by A. Zavarelli
“I don’t care.” I snatched the bag from him and took Gypsy’s hand in mine. “Let’s go.”
“Look up,” Birdie sang.
I glanced up at Birdie, and she snapped another picture with her phone.
“You didn’t even smile,” she accused.
I ignored her and went back to looking at my son as Gypsy touched my arm beside me. “Isn’t he the most beautiful thing you’ve ever seen in your whole life?”
She was uncharacteristically choked up with emotion, and I was too. I couldn’t stop staring at him, and I couldn’t agree more with her summation.
I had so many conflicting emotions when it came to this baby, remembering what it was like the first time I held Dawson. It was a love you never even knew existed until it hit you in the face like a hammer. For the past few weeks, I’d worried that when I held this baby, there would be guilt if I felt too much. I didn’t ever want to feel like I was replacing Dawson, but I knew now that couldn’t ever be true.
They were so different, but my love was the same. I loved this baby as much as I still loved Dawson. And as difficult as it was to acknowledge that Dawson would never get to meet his brother, I was determined to ensure he would always be remembered.
Gypsy must have known it too when she laid her hand over mine. “I was thinking for a name… maybe Lux Dawson West?”
I glanced down at my wife, who somehow managed to look beautiful even after fifteen hours of war in the delivery room. My throat was too clogged to speak, so I nodded. And even though I was a man, I wasn’t too proud to hide the tears that sprung to my eyes as I kissed our son again.
I heard Birdie snap a few more pictures at that moment, but I didn’t care. When I looked at Gypsy and Lux, I felt an enormous sense of responsibility to protect them, and I wanted her to know that I intended to do just that.
I leaned down and kissed her, and she smiled against me. “Happy Birthday. Your other present is on my laptop. I’d planned on showing you today, but this will have to do for now.”
She pulled out her phone and handed it to me.
“What is it?” I asked.
“Just look,” she instructed.
I did. And after reading over a few of the sentences in the word document she’d offered, I came to understand.
“Emmanuel?” Warmth spread through my chest as I looked down at her. “You’re writing his story?”
She nodded, her teeth digging into her lip. Gypsy still didn’t realize how brilliant she was, even after the success of her first novel. I’d read it from cover to cover several times over, marveling not only at the way she saw me, but the words she’d strung together to create a book about my life.
Since then, I’d encouraged her to keep writing. Hoping she’d find the right story to inspire her, I even offered up several of my past client’s names as potential ideas. But she’d been very secretive about what she was working on until now, and I understood why. It was still a sensitive subject for me, but Emmanuel’s story deserved to be told.
“Is that okay?” Gypsy asked.
“I couldn’t ask for anything better,” I assured her as I handed Lux off to her. “I can’t wait to read it. And I have something for you too.”
She smoothed the baby fine hair away from his forehead and leaned down to breathe in his scent. “It’s your birthday. What could you possibly have for me?”
I retrieved the phone from my pocket and pulled up my email I’d been sitting on since last week. When I showed it to her, she stared at the screen, face blank before it slowly crumpled with emotion.
“Is that real?” she whispered. “I thought you still had one more treatment.”
I tucked the phone back into my pocket. “I don’t actually. It was finished last week, but I wanted to surprise you.”
A sob burst from her throat as tears erupted down her face. I rushed to sit down beside her, pulling her against me. “It’s okay, baby. It’s okay.”
“What’s wrong?” Birdie demanded. “What did it say?”
“Nothing.” Gypsy waved her hand in the air. “There’s nothing wrong. It’s just that… everything is so right. Everything is right now. He’s in remission, and we have Lux, and…” The rest came out as gibberish as I held her, and I began to doubt that I should have said anything at all, but eventually, her tears turned to laughter. “I think I’m still a little hormonal.”
“I think you’re probably right.” I chuckled. “But it’s good news, right?”
“It’s the best news in the entire world,” she assured me. “I think it’s safe to say that this is the best day of my life.”
I kissed her, whispering my promise against her lips.
“It’s just the beginning, pet.”
The End.
Writing a book is agony. Doing it again and again could only be considered insanity. For the last six months, I have dragged my masochistic little heart back to this manuscript to toil in my misery. I wrote on plains, trains, and automobiles. I wrote between signings and traveling and birthdays and letting my dogs out to potty 5,394839823 times a day. I wrote in the dead of night, and the buttcrack of dawn (most of which I erased because my brain doesn’t function before noon). Most of it was awful, and for the first time in my life, my own book actually made me cry because I felt every emotion from these characters. I took a chance on letting them tell their stories, and I’m grateful you did too.
So to all my perverse, sadistic readers who for reasons I can’t fathom continue to love and support my work, thank you. Thank you for keeping me insane because I wouldn’t want it any other way. You are the reason I get up every day and stare at my computer screen and string together words that I hope will eventually make a story. I never want to let you down, and I’m so grateful for each and every one of you who actually enjoys the twisted places my mind takes me. I couldn’t do what I do without you.
Also, I couldn’t do what I do without my number one supporter and personal assistant, aka rockstar, Melissa Crump. You do so much for me that I could never possibly thank you for all of it. But here’s my attempt. Thank you for being a friend, beta, pimper, chaos coordinator, and just all-around good person. The world needs more people like you. I also want to thank my editor, Jenny Sims, for being amazing and dealing with my crazy schedule and not hating me for pushing back deadlines. Lara at Coverluv for your amazing cover creations. My betas—Tara, Melissa, and Kristina. Femme Fatales and Dark Rebels. The list goes on. It takes an army to succeed in this biz, and I love each and every one of you for your amazing friendship and support. Last, but not least, thank you to Mueller. If it wasn’t for your handy dandy elbow braces, I would never have finished this book. ;) Xoxo
Thank you so much for reading Confess! If you enjoyed it, please consider leaving an honest review.
If you enjoy dark, brooding male heroes, you’ll love my dark billionaire romance duet BLEEDING HEARTS.
“Five stars of perfection. This book was AMAZING. Fans of dark romance and all-consuming love do NOT want to miss out on this series. For me, this book totally messed with my emotions. You want a book that will send you off on an emotional roller-coaster ride than this one is it! Six spanking stars, top favorite of all time, one of the best series of the year.”
~ Pretty Little Book Reviews
Want to go even darker? Slip into the dark fairytale world of BEAST.
Pushing the limits of right vs. wrong, hauntingly and poetically written this one will reach in your gut and bleed you dry. Deeply dark, with characters that exude depravity, feral emotion, causing the reader to feel… everything.
~Book Haven Book Blog.
You can also join my Facebook reader group, A. Zavarelli’s Femme Fatales, for giveaways and up to date information on future releases.
Like your men dark, dangerous, and accented? The Boston Underworld series continues with Nikolai’s story in THIEF.
“I suspect this is going to be my book of the year. I don’t think it can be surpassed. It affected me in
ways I don’t think a book ever really has.”
~ Anna Edwards, Author
EXCERPT FROM THIEF-
“Nakya.”
The chill of Nikolai’s voice startles me, and when my eyes rise to meet his, a weighted awareness returns to my chest.
“What do you think you’re doing?” he demands.
The magazine in my hands falls together. I was right to worry. His energy is dark and distinctly volatile. It was out of line barging into his office when he was in a meeting, but to admit it would be a mistake.
“I’m not doing anything.” My voice is too soft, barely audible, but it does not tame the harshness of Nikolai’s features.
“What do you mean to do, coming into my office dressed in…” He gestures to my clothing. “It’s not appropriate.”
If he weren’t so nettled, the irony of his declaration might be humorous, considering there are women leaving this house at all hours of the night in various states of disarray. What unspeakable offense I’ve committed by wearing a leotard is a puzzle only his mind can solve.
When he stalks towards me, instinct triggers me to hunch down and protect my head by curling into myself. My heart is sluggish, and my palms clammy as I wait for the inevitable. But when it doesn’t come, I dare to peek up at him, only to find him frozen mid-step, his expression uncertain and his eyes dazed.
His actions are at odds with the certainty I feel in my gut. Life has taught me well that when the storm comes, you take whatever shelter you can find. When he doesn’t move, I dare to try.
Scrambling from the chair with feverish limbs, I hobble desperately in the direction of my only sanctuary—the bathroom. Deprived of my crutches and too far gone to reach for them, I’m nearly immobile. Even with the brace, pain splinters every step, and tears prick my eyes. Before I’m halfway across the room, my legs give out and I collapse to my knees.
Nikolai watches wordlessly as I totter forward onto my elbows, clutching the carpet between my fingers as I crawl away like an injured animal.
“Nakya,” he bellows. “Stop. Stop this right now.”
Logically, I know I should. But I can’t. I’m too terrified of what will happen if he catches me. And so I go on, dragging my body forward until my fingertips cross over the threshold of the cold bathroom floor. The marble gives me something concrete to grab onto, but it’s of little use when Nikolai’s iron grip catches me around my good ankle.
A strangled cry squeezes from my lungs when he flips me over and pins me down with the overbearing weight of his powerful body. There isn’t a chance in hell that I could fight him off now. His pulse is strong and steady, his muscles unyielding. I’m out of breath and out of hope.
His hand hovers over my face, and I shake my head frantically, pleading to a higher power to save me. Calloused fingers come to rest on my jaw, contracting in warning.
“Stop,” he repeats.
It’s another wasted command, considering I couldn’t move even if I wanted to. The wall of his chest has me trapped. My head spins and my pulse thrashes in my ears. Every breath is a labored struggle, and I think I might pass out.
“I’m not going to hurt you, zvezda. Breathe. Relax, and breathe.”
My hands come to rest on his biceps, determined to push him away. I can’t take false comfort in his honeyed assurances. I don’t want to. But right now, it feels like that’s exactly what’s happening.
He’s a liar.
But if it’s true, he’s a convincing one. More skilled than perhaps even me. When my eyes clash with his, the fight in me dissolves.
He is blue. Hazy blue. Electrifying blue. Blue like the sea and the sky and the storms that rule my life. And right now, his blue is ruling over me. In a matter of seconds, he’s rendered me a servant to the breezeless ocean in his eyes. They are soft around the edges, unmarred by the lines of time. Everything about him is harsh, but I did not realize his eyes could be so sedating.
I’m hyper aware of him now. The way he smells of tobacco and cloves and vanilla. His scent is smoky, dark, and faintly sweet. His body is warm and rigid. And I have witnessed men in all their muscular glory on the stage of the ballet, but I have never been so close to one. I have never felt a man’s weight pressing into my body, making me feel small and soft in contrast. I have never stared so intimately into eyes like these while he touches my hair, untangling it from my face the way I imagine a lover would.
I’ve never had a lover. I’ve never been touched by a man or even a boy. But there is no mistaking which side of the spectrum Nikolai falls on. He is all man. And his domination of my smaller, weaker frame has left me feeling drunk and slightly disoriented. A battered driftwood wrestling with the tide. Rocking against the waves, desperate for solid ground, he’s pulling me farther and farther from the shore. I’m going to drown in his energy.
“Stop.” The word rushes from my parted lips, reeking of my desperation and confusion.
Nikolai halts, his hand still tangled in my hair. The air between us is thick and sticky. Hot and humid like an east coast summer. His ocean eyes carve a path to my lips, and he is so close I can taste the cinnamon on his breath. I think that he might kiss me, and it horrifies me that I want him to.
I feel like I’ve been doused in ice water when he yanks away abruptly and without explanation. In the time it takes me to blink, his face has neutralized, the dangerous chemistry between us expertly defused.
“I’ll carry you back to the chair.”
His voice is without color or emotion. A man without feeling. Somehow, I am the one who is left feeling wrecked when he lifts me without effort and deposits me into the chair like a child.
This isn’t right. None of this is right. When Nikolai stalks out the door without another word, my ankle throbs, and my chest does too.
I knew my captor was dangerous.
I just didn’t realize how dangerous he was to me.
I’m a good girl.
I live by a code that can’t be bent or broken. It is my duty to my family to stay innocent and pure. To marry an Italian man. The stars are already aligned.
But Nikolai Kozlov re-writes my destiny with five simple words.
You belong to me now.
EXCERPT FROM BLEEDING HEARTS-
I heard the sound of a zipper being undone followed by the rustling of clothing.
“Stand up,” he said softly. “Undress yourself for me.”
From the location of his voice, I could tell he was sitting in the chair across the room. Watching me. The distance between us felt more threatening than when he was actually touching me.
I rose on trembling legs, lifting my dress up without any kind of finesse.
“Slowly,” he chided.
The soft cotton material fell back to my knees, and I clenched it in my fists as I drew it back up over my body. I didn’t know how to be sexy. I didn’t even want to try. But I had to fulfill his request, so I did as he asked, taking my time before I pulled it over my head and discarded it on the floor.
I stood there and waited for him to say something, anything. It took him forever.
“Now the rest.” His voice was thick, and it disarmed me.
I was wearing a simple white cotton bra and panties. There was nothing sexy about me. If anything, I looked virginal. The irony was too painful to consider.
I reached behind my back and unclasped my bra, allowing it to fall to the floor. I tamped down every instinct I had to cover my breasts as the cool air hit them, hardening my nipples. The only thing I could do was focus on the next task, shimmying out of my panties and kicking them aside.
It was all out there now. He could see every part of me. I hated it.
“Now get down on your knees and crawl to me.”
I hesitated, and this earned me a cruel reminder of his control.
“Don’t make me ask twice.”
I sank to my knees and allowed a couple tears to spill from the corners of my eyes. This was the ultimate form of humiliation, and he was getti
ng off on treating me like an animal. I couldn’t understand how someone could be so cruel. So callous.
And yet, I crawled. The carpet burned against my knees, and when my cheek grazed his thigh, I jumped.
“So skittish,” he whispered, tangling a hand in my hair and jerking my head upward. “I like that.”
“Please don’t be rough,” I blurted.
“You don’t get to make those requests,” he said. “Remember?”
His response made my blood run cold. Because it implied that he had every intention of being rough and that he would thoroughly enjoy it. More tears came, and I couldn’t hide them. He wiped them away with his thumbs before he continued his instructions.
“Stand up and put your palms against the wall.”
I rose up again and edged towards the wall, being careful not to trip myself. I only had my hands to guide me, and he made no effort of helping. But as soon as they were planted firmly in place, I felt his presence behind me.
He gripped my hips and pulled back at the same time he kicked my legs apart. I stumbled into the position reluctantly, every muscle in my body tense and ready for a fight. Then his hands were on me. Everywhere.
His touch was confusing. It was gentle and warm, and he didn’t even try to hide the sound of his pleasure as his palms roamed over my skin. His pained groans told me he’d been waiting a long time for this moment.
He started at the nape of my neck, drifting down my sides and over my ribs. I shivered when he squeezed my ass in his hands, then glided back up my stomach. When he cupped my breasts, something else flared to life inside of me. A strange sensation that burned in my gut and left me feeling a little bit drunk.
My breathing changed as his lips found my neck, and I couldn’t control it. I was panting, hard. My fear had transformed into something else entirely.