BAD SAINT
Volume One
Monica James
I was
kidnapped on my honeymoon by three masked men.
Blindfolded.
Bound.
Destination
unknown.
I was told
to stay silent and abide by their rules. But they didn’t realize I wasn’t a
victim…not anymore.
The open
sea was my backdrop for nine torturous days. During that time, glimmers of my
fate were revealed by a man with the mysterious chartreuse-colored eyes. He
should have scared me, but he didn’t.
He
intrigued me. And I intrigued him.
He punished
me when I didn’t listen, which was every single day. But beneath his cruelty, I
sensed he was guarding a grave secret.
I was sold.
And in a game of poker, no less.
My buyer? A Russian mobster who
likes to collect pretty things. Now that I know the truth, I only have one choice.
Sink or swim.
And when one fateful night presents
me the opportunity, I take it. I just never anticipated my actions would leave
me shipwrecked with my kidnapper.
He needs me alive. I want him dead.
But as days turn into weeks, one
thing becomes clear—I should hate him…but I don’t.
My name is Willow.
His name is Saint.
Ironic, isn’t it? He bears a name that denotes nothing
but holiness yet delivers nothing but hell. However, if this is hell on
earth…God, save my soul.
Release
date: May 6th 2019
Series: All
The Pretty Things Trilogy, Volume One
Genre: Dark
Romance
Cover
Designer: Sommer Stein— Perfect
Pear Creative Covers
Pre-Order
Links
Kindle: https://tinyurl.com/yxe58q3p
Nook: https://tinyurl.com/y4app8va
Kobo: https://tinyurl.com/y58j4j5l
iBooks: https://tinyurl.com/y3feoblp
Goodreads: https://bit.ly/2TyDsWT
UK
Kindle: https://tinyurl.com/y6rjcost
Australia
Kindle: https://tinyurl.com/y4nuggl3
Canada
Kindle: https://tinyurl.com/y2b7du7b
Bio
Monica
James spent her youth devouring the works of Anne Rice, William Shakespeare,
and Emily Dickinson.
When she
is not writing, Monica is busy running her own business, but she always finds a
balance between the two. She enjoys writing honest, heartfelt, and turbulent
stories, hoping to leave an imprint on her readers. She draws her inspiration
from life.
She is a bestselling
author in the U.S.A., Australia, Canada, France, Germany, Israel, and the U.K.
Monica
James resides in Melbourne, Australia, with her wonderful family, and menagerie
of animals. She is slightly obsessed with cats, chucks, and lip gloss, and
secretly wishes she was a ninja on the weekends.
Stalk Me!
Twitter: https://twitter.com/monicajames81
Goodreads: https://www.goodreads.com/MonicaJames
Website: http://monicajamesbooks.blogspot.com.au
Pinterest: http://www.pinterest.com/monicajames81
BookBub: http://bit.ly/2E3eCIw
Amazon: https://amzn.to/2EWZSyS
Excerpt:
The pillowcase and gag
are certain to kill me soon, and if not, my racing heart will give out in next
to no time. Arms link through mine from behind and help me stand. I know it’s the American. His fragrance gives him away. I
stand wearily, but I will stagger to my death before anyone carries me.
“Ten steps,” the
American whispers from behind me. I flinch at his muffled voice through the
pillowcase. He stands at my back, ensuring I don’t fall. I could mistake his
actions for him giving half a shit, but it’s clear that wherever I’m going,
they need me alive. If not, they would have killed me already.
This isn’t a robbery.
It’s a kidnapping.
Once I shakily descend
the ten steps, my feet hit the sand, and in any other circumstance, I could
appreciate the softness between my toes. But when I’m pushed and shoved as the
American no longer seems to be near, all I can appreciate is that I’m not
dead—well, not yet anyway.
Through the pillowcase,
I can hear the gentle lapping of the ocean against the shore, but it’s none the
wiser that three criminals are about to use it to aid in changing my world
forever. When my feet tread water, I jolt with the sudden fear that they’re
going to drown me. But that doesn’t make any sense.
If I’m going to survive
this, I have to keep my head clear.
“Boat. In,” says
someone, maybe Russian two or one. They all sound the same.
I’m yanked up—someone
pulling on my floppy arms while the other lifts my legs—and I feel like a chew
toy being ripped into two. Once I’m dragged onto the boat, I’m directed on
where to go as someone shoves me in the back, screaming at me in a language I
don’t understand.
I’m then forced down
some stairs where I lose my footing and fall flat onto my stomach. Grunting on
impact, I instantly search around, hoping to distinguish where I am—I’m in the
bottom of the boat. The galley.
“Stay,” someone
commands, ensuring I be the good dog they
clearly see me as being.
Fuck
them.
I rise slowly, using my
hands as eyes as I feel my way around blindly. I need to find a weapon. One
small enough to hide. Blood is seeping into my eyes from the wound on my
temple, so I close them because I can’t see through this thick pillowcase
anyway.
My fingers come into
contact with what feels like a small torch. Not the weapon I had in mind, but
it’ll have to do.
I’m interrupted when I
hear someone tsk me before I’m being
dragged by my long hair and hurled against what feels like a cushioned bench
seat. The pain in my head just amplifies. “Arms behind. Hands together.”
I shakily comply, sobbing
around the gag.
He reaches around me,
and when the unmistakable feel of metal snaps around my wrists, I know my
freedom is dwindling by the second. He yanks at the handcuffs to ensure they
are tight. They are.
My breathless panting
reveals my fear, but when I feel the predatory touch at the back of my calves,
I freeze. Two hands glide up and down my flesh, humming in satisfaction. He’s
on his knees before me.
Oh, god.
“You pretty.” His
English is broken, but I’m not lost in translation. I know what he wants.
“We going to have fun, and it’ll be our
secret.” Next, I feel a wet tongue lap its
way up the side of my calf. The smell of cigarettes and sweat has my stomach
roiling.
Adrenaline takes over,
and I attempt to kick him, but he’s too fast, chuckling as he pushes down on my
ankles. He then begins to bound them with coarse rope.
Once he tugs at my
restraints, it sounds like he stands. I try to kick my feet out, but they’re tied
to something hard beneath me. I’m bound. Hands and feet. And gagged. I’m not
going anywhere.
“She tied up?” I almost
sigh in relief when I hear the American. He was the only one who showed me an
iota of mercy. The other two scare me. The American doesn’t.
“Yes, like a present.
You want to unwrap her?”
I suddenly feel so
objectified and dirty and attempt to recoil, but I can’t move. My heart is
racing, and my breathing is uneven. The tears have long dried as I’m awaiting
their next move.
“Shut the fuck up and
let’s go.”
That was not the
response I was expecting. The Russian laughs.
“Calm down, Đ½ĐµÑƒĐ´Đ°Ñ‡Đ½Đ¸Đº.”
“Fuck you. Up on deck
now.” The American talks big and seems to be calling the shots. I wonder who he
is?
My only clue to what’s
going on is what I hear, and before the hatch closes, I’m presented with clue
number one. “Be in Turkey soon. I hope you don’t get seasick, Saint.” Then the
hatch closes, leaving me with the sound of the muted voices above me.
Turkey? Why are we
going there? But more importantly, I just uncovered the name of my American
captor…Saint.
Ironic, isn’t it, that
someone who bears a name denoting nothing but holiness can deliver nothing but
hell.
Bon
voyage.
No comments:
Post a Comment