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The report of a gun, the sight of blood. His blood, a shot that missed. Him trying to flee, my knife in his back, his shoulder, his throat.
More blood. More bullets.
Death. A vow broken, a vow kept, and more than one life lost that night.
I don’t deserve pleasure. I don’t deserve the happy ending.
She does.
RememberAlexandre from theIrish Saviortrilogy? If you hoped that he might one day get his happy ending, you’re in luck! Keep reading for an exclusive sneak peek at his holiday novelThe Collector’s Gift,up for preorder now here!
PROLOGUE
THE COLLECTOR
Once upon a time, there was a man who loved two women.
The first was forbidden to him, but he loved her anyway. They met in secret, under the cool and watchful glow of the moon, innocent to everything except for their love. He was her first, and she was his. They knew that her evil stepfather and his wicked stepmother would never allow them to be together, but they dreamed anyway. They dreamed, and they loved, and they made promises, and in his innocence, the man who was a boy then believed that all of their dreams could come true.
But the evil stepfather and wicked stepmother discovered them, and in a jealous rage, the stepfather took all of their dreams, and cut them to shreds. He took the girl for himself, his own stepdaughter, and then killed her–the boy’s first love, in front of him, and left him to ponder the ruins of the future they’d imagined.
The boy grieved, and cried, and changed. He ran away from the evil stepfather and wicked stepmother, and he grew into a man.
A man they called the Collector.
He didn’t think himself an evil man, although many did. He saw himself as broken, his heart and soul buried in the countryside where his first love lay, and he swore he would never let another broken thing suffer, if he could help it. So he collected all the beautiful, damaged things he could—art, books, artifacts, once-priceless things ruined by the folly and carelessness of men, and he gave them a home.
Girls, too. Broken girls, injured girls, girls with defects who made them ugly in the eyes of the world. But not to the Collector. He gave them a home, and he thought that he could keep them there, safe from those who would bury them.
But he lost them all, one after another. Until he foundher.
His second love. His little doll.
He rescued her, he said, from an evil man who wanted to do her harm, just like the evil stepfather from so long ago. She was broken, damaged, in her mind and her body, and her soul, and he saved her. His pet, his little dancer, his Anastasia.
For a while, they were happy. And in his newfound bliss, the Collector believed that he might have love again, after all. That his little doll had saved him, and not the other way around.
But then, as in all fairytales, there was a handsome prince. He came to rescue the damsel, believing, as everyone else did, that the Collector was an evil man who only wished her harm. The handsome prince defeated the evil villain, the Collector, and whisked the damsel away to his own country, to ask for her hand in marriage. And as in all fairytales, the damsel fell in love with the prince who saved her. She accepted his proposal, and sent the Collector away, and she and her prince lived happily ever after.
The end.
…or is it?
The Collector went back to his lair, believing himself broken beyond repair, his love lost to him once again. He locked himself away with his other broken things, and he swore he would never love again–that he would shut out the world, and live alone, until he died at last…alone.
After all, he told himself, who could ever love a man without a soul?
Who could ever love a monster?
Who could ever love a beast?
27
NOELLE
LONDON, ENGLAND
My brother is sitting in front of me in our shabby living room, blood trickling from his split lip. His eye is already blackening, and I can see the lump rising on his cheekbone. Beneath his shirt, there’s likely more bruises. His ribs, his kidneys. Internal injuries that might heal, or might not.
