“What about her?” the Troll asked his tiny, elven companion, who responded by quirking a brow and sticking out her tongue.
“Are you serious? Look at her! Hardly attractive at all,” she pouted, staring up at his outlined form.
The two stood, stealthed and hiding in the bushes off of the road in the Ghostlands. “Look, girl, yer new ta d’is. Sometimes ja can’t be so choosy.”
Amarice walked along the bridge out of Stormwind, her head hung low. Her little reading turned out to have the opposite effect on her than what she hoped. She’d hoped it would clear her mind and heart, help get Marasy from her thoughts. Instead it made her chest swell with pain. Thinking about it more drove her to pick up her pace, walking away from the city faster.
As she neared the gates, she let the scrap of paper with her writing on it fall into the water under the bridge. She didn’t want to be reminded anymore today. Wearing her white dress she felt vulnerable and alone, she missed the comfort of her mail and suddenly wished she hadn’t rushed out of town so fast.
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Outcast (Stockholm Syndrome Dark Romance) As a half demon, she was always alone, abused and used by men who hated her for her parentage. Elin faces an exile within an exile just to continue her meager existence, especially as the four bandits have to hide out in the mountains for months. She was almost grateful it had taken this long for the three men to turn on her. But when a helping hand of one of her rapists is extended to her, breaking a lifetime of precedence, can she dare hope that it might mark a change in her fortunes? Or is even a minor act of kindness too good to be true? A twisted love story that will wrench your heart and tease your loins. Warning: This work contains extremely graphic scenes of violence and sex in a dark fantasy environment, and is intended for adult readers. An erotic novella of over 20k words. |
Excerpt:
The beauty of the valley below with its blue river snaking through grass and soil was lost on the trio of wandering bandits. It had instead become a focal point of bitterness and longing. Months spent fleeing the law, struggling for supplies, and desperately hunting prey had rubbed all of their nerves raw, and arriving back to the tented camp did little to buoy their spirits.
As they walked into their cranny in the snow-capped mountain side, Odir’s sword clattered to the stones outside the animal-hide tent. Ara’bor turned about, his penetrating glare upon the younger man, “Ka’pah!” he cursed in his native tongue, a metal and wolf fur-lined hand striking him across the face brutally, “Treat’cha weapon—an’ our privacy—wit’ more care!”
