After sorceress Alexandra tries to kill her insane father, her fae uncle expels her from the Otherworld in an attempt to keep her safe. Living among humans, she keeps her connection with the supernatural by working for vampires and werewolves.
When she stumbles upon a hurt werewolf pup her efforts to heal him inadvertently break the bonds tying the young lycan to the pack, making her his new alpha.
This is the least of Alexandra’s worries though, for back in the Otherworld her father has not forgotten her. He dispatches an assassin to kill her. But just who is this mysterious foe, and what will their arrival mean not only to Alexandra but to the delicate balance of the world?
Nature of the Beast is the first book in the Tangled Bonds series.
Don’t miss the March Sale! All Wayward Ink Titles titles are 35% off on the WIP website and 30% off on AllRomance, and 30% off on Amazon.
“WHY DO WE have a werewolf sleeping on the couch?” Sean dropped the takeout bag he was carrying on the kitchen table and frowned at us.
“You knew about them?”
“Of course.” Sean turned and stared at Chris. “You didn’t?”
“No.”
“You believe that fae are real, but werewolves are not?”
Before Chris had a chance to retaliate, I intervened, trying to switch the topic to something a bit friendlier. “Where have you been?”
“At Erica’s.”
Chris’ face turned red and he muttered something beneath his breath. So much for a safe topic.
My stomach growled at the enticing aroma of spices and soy sauce rising from the bag on the table. I reached for it and started pulling out containers.
“What did you get?” I asked; not that it would matter much, not with my hunger.
“Chinese.”
My eyes flew to the door to the lounge, where Nicolae was bracing himself against the frame. He stared at the food, and clutched the blanket with which I’d covered him. He dry swallowed, eyes glued to containers, but he did not come in, nor did he ask for something to eat.
I took one of the little boxes, opened it, and inhaled.
The kid swallowed again, but still didn’t say anything. I had to admire his restrain.
Tilting the container, I offered it to him. “Care for some?”
Nicolae shrugged, trying for casual, but the furious rumble coming from his belly denied his action. “I could eat.”
“I’m sure. Come in, take a seat.”
He pulled up a chair, his movements unsteady. He paused, his hand hovering over the container.
“Go ahead, take your pick.”
“Thank you.”
About working on a schedule
Or how not to meet any single deadline, ever!
Everybody says you should set a goal and stick with it. Write, write, write all the time. Hell, next thing I’ll hear will be to write in my sleep as well, and to be honest, I would if I could. But sadly, this doesn’t work for everyone.
What happens when you cannot meet the deadlines or the goals you set for yourself? What happens when you cannot comply with the given rules? I used to get depressed every time this happened to me, and believe me, it happened quite often. I work nine hours a day and spend at least two commuting to and fro. I have three cats, a house and a garden to tend to and clean, and a love life to balance, so writing every day is not always feasible. I used to get depressed every time I was reading about other authors writing thousands and thousands of words each day, or simply putting words on paper, when I could barely get a few hundred a day and that only a couple of times per week. I used to think I was lazy, and that there was something wrong with me. That I wasn’t competitive enough, that I didn’t want it bad enough. But guess what? I do want it and I am damn competitive.
So I worked myself into the ground, writing for three, four more hours after the end of my regular work day, trying to prove that, yes, I can. World, look at me, I’m the real deal! The quality of my work didn’t improve much and not only that, but I was writing less and less as my physical and mental health deteriorated, because that wasn’t a rhythm I could handle. I was missing deadlines, goals I’d set up for myself in my madness, and I was beating myself up about it. It was a vicious circle. I was too tired to write so I pushed myself into becoming even more tired.
Now, I found a pace I am comfortable with and try to make the most of it. So what if my output is about two-three thousand words per week, if that? I still managed about twelve thousand words in the first two months and have big plans for this year. I have Nature of the Beast already out and at least five more titles by the end of December. And if I don’t manage all that? I will live with that because I’m doing what makes me happy, without burning myself up and that alone will be enough. I will get there, to being a full time writer, but it will take longer. I am fine with that. To me, it would mean that I obtained it in a sustainable way.
My point is, do whatever feels right for you and don’t focus on what other authors might be doing. You stand with them, not against them, and what is good for them might not be the same for you.
Born in Romania, land of the Iele and Vlad the Impaler, AIMEE BRISSAY has spent all her life surrounded by books. She has ridden side by side with d’Artagnan and The Three Musketeers to retrieve the Queen’s diamonds, set sail on the Erasmus in search of the Japans, fell in love with Rhett Butler and roamed the Wild West along Old Shatterhand. She has walked on the footsteps of the Olympian Gods and searched for Zalmoxis’ sanctuary in the Carpathians. In her mind, she’s never been the damsel in distress but rather the knight in shiny armor fighting for a cause.
With a background like this, turning to writing was no surprise.
Aimee discovered erotica early on in life and has never looked back. Now she can write anywhere, even in a crowded room or a busy subway station, but she loves solitude.
When she’s not at her evil day job, she can be found writing or playing with her cat. She welcomes messages from readers and promises to answer all of them as soon as possible.
