Meet Kilter & Rayne in
Tyrant by Nashoda Rose!
#ParaRomance
NOW LIVE!
Amazon US: http://amzn.to/1Um5jXn
Amazon UK: http://amzn.to/20T4kTz
iBooks: http://apple.co/1QESzv6
Nook: http://bit.ly/1SUNCid
Kobo: http://bit.ly/1QEV3da
New York Times & USA Today Best Selling Author Nashoda Rose brings a fresh twist to
the paranormal romance world with 'the Scars'.
“I don’t do nice. Period.” -Kilter (nickname: Off-Kilter)
Kilter is crass, reckless and stubborn.
He has alienated everyone—just the way he likes it. Until the day he meets
Rayne and emotions he buried long ago reawaken.
“I was nothing but a science experiment.” -Rayne
Rayne has been locked away and used for
research ever since she was a child. The abuse caused her to withdraw into a
tomb of numbness where she’s found a safe place to hide. But her safe place
isn’t safe at all, it’s slowly killing her.
When Kilter rescues her and she is
unexpectedly drawn to his raw honesty, Rayne must decide whether to trust him
and fight for what she can’t see or drown into the depths of darkness.
For some Scars, it’s the story of healing
and redemption, for others it’s the beginning of a tortured existence. Which
will it be for Kilter and Rayne?
A band of fierce warriors walk in the shadows of the human
world with capabilities derived from the senses: Trackers, Sounders, Healers,
Tasters, Visionaries and the rare Reflectors. They are known as the ‘Scars.
*Stygian must be read first. 18+
Scars of the Wraiths Series
Stygian (Scars of the Wraiths, Book 1)
Tyrant (Scars of the Wraiths, Book 2)
Take (Scars of the Wraiths, standalone)
Credo (Scars of the Wraiths, Book 3)
(coming 2016)
Author's Note: Tyrant (Scars of the
Wraiths, Book 2) was originally titled "Step" (Senses Series). The
book has been completely re-written. However, please check your Kindles before
purchasing.
Booted steps strode through my
adjoining bedroom toward me.
Closer. Louder.
Goose bumps scattered. My body
trembled as raw fear gripped me. It was like I was hanging off the side of a
cliff by my fingernails, knowing I’d eventually fall and the pain would come.
Unbearable pain.
He’d come. My husband or whoever
he’d sent to get me.
There was no escape. No where to
run.
The heavy thuds stopped outside the
bathroom door, and I glimpsed the tall, dark shadow that filtered through the
two-inch gape.
I put my chin on my knee and closed
my eyes, afraid to look. If I didn’t look, then no one was here. My breath came
in short, sharp, quiet gasps and I dug my fingers into the sides of my thighs
so hard, blood trickled down my skin through my pants.
For almost a month, I’d expected
this day to come, stomach churning every time I heard someone in the corridor
outside my bedroom. Living in a black hole, I was desperate to get out, but
knew the day I did, it was to face punishment for helping the Scars escape the
compound.
The door pushed open with what
sounded like a kick of a boot.
Tears pooled in my eyes and spilled
down my cheeks. I squeezed my eyes shut harder as fear drilled into me like
tiny darts piercing my skin.
Another step.
Then another.
Then nothing.
Please
don’t let it be Ben. Anyone but Ben.
“Fuck, babe. What the hell?”
My breath hitched at the sound of
the familiar, deep voice. A voice I’d never forget. A voice that gave me hope
then snatched it away with his lies.
I raised my head and locked eyes on
the Scar I’d helped escape.
Well, more like he used me in order
to help him and his friend escape.
He was also the man who had haunted
my dreams for weeks since then. And they were haunting because he was scary.
Not ugly scary, far from it, but intense scary.
He had a chiseled jaw with a few
days of scruff and defined cheekbones. His look was old-world, which made sense
since the Scars were immortal, but he definitely wasn’t an old-world English
gentleman. More like a Highland Scot.
A long, jagged scar dragged from his
right brow to his ear and another across his neck, which attributed to the
scary factor. But that wasn’t what did it—that gave him character, it gave him
a story.
It was his eyes that really
intimidated, black and cold without a hint of compassion. And after spending a
night in an air duct with him, I knew, compassion was not part of his
disposition.
Actually, he’d been an asshole and
didn’t try to hide it.
“Get up.”
I didn’t move.
I didn’t know what to do. He’d used
me before, so I guessed he was here to use me again, although the reason was
unclear because my husband didn’t have any Scars in his compound for this guy
to break out.
“Babe, don’t have time for this
shit. Get the fuck up.” He didn’t wait for me to get up, but bent, grabbed my
forearm, and hauled me to my feet with a rough yank. I landed against him, my
palms on his chest.
I quickly shoved back, but his hand
remained locked on my forearm, and he didn’t allow me further than arm’s
length. Staring, he performed a quick assessment, his dark eyes narrowing and
trailing down the front of me.
“You look like shit. Worse,
actually.” With the calloused pad of his thumb, he haphazardly wiped the tears
from my cheeks.
I had no response. I was confused as
to why he was here and how he managed to get into the basement and find me
without the alarms blaring.
He cupped my chin. “You hurt?”
Not really, but I was an emotional
wreck. Did that count?
“You need to answer me when I ask
you a question.”
He was right, I did, and not because
he told me to, but because there was a sliver of hope. I always had it. Most of
the time, it was buried deep, but when my eyes hit the Scar… it surfaced
whether I wanted it to or not.
So, that hope was him, and pissing
him off was going to kill it.
“No,” I said. He frowned. “I’m not
hurt.” Then I had a moment of bravery that came with the hope. “Ummm, why are
you here?”
“Isn’t it obvious?”
Not really. But the answer wasn’t
important, because he’d lied to me before, so no matter what he said, it was
highly probable it was complete bullshit. And so was my hope.
His jaw clenched and his eyes
narrowed; yet his hand on my chin was soft and gentle. “Do I need to fuckin’
carry you?”
What was he talking about? “Carry
me? Carry me where?”
His lips pursed together as he
glared at me with black, unforgiving eyes. “Listen, babe, I don’t feel like
becoming some guy’s lab rat, so I need you to pull your shit together, answer
my questions, stop asking them, and maybe we’ll get out of here alive.”
Get out of here? The hope plowed
back into me, but I was afraid to grab onto it because I didn’t dare believe
the Scar had come back to get me out of here. Why would he?
But there was something different in
him than three weeks ago. Maybe it was the way he gently wiped my tears away or
how he held me right now, his fingers no longer bruising, but holding me steady
as if he knew I needed the support.
He was tall, probably six foot two,
and I’d noticed when I was against his chest that my head tucked under his
chin. I also noticed, beneath his black T-shirt, he was rock-hard with ridges
and valleys of muscles.
His hand moved to the back of my
neck. It wasn’t exactly gentle, but more like he was attempting to get my
attention. He already had it, but I was still confused.
“You want to get out of this
pisshole? ‘Cause if you don’t, tell me now so I can leave you here and get the
fuck out.”
I tried to lower my head, but his
grip on the back of my neck tightened and I was forced to meet his eyes. “I
hate him.” Why did I say that? I mean, I did, but he didn’t ask me that.
His brows drew together and his grip
on my neck tightened. “Yeah, I got that, babe.”
Logically, I should be terrified of
him, yet I wasn’t. It was more nervousness than anything.
There was a hint of something I
recognized in his eyes that was oddly comforting. And I recognized it because
it was the same look I saw in myself; the haunting tornado of emotions trapped
behind a wall.
Our walls were very different,
though. His wall was a shield of anger. Mine was a shield of numbness.
He let me go, eyes scanning the
bathroom before grabbing my sweatshirt hanging on a hook on the wall. “Arms
up.” I did and he pulled it over my head. “It’s cold and you don’t have an
ounce of fat on you,” he said while his gaze traveled the length of my body.
“Jesus, you look like you’ll break in a gust of wind.” He swore beneath his
breath and shook his head. “You good to run?”
My legs felt like uncooked spaghetti
ready to crack in half at the slightest push and my heart beat erratically,
having to work hard to keep my body functioning. I was falling apart, so
probably the truth would be a hell no, but I nodded anyway.
He hesitated then nodded, as if
satisfied that, regardless of my lie, he thought I’d be able to at least keep
up.
He grabbed my hand and pulled me
from the bathroom, through the bedroom, to the door.
He pulled a knife from a leather
sheath at his hip and opened the door, peering out before looking back at me.
“Keep close. Lag behind and I’m not coming back for you. Understand?”
I nodded.
I didn’t trust him, but I did know
he would leave me because he’d done it before.
The fight inside me had died years
ago, as had the ability to trust anyone. I had trusted. I had fought. Neither
had done me any good. So now I trusted myself, and that meant killing parts of
who I was.
It meant protecting me.
Burying me.
“Babe?”
I snapped my eyes to his. For a
second, I thought his eyes softened, but it was more wishful thinking on my
part. He was probably thinking he’d just made the stupidest mistake of his life
by coming back here. Escaping my husband’s compound twice had a high
probability of failure.
His fingers curled around my fragile
hand, squeezed, then tugged me forward. “Let’s get the fuck out of this
shithole.”
STYGIAN IS NOW FREE ON ALL
RETAILERS
Amazon UK: http://amzn.to/1QzDg0X
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Meet Nashoda Rose
Nashoda
Rose is a New York Times and USA Today bestselling author who lives in Toronto
with her assortment of pets. She writes contemporary romance with a splash of
darkness, or maybe it’s a tidal wave.
When she
isn't writing, she can be found sitting in a field reading with her dogs at her
side while her horses graze nearby. She loves interacting with her readers and
chatting about her addiction—books.
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