Only One I Want (UnHallowed Series Book 2) by Tmonique Stephens

Author:Tmonique Stephens [Stephens, Tmonique]
Language: eng
Format: epub, mobi
Published: 2017-10-23T18:30:00+00:00

23

Fucking men! Motherfucking men!

Amaya wanted to castrate them all. Maybe not all of them. Actually, just one. And he wasn’t even a man. He was a damn UnHallowed asshole.

“Fucking UnHallowed!” She punched the steering wheel. She hated taking the passive-aggressive route, but what choice did she have? Call him a douche for leaving her like she was some one-night stand he picked up in a bar? Pretend nothing happened? Either way, she wanted to stab him through his non-existent heart.

Boy, did she want to plant a dagger through his chest as he stood on the porch, all handsome and seductive. Just when she thought he had some humanity mingled with his acidic blood, he goes and proves her wrong.

That’s what you get for letting your guard down. For forgetting he isn’t a human with human feelings and…and…Who was she fooling? Who’s to say a regular guy wouldn’t have done the same thing, bail on her at the first inkling things were about to get deeper, about to go past the superficial where real emotions lay and bonds were formed. It’s not as if she hadn’t done the same to every man who wanted more than she was willing to give. Not on the first night, but soon thereafter. Get them before they get you…because everyone leaves. First her parents, before she had a memory of them. Then Braile, then Michael, and then her grandparents when they died two years apart. At least she had a chance to thank them for all they did before they left her.

Nothing lasts, not for me.

She shook her head to clear the thoughts away. “It doesn’t matter. Now that I’ve got him out of my system, it won’t happen again. The need to know is gone. Curiosity satisfied.” She tapped out a tune on the steering wheel and refused to acknowledge the elephant riding shotgun in the passenger seat.

Her curiosity wasn’t satisfied, not by ten thousand miles.

An hour later, she rolled into the parking lot and handed the keys to one of the valets, and strode into the building. She came to the gallery opening expecting to view some paintings, drink some wine, and rub elbows with some hipsters.

She didn’t expect to be greeted by heavy bass rock ‘n’ roll pumping from recessed speakers, or a good-looking guard in a nicely fitted black suit and white shirt stopping her at the glass entryway. She pulled out her embossed vellum invitation and handed it over. He took a cursory glance and motioned her through.

Amaya entered the white space, planning on keeping an open mind because she needed the distraction. Weird paintings, odd sculptures—tonight was a showing featuring a friend of Pilar’s. Tomorrow, she’d find something new to keep her occupied.

She rounded a pillar and halted. Performance art…okay. Nude performance art. Okay? She grabbed a glass of wine from a circulating waiter, sipped, and approached the first glass enclosed subjects. Two females—one African American, the other, Caucasian, face forward, unmoving except for involuntary blinking and breathing. A chime sounded and they pivoted to face each other.

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