Deadly Illusion: Exclusive SIGNED Edition - HOLIDAY WRAPPED

It happened quickly. One minute, I thought all my dreams were finally coming true—dreams I’d desperately clung to when I was a little girl, pressing my hands against my ears to silence the hurt. But the next, I was staring at a man with gritted teeth, fists clenched so tight his knuckles turned white, and eyes that glared like he wanted to annihilate me. 

He grabbed my arm and burrowed his fingers into my skin so painfully that my legs buckled, sending me to my knees. 

I swallowed over the sudden dryness in my throat, struggling to understand what was happening. Only moments ago, he’d knocked on my door with a charming smile. And now… 

Oh, God. 

I tried to twist away from him, but his fingers squeezed until my bones felt like they would shatter.

This was not happening. He was not doing this, because that would mean nothing was what I thought it was, and that I didn’t know him at all—or, more precisely, that I didn’t know what he was capable of…

It meant my brother, who was going to be here any second, might stumble onto this scene. Last night he’d called and told me there was something he needed to talk about. Whatever it was, he insisted on coming over and walking me to work this morning because he wasn’t willing to say it over the phone. All night I’d worried about what it could be. Had I done something to upset him? Had something happened to Mom or Dad? But now I wished he wasn’t coming, because Justin could get hurt trying to protect me. 

I wasn’t about to let that happen. 

Though the pain in my arm begged me not to move, I stood up and locked defiant eyes with him. The air in my apartment stilled, and the noisy hum of Chicago’s streets outside my living room window faded to nothing until our breaths were the only sound. 

“Get your hands off me,” I snarled.

His eyes narrowed, and as he swung his arm to release me, the momentum threw me off balance, and I fell to the carpet—my face crashing into the wall on the way down. Warm liquid dripped from my nose. 

Lying on the ground, staring up at him towering over me, I’d never felt so small and vulnerable. Never before had my body felt like such a liability. His six-foot, two-hundred-pound frame was an asset of solid muscle—twice my size and ten times my strength.

What made me think I could protect myself from someone so much bigger than me? 

He let out a long breath, and as he stared down at me, the rage dissipated from his face, falling into what seemed to be despair. He ran a hand through his hair and looked like he couldn’t believe what he’d just done. His worried eyes glazed over my body, and in a low voice, he asked, “Are you okay?” 

I blinked, struggling to digest it all—the violence, the sudden compassion.

He stepped towards me. “Jenna,” he said. “I—”

“Get out,” I demanded as forcefully as I could manage. I looked at the clock below the TV. Seven fifteen. Please let Justin run late. 

His eyes trained on the blood dripping from my nose. “Let me get you a tissue.” 

Yeah, like that would make everything better. Like we could just pretend that this whole time I’d known him, I’d thought he was a nice guy, while deep inside, he was nothing but a monster. 

I stood up, trying to steady my trembling hands. “Leave. Now, or…so help me, I’ll call the cops.”

He took a step forward.

I stepped back, putting my palm up.

I wished it wasn’t shaking. I wished I looked stronger, more intimidating, and I wished that it would take more than one real strike from him to take me out.

He stared at my hand as if he were the one baffled, confused how this shocking incident had occurred. 

“Get out,” I said.

“Jenna, I’m—”

“Out!” I snapped.

His body deflated, and he looked like he was on the verge of tears. His mouth remained a gaping hole of unspoken words that could never erase what just happened. After hesitating for what seemed like an eternity, he finally realized the best thing he could do was to leave, ambling out the front door so slowly he must have been hoping I’d change my mind and call him back.

Instead, I quickly locked the door and pressed my back against it. Sobbing into my hands, I wiped my nose and stared at the thin trail of blood on my skin in disbelief. 

Why did he do it? How did I let this happen? And why did it have to happen now, a mere eight months after moving to the city?

Envisioning this time in my life, eager to experience it in all its blissful glory, was the only thing that had gotten me through my dark early years.

On the outside, my life had looked the same as any child’s growing up in a small Illinois town four hours outside of Chicago. I had a stay-at-home mom, a dad with a steady, albeit small, paycheck running the local grocery store, an older brother, and a picturesque bedroom in an eighty-year-old country house. Beyond our front door, the sun brightened freshly cut lawns and sprawling oak trees, and the sounds of birds singing lovely melodies mixed with the laughter of families playing together. But inside, our home was shadowed in tragedy.

My sister’s name was Jessica. She had acute myeloid leukemia—AML. Leukemia is the most common form of childhood cancer, and the normal one—acute lymphoblastic leukemia—has a ninety percent survival rate, but not AML. AML is more aggressive. I’ve always felt bad that I couldn’t really remember her. I was only a toddler when she died, so I felt like a traitor for evading the grief that eventually destroyed my family. It was sort of like I grew up in a house with a massive crater at its center. Everyone was aware of the devastating cavity, but while the rest of them had lived through its catastrophic impact, I’d merely lived in the aftermath. 

I often walked home from school as slowly as possible, dreading the tightrope we’d have to balance with our mother always on the verge of a breakdown. Many times she wouldn’t even notice me when I came in. Sometimes our breakfast dishes would still be on the table, untouched, and she’d be sitting in the same spot as when we’d left for school, staring at the wall with glazed eyes. Other times, she’d linger at the kitchen sink full of suds, washing the same dish for twenty minutes. I used to watch her frail shoulders, praying they would stay still. As long as they were still, the days were bearable, but once they started to shake, her chin would tuck down, and she’d rush into her bedroom sobbing for the rest of the night. I felt awful for not knowing what to do to help her and selfish for needing to escape the sound of her cries—it was as if pain engulfed her soul. My favorite place to go was the swing in the backyard, where I’d close my eyes to feel the warm sun on my eyelids and swing as high as possible, imagining we could fly away from it all. 

I’d let myself get lost in daydreams of what my life could be like when I was all grown up. In my head it was always perfect: I’d live in a city full of exciting things to do, with friends that loved me unconditionally, unlike the mean girls in school who snickered at me just because I had to wear hand-me-down clothes. I’d find someone who loved me, and we wouldn’t avoid eye contact or sit on opposite sides of the couch like Mom and Dad; we’d hold hands and cherish every moment we had together. 

But then I’d feel guilty for dreaming of such happiness while Mom was trapped in her mental purgatory, and I’d wonder what my parents had been like before Jessica died. Did they use to dance in the glow of the television light? Scoop our giggling toddler bodies into their arms and smile, while fireflies lit up the backyard? I couldn’t wait for them to find their way back to that happiness, and I knew if I was patient enough, one day Mom would move past her grief and we’d have nightly dinners together and spend Christmas mornings smiling and unwrapping gifts as a family. 

It’s heartbreaking how long a human will hold on to hope, even as evidence mounts against it, even as months turn into years. But when hope is the only thing you have, when giving up on it means allowing eternal despair to devour you, how can you ever let it go?

By force, evidently. A verbal gunshot, delivered after my last day of eighth grade. When Mom and Dad asked Justin and me to sit down, I could tell by the looks on their faces that they were going to say something terrible. My palms began to sweat, no part of me wanting to hear what it was. As Dad twisted his wedding band and Mom folded her hands in her lap the way she did at church, Dad cracked my security with his words: They were getting divorced. A compassionate person would’ve hugged them and asked if they were okay, but with that one sentence, they destroyed every ounce of hope we had. I knew they were still grieving my sister; they always would, and I felt sorry for them, since they were obviously in incredible pain. But in that moment, I felt angry. Weren’t Justin and I enough for them to appreciate what they did have, not just what they lost? 

The only security my brother and I had back then was that Dad was our shield. With one look, he could warn us to leave the room just before she exploded. And when Mom was in her bed for days, he made sure we were fed and did our homework. But now he was leaving us behind because he couldn’t take it anymore? And he wouldn’t take us with him? So what if his new place was tiny! It felt like he was saving himself, leaving Justin and me on the Titanic as he got into a lifeboat. 

I’d been so upset by the news that I can only remember glimpses of what followed. Crying, begging them to change their minds, delusional in believing if I just said the right thing, I could stop our family from falling apart. I remember giving them both the silent treatment for days, and refusing to say goodbye to Dad when he loaded black garbage bags that stretched around his belongings into the back of his truck. I refused to visit him that entire summer, pathetically hoping it would force them back together.

But Mom and Dad never got back together. They signed some papers, opting out of their love story as easily as signing our report cards. I didn’t understand why my parents couldn’t have leaned on each other instead of giving up on their relationship—so help me, if I ever found true love I’d never let any tragedy divide us. But that’s when I realized things were never going to get better. If I wanted a happy life, I was going to have to roll up my sleeves and build it myself. 

I hated that my only hope to escape the misery meant leaving Mom alone in her anguish, but if I didn’t pursue the light, the darkness would consume me forever. So in high school, I got a job, applied for every scholarship I could get my hands on, and with hard work and determination, I managed to put myself through college and move to Chicago. 

For the first time in my life, everything was falling into place, and the upside of going through something bad is that it makes you appreciate the good that much more. 

But five weeks after I moved here, a sequence of events was put into motion that would jeopardize everything. 

It started on a Sunday evening in January. After spending the day with Justin—who’d moved to Chicago a year and a half before me—I took the “L” and walked the last couple blocks to my apartment. Like many people, I relied on public transportation because owning a car was expensive, and parking was difficult to find. Most people complained of the bitterly cold temperatures with subzero wind chills—harsh even by Midwest winter standards. But I didn’t move here to hibernate in my apartment, so I clutched my coat, pulled my hat down over my ears, and leaned into the whipping winds that stung my cheeks. 

Even in the unforgiving weather, I still appreciated the beauty of the city. In the ebony night, the hundred-story buildings stretched up to the sky with thousands of windows glowing like Christmas lights, and down here, elegant lamps hung on arched posts, warmly illuminating the walkways. In the distance, the “L” rumbled with a metallic squeak, ferrying people to all sorts of enchanting places throughout Chicago. 

By the time I reached my apartment complex, I was so cold that my fingers ached inside my gloves, but when I saw who was just outside the lobby doors, I stopped in my tracks. My neighbor, Stephen, was smoking a cigarette. I don’t know why he gave me the creeps. He’d been nothing but friendly, eager to help when he saw my U-Haul, but there was something about him that made me uncomfortable—something I couldn’t put my finger on. 

Still, there was no reason to turn around and walk away tonight. Yet, that’s precisely what I did.

“Jenna?” he called out.

Like a complete coward, I pretended not to hear him and hurried around the corner, unsure how far I’d have to walk before I could go back. How long did it take to smoke a cigarette? Two minutes? Five? Who had that kind of dedication to smoke when it was freezing outside? 

Thanks to the frostbite-inducing temperatures, there was almost no one out tonight, which is why I heard it: a faint whimper coming from the alley on my right. It took me a second to place the sound because the only light cutting through the pervasive darkness was from a single, dim bulb. But then I spotted a dog—a German shepherd, I think—about thirty feet away. The poor thing looked horrible, her ribs protruding against mangy fur, but worse, her stomach was distended. 

I urgently looked up animal rescue places on my phone, pleased to discover one only two blocks away, but how in the world was I going to get her there? I had no leash and nothing to lure or trap her with. The only thing I could think of was to try and catch her. It wasn’t a good plan, but I had to make it work because there was no way she’d survive tonight’s brutal temperatures. 

I advanced slowly into the alley, which stunk of rotting food. Pipes stretched along the bricks parallel to the road, hissing a hot, white vapor. The dog looked at me with nervous eyes as I moved cautiously around potholes and past an overfilled dumpster. 

“You really shouldn’t wander into dark alleys.”

I jumped to find a guy lurking behind the heap of trash, and when he reached out to grab me, I slammed my knee up. 

“Christ!” He grabbed his crotch and fell to his knees. 

The dog scurried twenty feet away, assessing the danger. 

So was I. 

I eyed him writhing in pain and considered bolting, but if I did, the dog would die. I was reasonably confident I could catch her before he was mobile again and, if not, well… I had two knees, and he had two balls. 

“Why the hell did you kick me?” he groaned, his chin tucked against his chest. 

“It’s disappointing when the people you try to attack fight back, isn’t it?” 

When he lifted his head to glare at me, I noticed he was good-looking. So was Ted Bundy, I reminded myself.

“I wasn’t attackin’ you, for god’s sake.”

“Your arm reached out to—”

“Feed the dog,” he said in annoyance. 

And now that I looked, he was holding a bag of chips, and the dog had been angled towards him. 

Oh crap. What if I just beat up a poor homeless guy who had been sharing his food with his little homeless dog? But he didn’t look homeless… In the limited light, I could see he was clean-shaven and his clothes didn’t look tattered. A drug dealer, then. 

I clenched my hand and brought it up, ready to attack if it came to that, but he simply looked at my defensive fist with an amused grin. After a few seconds, he wobbled to his feet, pressing his hands into his thighs for several moments before straightening his spine.

“I don’t want any drugs,” I clarified. 

“What?” After a moment, he tilted his head in offended understanding. “I’m not a drug dealer.”

Yeah, right. “Okay.”

“I’m not. But I could be. Hell, I could be a serial killer for all you know, and you just walked into an alley with a strange guy. You really need to be more careful.”

He was right. The smart thing to do was leave. Lingering in a secluded area with a stranger wasn’t safe, and the guy was taking care of the dog, so it’s not like it would be alone. But what if he didn’t try hard enough to save her? What if he just fed her and then left? How could I sleep tonight if there was a chance she might be out here dying? 

As we both stared at her quivering body, I said, “I’m going to take her to an animal hospital.”

He looked like he found me naively adorable. “And how are you going to do that, exactly?” 

“I’m going to catch her.”

“She’ll bite you.”

“I’ll be careful.”

“She could have rabies.”

“You have a better plan?”

He stared at the canine. “We could call animal control.”

Suddenly we were a we. Why did that make my stomach do flips, and why did his voice penetrate my chest? Dear diary, I met a handsome gentleman lurking behind a dumpster, and I caused irreparable damage to his reproductive organs. 

“She’ll probably bolt before they show up, and even if they do catch her, they’ll probably euthanize her,” I said.

This was the first time he looked particularly bothered. “Maybe we can buy a leash or something,” he suggested. But he clearly saw the flaw in that idea; she had no collar, and would never stick around long enough for one of us to come back from buying one.

“The dog’s pregnant,” I said, pointing to her bulging belly. “And with the wind chill, it’s supposed to get to negative forty tonight. If she runs off, there’s no way she’ll live through the night. Neither will her unborn pups.”

The guy looked at the dog with troubled eyes, then threw another chip down. “I’ll pick her up,” he offered.

“You need to keep her distracted by feeding her.”

“We could switch places,” he said.

“That could spook her, and since we already spooked her once—” 

“When you assaulted me.” He was teasing now. I think.

“Our best chance to save her is for you to keep feeding her, and for me to grab her.”

He looked between the dog and me. “If she comes at you, you think you can outrun her?”

“I don’t need to outrun her. I just need to outrun you.”

The guy grinned, setting my body’s microwave to defrost. 

As I gingerly made my way towards the dog, he threw chip after chip. As long as she was eating, she didn’t worry about my inching closer, but soon he held up the bag, showing me he’d reached the bottom. 

This was it. He threw the last chip down and, though nerves bound my muscles into knots, I pounced. Careful not to bump her belly, I threw my arms around her undercarriage and heaved her up. 

The problem was, moving that fast made me lose my footing, and, as I fell to the ground, the dog whipped her head around and bared her teeth. Holy crap! She lunged for me with a feral growl and snapped at my face, but just before she bit—her mouth so close I felt her hot, rotting breath invading my nostrils—she was yanked up.

She snapped at the guy, but unlike me, he had a good grip and she couldn’t reach his skin. He held her safely, until her snapping resolved into a moan. 

“You okay?” 

“I’m fine,” I said, embarrassed. 

“You hit your head,” he said. “Maybe I should take you to urgent care.”

“I’m good,” I insisted, hopping up. “Rescue place is this way.”

We walked in silence to the animal hospital and stayed with her while waiting for an exam. 

“How’d you find her?” I asked. 

“Followed her from the main road and saw her circlin’ that dumpster,” he said, shrugging as if anyone would have done the same thing. But not many people would have gone so far out of their way to help a poor, defenseless animal.

The guy looked at me and, unlike the dimly lit alley, the clinic’s light let me finally see his features in detail. Man, he was knee-buckling gorgeous. His radiant blue eyes were lighter on the inside, darker on the outside, his oval face had a sharp jawline, and his skin was the beautiful peach that hinted it darkened quickly in the summers, complementing his light-brown hair. And his body. Holy hell, his body. No longer hiding beneath a coat, the contours of his muscles pressed against the fabric of his gray shirt, his jeans hugging his hips in all the right places. 

A warmth cascaded over me.

“I’m Colton, by the way.” His husky tone could make women swoon. 

“Jenna,” I said. “Sorry I annihilated your manhood.”

He laughed, and the way he stared at me, like my life’s story was of sudden, vital interest to him, made my cheeks flush. 

I’d had guys look at me from time to time, but their looks were normally superficial. Colton, however, looked at me deeper, his gaze breaching my skin and plunging to my core. Like he was truly seeing me.

He studied me the whole time they examined the dog and reassured us they’d adopt her out to a good home. And his attention persisted as we provided our contact information to the clinic, put our winter gear back on, and stepped back outside.

In the blistering cold, cars cracked snow salt beneath their tires and people hurried down the sidewalk, hunched over to protect their faces from the biting winds. 

“Well, thanks for not slitting my throat or whatever,” I said.

A white cloud burst from his mouth as he threw his head back and laughed. And then he stared at me like the thought of letting me out of sight was no longer an acceptable possibility.

“Let me buy you a drink,” Colton suggested. “Least I can do. For helpin’ with the dog.”

I wanted nothing more than to get to know this handsome man who’d gone out of his way to help an animal in need, but Zoey was on her way to my place.

“My friend’s coming over.”

“Just a quick drink,” he suggested with a sexy smile that made me want to run away with him.

I checked my phone. Zoey said she’d text me when she got off the train. If I left then, I shouldn’t keep her waiting.

“I’d only have like ten minutes,” I said.

He smiled. “If I only have ten minutes to get to know you, we better hurry.”