One of the great things about being a writer is you get to meet so many other great writers. One of those is Poppet, best known for her dark and psychological books. She has a deep interest in, and knowledge of, religion and mythology, both of which are recurrent themes in her work.
Her new ‘Valhalla’ series is paranormal romance and it’s my pleasure to announce the second book – Master of Umbra.
Inducted into the mysterious Eagle clan of the Scottish highlands, Deliah is torn between her fate and destiny when kin clash for her affections. Falling for the scandalous villain who heads the Berserkers of the Hebrides, her fragile hope is snuffed out early by revelation and impending war.
The only mantra she can cling to is the one uttered in heartfelt promise; that love comes back.
Because that’s what love does.
If you leave me a comment, you’ll be in the draw to win a copy of the book. Tell me if you’d prefer a kindle file, or a pdf.
Entries close at midnight (my time) 15th June. I’ll draw a winner on 16th June.
“What do you want?” he snaps, in that impatient drawl.
“Er… I can’t get confrontational in the dark,” I mumble, losing courage.
“I bet you’re plenty confrontational in the dark.” Gripping my arm in the ‘master is not pleased’ grind, he marches me deeper into the darkness, muttering, “Dressed like that only reinforces the image.”
“What’s wrong with the way I’m dressed?” I argue, wishing he’d slow down already.
He laughs, and it’s cold, “Sweetie, it looks like you’re either going to put me over your knee, or beg me to put you over mine.”
“Oh go get knotted–”
“Did you leave any beer in the vat when you finished sucking it dry? Ulfhednar head is white and frothy, just the way you like it.”
“I did not–”
“You’re more baked than clay and you’re going to be just as dehydrated come sunup. What the hell were you thinking?” he chastises, hauling me into a grotto ready to raise the dead. Candles and steam haunt the room like old lovers getting nostalgic.
“What the hell was I thinking?” Now you’ve done it mister twat. “I was thinking you require trepanning so you can deflate your fucking ego.”
He turns to scowl down at me, his chest embroidered with white scars which map bridges over his extreme musculature. I’m trying very hard not to gawk, but bleedin’ heck, he looks like an action man who grew up on a uranium farm, except of course for the tortured gaze he pegs me with when he folds his arms and bursts veins out in wild rivulets. They ridge in the flickering candlelight, shadowing his bulk with a net of strength.
What was he doing here exactly, in just his baggies?
Fuck! Was he expecting his date to show up and I walked in where I’m not welcome?
Thanks to those who commented. The prize has been won and the winner notified.