The Stalker by Lauren Gilley

Author:Lauren Gilley [Gilley, Lauren]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Published: 2017-07-20T05:00:00+00:00

~*~

Dr. Edwin Talbot stood on the wide top step of the manor house, watching the driveway where it emerged from the trees, bubbling with childish excitement. It was an effort not to pinch himself; he couldn’t believe this was finally happening. After decades of research, lobbying, brown-nosing; after countless sleepless nights and a ruined marriage, he had his position at the Institute. He had the brothers, waiting for him inside Blackmere Manor. And right now he was waiting to meet the oldest living wolf in existence.

He might faint with elation.

He cast another glance over his shoulder at the Gothic masterpiece of a home, its narrow, mullioned windows, its dangerous eaves, its rain-streaked stone façade. The stone gargoyles on the roof seemed to move if you squinted, their lips peeled back in constant snarls, wings spread threateningly. Tucked away deep in the woods outside of Richmond, the house couldn’t have looked more out of place in Virginia if it had tried, seemingly snatched off the cover of a novel, plucked from a dark and stormy English countryside.

The inside had been dusty and in need of a good airing out, cobwebs spun between the high-backed dining room chairs, but it was the most decadent, dark, romantic thing Dr. Talbot had ever seen. And the basements. Three levels of them: stone, and steel, and impenetrable. Exactly what he needed for his research and…containment cells.

He heard the rumble of an engine and whipped back around.

A dusty black ’69 Cadillac DeVille cruised up around the circular drive and came to a stop in front of the dry fountain. Under the layer of road dust, the car was flawless, not a single dent or nick. Lovingly cared for, obviously. It had probably only ever had one owner, after all.

The passenger door opened, and Dr. Talbot’s breath caught in his chest as he watched the baroness step out into the gray daylight. He’d seen photos of her, scratched and sepia-toned, but the photos had failed to make her seem alive, somehow. She stood looking up at the house, one hand on the car door, and she seemed like an ordinary girl: very pretty, dark hair curled at the ends, dressed in cutoffs and a man’s flannel shirt, scuffed black boots, a jangle of silver bracelets at her wrist. She looked young, barely out of high school. She looked like her skin would be warm if he touched it – like a person, and no longer just a legend they gossiped about.

The driver door opened, and a tall, slender man unfolded from behind the wheel. His shiny black hair fell to the middle of his back, pulled back along the crown to reveal his high forehead and cruelly beautiful bone structure. Aristocratic. A prince stepped straight from a painting. He wore a black shirt under a red leather motorcycle jacket. Polarized sunglasses with blue lenses. He walked around the car to his wife and revealed black jeans and combat boots. A bored rock star on a country vacation. Magnificent.

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