Buried Passion Read online

  Table of Contents

  Excerpt

  Praise for Marianne Willis

  Buried Passion

  Copyright

  Dedication

  Prologue

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  A word about the author…

  Thank you for purchasing this publication of The Wild Rose Press, Inc.

  “Since we’re being honest here,

  why not tell me the real reason you’re afraid?”

  As though caught red-handed, his body tensed. But he had nothing to hide. “What are you talking about?”

  Her silent gaze locked with his. “You’re afraid you have the hots for a bloodsucker?”

  The muscles in his cheeks hurt as he spared a mock grin. “Well, aren’t you a modest little leech.”

  A raised brow and the perfect curve of her tilted chin met his mockery with confidence. “You’re covering the look of lust with detest, but it’s not working. I can smell you.” She sidestepped the coffee table and ambled toward him. Even in a tucked polo and denims, she sauntered forward as if in sheer lingerie. “You’re hot, you’re bothered, and you’re fighting it.” With each declaration, she stepped closer. His heart pounded louder in his ears.

  Mere inches separated them now. She angled her neck. That sensual mouth a whisper from his. He lost himself, drowned in her hazel depths.

  “You don’t know what’s more frustrating, the fact I’m a vampire, or that you want me.”

  When did her arms snake his neck? She arched into him. The delicious contact stole his sensibility.

  Warm, feminine curves met the hardness of his body. Ian hissed. A perfect match, male and female, both from two strong lines of species physically ransomed by an instinct as old as time…raw attraction. “Don’t flatter yourself, vampire. You’re not my type.”

  Praise for Marianne Willis

  “An excitingly sensual and suspenseful read full of plot twists that you wouldn’t want to miss.”

  ~Cyra Wilde

  ~*~

  “A sensational story with enough twists to keep you guessing. The dynamic characters and red hot chemistry made it impossible to put down.”

  ~Chantal Stober

  ~*~

  “Another great addition to the series! I couldn’t put this book down! The mysterious circumstances concerning the main characters kept me guessing. I could feel the emotion of the characters and felt myself rooting for the couple.”

  ~Katrina Moir

  ~*~

  “BURIED PASSION is a steamy surprise of deep passion between unlikely mates. This unpredictable journey is a story of youthful indiscretion, redemption and love deeper than pain. Marianne Willis delivers it beautifully.”

  ~PM Carson

  Buried Passion

  by

  Marianne Willis

  The Bonded Series, Book 3

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales, is entirely coincidental.

  Buried Passion

  COPYRIGHT © 2017 by Marianne Willis

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission of the author or The Wild Rose Press, Inc. except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews.

  Contact Information: [email protected]

  Cover Art by Rae Monet, Inc. Design

  The Wild Rose Press, Inc.

  PO Box 708

  Adams Basin, NY 14410-0708

  Visit us at www.thewildrosepress.com

  Publishing History

  First Black Rose Edition, 2017

  Print ISBN 978-1-5092-1201-9

  Digital ISBN 978-1-5092-1202-6

  The Bonded Series

  Published in the United States of America

  Dedication

  To Rhi,

  Thank you for your continued support

  and encouragement throughout this series.

  I cherish the friendship we've built over the years

  and love how you always have my back

  and are there whenever I need to vent.

  You're an amazing friend,

  and I can't wait for the day

  you become my sister-in-law.

  This one's for you.

  Prologue

  Eight months earlier.

  The restless clutches of half unconsciousness embraced him. This wasn’t sleep, but something different, deeper. She was here. Her presence like a hot wind on his skin. If only he could sate his curious eyes with one look, relieve the twitch in his fingers with a simple touch, quench his thirst with a single taste. Want her so much.

  Damp sheets clenched between balled fists, Ian awoke, smothering a strenuous groan into his pillow. Addled by the darkness, he scrabbled upright in bed, and stole a few moments to make out the shapes of furniture in his bedroom. Sweat tickled his nape and ran along his spine. What the hell had he experienced?

  Her emotions pulsated in his veins; a profuse rush of suffocating sorrow and heartache. For years nothing connected them. He never understood why they hadn’t shared a dream or found each other. Had an invisible wall blocked him from his bonded? Well, tonight the wall shattered.

  With the back of his arm, he wiped away the perspiration across his forehead and leaned into the headboard. He swallowed, throat raw from shouting into a black void. Words of reassurance had echoed as he informed her of his presence, desperate to soothe her sadness. The arduous attempt to fuse a mind link left his head pounding. If only she would surrender to their bond and communicate in return.

  Work wasn’t for a few hours, but pushing back the sheet, he decided to open the gym early and work out his frustrations before his clients arrived for their boxing lesson.

  Perhaps she’d have better luck contacting him without so many thoughts running through his head. Physical activity always cleared his mind. Arms behind his back, he performed his morning stretches and focused on emitting positive energy. Today might be the day he found his chosen. A rabble of butterflies danced in his stomach. He smiled.

  Grabbing his phone, he logged on to matematch.com. When his mother learned about the website, she laughed. For centuries, his kind relied on dream-sharing. His parents found one another that way, as did his grandparents and great-grandparents. Luck had been on their side. Not him. In fact, plenty werewolves remained mateless. Many go their entire lives without bonding. At twenty-eight, he never imagined he’d still be searching for the woman he’d waited his whole life to meet.

  Now some genius from New York created a website for werewolves. Ian discovered matematch.com through a friend. Werewolves either bore birthmarks or obtained a pattern of freckles as they grew older. The one destined for him shared the exact half U-shaped birthmark in the precise spot as his own. After a cryptic questionnaire obviously designed to determine werewolves from humans, he received a secret sign-up code.

  The profile set-up was simple. From the online testimonies, the service worked for hundreds so far, so why not him? He checked the current notifications. Sixty hits. At least others checked his profile, but still no matches.

  Determined to do a searc
h once at work, he returned his phone to the bedside table. This website was pointless if his chosen wasn’t a werewolf, as non-werewolves also bonded with his kind. He doubted she’d have a clue about the bond they shared, let alone a website on how to track him.

  Chayton, his best friend and owner of the gym, attended the Annual Armistice Celebration; a function in France for the species and their third year into the peace treaty. As a business partner that left Ian in charge of the gym. Vampires, werewolves, and witches together under the same roof. Ian tsked, glad he refused to travel with his pack. The species might be ready for peace, but to become allies with vampires? Bitterness filled his mouth. He had a valid reason for his animosity toward bloodsuckers. As for witches? His hair stood on end. They’d always given him the heebie-jeebies.

  Heat from the bathroom light bulbs penetrated his skin. He turned the shower taps and kicked off his boxers. The hot pressure relaxed his tense shoulders. Long hair clung to his back as he ducked beneath the steamy spray. Why was his mate so sad? He’d give anything to be with her, comfort her. A chosen meant everything to a werewolf. Others described the connection as the most spectacular experience in the world.

  As children, he and the other pack kids listened to ancient tales of famous bonded werewolves. In his teens, he and the guys would talk for hours, guessing what their chosen mate looked like. With a succinct smile, he touched his hipbone. One day he would touch the same mark on the woman meant for him.

  Brows puckered, he caressed the mark, unsure why the skin was uplifted and swollen. He blinked away the rush of water from his eyes. “No.” He scrubbed at the mark as though it might rub away. An angry, pink blister had replaced his birthmark. His hoarse scream sent a violent shudder through him so forcefully his palms flattened against the glass to keep steady. “No!” How did the mark form into a scar? Last night he’d stared at it, imagined finding his mate, caressing the swirl shape on her naked body before making sweet love to her.

  Old stories resided in his head, of men and women who became a shell of their former self from their terrible loss. This wasn’t right. He never had the chance to meet, hold, or kiss her. Never had the opportunity to fall in love with her. “She’s dead.” Ian sank to the tiled floor, raked his hair and ripped at strands as his body trembled.

  Whoever she was, was now gone. Forever.

  Chapter 1

  Darkness. The absence of colors forced chills along her spine and accelerated her heart into an erratic beat. Cocooned within her own psyche, she’d drifted in this eerie shadow forever. She opened her eyes and gasped, which erupted into a sequence of harsh coughs.

  Each sharp expel from her lungs thrashed her body against the warm padded textile beneath her. She’d kill for a drink, even a single droplet of water. “Hello?” Heat charred her throat as if she ingested the fires of hell.

  Silence.

  She sat up. Blunt pain smacked her forehead. Contact with the hard surface sent her flopping against the cushioning. She rubbed the sore throb. Trapped? A lump formed in her throat. Her gaze darted around the darkness. She kicked at whatever blocked her way. Loud thuds thundered with every clobber. A crack boomed. One foot thrust through the obstruction followed by red-hot pain. The first hint of freedom distracted her from the sting of splinters lodged in her leg. Close to escape, her attempts grew frantic.

  Another kick, and another, and another.

  Small particles rained on her legs. Sand? Soil? The rich earth-filled scent confirmed dirt.

  “What the hell?” She scooted lower in the confinement and used both hands to snap off chunks of wood. Her heart sank. More soil sprayed, forcing her eyes and mouth shut. With both hands, she shovelled the dirt above her head and gripped the fractured edges. Wooden flinders stabbed her palms, but she ignored the acute sting and propelled her body through the broken aperture. Did she dig herself out or burrow deeper into this pool of muck? Her muscles ached and throbbed as she swam in condensed filth.

  Knots coiled in her stomach. Goodness, she might drown in the depths of heaven knew what.

  A cool breeze skimmed her fingers.

  Air.

  Surging into the chilled night, soil cascaded from her head as she broke the surface. Breathe, must breathe. Her chest slammed into the ground as she fisted clumps of grass. If she weren’t so focused on dragging air into her lungs, she would have cried with relief. She trembled from the inside out. Clouds of fog emitted with each burst of breath.

  The stars and moon illuminated several tall stones assembled around her, their shadows stretched across the lawn. Each one adorned with a vase of flowers. Tombstones?

  Teeth chattering, she twisted inside the hole she’d dug out of and faced a gray headstone with the inscription; In loving memory of Rachel Anne Johnson, caring daughter and sister.

  Rendered motionless, all her focus centred on the name. Small whimpers from the back of her throat synchronized with chirping crickets. “Rachel,” she whispered the name…her name. Something deep in her gut was certain of the fact. How had she ended up in a grave, buried alive? She scampered out of the pit, slid against frigid grass, her white cotton a-line dress stained with green and brown splotches.

  Rachel Anne Johnson. The name echoed a mantra in her cloudy mind, yet no flashes of the past, no recollection of life before this moment. She groaned. What on earth is going on?

  Blisters and blood-spots marred her hands. Where on earth did she find the strength to break free from a buried coffin?

  An owl hooted. She jumped. The nocturnal bird landed on the tombstone, head cocked, large eyes trained on her. She hugged her waist and retreated from the grave. Unsteady legs threatened to collapse, but she lumbered past tombstones. Despite her bare, filthy feet, and the sharp splinters stinging her calf, her pace increased with each step.

  The rumble of an engine resounded in the distance. There had to be a road nearby. Her legs no longer resembled jelly as she followed the sound. The chill in the air didn’t faze her as her limbs warmed.

  Lynnhurst Cemetery labelled the brick entrance sign she passed. A closed funeral home and empty roads lay a short distance from the entryway. Few functional streetlights lit the darkened road. Strange, she ran with an unnatural speed that ate up the distance.

  Where the hell was she headed, anyway? At this rate, she might end up running in circles. She stopped in her tracks. Might this be the afterlife? With shaky fingers, she applied pressure to her neck. A pulse. Ghosts didn’t have hearts…did they?

  Deep, cynical laughter vibrated further up the street. She drew closer. Five large men on motorbikes loitered behind a gas station. From the number of empty beer bottles scattered around their bikes, they had lingered there a while. The streetlight above them flickered, displaying flashes of long beards and shiny leather. A woman straddled one rider’s lap. The hem of her short red skirt bunched at her thighs, and she cackled as her lover slobbered kisses along her neck.

  When had Rachel last seen another face? Her mouth fell open as her mind raced in search for an answer. She wanted to remember something, anything before awakening inside the coffin. Obnoxious laughter hailed her attention once again. Should she ask them for help? She frowned. No way did they appear affable. Besides, how would she explain waking in a grave without sounding deranged? As she drew closer, logic told her to look away, but the men captivated her. Could she be so deprived of human interaction, she craved any connection? Maybe so, but she thrust aside the strange need and avoided eye-contact as she neared. They might ignore her and mind their own business.

  One biker grinned at his friend and nodded in her direction, mumbling about her filthy clothes. Wait. He’d whispered to that man, but she perceived what he said as clearly as if he’d spoken in her ear.

  “Hey, love. Halloween was last week…you come from a costume party?” the bulky one in a leather vest decorated with symbolic patches called out. The group bellowed, patting his back with rough slaps as though he’d won a victory. “I bet she won’t look so bad
once naked…and showered.”

  Another round of laughter erupted.

  Rachel tensed as she stared at the gang, teeth grinding. These buffoons were an obvious waste of time. But evading them proved difficult, especially when Mr. Bulky jumped off his bike and blocked her way. She stared at his face.

  “I don’t want no trouble,” she said, her voice soft, but at the same time lethal. Gray roots crowned his black, spiked hair. A skull earring dangled from his ear. Yellow teeth secured a lit cigarette.

  “Neither do I, Sugar. Let’s cut to the chase. How much for your…ah…” His lecherous gaze danced over her body, matching his sleazy grin. A chill—which had nothing to do with the late night air danced down her spine. “…services?”

  A sweet smile stretched her lips. “Castration is free of charge.”

  His sleazy grin hardened. “A smart mouth? Do you know what I love about women like yourself?” He clutched her jaw. “How quick you break.”

  She tugged her face away and pushed him, but he cupped her elbow. “Let me go.” Fatal calmness enveloped her tone. A sick part of her was glad he pushed her limits. She wanted him to become her victim. Victim? Her bones almost jolted out of her skin.

  The cigarette bobbed on his lips as he chuckled. “Come on. If you’re not a hooker, what are you, homeless?” Head thrown back, he chortled. “I’ll still pay you for a go.”

  Asshat should have listened. Fist clenched, she gnashed her teeth and punched him in the eye. The cigarette fell to his chest as he staggered back. With a yelp, he patted himself. A burnt hole now resided in his vest.

  Eyes narrowed, he charged. She ducked, spun, and feinted from his swinging fist. He dared try hitting a woman? Her body shook as she grumbled. She delivered a successful blow to his face. Knuckles vibrated on impact and resulted in Mr. Bulky squealing like a hunted pig before staggering to his ass.

  White pearls dribbled down his front. No, not pearls. Four broken teeth. Blood covered her hand, its rusty scent…delicious. She flinched.

  Boots slapped cement as his two friends charged. More prey. She pounced on the first. With both fists, she punched, then elbowed the side of his head. His eyes rolled to the back of his skull as he sank to the pavement.