By Meljean Brook
A wonderful and horny addition to the area of the Guardians approximately one man's revenge opposed to the half-demon he as soon as loved...
Nicholas St. Croix is aware the evil of demons. After his father's demise, a demon took over his mother's physique and raised him. Six years in the past, his "mother" was once liable for the disappearance of the lady he enjoyed, and Nicholas swore he'd locate her--even if he needed to visit Hell and again. other than she reveals him first--and with one tormented kiss, he is aware she too is a demon. Now he's decided to take his revenge...
Ash is a half-demon without reminiscence of her earlier or how she received to Hell. All she is familiar with is that Nicholas St. Croix holds the foremost to her id. And even though he is in actual fact attracted to her, Nicholas makes no mystery of his mistrust of her. but one kiss at a time, he breaks down her defenses as they conflict an array of demons and Guardians. yet is Ash's maximum enemy the guy at her part?
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Additional info for Demon Marked
A fax transmission from the day of Madelyn’s disappearance still sat beside the keyboard, listing the current values of several oil company stocks. Six years ago, Nicholas St. Croix had succeeded in taking over his mother’s company and tearing it down. But if Madelyn still owned those shares, she didn’t need to worry about cash when—if—she returned. A second, smaller room lay beyond a connecting door—Rachel Boyle’s office. Unlike Madelyn’s office, all of the tables and cabinet surfaces had been cleared of papers.
He truly knew nothing, Ash had realized. She hadn’t chosen her own name. And whatever had happened between Before and After, Ash was certain she hadn’t burned. She’d frozen. The temperature had dropped below freezing by the time she emerged from the subway station at Sloane Square. Ash tilted her face down to let her hood take the brunt of the wind and shoved her hands into her jacket pockets. The cold couldn’t hurt her—a month of walking outside during London’s wintry nights without so much as a shiver had taught her that—but she didn’t like the feel of icy air against her skin.
Somewhere. What was the rest of that story? Who’s been eating my porridge? That wasn’t her, either. Though she’d eaten whenever they placed a meal in front of her, Ash hadn’t been hungry. Since her escape from Nightingale House, four weeks had gone by without food passing her lips. Perhaps her mind wasn’t trying to remember an association with the story itself; perhaps the connection lay in the circumstances in which she’d heard it. But she couldn’t remember that. She couldn’t remember who’d told the story to her—or even whether she’d read it, instead.