than watch him suffer. He deserved
better. He’d find better.
“It’s going to be okay.” Violet
put a hand on my shoulder. I
shrugged her off. It wasn’t going to
be okay, and it would hurt until the
change happened completely. Then
I could finally hide inside my
emotionless existence.
My brief time with Owen had
changed me, and I hoped I’d one
day be granted a glimpse back at
the beautiful moments we’d shared.
I would do everything possible to
find my way back to myself, but I
knew that was only a pipedream.
My human life was over, and that
meant any life with Owen.
“Daisy!” Owen called my name
again from somewhere in the
distance, and I curled up into a ball
on the ground.
“Please, can you make the
change come faster?” I’d never
imagined I’d ask for something like
that, but I needed it. The pain was
too much to bare.
“Yes.” Arabella’s voice came
from behind me. “We can make it
instant, Daisy. All you have to do is
ask.”
“Do it.” I closed my eyes and
waited for the feelings to fade
away.
Owen and Daisy’s story continues
in
Lost (The Allure Chronicles
#3)
, coming soon.
Keep reading for a preview of
Forged in Stone (The Forged
Chronicles #1)
, a New Adult
Fantasy Romance by Alyssa Rose
Ivy
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FORGED IN STONE
The Forged Chronicles
Alyssa Rose Ivy
The son of darkness is all grown
up...
James is a Guardian. He is
tasked with protecting the most
important person in his world. For
eight years he has done his job
without complaint, but he has
grown tired of living under the
shadow of a father who is
responsible for the most
unimaginable violence and
destruction his world has ever
known.
Ainsley is at a loss for what to
do with her life. She hates her two
dead end jobs and the family who
betrayed her. She has resigned
herself to living one day at a time,
but she longs for an escape from
her lonely life.
When Ainsley finds James in her
bed, their two lives and worlds
collide. They may have both found
exactly what they need, but the
darkness James has been running
from his whole life has just caught
up.
JAMES
The dated rock music was giving
me a headache. If not for the
alcohol still left in my glass I would
have been out of the bar already.
Even the redhead hanging on my
every word was getting to me. Did
girls no longer believe in the chase?
“James?” she said my name with
an exaggerated southern drawl that
came across as almost fake. It
probably was.
“Yes?” I blinked a few times
trying to bring things back into
focus. I had drunk far too much, but
there was nothing I could do about
that now.
“Are you even listening to me?”
She tapped her fingers on the bar
top between us.
“No.” I took in the faded blue
paint on the walls. The place had
seen better days, but it served my
needs perfectly. No one thought
anything of the quiet guy getting
plastered at the bar. I blended in.
“I asked you if you wanted to
take me home. I only live a few
blocks from here.” She put her hand
on my upper thigh.
I looked into her glazed over
green eyes. “Probably not.”
“Oh.” Hurt marred her overly
made-up face, and for a second I
felt bad, but then it faded. She
would be even more hurt when I
left her in the morning. Besides, if
she was half as drunk as I was, she
had no idea what she was asking.
“I am doing you a favor.” I
downed the rest of my beer. It was
some crappy lager I had no plans to
try again. I had chosen it as an
alternative to the whiskey that had
filled my glass earlier in the
evening.
“Oh.” She stared at me blankly.
She clearly liked that word.
“See you around.” I moved over
a stool to make sure she got the
less than subtle hint. I did not
particularly enjoy being mean, but I
had no time or energy to play nice.
Loud laughter got my attention.
“Cold.”
I looked at the aging bartender
chuckling in front of me before
glancing down at the now vacant
stool the redhead had been seated
on. “Honesty.”
“You have to admit that was
harsh.” He leaned on his elbows.
“Do you usually treat pretty girls
that way?”
“Would it have been better to
have bedded her and never spoken
to her again?”
He straightened up. “No, but
there is an in-between. There is
value in politeness.”
“And what value is that?” I
pushed my empty beer glass
toward the bartender. “Give me
something stronger this time.”
“I can’t serve you more. We
both know that.”
“And we both know you make
exceptions.” I was drunk. There
was no question about that, but I
needed more to numb the
emptiness. Otherwise there was no
point in having made the trip into
Charleston.
“I can’t serve you more booze,
but I don’t mind listening.”
“Listening?” I raised an
eyebrow. “Do I look like I want
someone to listen?”
“You’re wasted before nine
o’clock at night. You need someone
to talk to.”
“Next time I will wait until later
to get intoxicated.” I tossed down
enough money to cover double my
tab and stumbled out of the bar.
The cool night was a welcome
change from the stifling heat of the
overcrowded dive. It had been
years since I lived in the city of
Charleston, South Carolina, but one
thing remained the same. They still
insisted on pumping heat into
buildings the second the
temperature dropped south of sixty
degrees. I doubted that most of the
people at the bar could survive long
where I came from.
The city portion of my walk
should not have taken long, but it
did. I guess that happens when you
get pissed drunk. I knew Charleston
well from the months I lived there
in high school—and the few nights I
spent there now. I spent most of
my time in an altogether different
place, a place that had stopped
feeling like home years ago. A place
that was literally another world.
I was far too exhausted to make
it all the way back home, so I
stopped at the one place I could in
the city. I had no key, but I had
another plan to get in. I went
around back, taking one cursory
look into the withering garden
before starting my climb up the
thick ivy that wound its way all the
way up to the third story balcony.
The ivy swayed under my
weight, but I made it onto the
balcony without breaking my neck. I
shook the doorknob with enough
force to get it to budge. I pushed
the door open, kicked off my boots,
and tossed my shirt before
collapsing on the queen sized bed.
It was not my bed, but at the
moment any bed would do.
AINSLEY
Iwas living the life of a TV sitcom
friend. You know the type: the
boring one that serves no purpose
except to make the main character
seem more interesting. I worked
not one, but two dead end jobs. I
didn’t know which was worse,
serving frozen yogurt or working as
an office assistant at a law firm.
Neither had anything to do with my
career goals, but as my mom
always said, beggars can’t be
choosers. My art history degree had
proved as useful as it sounded. I
couldn’t manage to land a job
working in a gallery, let alone a
museum. I’d eventually have to go
back to school to get a degree in
something useful, but the thought
of spending time in a classroom
wasn’t something I could stomach.
At twenty-two, I was just happy to
be paying the bills without moving
back in with my parents. It was
more than most of my friends could
say. Or at least most of the friends I
still had.
I waited impatiently as a couple
stared at the flavor listing above my
head. They’d been in the frozen
yogurt shop for twenty minutes
already. We only offered a dozen
flavors. The decision couldn’t have
been that hard to make. “We close
at nine.” I used the most polite
voice possible, but as it was 8:56 I
figured they needed a reminder.
“That means you don’t let new
customers in after nine. We’re
already here. You can’t kick us out.”
The guy wrapped his arm around
his date’s waist. “Don’t worry baby,
there’s no rush.”
I bit my tongue. Who did this
clown think he was? If I wasn’t
certain the guy would report me
and get me fired, I would have
given him a piece of my mind.
Instead I started wiping up a sticky
spot on the counter I’d overlooked
earlier. Despite how boring the job
was, it did pay decently, and I
didn’t mind my boss.
“Can I try the vanilla again? I’m
not sure I liked it.” The girl pointed
at the hard yogurt in the case in
front of her.
Seriously? Who tried vanilla
twice? I mean everyone in the
world knew what that flavor tasted
like. I gritted my teeth. “Sure.” I
picked up one of the small pink
spoons and scooped a tiny amount.
I handed it to her.
She tasted it. “I’m still not sure.”
I glanced at the neon colored
clock by the door. It was two
minutes after nine now. “I’m sorry,
but I really have to close.”
“No you don’t. You’re going to
let my girlfriend take her time and
pick a flavor.” The guy puffed out
his chest like that was supposed to
intimidate me or something.
I sighed before glancing at the
clock again. I was going to be late
meeting my friends for drinks. Or
really my friend Grace and her other
friends. Saying it in the plural made
it sound better.
“Is the chocolate chip cookie
dough flavor good?” The girl batted
her long eyelashes. I’d have bet a
lot they were fake.
“If you like cookie dough, yes.”
She nodded as though I’d just
shared some life altering secret.
“Can I try that one too?”
I sighed again. “Sure.” I took out
another pink spoon.
She tried it. “I changed my
mind. I don’t want anything.” The
girl turned toward the door.
“I agree. Horrible service here.”
The guy followed her and slammed
the door behind him.
I silently cursed them while I
wiped down the rest of counter.
There was a time in my life when I
got along with everyone. That time
had come and passed. Now I was
lucky if I could handle being in the
same room as someone who
rubbed me the wrong way. It made
working in the service industry
dicey, especially when your
customers were mostly tourists. I
loved living in Charleston, but
sometimes I wished I lived
somewhere a little more off the
beaten path.
I finished my clean up and
checked the clock again. I didn’t
have time to do much to help my
appearance, but I changed into a
black three-quarter length sleeve
sweater rather than my Yogurt Love
t-shirt. I checked the tip jar. There
wasn’t much in there, which was
the same way it was every shift.
Clearly my sparkling personality
wasn’t doing me any favors.
I locked up and hurried out to
my car, checking the clock as soon
as I started the engine. Nine
twenty-two. I could still make nine-
thirty if I didn’t hit too many lights.
I raced down to King Street,
nearly destroying my car in an
attempt to parallel park in the
smallest spot known to man. Even
my tiny Honda Fit barely found
enough room. If it had been during
the day, I could have avoided using
my car completely, but I was far too
paranoid to walk around the city
alone at night. My step-dad the cop
had shared countless horror stories
with me.
I got out and booked it around
the corner to the bar. Right before I
reached the entrance I realized I