Rachel Vaughn is being hunted by something... unexplainable. And she can't help but think it has something to do with Luc, the handsome but mysterious guy who lives next door.
{ Book I of The Psychic Curse }
After her boyfriend cheats on her, Ra...
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Despite Luc's behaviour, I felt no joy in leaving that shop. In fact, I felt nothing at all—I was numb, empty, defeated. Even the mundane pang of hunger was gone. Food, bulbs... everything seemed secondary in this state.
Everything lost its urgency; it could all just wait.
All the excitement from my recent accomplishments had been stolen away. The new joy I had created for myself was suddenly sapped from me and discarded like it was trivial, like it had never meant anything in the first place.
I could've screamed.
Instead I just silently crept back to my side of the building and through my own door. I flicked the lights on; the last remaining bulb feebly lit the room. Even my new apartment, which only minutes ago seem lovely and welcoming, now felt cold and hostile, just like him.
My gorgeous neighbour had turned out to be a jerk.
And on top of that, he was apparently a psychic jerk, who had predicted I wasn't going to find anyone who'd love me any time soon. And though I realized that it seemed very unlikely that he could actually see the future, he wasn't redeemed by the fact that his premonition was a lie. That lie meant he was cruel on top of being a fraud. He was a fraud who was unwilling to help cheer up a poor, broken-hearted girl who just wanted a little superficial reassurance. Would it really have been so hard for him to just make something up about how everything would work out in the end? No, instead he had to crush me, scoff at my pathetic worries, tell me that I was unfit to be loved. Or maybe that was just it: maybe he was just playing with my head because he saw me as pathetic. I was pathetic... especially for going to him to boost my self-confidence.
I slid into bed, still wearing my moving clothes, and curled up beneath the covers. Before I could stop myself, I began sobbing deeply into my pillows. I thought I had moved on, rid myself of all the pain left in the wake of my failed relationship, but it was apparently just hiding, pushed deep down. It came rushing to the surface now. I was alone again, so horribly alone. I wasn't sure how long I cried, but I must've cried myself to sleep.
When I awoke, it was still dark, and my face was still pressed into the damp of my tear-soaked pillow. I couldn't place what had woken me so suddenly. I didn't remember having a terrible dream or hearing a loud noise or speaking aloud like last time. I was just awake; really awake. Maybe my body clock had suddenly gone awry and decided that now was the ideal time to wake up, the effect of my ill-timed coma-nap.
I rolled over, trying to adjust my eyes to the darkness. What time was it? I grappled in the dark, reaching out to find my phone on my bedside table, where I usually left it. My hands found the edge of my nightstand, and I ran my hand over the top, seeking the sleek form of my smartphone.
Just as my fingers found it, I felt a breeze, a warm rush on the underside of my wrist. A small gasp escaped my lips and, still clutching my phone, I retracted my hand. I held it close to my chest, cradling it, protecting it.
