Cursed: A Reverse Harem Urban Fantasy Romance (The Gaia Chronicles Book 1) Read online

  Table of Contents

  Title Page

  Copyright Page

  Titles by Grace White

  1.

  2.

  3.

  EARTH

  4.

  5.

  6.

  FIRE

  7.

  8.

  9.

  WATER

  10.

  11.

  12.

  13.

  AIR

  14.

  15.

  16.

  17.

  18.

  Playlist

  Author’s Note

  About the Author

  The Gaia Chronicles #1

  Published by Delesty Books

  First eBook Edition

  Copyright © Grace White 2018

  All rights reserved.

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and events are the product of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons or events is purely coincidental.

  No part of this book may be reproduced or used in any manner without the written permission of the publisher, except by a reviewer who may quote brief passages for review purposes only.

  If you are reading a copy of this book that has not been purchased from a licensed retailer, please destroy it. Thank you for your support.

  Edited by Andrea M. Long

  Cover designed by Lianne Cotton

  Images: Licensed from Shutterstock and Adobe Stock

  Table of Contents

  Title Page

  Copyright Page

  Titles by Grace White

  1.

  2.

  3.

  EARTH

  4.

  5.

  6.

  FIRE

  7.

  8.

  9.

  WATER

  10.

  11.

  12.

  13.

  AIR

  14.

  15.

  16.

  17.

  18.

  EARTH

  Playlist

  Author’s Note

  About the Author

  Titles by Grace White

  The Gaia Chronicles

  CURSED

  COVETED (coming April 2018)

  The Lilituria Prophecy

  AWAKEN

  ALLURE

  ASCENSION

  The Complex Series

  ALORA’S CHOICE

  You can sign up for Grace’s newsletter HERE

  1.

  Today is the worst day of my life.

  And that’s saying a lot given what I’ve been through in my nineteen years.

  “Thank you for coming,” I say for at least the fifth time in less than an hour. It still sounds foreign on my tongue. Surreal. It hurts less than peoples well-rehearsed reply though.

  “I’m so sorry for your loss.” As if those six words make it somehow easier to swallow. I know they’re supposed to bring comfort; provide me with a sense of companionship in my time of need, but honestly, I just want to be alone.

  “Terra?”

  I turn to Mrs. Samson, my grandmother’s best friend, and feel relieved it’s her and not another vaguely-familiar person I have to make small talk with.

  “I’m sorry, do you need something?” I ask, dabbing my eyes with my handkerchief; the one my grandmother had given me right before she passed. How ironic, that laying on her deathbed, she’d been the one to comfort me.

  Her glassy gaze settles on me and she smiles. “No, dear. I just came to check on you. See how you’re holding up.” The smile slips off her face and I know she knows exactly how I’m doing, because she feels it too. The never-ending pain—the gaping hole in my heart.

  Bony fingers reach for my shoulder, squeezing gently. “Just a little longer and then I’ll clear everyone out. It was a lovely service. You did her proud.” Mrs. Samson holds my teary-eyed gaze with her own and a moment of understanding passes between us.

  “Thank you,” I choke out. “I couldn’t have done it without you.”

  The truth is, I didn’t want to. Casket choices. Picking out music for the service. Flower arrangements. It was all too much for my battered brain cells to handle. Mrs. Samson was more than willing to help, and I let her.

  “I’ll go and make sure everyone has drinks.”

  I nod tightly and watch as she shuffles down the hallway and into the kitchen. People are gathered in every corner of the house. Quiet and solemn. Just as a wake should be.

  And my grandmother would have hated it.

  I can imagine her, tsk tsking at us, wagging her finger. She always believed life was a blessing. Something to be celebrated. A notion that extended to death, in her eyes. But how could I possibly rejoice over losing the most important person in my life?

  The only person.

  The next hour passes in a blur of forced conversations and fake smiles. But true to her word, at five o'clock, Mrs. Samson ushers everyone from the house, thanking them for coming to pay their last respects. My arms remain wrapped around my midriff, holding myself together, as she cleans up. I know I should help. I know I’m supposed to be the one taking care of this, but I can’t seem to move.

  I can’t seem to do anything.

  “Terra, go. I’ll take care of this.”

  “Go?”

  She stops what she’s doing and lets out a small breath. “She wouldn’t want this. I know it’s been hard, but Matilda wouldn’t want this.”

  Her words knot my stomach. I feel them twist and turn and tug, and the sensation causes me to hunch over. She’s right—of course she’s right—but I feel adrift. Lost at sea without an anchor.

  “It’s okay,” Mrs. Samson says when I don’t answer. Her voice is soft—softer than I deserve when she’s here, present, and I’m here but paralyzed, drowning in my grief. “Go,” she repeats and this time, I grab my jacket off the rack and put it on.

  “I won’t be too long.” My fingers curl around the door knob and I push, but at the last second, I glance back. “Thank you... for everything.”

  Mrs. Samson nods before continuing the clean-up and I slip outside with only one place in mind.

  MY FINGERS SINK INTO the long grass, brushing back and forth as I stare out at the old oak tree. Its thick trunk and far reaching roots are a testament to its age. My grandmother once told me it was planted at the turn of the twentieth century when her great grandmother moved here. An old rope swing hangs from the sturdiest branch and I imagine her as a child, whooshing through the air; children’s laughter dancing on the breeze.

  And something calms in me.

  I can almost see her, head tipped back with an infectious smile painted on her face. Big emerald eyes wide with excitement. Untamed red curls blowing wildly in the wind. And I smile back. This is how my grandmother would want me to remember her. Her zest for life.

  Her spirit.

  It’s strange really. Loss isn’t something new to me. I’m acquainted with it, more than most people my age. My parents died when I was just thirteen. It was then I arrived in Lebanon. But in the last six years, I had become closer with my grandmother than I ever was with my parents. They weren’t bad people, not at all, but they didn’t get me. Not the way she did.

  Often, I think she understood me better than I understand myself. It’s difficult to explain, but I can feel the pain of everything around me—not people, but everything else around me. I can sense a storm brewing on the horizon with
out ever hearing the reporter’s forecast. Feel the life of the fields I walk or the flowers I tend.

  When I was younger, it freaked me out, but my grandmother made me see it was nothing to fear—that it just meant I was connected to everything around me. Out here, on the farm, it's easy to forget that others aren’t so understanding. Away from the judging stares and gossip mills of city life, I have been able to be myself.

  Terra Materson—the girl who feels the world.

  But now my grandmother is gone and I’m alone. Terrified that finally, I’ll have to learn to live in the big wide world again.

  WHEN I FINALLY RETURN to the house, Mrs. Samson is waiting for me and there’s someone with her. A man I don’t recognize. I tilt my head, taking in his appearance. A long, woolen, charcoal-gray coat hangs over dark slacks which meet polished shoes.

  “This is Mr. Bannatyne,” Mrs. Samson announces.

  “Hello.” I extend a hand and he accepts, shaking it a little too forcefully.

  “It’s a pleasure, Miss Materson. I realize today is not a good day, but your grandmother was quite insistent.”

  “She was?” I almost choke on my heart at the mention of my grandmother.

  “I’ll leave you be, dear.” Mrs. Samson pats my arm soothingly. “If you need me, you know where I am.” She gives me a pointed look, silently asking if I need her to stick around, but I thank her for everything and see her out.

  When I return, I say, “Please, Mr. Bannatyne,” and motion for him to follow me into the living room. “Is this concerning my grandmother’s estate? I already met with her executor.”

  We sit opposite each other and he pulls a leather case onto his lap. “About six months ago, your grandmother visited me.” The lid flips open, and he rustles the contents. “My apologies; let me explain. I am a lawyer in Osborne. I have handled some of your grandmother’s affairs in the past.”

  “Okay, but I still don’t understand. The last will and testament has already been settled.” Since I was her only living relative, it was straightforward enough. The house and her life belongings were mine. Except for a few sentimental items she left for Mrs. Samson, and a small donation for the church.

  “She was pretty clear.” He smiles warmly at me. “I was to deliver this to you today and not a moment sooner or later.” Mr. Bannatyne thrusts a manila envelope at me. It feels heavy in my hands. The weight of its secrets a burden I’m not sure I can handle in my current state of mind.

  “That’s all?” I ask glancing from the envelope to the man across from me.

  “That’s it. I really am very sorry for your loss.” He rises, and I sense this brief—and strange—meeting is over. “I’ll show myself out.”

  “Thank you.” I’m not sure I could move even if I wanted to. The door bangs shut, indicating I’m alone and I push my fingers underneath the lip of the envelope, inhaling a deep steadying breath.

  The bundle of papers slides out with ease and my eyes dance over my grandmother’s handwriting. Its familiarity is like a punch to the gut. She wrote me this. Knowing I would receive it after her death.

  Dearest Terra,

  I hope Mr. Bannatyne was gentle with you. He needs to work on his approachability, but I trusted none other with delivering this to you.

  Child. My sweet, sweet child. It has been a pleasure watching you grow. Changing from a confused teenager into a thoughtful and compassionate young woman. There is no word that does justice to the dignity and sacrifice you have showed me over the past two years.

  When you arrived on my doorstep, it was never my intention to stifle your wings. To imprison your spirit. But sometimes, life hands us a curve ball we do not expect. You did your part and I owe you a debt I can never repay. But I hope this is a start...

  It’s time to spread your wings, Terra. To unshackle yourself from your insecurities and share your beauty and graciousness with the world.

  Be brave. Live well. And love without fear.

  I will be watching,

  Always.

  x

  I drop the letter in my lap and rub my eyes with the heel of my palm. Her words. They sink into me, stealing my breath. Cracking my chest wide open. And it’s like discovering she’s gone all over again.

  What does she mean, it’s time for me to spread my wings? Then my eyes land on the letterhead underneath her note.

  Atchison College.

  My heart pounds in my chest, drowning out the sounds of my gentle sobs. She didn’t... she wouldn’t. But as my trembling fingers reach for the packet, I know what it is. It’s my dream—the one I gave up to care for a sick woman who needed me. And it’s ironic really, that in life she stole my dream away, and in death she’s handing it back.

  I should feel something. A flicker of relief. Excitement. A seed of hope blossoming deep inside my chest. Instead, I don’t know what to feel. I don’t know how to overcome the crippling pain I experience every time I let myself remember this is real.

  That she’s gone.

  And only one thought stands out.

  I’m not ready.

  I WAKE EARLY, RESTLESS and exhausted from yesterday. It's the tenth morning I've woken and not had to rush to my grandmother's side. My life is my own again.

  And therein lies the problem.

  For the last two-and-a-half years, my life has been dictated for me. When we found out my grandmother had cancer, there was no doubt in my mind I would care for her for as long as she needed me. Her prognosis wasn't good. Even with all the chemo and radiotherapy in the world, the chances of her making her seventieth birthday were slim. But she was nothing if not stubborn, proving doctors wrong at every turn. The day her body finally up and quit on her, she was almost seventy-one.

  The faintest hint of a smile forms on my lips. We'd thrown her a big party when she turned seventy. Mrs. Samson, me, a few of their friends from church. I made a big sponge cake and listened to them relive stories from their younger years. Even though the drugs were slowly eating their way through her body, my grandmother insisted on dressing for the occasion and sat in her wingback chair like royalty. All she'd needed was a crown. But that was Matilda Kopps. She made the most of every moment.

  Every last breath.

  Her words rush into my mind. Spread your wings. The dreams I once had of one day attending college seem so far away.

  Another life.

  But my purpose in life is no longer and, without her, I no longer know who I am or what I want to do with my life. It's a revelation I wasn't prepared for.

  A revelation I’m not sure I’m ready to deal with.

  My eyes flicker to the envelope on my desk and I throw back the covers. With the thick pile in my grasp again, I return to the bed, shuffling against the headboard.

  Dear Miss Materson,

  On behalf of the Atchison College of Liberal Arts, I am pleased to inform you that you have been accepted for admission for fall 2019...

  I read the letter. And then read it again, absorbing every last detail.

  She did it.

  My zany, doting, huge-hearted grandmother applied to school on my behalf from her deathbed.

  What the hell was she thinking?

  But this time, the dread that pooled in my stomach at the thought of leaving this place is no longer overwhelming. It's there. But so is something else. Something unexpected.

  Something unfamiliar.

  Hope.

  2.

  Atchison College is perfect.

  My grandmother knew what I needed better than I did. The only college I’d ever considered, back when college was still an option, the campus is small enough to not be overwhelming, but big enough that I feel its energy.

  The buzz.

  And I'd be lying if I didn't say it excites me.

  I check my orientation packet again for my dorm assignment. Since I missed most of orientation week, there was no grand welcome for me. No long lines of nervous kids waiting to start the next phase of their lives. Just a gray-haired woman with an i
ntimidating glare and a sharp tongue. She'd handed me my packet with well-rehearsed directions that obviously floated right over my head, given I am well and truly lost.

  Grinding to a halt, I turn the campus map in my hands and try to locate my position. I close my eyes and inhale deeply, imagining my dorm building, visualizing the correct route. But, before I can finish, someone clears their throat. “Can I help?”

  My eyes flicker open. “Would you believe me if I said, I'm lost?”

  The guy tilts his head studying me, and I immediately avert my gaze. He's so breathtakingly gorgeous, and I'm not used to being around people. Or guys. Especially ones who look like him. But there’s something else. A familiarity to him. A deep sense of déjà vu I can’t explain. He doesn’t have the kind of face... eyes... smile... or body you would forget in a hurry. Not that I have much to compare it to.

  “Where are you headed?” He leans in to study my map and I point to the blob marked Amelia Earhart Dormitory trying to catch my breath as my heart does little flips against my rib cage.

  “Earhart, nice. Okay, you want to follow this path all the way to the end and take a right. It's the last building on the left.” He steps back, flashing me a blinding smile.

  “Wow, that easy.” I snatch the map away and shove it into my backpack. “Guess I really need to learn how to read one of these things.”

  “I'm Cael.” He holds out his hand, but I just stare at it. Too focused on the rapid beat of my heart.

  What is that?

  For someone who can feel everything around her, I have a strangely hard time defining what it is about Cael that affects me. Besides the fact he’s completely gorgeous, with his sun-kissed blond hair, strong jaw, and eyes the color of the sky on a clear day.

  “I'm a sophomore,” he adds catching my attention and I blink at him.

  “Sorry, I'm Terra. Terra Materson.”

  His eyes widen a fraction, and something flashes in his twinkling blue depths. “Terra, you say? Cool name.” He rakes a hand through messy blond hair and I’m mesmerized by the action. The way the strands stick to his fingers and then fall around his face.