Picking Up The Pieces
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MatureComplete Mon, Sep 6, 20218h 42m
Hey guys!
This book has been officially published on Amazon. It's available as an ebook or a paperback.
The version available on Amazon has been edited and I even changed some of the plot.
I'd love it if you went to check it out and maybe even bought it. (https://www.amazon.com/gp/aw/d/B0BF333KWH/ref=tmm_pap_swatch_0?ie=UTF8&qid=&sr=)
Love,
Sophia
***
"I-" I try to say something, anything, but the words get stuck in my throat when Jonas suddenly grabs the collar of my shirt and pulls me awfully close to his face.
"Shut it!"
Chills shoot down my spine as if someone just dumped a bucket of ice water down the back of my shirt. What is he doing? I know he can get angry sometimes, but he wouldn't dare to lay a hand on me in public, would he?
I wait and wait for him to do something, but he does nothing because we get interrupted by a loud voice that sounds through the quiet of the night.
"Hey!"
I dare to open my eyes a little to see where it's coming from. A tall blond guy, carrying grocery bags is standing a couple yards away.
"Yes, I'm talking to you! Step away from the girl right now!"
***
The story of two broken souls- Madeleine Evans, a college student in an abusive relationship, and Elias Sanders, a soldier suffering from PTSD- trying to pick up their own and each other's pieces.
Warning: Mature content! (Violence, strong language, sexual assault, substance abuse...)
All Rights Reserved
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A scent. A scar. A slow-burning fucking romance dressed as nostalgia. It started with a fruit. Not love, not sex - a goddamn strawberry. The kind that looks like it's been kissed by every shade of red your childhood never had. He didn't share it. Didn't speak of it. Just tasted it once, and carried the ache ever since. Years later, she walked in - smelling exactly like that forgotten sweetness. Not perfume. Not fantasy. Just... truth. Sharp, quiet, terrifying truth. The kind that crawls under your skin and whispers remember me when you least want to. He lied to her face. About himself. About the million ways he'd already started unraveling. But she knew. Women like her always know. She stared at him like sin dressed in judgment - and touched his wrist like she already owned his pulse. And he? He was fucked. Because she wasn't just beautiful. She was red. That memory. That craving. And no matter how much he pretended to be in control - she was already in his bloodstream. This isn't a love story. It's a slow possession. By scent. By memory. By her. And it ends exactly how it starts - with him on his knees, and her smelling like fucking strawberries.
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