Page 1 of Unmasked Rivalry
PROLOGUE
Staring at the old, worn-down farmhouse, it takes all of my strength not to turn and get the hell out of here. Hell, lighting a match seems like a better idea than walking into the spider-infested dump that has been left alone now for over five years. I don't know whose sick idea it was to leave it all to me, but here I am, in a place I have never even stepped foot into, let alone earned the right to inherit.
But my now-deceased uncle had other ideas.
Exhaling a slow and somewhat angry breath, I approach the house.
The porch sags, and the front door, paint blistered, knob dangling by a single stubborn screw, looks like the mouth of something that would rather swallow me whole and be done with it. I curl my lip, scared to take another step, and tell myself I’m just going to get this done and leave. I don’t want to stay in this hole a second longer than I have to.
But I’m not fooling anyone, least of all myself. I do that thing, the one where I inhale through my nose and just let the memory slap me around for a minute. I can’t help but remember how much Harper loved this place. It was just her and my uncle, the two of them against the world. She would visit me and tell me all about it.
I feel guilty that I never got the chance to see it before now.
My heart twists.
The barn lists to the east, its tin roof sagging, and the fence meant to keep the horses in, when there were horses, leans so far sideways it’s practically a suggestion, not a boundary. I countthree different kinds of thistle in the front two acres. Only one paddock is in somewhat good condition because it is filled with my uncle's old cows that he kept here, even when he went into an old people's home.
He wasn’t parting with them.
“Fucking hell,” I say, not bothering to soften my voice. The place can take it. If I’m honest, it looks like it enjoys a bit of rough play.
I resist, for as long as I can manage, which is about thirty seconds. Then I square my shoulders and dare to go inside. The door creaks, and I’m actually scared it might fall off. I shove it open and stare inside, my stomach twisting with something unfamiliar.
The hall is narrow, same grime lines tracing where picture frames once were, same dull gouges in the baseboards, like the past’s fingernails dug in for dear life. I run my hand along the dusty banister and cringe when I lift my fingers to find mouse droppings. Cursing, I swipe my hands over my jeans and attempt to remove the filth.
My phone buzzes. I ignore it.
I make a slow lap of the first floor. Kitchen, covered in dust, no dishes left, a field mouse nest occupying the sink. Living room, the wallpaper peeling off the walls and the floors dusty, leaving a trail of my footprints behind me. There is an old sofa and a television that was left behind when my uncle left. I don’t dare touch any of it.
By the time I reach the back sunroom, I am coughing from a tickle in my throat, no doubt from all the dust I stirred up. I check the bedrooms, one with a bed and a few dressers, and other than that, everything is empty. All the furniture, the memories, gone. I exhale, not sure I am fit to deal with this right now. My therapist will have a field day with me when I return home.
And then something clatters out on the drive: tires on gravel, the distant slam of a car door. I turn, squinting, but I can’t see a single thing out of the murky windows. God, when was the last time they were cleaned? I don’t even want to know the answer to that.
There’s someone coming up the front steps. He moves like he has every right to be here, and even before I see the swoop of his hair, or the infuriating way he squares his shoulders, I know exactly who it is. I grit my teeth. Oh, now he wants to see me. Considering only two hours ago, he told me to get the fuck out.
I can’t wait.
I open the front door just in time to see his tattooed fingers, his huge body, and his piercing eyes.
Knox.
Fucking Knox.
This should be fun.
1
“Who are you?”
His voice comes out clipped, an undertone of annoyance filling the air. Like I am somehow burdening him. I stare at the man in front of me, really taking him in. I’ve seen photos, of course, Harper was obsessed with this dude, but they do no justice to the man standing before me. Up close, he is far, far more intimidating and, dare I admit, gorgeous?
The photos certainly didn’t show just how green his eyes are, or maybe it’s because his skin is so olive, they just look like they’re popping. His hair, dark, thick, and long, is tied up at the nape of his neck, and his beard is so perfectly shaped, I wonder just how much effort it takes to keep it looking so perfect. He’s tall, he’s ripped, and he’s covered in ink.
I see a chain around his neck, the letter H dangling from the gold loops.
The girls who greeted me earlier didn’t seem to know about Harper, which I find interesting.
Why hasn’t he told them?
