Hatfield

This isn't a fairytale. I dethroned Prince Charming long ago. They call me the King of darkness and death. Ruler of the underworld. My reign is ruthless, my word is the law. If I want it, I take it, regardless of the bloodshed. But then she walks into my life. I don't want her, I need her. She can fight, she can beg, but her fate is sealed. Until her debt is paid, she's mine. She ran from her old life, but she can't outrun me. Welcome to my Bloody Kingdom, Quincey Page.

Running away from home at 17 wasn't easy. Let's face it, though, nothing before or in the ten years since has ever been easy for me. And I'm doing okay—sorta. I just need to keep scraping by, living under the radar. Staying out of people's way, off people's minds. When a man walks through my open patio door, stepping boldly into my home and my life, I should be scared, frightened, terrified. I must be more broken than I realized because I'm none of those things. I'm intrigued—and I'm wondering if the way to take control of my life is by giving in to him.

The Manipulator. I can manipulate the emotions of anyone who lets me. I will make you hurt, make you cry, make you laugh and sigh. But my words don't affect him. Especially not when I plead for him to leave. He's always there, watching and waiting. And I can never look away. Not when I want him to come closer. The Shadow. I didn't mean to fall in love. But now that I have, I can't stay away. I'm mesmerized by her smile, by her eyes, and the way she moves. I'll keep watching and waiting. Until I can make her mine. And once she is, I'll never let her go.

I earned my reputation among magicians for a reason: one wrong move and you're dead. Killer, they called me, and killing is what I'm best at. Except her. The one I was supposed to take, the one I should have killed–I didn't. The cult that once controlled me wants her, and I'm not about to lose my new toy to them.

Thirty-nine was a fantastic year. I was married to the man I loved. I had a body that worked without creaking. My grandma, who raised me, was still healthy, and life was pretty damned good. But as they say, all good things come to an end. One year later, I’m a widow. My joints are starting to ache. Gram is in the nursing home, and dead people think my home is some kind of supernatural bed-and-breakfast. Gluing body parts onto semi-transparent people has become a side job - deceased people I’m not even sure are actually there.