Dear Ava Read online Ilsa Madden-Mills

Categories Genre: Alpha Male, Angst, New Adult, Romance, Sports, Young Adult Tags Authors:

Total pages in book: 106
Estimated words: 103104 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 516(@200wpm)___ 412(@250wpm)___ 344(@300wpm)

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Dear Ava

Author/Writer of Book/Novel:

Ilsa Madden-Mills

Book Information:

WSJ bestselling author Ilsa Madden-Mills delivers a gripping enemies-to-lovers, secret admirer, high school romance.
The rich and popular Sharks rule at prestigious, ivy-covered Camden Prep. Once upon a time, I wanted to be part of their world--until they destroyed me.
The last thing I expected was an anonymous love letter from one of them.
Please. I hate every one of those rich jerks for what they did to me. The question is, which Shark is my secret admirer?
Knox, the scarred quarterback. Dane, his twin brother. Or Chance, the ex who dumped me. . .
Dear Ava,
Your eyes are the color of the Caribbean Sea. Wait. That's stupid. What I really mean is, you look at me and I feel something REAL.
It's been ten months since you were here, but I can't forget you. I've missed seeing you walk down the hall. I've missed you cheering at my football games. I've missed the smell of your hair.
And then everything fell apart the night of the kegger.
Don't hate me because I'm a Shark. I just want to make you mine. Still.
***Mature Content. Recommended for 18+.
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Ilsa Madden-Mills


Junior year

My hair covers my face and I shove it away, my heart speeding up and pounding as my eyes flare open in the dark. The air is cold, an early winter nipping on the heels of fall.

Where am I?

Straining to recall, I distinctly remember the road that brought me to these trees, a narrow, rutted lane, can barely even call it a road, really just a path used by tractors, ATV vehicles, and cars with good front-wheel drive.

No matter the road you take, it doesn’t matter if it’s beautiful or ugly, hard or smooth, paved or pitted with ruts—it’s your road to take. What matters is how it ends.

One of the nuns told me that once, but I can’t recall why—wait, God my head hurts as if someone took a sledgehammer and whacked me.

Blinking, I swallow and focus, mentally willing the pain to stop.

Where am I?

A high keening sound breaks into the night, and I jerk, realizing it’s me making that weird noise. Shivering at the eerie sound, I stop, sucking in air then hissing with the effort it takes as I attempt to sit up. I decide against it when agony reverberates through my lower body. There’s a gnawing there—

Screw it. Just let me lie here.

I’m in tall grass, that I do know, and I breathe slowly, orienting myself as I stare up at the starry sky and look for answers. The moon is full and bright, illuminating the high pine trees towering over me, their branches rustling as the wind blows, like ghostly hands rubbing their fingers together. Watching the slow, creepy movement reminds me of a horrid Grimm fairytale where a young girl ventures out into the enchanted forest to pick flowers, only to be gobbled up by a monster.

I close my eyes.

Open them again.

This isn’t an enchanted forest, but it’s definitely the woods.

How did I get here?

Twisting my head, I see the embers of a low bonfire glowing several yards away in a mostly open meadow. Images dance in my head—me at the fire, laughing, dancing, drinking—

I inhale a sharp breath as another memory pierces, and I kick it down. Just not ready. My hands clench the dirt and damp leaves underneath me. My clothes are dirty. At least I didn’t wear my red and white cheer outfit. No, I had time to change into a mini skirt and a new blue tank top with scalloped lace at the top, “the perfect match for my eyes,” Piper had said even as she told me not to—what? What did she tell me not to do?

More pain spirals in my head, and I wince, swallowing convulsively to pull moisture into my dry mouth.

I focus on that meadow.

Before I was in the woods, there was a party there, the Friday night kegger after the football game. Yes. At one point, people and music and cars encircled this meadow. Guys still in jerseys, some in jeans and preppy shirts, pretty girls decked out in expensive clothes I can’t afford, jewelry and shoes I’ll never have…

It’s empty now.

I lick dry, chapped lips when my stomach swirls. Bile curls in my gut. I’m not sure how my addled brain knows poison lies somewhere within me, but it does, and my body wants to eject it.

But it’s so hard to move, and I’m exhausted and sore, and if I could just close my eyes and drift…

The wind blows again and an owl hoots. Something howls off in the distance, a dog or a coyote.

Definitely not a wolf, I remind myself. This is rural Tennessee, not Alaska.

My body twitches in disagreement. Doesn’t matter! Leave this awful place!

But, I’m so tired and weak and maybe if I just go back to sleep and wake up again, this will all just be a bad dream—

Those ghostly fingers in the trees brush again and I snap to awareness, forcing my eyes to stay open.

I sit up and prop my back against the tree behind me. A collection of pictures tiptoe through my mind: Jolena and me getting ready for the party at her place and my nervousness at being surrounded by the opulence of her huge mansion, then us arriving at the field party in her black Range Rover. We chugged shots of Fireball before we got out to join everyone. She offered, her ruby lips smiling, and I took it anxiously, needing the bravery for my first kegger. These people weren’t like me, didn’t really know me, except as Chance’s girl. They’re the Sharks at Camden Prep, rich and popular and pretty much assholes except for Chance. They rule the school. They decide who comes to the parties. They decide if you’re good enough.

My fingers press on my forehead. Knox Grayson, QB1 and the leader of the Sharks, was the first person I saw when we walked up to the fire, his arm curled around…Tawny? Yeah. With the golden brown hair like sunlight. She’s not just pretty; she’s beautiful, wrapped in wealth and superiority—ah, crap, forget her. She doesn’t even know my name. It’s an image of him, of Knox, that lingers…the long, ugly scar that runs down from his right temple, through the hollow of his cheek, slicing into his upper lip. The devil. Hades. I call him that in my head sometimes before I shove him out of my thoughts and lock him away tight. My subconscious has always known to flee when I pass him in the hall, to run like the hot winds of hell are at my back.