Stolen Crush (Lost Daughter Of A Serial Killer #1) Read Online C.M. Stunich

Categories Genre: Contemporary, Romance Tags Authors: Series: Lost Daughter Of A Serial Killer Series by C.M. Stunich
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Total pages in book: 212
Estimated words: 196234 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 981(@200wpm)___ 785(@250wpm)___ 654(@300wpm)
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Read Online Books/Novels:

(Lost Daughter Of A Serial Killer #1) Stolen Crush

Author/Writer of Book/Novel:

C.M. Stunich

Language:
English
Book Information:

Finding out you’re the daughter of a millionaire true crime novelist isn’t all it’s cracked up to be. When I was two, I was kidnapped. Kidnapped by a loving family, sure, but still kidnapped. Now, my biological mom wants me to live with her on the opposite side of the country.
Her … and my new stepdad and his jerk of a son: Parrish.
Wannabe tattoo artist, languorous rich boy, pouty mouth. Starting a new life on the West Coast sucks, especially when there’s no love lost between me and my new family.
Oh, and my biological father? Did I mention that he’s a serial killer who wants me to play his games?
Find the right clues, follow the right trail, or someone I love gets hurt. But what if he’s just kidnapped someone I hate instead?
Parrish Vanguard is a royal asshole. The question is: does he deserve to die?
With the help of Parrish’s best friends—Maxx and Chasm—I have to risk everything to save a boy who considers himself my sworn enemy. Even if I save his ass, he’ll never thank me.
Lucky for him that our love-hate relationship isn’t a deal breaker.
I’ll play, Dad. Start the game.
****STOLEN CRUSH is a 180,000 word love-hate/high school romance with suspense/thriller themes. Includes foul language and sexual scenes; any sex featured is consensual. This is a reverse harem novel, meaning the main character has more than one love interest. This is book one of three in the series.
Books in Series:

Lost Daughter Of A Serial Killer Series by C.M. Stunich

Books by Author:

C.M. Stunich



There’s always a sense of dread in me when I think about the box.

I try not to think of the box very often.

“Don’t do it,” Chasm warns, his shadow falling long across me and the old wooden box, the one that smells curiously like old pennies. That was the same day I realized that I was into more than one boy, that my crushes were multiplying as quickly as the secrets coming down on me like rain. Sometimes, often enough, that memory is obscured when I recall the contents of the box. “Dakota.”

I should’ve listened to Chasm, the boy whose name wasn’t really his name at all. The boy calling me by a name that wasn’t really mine at all. My second crush, just weeks before I realized who my third was. Murders and crushes. I think that’s how I’ll always remember high school.

Gamer Girl versus Serial Killer.

There’s a creak as I lift the lid up, a smell that’s almost a taste, like metal, like copper. Like blood. At the bottom of the box, there she is. The Vanguard’s maid. It might’ve been cliché if it weren’t so sad.

“Oh shit, oh shit, oh shit,” Chasm murmurs, just before throwing up into the bushes. I almost envy him for his ability to react in that moment, to let his emotions overwhelm him. He acts like an asshole, but really, he’s a sweetheart. Parrish is the asshole. Parrish. The boy who’s missing. The boy who became family then lover then stolen, in what felt like an instant.

The lid slams shut, just barely missing my gloved fingers.

“I told you not to open it! Are you goddamn insane?!”

Why does each breath after that have to taste like blood? What does my father want? What need is he fulfilling by ensuring that I’ll corrupt myself with every step, that I’ll sink lower and lower, that I’ll do the unthinkable? Wow, Dakota, are you seriously considering going through with this crap?

I’d never hated myself more than I did in that one moment.

“Help me move this,” I deadpan, even as Chasm is pacing and cursing at me in Korean.

“What the hell is wrong with you? I’m not fucking touching that thing.” He points to the wooden box with his own gloved hand. “You really want to drop a dead body on someone’s doorstep? You think that’s a good idea?”

There’s only a breath of hesitation between his question and my answer.

“Yes,” I tell him, and I mean it. “Yes, I do.”

Love.

I am so in love. I also hate Parrish. Somehow, both of those things are true simultaneously.

And that’s the long and short of it, right? Love … is a double-edged sword.

Three months earlier …

Today is undoubtedly the worst day of my life.

I thought the day I found out that I’d been kidnapped as a child would qualify for the top spot. Instead, it’s today, the first day at my new house in Washington state, about as far away from my home in Catskills, New York as geographically possible.

The black Mercedes we’re riding in pulls up to a gate outside of a towering three-story mansion. It looks like a white cube with too many eyes, its numerous windows overlooking Lake Washington. With its flat roof and starkly modern aesthetic, it’s the exact opposite of the 1830s farmhouse that I grew up in.

It’s also surrounded by reporters.

I shrink down in the back seat, taking comfort in the tinted windows and doing my best to avoid the flash of cameras, the waving of cell phones, and the raucous chatter that’s haunted me for the better part of the last six weeks. Six weeks of pure, unadulterated hell.

The gate slides open and the car rolls forward, leaving the flock of reporters and influencers behind a wall of stark metal pickets.

“Well, we’re here,” Tess Vanguard says, pulling into the four-car garage as I struggle to take in a shuddering breath. I suppose I should call her Mom, right? Considering she gave birth to me. But then again, I was stolen from a daycare center when I was two years old, and I don’t remember anything about her except the smell of her perfume. The moment she walked into my grandparents’ house, and I took a deep breath, I felt it in my bones: she’s telling the truth.

When I was two, I was kidnapped, abducted, taken away from her.

I remember none of it.

All I know is that one day, my life in New York was perfect and easy and comfortable, and the next …

“I want you to think of this place as home,” Tess says, looking up at the rearview mirror and doing her best to smile at me. Her face says she’s exhausted, but then, so am I. And she’s the one that wanted this, for me to come and live with her, when I was perfectly happy where I was. She also pursed her lips and sighed when I refused to sit in the front seat, choosing to curl up in the back instead and watch the airport fade into the distance.


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