Title: Dragonfly
Author: Lana Sky
Genre: Contemporary Romance
Release
Date: November 14, 2015
Cover
Design: Imogenary
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Synopsis
Sheltered by an overprotective family, Amy
Sager—a shy twenty something poet from Canada—just wanted to break out of her
shell and be free to live her own life. What better way to assert her newfound
independence than by moving to San Francisco?
However, when she meets a tall, blood-drenched
stranger she gets more than she bargained for. Jackie is everything she should never
want. Violence, lies, and even murder taint this strange man, but she finds herself
irresistibly drawn to him…like a moth to flame.
When their relationship strains her loyalty and his
livelihood, it isn't long before violence consumes her independence and Amy’s quest
for freedom turns into just another story of a good girl caught on the wrong side of
the tracks, too far gone to turn back.
Excerpt
The scent clashes with the harsh aroma of sesame
seed oil, coffee, and chai tea, burning the inside of my nostrils. I find myself sniffing
deeper without meaning to, breathing him in—though I don’t dare look up from the
book lying open on my lap, and I never stop reading aloud.
“These violent delights have violent ends...” My
voice trails off as my grip on the page slips, accidentally smudging a neat row of
printed font. Just like that, Shakespeare becomes a black stain on my sweat-soaked
fingers, and I can’t stop thinking the same thing over and over again.
It has to be a lot of blood.
So thick, that the smell churns my stomach. I have
to breathe in through my mouth, which doesn’t really help me escape the other
flavors wafting from his corner. Smoke. Not exactly like that from a cigarette…it’s
more pungent than that. Acrid—as if someone dumped lit charcoal on my tongue,
and I’m instantly reminded of the time Rory took me to his precinct’s gun range on
some misguided attempt to help me “break out of my shell.”
I will always remember that sound. The weight of
the weapon in the palm of my hand. The smell that filled my lungs the moment I’d
pulled the trigger.
The man watching me from the back of the semi-
crowded restaurant smells like blood. He tastes like gun smoke. He has eyes like
midnight that watch impatiently as I fidget beneath the spotlight.
“And in their triumph die.”
Scattered applause erupts from the audience, but
it’s noticeably halfhearted. Rather than read one of my own poems, I’d recited a
classic; the ultimate cop-out. Boo. Hiss. Snore.
On another night, I’d die of embarrassment and
swear to try harder next time. Tonight, I’m shaking for an entirely different reason
as I scramble up from the stool and make my way off stage. May, the host of Feng
Noodle House’s poetry night, smiles at me. I try my best to smile back, but I can’t
quite make my lips move when my eyes are too busy drifting in the opposite
direction.
To him. His hands are hidden within the pockets of a
black leather jacket, which shields most of his bulky frame. He’s paired it with a
simple pair of jeans…but there are even darker splotches speckling the denim. They
catch my eye and send my brain scrambling to come up with a logical explanation.
The result of the earlier rainstorm? Or the cause of that fucking smell?
Breathe. The silent command helps. I
suck in air and blow it out as I make my way through the narrow dining room while
someone else takes the vacated stage. Her poem is original, and she
recites each word clearly, displaying a distinct flow—though I only hear the opening
line: “Life is but a series of cruel intentions…”
It’s still enough to resonate inside me, more deeply
than Shakespeare’s words ever could as I shove my tattered copy of Romeo
and Juliet into my bag.
Life is a series of cruel intentions. Some
inflicted by others. Some we inflict upon ourselves. Like the way I take the time to
button up my coat before palming the brass handle of the main door. For a moment,
it’s almost like I’m a normal woman preparing for a normal walk home from a night
of humiliating herself for the umpteenth time.
A normal woman who isn’t counting the
heavy, abnormal footsteps following in her wake. One. Two. Ten. Fifty.
It’s like my shadow has substance, matching me step
for step with every inch that I travel toward my apartment. Some nights, it’s easier
to pretend that the sounds are just from the many other commuters heading
home—I’m not the only person in the world, after all. If I try hard enough at make-
believe, I can imagine that there is no specter who creeps closer once my apartment
building comes into view. Neither is there any suspiciously warm air ghosting the
back of my neck. Or the hand that shoots out the moment I reach for the battered
door to my building, pinning it in place.
“Will you let me in tonight?” The voice is
gruff—male—and the name he calls me isn’t in English. On his tongue, it sounds like
“woo deep moie.”
Butterfly girl.
Altogether, it’s such a cheesy line that I choke on
something that could have been a laugh in another setting. Tonight, however, when
paired with the blood—God, I can taste it now that he’s this close—the words take
on a bitter edge. There’s a challenge hidden in his tone. A challenge that’s always
there, no matter how many times we play out the same scenario.
“Have you wised up, Amy?”
I mull that question over. It’s late, and it’s quiet
enough to hear the sounds that drift through the paper-thin walls of the building.
Someone coughs. A woman laughs. A television blares. My fingers tremble as they
clutch my canvas messenger bag, and I shift it to my other shoulder in an attempt to
hide the nerves.
“You’re afraid,” he deduces, each word heating the
back of my neck like the blast from a furnace.
“You’re bleeding,” I counter, lowering my voice to a
whisper.
Drip. Drip. I swear I can hear each
telltale drop hitting the pavement while a familiar urgency shakes me to the
core. Let him in, damn it! For some reason, it’s so much harder this
time to wrestle one of my hands from my side and use it to swat his away. As he
withdraws, I curl my grip around the metal handle and pull the door open, revealing
a narrow hallway, painted gray.
“Come in.” I choke out the words, but he’s already
on my heels, driving me up the three flights of stairs to my flat.
About Lana
Sky
Lana Sky is a reclusive writer in the United States
who spends most of her time daydreaming about complex male characters and
legless cats. She writes mostly paranormal romance, in between watching reruns of
Ab Fab and drinking iced tea. Only iced tea.
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