Total pages in book: 50
Estimated words: 46785 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 234(@200wpm)___ 187(@250wpm)___ 156(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 46785 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 234(@200wpm)___ 187(@250wpm)___ 156(@300wpm)
Tristan is at the end of his rope.
Ready to meet his end.
But the reaper who comes for him does not take his soul.
He saves his life.
Gifted. Precious. Beautiful.
The moment Mort lays his empty eyes on Tristan, the reaper of souls knows he must save this one.
Tristan is a hot mess.
Mort is a cool, calm dominant.
Tristan can see demons…
Wait. Tristan can see demons? Tristan is the only mortal Mort has ever met with such a gift, and Mort soon becomes fascinated with this uncontrollably reckless, sensitive, wonderful, awful mortal man. Tristan is shocked to have met someone who can stand being around him for more than five minutes, someone who seems to find him not only interesting, but actually lovable. Not to mention, someone who can take him in hand and tame him down when he needs it.
There’s just one problem.
Besides Tristan’s many, many problems.
Tristan is marked.
You could say cursed.
He bears the seal of a secret god.
To possess his mortal mate, Mort must eliminate that claim before he can fully take Tristan as his own.
No amount of supernatural interference will be enough to stop a very grim reaper willing to do anything to possess his chosen mate.
Mort has taken millions of lives. The next one will belong to a god.
(Mort is a dark romance with themes of dominance, punishment, possession, and matters of mental health. Please consider the first four sentences of the blurb a trigger warning.)
*************FULL BOOK START HERE*************
1
A young man stood on his porch, trying to throw a rope up and over a beam. He was shirtless and in boxers. Mort was presented the sight of his musculature working in the sweaty evening, a gleaming sheen that highlighted the sinewy lines of his body. There was something very innocent about the sight, even as his face contorted with frustration when the end of the rope flopped back down on the wrong side of the rafter. A soft sob made its way to Mort, the only wet thing in an ocean of dry.
The man did not notice he was being watched. They never did. They were always so preoccupied with bringing an end to things. They thought they were alone. But he was always there. It was one of the many sorrows of his business, watching the lie of isolation claim lives.
“Are you really quitting?”
Mort looked over his shoulder. His cousin was standing behind him. Kitten hissed at the dog-headed Anubis and took refuge in Mort’s hood. Mort glanced at Anubis briefly, then turned his attention back to the suicide.
“Yes.”
“So why are you here?” Anubis always spoke in a soft growl.
“Coincidence.”
His cousin smiled, sharp canines flashing in desert sun. “We both know better than to believe in coincidences. You are here because you are meant to be here.”
“You can go,” Mort said. “I have this in hand.”
“But you are no longer conducting souls. You are no longer a psychopomp. What good can you do him?”
“You can go,” Mort repeated, his teeth gritted, the hollow of his eye flashing dark for a moment in a revelation of his true self. “I have this in hand.”
“How? Oh. Ohhhhh….” The last oh was drawn out in a kind of mocking pity. “Oh, you’re not going to try to save him, are you? How perfectly pathetic.”
The man had succeeded in finally getting the end of his rope over the rafter, an achievement that bought him no joy whatsoever. He tugged on the rope, finding it suitably sturdy. He then began to construct the wrong kind of knot.
Mort stood in the driveway and watched while the kitten in his hood purred. He observed the man closely, his gaze taking in the way his dirty blond hair fell just shy of his shoulders. Sweat was beading in the bristle along his jawline. He hadn’t shaved. His physique was powerful, but not bulky. He had the frame of a survivor, in spite of the fact he was very much engaged in attempting the opposite.
He had no sense of his beauty or uniqueness. He did not see himself the way Mort did. His expression was contorted in the kind of self-reproach and loathing that showed he was actively hating himself even while trying to end himself. There was no compassion, no forgiveness, only a fixated, narrow view of what he imagined would be the end.
He was beauty trapped in human form, completely unappreciative of itself, and entirely incapable of such appreciation. Misery hung about him in a cloud so thick that to Mort’s eyes it seemed to fuzz the scene ever so slightly.
Mort ignored Anubis, stepped forward and into the fray of human suffering, putting one heavy booted foot on the lowest step. The wood creaked.
The man looking for his end turned around and stared at him.
“What do you want?”
The question was abrupt and rude, and it did not bother Mort one bit.
“Don’t,” Mort said.
They exchanged looks, and in those looks much was silently said. Mort felt the depth of the man’s despair and could offer little comfort. The man, for his part, suddenly felt the eternity of cold that stood behind Mort, the endless nothing. Many people flee from that sensation. He did not.
“Why not? Because life is worth living?”
“It won’t work.”
The man looked back at the rope again.
It was a little frustrating not knowing the man’s name. If Mort had been working, he would have had the book with all the names. Now he had nothing. He did not know if the man was a sinner or a saint, if he was heaven or hell bound. He did not even know if it was the man’s time.
This must be what it was to be human, to know absolutely nothing whatsoever and yet be forced to go about the place as if it all made sense.
He stepped up onto the porch and took the rope from the man’s hands. “Go inside,” he said. “Drink some lemonade.”
He had a feeling there would be lemonade inside in a pitcher the man’s mother used to own. It would be sweet and flat, and it would anchor him to life once more.
The man stared at him for a long moment, and then nodded mutely. He was content to be told what to do because he had not planned to be doing anything.