Wicked Ever After (Wicked & Devoted #2) - Shayla Black

Chapter One

Thursday, October 23

Louisiana

Standing naked and numb, in the middle of the empty dining room, Brea Bell blinked. What had just happened?

She felt flattened. Her world had been shaken, turned inside out, upended every which way.

Pierce Walker did that to her.

While her body had still been glowing from the pleasure he’d heaped on her, everything had begun falling apart.

Now he was gone.

The second he had answered the unexpected ring of his phone, her lover had been replaced by pure warrior. Within minutes, he’d dressed, grabbed his bag, and disappeared on a dangerous mission to tangle with the drug lord who had nearly killed him mere weeks ago.

He’d left her terrified for his safety—and burning with so many questions.

She’d known he made his living as a sniper who killed bad guys and terrorists while keeping his fellow operatives safe. At least that’s what she’d told herself.

I’m glad my father is gone. I hated him. It’s why I killed him.

Until Pierce had uttered those words, she would never have thought him capable of murdering his father in cold blood. How could anyone kill their own flesh and blood? Brea couldn’t fathom it, but Pierce had.

And he’d expressed no remorse.

Say you’ll move in with me.

His soft, shocking demand just before he’d slipped out the door still rang in her ears. How did Pierce think she could do that without imploding her entire life? And how could she commit to any sort of future with him when she didn’t know whether to believe he was the steadfast protector she’d come to know…or concede she’d fallen for a bad-boy fantasy who was good at manipulating her body?

Brea couldn’t stay here. She needed to go home. She had to think.

Trembling, she dressed, then defaulted to familiar domestic tasks that calmed her mind. Soon, she’d silenced the music, boxed and stored their food in the refrigerator, and cleared the table. She also made Pierce’s bed, trying not to remember just how good it had felt to be underneath him on these very sheets.

Some headstrong part of her wanted to linger, as if the secret to understanding him hid under his roof and she could absorb his truths if she simply remained. But that was her hopeful heart talking.

She had to start using her head.

As she retrieved her purse from the floor, she tucked the half-spilled contents back inside, then glanced at her phone. It was nearly midnight, and her father had texted to ask when she was coming home two hours ago.

On my way.

As soon as her reply was delivered, she darkened the device. Tears threatened to fall, but she stifled them. Once she was in her room, where no one would disturb her, she could start unpacking everything alone.

Brea flipped off lights all over Pierce’s house and contemplated leaving his key on the table. But that would be a cowardly way to end their…whatever this was. She owed it to them both to hear his story. Then she’d decide if giving in to her heart and building a future with him was in her best interest.

How ironic. She’d knocked on Pierce’s door a few hours ago, hoping they had a chance at a new beginning together. After tonight, she wasn’t sure there’d be any coming back.

The silence as she headed through the inky night to Sunset felt heavy. The old her would have called Cutter and asked for his advice. But she already knew what he’d say. She didn’t want any opinions now except her own.

When she pulled into her driveway, the house looked dark, except for the light Daddy kept on above the stove whenever she was late. Bless him…

Her fingers fumbled as she unlocked the door. She dead-bolted it behind her, then dashed to her room. In the dark, she dropped her purse on the desk to her left and shut herself inside before she fell across her bed and let her thoughts run free.

Who was this man, deep down, she’d given herself to? What had she done?

She’d fallen in love. She’d let herself believe she and Pierce could forge something lasting, despite their chasm of differences.

And she might have made a colossal mistake.

Brea grasped now why people called it heartache. Hers wrenched with uncertainty and pain. Sobs followed.

Behind her, the lamp on her nightstand suddenly flicked on.

She sat up with a gasp. Her father stood not two feet away, watching her with a disappointed stare.

“Brea.” He never yelled. He never had to. His ability to emote, which made him so good behind the pulpit,