Coming Soon!

AN ALLIANCE COMMANDER REDUCED TO A CAPTIVE

Daemon, a Commander in the Alliance, is slowly going mad. Having been hexed by the legendary Merlin in the magickal realm of Broceliande Forest, he now lays comatose in the bed of a witch who is forced to heal him. As a prisoner of Freja’s coven, his only hope of escape lies in seducing the beautiful witch who has the heart of a child, the patience of a saint, and a deep-seated trauma that makes his deception all the more painful to bear.

THEY DIDN’T BURN WITCHES. THEY BURNED WOMEN.
THE WITCHES ESCAPED.

Jocelyn Greenwich is a survivor. She’s carefully and painstakingly built a life out of service to her coven sisters, weaving magick into talismans, tending to her garden and her animals, and using all of that as an excuse to remain a hermit. She’d learned early in life that trusting outsiders only led to pain and heartache. But when her goddess insists she host and heal Daemon, a six-foot-six Alliance Commander, she does as she’s instructed, even though her intuition warns her that the past is about to be repeated.

THE HEART OF THE COVEN

Having failed in his last endeavor, Daemon isn’t going to allow Jocelyn’s sweet demeanor—or his love for her—to sway him from his duty. An immortal war wages, and he’s on the front lines. He gives her a blood oath he has no plans on keeping just to gain his freedom, and once freed he turns the tables on his sweet witch, and she becomes his captive. Can the two find common ground, or will the docile witch surprise them all…

Coming Soon…

Chapter One

Two hours prior to drawing sigils and runes onto Daemon’s naked body, Jocelyn Greenwich had centered herself and purified her energy in preparation to remove Merlin’s hex from one of the most powerful commanders of the Alliance. She’d meditated. Realigned her chakras. Basically got her head in the game, so to speak.

Safe to say she was no longer centered as her finger trailed over Daemon’s muscled abdomen. A bicep. A pectoral muscle. The demon’s skin was absolute perfection. Not a freckle, scar, or wrinkle marred his massive body. His flawlessness was distracting to say the least. He had once been one of God’s angels. Created perfection.

She murmured spells of protection as she drew sigils onto his skin by using a finger dipped in charcoal ink created from the ashes of saints who had lived and died with a purity of soul most could not attain.

Even with the bones of saints coating her skin and his, her thoughts were anything but pure at the momen—

“You want me to set the cauldron here?”

Jocelyn jumped, index finger raised in the air. With the ashes of a saint on the tip, she spun to face Raith with her heart in her throat. “Yes, please,” she said too fast, too shrill, and far too telling.

If Raith noticed—of course he had—he showed no sign. The pragmatic demon just set the large, black cauldron on the floor and went about his business.

Trying to act nonplused, she was failing on every level. “Thank you,” she called out to him as he left the room, flinching when her voice wavered.

She turned back to Daemon, her gaze traveling over all that hard, perfect bare skin, and took a long, deep breath. Why Cairenn had thought it best to bring Daemon to Jocelyn’s cottage was still a mystery to her.

There was no centering herself for what she was about to do to the demon. He shouldn’t be here, in her small spare bedroom, feet hanging off the edge of the bed. He was an enemy. He’d tried to kill her coven sister.

Was the leader of an organization that Jocelyn secretly supported.

The Alliance, though in shambles, had protected the immortal factions for centuries. Humans were not supposed to know that vampires, demons, fae, or witches existed. Because when humans learned of their existence they went straight to violence. Vampires were set out to face the sun. Werewolves were buried under lead.

Witches were burned. Drown. Beat to death. Hung from trees.

The Alliance saved immortals from having to face humans who’d been enlightened to their existence, and from immortals who brought attention to their presence in the mortal realm. History told a tale of the Salem Witch Trials that didn’t include an integral piece to what went down.

The Alliance had come in and cleaned house. And Goddess, Jocelyn loved them for it.

Humans involved in the hunt for witches died—many by natural causes. The immortal men and women who served in the Alliance had swooped in and did what they did best, doing all they could to right all the wrongs done to those who practiced magick.

The Alliance had given her a second chance at life. They’d provided her with an entirely new existence. A fresh start.

He’d given her a fresh start.

“Did you want the box of black candles or the white?”

Jocelyn slowly lowered her shoulders, trying to rid herself of the building tension brought on by Daemon’s presence. Didn’t turn around. Prayed to the goddess Athena for strength and courage—at least the visage of strength and courage, neither of which she could currently claim. “White, please.”

Raith’s voice had brought her back to the present, when all she wanted to do was escape the reality she’d found herself in. White candles represented purification. Cleansing. Peace. Not exactly things that represented the Alliance as a whole, nor its leaders and assassins, but the very thing she needed to bring to Daemon—and the very thing his organization had provided her when she’d needed the assistance the most.

He’d been so integral to that time of her life. His actions had released so much of her guilt. Her pent-up aggression and stress. The things we did that night…

Even in sleep the demon struck an imposing figure. Perhaps even more so than he had back in the sixteen hundreds. Because now she knew what he was capable of. He had so much more training under his belt. He was the interim leader of the Alliance, not just a Commander, and they shared a past.

A past he likely didn’t recall.

Past or no past, if she cured him of Merlin’s hex? If he rose tonight…?

He’ll kill me without thought.

Jocelyn felt Raith’s energy invade the small room once again. He was being so helpful that she felt guilty for harboring all her fears and doubts when it came to Daemon. Raith fully expected her to heal Daemon. As did her High Priestess, Freja. In fact, healing Daemon wasn’t just expected of her—it was her mission.

And she’d never been given a mission before. Missions were normally relegated to Cairenn, Bridged, Nyx…

Jocelyn? Laughable.

She didn’t doubt she could remove the hex Merlin had inflicted on Daemon. There wasn’t an if to this situation, only a when. She was as protected as she could be while working against Merlin’s black magic. She absolutely had the power. The training. She didn’t have one doubt about her ability to remove the hex… It was her fear that kept Damon bedridden. She was afraid to release him from the curse that kept him in a coma.

Because when he wakes up he’s going to kill me.

She took another moment to calm her racing heart and did her best to extinguish her fear as Raith set up the white candles in the corner of the room. Fear was doubt’s insatiable cousin. Like doubt, fear fed upon itself until it rendered a witch useless. So she replaced the thought that fear had placed in her mind with a more positive outlook.

When he wakes up I will simply subdue him with magick until I am able to call upon Leviathan, Raith, or Freja..

First things first. For Daemon to rise, she had to release him of the hex. No easy feat, but essentially doable. If you knew the who, when, and what of a hex, you could usually unravel the curse. And Daemon’s who, when, and what was Merlin, one month prior, and legendary black magick.

Raith left the room again. Probably to get a lighter.

She smiled when she recalled that Raith wasn’t used to the daily use of magick yet.

She didn’t need a lighter, but she didn’t call him back.

She stood before Damon with layer upon layer of protection. Though she felt black magic tracing across Daemon’s skin and throughout his body, crawling like a thousand Vipers in an undisturbed nest, she knew he was not inherently evil, he was only overcome by Merlin’s hex. Having spent a month taking care of Damon’s physical body, she’d come into contact with his personal energy enough that she knew the male was…

Her gaze slid over his body again. Muscles built in preparation for war. Black hair cut short, beard trimmed close to his jawline. She recalled what he’d looked like when he was in the heat of battle. How could she forget? She’d been terrified.

Athena, her newest coven sister, had healed her of four stab wounds that night. Four.

Daemon hadn’t inflicted those wounds, but he’d been there. In the clash between her coven and his organization.

She’d come home that night to her small dwelling. Left her coven sisters to their mansion while she fed her animals. Made a cup of tea and sat with her trauma for a long while until she’d finally fallen asleep on her couch.

She hadn’t fallen asleep to visions of him fighting her coven. She’d fallen asleep to memories of him kissing a line down her abdomen.

The last thing she’d ever wanted was trouble to come to her cottage. Daemon was not evil, but he was trouble. His physical body was nothing more, nothing less, than a weapon devised for war. And she was nothing more, nothing less, than a witch who despised war. Who only wanted to heal—not hurt.

Because of her nurturing spells, he remained the same weight and kept the same health that he’d had the night he’d been cursed by Merlin. Daemon wasn’t a sickly mortal patient with a feeding tube, an IV, and sporting a hospital gown. Though in a coma, Daemon remained an immortal warrior who was trained to kill efficiently, who’d been entrusted into the hands of a powerful witch who detested violence and war above all things.

The two couldn’t be more opposite.

Throughout the last month he’d consumed nothing solid, nor had he drank anything, and yet he had no tubes or needles going in or out of his flesh. She’d never taken his vitals. Had never checked for fever. Never peeled back his eyelids and shined a light to gauge his pupillary reflexes. There was nothing physically wrong with him. Merlin’s magick kept him immobile and her magick kept him healthy.

In fact, her magick kept his body just as strong as the night Cairenn had brought him to Jocelyn’s cottage door.

And your magick can keep him from springing off that mattress and murdering you when he wakes up.

When Raith returned with a lighter, she thanked him profusely and gently asked for privacy. There was no more stalling. The new moon was reaching its peak.

She pushed her shoulders back, raised her arms, palms lifted to the Creator’s Realm, her gaze on his handsome face. With a flick of her wrist the candlewicks spread throughout the room sparked with flame. The water in the cauldron boiled instantly. Her fingertips tingled with magick.

The light of the candles danced over the muscles on Daemon’s naked body, highlighting the strength in his limbs and the size of his—

She found a spot just above the bed to focus on. Though she’d never fed him food or drink, she’d read books to him and talked to him throughout her days. She’d cleaned his body every day. Even brushed his teeth. Her heart went out to him even though his organization was trying to kill every last witch in her coven—including her.

Then again, her heart went out to everyone, friend or foe.

And he wasn’t exactly a stranger.

Pay attention to what you’re doing.

She squared her shoulders and leaned toward Daemon to pick up the Dragon’s egg she’d set at the foot of the bed. Right between Daemon’s spread legs.

In hindsight, it might not have been the best place to put it.

She lifted the egg gently.

The speckled shell of the incandescent egg was warm to the touch, even though unfertilized. The magickal DNA contained within was still potent. The spell Jocelyn was about to use required a fertilized dragon egg, but Jocelyn would never harm a precious, vulnerable fetus. The very thought made her sick.

Because of her belief and intention, Jocelyn didn’t need the egg to contain a fetus, even though the spell reiterated over and over that the egg must be fertilized.

Magick was all about belief. She wasn’t using the dark arts to bring Daemon out of his coma. She was using a dark spell—but she’d cleaned the spell with words and intentions that carried no harm or ill intent toward a dragon fetus. She was only trying to liberate Daemon of his hex, not harm a baby dragon in the process by transferring the hex.

She’d never doubted her power a day in her life, unlike most of her peers. Fear? Twenty-four-seven. Anxiety? Same. Her PTSD crippled her, even though she worked with Brighid and the goddess.

She held the heavy, fragile egg above her head, just as a gust of wind came through the open window of the bedroom. Jocelyn kept her eyes firmly shut, though she did hear the whoosh of wind play with the flames surrounding her. Could see the flicker of all the candles behind her eyelids.

She called on the elements first. Air, water, earth, fire. Called on the spirits of her ancestors. Called on the goddess of purification, health, and recovery—Hygeia—for assistance. Then she used the language Daemon had used before he’d ever spoken the demonic tongue—the language of the angels. More a vibration than anything else. A thought frequency taught to her by her mother. Then she spoke the spell in Hebrew, a language God had chosen for his people. The language was expressive. Vibrant.

Next, she took the dragon’s egg and slid the shell all over Daemon, from the tips of his toes to the top of his head. Slowly. All the while chanting in Hebrew.

“Cleansed in spirit, cleansed in mind, transfer black magick. Release. Unbind.”

After five minutes of moving the egg over his body, she went to her cauldron. She then cracked the egg and allowed the contents to spread into the lukewarm water as she said, “Magick imparted, magick disbursed, I demand Daemon’s release from Merlin’s curse.”

She leapt back when the water sizzled and sprayed the air. She’d put about four feet between her and the cauldron before looking back. The water was boiling over, but not from her magick. From whatever Merlin had inflicted Daemon with. The stench of sulfur engulfed the room, causing her eyes to water from the acidic gas.

A low groan came from the direction of the bed.

With a gasp she turned back to the bed just as Daemon sat straight up, his incandescent green gaze terrifying in the soft glow of the candles’ flame. That gaze settled on her, his lips peeled back from his teeth in warning.

As fast as a bullet through flesh, Jocelyn recited, “Magick imparted, intention retracted, retrace my steps, outcome redacted.”

Daemon’s body immediately crumbled in on itself, and he fell off the bed and onto the floor just as every last candle was snuffed out by her words. The water stopped boiling. The energy of her magick and her spells vanished as though never spoken. She stood holding the cracked egg of a dragon, her whole body shaking.

No. She’d never doubted her powers.

After tonight? She doubted Daemon ever would, either.