“Yeah.”
I’m an asshole. An insensitive asshole. I didn’t even think ...
Shame churns in my gut, and I look at him.Reallylook at him. See the glints of attraction, of fear ... of hope.
Fuck.
This is about more than my rejected feelings. Daniel should move on, should reach for the chance for happiness after so much grief. He, more than anyone I know, deserves the chance to walk into the light.
I can’t stand in the way of that for my own selfish reasons. And I can’t fool myself. They would be selfish.
“You should do it, Daniel,” I murmur. “Some advice, though? She’s not ... a fan of athletes. I’m still not sure why she puts up with my ass. So don’t come to her like Linc or one of the other guys. Be real and honest. She’ll appreciate that.”
He nods, a smile brightening his light-brown eyes. “I appreciate that, man.”
“No problem. Whatever I can do to help.”
And the sad part?
I mean that.
CHAPTER FOUR
MIRIAM
“Pain created me. Now I’m paying it forward. With interest.”
—Sarafina Rose, Ravaged Lands
“Granted entrance? No one grants me entrance. I take it.”
“No.” I groan and rub my stylus over the screen of my pro tablet, removing the dialogue out of the small square in the corner of my panel. “That’s not right. Corny,” I mutter to myself.
Tapping the cushioned bottom of the technical pen on my desktop, I study the illustration of the dark, hooded figure; the only identifying features visible from the shadows are long dark-red locs and a wide yet menacing grin. But the cloak doesn’t conceal the black vest or dark-brown leather pants and boots that conform to large breasts, big hips, long legs, and thick, shapely thighs. Neither does the cloak hide all the knives, swords, or bow and arrows strapped to her body. And that doesn’t even start to cover the weapons inside of her.
Oh yeah. My Sarafina Rose is a total badass.
But her dialogue really sucks at the moment.
Still, the story line is shaping up great. My half-human, half-demon heroine contemplates how to infiltrate the huge, dark castle of her mortal enemy, the demonic wizard Razvan—who also happens to be her father.
My readers have been waiting for this moment, and I’m not going to half-ass it.
I shift my gaze to one of my newest characters. A bearded, muscled giant of a man standing just behind and to the left of Sarafina. An intimidating figure with long canary-gold hair shaved on the sides and braided down his back, he stands proud and fierce, his wide torso clad in a fawn jacket, dark runes inscribed in his skin, and leather pants conforming to his powerful thighs. With his booted feet braced far apart and a Mammen axe in each hand, he’s a warrior.
He’s an outcast, as he only looks human but is a changeling—fae offspring switched out for a human child in infancy—and feared and reviled by men who discover his true identity.
He’s honorable, loyal, refusing to leave Sarafina’s side in a battle, always having her back.
He’s her lover.
He’s North the Woodsman.
And he’s obviously Jordan. Or rather, Jordan was my inspiration for him.
Sue me. So I’m living vicariously through my characters.
It’s a safe place to do so without any emotional fallout or damage; it’s a damn near cathartic indulgence that isn’t hurting anyone. To the contrary. I like to think, in my own small way, that maybe I’m helping some of my readers. Not just offering them a place of escape into this postapocalyptic, war-ravaged, and brutal land of magic and steel, of man and myth, but also, I hope, showing them that strength isn’t just about might, power, or brute force. It’s about acting in the face of fear and seemingly overwhelming odds, about finding your voice when it’s easier to be and stay silenced.
