A Haunted Christmas

Published by: eXtasy Books

ISBN :978-1-4874-0924-1

Page :35

Word Count :9778

Publication Date :2016-12-24

Series : #

Heat Level :

Available Formats : A Haunted Christmas (mobi) , A Haunted Christmas (epub) , A Haunted Christmas (prc) , A Haunted Christmas (pdf)

Category : Erotic Romance , Paranormal Romance , Holiday Countdown 2016 , Christmas

Product Code: 978-1-4874-0924-1

Qty

$0.90

0 reviews
Write a review

A magical mistletoe, mystical dream walks and a angel's helping hand, perfect recipe to put a heart back together?

Gifted or cursed? However people in her life chose to see her twisted ability its left Kiera Reeve broken. Her heart completely split in two. Can the magic of Christmas fuse it back together?

Daryl Wolfe watches the love of his life suffer through the Holiday season from up in the clouds until an angel offers him an opportunity he possibly can't refuse even though he might spend the rest of eternity in torment.

Jolon Woods struggles with an ethical decision to help the woman he loves move forward from the lost of her beloved's death. This Christmas he leaves his ethics aside and hopes the magic of the season will be on his side.

Raziel can only hope his plan to save the conduit works otherwise the paras and angel alike are all doomed.

Keira

“Aunt K, help me! It burns, aunt K, help... pleasepleaseplease aunt K, help me!” I bolt upright in bed. The sound of my nephew Tyler’s voice still resounds in all corners of my mind. When will this blasted nightmare ever end? Didn’t I suffer enough the night Tyler died? Why do the nightmares have to keep me in a perpetual loop? It doesn’t do that for the others...

I slip out of bed. “Gosh! Not again.” I groan and I can’t help but wince when my feet hit the cold floorboards. “Just great! Once again, I forgot to turn on the damn thermostat.” A shiver runs through my core as a blast of cold wind hits me. “And I left the window open. Maybe I should remember to close that sucker, December 23rd, in Montreal and all... No wonder my floorboards are freezing cold.” I roll my eyes to mock my own stupidity. “Oh well, at least this time they aren’t covered in ice or snow.” I hurry across the room to my dresser and pull out a pair of wool socks. With my feet toasty warm, I close the window and make my way downstairs to make a strong pot of coffee. There would be no more sleep for me this night.

I bustle around in my kitchen. I take out a small glass bowl, pull bottles from my spice rack, and fish out my measuring spoons from my everything goes in there drawer. I start my espresso machine to brew while I prepare my homemade pumpkin spice mix. With an expert hand, I measured the spices: 3 tbsp ground cinnamon, 2 tsp ground ginger, 2 tsp ground nutmeg, 1 ½ tsp ground allspice, 1 ½ tsp ground cloves. I mix the spices together in my small glass bowl and take a little whiff—smells like autumn! If only it’d be that easy. To turn back the clock, reset time. I’d do it. In a heartbeat. Rewind two years of my life. Take back everything I’ve lost. My heart constricts in my chest. Not now, I beg.

I turn around and grip the porcelain edge of the sink. The coolness it offers against my warmed skin seems to calm my oncoming episode. The whistle of my espresso machine drags me away from my little comfort zone. I take the small cup of strong coffee and set it aside for later. I bend down and select my favorite small saucepan and set it on my stovetop. Now, I need to collect the rest of the ingredients to make my pumpkin spice latte.

I pull the milk out of the fridge. From the pantry, I dig out my famous homemade pumpkin puree. Another pang hits me then, as though a ghostly hand squeezes my heart. I take several deep breaths. “No tears. Please, no tears,” I beg as the familiar tremble starts at the base of my spine. I brace myself for the onslaught. Taking deep, long breaths. In. Out. Trying to relax the invading spasm—my grip on the mason jar of puree getting tighter. My fingers turning bone white around it. The pang dissipates as quickly as it hit me. The jar almost slips out of my fingers. It’s as if all of my digits went limp with the receding pain. I fumble and catch it at the last moment before it crashes on the ground. My last jar, no less. I bite my bottom lip and leave the pantry. There are more ingredients to collect.

Back in the kitchen, I search my cupboards for white sugar and vanilla extract, the last two items I need for the recipe. I grab them as soon as I spot them on the top shelf and get busy preparing my latte. In the saucepan I’d set on the stove, I whisk in ½ cup of milk, add in 1 tsp white sugar, 1 tsp pumpkin puree, 1 tsp pumpkin spice and ½ tsp vanilla extract. I let it simmer on low heat for five minutes, then whisk in another ½ cup of milk and pour the mixture through my fine meshed sieve to remove the pulp. After, I return the fragrant mix in the saucepan, on simmer, whisking, 2 minutes. I finally add the espresso I’d set aside. Whisk until everything froths up and a nice foam form. I close my eyes to let the spicy fragrances wash over me.

Memories come crashing into me. The smiling face of my sister Naomi—even in her last moments she offered me a semi-sweet smile. She’d known. For months she’d known the cancerous cells were eating away at her body with no hope of a cure. And when the last moment came... I saw, like I always do. I couldn’t stop it. I never can. The terror and pleading face of my nephew Tyler—his deep rooted confidence in his aunt K; could it have been his downfall? Did he think I could save the ones I see? At the tender age of seven, how could he understand a gift I barely understand at thirty-one? The defiance and unconditional love of my fiancé Daryl—burned bright in his eyes as the flames engulfed his morphing body, half man, half wolf when he tried to save... “Meet Kiera Reeve, everyone. Freak of nature over here. Yeah, that’s me! Some people call me Banshee. Others Psychic. A few Empath. But, me, I just embrace the fucking freak, man!”

The smell of scorched milk brings me out of my trance. “Fuck!” I chuck the ruined latte in the sink. I scrub the saucepan clean. The energy I pour into cleaning the pot keeps me firmly grounded into the present. “I only wanted my favorite latte—how the hell in seven bells is that too much to ask?” I huff.

With aching muscles I set to clean my ceramic stovetop. Nightmares—flashbacks—be damned. I’ll make my latte, and I’ll enjoy the fucker. Just to kick Faith or the Powers that Be right in the balls. “Go suck my dick,” I yell. “Yeah, you heard me!” I take a deep, steadying breath and start over.