Consumed (Gem Creek Bears Book 7)

Consumed


Gem Creek Bears, Book Seven


Jennifer Snyder


CONSUMED
Gem Creek Bears Book Seven
Copyright © 2020 by Jennifer Snyder
All rights reserved.
Cover Design by Najla Qamber Designs
No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.


Contents
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Epilogue
Thank You
About the Author


Chapter One
Memories are tricky. The moment they scratch the surface of your consciousness, you’re at their mercy until they run their course, or you find a way to force them back into their box. Forcing them away sounds easy, but it’s not. Once a memory surfaces, there’s always a rabbit hole waiting beneath, ready and willing to swallow you. The only way to win against memories you’d rather forget is to find a way to grow numb to them.
In order to do this, you need to know their kryptonite.
Every memory is different, and so is their kryptonite. However, each is a living, breathing thing taking up residency inside your mind—inside your soul.
Memories have a heartbeat. One you can feel. One that either beats in sync with yours or throws it into a tailspin.
Memories of Nash are my tailspins.
Art is their kryptonite.
I scratched my brush along the canvas, tracing over the word painted there once more. This time I pressed the coarse bristles of the brush into the canvas harder. Deeper. Until they dug into its textured surface. Tears fell from my eyes as the word, the emotion swallowing me whole, glared back at me from the canvas.
Anguish.
It was what I’d felt bubbling inside me since Gran called to tell me she was sick and I needed to come home. My insides felt hollow, and my world felt as though it had spun out of control. Not only did returning to Gem Creek mean facing whatever illness had fallen upon Gran, but it also meant returning to the scene of my biggest heartbreak.
It meant returning to Nash.
My mind spun out as old memories of him surfaced while worries of Gran’s health twisted at my gut. I traced over the word on the canvas once more, hoping to purge the emotion from my heart—from my soul—with each stroke of the brush. Generally, this worked. I’d paint whatever emotion I was drowning in on the canvas before painting over it with whatever image I had in mind.
It was both cathartic and therapeutic.
It was something I needed the way some need meditation or journaling. Painting and drawing—art in general—had always been a love of mine, but it wasn’t until I moved to the city last year that I’d learned just how much I needed it in my life.
It kept me sane.
I switched to a thin bristle brush, dipping the tip into muted gray paint before beginning to sketch out the vision inside my head carefully. Before I could make the first stroke, a familiar tingling sensation pulsed through my palm. It built in my fingertips, and then my hand moved along the canvas on its own accord to paint a new image suspended in my mind.
Mountains. A garden. A wooden rocking chair. A matching table and a glass of water with condensation dripping down its side.
Once the painting was finished, I took a step back and glared at it with a skeptical eye. The scene felt familiar.
Where was this?
Excess energy from my gift fizzed in the air, bursting like soda bubbles around me, while I thought. I studied the chair and the table. I studied the backdrop of the mountains with a small garden etched into the land. I knew this place. The mountain view felt familiar. Nothing else did, except maybe the porch.
It was Gran’s cabin in Gem Creek.
When had she gotten rid of the old weathered porch swing and bought a rocker with a matching table? And when had she put in a garden? I hadn’t remembered her mentioning it. Her having one didn’t surprise me, though. Like all bear shifters, she loved spending time outdoors and having a garden was just another way for her to do it.
My cell rang, startling me. My bear made a noise, one I knew meant she was laughing at how easily I’d spooked.
I set my paintbrush down and reached for my phone, my gut twisting with even more worry. Every time my phone rang now, I worried it would be bad news about Gran. While she wouldn’t tell me over the phone the other night what was wrong, she didn’t need to. I could sense she was asking me to come home because whatever it was, it was serious. It was in her tone.
I answered my phone on the fourth ring, hoping to catch it before it went to voicemail because it was Karen calling, and I knew how much she hated leaving voicemails. I also knew because of her annoyance toward it she wouldn’t leave one and that she’d also purposely ignore my return call, making me wait to hear whatever she had to say that much longer out of spite.
It was how she worked.
“Hey,” I said, answering her call. I placed my cell in the crook of my shoulder and picked my brush up again to smooth out a few lines.
“Hey, are you still in the city?”
“Yeah.”
“Good. Glad I caught you before you left. I didn’t think I would,” Karen said, sounding out of breath. She was always doing something. The woman reminded me of a lifesize hummingbird, flapping about at breakneck speed. “When are you leaving again?”
“Not until tonight. I have a few things I need to finish up before then.” Part truth and part lie.
I did have a few things I needed to do—like load up the houseplants I knew would need the most care and finish packing—but