Page 12 of Impenitent Claim

That was it; that was the spectre. Correcting my trajectory, I moved in that direction, breathing quietly, trying to stay hidden, but the very blood in my veins tingled in excitement! Deeper into the trees I went, where the yard became thick, almost forest-like. That was the reason my parents bought this property. Nature made it private and secluded, even though beyond the property wall there were roads, neighbors, and the bustle of the city right down the road.

A shadow slipped. My target glided into focus for the briefest of moments.

Madonna! It’s huge!

The mysterious presence was just out of reach, darting between the trunks. I forged ahead, redoubling my pursuit. Shadow slipped into darkness, and I lost the visual.

But it was there.

The phantom was real, not a figment of my imagination.

The air was chilled by the amorous embrace of autumn. The scent of damp earth and the slight rot of leaves were heavy compared to the crisp bite of frost that wasn’t quite ready to form. The cool dewiness clung to my skin as I moved through the underbrush, careful not to make too much noise. I couldn’t run—if I did, I’d trip over the gnarled roots and scattered branches that littered the ground back here where the gardeners didn’t prune. No one cared to ramble through the woods beside the crazy Rinaldi girl, and that was something I hadn’t done in far too long. It felt damn good to be in nature again, even if the reason that drove me into the thick expanse of trees questioned my sanity.

The shadows between the trees were deep, swallowing up the spaces where the moonlight couldn’t reach, and my eyes struggled to adjust. Every now and then, I’d catch a flicker of movement, just a flash of something, and my pulse would quicken, my breath catching in my throat.

And then silence descended, thick and expectant, broken only by the wild pulse in my veins. Was I close? Or had I lost the spectral presence? Adrenaline buzzed in my veins as I moved carefully, inching forward. The property wall was around here somewhere.

“Phantom? Is that you?” I breathed.

Great, I was the little idiot calling out for the monster in the dark.

I stepped out from behind a tree, and the shadows seemed to shift around me, playing tricks on my eyes. It was hard totell where the light ended and the darkness began. A rough, animalistic snarl echoed through the trees, powerful and very close.

“Go back to bed, rusalka,” it warned.

“No!” I planted my hands on my hips. “Not until I’ve said what I came here to say.”

“You’re underdressed—again—and shaking with cold,” the spectre growled. “Turn that sweet ass around and go to bed. Or I’ll throw you over my shoulder and put you there myself.”

My jaw dropped.Who the hell does he think he is?

Because there was no longer any doubt in my mind that this was a man stalking me.

Instead of being disturbed by such language, my body was a livewire. The proximity brought about a strange electricity that aroused me more than I cared to admit. No one dared speak to me like that, and yet this stranger did.

Damn me, I wasn’t offended. I should have been. I was engaged, for chrissakes. My life was wrapped tight with the destiny of others. I had responsibilities!

And yet one dominant threat from the man lurking in the shadows had me warming with a forbidden fire.

“Isabella.” A twig snapped a few feet away.

He’ll catch me!Fear, ripe and sharp, finally broke through the tangle of other emotions. I bolted.

The moon watched overhead, pale and ghostly, and I felt a shiver of excitement run down my spine as I scampered away from the monster. I knew he could easily catch me—but the worst part? Iwantedhim to hunt me down. It wasn’t until I was safely back in my room, panting and unable to catch my breath, that the myriad of reasons why tempting the dark was the worst idea imaginable lectured me with their irrefutable logic.

Still…it was hard to find the proper remorse for my actions. The thrill of being haunted was a powerful distraction from the tragic reality of my life.

Chapter 8 – Isabella

Stifling a yawn, I pushed the samples of food around my plate. Chicken Marsala was not only a wedding dinner cliché, but this didn’t look like a good batch. It was hard to screw up mushrooms, chicken, and sauce. The chef and owner, who was a cousin to Cecilia’s late father, somehow managed. I placed a tiny bite in my mouth so watchful eyes would see me tasting the food. That was what we were here to do after all, the last taste test before the wedding menus were finalized.

It was bland, and the chicken was dry.

“And then the contractor used an off-white to paint the ceiling,” Bella Silvio said, feigning indignation.

Of all the conversations circling around the table, this was the most interesting. But only because the capo’s wife was rumored to be sleeping with her contractor. It was not only common for the Made Men to sleep around, but also encouraged. A status symbol. A wife, however, did not have such a luxury. While I would never condone that behavior, I hated the double standard. In the case of the contractor with a thick tool belt, hopefully, the poor man knew the risk. I slid a look to Bella. She didn’t look likeshe wasthatgood in the sack. Definitely not sensational enough to risk life and limb.

Not that I was brimful with experience.

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