The Source is hunting Talents but Kara Jester is no distressed damsel...
The Price of Talent Book 2
by AK Nevermore
Genre: Spicy Dystopian SciFi Romance
On an alternate earth, a cataclysm has altered a subset of the population. Talents are persecuted for their psychic and physical mutations, giving rise to two conflicting societies based upon maintaining genetic purity. And the Source, a shadowy corporate entity dependent upon the exploitation of captive Talents, is hunting them…
Flynn and Kara have made it to the north,
but they’re far from safe.
In the city of Glynfyls, the ruling body
known as the Assembly has become ineffectual at best and treasonous at worst,
leaving the Northern Territories ripe for invasion. Under the threat of
blackmail, Flynn Scot is forced into a leadership position to combat the
corruption and to protect his family. Titus is coming, and unless Flynn can
convince the Assembly that the threat from the Source is real, every Talent in
the North faces harvesting.
Meanwhile, Kara is floundering.
Thrown into a completely new environment,
Talent Kara Jester questions her place in the North and everything else.
Plagued by wedding preparations and without the ability to bind her resurfacing
memories of trauma, she’s a mess. Then, with the arrival of someone from her
past, tensions skyrocket between her and Flynn.
And it’s mirrored within the city.
After a string of grisly murders and
abductions, Glynfyls is in turmoil. With the Original Houses playing games and
setting their machinations above the common’s safety, no one is free from
recrimination and rumors abound. So do threats of civil unrest. And if Flynn
can’t find a way to get out from under his blackmailer’s thumb and set things
right, their fairytale wedding being planned amidst the madness won’t end in a
happily ever after.
Flynn sat, head hanging, hand running up the back of his neck.
He’d fucked up.
Eyes stinging, he collapsed into the plush wing-backed chair, fingers trembling over cracked lips. The wicked contusion staining his flank jolted fire alongside his spine. He grimaced, accepting it as penance. He’d promised he wasn’t gonna do that again…be that animal.
Christ, it’d felt good.
It always did. Until he came back to himself and saw the aftermath caught in the half-moons of his nails, the creases at his wrists. The memory of what he’d done leaving him shaking with that goddamn gnawing in his guts for a drink, trying to forget how much he’d liked it.
They’d deserved it.
He chewed his lip. What right did he have to make that determination? Shit, he’d earned worse…but Kara hadn’t. Neither had his kid.
If he still had a kid.
His gaze slid across the expansive room to the curtained fourposter bed. Her form lost in shadow, an extension of self, taking up every bit of talent he was pushing her, searing his insides raw. He didn’t care, the burn was nothing. He’d crawl through hell to save them. His eyes dropped to his hands, knuckles ragged and swollen.
He had. Jumped right into the fire, and it’d only made things worse. Goddamn his temper.
They’d all know what he’d done.
What he was.
“… I swear to God, I wish I was a fucking twist, then I wouldn't have to pretend…”
Flynn scrubbed a hand over his face. For once in his life, he hadn’t, and he’d pissed away
House Scot’s political power in the process. If he confessed and registered, Cal might be able to salvage some of it. Maybe enough to protect her.
There was a soft knock at the door, and the massive oak slab was pushed inward on well-oiled hinges. French wheeled in a sterling coffee service. The flickering light from the marble hearth bounced off its polished curves onto the glossy pastries at its side.
Christ, he’d just wanted a cup.
“The constable major will be in his office within the hour, per your request, sir,” the man intoned, working the cafetière. He’d gotten old. Flynn took in the familiar livery and stiff mustache waxed into precise loops, bone white instead of the salt-and-pepper grey he remembered. “I’ve brought suitable garments. Will you require assistance?”
Flynn’s eyes went to the freshly brushed jacket and trousers hanging from the bar of the cart. French handed him the cup and saucer with a flourish, then stood, awaiting his pleasure.
The enameled china chattered in Flynn’s hands, and he fought the urge to wing the fucking thing into the fireplace. “You’re gonna have to find a different jacket. The last one I borrowed from Lot didn’t work out so well.”
The seams would split when they cuffed him. The press would love that. He took a sip of coffee. Christ, it was a far cry from freeze-dried.
French began making him up a plate of pastries. “That shouldn’t be an issue, Lady Breakspear sent over several options, along with this.” He took an envelope from his breast pocket and held it out to him.
Flynn’s stomach lurched. Shit. There was only one thing the First Breaker could want to speak to him about. He stared at it for a long moment before taking it from the man.
It was unaddressed and heavier than it should’ve been, thick cream parchment with a raised wax seal the color of dark cherries. She’d used her signet to stamp a stylized ‘B’ into the
blob. French held out a slim blade before he could ask.
Flynn’s hands went through the motions, opening it by rote, though it’d been years. No exotic perfume rose up with the gold-lined flap, and the page within was free of ill-conceived prose. Two words stared back at him.
Breaker Business.
What the ever-loving fuck?
They weren’t outing him… Anger devoured his bewilderment. It had to be blackmail. He flung the missive into the flames. Not up here ten goddamn hours, and he was already hip-deep in political fucking intrigue. They’d expect something in return for keeping this quiet…if they could. There’d been more than just Breakers kissing the ground out there. Flynn bit into one of the pastries French had set beside him. Still…it gave him time.
“What’re they saying in the city?”
“The aid-workers are reporting any number of improbabilities, everything from aliens to the second coming of Christ, but those whom survived the Sons’ attack have been markedly silent. One wonders how long that will last.”
“Until their wallets become noticeably thicker. How many nobles were on the train?”
“Just your party. The hour was a bit too raw for your brethren,” French said, topping off his coffee. “I’ve taken the liberty of scheduling Ernesto to attend to your needs before Assembly begins.”
Flynn glanced at the butler, reading all he needed to in his eyes. Bastard had known exactly what he was planning. Had he known what was in that note? Christ, he wouldn’t put it past him. Man was worse than Cal with that shit.
And now it was time to play the part.
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Book Trailer:
Breaker
The Price of Talent Book 1
On an alternate earth, a cataclysm has altered a subset of the population. Talents are persecuted for their psychic and physical mutations, giving rise to two conflicting societies based upon maintaining genetic purity. And the Source, a shadowy corporate entity dependent upon the exploitation of captive Talents, is hunting them…
Self-exiled to the Outside, Flynn Scot is oath-bound to a life of strict
penance.
Cursed with a vicious temper and haunted by
the blood-stained debauchery of his past, Flynn’s sworn off women, whiskey, and
violence, and doesn’t give a damn about whispers of the coming war. He sure as
hell isn’t in the mood to make good on a debt when it’s called in, especially
when playing white knight outs him as a Talent, and the damsel in distress as
his soulmate.
On the run from her future as a broodmare
for the Source, escaped Talent Kara Jester is no distressed damsel.
And the last thing she wants is to be
trapped in a blizzard with a surly—and frustratingly captivating—thug. Without
the suppression meds holding her libido in check, her biology’s primed to
procreate, and Flynn’s growled assurances that he won’t touch her doesn’t match
the hunger in his eyes.
It doesn’t align with what fate has in
store for them, either.
With elite troops hot on their heels and the
border set to close, it’s a race to the North, away from Kara’s horrific future
and towards the dark past Flynn wants to keep buried. Clinging to the shreds of
his oath, he’s forced to choose between protecting the woman he’s afraid to
love and letting out the animal he swore he’d never be again. Either may
destroy him, if Kara’s secrets don’t get them killed first.
Flynn put his book aside and eyed the massive pile of wood Kara had brought in. She stacked the last of the logs against the wall, pensive.
“You good?”
Her smile was forced. “Yeah, it’s just so quiet. I’m not used to it.”
She knelt beside him and unwrapped the compress. It’d long since gone cold. His gaze slid over her inspecting his knee. There was a competence and economy to her motions that gave the impression she was very good at what she was doing. He shivered at her touch, and a muscle in his jaw popped.
She peeked up at him. “Cold hands?”
“Yeah.” They were, but that wasn’t the issue.
“You have to stay off it.” She reached forward like she was going to ruffle his hair, then pulled back when he tensed, biting at her thumb.
Goddamn it. That kicked-dog look was back on her face. Flynn closed his eyes, fighting the urge to pull her into his lap and tell her everything would be okay. Wasn’t his fucking problem.
Lies, lies, lies, lies, lies. Shit was gutting him. Why the hell he felt responsible for her…
He wasn’t. Couldn’t be. Couldn’t handle his own train-wreck. Adding her to that equation would only get her hurt. Last thing he wanted was for her to see what a monster he was. For whatever had been in her eyes before to snuff out.
Screw her not thinking he was a white knight; she’d despise him.
His stomach churned, sick over it.
“Mind if I put on some pants?”
Kara stared at her hands, fingers laced together. “As long as I can get to your knee.”
“Grab me those.” She got his sweats, and he moved the recliner back upright, feeling like an absolute dick. He jerked his head at the cupboard. “Couple cans of soup in there, if you’re hungry.”
She hopped to, like he’d given an order. Flynn’s brow furrowed, pulling on the sweats. What was that about? It was like a part of her had just shut down—
He bit back a groan. That look she had before. The one where he’d sworn she thought she was fucking defective or some shit, and he’d been flat out rejecting her advances. Christ, he wanted to kick his own ass. Having an ugly prick like him say no had to be great for her ego. Motherf—
“How do I…?” She was turning a can over in her hands, frowning.
“Opener’s where you found the forks,” he muttered, watching her push around his meager supply of cutlery. God, he was an asshole, and there wasn’t anything he could say without making it worse.
“This thing?” She held it up for his inspection.
“Yeah, just clip it on and turn the wheel.”
She put her back to him, and it sounded like she was botching the job. Like she needed another blow to her confidence. Flynn sighed, hoisting himself up. So much for staying off his knee.
“You shouldn’t be—”
“I gotta piss.”
Kara turned away, flushing. He limped the six steps to the table and steadied himself with a hand to one side of her, grinning before he could help himself. She was so frickin’ adorable fumbling with the damned thing. How could you be clueless about operating a can opener?
“Here, just—no, not like—come here.” He moved behind her, adjusting her grip, and firmly clipping it onto the side of the can. Damn, she smelled good. As in there-goes-taking-a-piss-right-away good.
“Go on, turn it.” Her fingers were long and slender beneath his. Smooth.
“Like this?” she asked, peeking over her shoulder at him, all innocent and sexy as hell. It twined around him in that heady musk. Flynn’s eyes dropped to her lips—
Fuck, he couldn’t do this.
“Yeah.” He reached past her to grab a stout stick leaning between the cabinet and the wall. Woman was killing him. “Next one’s all you.” He lurched into the bathroom, cursing himself.
Kara’s bra hung limply from the curtain rod, mocking him. He ran the water, splashing the glacial iciness over his head, hard-on throbbing for the umpteenth time today. Pretty soon frostbite wasn’t gonna be a deterrent to jacking off.
And he was supposed to take her north.
Fucking Cal.
Nothing had gone right since he’d answered his call. And now he was stuck with her and a mandate hanging over his head. Keep his dick in his pants. The hell he would, she wanted him, and if she kept offering it up, who was he to say no?
Flynn blew out noisily, scrubbing at his face. No. That wasn’t him. Not anymore, and she deserved better. Emotions running riot, he doused his head in the sink, soaking his shirt in the process.
Whatever. It stank, just like the rest of him. He peeled it off and chucked it onto the pile in the corner, sponging himself down. A Binder. Why the hell did she have to be a Binder? Bred for talent and beauty. They’d done a bang up job with her. Her in that lacy bra flitted across his mind’s eye. Shit, those halos. He’d never seen—Christ, he needed a cold shower. This goddamn knee. He wouldn’t be able to keep his balance in there…though sitting in six inches of freezing water held a certain appeal. He grimaced, grabbed his scissors, and snipped a few errant hairs off his upper lip—
What am I doing?
He threw the scissors back behind the mirror, disgusted with himself. He’d keep his hands off her. Ducking his head, he sighed, staring down at his tented sweats, then at the dirty laundry pile, and finally, the walking stick.
Fuck my life. How the hell was this gonna work? He snorted, trying to remember the last time he’d had to hide an erection.
Oh yeah, about an hour ago.
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BookTrailer:
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About the Author
AK Nevermore enjoys operating heavy machinery, freebases coffee, and gives up sarcasm for Lent every year. A Jane-of-all-trades, she’s a certified chef, restores antiques, and dabbles in beekeeping when she’s not reading voraciously or running down the dream in her beat-up camo Chucks.
Unable to ignore the voices in her head, and
unwilling to become medicated, she writes Science Fiction and Fantasy full
time.
She pays the bills editing, wielding a
wicked hot pink pen and writing a column on SFF. She also belongs to the
Authors Guild, is a chapter treasurer for the RWA, teaches creative writing,
and on the rare occasion, sleeps.
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