Five years after my death, my lover, Killian Thorne, returned to the lakeside cottage where I had lived.
He wasn't there to see me. His new lover, Penny Monroe, had suffered another relapse of her supposed aplastic anemia, and he desperately needed my rare Rh-negative blood to keep her alive.
When he stepped into the dilapidated house, he found it empty.
"Melanie, get the hell out here now! My patience is wearing thin, and you know it!"
His roar sent the old woman next door, Maria Petrova, hurrying over.
"Are you looking for Melanie? She died a long time ago."
Killian didn't believe it. Of course, he knew nothing of the pain and torment I had endured before my death.
He just sneered.
"Her brat is still in my hands. How dare she die! Tell her if she ever wants to see that little bastard again, she’d better show her face by tomorrow!"
But Maria sighed and shook her head.
"If you mean Melanie's child, that poor boy died a long time ago, too. He was trying to find his way back to his mother..."
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1
For five years, my son Royal's soul and mine have been trapped in this dilapidated cottage, unable to move on. I never knew why.
In those same five years, Killian Thorne clawed his way up from an exiled heir to the Don of the Thorne family.
At his side, her arm linked through his, stood Penny Monroe, a celebrated beauty of New York's high society.
A cold wind swept through, kicking up clouds of fine gray dust. Penny covered her nose, not bothering to hide her disgust. "Killian, do you think Melanie is refusing to give me her blood? I feel like I'm going to die."
Five years ago, Penny was diagnosed with a rare blood disorder. As fate would have it, my rare Rh-negative blood was a perfect match for her.
Before my death, I was dragged onto the operating table time and again. Without anesthesia, they brutally drew my blood, over and over, just to keep her alive.
Killian glanced down at Penny, the coldness on his face melting into a gentle smile.
"Don't worry, Penny," he said. "Wherever she and that brat are hiding, I will find them."
Our son, Royal Thorne, who was floating beside me, shrank back in fear at his words. "Mamma, is that man my Papa? Really?"
Royal was only three when he died. I didn't know how to explain it to him, so I pulled his small spirit into my arms and ruffled his hair. "It's okay, Royal. He can't get to us."
Killian kicked the door open. The tremendous crash echoed through the house. It startled the old Eastern European woman next door, Maria Petrova. She shuffled over on trembling legs and asked cautiously, "Who are you looking for?"
"The woman who lives here," he answered, his voice sharp.
Maria narrowed her cloudy eyes. "You mean Melanie? She's been dead for a long time."
The color drained from Killian's face, and he froze.
Penny, however, stifled a delicate laugh. "Ma'am, you shouldn't joke like that. Melanie was the picture of health. How could she possibly be dead? I think she's just upset and hiding somewhere."
