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Mark of Grimm, The Black Rose.

Mark of Grimm, The Black Rose.

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WpMetadataReadOngoing2h 49m
WpMetadataNoticeLast published Sat, Aug 15, 2015
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Fiction
Paranormal
Tortured as a Child. Beaten as a Teen. Experimented on as a Woman. I was brought up from Fear, Pain and Hatred. I developed a love for killing, I was good at it. I killed my own parents, some would think I'd be scarred. But I bathed in their blood and screams. I was 13 when I first killed, tore my mothers throat out and smiled as my 'father' screamed. I was the Grim Reaper of our kind, The Death Dealer, The Executioner, Many people feared me, Many people hated me, Many people cursed my existence, But none knew of those I saved, None knew of the people I had taken in, None new of the things I did to save people. And I liked it that way, I wanted them to fear me. My Name is Vanessa Grimsley But I am known as Grimm,
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#18
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[BUNDLE] BOOK 1: There's a reason buried things should always stay buried. For better or for worse. To have and to hold a demon for eternity. She says demons haunt the night, inflecting everything in their path. But where I come from demons don't just lurk around the shadows. They breed in your head. Feasting on your soul until you cease to exist. And, mine just woke up infested in wicked lies. Till death do us apart, little soul. BOOK 2: Girls like them are expected to dance to the tune of evil. To smile with the taste of souls in their veins and vengeance in their hearts. To feed the ghosts and the monsters within them. Discarded by the world and hidden in a maze of twisted creatures, I'm barely holding into my sanity, trapped between the past and the present. Between good and evil. Until one day I no longer recognize myself or them. He says he can see beyond the evil that I am. But it's not him that my madness prevails for or HIM. Because I'm starting to hear their tune, dancing to destruction and chaos. BOOK 3: There's a reason buried things should always stay buried. Like my mistakes. Your past. Now the grave is open and corpses are crawling out. Corpses inflicted with lies and betrayals. Corpses that you pull the strings of, corpses that even Hell is afraid to take. You see, little soul, you think that makes you the monster in our story. But you forgot me. You forgot my promise. Our story might have ended with till death do us apart. But even death has a shadow to lose.

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