The Wilde Series
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Nova Nyx
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557K
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40
Chapter 1
AZALEA
Wind whispers through the snow-covered trees, their naked branches adorned with a dusting of freshly fallen snow.
Iâve spent so long bouncing from one big city to the next that Iâd forgotten how peaceful Mother Nature is on her own, without the crowds of people and the constant din of city life.
The crisp mountain air still soothes my aching soul, even after all this time. I take a deep breath in, the earthy autumn scent of the surrounding trees enveloping me in a welcome-home hug.
Six long years ago, we lost Mom in the exact spot Iâm standing on this winding stretch of mountain road. And itâs been six years since Iâve been back here.
My long raven hair dances around my face, the sunlight catching on the streaks of blue painted throughout the strands.
Mom always hated my colorful hair. She said it made me look like a groupie. And when I got my first tattoo at sixteen, she complained I was the wildest of my sisters, living up to our family name.
A smile spreads across my lips at the memories of her rolling her eyes at my antics, pretending to be annoyed, yet smiling all the while.
Of my three sisters, I was definitely the wildestâa whole other kind of chaos amid the teenage mayhem. But I know Mom loved that about me, even if she did always tell me I was going to be the death of her.
I kick at a stone on the roadside, laughing bitterly at the irony of that thought. We were together the day of the accident, driving up this twisty road in the middle of an unseasonable blizzard.
I had been yelling at Mom about something stupid and insignificant when the car hit a patch of ice. We slid sideways into the guardrail, landing on the roof at the edge of a cliff.
Iâll never forget the moment I looked over at my mom to see her unconscious. What I didnât know then was that she would never open those hazel eyes, so much like mine, ever again.
It broke me irreparably that I survived, and she didnât. Her death destroyed me, shattering me down to the very core.
Even though everyone said it wasnât my fault, I knew the truth. I was the reason she was so distracted that day.
I forced her eyes from the road at the wrong moment, screaming that she was the worst just seconds before she was gone from my life forever. I never even got the chance to tell her how much I loved her.
Funny how life turns out so different from what you expect. Things really can change in the blink of an eye. Losing Mom splintered our family in ways I could never have predicted.
Now, years later, Iâve been forced back home, about to lose the only parent I have left.
***
As kids, we see our parents as invincible. Our little minds live inside a glass bubble, protecting us from the harsh realities of life, of loss.
But when the glass shatters and that bubble bursts, the cruel truth hits us like a kick to the face: the people we love arenât immortal, theyâre human. And they hurt, bleed, and die long before weâre ever ready to let them go.
Sadness overwhelms me when I see my dad through the observation window of his hospital room.
He looks so frail, and I canât bring myself to go inside. Seeing my manly, burly father look so small and weak hurts more than I expected.
Iâve been a daddyâs girl from day one. While my other sisters were busy playing house with Mom and doing girly things, I was out working the farm, restoring old classic cars, and learning my way around an engine.
Dad loved it. Although Iâm sure he always wanted a son, he never made me feel any less because I was a girl.
Instead, he nurtured me and taught me itâs okay to be different. That being a woman in a manâs world was the definition of badass, and I should own it.
The things I learned from him are what helped me survive these last years on the road.
I worked in garages across the country, getting down and dirty with the guys.
I know they hired me at first glance based solely on my looks, but when they saw what I could do with a car engine, it was game over. I became one of them.
Yeah, I had my fair share of perverts trying to get in my pants, but most men in the industry learned to respect me for my skills, not my appearance.
Dad taught me my worth, and because of that, I learned to let no one fuck with me emotionally or professionally.
Thatâs not to say I didnât have a little fun between the sheets with a few of them along the way, but it was always just thatâfun.
I sigh, hesitating outside Dadâs room with my hand hovering over the door handle, too afraid to touch it. My chest feels tight, my breathing constricted. This is all too much.
My emotions are all over the place. I feel defeated. Pissed off. Weak. All I want to do is punch something. Scream, yell, anything.
Iâve become so good at stomping them down, forcing myself to feel nothing, that this is unfamiliar territory for me. Iâm usually an expert at ignoring the hard shit.
And thisâŚthis is some hard shit.
After thirty-four years of marriage, Dad never recovered from the loss of our mom, retreating into himself until he was only a shell of the robust, working man we all knew.
Seeing your father cry is the most gut-wrenching, heartbreaking thing.
In the weeks following Momâs funeral, things were terrible. I was in a dark, dangerous headspace, and knowing I was the reason behind everyone elseâs sadness was too much.
I couldnât bear to watch my family fall apart, so I ran off as soon as I had the money, packing up my things and leaving behind everything Iâd ever known.
I gave up a lot. My relationship with my sisters, being there for my dad, the man I lovedâŚI dropped it all. And it may have been a purely selfish decision, but how could I stay in a place that no longer felt like home?
âAzalea Lenore Wilde! Is that you?â My breath catches, and I turn toward the familiar voice, bracing myself against the force of my twin sisterâs body crashing into mine.
It surprises me how much Iâve missed her dramatic affection as I settle into her tight embrace, laughing. âShit, Rosie. I canât breathe!â
âI just canât believe youâre here, Azzy.â Rose pulls away from me just enough to look at my tired face before wrapping me up in her arms again.
Younger by two minutes, Rose is a mirror image of me, aside from her suntanned freckles and dyed blond hair.
When I left, Rose was the only one who didnât judge me. She called me every day, leaving me message after message, begging me to come home.
It took me a month, but when I finally answered one of her calls and told her I couldnât come back, she understood, no questions asked.
Thatâs what I love about her. About us. No matter our choices, where we go or what we do, weâll always have each otherâs backs.
I canât say the same about the other two. Theyâve never forgiven me for leaving when I did.
And they werenât the only ones.
My mind wanders back to the man I left behind. The bad boy with a heart of gold. His dreamy blue eyes, golden blond hair, chiseled bodyâŚ
âTell me everything!â Rose yanks on my hands, dragging me back to reality. She pulls me into Dadâs room, plunking us down on a crappy little sofa alongside his bed.
âWhat was life on the road like? Where did you end up? Did you live in hotels? How did you make money? Spill!â
The laughter flowed easily between us as we fell into a comfortable conversation, almost like weâd only been apart for six hours instead of six years.
My unseasonably cheerful mood dissipates when I hear the unmistakable voice of my older sister snapping at a nurse in the hall. âWhy are you just standing here? I told you to call me the second my father returned from neuro.â
I hold my breath, stiffening with tension as she walks into the room wearing her white doctorâs coat like a badge of honor and superiority, all rounded out by the sour look on her otherwise beautiful face. Typical.
At thirty-three, Iris was the firstborn, and the proverbial golden child; the only one to stay on the straight and narrow out of the four of us.
She graduated a year ahead of her peers, got into med school, and became a trauma surgeon in our hometown, all while the rest of us were screwing around trying to figure out the meaning of life.
With a last name like Wilde, youâd think Iris would be less uptight, but nope. Sheâs a stone-cold, lay-down-the-law kind of woman.
Sheâs not a bad person, she just isnât my kind of person. Weâre total opposites, and growing up, I wouldnât say I liked her, even though I loved her.
âAzalea. Nice of you to show your face after all these years.â Iris stops dead in the doorway when she spots me, her face softening for a brief second before turning back to stone.
My eyes narrow and the metallic taste of blood settles on my tongue, the force of my teeth biting down the only thing keeping me from saying something I might regret.
âIris. Nice of you to crack a smile after all these years.â I keep my voice syrupy sweet, but sarcasm drips from my every word. I canât help it. She brings out the snarky bitch in me.
âHilarious.â She rolls her eyes and scowls. âI see you havenât lost your terrible sense of humor since I saw you last. What was it? Five years ago?â
âSix, actually.â Even though I shouldnât, I play into her snide little game, too stubborn to apologize, and too proud to admit I messed up by leaving.
âWhy do you have to be such a bitch, Ris? Azzyâs home. You should be happy.â
Rose stands up for me, and I let her. Iâd be up for a fight any other day, but I canât bring myself to engage while our dad is lying unconscious in a hospital bed.
âWhatever.â Iris waves her hand dismissively at Rose before turning to me. âPoppy will be here soon, so why donât you two go grab some coffee or something until then?â
This is her not-so-subtle way of telling us to get the hell out, all because sheâs butt-hurt over my six-year-long absence. âWhy? We just got here. I havenât even said hi to Dad.â
âDadâs in a coma, Azalea. He wonât know the difference.â The way she says my name, like itâs a dirty word, makes my blood boil.
I know sheâs worried, but these past years of being a trauma surgeon have changed her, taught her how to seal off her emotions when things get painful.
I want to be understanding, but her cold demeanor sets off my matchstick temper. Inhaling deeply through my nose, I clamp my lips shut to keep from snapping at her.
Donât engage, Azzy. Count to ten. Breathe in, breathe out. Dad would want you to be the bigger person. I talk myself down, pretend to channel inner peace, as if thatâs something Iâll ever possess.
âFine. But call us as soon as Poppy gets here.â
Iris nods, barely giving me a second look before sitting by Dadâs bedside. I tug Rose from the ratty old sofa and stomp off toward the door, smashing face-first into something warm and unyielding.
Strong hands grip my bare shoulders, enveloping my small arms almost completely. My nose tingles with familiarity at the smell assaulting my senses. I know it. Itâs sublime, like leather, spice, and pure, unfiltered man.
I linger a little longer before I look up, already aware of what my eyes will find when I do. That addictive scent, all mixed up in a tall, tanned, tattooed body, can only belong to one person: Merrick Hayes.
My favorite weakness, and my biggest regret.
