Dye's Kingdom: Wanting it Forever Part of the Kingdom Series, Dye’s story is set in an ancient world peopled by strange races of paranormal abilities. Tall and lean, with a body as powerful as a whip, the new King of Greater Thrall is intimidating and dangerous. In addition Dye is a man of principle, determined to honor his obligations despite temptation. He’s a man with a will of steel, but for the one weakness he cannot resist—the daring young captain in his army who possesses both an intoxicating beauty and a bold, defiant spirit. Determined to honor his betrothal contract to a Vandal princess in order to avoid war, Dye struggles to fight his desire for Martigay, but the ambitious captain isn’t one to let an arrogant princess stand in her way. She intends to make her mark in Dye’s army and leave her mark upon the king. Together, they fight their own war upon a battlefield of unquenchable lust, only to learn that passions and hungers born from the heart cannot be denied. When Dye finally gives rein to passion, he takes Martigay with a fire of male savagery and an unbending hand, which leaves her breathless and leaves them both…wanting it forever. |
| Cover Art by Syneca |
| Available in Print at Borders, Amazon, Ellora's Cave |
Excerpt “Who died and made you king?” With her upper lip curled into a sneer, Martigay snorted at the big man’s back—then watched that back freeze in defensive disbelief. Slowly the man turned to face her, stunned incredulity stamped into his expression. The long, curving line of his lips parted as he stared, and Martigay was suddenly taken with the idea that…the large, intimidating man was…exceptionally…attractive. Attractive in an undeniably hard, male sense, impossible to ignore and unlikely to be overlooked. His broad, square shoulders spanned the chest of a mountaineer, wide and deep, and a heavy wool cloak was pushed back over the wide line of those shoulders. The long sleeves of his linen jerkin were pushed up to his elbows, exposing tanned forearms touched with a burnish of fair hair and patterned with a strong network of veins. The frayed edge of his doeskins were cinched tight around a tapered waist and his plain, soft leggings bunched at his groin, then hugged his legs in loose folds to tuck into the top of scuffed leather boots. Her eyes lingered a moment at his groin before they made a reluctant departure and followed his long legs all the way to the ground. In a cool appraisal, Martigay let her eyes slowly rise to his face. And that was where her dispassionate veneer failed her. The man was unmistakably first-class, grade-A, level one, hunk-quality material—nudged right up there next to godhood. The man was…dangerously handsome. He looked like the sort of man who would kill for what he wanted and would kill again before giving it up. The hard planes of his face spoke of violent hours on the battlefield and threatened danger as well as promised protection. The lines that bracketed his hard mouth had probably never seen a smile. Imagining how it might feel to be possessed by such a man, a shiver went up Martigay’s spine. As he glared at her, Martigay’s eyes drifted to the dark tattoo slashing his left eyebrow. Tattoos were uncommon in the men of her generation, though older men, especially Khals, sported intricate patterns that covered half their foreheads and extended downward across one eyelid. But this tattoo was a departure from the dark, scrolling artwork seen on older Khals. It was a simple, violent, arcing slash that cut from his hairline down through his eyebrow, ending just above his eye. Tucked inside the shadowed hood of his cloak, loose strands of his hair shone as bright as the sun on oranges. With an irritated twitch of his head, the demigod flicked the straight hair out of his eyes as he narrowed his angry gaze on her. Those eyes blazed a virulent, volcanic blue from beneath the cold edge of a frown. “What’s your rank, soldier?” His voice was a hard, dangerous scrape. Abruptly, Martigay realized she may have blundered, and seriously. At her side, she heard Pall snuff out a gasp of startled amusement. She pushed her shoulders back. “What’s it to you?” Someone coughed in the still tavern and there was a scrape of wooden chair against stone floor along with the warning sizzle of meat blackening on the spit in the fireplace. The man’s hood slid from his head, revealing the three gold ribbons of rank braided into his hair and Martigay clamped her teeth in hard regret. Damn. When she’d entered the busy tavern and found the man upbraiding one of her comrades, she’d taken him for an arrogant, threadbare aristocrat of little consequence. With his hood covering his head, she couldn’t have known he outranked her…and then some. Unwilling to acknowledge defeat, her jaw jutted forward. “What’s your rank?” he repeated, his words a cold command. That command put a shiver down her backbone like ice shards driven into her spine. With a blink, she straightened, irritated that the officer would ask what he could clearly see braided into her hair. “Field Captain, Commander,” she announced with all the professional snap she could muster. There was a moment’s silence, and though she didn’t watch those burning eyes, she felt them bore right through her, all the way to her spine. “Not anymore.” His voice was a harsh, contained rasp, like steel against steel. “Pawyn.” Martigay winced. She knew she’d winced and it had shown, though she’d preferred to have hidden it. “As you say, Commander.” His hand was extended toward her, palm up. Quickly, she reached for the blue ribbon in her hair and tugged at the knot with two fingers. Her hand hovered above his a defiant moment before she loosed the ribbon and watched it fall into his hand. Slouching back against the counter—the casual act meant to punctuate her façade of indifference—she boldly settled her eyes on his, as the two of them exchanged their mutual disdain. At some point, the man’s eyes fired in response to her impertinence—the soldier’s complete absence of deference or concern apparently moving the officer to further action. “Report to my tent tomorrow, after firstmeal,” he delivered curtly. With that, the commander motioned to his two attendants as he pushed through the tables and out of the tavern. And it wasn’t until then that she even realized the entire clientele and every soldier within the tavern, with the possible exception of Pall, was holding his or her collective breath. Every set of eyes was fixed on her. With a careless smirk, she shrugged, lifting her shoulders. “What?” she complained to Pall as she turned back to the counter signaling for a jack of ale. “The man was an arrogant son of a marmot—picking on poor Wags like that!” She grinned up at the man behind the counter, expecting him to confirm this opinion with nothing less than a nod. Instead, the barkeep stared at her as if she were mad. “Wags is hard on his mount,” Pall reminded her lightly. “His army mount. You, yourself, have complained about it.” Martigay lifted a shoulder. “Still, the commander needn’t have to come down on me! I was only sticking up for a man in my unit. I didn’t know he was an officer.” The barkeep slid a jack of ale before her and she took a long swallow. “He might have considered that! The man has no sense of humor,” she finished dismissively. Elbows on the counter, Pall nodded agreeably and turned his face to hers. His green gaze was filled with barely suppressed amusement as he looked out at her through a curtain of straw-colored hair. “You might be short on humor, too, if your grandmother— The Queen—had died last month.” Martigay stared at him with dawning horror. “I understand our new king was very close to the old lady.” |
| Other Books in the Kingdom Series |
madison hayes
Dye's Kingdom: Wanting it Forever
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