Up in Smoke (King, #8)

by T.M. Frazier

I’m what remains after the flames have been doused. I’m Hell on Earth. Brimstone and fire. Embers and ashes. I am motherfucking Smoke.

“You’re right,” I whisper. “I am a monster.” Roughly, I grab her chin, forcing her to look me in the eye. “I’m your monster.”

I’m a product of sin and violence. I was born with rage sizzling through my heated blood.

“Stay strong, lass. When he gives you hell, show ‘em your horns.”

What else you got? ‘Cause that excuse is as weak as nonalcoholic beer. I AIN’T BUYING IT.”

It’s pure fucking amazing torture. A pleasurable agony.

I want to hurt him. Mark him. I want his flesh under my nails and blood running down his back. I need to scar him.

As if he hadn’t just wrecked my entire world with one fucking touch.

“You wanted me to choose you, Hellion. Well, this is me...choosing you.”

Never in my life have I ever wanted so badly to be in pieces. I want to be scattered on the wind like ashes, so small and so many I can’t ever be put back together.

“Some people say that a good woman can tame a man. Train him. Make him less violent,” King says. He chuckles. “It ain’t true. It makes you more violent. It makes you more everything.”

“Art is all about perception. What it makes you feel. Everyone sees art differently,”