Ash Krafton Author of Bleeding Hearts

 

Bleeding Hearts is part of The Spellbound Boxed Set, a compilation of 20+ full-length Urban Fantasy and Paranormal Romance reads and will be released on May 2, 2017! Pre-Order sale only  99 cents.  See special offer below and a rafflecopter give away.

Readers of all ages will be swept away by this fascinating mix of existing titles and brand new content, full of pages brimming with faeries, witches, vampires, shifters, psychics, Greek gods, angels, demons, and even ghosts!

With over a million words of fiction, this is your one stop shop for urban fantasy, epic fantasy, sword and sorcery, shifter romance, vampire romance, elemental magic, time travel, and MORE from today’s New York Times, USA Today, and internationally bestselling authors!

Although some of these reads may be gritty and dark, this is a collection of clean reads that anyone will enjoy!

A little about Bleeding Hearts by Ash Krafton

Sophie Galen is an advice columnist whose work leaves her neck-deep in other people’s problems. Thanks to her compassion, her gut instinct, and her magnetic charm, Sophie really knows how to attract little black clouds.

Marek Thurzo is no little black cloud; he’s a maelstrom. Marek is Demivampire, a race with the potential to evolve into vampire. A warrior who’s taken his share of spiritual damage, he hovers dangerously close to destruction.

He seeks salvation. She’s driven to save him. But what if he can’t be saved?

Sympathy for his plight becomes true empathy as Sophie’s hidden nature is revealed. Marek suspects she may be one of the Sophia, oracle and redemption of the damned Demivampire. She alone can turn back the evolutionary clock.

All she needs is the courage to face her fears. Can she save him from Falling?

A Sneak Peek into BLEEDING HEARTS – Demimonde Book 1 by Ash Krafton

In the great hall housing the Egyptian exhibitions, I immediately noted the change in the atmosphere. The room was cool and dry, its climate controlled to mimic the conditions in which the relics had existed in their native land.

The entire room had been designed to resemble an Old Kingdom temple. The main lights were dimmed while strategically-placed spotlights emphasized massive columns and magnificent wall carvings like sunbeams through temple windows.

I scanned the room. No other tourists. Even better. I meandered, enjoying the rare opportunity to linger.

Craning my neck, I ran my gaze up each of the columns, reading the images, admiring the palm leaves carved at the tops like great stone trees. Eyes toward the ceilings, I turned slowly around, admiring the handiwork of the ancient artists.

What was it like to live in those lands and those times? Could an ancient version of my spirit have been there, stepping barefoot and silently through a sandy temple like this one?

Lost in contemplation, I was completely unprepared for the shock of smacking into someone, bumping him hard enough to lose my balance. I’d have fallen had he not caught my arm. Wide-eyed with consternation, I stammered an apology to the handsome but serious-faced gentleman.

“You are not hurt, I hope?” His voice, deep and smooth, sent shivers marching down my neck, between my shoulders, down my spine.

“I’m okay.” I shook my head, too shy to make direct eye contact, wishing I’d checked my hair and lipstick before coming in. “I’m far too adept at being inept.”

He flashed a grin and I caught a glimpse of nice white teeth. “Temples are places for spiritual reflection. It is forgivable if your vision was turned inward, rather than toward where you were walking.”

His expression softened by amusement, he tilted his head toward the pillars. “Majestic, aren’t they?”

I stole another glance at him—black hair smoothed back into a discreet tail, clear light skin framed by long sideburns, strong jaw culminating in a square, cleft chin. Like the other items in the museum, something about him made me want to look closer, inspect each detail.

A subtle flush warmed my cheeks and ears so I quickly turned back to the heights of the exhibition. Murmuring a sound of agreement, I circled the column, stepping a few feet away so I could see both him and the stone. “Do you visit this museum often?”

Furtive glances allowed me to take in more of his appearance a tiny section at a time. Clothing dark as his hair. Long blazer, something in between a suit coat and an overcoat. In one hand he carried a bound book and fountain pen, as if he’d been making notes.

His gaze was calm and steady and entirely on me. Taking a deep breath I permitted the contact of the direct look. My boldness was well-rewarded. His Paul Newman lips brought to mind the sculptured busts on display in the Greco-Roman Quarters and he wore a stern expression that cast a veil of hardness upon his features, enhancing the impression he’d been carved from marble.

Except for his eyes. The Roman busts bore eyes that were blank and white but this man’s eyes were alive with bright green color. Like gemstones, they glittered and drew my gaze.

“No, actually,” he said. “My first time here. Although, I admit, I’m drawn to places like this.” His voice made music of the words—deep bass notes and soothing rhythm.

“Ah!” I said. “A man after my own heart.” His left eyebrow arched so sharply I thought it might disappear into his hairline and I hurriedly continued. “Are you a professor?”

“No, nothing like that. I do studying of my own, it’s not a living. It’s more of a hobby. Personal research, of sorts.”

“Studying past times is one of my pastimes. It’s my preferred form of entertainment.”

“Mmm.” Eyebrow cocked again, he cast a disapproving look at me and swept his hand around the contrived temple. “Would the gods be pleased to know they are reduced to the level of entertainment?”

“I hope so.” I kept my tone light. Considering the seriousness of his expression, I didn’t want to accidentally insult him. “Otherwise, they’d have to be content with staying dead, right?”

His gaze swept over me and I shivered again as if the touch had been tangible, a brush of fingertips against my cheek.

“Well, I’ll leave you to your worship. I mean, your wanderings.” He gave me a conspirator’s wink. “Unless…”

He hesitated, with a quiet clearing of throat as he tucked his notebook and pen into an inside pocket. “You wouldn’t mind a companion? Sometimes one sees things differently when seeing through another’s eyes. I would appreciate a new perspective.”

I mulled it over, listening to the rain spattering the windows and distant voices echoing faintly from other rooms. Although I’d looked forward to a quiet afternoon, it might be nice to spend it with someone who seemed to share my interests. He certainly was attractive, and his pleasant voice intrigued me.

I realized I’d become used to living inside a shell. This man made me want to step outside for once.

“I’d like that.” I smiled at his pleased expression. “I’m Sophie, by the way.” I stuck out my hand in introduction.

Instead of shaking my hand, he bent his head over it and pressed polite lips to the backs of my fingers. The quaint gesture would have seemed strange and out of place had we been elsewhere. “I am Marek. Pleased to make your acquaintance.”

Fingers tingling from the unexpected kiss, I fought the urge to curtsy. “Well, Marek. Lead me into the past.”

His almost-smile sent a thrill down the back of my neck. “That’s exactly the sort of thing I’d hoped you say. Shall we?”

He turned on his heel and swept out a hand with a slight bow, indicating the archway to another exhibit. For the first time since I’d been coming to this museum, I wondered what I’d see on the other side, and was surprised to realize I wasn’t afraid to find out.

The first chapters of books by each featured author are also available in the Spellbound Sampler, available on Wattpad

Purchase Spellbound Collection from:

Amazon      Kobo      BN      Apple

A bit about author Ash Krafton:

Ash Krafton is a speculative fiction girl through and through, Ash writes paranormal romance and urban fantasy novels as well as poetry and short fiction. She also writes for New Adult audiences under the name AJ Krafton. Her work has won a bunch of awards and was even nominated for a Pushcart Prize. When she’s not writing, she’s practicing Tai Chi, listening to loud rock and metal, or crushing on supervillains.

Most recently, she’s re-released her urban fantasy trilogy THE BOOKS OF THE DEMIMONDE because she never really left the world of Sophie and her Demivamps. She’s also working on the next installment of her Demon Whisperer series.

Find out more when you visit www.ashkrafton.com

Blog: http://ash-krafton.blogspot.com/

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Deborah Wilde & The Unlikeable Demon Hunter

 

Give a warm welcome to Deborah Wilde, author of  The Unlikeable Demon Hunter due to be released April 18th, 2017! Available for pre-order NOW!

Pull up a chair, grab a drink of your choice from the cooler, a Chocolate Chip or Peanut Butter cookie from the plate, and let’s find out a little about Deborah and her Unlikeable Demon Hunter.

Deborah, what inspired this particular story?

I’d been thinking a lot about what makes a female character “likeable” and why certain traits that seem to be so accepted for male characters are held against women, for example, their level of sexual engagement. Even in fiction, there seems to be a double standard that women are held to. Out of that, my opening scene just popped into my head fully formed. The trick then became, how do I take this idea and create a fully realized, three dimensional character? What does she believe in? What does she stand for? What journey do I want to take her on?

How long have you been writing?

I can’t remember a time I wasn’t writing, though I never thought that it was something I could do as a career. Then I got into film and ended up being a screenwriter for 12 years, having the good fortune to work in both film and television. Eventually, though, I wanted a change and started writing YA romatic comedy novels under the name Tellulah Darling. I’d always loved romcoms and wanted to pursue that passion. After releasing 5 of those books, I wanted to explore more adult themes and the psychological journeys of characters at an older age.

Where do your story ideas come from? If they come to you in the middle of the night, do you get up and write them all down?

I’ve had them come from everywhere: from bits of conversation heard on a bus, to driving past people lawn bowling, to something watched on TV. I have all kinds of scraps of paper with scribbled down ideas and half-thought out notes on my phone. I keep a pad of paper and a pen by my bed precisely for the middle of the night ideas I get. Whether or not they have any merit by the light of day is another story. 🙂

You’ve got a time machine, a cloak of invisibility, and one hour. Where would you go, and what eavesdropping would you do?

Fabulous question! I’d want to eavesdrop on Dorothy Parker and her cohorts at their Algonquin round table and just soak in their verbal brilliance.

A global wanderer, hopeless romantic, and total cynic with a broken edit button, Deborah writes adult urban fantasy to satisfy her love of smexy romances and tales of chicks who kick ass. She is all about the happily-ever-after, with a huge dose of hilarity along the way. “It takes a bad girl to fight evil. Go Wilde.”

You can find Deborah at the links below:

Website   Twitter  Facebook  Goodreads

Now how about a little about The Unlikeable Demon Hunter?

Bridesmaids meets Buffy with a dash of the seven deadly sins.

The age-old story of what happens when a foul-mouthed, romance impaired heroine with no edit button and a predilection for hot sex is faced with her worst nightmare–a purpose

Ari Katz is intelligent, driven, and will make an excellent demon hunter once initiated into the Brotherhood of David. However, this book is about his twin Nava: a smart-ass, self-cultivated hot mess, who is thrilled her brother is stuck with all the chosen one crap.

When Nava half-drunkenly interrupts Ari’s induction ceremony, she expects to be chastised. What she doesn’t expect is to take her brother’s place among the–until now–all-male demon hunters. Even worse? Her infuriating leader is former rock star Rohan Mitra.

Too bad Rohan’s exactly what Nava’s always wanted: the perfect bad boy fling with no strings attached, because he may also be the one to bring down her carefully erected emotional shields. That’s as dangerous as all the evil fiends vying for the bragging rights of killing the only female ever chosen for Demon Club.

Odds of survival: eh.

Odds of having a very good time with Rohan before she bites it: much better.

Where can we buy The Unlikeable Demon Hunter?

Amazon

How about a sneek peak into The Unlikeable Demon Hunter before they can buy it? Be sure to read all the way to the bottom for the Rafflecopter giveaway!

Mornings after sucked.

Walks of shame were a necessary evil, but that didn’t mean I enjoyed shimmying back into the same trollop togs twice. I picked glitter out of my hair, then straightened my sequined top. I was officially decommissioning it. Multiple washings never quite managed to remove the lingering aura of bad decisions I made while wearing party clothes. My philosophy? Cross my fingers and hope for the most bang for the bucks spent later on new outfits.

The surly cabbie evil-eyed me to hurry up.

I complied, rooting around in my clutch for some crumpled bills before handing them over and stumbling out of the taxi onto the sidewalk.

Fresh air was a godsend after the stale bitter coffee smell I’d been trapped with during the ride. I pressed a finger to my temple, a persistent dull throb stabbing me behind my eyeballs. My residual feel good haze clashed big-time with the glaring sun screaming at me to wake up, and the buzz of a neighbor’s lawnmower cutting through the Sunday morning quiet didn’t help matters. Best get inside.

Smoothing out my mini skirt, I readied myself for my tame-my-happy-slut-self-to-boring-PG-rating body check when a wave of dizziness crashed through me. Whoa. I brought my gaze back to horizon level, swallowing hard. That sea-sickness technique was doing dick-all so I rummaged in my bag for my ginger chews.

No puking in the bushes, I chided myself, letting the spicy smooth and sweet candy fight my nausea. My mother would toss my bubble ass out if I defiled her precious rhodos.

Again.

The rise and fall of my chest as I took a few deep breaths spotlit a slight problem. My spangly blouse was missing two buttons. And I was missing a bra. Hook-up Dude had been worth the loss of a pair of socks, maybe a bargain bin thong. But the latest in purple push-up technology? No. I allowed myself a second to mourn. It had been a good and loyal bra.

The sex, on the other hand? Total crap. The girls, who were normally perky C cups, seemed a bit subdued. I couldn’t blame them. What’s-his-name had started out with all the promise of a wild stallion gallop, but he’d ended up more of a gentle trot. I didn’t know if the fault lay with the jockey or the ride, but it had been a long time since I’d seen a finish line.

Since I couldn’t keep examining my tits on the front walk with Mrs. Jepson side-eyeing me from behind her living room curtains, I thrust my chin up and clacked a staccato rhythm toward my front door on those mini torture chambers that had seemed such a good idea yesterday.

Every step made our precisely manicured lawn undulate. I clamped my lips shut, willing the ginger chews to kick in while fumbling my key into the lock. Dad had screwed up the measurements on our striking cedar and stained glass front door and, being a touch too big for the frame, it needed to be shouldered open.

I crashed into the door like a linebacker. Once I’d extricated myself and my keys from the lock, I brushed myself off, and stepped inside. Our house itself was comfortably upper middle class but not huge, since my parents preferred to spend money on trips and books instead of the overpriced real estate found in here in Vancouver. A quick glance to my left showed that the TV room was empty. I crossed my fingers that Mom and Dad were out at their squash game, my main reason for picking this specific time to sneak back in.

Really, a twenty-year-old shouldn’t have had to sneak. But then again, a twenty-year-old probably should have kept her last menial job for longer than two weeks, so I wasn’t in a position to argue rights.

I kicked off my shoes, sighing in delight at the feel of cool tile under my bare feet as I padded through the house to our homey kitchen. No one was in there either. Someone, probably Mom, had tacked the envelope with my final–and only–pay stub from the call center that I’d left lying around onto our small “miscellaneous” cork board. The gleaming quartz counters were now free of their usual clutter of papers, books, and latest gourmet food find. That meant company. Come to think of it, I did hear someone in the living room.

A study in tasteful shades of white, the large formal room was off-limits unless we had special guests. Mom had set that rule when my twin brother Ari and I were little tornados running around the place and while there was no longer a baby gate baring our way, conditioning and several memorable scoldings kept us out.

Hmmm. Could Ari be entertaining an actual human boy? Le gasp.

I beelined for the back of the house, past the row of identically framed family photos hanging in a neat grid, my head cocked. Listening for more voices, but all was quiet. Maybe I’d been wrong? I hoped not. Both finding my brother with a crush–blackmail dirt–and helping myself to the liquor cabinet were positive prospects. What better way to lose that hangover headache than get drunk again? Oh, the joys of being Canadian with socialized health care and legal drinking age of nineteen. After a year (officially) honing that skill, I imbibed at an Olympic level.

The red wine on the modular coffee table gleamed in a shaft of sunlight like its position had been ordained by the gods. I snatched up the crystal decanter, sloshing the liquid into the glass conveniently placed next to it. Once in a while, a girl could actually catch a break.

I fanned myself with one hand. The myriad of lit candles seemed a bit much for Ari’s romantic encounter, but wine drinking trumped curiosity so I chugged the booze back. My entire body cheered as the cloyingly-sweet alcohol hit my system, though I hoped it wasn’t Manischewitz because hangovers on that were a bitch. I’d slugged back half the contents when I saw my mom on the far side of the room clutch her throat, eyes wide with horror. Not her usual, “you need an intervention” horror. No, her expression indicated I’d reached a whole new level of fuck-up.

“Nava Liron Katz,” she gasped in full name outrage.

My cheeks still bulging with wine, I properly scoped out the room. Mom? Check. Dad? Check. Ari? Check? Rabbi Abrams, here to perform the ceremony to induct my brother as the latest member in the Brotherhood of David, the chosen demon hunters?

Check.

I spit the wine back into what I now realized was a silver chalice and handed it to the elderly bearded rabbi. “Carry on,” I told him. Then I threw up on his shoes.

 

Ok, that must have made an impression. I like this book already!

 

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It was wonderful having you with us today, Deborah!  Please feel free to stop by anytime. Good Luck with The Unlikeable Demon Hunter.

 


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Camp Nanowrimo Creates Romance & Happily Ever After

Once again I am participating in Camp Nanowrimo, April 1st through April 30th, 2017. It’s a little more unstructured than the November Nanowrimo, where you have to complete 50,000 words in thirty days. At camp you set the pace and how many words you want complete in the 30 day timeframe.  Still, there are hundreds of writers worldwide participating so you cheer each other on.  It’s a fun forum, when usually it’s only you, the computer and keyboard. Writing is a solitary endeavor for the most part.  Check back here to see how I’m doing!  This morning, April 7th, I’m at 8,990 words, so I have a bit to go to meet my daily word count. Wish me luck!

For me Camp Nanowrimo is still 50,000 words in thirty days, because I need a good start on my next book. But there are a few obstacles, Pikes Peak Library District’s Mountain of Authors is Saturday , April 8th.  It’s a lost day of writing but so much fun hanging with local authors, selling and signing books for my readers. Then April 28th through the 30th I will be at the Pikes Peak Writer’s Conference, so I better have my 50,000 words done at that point. Whew! That means only twenty-seven days.  Still I love a good challenge!

Something that has always mystified me is the rolling of eyes and a few derogatory comments  when I say I write romance or paranormal romance with a little mystery and suspense thrown in.  It’s the happily ever after that draws me to the genre. What could be more inviting than to be swept away to a world of magic, fantasy, feel good and romance for a few hours.  No time in recent history has there been a greater need for a safe place to escape for a few hours.  Or a reminder of the heart-warming and healing power of love.  Especially when devastating destruction is all around us, whether it be natural disasters or man’s violent acts on mankind.

So to those who question my choice in writing — too bad. I will continue to create stories that stress the importance of seeing beyond ourselves to help others obtain their happily ever after!  I’m not sure what can be done to fix this world, but for my part I will continue to create happily ever afters in my corner of the world to share with you.


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L.J.K. Oliva Author of If You Were My Vampire!

New Release Spotlight from L.J.K. Oliva

 
If You Were My Vampire
A Shades Below Novel
Book 2.5
L.J.K. Oliva
Genre:  Paranormal romance
Word Count:  approx. 100,000
Cover Artist:  L.J.K. Oliva
Book Description:
Sometimes, your life begins the day you die…
Asher Evans is a man haunted by history. Turned vampire in the concentration camp that claimed his family, he has never recovered from the loss of his humanity. Removed from the mundane world and resigned to facing eternity alone, he’s completely unprepared when the unthinkable happens: he meets a girl.
As the youngest daughter of San Francisco’s most prestigious psychic family, Grace Alan has always known about the things that go bump in the night. She especially knows about monsters…including the fact that she is one. Grace has spent her entire life trying to be normal, and finally, things seem to be looking up. There’s only one problem.
She’s just been murdered.
When Asher stumbles upon a dying Grace, he knows he should leave her to her fate. But in a world that looks at him and sees only a monster, Grace reminds him what it feels like to be human. He can’t bring himself to let her die.
Unfortunately, rescuing her has consequences. Female vampires have been illegal for centuries. In saving Grace, Asher may have condemned them both.
Can be read as a standalone

 
Listen to the Playlist at YouTube and Spotify

A Snippet from If You Were My Vampire.

He should have left days ago.

Asher Evans hesitated at the corner of Third and South Park.  If he was even half-smart, he’d turn around now.  He’d go back to his shitty studio rental, toss everything he could get his hands on into a duffel bag, and get the hell out of town.  San Francisco had made it pretty clear it didn’t want him anymore.

Asher jammed his hands in the pockets of his battered leather jacket and started forward again.  Another half hour wouldn’t make a difference.  In any case, he was already here.  He was already committed.

He was going to a tea shop.  At close to midnight.  Looking for a girl.

It was hands-down the most ridiculous thing he’d ever done.

Asher quickened his pace.  He couldn’t even say what it was that had made him notice Grace Alan in the first place.  She wasn’t overly attractive, hadn’t spoken more than two words to him each time he saw her.  And she worked at a place called Cross Your Teas.  Cross Your Teas.  That by itself should have sent him running in the opposite direction.

In fact, he might not have noticed her at all except for the single, fascinating thing she’d done the first time they met.

She’d looked at him.  In the eyes.

People didn’t look him in the eyes.  If they weren’t too afraid of him, they mostly weren’t looking at him at all.  But Grace Alan had looked, and she’d kept looking.  After the first few times, he’d started to wonder what it was she saw.

He’d tried to put it out of his mind, had told himself it probably meant nothing, but it was no use.  Lately, that one simple question had grown from a simple prick of curiosity, to a gnawing fascination, to a preoccupation bordering on obsession.

Tonight, he would have his answer.

Cross Your Teas came into view up ahead.  Asher quickened his pace.  They would be closing soon, and the last thing he wanted was to have come all this way for nothing.  He drew closer.  The lights were still on; a good sign.  He came to the large front window with the outline of a teapot on it, and peered inside.

Grace’s older sister, Lena Alan, was standing behind the front counter.  The drawer of the register was open, and she appeared to be counting out the cash.  Then she stopped, a wad of bills in one hand.  She quickly swiped at her eyes.  Her mouth trembled.  Asher blinked.

She was crying.

Lena visibly sighed, and started over.  Asher scanned the rest of the shop for Grace.  There was no sign of her.  He took a deep breath and listened for movement in the back kitchen.  No use.  There wasn’t so much as a mouse sneeze.  Asher ground his teeth together.

Grace wasn’t there.

Now he really should leave.  He didn’t have time to be trailing one girl all over the city.  But even as the thought passed through his mind, he was already turning his nose into the air.  He caught Grace’s scent almost immediately; the bitter-yet-oddly-comforting smell of patchouli.  She hadn’t been gone long.  Asher followed it up the street and around the next corner.

The darkness grew thicker, despite the thin light of the streetlamp overhead.  A stiff wind kicked up, buffeting him with the sharp, briny aroma of the Bay.  Asher pulled his jacket a little tighter and fought to hold onto Grace’s trail.  Something cold and unsettling moved in his stomach.  A mere block or two over, there were wider streets, streets with better light and plenty of traffic.  What the hell was Grace thinking, coming this way?

What the hell was he doing, following her?

She wasn’t even his type.  His type was blonde, smiling and empty-eyed.  Grace Alan was the opposite of his type.  Dark-haired, pensive.  And her eyes were anything but empty.  When she looked at him, he got the distinct feeling she could see right through him.  That alone was more than enough reason to leave now.

He had almost convinced himself to do it when he heard her scream.

Asher was running before the sound even had time to register.  Grace’s scent grew stronger, and with it he smelled something else: fear.  Asher’s chest hardened.  The unmistakable sounds of a struggle pricked his ears.  A second scent mingled with Grace’s: male, a few days unwashed.  Sweat.  Arousal.

Asher snarled.

Suddenly, something thick and fragrant flooded his nostrils.  Reflex stopped Asher in his tracks.  Blood.  His mouth started to water.  His fangs descended from his gums.  He’d come here well-fed, but fuck, whoever’s blood that was, it smelled delicious.  There was a subtle bitterness to it, a smell like…

Patchouli.

Asher took off again at a dead sprint.  Grace was in trouble.  Grace was hurt.  A small, snide voice in the back of his head questioned why he gave a shit.  Asher ignored it.  He slowed, ducked down a narrow, graffiti-plastered alley and took in a deep breath.  The male’s scent had faded.  Asher squinted.  Near the end of the alley, a familiar figure sat slumped against the wall.

He drew a little closer.  “Grace?”

She didn’t turn.  In the semi-darkness, he could vaguely see her lips move, but no sound came out.  Asher closed the distance between them, his footsteps unnaturally loud against the brick buildings on either side.

“Grace—oh, fuck.”

Asher sank to his knees in front of her.  She was more than just hurt.  He reached out to touch her face, at the last minute thought better of it.  His fingertips hovered over the crushed area that had been her cheekbone.  Blood gushed from her obviously-broken nose.  Asher trailed his gaze lower, sucked in a breath.

Her throat had been slashed wide open.


 

About the Author:
L.J.K Oliva writes urban fantasy and paranormal romance, with a heavy dash of suspense. She likes her whiskey strong, her chocolate dark, and her steak bloody. L.J.K. likes monsters… and knows the darkest ones don’t live in closets.

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