Marrow

Jack steals a stray lock of my hair from the wind, tucking it behind my ear. “I think you’re smart enough to figure out it’s a surprise, Dr. Roth.”

I huff a laugh and Jack takes my hand, leading the way up the remaining distance of the path. We climb the rise of the hill where the familiar terrain stretches below. Bright morning sun bathes the pristine snow in light, glittering on the tributaries of meltwater across the plain that slopes to the wide river. I can just make out the sound of the current in the distance when Jack draws us to a halt in front of a large wrapped box on a waterproof blanket, the paper and ribbon and bow all in gold.

I look toward Jack, a dark hunger flashing in his eyes before they leave mine and he nods to the box. “Go ahead,” he says.

Cornetto joins by my side as I kneel on the blanket and tear the paper and ribbon free from a black case. I release the two latches and open it to reveal a beautiful compound bow, the bow riser and limbs painted in shades of blue with arrows to match. “It’s stu

He shrugs, trying to look nonchalant, but I catch a familiar gleam in his eyes that he can’t keep from me. “You told me once I should grovel. You didn’t say when I should stop.”

I cackle a laugh and he smiles. “Yeah…that won’t be happening.” My grin turns wistful as I slide my touch across the hand-painted details, the variegated streaks of blue shining in the sun.

“Take it out,” Jack says. “If the size and spec aren’t right, we can change it.”

I toss him a brief smile and then lift the bow from the case, examining the details, getting accustomed to the weight. Jack bends next to me and studies an arrow before passing it to me and we rise, the arrow already nocked by the time I straighten to look through the bow sight toward the horizon.

“I think it will be perfect, Jack.”

“Best to be sure.”

My gaze falls on Jack next to me as he navigates something on his phone with a devilish smile. He glances my way before jerking his head toward the flats. A moment later, a middle-aged, powerfully-built man stumbles onto the plain from our hidden kill room built into the rockface below us, raising his hand to his eyes as he scans the terrain ahead. Panic rolls through the crisp air on a string of quiet swears as he takes a step forward, his bare feet sinking into the melting snow.

“Sean Bailey. Former owner of your new lighter. Trust me when I say he meets all your criteria, petal.”

“Oh, I trust you, my love.”

I raise my bow as the man starts ru

“Maybe you shouldn’t trust me too much,” Jack says, his voice as rich as melted honey as he steps behind me, careful not to obstruct my hold on the weapon. His touch glides across my hip, his cool fingertips sliding beneath my shirt to caress my skin. His breath warms the shell of my ear as he whispers, “Tell me, lille mejer, would your panties be soaking wet right now?”

“Only one way to find out.”

I grin.

And then I let my arrow fly.

Thank you so very much for spending your time with Jack and Kyrie! We hope you fell as deeply in love with them as we did. To read a bonus spicy chapter, head to Marrow “Threads” and join our mailing lists!

Keep turning the pages for an excerpt of Lovely Bad Things by Trisha Wolfe and Black Sheep by Bry

Lovely Bad Things- by Trisha Wolfe

He’s the devil. And she’s his wicked game.

“Hello, Halen.” The gravelly rasp of my voice curls around the syllables of her name. The first tremor of excitement rolls under my skin.

“Professor Locke,” she replies formally. “I’d prefer if you addressed me in kind as Dr. St. James.”

“This is the first time I’ve lain eyes on you in months, and here you sit, making demands. Impressive. Once you stepped out of those shadows, it seems you never returned.” My gaze skims her composed features, probing for the crack in her armor. I thought I found it once, but I was unpleasantly surprised to stand corrected. Amid twelve jurors, no less.

“Am I being recorded?” I ask, not curbing the hard edge in my tone of voice.

“No. This conversation if strictly between us—”

“I thought the last one was.”

She tips her chin higher and presents her phone, proving there are no recording apps, before she slips the device back into her bag. “But I’d like it if our conversation remains formal.”

“Oh, come now,” I say, “we can toss out nominal letters and propriety bullshit. We’re both on equal ground.”

She arches a fine eyebrow. “Does it rub you raw I won’t refer to you as Dr. Locke? Because, given the doctorate in philosophy is the most common in academia, I only presumed you’d find it insulting. Although, I could always tack on the post-nominal lettering if it helps your ego, Professor Locke, PhD.”

She’s been a busy little bee investigating me to learn how I tick.

Ryder—who I suppose one may consider my closest friend—relayed how she’d been interrogating professional associates and what few friends I have left after this debacle. I may have used him to feed her some interesting morsels.

What tangled webs…

I lick my lips slowly, savoring the burn of her arousing scent as it stokes my senses. A mouthwatering combination of lily of the valley and ylang-ylang, a unique scent well-suited for her.

Poisonous. Toxic, but only if ingested. With a hint of aphrodisiac.

She could market the scent with her own brand: Lure and kill.

“Rubbing me raw, little Halen, has all the promise with no follow through.” I spin the silver ring around my thumb.

She visibly shifts in her seat, refusing to be baited.

Scratch, scratch, scratch.

“What a waste of your doctorate,” I press on, expelling a lengthy breath. “You should be working in academia yourself, fielding your own research. Instead, you’re still traipsing around crime scenes, playing chase.”

“Keeping tabs on me?”

I smile. “I have loads of time to kill.”

Her mouth parts, as if I’ve said something to confirm a suspicion.

Daringly, I let my hand settle past the midway point on the table. There are no plastic dividers. No metal grates. I could reach out and touch her if I wanted—but I’m not yet ready to tear in and claw that itch.

Her gaze drops to my hand, to the faded inked celestial rose on the back of my hand and sigils that mark my fingers below my knuckles.

“I’m surprised you didn’t request I be shackled.” I drum my fingers on the surface of the hard plastic tabletop.

When she raises her gaze to meet mine, her resolve is firmly in place. “Should I have? Do you plan to hurt me?”

The vision attacks so suddenly and with startling fierceness—my hands collared around her slender neck; her breathy gasps for oxygen—I have to blink hard and push farther away from the table to escape her scent.

“Anger is an acid that can do more harm to the vessel,” I say.

“That didn’t answer my question.”

“Mark Twain answered it, if you can surmise his meaning. Brilliant writer, horrible businessman.”

With a clipped, sardonic laugh, she stands. “I don’t know why I’m here. This was a bad idea. Apparently, you really are insane.”

On impulse, I reach out and grab her wrist.

A charged pulse ignites a fire beneath my palm. The air, volatile and tense, suspends time for a mere blink, allowing my body to ravenously absorb the feel of her where I’ve only permitted my eyes to touch.