Broken Heart 08 Must Love Lycans by Michele Bardsley Read Free Book Online

the top of my head.
    I was six inches over five feet—not quite short, but not quite tall, either. I’d been described as “slender” by one kind high school boyfriend, though I’d heard “scarecrow” applied to my physique more than once. I was a shade too pale (me and the sun broke up a long time ago), but my skin was smooth and once-upon-a-time unblemished. I couldn’t erase the scars on my ribs, stomach, and back—courtesy of Robert’s blade. Even so, my skin was the only physical attribute for which I had any vanity, and so I often indulged in long bubble baths, spa treatments, and expensive creams to keep it pearlescent and supple.
    After I finished inventorying (read: criticizing) the rest of my body, (Pointy hips! Knobby knees! Bulgy ankles!), I looked down at my unpainted toenails. I regularly indulged in mani-pedis, especially since there was an on-site spa in the clinic, but I never wore polish. It made me feel whorish, and I’m sure that has to do with the fact that when my eleven-year-old self returned from a slumber party with red nails Mother told me that sprinkling gold on a pile of manure didn’t make it smell any better. Yes. My mom basically called me a pile of shiny poop. And yes, I understood why I had issues.
    I glanced at the digital clock on my nightstand and sighed. It was just past six o’clock and I was less than an hour away from my private dinner with Mr. Dante— with Jarred . Nerves made my stomach squeeze, so I fell face-first onto my bed and tried to smother myself in the pillows. Unfortunately, my survival instincts were too strong and I ended up rolling onto my back and staring at the ceiling.
    What did he want from me? We could discuss my plans for the clinic anytime. Actually, I had no plans for the clinic. It practically ran itself. I knew Jarred had chosen me for my desperation rather than my skills (obviously). He needed someone in the profession to run his clinic, but more than that, he needed to control that someone.
    Despite that whole serial-killer debacle, I wasn’t a bad therapist. Not that my session with Mr. Danvers was any proof. I sighed. I wanted so much to help him, and the others. It wasn’t entirely an altruistic goal. I wanted to feel like I was doing something right, something good for people. I wanted to wash clean my sins by paying penance here. Unease fluttered through me. Why couldn’t I ignore the feeling that all was not as it seemed at the clinic? I couldn’t point at anything or anyone and exclaim, “Aha!” I had no proof of nefarious dealings. I just … freaking didn’t like it here. My mind circled back around to Mr. Danvers. Should I have at least poked at his emotions, see what was twisting him up? No. Not yet. If I hadn’t tried to use my gift to manipulate Robert, to fix him, things might’ve ended differently. You can’t fix empty. You can’t give a soul to a man who has none. As much as I’d wanted to wiggle into the cracks of Mr. Danvers’s emotional barriers and help him see the truth about the nonexistent Malphas … I would wait.
     
    I yawned. I hadn’t realized how tired I was until now. Lolling on the bed was a bad idea. But maybe … a teeny-tiny nap would help delay the threatening headache. No doubt that was a physical response to the stress of having dinner with Jarred, who so did not want to talk about the clinic.
    I yawned again and let my thoughts drift. Then I curled up around a pillow and fell asleep.
     
    In the dream, I wore a frilly blue dress. Its crinoline skirt brushed my knees. My feet were bare, my toes digging into the soft grass beneath my feet. It was dusk. I stood next to a large tree that was an amazing shade of purple.
    “Late,” said a growling voice. “Late. Always late.”
    I looked around, trying to see who was speaking. The forest around me looked as though it had been created by a five-year-old on a sugar buzz. I saw no one else—nothing else.
    A huge black wolf jumped over a mossy log and