The Darkest Hour by Maya Banks

CHAPTER 1
HE’D hoped if he drank enough the night before he’d sleep right through
today. Instead his eyes popped open at eight A.M., and sunlight promptly
fried his retinas.
Ethan Kelly threw an arm over his face and lay there as the reality of the
day hit him square in the gut.
June 16.
He could say something incredibly corny like . . . June 16, the day his
world irrevocably changed. June 16, the day everything went to hell. Truth
was, it had done that long before.
The phone rang shrilly from the nightstand, and he quelled the urge to
smash it. Instead he listened as each ring pierced his skull like an ice pick.
When it didn’t quit in a reasonable length of time, he reached over and
yanked the cord from the wall. It could only be one of his well-meaning
family members, and the last thing Ethan wanted today was sympathy.
If it was his dad, he’d give Ethan a lecture about how Rachel wouldn’t
like the man he’d become. No, Rachel hadn’t liked the man he’d been.
Huge difference there. He hadn’t liked the man he’d been.
Frank Kelly would go on about how it was time to get on with his life.
Move on. He’d grieved long enough.
If it was one of his brothers calling, they’d ride his ass about when he was
coming to work for KGI.
Try never.
Knowing there was no chance of him going back to sleep with a head that
was split apart at the seams, he struggled to the edge of the bed and planted
his feet on the floor.
He’d sought oblivion, but all he had to show for the alcohol binge was
cotton mouth and a stomach that felt like he’d ingested lead.
And he still had to face today.
Eyes closed, he pressed his fingers into his temples and then covered his
face with his hands. His palms dug into his eye sockets, and he massaged as
if he could wipe away the cloud hovering in his vision.
Rachel.
Her name whispered through his tired mind, conjuring memories of his
laughing, smiling, beautiful wife. They floated there like butterflies.
Just as quickly they shriveled and turned black as if someone had held the
wings to fire.
Rachel was gone.
She was dead.
She wasn’t coming home.
He pushed himself up from the bed and staggered toward the bathroom.
His reflection didn’t shock him, and he didn’t spare a moment to splash his
face with water or wash out his mouth. He took a piss and stumbled back
out, his tongue rasping over the roof of his mouth.
He needed a drink. Preferably something that wasn’t going to make him
puke.
Mechanically, he walked barefooted across the wood floors into the living
room. Everything was just as she’d left it. The room reflected her
personality. Classy, elegant, and uncluttered.
He was a rough-around-the-edges slob.

The Darkest Hour by Maya Banks