Dead Man Walking, an all-new
“hauntingly beautiful” and dark MC romance from Wall Street Journal bestselling author Giana Darling, is available
now!
A killer. A criminal.
A psychopath.
The Irish enforcer for
The Fallen Men MC is everything good girls are taught to stay away from.
Only, I found myself
inexorably drawn into his dark gravitational pull. I wanted to know what it
would be like to walk beside the human personification of Death and hold his
hand, feel his kiss, and maybe even earn his undying love.
But Priest McKenna is
older, cold as ice, and notoriously unfeeling.
So what are the odds
that a dead man walking would come to life for little, insignificant me?
When a serial killer
begins to target the women of Entrance, BC, and The Fallen suffers another
terrible blow, Priest resolves to hunt down the killer himself.
And when the murderer
sets his eyes on me?
My very own psychopath
steps between me and certain death, thrusting us into an intimacy I prayed we
would never recover from.
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Excerpt
It
wasn’t exactly the first time I’d been occupied with thoughts of the girl with
the pink ribbon in her hair. In fact, I calculated—because I was bored and,
admittedly, obsessive—the first time had been two years, three months, and
twenty-seven days ago.
It
happened one day when she was eating a peach. It was such an innocent,
innocuous thing and she, such an innocent, relatively innocuous girl. Nothing
about the situation called for my attention. We were celebrating some birthday.
The women brought the cake, and we brought the booze. Everyone was happy,
talking and laughing as classic rock pumped through the speakers of Z’s
oceanside home. I was even enjoying myself, talking to Smoke and Bat about the
new advances in gun technology.
But
then, something about the way she endeavoured to eat that piece of fruit drew
my gaze from across the crowded kitchen of the Garro’s house. There was a knife
in one hand, a sharp-edged paring knife with an ivory handle, and the swollen
fruit in the other. Lower lip between her small, square teeth, Bea methodically
cut into the fragile flesh and segmented it into clean sections that fell from
the stone center into her palm. It was a shade too ripe, the seam of the skin
splitting easily, juice splashing across her fingers to run down the slim, pale
underside of her forearm. I watched raptly as she finished decimating the
peach, then brought the blade to her full mouth, a small pink tongue flashing
out dangerously close to the edge to gather the sweet liquid into her mouth. Greedy
for the taste of it, she held her sticky hand bearing the fruit aloft and
carefully dragged the knife up her arm, collecting the juice so she could once
more lick it, kittenish, from the steel.
I
wanted to be the knife.
It
was, without a doubt, the single sexiest act I had ever witnessed. I felt like
a voyeur standing in the kitchen of a family home lusting after the
seventeen-year-old girl with a cloud of white gold hair as bright as a halo
around her face as she sweetly ate a piece of fruit.
Then
she did something very few people have ever successfully done.
She
surprised me.
I
watched with my head slightly cocked, alert like a bird braced for flight, as
she sauntered across the tile on light, dancing feet with toes tipped in pink.
She didn’t make eye contact with me, and it was carefully done. The way someone
avoided the eyes of a potentially dangerous animal even as they were drawn
closer.
She
used that knife, now licked clean, to pierce a piece of fruit and casually,
just a lazy rotation of elbow and wrist, extend it my way.
I
stared at the peach, the glisten of it mimicked on Bea’s pale mouth. If there
had ever before been a moment that felt more like a crossroads, one of those
intensely crucial decisions in life when sound and time slow to a molasses
crawl, I couldn’t remember it.
The
peach had become some forbidden fruit, like Eve’s lusted after apple.
I
did not believe in signs, omens, or myths, religious or otherwise. I believed
in the power of action and base desire.
And
even though I knew it was an idiotic idea, I wanted to taste the same fruit
that glossed Beatrice Lafayette’s bowed lips.
So
I folded my large, cold hand over her wrist, prompting her to flinch slightly
with fright or anticipation. Her eyes flashed to mine, fleeting and silvered
like a fish caught in a net, struggling to escape. I let her look into my own
gaze, let her see the echoing dark there, and then I leaned forward to pry the
peach off the blade with my teeth.
She
sucked in a barely perceptible breath and watched as I tipped my head back to
release the morsel into my mouth.
Without
chewing, I gently took the knife from her and punctured the soft belly of
another piece before relinquishing the blade back to her control. To feed her
would have been too much, but at that moment, to watch as she ate the same
thing at the same time as I did felt excruciatingly intimate.
The
feeling scoured through me, fraying my nerves until I felt exposed.
I
was not a man who chose to emote.
This
was not me.
But
I stood there for another moment as I chewed and swallowed in tandem with Bea,
and when I turned abruptly on my heel and left the house without another word,
I did it with an elevated heart rate.
So,
that was it.
The
moment I finally saw Beatrice Lafayette and the obsession officially began.
About Giana
Giana Darling is a USA Today, Wall Street Journal, and Top
40 Amazon bestselling Canadian romance author who specializes in the taboo and
angsty side of love and romance. She currently lives in beautiful British
Columbia where she spends time riding on the back of her man’s bike, baking
pies, and reading snuggled up with her cat Persephone.
Connect with
Giana
Website: gianadarling.com
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