ETERNAL CHOICE
The Cursed Series, Book 2
by Kara Leigh Miller
ETERNAL CHOICE (The Cursed Series, Book 2) by KARA LEIGH MILLER
FIRECHICKEN PRESS, LLC
213 South Dwight Street
Jackson, MI 49203
This book is a work of fiction. All characters, places, names, and events are either a product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any likeness to any events, locations, or persons, alive or otherwise, is entirely coincidental.
Eternal Choice copyright © 2020 Kara Leigh Miller
All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce this book or portions thereof in any form. For inquiries and information, address FireChicken Press, LLC., 213 South Dwight Street, Jackson, MI 49203. www.firechickenpress.weebly.com
First Edition ebook October 2020
Edited by Rosie Somers
Book Design by Laura Heritage
Cover Design by Laura Heritage
CHAPTER ONE
CHAPTER TWO
CHAPTER THREE
CHAPTER FOUR
CHAPTER FIVE
CHAPTER SIX
CHAPTER SEVEN
CHAPTER EIGHT
CHAPTER NINE
CHAPTER TEN
CHAPTER ELEVEN
CHAPTER TWELVE
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
CHAPTER NINETEEN
CHAPTER TWENTY
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT
CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE
CHAPTER THIRTY
CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE
CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO
CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE
CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR
CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE
CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX
CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN
CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT
CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE
CHAPTER FORTY
CHAPTER FORTY-ONE
CHAPTER FORTY-TWO
CHAPTER FORTY-THREE
CHAPTER FORTY-FOUR
CHAPTER FORTY-FIVE
CHAPTER FORTY-SIX
ETERNAL BOND
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
CHAPTER ONE:
Outcast
May 2017…
“LOW-EE! UP.”
Rolling my eyes, I flopped over onto my side and glared at my half-brother. He was two and couldn’t say Chloe, so I’d become Low-ee. I refused to admit it was adorable because I was determined to hate everything about being here—including my father’s shiny new family.
When I’d arrived almost a month ago, everything suddenly made a whole lot more sense. He’d disappeared from my life because he was too busy creating a brand-new one for himself, complete with a hot, young wife—a certified MILF according to the guys at my new school—and a precocious, bouncing, baby boy. Yup. My father had it all. A picture-perfect family. Wealth. Power. Status. All thanks to his new wife. He’d even taken her last name.
“Low-ee!” Little Frank—original, huh?—grabbed my arm with his sticky fingers.
“Ew.” I jerked away and rubbed my arm, my fingers coming away with a gooey honey colored substance. “What is all over your hand?”
Larissa, my stepmother, rushed into my room. As usual, she was dressed like she was about to step onto a fashion runway in Paris—hair and nails done, clothes perfectly matched and wrinkle free. She was even wearing heels. Who wears heels around the house just because?
“I’m sorry, Chloe.” She scooped up Little Frank and held him on her hip. “I made the mistake of giving him waffles with syrup this morning.” She frowned. “It’s about time for you to get up for school anyway.”
When she left the room, I forced myself out of bed. Thanks to the little monster, I was going to have to shower now, too. Gathering my clothes, I headed to my private bathroom—one of the very few perks of living here.
According to my father, Larissa “came from money,” whatever that meant. I didn’t speak rich. But based on the whispers at school, that was the worst kind of money to have. I didn’t know the difference, and I didn’t care. I was simply biding my time until my eighteenth birthday, and I had exactly one month and three days to go.
After showering, dressing, and rushing through an under-toasted bagel, I grabbed my bag and chased Larissa out the front door. She was always running late, and I hated it.
There was nothing quite like running across campus and barging into class ten minutes late, disheveled and panting like a dog, and having everyone stare at you. I missed the days of a five-minute drive to school, arriving in enough time to linger at my locker and talk with my friends. I never thought I’d say it, but I missed everything about Keene Valley.
“C’mon, let’s get going.” Larissa waved at me from the driver’s seat.
Her long, blonde hair was pulled into a tight, sleek ponytail. Designer sunglasses were perched on her nose. She was a poster child for a typical California girl.
I climbed into her cherry red convertible coupe and hooked my seat belt. The air was chilly, and I was glad she didn’t have the top down.
“Don’t you have to take Little Frank to daycare?” I asked.
She shook her head, put the car in reverse, and backed out of the driveway. “Your father’s working from home today, so he’s watching Little Frank while I drive you to school.”
My father was home? And he hadn’t bothered to show his face or say good morning? I didn’t know why I was still letting his actions disappoint me. I angled my body away from her and stared out the window.
“Your father and I have a charity ball this weekend. Little Frank will be with my parents. Would you like to go with us?” She turned toward me, and from the corner of my eye, I could see her smile. “It could be fun to get all dressed up and go out. Fancy dinner. Dancing.”
“No thanks,” I said.
Larissa let out a frustrated sigh and didn’t speak to me again until she pulled into the school parking lot—or as I liked to call it, my personal hell. I opened the door and got out.
“Have a good day, Chloe,” she called as I shut the door and waved at her.
She’d been nothing but nice since I’d arrived, and I tried not to be mean to her. But she represented everything I’d lost—my mother, time with my father, the family I never truly had.
I pulled my phone from the front pocket of my backpack—the phone Aunt Beth and Uncle Dean still paid for—plugged in my headphones, and headed across campus. I was actually a bit early today, and the quad was crawling with Malibu’s richest heirs.
When my father had enrolled me at The James da Vincente Preparatory School, I’d thrown a tantrum worthy of earning the “Worst Behaved Toddler” award. It was bad enough starting at another new school, but it was worse starting at one of Malibu’s most expensive, elite, private schools. It was a sea of pressed white shirts, sweater vests, and plaid skirts. Any teenager’s worst nightmare—a uniform.
To make it even worse, everyone knew
