DARK
PROTECTOR
By Celia Aaron
Genre: Contemporary Romance
Release
Date: February 27, 2017
From the moment
I saw her through the window of her flower shop, something other than darkness
took root inside me. Charlie shone like a beacon in a world that had long since
lost any light. But she was never meant for me, a man that killed without remorse
and collected bounties drenched in blood.
I thought
staying away would keep her safe, would shield her from me. I was wrong. Danger
followed in my wake like death at a slaughter house. I protected her from the
threats that circled like black buzzards, kept her safe with kill after kill.
But everything
comes with a price, especially second chances for a man like me.
Killing for her
was easy. It was living for her that turned out to be the hard part.
Author's Note:
This is a full-length romance novel. Explicit violence and hot sex included.
HEA, no cheating.
“Look.” He
pulled his pistol from its holster, laid it on the dresser, and began
unbuttoning his shirt. “I realize this isn’t optimal for either of us. You
don’t want to be here.”
I tried not to
stare at the gun, but I was already trying to figure out if I could get to it
before he could.
“You can’t.” He
glanced at the gun then back to me. “I’ll always win.”
“Always?” I
edged toward the door to what looked like a bathroom.
He sighed,
weariness heavy on his exhale. “Yes. It’s what I do.”
“You kill? Is
that what you mean?”
His face
hardened, a muscle ticking in his jaw. At that moment, I realized how truly
terrifying he could be. Built like a solid wall of muscle, at least six foot
five, with a handsome face and eyes that went cold in a heartbeat. I swallowed
hard and bumped into the doorframe at my back.
“I’m going to
need to patch this.” He jerked his chin toward his shoulder, but kept his eyes
on me. “But first, I’m going to take care of your nose and get you cleaned up.”
“First, you need
to tell me why I’m even here.” I couldn’t keep the shrill notes from my voice.
“Why did Berty take me? Why is this happening?”
He reached
behind his head and pulled his shirt off in a singularly masculine move. His
abs flexed, and his bare chest looked carved and hardened. Black ink trailed
around his arms and met in the center of his chest. “Death before dishonor” was
written between his pecs with a flourishing script. His fingers had individual
letters on each one. Scars dotted his body—some long gashes with dots on either
side from stitches, others that were rounded or jagged. He was a battlefield,
his story told with blood and scar tissue.
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