"Katie's Hellion" (Book I, Rhyn Trilogy)
  • Reads 169,100
  • Votes 4,911
  • Parts 11
  • Time 5h 9m
  • Reads 169,100
  • Votes 4,911
  • Parts 11
  • Time 5h 9m
Complete, First published Jul 08, 2012
The life of nineteen-year-old Katie rarely goes the way she wants. Just when she believes things can’t get much worse, a baby immortal claiming to be her son  and death’s personal assistant appear on her doorstep. Everyone around her begins to insist she’s someone she’s not, while demons, deities and immortals threaten to tear her life – and sanity – apart.

Scared but brave, she confronts this new world head on, where she meets Immortals like Gabriel, a death dealer, and Rhyn, an outcast half-demon who claims her as his mate in a show of defiance to his Immortal half-brothers. 

Determined to spite the siblings that sentenced him to Hell, Rhyn rescues Katie from the demons and discovers what everyone is after: his little human has a gift that will safeguard – or annihilate – the immortal and mortal worlds. His defiance melts into possessive protectiveness of the fiery yet vulnerable Katie as he realizes the sorry truth: he’s the only ally she’s got, and he won’t leave her
high and dry the way his brothers did him.
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The Rose and the Sinbound by KrystaFae
10 parts Ongoing Mature
Rhosyn's Journal Entry: I find myself turning to ink and parchment as if words can fortify the brittle pieces of my heart. There is something in the rhythm of verse, in the gentle pulse of poetry, that soothes the ache no court's promises can touch. "In shadows deep where secrets lie, A rose blooms still, beneath cold sky. Her thorns are sharp, her petals frail, Against the storm, her courage pale." Do I write of myself, or of some other creature trapped in a story not her own? Sometimes it feels as though I am the shadow and the rose both, caught between a world that demands obedience and a heart that refuses to yield. How bitter it is to dream of freedom while knowing my wings are clipped, bound by alliances that do not care for the scars they leave behind. "A crown of thorns, a silken mask, A future bound in hollowed glass. Yet hope persists, a trembling flame, Defiant still, against the pain." Hope. A foolish word. A fragile thing that clings to the edges of my soul, like a candle flickering in the winds. I write these lines as though hope is a friend, but truly, it's a ghost-a haunting I cannot rid myself of. In the quiet hours of dawn, it murmurs, stirs, and breathes life back into me. It is a torment and a salvation, this hope. "One step, one breath, one whispered plea, Against the night, she will not flee. In silence kept, her song unfolds, A tale unwritten yet, untold." Perhaps there is a power in words, in laying bare the fragile threads that hold me together. To write is to bleed without consequence, to free myself, if only for a moment, from the binds of the court. And so, I keep writing.
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The Rose and the Sinbound

10 parts Ongoing Mature

Rhosyn's Journal Entry: I find myself turning to ink and parchment as if words can fortify the brittle pieces of my heart. There is something in the rhythm of verse, in the gentle pulse of poetry, that soothes the ache no court's promises can touch. "In shadows deep where secrets lie, A rose blooms still, beneath cold sky. Her thorns are sharp, her petals frail, Against the storm, her courage pale." Do I write of myself, or of some other creature trapped in a story not her own? Sometimes it feels as though I am the shadow and the rose both, caught between a world that demands obedience and a heart that refuses to yield. How bitter it is to dream of freedom while knowing my wings are clipped, bound by alliances that do not care for the scars they leave behind. "A crown of thorns, a silken mask, A future bound in hollowed glass. Yet hope persists, a trembling flame, Defiant still, against the pain." Hope. A foolish word. A fragile thing that clings to the edges of my soul, like a candle flickering in the winds. I write these lines as though hope is a friend, but truly, it's a ghost-a haunting I cannot rid myself of. In the quiet hours of dawn, it murmurs, stirs, and breathes life back into me. It is a torment and a salvation, this hope. "One step, one breath, one whispered plea, Against the night, she will not flee. In silence kept, her song unfolds, A tale unwritten yet, untold." Perhaps there is a power in words, in laying bare the fragile threads that hold me together. To write is to bleed without consequence, to free myself, if only for a moment, from the binds of the court. And so, I keep writing.