Forgotten storm, p.1
Forgotten Storm, page 1
Forgotten Storm
(Storm Series Book 1)
A. R. Vagnetti
Wicked Storm Publishing
This carefully revised and expanded edition of Forgotten Storm is dedicated to all my amazing readers who demanded more of Nicole and Logan.
Copyright Forgotten Storm
Copyright © 2023 by Wicked Storm Publishing & A.R. Vagnetti. All rights reserved.
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the publisher, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical reviews and certain other noncommercial uses permitted by copyright law.
ar@arvagnetti.com.
Content Warning: This book contains references to past sexual abuse, soft elements of BDSM and graphic sexual scenes, blood and gore, and, of course, biting. This is a paranormal romance, after all.
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Prequel to the Storm Series
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The Complete Storm Series
FORSAKEN STORM (PREQUEL)
FORGOTTEN STORM
FORBIDDEN STORM
FIERY STORM
FRACTURED STORM
FATAL STORM
FINAL STORM… THE CONCLUSION
Contents
1. Chapter 1
2. Chapter 2
3. Chapter 3
4. Chapter 4
5. Chapter 5
6. Chapter 6
7. Chapter 7
8. Chapter 8
9. Chapter 9
10. Chapter 10
11. Chapter 11
12. Chapter 12
13. Chapter 13
14. Chapter 14
15. Chapter 15
16. Chapter 16
17. Chapter 17
18. Chapter 18
19. Chapter 19
20. Chapter 20
21. Chapter 21
22. Chapter 22
23. Chapter 23
24. Chapter 24
25. Chapter 25
26. Chapter 26
27. Chapter 27
28. Chapter 28
29. Chapter 29
30. Chapter 30
31. Chapter 31
32. Chapter 32
33. Chapter 33
34. Chapter 34
35. Chapter 35
36. Chapter 36
37. Chapter 37
38. Chapter 38
39. Chapter 39
40. Chapter 40
41. Chapter 41
42. Chapter 42
43. Chapter 43
44. Chapter 44
45. Chapter 45
46. Chapter 46
47. Chapter 47
48. Chapter 48
49. Chapter 49
50. Chapter 50
About Author
Chapter 1
Nicole
Pain sparks through my cheekbone like a firecracker as my opponent’s gloved fist connects with my jaw. A shocked murmur ripples through the crowd sitting in the seats surrounding the sparring mat. How long has the match lasted? Two seconds? Two minutes? My heart thunders in my ears. Sweat drenches my body, and it’s an effort to keep my bruised arms up and moving. Hell, every muscle and joint is on fire. He will end me if I don’t finish this in the next few moments. I’ve fought too hard over the last three years to let this jerk snatch the title within my grasp.
Nathan charges, attempting to wrap me up in a hold. I spin and punch left, missing his nose by a hair. Duck his roundhouse kick. Punch right, connecting with his temple. I barely evade his giant glove aimed for my jaw and throw my power into a quick, solid left jab to his midsection. He grunts and folds forward.
With the last bit of oomph, I grab his arm, leap into the air, wrap my legs around his skull, and force my body forward. My weight shoves him backward, and I drive a decent right punch to his temple as we fall. A sharp burst radiates through my fist and down my wrist. I don’t register the pain, only relief, as he hits the mat with a satisfying smack, my feet landing softly on either side of his head.
Game, set, match, motherfucker.
I plant my knee in the middle of his chest. Sweat drips off my chin onto my opponent’s bare, glistening torso. Perspiration saturates my black spandex shorts and tank top. Long wispy strands of hair escape my ponytail and ruffle with each heavy pant of breath as I scrutinize every twitch of meathead’s bulging muscles.
Agony creases his brow, but the rage in his hazel eyes stirs the aggressive nature I strive to control daily. He wants violence. I can oblige. At this moment, I no longer care about the pain. I want blood as severely as he does.
I take a deep breath in and force the bloodlust into a dark hole and do what’s expected. What I’m trained to do: ease back and observe my opponent.
When a full ten count passes, and he makes no counter move, the head Krav Maga instructor, Kurtis, strides onto the mat.
Every muscle prickles with aches and pains as I retreat to my corner and await the verdict. Deep inhale in through my swollen nose, out through my busted lip. I transfer my weight on the balls of my feet and shake out my burning arms and shoulders. The enormous sparring room overflows with soft, matted flooring, but when your ass hits those mats, they are anything but soft.
A hush settles over the crowd as Kurtis kneels next to my opponent, Nathan Connor. He speaks to him in a subdued whisper. I can’t understand what they’re saying, only the low, sexy rumble of his voice, but I don’t need to hear the words. My back has been on the mat more than I care to admit over the last three years, so the exact verbiage is etched in my brain.
“Are you all right? Do you require a doctor? Can you get up? Blah blah blah,” babbles through your ears. You nod and pray the torture has ended.
By the time Kurtis helps Nathan to his feet, my breathing is under control. Pain, my oldest and dearest playmate, has already begun a slow burn throughout my body, with my forearms and midsection taking the brunt. Dipshit wasn’t my only opponent today. I took down three others in various stages of combat. This ache will intensify in the next couple of hours if I don’t soak in an ice bath, ay-sap.
The watching crowd offers polite applause as the men walk to the center of the mat. Kurtis’s lips twitch, trying not to smile, but the proud twinkle in his vibrant regard gives him away. Nathan, on the other hand, holds his midriff with one arm, his red face twisted with resentment.
Aww, poor baby had his ass handed to him by a girl.
When Kurtis motions for me to join them, I offer Nathan a quick wink. He’s an arrogant, egotistical jerk, hitting on anything with a pair of breasts. With this defeat, I’ve checked off a box on my bucket list of things to bring me absolute joy.
With a deep inhale, I take my place next to Kurtis. His size never ceases to amaze me. At six-foot-eight and two hundred eighty pounds of pure muscle, he makes my respectable five-foot-six look like a munchkin from lollypop land. The top of my head doesn’t even reach his broad shoulders.
Kurtis reminds me of Thor in the Marvel movies, except taller, with a more serious disposition. He has the same short blond hair, piercing blue eyes, and a sexy smile with lush, full lips surrounded by a perfectly trimmed scruff. I’d consider dipping my toes into those waters if my tastes didn’t run toward the dark-haired, green-eyed variety.
During training with Kurtis, he strives for professionalism, but a sexual spark exists between us. It’s in the way he watches me longer than necessary, the low, gruff tone he uses when he pins me to the mat, or how his focus wanders to my lips like they are the finest whiskey and he’s a recovering alcoholic.
Okay, it’s not all one-sided. Kurtis’s strength, size, and good looks make my girly-bits tingle, and I feel all feminine and protected. I sigh with regret. I’d explore this attraction with him if I were any other woman. What girl with blood pumping through their veins wouldn’t?
I’ve witnessed it time and time again in my three years of training with him. One heated glance from those baby blues and the women swoon. Ready to offer their first-born child for a chance at a single night with the sexy beast. And even though his interest hums through my body, I value his friendship more. Since, ya know, I don’t possess many of those.
I’m the first to admit one glimpse at my resting bitch face, and most intelligent people avoid me. And if they’re brave enough to initiate a conversation, they quickly discover my sarcasm or standoffish attitude and disappear. I get it. I do. Although, this is who I am. Shaped by a past, my brain thinks I’m too stupid to handle.
At this juncture, what I require from Kurtis involves the unique way he drives my body and mind to the brink of my limits. Correction… I need it. Crave it. The pain and exhaustion center me, giving me a minor reset or reboot. Without it…
I halt the horrendous train of thought threatening to encroach as a tremble of unease shifts within me. Down that treacherous path lies guilt and shame, terror and uncertainty. Best to keep those things buried.
If I’m honest, I must admi
And like the old saying goes, ‘All good things must come to an end’ because the fantasies stopped two years ago. As did my outlet for my aggressive nature. Oh, and mind-boggling orgasms. The apprehension and fear clawing at my insides over Logan’s absence, scrapes through my brain like rough sandpaper, the dust of my mind disappearing like fine wood shavings.
The longer he’s MIA, the more my illicit needs take control. What I lovingly refer to as the itch builds until fire ants party on my skin, biting and digging until aggression takes hold. It requires a road trip to a specific club where membership involves a background check and a clean bill of health.
I guess I have the cowboy from Montana to thank for introducing me to this wicked alternative. Rudy taught me, measured pain releases the fear and uncertainty we can’t control. I will never forget that night in his playroom under the bar. He gave me the tools to keep going, and not let the nightmares and doubts about my past influence or hurt me.
“To control your demons,” he’d said. “You must learn to submit to the fear. Let me teach you that pain can bring rewards. It offers you an outlet to possess dominance over your inner anguish, whatever it may be, by submitting your mind and body to the outer pain measured appropriately with pleasure.”
And he was right. What Rudy offered me was life-changing. A type of authority over the unknown in my past that dictated my life. Most people might find this disturbing or confusing, so the few friends I allow close don’t know about the itch or the depths I sink to manage it. And they never will. As much as it helps me mentally, it’s not something I’m proud to admit. In fact, I’m downright ashamed that, one, I even require it, and two, I get off on it.
In my day-to-day existence, I demand complete control. Like most people, I’m under the delusion I live my life on my terms. Nobody tells me what I can or cannot do. Well, except for Kurtis during training and this one obsessive need, I can’t let go. Like a junkie, I tell myself it’s the last time. Of course, it’s never the case. I surrender myself to another person. Someone who provides what my soul cries out for—pain, not sex, just pain.
It calms the itch, which keeps me… from a nuclear meltdown. Unfortunately, the longer Logan is absent, the further my mind and body breakdown, and the aggression surges forward unrestrained. Agony flares through every joint and sinew. The ever-present fear of hurting someone bubbles below the surface, producing nightmares to torment my sleep.
However, everything eases after a club session, just like my brief night with Rudy in Montana. I’m… better. Focused. Calm. The unrelenting itch subsides, and my body tingles and resonates with awakening. The desire to fight, kill or maim recedes, and the painful, physical episodes decrease, enabling me to move on to another day, another week.
So, sue me. What’s a girl to do?
“Excellent match. Nicki, with this final victory, you’ve passed your brown belt exam with flying colors. Congratulations.” Kurtis raises my gloved hand in victory.
God bless him for not jerking my arm up, but son of a bitch. The pain radiating through my shoulder makes me nearly scream, but I lock it down and work to keep my expression passive, not to show any weakness.
The room erupts in applause, hollers, and whistles from men and women from my class, all the different levels of programs, and even newcomers here to learn more about self-defense.
Out of the corner of my eye, Nathan stomps off the mats toward the lockers, but I dismiss him and grin. I did it. After three long years of definite blood and sweat, I am now a brown belt in Krav Maga.
And a total fucking badass.
Kurtis releases me and raises a large palm to quiet the room. “Not only has she mastered all stages of hand-to-hand combat required for this certification, but Nicki Graves also excelled at all weapons training, earning the highest marksmanship scores of any student in the history of this dojo.”
I press my lips together, embarrassed by the praise, even as pleasure floods through me.
“We are proud of all Nicki’s accomplished since joining Red Dawn. We hope… I hope… she will proceed on to the black belt levels, as I desire a worthy opponent to continue to hone my skills,” he concludes with a sexy, lopsided smirk.
His smile obtains the desired effect amongst the women who eye him as if he’s a T-Bone steak: they cheer and gather closer, drawn to his sexual appeal like a moth to fire.
Yep, he’ll have them signing up to get the shit knocked out of them in no time.
Chapter 2
Nicole
After Kurtis removes my gloves, I receive numerous pats on the back and congrats before the group disperses. My sexy trainer leans close and murmurs in a low whisper, “I’m proud of you, Nicki. You defeated your opponent with a calculated swiftness. Impressive.”
Kurtis’s husky tone washes over me, reminding me of another deep, sexy voice. It filled my mind and brought me off more times than I could count. Fuck. Why does my chest ache with longing at his absence? My fists clench against the throb, and I bite down on the inside of my lip. The copper tang of my blood dabbles over my tongue, and predictable as ever, the pain centers me. After a slow inhale, my fingers relax. My visceral response to the mere thought of my erotic dream man sends shock waves through me every damn time.
Are my dreams of Logan preventing my attraction to the sexiest trainer alive from growing? I question my sanity every time I’m in Kurtis’s presence. Is my obsession with a fictional man screwing my chance at a genuine relationship?
“Thinking of moving on to the black belt training?” he asks.
“Yes, of course,” I respond and place my palm on one of his warm, bulging biceps. “I require some time off before I continue, though.” It takes effort to lift my lips into some semblance of a smile as I peer into the pretty blue depths. Shit, the fatigue is setting in faster than I expected.
“Agreed.” He zeros in on my abused mouth, and something flutters in my gut. “Give your body time to recover, then we’ll get back at it.” Kurtis’s tenor is low and seductive as he continues, “But don’t wait too long.”
With brutal force, his need stretches into the space between us, and I catch my breath. His biceps twitch, and I jerk my hand away as if scalded. To cover the slight rebuff, I quickly analyze my nails. Nibble on one. Do a visual inspection of the mats. Adjust my sports bra. When what I want to do is melt through the floor in embarrassment.
Kurtis observes me fidgeting for several agonizing seconds, prolonging my discomfort before he shakes his head with a laugh and rescues me again. “Are you singing or working tonight at the LeLoo?” he asks with a knowing grin.
Blue sapphires shimmer underneath the impossibly long lashes, and when his large, warm hand lands on my shoulder, his desire blasts into my bones, causing the flutters in my gut to morph into tremors.
Why does a mere touch intensify a person’s emotions? Unlike my ability to control my need for violence, this damn talent has worsened over the years. Another added benefit to my sessions at the club—it lessens the severity of my weird abilities.
I’m not normal. I’ve always known it. At first, I balked at using this emotion-sensing thing to aid me in reading my opponents during training. Some would construe it as cheating. Although I realized, or rationalized, it’s not my fault they’re instinctually challenged.
With a forced nonchalance, I retreat a step from Kurtis, my stare focused on his chin. If I looked into those heated sapphires, I’ll forget my reservations, strip off all my clothes, and beg him to take me to the mats right here with a dozen people milling around.
