Total pages in book: 20
Estimated words: 17648 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 88(@200wpm)___ 71(@250wpm)___ 59(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 17648 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 88(@200wpm)___ 71(@250wpm)___ 59(@300wpm)
I was a human woman, alone, terrified, and surrounded by fanged monsters with hungry, gleaming eyes.
I was also prey, a fragile little thing to be bought and sold.
I knew my life was over, but then an unlikely savior took me as his.
Blaylock. Ruler of the kingdom of the dark realm of Shadow Vale.
He was a hulking beast with gray skin, thick, curling horns, and eyes as black as the void.
I should have been afraid of him. I should have recoiled from his very visage.
But his glare–although fiercely terrifying–was filled with possessive heat whenever he looked at me.
He didn’t save me because he was good.
He saved me because I was his.
And when he whisked me to his kingdom, when he showed me not all beasts were monsters I was to fear, the more I felt myself warming and softening to him.
And the longer I stayed with him, the more I realized I didn’t want to leave
*************FULL BOOK START HERE*************
1
KATRINA
The air in Shadow Vale always hung thick with the scent of damp earth and rot. It didn’t help being in the middle of the woods with decaying swamps lining my shack of a family home.
The mist curled around everything it touched like skeleton fingers twisting trunks of the blackened trees that surrounded my debilitated cottage. Every time I stepped outside, I could taste the earth and depression on my tongue.
Even now, I could feel the dampness of living next to the swamp seeping into my bones as I trudged back from the well, the wooden buckets I held in each hand swinging heavily from my constantly bruised fingers.
The path beneath my feet was soft earth covered in muck and moss. I gritted my teeth and pushed past the discomfort in my arms and shoulders, pain having become as familiar to me as my father’s constant abuse in this nonexistent life I lived.
The sun was sinking behind the crooked trees and jagged mountains, barely peeking over the dense forest. The sky was shifting from oranges and pinks to blues and grays. I quickened my pace, not wanting to be outside after sunset but especially knowing the price of being late, which that was a tongue-lashing from my father.
I had dreams, so many that they flooded my mind. But the most pressing reality was escaping my father’s tight control and making my own way.
And that took time and money, both of which I didn’t have, no matter how much I saved.
My father’s temper was as unpredictable as the storms that often swept through Shadow Vale, leaving the fields flooded that were right on the outskirts of the forest and wreaking havoc on crops so everything was nothing but a drowned, mucky mess.
It made living hard.
I picked up my pace and saw the cottage right through the break in the tree-line, my childhood home looking aged and weathered and moments away from crumbling to the ground.
It was repaired in multiple spots with a moss-covered roof and windows that were broken and foggy. I pushed the front door open with my shoulder, careful not to spill the buckets of water I had spent an hour pulling from the stubborn depths of the well.
The hinges creaked, the sound grating against my already frayed nerves. The air inside was no better than the chill outside. But I was used to the smell of smoke from the fireplace and the mold that I could never find from where it came, both mixed with whatever I had been cooking all day.
“About time, girl,” my father’s voice snarled from the corner near the fireplace, where he sat hunched on his rickety wooden chair, a half-empty bottle of moonshine he’d brewed up last week sitting on the floor by his foot as he stared into the flames.
I didn’t respond, and he looked at me, his eyes red-rimmed and swollen from the years of his homemade booze. He glared at me as I set the buckets down in the tiny kitchen and immediately scurried to finish preparing dinner.
I added a few sticks to the dying embers in the stove, stoked it, and placed the pot of stew back on the cast iron grate. My fingers were numb, the cold seeping into my bones, but I ignored the ache as I kept busy.
I reached for the handful of root vegetables and cut them, adding them to the pot, trying to “fatten” the stew up since we had minimal dried meat to spare.
The water bubbled, a thin line of steam rising from the pot as the vegetables softened. It smelled good—earthy with a hint of a savory meat aroma mingling in. I stirred the thin stew, the handle of the wooden spoon warm against my chilled fingers, heating me quickly. It was the only comfort I found in that moment.
I glanced over my shoulder to see my father still watching the fire, but he now had the bottle pressed to his lips. He had a permanent sneer on his face, his knuckles white as he clutched the neck of the bottle and tossed the liquor back.
Once the meal was served, I tore off a couple pieces of stale bread, placed everything on the table, and let my father know dinner was ready. When he was at the table, he still wore that sneer as he stared at his bowl of stew.
“Is this it?” he spat, leaning forward, the firelight casting his gaunt face in sharp, menacing shadows. “Where’s the meat, girl? Or are you too useless to even catch a rabbit?”
I swallowed, my throat dry as I sat across from him, able to smell the booze on his breath, and knew he’d been drinking all day. I had become calloused to his abuse at this point, knowing nothing ever made him happy. I could have given him the best cut of fresh meat, and he’d still complain about it.