What started out as a deal quickly became a friendship that conquered monsters.

I killed, but I escaped hell.

Emotionless. Disconnected. Cold. A mannequin. It’s what I’d become in order to survive the years held in captivity. I was able to endure the abuse and devastating loss as long as I remained detached.

But he wouldn’t let me.

Crisis, the bass guitarist in my brother’s rock band, Tear Asunder. He’s cocky, rude, a total man-whore. But the rock star has far more beneath the surface of his inked skin, and he’s determined to make me laugh again.

He made me a “deal”, but really, it was blackmail.

His terms were simple. Until his playful honesty became the building blocks to something unexpected. Something strong enough to pull me from the eye of the storm.

Because even though I escaped years of abuse, it didn’t mean I was free.

Haven

I woke up to my phone buzzing on the nightstand. I rolled over and put the pillow over my head. My leg muscles ached from my run last night, having pushed myself farther and longer than usual. The wind had been strong, trying to unhinge me with each step. I refused to give in. I’d win this fight. I’d kill the monsters. I’d watch them bleed until they no longer lived inside me.

But they did. My last few episodes proved that.

Buzz.

I sighed and tossed the pillow aside.

“Pick up your phone,” Crisis called through the door.

Oh, my God. “What are you doing outside my door?”

“Pick up your phone and find out.” I heard a thump on my door.

I reached over and snagged my phone.

Move it, Ice. We’re taking out the big tractor.

I scrolled.

Don’t ignore me, baby.

Third text.

I made coffee.

Fourth.

Okay, maybe not yet, but I will.

Fifth.

I’ll just sit outside your door until you get your ass out here.

I glanced at the time on the screen. Nine. “It’s Sunday. I’m going back to sleep,” I called, then tossed my phone aside and rolled over, tucking the sheet under my chin.

The door burst open and quickly shut again. Crisis leaned against it, his lips pushed together with that familiar crease between his eyes. “Our brother is a fuckin’ Terminator. I swear he has radar in his head that goes off every time I talk to you.”

My eyes narrowed in on him; he was so full of crap. “Crisis. Get out.” My brother wasn’t—

A light knock sounded on the door. “Sis?”

Shit. I sat up, making certain to keep the sheets covering me because I was wearing a pink silk negligee with skimpy spaghetti straps and it barely covered my breasts. Kat had bought it for me when I first came to live with them, along with a drawer full of panties and bras. She said, ‘every girl deserved to have beautiful negligee next to her skin.’ At first, I balked, internally of course, wanting nothing to do with anything sexy. But after a few months feeling the soft silky material on my hands as I pushed them aside in my drawer . . . I tried one of them on.

I’d never had anything but cheap clothes, and the negligee felt nice against my skin. It made me feel . . . good about myself.

Crisis crossed his arms and I couldn’t stop from glancing at his tatted biceps. Then my gaze trailed down his hard muscled body to strong thighs clothed in worn jeans hanging low on his hips.

God, where was my head? It was too early in the morning and I was wavering under the sweet clenching between my legs and the whirl in my belly. He was a rock star, a hot rock star who was always on social media. Triple hard limit.

“Haven? I just saw your door close.”

I cleared my throat and gestured to Crisis to get away from the door before my brother barged in, saw him and jumped to conclusions. He pushed away and came straight for me, his eyes sparking a mischievous glow.

My brother knocked again. “We’re going to brunch today at Georgie and Deck’s. I’d really like you to come.”

Fine. Crisis wanted to play . . . he froze halfway toward the bed when I raised my brows and smiled. He shook his head back and forth and mouthed, “Don’t do it.”

“Yeah, come in,” I yelled.

Crisis dove for the bed, threw the duvet up in the air and landed flat on his stomach, the cover settling over him just as Ream strode in. I lay frozen beneath the covers, my heart racing, and a whoosh of blood charging through my veins. My breath hitched as warm heated air brushed across my bare thigh and goose bumps popped up along my skin.

Nashoda Rose is a New York Times and USA Today bestselling author who lives in Toronto with her assortment of pets. She writes contemporary romance with a splash of darkness, or maybe it’s a tidal wave.

When she isn’t writing, she can be found sitting in a field reading with her dogs at her side while her horses graze nearby. She loves interacting with her readers and chatting about her addiction—books.

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