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Reckless Grace
-- EXCERPT: I’m trying desperately to work my way out of the hidden compartment under the seat of this car when an alarm sounds in the compound. Okay, Gracie, don’t panic. It’s hard not to when the alarm at the sex-trafficker’s home that me and my family of spies are sneaking into is going off and I’m stuck inside this Trojan horse of a car. My heart speeds up—way up. It’s outpacing a Ducati right now. Growling under my breath, I work my sweaty numb fingers against the metal escape lever. They’re about as responsive as a fish on the deck of a ship. Breathing heavily, I push the padding. The seat finally cracks open a little, then stops dead. Fudge buckets. The car door creaks open. I freeze. “Let me help you there, Gracie.” I flinch back, bang my head. Ouch. Someone with a southern accent knows my name? The car shifts as that someone gets inside. He’s big judging by the way the car rocks. There’s a sudden creak, then the seat is yanked open. I pull my shoulders loose, then sit up, blinking at fresh air and man. Um. Oh. Sunset-brown hair topped by a USA ball cap, a big, easy grin defined by the persistent crease of overused dimples, labor- tanned skin, and the manliest nose I’ve ever seen. A roughly carved block, his nose adds challenge and strength to a too-handsome, sun-rugged portrait. My heartbeat skitters between dread, alarm, and horrifying and unexpected arousal. My face goes lava-red. USA Ballcap grins at me. Of course he does. What man wouldn’t when faced with a woman who’s obviously taken with his rugged good looks? The ginger curse. My body paints every emotion upon my skin in red hues. From pleased pink to rust-colored anger to chili-red lust. As if my reaction has given him a right, his eyes bounce along my body, taking in the red-velvet bra, the matching thong, the ruby piercing snuggled in my bellybutton, and the tattoo along my right side. Top most embarrassing moment, please take a step down. Guess, it’s not the best time to try and explain my live sex-show cover. Without taking his amber gaze from me, he gropes and finds his two-way. He lifts it to his mouth, but before he presses the button, says, “Darlin’, don’t be upset by this. I’m on your side. Trust me.” With that, he clicks the radio on and gives instructions for his men to go out and hunt Justice. He clicks off. Don’t be upset? Does this idiot realize that’s my sister? Teeth clenched, I extract my gun from the hidden compartment and point it at him. A muscle along his thumb twitches, but he keeps his Glock 19 down. He smiles. Really? Oh, buddy, let’s see how quickly I can wipe that smile off your face. “No, no,” he says, clearly reading my intent from my furious face. “Don’t shoot. I’m working with Tony. I had to send those men so Walid wouldn’t suspect what’s going down.” Tony? “My brother never mentioned you, and you just sacrificed my sister so Walid, a sex-trafficking supervillain, won’t suspect you?” He shakes his head, smile gone. Smart. “Your sister is good and those guys can’t shoot. No fooling. One of them shot himself in the foot trying to take his gun out two months ago.” “Gracie?” Justice’s strained voice comes through my headset. I click my mic with a flick of my jaw. “Go. I’ll catch up. I’m dealing with something.” He does smile at that. “I’m Agent Leif McAllister. FBI.” FBI? Nuts and bolts. The email. The email I sent via a secure site to the FBI. The one I’d sent when my son was sick and I’d been helpless to go to him and it’d all seemed Momma’s fault. The stupid email that proves I’m a traitor to the family and the Spy Makers Guild. I swallow a wave of panic. “FBI? In Mexico?” “Yeah, well, I’m sort of off-duty right now, since I’m working for your brother. No need for the agent part, actually. Just thought that would make you more comfortable. My friends call me Dusty.” “Dusty?” “Been told I could talk a stone to dust.” He reaches out with his free hand. “I’m going to help you out of here. Okay?” “You touch me and I will shoot.” His hand drops. Good. Nothing like setting the boundaries from the get-go.
GIVEAWAY! --
A Hollywood Ending
-- EXCERPT: She ripped the warm center out and popped it in her mouth. “Mmmmm. Wow. White bread with real butter.” Sighing, she added, “You have no idea how long it’s been.” “Quite a while, I’m guessing.” “I’ve basically been hungry for the last decade. For real. And this is sssoooo damn good.” Damien watched her, his body responding as she closed her eyes and dragged her tongue across her lips. He cleared his throat and turned his gaze to the sunset for a moment. He could not allow himself to react like that to her. No matter how drawn to her he was. Glancing at the table, he looked for a way to distract himself. Picking up the bowl of mushrooms, he said, “More mushrooms, Ms. Bennett?” “You know what, Mr. Young? I will have more mushrooms.” She tilted her head and gave him a thoughtful look. “But first, I need to thank you for taking such good care of me today. I know it’s not your job—carrying me around, feeding me, and listening to me go on about my life and my crappy marriage.” “I’m happy to help however you need.” She wiggled her eyebrows in the most lecherous way imaginable and said, “However I need, hmmm?” Then she giggled a full-on fit of laughter, her drink sloshing in her glass as she held it in front of her mouth. “Oh god, you should see your face!” He slapped on a smile, recovering quickly from the direction his thoughts had plummeted. Dragging them back from the gutter, he smiled at her and spooned a huge helping of mushrooms onto her plate. “Here you go, Ms. Bennett.” She sighed, her laughter dying out. “You’re no fun, you know that? I was just teasing.” His entire body agreed with her assessment. Doing nothing was not fun at all. But he refused to look at Ms. Bennett anywhere other than those startlingly green eyes, and definitely not lower, where she was sliding the pendant from her necklace back and forth on the chain. Back and forth. Just above her cleavage. It was going to be a long night. 
GIVEAWAY! --
Rogue Launch
-- EXCERPT: The house had filled up nicely. Dante had arrived shortly before the Tenleys, and approximately thirty seconds after I’d met Shay for the second time in my life, he’d shoved Reese into the pool with a little help from Gray. It was the upside to having buddies who’d robbed the cradle for partners some twenty years younger than themselves; reunions were never dull. Gray, Crew, Toby, and Shay were getting along fine. Reese pushed himself up from the pool. Crew was struggling to contain his laughter. His uncle and the Tenley brothers went way back, so this memory would live on. I grinned to myself as I prepped the grill. Reese was watching the youngsters with suspicion in his eyes while he threw off his wet clothes. River and Darius had naturally ended up on Reese’s side of the pool. “Can you stop looking at me like that?” Shay laughed. “I told you I’d get back at you for stealing my travel pillow!” Reese kept staring as he dropped his wallet and—oh, ouch—a possibly dead phone on one of the pool loungers. “You might wanna put that in a bag of rice,” Gray offered. “Don’t let that get to you,” Crew told Shay. “iPhones are waterproof.” “Boy, you’re on my list too,” Reese barked out. Crew merely widened his arms in a “come get it.” It was gonna be a good weekend. Sun shinin’, country music playin’, friends laughin’. “You look happier, querido.” Marisa came up next to me with one of the platters of sausage. I smiled at her. “It’s good to have everyone here.”
--
Wicked Desires
-- EXCERPT: It’s three forty-five and the four of us down a shot, just one. Benji’s approved this, so fuck what the record company says. We do shots before every show. It’s part of our pre-show routine, and no matter what anyone says, that is not going to change…ever. I usually like to have a quick fuck before I go onstage, but unfortunately, that isn’t happening here. We are standing in the middle of Times Square with just a curtain separating us from the crowd. I’m not shy, and the guys have seen me fuck women a million times before, so it wouldn’t bother me or them, and there is no shortage of women who would be happy to accommodate me, but I promised Benji I would behave. Aside from the shot I just did, I also haven’t touched a drop of alcohol since I left the bar with Tommy yesterday afternoon, and as far as I can tell, neither has Dylan or Shawn. Tommy is on something, but he’s not going to be a problem. He always holds his own onstage and has never let us down. He’ll be okay. We just need to get through three songs and then we are out of here. We step onto the makeshift stage that was erected only a few hours ago. There are no bells and whistles, just the bare bones we need to get the job done. Dylan is standing on one side of me, and Shawn is on the other. Tommy takes up the rear, behind his kit. Someone out front is speaking to the crowd, and then my heart rate kicks up with a familiar rush when I hear, “Ladies and gentlemen, you are in for a real treat this afternoon. Get ready for Ruin!” The crowd goes crazy. Tommy counts us down, and we start to play just as the curtain rises in front of us. We crush the first two songs, and the crowd continues to grow. There are a shit ton of security around us, along with police on horseback, keeping the crowd under control. Things could go sideways in a heartbeat, but that’s not our concern. We are here to perform, and that’s exactly what we do—we are killing it. There’s not a lot of room up here on this tiny stage. I like to move around, but I’m limited to a few feet in any direction, so I focus on the crowd instead. We slow things down for the third and final song. I’m singing one of our biggest hits. It’s about a dark-haired, green-eyed girl who steals hearts and never gives them back. I look out over the crowd and my heart almost fucking stops when I see her. She’s fucking gorgeous. The auburn highlights in her long dark hair shine in the sun, and she has the biggest green eyes I’ve ever seen. She’s the fucking girl in my song and I can’t take my goddamn eyes off her. She is so close, I feel like I can almost reach out and touch her, and her eyes are riveted on me. I smile and point at her. She slaps her hand over her heart, and then points right back at me as she flashes me a megawatt smile in return. I feel like I’ve been hit by a lightning bolt as electricity zings between us. I force myself to move on, to give my attention to the rest of the crowd, but I can’t seem to stop my eyes from returning to the green-eyed girl. To me, one girl is as good as the next, but fuck, there’s just something about her. The song comes to an end, and the curtain drops as soon as the last chord dies off, blocking any chance I might have had to find out who she is. I’ve never, ever regretted the end of a song as much as I do in this moment. I don’t know what the hell it is that I’m feeling, but I can’t let it go. The need to find out who she is, is overwhelming. I jump off the stage and pull the curtain aside. My eyes zero in on the spot where she was sitting, but she’s not there, and my heart sinks. I frantically look around, trying to find her. Where the fuck did she go? There are literally hundreds of people moving around out there. She could be anywhere in that crowd. I narrow my eyes as they skim over the crowd, I search for a couple more seconds before I give up and drop the curtain. She’s not there. I need to forget about her and move on—but my mind refuses to let it go. Who is she? How can I find her? She was only on my radar for the length of a single song, but somehow, she’s managed to get under my skin. That never happens. The need to know what it is about her that is different from all the rest is overwhelming. 
GIVEAWAY! --
Mr. Right is a Myth
-- EXCERPT: “I’m going to the bathroom. Have fun deciding who gets the piece of man meat.” I finish what’s left of my virgin daiquiri – virgin, what a laugh – and pick up my purse. “If I’m not back in 10 minutes, you know I fell in.” My experience with Jesse forced me to add more things to my list of criteria to avoid in men, and my list grows longer with every ex. When I told Mom over the summer what I’m looking for in a man, she (ignorant of my history) said I’m too picky, whereas Vanessa wasn’t picky enough. I’ll end up bitter and alone, Mom said, while my sister is happily married, playing mommy. I have stretches where I’m in a relationship and intervals where I’m single. For someone to be in my life long-term, he and I need to be partners, equals, a power couple. But how do I find a guy like that? And who would want to be my partner for life anyway? My family says I’m too stubborn, too opinionated, too independent, wear too much black and too much makeup. Not exactly the sort a man commits to. I follow a waitress’ directions to the back of the club where young women – some dressed sexy, others casually like my friends and me – stream in and out of the restroom. I wonder how many of these chicks are in partnerships and how many are in relationships where the man wields the upper hand. I want a partnership, damn it! I’m so engrossed in thought I don’t notice a guy standing by the last table before the restrooms taking a step backward until he bumps into me. Losing my balance, I wobble. “Oh, I’m sorry,” he says, placing his hand briefly on my arm. “I hope you’re okay. I didn’t step on your foot, did I?” Holy shit! This guy is tall, fit and blond. Now that’s what I consider God’s gift to women. I smile and shake my head. “No, I’m okay. Don’t sweat it.” He nods and turns back to his friends. 
GIVEAWAY! --
Love You Fiancee
Goodreads / Amazon / Barnes & Noble / iBooks / Kobo -- EXCERPT: “Oh, sweetie. I’m sorry. You’re nervous, aren’t you?” “No.” “It’s normal.” “I’m not nervous. Why would I be nervous? I’ve been with Rachel for two years. Living with her for nearly a year. We get along great. Better than great. I love her more than life itself. She’s the most amazing person I’ve ever met, and I can’t wait to make her my wife. What’s there to be nervous about?” “How about the fact that Portia, Stan, and Tim are all hiding at the Love You Forever Inn and Chapel, you’re going to perform an acoustic guitar version of “I Will Always Love You” in front of the whole town, then ask Rachel to marry you, plus there’s a flashmob, then her parents and brother are going to come here and stay in the guest cabin for three days, and–” “Got it. Now I’m about to have a full-blown panic attack hearing it put that way. Thanks, Mom.” “I can’t help with that, but I can unstick a zipper.” His hands and feet turned cold. Heart started doing a reggae beat in his chest, double speed. His head felt like a calypso drum and his brain was wiped clean of all the notes to the song. Fool. He was a fool for thinking he could pull off such an elaborate scheme. Why hadn’t he just planned a private, quiet proposal at the hot springs? What was he thinking with this grand gesture?
GIVEAWAY! --
Wicked Persuasion
-- EXCERPT: Over the years, Francesca Lewis had imagined many scenarios when they’d run into each other again. His saving her from being mugged wasn’t one of them. “Hello, Deck,” she said, managing to sound calm. “Thanks for the rescue.” “De nada.” She met his gaze head-on, trying to keep her expression dispassionate. Her hands were shaking. Frankie took a deep breath and clutched her fingers around her tote bag. They’d been twenty-two years old the last time she’d seen him, and he’d had a youthfulness about him then. Deck was all man now. His chest and shoulders had broadened, and he had muscles everywhere. Impressive muscles. Frankie took another long breath. The boy-band/rock-idol hairstyle was gone, replaced by a more conservative cut—longer on top, short over the ears and nape—but his dark hair was shaggy as if he’d skipped a few barber appointments and it appeared as if he hadn’t bothered to shave for days. Those velvet-brown eyes of his still did things to her. She looked away, not wanting him to realize how much he could affect her. He was gorgeous, even better-looking now than back then, and he’d been damn hot in college. Deck had majored in business because his parents had decided he would join the family company. So why was he here in fatigue pants and combat boots? “Is your firm conducting a hostile takeover in Trujillo?” She gestured toward his clothing. Deck grinned and Frankie locked her knees to keep from swooning. Damn it, he wasn’t supposed to be able to do this to her any longer. “I never joined my dad’s company.” He changed the subject. “You’re wearing your hair long now. I like it.” The frisson of pleasure irritated the hell out of her. Slinging the leather straps of her tote over her shoulder, Frankie said, “Good to see you, Deck.” That was a lie. “Thanks again.” She pivoted and began to head toward the inn. To her frustration, he caught up to her. “I’ll walk you to your hotel. Where are you staying?” She didn’t want to tell him. She wanted to leave and pretend she’d never seen him again. “Thanks, but it’s not necessary.” “Yes, it is. You don’t know if those gang members are waiting up ahead to finish what I interrupted.” “Odds are they’re more interested in evening the score with you than stealing my bag.” Deck continued to keep pace with her. “I claimed you as my woman. They could attack you to get back at me. Now which hotel are you staying at?” Frankie recognized the stubborn expression on his face. Deck wasn’t about to surrender the battle, and she was shaking from being accosted, leaving her without the energy to argue with him indefinitely. “Palacio Monasterio,” she admitted grudgingly. He whistled low, under his breath. “Librarians must be paid more than I thought.” She bit her tongue. He was trying to get a rise out of her and she wasn’t giving him the satisfaction. “Sorry.” Deck smirked, not even slightly remorseful. “I meant archivist.” No, he didn’t. She focused on the road in front of her. “Did you really think I would fall for that?” “You used to.” “I’m not twenty anymore.” “No, you’re definitely all grown up.” Was that admiration in his voice? Frankie refused to glance over and see if she was right.
GIVEAWAY! --
Castles & Cauldrons
Goodreads / Amazon / Barnes & Noble -- EXCERPT: AlexandraEarl Dagon was chasing me. I couldn’t see his face, but I could hear him, his heavy footsteps were closing in on me. My breath quickened as I slipped in and out of the dark corners of Castle Dagon, desperately trying to find a place to hide. I could almost feel his breath, hot and putrid, as he huffed and puffed with the pace of his footsteps. His voice, a thought floating through my own mind. “You can’t hide from me, Evelyn. I know you’re here. I will find you, my darling. You will be mine again.” I opened my mouth to scream “No!” but nothing came. Chilly spikes of fear stabbed every part of me. I lunged forward, into another dark corner, heading toward the castle door. The Earl, hearing me, quickly shifted, and closed in on me once again. Every step I took felt like running through sludge. My feet, heavy with fear and tired from running, threatened to fail me before reaching the door. I pulled every ounce of energy from my being and prepared to take the final lunge, from the darkness to the door, only a few short steps away. I pulled back, like a cat about to pounce, and, with heavy legs, leaped forward, willing the voluminous sludge to release my feet. I lunged for the door. Earl Dagon snarled his footsteps right behind me. A large, clammy hand clasped around my neck, forcing me back, then spinning me around, toppling me to the ground… I woke up when I hit the floor. Relief flooded my body as I looked around, recognizing my bedroom. I was wrapped in a burrito of blankets and sheets, laying on the floor. Sticky sweat dampened the sheets and my hair, now clinging to my face and wrapped around my neck…like a large hand, choking me. It was a dream. A really terrible, awful, very bad dream. They were coming more frequently now. Since my daring jaunt to Castle Dragon in an effort to get a peek at an ancient book sequestered under lock and key in the library. Blackjack and I had taken a wee nap in an off-tour bedroom waiting for everyone to skedaddle. I had my first dream of the Earl then. He seemed to be mistaking me for ‘his’ Evelyn of Cumbria – the witch he professed to love, who broke his heart and ended up buying on the castle pyre. The Earl Dagon wasn’t after me. He wasn’t even alive. He was a piece of my history, my ancestry long since dead. Thank the Goddess. Blackjack sauntered into the room as I attempted to free my arms from their tangled position. He jumped up on my chest and sat. “Havin’ some troubles, woman?” My familiar’s silky voice floated through my mind. “A bad dream, Blackjack.” Blackjack lay where he sat, curling his paws under his chest. “I heard a thump. Did you fall off the bed? Or have you taken to sleeping on the floor?” I peered at him, my arms still trapped in the blankets, gobs of hair masking my face. “I fell off the bed, you goober.” “Oh, what fun.” Blackjack’s emerald green eyes, a match to my own, glistened. “You should probably get off the dusty floor. You’re not the best housekeeper, you know. Your dust bunnies have dust bunnies,” he proceeded to pull out a paw and lick it. “Ever so helpful, as always, you mangy brat.” 
GIVEAWAY! --
The Worst Darcy
Goodreads / Amazon / Barnes & Noble / Kobo / Google Play -- EXCERPT: Cuppabeans was the only cafe in town, a cute little corner shop with a mint green and white striped awning out front, knotty pine framing inside, and a constant, thick miasma of warm, rich Arabica beans in the air. Inhaling deeply as I stood in line, I tapped my foot and checked the time. It was fine. I still had a good cushion to get this done before I had to be at the library. I reached the front and ordered the largest size they had. “Name?” the perky teenage server called over the morning din. “Vivian,” I said. “Lydia?” she asked. I emphasized each syllable so she could at least read my lips. “Vivian.” She nodded in a way that made my hopes plummet. I crossed my arms and stepped to the side to let the next person up. I blinked as I saw the man who’d stood behind me. He wore black head to toe, including a thick pair of leather cuffs at his wrists, the dark shade contrasting with his fair skin. The only hint of colour on him popped from the tattoos covering his forearms and the wheat blond of his overlong hair. He left his black aviators on as he put in his order and came to stand beside me, crossing one long leg over the other as he leaned back against the wall. I watched him in the mirror on the opposite side of the cafe. He crossed his arms and appeared generally standoffish, the sharp line of his jaw ticking as he clenched it. I watched the muscle move as discreetly as I could. By the look of him, he was hardly a Prince Charming candidate, but I could still appreciate a nice jawline. I was only human, after all. But then a smirk kicked up one corner of his mouth and he tipped his sunglasses down, revealing that his eyes were locked on mine in the mirror. My heart squeezed in surprise. Not only from the frantic feeling of being caught staring, but the shock of how incongruously dark brown his eyes were against that hair, stark in his only slightly sun-kissed face. They tilted up slightly at the outer corners, reminding me of a cat. He nudged the shades off his face and turned to me with a matching feline languor. I flicked my eyes to the ground, face flaring with heat. “Don’t like tattoos?” he asked, his voice a slightly gravelly tenor. By that grungy, heavy metal look, he’d probably spent his life screaming into a microphone. “I wasn’t looking at your tattoos,” I said with a sharp shake of my head. Hopefully, my neck wasn’t going blotchy with embarrassment. “Yeah?” he asked. In my periphery, I saw him lean closer. “What were you lookin’ at?” I threw a desperate glance at the server and she held a cup up with a nod. Relief flooded me as I grabbed it and pivoted on my heel to escape this awkward encounter. But as I passed the man, I faltered, frowning down at the cup. It read Vanilla. “Oh, come on,” I grumbled under my breath. A snort drew my eyes back up to the man. His dark eyes sparked with a mocking amusement. “Hey, at least she got the V right.” I rolled my eyes and marched past him, ignoring the snicker that followed me out the door.
GIVEAWAY! --
Rogues And Redeemers: A Zasra Press Anthology
-- SNEAK PEEKS: PATH OF THE RIGHTEOUS — S. K. SAYARI Justice served with a dash of poison was justice served well. Tanith spooned the reddish powder into her ring’s cavity, making sure the poison wasn’t packed too tightly. She slid the dull purple jewel back in place with a click, then slipped the ring on her finger. It was time to get to work. Although, could she really call this work? Or was it more of a hobby? A business, perhaps? Now that Tanith’s bitterness had faded in the years since her sister Narys was murdered, she didn’t consider it vengeance anymore. It was second nature and felt right. As she mused, she sifted through the piles of clothing, hairpieces she’d used before she’d honed her magic, and heavens knew what else strewn about her tiny, ramshackle apartment in the slums of Karkhaz. After selecting a green tunic and brown trousers, the colours of those who toiled in the fields, she pulled them on. To complete her persona, she sucked in a breath and allowed her magic to wash over her like a waterfall. Her bound auburn hair deepened to brown, and her skin darkened a shade. She stepped up to the mirror to complete the finer touches—high cheekbones, a button nose, and thin lips. The Allure wouldn’t mask her voice or height, but she wasn’t worried about what would happen if someone saw past it. After all, who would suspect the Keeper of Order of breaking the law? No one had thus far. Well, no one except him. Since his marriage to the Empress, Rosario Bregan had been intent on finding the “Nighthawk,” as nobles called the elusive assassin targeting the unrighteous within Karkhaz. As the new Emperor, Rosario had taken the wellbeing of Zehanna’s capital into his own hands. He had introduced new policies for trade with neighbouring countries, bolstered the Empire’s coffers, and created several lesser laws to deal with crime. He’d even interviewed the Keepers, including Tanith. Despite his efforts, the Nighthawk still eluded him. The name fit her well. -- THE 205TH — ELEANOR OWEN The first thing she knew was the mortar blast. Shrapnel tore through her right shoulder and stabbed deep into her chest, and it was like waking from a dream. The explosion slammed her into her body, into that skin that was not skin, flesh that was not flesh, and left her, awake and aware, standing in the middle of a mist-shrouded battlefield. She had existed before that moment. She remembered that existence, too, but it was hazy. A life—or something half resembling it—belonging to someone else. Somewhere ahead, cannons flared through the smoke. Sound crashed dizzyingly around her. Men—boys, really, she thought as she looked into the glazed eyes of the fallen—were dying on that mad rush towards the waiting walls of Mardall. She’d dropped her rifle and made to reach for it, but her limp fingers flopped uselessly against the stock as the last motion in her arm died. The knuckles clicked against each other like dice in a cup. “Faith-7, report,” a voice shouted behind her. Clumsily, she turned. Smoke and fog hung heavy around the speaker, but she recognized the silhouette of Patience’s greatcoat. It was almost like an officer’s. Fitting, as he was almost like an officer. “Functional,” she replied, because she knew that was what she was meant to say. Broken light fell across the porcelain mask that passed for Patience’s face. “Raise your arm,” he ordered through unmoving lips. A pause. She couldn’t, of course. He could see that. “Fall back, Faith-7,” Patience said. “Report to the carpenter.” “Yes, sir.” Patience nodded sharply and vanished into the fog. Faith—she decided she didn’t need the number—watched him go. If she’d had a heart, she was sure it would have been racing. Indeed, she felt the echo of it, a distant half-memory of when her body had been blood and sinew. But there was silence in her chest, from the glowing green gem that peeked through the cracked porcelain beneath her uniform. The shrapnel scratched against it. It almost itched. -- The Devil In The Ashes — A. M. Dilsaver They called her Elle. Girl. Because her father had wanted a quick affair in the kitchen, and what he’d gotten was her—a scrawny, wrinkled child with ruddy skin and hair black as ash. A wild, wispy thing, more witch than human, more spirit than child. Her mother’s in every way, save for the eyes. No matter how he tried to deny the rumors, to separate Elle from his real daughters, people would shake their heads and say those are Bonheur eyes. A deep, unfathomable blue. Not the azure of a clear day, or the twinkling cerulean of a lakeside picnic. Dark and haunted, a deep violet, like the terrifying absence of the sun right after it sets but before the darkness has taken over. She was not expected to survive. She did anyway. And so did her mother, for a time. They lived a quiet life in the servants’ quarter of the manor, sweeping the kitchen and preparing food for the man who refused to acknowledge them, for the family who denied their existence. To keep her busy, her mother would drop lentils into the fireplace, let Elle pick them out one by one, and then laugh and draw symbols in the ash that coated the girl’s skin. “Aschelle,” her mother would say. “My little ash girl.” Killing her mother was his first mistake. GIVEAWAY! -- |
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