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SYNOPSIS -
Aurelia
Constantine is having a rough century.
Plagued
by visions of murder, death and destruction, she has resigned herself
to the nightmare her life has become. When an enemy from her past
comes to her rescue, she must let go of old wounds and heal the
breach so she may survive the evil poisoning her mind.
Rhys
Stevens is guilty.
Murder.
Betrayal. Treason. Take your pick; he’s guilty of them all. On the
path of redemption, he must beg for forgiveness from the one person
he fought to save - the woman he has always loved.
Thrown
together in the trenches of war, they must work as a team to stop a
monstrous puppet master from pulling their strings.
Ashes,
ashes. We all fall down.
Get
ready to burn.
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ADD TO GOODREADS -
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EXCERPT -
I
groan as I open the car door and pull my body to standing. I rub my
eyes, so happy I ditched the contacts and shake out my legs before
going to the trunk to pull out my go-bag. Every vehicle I own (even
the boat and four-wheelers) has a small duffel bag stashed somewhere
in them. They contain cash, clothes, one day of rations (beef jerky
and a flask of Jameson, don’t give me too much credit), and a new
identity.
The identity I probably won’t need
just yet, but I do need the set of clothes. My suit jacket was lost
to some poor male patron with a gut shot, and my pants and shirt are
ruined by some lady’s blood and the remnants of what I did to Thad
during his interrogation. I feel guilty for not using the Morganite
knife and killing him for real since I know he’ll heal in the next
couple of days. My only solace is that it will take a few days to
regrow his whole fucking head.
Dick.
I knew I shouldn’t have gone to my stupid exhibit.
I swear it’s the last time I let Evan talk me into anything.
I mean it this time.
Rhys has
been quiet most of the drive, and it’s a blessing because I have no
idea what to say to him. But it’s a curse as well due to the barbed
guilt running through my veins. I’ve spent little time with him
that hasn’t included me trying to rip him limb from limb, so a
conversation might be impossible. I’m also a little disturbed
having him so close hasn’t been the hardship I thought it would be.
He’s been quiet, considerate, and he pumped the gas when we stopped
because me getting out of the car would have caused a stir.
We both get out of the car and walk to the trunk,
which I’ve popped with the key fob.
“You
want me to carry that?” he asks, chivalrously reaching past me to
lift my duffel out of the trunk. The bastard. I really wish he’d
cooperate and be an asshole so I could hate him appropriately. I
grind my teeth together in an attempt to avoid screaming and give a
jerky nod, letting him take the bag. It takes some effort, but I
gently close my trunk, careful not to hurt my baby even though I want
to smash something.
I stride towards the front
door behind Rhys, vigilantly trying not to stomp my feet and pout
like a Goddamn toddler. My anger only grows when I notice how fucking
spectacular he looks in a suit. Holy shit balls. He’s easily six
foot three, maybe taller. I’m five-three on a good day, so he’s
at least an entire foot taller than me. The crisp dark charcoal gray
suit emphasizes the wideness of his shoulders and the line of his
body as it flows from his strong neck to his lean waist and tight
ass. People I hate are not supposed to be this fucking hot in a
suit.
© Copyright 2015 Annie
Anderson
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ABOUT THE AUTHOR -
ANNIE
ANDERSON
Annie Anderson is originally
from Dallas, Texas but has lived in England, Las Vegas (because Las
Vegas and the state of Nevada are two very different places), New
Mexico, Illinois, Florida and Georgia. As soon as the military stops
moving her family around, she’ll settle on a state, but for now she
enjoys being a nomad with her husband, two kids, and an old man of a
dog.
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AUTHOR FuN FaCts -
I’m a veteran. I served 4 years Active Duty and 2
years Reserve in the United States Air Force.
My favorite color is cerulean. (Yes, I know it’s
pompous, and I don’t care.)
I hate lettuce.
I am actually pissy after a good workout. Like rip
my shoes off and pout on the carpet, pissy. I work out at least 3-6
days a week, and throw a 2-year-old fit every single time. I hate
being hot, so much.
I love math. I seriously considered becoming a high
school math teacher when I was in college.
I order pizza with no cheese on it. I don't like
melted cheese. I like solid cheese and liquified cheese but the
in-between stringy yuck on pizza? No. But I love pizza, so I order it
cheese-less. (My daughters eat it this way as
well.)
I read obnoxiously fast. When I’m not writing or
running after children, I can read about 4 books a
day.
I suffer from RBF (Resting Bitch Face). I’m not
mad. This is just how my face looks.
I’ve been married for almost 10 years to my
awesome husband. He's put up with my picky, blunt, RBF-having self
for a decade. The man deserves a medal.
I like to sew. And craft. And paint. And organize.
And clean. I think I missed the day when they passed out left-brain,
right-brain cards in school.
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