My Rating -

I've loved everything else I've read from this author and assumed that I'd love this book. It sounds so good, but actually being in it, I wasn't feeling it. Honestly, I wasn't feeling much of anything. I didn't care about anything, which is the strangest thing because I've got tons of books on my shelves, some even signed, by this author. Ah well, not every book will be a winner right? I'll try something else by her for sure.

My Rating -

This story was pretty basic, but sometimes you need some basic in your life. You know?

So I gave it a chance.

The heroine: boring
The hero: boring
The story: boring

But that's ok.

Until it wasn't.

I DNF'd at chapter 38 because I was too tired of the heroine's antics. She's pregnant, a man knocked her to the ground, the hero had just lost his dad and that anger fueled him in punching dude a bit, and she basically tells the hero no. Then yes. Then no. Then yes.


I couldn't even bring myself to read the remaining two chapters.

My Rating -

I can't believe I'm doing this.
I love PW. Seriously lurve her work.
Her books line my shelves -- signed, sealed, delivered

So why did I have such a hard time with this book? Why did I not fall in love with its depravity?

I didn't care about Gemma AT ALL and Kassen didn't have strong enough appeal to keep me going.

Every book can't be a winner, right?

This was it. My new beginning. My new ending.

“Bonsoir, esclave.”

My eyes soared up to the first landing of the giant blue, velvet staircase. Massive works of art hung like armament on gilded walls.

A man in a grey chequered suit, complete with black shirt, silver tie and short, dark hair, watched from the landing.

My entire body ignited as his jaw clenched. His gaze unclothed and terrified me. Everything about him screamed ruthlessness and power. He held himself proud and regal as if this was his castle and I was the latest subject.

Our eyes locked, and something tingled across my flesh. Fear? Terror? Something inside knew he was dangerous.

His lips twitched as I sucked in a breath. He removed his hands from his pockets and placed them on the banister, his fingers long and strong, even from this distance. The way he stared became too much. I felt undone, stripped to my soul.

I stepped back, bumping against the guard behind. He bent his head, whispering in my ear, “Say hello to your new master.”

The word master echoed like a bad tuning fork.

Master. Master.

No, he wasn’t my master. Not with his short, sleek hair and sharp widow’s peak. Not with his clenched, stubble-smooth jaw and trim physique. He was not my master. No one was.

Tears pricked as I thought about Brax. He seemed a world away compared to this reality. Brax was rough and boyish, a hard worker through and through. The man, staring with pale jade eyes and an unreadable, chiselled face, lived in total contrast. Power radiated like visible waves, unsettling me more than anything.

He wasn’t the fat, repulsive bastard who used wealth to buy sex slaves. He wasn’t gross or any other monstrous things. Who is this man?

My eyes widened, drinking him in—the owner of this house. The owner of… me. No, never.

I didn’t care who he was, because my life belonged to me. I stuck out my chin, glaring. I wouldn’t be intimidated by wealth or stature. I didn’t care he was tall and moved like he expected the world to lick his shoes. I would never lick anything of his.

The man never broke eye contact, ensnaring me in his gaze. Slowly, he pushed off the banister and moved toward the stairs.

I gulped.

He was smooth water—effortless in refinement but just like still water, dangerous if you couldn’t swim. Deadly rips and currents lurked deep below the surface. I eyed him, trying to figure out what sick pleasures he indulged in that normal, willing women were hard to come by.

My heart raced with every step he took, descending toward me.

The guard pushed me forward. “Bow to your new master.”

I tripped, but regained my footing instantly. My fists shook, I clenched them so hard. My injuries reminded me all of this was wrong. In some warped sense, it seemed innocent like the owner of the house merely welcoming a guest.

“I have no master,” I said, putting every ounce of rebellion into the words. “Let me go.”

The man stopped mid-step, head cocked. His fingers curled around the banister, showing manicured nails, no calluses in sight. Once again, pale eyes connected with mine, sucking my thoughts into a vacuum.

Up till now, his face had been unreadable, but as we stared, flashes of emotion buffeted me. Anger. Interest. Annoyance. Resignation. And finally, in a blaze of jade…lust.

My breath quickened and I tried to step back again, only to collide with the wall of the guard’s chest.

The guard placed a hot, heavy hand between my shoulder blades and pushed, forcing me into a struggling, painful bow. “Do as you’re told.”

So many thoughts collided. I wanted to spin and steal the gun in the holster under his arm. I wanted to shoot everyone. I wanted to slash at the gorgeous artwork and priceless artefacts around the room. Such things of beauty did not deserve to belong to a man whose goons forced a sex slave to bow.

“Bastard,” I muttered, hating I couldn’t do any of it. All I could do was obey—for now.

“Stop. If she doesn’t want to bow, then don’t force her.” The masculine voice reminded me of glinting steel, shaped with precision and strength. It was the sound of authority, and despite my best attempts to rebel, I bowed on my own. The sheer weight of his voice compelled obedience.

The guard’s hand left my back. He chuckled. “If she doesn’t want to bow, perhaps she wants to crawl.”

My back snapped upright, and I jumped a mile. My new owner stood directly in front of me. Hands in his slack pockets, head cocked slightly to the side, as if inspecting a piece of art.

“She may crawl if she wishes,” he murmured.

“I do not wish,” I snapped.

Once again, our eyes connected and I searched for the evil like the men in Mexico, but he guarded himself too well. Nothing gave away what he thought, even the emotions I’d seen before were gone.

We stood staring for moments, before the guard behind me cleared his throat. Shattering the fragile silence and condemning me to whatever would happen next.

“Laissez-nous.” The man waved a hand toward the exit. Instantly, the guard left along with a few others I hadn’t seen lurking. The rustle of their suits sounded like a death sentence as they siphoned out the door.

Oh, God.

My eyes flicked to the left, where a massive library beckoned. Sultry mahogany, rich maroons, and gold bookcases. A roaring fire beckoned to read a book and slouch in the wingback chairs huddled around the flames.

To the right, a ginormous lounge full of comfortable designer sofas and chairs. Animal hides of zebra and tiger littered the floor, and huge glass doors reflected me standing under the bright lights of the foyer.

The man stood an arm’s length away. Tears thickened my throat.

I dropped my gaze, unable to look anymore. Tiredness descended, and all I wanted to do was sleep—to escape this nightmare.

“You won’t be able to run,” he said, watching closely.

I sucked in a breath. “Who says I’m going to run?”

His lips, smooth and well defined against his five o’clock shadow, twitched. “I smell it on you—the scent of prey. You’re looking for a bolthole, somewhere no one can find you.” He leaned in, sending a cloud of expensive cologne around me. “You’re different, I’ll give you that. They didn’t break you, but don’t think you can fight me. You won’t win.”