Devil's Own (Palm Island Book 6), page 1
Devil's Own
Palm Island, 6
K.M. Neuhold
Devil's Own ©2024 by K.M. Neuhold Publishing LLC
All rights reserved. No part of this book
may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission
except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or
reviews.
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, organizations,
places, events and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination
or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead,
events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
Book and Cover design by Natasha Snow
Designs
Cover Image by Wander Aguiar Photography
Editing by Kate Woods
Proof Reading by Charity Van Huss
All
rights reserved. No part of this book
may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission
except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or
reviews.
This
book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, organizations,
places, events and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination
or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead,
events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
Book and Cover design by Natasha Snow
Designs
Cover Image by CJC Photography
Cover Model Brock Grady
Editor: Editing by Rebecca
Proof Reading by Abbie Nicole
All
rights reserved. No part of this book
may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission
except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or
reviews.
This
book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, organizations,
places, events and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination
or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead,
events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
Book and Cover design by Natasha Snow
Designs
Cover Image by CJC Photography
Cover Model Brock Grady
Editor: Editing by Rebecca
Proof Reading by Abbie Nicole
Contents
Blurb
Author's Note
1. PROLOGUE
2. Chapter 1
3. Chapter 2
4. Chapter 3
5. Chapter 4
6. Chapter 5
7. Chapter 6
8. Chapter 7
9. Chapter 8
10. Chapter 9
11. Chapter 10
12. Chapter 11
13. Chapter 12
14. Chapter 13
15. Chapter 14
16. Chapter 15
17. Chapter 16
18. Chapter 17
19. Chapter 18
20. Chapter 19
21. Chapter 20
22. Chapter 21
23. Chapter 22
24. Chapter 23
25. EPILOGUE
More By K.M.Neuhold
About the Author
Stalk Me
Blurb
There’s nothing Devil loves more than giving Angel whatever he wants, especially when it’s what he wants too. The only question is… Does Raven want them?
Of course I’ve noticed Angel and Devil noticing me. I’ve felt their eyes on me, and the deep pulse of their heated wanting. I’ve also seen plenty of men coming and going from their house all summer, year after year, and I don’t want to be one in a long line.
The energy of Palm Island is so strong that it’s hard not to get swept up in it sometimes. Temporary lust, the hedonistic thrill of excess… I’m only human, after all. But something stops me every time I want to give in and let go.
I’ve managed to avoid getting too close to Angel and Devil. Until now. Months of endless, heated dreams and the long, lonely slog of the winter are threatening to break my resolve. And all the tarot cards and tea leaves in the world couldn’t have prepared me for what they’re really like.
What if all the threeways are just because they’re desperately searching for something? What if soulmates can come in thirds? What if I let go and see what happens?
Just because I play the part of a psychic, doesn’t mean I know a damn thing about relationships or how we’re going to make this one work.
Author's Note
The prologue for this story was offered as a bonus scene in my newsletter and Facebook group in December of 2022, so if it sounds familiar, that’s why. I DID change the timeline slightly from the bonus scene version to fix a continuity error. You haven’t read this book yet, I promise. Enjoy!
PROLOGUE
THREE YEARS AGO
RAVEN
It’s cold. Like, balls creeping up inside your body, fingers getting numb, ‘I should have put on a damn coat’ cold. It’s December twenty-fifth, so that might seem like a given, but one of the benefits of life on a tropical island is that cold like this is a blessedly rare event.
I tug the sleeves of my black zip-up hoodie a little lower, so my hands are protected from the chill. The wrapping paper covering the gift tucked under my arm crinkles with the shift in my grip. My breath crystallizes in the air with every labored exhale, and my feet ache as I wend my way up the overgrown mountain path.
If I were a proper psychic, I might have foreseen the blisters I’m subjecting myself to by wearing my extremely fashionable, not-at-all-meant-for-hiking black leather platform boots. C’est la vie. Blisters heal, and looking fly as fuck is forever.
A branch snags my tights just above my knee, tearing open a hole that exposes my thigh to the chill of the air.
“Motherfucker,” I mutter, tugging my high-waisted shorts down a few inches in the vain hope that they’ll keep me warm somehow. I told them that having this little gathering by the carousel was a bad idea this time of year. Of course, they didn’t listen. You would really think they’d listen more to the psychic.
In fairness, I didn’t have a cinematic vision of torn tights, unreasonably cold fronts, or blisters. I was right all the same though, and that should count for something. I tug my hood up over my head and pull the strings to tighten it in place. On the bright side, at least I’m not sweating all my makeup off. Although, the benefit of my goth-chic look is that even smeared, my eyeliner still looks fabulous.
I stumble through more dead branches and out into the open field. The old carousel sits quietly a dozen or so yards away, in desperate need of a coat of paint with weeds growing all around it. In the spring, this meadow will be full of wildflowers as far as the eye can see, but right now there’s nothing but dead grass and fallen leaves that are well on their way to decaying into a nice layer of compost to feed the soil. And so, the circle of life goes on.
I close my eyes and breathe in deeply, letting go of everything that weighed me down during my hike up and replacing it all with the energy that vibrates and swirls in every molecule of the soil and sky and air of this island. It’s chaotic and beautiful, pulsing with life and lust, the weight of all the love that’s been lost and found here a physical presence as it fills me up.
I knew the second I stepped off the ferry a handful of years ago that this was home. I knew when I got on the plane to come to Palm Island that I wanted to be here. What I didn’t know was how much the island wanted me right back, and two seconds standing in the sand told me she was used to getting whatever she wanted. Cheeky bitch.
I smile to myself and cross the barren meadow. No, not barren… slumbering. It’s just resting so it can be stunning and vibrant again in a few months. We all need a little beauty rest, don’t we? Leaves and dried grass crunch under my boots all the way to the rainbow carousel. I stop just a few feet in front of it and tilt my head to get a good look at the old broad.
“Hello, sweetie.” I blow her a kiss. Someone decked the carousel out in Christmas lights, red and green ones twinkling in the dimness of the cloudy afternoon.
I don’t bother to mess with any of the buttons on the control panel. I already know she won’t start unless she damn well wants to, and the only thing that seems to rev her engine is good old-fashioned true love. I do have healthy self-esteem, but I’m not ready to hang it up and pronounce myself my own soulmate just yet.
I set my Secret Santa present down on the edge of the platform, reaching for the tarnished gold pole that connects the nearest horse to the floor and ceiling so I can heave myself up. I swing my leg over the plastic beast, then reach into my back pocket for the tattered leather notebook I stuffed there before ascending the mountain.
The cold nips at my fingertips again immediately, but I ignore it as best I can, flipping the notebook open to a page near the end. I’ve read this particular entry so many times that the spine is bent to fall open right to it. I can recite every word in this book from start to finish, but that doesn’t stop me from reading it over and over, every messily scrawled word and rogue dash of ink like a security blanket for my soul.
I drag my index finger over the page, feeling the familiar shape of every wo
Harold Tellinson poured so much love into every word he wrote about his lover, George, that I can feel it even now, like a living thing that isn’t satisfied being contained by simple ink and paper. It needs to be felt so the two of them can live on for just a flickering moment every now and then.
I curl my fingers and let out a trembling breath, releasing the ghost of their love with it. Now if only I could find some of that action for myself instead of living vicariously through a couple of dead guys, things would be fucking peachy.
Self-pity isn’t the look I’m going for, so I shake it off and finally bring my gaze to the page open in front of me. I lean forward, resting my cheek against the ice-cold metal pole. As I start to read, the world feels like it dissolves around me, placing me right in the moment Harold described in so much detail.
December 24th
I worked my hands to the bone through the entire spring and summer. On at least a dozen occasions, I tossed my hammer down and gave up on this endeavor entirely. But I always came back. Day after day, for months on end, I toiled in the hot sun. The only thing that kept me going was imagining the way my love might smile when he finally saw what I’d been working so hard on. I would move the mountain itself if it would please George, he need only say the word.
I count myself lucky that he’s perfectly pleased with the location of the mountains, and that it was only a carousel that needed to be built. Still, I know I left a piece of myself in it as I crafted it. A piece of George too, I imagine. I thought of nothing but our love and our life as I built it plank by plank and nail by nail. I imagined what might become of our little island paradise one day.
I never set out to create a sanctuary when I spent so much of my family money to buy this island. All I wanted was a place where I could love George without apology and without judgment. And I suppose that’s all the other residents wanted too—to love and be loved. We’re not so different from anyone else. People waste so much time searching for the meaning of life when it’s right in front of us all along. Love, connection, passion…
I dreamed of a world where I could make George my husband while I built that carousel. I dreamed of a world where no one would have to flee to an island to live the way their heart tells them. Maybe one day, that world will exist. I like the thought of that, the hope of it, that someone might sit on George’s carousel one day and be free of the fear and sadness that chased us all the way here to Palm Island.
Ah, but I’m getting off topic.
I woke my love at daybreak, feeling like a child on Christmas morning as I kissed him to consciousness, his eyelids fluttering open as his warm lips sought mine even before the fog of sleep cleared. He was less amused when he realized the hour. Ha! But I simply couldn’t wait another minute to show him his present.
He laughed and teased me as I dragged him out of the house. It took us ages to make our way through town, as always. Everyone loves George, and his heart is too big to resist wishing each and every person a Merry Christmas.
He never tires of the warmth of the island, turning his face to the sun and drinking in the ocean air every chance he gets. He sang Christmas songs and pestered me to build sandmen on the beach with him later the whole way up the mountain path I have grown so familiar with over the past nine months. I sang along and kissed him, promising him anything his heart desired, as always.
When we neared the clearing, I covered his eyes and led him through the last of the trees. My only wish was that the meadow had been in bloom when he first laid eyes on it, but I suppose that will be something for me to look forward to showing him in the spring.
His reaction when I uncovered his eyes was everything I’d hoped for and more. He laughed and wept, kissing every inch of my face before dragging me onto the carousel and demanding that I prove it works. Of course, it was my luck that the wiring seems to be finicky. I had it installed by one electrician and checked by another, but it has a mind of its own regardless. I was about to give up on showing him its full glory when I looked up to see my love gazing at me, with eyes so full of adoration that I could hardly breathe for a moment. I was so struck by the impossible truth that this man, this perfect, beautiful, kind man could possibly love me the way I love him. And oh, how I love him. Straight through to my very soul.
In that moment, the carousel hummed to life, its delightful song playing as the platform began to spin slowly. George laughed and held out his hand for me to grab, hauling me up to join him.
He insisted that our love was powering the machine, and perhaps he was right. Love is a mysterious and powerful thing, who am I to dictate its limits?
We rode it three or four times before he was too dizzy to go on any longer. We spent the rest of the afternoon in the meadow, making love and spotting clouds, talking about all things big and small.
We didn’t make it to the beach to build those sandmen like he wanted, but I promised him we will try tomorrow. We have an infinite number of tomorrows, George and me.
I catch my breath and dash a stray tear from my cheek, overcome by the emotions pouring from his words. I wonder if anyone will ever love me with so much abandon. A boy can certainly dream.
The sound of off-key singing reaches my ears, heavy, crashing feet stomping through the forest, drawing closer. I fold the notebook up again and slip it back into my pocket. My fingers are stiff with cold as I unwrap my hand from around the metal pole and slide off the horse.
Seconds later, the merry band of idiots whose voices are echoing off the mountain come crashing through the trees into the clearing. A new warm feeling fills me up inside, replacing the burning hot, weirdly shivery one Harold’s words always put there. This warmth is calmer and sweeter. It’s still love, but this love isn’t frantic or desperate or laced with lust—it’s the comforting hug of homecoming.
Ten is at the head of the pack, wearing a pair of jeans with holes in them and what appears to be two hoodies, all his tattoos covered for a change. He’s sporting that smile that earns him an obscene amount of tip money at the bar and makes dozens of tourists every year consider throwing their lives away to move to the island in the vain hope that Ten will fall madly in love with them. Unfortunately for them, he’s already very taken.
Right behind him is the man who was lucky enough to snag his heart over the past few months—Bambi. His eyes are as big and doey as his name suggests. I catch them flicking to Ten’s ass for a fraction of a second, which explains why my heart is suddenly fluttering with lust that isn’t my own. I twist my lips into a grin and eye Ten, who’s watching his sweet little man with just as much lust and adoration now that he’s free of the brambles.
Easy and Lux are next. Easy is wearing a coat that’s so large it makes him look like a child—a coat I’m sure fits perfectly over the gargantuan frame of his nearly seven-foot-tall best friend, who, coincidentally, is in just a t-shirt. You don’t need to be psychic to imagine exactly what happened during the hike up; Easy shivering subtly, and Lux insisting that he’s getting hot anyway as he forces his coat on his best friend. Maybe Easy didn’t even need to shiver. I’m sure Lux would have noticed his chill even if there weren’t any obvious outward signs. The two of them are connected more deeply than they even seem to realize. It vibrates between them like a rubber band when they stray too far from each other.
Trick comes running up behind and jumps onto Easy’s back, nearly knocking him to the ground as they both laugh. Behind them, Boston rolls his eyes and mutters something I can’t hear from this far away. If I had to guess, I’d say it was something about Trick’s fictitious sexual exploits. My chest vibrates with Trick’s nerves as he fights his seemingly endless battle with his own stupidity. Just tell him, I urge silently, even though I know it’s not going to happen until they’re both ready for it.
Hennessey, Goose, and Lyric are the ones singing, their voices filling the meadow with a loud chorus of Mariah Carey’s “All I Want For Christmas.” Hennessey slows his steps, glancing back. I don’t have to see grumpy Chef Storm coming through the trees to know that’s who Hen is looking at. It’s obvious in the way my heart skips a beat as I let myself feel Hen’s energy for a few seconds. What Hennessey doesn’t see is the lingering look the chef gives him in return when he turns his attention back to his friends.
