LOGINThis book is made up of three parts featuring three different couples. The First book ( Alpha Maddox's Mortal Temptation) is the prelude to the second and third book). Camille is done with small-town dreams. Stuck waitressing in Mystic Falls with no money, no degree, and no way out, she’s desperate for a spark, something to make her feel alive again. She just never expected that spark to come in the form of a dangerously sexy stranger. When Maddox and his mysterious crew ride into town, everyone whispers they’re a biker gang. But there’s something different about them, something wild, primal… and powerful. From the moment Camille meets , an electric desire burns between them. But Maddox isn’t human. He’s a werewolf, the alpha of his pack and the very man who made the law that no shapeshifter can ever be with a human. Haunted by the ghosts of the Great War, Maddox is trying to protect his pack and rebuild a life. Yet Camille’s scent, her strength, and her fire unravel everything he’s fought to control. As darkness creeps into Mystic Falls, threatening to destroy them both, Maddox must face an impossible choice: Break his own rule… or lose the woman who’s become his reason to fight. The Second book features Alpha Lucien Grayson (werewolf) and Seraphine Vale (vampire). It's a fierce enemies to lovers, marriage of convenience book. The third book features Alpha Zane Nightclaw (werewolf) and Anna Holt (hybrid, half human and half werewolf). it's a forced proximity book.
View MoreIHOLD MY BREATH. STAY PERFECTLY STILL. MY MUSCLES COIL, AS if to keep my body from breaking open, stop my organs and blood from pouring onto the floor.Then Zane says, “I’ve been suspecting it for a few days,” and I fall apart.“What?” I sound reedy.Maybe that’s why Zane ignores my question. Doesn’t look at me. Continues his conversation with Irene, composed, detached, like the topic is only mildly diverting. Broken boilers. The weather. Him, killing my mother.“And yet you didn’t tell her. How self-serving of you.”“I wanted to be certain, before informing her that one or more of her parents were high-profile figures in a cult with a sky-high body count.”Irene sneers. “Now you know for sure.” She points at me with a flourish. “Tell her what happened that night. The Favored would like to know, too, wouldn’t we, friends? All we had to go by were the rotting corpses.”“Very well.” Zane takes a deep breath. Turns to me. Lifts his bound hands onto the table, leaning over his elbows, and
Zane steps inside. He’s drenched in rainwater, hands tied in front of his body. His forearms and neck are smeared with blood, green swirled with red. Some of it trickles slowly down his temple, where it mats his thick hair.Just below, a deep cut dissects his right cheekbone. He’s wearing a black shirt and black pants, which makes it impossible to tell whether he was injured in any vital spot.I can’t believe he came alone. After what he said about his mother, he made the same mistake. He’s so outnumbered, even he can’t make it out of this.And yet his smirk and “Thank you for having me” fill me with some temporary optimism, even after three more Weres walk inside behind him.It’s Jess and her two friends, clearly proud to be delivering the Alpha of the Northwest. They bend their heads to Irene. When she invites Zane to take a seat, the younger man pushes him and sends him staggering forward.The boy gets to gloat for about three seconds. Then Zane spins around, uses his bound hands t
The letter is not addressed to me. It’s the first thing I notice— the Dear Irene in unexpectedly round, neat handwriting. Mine is slanted and messy, hard to make out. Looks like an ECG line, Seraphine always says. You make people work for every damn letter. No one should have to expend much effort to know that you want them to buy zucchini. As if she ever once went grocery shopping.But this, this is bubbly. Girly.My mother’s.Dear Irene,I don’t know if or when you’ll receive this letter. I don’t know if you’re alive. It’s been approximately three weeks since we went our separate ways. Like we agreed, I’ll be vague about names and locations, in case the Northwest intercepts our communications. Without going into detail, I dearly hope our time apart has been less eventful for you than for us.Originally, it was just C., P., E., and me. A few days later, we encountered three other Favored on the run and joined forces. A larger group of adults allows for more night shifts to ensure
I didn’t mean to upset you. I just wanted you to know that you are one of us. Will always be.” Her smile is apologetic. Young. “Irene sent me up to help you prepare for your Heat.”“Prepare?”“She said it’s coming soon.”My stomach drops. My mind races with horrifying possibilities. “Prepare how?”“The ceremonial markings.” She picks up a small jar full of a thick black liquid. When she holds it closer, I realize that it might be closer to a dark blue. Or green. “Don’t worry, the dye will stain lighter.”“Stain . . . what?”“Your skin. Are you not familiar with the tradition?”“I’ve been a Were for about twenty minutes.”“Oh. Well.” She glances at the door, clearly considering getting Irene.“I— I don’t care about traditions, I mean.” I bite my tongue. To punish myself. “No need for the markings.”“But Were customs are important. And if you don’t . . . Irene might be angry.” In the slight tremble of her lips, I hear what Nele doesn’t say. At me. And I don’t want that. Irene is a stan
“Outside,” he says, like I deserve to take remedial Were classes just for asking.“You sleep outside.”“Yes.”“In the great outdoors.”“Yup.”“Every night.”A brief pause. “Not every night.”“Oh. Good.”“Just every night in which I have time to sleep.”“You mean that you don’t sleep every— You know
“You and the Vampyre are close, right?” he asks, full of that calm that borders on indifference. Is he making fun of me? “She explained what a mate is?"Slowly, I nod.“What Seraphine is to Lucien, you are to me.”Oh.Oh?Oh. “Is this a, um . . . terminal diagnosis?”His lips twitch. “No cure, I’m
My eyes roll in the back of my head, and I’ve never felt anything so violently, madly, painfully good—“Lucien.” I’m scared of how intense it is. But he lets out a wordless groan, bites my collarbone, and I know he feels exactly like I do, the pleasure brutal, pulsating, impossible to stop.“My bea
Present dayIF SUCH A THING AS AN IDEAL NIGHT TO DIE EXISTED, IT WOULD not be this one.There’s so much wrong with it. I could bitch about the recent rainstorm, the weak garlic-clove-sized moon, the uncharged phone sitting on my nightstand. The main issue, though, is that I’m wearing no more than t






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