Sensitive by Sommer Marsden Read Free Book Online Page B

breath on my cheek, his hands on my back, moving restlessly like he wanted to feel every inch of me. In case at some point he couldn’t anymore.

    Some little piece of my heart broke right then. I remembered that if he wasn’t stark raving mad—which I knew he wasn’t—Alex Church was an angel and he wouldn’t be staying. No matter how attached I’d become to him. I shoved the thought away and laughed, “Boy, howdy, I’m going to be sore when this is over,” I said. “When it all wears off.”

    “When will it wear off?” he asked, rubbing the sharp edge of my cheekbone with the edge of his thumb.

    Never . “I don’t know,” I said. But never was what I felt intuitively. I would never not crave Alex.
    As long as he was around, and maybe when he wasn’t.

    * * * * *

    “How the hell are we going to do this?” I asked, the actual logistics of the whole mess finally permeating the sex-fog of the last few hours. “I mean, god, with Molly all I had to do was a parlor trick.
    Your daughter told me you are doing X,Y, and Z. Now believe me that she’s telling you to stop and poof!
    all done. No problem. This…this is a whole train station worth of souls, and visitors. And a murderer!” I yelped.

    “We’ll figure it out. Have faith,” Alex said.

    “Have faith. Look who’s talking. You’re hardwired for faith.”

    “Not so much,” he said. “We are created in faith, but plenty of us go rogue. Fall, walk off, or worse, become numb to their calling. They simply go through the motions.”

    “So, you’re basically humans with special magical powers and maybe wings and you can manifest condoms if need be?” I laughed.

    Alex smiled, leading me through the maw of two automatic doors. They opened, allowed us entrance and then shut behind us. “Sort of.”

    “I feel like the building just swallowed us,” I admitted.

    Alex glanced around, the flutter of his pulse visible below the shadow of beard growth on his throat. Even angels needed a shave, apparently. “Me, too,” he said, softly.

    “Oh, well that helps! Nothing to worry about there! That a heavenly creature feels insecure and…eaten!”

    “Sorry. Honesty isn’t good?” He was dead serious.

    I fought the urge to kick him. Or hit him. Or cry. “No, that is not good! You are supposed to be all strong and not worried and guiding me and stuff.”

    “Sorry,” he said again, frowning. His eyes, still as blue as the flickering flame on my brand new oven range, roamed the walls and he seemed to be gauging the spiritual energy of the building. “There is a lot of sorrow here. And not from the passing on.

    From this person who seems to be holding souls already in a state of transition hostage.”

    I closed my eyes and stilled my pounding heart. I breathed and focused only on my breath and my impressions. I felt sure that if not for my natural-born psychic filter, this building would look like a crush of lost souls to my sensitive’s eyes. I would not just see a hospice, I’d see a waiting room of ghosts in need of my attention. Thank goodness for natural talents because when I opened my eyes to confirm my feelings of the same, the only ghost I saw was Walter. Waiting patiently for me to get my bearings and see him despite his obvious worry. Then he turned and led us to the bank of elevators.

    Other human visitors flitted around us, most of them quiet and reserved. A hospice is usually a quiet respectful place. And this one was no exception. But for the crushing feel of dread and sadness that the flesh and blood visitors weren’t tuned in to, Cherry Grove Hospice was a peaceful building run by folks full of love. But for one. And that one was the reason for the swirling chaos of black negativity around the crown of the building.

    We loaded into an elevator with some others and I tuned into Walter’s energy.

    When the elevator doors closed, I said simply, “Three,” to Alex and he pressed the button.

    A young woman with long dark