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- Herausgeber: Joslyn Chase
- Kategorie: Gesellschafts- und Liebesromane
- Sprache: Englisch
- Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2017
Scarred surface. Soul deep.
The jagged mark runs from collarbone to breastbone, marring her beauty, destroying her peace. A reminder of her deepest failing.
Adalet sees only one way to overcome the ruins of her life. Entangled in a deadly game of lies, pitted against a ruthless opponent, she stakes every last shred of herself on winning.
In a struggle between revenge and redemption, Adalet balances on a thin crust of sanity.
If you love a story full of twists and suspense, spin the wheel with Adalet!
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Contents
Title Page
Free Book!
Story
Notes
Thanks for reading
More books by Joslyn Chase
Sample from Nocturne In Ashes
About the Author
Adalet Copyright Page
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The first time he took me to bed, Paul found the scar.
He traced it with a finger that felt like a white-hot knife, searing my flesh from collarbone to the space between my breasts. A rush of blood coursed through my eardrums, filling my mouth with the taste of tin and when I closed my eyes, the pictures inside my eyelids bloomed like blood-red fireworks. Short, panting breaths tore from the cage in my chest and I bit my lip against an escaping whimper which Paul mistook for passion. His lips came down over the scar, traveling the length of it, and beyond.
After, as we lay on the cooling sheets, Paul asked how I got it. I told him I’d been in a three-car accident caused by a couple of deer on a mountain pass. I told him the hook where you hang your dry-cleaning caught me as I pitched up and forward, thrown by the force of impact, and how I’d broken all the fingers of my left hand which had never quite healed right.
I told him these things as I studied the plaster-point constellations on his ceiling, a dull stone in the pit of my stomach pinning me to the mattress. I told him these things.
And I lied.
~~~
Nine days after our honeymoon, we attended a fundraiser picnic for the children’s wing at the hospital. Clusters of blue and white balloons festooned the walk, bobbing in the wake of racing youngsters. A jazz band tooted under cover of the gazebo, sending nostalgic tunes floating above our heads. Paul wore his good-guy face and I was careful to smile and chat, playing my role.
I’m a good liar, but it brings me no pleasure. After my maneuvers over the past thirteen months, I should be as jaded as a Chinese relic, but the sour twist in my stomach still knocks me low and each step I take is a tiptoe across a thin, volcanic crust, a tenuous perch with a roiling mass just beneath.
I am not the only pretender in this relationship. I understand Paul was stretching the truth when he told me how his college football performance came ‘this close’ to making him a draft pick for The Broncos. And, like most husbands, he’s adept at skirting the truth when commenting on my cooking, my wardrobe, or girls he’s known in the past. I consider these tactics a normal part of married life, though I admit our relationship is far short of normal.
There are moments, with Paul, when prickles rise and creep along my spine. When he talks about how he spent his childhood in Nebraska. When I look past his hollow smile and see the ice behind his eyes. When he claims his father, now deceased, left him a small trust fund.
We’re engaged in battle, he and I. May the best liar win. And, now, here’s the truth: I’ve staked every last shred of myself on winning this thing.
The sun sliced down through a network of clouds, stippling the picnic tables and playing shadows over the faces milling about the hospital grounds. After the speeches and the cake-cutting, I made it a point to seek out Paul’s administrative supervisor. I found her surveying the flowerbeds and placed myself so that our paths would intersect.
