Vol. 2 | Dark Fantasy
The Sins Series
Sleek, dark and utterly seductive! Eve Silver’s talent always shines.
—New York Times bestselling author Lara Adrian
This second helping of deliciously dark drama in Silver’s Otherkin trilogy is just as satisfying as the first…Make sure you snap up this book and this series ASAP.
—Jill M. Smith, RT Book Reviews, 4-1/2 star Top Pick!
Sins of the Soul
Vol. 2 | Dar Fantasy
Sworn to Duty. Bound by desire.
Alastor Krayl’s world shattered when he learned that his father was the Underworld god of chaos and evil. All that saved him from self-destruction were his newfound brothers and the bond they shared as soul reapers. So when one of his brothers is murdered, vengeance becomes Alastor’s obsession. And the enigmatic Naphré Kurata, a witness—or is she the killer?—has the answers he seeks.
A reluctant Underworld enforcer, Naphré trusts no one, especially not a seductive soul reaper who makes her burn with lust. Torn between duty and desire, she fights to keep her secrets safe from Alastor, even as she longs to surrender.
Romantic Times Top Pick
Naphré Kurata shoved open the door of the Playhouse Lounge and almost hit some guy in the face.
And what a face.
His features were all angles and edges and hard, honed elegance. Clean-shaven. Honey blond hair. Dark suit, perfectly tailored. Polished loafers. She noticed the details. In her business, it could mean the difference between life and a bullet in the head.
In this particular case she noticed for another reason. Something about him drew her gaze, demanded she look, made her feel like she never wanted to look away.
Great. She needed to remember to pick up batteries for her vibrator.
He didn’t give her more than a cursory glance, just shifted a bit to the side and held the door as she passed. Interesting. This wasn’t the sort of place where a guy held the door for a girl. But then, the action seemed almost automatic for him.
Tucking her chin, she walked on. She didn’t want him to get a good look at her, just in case. Another trick in this biz. Notice the details, but don’t let anyone notice a damned thing about you.
There was another man behind him, this one dark haired with platinum hoops in his ears. She had the fleeting thought that guys who looked like them didn’t need to come to places like this. Then she had to bite back a laugh. All sorts of guys came to strip clubs, for all sorts of reasons.
All sorts of girls did, too…maybe even one who needed to pick up the locale and front money for her next hit.
She cast a quick glance over her shoulder. The first guy held the door for the second, let him go through ahead. Again, interesting. Such neat and tidy manners.
The second guy was as good looking as the first, but for some reason, as she reached the car and yanked open the door her gaze slid back to the blond.
And caught him looking at her. For a millisecond, she held his gaze, and had the oddest sensation of recognition. As if she’d seen him before. But she knew for 100 percent certain that she hadn’t. She’d remember that face if she had.
The sensation was more than a little unnerving.
She dropped her chin and tipped her head a bit to the side, hoping to rob him of a clear view of her features. As if he hadn’t already gotten an eyeful.
When she looked up, all she saw was his back disappearing through the door.
The crowd at the Playhouse Lounge was usually a mix of human and supernatural. For a second, she wondered if he was human. Then she shrugged. Not her business. But she was guessing he was because she hadn’t sensed a supernatural vibe, and usually she was good at that.
Climbing into the passenger seat, she glanced at her companion.
“Making new friends, Naph?” Butcher asked.
“You know me better than that.”
“Sure do.” He offered a wheezing laugh.
She pulled the plain brown envelope Mick had given her from inside her jacket and tossed it on the seat between them. It was stuffed fat with bills.
“You count it?”
“What’s with you and the bizarre questions tonight?” She dragged the shoulder strap over and buckled her seat belt.
Again, Butcher laughed. “Where’re we going?”
“Ashton Memorial Park. Whitby. Tomorrow night. Mick said there’ll be two open graves to choose from. Maybe more, if someone else dies before then.”
“Hnn,” Butcher grunted, and started the car. He stared straight ahead. “What else did Mick say?”
“That you owe him a bottle of scotch when this one’s done. And that the client says you already have all the information about the mark that you need.”
“That I do, Naph.” Butcher put the car in drive, his expression thoughtful. “That I do.”
“You plan on sharing any time soon?” Not that she really needed to know. This was Butcher’s hit.
She was just along as back up. But she liked to know details before she made a hit. Her scruples were a tad more discerning than his.
As though he read her thoughts, Butcher said, “I know your rules, Naph. The mark’s a killer.”
“That’s fine then.” But of course, fine was a relative term.
Funny how no matter how hard you ran from destiny, it always caught up and bit you in the ass.