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Chapter 1: Letting Go

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A restless ache bloomed deep in Bessina’s chest, racing from her heart to her feet. A visceral need to stretch her legs and free her soul nearly wrenched her in two. Her muscles ached and her head pounded. She needed to run, not to escape, but to free her mind of the ensuing chaos.

Instead, with her feet stubbornly glued to the dock, Bessina awaited dawn. She’d said her farewells, yet couldn’t bring herself to leave. Uncertain of what was holding her to the spot, Bessina sighed. She glanced up and watched as the moon made its slow descent across the sky.

Everything was familiar, but not in the comforting way it should have been. Instead of warm memories, reality reminded her of how fragile friendships truly were. High school had come and gone, and her first year of college had been cruel.

It was in the past year she’d discovered what could happen if you trusted the wrong boy with the wrong information. To add insult to injury, she’d also learned some high school bonds couldn’t survive the gravities of college or life as new adults. The realization she wasn’t leaving behind much, left a glacial void in her chest.

Bessina hefted the heavy Jansport book bag, attempting to relieve her pinched and bruised shoulder. It had all the belongings she thought important enough to take on her trip. After readjusting the backpack as best she could, she checked her wristwatch. She needed to leave for her bus soon, if she was going to make it to the Amtrak station in time. This would be a true goodbye to her painful past.

There was probably a faster way to get to Plushin, Ohio than a fifteen-hour bus ride, but she wasn’t in a rush. Just heading away from the past would be enough for her.

The oppressive midsummer Florida heat assaulted her back and Bessina longed for the cold artificial air of the A/C units at college. The thought reminded her she hadn’t enrolled in any sessions, officially withdrawing her from college; she could no longer live on campus and was in fact, homeless. Talk about rock bottom.

On top of which, Bessina’s savings had run dry . . . and calling her father was not an option. She’d gone against his wishes when moving to Florida to attend Howard Lee University instead of Central Christian College of Kansas, and her father hadn’t spoken to her since. Unless it was to make sure she was still breathing, of course.

Their semi-monthly talks consisted of her explaining the month’s events, and her father replying with a series of grunts and sighs. It wasn’t the type of conversation a young woman would choose to have with her father, but that was another story for another day. Bessina could only handle one horrible relationship at a time.

She heaved a sigh and ran a hand through her unruly curls. Annoyed with herself for lingering longer than necessary, she finally moved toward the parking lot, where the only payphone in the city was located. Her shirt clung to her back, and her jeans bunched in all of the wrong places.

As she reached the pay phone, she dug through her pants pocket for the quarters. Facing the phone, she lifted the handset from its cradle, only to see the frayed end.

“Just great.” Looking around the abandoned docks, she tried to see if there was another place to call the cab company. No such luck. Bessina would have had time to walk to the nearest bus station to make her bus and her transfers, if she hadn’t stayed at the docks for so long. But it was the abandoned dock she had to say her farewells to. Sad? Yeah, but who would ever know? She was there alone, with no one to see her pitiful ritual.

A warm breeze drifted over her skin, carrying with it a moan so soft, Bessina thought she’d imagined the sound. She slowly turned around, listening for the sound again. Narrowing her eyes toward the docks, she observed the surrounding area with an intense focus. Just as she felt she was going insane, the soft moan came again—throaty and deep, as if the person were in pain.

The need to help waged war with her common sense, which urged her to run away from possible danger. What if someone fell through the rotted wood? Before she knew it, she was moving toward the sound. The thought of an injured person had her full attention, pulling her further from the concerns she’d had of missing her ride out of hell.

Chapter 2: Burning Dawn

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As the darkened sky released the moon, it gave way to pink hues, sending a warning to all of night’s creatures; the sun would soon be there. Trace watched as his wards lay on the docks, still shrouded in darkness. Suicide by sun was the most painful way to go for a pureblood vampire. Yet he could only assume, after a millennium, one such as Samuel would not fear the pain of the sun.

Trace’s assignment had only been for one vampire, yet Sam’s lover, or heir, had arrived as well. He was not sure what she was, but as far as he was concerned, the price Rhys quoted him had just doubled. He watched as the sun inched its way closer to the couple. After his own pitiful existence had come to its end, he wondered if he would have the balls to go out in style. Or would he cower before some sort of true death as well?

For after centuries of living, Trace had nothing to live for. Not that he was contemplating suicide, but the day would come when life would become an encumbrance. As a dhampir, the sun could not harm him the way it could harm and destroy a blood born vampire; however, his lifespan was also not that of a mere human.

He had centuries, if not a millennia left of his life . . . and if even a percentage of the future mirrored his lonely existence now, then ending that shit might not be such a bad idea. How long could he take the lives of innocent mortals solely to protect the existence of his kind?

At the signal of his cell, Trace left his thoughts and pulled it from his pocket, checking the screen and connecting the call. “Yeah?” He greeted Jax, his technophile friend, and partner in crime.

Jax wheezed out a cough and Trace repressed the urge to grin. He wasn’t a morning person, nor was he the type to call when Trace was on Watcher duty.

             “Hey, I’ve got some news and I thought you might want to hear it.”

            “What’s going on, man?” A sound in the distance took Trace’s attention away from his friend’s stressed voice. He froze, scenting the air. The scent of vanilla and fresh earth compelled him to make his way through the canopy of trees, closer to the vampires, Sam and Hope. His senses went wild with the exotic scents of mineral rich earth, smoky woods, and the sweet hint of vanilla. Never had Trace scented such a rare combination, as humans normally gave off simple scents with little to no variants.

Perhaps another vampire or dhampir had wandered onto the docks. With his advanced sight, Trace stationed himself far enough away to allow privacy in their final moments, but now he regretted the distance. The urge to move closer was so great, his legs seemed to move on their own accord.

Trace scanned the area, searching for the origin of the sweet scent, but came up empty. In his personal oath to his wards, one he’d never spoken aloud, but ardently upheld, he would always stay miles away from them until their deaths were complete. Trace believed death was a personal experience, not something to be tainted by his own ugly soul.

Even with his advanced speed, Trace’s feet felt as if weighted down by cement blocks. The sun continued its path up into the sky, illuminating the world around him. The sound of Jax’s voice broke his concentration, but only for a second.

            “Maybe I should just tell her we can try again, but—” Trace had missed more than half of the conversation in his quest to locate the scent. “Avery isn’t the same. She’s chipper and happy, but I can tell it’s a façade.” Trace kept the phone to his ear but could only hear Jax as if he were talking through static.

A dark-skinned, coiled-haired female was making her way to the dock, exactly where his wards had positioned themselves. Trace observed the girl as she moved cautiously toward the sounds of Hope and Sam meeting the sun.

The scent of smoke pulled his gaze away from the woman and back to the disaster. It was too noticeable; she was sure to happen upon it. His gut tightened. Like a fool, Trace had believed Sam’s death would be one without incident.

***

Bessina pulled back at the smell of ash and smoke. She hadn’t heard any cars arrive, and had thought herself alone. That didn’t mean a car couldn’t have slipped past her notice, but it was highly unlikely. Whoever had arrived would have had to enter the same gates Bessina had to, unless they’d traveled through the murky water on the other side of the docks.

It could be some college students having a bonfire, she guessed. It was summer, and she and her old friends had often come there after parties to watch the sunrise. But they would be making more noise than she was hearing. The moans had since turned disturbing, as if there were a wounded animal on the dock just past the first empty store.

Smoke arched around something on the ground, and as Bessina moved closer, she could see someone had set something on fire. Not finding anything around to put it out, she cursed and barreled toward the site. Closing in, she realized it was two bodies set a flame.

Shocked, she stopped short, nearly falling off the dock. She landed on her knees and palms with a force that sent her skidding forward, every ounce of air disappearing from her lungs. Fear flooded her so swiftly and deep, she swayed from the intensity of it.

She stared into the burning eyes of a woman who was probably stunning at one point. Someone had reduced her to nothing more than some charred remains.

A scream ripped from her throat, so hard and loud, she choked on the next one. Pulling in a full breath, Bessina stood as best she could. What was she supposed to do? Her sight blurred. She feared she would pass out, leaving her vulnerable for whoever set those bodies on fire.

Marshaling her strength and will, Bessina stood straight and turned to run.

***

Trace eyed the girl warily before stepping from the shadows of the abandoned building into the cover of the dense trees. He’d smelled her blood as soon as she’d fallen. Every nerve in his body urged him towards the sweet scent of her lifeblood, mixed with cedar from her splinters and the rich minerals from the earth.

Her scent was distinctive, her eyes shone a preternatural golden hue and her heartbeat skittered in her chest faster than that of a human. She’d witnessed the death of two vampires, and though it seemed she hadn’t fully comprehended the magnitude of her situation, he had.

This woman—with the scent of an immortal, and wolf-like eyes—would have to be taken care of. A pity, really. Even with her face contorted in pain and terror, he could see she was stunning; her bright gaze held fear and a hint of primal intelligence. Perhaps deep down inside, there was a hint of enchantress blood coursing through her veins. Often times interbreeding with humans created half-breeds with latent powers, though he didn’t sense this was the case with her.

He watched, observing her movements. She was maybe a few years younger than his twenty-five. It never pleased him to have to kill humans. Their lives were already so short and insignificant. But death was his job. He possessed skills vampires didn’t. As a dhampir, one of those skills was the ability to survive the sun.

Tolerating sunlight meant he was perfect for his job. He was a Watcher, or as Trace liked to call it, a suicide specialist. Many vamps committed suicide; living forever wasn’t what movies and books portrayed it to be. To live through every war, epidemic, and fall of the economy, losing the ones you loved could devastate even the strongest of men. Once the Nation understood they could no longer stop it from happening, they went about creating Trace’s job.

A Watcher was nothing more than a voyeur, there to witness the end of a vamp’s life. It was also their duty to leave no witnesses behind, which brought Trace back to his current dilemma. The beautiful chocolate-skinned girl with sun-kissed hair, running from the ashes of Sam and Hope.

Calling his division leader, Trace detailed the info of the girl, and awaited the inevitable instructions to kill.

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Preview Running in the Dark on AMAZON!

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Known as Trace to his enemies and friends,  this lethal Dhampir leaves no trace of his victims behind.
 

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The life of deadly Russian slayer, Trace, has always revolved around death and preventing humankind from learning about the legendary creatures of the night. But now his position as a Watcher has become a prison, and dealing death for the Nation isn’t as prestigious as he once believed it to be. College dropout Bessina Darrow has witnessed things she isn’t permitted to see, a simple case of wrong place at the wrong time puts her life in danger. When Bessina becomes his new mark, Trace is prepared to eliminate her—until he discovers a way out for them both. Protecting Bessina means defying the leaders of the Nation, an act that has them both running for their lives. The more Trace fights to disappear from danger, the more he unravels the secrets surrounding his world of lore—secrets he must unveil to finally save a life, instead of destroy it.

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Confessions in the Dark 2 Days!

Confessions in the Dark | In the Dark Book 3

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SCRIBD 

Ophelia prided herself in not panicking. Her heart might have been in her throat and beating a mile a minute, but she scrolled through the SAT phone with clarity, looking through nameless numbers, hoping to see an SOS number. Unfortunately, there was nothing to clue her in to who she’d be calling if she pressed the send button.

She looked to Irish again. His greying skin signaled she had little, if any, time to act, so she pressed send on the number currently on the screen. There was a beeping noise and then the phone rang.

            He mumbled something incoherent and she crawled over to him, placing her face as close to his as she could. His eyes were still closed, moving franticly beneath the lids. In his weakened state, he feebly tried to move his hand with no success.

            In Gaelic she asked, “How can I help you?” Now she was starting to panic. If anyone found where they were hiding, she wasn’t sure she’d be able to fight them off without risking Irish. In this state, Vasily’s men were sure to kill him.

            His eyes cracked open a sliver and his fangs descended. “I need—” As if all of the strength had been zapped from him, his hand went limp and his head fell back.

            A shout came from behind her and she turned, baring her teeth in a protective stance, but no one was there. The muffled shout came again and she glanced down at the phone. Picking it up, she said, “Yes?”

            A man with a Spanish accent answered. She remembered him, Jax. “What’s wrong?” His voice was calm and soothing, which managed to help calm her as well.

She examined Irish and explained everything she saw, including everything that had happened leading up to this point.

Jax grunted. “Is there an open wound on him anywhere?” Ophelia remembered the scent of blood and burned flesh and answered with confirmation. “Okay, can you get to it?”

She took a deep breath and wedged the SAT phone between her ear and shoulder. Pushing with both hands, she got him to roll onto his back. She opened his leather vest and pulled up his cotton shirt. The scent of blood and decay wafted up from the wound. It seeped and oozed blood and a clear liquid.

Ophelia covered her mouth at the atrocious scent. How was it decaying when it’d only been there for a few hours? “Yes, I see it. It looks bad and it’s bleeding. The blood is really dark though. Do you know what I should do?”

There was a silence, a flurry of curses, and then in a measured tone Jax said, “How do you feel about being bitten?” His voice sounded grim, as if this were the only option and he wasn’t sure she’d agree to it.

She cleared her throat and placed her hand to her neck. Heat flared in her collar and her heart gave an extra few thumps in anticipation. “Will it save him? Is there no other way?”

Jax sighed. “Yes, but you don’t have enough time. If you don’t give him your blood, he will die. He’s been poisoned with liquid silver and Olfbreathe seed is the only other cure. I doubt you’ll find it there. Weather conditions aren’t stable enough to grow it.”

It didn’t take long to make a decision. When everyone else had chalked up her disappearance as dismissal, Irish was the only one who’d wanted to free her from the confines of her place in the pack. “Okay, but how do I get him to bite? He’s not awake.” She eyed him again, searching for signs of life. He was breathing, but that was it.

            “There’s a weapon in his shoe. Use that.”

She searched for the weapon. A trap opened in the bottom of his shoe and she pulled the small blade from inside. Once she was positioned beside him, Ophelia placed his head in her lap and created as small cut on her wrist. Not too close to the artery, but not too far away either. Coaxing his mouth open, she placed her wrist above his mouth and waited—nothing.

            “Jax,” panic laced her voice, “he’s not—”

Before she could finish, Irish’s chest bowed and his fangs clamped down on her skin. At first, she thought to scream, but then his sharp fangs parted her flesh with a delicious burn that made her body sing. A moment later, she opened her eyes to find herself on her back with Irish on top of her.

Her blood dripped from his mouth, his face twisted in a feral grimace. Unsure of whether to push him away, or caress him, she put her hand on his chest and steadied her own breath. He panted above her, body tight and hot. Without thinking, she parted her knees, allowing Irish to settle in deeper. His considerable arousal lay heavy between them, cradled by her warm, soft thighs.

He lowered to her neck, but was stopped by her palm on his chest. He looked at her hand before flicking it away. Ophelia gasped, but didn’t stop his descent. The idea of Irish, fangs deep in her neck, sent excitement shooting through her core. He scraped the tips of his fangs over the delicate hollow of her neck.

She shuddered, and before she knew it, her hand flew to the back of his head and pulled him closer. All she could remember was the feel of his mouth over her wrist, the way it felt as he took her blood; each pull, yanking common sense from her body and replacing it with raw need.  

Confessions in the Dark 3 DAYS!

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SCRIBD 

     Ophelia rested her head on her knees as she waited for Irish to return. Sounds throughout the cave soothed and relaxed her as much as an orphaned shifter in her position could relax. He’d left to gather water and food since it would take a couple of days for rescue.

     Her eyes fluttered shut as flashes of her time spent in a cage crossed her mind. There was nothing she could do for her people, and briefly, she wanted to give up the throne and run away. But she was stronger than that, much stronger. In fact, of the three packs left, hers was the largest and the fiercest and that was not from sheer luck, but determination and ambition. Maybe now that the packs were so broken up and scattered, she would no longer be expected to follow wolf charmer traditions.

     The scent of grabers, mushrooms, and honeysuckle hit her nose before his voice called to her. She smiled. Perhaps he thought her a vegan, like most wolf charmers.

            “Ophelia.” His tone was searching, even though she knew his vampire traits allowed him night vision.

Heat bloomed in her chest as the warrior moved toward her. His pale skin shone bright with the bit of moonlight entering the cave. He wore the traditional armor of his Scottish heritage; gold-plated straps, carrying massive amounts of weapons and shields. Light reflected off his silver weapons and her gaze flittered to his face as he kneeled in front of her.

Even if she couldn’t scent the rain falling from the sky, Irish’s dampened, blondish-red hair glistened in the light. Water rivulets fell from his short locks, splashing gently onto his collar. Shimmering emerald eyes met hers. Placing the fruits and plants in front of her, he took a deep breath, then moved away.

            “We aren’t close to the coast, so I’ll have to get ye water from the rain,” he said, his accent a little heavier than usual.

She nodded, and wondered if he were like her. She’d taken lessons to hide her German accent, and spoken English as a child, allowing her to perfect even the hardest pronunciations. As a tribe in hiding, they all had to learn how to blend in; until the moment her father decided the woods were the only place they could survive. Just like our ancestors, long ago. To mother earth we go. The thought of him saying this sent a spear through her heart.

She squeezed her eyes shut and opened them again. Irish was on the other side of the cave, peering out into the night. “Do you hide your accent?” she asked in fluent Gaelic.

He turned, brow raised. Even as serious as their situation was, she noticed the playful glint in his eye. And with that, the damn heat flared in her chest again. She placed her hand over her heart and rubbed the light burning sensation. Glancing away, Ophelia trained her eyes on the berries he’d fetched for her.

            “Aye, and I have to keep it up. I have a mission coming up, so American it is. If you hear me slip, please be sure to punish me any way you see fit.”

She glanced at him and saw his lip quirk up, revealing one sharp, pearly-white fang. Mischief danced in his darkened gaze, causing her heart to thrum against her ribcage. Ophelia was still young and primed for breeding. She shook her head, releasing herself from whatever spell her body had placed her under. Hormones were a bitch.

The moon whispered to her, but she ignored it. “Then I guess I owe you five lashings?” She popped a sweet berry into her mouth and the tart flavor burst on her tongue. She ate another, then another, until all that was left were the vines. Aghast, she looked up. Feral eyes watched her as she frowned. “I’m so sorry.” He’d brought enough for the both of them, yet she’d gluttonously eaten them all.

            His eyes darkened as he moved away from her, toward the mouth of the cave. “I brought all of it for you. Eat up. You’ll need your strength.” His words held an ominous chill.

Unsure if she should worry about the tone in his voice, or eat more, Ophelia let her stomach decide and picked up a root he’d laid before her. She examined the root because she was not familiar with it. Its texture was smooth and soft. Upon squeezing it, the spongy substance let loose a few droplets of moisture. His voice rose above the roaring of the rainfall outside.

            “Jachtha root. It only grows in areas with a monsoon season. Since I couldn’t get to the coast, I got a few of those so you don’t dehydrate. Also, the berries have a protein in them that will help you combat the drugs I scent in your system.” He crossed his arms over his chest and leaned on the cave wall.

            She squeezed the root over her mouth and drank its juice. “And here I thought you believed me to be one of those vegan charmers.”

With a smile he pushed away from the cave wall and moved toward her. “No, I saw you eat meat when we were at Jax’s place.” She nodded, remembering Avery, Jax’s wife, who cooked the most delicious steaks she’d ever eaten. She picked up a flower that smelled like honeysuckle. “That will help you gain strength back if I happen to need—” His voice went quiet and she glanced back up at him. He was so close now, she got a whiff of blood and flesh.

He must be wounded. “In case you have to what? Are you hurt?” she asked, her voice rising on its own accord. Anger flared in her at whoever it was who’d damaged his creamy white skin. He gave her a forced smile and nodded. “Let me see. I can heal it.” She dropped the root and moved to her knees just as he reared back. Confused, she settled into the ground again and placed her hands in her lap.

            With a wry grin he said, “You can’t heal me. At least, not with your hands.” Shaking his head, he stood and moved away from her. She hated how far away he’d moved, but figured it was probably for the best.

            Picking up the root, she took a bite. “This tastes of the rain,” she muttered absently, remembering then the question she really wanted to ask. “Where are we?” She glanced out at the jungle and moved closer to sniff the air. His hand grasped her upper arm as she moved out closer.

She sniffed again, unable to discern each scent. “I’m not familiar with the essences around us.” The sharp scent of musk and earth she’d never smelled before floated across the breeze, lightly muted by the scent of the rain.

            He released her arm when she moved back into the cave. “You’ve never been here before, and you most likely have never encountered anyone from this island.”

She glanced up at him, his gaze was held steady on her. She assumed she’d been taken to an island. The murky visions she’d had as Vasily’s men pulled her from a boat, to scenes of naked men who looked to be tribesmen, and the scent of sea air, all pointed in that direction.

“So, we are on an island.” She crossed her arms over her chest. The tattered dress she wore barely concealed her skin, and as she stood closer to the moonlight, she was sure she was showing more skin than she wanted.

Confessions in the Dark Teaser

17 and up due to adult situations and language

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            It took everything in Ophelia not to apologize to the hard-headed jerk who’d thought to leave her while he fought her battle. And to make it worse? He now sat in front of her with shredded, yet mending lips and bloody teeth, looking like he wanted to kiss her.

            “No!” She shouted aloud to all of the things her body was craving. His smile widened and she nearly moaned when the tip of a blood-coated fang peeked through his lips. Gathering her wits and beating her hormones back with a stick, Ophelia jumped to her feet. “No!”

His smile disappeared as his lips mended. “Look—”

            “No, and I mean it. I am coming with you.” She moved toward the mouth of the cave and Irish dove for her, grabbing her hand and yanking her back. When she fell into his chest, she thrust out her elbow and jabbed him in the ribs. His rasping breath and his warm body pressed against her, almost made her forget she was fighting to get away—almost. She stomped her foot down, then adjusted her stance to knee him in the balls.

Rethinking this tactic, Irish used her moment of indecision and kicked his feet out, knocking her off balance. She fell to the ground face down, and Irish fell with her. He caught himself just in time and then grabbed her hands holding her tightly against the cool cave floor with his heavy body.

            “Get off me!” She rasped, struggling against his hold.

            “Ophelia,” his voice was a deep growl, “stop.”

She fought harder. Fuck that, she was pissed! How dare he hold her down. Feeling his long, thick legs straddled to either side and his muscular arms threaded around her, heat bloomed in her chest. Anger and arousal warred deep in her belly. Not thinking of that now. She thrashed against him.

            Irish grunted and then let out a groan she’d never heard from a man. “Ophelia,” his voice strained, “please stop moving.” Heavy pants sounded above her.

            “Let me go.” She said, plotting. This time, she would not hesitate . . . only his heat felt so damned good, his warm arms holding her just enough to stop her from freeing herself. She nearly complied.

            “I want to let you go, but I’m not chasing your ass out of this cave. Promise me you’ll behave,” he demanded.

Ophelia would not be told what to do when she was being held down against her will. She bucked hard, until a pleasured groan passed his lips. Never had she made a man sound like that. Screams, howls, and pleas for mercy? Yes. But never such a breathy groan. Still, her anger boiled deeper. She wouldn’t give in, not on this matter. She couldn’t. “You will not command me!”

In her struggle to move out from underneath him, her soft bottom nudged something long and hard. She stilled a moment, before giving another wriggle to test his reaction. Instead of holding her tighter or fighting back, he gently pressed into her.

            His body was so hot, it seared her to her very soul. He gently released one arm and moved his grip to her hip. “Please behave, so I can let you up. I can’t stay like this any longer.” He swallowed hard between shallow breaths.

            “No.” Ophelia wanted to go with him on the mission, but her answer was directed at the fact that he wanted to remove his body from atop hers. Making one last effort to get out of this situation, she bucked up and scooted out of his grasp.

Irish came up on all fours, but kept his head held low, taking deep calming breaths.

            “What’s wrong with you?” she asked.

            He looked up at her sharply, heat blazing in his eyes. “What do you think? You did that on purpose.”

            Her eyes moved down to the large bulge in his pants. “Huh? You tackled me. Not the other way around.” She let out an indignant huff and crossed her arms over her chest.

            He released a bark of laughter. “And you sure showed me, didn’t you? Rubbing against me like a puppy in heat!” He stood and adjusted himself.

            Her face flamed and the word puppy slapped her in the face like a sledge hammer. “How was I supposed to know that you—that you,” she gestured to his pants, “enjoy holding women down against their will?”

            A look of outrage colored his face. “Are you insane, lass? Donnae be lookin’ at me, when I’m only trying to stop you from running off alone, to get killed or bred,” he said with extra emphasis. “You are the one rubbing on me like an animal in heat. What did you think was going to happen?”

She stared at him for a moment. Why did he keep comparing her to an animal? “I—I’m sorry, I just wanted to get away!” She threw her hands up and screamed. “Why am I apologizing?”

            “Because, lassie,” his voice lowered and his eyes narrowed. “You just took advantage of me!” Even as he said it in his thick brogue, she saw a glint of humor in his eyes and an impish grin playing on his lips.

            Her indignant huff echoed off the walls. “Oh, come on.” She jabbed a finger out at him. “I did not, you did!” She sounded immature, but there was nothing to be done about it.

            “And what do you suppose happens when a woman with a luscious ass rubs it up and down a man’s cock?” His voice was low and soft like a purr.

Her face heated even more and she swallowed hard. It had not been her intention, but when she’d realized what she’d done, she didn’t move to stop. “That is no way to talk to a queen.”

            He scoffed. “Nor is it anyway for her royal highness to act either, now is it? Pushing against me cock like that . . .”

“I’m a virgin!” Ophelia blurted, wanting to die of embarrassment when he scrambled back, looking disgusted. All of the blood in her body rushed to her face, leaving it redder than she was sure it had ever been.

Her mind scrambled to fix the situation. “I—I have to be. To protect the throne from heirs who weren’t born from me and the wolf I am promised to.” Her word vomit kept flowing. “I’ve never even been kissed.” She clapped a hand over her mouth. Closing her eyes, she endured a long silence.

            He finally cleared his throat. “That was a wee bit awkward, no?”

Her lids popped open and a bit of her mortification deflated when she saw the affable smile on his face. “Can I fight with you and the others?”

His silence had her feeling twitchy and ready to run, but instead of the adamant no she was expecting he said, “I’ll play ye for it, lass.”

            She smiled. “Ten lashings, and counting.”

He winked and pointed to a tree one hundred yards in the distance. Pulling a small knife from his sleeve, Irish threw it at the tree. “Best three out of four.” He looked over his shoulder, a roguish grin on his lips. “I win, and you go to the ship. You win, and you can tag along. Game?”

Little did he know she was one of the best knife throwers in her pack. She sauntered over and held her hand out. He handed her a knife and she turned and got in her throwing stance. “If you win,” she eyed the tree, “I go to the boat like a good little princess.” She did a practice throw without releasing the knife.

            “And if you win?” His voice was close behind her and the heat of his body nearly stole her concentration.

            “If I win, I not only go with you on the mission, but you teach me how to kiss, here and now.” She threw the knife, loving the sound it made as it whistled through the air, hitting Irish’s knife, and knocking it from the tree.

***

            “Where in the hell did you learn to throw knives?” Irish asked, counting her knives in the tree. She’d made all of her throws and to add insult to injury, she landed each of her knives on top of his, except one—the one he’d missed.

He’d actually lost the wager.

            She sat down close to the mouth of the cave and looked to him. “A race nearly extinct, remember? When you are in hiding, you learn how to protect yourself. Plus, there wasn’t much else to do.”

Her words sobered him up a bit. He was still amazed at her ability, but he felt like hell for the reason she’d ever needed to learn in the first place. Her kind was hunted and killed off by his kind in the past.

“Now,” she looked up at him, “you’ll teach me to kiss.”

            “I—uh . . .” He scratched his head and backed away.

            “You, uh . . . promised.” Her eyes narrowed. “Is that the kind of man you are? One who reneges on a deal?”

He hadn’t thought she’d win the bet. Crossing his arms over the expanse of his chest, he huffed. “Why do you need to learn now?” He gestured around. “Here of all places?” Maybe he could stall. Just the thought of his lips on hers had him ready to explode in his pants. But she was firmly on the Hands Off Irish list. The first reason being, she was promised to another man. The second reason being, she was untouched.

            “Why not now? There’s nothing else to do but wait.”

He took a deep breath and wondered if it made him a bastard to want to be the man who taught her to kiss. There was something erotic about kissing. Irish had to banish that idea from his head because there was no damned way he was teaching her to kiss. “You should be preparing for what’s to come.”

            Her blonde brow arched. “If that knife competition didn’t convince you I’m capable of taking care of myself, then maybe you forgot when you first saw me on the isle, when I had just gutted a man from his privates to his neck.” She raised her chin, daring him to say anything.

            “Lesson one: If you want a man to kiss you, you don’t talk about slicing anyone’s balls.” She nodded emphatically and he didn’t have the heart to tell her he was only kidding. He pushed off the wall, strode over, and sat down in front of her.

She was biting her lips—most likely a nervous gesture—and while he found it endearing, he reached up and pulled the puffy lip from between her teeth.

            “Lesson two: Don’t damage the goods.” He smiled when she blushed. “Come here,” he whispered and she obliged. “Will you sit on my lap?” For him, the best part of a kiss was the intimacy it offered. Having her close would increase the heat of her body against his.

Irish needed to cool down his libido, reminding himself, this is just a lesson. It would go no further than a kiss.

She nodded and settled in his lap.

“Okay, here we go.” He’d never had to instruct a kiss, figuring that kissing was something so natural, the two people would find a rhythm all their own. So, he’d try it that way. He leaned in and her eyes went wide. Pulling back, he asked, “What’s wrong?”

            “I thought you were going to teach me.” In the waning sunlight, her eyes sparkled and her pink cheeks flamed.

He smiled. “Kissing is natural. I can’t really instruct you through the mechanics because my mouth is going to be on yours. I want you to place your lips on mine, then follow my movements. Do what comes naturally to you. If you want to stop, just pull away.” When she nodded her understanding, he leaned in part way, waiting for her to lean in as well.

            The first soft touch of her lips rocketed him out of his body. He slanted his head and applied more pressure, and like he thought, her natural reaction was to slant her head in the opposite direction. With a smooth motion, Irish pushed his tongue past the barrier of her lips. She gave a small gasp in surprise, but quickly copied his movements.

Her hand came up and nails scored his scalp, causing him to delve deeper. His fangs extended, scraping over her tongue, drawing a small bead of blood. He sucked on the tip of her tongue and she moaned so loud, it reverberated off the cave walls. Irish realized his hesitance to teach her had not come from anything other than his fear of losing control. Because he wanted more than a simple kiss.

Ophelia’s hands moved to his shoulders, holding him in a vice grip. Her body, hot against his, moved of its own accord. Soon, she moved her legs to straddle his waist, and he could scent her arousal. Irish was primed and ready, grabbing onto her ass to hold her firmly on his lap. It was then, an unwarranted thought blasted into his mind. Ophelia was to be queen, and when she hit that throne, she needed to be a virgin.

That thought sobered him up real quick. He pulled away. “Lesson over.” Grunting, he gently moved her off his lap.

            “Wait, why?” She stood with him. “Was it wrong?” He felt her hand on his shoulder.

            “No, it was all right—too right.” He moved to the mouth of the cave. “We need to head out. The sun is low and we can get there in time to meet the boat.” He didn’t look back at her. Yes, he was an ass for pushing her away without explanation, but hell, if he got hard again with no sort of release, his balls would explode in his pants.

When he did turn, she was removing the shirt he’d given her to wear. “What are you doing?” he asked in a panicked voice.

            She eyed him for a moment then frowned. “I’m going to shift. I’ll move faster this way, and my senses will be sharper. Plus, you said I could go to the compound with you and I am better when I’m in wolf form.” Her words were sharp and her tone was clipped.

Good, he needed her to forget the kiss and focus on the task at hand. He turned just as she pulled that tattered dress up and over her lithe body. “Do you—uh—remember the plan?” he asked. At her silence, he turned to find a large wolf with silky fur the same hue as a stormy night’s sky and an endearing little patch of pure white fur under her jaw. “Damn,” he whispered.

Moving forward, he reached out to the wolf. He’d seen her as a wolf before, but each time was as amazing as the first. She nuzzled his hand when he pet her. “I won’t be able to understand you, but I know you can hear me.” He knelt down in front of her. “If anything happens to me, or if shit hits the fan, run.” She gnashed her teeth and shook her head. “Hey,” he reached up and caressed her soft fur, “for me, please. Your people will need you to lead them back to the coast.”

He couldn’t go off into this mission worrying about her, but as he stood and headed out into the night, he knew some of them weren’t making it home. He could only pray it didn’t include Ophelia.

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Confessions in the Dark | Cover Reveal

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“The power I pulled from the moon was light magic, often called white magic. It’s from the earth and moon and is pure and whole”

— Ophelia

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After narrowly escaping from the Russian’s king of vampires compound, Ophelia is on the run and fighting for her life. Her first goal is to get some help; too bad she’s stuck on an island owned by Vasily. Her second and third goals consist of going back and freeing her people, and killing Vasily—not necessarily in that order.

When Celtic warrior and vamp badass, Irish, senses something is amiss, he goes in search of the woman who has been on his mind since their first meeting. While his old friends adjust to their new lives, Irish heads off to the dangerous North Sentinel Island, in search of his woman. What he finds there will change everything in the battle against Vasily and his men.

        Ophelia prided herself in not panicking. Her heart might have been in her throat and beating a mile a minute, but she scrolled through the SAT phone with clarity, looking through nameless numbers, hoping to see an SOS number. Unfortunately, there was nothing to clue her in to who she’d be calling if she pressed the send button.

She looked to Irish again. His greying skin signaled she had little, if any, time to act, so she pressed send on the number currently on the screen. There was a beeping noise and then the phone rang.

            He mumbled something incoherent and she crawled over to him, placing her face as close to his as she could. His eyes were still closed, moving franticly beneath the lids. In his weakened state, he feebly tried to move his hand with no success.

            In Gaelic she asked, “How can I help you?” Now she was starting to panic. If anyone found where they were hiding, she wasn’t sure she’d be able to fight them off without risking Irish. In this state, Vasily’s men were sure to kill him.

            His eyes cracked open a sliver and his fangs descended. “I need—” As if all of the strength had been zapped from him, his hand went limp and his head fell back.

            A shout came from behind her and she turned, baring her teeth in a protective stance, but no one was there. The muffled shout came again and she glanced down at the phone. Picking it up, she said, “Yes?”

            A man with a Spanish accent answered. She remembered him, Jax. “What’s wrong?” His voice was calm and soothing, which managed to help calm her as well. She examined Irish and explained everything she saw, including everything that had happened leading up to this point.

           Jax grunted. “Is there an open wound on him anywhere?” Ophelia remembered the scent of blood and burned flesh and answered with confirmation. “Okay, can you get to it?”

            She took a deep breath and wedged the SAT phone between her ear and shoulder. Pushing with both hands, she got him to roll onto his back. She opened his leather vest and pulled up his cotton shirt. The scent of blood and decay wafted up from the wound. It seeped and oozed blood and a clear liquid.

            Ophelia covered her mouth at the atrocious scent. How was it decaying when it’d only been there for a few hours? “Yes, I see it. It looks bad and it’s bleeding. The blood is really dark though. Do you know what I should do?”

          There was a silence, a flurry of curses, and then in a measured tone Jax said, “How do you feel about being bitten?” His voice sounded grim, as if this were the only option and he wasn’t sure she’d agree to it.

          She cleared her throat and placed her hand to her neck. Heat flared in her collar and her heart gave an extra few thumps in anticipation. “Will it save him? Is there no other way?”

          Jax sighed. “Yes, but you don’t have enough time. If you don’t give him your blood, he will die. He’s been poisoned with liquid silver and Olfbreathe seed is the only other cure. I doubt you’ll find it there. Weather conditions aren’t stable enough to grow it.”

          It didn’t take long to make a decision. When everyone else had chalked up her disappearance as dismissal, Irish was the only one who’d wanted to free her from the confines of her place in the pack. “Okay, but how do I get him to bite? He’s not awake.” She eyed him again, searching for signs of life. He was breathing, but that was it.

            “There’s a weapon in his shoe. Use that.”

She searched for the weapon. A trap opened in the bottom of his shoe and she pulled the small blade from inside. Once she was positioned beside him, Ophelia placed his head in her lap and created as small cut on her wrist. Not too close to the artery, but not too far away either. Coaxing his mouth open, she placed her wrist above his mouth and waited—nothing.

            “Jax,” panic laced her voice, “he’s not—”

Before she could finish, Irish’s chest bowed and his fangs clamped down on her skin. At first, she thought to scream, but then his sharp fangs parted her flesh with a delicious burn that made her body sing. A moment later, she opened her eyes to find herself on her back with Irish on top of her.

Her blood dripped from his mouth, his face twisted in a feral grimace. Unsure of whether to push him away, or caress him, she put her hand on his chest and steadied her own breath. He panted above her, body tight and hot. Without thinking, she parted her knees, allowing Irish to settle in deeper. His considerable arousal lay heavy between them, cradled by her warm, soft thighs.

He lowered to her neck, but was stopped by her palm on his chest. He looked at her hand before flicking it away. Ophelia gasped, but didn’t stop his descent. The idea of Irish, fangs deep in her neck, sent excitement shooting through her core. He scraped the tips of his fangs over the delicate hollow of her neck.

She shuddered, and before she knew it, her hand flew to the back of his head and pulled him closer. All she could remember was the feel of his mouth over her wrist, the way it felt as he took her blood; each pull, yanking common sense from her body and replacing it with raw need.