I remember nothing of my abduction two years ago. Sounds and scents trigger horrific flashes, but it’s all a blur except for one man with brilliant green eyes. When the tatted six foot two Adonis shows up at my door, my knowledge of the world is shattered.
Bound to the immortal Scar by an ancient spell, we are on the run. Because Balen is the hunted.
And if he dies, so do I.
Balen: Scar Tracker
My code of honor was respected without question … until I consumed the blood of a vampire in exchange for a mortal woman’s freedom.
The Scars want me imprisoned. The Wraiths want me dead.
But the woman I can’t forget needs me. And I’ll risk everything to protect her.
Even if it means killing her.
Because in order for her to live—first she must die.
Full-length novel. Come meet the Scars.
Scars: Immortal warriors with capabilities derived from the senses: Trackers, Sounders, Healers, Tasters, Visionaries, and the rare Reflectors. They each have what is known as an Ink, a tattoo that can be called to life.
There are three full-length prequels to TAKE (scars of the wraiths). This is book One.
All three prequels were previously published and have been re-written entirely and are now in multiple first person POVs.
*Stygian was originally entitled JUMP.
The terror of dying had vanished—now I prayed for it.
His dagger-like nails tapped slow and precise up my neck until he reached the underside of my chin. He caressed the sensitive area with the pad of his finger then shoved his thumb upward between the curves of my jaw bone. It forced my mouth shut and I bit down hard on my tongue. Blood began to pool in my mouth and I couldn’t swallow with the pressure.
I breathed in and out frantically through my nose. I was going to choke on my own blood. I was going to die.
“Tilt your head,” he ordered.
The pressure increased and I turned my head, exposing the side of my neck. He moved his thumb away and I quickly spit out the blood. Remnants dribbled from the corners of my mouth and down my chin.
“Beautiful,” he purred, then curled his hand around the back of my neck and lifted slightly. I clenched my hands into fists, waiting for the familiar pain. I refused to scream—it made no difference anyway—no one was rescuing me from this monster.
I squeezed my eyes shut as he leaned over me, the odor of black licorice flooding my nostrils. He hissed and it sounded like the slow drag of a zipper being undone. I tensed and stopped breathing just before his fangs pierced my neck.
I silently cried as I lay unmoving, powerless to refuse him, frozen in the nightmare that had become reality. His lips were cold against my skin as he sucked the warmth of my blood. Each pull draining my strength until my hands unclenched and my nails embedded in my palms, released.
His tongue flicked over my neck and he lifted his head. “My sugary, Danielle.”
His voice was a calm melody, as if a paintbrush across a fresh white canvas, sweeping, rhythmic and subtle. I hated how it was captivating, how I compared it to something I loved, but I had no control over it.
I lay limp as the shackles released and cold, fish-like hands grabbed my arms and dragged me across the damp, dirt floor to the cage. My haven. Away from him. Away from the torture.
The monster threw me inside and I landed hard on my knees then collapsed to my side. The door slammed and locked.
The cage lifted off the ground, rocking back and forth as it was cranked upward until it settled next to two other cages.
I was so cold. Endless shivering that made my muscles ache from constantly trying to provide my body with warmth. My throat was dry and hoarse from screaming, as if a razor blade had scraped the flesh.
“Jesus.” A few feet away I heard the familiar graveled voice—Balen, my only comfort here. The rusted pipes overhead groaned as the continuous spray of water sprinkled inside his cage. “Christ, I’m sorry.”
It took too much energy to move, but I opened my eyes to look at him. My neighboring prisoner gripped the bars, knuckles white. His tense body a spring wound up so tight that it looked ready to fracture. His leg hung at an odd angle, mangled from the sledge hammer they tortured him with.
Despite his ravaged body, he was beautiful. Tattoos contoured to the hills and valleys of his muscular arms and chest. I’d caught a glimpse of a tiger on his lower back that was so intricate it looked alive. But it was his eyes that captivated me. Brilliant green, piercing and hard, filled with a haunting torment. When he was angry, the green darkened and looked almost black.
“Don’t you dare give up.”
I had already. I never thought I would in the beginning, but now…
“Look at me!” I heard what sounded like his fist pounding into the metal bars. “Look. At. Me.”
His tone was furious, and yet, I wasn’t scared of him. How could I be? He was all I had in this place.
Our eyes locked and the tension in his jaw eased. “You need to drink, Danni. Move closer.”
Water. I closed my eyes and imagined holding a cool glass of water and chugging it back; the liquid sliding down my throat, coating the harsh dryness. I’d never thought about the daily bottles of water I’d consumed, but now … now it was all I thought about. “I’m not letting you die, damn it.” His voice was harsh and abrupt and yet to me it was soothing.
Fearless. That’s what he was. He never screamed when they tortured him, never broke. I wanted that. To be brave again. But he had sucked it out of me.
I crawled across the metal floor and put my hands through the bars, cupping them together. I closed my eyes, afraid he wouldn’t be able to reach me this time.
But when the cool saturation hit my skin, tears pooled in my eyes. Water trickled through the crevices between my fingers and I quickly jolted back, afraid to lose a single drop of what he offered.
I licked my palms, the wetness adhering to my throat—velvet.
I reached out again and this time opened my eyes. He collected the water from the shower head attached to the top of his cage. It was a light spray and it took agonizing minutes just to gather a small handful.
We repeated the process five times, until my arms resisted rising any longer. “Thank you,” I whispered.
He sat and leaned up against the bars, leg bent and his arm resting on it; casual and indifferent and yet everything in his expression contradicted it. “Damn it Danni, you need to lock your mind from your body. Shut it down like I told you.” He sounded angry, but I knew it was because he was worried. “Separate the two. Don’t let him win.”
It was too late for that. He’d won the battle already.
I curled up on my side in a ball, my knees to my chin and my arms wrapped around them, trying to provide myself with some sort of warmth.
Then I closed my eyes and prayed for the darkness to take me.
I thought I heard him say something else, but I was already slipping into the void. It didn’t matter anyway. Nothing did.
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.
Rick "Ricochet" Brennan served eight years as an elite Marine special ops Force Recon soldier. After an injury, and the terrible memories from that night, he retires and goes to work for his former Command Officer, Howard "Mack" McEvoy, at his training center in Atlanta.Sanctum MMA appears on the surface to be a normal gym, training elite fighters to be the best. Except each trainer, hand-picked by Mack, possesses a special background that allows Mack to run one of the best-kept secrets in the country.When twenty-four year old Quinn Wallace finally escapes her abusive husband, she turns to her father’s old Marine Corps buddy, Mack, for help. Broken and skittish, Quinn finds herself surrounded by large, intimidating men— men who could easily overpower her. She avoids them the best she can, but when Rick turns out to be more than just a rough fighter with bruised knuckles, she finds herself wondering if she can allow herself to trust again.Ricochet is a full-length novel to be released as three parts.***This book contains hot sweaty men, sexy scenes for those over 18, and uncomfortable, sometimes violent scenes.***
RICK SMILED AS he stood on the small landing just outside of the tiny apartment above Sanctum. He could hear loud music playing inside, some top forty crap. What was Quinn doing— dancing, singing, cleaning while dancing and singing?The locks disengaged and the door swung wide open. Rick nearly choked on his tongue at the sight in front of him. Quinn was standing on the threshold with a light sheen of sweat on her body, her hair pulled into a high ponytail, and wearing only a tiny blue sports bra and a pair of shorts so small they couldn’t possibly be legal to wear out in public.Holy hell, I’m going to croak right here on her doorstep.“Rick. What are you doing here?” Quinn’s amber eyes shone, but her face looked confused.“Ummmm,” Jesus. He couldn’t think with her half naked and within arms length, it was too damn distracting. Her pale thighs were smooth and toned. All he could imagine was having them wrapped around his waist. “I uh, I mean… shit. I was going to bring you to the store again. If… if you wanted, I mean.”Damn, I sound like a complete and total idiot.Quinn’s already flushed cheeks turned an even darker shade of crimson as he stammered in her doorway. Her eyes cast downward until she was staring at her own feet. Rick marveled over how long and thick her eyelashes were against her pale skin. Her lush pink mouth captivated him as she licked her lips nervously.This was a bad idea. His dick had a mind of it’s own whenever he was around Quinn and it was beginning to throb inside his jeans. He hadn’t gotten off since the pathetically unsatisfying experience on Sunday night and jerking in the shower at work and his cock was taking notice.“You came here just to see if I needed another ride?”Once again, when Quinn’s shy but pleased gaze lifted to Rick’s face, it hit him like a punch to the gut. He’d seen his share of beautiful women, hell, he’d had his share of beautiful women. But nothing he’d seen in his twenty-eight years would ever compare to the absolute perfection of Quinn Wallace.Mesmerized, Rick could only nod.The small smile she rewarded him with made his discomfort totally worth it. Like another hit of an addict’s favorite drug, Rick would probably give anything to see her smile more often. Quinn always looked sad, weary. Giving her a little bit of happiness, if only for something as simple as grocery shopping, seemed like a fair trade for a constant, aching hard-on, the inability to enjoy his usual no strings sex, and never ending mental torture.“Yeah, I came to see if you needed another ride. Is that alright with you, doll?”Quinn’s gorgeous face relaxed, her smile becoming wider. There were those adorable crinkles around her eyes again. “Yes, it’s fine. Let me just throw on a shirt. Uh, come in and just… wait here.”He was pleased that she finally stopped telling him not to call her doll. She was a doll, his doll. Rick watched her tight ass as she scurried off to what he assumed was her bedroom. He groaned at the thought of her and her ass anywhere near a bed. As surreptitiously as possible, he adjusted his painful hard on.Get your shit together, Brennan.Minutes later, Quinn emerged with a small pink shirt pulled over her sports bra. She was still wearing the tiny, cheek hugging shorts. As he followed her out of the apartment, her delectable back end swaying with each step, Rick wondered if he had lost his fucking mind.
I grew up in New England and currently live outside Atlanta, GA with my husband, two kids, a French Bulldog and a pug.
I'm a full-time procrastinator and a part-time everything else.
I love the Red Sox, chocolate, and traveling.
When I'm not writing, I'm dealing drugs legally as a pharmacist.
Smithers rarely veers off the straight and (excruciatingly) narrow. So moving
to the seaport town of Toulon to live with her newfound biological mother—an
inspector with the French National Police—for one year is a pretty major
of France’s crime royalty family and international rugby star, Louis Messette,
is devoted to his sport, famille and nothing else. But the carefree
American he meets one night changes everything. She sparks a desire in him like
no other. Possession takes root. She will do as he commands.
by bit Fleur slips into the Frenchman’s realm of wanton pleasure agreeing to
his one condition: that she keep their affair secret. She serves up her heart
without reservation in the hub of the glittering Côte d’Azur, and the along the
soulful Seine in Paris, unaware of the danger she is in. For her new lover’s
family business will pit her against her mother, the police woman sworn to
bring down the Messettes. And by then, far more than Fleur’s heart will be on
WARNING: This novel contains explicit sex.**
As we neared
the yacht, I could see only lights from a few windows of the cabin area. Near
the bow, men were lingering, smoking. I was shaky as I walked across the sloped
plank, and it wasn’t from the cold wind coming off the sea.
entourage joined me on the deck. I was struck by how much larger the entire
boat seemed once you were on it. My escorts pointed in the direction of the lit
cabin with encouraging nods. Just outside the doorway, looking down into the
deep inset cabin, I spotted Louis sitting at an elaborate bar, sipping a
He was poised,
on the edge of a stool, in black dress pants, one long, thick leg stretched
out, the other bent underneath the stool. The sleeves of his blue dress shirt
were rolled up, which, I noted, might be a habit of his. He spun the whiskey
around in his hand, watching the golden elixir reflect light. I wondered if he
was trying to read his fortune in that glass, he stared so intently at it. I
recalled the night we met, at the bistro, how he gave off animosity. But now I
knew better: it was power.
He glanced up
and watched me step down into the cabin. His silent magnitude left me
breathless. He took in my dress quickly, eyes steady, and when he broke into a
smile, my heart skipped a beat.
“You came,” he
said in English, standing up, looking ginormous in the tiny room.
“Bien sûr,” I answered. Why would he
think I wouldn’t?
He was already
near. It was odd: his face was sketched with relief. He reached for my hand and
pulled me to him, brushing his mouth close to mine with a mere greeting. He
paused, hovering near, suddenly shifting his lower half up so close I could
feel the heat coming off of him. He clamped his lips down on mine with two-ton
force. I was crushed under all his intensity as he nudged my mouth open and
tasted me. My heart was beating a mile a minute. I kissed him back, tasting the
whiskey on his tongue, smelling his cologne and natural musk. We lingered a
moment, before he pulled back and, clasping both my cheeks, planted two more
soft kisses on my lips.
Lesley Young is a
genre-defying author of unforgettable heroines who experience thrilling
life- and love-altering journeys. Her debut novel was Sky's End; her
most recent stand-alone series, Crime Royalty Romance, includes The
Frenchman and The Australian. She loves to hear from readers.
5 reasons why you should
experience an alpha hero from France
Author Lesley Young makes
the case for why Frenchmen make for good romance novels reads
Obviously I am totally biased here, since my novel The Frenchman is set
in France and features a hot, Alpha hero from Toulon (to up the ante I also
made him a super fit rugby player and utterly rude). Anyway, I took my job
quite seriously and researched the heck out culturally significant romantic
facts. I mention a few here (the rest are based on one bout of firsthand
experience in my youth).
Seriously, is there a sexier accent, especially delivered in a soft,
deep, hoarse murmur, at least, prevalent in romance novels? Oh sure, the old
Scottish brogue will give you the odd pang, but it’s hardly as elegant, slick
and let’s all agree — exciting. If I had an Amazon.com gift card for every book
I read with, “Aye, ya wee lass...”
Frenchman have some. Should I leave it at that? I know us novelists tend
to dress our North American heroes quite snazzy, but readers know better. I
like to think that’s another reason why The
Frenchman is so realistic—you think maybe you could meet a truly debonair man just like Louis
Messette in real life. . .
You’ll know when he’s into you
Little known fact: Frenchmen don’t play games. They’ll call you the day
after your first date, eager to set up the next one. Date three he’ll call you
his girlfriend. Week two he might say he loves you! While my Frenchman, Louis
Messette, didn’t play it straight, when he made up his mind about my heroine
Fleur Smithers, he was ALL IN.
He’ll look you straight in the eye and always mean what he says, with
emphasis. Yup, um. . . what was I writing about? Oh yeah, I made sure Louis
held true to this truism, ack! (sorry, I got distracted there).
They invented the phrase je ne sais quo
Yes, they are so overwhelmed with adoration for you that they are unable
to quite articulate why. This doesn’t mean your Frenchman will be complimenting
you all the time (it does happen!) so much as openly admiring you—in all the
ways that make your heart race.
Tell me if I delivered on these pluses in The Frenchman available Amazon.com http://amzn.com/B00QJGFZMM. Thanks
for the opportunity and please stay in touch at
Facebook.com/LesleyYoungBooks, @LesleyYoungBks and LesleyYoungBooks.com.
Title: Deep (Stage Dive, #4) Author: Kylie Scott Genre: New Adult, Contemporary
Positive. With two little lines on a pregnancy test, everything in Lizzy Rollins' ordinary life is about to change forever. And all because of one big mistake in Vegas with Ben Nicholson, the irresistibly sexy bass player for Stage Dive. So what if Ben's the only man she's ever met who can make her feel completely safe, cherished, and out of control with desire at the same time? Lizzy knows the gorgeous rock star isn't looking for anything more permanent than a good time, no matter how much she wishes differently.
Ben knows Lizzy is off limits. Completely and utterly. She's his best friend's little sister now, and no matter how hot the chemistry is between them, no matter how sweet and sexy she is, he's not going to go there. But when Ben is forced to keep the one girl he's always had a weakness for out of trouble in Sin City, he quickly learns that what happens in Vegas, doesn't always stay there. Now he and Lizzie are connected in the deepest way possible...but will it lead to a connection of the heart?
His laughter, it didn’t really sound the
smallest bit amused. “Christ. You’re done here.”
“Ah, no. I’m actually not. Now see, this is
where we have a problem.” I folded my arms. Then unfolded them because like
fuck I’d look defensive. He was the one in the wrong, not me. “You’re not
prepared to take me, or my feelings, seriously. What you want is to hide away
in Mr. Too Cool for Commitment land and just play with my affections when it
suits you. Okay, I’ve accepted that. But none of that means it’s okay for you
to come in here and act like you’re the boss of me. None of it.”
“That so?” he asked, leaning down so that we
were almost nose to nose.
“That’s so, baby.” I play-punched him in the
shoulder, which it should be noted, I barely came up to. Okay, so maybe the
alcohol on a mostly empty stomach had made me slightly/lots braver/sillier. “So
why don’t you take your little caveman jealous tantrum bullshit somewhere else.
See, I do this funny thing I like to refer to as whatever the fuck I want.
He just stared.
“And as pretty as you are with your beard and
your muscles, you are too damn tricky and . . . complicated and shit for me.”
“Yes, you are. Are you finally seeing my point
“Excellent. So take your hotness elsewhere,
kind sir. I want no part of it!” Huh. I had so told him. Drunken bravado was
Kylie is a long time fan of erotic love stories and B-grade
horror films. She demands a happy ending and if blood and carnage occur along
the way then all the better. Based in Queensland, Australia with her two
children and one delightful husband, she reads, writes and never dithers around
on the internet.
Kylie is represented by Amy Tannenbaum at the Jane Rotrosen
Agency, New York.