#dragon hope

[adrianna-m-scovill]

Rising from the Dust will only be free on Sunday, May 26, 2019, but all of the others are free all weekend (5/23-5/26) on Amazon.

Follow Adrianna M. Scovill and explore their bibliography from Amazon.com's Adrianna M. Scovill Author Page.

[adrianna-m-scovill]

If you like romance books, and free stuff, I think I’ve got you covered ;) 

Like romance with adventure and a touch of fantasy (in other words, dragons)!? Try the Dragon Hearts series. You can start at the beginning with Dragon Star, or start with my personal favorite, Dragon Swan. 

Prefer contemporary small-town romance? Try Nights of Last Chance.

Or, my newly-published male/male romance, Rising from the Dust - fall in love with Jack and Gabriel as they fall in love with each other and begin to mend their damaged hearts :)

All of my romance novels are free December 22-25, 2018. You can find them on my Amazon page here or if you have trouble and need a link to a specific book for your country, let me know and I will get it for you. You can also get more information on the books, or me, on my website. As always, if you like any of my books, please help me spread the word by recommending them! Thanks and happy holidays! 

[adrianna-m-scovill]

Dragon Hope excerpt

Hope and Elliott have a less-than-romantic initial meeting in the fifth Dragon Hearts book, Dragon Hope. Things get better, though ;) 

When she finally reached the door, after what felt like a lifetime, she hesitated, suddenly filled with an apprehension that pushed back some of her exhaustion. She had enough presence of mind to recognize that she could very well be jumping out of the fire and into the frying pan. New dangers could be lurking behind the red door. It was foolish to depend upon the kindness and mercy of a stranger she hadn't even seen.

Trust was something she'd learned the hard way to give sparingly.

She looked up at the lighthouse, looming over the house. The glass glinted in the early sunlight. She could just make out the unlit lantern, nestled between reflective lenses. She'd never been inside a lighthouse, and she had only a rudimentary sense of how the setup worked. She couldn't deny the pull she felt toward that light, however—even the memory of the light. She'd followed its brightness all the way here, and that's what made her raise her fist and knock on the door.

The sun had been up for nearly an hour, and she knew that the lightkeeper might already be asleep. She waited. The wind across the open expanse of grass had dried most of her sweat. Her hair was blowing around her face, her skirt was tossed about her legs, and she counted to ten before raising her hand to knock again.

After a brief second rap, she heard a deep voice from somewhere inside the white house. “Go away!”

She hesitated with her fist still raised, startled. Not a friendly face, but an unfriendly voice; for several long moments, she stood there, her tired mind trying to puzzle out how to react. She couldn't plead her case if the door was never even opened. Steeling her resolve, knowing it might be a mistake, she knocked again.

After a pause, she heard swearing inside, and heavy steps coming toward the door. She fought the urge to flee, holding her ground by reminding herself

that she had nowhere else to go and wouldn't make it far, anyway. She had nothing to offer by way of payment, but with a little rest, she would be willing and able to work. She fought to put her tired thoughts in order, to make an argument for mercy.

The door was yanked open, and the jumble of words fled her mind. She was staring at the antithesis of a friendly face. The man before her had a dark beard and unruly hair, with blue eyes ringed by dark smudges of tiredness. He was wearing a white shirt with a red and black flannel shirt over it. He wasn't dressed for bed, but he looked like he needed sleep. His expression was foreboding, and her tongue found itself unable to form any words.

He was frowning when he opened the door, and his scowl deepened at the sight of her. “I said, go away,” he said, his voice deep and rough.

“I...”

He slammed the door closed, and she blinked, stunned. She felt faint stirrings of anger, and frowned, taking a deep breath. He was under no obligation—except, arguably, one of morality—to help her or offer her anything. His blatant hostility had caught her off guard, however. She wanted to knock again, and demand that he at least listen to the reasons why she should be allowed inside. She had no idea what he would do if she forced her presence onto him after distinctly being told to leave; she had no idea how dangerous he might be, although his angry expression suggested that he might quickly make her regret her decision to come to his door.

“Please,” she called. “May I at least have some water? I...Hello? Sir? I promise I won't cause—”

“For the love of God, go away!” he shouted from inside the house.

So, not even a cup of water. Not even a kind word.

She swiped at the tears streaking down her dirty cheeks. She stood there, undecided. There was probably a pump in the barn. She might be able to get a drink of water there. She might even be able to rest in the hay for a bit, if he didn't see her sneak behind the house.

She couldn't go back the way she'd come. Sooner or later, they would be looking for her. It was more than that, however: she was simply too tired, and too sore, to make it back down the hill. She would have to follow the road, instead, but she would have to keep to the woods, out of sight, and it wouldn't be easy. The thought of putting her shoes back on made her cringe, but what choice did she have?

She was angry, mostly with herself, for her tears, her weakness, her helplessness. She had no money. She had no food. She had only the clothes on her back and the shoes in her hand.

Someone was bound to have seen her; she certainly hadn’t been in any frame of mind for stealth and planning. Men would be looking for her, and she would never keep the lead she had, not if she continued to stand around, staring at the stupid red door that was firmly closed against her.

She turned and had taken only two steps when the door was yanked open behind her. She turned, startled, flinching, half-expecting a blow. The bearded lightkeeper was in the opening, glaring out at her. His jaw was clenched, his gaze steely, his body tensed, and she stared at him, her mouth suddenly even drier.

“Make it quick,” he said, the words clipped.

She hesitated. “Pardon me?” she finally managed. Her mind was a swirl of confusion, and she had no idea what he expected from her.

His scowl—she wouldn't have believed it possible—darkened, and he took a step back, pushing the door wider. Then, without waiting to see if she would move, he turned his back on her and stalked into the shadows of the house. She stared after him. Not exactly a warm invitation, but more than he'd given her reason to expect. Her heart thudded with apprehension. Should she go inside the house? A few minutes earlier, she'd wanted little else. Now, however? Faced with his imposing size and open hostility? She tried to swallow, but her mouth was spitless.

There was nowhere else to go, she reminded herself again. So, squaring her shoulders, gathering her courage, she stepped into the house and carefully closed the door. He'd stopped at the end of a short hallway, half-turned so she could see his profile. He pointed behind himself, to the right of the hallway, toward a room she couldn't yet see. “Kitchen. Take what you want, and leave.”

“Thank you,” her dry mouth managed. “My name’s—”

“I don't care.” And, with nothing further to say, he strode away from the indicated kitchen, never glancing in her direction.

“Hope,” she finished under her breath. She made her way along the dim hallway, slowly, listening as his bootsteps faded toward some other room. She wanted to thank him for his hospitality, as little as it was; she couldn't make her tongue cooperate. Somewhere, a door closed, and the silence of the house descended upon her. She stood in the hallway, aware of how loud her own breathing seemed to be. Then, gradually, she became aware of the ticking of a clock.

Written by Adrianna M. Scovill (savageimagination.com)