Angelbound

Lincoln sets his knuckle beneath my chin, gently guiding my mouth toward his. Our lips brush; warmth blossoms though my chest.

On second thought, maybe unexpected invitations work out great in the long run. “But if the thrax High Prince asks me, I suppose I can’t say no.”

Lincoln slides his hand up my neck, pressing us into a deep kiss. “Come to me at Arx Hall.” His voice is low and sweet.

“I really don’t know when I’ll–”

“Whenever you can. I’ll be waiting.” Tilting his head, he looks at me from his slate-blue eye. “Say yes.”

Warmth and love radiate through me. “Yes.”





The story continues in the second book of the Angelbound Series. Pre-order your copy now for delivery on May 13th, 2014 by visiting: www.inkmonster.net/angelbound





Acknowledgements


If you’re reading my freaking acknowledgements, chances are, I should thank you for something. So, for the record: you are awesome, dear reader. In the unlikely event that I forgot to thank you, it’s only because my manuscript was due to conversion two hours ago and I’m a wee bit frantic. My bad.

That said, huge and heartfelt thanks must go out to my husband and son for their rock-solid support. Writing Angelbound meant a lot of early mornings, late nights, long weekends, and never-ending patience from you both. You two are the best guys in the universe, period.

After that, I must thank the extensive network of readers and reviewers who helped me build my writing chops in general, and this book in particular; that would be Aileen Latcham, Aileen Latcham, and Aileen Latcham. You are the Editorial Monster extraordinaire; I simply would never have done this without you.

Finally, deep affection goes out to my late, much loved, and dearly missed Aunt Sandy and Uncle Henry. You saw the writer in me, always. Thank you, first and last.





Copyright ? 2013 by Ink Monster LLC

All rights reserved. This book or any portion thereof may not be reproduced or used in any manner whatsoever without the express written permission of the publisher except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

ISBN 9780989405003

Ink Monster, LLC.

34 Chandler Place

Newton, MA 02464

www.inkmonster.net





Contents


Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

Chapter Nineteen

Chapter Twenty

Chapter Twenty-One

Chapter Twenty-Two

Chapter Twenty-Three

Chapter Twenty-Four

Chapter Twenty-Five

Chapter Twenty-Six

Chapter Twenty-Seven

Chapter Twenty-Eight

Acknowledgements





Chapter One


It’s been one month, three days, and six hours since I last ‘got my gladiator on’ and battled in the Arena. Not that I’m obsessing or anything. Sure, I can sneak in and watch someone else fight, but that’s a snore.

I roll over on my dingy bed, scooch under the drab covers, and watch the gray drizzle outside my window. Mondays are the pits.

Mom’s voice echoes into my bedroom. “Time to get up! You don’t want to be late for school, do you, honey?”

I roll my eyes. Of course, I want to be late for school.

Raising my head, I open my mouth to say just that, and then decide against it. Instead, I bite my lower lip, yank the pillow over my head and groan. Loudly.

“Don’t make noises at me, young lady.” Mom rustles papers in the kitchen. “I’ve a letter right here. You’re on something called the Official Watch List for Unreasonable Tardiness.” Her footsteps echo down the hall and pause outside my room. “You’ll be suspended from high school at this rate. What do you think about that?”

I peep out from under my pillow. Mom looms in my doorway, her fist set on her hip. She’s a quasi-demon like me, so she resembles a lovely human with a curvy figure, amber skin, chocolate-brown eyes, and chestnut hair that falls in waves over her shoulders. All quasis have a tail; Mom and I both sport the long and pointed variety. The big differences between us are laugh lines, some grey hair and our opinion of what’s ‘dangerous’ for eighteen-year olds.

I fluff the pillow and slide it under my noggin. Being suspended means no school. Maybe even catching a few Arena matches on the sly. I wag my eyebrows. “And suspension would be bad because?”

“I’d make it that way.”

Ugh. She would, too.

Off go my covers. “This is me getting up.”

“Good.” Mom stomps away.

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