Title: The Ritual Author: Shantel Tessier Genre: Dark Contemporary Romance
The Chosen One
I vow. You vow. We vow.
Barrington University is home of the Lords, a secret society that requires their blood in payment. They are above all—the most powerful men in the world. They devote their lives to violence in exchange for power. And during their senior year, they are offered a chosen one.
People think growing up with money is freeing, but I promise you, it’s not. My entire life has been planned out for me. I never got the chance to do what I wanted until Ryat Alexander Archer came along and gave me an option for a better life. He offered me what no one else ever had—freedom.
I chose to be his. He made me believe that anyway, but it was just another lie. A way that the Lords manipulate you into doing what they want. After being sucked into the dark, twisted world of the Lords, I embraced my new role and allowed Ryat to parade me around like the trophy I was to him. But like all things, what started out as a game soon became a fight for survival. And the only way out was death.
Loyalty Freshman year at Barrington University I KNEEL IN the middle of the darkly lit room along with twenty other men. My hands are secured tightly behind my back with a pair of handcuffs. My shirt is torn, and blood drips from my busted lips. I’m panting, still trying to catch my breath while my heart beats like a drum in my chest. It’s hard to hear over the blood rushing in my ears, and I’m sweating profusely.
We were dragged out of our beds in the middle of the night to serve. Our freshman classes at Barrington University start in two weeks, but we already have to show our loyalty to the Lords.
“You will always have to prove yourself,”my father once told me. “You were each given a task,”the man calls out as he paces in front of us. His black combat boots slap against the concrete floor with each step, the sound echoing off the walls. “Kill or be killed. Now how many of you can fulfill it?”
“I can,” I state, lifting my head to stick my chin out in the warm and sticky air. Sweat covers my brow after the fight. It’s rigged. You are supposed to lose. The point is to wear you down. See just how much you have to give. How far you can go. I made sure to win mine. No matter what it took.
He smirks down at me like I’m fucking joking. “Ryat. You seem so confident in yourself.”
“I know what I’m capable of handling,”I say through gritted teeth. I don’t like being second-guessed. We were each raised for this—to be a Lord.
Wealth got us here.
Yet our determination will separate us by the time it’s over.
The man looks at the guy on my left and nods. The guy walks behind me and yanks me to stand by the back of my shirt. He undoes the cuffs, and I rip the shredded material up and over my head before dropping my hands to my sides when what I really want to do is rub my sore wrists.
Never show weakness. A Lord does not feel. He’s a machine.
The man steps up to me with a knife in hand. He holds it out handle first to me, his black eyes almost glowing with excitement. “Show us what you can do.”
Taking it from him, I walk over to the chair bolted to the floor. I yank the bloody sheet off the chair to reveal a man tied to it. His hands are cuffed behind his back, and his feet are spread wide and secured to the chair legs.
I’m not surprised I know him—he’s a Lord. Or was. The fact that he’s restrained tells me he’s not anymore. But that doesn’t change my orders.
Kill without questions.
You want to be powerful? Then you realize you are a threat to those who want your position. In order to succeed, you don’t have to be stronger, just deadlier.
The man shakes his head, his brown eyes pleading with me to spare his life. Multiple layers of duct tape are placed over his mouth—those who spill secrets will be silenced. He thrashes in his chair.
Walking behind him, I look down at his cuffed wrists. He wears a ring on his right hand; it’s a circle with three horizontal lines across the middle. It stands for power.
Not just anyone would know what it means, but I do. Because I wear the same one. Everyone in this room does. But just because you get one doesn’t mean you’ll keep it.
I reach down and grab his hand. He begins to shout behind the tape as he tries to fight me, but I remove the ring easily and walk back around to stand in front of him. “You don’t deserve this,”I say to him, placing it in my pocket. “You betrayed us, your brothers, yourself. The payment for that is death.”
When he throws his head back and screams into the tape, I press the knife to his neck, right below his jawline. His breathing fills the room, and his body strains, waiting for the first cut. A Lord does not show mercy. Blood and tears are what we demand from those who betray us.
Title: Tor Author: Jennie Lynn Roberts Series: The Hawks #4 Genre: Fantasy Romance
What is it about her that makes him lose his mind? Every. Damn. Time.
Tor’s world is falling apart. The king he’d sworn to guard? Dead. The family he worked so hard for? They certainly wasted no time disowning him. All he has left is the Hawks… and an intense desire to win Keely’s heart. It won’t be easy—especially after the mistake he made—but he has to try, because the alternative, living without her, is unthinkable.
Losing someone you love leads to nothing but pain; Keely learned that the hard way. But there is something about Tor that makes her wonder if loving him is worth the risk… if only he felt the same way. Now her best option is to create a new future on her own—no matter how much she might wish her relationship with Tor could be different.
But all is not well in Brythoria. The treaty still isn’t ratified, and the mountain border is filled with enemies poised to destroy them. Can Tor and Keely find their way back to each other? Or will their second chance at happily ever after burn in the fires of impending war?
Tor, book 4 in The Hawks series, is a sexy, steamy, adult fantasy romance full of swords, shifters (kind of), and tons of action. But fair warning: This book is intended only for readers who love fast-paced adventure, soul mates and found family—and characters who curse when they fight for survival. If that’s you, happy reading.
Tor found Keely in a small glade, the pale afternoon sunlight streaming around her. The ground was littered with fallen leaves, muffling his footsteps, but she still spun to face him before he’d fully entered the glade, lifting a crossbow, and pointing it straight at him.
He stopped instantly. Her grip was firm and confident, and if she released, he’d have a bolt through his heart in an instant.
They stared at each other for a moment, and then she lowered the crossbow, pointing it safely away toward the ground at her side. Her posture was one of strength and experience, even though she still seemed to be protecting her shoulder slightly, and he remembered her mentioning that she had some skill with shooting.
“Archery?” he asked, stepping closer.
She raised one eyebrow. “I wasn’t allowed weapons in the palace. I’ve been feeling out of practice.”
Bloody Ballanor. He could only imagine how awful it had been for Keely, a maid, with no status, no power, and not even a weapon to defend herself, in Ballanor’s court.
“No wonder you hated it,” he admitted quietly.
“Hated what?” she asked in her soft Verturian accent.
“Hated Ballanor. The court. Brythoria.” He paused, not wanting to include the guards, although he knew he should. “All of it.”
She shrugged again. “At least it’s over.” She hefted the crossbow in her hand, taking its weight. “And now I’ve got a weapon.”
He grunted. “I see that.”
She raised her eyebrows, waiting for him to say more.
“I’m glad,” he admitted.
She grinned back at him, pleased with his answer, and he couldn’t help adding, “You said that you shoot.” Gods. Mathos was right, he did have a habit of stating the obvious. But the obvious always seemed so much safer than saying anything else.
“Yes, I used to. I’d like to start again.”
Late afternoon sunshine streaked across the small glade and the trees were filled with the evening calls of birds, and suddenly it didn’t seem so quiet anymore.
He stepped closer, wishing he could have put a crossbow in her hands long before, wishing he could apologize for the time she’d spent in Ballanor’s court, but unable to find the right words.
Gods, she was so strong. And so beautiful. The golden sunlight caught her hair like a halo, and he ached to run his hand through the silky strands. When he’d pulled her into his arms in the moat, her damp hair had smelled of heather—woody and slightly floral—and he wondered if that soft scent would surround him if he gave in and reached for her.
How many hours had he spent remembering the torture of cutting her jerkin away? Balancing the knife so that it cut smoothly, never jarring her or pressing into her more than he absolutely had to. Utterly, acutely aware of her. Every breath, every movement. The way her elegant hands gripped the blanket, like a woman might grip her sheets as she lost herself in pleasure. If he had leaned forward, just an inch, he would have been able to run his tongue over that perfect skin; pink and flushed from the cold.
“Shall we have a competition, then?” she asked eventually.
Yes, they had to do something. Because otherwise he was going to take another step forward, and another, and then he would be close enough to touch her. He had to remind himself that he had no right to touch her. No right to reach toward her, despite how much he wanted to. How desperately he wanted some of her light to shine on him, to ease the cold he’d wrapped himself in.
Jennie Lynn Roberts believes that every strong, kickass heroine should have control of her own story, a swoony hero to support her at every turn, and a guaranteed happily ever after. Because that doesn’t always happen in real life, she began creating her own worlds that work just the way they should. And she hasn’t looked back since.
Jennie would rather be writing than doing anything else—except for spending time with her gorgeous family, of course. But when she isn’t building vibrant new worlds, she can be found nattering with friends, baking up a storm, or strolling in the woods around her home in England.
If you want to talk books, romance, movies, reluctant heroes, or just about anything else with Jennie, feel free to contact her atwww.jennielynnroberts.com. But be prepared to settle in for a long chat if you bring up shifters, vampires, Star Wars, or The Princess Bride….
Raw heat is still streaking through my body just from the mere handshake.
I don’t think I’ve ever seen a more perfect man.
Eyes the shade of a crow’s wing are locked on mine, and full symmetrical lips quirk up into a mercurial smile.
His face is all angles with high exotic cheekbones and a chiseled jaw you’d find on a storybook prince. The bright morning sun shines over his skin, making it look like the sun kissed it that color bronze.
The gray streaks in his beard, hairline, and temples only serve to highlight his beauty and strength in what I can see of the rest of his body. As if to highlight that his perfection came with age and he’ll look even better and better, and sexier, the older he gets. The silver hoop in his ear tames him a fraction, adding to his style but also conjuring the image of a pirate in my mind. It gives a glimpse of the conquering cartel king he is.
Of course, I was given a picture of Alejandro Ramírez before coming to this ill-fated interview. So, I already knew he looks like a seamless blend of Antonio Banderas and my all-time favorite Mexican actor Eduardo Verástegui.
Alejandro is what they would look like if they were one person.
The lucid image makes me wonder if I really am stuck in a fucked-up rendition of a dark fairytale. One where he is the prince and I’m the villain, or maybe everyone is the antithesis to good in this story.
