His Wicked Dream (Velvet Lies, Book 2) by Adrienne deWolfe Read Free Book Online

electrochemical pathways to realize the recurring numbness in his limbs hinted at some grave disorder.
    At first, when the tingling began in his feet, he'd thought he'd been standing too much, chopping wood, treating patients, repairing Claudia's store roof. But then, during routine exertions like stair climbing, he'd noticed he'd grow uncommonly fatigued. And lately, he'd been experiencing vertigo.
    The worst part, though, was having to lie to Sera. Michael didn't want his kid sister to start worrying she would lose him, like she'd lost everyone else: Mama, Gabriel, Papa—even Rafe.
    Of course, Michael's half-brother wasn't really dead—at least, Rafe hadn't been dead six months ago, Michael thought grimly, recalling the letter he'd caught Sera sneaking upstairs to her bedroom. If any member of the Jones clan deserved to be dead, that member was Rafe, but Michael wasn't the kind of man who went looking for vengeance. He figured Rafe would eventually suffer his due punishment for all the heartache he'd caused the family, and that punishment would be far more thorough than anything Michael could dole out.
    No, he refused to waste one precious second of his ebbing life on the wastrel who called him "brother." Michael's first concern was Sera. He wanted his kid sister to be safe and happily married before his illness took its toll. It frightened him to think he was losing ground, battling an enemy he had no way of overcoming. And yet for Sera's sake, he had to hold on.
    He rode to the stable at the side of his house—or rather, the renovated slave-quarters-turned-cottage that Michael had been renting on Claudia's property. Somehow, Michael managed not to slump to his knees while fumbling with the bridle. He gave Brutus a cursory rub and a pitchfork of hay and then, heedless of the mud and the drizzle, stumbled gratefully toward the bed that awaited him in the modest, two-story house that his kid-sister-turned-ward had been sharing with him, ever since their father's death.
    "Michael, is that you?"
    His eighteen-year-old sister's voice, pitched above the clatter of rain on the tin roof, made him wince, and he turned reluctantly from the hall stairs. His sodden shirt and trousers were forming rivulets that snaked through the dust on the pinewood floor.
    He knew that Sera wouldn't care, though. In fact, he suspected Sera wouldn't notice. She'd renounced mops and brooms shortly after Papa's death two years before, and he doubted whether she even knew what beeswax was used for.
    "Were you expecting someone else?" he asked wearily, hearing her approach from the kitchen.
    Her eager footsteps missed a beat, and when she appeared around the corner, he noticed her peaches-and-cream complexion had tinged a shade of rose.
    "Of course not," she answered quickly, too quickly for his peace of mind. Like a shadow flitting behind the pain, he vaguely recalled a stranger, with a Tennessee accent, and the hillKit's predatory smile. Michael wondered if Sera had planned a meeting with the reprobate, but before he could challenge her, she threw a gauntlet of her own.
    "Why are you home so early? What's wrong?"
    He stiffened. "Nothing."
    "Then how come you look madder than a rooster in an empty henhouse?"
    He avoided her eyes. "I'm just tired, that's all."
    Sera blew out her breath. Her exasperation suggested she suspected his lie. The idea worried him, so he retreated behind sternness. The Reverend Jedidiah Jones had often preached that discipline was the only way to curb a child's natural tendency toward rebellion, and Sera was more rebellious than most. Thanks to the nearly twelve years that separated them, Michael had never been close to his sister, but he knew his duty by her.
    More than that, he loved her. Lying about his illness was putting a strain on their already tense relationship, but he had no choice. The truth of his condition would be too hard for her to bear.
    He made an attempt to gentle his voice. "You know I prefer you not to pry