Suicide Season (House of Von Aster Book 1) by Yolanda Olson

Author:Yolanda Olson [Olson, Yolanda]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Published: 2021-08-29T18:30:00+00:00

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

When I wake up the next evening, the space on the bed beside me is empty. I can smell La Favre, so I know he’s still in the house. Have his tantrums returned in full force now that his hunger has subsided?

I rub my eyes, not making the slightest move to get off the bed, and then fold an arm behind my neck.

It amazes me how, in just making a decision for the both of us on who to feast on—without his input—has put him in such foul spirits.

Now would be the time to abandon him for a while, just to prove to him that he needs me more than he’s willing to admit to himself. But with danger looming on the horizon, I know that’s impossible to do right now.

Where are you?

The front door slams in response and I sit up immediately. Kicking my legs over the side of the bed, I damn near trip over my own feet as I make my way out of the bedroom and down the hall.

If he’s defied me and left the house, I’m going to cripple him when I find him. It’s not something I’ll take any pleasure in doing, but Eliseo needs to understand that all the things I instruct him to do—and do myself when words fail me—is for his own fucking good.

“La Favre!” I boom as I walk toward the front door.

“Yes?”

I whip my head to the left and do my best to steady myself when I see him sitting in the living room, picking through the mail. That would make a great deal of sense as to why the door closed, but I know he did it as loudly as he could in an attempt to dig at my authority over him.

“Sorry,” I mumble as I run a hand back through my hair. He glances up at me briefly, letting his eyes wander up and down my naked body, then shakes his head with a slight smile dancing on his lips as he goes back to flipping through the envelopes.

"What?” I grumble. “I thought you left when I heard the door close.”

“You told me that I can’t go anywhere,” he responds curtly, and I sigh. Well-fed and recovered from the evening before, and he’s back in a foul mood.

“Well, it’s not exactly like you to listen to much of what I have to say these days,” I say as I walk over and sit down next to him. “And I don’t understand why you’re so fond of going through the mail. As far as anyone is concerned, you’re dead, remember?”

He shrugs as he drops the stack on the coffee table and blows out his breath. Leaning back against the couch cushions, he tilts his chin up toward the ceiling, then turns to look at me.

“Sometimes, I like to pretend that I’m still alive,” he confesses softly. I can see the longing in his eyes for what he once was. I can see the accusations too; the ones

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