Continue the Cedarvale Series with
Losing All Hope
Cedarvale, Book 3
Hope: (/hōp/)
1. A feeling of expectation and desire for a certain thing to happen.
2. A feeling of trust.
3. Grounds for believing that something good may happen.
The storm clouds gathered on my wedding day. A celebration turned to tragedy by a single attack. By the time I awoke, my son was gone. My swollen stomach showed barely any trace of pregnancy. Only a faded purplish blue line down my stomach. Hope disappeared. Purpose evaporated. Can I survive long enough to find him?
"My muscles tore away from my bones. and my skin shrank too small. Closing my eyes, I willed it to go away or kill me. Burn down everything until we find him."
-Amelia M. Hosch, Losing All Hope
Take a Look Inside:
Piercing screams drifted into my unconscious. Pleading cries for me to return pulled me from the darkness. Resisting the lure didn’t work. What’s the point? The words echoed in my head. Energy flowed into my body, drawing me closer to the surface. I tried to resist, to stay in the comforting depths, but their magic was too strong. They wouldn’t let me float away. They refused to let me rest.
Gasping for air, my eyelids flung open, thrusting me back into the kitchen. My son's piercing wail tore through my ears from recent memory. My arms reached for my baby, but he was long gone. Strong arms wrapped around me. Kian. My recollection was choppy and incomplete. Reality battled dreamland. The splatters of blood, tear-stained faces, and screams chased me back into safety. Into my own world.
My body lifted into the air, but I cared not what happened to it. You couldn't even protect your own son. The inner critic spit venom from its crooked grin. I shuddered. The beast rose and awakened with each step up the stairs. A roaring howl filled my mind, drowning out the others' commentary. Floating back and forth between the two hells, Kian’s arms held my broken pieces together.
He laid me in bed and gently removed our torn and bloody clothes. Our party. With shaky hands, I looked down at my stomach. Our son. The scar stretched from hip bone to hip bone with pinkish hue from the several healings that took place. My eyes burned, and despite the overwhelming evidence, I clung to denial. He emerged from the bathroom with fresh clothes. His bloodshot eyes offered no comfort. He sat next to me, handing me fresh pajamas.
“I’m sorry. I failed you and our son.”
His voice was hoarse and gruff. His shoulders slumped forward. His body-wracking sobs shook the bed. He collapsed onto my legs, repeating his apology, his admission of guilt. His hands gripped my thighs. His fingers dug into my sensitive flesh. His energy broke through the barrier keeping me separated from reality, from the torment. He searched for comfort I didn’t have. Robotic fingers ran through his hair, soothing his suffering as much as I could......