Heron Mill (The Blackwell Brothers, #1)

by K.L. Taylor-Lane

Hearing his name makes moths flutter around inside my tummy.

He liked it when I hurt him back. And then he was soft with me again.

Her weakness calls to me like a wounded rabbit to a fox. Bleeding and limping and just praying to have its neck snapped by sharp teeth.

Her beautifully unusual eyes, one an ice blue, the other a warm hazel, so wide and innocent and pure. Her soul bathed in white light, an iridescent glow, her aura so comforting and bright. I see it all and I want nothing more than to plunge my darkness inside of her like a thick blade. Draw out those shadows I know she hides away deep inside. Force her to see it’s okay, to embrace it. To let it fester and grow instead of hiding it away. Show her that when she hurts me, I thrive, and she thrives too. I sense the sadistic part inside of her, a tiny, splintered fragment of darkness in her chest that I want her to cling on to. It calls to me. The need to corrupt her. I want to own her, mind, body and sick little soul. Twist and turn the parts of her until there is nothing left but what I put there. A sickness flows through my blood, depravity thick and rife in my veins. The darkness that calls to me like a siren I welcome with open arms. The hole in my heart, the one carved out, could be so easily filled by Grace. It’s a gaping, gushing wound but she could be the brutal answer.

I’m going to destroy that beautifully misguided angel. Brutalise and torture her in every sadistic, sick little way my dark mind can summon.