This is work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents either are the products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, businesses, companies, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
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Copyright© Yumoyori Wilson, 2019
All Rights Reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or used in any manner without the express written permission of the publisher except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.
The publisher is not responsible for websites (or their content) that are not own by the publisher.
This eBook/Paperback is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This eBook/Paperback may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient.
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Cover Design by Jennifer Munswami
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Editing by
Incantation Ink
Format: Yumoyori Wilson
Contents
Acknowledgement
BLURB
DISCLAIMER
1. SOPHIA
2. Sophia
3. Sophia
4. James
5. Sophia
6. James
7. Sophia
8. Sophia
9. Ayden
10. Cameron
11. Sophia
12. Sophia
13. Sophia
14. Sophia
15. Sophia
16. Sophia
17. Blaze
18. Sophia
19. Blaze
20. Sophia
21. Blaze
22. Ayden
23. Sophia
24. Sophia
25. James
26. James
27. Sophia
28. Ayden
29. Cameron
30. Sophia
31. Sophia
32. Sophia
COMING SOON
WOLF OMEGA - SNEAK PEEK
Prologue: Defiance And Meet Again
ABOUT YUMOYORI WILSON
Also By Yumoyori Wilson
ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS
Thank you for purchasing Dark Swan.
Thank you to all my amazing supporters for being awesome and encouraging me to write every day.
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Special thanks to my Elle, May, Clarissa, and Felecia, who always keeps me motivated no matter what I’m going through. Your friendship means the world to me and I’m thankful to have you all in my life.
Special thanks to my amazing Alpha Team.
Special thanks to my amazing Mom for blessing me with the gift to write and supporting me in all aspects. I pray to continue making you proud as I strive towards success.
Finally, I thank God for giving me the strength to achieve my goals. Without Him, I would be nothing.
YUMOYORI WILSON
BLURB:
Cursed forever to be an ugly duckling in the shadows… my beauty and magic hidden away from the light…
Thom has owned me for so many years; he loves me for my beauty, although you wouldn’t know for how often he leaves bruises upon my skin. And if I even think of shifting?
That’s what the worst punishments are reserved for.
My body aches to let my feathers out, for my wings to stretch to the sky, to feel the sweet relief of the world disappearing beneath me…but I’m trapped, locked up, and hidden away.
None of the swans Thom keeps are allowed to show their true colors, but it’s worse for me because I’m the only one of us who’s different. Black wings, fragile heart, and legs that won’t stop dancing in the dark…Thom would kill me if I ever used my magic to escape.
I am his Dark Swan, after all. I’ll always belong to him.
But then one day, freedom calls in the distance. My carriage spills over, and death comes for me…and introduces me to four shifters who will save my life, just as surely as I will save theirs. A bear, a lion, a jaguar, and a wolf, all as broken and as destructive as me.
It’s with them that I find out I was never meant for the light, and that freedom is found in the depths of the dark.
DISCLAIMER
DARK SWAN
is a Dark Paranormal Romance.
It contains Dark Scenes and Discusses Triggering Topics. You have been warned.
Dear Readers,
I truly enjoyed writing this book, even though it explores darker themes. In this series, the main character begins life as a slave. She suffers sexual abuse at the hands of her perpetrator, and in turn, doesn't know how to cope with her emotions without resulting to the physical desire to touch and feel.
The series, will explore why she and the guys deal with their emotions this way, and watch them grow and change.
Everything happens for a reason. I leave it to you to stick around and find out why.
- Yumoyori Wilson
1
SOPHIA
I relished in the cozy sound of the fire crackling and popping in the hearth beside where my father and I sat in our living room. I was tucked under a black and red checkered blanket, the fabric so soft that it made me want to cuddle it.
My knees were curled up to my chest, and I was listening intently to the story my father was reading to me. My father, a hero in my eyes. He was the man of the house, as he loved to say with joy, and stood by his promises to love and protect Mother and me.
He clutched my favorite book in his hands, cradling it as if it were just as important as I was to him. The pages were tired and worn, yellowing around the edges, but I didn’t care. A giddy smile had already curled at the crevices of my mouth.
I listened closely as father told the story, page after page of the tale I’d heard thousands of times before. It didn’t matter how many times I listened to it, for it always felt like the first. It was due to my loving father; the words that poured from his mouth brought the characters to life in my wide imagination.
Father knew how to capture the attention of the room. He had a charismatic wit about him. He channeled a level of dramatic enthusiasm that gave the story zest and purpose as he read it out.
At the humorous parts, he made me giggle uncontrollably, while at the sad parts, I’d let my tears fall as I wept for those characters who were in pain. He had me absorbed, hooked to every moment. It was a part of his talent for vivacious storytelling.
“The soup is almost ready, you two.”
I heard the sound of Mother’s dreamy voice behind me. Glancing over my shoulder, I saw her standing over the stove, her hand holding a wooden spoon that went round and round.
A stew pot was bubbling on the burner, brewing a concoction of meat and vegetables. It smelled savory and delicious, sparking my taste buds and making my mouth water as the scent filled the room.
My mother made everything better. Her smile and laugh could turn a bad day into an amazing one. No matter how tired she was, I could always rely on her when I simply needed some love, attention, and care.
“Thanks, honey.” My father’s eyes twinkled with sweet love when he cast her a smile.
I couldn’t believe that anyone else in the world could love someone the way my father loved my mother. I was only seven years old, but I knew true, unconditional, and mind-consuming love because I saw it in my parents’ eyes every time they looked at each other.
It was the kind of love I wished for myself, and I relished imagining that one day, my prince would find me and cloak me in compassion.
That was one of my many hopes and dreams.
I shifted my weight and propped my back against the chair behind me to get comfortable. The fire was gleaming in soft hues of oranges, reds, and fiery golds, casting shadows of my fath
er’s profile as he concentrated on continuing the story.
His spectacles were resting casually atop the bridge of his nose, the reflection of the flames dancing in his glasses. It added to the magic of the story he read to me.
The protective veil of my parents’ love shielded me from the terrors of the world.
We never talked about the shadows that lurked in the darkness outside our quaint and cozy little village. It was as though such thoughts were forbidden, never leaving our lips unless an update of new horrors spread through the whispering night.
On the outside, our community looked like a sleepy little snow-capped mountain town, but I had overheard my parents, teachers, and friends’ parents whispering about the Masters when they thought kids couldn’t hear them.
Bloodthirsty raiders who prowled the streets at night, seeking easy prey. Families to destroy, slaves to claim. An evil that everyone knew about but was too afraid to bring to light.
I pushed those stories to the back of my mind, trying my best to act as if I lived within the bubble of safety my parents strove to provide. But at night, I couldn’t help but hide under my bed covers at every bump or scrape of a tree branch against my window.
Now, in this very moment, with the smell of fresh garden vegetables simmering on the stove flooding my nostrils and my father reading to me by the fire as it warmed my skin, I didn’t have to worry. I was with my parents, who would protect me against anything, no matter what.
And I believed them.
My parents were white swan shifters. My mother was elegant and graceful in her human form. But as a swan, she was the most beautiful creature I had ever seen. So much so, that to watch her move fluidly through the room with her opal wings brought tears of awe to my eyes.
Where my mother was beautiful, Father was a fierce protector, a gallant figure who complemented her perfectly.
I was the only one in our little family who wasn’t quite so perfect. I was a dark swan. I wasn’t supposed to be sad about something I had been born with, but it was hard to ignore, for being different brought its share of unkindness.
“You’ll grow into your white wings,” my father would always tell me with a reassuring smile and a gentle squeeze of my hand. “Sometimes, these things happen.”
“But why do they have to happen to me?” I would always ask with a level of frustration lacing my tone. I never asked for this.
Secretly, I wished to be like Mother and Father. To be a replica of their white feathered beauty and to make them proud. Instead, I only brought misery and gossip from those who knew what type of swan I was.
My father was always patient and calm with me. “Don’t worry, sweetheart.” That was when he would gently stroke my cheek. “I think you are beautiful. Your black wings make you unique.”
I would fold my arms over my chest. “I don’t want to be unique.”
Honestly, I didn’t really understand why being unique was good. Unique was different. Bad. Something that others made fun of.
I desperately wanted to fit in. I didn’t want the other children at school to make fun of me, to tug on my hair or kick my shins from behind while I walked down the hallways with my arms crossed defensively over my chest.
I didn’t tell my parents that I was bullied at school. It was embarrassing to admit it out loud. I kept it hidden in the cobwebs of my mind, hoping that if I did my best not to dwell on it, that the pain would disappear altogether.
Besides, all of that pain disappeared whenever I was with my parents.
Focusing back on Father’s storytelling, I decided to enjoy the present moment. I could dwell about all the things that were wrong on my own, but these precious moments were ones I treasured and they couldn’t be lost to my worries and fears.
I saw my mother out of the corner of my eye. She reached on her tiptoes for three bowls in the cabinet above the stove. She placed each bowl in a line on the counter and began ladling the wonderful, stick-to-your-ribs soup into them.
Father pulled the glasses from his face, folded them, and gently placed them on the table beside the fireplace. He turned down the corner of the page we were on so that he wouldn’t lose our place. Then he sat the book next to his glasses and stood up.
He extended his arm and reached for my hand with a whimsical smile. “Let’s have dinner now. We can read one more chapter before bed, all right my beautiful Sophie?”
My name was Sophia, but he always called me Sophie. I loved it when he called me that. It made me feel appreciated and important. I nodded and gave him a gleaming smile in return. “Yes, Father. We really need to get a bookmark. Bending pages is bad.”
Father chuckled, his eyes glimmering at my comment. “You’re right. Next time a feather falls out, we’ll use that.”
“One of yours or mothers. That way the book will always remain precious,” I voiced.
“Having a black feather would be nice as well,” Father reasoned, trying to make me feel just as important and special.
We walked hand-in-hand toward the kitchen, which was open to our living room. Mother had already placed the bowls of soup on the table along with glasses of milk and napkins.
My stomach began to rumble with hunger, anticipating the warm cuisine. I was salivating as Mother brought over a loaf of fresh bread from the oven to the table; it was perfectly golden-brown. I couldn’t wait to nibble the crunchy outer crust and reach the soft interior that practically melted in my mouth.
But I never made it to the table.
I never got to taste the bread.
I didn’t get to see my parents laugh over silly things.
I never even got to the kitchen.
The world around me morphed. Everything happened in slow motion.
Our front door burst inward, slamming with such force that it cracked from the hinges and dangled awkwardly. The shrill scream of my mother’s shock wailed through the room like a siren in the dead of night.
My father instinctively pushed my tiny, seven-year-old body behind him, but I peered slightly to the side, desperate to see who was entering our home uninvited.
Men rushed into the house like a parade. All of them wore black masks that covered their whole faces — except for their eyes. I wanted to speak out, to ask my father who these men were, but I couldn’t say anything.
The words got stuck in my throat, lodged there, choking me as fear gripped me.
My father’s hands trembled as he pushed me under the table. He pressed a finger to his lips, signaling me to stay as quiet as I could.
For the first time in my life, I saw fear in my father’s eyes. It made me tremble in my place. If Father was afraid, this must have been bad.
Who were these strange men? What did they need from us peaceful villagers?
My eyes darted over to my Mother in panic, noticing one of the men had something pointing at her. She was crouching down on the kitchen floor, unable to move due to the strange man. Her arms were draped protectively over her head, leaving me wishing I could see the color of emotion on her face and determine just how serious this situation was.
Mother shook her head, still holding her chin down. “No, no, no.” She murmured it over and over, like a broken record that had become hitched in the same spot as it spun beneath the needle.
“Father?” My attempt at capturing his attention was weak at best.
The sound of my voice was little more than a feeble croak. It was obvious that he couldn’t hear me; his attention was too focused on watching the men destroy our home.
Watching the destruction unfold around me, I remembered the stories about the guards and the Masters. The men who raided innocent family’s homes and broke them apart for their own purposes.
My heart stopped beating in my chest. I felt the color drain from my face and I gasped. The nightmare stories weren’t folklore anymore. They were happening in my very safe haven.
No...not us. Please, don’t ruin our happy family.
I shrunk to the floor as one of the men grabbe
d my father and tied his arms behind his back. He shoved him to the floor and my father roared in pain, fighting against the ropes that held him prisoner.
Another raider took a precious swan heirloom that had belonged to my grandmother off the fireplace mantel. It was made of glass, holding much value to my mother especially.
The raider raised his arm over his head as he clutched the trinket in his devious hand. Then, in one swoop, he thrust his arm down to the ground. The delicate swan made a shattering sound as it was smashed to bits against the surface of the creaky old floorboards beside the hearth.
Why? Why were they doing this?!
My mother sobbed with grief as two raiders picked her up, scooping her under their arms, and dragged her over to my father.
I hoped my hiding spot made me invisible to these men, but I also wished I could do something. Anything to save my parents.
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