Reclaiming the Throne - A dragon-shifter novel.
Amilee is the rightful heir to the kingdom of dragon shifters, but on the night of her birth her parents were slaughtered and she was whisked away to safety. Only the security they try to achieve is battered by war and Amilee is taken prisioner and lives in seclusion for over twenty years.
Thorne, knows the princess lives because every time he falls asleep she haunts his dreams. After years of searching he finally finds her. Hoping for instant salvation, Thorne and his rebellion are disheartened by her lack of power and inability to shift from human to dragon.
Throne refuses to give up on Amilee, while she refuses to accept her destiny. This is a love story about s a struggle for power and a reawakening of life
Her companions, if she could call them such, said nothing to her. They huddled over a rickety dining table, speaking in hushed tones, sending an occasional glance her way. The rhythmic tick of the fan and the hum of the lights a boring melody to her ears. She’d heard enough of that sound in her twenty years of imprisonment and she didn’t care for anymore. If she wasn’t the subject of their conversation she might have attempted to join them, from their tense backs and nervous twitches, she sensed they wanted it to be exclusive.
It appeared each of them had a corner to themselves and a common living area in the middle. A single wall served as a backdrop to a row of cabinets, a sink, and stove. A refrigerator filled with magnets in the shapes of dragons and the English alphabet. A crayon drawing hung proudly in the middle, displaying the image of two dragons, one red, one blue, and the small childlike stick figure in the middle, with a great big heart drawn over his chest. The edges had curled, and yellowed slightly, but the message was clear - a little person loved two of these dragons and they loved it in return.
Faded blue and white checked tiles covered the floor, the shine from overhead florescent lights bounced off them and onto the few walls giving the corners a chance to see the artificial light of day. Someone had humanized the main living area with plush area rugs and tried to give it a homey touch with brightly colored pillows and a small vase of artificial flowers. It must have been the woman, her rainbow colored hair matched with the decorations.
Amilee sat on the sofa with her hands folded neatly in her lap absorbing her new surroundings. Her bare legs stuck to the leather, if she moved it made an unladylike expulsion of sound so she avoided it at all costs. She shivered under the slow osculating fan from overhead. She eyed the homemade quilt hanging over the edge of the sofa, wondering if the worn fabric would help ease the chill or if it was too threadbare too even hold in the heat.
She sucked in great gulps of fresh air, taking in the caramel roast of coffee brewing and the familiar mountain spring of dryer sheets. The acrid smell of rubbing alcohol and the metallic ting of blood coming from her companions, and their healer, took away from the pleasantness of the other scents.
The tall man who wore leather gloves put a cup of steaming brown liquid on the notched coffee table. “Cream or sugar?” His voice raspy but his eyes bore the crinkles of laughter at the edges.
“Both.” Amilee leaned forward, resting her elbows on her knees, and wrapped her hands around the smooth ceramic mug. The washed out red image of a dragon holding a football peeked out from beneath her wrists. Her eyes flitted over the occupants trying to decide on which one of them was the athlete.
She decided on two of the men, the other was too thin and wiry, and the woman didn’t seem the type. They eluded strength and demanded a fair share of the physical space; they moved with grace, their muscles relaxed but defined beneath their clothes. Definitely, bodies made for football.
Rhys put off picking up his betrothed for a very good reason, he didn't want a wife. When he receives an urgent letter from her father he knows his procrastination is over.
On his journey he finds a lovely golden haired woman covered in blood, only she carries no injuries and claims to have murdered someone in self defense. Little does Rory know the little hell cat is actually his intended
Natalie know.s she can't refuse marriage to the man she considers a brute because her father sent her to find him, but she isn't quite ready to be a peaceful docile wife. Trained as a warrior, Natalie knows she can defeat any of his men, but Rhys warfare of the mind that challenge ultimately makes him her greatest challenge.
Together they will embark on a journey to put things to right and reclaim a fortune hidden from the world for far to long.
When at last he circled back around and strutted towards her she let out a sigh of relief. He bent in front of her, his dark eyes appraising her. She dare not move. With a calloused hand, he turned her face and inspected the cut on her cheek. “Me thinks ye’ll live.”
Natalie rolled her eyes and tried to pull away from his hand. “It’s nothing.”
His jaw worked in circles as if he was chewing on something. “Where did the blood come from?”
Natalie lifted her bound hands to him. “Please release me.”
“Where did the blood come from?”
He held her angry stare, turned his head to the side and studied her. “It didn’t from a quick stab and running from a man. That’s a lot of blood and it’s in more than one place on your person.”
She ducked her head and refused to look at him. “It’s my business.”
“Now it’s my business.” He almost growled his voice dropping low and bitter. “I just buried eleven men, and an entire family. The only person with blood on them is you. Start talking.”
“Eleven?” She stuttered over the word. If only eleven they hadn’t found Gareth yet. Oh her dear friend deserved a proper burial too. They had to go back out and find him.
He crouched in front of her. “Aye. Eleven. That number seems to surprise you. Am I missing one?”
She sucked in a breath. He was baiting her. If she said yes then he would know she;d been involved, and if she said no, she’d have to explain the confusion. Her bottom lip curled beneath her teeth and she bit down on it. Was it better to hold her tongue or talk?
“It’s just a large number.” She finally stammered.
A heavy sigh tumbled out of his chest and he bent to the knots on the rope. “It’s been a long day lass. Would you like a moment of privacy and some food?”
“Aye.” She was grateful for the change in topic and relieved to be free of her bonds.
The warriors gathered around the clearing doing a variety of jobs. Some tended to the horses while the others set up makeshift tents and assembled a camp. There was a fire started and she could smell something wonderful cooking. Her nose lifted and she sniffed at the air.
“Rabbit.” The Brute loosened the rope around her ankles, “Are ye hungry?”
Natalie hadn’t eaten in near three days and her stomach rumbled at the thought of filling her belly. She was starving. “Oh aye.”
His thick hands stilled on her ankles and she dropped her gaze back to his. “What’s yer name?”
Natalie panicked. The only thing her father had said is that someone was after her, someone had threatened the clan, and he wanted to get her to safety. That was why he was sending her to her betrothed. The McGregor had a large enough force to keep her safe.
The rope fell away from her legs and he got to his feet. “You’ll tell me when yer ready.” He helped her to her feet and urged her forward. Her limbs had long ago gone numb. The muscles tingled as the blood rushed back to them, making her wobble unsteadily.
“Easy,” he propped her up right and tucked his beefy hand around her waist. It was heavy and warm on her hip. No other man had touched her like that, wouldn’t have dared, but this man had no fear.
They walked past the food and into the woods. The brute stopped after they’d gone a safe enough distance and looped rope around her middle and then around his own waist. “I know yer planning on running I can see it in yer eyes. Tis night and tis not safe here, do yer business.”
Natalie tested the rope, her hands shook from lack of energy. Defeat tugged at her shoulders. “Brute.” She uttered and stepped away from him as far as her rope would allow and dipped behind a tree.
Displeasing the Duke
mRemington, "Remy" the Duke of Rochester, thought he'd left his child bride well cared for and never once thought she might have befallen any hardships. Little did he know, his neglect led her to poverty.
Sabrina spent the better part of eight years struggling to support her house and loyal servants. When a rash of fires on the property leave them homeless, the only person she can turn to is her estranged husband.
Sabrina is determined to make his life as miserable as he made hers, yet when danger puts everyone at risk he's the first person she wants to turn to for help. As Remy's life of lives start catching up with him, a crazy arsonist is catching up with his wife. Although they may be at each others throats he is growing quite fond of his strong willed wife.
Hennie was mothering her, trying to wipe salve over her wounds, the waxy substance smelled like cow pies with a touch of mint to disguise the stink. To top of the concoction, it was blue. The color didn’t dissipate into the skin either; she was quiet literately black and blue all over.
Sabrina’s body swollen, the battered skin pulled tight, over sore muscles. It hurt to move, much more than it had the day before. Tabby had to help her get dressed, and wash, tasks she usually did quickly and alone. It was a hit to her pride to be unable to do these things.
A cold river of air washed through the room causing the hairs on her arms to rise against the putrid cream. Hennie’s hands stilled on her neck, a dollop of goo slimed its way down her neck and dropped onto her dress. “How much of this stuff do you need?” She groaned as she wiped away the mess.
Sabrina shifted her gaze up to Hennie. Her friend was frozen. Eyes riveted on the door, a blue tinted hand over her heart.
Following the direction of her gaze toward the front door of the inn, her stomach sunk in shock. A man stood in the middle framed by the light pouring in behind him, shadowing his face. He was imposing, broad shouldered, and confident. He wore a long great coat that stopped only inches from the ground. Black wisps of hair windblown and free from containment.
Remington. She would have recognized him anywhere, though he was much larger and chiseled than before, it was definitely him. The scowl on his lips gave him away. He stepped over the threshold, eyes flittering over the spattering of occupants and finally settling on her. Air whooshed from her lungs and her heart forgot to beat for a moment.
A smile ticked at the corner of his lips. His eyes traveled over her, slow and serious. She felt every movement in her body as his gaze made its way over her face, down her body and back up. His intense study made her squirm. Hennie tightened her grip on her shoulder to hold her still.
“My Lord.” Mr. St. James called out from somewhere behind her.
Remy’s eyes darted up to this secretary and he nodded. “Stephen. I came to check on things.”
Those steely irises returned to hers that hint of a smile she’d seen before faded and descended into a frown. “My lady.” He bowed slightly in her direction.
Etiquette dictated she return the gesture, but she couldn’t react. Her limbs refused to work. They wouldn’t lift her body and turn it fully towards him. They certainly were not capable of performing a curtsey before him either.
An awkward silence filled the room in which nobody moved or spoke. All eyes were on her and none of them held approval for her behavior. It was societal rules and she needed to do what was appropriate. Hennie nudged her sore shoulder. She inched up and out of her seat, trying to be graceful but the tenderness in her limps humbled her.
It took a full minute before she stood in front of her husband and shakily curtseyed before him. Her knees wobbled and ankles rocked. She made it down easily enough but lacked the grace to come back up on her own. She teetered for a moment before stumbling forward. Her arms reaching out for something to brace herself, what she found was the unbendable body of her husband.
Remy wrapped his arms around her as she pitched into his chest. To any onlooker it probably appeared she was hugging him, welcoming her petulant spouse home. His body was rock hard, his spine rigid and shoulders squared, his hands clasped to her shoulders.
“Are you alright?” He set her away from him a few inches.
“Fine.” She uncomfortably muttered. For too long she’d waited to give him a piece of her mind, and now with the moment upon her the words disappeared. All she managed was to stare stupidly up at him.
He touched her cheek gently and moved her head from side to side, “You are blue.”
Hot humiliation burned at her cheeks. “Yes. I am.” Although her voice was calm, her insides twisted like a saturated rag in need of a good wringing.
He must have felt the same way because he focused his attention on Stephen, not her. “Are things taken care of here?”
“Yes, your Grace, we were just finishing breakfast and waiting for the carriages to be prepared. I didn’t expect you this morning.” A chair appeared to her left, she didn’t know how or who put it there, she was solely focused on the man in front of her. Stephen put a hand on her elbow and tried to help her to sit.
Sabrina shrugged him off. “I’m fine.”
Remy returned his attention to her with eyes narrowed. “I decided to check on my wife myself.”
The Boy Next Door
Yale has been in love with Orianna for most of his life. The fear of loosing their close friendship in favor of a relationship has kept him from declaring his feelings.
Orianna is living the dream, a high paying job, traveling the world, and at least a week at home every month with her family and best friend - perfect. That is until she's offered the promotion she's worked towards for years. With the title change comes more money, more work, and an official move from Colorado to Chicago. Leaving shouldn't be hard, but in a drunken moment Yale kisses her, and now it seems as if the world is as tipsy as she'd been in that moment.
This is a love story of testing the boundaries of friendship and finding out what happens if something pops the perfect little bubble of reality.
Sometime later, Joe’s till was a couple hundred dollars higher and she was feeling the pleasant ooze of liquor in her veins. She was happily dancing with a tall stranger and felt better than she had in weeks. She was home. The song ended and Yale’s all too familiar flannel shirt stood in front of her.
“It’s my turn to dance with the most popular girl in the bar.” Yale’s deep rumble of a voice proclaimed as an old country song started, the slow rhythm pushing them closer together. “It’s the last dance of the night.”
She wrapped her arms around his neck and let him take the lead. “I see you got away from the blonde.”
“No thanks to you.” His palm against the small of her back urged her closer. She let him have his way and lay her head against his chest, closed her eyes and soaked in the dance through her senses.
“Look at me.”
She lifted her eyes to his and smiled up at him. “Yea.”
He touched her cheek with the tip of his forefinger and brushed a lock of hair behind her ear. “I’ve missed you.”
She opened her mouth to tell him she’d felt the same way but his lips touched against hers and she didn’t quite know what to do. The kiss was gentle, fragile almost, the briefest brush and then another. A tingle of warmth surged through her abdomen.
The song ended and the lights turned on. Yale stepped away from her and shoved his hands deep into his pockets. Orianna rocked back on her boots and held her hand to her mouth, trying to discern if her best friend had just kissed her or if she’d imagined it.
She giggled. “I hope you are sober because I can’t drive home.”
Yale tossed his keys in the air and caught them in his fist. “I’m stone cold sober.”