Novels by Marcee

The walk to the Grand Hall felt like a death march, only with better couture.Armano didn't speak as we marched down the corridor, his boots echoing sharply against the stone, the sound synchronized with the clicking of my heels. He was tense, his hand hovering near the hilt of his sword, his eyes scanning every shadow as if an assassin might jump out from a suit of armor."You can relax," I said, trying to adjust to the weight of the fur-lined cloak. "I think the Beast scared off the really ambitious ones.""The Beast doesn't scare the Council," Armano replied, not looking at me. "The Council of Lords has been drinking royal blood since before your grandfather was born. They are vultures, Marigold. And right now? They smell a carcass.""Lovely imagery," I muttered. "You really know how to make a girl feel welcome."We stopped before a pair of doors that made the Throne Room doors look like closet shutters. They were made of solid gold, etched with

Total darkness isn’t black. It’s heavy. It has weight. It presses against your eyes and your chest until you feel like you’re drowning in ink.The moment the lights died, the room didn't go silent. It exploded.I heard the metallic shing of a dozen swords leaving their sheaths simultaneously. I heard Cian’s breath hitch—a sharp intake of air that sounded like a predator spotting prey. And I heard the Beast.He didn't roar. He growled. It was a low, guttural vibration that rattled my teeth."Don't move," Armano commanded, his voice a calm anchor in the storm of chaos. He was pressed against my back, his body heat seeping through my thin bathrobe."I wasn't planning on it," I whispered, gripping the golden dagger so hard my knuckles were white. "I'm currently enjoying the ambiance. Very moody."Something moved in the dark to my left. A shuffle of boots on stone."Kill her!" Cian’s voice shrieked from the darkness. "Kill the bastard heir!"A blade whistled through the air, missing my thr

Regalia didn't look like a place where people lived. It looked like a place where history went to die.As the plane began its descent through a thick blanket of bruised-grey clouds, I pressed my forehead against the cold plastic of the window. Below us, the landscape was a violent tapestry of jagged black mountains and dense, suffocating pine forests. Nestled in the cradle of a valley sat the capital city.It wasn't Washington. There were no sprawling suburbs, no highways, no golden arches. There was a wall. A massive, obsidian wall that circled the city like a noose. And rising from the center of it was the castle.*Castel de Sangue.* The Castle of Blood.Even from ten thousand feet, I could feel its malice. It was a monstrosity of dark stone and spires that looked like jagged teeth tearing at the grey sky."I’m assuming the Airbnb option is off the table?" I asked, my voice echoing slightly in the empty cabin.Armano was already up. He was shrugging on a black wool coat that made hi

They came for me at 4:00 AM.In the movies, when the rebellious heroine gets shipped off to a foreign country, there’s usually a montage. Packing a suitcase, sobbing into a pillow, maybe one last dramatic cigarette on the balcony while the rain pours down.In reality, it was significantly less cinematic.I had fifteen minutes. No suitcase. No luggage. Just a burly Secret Service agent shoving a toothbrush and a change of underwear into a canvas duffel bag while I stood in the middle of my bedroom in my bathrobe."Make sure you pack the good moisturizer," I said, watching Agent Miller shove my expensive French face cream into the bag with the delicacy of a gorilla handling a Ming vase. "If I break out in a hives rash in Regalia, I’m sending you the bill.""You’re not supposed to be worrying about skincare right now, Ms. Forbes," Miller grunted, zipping the bag shut with a sound like a gunshot. "You’re supposed to be saying goodbye to your life.""I already did," I said, staring at the

If I have to smile at one more sweaty politician who thinks "slipping a hand" is part of the diplomatic protocol, I’m going to burn the White House to the ground and roast marshmallows over the ashes."Ms. Forbes," Senator Harrison breathed into my ear. He smelled like expensive scotch and bad decisions. "You look absolutely... *radiant* tonight."His hand, damp and possessive, slid two inches lower on my bare back.I didn't stiffen. I didn't pull away. I simply turned my head, flashing the thousand-watt grin I’d practiced in the mirror since I was twelve. The grin that said, *I am America’s Sweetheart,* while my brain screamed, *I am plotting your murder.*"Careful, Senator," I said, my voice sugary enough to give the entire room diabetes. "If you touch me one more time, I’ll scream. And trust me, the Secret Service has bullets with your name on them. They just haven't decided which caliber they like best yet."Harrison froze, his liver-spotted face turning a fascinating shade of puc