Series: Sisters of the Apocalypse Series #4
Published by: Self-Pub
Release Date: 2019
Genre: Light paranormal romance
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Ending the world is harder than it looks…
Librarian Anna Fray has spent her life fighting the prophecy that says she’ll rise as War, the fourth horsewoman. War clansmen don’t find love, don’t enjoy life, and usually have lives that are short, brutal, and lonely. But now that all three of her friends have risen, becoming War seems as unavoidable as late fees. After all, the knitting club just burned down her house, and an arrogant pigeon is starting bar fights and claiming to be War’s horse. There’s no escape…until she discovers a loophole: find another candidate, and maybe she won’t have to become War.
Loki – yes, that Loki – is used to being hated and mistrusted and knows he’s better off alone. But he’s worked for decades on his ultimate plan to save humanity, and Anna is key. He has a soft spot for the town librarian who was once his ward. But he’ll do everything he can to convince her she’s the best and only candidate for War. Unfortunately, he hadn’t accounted for the fact that Anna is all grown up, completely immune to his abilities and far too seductive for his peace of mind. As passion burns between them, the fate of the Four will be decided…along with just what kind of apocalypse awaits humanity.
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A dark shadow and warmth crowded her, forced her to look up and suck in a deep breath.
“How did your house burn down, Anna?” He said it as though somehow it was her fault.
She was tall, but he easily towered over her, the breadth of him enough to cause a small trill to shiver through her, slide straight to her womb. He was broad across the shoulders, and undoubtedly there was a rugged, muscular chest under that dark gray dress-shirt.
He was temptation incarnate from the sharp edge of his jawline and high cheekbones darkened with black-brown whiskers to the often sardonic twist of those supple lips, the hint of an almost-mustache accentuating his expressions. Then there were those piercing eyes, changeable and deep gray, shot with amber when he grew angry. No actors, no models, none of the gods she’d seen could compare with the perfection of his face.
Nor the startling way it made her want to lift her fingers, trace the line of that jaw, feel the tickle of whiskers against her fingertips.
Taste those lips.