Page 3 of Fated Protector

Panic begins to bubble in my chest. The key is always there, no matter what, so why isn’t it there now? Where is it? Where is Sasha?

I swallow once, twice, three times. Panic has no place in a crisis, and I need to stay calm and find my aunt. I wipe away unspent tears that have yet to fall, and a glint of metal catches my eye. Tucked under Sasha’s beloved hydrangea bush is a key.

I kneel in front of the thick hydrangea that Sasha primped and fussed over like it was a child, praising its purple blooms. I frown at the key–it isn’t the simple, standard key she keeps as a spare. This key is old and ornate, with a swirling base. It looks more like sterling silver than the typical dime-a-dozen steel-cut ones.

But just as I reach to take the strange key from the soil, a gruff voice stops me.

“Don’t you dare touch that key.”

CHAPTER3

“Isaid, don’t you dare touch that key,” the voice repeats in an almost-growl. His words have the honey-sweet accents of a low Cajun drawl, but each syllable is tinged with tight anger.

“And why not?” I say, my voice clear despite the shiver of fear running down my back. I should turn to face him, but his animosity makes me wonder if he has a weapon pointed at me. I’ve never been mugged before. Should I put my hands in the air? What was the protocol for being robbed of a key?

“It ain’t yours to have,” he says as if it’s the most straightforward truth in the entire world.

“Oh, naturally,” I say, clenching my jaw. My fear flips to frustration with this man, the world, and this whole hellish day. “I should have thought of that.”

“Now, you just stand up right there,” he instructs. “Away from the key. Don’t try anything else.”

“Like this?” I use one hand to prop myself up on my feet, and as I do, I fling the other to snatch up the key. I huff out a triumphant laugh as I jump to a standing position. He lets out a loud and very creative curse.

I whirl around to face him, giddy with silly rebellion, and my heart drops into my stomach. The mysterious man stands several inches over me, his hands balled into tight fists at his sides. His dark brows are furrowed, and his jaw is gritted so tightly that the muscle ticks with his pulse.

He looks like he’s about to murder me, and all I can think is,it’s you.

I don’t know why. I’ve never seen this seething, hulking man before in my life, yet everything about him is familiar to me. Hell, everything about him isdearto me.

His head tilts to the side as he studies me. Something like fear passes through his chocolate brown eyes, and his face pales under his auburn beard. He takes a jolting step backward, nearly hitting the garden bench.

“Who are you?” I whisper, but before he answers, my palm sears with sudden, burning pain. I gasp, too shocked to scream, and fiery tears threaten to fall down my cheeks. The key is glowing white in my hand like a lightning bolt captured from a stormy sky. I try to drop it, shaking my hand back and forth, but my fingers won’t relax enough to let go.

“Oh, now you’ve done it,” breathes the man, and he actually dares to roll his eyes at me.

“It hurts!” I say with shock. It’s a ridiculous, obvious statement, but it’s all I can think of right now.It hurts, it hurts, it hurts…

The man snorts and puts his hands on his hips. “Of course it does. What did you think would happen?”

His mockery is enough to turn my pain into exhausted anger. “Not this! Why is it doing this? Did you electrify it somehow?”

“Did I what?” He gapes at me. “Don’t be ridiculous. You took the key, so that means that the shop is yours.” He gestures at the brick facade with that smug, all-knowing smirk, but there’s a hint of worry in his eyes.

“What?” My voice shakes as I try to speak over the pain in my palm. Miraculously, every time I glance at my hand, there aren’t any burn marks or even redness. The pain is blinding, yet nothing visually proves it is happening.

His smirk falls, and his entire expression takes on a serious tone. “It means something has happened to Sasha, and she’s passing the shop on.”

“Something? Like she’s hurt or –”

He looks away, averting his gaze from mine. “Or something. Let’s go inside.” He tips his bearded chin, gesturing me back toward the front of the bookstore.

The pain in my hand cools at last, but the ghostly memory of it makes my hand tremble, like a child who has learned from experience not to put her hand on a hot stove. “But I can’t find the key,” I say, feeling a bit silly since there is a very large, very unique key in my hand.

“Trust me, that one will work.” He strides toward the front of the shop, and I have no choice but to follow him.

The shop’s front door has a modern doorknob of brushed nickel. The keyhole is too small for the antique key, which looks more suited to a Victorian armoire.

“Go on,” the man says with an air of impatience. “It will fit. Trust me.”

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