 by Suzanne Wright.jpg)
Total pages in book: 129
Estimated words: 121324 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 607(@200wpm)___ 485(@250wpm)___ 404(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 121324 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 607(@200wpm)___ 485(@250wpm)___ 404(@300wpm)
Wynter is a witch who sought safe haven for herself and her coven in Devil's Cradle. Founded by seven Ancient beings, the Home of Monsters provides protection, shelter, and will never give you up to outsiders . . . providing you pay the Ancients' substantial fee. Wynter already wears the brand of Cain - the mark that she is in his service and that her soul partly belongs to him. But as their relationship deepens, Wynter has to make a choice from which there's no turning back.
Cain cannot reveal the nightmare which lives inside him, the beast that could tear apart the woman who means more to him than he ever thought possible. But with his brother Abel out for revenge, and the suspicious reappearance of his parents Adam and Eve, Cain sees that Devil's Cradle is on the verge of war. As the stakes are raised, Cain knows he needs more than anything to keep Wynter safe and by his side - forever.
*************FULL BOOK START HERE*************
Walking along the plaza’s cobbled path, Wynter Dellavale cast a sideways glance at the pretty blonde beside her. “Relax, nothing bad is going to happen.”
“Famous last words,” Anabel muttered, tense as a bow. “I don’t know why you and Delilah couldn’t have made the shopping trip for me. You know how much I hate being up here on the surface.” Rubbing at her shoulder, she nervously glanced around as if someone might leap out of the evening shadows at any given moment. Just about everything made Anabel anxious. Even herself.
“It’s not good for you to never step foot out of the cottage,” said Wynter. “We’ve been over this already.”
“But I’m safe at home.”
“You’re safe out here, too.”
Anabel’s brows snapped together. “Where death lurks around every corner? Puhlease.”
Wynter rolled her eyes. The problem with Anabel was that her soul remembered each of her past lives and, therefore, each of her past deaths—all of which were allegedly violent. The blonde had never lived past the age of thirty and didn’t expect to do so in this lifetime either. Hence the paranoia.
If left to her own devices, Anabel would remain in either her bedroom or their kitchen while brewing potions. She would also use herself as a test subject while creating new concoctions if unsupervised. That tended to have after-effects, both short-term and long-term . . . which might or might not account for why the woman believed she was the reincarnation of Bloody Mary. Wynter couldn’t be sure.
“You know—and this is just a suggestion—maybe you don’t have to be so insistent that death has our coven in its sights,” said Wynter.
Anabel gave her wide eyes. “I’m telling you, its ice-cold breath is fanning my neck as we speak. Don’t give me that look. People try to kill us, like, all the time.”
“Fugitives generally have that problem,” Wynter pointed out.
She and Anabel had first met after being kidnapped by the same bounty hunters that also snatched the rest of their coven. Wynter hadn’t expected the captives to stay with her after she helped them escape. Nor had she thought that they’d propose they form a coven—one Delilah had named the Bloodrose Coven. They had elected Wynter as their Priestess, ignoring her objections, and she’d eventually decided to just go with it.
Anabel snorted. “The prices on our heads are the least of our problems now that we’re caught in the middle of a long-standing war between the Ancients and the Aeons.”
That was true. There was a lot of beef between the two camps of immortals. Millennia-old beef, in fact. All part of the first civilization, they’d once resided together in the town of Aeon. A war broke out back then, and seven survivors of the losing side were permitted to live but dumped here. Which sounded merciful, but there was far more to it than that. And it wasn’t good.
“But hey, of course you’re not worried for your life,” said Anabel with a little huff. “Why would you be? You can’t die. Me, though? I can.”
Wynter felt a frown tug at her brow. “I die. I just . . . come back.”
Few things could permanently kill a revenant—something she’d become when a deity had come to a dying ten-year-old Wynter and offered to send a monster after the boys who’d attacked her.
Kali occasionally made such offers if She felt that a witch’s death was an injustice. When She made Her offer to Wynter, the deity hadn’t specified that Wynter would return to life and be a vessel for that monster. One that wreaked vengeance like a master.
“Well, the rest of us don’t come back,” said Anabel. “And I’d appreciate it if you remember that the next time you think of putting me in the path of danger like this.”
Wynter crossed her eyes. “Enough of the dramatics. You’re fine. I’m fine.”
“For now. That can change in an instant, my friend.”
Wynter metaphorically threw up her arms. Really, she knew better than to waste her time trying to get Anabel to think past her mistrust of the world. It was too ingrained in her at this point.
In truth, Wynter didn’t have a whole lot of room to judge. She might not be a ball of paranoia, but she was just as hypervigilant—hence why she once more scanned their surroundings.
Smack bang in the middle of nowhere, Devil’s Cradle was framed by lakes, woods, and steep mountains. Taking in the many houses of varying colors, shapes, and sizes, she was again struck by how the town somehow resembled both a coastal village and a military compound. There were bars, restaurants, and plenty of stores within and around the plaza. Pastureland, warehouses, and utility structures lay beyond.
Wynter had grown very fond of the primal, untamed landscape that surrounded them. She liked looking at the hills and crooks and tall, multi-colored rock spires. The badlands possessed a haunting beauty that outweighed the lush, colorful, picture-perfect land of Aeon. She’d spent most of her years there along with her old coven. Until they’d gone and ostracized her, the pricks.