Last Monday on Insta, I mentioned I was working on 5 WIPs at once...
Because I hate myself, apparently. 😂😂😂
But the awesome news is that 5 WIPs means there are 5 books in the works that you will eventually get to read! So there's that!
Most of my focus (I have a firm >2k a day rule in effect) goes toward Dragon Slayer:
“Shall I fetch you a tray from the kitchens?”
Val sagged back and let the bed hold his weight.
What about his studies? His lessons with the other boys? His training and
exercise and endless archery lessons?
Deep down, he knew the answers to these
questions. Lessons and training were for hostages who would be sent home. Wards
turned carefully to allies who could return to their kingdoms and
principalities to rule as puppets of the empire.
Meals in bed and slave-drawn baths were the
indulgences of mistresses.
Of a ruler’s favored pet.
He closed his eyes. His
stomach growled. “A tray, please,” he whispered.
But there's also this:
After an indeterminate number of minutes, garage
noise echoing around them like the world’s worst soundtrack, Michael said, “Situation.”
It wasn’t a question – he didn’t care enough for it to be one.
And this:
“We need to get on the road,” Fox said. “We can’t
linger. I won’t ask you to come with us…but I wish you would.”
“Ah. You don’t have to be worried about an old
man. No one wants anything to do with me.”
Fox straightened. “Fine.
Suit yourself.” He heard the hard edge in his voice but couldn’t get it under
control. Frustration built like heartburn in his chest. Why was this old
bastard so stubborn? Just like Dad. Were they all like this? Maybe the world
would be a better place without them.
And this:
If Nikita clenched his jaw any tighter, he
thought it might crack. Dima had always called him a martyr. He’d said it fondly,
usually followed it up with a light smack to the back of his head. And Nikita
knew that he was.
Lanny wasn’t wrong, but Nikita wanted to punch
him in the face anyway. Maybe because he was right.
And this:
Her
skin prickled, goosebumps rippling down her arms. “You’ve said that.”
“I’m
saying it again. It’s dangerous.” His eyes: big, dark…scared.
Softer:
“Tommy, I know. I’m getting involved willingly.”
One
corner hitched up in an attempted smile. “I wouldn’t have asked you to risk
yourself and get involved if it wasn’t really important.”
“I
know that, too.”
“At…at
some point. Okay, this is important.” He fidgeted. “So listen, okay?” He waited
for her to nod. “At some point, I’m gonna tell you to let go.”
She
waited for him to explain.
He
said, “And when I tell you that, I need you to let go. No questions, just do
it.”
“Let
go of what?”
“You’ll
know. Trust me.” He set the cup down and slid gracefully to his feet, grabbed
his jacket off the back of the booth.
He
was leaving. This was really happening, and he was leaving, and she was about
to go back her things, and go to a safehouse, and –
“Tommy?”
He
flipped his collar straight and tossed a handful of bills down on the table.
The nervous vulnerability he’d shown was concealed now, his mask firmly back in
place.
“When
will I see you next?”
He
grinned, his sharp bad boy grin. “Don’t worry about it. I’ll find you.” Then he
turned and ducked out the back.
Jodi
took a long moment staring at their dirty dishes, just breathing.
“Well,”
she finally said to herself. “Guess it’s time to get started.”
(To clarify, this is NOT the Tommy from Dartmoor. It's another book/universe entirely)
