Iron Veve's Kiss
In Alabama’s rot-soaked bayous, Drucilla Drakes survives by three rules: silence, scars, and never letting Louise—her Bible-thumping captor—catch her hoping. But when a schoolyard ambush leaves her bleeding beneath a stranger’s leather jacket, invisibility becomes a death sentence.
Enter Dragon Morales: New Orleans’ most notorious runaway, a cartel prince turned outlaw mechanic with grease-stained hands and a death wish. He doesn’t save people—he survives them. Yet in Dru’s lashed flesh and hellfire gaze, he sees his own shattered reflection.
Their bond is gasoline and matches. Dragon’s father—Colombia’s cartel kingpin—hunts them relentlessly. Louise, armed with voodoo rites and the chaos-hungry loa Marinette, vows to break Dru. Their only allies? The Lou Nwa, a bayou biker gang trading in bullets and black magic, and Papa Legba, the crossroads spirit who offers Dru a lethal bargain: *“Her soul or yours.”*
Fleeing through the Deep South’s cursed underbelly, they dodge cartel hitmen, haunted swamps, and safehouses reeking of betrayal. Dark magic seeps into old wounds; family secrets tighten like nooses. Dragon swears he’s too ruined to love. Dru knows she’s too shattered to trust. But in the bayou’s choking heat, desire is a grenade they can’t outrun.
This isn’t a fairytale. It’s switchblade kisses and saintly curses—a collision of fire and ruin where protectors become predators. Dru doesn’t need saving; she needs an inferno. And Dragon? He’s got a lighter and nothing left to burn.
Will they raze the South to ashes, or become the sacrifice the crossroads demands? One truth remains: in the bayou, even survival leaves scars.
**Warning:** No princes here. Just bayou smoke, blood-soaked magic, and the kind of love that devours.
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Chapter: Safehouse Whispers ***Big Danni's POV***The hum of cicadas outside swelled like a fever, their drone syncopated with the creak of the porch boards under my boots—boards warped by years of Gulf humidity, their peeling paint the same faded blue as Dragon’s childhood backpack. The walls were pocked with bullet holes from a raid in ’08, patched haphazardly with license plates (Louisiana, Texas, one rusty Mississippi) and prayer cards for saints even I didn’t recognize. But it was the garden that caught me off guard: Marisol’s herbs ran wild in the overgrown yard, rosemary and lemon balm tangling with spindly okra stalks. A handmade trellis of salvaged PVC pipes sagged under the weight of bitter melon vines, their yellow fruit bloated and splitting in the heat. She’d tried to pretty it up—cracked terracotta pots of aloe vera lined the steps, their serrated leaves dusted with pollen from the crape myrtle she’d planted. That tree hadn’t been a sapling when they’d fled New Orleans.
Last Updated: 2025-05-28
Chapter: Old Friends ***Dru's POV***The air hangs thick as roux left to scorch in a cast-iron pot, humidity gluing my shirt to my spine. Around us, Vermilion Court simmered—a dead-end strip of cracked asphalt where shotgun houses slumped like drunks against each other. Spanish moss dripped from waterlogged oaks, their gnarled roots buckling the sidewalks into jagged stone teeth. Somewhere, a screen door whined on rusted hinges, slapping rhythmically against a frame bloated with rot. A man bursts out of the house, screen door slamming behind him. He’s a mountain of a man with a salt-and-pepper beard and wearing a leather jacket similar to the other two. Clutching my duffel bag in one hand and a .44 Magnum in the other, barrel still smoking. The *Lou Nwa* (Black Wolves) patch—a snarling wolf with flaming fleur de lis for eyes—marked him as a crew even the bayou’s ghosts feared. His Dyna Glide hog idled at the curb, handlebars wrapped in gator hide, tooth-studded grips flecked with dri
Last Updated: 2025-05-27
Chapter: Confrontational Greetings ***Dru's POV*** Marisol stood on the porch, arms crossed, two tamales wrapped in foil clutched in her hand. Her stare pinned me like a butterfly to corkboard. *Shit.* I suddenly felt twelve again, caught trying to run away from Louise. She descended the steps slowly, her sandals crunching gravel, until she stood between us, her gaze flicking from Dragon’s smirk to my flushed face. “¡Basta, cabritos!” She thrust the tamales at me, still warm. “If you’re done taming Dragons, eat.” Her voice softened as she turned to him, finger jabbing the air. “And you—bring her back entera. No more heridas. (whole. No more wounds.)” Dragon dipped his head, uncharacteristically solemn. “Sí, jefita.” I hugged the tamales to my chest, the foil crinkling. “Thank you,” I said, the words too small for the ache in my throat. “You’ve done more for me in a few hours than anyone ever has my whole life.” Marisol’s stern mask cracked
Last Updated: 2025-05-26
Chapter: Surrendering to the Fire***Dru's POV***The first thing that hit me was the scent—cinnamon and toasted chilies tangled with the earthy musk of black coffee, a fragrance so thick and warm it felt like a blanket. My eyes fluttered open to the sound of humming, a raspy lullaby that curled through the air like smoke from Marisol’s kitchen. “Duérmete mi niña…” The melody wove itself into the metallic clang of tools outside, a dissonant symphony that somehow made sense here. Sunlight pooled through lace curtains, dappling the worn leather couch where I’d collapsed hours ago. I traced a finger over the fabric’s cracks, fossils of a thousand stories etched into the grain. The walls were a collage of faith and chaos—a chipped Virgin Mary votive flickering beside a neon lucha libre mask, family photos pinned under a rusted switchblade. In one, a younger Marisol laughed, her arms around a broad-shouldered man with Dragon’s wolfish grin. *His father?* The man’s eyes were alive, unburdened—nothing l
Last Updated: 2025-05-25
Chapter: La Familia Finally ***Dragon’s POV*** The screen door whined behind me, its sound as familiar as Mamá’s lectures. My boots tracked mud over her clean floor—just to piss her off—but the brown bag of árnica and *sábila* (aloe vera) in my grip felt heavier than it should. The bullet graze on my rib burned like hellfire, the bandage soaked through my shirt. Hank’s aim was as shitty as his parenting, but the asshole still nicked me good. “Más rápido que un cohete, mijo,” Mamá said, not turning around. (“Faster than a rocket, son.”) Her hands hovered over Dru’s bare back, the sheet pooled at her hips like a surrendered flag. I froze, the sudden stillness making the wound scream. The air turned to kerosene. I shifted, ribs screaming, and Mamá’s eyes snapped to the blood blooming on my shirt. “Mijo—” “Ella primero (“Her first.”),” I growled, bracing against the counter, my free hand pressing hard into my side. She gla
Last Updated: 2025-05-24
Chapter: Breakfast and Ditch?***Dru’s POV*** *Crack.* Lightning through my thighs. *Crack.* Fire along my spine. The numbers bled into static, the countdown dead—but the crescent scar pulsed, a metronome counting breaths Louise couldn’t steal. Above me, Louise’s face contorted—a funhouse mirror of the mom who’d taught me to braid hair, bake snickerdoodles, lie to CPS with honeyed *“Yes, ma’ams.”* “Look at me!” She grabbed my chin, her breath reeking of menthols and communion wine. The tenth lash peeled skin. Louise’s aim had improved—this one caught the tender hollow between shoulder blades, where the whip had split me open at fourteen. Blood slicked my spine, warm as the bourbon Louise used to clean my wounds before church. “Konte!” (“Count!”) she hissed, her voice ragged with exertion. I choked on numbers that weren’t days. *Seven lashes. Eight. Nine…* The world narrowed to the whip’s arc, the *crack* echoing off cinder blocks, the copper tang of my own ruin. A crow cawed—three notes, sharp and
Last Updated: 2025-05-23
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