Page 9 of Bad Moon Rising

But I can’t help it.

It’s Brooks.

He’s back.

And he’s even more gorgeous and menacing than I remember.

He’s still wearing that beat-up duster, the one that makes him look like a villainous outlaw from an old western film. Why had I never noticed how it pulls across his broad shoulders and hugs his narrow hips? The rips in the sleeves and line of dark stubble along his jaw only make him appear more dangerous. The juxtaposition of his angelic, golden hair and sinfully plush lips never ceases to amaze me.

Then again, I always knew this man was the devil incarnate.

My eyes sweep over Brooks’ body, looking up and up and up until I meet his dark, shadowed eyes. He stares at me with an intensity that makes the butterflies in my stomach start full-on twerking.

“I—” I stammer. “Belcome Wack. I mean, Helcome Hack. I-I-I-mean, welcome back.”

I can’t think. The shock of seeing him again mixes with painful memories welling up inside me.

Nearly two years ago, on my sixteenth birthday, Brooks and I stood in this exact spot. It was ten PM, and I’d been hanging out on the porch of the Bellua house with the guys, playing cards and sneaking sips from a flask of Jack Daniels that Brooks hid in his old duster. My mother had come home from work early—a rare treat—and cooked all my favorite foods and made me a slightly lopsided birthday cake, which we’d all eaten together under twinkling fairy lights Jackson strung up. The twins were in my kitchen, helping Mom with the cleanup because Jackson was always trying to make her see that they were more than the scrappy orphan kids of the dead town outcasts. I’d been left alone with Brooks, a situation that made my stomach flip with nervous excitement. He stood up and motioned for me to follow him down the path, away from the view of my kitchen window. I followed him, because that’s what you do when a guy like Brooks summons you.

“I have something for you,” he said gruffly. “Close your eyes and hold out your left hand.”

I obeyed. How could I not when he said it in that gravelly voice that did things to my insides?

I closed my eyes and held out my hand. His coarse fingers grazed my wrist. His touch, so familiar and yet so, so magical, sent warm shivers all through my body.

He tied a string, and I expected him to pull away, but his fingers remained, stroking a slow circle on the sensitive skin of my wrist that had me completely mesmerized.

“Open your eyes,” he commanded.

My eyes flew open, and I peered down at my wrist. He’d tied a leather cord there, on which he’d strung a small, silver charm. It was a strange flower made of knotwork and enclosed in a series of concentric rings.

“This is a ‘witch’s mark.’ Medieval Christians used to wear this symbol or draw it in their homes to protect against demons and evil spirits.” His eyes blazed with that intense fire I’d grown so accustomed to. They seemed to sear my soul. “Even if I’m not here to protect you, Lily, I want you to feel safe.”

“But why wouldn’t you be here to protect me?” I fingered the beautiful charm, marveling at the way the moonlight reflected off its bright surface. “You’ve always been here for me.”

It was true. Brooks patched my skinned knees and soothed my tears when I missed my parents, and he even took me to buy my first tampons when Mom was at a conference in Arkham and couldn’t do it. When their parents died, Brooks took over as guardian for Jackson and Orion, but in a lot of ways, he had always been our guardian, always looking out for us.

But now he was staring at me with this determined clench in his jaw and impossibly deep, dark eyes that had never looked more sad. The air between us sizzled with all the things I’d wanted to say to him all these years.

“You’re going to be amazing, Lily Dean,” he said, and his voice choked on my name. He turned away, took a step back toward the porch, but then he stopped and whirls around again. This time, his hand clamped on my hip, and he pulled me in close.

A strange feeling arrowed through me, one I had never felt before. All I could focus on were his eyes—black as pitch, as enigmatic and depthless as a canyon.

I couldn’t breathe. All I could smell and feel was Brooks—his hard body against mine, his sandalwood aftershave, those fathomless eyes devouring me. My chest pressed against his, and I wondered if he could feel my heart thundering or my knees knocking together.

“It’s your birthday,” he said, his breath brushing against my lips. “Lily Dean is sweet sixteen.”

I squeaked out a “yes” because what else could I say? I swore my brain had turned to liquid just by being in his general vicinity.

“When you blew out your candles,” he whispered. “What did you wish for?”

I swallowed. “Do you really want to know?”

“More than anything.” His earnest eyes ensnared my own, siphoning the breath from my lungs.

“I wished…” I closed my eyes, drawing up courage from deep inside me. I can’t believe I’m going to say it. “I wished…that I could have my first kiss.”

Brooks sucked in a breath. The air between us sizzled. His whole body tensed, his fingers digging into my thigh as he pulled me closer, his protective embrace becoming something possessive and dark and delicious. And I knew…I knew this was the moment. It was finally going to happen.

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