Part 3 of the series, Her Billionaire, Her Wolf:
Read alsoManaging African Portugal
In Managing African Portugal, Kesha Fikes shows how the final integration of Portugal’s economic institutions into the European Union (EU) in the late 1990s changed everyday encounters between African migrants and Portuguese citizens. This economic transition is examined through transformations in ideologies of difference enacted in…
A brother, long believed dead, comes within a sword’s stroke of fratricide in a dark dungeon. He is a man driven by tragedy, yet family ties are not strong enough to sway him from his endless hunt.
A lonely woman learns what it is to truly submit to the will of her master. In faith and desperation, she gives of herself freely not knowing that a demon from her past has been resurrected and given the means to find her once again.
A wolf is forced to confront the curse that hounds him without ceasing night and day. In a voice of dust and ashes, the answer he is given is one of merciless, wicked betrayal.
And vampires flock to the call of a monster and its sinister machinations. Like a twisted puppet master, it shall decide the fates of one and all.
The man stood there, his hands upon his hips, and watched as she swung slowly in the air.
Her feet did not quite reach to the straw covered floor, and he noticed with disgust that there was urine dripping from one of her big toes.
There was a large drop that slowly grew larger, pregnant even and faintly yellow, before the pendulum of the woman’s motion forced it to fall and lose itself among the floorboards sprinkled over with straw.
That had been his idea. A good idea. So much easier to clean up afterward.
And, even bloody straw burns with enough gasoline thrown on it. He supposed the same would hold true for pissed on straw, too.
The man lifted his arms only to feel his pants start to slip down. It was because he was no longer wearing his belt and the standard issue beige pants did not fit him the way they should have.
Nothing ever fit him the way it should have.
Not the boring job that droned on day after day, never anything worth noting in his little flip open notebook. Not in the long night hours when he patrolled from one end of the county to the other, always favoring desolate back roads.
One never knew when someone alone and in need of protection would present themselves.