The Sacrifice Series by Natasha Knight – Read Books Online Free Ebooks good best novels to read

The Sacrifice Series by Natasha Knight – Read Books Online Free Ebooks good best novels to read http://www.ilovenovels.com Mon, 09 Oct 2023 12:40:10 +0000 en-US hourly 1 https://wordpress.org/?v=6.9.4 http://www.ilovenovels.com/wp-content/uploads/2020/09/favicon.png The Sacrifice Series by Natasha Knight – Read Books Online Free Ebooks good best novels to read http://www.ilovenovels.com 32 32 The Penitent (The Sacrifice #2) Read Online Natasha Knight, A. Zavarelli http://www.ilovenovels.com/the-penitent-the-sacrifice-2-read-online-natasha-knight-a-zavarelli Mon, 09 Oct 2023 12:40:10 +0000 http://www.booksnovels.com/the-penitent-the-sacrifice-2-read-online-natasha-knight-a-zavarelli Genre: Alpha Male, Angst, Contemporary, Dark, Mafia Authors: A. Zavarelli, Natasha Knight Series: A. Zavarelli
Series: The Sacrifice Series by Natasha Knight
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Total pages in book: 80
Estimated words: 76048 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 380(@200wpm)___ 304(@250wpm)___ 253(@300wpm)

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A cruel fate. Two souls condemned. An impossible love.

I knew he’d choose me before he came to our door on the night of the Tithing. I bore the mark that would make me his.

It was my ancestor who spoke the words that bound us together, and his demon-god who promised protection for the price of blood.

My blood.

I was prepared to be that sacrifice if it would keep my family safe.

Loving Azrael? The thought never crossed my mind. He was and would forever be my enemy.

He’s not the only monster coming for me, though, and somehow, it’s in Azrael’s arms I feel the safest.

But I need to be careful with him. I need to guard my heart because if I don’t, he is sure to destroy me.

*************FULL BOOK START HERE*************

1

AZRAEL

To see the printed photographs, to hold them in my hands and look at them, is somehow worse than I imagined. No. That’s not right. I couldn’t imagine something as sick as this.

“Who the hell is this asshole?” I ask for the hundredth time. The 8x10 of Willow swimming naked is in my fist, my eyes glued to the butchery—again, that fucking word in my life—that has obscured her face. The rage in the carving—of the carver—is glaring. The photograph has almost been mutilated, with repeated lines etched into her forehead. The glossy paper has been worn, destroyed where he stained her beautiful face with the Disciples hallmark, the cross, their signature forever defiling their victims.

I don’t know why I assumed they carved that cross into the women after death. The sheer quantity of blood in the photos of their victims is evidence that they had been sliced into the skin while they were still alive. My mind cruelly manifests the image of Willow being held down, her face, her tears, her pain as the sharp point of the blade is dragged across her forehead.

I slam my fist down on the table. “Who the fuck is he?”

Larissa glances at the closed door, then to Emmanuel. “I shouldn’t really be showing you these,” she starts, but my brother puts up a hand to let her know he’ll handle it.

“Give us a few minutes, Larissa. Let me talk to my brother,” Emmanuel says.

“I can get into serious trouble.”

“I know. And we appreciate this very much. You know that. It’ll be fine. I promise.”

Although reluctant, Larissa picks up her phone and walks out of the room. We’ve met her at the back of a restaurant usually reserved for small dinner parties rather than her office at the police station because she’s right. She shouldn’t be showing us these.

“A man’s been writing her letters. Threatening her for a while. It’s the same person or people, I’m sure.” Guilt gnaws at me, my gut tight with it… and with the knowledge that she’s locked up in my house.

“She’s safe for now. Let’s figure out who the car is registered to,” Emmanuel says.

“I want the photographs. All of them,” I say.

“Brother, this is an open investigation. They’re not going to hand those over.”

I grit my jaw. He’s right, I know. I glance at the other photos laid out before him. They’re of Raven Wildblood. She doesn’t wear the carving on her forehead. The man who did this has Willow in his sights. She is his obsession and based on the timeline of the photographs, Willow being as young as sixteen in some, he’s been stalking her for a while.

“We need to contact the Wildbloods. Make sure they know.”

Emmanuel nods tightly just as the door opens and Larissa re-enters. She hands over a folded piece of paper. “Here,” she says, and Emmanuel takes it. “It’s the registration of the vehicle, but I’m not sure that’s going to get you very far. The owner is a seventy-year-old man from Portsmouth, New England. It’s probably stolen.”

“Are there prints? DNA from the dog bite?”

“We’re testing any samples we can get but these guys are meticulous. They’ve never left so much as a hair at any of the crime scenes. And this woman is the only survivor we’ve come across.”

“Can she tell us anything?” I ask.

“She’s in shock. I hope to talk to her later today, but as far as what we know for sure, there were three of them and they kept the lower half of their faces covered. The one new detail we learned from the victim that the witness can corroborate is that they were wearing cassocks. But that’s all we have. Priests, though…”

“They’re not priests. Or if they are, they worship a warped god,” I say, thinking of Shemhazai’s statue standing proud in the churchyard, of Salomé’s blind devotion to the demon- angel.

I open my mouth to speak, but my cell phone rings. I glance at the clock. It’s almost three in the morning. I reach into my pocket to draw the phone out and see the call is coming from home. My heart drops to my stomach as I swipe to answer.

“Hello?” I practically bark because no one calls at three in the morning with good news.

“Azrael. She’s gone. Rébecca is gone!” Salomé shrieks.

My heart, back in its place in my chest, pounds against my ribs. “What do you mean, gone?” God. No. Please do not let her—

“She’s disappeared along with your wife. That witch kidnapped her!”

“What?”

Emmanuel takes the phone and puts it on speaker. “What’s going on?”

“I’m telling you. They’re not here. Rébecca and the harlot are gone!”

Without another word, I stalk out of that room, the photo of Willow with the carving in her forehead still in my hand. They can keep the rest. That one is mine. I’m going to make the asshole who desecrated it eat it before I fucking kill him.

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The Tithing (The Sacrifice #1) Read Online Natasha Knight, A. Zavarelli http://www.ilovenovels.com/the-tithing-the-sacrifice-1-read-online-natasha-knight-a-zavarelli Sat, 23 Sep 2023 20:10:56 +0000 https://www.booksnovels.com/the-tithing-the-sacrifice-1-read-online-natasha-knight-a-zavarelli Genre: Alpha Male, Angst, Contemporary, Dark, Fantasy/Sci-fi, Paranormal, Suspense Authors: A. Zavarelli, Natasha Knight Series: A. Zavarelli
Series: The Sacrifice Series by Natasha Knight
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Total pages in book: 84
Estimated words: 79889 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 399(@200wpm)___ 320(@250wpm)___ 266(@300wpm)

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An ancient curse. Two families bound. A forbidden love.

When the Wildbloods presented their daughters to me on the night of the Tithing, they knew what was to come for the chosen girl.

The crescent moon that marked Willow made her mine. I had no choice but to take her.

Destiny determined our fates long before we were born, laying our roles out for us.

A Sacrifice would be made. A Tithe paid. Only then would our families be free, at least until the next payment came due.

I would have done my duty as Penitent. I tried.

But no one counted on the lion falling in love with the lamb.

And loving Willow could cost me everything.

*************FULL BOOK START HERE*************

PROLOGUE

AZRAEL

The hanging tree is barely visible through the mist that’s settled heavily across the land. The sun is a line on the horizon. A man crosses the field. He draws his cloak closer against the morning’s chill, his careless steps crushing the frozen ground beneath his boots.

His eyes catch mine, and he grins.

Isaiah Delacroix. The first Penitent.

He wears my face, but there’s something wrong with it. Something I can’t put my finger on.

My vision blurs and I feel myself tugged, as if hooked like a fish. My head feels as though it’s cracking open, being divided in two parts. The pain is agonizing, but it will pass. The worst is yet to come. I know.

And in the next instant, it comes. Oh, how it comes. Always the same, yet always a shock.

Because I am him. I am Isaiah Delacroix.

I see through his eyes. I think his thoughts. I feel every evil thing he feels.

“The Tithing time has come,” he says.

His words terrify me, but I am trapped and mute, a prisoner to this man whose face I have inherited. I look down at the clothes I’m wearing. I don’t recognize them. But the hands, they’re mine. The ring on my finger? It’s Isaiah’s. The ring of The Penitent.

I shove my hands into my pockets so I don’t have to see it. There’s something in one of them, though, something soft and wet.

“Duty, boy,” he says, and I turn to him because his voice is my own.

That head-splitting pain comes again. The scene before me flickers, blurring momentarily as I break free of the tether binding me to him. But I’m powerless to flee, my feet rooted to the spot. We are two men with identical faces standing alongside Proctor’s Ledge.

Except my thoughts are not my own. They’re still his.

We stand apart from the people of Salem who have all turned out in their Sunday best. They wouldn’t miss the execution of the Wildblood witch. They’re a bloodthirsty bunch. I find I hate them as much as he does. It’s the one thing we have in common apart from our last name. Mothers and fathers point out heavy branches, their children making a game out of guessing which one they’ll string her up to.

“I have my money on the highest branch, although it wouldn’t be a fair bet, seeing as how I paid for it,” Isaiah says with a laugh.

He, too, wants to see her hang. He’s hard at the thought of it. He wants to see her fear as they tighten the noose around her neck and when they pull the cart out from under her, he wants her eyes on him. Isaiah will watch her twist and turn in agony and terror as her life is stolen from her. He has bought and paid for these, her final moments. They will be his morbid keepsake. Because he has won and she has lost and she will finally know it.

Except it hasn’t gone quite the way he wanted.

Exhausted, I hear my own ragged breath and feel the bite of this freezing morning with each inhale as if this were real. As if I were truly standing here, on this ledge upon this condemned land watching an execution that took place centuries ago.

The crowd quiets at the sound of horse’s hooves approaching, signaling the arrival of the wagon carrying the accused.

Anticipation builds in them.

In me.

Anticipation of something wicked to come.

I watch, riveted, as an unearthly silence settles around us. No one dares to breathe as the carriage cuts a line through the center of the dirt road. People making way, crossing themselves as she passes. A child howls and buries her face in her mother’s neck.

She’s right to be afraid. After all, her mommy could be next if she isn’t careful.

The mist clears unnaturally, as if obeying some command. The wagon slows, and my gaze falls on the condemned woman. I know exactly who she is. The Wildbloods and the Delacroixes have a long history.

This is Elizabeth Wildblood.

She is the first of their line to be sacrificed, the first witch to be hanged.

Beautiful. Even in the filthy remnants of her rags, her finery long taken from her. A mass of the loveliest, reddest hair—a sign of the devil—tumbles thick and long down her back, over a pale, bare shoulder where her dress is torn.

She’s thrown off balance when the wagon halts, and an onlooker catches her instinctively to save her from falling. I notice how Isaiah’s hands fist at the gesture—or maybe it’s seeing the man’s hands on her. When she is righted, I see that the hair behind her right ear has been hacked off at the scalp, the skin still bloody, as if someone’s crudely taken a lock of it.

The man senses his mistake in touching the witch. He snatches his hand away as if he touched fire. The crowd gasps, each person frantically making the sign of the cross.

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