(Please read Theron 1 before moving on to this book)
A stranger washes ashore on a deserted beach.
With no memory of who or what he is, the only clue he has to his identity--the only thing he recalls from his past life--is a single, solitary name:...
Oops! This image does not follow our content guidelines. To continue publishing, please remove it or upload a different image.
He sounds like Theron. His velvety voice has the same effect on me as it did before and my sex clenches in natural response.
He smells like Theron... though it is very faint. Forest and spice and everything that is supposed to soothe my aching heart and magically fix all of my doubts and fears...
But it doesn't because he doesn't look like Theron.
Not exactly, at least.
He is bigger than I remember... taller by an inch or two and more muscular. His shoulders are broader, his neck wider and his hair is longer, shaggy even. It falls over his eyes and covers his ears. His face looks as if it has missed one shave too many, the smooth, flawless skin now covered by wild whiskers. But even that is not the reason I question the validity of this situation.
It's not why I feel my sanity slowly slipping out of my grasp.
What concerns me, what stills my happiness and relief and twists it into suspicion and disbelief is his eyes.
The chocolate color I love and miss so much is now gone, replaced instead by a deep, dark sapphire blue and if I hadn't have inspected them harder, I would have failed to notice it.
More importantly, they do not hold the same glaring, brooding, angry and perpetually annoyed appearance I am used to. Instead, it has been superseded by happiness and curiosity and reverence. They twinkle with love and admiration and I. Don't. Like. It. Every time he catches me studying him, they seem to light up and it just fucking pisses me off.
And yet, his words are like a knife to my heart.
"I remember you."
They tug at me, stinging and searing and mocking the entirety of my existence post Theron's death. As I watch him "reacquainting" himself with our small pack over dinner, I can't help but wonder what kind of glamour Mavina is attempting.
She had to know we would let him in...
She had to assume that we would never question such a nearly perfect clone... But she failed to consider who she was trying to fool. I know Theron like the back of my hand and such a close resemblance does not trick my eyes.
I should slay him where he stands.
I should end this before it becomes too dangerous for Theon, who Keeley is keeping securely locked away inside his room.
I should...
But I won't.
It's the other side of me, the more dominant and demanding one that allows him to take another breath... and it is led by my gullible heart.
It whispers, softly... quietly, that it could actually be Theron. It's lying, attempting to convince me that this look alike, however slightly different than the original, is worth keeping around. It wants--needs--to pretend this is Theron because for just the tiniest of moments it can erase the pain of losing him.
