Kept From You (Tear Asunder #4) by Nashoda Rose #ReleaseBlitz @nashodarose @bookenthupromo

Kept From You (Tear Asunder #4) by Nashoda Rose

Book Title: Kept from You (Book 4: Tear Asunder)
Author: Nashoda Rose
Genre: Erotic Romance
Hosted by: Book Enthusiast Promotions

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Cover photo: Copyright © 2016 Wander Aguiar Photography (http://www.wanderbookclub.com)
Model: Nick Bennett (https://www.facebook.com/nickbennett6/)
Cover design by: Kari Ayasha, Cover to Cover Designs

A first kiss that changed everything.

Killian Kane.
He was the most feared guy in high-school.
Guarded. Angry. A fighter.
But when I caught him watching me with his captivating green eyes I saw something more. Something protective and kind. 


He warned me to stay away from him.

I did.
Until I didn’t and he kissed me. A knee weakening, body tingling kiss that left me breathless. 
And scared the hell out of me.


And then…
He warned me never to come near him again or next time he wouldn’t let me go.



That was eleven years ago.
We aren’t teenagers anymore. He has probably forgotten me. 
He’s a famous rock star now. I’m a dance instructor with a broken dream and desperate for a job.
So, when we cross paths again I don’t expect him to remember me.
He does.
And his warning eleven years ago? I’m about to find out exactly what that meant.

The thin sweet crunch mixing with the light, airy cream tickled my tongue.

Indulging was rare. Indulging in something like crème brûlée was heaven on a spoon.

But what made it even more like heaven was that Killian watched me with desire blazing in his eyes.

I swallowed, then with the tip of my tongue, I slid it over my lower lip, licking the remnants of cream.

“Fuck,” he growled.

I secretly smiled, heart pumping wildly.

I’d never been sexy or tried to be sexy, but I wanted to be with Killian. He made it easy for me to be brave.

Lights dim, candles flickering, the soft jazz music in the background, skin tingling from the sexy-as-hell man next to me, yeah, I was brave.

I dipped the spoon in again, but Killian’s fingers spanned my wrist, stopping me.

I met his eyes and without a word, but knowing exactly what he wanted by the silent exchange of his steady expression, I released the spoon to him.

His attention went to the dessert where he tapped the light thin sugar shell before breaking through and sinking into the airy lightness.

He lifted the overfilled spoon at the same time as his eyes.

I thought he was going to take a bite himself, but he held the spoon out to me. “Open.”

I nervously laughed, thinking he was kidding; it was a huge mouthful. “It’s too much.”

“I know. Open, Savvy,” he said.

Oh, God, my belly dropped and my sex clenched. I swallowed, licking my lips again.

“No,” he said with a firm voice. “I didn’t ask you to lick your lips. Although that is fuckin’ delectable as hell.” His tone lowered further. “I asked you to open your mouth.”

My eyes widened. Holy. Fuck. That was hot. Demanding and a little scary because him using that voice I’d pretty much do anything he asked.

I opened, and he slid the dessert into my mouth, and since there was so much, it hit the roof, sides, and back of my throat. He didn’t remove the spoon right away and watched as I struggled not to pull away.

When I was just about to say screw it, he said, “My cock will fill your mouth a hell of a lot more than this.”

I nearly choked. And I would’ve if he didn’t slowly remove the spoon, my lips dragging over the cool, smooth surface of the spoon to make certain I took the entire dessert.

His elbow rested on the table, spoon in his hand, eyes on mine as I swallowed little by little until it was gone. The entire time I thought about his cock.

meet the author

Nashoda Rose is a New York Times and USA Today bestselling author who lives in Toronto with her assortment of pets. She writes contemporary romance with a splash of darkness, or maybe it’s a tidal wave.

When she isn’t writing, she can be found sitting in a field reading with her dogs at her side while her horses graze nearby. She loves interacting with her readers and chatting about her addiction—books.

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 I love this quote, Diana
“I’m wondering what to read next.” — Matilda, Roald Dahl

Keeping Kinley by Annette K. Larsen #BookTour


Keeping Kinley by Annette K. Larsen

He’s noble. She’s common. It’s complicated.
Kinley is content with her common life until a chance meeting with an old friend—a noble—brings the possibility of love. Though Rylan pursues her with a charming carelessness, she doesn’t dare hope that their relationship will be accepted. When Kinley’s livelihood is threatened, she is thrust into his world as a servant, but the Rylan she encounters there isn’t the quirky friend she thought she knew. Can she trust him, or will she be forced to accept that her dreams are only that—dreams?

Excerpt

My breath caught as soon as he said the name and my eyes searched his features, looking for the little boy I had known in the man that stood before me. “Rylan?” I breathed and he nodded, still with that familiar grin in place. “Oh…my,” was all my idiot brain could say as I took in his fine horse and his fine clothes and his fine eyes.
I probably still had pear juice on my face.
“How are you, Miss Kinley?” he asked with the same light in his eyes that he used to have whenever he would tell me about his favorite part of a lesson.
“I am…well,” I answered in a breathless sort of stuttering. “Very well, thank you. I hope all is well with you and your family. How are Lord and Lady Baylor?”
“My father runs his business affairs with an iron fist and my mother coddles the staff, so everything is as it should be.” He grinned.
“Good.” I had to ignore the grin so that I could speak. “And Master Welsley and Tayana?”
“Welsley takes life too seriously, but is ready to take over for father at a moment’s notice. Tayana is soon to be married.”
“Good, good. That’s very good.” It was so very awkward to be standing in front of this man who had befriended me as a child. How was I supposed to act?
“And what of your family?” he asked eagerly. “It was your brother, was it not? That married…”
“Princess Ariella, yes.” No one seemed to be able to say it out loud, worried that if they were wrong, I’d somehow be offended. I was used to finishing the thought.
He gave a crooked smile. “That must have been an interesting adjustment.”
I laughed, surprised at how succinct that description was. “It was a surprise and an adventure, and I really do adore her.”
“I’ve never had the pleasure of meeting her, but everyone seems to have an opinion one way or the other.”
“I can only imagine.” While most of the common folk had accepted Ella and Gavin, I knew that the nobility had not been so easily convinced when she’d stooped to marry a commoner.
He smiled, so casual, so comfortable.
I felt the need to fill the silence. His horse bobbed its head, trying to get Rylan’s attention. I pointed to him. “And who is this?”
He reached up, stroking the horse behind its ear. “This is Apollo. Say ‘Good day,’ old man.”
The horse actually nodded its head up and down. I was reminded of Herman, who I had abandoned.
“I should go.” I gestured awkwardly down the lane. “It was a pleasure seeing you.”
“Wait, can I see you tomorrow?”
My confusion made the corner of my mouth quirk up. “Why would you do that?”
“Because I’d like to speak with you again,” he said as if it was the most normal thing in the world.
“Oh, um.” He was nobility, and I was decidedly not. “I have to get Herman. My pony, he’s—” I pointed behind me as if that would explain my inability to speak coherently, then turned to walk back the way I had come.

Author Annette K. Larsen

I was born in Utah, but migrated to Arizona, Missouri, and Virginia before settling in Idaho.
Though I dabbled in writing throughout school, being an author seemed like an unattainable dream. It took me seven years to write my first book, Just Ella. During that time, I taught myself how to write a novel. Not the most time effective method, but it gave me an education I wouldn’t have received from a class or a how-to book. Something about the struggle of writing without a formula or rules worked for me.
I write clean romance because I love it. Jane Eyre is the hero of my youth and taught me that clinging to your convictions will be hard, but will bring you more genuine happiness than giving in ever can.
I love chocolate, Into the Woods, ocean waves, my husband, and my five littles. And I love books that leave me with a sigh of contentment.

Website * Facebook

Giveaway

$25 Amazon Gift Card or Paypal Cash

Ends 3/9/17

Open only to those who can legally enter, receive and use an Amazon.com Gift Code or Paypal Cash. Winning Entry will be verified prior to prize being awarded. No purchase necessary. You must be 18 or older to enter or have your parent enter for you. The winner will be chosen by rafflecopter and announced here as well as emailed and will have 48 hours to respond or a new winner will be chosen. This giveaway is in no way associated with Facebook, Twitter, Rafflecopter or any other entity unless otherwise specified. The number of eligible entries received determines the odds of winning. Giveaway was organized by Kathy from I Am A Reader and sponsored by the author. VOID WHERE PROHIBITED BY LAW.

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I love this quote, Diana
“I’m wondering what to read next.” — Matilda, Roald Dahl

LEATHER PANTS by Mimi Jean Pamfiloff #Releaseblast @TastyBookTours @MimiJeanRomance

It Only Takes One
Hot Rock Star To Ruin Your Life…

 

LEATHER PANTS
Happy Pants #2
Mimi Jean Pamfiloff
Releasing March 3rd, 2017

 

From
New York Times Bestseller, Mimi Jean Pamfiloff, Comes Book #2 of The Happy
Pants Cafe Series…
It Only Takes One
Hot Rock Star To Ruin Your Life…
The youngest woman to ever sit on the bench, the
Honorable Sarah Rae Alma has busted her butt to get where she is. No fun. No
distractions. And definitely no bad boys. In fact, she takes a certain pleasure
in crushing their souls—yes, she has her reasons.
So when rock-n-roll’s most famous bad boy, the
legendary Colton Young, enters her court, looking hotter than sin and smugger
than hell, she’s just itching to serve a little justice.
But Sarah’s about to make the biggest mistake of
her life. And her fate will land squarely in the hands of the world’s most
notorious rock star rebel.

 

Will he crush her? Or will he tempt her to take a
walk on the wild side?

Feeling woozy, Sarah took her seat behind her immaculate desk in her pristine office—floor-to-ceiling bookshelf on one side, big window on the other, walls covered in her degrees and recognitions for public service—all overlooking the back alleyway of the building.

 

Colt’s lawyer entered her chamber first, followed by the DA, who quickly informed her about a video that had just come out. It showed that Colton Young had been falsely accused of grabbing one of the officers’ guns and striking him in the face.

 

The DA tapped on his phone and showed the screen to Sarah. “The video does show, however, that Colton Young urinated in public and relieved himself on the other officer’s leg.” The video looked to be filmed from behind a pile of boxes in a back alley, possibly behind a restaurant or something. How lucky. Maybe a fan had been following him.

 

“Well,” Sarah said, lacing her fingers together on top of her desk, “this certainly changes things.” No trial. Yes! She held back the urge to do a victory tap dance. Not that she could tap dance.

 

“We’ll be dismissing the felony charges,” said the DA, “but the defendant is a public figure and must be held accountable for his actions against the other officer. Especially in light of his track record.”

 

He referred to Colton’s auto theft trial from three months ago. The jury found him innocent after the owner of the vehicle came forward, claiming he’d been drunk and had forgotten that he’d actually given Colt permission to borrow the car. Wanting to make a name for himself, the DA tried to make the charges stick by discrediting the owner of the car, who’d contradicted himself in the police report. A big fail. The jury could only find Colton Young guilty of wrecking a tree on public property, for which Sarah sentenced Mr. Young to pay a small fine. All this meant that the DA wasn’t going to let this go.

 

The DA went on, “We want to continue with the trial and ensure justice is served for the fine people of California, who are tired of the entitled few getting away with this kind of illegal behavior.”

 

Sarah wanted to roll her eyes. This guy acted like he was on TV, trying to impress the world. Idiot. Who had time for showboating? Their courtrooms were bogged down with so many cases—murders, rape, drug charges—it would be a waste of taxpayer dollars to hold a juried trial for a misdemeanor moistening of an officer’s pant leg, famous defendant or not. Especially when one policeman had brought false charges under very suspicious circumstances, a much, much bigger issue for the DA to spend his time on.

 

Sarah looked at the DA. “While I am a devoted supporter of our police force, I suggest you do the world a favor and drop all charges.” In all likelihood, the charges wouldn’t stick anyway. Colton Young looked sauced and the jury would find said peeing infraction an accident.

 

“I can’t do that,” replied the DA. “It sends the wrong message to the public.”

 

So he’s worried about looking weak. Some days the politics of this job drove her insane. They were here for one thing and one thing only: to serve justice.

 

Sarah looked at Colt’s lawyer, a very handsome man, and noticed he looked familiar. She’d probably had him in her court before. “Well?”

 

He gave her a nod. “I’ll speak to Mr. Young. He’ll be changing his plea to guilty.”

 

Strange. “Don’t you want to talk to your client—”

 

“No. My client will plead guilty.”

 

Normally, the defendant’s lawyer would want to discuss the situation with their client. On the other hand, the sooner this ended, the better. She wouldn’t have to stare at Mr. Hotti-hotastic in his smokin’ hot leather pants for a week and risk looking like an idiot—correction—a bigger idiot. The public would be served by eliminating a costly trial. Mr. DA would feel like he’d served his fat ego. Everyone would win.

 

“Excellent.” She looked at her watch. “We’ll reconvene in five minutes.”

 

The two attorneys left and Sarah plopped her forehead down on her desk. Thank God. All she needed to do now was accept Colt’s plea without fucking that up, and then she could worry about sentencing in three or four weeks.

 

God, what was all that in there? I can’t stand his type. And she hated pompous jerks who reeked of entitlement even more. But that man…that man…

 

She would never forget the first time she’d seen Colton back in college, when he had his first hit record. Her roommate kept playing this song of his—“A Love Song”—about a man who kept trying to find love, but every woman who walked into his life refused to see the real him.

 

You want the money

 

You want the fame

How about wanting me, baby?

 

After hearing the song five hundred times, Sarah began plotting to make sure her roomie, Melissa, and that damned boom box disappeared. Quicksand. Deep well. Accidental fire. She’d go mad if she had to hear that tune one more goddamned time!

 

And then it happened.

 

Sarah caught a glimpse of Colton Young in a music video. She remembered being unable to look away. Those sensual lips, those hazel eyes. She’d never seen a man like that. And the way he moved those hips and that body? So sexy. So confident. A complete badass.

 

Sarah like. Sarah want. Sarah neeeed…

 

Which was why she’d remained a fan all these years until he walked into her courtroom a few months ago for that auto-theft case. His empty gaze and lack of emotion instantly shook her. He didn’t seem to care about anything around him or anyone.

 

Not at all the passionate alpha stud I thought him to be. Still, she couldn’t help getting all flustered in his presence—a mental hangover from years of being a huge fan.

 

Sarah cringed, resenting the effect he had on her. I’m going to enjoy the hell out of throwing him in jail for two months. Wait, make it three. Because regardless of the current situation, Colton Young was not innocent. He’d been given every chance to live a very privileged life. He had the sort of money and opportunities given only to a handful. Yet he wanted to piss it away—literally—by acting like a lawless rebel and getting arrested every few months.

 

Yes, Colton Young waved the bad-boy flag high in the air. And he definitely fell into her “throw the full book at him” category.

 

Hot or not. She would serve justice and make that man cry.

Mimi Jean
Pamfiloff
 is
USA Today and New York Times bestselling
romance author. Although she obtained her MBA and worked for more than fifteen
years in the corporate world, she believes that it’s never too late to come out
of the romance closet and follow your dream. Mimi lives with her Latin Lover
hubby, two pirates-in-training (their boys), and the rat terrier duo, Snowflake
and Mini Me, in Arizona. She hopes to make you laugh when you need it most and
continues to pray daily that leather pants will make a big comeback for men.
 

I love this quote, Diana
“I’m wondering what to read next.” — Matilda, Roald Dahl

Friday Reveal Blood Road by Amanda McCrina @9inchsnails #BookReveal #FridayReveals #Month9Squad #Month9Books

 
Today Amanda McCrina and Month9Books are
revealing the cover and first chapter for BLOOD ROAD which releases April 25,
2017! Check out the gorgeous cover and enter to be one of the first readers to
receive a eGalley!!
A quick note from the author:

 

 
The funny thing about historical fiction—or
historical fantasy, in this case—is that it often reveals more about the
present than it does about the past. It provides a lens through which we can
understand and contextualize our own experiences. BLOOD ROAD is a tribute to my
love of Roman history, but it’s also very much a product of its time. It’s a
story about corruption and injustice and empire and a young soldier who stands
up and resists, and writing it gave me the opportunity to ask hard questions
about my own present and the part I play.
 
 
Title: BLOOD
ROAD
Author: Amanda McCrina
Pub. Date: April 25, 2017
Publisher: Month9Books
Format: Paperback, eBook
Pages: 329
Find it: Goodreads
| Amazon | B&N
| TBD
Nineteen-year-old Torien Risto has seen
dissidents dealt with before. He knows the young local girl who just knifed him
will hang for assaulting an Imperial officer, unless he can stop it.
Someone inside the provincial government
is kidnapping Imperial citizens and selling them across the desert to the salt
mines, silencing anyone who tries to intervene. The girl’s brother is one of
those who has been taken. Rejected by the corrupt courts, she’s waging a
personal war against the Empire.
Determined to save her life, Torien sets
out in search of answers on the Salt Road, the ancient trade route running deep
into the heart of a desert—territory claimed by the hostile Mayaso tribe.
Now, Torien is no longer sure where his
own loyalty lies, or how far he will go to break the cycle of tyranny,
political bullying, and social injustice in an empire that seals its borders in
blood.

 

 

Excerpt

CHAPTER ONEHe could see the sky in pieces between the tenements, bruised purple now with dusk.

At first he was glad for the darkness, because it meant they would be firing the beacon in the lighthouse at the point. He leaned on his saddle-horns, craning his neck to look down the narrow cross streets, trying to catch a glimpse of the great light burning in the distance. By means of the lighthouse he could reorient himself. But the cross streets twisted away into deep shadow between the tenement blocks, and there was the irksome thought at the back of his mind that if they had wandered so far into the city as not see the lighthouse, then they had wandered so far as to be where Imperial control was more a matter of theory than practice—at least at night.

Earlier, when the young summer sun was glaring white in a blue- glaze sky and the air under the awnings still and close and hot enough one could feel one’s skin baking in it—the tenements shut out the harbor breeze—the streets had seethed with people: sellers of figs and dates and pomegranates and honeyed almonds and goats’ milk and flavored ices and sour wine; and potters and silversmiths and leatherworkers and basket-weavers at their shopfronts; and housewives browsing the market stalls; and slave girls with water in sloshing panniers over their shoulders; and naked children playing sticks-andhoops along the foot-stones; and now and then a mounted official in white linen, shouting and swearing until the crowd shuffled aside to let him pass. Now in darkness they were alone in the street. It was as though the rest of the city had died with the sun. The air was dry and rapidly cooling, heavy with silence like a bated breath. He would not mind the darkness if not for the silence. In a city such silence was unnatural.

“Do you suppose they’ll look for us?” Alluin said. “Or just wait until our bodies turn up in an alley in a week or so?”

“I imagine they’ll expend the effort for me, if they wouldn’t otherwise trouble about you.”

“So there is some benefit to your acquaintance, after all.”

“If not for my acquaintance, you’d be just finishing the first course at the officers’ dinner.”

It had been his idea to explore the city. Alluin was city-born and indifferent—all cities were the same when you got down to it; there came a point when unwashed bodies and stray dogs and bad wine in dirty shops ceased to be as interesting as bed. But he, Torien, still had 3 Blood Road a provincial awe of big cities—an itching, impatient need to see and hear and know. He had been determined not to idle away his time in Modigne behind the fort walls. True that he and Alluin had no more than a smattering of bastardized Modigno between them, and that Modigne was a rabbit’s warren of nameless, ancient streets, built and overbuilt in incongruous layers—in daylight that had seemed far less important than it did now. In daylight it had been enough to know he was an officer of the Imperial army, and a Vareno nobleman, with sufficient coin on his person for any foreseeable difficulty and a sword at his hip in the event his coin should fail. It was remarkable how in darkness one saw things more clearly.

Certain things, anyway—other things than the way back to the fort or the direction of the harbor light.

The street, so narrow now that Alluin had to rein in his horse and fall in behind, plunged into a honeycomb of tight-packed adobe huts, each no wider than the span of Torien’s arms, joined to its neighbors by rickety wooden ladders running an uneven line from flat rooftop to flat rooftop. He took the downward slant for a good sign: he knew, from studying the maps on the wall of the headquarters at the fort, that Modigne, built as it was along a volcanic crater, went down to the ocean like the insides of a bowl, and so for the street to be sloping downward meant it must be working its way however haphazardly to the harbor.

He leaned on the saddle-horns, lifting himself a little to see if he could pick out the lighthouse below.

There was a rustle on the rooftop above. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw a darker shadow take shape against the darkness. He recognized the glint of metal in time to jerk around in his saddle, hauling on the reins as he turned. He took the blade in the back of his left shoulder rather than in his throat.

He had braced for it and did not slip from the saddle, though for a moment he thought he might: his knees, pressed against the horse’s ribs, went as weak as water. He lost the reins from his left hand. Above him, he heard very clearly the patter of footsteps as the knifeman fled across the rooftop for the nearest ladder. Just as clearly, he heard the thin cry and the muffled thump as the knifeman lost his footing on the ladder and fell back to the roof.

Silence followed.

Torien brushed away Alluin’s hand and propped his right shoulder against the wall. He nodded to the hut. “Bring him,” he said—calmly, though his heart was pounding. “That fall won’t have killed him.”

He saw Alluin’s face as a pale blur in the darkness. “Tor—”

“It’s nothing. It’ll wait. Our friend won’t.”

In truth, his knees were still trembling, and he was speaking through clenched teeth because he knew if he unclenched them they would chatter. There was blood seeping through his tunic and jerkin, and he was conscious, as he hadn’t been at first, of the knife blade sunk to its hilt just beyond the cuff of his shoulder. His body was revolting against the thought, sickness threatening in the pit of his stomach.

Lamplight blossomed inside the hut. Low voices filtered out through the reed curtain in the doorway. Torien dipped his chin again, with effort. Alluin swore and swung from his saddle and drew his sword. He pushed into the hut through the curtain, and Torien heard him issuing orders in a clumsy hybrid of Modigno and Vareno—heard the crash of pottery breaking, the scrape of wood dragging across stone, a child’s whimper. A moment later, Alluin’s head and shoulders and sword hand emerged above him from inside the hut. Alluin pushed himself up on his hands from the opening, landing lightly on his feet on the roof. Picking up his sword, he vanished beyond the roof edge.

Torien leaned carefully back against the wall. He glanced down the street. There were no other doorways lit, no other sound than the clatter of Alluin’s hobnailed boots on the rooftop above. In Choiro, there would have been a crowd by now. Modigne lay as still and silent as a plague city.

Alluin reappeared at the roof edge. He had sheathed his sword. He was handling the knifeman along by the shoulders—no, not a man, Torien thought, certainly a boy: he came barely to Alluin’s chest. His arms and legs, silhouetted black against the sky, were thin, stick-like things around which his tunic fluttered shapelessly.

Torien pushed up from the wall and gathered himself together and dismounted. The ground was springy under his feet. He wavered for a moment as his heels touched, swallowing back the sickness. There was a ringing in his ears. He blinked in the sudden brightness of lamplight as Alluin flung aside the curtain in the doorway and shoved the boy before him out into the street. Behind him the hut’s occupants—a man and a woman and an assortment of half-dressed children—gathered silently in the doorway to watch.

The boy had stumbled and fallen in a heap of skinny limbs and wool rags. He caught himself on his palms. He adjusted the cap on his head and sat back awkwardly, keeping his knobby legs to the side. In the dim light, Torien could see enough to know the left ankle was broken. There was blood dribbling from the boy’s nose, and he was sucking breath low and softly through his teeth. His eyes darted over Torien’s face, lingering for a moment at Torien’s shoulder. He looked quickly to the ground. He was, Torien judged, eleven or perhaps twelve—not yet old enough to face execution for an assault upon an Imperial soldier. He would go to a slaver’s block instead. There would be an examination to determine the guilt of his family.

He caught Alluin’s eye and jerked his chin to the sullen family in the doorway. “Wine if they have it. Water otherwise—and something passable for bandage cloth.” The pain had started, and he was leaning into his horse’s shoulder for balance.

The woman in the doorway said something in Modigno. He recognized the word for wine. He said, “What did she say?” Alluin’s Modigno was bad, but better than his own.

“They have wine, but it’s for a wedding,” Alluin said, “for her sister’s wedding—I think.”

He was irritated and impatient now. “Water, then. Tell them I’d have paid for wine.”

Alluin stood at his shoulder and unbuckled his cuirass while the woman went into the hut. “Do you want to do this inside?” he said. His voice was quiet.

“Not until I know he acted alone.” Torien nodded to the boy, who had sat motionless all this while, studying the ground as though he were reading something written there. “You. You speak Vareno?”

The boy looked up incuriously into Torien’s face. He had determined not to speak: Torien could see as much from the set of his mouth, the hollowness of his eyes. His thin brown hands were clenched to fists on his lap.

From the doorway, the man spoke up in rapid Modigno.

“He’s reconsidered about the wine?” Torien said. The shoulder was hurting fiercely.

“He says he knows her family,” Alluin said.

“Whose family?” There was a moment’s silence in which he suddenly understood.

“A girl,” he said, stupidly. “He says he knows her family and will tell us where she lives,” Alluin said.

“Also, he would appreciate very much his lord’s kindness if his lord would consider a pittance in return for the service.”

The girl flung up her head suddenly to spit at the man’s feet. The man seemed embarrassed. He hunched his shoulders and looked at his hands. The woman came out from the hut with a water jug and a cloth. She held them out to Alluin at arm’s length, making a quick, nervous gesture with her hands. Alluin shook his head. “Hold them. Quedas—hold them, you understand?”

“Give them to me,” Torien said.

“Don’t give them to him,” Alluin said. “He’ll drop them when I do this.”

He jerked the knife from Torien’s shoulder. Torien folded to his knees. The street swam around him. He heard Alluin’s voice as though it were carrying to him underwater. He shook his head. Alluin was prying the cuirass from his shoulder and tugging the jerkin down his arm. The night air through his blood-soaked tunic was sharp and cold; he shivered. The girl’s eyes were on him. She was watching with the same flat-eyed incuriosity. There was blood trickling over her lips from her nose, but she made no move to wipe it away.

“Her ankle,” Torien said. For some reason, her silence shamed him.

Far above him Alluin said, patiently, “What?”

“Tie up her ankle. And tell the Modigno he can show us where she lives, because I don’t trust the word of a coward.”

****

The Modigno walked ahead, self-consciously, shoulders still hunched in embarrassment. Alluin followed on foot, leading his horse by the reins. The girl huddled in his saddle with her hands outstretched to the horns, her face buried in the horse’s mane, her bare legs dangling limp against the horse’s belly. Torien rode at the rear. The street, which turned this way and that through the honeycombed huts, ran steadily downhill all the while, and he knew they must be close to the water because there was a stiff salt breeze rising to his face. It cut through his soaked tunic like a knife. His fingers were numb on the reins. He had knotted them in the horse’s mane to keep himself upright in the saddle.

He could have ordered the Modigno to show them instead to the harbor light, of course, or to the fort itself, and they could have delivered the girl into the prison on the hill, and very soon now he might have been enjoying the comfort of his own quarters and a skin of wine to ease the pain in his shoulder—but it might easily be a month before the girl’s case went to the governor, and he was due to report at Tasso in a week, and he had too many questions of his own to let it go like that.

Only after they had gone on for near half an hour, the adobe huts having given way to ramshackle wooden shanties and the street sunk in soft, rank mud, the air heavy with the smell of brine and rotten fish, did it occur to him that most likely the Modigno had no idea about the girl’s family and no idea where she lived—had grasped for the chance to make a quick coin and come away with more than he had bargained for, and was looking for the opportunity to dart down an alley and vanish into the night.

He had opened his mouth to say this to Alluin when the Modigno swung about suddenly and said something in his own tongue, gesturing with his hands. The shanty at his back was threesided, sheltered from the street by a tattered sailcloth curtain, unlit.

“He says it’s here,” Alluin said.

The girl shifted in Alluin’s saddle. A shudder ran through her shoulders, but she did not raise her head.

“Tell him to lift the curtain,” Torien said. He was cold and aching and the Modigno was a fool, but that was no reason to abandon caution.

The Modigno lifted the curtain. The shanty was empty. There was a fire pit dug in the bare-dirt floor, but the coals were dead.

The Modigno spoke very quickly in his own tongue, his eyes going from Alluin to Torien and back again.

“He seems to think we think he’s lied,” Alluin said. “He wants us to ask the girl.”

“Tell him the girl’s our concern.” Torien dismounted, cradling his left arm against his stomach. He was too tired for anger. Anyway, it was pointless to threaten reprisals: they would not find him again if they tried. He fumbled at his belt and withdrew a bronze from his wallet. He flicked the coin in the Modigno’s direction. “Bayas—go.”

The Modigno dropped to his heels to dig out the coin from the mud. He made a mockery of a bow as he straightened: it had occurred to him that they had been essentially at his mercy. His shoulders were straight as he walked away back up the street.

Alluin pulled the girl down from his saddle by the waist and held her before him, as easily as though she were made of straw. “I’ll have a look around. The harbor can’t be far.”

“No. We can spend the night here.”

“That shoulder needs more than water, Tor, and sooner is better. Though I appreciate your faith in my medical ability.”

“I don’t like the idea of splitting up. It won’t do my shoulder any good if you end up in the harbor with your throat cut. And I couldn’t drag myself back into a saddle right now if I wanted to.”

Alluin was silent, studying him. He had the girl’s shoulder in one hand, his reins in the other. He let go the girl’s shoulder, reluctantly. “Adienta—inside,” he said. And to Torien: “I’ll see to the horses.”

Weak moonlight filtered through the roof of the shanty, which was nothing more than a reed lattice tied down with leather strips. The girl sat down against the left-hand wall, stretching her bad leg straight before her. She watched silently and unmoving while Torien crouched on his heels at the fire pit and searched one-handed through the ashes for salvageable tinder. By the time he had built up a decent pile, and had found flint and iron to strike a light, Alluin had ducked in from the street with a saddle on each arm.

“I’d have done it if you’d waited,” he said. He deposited Torien’s saddle against the right-hand wall and sat down with his own against the rear wall.

Torien unbuckled his helmet and leaned his head back against the wall. He sat with the helmet on his lap, his eyes closed. Beyond the crackling of the fire and the rattling of the lattice in the salt breeze, the silence stretched vast and hostile. “If you speak,” he said, “it goes better for you.” He opened his eyes and looked at the girl across the fire pit. In the firelight, he could see the details of her bony bronze face. She was older than he had thought at first—older than he’d thought when he’d thought her a boy. It was possible she was fifteen. The smallness of her limbs and the sunkenness of her cheeks made it hard to tell. She was looking into the flame in silence, her eyes halfclosed, her face magnificently blank, but he knew she had heard and had taken his general meaning by the way her shoulders tightened against the wa

ll. “Tell me if there were others,” he said. “Tell me how many.”

When she said nothing, he said to Alluin, “In Modigno. Tell her if she doesn’t answer to us now, she’ll answer to the governor in court—she and her family.”

The girl jerked her chin, suddenly. “No others,” she said. “I understand what you say.” Her eyes came up to his. Her voice was low but hard. “I do it alone. No family. The cobarte he lies when he brings you. No family. He says it because he wants your coin.”

“Why did you do it?”

She turned her face back to the fire.

“Answer me,” Torien said.

“I go to the slavers anyway,” she said. “It doesn’t matter if I answer you.”

“Possibly you’ll go to the slavers. Possibly they’ll decide you’re old enough to face execution. My word means a great deal, either way.”

“I do not care,” she said.

“My word can spare you an examination.”

“I do not care.”

He glanced over to Alluin, who shrugged very slightly against the wall. Torien could sense his discomfort in his silence. He looked back at the girl. “Speak now and I’ll listen,” he said. “Come tomorrow in the city prison, it’ll be too late.”

She said nothing. He saw there was no use in it. He said to Alluin, “We’d better set a watch.”

“I’ll watch,” Alluin said. He seemed thankful for something to do.

“I’ll take it over in a few hours,” Torien said. “Wake me if you need to.”

He did not sleep. He lay against his saddle, carefully still on account of the shoulder, watching the sky through the cracks in the lattice and waiting for sleep to come, but his mind was moving on and on through the streets of Modigne, and in the silence he was restless. At length, he got up. The fire had died to embers. Across the room, the girl was huddled shapeless in the darkness. He could not tell if she was asleep. He went over to the doorway, where Alluin sat cross-legged against the corner post. “You sleep,” he said. “I can’t.”

“Your shoulder?” Alluin’s voice was tight. “You should have let me go for help, Tor.”

“It’s fine. It’s just that I can’t sleep and you might as well.”

“Next time you’ll listen to me. Next time when I say I can see enough of Modigne from the fort walls, and you say—”

“You talk like you’re the one who took the knife.”

“That’s the difference between us,” Alluin said. “I don’t have to take a knife in my back before I recognize a bad idea.”

Torien sat with his back against the post, his sword unsheathed across his lap. Through the gap between the post and the curtain, he could see the horses and the moonlit street beyond. He watched a cat come noiselessly down the street. It saw him as it approached the shanty, and it paused and watched him and went on again when it decided he was no threat. Behind him, in the shanty, Alluin was breathing long and steadily in his sleep. It was perhaps midnight or a little past. He heard a noise like a muffled laugh or a cough, and he started, fingers seizing instinctively on his sword grip. At his movement, the noise stopped. Across the room, the girl was struggling to hold herself still against the wall. Her shoulders shook with trapped sobs.

He pulled himself up to his feet, supporting himself on the sword. He crossed the room to her. She heard him approaching and drew herself stiffly up, but she did not raise her head. He knelt beside her. In the moonlight through the lattice, he could see the tear streaks on her cheeks. Leaning on the sword, he said, quietly, “Tell me why you did it.”

Another tremor ran through her shoulders. She bit her lip. Alluin’s untroubled breathing was loud in the silence.

“Give me the truth and I may be able to help you.”

She shook her head, once, sharply, her eyes squeezed shut. “You lie. I know you lie.”

“I don’t lie.”

“All Vareni lie. I know this.”

“Maybe. But I’m Cesino blood through my father’s line.”

“Then to your people you are a traitor.”

She said it flatly, without interest, as though it were as obvious as the weather, and he understood the absurdity of trying to explain to her, in that moment, how one could feel loyalty to homeland and to empire without hypocrisy. He said, instead, “I’m trying to help you.”

“Why do you want to help me?”

“I care to see proper justice done.”

“I know your justice.” She lifted her face to his, finally. Her voice was thick with anger and tears. “I know what you mean when you say justice. You take Mahlan when he does nothing wrong. I know what you mean by justice.”

The curtain rustled in a draft of cold salt breeze. Torien was on his feet and spinning to the doorway in one motion, his sword ready in his hand. Behind him, Alluin sat bolt upright, flinging aside his cloak. He drew his sword and scrambled up, his back to the wall. The figure in the doorway stood frozen at Torien’s sword point. For a moment, there was silence in the shanty. Then Torien jerked his chin over his shoulder and said, “Sit—slowly. Linta.”

He kept his blade leveled at the newcomer’s throat while the newcomer slid down beside the girl. He said to Alluin, “Light.”

Alluin dropped to his knees at the fire pit. There was another stretch of silence while he coaxed a flame from the spent tinder. In the moonlight, Torien could see the newcomer’s arms tight around the girl’s shoulders, head bowed against the girl’s head. He lowered his sword. After a moment’s consideration, he sheathed it. He turned on his heel and went to the curtain and looked out into the street. It lay empty and silent as before. The horses stood tethered at the post. He drew the curtain shut. There was a tightness in him that had nothing to do with the wound.

Feeble light sprang over the shanty walls.

“It won’t last long,” Alluin said.

“Use this.” With one booted foot, Torien prodded the bundle of sticks that the newcomer had let drop in the doorway. The girl watched him over the newcomer’s shoulder. Her face was set as hard as stone, but he saw the flicker of fear in her eyes. He crouched on his heels, facing her, the fire pit at his back. “No family? So it’s not only Vareni who lie.”

The girl said nothing. The newcomer straightened slowly against the wall and looked at him. He saw the girl’s face in near-exact duplicate, but duplicated as it would be in twenty years’ time: bronze skin prematurely lined, lips cracked by the sun, dark eyes sunken with hunger and hardship and grief. There was neither fear nor defiance in the woman’s face, but rather a resignation which shook him. “I give you what you want. Do not ask it of the girl.”

“You can give me satisfactory answers. Otherwise the girl goes before an Imperial court for sedition and attempted murder.”

The woman looked at the girl, the girl at the floor. Neither spoke, but in the firelight Torien watched the color drain from the woman’s face.

“Dependent upon her age, the penalty is enslavement or death, so I advise you to consider your answers carefully. Who is Mahlan?”

The woman was silent. The girl raised her eyes briefly from the floor.

“Silence does your daughter no good,” Torien said.

“My son. He is my son—Mahlan.” Her mouth contorted as though the name pained her.

“Where is he?”

“They take him,” the woman said. She swallowed. “This spring when the harbor open they come and take him.”

“Who?”

She said nothing. Her fingers were tight around the girl’s arms. They were bony fingers, bent and blunted from work, the knuckles swollen, the nails split. The backs of her brown hands were traced over with lines like dry leather.

“Vareni?” Torien said. “Answer me.”

The woman closed her eyes. “Of the jente.”

He did not know the word. He darted a glance to Alluin, who was sitting and watching from the other side of the fire pit. “One of the crime lords,” Alluin said, quietly.

Torien said to the woman, “This jente took your son?”

“When the harbor open, they take him.”

He supposed in her mind and in the girl’s the Imperial governing authorities were partially culpable in that they had not stopped it; and he supposed he had made more accessible a target than the jente for the girl’s retribution. It was a stupid reason to be knifed in the street, and a stupider reason to be executed. He was irritated. “You should have gone to the governor. He might have explained to you the difference between justice and vengeance before the girl need hang for it.”

“I go to your courts.” The woman flung up her head. “I am a citizen. My daughter she is a citizen. My son he is a citizen. I go to your courts for justice. They say to me I have no case, and they tell me if I am not silent then they will silence me. Always it is the same. Always you pretend you do not see, because the jente he pays you not to see. I know what is justice and what is not justice. What you hang my daughter for it is not justice, and you know this too.”

“How many others besides your son?” There was a moment’s silence. He could sense Alluin frozen behind him across the fire pit. He said, “You say always like it’s common practice. How many others?”

The woman drew up a little. Her eyes were flat, her mouth tight. She thought he was mocking her. “There are hundreds the jente take. You know—”

“I know nothing. I’ve been two days in Modigne, and despite the fact I just took a knife in my shoulder, I hope to be shipboard and gone tomorrow.” He kneaded his temples with his fingertips. “So the jente takes them—why? As slaves?”

“He sells them into the salt mines in Tasso. I hear it from the sailors.”

“And you say the governor knows and does nothing.”

Anger flashed across the sun-cracked face. “I say because I know. We tell him what happens. We tell him the jente he takes us to be slaves in the mines. We ask his protection. ‘We are citizens,’ we say. ‘Help us against the jente.’ But the ones who speak out he gives their name to the jente, and the jente he kills them or he takes them to the ships. I have seen this. The jente he kills us in the street, and your governor and your courts and your garrison they do nothing.”

“Every ship coming into or going out from an Imperial port is inspected—slave ships more closely than the rest. Every manifest is reviewed, every cargo taxed. So many kidnapped citizens would hardly escape notice. It would take more than the governor turning a blind eye. At the least, it would mean the city guard, and the harbor master and his agents, and the harbor master at Tasso, and every level of the administration at the mines. This jente can’t have bought them all.”

“The city guard always they belong to the jentes,” the woman said. “Anyway, the jente he doesn’t use the slave ships. I see it myself. In the night they put the slaves on trade ships—hundreds of slaves into hidden holds. In the day they fill the ships with jugs of wine, jugs of oil. That is what the harbor master sees. They put water in some of the jugs so it doesn’t show on the manifests that they carry water for the slaves. I don’t know about the mines.”

Torien was silent. The girl was looking at him over the woman’s shoulder—unblinking, contemptuous, as though she were daring him to call it a lie. Alluin sat motionless behind him, waiting for him to speak, because in the end the decision was his alone, but he knew Alluin’s thoughts like his own, and he knew Alluin, too, was thinking of the empty streets outside the shanty and the silence like a bated breath—fear hanging over the city like a plague.

He rocked back on his heels and got to his feet. The shanty spun as he stood. “This is what will happen. In the morning, I take ship for Tasso. You’ll go with me down to the harbor, and you’ll show me the jente’s ships, and I’ll investigate crew and cargo for myself. If I find nothing to convince me of this slaving business, then I’ll leave it for the governor’s court to decide your fate. Otherwise I’ll do what I can from Tasso to see this thing ended and those responsible made to pay for it—Modigno and Vareno alike. In any case, I swear to you I’ll see justice done. If you’ve told me the truth, you’ve nothing to fear by that.”

The woman’s fingers were tight on the girl’s arms. “I tell you the truth,” she said. Her voice was low and hard, and in it he heard what she left unsaid: that she knew the value of Vareno oaths just as she knew the value of Vareno justice. The truth made no difference to whim.

He ground out the fire under one boot heel. “I’ll take the watch,” he said to Alluin. It was perhaps four hours to dawn, and he knew he would not sleep.

 

 
Amanda McCrina has studied in Italy,
taught English in Japan, and currently tutors Latin in Atlanta, Georgia. She
received her BA in History from the University of West Georgia, and is now
pursuing her MA. She writes stories that incorporate her love of history, languages,
and world travel. She drinks far too much coffee and dreams of one day having a
winning fantasy-hockey season.

 

 

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INFLICT by Bethany-Kris #Excerpt @IndieSagePR @BethanyKris

INFLICT

by Bethany-Kris
Publication Date: April 3, 2017
Genres: Adult, Erotic, Romantic Suspense, Organized Crime

BLURB:

As the son of an Irish mobster, Connor O’Neil spent his boyhood hiding from the horrors of his own home. His one reprieve was a girl he knew only as Evelyn, but even she was taken away. As a man, Connor is determined to stay away from his father’s business. With Sean, participation is not a request, but a demand. The truth is, Connor might be more like the evil he’s trying to hide away from than he would like to admit.

And he’s already spent years trying to cover the scars left over from the pain.

A chance encounter puts the lost girl from his past back on his path, and he no longer has a choice but to face the darkness he’s been ignoring for years.

Evelyn. Sasha. Slave.

She doesn’t really know who she is anymore.

Or maybe she does, and she doesn’t want to tell.

She isn’t the same as she once was—now a thing to be kept and maintained, shuffled from owner to owner until it was her time to go. She only became Connor’s because he took her when he knew she wasn’t his to take.

Except she isn’t Connor’s at all …

And he can’t keep her hidden forever.

~Inflict is a Standalone Romance with graphic depictions of violence, sexual scenes, dark elements and a HEA. It is not recommended for those under the age of 18.

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EXCERPT

“It’s art, the same thing you have all over the house, except on canvas.”

“Where it belongs,” Connor said exasperated. “Children draw on the walls, Evelyn.”

What bit of anger was in her expression melted away, leaving a deep hurt in its place. A part of Connor regretted what he’d said almost instantly, but the other part of him knew it was true.

He understood that it was the same way for Evelyn, too. A large part of her was all woman—adult, grown, and a wee bit insane. But there was still a part of her that was a wee child, stuck in a time before all the terrible things had happened to her.

“That was uncalled for,” she said.

Connor scowled. “Drawing on the walls is uncalled for.”

“You’re just parroting things back to me.”

“Because I’m the one making sense, lass!”

Evelyn’s green eyes rolled upwards. “Whatever, I’m finishing the feather, and it’s staying. It’s not like it’s fucking ugly or something.”

Connor eyed the feather, silently agreeing. It was a beautiful image, even if the majority of it was only the barebones of the drawing. Mostly blacklines forming what would be before all the color was added in. She had added some color toward the top, gentle strokes of metallic color that melted with other colors, and shimmered under the kitchen pot lights. He was sure once the light came in from the morning through the windows, the color would sparkle even more.

It was amazing.

He wouldn’t deny that.

But on his kitchen wall?

Surely they had better things to be doing and talking about other than drawing on walls?

“You can keep the feather,” Connor said heavily.

It pained him to do so.

“You didn’t have a choice.”

Feck.

“But,” he added, “no more on the walls.”

Her head turned, showing off her beautiful profile as her lips pursed. “The ceilings are okay, then. I get it.”

Connor had the strangest urge to smack himself in the face. “No.”

“We’ll see.”

“Evelyn—”

“You’re no fun,” she said rather grumpily, tossing her package of markers to the nearby table. Shooting him with another one of her glares, she headed towards the sink, grabbing a glass from the cabinet as she passed. “I thought you would like it.”

Connor didn’t know how to respond to that. “I do.”

“Then why be an ass about it?”

He chose to stay silent and think about his words as she poured a glass of water, and drank it down in her own silence. He walked forward, stopping at the kitchen island just as she set her now empty glass into the sink.

“I will buy you whatever size canvas you want,” Connor said.

“And then you’ll hang them on the walls that I could have just drawn on anyway,” she deadpanned. “Don’t you see how that’s a little ridiculous?”

“No, what’s ridiculous is you drawing on the walls.”

“Connor.”

“Evelyn.”

“It’s pretty,” she whined, waving at it.

“It is—it’s great. You should let me copy it over and tattoo it up your hip and side. It’d look grand, love. It’ll even match the wings on your back. But not on the walls.”

Evelyn frowned. “I thought you would like it.”

“I said I do.”

“Not enough.”

All right.

Now this was getting rather dumb.

Connor was all for indulging Evelyn at times, even some of her more … eccentric moods, when they came on. Which he was learning could be at any point, as she’d spent so much time being forced to do the bidding of a man. This was too far.

“Don’t go acting like a right wagon about all of this,” Connor said, turning to walk out of the kitchen and go find something else to do. “I’m not asking for something feckin’ crazy here just that you don’t draw on my goddamn walls, Evelyn.”

“What does that even mean?”

Connor, more exasperated than he was willing to admit, didn’t bother to turn around as he asked, “What?”

“Wagon. What does that even mean?”

If there was a God above, He was laughing at Connor. Laughing at his foolish arse.

The Irish had a terrible way of taking the English language and mutilating it for their own benefit, however they saw fit. Sometimes shite didn’t make sense, not that it had to outside of the person using it or the person being insulted, but none of that mattered in the grand scheme of things. It was not as simple as saying the phrase meant one thing, when in fact, it could mean a lot of things.

This happened to be one of those times, but he figured it was self-explanatory.

Evelyn had enough Irish in her to look the part, with her green eyes, pale skin, reddish-blonde curls, and freckles every which way he looked. The sad thing was, life had practically stripped her of the nuances and culture, which was a feckin’ shame.

“Means you’re being trite, grumpy, or bitchy—take your pick. Whichever one fits, Evelyn.”

Connor only heard the clang of metal in just enough time to turn around and watch something fly at his feckin’ head. Sweet Jesus, she had one hell of an aim on her. He ducked, and the frying pan practically skimmed the top of his hair before it crashed into the floor just outside of the kitchen.

It took him all of three seconds to stare at Evelyn, check behind him where the frying pan was now laying, and then back at the crazy woman standing behind the island to realize what had even just happened. As shocked as he was, he was also pissed, and amused.

All five feet, four inches of Evelyn stared him down from across the kitchen like she was daring him to say something or move an inch. He swore he saw her hand twitch, too, like she was considering reaching for another one of the hanging pans to whip at him.

No, the wee thing didn’t sound Irish at all. She didn’t understand him sometimes, and he got a chuckle out of it more often than not. She was a wee bit insane—he sort of liked that, too. But standing there like she was, pink-cheeked, huffing, and ready to whip his arse even if she had to use a frying pan to do it, she was every inch an Irish lass.

Every feckin’ inch.

It turned him on like nothing ever had.

He wasn’t even sure how to deal with that.

A smart man—a frightened man—would have turned tail, and run from the angry woman in his kitchen, knowing he’d pushed her too far and he wasn’t going to get anything good from her tonight. Connor was apparently neither of those things, and he was going to blame that on his damn heritage, too.

A stubborn bastard, of course.

“Did you just throw a pan at me?” Connor asked.

Evelyn spluttered in her anger before spitting out, “You called me a child and bitchy.”

“I said ‘pick one.’”

“And I picked one. A pan, I mean.”

“You could have killed me.”

“Probably not. I think your skull is too thick for that.”

“Now you’re just trying to piss me off,” Connor said, his jaw clenching.

“Is it working?”

“Throw another pan at me, lass, and I’ll paddle your arse until its good and red, and you’re begging to be allowed to apologize.”

That was his one warning.

He’d given it.

She could make of it what she wanted.

Evelyn’s gaze narrowed. “Is that a promise?”

“Don’t do it again, Evelyn.”

And now his feckin’ cock was hard, so feck this whole goddamn day right to hell. Figuring his warning was enough, Connor headed out of the kitchen without a look back. A cold shower was in his very near future to get his lust under control.

He hadn’t even gotten out of the entryway before she threw the second pan.

God save me, he thought.

Connor turned back around.

Evelyn’s eyes widened, her mouth falling open with an audible pop as Connor stalked toward her. “Wait—wait, what are you doing?”

“Oh, you know damn well what I am going to do, lass.”

ABOUT BETHANY-KRIS

Bethany-Kris is a Canadian author, lover of much, and mother to three young sons, one cat, and two dogs. A small town in Eastern Canada where she was born and raised is where she has always called home. With her boys under her feet, snuggling cat, barking dogs, and a hubby calling over his shoulder, she is nearly always writing something … when she can find the time.

To keep up-to-date with new releases from Bethany-Kris, sign up to her New Release Newsletter here: http://eepurl.com/bf9lzD

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Vampires of London: Books #1-3 Lorelei Moone #BookBlitz @AuthorLMoone @IndieSagePR

Vampires of London: Books #1-3,

A Steamy & Suspenseful Vampire Romance Collection

by Lorelei Moone
Vampires of London #1-3
Publication Date: March 10, 2017
Genres: Adult, Paranormal, Romance, Vampires

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Sink your fangs into Books 1-3 of the Vampires of London series in one handy bundle. This Vampire Romance collection includes: Alexander’s Blood Bride, Michael’s Soul Mate and Lucille’s Valentine.Alexander’s Blood Bride
When Cat ends up at a Halloween party hosted by the mysteriously handsome and super rich Alexander Broderick, the last thing she expects is to become the object of his desire. Although she gets spooked and runs, she doesn’t yet understand the extent of his dangerous secret: Alexander, and a number of his guests, are vampires. And Cat’s blood is unlike anything they’ve smelled before…Michael’s Soul Mate
Playboy Michael has never wanted to settle down. When he finds a severely injured woman lying in the street, his instincts insist he save her. He turns her into a vampire and takes her home, not realizing that this little random encounter is going to change his immortal life forever.

Lucille’s Valentine
Marek the Soul Eater has escaped and it’s Lucille’s job as Enforcer to return him to the Council. She’s not a team player usually, but when she finds Vampire Hunter Valentino Conti also on Marek’s trail, she decides to join forces. The longer they work together, the more their connection grows. What if the truth comes out? What if Valentino realizes Lucille is the very thing he’s been hunting all his life?

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ABOUT LORELEI MOONE

Lorelei Moone is an up-and-coming author of paranormal romance based in London. A lover of all things sweet, and caffeinated, when she’s not writing about sexy bear shifters and their strong-willed curvaceous love interests, Lorelei can be found baking cookies or cakes for her family.

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