Fighting Fate: Book 2 of the Warrior Chronicles Read Online Free PDF Page A

comply. “Otherwise I’ll fight you every inch of the way.”
    “I came to introduce you to your biological mother.” Jesse said, matter of fact, no inflection clouding the simple truth.
    Her eyes rounded in surprise. “You obviously know Mary Campbell is my mother.” Her voice caught, causing Jesse to loosen his grip.
    “Not your biological one.”
    The fight went out of her completely. Her eyes showed only curious wariness now. “How do you know?”
    “Your biological mother’s name is Reed Mohr, and I know her very well.
    She’s been searching for you for a long time.”
    “Why does that matter to you?”
    “Because Reed adopted me. She’s my mother too.”
    The air whooshed from Taryn’s lungs as her bones seemed to liquefy. The look that flashed across her face made Jesse feel like he’d just thrust a knife into her. It was the same look that young ones in foster care would wear the first time they were hit by someone who was supposed to protect them. It was the same look that haunted his dreams, startling him awake in the middle of the night, cold sweat dampening his sheets. It was a look that woke him with a startle amidst dripping sheets in the night more often than he liked to admit. It was a look he’d hoped never to see again in real time.
    Taryn still wore that freshly scared child look as she moved to his bike.
    Here was a woman who, with one look, could wipe away seventeen years of security. Jesse got on his bike then helped her settle in behind him. When he woke up this morning he had dreams of grandeur. With one look, Taryn left him feeling the deafening echo of a boy’s nightmares.
    Taryn cautiously got on the bike, twisting the knife deeper in his gut.
     
     
    CHAPTER SIX
     
     
    Shannon O’Shay, a true Celt at heart, had been dreaming lately. Hot, primal dreams filled with testosterone, need and want better suited to a nineteen-year-old boy than the forty-two-year-old man he was now. He could still feel the soft skin of the instigator of these dreams hours after he woke; he could still smell the heather and moss scent of her hair every time he closed his eyes. Like true Celts everywhere, Shay believed his dreams portended something momentous. The ‘what’ of that portent had him off his game, ready to see evil leprechauns hiding in every nook and cranny.
    A rapid-fire back-fist-upper-cut combination, first to his temple then his jaw, jarred Shay out of the mist and back into the reality of sparring with the very red-headed evil leprechaun he ought to be worried about. Reed Mohr, whom he called Red, might be his best friend, but she was mean when it came to spontaneous self-defense practice, even when they were just goofing around.
    “Ouch, Red. A little heavy on the contact, don’t cha think?” Shay said, moving out of range. Red didn’t have much reach, but she was fast and fearless and wouldn’t hesitate to hit him again if he dropped his guard.
    She must have sensed his head wasn’t in the game because she backed away to retrieve the herbal tea that was never far from her side, downing half of it a series of swallows a professional hotdog eater would envy. She wiped the sweat away from her forehead and the tea away from her mouth before it hit her stained, cutoff SuperTramp t-shirt from their 1983 tour. The image made Shay smile. Reed Mohr was the classiest person he knew even dressed like a sweaty dead-head with her frizzy, red-gold hair standing on end.
    “Well, Irish-mon, what’s got you so twisted this morning? You’re dropping your guard like a white-belt and hitting like a girl.”
    Shay rubbed a hand over his newly sheared head. It was work to keep up the eighth inch of stubble, but the ladies loved rubbing it, so he gladly wore it that way. Shay’s head rub was a self-deprecating gesture, one he’d honed to perfection. It didn’t fly with Red, it never had, and that was just one of the reasons he loved her and put up with her pain-in-the-ass husband. He respected