Our Sins in Silver (Coven of Sin #3) Read Online Aiden Pierce

Categories Genre: Fantasy/Sci-fi, Paranormal, Romance Tags Authors: Series: Coven of Sin Series by Aiden Pierce
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Total pages in book: 115
Estimated words: 106958 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 535(@200wpm)___ 428(@250wpm)___ 357(@300wpm)
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He’s coming for me.
The vampire king is coming for all of us.

He wants the princes dead for touching me… Well, except for one. Why? Because there’s a secret locked away in his eyes, a dark and sinister secret.
There are still so many mysteries needing to be solved. Where is my real mother? What really happened between her and my father? The answers lie in the mind of the vampire king’s oldest progeny. With the magical powers I’ve inherited, I just might be able to dive deep into the memories Sterling’s hidden even from himself…and uncover the truth once and for all.
War is coming. Blood must be spilled. People are going to get hurt.
The whopping question that remains now? If I manage to defeat my father and win his throne, will my princes be left standing unharmed by my side?
Or will I be made to choose between the survival of my kingdom and the lives of my mates?
Our Sins in Silver is the third installment in the adult why choose vampire romance series Coven of Sin and features high-heat scenes and dark themes. You can refer to the author’s website for a complete list of trigger warnings. *This book ends on a cliffhanger.

Full Book:

Chapter one

Lucifer Curse It

Sterling - Pt. 1 (Circa 1050 A.D.)

I’d been holding the quill for so long that my fingers stung. How much time had passed since they’d locked me inside the scriptorium? Squinting at the singular flickering flame that illuminated my work, I noted the wax pillar had shrunk to the third hour mark since I’d lit its wick. My strained mind was fraying like a rope, and I realized I’d lost track of how many clock candles I’d burnt through. Had I ceased counting for the sake of my sanity, or had I reached the stage of my punishment where time was beyond my comprehension?

A rebellious groan rumbled up from my stomach as if my internal organs were rubbing against one another to spark any sensation that wasn’t hunger. My lips cracked from thirst, and my eyelids screamed for the chance to shut, even for a moment. The words on the parchment before me blurred.

Even the simple task of dipping my quill tip in the inkpot was painful, my muscles shaking violently as if it were Christ’s cross I held and not a feather.

The prospect of copying yet another line of scripture might as well have been torture of the highest degree for how my body screamed in protest. I’d copied Psalms 40 countless times over. The stack of parchment on my desk was so thick it would make for a suitable pillow. If only I could sleep. But at this stage in my delirium, it was beyond me. When I closed my eyes, all I could see was Psalms 40, written in my hand and in my own heart’s blood.

Though my will was made strong by the Spirit of the Lord, my limbs were certainly not. My hand tremored, making my lines unintelligible. I could scarcely hold the quill anymore.

I’d been laboring at my desk for so long that the calluses on my writing hand had rubbed raw, leaving my flesh angry and abused. Bright beads of blood streaked down my quill, discoloring the black ink and making my script run muddy. I cursed low under my breath, then allowed the bloody quill to fall from my grip.

Sagging into my chair, I stared up at the ceiling beams as I rubbed my aching fingers.

It wasn’t the pain that bothered me.

Pain was a part of being alive. It was natural. What it wasn’t, though, was something to be glorified or revered as an act of piety. That opinion had landed me in this predicament in the first place. The abbot certainly hadn’t appreciated my objections following Brother Peter’s sermon. “Those who seek Christ should practice self-flagellation for the duration of the time it takes one to recite Psalms 40,” he’d said. “For only those who share in the sufferings of Christ can be saved.”

It’d surely been a miracle of God that I’d kept my mouth shut while I’d been made to listen to that dribble.

Following the sermon, the abbot announced to the senior monks that he expected the practice to be incorporated into the lives of all citizens of our abbey. Self-harm was to be observed regularly in between prayers, meals, and labor hours.

That was when I could no longer hold my tongue. Groaning, I rubbed my temple with my uninjured hand. What a fool I’d been.

Keeping my head down and maintaining my silence outside the domain of my library—and its adjoining scriptorium—was not only expected of me in my position as a monk, but it also helped maintain my cover. If they discovered the true purpose behind my fierce pursuit of the senior-scribe position, I’d have more to worry about than bloody fingers and sleep deprivation.


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