Novels by Butterfly Nut

Never make a deal with a man who agrees before you have finished asking.Christian did not explain what he meant. I waited for him to say more, but he only stood there with his jaw tight and his hands closed into fists. When I asked him what he knew about Cassian, he gave me a long, strange look, as if he were deciding whether I deserved the answer.“Ask him yourself,” he said at last. “Ask him where he goes at night.”Then he left. The door closed behind him with a quiet thud, and I stood alone in the middle of my room with my heart racing.Rosalie slipped back in a moment later. “Miss Parker, Mr. Whitmore looked like a storm.”“He was one,” I said. “Help me dress. Plainly. And order a car.”“Where are we going?”“To the Blackthorne estate.”She dropped the hairbrush.The estate sat at the edge of the city, behind tall iron gates and a long avenue of dark trees. It was nothing like the shining Parker Tower. The walls were gray stone, the windows were narrow, and the whole place looke

There are only a few things more frightening than a man who writes four angry words and then comes to find you in person.I had barely finished reading the note when I heard footsteps in the corridor. They were fast, firm and impatient, and the staff outside my door went silent one by one as he passed. Rosalie looked at me, her face white.“Miss Parker,” she whispered. “It is him.”“I know.”“Shall I say you are sleeping?”“I think he would break the door.”I got out of bed and tied my robe tighter. There was no time to dress. There was barely time to breathe. I stood in the middle of my room with my hands folded in front of me, like a woman waiting for a verdict, and the door opened without a knock.Christian Whitmore stepped inside.In the book, the author described him as a man who made rooms go quiet, and for once the author had not been exaggerating. He was tall, with golden hair and sharp blue eyes, and he wore a dark suit with the Whitmore crest on his cufflinks. He looked like

I had spent my whole life wishing someone would tell me a dangerous secret. I never wished for it to come with fog and cold feet.“Someone tried to kill you,” I repeated. “This morning.”“An hour before dawn.” Cassian Wolfe said it the way another man might mention the weather. He lifted his left hand, and I saw a thin red line across his knuckles, still fresh. “A bullet through the window of my car. I had stopped to speak with my assistant, so I was not inside. The driver was.”“Is he...”“He will live.” His gray eyes watched me closely. “You seem less surprised than you should be.”I swallowed. Of course I was not surprised. The book had planned for him to die tomorrow, and the story had clearly started trying early. I did not know what to say that would not sound strange, so I said the only honest thing I could.“I am surprised that you are standing here instead of hiding in a locked room.”Something almost like a smile touched his mouth and vanished. “I find hiding a poor use of a

A man who is meant to die tomorrow should not send a marriage proposal at dawn.I read the letter a third time, as if the words might change if I looked hard enough. They did not. The ink was dark, the handwriting was calm, and the proposal was real.“Miss Parker,” Rosalie said softly. “Mr. Whitmore is still waiting in the private lobby.”I had almost forgotten him. In the book, Genevieve would have run to the elevator with her hair done and her ruby jewels on. I folded the letter and turned to the courier.“Where is Mr. Wolfe now?”“In the roof garden of the Blackthorne building, Miss Parker. By the old fountain. He said he would wait for as long as you needed.”That surprised me. In the novel, people waited for Genevieve out of fear. They did not do it out of patience.“Rosalie,” I said, “go down to the lobby and tell Mr. Whitmore I am unwell. Tell him I am not receiving visitors today.”Her eyes grew wide. “But he has come for you personally. You have waited weeks for this.”“I kno

Everyone in the city wanted me dead, and in a few seconds they were going to get their wish.I knelt on the cold concrete of the Parker Tower rooftop with my hands cuffed behind my back. The wind pulled at my hair. Below me, thousands of people filled the street and the terrace, shouting my name like a curse. Genevieve Parker. Villainess. Traitor. Someone threw a drink from the crowd and it splashed across my shoulder. I did not even flinch. I was too busy trying to understand how I got here.I knew this scene. I had read it in The Crown of Roses, the night before I died in my own world. It was the final chapter. The cruel chairman’s daughter meets her end, and the sweet heroine gets her happy ending.I never thought I would be the one kneeling.I lifted my eyes. At the edge of the rooftop stood Christian Whitmore, heir of Parker Group, tall and golden in his white tuxedo, his face as cold as the concrete under my knees. Beside him stood Juliette Hayes, the heroine, with her hands fol