Novels by Andrea Adair

Nathan CrossThe scotch is warm in my hand. Untouched. I’ve been holding it for twenty minutes, maybe longer. The glass sweats against my palm, beads of condensation catching the last flicker of sunlight as it sinks into the horizon. The terrace is quiet, save for the wind, the distant crash of waves below, and the occasional click of ice shifting in my drink. But I’m not listening to any of it.I’m watching her.Lana.She’s down by the shoreline, sitting cross-legged on the sand with her back to me, like the ocean was made to cradle her presence. The dying sun wraps around her like gold leaf, turning her skin into something mythic—something divine. She’s sketching something in the sand, slow, methodical. Her head tilts slightly as she works, strands of her dark hair tumbling forward, catching the light as if even it wants to worship her.I should go to her. I should say something—anything—but I don’t. I just stand here like a man on the edge of something vast and unknowable, held bac

Lana ReyesThe sun hadn’t risen yet, but I could feel the shift in the air—the kind of cold, quiet stillness that clings to the edges of grief. When I blinked awake, the room was washed in muted gray. I didn’t know what pulled me from sleep. Maybe it was instinct. Or maybe it was the sound of someone silently breaking.Nathan sat at the edge of the bed.His back was to me, broad shoulders hunched like he was holding up the weight of the sky. His elbows dug into his thighs, hands clasped so tightly I could see the pale stretch of his knuckles. He was trembling. That was what struck me most. Not his silence. Not his disheveled hair or the way his clothes looked like he hadn’t moved all night. But the slight, constant tremble—like his body had betrayed him in a moment of stillness.My chest tightened, my mouth dry. “Nathan?”His head turned, just enough for me to see the hollow look in his eyes. That was when I knew something was wrong. Deeply, terribly wrong. Nathan Cross didn’t wear hi

Nathan CrossThe lamp cast a muted glow over the room—soft, golden, almost tender. It mocked the storm inside me.I sat on the edge of the bed, elbows braced on my knees, fingers laced together like I could hold myself together if I just gripped hard enough. The silence in the room wasn’t peaceful—it was punishment. Every second ticked by like a verdict.Behind me, Lana lay curled on her side, small and motionless beneath the blanket. But her breathing wasn’t even. It came in shallow, fractured bursts. A hitch. A shudder. The kind that came after the crying stopped—when there were no tears left, just echoes.Even in sleep, she was haunted.She murmured something—my name. Barely audible. But I heard it. Felt it.It tore through me.The way she’d clung to me earlier, shaking, bloodless, her voice raw from screaming. The torn fabric. Her skin, chilled and exposed. Her terror. I couldn’t get the image out of my head. And now—now she was here, wrapped in one of my shirts like armor that wo

Lana ReyesThe morning began with a flicker of static—not from the screen, but in my chest.My laptop sat like a corpse on the counter, its black screen reflecting my frown as I slammed the power button for the sixth—seventh?—time. Nothing. Just a soft whirr, then a click, and… nothing. Again.I jabbed the button harder, irrational hope clinging to each press like maybe this time the gods of tech would show mercy.“Come on, you useless piece of—”“You know,” came Nathan’s voice, smooth as scotch and twice as smug, “talking to it won’t help.”He was across the kitchen, lounging at the dining table in a crisp white shirt like he hadn’t already conquered the day before breakfast. His fingers moved across his laptop with lazy precision, steam rising from his mug in elegant spirals. He didn’t even look up.I wanted to hurl mine at his head.“It’s not funny,” I snapped. “My entire semester is on this thing.”He finally looked up, eyes cool and unreadable. “Did you back it up?”“Yes,” I hiss

Nathan CrossThree weeks. That’s how long it had been since the night I claimed her.Now, she was sleeping in my bed, curled into the silk sheets like she belonged there—because she did. Her dark hair fanned across my pillow, her bare back lit by morning sun filtering through gauzy curtains. The scent of her still clung to my skin, her moans still echoed in my head.She looked peaceful. But I wasn’t.The Dominion had eyes. And they weren’t blind. They saw the shift in me—the way my attention veered when Lana entered a room. The way I stayed longer. The way I lingered.She was more than a distraction. To them, she was a vulnerability. A target. And if they decided she was interfering with business, with power, with control—they’d eliminate her. Coldly. Quietly. Without hesitation.That thought tightened like a noose around my throat.I could orchestrate hostile takeovers in my sleep, dismantle empires with one phone call—but this? Protecting her in a world that punished softness? That

Nathan CrossThe night air cut through the heat of the party like a blade, crisp and cool against my skin as we stepped out into the darkness. Lana walked beside me, her heels tapping against the stone like a slow countdown I felt in my chest. Every sound she made—every step, every breath—hit me like a fucking drug. That dress…Black. Backless. Tailored to sin.It hugged her body like it had been sewn onto her skin, a second layer molded to every curve I’d already memorized, already worshipped. The slit climbed high enough to make a priest weep, and the way it opened with each step—Jesus. She knew exactly what she was doing.She always did.The silk shimmered under the moonlight, catching shadows and bending them to her will. It clung to her hips, parted over her thigh, dared the world to look while reminding them they couldn’t touch. I’d watched heads turn all night. Watched men forget their wives, their careers, their fucking dignity just to stare.I didn’t speak. I didn’t have to.