Sunder

  Sunder

  A Novel by Tara Brown

  Copyright 2014 Tara Brown

  http://TaraBrown22.blogspot.com

  Amazon Edition

  This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be resold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author. No alteration of content is permitted. This book is a work of fiction, any similarities are coincidental. All characters in this fictional story are based entirely on the crazed mind of the author and are not based on any human. Any similarities are by chance and not intentional.

  This book is dedicated to my fans—thank you so much. The interest and support has been amazing. I also must thank my husband and children. You supported me, even when I was in my writer’s frenzy.

  Cover Art by Once Upon a Time Covers

  Edited by Andrea Burns

  Thank you Nick (sexiest proofreader ever).

  A special thanks to Mani, Katy, and my friends The Nators. Thank you all.

  To the girls in the chat that changes daily, I love you ladies.

  Other Books by Tara Brown

  The Devil’s Roses

  Cursed

  Bane

  Witch

  Hyde

  Death

  The Born Trilogy

  Born

  Born to Fight

  Reborn

  The Light Series

  The Light of the World

  The Four Horsemen

  Imaginations

  Imaginations

  The Blood Trail Chronicles

  Vengeance

  Blackwater Witches

  Blackwater

  The Single Lady Spy Series

  The End of Me

  The End of Games

  My Side

  The Long Way Home

  The Lonely

  LOST BOY

  First Kiss

  Sunder

  White Girl Problems

  Under Sophie Starr

  Lost and Bound

  Cinder Ella

  Co-Authored with Erin Leigh

  Second Chances

  Prologue

  Nicolai

  Wolfville, 1852

  A man walked towards him. He could hear him long before he saw him, limping slightly and making a scuffing sound with his shoe in the smoke that had crawled through the town. When he got closer, he cleared his throat before speaking. “Son, we have to go.”

  Nicolai paused, waiting for the man to finish the sentence. “The fire is out of control and the hunters have it surrounded. We don’t stand a chance.”

  Nicolai shook his head. “NO! WE GO BACK! FIRE CAN KILL THEM! THEY’RE IN THERE!”

  The man got close enough to grab Nicolai’s trembling hand firmly. “You must come with me. Your father has told me to take you from town. He asked me this afternoon—he knew your brother had gotten the town in trouble. He was able to help the Michaels clan escape and round everyone up and get them to the safety of the guards. But if you linger, I am afraid someone will out you for what has happened. Your family is being blamed. The witches—they know it was your brother who killed those people.”

  Nicolai could feel the shroud of helplessness overshadowing his arguments. “GOD DAMNED HIM!” Tears dripped from his eyes. He slammed his hand down on the barrel he stood next to, denting it severely. The old man’s eyes shot to the dent. “Contain yourself, we are leaving now. These are your father’s orders.” He dragged the defeated young Nicolai into the carriage, shoving him inside.

  As the door closed so did Nicolai’s eyes. He forced himself to let the pain of the loss of each of them take a separate place in his heart. Each face, each laugh, each embrace. They each claimed a part of him.

  One day he would get his revenge.

  He looked out through the curtains as they drove off, seeing the smoke hovering over the far-off farm where his family was fighting for their lives as he fled.

  The man gave him a smile from the driver’s seat. “We will come back, lad. Have no fears.”

  Nicolai didn’t believe it. Mostly he didn’t want to. He didn’t want to face his cowardly act.

  The man sighed loudly over the sound of the horse’s feet. “My name is Miles. I am a friend of your father’s.”

  Nicolai stared at the last of the flames and smoke as they rounded the corner, out of sight from the burning farm. “I know who you are.”

  “I think it safest if you choose to use your second name from here on. What is it?”

  Nicolai’s lip trembled as he recalled hating the name his mother had given him. She had loved the name, he had been so bright when born. She had named him Nicolai Briton, bright one. He would never hate the name again.

  “Briton. My mom’s version of the words bright one.”

  “That’s an odd name.”

  He ignored the comment, and instead, closed his eyes and relived every moment he remembered.

  Chapter One

  Liv

  Wolfville.

  Who would name a town Wolfville?

  I hadn’t even seen any wolves.

  I watched my new stepmother, so to speak, with a slant in my eyes that I hoped spoke great lengths of the exact amount of dislike I harbored for her. She looked like she was at my house for a sleepover, and not with my dad.

  Thirty-eight—my ass. She looked twenty, tops. The only thing saving her from being the type of girl who went for older guys was the tomboy apparel that seemed to be her thing. I grimaced at that, wanting to pluck the plaid with my finger and mock her.

  I didn’t.

  For him I didn’t.

  My father wouldn’t understand my hatred towards her. He was under her spell.

  I wasn’t.

  I loved my dad, and I hated that he was a single dad, and worst of all, I knew the thing all kids like me knew—I knew my father needed to move on. No one wants his or her parent to need love again when the other parent has died, but it was inevitable. How could I ask him to stay single and just be my dad?

  I couldn’t. He was a man in his own right, and he was a good one. He deserved love, but why her? Well, to look at her, I knew why. I just never knew he was that shallow that he would choose someone like her.

  I thought better of him.

  I imagined, when he finally moved on many years later, he would be with a sweet schoolteacher who wore cardigans that I could borrow to match my hipster outfits. Someone who would bake me things and be the grandmother to my children one day.

  But no.

  He had to move us to the bizarrely named small town of Wolfville, to be with someone I could never respect him for.

  He didn’t see it, but I did. She was lying about her age, there was no doubt in my mind. Judith was too young. But why lie about her age to be older? What woman did that? Not a sane one. She didn’t need the money or the safety of a rich man. She was wealthy in her own right and had a great huge family who all lived—surprise, surprise—one block from us.

  No, nothing about them made sense.

  A voice whispered inside of me that it might actually be love.

  I scoffed at the notion and then hated myself for being such a bitch about it.

  I wanted to be a better person about it all.

  Her age and her looks shouldn’t matter, technically, but I did have to live with her. What if they lasted and he was still married to her when I did eventually have kids? She would be their grandma?

  I tried not to make her age and looks be the things that bothered me the most. But I couldn’t. Even though I knew what woul
d bother my mother, and it wasn’t age and it wasn’t looks. It was the fact that Judith liked red meat and hunting, and to top the list off, she was a Republican.

  Who under forty was a Republican? Was that even possible?

  I looked up at the ceiling, shaking my damned head.

  I shivered, imagining what my vegan Democratic mother would have thought about the huge steak being served for dinner. I looked at my father, rolled my eyes and walked out of the room, regardless of how good it all smelled. Bitch could cook, that was for sure.

  I was against it all, but how could I say anything without being a complete brat? The house was her idea, the town was hers, and somehow my father’s heart was hers. So snubbing the dinner and the NRA Barbie Doll making it, was all I had the power to do.

  Defeated, I climbed the old, wide stairs in the dark, not bothering with a light. If I was going to be cruel to someone who had never actually wronged me, I wanted to do it in the dark.

  I liked being ashamed of myself where I couldn’t actually see it.

  Did it bother me that she was actually the sweetest person I had ever met? Yes. Yes, it did. I hated that about her and how it made me feel about myself.

  I was the evil stepdaughter to her good, kind, sweet, friggin’-singing-in-the-damned-rain stepmother.

  But I just couldn’t help it. I was stunned when Judith had openly admitted belonging to the National Rifle Association and owning three rifles herself. Since moving to Wolfville, I had discovered that camouflage clothing wasn’t just something inner-city kids wore to look cool. It came in pink and people put it on their children—their babies.

  I scowled and sauntered down the dark hallway of the gigantic, old house my father and Judith had just bought, and no doubt christened by smearing animal blood around the rooms.

  I walked into the princess room I had always dreamt of, but now felt as if the price for getting it had been a bit too steep, and slumped onto my bed. I felt like I had betrayed my mother and sold my soul to have it. Even if it was the most wonderful room I had ever been in. It was like a dream come true.

  I wanted so badly to be able to compare myself to Cinderella or Snow White but there was no justification. Judith had never been anything but incredibly nice to me.

  The wicked part of my brain rationalized that it was always the nice ones you had to watch out for. The overly nice ones who snuck in your room at night to drip the juice of cursed hebenon in your ear.

  Okay, that might have been offside, if not a little dramatic.

  There just was no denying the fact I was surrounded by the beautiful things given to me by my father and Judith. The room was huge—the master suite of the huge mansion. I sort of imagined they had given it to me in an attempt to buy my approval. I didn’t approve but I did take the room.

  I was going to hell for sure, especially after the poison in the ear thought. That was mean. And I had taken the room without even batting an eyelash.

  My brain whispered that, yes maybe I had sold my soul to the devil to get it, no biggie. I was young, and I could always win my soul back with good deeds later. Do some volunteer work and shit.

  I had one year of Judith and I was free. I could last a year to have a room like this and all the sucking up she and my father could muster.

  Maybe I could just stay in the room.

  It had a cherrywood four-poster bed, slanted ceilings, and a skylight in my bathroom, which was renovated to the point of ridiculous. It still had the old-fashioned look with a massive claw-foot soaker tub but there were glass tiles for windows, a walk-in steam shower, and a bidet. I would never own up to having used the friggin’ thing but, Oh. My. God. It was heaven, like a spa for my ass.

  My walk-in closet was outlandish. It was the size of my bedroom back in Chicago, where I’d lived with my dad, and once upon a time, my mom. My parents had been rich together, making hoards of money, but my mom refused to let it be the thing we were known for. We lived in the same crappy apartment she and Dad had rented when they were young. Mom had been against flaunting wealth. Clearly NRA Barbie had no problem with it. I hated that I loved it.

  I sat thinking about what my mother would have thought of the extravagance of the room and unnecessary amount of space wasted. Especially, since people around the world lived in tent cities. I wanted so badly to be an idealist like her, but it seemed I was more like my father. Pretty things won me over easily. At least I was conflicted about it, whereas he was joyous, to the point I almost wondered if he loved Judith more than my mother. The thought of it made me uneasy. He seemed like he did. Love was such a lie. I knew then and there I would never fall in love. I would never let a man make me feel more special than a single thing in the world and then move on after I was gone.

  No. I would never be like my mother and Judith, replaced so easily in the heart of a man.

  I looked up at the ceiling where my father had put the new stars, so I would feel like I was at home in the new house. But I didn’t. I felt like I was being pampered at a fancy hotel.

  And I did miss the comfy feeling of our place in Chicago. It was homey and small. I had thought my father had too, but when we moved to Wolfville, he threw himself into the remodel of the house and the new marriage. He seemed altered here, funny and inspired maybe. He was a man I had never seen with my mother, like his life with us had been a lie or an act.

  Granted it was a new love, and every person on earth felt that way when they were in the honeymoon stage of love. But it didn’t change the fact he was different. He had hardly paid me any attention while NRA Barbie had paid me too much. It was awkward as ass.

  In the midst of my daydreams and mental griping, there was a knock at the door, “Liv, honey.”

  I cringed every time I heard my father’s voice. I hated the way he sounded like nothing should be different. It was. There was no denying that. He was different.

  “Liv!” he called from the other side of the big wooden door and then just opened it. “Are you decent?”

  I smiled sarcastically. “Is that a moral question?”

  “No. I don’t want that answer.” He laughed and closed the door behind him, “Sweetie, Judith didn’t mean to offend you with the steak. She has a blood disorder and has to eat a lot of red meat. She is very anemic.” He came and sat on the bed next to me.

  I looked at him and forced something resembling an attempted smile across my lips. “Sorry, Dad.” For all my talk, I was a pushover and I HATED conflict. Not just that, but I really wasn’t in the mood for another talk. We’d been having them a lot. I had been starting to feel like I was a member of the cast of Girl Interrupted. The kid gloves were getting annoying. The sucking up with fineries was more fun.

  Dad smiled back and put a hand on my knee. “We need to have the talk I’ve been skirting." He paused and ran his hands through his hair. He made faces like we were already having the conversation and then shook his head, like he was pushing away the words. He sighed and bit his lip.

  Finally he spoke, but his voice was a whisper. "Your mom will understand if you give Judith a chance, babe. She doesn’t want to replace her, but she wants to make me happy, and I think it’s time for me to start feeling happy again.” His dark eyes grew soulful. “I need to feel joy again, Liv. I’ve spent a lot of years living alone, dying inside from a broken heart. I know she was your mother, but she was my wife. She was my partner in everything, and I have never felt pain like I did when she died. I am not trying to belittle your loss, she was your mother. We both know how it was. But I think it's finally over for me. I feel like the weight of watching the person I loved the most, die slowly, is gone. I don’t wish for death anymore. I want to be the dad your mom expected of me. I wasn’t doing that in Chicago. I made her promises and I’ve not kept them. I was sad and you suffered from it. And I’m happy and I . . ." He paused and looked at me. "I need you to see that. This isn’t some plot against you. It’s me trying to heal us both with love.” His voice broke and his lips trembled and I died inside.


  Images of my father crying in his bed, or in the car or at my mother’s grave, filled my mind. Guilt ravaged my insides and deflated my hate of the NRA Barbie doll. How could I hate her when she brought the spark to his eyes, something I had not been able to do? I swallowed hard and sat up to hug my father. “I know, Dad.” I choked back my teen angst and nodded, “I want you to be happy too. It’s just, couldn’t you be happy with someone who was . . . ?”

  “Someone my own age?”

  I looked down. “No, just maybe a Democrat? You know how Mom felt about it all.”

  He laughed. “She—the person she is—makes me happy. I feel joy and I want you to feel it too. I feel like I did when I was twenty and I met your mom. Before you start on your list of complaints, just know, Judith does make me happy and, yes, it has to be her that makes me happy. I don’t care that she’s seven years younger or about her job or her taste in meals or her blood type or who she votes for or that she burns wood for heat or that she lives in this small town or that she wears plaid.”