Make Me Yours (A Steamy Collection)
I exhaled, my knees buckling, palms scraping the tree as I sagged against it.
Behind the woven branches, I noticed a rusted iron handle set into the trunk. It was half-hidden, so I pushed my fingers to tug it.
The disguised drawer slid open with a reluctant groan. Inside there was a single leather-bound journal, It’s edges soft, and its pages filled with ink.
On the cover now mostly flaked away: Lyra.
I glanced toward the distant laughter of guests, then opened the book. The first sentence took me back: “Viktor used my body like it was made for fucking and lashes, and I thanked him for every scar.”
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