Reawakened (The Reawakened Series) by Colleen Houck Read Free Book Online Page A

preferred to keep our residence looking magazine perfect, stiff, and unlived in. I didn’t crave a place where the grass was greener—heck, I just wanted grass, period. It was no wonder I felt a bit disenchanted.
    To me, a home was a quiet place with a yard, a fence, and a dog. And not one of those sissy dogs that ride in purses, either. A real home needed a real dog, like maybe a German shepherd or a Doberman—a big dog that would slobber all over its owner, dig up the yard, and wait patiently by the window to welcome its master home.
    Now, my grandmother’s farm was the perfect place for a dog. I had fond memories of chasing her various pets through fields of tall grass, wet noses being pushed into my hands, the smell of sun and wind and wood and fur as I kissed the tops of their heads and played with their ears. She’d had several dogs over the years, but her last dog, Bilbo, had recently died of old age and she didn’t have the heart to replace him yet.
    As soon as the driver pulled up, Herb, the hotel doorman, made his way over and opened my door.
    “Did you have a nice day, Miss Young?” he asked politely.
    I allowed him to help me out. “Herb, it was one of the worst days of my entire existence. You wouldn’t even believe me if I told you,” I said as I squeezed his hand.
    Chuckling, Herb walked me to the hotel’s golden doors. “I’d believe anything you told me. You aren’t one of those dramatic young women always vying for attention.”
    I laughed. “Well, drama can sneak up on you, Herb. I have officially received more attention today than I’d ever want. The result is a killer migraine and a hankering for chocolate. Have a nice evening.”
    “You too, Miss Young. I hope you feel better.” He gave me a puzzled look before opening the door.
    “Me too,” I replied over my shoulder as I entered the hotel.
When did the lights get to be so bright?
I squinted to minimize the stabbing pain behind my eyeballs as I made my way through the lobby toward the private elevators, where Stan stood guard and let me up to floor fifty-two.
    There was nothing modest about the place where I lived. My parents owned the entire floor and had spared no expense in decorating it with highly fashionable pieces—rugs selected by famed interior decorators, art that was carefully chosen not only to complement the rooms but also to show potential clients, tastefully, just how much money we had, and a big-enough-to-get-lost-in refrigerator disguised to look like an expensive cabinet—items that were as cold and impersonal as the rooms themselves. My bedroom being the only exception. That was the only place I felt comfortable enough to kick my shoes off and drop my keys on the table.
    One of the only purchases my parents had made that I actually liked was a Chihuly chandelier, which hung in the dining room. It felt chaotic somehow, which was a very unique feeling in my otherwise straitlaced life. The softly lit golden balls, drawn curlicue ribbons, and twirled shells had a wild kind of beauty that beckoned me to stretch beyond myself, to use the heat of experience to shape the grains of sand in the emotional desert that was my life into something as rich and precious as the Chihuly’s spun glass.
    As I entered the kitchen, I called out, “Marcella, are you here?” The only sound I heard in reply was the fading echo of my voice in this empty tomb of a home. Selecting a perfectly chilled diet ginger ale from the fridge, I headed to my room, my sanctuary in what I liked to call “the ice palace.” When I entered, I let my bag fall heavily to the floor and leaned over to undo the buckles on my sandals.
    I loved my room. I’d decorated it in cream, ivory, and the palest shades of pink. The bed and nightstand were a tawny gold and carved in a style reminiscent of Victorian England. The posts at each corner of the bed curved in beautiful arches, with sheer curtains hanging from them in soft folds.
    One side of the room was