Happy Thursday All! Check out the brand new cover for the upcoming RE-release of Tourmentin: The Rise of the House of Sepion coming from Crushing Hearts and Black Butterfly Publishing April 27th! Also check out an excerpt from the upcoming Southern Gothic romance. Plus hope you join in the fun by adding your support to the Tourmentin Thunderclap campaign which still needs six more supporters in order to reach a hundred percent!
Also enter the Tourmentin Taste of New Orleans Rafflecopter Giveaway for your chance to win the Grand Prize Packet!
Included in the TOURMENTIN PRIZE PACK: E-Copy of Tourmentin: Rise of The House of Sepion Novella, (Taste of New Orleans Gift Set (Cafe Du Monde Coffee And Beignet Mix Set) and 1 -$5 Amazon Gift Card. Giveaway is April 27th-May 27th. Click here to enter on April 27th: #RafflecopterGiveaway: https://www.facebook.com/MCJordan-Books-288004677978367/app/228910107186452/
Thanks to the fabulous Author/Artist Rue Volley at CHBB Publishing for this incredible cover!
Emile awakened again. At times, he was unaware of when he slipped into the velvety arms of darkness. He didn’t know if it were sleep or death grasping and toying with him, taking small pieces of him at a time. There was a point when he would have welcomed death.
Especially after losing his beloved Serafine…Serafine. He became fully conscious. He had her back, but Emile knew he was racing against time, and he would lose her again unless he could intervene. He sat up in his bedroom, wearing black trousers, but his chest was bare. The last thing he remembered was his love, and he was enmeshed in the memory of the night they made love in the bath. Emile sat on the edge of the bed, his face in his hands. He typically felt exhaustion when coming out of the blackness, but this time adrenaline flowed through Emile. He needed to think, to somehow reach his love.
“Amant…lover, it has been a long time. Aucun titre ne contient le mot? Have you missed me?” Emile heard the sultry voice, which could heat a man’s blood. He felt his body react, although his mind repelled—Isadora.
“Aww…mon cher, will you not look at me? It has been so very long, so very…” Isadora said.
The black anger lying bottled within his heart awakened. Rage lifted its head like a serpent, poised and ready to strike. Emile stiffened as he glared at Isadora, the woman who stole his life.
Although his heart and mind belonged to Serafine, his body continued to react to the provocative woman standing before him. Isadora stood tall with strong, shapely legs that seemed never-ending. She was dressed in all modern clothing: black boots and black jeans molded to her thick, full thighs and curvaceous hips, along with a tight black tank top displaying her well-formed arms and bountiful bosom. Caramel skin and flowing waves of ebony curls reaching to the middle of her back completed her look.
He had not forgotten he once loved her, before he knew what love really was. Emile knew there could be sweetness to Isadora, as he had seen flashes in spite of the warnings of his father.
Once, when Emile had grown up and taken up with her, his father had come to his room. He remembered his father sitting on his bed and saying, “Son, I do not wish to know the details. I understand you are young, but you are now a man. I have walked the road you are walking down. There is beauty, but also danger and death as well. Please, son, allow your heart to lead you, not only your body.” His father left his room as quietly as he had come.
Not too long after, Serafine arrived at his home. Emile remembered his conversation with his father, and so he followed his heart. Emile knew he had not been completely fair to Isadora. Although a large part of himself continued to mourn what he and Serafine lost, there was a small but persistent part, which wondered if he were the one who had killed whatever may be good in Isadora. Ever since the night he rejected her, the night of his parent’s death, the question always returned. He never saw a glimmer of anything other than rage since then. Even when her words were used to entice, there was ice in Isadora’s eyes.
He looked at her and something clicked. The serpent within him raged, striking its enemy. Before he realized what was happening, he lunged at the witch woman, and with his hands around her throat, he threw her toward the bed, tumbling down with her.
With his hands still attached to her throat, he squeezed. Emile’s only conscious thought was to save Serafine—even if Isadora killed him—for he knew of her unearthly, supernatural power. He had to rid the world of this woman. That would be the only way to keep his beloved safe, even if he were to never have her in his arms again.
Isadora gasped, her eyes wide and staring straight at him. Her breasts heaved, but she did not struggle. Soon, Emile felt a piercing ice prick of pain sear through his brain. He screamed, and his body lunged back as he flew off the bed and against the opposite wall. The spasms echoed and magnified until he was no longer conscious of himself or anything else except misery. He was no longer Emile. His name was pain.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Michelle Cornwell-Jordan is a New Adult(18+)/Young Adult Author, who enjoys writing Paranormal, Dark Contemporary Fiction, Fantasy and Steampunk!:)
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Author website: http://michellecjordan.wix.com/author#
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