Consumed (Gem Creek Bears Book 7)

By Jennifer Snyder

Sometimes we aren’t meant to see how life will unfold.

Samantha Mathers never foresaw herself returning to Gem Creek, and she never saw her Gran becoming sick—not even with the gift of premonition she was born with.

Then again, Sam’s gift doesn’t work like that.

If it did, she would have known her feelings for Nash Orsin would come rushing back the second she saw him. She would have also known to trust her gut—and her bear—when it comes to Damon Kincaid, the persistent snake shifter intent on using her gift for his benefit. However, Sam’s gift clearly has a few blind spots.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Jennifer Snyder
• Release date: Mar 2, 2023
• ISBN: 9798215317792

Jennifer Snyder

Jennifer Snyder lives in North Carolina where she spends most of her time writing New Adult and Young Adult Fiction, reading, and struggling to stay on top of housework. She is a tea lover with an obsession for Post-it notes and smooth writing pens. Jennifer lives with her husband and two children, who endure listening to songs that spur inspiration on repeat and tolerate her love for all paranormal, teenage-targeted TV shows.To get an email whenever Jennifer releases a new title, sign up for her newsletter a https://jennifersnyderbooks.com/want-the-latest/. It’s full of fun and freebies sent right to your inbox!

Book preview

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 mainly I was hanging around until later because I wasn’t ready to confront my past yet.

Meaning Nash.

Awesome. Great. I need the last piece in the Origin Series, Karen said. The sound of papers rustling around filtered through the phone. I could picture her rummaging through the stack that always decorated her desk while she hunted for the right one. You mentioned finishing it the other day.

My gaze shifted to the painting in the corner, leaning against the brick wall of my apartment, and my stomach dipped at the sight. There were very few pieces of mine I felt should stay hidden from the world, and that series was one of them. I’d never intended to put them up for sale. Karen had dropped by my place to pick up another painting for the gallery I’d finished and spotted the first two in the series. She’d taken them with her and placed them on the gallery’s online site for all to see without realizing that series wasn’t for sale. When I noticed the paintings were gone, it was too late.

Karen had already sold them.

She’d called me to find out their series name for the buyer before I could ask what she’d done with them. The deal was final, so I told her the name that came to me from thin air for it—origins. I also mentioned there would be one more because I could feel that familiar tingle already pulsing in my hand while talking to her about the series.

I also knew then what they represented—the shifter sickness.

The first painting was of a woman wearing a tattered white dress standing in a swamp. The second was of a glass jar bathing in moonlight. And the final image ended up being of two sets of bare feet with glowing water wrapping around their ankles and light rippling outward from them.

It wasn’t until later that I learned who the buyer had been—Damon Kincaid.

To say I wasn’t Damon’s biggest fan was an understatement. The guy rubbed me the wrong way. He wasn’t a jerk, but there was a sense of arrogance about him I didn’t care for. My bear didn’t care for him either.

However, that could be because Damon Kincaid was a snake shifter.

Snakes had always put both of us on edge, giving us the heebie-jeebies.

Sam? Hello? Karen asked, drawing my attention back to her. I realized then I still hadn’t answered her about the piece. I hadn’t said anything beyond, hey.

Yeah. I’m still here. Sorry. I put my paintbrush down and grabbed hold of my phone, releasing it from the crook of my neck. It’s ready. It’s sitting in the corner of my apartment. Do you want me to drop it off at the gallery before I head out of town?

Can you? That would be perfect, especially if you can get it here before five. Damon Kincaid is coming personally to pick it up. He also mentioned he’d like to speak with you. I gave him your number in case you two don’t cross paths today. I hope you don’t mind.

I squeezed my eyes shut, hating she’d given him my number. Damon had seemed obsessed with my paintings since we’d met by chance at the gallery shortly after I moved to Denton. I assumed this obsession spurred from his snake being able to sense my bear—or quite possibly my gift. While I wasn’t one hundred percent sure he’d picked up on it, I did have my suspicions.

How thoughtful of you, I said, allowing heavy sarcasm to have its way with my words.

Yeah, yeah. I can hear your enthusiasm. Regardless of how you feel about Damon, he’s one of my highest paying buyers. You’ve made thousands off him too, and I’m sure you wouldn’t mind making even more. I don’t know if he wants to ask you out on a date or if he’s interested in commissioning work from you, but I’m sure speaking with him will be worth your while. Besides, the man is serious eye candy. He’s tall, dark, and handsome. And those penetrating eyes of his. Yum.

I rolled my eyes, even though she couldn’t see, despite the smirk twisting my lips. He’s not my type.

What is your type then? You’ve turned away so many yummy morsels this year. The sounds of her rifling through more papers filtered through the phone. It was quickly followed by the clacking of keys on a keyboard. You’re too beautiful and young to be single. If you can’t find someone, then there is absolutely no hope for a girl like me. Although, I think I’m starting to realize you haven’t found someone because you’re either too damn picky or still hung up on someone else.

I licked my lips. I wasn’t picky, but she’d hit the nail on the head with the