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Prologue
Dear Legion,
First, thanks tons for going into hiding outside the mortal world. I got to hunt you down big, bad wolf style—my favorite kind of hunting. Even better, you shacked up in an ancient realm without Wi-Fi. Now I get to communicate with you via robo-pigeons. Yay for me. BTW, the birds are “priceless,” and weren’t built to help me “score” with my “adult-boyhood crush” blah, blah, blah, so please don’t destroy the mechanical flock in a fit of pique.
Decorating hack: repurpose the robo-pigeons as knickknacks to create a steampunk vibe. Not so I can watch you through the eye-cams. (Wink.)
Second, it’s sometimes impossible to judge someone’s tone in a letter. Since I’m anti-misunderstandings, I’d like to clear things up right from the start. TONE: dry as a desert mixed with a dash of frothing-at-the-mouth rage.
Clear as crystal? Or mud?
Third, I refuse to call you “Honey,” the name your friends are using. Babycakes, I’m not your friend, I’m your potential obsession. And, to be brutally honest about the matter, I’d rather call you Sugar Tits McGyna while having my wings ripped from my back (again) than refer to you as “Honey.” A name you like only because you hate the girl you used to be. News flash: I like the old Legion. (Leggie. Legs. I’m trying out new nicknames for you. Did we just find a winner?) The old you gifted me with your virginity in a bar bathroom five minutes after meeting me. Or was it four? I always forget. What’s not to like about that?
Sure, you only slept with me so you could savagely murder me after I got you off, thereby protecting Aeron, the man you truly desired. And yeah, okay, I probably deserve a couple dozen more murder attempts because I later abducted your pregnant friend in an unethical-ish power play. But every couple has their issues, right?
I’m willing to attend a counseling sesh with you. Can you say the same? Please?
FYI, my crew is on stand-by, ready to kidnap abduct borrow a world-renowned shrink at a moment’s notice. All I need from you is a yes.
Lastly, I know you’ve been to hell and back—literally. I know you were hurt and abused in the worst ways. TONE: soft as a damn feather. I’m sorry for everything you’ve endured. If you really want to hurt the ones who hurt you, embrace happiness. Don’t let the past ruin your future.
Please, give me a chance to get to know the new you. A chance to help you heal, if I can. I think about you constantly, dream about you every night, and crave you every second of every day.
Yours forever,
Galen the Magnificent
PS: In pages 2-35 of this letter you’ll find pictures of severed demon heads. Because of the mystical shield around your cabin, I can’t lay your dead enemies/tormenters at your feet. Instead, I have to settle for laying photos of their de
capitated heads upon your desk. (Sorry, but gift exchanges are against Galen-policy.)
PPS: I’m a wanted man in more ways than one. Fine. Two. Two ways. 1) someone put a measly ten million dollar contract on my life. (I promise I’m worth more. Ask every woman I’ve ever dated, then ask every woman hoping to date me in the future.) 2) if you read between the lines, you’ll realize I’m hinting in a super subtle way that a megaton of other women find me irresistible, and I won’t always be on the meat market. Snap up this grade A filet while you’ve got the chance.
* * * *
Yo! Leigh. LeeLee. ( Yes? No? Maybe I should just stick with the classic—Legion.)
A week has passed since you received letter #1, and in return I’ve gotten zilch, zero, nada. I can only assume you’re still reeling over the poetry-like beauty of my words. And that’s not the demon of False Hope talking. Sure, the fiend bunks inside my head with his good pal, Jealousy, and the two bastards love to build me up and tear me down, but come on! You can’t deny I’ve got the wings of an angel, and the face and body of a Greek god. And not an old, decrepit one, either, but a real smoke show.
Admit it. If we were characters in a (super hot) romance novel, you’d be the vulnerable babe in need of a protector, and I’d be the hardcore alpha villain everyone secretly yearns to tame. Spoiler alert: I’m willing to let you give the taming thing your best shot. Because I’m a giver.
TONE: 100% dead-as-roadkill serious.
I know you don’t want to see me because I’m “dangerous,” “deranged,” and “possibly the worst being ever created by Zeus—or anyone.” But underneath this chiseled, bronzed exterior beats a heart of gold, probably. You’ll never know the truth unless you come out of hiding and take another peek under my hood.
