I have a treat for you on the blog today. Below is an excerpt from the Master of Umbra, book 2 in The Valhalla series from the uber-talented author, Poppet.For a chance to win a .mobi copy, please leave a comment below and I will select (lucky dip) and inform the winner by Friday 14th June. Good luck!
Title: Master of Umbra by Poppet
Genre: Paranormal Romance
Deliah is in grave danger, running for her life from a man
who needs her dead, when serendipity plants her in the path of the Master of
Umbra.
Inducted into the mysterious Eagle clan of the Scottish highlands, Deliah is torn between her fate and destiny when kin clash for her affections. Falling for the scandalous villain who heads the Berserkers of the Hebrides, her fragile hope is snuffed out early by revelation and impending war.
The only mantra she can cling to is the one uttered in heartfelt promise; that love comes back.
Because that's what love does.
Inducted into the mysterious Eagle clan of the Scottish highlands, Deliah is torn between her fate and destiny when kin clash for her affections. Falling for the scandalous villain who heads the Berserkers of the Hebrides, her fragile hope is snuffed out early by revelation and impending war.
The only mantra she can cling to is the one uttered in heartfelt promise; that love comes back.
Because that's what love does.
Excerpt:
“What do you want?” he snaps, in
that impatient drawl.
“Er... I can't get confrontational
in the dark,” I mumble, losing courage.
“I bet you're plenty confrontational
in the dark.” Gripping my arm in the 'master is not pleased' grind, he marches
me deeper into the darkness, muttering, “Dressed like that only reinforces the
image.”
“What's wrong with the way I'm
dressed?” I argue, wishing he'd slow down already.
He laughs, and it's cold, “Sweetie,
it looks like you're either going to put me over your knee, or beg me to put
you over mine.”
“Oh go get knotted–”
“Did you leave any beer in the vat
when you finished sucking it dry? Ulfhednar head is white and frothy, just the
way you like it.”
“I did not–”
“You're more baked than clay and
you're going to be just as dehydrated come sunup. What the hell were you
thinking?” he chastises, hauling me into a grotto ready to raise the dead.
Candles and steam haunt the room like old lovers getting nostalgic.
“What the hell was I thinking?” Now
you've done it mister twat. “I was thinking you require trepanning so you can
deflate your fucking ego.”
He turns to scowl down at me, his
chest embroidered with white scars which map bridges over his extreme
musculature. I'm trying very hard not to gawk, but bleedin' heck, he looks like
an action man who grew up on a uranium farm, except of course for the tortured
gaze he pegs me with when he folds his arms and bursts veins out in wild
rivulets. They ridge in the flickering candlelight, shadowing his bulk with a
net of strength.
What was he doing here exactly, in
just his baggies?
Fuck! Was he expecting his date to
show up and I walked in where I'm not welcome?
Links to Poppet:
