Novels by Augusta moon

“Move, Ariana!” Cole’s voice snapped through the air like a gunshot. For a split second, I couldn’t move. My body just refused. The lights outside the windows flickered, flashing across the marble floor like strobes at a nightclub. Then—pop. Pop. Two quick, muffled bursts. Not fireworks. Gunshots. Reality slammed back in. Cole was already at my side, hand on my arm, dragging me down the hall. “Basement. Now.” “What—how are they inside?” I gasped. “They breached the gate. Security’s down.” I stumbled after him, heart hammering so fast it hurt. “Down? How can the security be down? This place is a fortress!” “Someone on the inside,” he muttered. “No time. Keep low.” We reached the grand staircase just as a pane of glass shattered somewhere behind us. The sound was sharp, too close. “Cole—” “Stay behind me.” He raised his gun and pressed his back to the wall, scanning the corner before signaling for me to follow. His movements were fast but precise—every motion cal

I woke up to the sound of footsteps outside my bedroom door. Heavy ones. Measured. Confident. For a brief, disoriented second, I thought maybe it was a dream—then I remembered the bullet casing with my name on it. Not a dream. A very expensive, very real nightmare. I swung my legs out of bed, tugged on a robe, and cracked the door open. Cole was standing in the hallway, leaning against the opposite wall like a statue with muscles. “Morning,” he said, eyes flicking up from his phone. “Do you ever sleep?” “Four hours is plenty.” “Four hours is a sign of a medical problem.” “Occupational hazard.” I stepped out, crossing my arms. “So what’s today’s schedule, Sergeant Control Freak? Another round of watching me breathe?” His mouth twitched. “Breakfast first. Then your father wants you to stay inside. We’re reviewing the footage from last night.” “Inside,” I repeated. “As in, I can’t leave?” “As in, no.” I stared at him. “So I’m under house arrest now?” “Call i

By the time I was discharged, I was sure I’d aged a decade. My father’s assistant had dropped off a change of clothes—black leggings, a loose sweater, and flats that probably cost more than most cars. Cole stood by the door the entire time, a silent shadow while I tried to remember what privacy felt like. “Ready?” he asked when the nurse finally removed my IV. “No,” I said flatly. “But I don’t think that’s an option, is it?” He held the door open anyway. “Not really.” Outside, a sleek black SUV waited at the curb, tinted windows and all. Of course it was black. Everything my father owned was black—his cars, his credit cards, probably his soul. Cole opened the back door for me, but I slid into the front passenger seat instead. He raised an eyebrow but didn’t comment. The drive was quiet at first. The city blurred past the windows in streaks of gray and glass. I caught glimpses of normal people—someone laughing on the phone, a couple sharing fries, a dog poking its head ou

When I opened my eyes again, the fire was down to glowing embers. For a second, I didn’t remember where I was. Then the smell of smoke and pine snapped me back. The cabin. The attack. Cole. Only… he wasn’t there. “Cole?” My voice came out hoarse, too loud in the silence. No answer. The armchair was empty. The gun that had been holstered on his belt was gone, too. My heart gave a nervous thump. I sat up, pushing the blanket off. The room felt colder now, emptier. Outside, wind whispered through the trees, rattling a loose shutter. The clock on the wall said it was after midnight. “Great,” I muttered. “He rescues me just to abandon me in a murder movie.” I stood, my bare feet touching the rough wood floor. Every sound I made seemed to echo. “Cole?” I tried again, quieter this time. Still nothing. I spotted his jacket hanging near the door and reached for it, slipping it around my shoulders. It was way too big, smelled faintly like smoke and something else—like da

I woke up to the smell of coffee and wet wood. For a moment, I had no idea where I was. The ceiling above me was wooden, not plaster, and a fire crackled somewhere close. My head throbbed, and every bone in my body felt like I’d gone twelve rounds with a truck—which, technically, I had. Then it came rushing back: the crash, the gunfire, the man on the motorcycle. Cole. “Good morning, sleeping beauty,” a low voice said. I turned my head too fast and winced. Cole was by the fireplace, crouched over a dented kettle. His hair was damp and messy, his black shirt clinging to his shoulders. He looked annoyingly composed for someone who’d jumped off a bridge with me last night. “Where are we?” I asked, my voice raspier than usual. “Old hunting cabin. Been empty for years. We’ll stay until it’s safe to move.” I pushed myself upright on the narrow couch. “How long was I out?” “About five hours. You’ve got a mild concussion, nothing worse.” He poured coffee into a chipped mug a

Branches whipped across my arms as we tore through the trees. The path was barely a path at all—just a tangle of roots and mud—but Cole rode like he could see in the dark. I clung to him, my face pressed against his shoulder, every bump jolting through my ribs. “They’re right behind us!” I shouted. “I know.” “Do something about it!” “Working on it.” Bullets cracked through the night. One hit a tree trunk so close that bark sprayed my cheek. I bit down a scream. The engine screamed back, climbing higher, faster, until I could hardly tell where the road ended and sky began. Cole swerved left, down a slope. The tires slid, then caught again. He gunned the throttle, bursting out of the woods onto another stretch of highway that cut between two hills. For a second, the world widened, and I could breathe. “Lose them yet?” I asked. “Not quite.” Headlights flared behind us again. Two trucks. Maybe three. “What do they want from me?” I cried. “Same thing they wanted on the cliff—lev