Shara Azod

Her scars ran so deep, her soul had been severed in two. Michelene had killed and run—but not far enough, or fast enough. They’d found her. Azriel had but one rule. No attachments. This rule had kept him alive. He’d lived by it—until her. She’d found her savior in a man whose past was even darker than her own and whose soul held shadows of that dark. He made her body explode in ways she’d never imagined possible and gave her heart something she’d long given up... hope. Michelene was his saving grace. The only thing which kept the darkness from consuming him. She was his to protect and cherish. God help anyone who challenged that--because Vengeance would be his. EXCERPT: There wasn’t time to cringe. In a split second, she saw something flash in her mystery man’s eyes—something dark and deadly. Sensing he was about to move, her hand shot to his shoulder, her heart pounding as she tried to communicate her desperate plea with her eyes. “Please don’t." The panic that was squeezing her throat wasn’t because she was afraid for Vic; she could care less about that greasy pig. Nor was she concerned this man could be hurt. She knew she couldn’t afford scrutiny. She’d managed to be virtually unseen for four years; it had to remain that way. It was amazing this man didn’t know who she was. “Vic’s an ass, but he’s harmless.” Her words weren’t moving him in the least. There was no visible change in his manner, but Michelene sensed he was growing more pissed, more dangerous. “He’s never laid a hand on me.” That worked. She felt his tension drain a bit, while he stared pointedly at where her hand rested on him. She didn’t move it. Slowly, he turned those ghostly eyes back to her face. “If he talks to you like that again, I will end him.” Would most women feel the same thrill she did at his words? Not having much experience with “normal” people, Michelene really couldn’t say. But she certainly felt thrilled right down to her toes. Pussy clenching, she knew she needed to put a little space between them before she did something that would garner even more attention. Before it came to that, she tried to move, but found her arm caught in a vise made of hot flesh. “Your name,” he growled, his piercing glare keeping her rooted to the spot every bit as much as his hold. “Michelene,” she whispered back, not even considering giving him a fake name. Besides, she was sick of not being herself. There was something about him, a danger, a certain “off-ness” that called to her, told her she could be herself around him. “Nice to meet you, Michelene.” There went that smile again. Just that tiny sign of approval succeeded in melting her formerly icy insides. “I’m Azriel Seth.”

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