Sunday, June 9, 2013

Breaking Blood on Alabaster teaser chapter 2, and warnings

My new fan fiction story has begun posting. If you haven't already taken a look at it, here's the summary and a teaser for chapter 2 I'll be posting tomorrow.


AH ExB 1899 New York City, a young widow has bills and responsibilities. What will she do to the owner of the New York Times when he refuses to sign her weekly wages? Will she drag him to the lower east side and teach him a lesson, or tease him with her body? All good ideas, only she hadn’t planned on this man taking absolute control. BDSM themes, blood lust and fisticuffs ensue.


I'm letting people know upfront there is an attempted rape scene by a drunk guy, but there’s no nudity and it’s stopped before it gets anywhere. It’s in chapter 12, and she does get called a whore and a slut by this man. This scene’s not much worse than what happens in Twilight when Bella’s being followed, and kind of along the lines of the attack by James at the end of that same book. Also, there’s some minor edge play in the final chapter. I’ll try to give a warning at the beginning of both of these chapters in case these are scenes you’d prefer to avoid.


Chapter 2

“Get out of my sight,” Isabella croaked as a man approached her.

Another asshole, another day.

“Please, Miss Swan, I have money!” the man said, eyes torn and raking over her body.

“The day I seek wages for my body like that, is the day I slit my throat! I have some decency and self-respect,” she replied, pointing the way for him to leave.

Instead, he rushed forward, dropped to his knees and clung to her skirts.

This was ridiculous! She rolled her eyes and tipped her head back.

“Please! You know how lonely I am!” he cried, pawing at her legs.

She tried to step aside, but he would not relent.

“Tell me your name again,” she said, dropping her head.

He still gripped onto her, his eyes welling up. “Mr. Stanford.”

“Your first name, dolt, or I’ll kick you between the legs. My boot’s between your knees already, Stanford; you put yourself in a precarious position.” She lifted a brow.

“I do it for you. I want to bear myself to you, to take you to my bed,” he pleaded.

“Pay a tart—I’m not in that line of work. My profession is artistic,” she said.

“You could paint me. I’d be a nude figure for you.”

She grimaced and scrunched her nose real tight. “Ewww! No! I pick my subjects, and rarely do nudes anymore.”

“Then I’d buy up all your sketches and canvases and—”

“Stanford, if you can afford that, then you can afford a proper mistress. I’m not interested. Sex has no appeal to me . . .”.

“I’d be gentle—I’d never harm you,” he went on.

She growled. “Gentle is not the problem. I’m not a china doll. I don’t break, and certainly don’t bend to you.”

“I heard you visited Mr. Masen today. Do you bend to him? All of New York’s ladies do,” he said.


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