Monday, October 20, 2008
Author Spotlight- Kat Haeske
Werewolf Kieran McManus is living the high life until his play-boy ways get him captured by Sir Edward Lawrence, the most sadistic and cruel of all vampires. Kieran is tortured to the brink of death and insanity, saved only by his ability to leave his body.
Unable to break him, Sir Edward calls in another weapon. The new male vamp is as beautiful as he is cold. With his dubious gifts, he could break the captive with ease if he chose. When he doesn't, Kieran and his unlikely savior must battle their own worlds and themselves to survive.
It was night.
I soon found out, when the fucking Brit came in. I, in shackles in the middle of the room, tried not to feel my wrists burn.
And with him was someone else. Someone different.
The man was odd, off, and simply different and fucking-as-hell beautiful.
Six-foot-two or -three, but not as heavily muscled as I am. His skin was marble perfect, a touch of gold, with pale lips and white-gold eyes, platinum eyes. Yes, fucking platinum-colored, like finest Glenlivet whiskey. His hair was so pale, I thought it was gray, but as he stepped into the light it turned out to be such a pale shade of blond that it was almost silver. It hung down to his arse, flowing like silk in some non-existent breeze.
Can you hear the angels singing?
By the way, I’m South-American-highway straight, just for the record. I don’t do guys, because they do nothing for me. And this guy was cold as a diamond.
Not as ice, no; no shards of ice could ever achieve the sharp perfection of his face, the finely cut angles of those cheekbones, the exotic tilt of his eyes, or the sharp borders of his lips that were so perfectly pulled into a sardonic smirk.
Nothing. Ever. Could.
Only diamonds were so cruelly perfect, as rock-steady, uncaringly beautiful as he was.
Up until then, everything Edward had done had happened above the waist. Which, I’ll be honest, was a surprise, given his reputation for pretty men and a firm young arse.
Time, obviously, was up. Diamond shrugged out of his velvet tunic the moment he stepped into the room, and revealed a body as perfect as his face. Slender, sleek, sexy, silken. He had those well-toned muscles, not heavy, just Greek-godlike. And pierced nipples. Platinum hoops, go figure.
I was in a panic, but then I calmed myself. Whatever they did, I could leave, and I would leave, never to come back. There was always a last retreat, one that was so deep within they couldn’t block it.
After I don’t know how many days, this guy taking off his shirt in front of me did it.
I was ready to die.
I looked into his eyes and, shit, this is one of those things you can’t describe to anybody who’s never stood on a mountain top in the Highlands. The wild parts, without the roads or cabins the humans seem to build with alarming frequency. No, the pure, untouched Highlands, where the wind sings to you, caressing your face, like a beloved long-lost brother, who is gentle and caring and, at the same time, sharp, cutting under your skin the way only someone so close to your heart can.
You can’t understand what his eyes were like if you’ve never crouched next to a mountain rivulet, almost dying of thirst and watched the crystal clear beauty run over your hands, knowing the first sip will make your head explode with pain and, at the same time, resurrect you with its innate essence.