J.A. Huss – Read Books Online Free Ebooks good best novels to read

J.A. Huss – Read Books Online Free Ebooks good best novels to read http://www.books2020.com Wed, 13 May 2026 18:57:53 +0000 en-US hourly 1 https://wordpress.org/?v=7.0 http://www.books2020.com/wp-content/uploads/2020/09/favicon.png J.A. Huss – Read Books Online Free Ebooks good best novels to read http://www.books2020.com 32 32 Her Chains Her Choice (Last to Fall #1) Read Online J.A. Huss http://www.books2020.com/her-chains-her-choice-last-to-fall-1-read-online-j-a-huss Wed, 13 May 2026 18:57:53 +0000 https://www.books2020.com/her-chains-her-choice-last-to-fall-1-read-online-j-a-huss Genre: Alpha Male, Dark, Insta-Love, Mafia Authors: J.A. Huss Series: Last to Fall Series by J.A. Huss
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Total pages in book: 95
Estimated words: 91489 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 457(@200wpm)___ 366(@250wpm)___ 305(@300wpm)

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Some cages are chosen, and some monsters are worth the chains.

Emmaleen

Twenty-one days until homelessness, nineteen demerits, and one chance at $31,750.

I am laser focused on my goal of getting the hell out of Riverview, PA—and Giovanni Bavga, mob boss, secret poet, in possession of a Lambo and the world’s most amazing green eyes—is my first-class ticket. All I have to do is everything he tells me for the next seven days.

My chains, my choice... until choosing him became the only freedom worth having.

Giovanni

Power isn’t something you take—it something given.

The demerit system was supposed to control Emmaleen Rourke but apparently, Little Miss Take didn’t get the memo. Now I'm the one losing control. Men like me don't fall first. We don't fall at all. In the circles I run in, caring about someone is the most dangerous mistake a man can make.

My game, my rules... until breaking them for her became the only win that mattered.

The Last to Fall series is an intense deep dive into the psyche of possession, obsession, and what one man will do to keep the woman he loves alive. Because some cages are chosen, and some monsters are worth the chains

*************FULL BOOK START HERE*************

1

Surrender is the purest form of power.

People imagine power as something seized—taken by force, stolen through fear, won through blood. But the truest power requires none of that. It doesn’t chase. It doesn’t beg. It doesn’t raise its voice.

Power waits. It invites. It stands perfectly still while the world rearranges itself to please it.

The weak mistake silence for mercy, composure for restraint. They never understand that patience is the sharpest blade—and that compliance offered freely cuts deeper than any command.

The offering, not the taking, is where power lives. Every bowed head, every averted gaze, is a confession of who holds dominion.

In the end, power isn’t proven in conquest, but in what is willingly given.

And the moment they offer themselves without knowing why—that’s the moment you own everything.

The theory holds.

The world has never failed to prove it.

I hand the valet my keys. His eyes widen as they should—the Aventador isn’t transportation; it’s a statement of intent. He’s maybe twenty-three, maybe twenty-four. The cheap polyester uniform doesn’t fit his shoulders.

“Keep it close,” I tell him, then go still until he meets my eyes.

It takes three seconds. He swallows hard. “Yes, sir.” He clutches the fob like it might detonate, then looks at the car like it might bite.

It should intimidate him. That’s the point.

I turn away, adjusting a cufflink, and look up at the Riverview Hotel. It stands like a mausoleum to better times—ornate molding crumbling at the edges, roofline not quite plumb, flaking paint on the balconies overlooking the river, ironwork curled like lace gone to rust. Once it hosted senators and starlets; now it clings to dignity with the stubbornness of the dying.

Preservation Society. Ironic.

The security guard at the door straightens as I approach. Badge crooked. Rental-company uniform, not hotel staff. Temporary hire. He feigns formality, but his eyes dart to the exits in case I become a problem.

The ballroom reveals itself like a map. Four exits: main entrance, service door by the stage, kitchen access to my right, and—most would miss it—a fire door disguised behind decorative paneling. Two guards posted opposite each other. No visible weapons, but a bulge under one jacket suggests otherwise. Amateur.

Champagne sweats in buckets of melting ice. Dom Pérignon 2008—decent vintage, wrong temperature. They’ve been waiting too long, trying to appear prepared. They weren’t.

The room falls quiet as I enter. Conversations die mid-sentence. Silence spreads like infection. Sixty-seven people, and not one knows what to do with their hands. The men look at their shoes. The women touch their jewelry—a universal tell for insecurity disguised as grace.

Mayor Harmon approaches, flanked by two councilmen—budget and zoning, both forgettable.

“Mr. Bavga!”

Harmon’s handshake is clammy, grip compensating with pressure. I apply twenty percent more and hold three seconds longer. His smile twitches.

“We’re so pleased you could join us tonight,” he says, voice loud for the audience. “Your family’s contributions to the restoration project have been invaluable.”

He has no idea what he’s talking about. The “project” exists only in press releases. The real investment remains invisible.

I say nothing. Silence is always the first test.

“The councilmen and I were just discussing the next phase of development,” he tries. A lie. They were discussing me. Which means they’ve already failed.

A waiter appears at precisely the right moment—young, efficient, aware of tension. He offers a single flute of champagne. Baccarat crystal. Not hotel standard. Borrowed for the event.

I take it, slip a fifty into his palm without looking down. Competence deserves recognition. I trace the rim with my thumb—a habit from childhood. I won’t drink; I never drink in public. But illusion has its uses.

He nods once and vanishes. The only person here who understands his role.

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Advertisement Skulls and Lace (Book of Legion – Badlands MC #4) Read Online J.A. Huss http://www.books2020.com/skulls-and-lace-book-of-legion-badlands-mc-4-read-online-j-a-huss Thu, 23 Apr 2026 23:00:41 +0000 https://www.books2020.com/skulls-and-lace-book-of-legion-badlands-mc-4-read-online-j-a-huss Genre: Alpha Male, Biker, Dark, MC, Novella Authors: J.A. Huss Series: Book of Legion - Badlands MC Series by J.A. Huss
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Total pages in book: 40
Estimated words: 38333 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 192(@200wpm)___ 153(@250wpm)___ 128(@300wpm)

<<<<1 2 3 11 21 >40

Trigger warning: Inc*st between triplets, violence.

This is a m/m/m short story.

Life’s been hard for the love triplets.
Abusive home life. Cruel kids at school. Hateful town.
The only love they’ve known is each other.

When they turn eighteen, they leave to make a life of their own, free of pain and sadness.
It’s better than they could have ever imagined.

Until new feelings emerge, threatening to destroy the only thing they care about…each other.
They’re brothers. Best friends. Together from the beginning.
Can they be lovers, too, or will this steal the only bit of happiness they’ve ever known?

*************FULL BOOK START HERE*************

CHAPTER 1

The clubhouse door hits the wall as I shoulder it open, the familiar smell of cigarettes and spilled beer doing nothing to mask the iron tang of blood. Blood on my hands. Blood on my shirt. Blood trailing behind us like breadcrumbs through the fucking forest. One month back with my brothers, and already everything's gone to shit.

"Move!" I shout, kicking a chair out of the way as Crow and Dusty struggle through the door behind me, Butch's weight sagging between them. His head lolls forward, chin touching chest. Too much blood loss. Too much time in the truck getting back. The prospects' faces are ghost-white under the fluorescent lights, eyes wide with panic. Kids playing at being outlaws until the bullets start flying.

"Jesus fuck," someone whispers from the bar.

"Not helping," I growl, scanning the room. Too many eyes watching. Too many mouths that'll talk later. "Everyone out. Now."

The bar empties in seconds—hangarounds and weekend warriors all scrambling for the door. Only patched members remain, frozen in place like they're watching a movie they can't pause.

Butch groans, a wet, rattling sound that means there's blood in places it shouldn't be.

"Put him down," I order, clearing empty bottles and ashtrays from the closest table with a sweep of my arm. "Here. Don’t rock him, Dusty! Be careful!"

The prospects lay Butch down, his body heavy and unresponsive as he bleeds out on the table.

I've seen enough gunshot wounds to know this one's bad. The entry wound is a small. A nice, neat hole just below his collarbone. But the exit wound is a ragged crater of flesh.

His skin is gray, his lips blue at the edges.

Fuck. He’s not gonna make it. He’s not gonna make it.

"Where's the fuckin’ doctor?" I demand, pressing my palm against the wound. Blood seeps between my fingers, warm and steady.

Crow shakes his head, swallowing hard. "I’ve called him three times. He didn’t pick up."

"Try again," I snap, meeting his eyes. "And keep trying until he does."

Crow nods, stepping away with his phone pressed to his ear.

"What happened out there?" Ledger asks from somewhere behind me. "That route was supposed to be clean."

Clean. That’s almost funny at this point. I reach for clean bar towels, packing them around the wound. "Ambush. Three trucks came in, no lights on. Like they had night vision. They knew exactly where we'd be. We were in the middle of the drop, piling it up under the tarp behind the gas station on Route 12, when they came burnin’ in. Butch had to abandon his bike and hop in the damn truck. That’s how he got shot.”

“What did they take?” Diesel asks.

“All of it,” I snap. “All of it, Diesel.”

"Well…” Roach shrugs. It could’ve been a coincidence.”

"Bullshit," I scoff. "This is the third time this month something's gone sideways." I press harder on Butch's wound, and he groans. "Someone's feeding information. We’ve got ourselves a fuckin’ rat."

The room goes quiet except for Butch's labored breathing and Crow's desperate voice in the corner, still on the phone.

"Got him!" Crow shouts. "He's twenty minutes out."

"Tell him to make it ten," I order.

Diesel meets my eyes, sighing. He knows it’s true. Things are… not OK here in Badlands. Haven’t been since I got back. “Let me take over,” he says, pushing my hands away from Butch’s wound. I let him do it because I’m so fuckin’ pissed, I might explode if I don’t walk it off.

Diesel places his big hands over the towel that’s already wet with blood while I play the ambush on a loop in my head.

We were loadin’, then… we heard them. But it was fast. There was no time to get out. Then the lights flashed, lit up in three directions. They started shootin’ immediately.

I cannot even believe that Butch was the only one shot. At least a dozen bullets went whizzin’ by me, missin’. But just barely.

I’m lookin’ at the clubhouse door, still lost in the memory, when it swings open and Brick walks through.

Well… finally. “Where the fuck have you been,” I snap. “I’ve been callin’ you for twenty fuckin’ minutes.” I point at Butch on the table.

Brick approaches, unhurried. Like our guys bleed out on tables every day of the fuckin’ week. "Church at noon," he deadpans. “We’ll discuss.” He doesn’t even look at Butch. Doesn't ask what happened. Doesn't offer to help.

What the fuck is happening here? "Did you hear me? I’ve been callin’ you. We were ambushed. Someone knew the route."

Brick's face remains impassive. "Bad luck."

"Bad luck?" I echo, incredulous. "Three times in a month isn't bad luck, Brick. It's a fuckin’ pattern."

Brick’s eyes go narrow. “Are you tryin’ to say somethin’ here, Legion?” His voice is dangerously soft.

The room goes still. Diesel's hands remain steady on Butch's wound, but I can feel the tension radiating from him. Everyone is watching. Waiting to see what I’ll say.

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Advertisement Smoke and Honey (Book of Legion – Badlands MC #4) Read Online J.A. Huss http://www.books2020.com/smoke-and-honey-book-of-legion-badlands-mc-4-read-online-j-a-huss Fri, 03 Apr 2026 23:15:36 +0000 http://www.books2020.com/smoke-and-honey-book-of-legion-badlands-mc-4-read-online-j-a-huss Genre: Alpha Male, Biker, Insta-Love, MC Authors: J.A. Huss Series: Book of Legion - Badlands MC Series by J.A. Huss
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Total pages in book: 42
Estimated words: 38856 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 194(@200wpm)___ 155(@250wpm)___ 130(@300wpm)

<<<<1 2 3 11 21 >42

In this war between heaven and hell, someone has to bleed. Legion Kane understands this to his core. He’s spent his whole life being trailer trash with no future.
Savannah Ashby was a dream. Perfection wrapped up in designer prairie dresses and equestrian boots. An angel to his demon.
And now, she’s his savior.
But salvation looks a lot like surrender when you’re recovering under the Ashby roof. Sleeping in their guest room. Eating at their table. Watching Mercy get everything he never could’ve given her—ponies, new clothes, a bedroom with a door that locks from the inside.
Hardest part is… spoiled looks good on his baby sister.
And Ashby money is something Legion will never have

*************FULL BOOK START HERE*************

CHAPTER 1

My name has always felt like a warning.

Prophetic and foreboding at the same time.

There are demons inside you, Legion.

Not one or two, but Many.

We are many…

I get it. It's not a good start to life, I do agree. But at least I understand it, this demon thing. Because most people think demons are entities. Ghosts. Evil spirits.

But that's not what they are at all.

Demons are regrets. Mistakes. The time you spent off the path because even though you knew—you fucking knew—you were goin' in the wrong direction, you went anyway.

That's what a demon is. It's a mistake that turns into a regret.

And it comes due, the consequences of these mistakes.

Always. They always come due.

I wake flat on my back. My eyes crack open slow, like they're weighted with lead. The world's a blurry smear, and I blink twice, three times, strugglin’ to focus on anything solid.

Light cuts through the wooden slats above me in sharp, dusty beams. Grain dust hangs suspended in the air, swirlin’ like smoke in the morning light. Each particle catches fire in the sun—thousands of tiny stars drifting in slow circles. I've seen this ceiling before.

I smile despite the pounding in my head.

This place. This goddamn place.

Outside the silo, there's a faint sound threadin’ through the quiet—the distant buzz of a dirt bike's engine winding up and down the hills. The sound hits me in the chest harder than any fist.

That sound meant freedom once.

My first bike was a piece of shit Honda with faded plastics and a bent clutch lever, but she ran. Fifteen years old with nothing but that bike and a pocketful of hard-earned cash I'd scraped together nickel by fucking dime.

Most of the time I worked the feed barn. Stackin’ fifty-pound bags until my shoulders burned, sweepin’ out corn that stuck to my sweat-soaked skin. Sleepin’ in the loft some nights when things got too bad at home.

Builds character, hard work like that does. But more importantly, if you're fifteen and a boy who just wants to be a man, it builds muscles. I was always lean, but after that year in the feed barn, I was a monster.

In the spring and summer, I picked up work at the grain co-op. Sweepin’ out grain bins in a dust mask, sweatin’ in ninety-degree heat. Shovelin’ out pits when they got plugged up because no one else would fuckin’ do it. It was a terrible job. But it paid. Spring and summer in Drybone was like a salve over the burn of winter. It soothed ya. Made you forget about the minus-forty windchill comin’ around the corner.

Then there was the livestock auction in the fall—sortin’ calves in freezing wind, moving cattle with hot shots, walking through frozen shit.

And at the end of all that character building that gave me muscles, was the dirt bike.

It was everything to me that summer.

I can still hear it in the distance. Just for a moment, I'm fifteen again. Counting out six-hundred and seventy-five dollars in hard-earned cash. A fist-full of wrinkled bills I'd hidden in a coffee can under the trailer. That feelin’ I got when I kick started the engine the first time was somethin’ like clarity.

Somethin’ that was mine.

Bought and paid for.

Somethin’ no one could take from me.

I blink again, harder this time, trying to clear the fog from my head.

Somethin’s not right.

I try to sit up, but my body feels wrong—disconnected, like I'm wearing someone else's skin. Not painful, just... off. Like someone took me apart and put me back together with pieces missing.

I look down at my hands. They're mine. Callused palms, knuckles that have seen more fights than I can count, the faded "MERCY" inked across them. The letters worn and blurred from years of throwin' punches and grippin' handlebars. My boots are still on—scuffed leather. Jeans too, faded and ripped. Worn to perfection.

But I'm shirtless. Bare chest risin’ and fallin’ with each breath, the sprawlin’ tattoos of angels and demons locked in eternal combat across my skin, catchin’ the dim light filtering through the silo's rusted walls.

No blood. No bandages. And no brand.

I run my fingers over the spot where the Badlands B should be burned into my flesh, just above my heart. Nothing. Just smooth skin where that iron pressed against me, where Chains held that glowing metal while the brothers stomped their boots in rhythm. The place that had been raw, angry red, still weeping when Savannah touched it last night.

This has got to be a drunk blackout. Wouldn't be the first time I woke up in this silo with gaps in my memory. But this doesn't have the cotton-mouth, head-splitting quality of a hangover. No taste of stale whiskey, no churning stomach. This is somethin’ else.

How the fuck did I get here?

I close my eyes, trying to pull the pieces together from the fog. The last thing—the very last thing I remember—was lying in the bunkhouse in room 3 with Savannah's head against my shoulder. She was breathing slow and even as she drifted off. The hum of nothing in the hallway outside our door, just the distant sounds of the club settling for the night.

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Advertisement Scars and Promises (Book of Legion – Badlands MC #3) Read Online J.A. Huss http://www.books2020.com/scars-and-promises-book-of-legion-badlands-mc-3-read-online-j-a-huss Fri, 03 Apr 2026 23:15:04 +0000 http://www.books2020.com/scars-and-promises-book-of-legion-badlands-mc-3-read-online-j-a-huss Genre: Alpha Male, Biker, Dark, MC, Novella Authors: J.A. Huss Series: Book of Legion - Badlands MC Series by J.A. Huss
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Total pages in book: 35
Estimated words: 32319 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 162(@200wpm)___ 129(@250wpm)___ 108(@300wpm)

<<<<1 2 3 11 21 >35

Two families. One blood, one found.

Eleanor Ashby became obsessed with Legion Kane the day he was born. The evidence is in the vault—thousands of photos spanning two decades, all bound up in a book with his name on it.
Savannah has to face the facts. The Ashbys don’t protect people. They devour innocence and call it charity. Even Colt—the one she thought was the good brother—proves it.
The Badlands MC don’t even know the meaning of the word charity.
Everything is earned. Every act of kindness comes with a price.
Outlaws don’t care about feelings, they care about brotherhood.
How far will you go for the club.
How much will you give for the patch.
It better be everything, or there will be consequences

*************FULL BOOK START HERE*************

CHAPTER 1

Everything slows down.

The way it always does when death enters the conversation.

The gun in my hand feels unusually light. Like three pounds of cold certainty against my palm belongs there. Has more right to be there than a spoon or a pen ever did.

The barrel points at Colt's forehead, dead center. I could put a hole right between his eyes from twice this distance.

My finger rests alongside the trigger guard—not on the trigger. Not yet.

But that's discipline, not mercy.

Behind me, I hear the clubhouse door creak open. Boots on gravel.

In front of me, Colt's eyes widen just enough to show he understands exactly how close he is to the end of his story.

My arm doesn't shake. Prison built these muscles layer by layer, cell by cell. Three years of push-ups and pull-ups until my body became a weapon that didn't need to be smuggled in.

Destiny clutches her baby tighter, the yellow blanket bright against the gathering dusk. "Legion, don't⁠—"

"Shut up," I say, voice flat. Not angry. Just empty.

My focus narrows to Colt's face, but my mind splits open, falling backward through time.

Once upon a time, Destiny was my world. When she was small. Hours old. Days old. Weeks old. Hell, my fascination with Destiny Kane lasted several years. I was fifteen when she was born.

Before Destiny, it was just me and mama. When Deacon, Destiny and Mercy's father, started hanging around, I thought things would never be good again. Not that they were much better before, but a single boy to take care of is one thing. A boy and two girls paints a very different picture of what it means to survive.

But it wasn’t all bad. Deacon didn't hang around much after Destiny was born. He worked, spent most of his money on gambling, came home at night to fuck my mama, sleep, and eat our food. But he helped, I guess.

Destiny was the most beautiful child ever. She's got a more exotic look to her compared to me. Dark hair, almost midnight black, where mine has always been blond. But we both have mama's blue eyes.

There were days back when she was small where I would just look at her. Get lost in that beauty. In my limited world of scrubland and lonely prairies, Destiny was a bluebell surrounded by dust.

Then Mercy came and it all fell apart.

One kid a single mother can handle. Even one like me.

Two… it's iffy.

Three breaks everythin’.

Deacon’s angry indifference, combined with the demands of hungry children—well, it was too much for her.

Did my mama kill herself? Did her car slip off that icy freeway overpass on purpose, or by accident?

Won’t ever know.

But did she choose to take enough oxy to kill a horse that same night, leave her newborn baby home alone, and then go out drivin’ in a blizzard?

That’s a resoundin’ yes, folks.

I won’t let Destiny’s life end up being so worthless.

I can’t do it. I won’t be able to live with myself if her end is nothin’ but a repeat of the woman who brought her into this world.

The wind picks up, blowing grit across the parking lot. It stings my eyes, but I don't blink. The late afternoon sun sits heavy and gold on the horizon, casting long shadows across Colt's face. Sweat beads along my hairline, trickling down my temple.

My world has always been about choices with no good options.

Prison or my sisters.

Club or Savannah.

Now this—Destiny with Colt's baby, my gun, my sister, my woman, my club.

Thirty-nine men behind these walls just voted to protect what's mine. But Destiny's mine too. Blood of my blood. The one I failed by going inside, by not being there when she needed me.

I don't need to ask to know that every member of Badlands is rethinking that decision now.

Even Diesel. He’s my best friend, but this right here—this intrusion, this drama, this… impossible situation with Destiny and Colt…

Church, and the decisions that come out of it, aren’t about friendship.

They’re about survival.

The skin between my shoulder blades prickles and I can feel those eight pairs of dissenting eyes boring into my back like bullet holes. I don't need to turn around to know exactly who's watching—because everyone is watching.

The shift in the air behind me is subtle. The moment when respect starts bleeding into doubt. Every second this gun stays raised, I'm burning through the goodwill my three years inside earned me.

The brand on my chest throbs with my heartbeat, still raw, still healing.

What does it mean, it's asking.

What am I willing to give up to respect that brand.

I'm at a crossroads here. Every single member of Badlands is watching. Waiting to see which Legion Kane I really am.

The disciplined soldier who earned his patch in blood and silence?

Or a fool who'll burn it all down for a woman and a sister?

The fact is, in this moment, I'm not really sure.

<<<<1 2 3 11 21 >35

Advertisement Blood and Grace – Book of Legion – Badlands MC Read Online J.A. Huss http://www.books2020.com/blood-and-grace-book-of-legion-badlands-mc-read-online-j-a-huss Sat, 28 Feb 2026 17:33:37 +0000 http://www.books2020.com/blood-and-grace-book-of-legion-badlands-mc-read-online-j-a-huss Genre: Alpha Male, Biker, MC Authors: J.A. Huss Advertisement

Total pages in book: 38
Estimated words: 35499 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 177(@200wpm)___ 142(@250wpm)___ 118(@300wpm)

<<<<1 2 3 11 21 >38

Forty-seven thousand acres of Ashby land. Six generations of Montana dynasty. And one daughter who was never going to be allowed to choose a man called Legion.

They were caught at the silo at midnight. Same place they've been hookin’ up for years.

While Savannah’s fiancé had her bound to a bed and drugged out of her mind, Legion was getting the life beat out of him by a bunch of cowboys.

Her family thought violence would be enough to end it.
They were wrong.
It only made the bond stronger.

Now Savannah has to prove what it means to stand by her man and Legion has to convince forty-seven patched members of the Badlands MC that protecting her will be worth it.

Outlaw clubhouse.
Public claiming.
Loyalty test.

Church At Dawn.

BLOOD AND GRACE

Down on your knees—it’s time to choose sides

*************FULL BOOK START HERE*************

CHAPTER 1

I wake slowly to bright light and soft piano music. The kind of light one finds in hospitals and forces you to squint, the kind of music one finds in elevators that forces you to forget.

My head is throbbing and feels… too full. Like it’s stuffed with cotton. The nasty taste in my mouth has me craving water. I try to move my hand to my face, but I can’t.

I'm tied down.

The panic is immediate. My eyes fly open. The ceiling swims into focus—knotty pine beams. A chandelier made from antlers. Hunting cabin.

An Ashby hunting cabin.

I pull against whatever's holding my wrists.. Hard and unyielding. Not rope. Zip ties.

I can move my legs a little and I feel air on my thighs. I’m still wearing my dress, but it's hiked up and this is when I remember.

I’m not wearing underwear.

Legion.

The silo.

Oh God.

"Legion," I whisper, my voice cracking. The memory slams back—flashlights cutting through darkness. Cash's voice. Men dragging Legion away. His body hitting the ground. Blood.

"He can't hear you, darling." Marcus's voice makes my skin crawl. I turn my head and there he is, sitting in an armchair by the fireplace. Watching me. Smiling.

"Where is he?" My throat feels raw. From screaming. I was screaming for Legion.

"Don't worry about him." Marcus rises, straightens his slacks. Still dressed like we're at a country club. "Are you thirsty? You must be parched."

Wrong. This is wrong. All wrong.

"Untie me." I try to sound firm, but my voice trembles.

"In time." He moves to a small table, pours water into a glass. "You need to rest first. You've had quite the shock."

Shock?

I test the restraints again. Tight. Professional. "Marcus, this isn't funny. Untie me now."

He approaches with the glass, a bendy straw poking out the top. Like I'm in a hospital. Like he's helping.

"Careful now," he says, holding the straw to my lips. "Small sips."

I'm so thirsty I drink despite myself. The water tastes clean, at least.

"Where am I?" I ask, when he pulls the glass away.

"Somewhere safe." He smiles. That campaign smile. Perfect teeth. Dead eyes. "The north ridge cabin. No one will bother us here."

North ridge. Miles from the main house. Miles from anyone.

"My brothers⁠—"

"—know you're with me." He sets the glass down, then brushes hair from my forehead with cool fingers. I flinch. "Everyone's very concerned about your... episode."

"Episode?"

"Your breakdown, sweetheart. After what that criminal did to you."

The fire crackles as logs shift. I'm suddenly aware of framed photographs on the walls. My face. Over and over. Childhood shots. Riding competitions. One of us at a charity gala. All perfectly arranged.

Like a shrine.

"I didn't have a breakdown," I say carefully. "And Legion didn't do anything to me I didn't want."

Marcus's smile doesn't waver, but something flickers behind his eyes. "You're confused. That's understandable after trauma."

"I'm not confused, Marcus. I want you to untie me. Right now."

He ignores this, moving to retrieve a tray from the small kitchenette. "You should eat something. I made your favorite."

The tray holds a plate of food. Mashed potatoes. Roast chicken. Green beans. A meal I've never once told him I liked.

"Marcus, please." I soften my voice. Sunday manners. The ones Mama taught me for dealing with difficult men. "I'd feel much better if I could sit up properly."

"Soon." He sits on the edge of the bed. Too close. "First, let me take care of you."

He scoops up mashed potatoes with a silver spoon. Holds it to my lips.

"I can feed myself if you untie me."

"Open wide," he says, like I'm a child.

I press my lips together. His eyes harden.

"Savannah." The single word is a warning. "Don't be difficult."

My survival instinct kicks in. Play along, Savannah. For now.

I open my mouth. The potatoes are still hot. Not terrible. Butter and garlic. But my stomach turns as he watches me chew with naked satisfaction.

"Good girl," he murmurs, wiping a bit from the corner of my mouth with a cloth napkin. "See? I take good care of what's mine."

Mine.

I swallow hard. "Marcus, what happened to Legion?"

He feeds me another spoonful before answering. "That's not important."

"It is to me."

"He got what was coming to him." His voice remains pleasant. Conversational. "Men like that always do."

Fear claws up my throat. "Is he⁠—"

"Let's not talk about him." Marcus cuts a piece of chicken. "Let's talk about us. Our future."

"There is no us." The words slip out before I can stop them.

His hand freezes midair. "Don't say that, darling. Not after everything I've done for you."

"What have you done, Marcus?" My voice sounds strange to my own ears. Distant. "Tied me to a bed? Drugged me?"

"Protected you." He sets the fork down, leans closer. "Saved you from yourself." His breath smells like mint and whiskey. His cologne—expensive, sandalwood—fills my nostrils.

"I don't need saving."

"Oh, but you do." He traces my jawline with one finger. "You always have. That's why your mother chose me."

<<<<1 2 3 11 21 >38

Advertisement Dust and Flowers (Book of Legion – Badlands MC #1) Read Online J.A. Huss http://www.books2020.com/dust-and-flowers-book-of-legion-badlands-mc-1-read-online-j-a-huss Sat, 28 Feb 2026 17:33:04 +0000 http://www.books2020.com/dust-and-flowers-book-of-legion-badlands-mc-1-read-online-j-a-huss Genre: Alpha Male, BDSM, Dark, Erotic, Forbidden Authors: J.A. Huss Series: Book of Legion - Badlands MC Series by J.A. Huss
Advertisement

Total pages in book: 43
Estimated words: 40966 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 205(@200wpm)___ 164(@250wpm)___ 137(@300wpm)

<<<<1 2 3 11 21 >43

If Sons of Anarchy and Yellowstone had a feral baby raised by the devil himself...

Savannah Ashby has been photographed 70,000 times—-every smile, every outfit, every moment of her perfect ranch heiress life has been documented on social media by her dead mother's cameras.

Legion Kane came out of Whitefall Prison with nothin’ but an expired driver‘s license, $27 in his wallet, and a name that means biblical demon possession.

She wears another man's three-carat diamond.
He wears a fresh MC brand burned into his chest.

They’ve been meeting in secret at an abandoned silo since they were kids.

Now her family wants him dead, his MC wants him loyal, and the only thing that matters is what happens when she meets him at midnight, whisperin’ his name like a prayer.

Montana badlands.
Outlaw bikers.
Ranch royalty.

War is coming.

DUST AND FLOWERS

Their secret just became everyone's problem.

Please This is the first book in an ongoing serial . Every novella ends on a cliff. Novellas will release weekly through book five

*************FULL BOOK START HERE*************

CHAPTER 1

Hell isn’t a place you go, it’s a place you carry back.

That’s my poetic opinion after serving three years in prison for something I didn’t do.

Willingly, I might add. Not the shit I didn’t do, but the shit I went in for.

But if you want my professional opinion on hell—and at this point in my life, I feel like I’m qualified to have a professional opinion—Hell is just… well, everything around you.

This world. These people. All the rules, all the traps, the entire fuckin’ game is rigged.

That’s hell.

It’s everywhere.

But… occasionally.

Every once in a while.

There is a day like today that makes Hell not so hot.

The gates of Whitefall Prison open in front of me. Loud, and clanging as radio chatter from the guards fills the gap between this world and that one. The June morning spreads out before me in a way I’ve never noticed before. Bright, hot, and… oddly, empty.

One of the guards starts yappin’ at me to fucking get on with it and starts the mechanism to close the gates back up as he makes pointless, hollow threats. So when I do get on with it, I pass through just before the heavy steel gates slam closed.

It’s a lot of pointless drama.

Another guard heckles me from the tower when I pause, fumbling through the yellow envelope that contains pretty much everything I own at the moment—a twenty-seven-dollar cash-out from my prison account and my driver’s license, two years expired—and remove a pack of Reds.

Demon this, the hecklin’ guard says. Demon that. Demon… Demon… Demon.

Cause that’s me.

Legion Kane.

We are many.

I take out a smoke, light it up using the Bic that also did time with me, suck in my freedom, and slowly distance myself from the three years of time I did, but didn’t have to.

Trying to remember to appreciate it.

Inhale. A ritual to keep me standing.

Exhale. The smoke drifts up like a prayer.

I take a few steps away from the prison, no urge to look back, and just scan the world before me as I continue smoking.

It’s a whole bunch of nothin’. I’m talking big sky over vast badlands and that’s about it.

But it shouldn’t be this way.

This parking lot should not be empty.

But I guess it checks out, because I’m early.

One day early.

What could that possibly mean? What government facility actually makes mistakes in your favor? It doesn’t happen.

There should be bikes here. All lined up.

Should be brothers with cuts, and grins, and the promise of whiskey.

Badlands owes me that much.

Where the fuck is everyone?

As if on cue, as if this whole fucking thing is a movie, as if I was cast in the leading role of a story no one bothered to write an ending for—the wind shifts, and suddenly, in the distance, appears a white Ford F-350. Dust blowin’ up behind it, catching sunlight in ways that make it look like somethin’ holy.

I squint my eyes, take a drag on the smoke, and watch as it screams into the parking lot like judgment day arriving early.

One day early.

The Ashby Ranch logo gleams on the door panel—a stylized "A" with barbed wire wrapped around it. In some places, money whispers. In Eastern Montana, money announces itself with chrome trim and custom wheels.

Cash Ashby skids the truck to a stop twenty feet away. The engine idles like it’s alive. Baring its teeth, waitin’ to bite. He kills it with a press of a button and the silence that follows feels deliberate, like a statement.

When the driver's door swings open, his boots hit gravel with a crunch that carries weight. And it’s not just a sound—it’s a fuckin’ proclamation. The kind that comes with land deeds, water rights, and bank accounts that never run dry.

Cash steps out, all six-four of him the product of pure Montana breeding just like the cattle he runs. His Stetson catches the morning June sun, brim pulled low, but not so low I can't see his eyes sizing me up.

What’s ol’ Legion been up to, that look says. How much has he changed. How far can I push him.

"Well goddamn, Kane. Three years looks good on you." His mouth lifts up at one corner—that half-smile that's gotten him out of bar fights and into bedroom windows across three counties. "Prison food must be better than they say."

My face plays it cool. Not because it can’t smile, it just kinda forgot how.

"Caaaaaash." I drag the word out slow, lettin’ my drawl thicken. "Thought the welcoming committee would have patches, not polo shirts."

Cash leans against his truck door, crossing one ostrich-leather boot over the other. Casual as a shiv between the ribs.

"So how was it really?" he asks, like he cares. "Life inside treating Legion Kane to all the amenities?"

I give him what he wants to hear. What men like Cash always want—stories that make them feel better about never having to find out for themselves.

<<<<1 2 3 11 21 >43

Advertisement Dead Daze – Pitch-Black Second Chance – Story Fodder Read Online J.A. Huss http://www.books2020.com/dead-daze-pitch-black-second-chance-story-fodder-read-online-j-a-huss Thu, 26 Feb 2026 08:20:43 +0000 http://www.books2020.com/dead-daze-pitch-black-second-chance-story-fodder-read-online-j-a-huss Genre: Alpha Male, Dark, Insta-Love Authors: J.A. Huss Advertisement

Total pages in book: 60
Estimated words: 58987 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 295(@200wpm)___ 236(@250wpm)___ 197(@300wpm)

<<<<1 2 3 11 21 >60

6 Months. No Answers. No Closure. No Contact.

ScarletSins
Check here if you've moved on. I have a new apartment.
Check here if you've forgotten him. I write in coffee shops now.
This is my life. Normal. Safe. Boring. I date men who don't know my real name. I drink lattes and pretend I'm someone who drinks lattes.
Why am I doing this?
Because the alternative is admitting I'm still his.
Six months. No answers. No closure. No contact.
I'm fine.

Watcher
Check here if you've given her space. I follow from three cars back.
Check here if you've stopped watching. I've memorized her new coffee order.
This is my restraint. No cameras. No contact. No crossing the lines she drew. I watch her pretend to write. Pretend to date. Pretend to be someone who forgot me.
Why am I doing this?
Because she asked me to leave her alone.
Then she laughed at his joke.
And I remembered—I never agreed to let her go.

Some monsters know how to wait. Others just learn when to stop.

Second Chance Pitch Black
She Ran/He Followed
Jealous MMC
Stalker Hero
He Never Let Go
Obsessed
He Reads Her Books
She’s Mine
Touch Her and Find Out
Pitch Black MMC
Claimed by a Billionaire
The Chase
Age Gap
Power Imbalance
Did I Mention Pitch Black?

*************FULL BOOK START HERE*************

Chapter 1

Scarletta

I'm half-awake when the words come.

They always come like this—slipping in through the cracks in my consciousness before I'm fully present, before I can judge them or shut them down.

Ivy stands outside the sleek black door of Velvet Underground, clutching the embossed invitation Logan slipped under her apartment door three days ago. Her hands shake. Inside, masked strangers are doing things nice girls don't think about. Things she's been thinking about for months.

"You won't actually go," Logan told her last week. He was leaning against the doorframe of her apartment with that infuriating smirk. "You'll fantasize about it. Write about it in that little journal you think I don't know about. But you won't walk through my door."

She hates that he's right.

She hates that her pussy is already wet just standing here.

My hand slides between my thighs on autopilot, fingers finding the familiar path. I press against my clit, trying to chase the heat. Trying to follow Ivy into Logan's club where masked attendants will strip her bare and⁠—

Nothing.

I'm not even wet.

I keep trying anyway, circling my clit, waiting for my body to catch up to the story playing in my head. Ivy's embarrassment, her shame, her desperate need for Logan to see her⁠—

Nothing.

I pull my hand away and stare at the ceiling of my new apartment.

Six months.

It's been six months since Story Island. Six months since I destroyed every camera. Six months since I've heard Caleb's voice.

Six months since I've been able to come.

I throw off the covers and get out of bed because what's the fucking point of lying here pretending?

The master bathroom gleams with imported Portuguese tiles—soft blues and whites arranged in geometric patterns that conjure up images of Saint Lawrence. The walk-in closet attached to it is mostly empty except for the few things I bought when I moved in, but I like what it represents. Space I could fill if I wanted to.

After I pee, I wander back out into the living room, my bare feet silent on the hardwood.

This apartment is four times the size of my old place. Twenty-five hundred dollars a month—that's what this much space costs in downtown Idaho Falls.

The walls are painted a sophisticated sage green with tan and ecru accent colors highlighting the baseboards and crown molding. The floors are dark walnut hardwood, polished to a subtle sheen, and the floor-to-ceiling windows are framed in six-inch wood boards stained to match.

Like an actual interior designer sat down and made deliberate choices instead of just slapping beige paint over everything and calling it done.

The building itself is gorgeous. A four-story brick walkup from the 1920s that used to be the town's central bank. Only four units total—one per floor. I'm on the third. My balcony is big enough for a full patio set, though I haven't bought one. Two bedrooms, two baths, and it came completely furnished with butter-soft leather couches in that same ecru tone and a dining table I've never used.

The whole place really is beautiful in a way that still makes me uncomfortable—like I'm house-sitting for someone who actually belongs here.

I drift toward the far window, the one facing south, and pull back the heavy curtain. Natural light spills across the hardwood, warm and golden even though it's barely past dawn. Beyond the glass, the view opens up—the Snake River Greenbelt unfurling like a ribbon of green through the downtown corridor, the water itself visible in slivers between tree branches. Early morning mist still clings to the surface, and I can just make out the shape of a jogger moving along the paved trail.

I stand there for a long moment, my forehead nearly touching the cool glass, watching the jogger disappear around the bend where the trail curves toward the Japanese Friendship Garden. The light shifts as the sun climbs higher, burning through the last of the mist, turning the river from pewter to something almost silver.

They say that a view like this can save you. That if you just look at something beautiful enough, peaceful enough, long enough—if you let the green and the water and the wide-open sky do their work—eventually the noise in your head will quiet down. Eventually you'll feel something other than the dull, persistent ache of going through the motions.

I'm counting on it.

Because I've tried everything else.

I turn away from the window, leaving the river view behind, and make my way back through the bedroom to the walk-in closet. I haven't accumulated much in the months I've been here, haven't felt the urge to fill it with things that might anchor me to this place more permanently than I'm ready for.

I pull on a pair of black running shorts with the kind of moisture-wicking fabric I never used to care about, then reach for the matching sports bra hanging on the hook beside them. The tank top is a muted shade of grey-blue that reminds me of storm clouds.

<<<<1 2 3 11 21 >60

Advertisement Willing Chaff – Story Fodder Read Online J.A. Huss http://www.books2020.com/willing-chaff-story-fodder-read-online-j-a-huss Sun, 01 Feb 2026 09:22:52 +0000 https://www.books2020.com/willing-chaff-story-fodder-read-online-j-a-huss Genre: Alpha Male, Dark Authors: J.A. Huss Advertisement

Total pages in book: 57
Estimated words: 54871 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 274(@200wpm)___ 219(@250wpm)___ 183(@300wpm)

<<<<1 2 3 11 21 >57

48 Hours. No Limits. No Mercy. No Excuses.

ScarletSins
Check here if you agree to be hunted. Yes.
Check here if you agree to be caught. Hell yes.
I told myself the first time was desperation. The second time is just... follow-up. Fact-checking. Character development. Research.
Why am I doing this again?
Story fodder.
That's what I keep telling myself.
The auction starts in three hours and I've already checked the box I swore I wouldn't.
Run.

Watcher
Check here if you've been counting the days. Every single one.
Check here if you let her think this was her idea. Obviously.
She came back. Told herself it was for the writing. Told herself she's gathering material. She has no idea what I'm gathering.
Why am I doing this?
Because watching isn't enough anymore.
The auction starts in three hours and the hunt is already over.
She just hasn't stopped running yet.

This book a man who should be in prison, a woman who should know better, and scenes that will make you google "is this okay?" (It's not. Enjoy.)

Vibe
He watches. Always.
Your therapist will have questions.
Consent is... creative.
This is not a safe book. Neither is he.
Morally bankrupt MMC who is not sorry.
She runs. Not fast enough.
Prey/predator dynamics
The forest is not her friend.
"No" is a conversation starter.
He doesn't share. Ever.
Touch her and find out.
Safe words exist.
The game has rules

*************FULL BOOK START HERE*************

Chapter 1

Caleb

The world's worst men shake the most hands.

The movie star who violates children.

The CEO who traffics them.

The politician whose foundation supplies both.

The spotlight doesn't expose monsters—it blinds you to them.

Before me are two walls of monitors with two very different scenes.

On the left wall of monitors we have Dimitri Volkov. Friends and enemies alike call him Volk—Russian for wolf. I consider myself to be both friend and enemy, so I call him Volk as well. It suits him in ways he's never understood.

Our friend Volk is a philanthropist of the highest order.

An art collector specializing in Renaissance paintings.

A shipping magnate worth four-point-seven billion dollars according to Forbes—though the actual number, buried in shell companies and offshore accounts, is closer to seven.

Friends with senators, oligarchs, and A-list celebrities.

Married twenty-eight years to a former ballerina who pretends not to know what he is.

Three grandchildren he bounces on his knee at charity galas while photographers capture his grandfatherly smile.

Our enemy Volk… well, he's the architect of the largest child trafficking operation in Eastern Europe.

The orphanages he funds aren't orphanages. They're Recruitment centers.

Those art acquisition trips to Prague, Budapest, Kyiv are sourcing missions.

His shipping empire doesn't move luxury goods across borders, it moves flesh.

Currently, Volk is naked and blindfolded. Steel cuffs around his wrists have him locked to the cage floor in absolute darkness about three miles from here.

The night-vision feed shows him testing the restraints again. Pulling at them methodically, intelligently.

Still believing this situation is salvageable.

That his lawyers, his political connections, his billions will extract him from this.

They won't.

I'll deal with him later.

The right wall of monitors holds my attention now.

Scarletta stepping off the Gulfstream onto Story Island's tarmac. She's still wearing my old Harvard t-shirt and black sweat pants.

The February sun is turning her hair gold as the Caribbean wind catches it, blowing it across her face. Not in some romantic, photogenic way, either. The gusts are whipping those dirty blonde strands so violently that she has to hold both sides of her head with her hands just to see where the hell she's going. Walking almost sideways down the stairs, squinting against the brightness after hours in the plane's dim cabin.

To call the vibe radiating off her body language annoyed would be a dramatic understatement.

She's pissed.

Genuinely, visibly pissed.

I can't help it—I snicker.

Her trip has been anything but relaxing. The invitation to the hunt directed her to go downstairs immediately upon receiving it, so she did—of course she did, eager little thing.

But I left her waiting for the limousine for nearly an hour in her apartment lobby. Just sitting there in my clothes, probably wondering if I'd forgotten about her entirely.

It was necessary, though. Cruel, yes, but necessary. I needed to arrive in the Caribbean before she did. Needed to be here, waiting, watching, in complete control of the infrastructure before her plane ever touched down.

Once she finally got to the FBO terminal at Idaho Falls Regional Airport, I had her plane grounded for two hours under the pretense of 'mechanical issues.' Some vague problem with the hydraulics that required a full inspection.

She sat in the private lounge—I watched her on the security cameras—pretending to read a magazine while internally spiraling with anxiety. Wondering if this was part of it. If I was testing her. If she should leave.

She didn't leave.

Which set the perfect tone for the 'normal not-normal turbulence' she experienced during the entire seven-hour flight. Nothing dangerous, of course. Nothing the pilots couldn't handle easily. But enough chop, enough sudden drops and jarring bumps to keep her white-knuckled and nauseous the whole way.

I specifically instructed them to take a route through some rough weather patterns. Make it memorable. Make her arrive already off-balance, already questioning whether she's made a terrible mistake.

Small games. Necessary delays. Minor psychological adjustments to ensure she arrives exactly as unsteady as I need her to be.

Control, I've learned, isn't just in the grand gestures—it's in the minutiae. The orchestration of a thousand tiny details that add up to total dominance before she even realizes the game has started.

She thinks she understands what this 'hunt' entails—they all do when they first arrive here, armed with their fantasies and half-formed expectations culled from fiction and forum posts.

But it's never the same chase twice. Every woman brings different fears, different desires, different breaking points.

The island itself shifts the dynamic—weather patterns, wildlife sounds, the particular quality of moonlight filtering through jungle canopy. So many variables to account for on Story Island. So many opportunities for improvisation within the carefully constructed framework.

I allow myself a small breath of satisfaction, settling deeper into my chair as I scan the array of monitors before me. Very pleased with how meticulously this particular event has been choreographed. Every contingency planned for, every potential complication anticipated and neutralized before it could manifest.

Volk's presence on the sister island two miles south of here is a distraction I could do without. His scales weren't due to be balanced until next week.

<<<<1 2 3 11 21 >57

Advertisement Triple Xmas – A Contract Relationship Christmas Read Online J.A. Huss http://www.books2020.com/triple-xmas-a-contract-relationship-christmas-read-online-j-a-huss Thu, 25 Dec 2025 22:08:19 +0000 http://www.books2020.com/triple-xmas-a-contract-relationship-christmas-read-online-j-a-huss Genre: Alpha Male, Dark, Erotic Authors: J.A. Huss Advertisement

Total pages in book: 57
Estimated words: 56620 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 283(@200wpm)___ 226(@250wpm)___ 189(@300wpm)

<<<<1 2 3 11 21 >57

24 Hours. No Limits. No Mercy. No Regrets.

ScarletSins
Check here if you agree to be spanked. Hell yes.
Check here if you agree to CNC. Hell no.
This is my life. 100 questions about my most intimate fantasies, then a checklist about which of them I'll agree to.
Why am I doing this?
Why the hell do you think?
Money.
I need it.
The Seventy-Fifth Annual Triple Xmas Auction starts in three hours and I've got a price on my head.
Let's f-ing go.

Watcher
Check here if you've been watching her. For months.
Check here if you rigged the auction. Obviously.
This girl is my obsession. I know every word she's written. Every fantasy she's afraid to live. Every desperate choice that led her here.
Why am I doing this?
Because she's mine.
She just doesn't know it yet.
The Seventy-Fifth Annual Triple Xmas Auction starts in three hours and I've already won.
Let the games begin.

A dark Christmas romance where the monster gets the girl.

*************FULL BOOK START HERE*************

24 Hours. No Limits. No Mercy. No Regrets.

ScarletSins

Check here if you agree to be spanked. Hell yes.

Check here if you agree to CNC. Hell no.

This is my life. 100 questions about my most intimate fantasies, then a checklist about which of them I'll agree to.

Why am I doing this?

Why the hell do you think?

Money.

I need it.

The Seventy-Fifth Annual Triple Xmas Auction starts in three hours and I've got a price on my head.

Let's f-ing go.

Watcher

Check here if you've been watching her. For months.

Check here if you rigged the auction. Obviously.

This girl is my obsession. I know every word she's written. Every fantasy she's afraid to live. Every desperate choice that led her here.

Why am I doing this?

Because she's mine.

She just doesn't know it yet.

The Seventy-Fifth Annual Triple Xmas Auction starts in three hours and I've already won.

Let the games begin.

A dark Christmas romance where the monster gets the girl.

Chapter 1

Caleb

Those who play in shadows always underestimate the light.

They think darkness is their ally, their shield against consequence.

They're wrong.

Darkness is just a temporary veil.

Nothing stays hidden forever.

Justice finds a way.

It always does.

You can run from it, hide from it, pay lawyers to build walls around it, but eventually it seeps through the cracks like light under a door.

Relentless. Patient. Inevitable.

And when you skirt around it for too long, when you think you've outsmarted the system, outmaneuvered the consequences, the only way it ends is… messy.

Violently messy, if I'm involved.

The kind of messy that comes with unmarked graves, desperate phone calls in the dead of night, and bloody clothes that need burning.

Every choice leaves a mark.

Every mark has a weight.

Every weight must be balanced.

I am the scales.

Justice isn't blind. That's a lie they tell children.

Justice has cold, calculating, patient eyes that watch, and wait, and remember everything.

If you earn it, you pay.

Blood for blood hammers through my speakers as I navigate the icy switchback mountain road. Fuck you, and fuck society too. It's a roaring anthem that calms me after balancing the debts.

A ritual now.

A signal that the score has been evened.

An indicator of finality.

Justice done, I put the night's work behind me and concentrate on my next target—Scarletta Mae Desmond.

Erotica writer. DarkDesires Forum pen name, ScarletSins.

Lonely twenty-something with dirty blonde hair and hazel eyes that hide behind a computer screen.

No job worth mentioning—just freelance copywriting she's too distracted to finish.

No purpose beyond the stories she writes in the dark hours between midnight and dawn.

No ambition beyond the next chapter, the next comment, the next anonymous validation from strangers who don't know her name.

Unless you count her predictable cycle—words on the page, fingers between her legs—as ambition.

Which, knowing what I know about her, might be the most honest thing she does.

She thinks she's invisible. Thinks her online anonymity keeps her safe.

She's wrong.

I've been watching for months.

Learning her patterns. Her routines. The precise rhythm of her isolation.

And soon, very soon, she'll understand exactly what it means to be seen.

Completely.

Unavoidably.

Mine.

My driveway entrance sits under a ranch archway marked with a skull and crossbones instead of a cattle brand. I navigate the ice, pulling slowly as I travel through an encroaching tunnel of hundred-year-old blue spruce.

For a moment, there is no sky above—just tree limbs. It’s disorienting, something out of a dark fairy tale. But it never lasts, never long enough. Because a moment later the amber glow appears behind the floor-to-ceiling windows of my log estate.

The temperature on the dash reads twelve degrees. As I pull the Jeep around the side of the house toward the barn, I catch a glimpse of the hot tub on the back patio, its surface rolling with steam that rises like ghosts in the frigid air. The water glows an otherworldly red from the submerged lights, a beacon of heat in the frozen darkness.

The contrast is stark—civilized warmth against the brutal cold that wants to kill everything it touches.

I guide the vehicle into the barn's wide, dark mouth, the headlights sweeping across the interior before I drive fully inside. The structure swallows the Jeep whole, wood beams overhead and the lingering scent of hay and horse leather from the previous owners.

When I kill the engine, the hardcore Blood for Blood song becomes instant silence. The engine ticks as I look down at myself, studying the scarlet stains on my shirt, my pants, my arms, my hands.

I get out of the Jeep, walk over to the wood-burning furnace, and open the door. The embers glow bright orange under gray ash. The furnace in the horse barn is a nice touch. Part of the reason I bought this place six months ago.

After stoking the fire and loading it with logs, the flames rise up, fervent and yellow.

I strip out of my bloody clothes and feed them into the fire. The flames eat the fabric, racing along the threads until they are nothing but fire itself.

<<<<1 2 3 11 21 >57

Advertisement The Star We Share Read Online J.A. Huss http://www.books2020.com/the-star-we-share-read-online-j-a-huss Sun, 07 Dec 2025 21:06:53 +0000 http://www.books2020.com/the-star-we-share-read-online-j-a-huss Genre: Alpha Male, Fantasy/Sci-fi, Magic, Paranormal Authors: J.A. Huss Advertisement

Total pages in book: 53
Estimated words: 51038 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 255(@200wpm)___ 204(@250wpm)___ 170(@300wpm)

<<<<1 2 3 11 21 >53

The bad boy cursed me, the control freak collared me, the golden boy kissed me—and I'm here for all of it!

I woke up in jail with three men fighting over who gets to claim me—and none of them are even human. Number One is a leather-clad demigod with a belt that does more than hold up his jeans. Number Two is a rogue secret agent with a habit of giving orders like he expects to be obeyed. Number Three is a flirty charmer who's convinced I'm his soulmate.

Apparently, I'm part of some ancient prophecy—the missing piece in a divine war. The gods want me back, the Titans want me gone, and these three lunatics are stuck with me in a death-trap labyrinth. To escape, we'll need to unlock our shared powers. Together.

THE STAR WE SHARE is a high-heat, fast-burn why-choose romance where Greek gods meet modern spice. Expect sharp banter, mythic danger, and a maze full of magic, mayhem, and multiple happily-ever-afters

*************FULL BOOK START HERE*************

1 - STAR

Idream of the earworm wriggling its way through my head. I can hear the music and even some of the lyrics, but none of it makes sense. It’s like I’m underwater or listening through a wall.

The words are there—like right there. But I can’t make them out.

So I invent lyrics to the melody in my head.

Make your bed and tip the sky?

The way you live is the way you die?

Except, that’s not it. That’s definitely not it.

Tie your shoe and skip the rope?

Beans are good and corn is dope?

The more I try to figure it out, the more ridiculous my attempts to decipher the muffled words become.

Dig your way into the sun?

Oh, forget it.

Anyway, it’s morning, I guess. My back hurts and why is it so loud in my apartment? I bring a hand up to my head, pressing it against my temple, because I have a raging headache.

This is when I hear a man’s voice and I sit straight up in bed, holding the covers close to my chest just to be extra special sure that no one’s getting a peek at me.

Which is when I realize I’m not in bed. I’m not even at home. In fact, I don’t know where I am. A small room made of cinderblocks with a toilet in the corner.

“Holy shit.” These words come out as a croaked whisper as I spastically brush hair out of my eyes. “I’m in jail.”

“You’re in jail, baby!” These words, and the accompanying laugh, overpower all the other noises. I look in the direction of the voice and find a man leaning into the bars of the cell across the corridor. “Welcome back, Sleeping Beauty! Did you have a good rest?”

“Who the hell are you?”

“Star, I’m going to have to advise you not to talk to this man.” This other voice comes from a second man, who slides into my view and pushes the other guy out of the way. “We don’t know who he’s working for and⁠—”

“What’s this ‘we’ shit,” the first guy says. “You two are not a ‘we’. We’re a ‘we’, right Star?”

I brush more hair out of my eyes, as if this might clarify things for me, but, of course, it doesn’t. So I just mumble, “What the fuck is happening?”

Now both of them squint at me.

“You don’t remember?” the second one says.

“Are you sure?” the first one asks.

“Because,” the second one says, “we had a deal and I’m fully expecting you to honor it.”

“Bro,” the first one says, pushing him away. “Shut the fuck up. There was no deal.” He turns his attention to me. “Star, I know I came on a little strong last night, but we had a good thing going, remember? We were gonna go back to my place and⁠—”

I’m shaking my head at him while he continues to talk because while I might’ve gotten drunk enough to get arrested and blackout, I am not a one-night-stand kind of girl. Not at all.

However… as he continues to explain how he and I are a team, I actually process his allure for the first time and start to doubt my certainty. Because holy fuck, this man is hot. Like something out of a myth.

Maybe a little lanky for my tastes, but lanky in a muscular way too. Like a swimmer, everything about him is long. And his shirt is ripped straight down the middle, affording me a perfect view of his equally ripped abs. The whole moment is like a spell. A little magic that lures my eye down to a teasing bit of blond happy-trail just above the waistband of his jeans. My eyes pause there for a moment as my mind catches up.

He laughs. It’s a nice laugh and it comes with an equally charming smile. “See. You remember now, right?” Then he cups his hand over his mouth and whisper yells, “We wrote a little song about it.” He does a weird jerky point to his happy-trail and then breaks into song. The exact melody I was humming in my head just before I woke up. The exact tune that’s been haunting me since I was twelve years old.

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