The Shields, Book 3

New Concepts Publishing
ISBN: 978-1-60494-038-2
Genre: Historical/Dark Fantasy

Order at New Concepts

Dear Friend,

Most would give all they had to be raised in the Realm of the Fae. I had no choice. I was too young to remember anything of my own realm, save for snatches of memories that could be no more than my imagination. But if it hadn't been for the Fae who found me wandering between realms after mine was destroyed, I would be dead now. It was the Fae who raised me and trained me in weaponry and battle skills until I became a warrior to be feared. When the same evil that destroyed my realm threatened Earth and the Fae, I was the first to volunteer for the Shields.

With my immortality the only link I have to my past, I take what comfort I can in the arms of women. I want nothing more than one night with them, one night to forget that I cannot remember my family, one night to take what pleasure I can. It isn't until I find Shannon that I begin to think of more than just one night in her arms.

Shannon has been brought back in time from Chicago to 1244 England because the evil knows what she is - one of the Chosen. Somehow the evil has found the Chosen before the Shields. His plan is to kill Shannon, but I won't allow that. My duty is to protect her at all costs.

I've never known fear until now - until Shannon.

Cole the Warrior

REVIEWS

"It is a sensuous and fast paced novel that hooked this reader immediately to the story, characters and series." - Laurel, The Mystic Castle

"...Shannon’s sexy protectors are mysterious and tempting, and the romance is sensual. A Dark Seduction is an interesting and action filled story. I look forward to reading the next in this series." - Nanette, Joyfully Reviewed

4 Hearts! "Ms. Grant continues her series with strong characterizations and imagery that brings the reader into the story from start to finish." - Samantha Ann, Night Owl Romance

EXCERPT

Shannon O’Malley seethed. Never in her life had she ever felt so alone--or weak. Her chest still heaved from her frantic escape from the upstairs window. She had nearly made it too, but then Benton had suddenly appeared to stop her. Yet again.

Benton Ducre. She hated the name as much as she hated the man. He held her prisoner at the tavern, forcing her to work, and always keeping a close eye on her. Even at night, she had a guard outside her room.

The man was becoming a serious pain in the ass.

Why it was so important that she stay within reach at all times, she had no idea. All she knew was that one minute she had been minding her own business driving down the Chicago streets and then the next, she was standing in thirteenth century England.

“Anon, wench!”

Shannon jerked at the voice behind her. Her eyes stung with unshed tears, her face throbbed where Benton’s meaty fist had rammed into her, and her pride was bruised from not having made her escape after careful planning for two weeks. She was hanging onto her sanity by a thin thread that had already begun to unravel.

If she ever made it back to her time she was going to need serious psychological help.

With shaky hands, she reached for the mug of ale Benton had filled. Just as her hand closed around the thick mug, Benton’s closed around hers.

His dark hooded eyes glared at her. She stared at his square face, flat nose and protruding brow and all she wanted to do was run. He was a mobster. Oh, they might not be in Chicago, hell, they weren’t even in the twenty-first century, but he was a mobster.

“If you ever try that again...,” he gravely voice trailed off.

She looked into his beady black and shivered. He didn’t have to finish the threat. She knew exactly what would happen to her.

With a jerk, she wrenched her hand out of his, sloshing ale over the both of them. Her legs grew steadier with each step she took away from the bar, but the rage only increased. She would make Benton and his cronies pay if it was the last thing she did.

“About bloody time,” the man said when she delivered his ale.

She swallowed the bile that rose in her throat at his blackened teeth and greasy hair. It was just one of the many reasons she hated this hell hole she was in. She wanted to return to her twenty-first century where people bathed, brushed their teeth, and maintained general hygiene.

As she turned away, he grabbed her hand. What was it with everyone grabbing her? She wanted to scream. Didn’t anyone follow the personal space rule in this century?