said, her smile returning to her lips.
“Karol, this is our new hire, Josephine Garcia.” How did she know who I was—the picture on my resume, right.
“Joey is fine,” I corrected, but Ms. Zhao ignored my comment. Karol’s eyebrow slightly twitched as well as the corners of her mouth.
Ms. Zhao turned to me. “You’re a bit early for orientation, but I can have Karol get your uniform measurements before the rest of the new hires arrive.” The polished Ms. Zhao kept her eyes on me. If she had my resume, she would know about my felony. There was no judgment, no derision, or anything. My face warmed, but her expression didn’t waver.
