Amaranthine by Delia Strange

 

 

Eternal Life. 

Endless Love. 

Infinite Cost.

Amaranthine

by Delia Strange

Genre: SciFi Time Travel Historical Paranormal Vampire Romance

Eternal life comes at a cost

For centuries, Amaranthine has walked through time—an immortal bound by a gift she never asked for. From the opulent halls of the Roman Empire to the decadent jazz clubs of 1920s London, to the futuristic floating city of New Francisco, she has lived countless lives, loved deeply, and lost more than most could ever bear. With each new era comes new faces: lovers, rivals, and those drawn to the mystery of her eternal existence. But immortality comes with a price, and as the world changes, so too does the weight of the centuries she carries.

Torn between living for the future and haunted by the choices of her past, Amaranthine must confront the question that has followed her for an eternity: What does it mean to live forever when everything and everyone else fades away?

 

“This is the first book in a while that I have continued to mull over even after I'd finished reading it as it's definitely a story that gets you thinking.”
~ Lynne Stringer, Goodreads Review

 

Amazon ebook * Amazon Audiobook * Audible * Apple * B&N * Google * Kobo * Smashwords Bookbub * Goodreads

The olive trees stood like shadows in the distance, swaying in the night breeze. Amaranthine’s steps were cautious, her eyes scanning the darkness, but as she reached the edge of the grove, there was no sign of him. Her breath hitched in her throat, a sudden pang of doubt freezing her where she stood. Had she waited too long? Her heart sank as she looked around. She’d been foolish to think this was possible, that someone like her could step outside the boundaries of her life, if only for a moment.

But then Marcellus stepped forward, his form emerging from the darkness and appearing in front of her like a dream. His smile was slow, knowing, and when his eyes met hers, she felt that rush all over again, more powerful this time for the waiting.

“I thought you might change your mind,” he said, his voice cutting through the night.

Amaranthine exhaled, the tension leaving her body in a soft, trembling breath. “I almost did,” she whispered, her voice barely audible, but then she smiled, feeling the same reckless pull that had brought her here. “But I’m here.”

Marcellus took her hand, his touch warm, and without a word he led her deeper into the olive grove. The trees closed in around them and the world outside the grove disappeared, leaving only the two of them beneath the cover of night. The air smelled faintly of the earth and the lingering sweetness of ripening fruit, but all Amaranthine could focus on was the heat of his hand against hers, the certainty in his steps as he drew her farther away from the villa, away from everything she knew.

When he stopped, she nearly stumbled, caught off guard by the sudden stillness. Marcellus turned to face her, his gaze sweeping over her with an intensity that made her catch her breath. His eyes roamed her face, her body, lingering as though his look could somehow touch her skin. It wasn’t just a glance; it was deeper, heavier.

Slowly, deliberately, Marcellus ran his fingers up her arm, light as a breeze. The touch sent a shiver down her spine, thrilling and delicate all at once. His hand traveled over her shoulder, warm and sure, before brushing against her neck, where her pulse raced beneath his fingertips. He cupped her face, his thumb grazing her cheek as his other hand slid into her hair, gently cradling the back of her neck. The closeness of him—his soft breath against her skin, his scent unfamiliar and intoxicating—made her dizzy.

When he pressed his body against hers, she didn’t hesitate. Amaranthine’s arms wrapped around him as though it was the most natural thing in the world, her fingers curling into the fabric of his tunic. She could feel the heat of him through the thin cloth, the steady rise and fall of his chest, and the thrilling, terrifying anticipation that hovered in the air between them. He leaned in, his lips so close to hers that she could feel the warmth of his breath, and her body instinctively tilted forward, closing the last distance between them.

The kiss began softly, their lips brushing with a delicate hesitance, as though both of them were testing the boundaries of something new. It was sweet, tender, like a whispered secret exchanged in the dark. Amaranthine’s heart fluttered, the warmth of his mouth against hers sending gentle waves of pleasure through her body. Her hands tightened their grip on his tunic, pulling him closer, and for a moment, everything else faded away—her worries, her fears, even the nagging sense of not belonging. Here, in this kiss, she felt connected, as though they shared something deeper than words.

Slowly, almost imperceptibly, the kiss deepened. Marcellus’ arms wrapped around her waist, his hands pressing her closer, and the softness between them gave way to something more intense, more urgent. Passion overtook them both, their lips moving with a fervor that surprised her. Amaranthine had never kissed anyone before, but she felt as though she’d always known how, the way their mouths fit together, the way their breaths mingled in the cool night air. Her heart pounded faster, and a strange heat pooled in her chest, spreading through her veins in a way that made her feel alive.

Then something within her awoke. At first, she didn’t recognize it, mistaking the growing intensity for the natural progression of a kiss. There was a pull, a sensation inside her, almost like the drawing of breath, but deeper, fuller. She thought it was part of the magic of kissing, the way it could make someone feel as though they were floating, untethered from everything. No wonder people kiss, she thought, her mind hazy with the thrill of it. It’s wonderful. She let the sensation sweep over her, unaware of what she was truly doing. But then, after a moment, she noticed something different. Their lips had stopped moving. The rhythm they had found, the tender push and pull, had stilled.

Amaranthine opened her eyes, confused, and pulled back. Her breath caught in her throat. Marcellus staggered away from her, his face ashen, his once bright eyes dull and clouded. He looked gaunt, hollow, as though something had been drained from him. His skin sagged against the bones of his cheeks, and before her eyes, he aged—twenty years, maybe more—his youthful vibrance withering into something frail and brittle. He gasped, his hands reaching out toward her as though for help, but no words came. Then, with a final shuddering breath, Marcellus crumpled to the ground, motionless.

The world around her seemed to tilt, the ground beneath her feet suddenly unsteady as she stared at Marcellus’ lifeless body. Her chest tightened, a wild panic rising inside her, but she couldn’t move. Her legs felt rooted to the spot, her mind unable to comprehend what had just happened. Only moments ago, they had been so close—he had been so alive. Now, the boy who had held her in his arms, who had smiled at her like she was a secret worth keeping, lay motionless at her feet, his face hollow and pale, drained of life.

An only child with an active imagination, I created many stories in my head. My bookcase was overflowing, and I loved visiting the library. I'd always been a reader, but I hadn't considered writing until a childhood friend said we should write our ideas down. Once I started writing my stories, I couldn't stop.

I gravitated to stories of peculiar places and happenings. I loved twists and dark reveals, so my writing didn't stray far from that. I was a fan of fantasy—of ancient Greek myths or contemporary paranormal stories. They captured my imagination and opened me to worlds of possibilities. There were no constraints on fantasy, no wrong or right answers; anything I dreamed up was acceptable. And then came H. G. Wells and science fiction, which also opened the door to paranormal and speculative fiction, my three favourite genres.

 

Website * Facebook * Facebook *  Instagram * Bookbub * Amazon * Goodreads

 

Follow the tour HERE for special content and a $20 giveaway!

Enter the Amaranthine Giveaway Here

The Enforcer's Possession by Harley Wylde

 

 

A contract of power.

 A marriage of enemies. 

A love written in blood, bound by desire.

The Enforcer’s Possession

Ruthless Alliances #1

by Harley Wylde

Genre: Dark Mafia Romantic Suspense

A contract of power. A marriage of enemies. A love written in blood, bound by desire.

 

Caterina: My father thinks he owns me. A spoiled mafia princess, good for one thing -- marriage to strengthen his empire. But I refuse to be sold to a cruel man. If he wants an alliance, I’ll give him one -- on my terms. So I go to Dante De Luca, the De Luca family’s most dangerous enforcer. Cold. Controlled. Lethal. Our contract marriage is supposed to be business, not desire. Then he touches me, and everything I thought I knew about power and control shatters.

 

Dante: Caterina Lombardi doesn’t know what she’s started. She wants protection. I want her. She thinks she can use me to defy her father, but once she’s mine, she stays mine. She’s fire wrapped in silk -- reckless, beautiful, and born to test every rule I’ve ever followed. But in our world, rebellion comes with blood, and enemies are closing in. I’ll burn everything to protect her… even if it means becoming the monster she fears.

 

A dark mafia romance filled with obsession, betrayal, and dangerous passion. For readers who love possessive alpha heroes, spoiled princess heroines, enemies-to-lovers heat, and contracts written in blood.

 

WARNING: Intended for readers 18+ The Enforcer’s Possession includes dark and possessive elements, emotional intensity, and morally gray behavior.

 

 

Amazon * Apple * B&N * Kobo * Books2Read * Bookbub * Goodreads

 

Caterina

I sprawled across the velvet chaise near my bedroom windows, one leg dangling over the armrest, my phone pressed to my ear while Adriana went on about some party at the Castellano estate. I wasn’t really listening. Instead, I picked at the silk blouse I’d tossed aside an hour ago -- Valentino, bought last week, already boring -- and let my gaze drift across the disaster zone my room had become.

Designer clothes lay scattered across the marble floors like expensive casualties. A Gucci dress hung half-off my bed frame. Three pairs of Louboutins created a hazardous path to my bathroom. My jewelry cases sat open on every available surface, catching the afternoon light and throwing rainbow refractions across the walls.

“Cat? Are you even listening to me?”

“Hmm?” I shifted, letting the blouse fall to the floor. “Sorry, what?”

“I said Marco asked about you. Again.” Adriana’s voice held that knowing tone that made me want to reach through the phone and smack her. “He wants to know if you’ll be at --”

“Tell Marco to go fuck himself.” I sat up, reaching for my discarded iced coffee on the side table. Watered down. Disgusting. I set it back without drinking. “I’m not interested in whatever trust fund baby wants to play gangster this week.”

“He’s not that bad.”

“He wore a fedora to Lucia’s birthday party. A fedora, Adi.”

She laughed, and I felt myself smile despite my mood. That was the thing about Adriana -- she got it. She understood what it was like to live in this world, to be decorative and controlled and expected to smile through it all.

“Fair point,” she said. “So what’s got you in such a charming mood today? And don’t say nothing, because I can hear it in your voice.”

I stood, pacing toward my walk-in closet. The motion felt good, gave me something to do with the restless energy crawling under my skin. “My father. What else?”

“What did Giuseppe do now?”

“He’s acting like I’m some prized mare to be traded off to the highest bidder.” I stepped into the closet, running my hand along the row of couture gowns that lined one wall. Versace, Dolce & Gabbana, Armani -- thousands of dollars of fabric I was expected to wear while playing the dutiful daughter. “Apparently, he’s been having meetings. About my future.”

“Meetings.” Adriana’s voice went flat. She knew what that meant. We all did.

“With families. Old families. Traditional families who think women should be seen and not heard.” I grabbed a dress at random -- something in emerald green I’d worn once to a charity gala -- and pulled it off its hanger. Held it up. Put it back. Wrong. All wrong. “He actually told me yesterday that it was time I started thinking about settling down. Settling down. I’m twenty-one, not forty.”

“What did you say?”

“I told him I’d rather die.”

Adriana sucked in a breath. “Cat. You didn’t.”

“I did.” I moved to my vanity table, surveying the collection of high-end makeup and perfumes arranged across its surface. My reflection stared back at me from the mirror -- dark hair falling in waves past my shoulders, green eyes sharp with anger I couldn’t quite bank. I looked like my mother had at my age, according to the photos. Before Papa had worn her down into the perfect Mafia wife. “He didn’t appreciate it.”

“I’m shocked.”

“The thing is, he doesn’t even see it. Doesn’t see how fucking archaic it all is.” I picked up a lipstick, twisted it open, then put on a little across my lips. “We all know he’s doing this for himself or the family, but I’m sure part of him also thinks he’s protecting me. Providing for me. Making sure I’m taken care of.”

“By selling you off to some capo’s son?”

“Basically.” I walked back to the windows, looking out over the Lombardi estate gardens. Perfectly manicured hedges, marble fountains, rose bushes that cost more to maintain than most people made in a year. Beautiful. Like a gilded cage. “He keeps talking about duty and family and legacy. As if I’m just another asset to be leveraged. At the same time, I know he feels women are inferior. I’m sure he doesn’t believe I could ever take care of myself.”

“You are, though. To him.” Adriana’s voice was gentle, which somehow made it worse. “In his world, that’s what daughters are for.”

I pressed my forehead against the cool glass. “I know. That’s what makes it so Goddamn frustrating. He genuinely believes he’s doing right by me. That finding me a wealthy, connected husband is the best thing he can offer.”

“What about what you want?”

“What I want doesn’t factor into the equation.” I turned away from the window, surveying my room again. The luxury that surrounded me suddenly felt suffocating rather than comfortable. “I’m a Lombardi. I’m supposed to want what’s best for the family.”

“And what do you want?”

The question hung in the air. I didn’t have a good answer. I wanted freedom, but freedom to do what? I’d never had to think about it before. My life had always been mapped out -- private schools, designer clothes, carefully curated social events, and eventually a marriage that would strengthen family alliances.

“I want to choose,” I said finally. “I want to choose who I fuck, who I marry if I marry, what I do with my life. Is that too much to ask?”

“For Giuseppe? Probably.”

I laughed, but it came out bitter. Moving back to the chaise, I dropped onto it dramatically, throwing one arm over my eyes. “He’s been worse lately. More controlling. Like he knows something I don’t.”

“Maybe he does.”

“That’s what I’m afraid of.” I let my arm fall, staring at the ceiling. The fresco up there -- some Renaissance reproduction that had cost a fortune -- suddenly seemed ridiculous. Everything in this room was ridiculous. Beautiful and expensive and utterly meaningless. “I can feel it, Adi. Something’s coming. Some decision he’s already made that’s going to change everything.”

“Have you tried talking to him? Actually talking, not just fighting?”

“You can’t talk to Papa. You can plead your case and then watch him do whatever he was going to do anyway.” I sat up, running my fingers through my hair. My diamond bracelet caught on a strand and I yanked it free with more force than necessary. “He pretends to listen, nods in all the right places, and then completely ignores everything you’ve said.”

“What about Sofia?”

“Mama?” I snorted. “She’s worse. At least Papa is honest about being a controlling bastard. Mama just smiles and suggests I try being more accommodating. More understanding of the family’s needs.”

“Ouch.”

“Yeah.” I stood again, unable to stay still. The restless energy was back, stronger now. I moved to one of my jewelry cases, running my fingers over the pieces inside. Tiffany, Cartier, Bulgari -- gifts from my father, purchased with blood money and given with the expectation of gratitude. “She’s been doing this so long she doesn’t even see it anymore. The way she swallows her opinions, plays the perfect hostess, pretends not to notice when Papa comes home with blood on his cuffs.”

“Is that what you’re afraid of? Turning into her?”

The question hit too close to home. I closed the jewelry case with a sharp snap. “I’d rather die,” I said again, and this time I meant it with everything in me.

“Well, don’t do that. Your funeral would be boring and I’d have to wear black, which washes me out.”

Despite everything, I smiled. “You’re the worst.”

“I’m the best and you know it.” I could hear her moving around on her end, probably getting ready for whatever evening plans she had. “Look, I know you don’t want advice --”

“Then don’t give it.”

“-- but maybe pick your battles. Giuseppe’s old school. You’re not going to change his mind by going head-to-head with him every time.”

“So what, I should just roll over and accept whatever he decides?”

“No. I’m saying be smart about it. You’re clever, Cat. Probably the smartest person I know, even if you are a spoiled brat.”

“Fuck you.”

“Love you too. My point is, if you’re going to fight him, make it count. Don’t waste your energy on every little thing.”

I wanted to argue, but she wasn’t wrong. Papa responded to strength, to strategy. Throwing tantrums -- no matter how justified -- just made him dismiss me as a child. “Fine. I’ll be strategic.”

“Liar. You’re going to do something dramatic and probably get yourself grounded, aren’t you?”

“Probably.” I glanced at my closet, an idea already forming. “There’s a family dinner tonight. Something important, based on how tense everyone’s been.”

“Oh no.”

“Oh yes.”

“Caterina Lombardi, whatever you’re planning --”

“Gotta go, my warden’s here.” I’d heard the footsteps in the hall, recognized my mother’s measured pace. “I’ll call you later.”

“Don’t do anything I wouldn’t do.”

“That leaves me a lot of options.” I ended the call, dropping my phone onto the chaise just as my bedroom door opened.

Mama swept into my room like she was entering a ballroom, her posture so perfect it made my spine hurt just looking at her. She wore a cream-colored Chanel suit that probably cost more than a compact car, paired with pearls that had been in the family for three generations. Every dark hair sat exactly where it was supposed to. Not a wrinkle in sight. She looked like the poster child for “Mafia wife perfection,” and it made me want to scream.

Her gaze traveled across the disaster of my room -- the scattered clothes, the open jewelry cases, the general chaos -- but her expression remained serene. That was Sofia Lombardi’s superpower. Nothing ruffled her. Ever.

“Caterina.” She said my name like it was a complete sentence, with just enough weight to convey disappointment without actually expressing it.

“Mama.” I stayed where I was on the chaise, not bothering to sit up straighter or pretend I was doing anything productive. Let her see the mess. Let her judge it. I didn’t care.

That was a lie. I cared. But I’d rather die than admit it.

“I wanted to remind you about tonight’s dinner.” She stepped farther into the room, her heels clicking precisely against the marble. Even her footsteps were measured. “Your father expects everyone to be present and properly dressed by seven.”

“Properly dressed.” I let the words hang in the air between us, loaded with all the implications they carried. “You mean demure and obedient? Quiet and decorative?”

“I mean appropriate for a family gathering.” Her tone remained gentle, but I caught the steel underneath. Mama had spent twenty-some years perfecting the art of being firm while sounding pleasant. “We have important guests coming.”

“Of course we do.” I sat up, swinging my legs off the chaise with deliberate carelessness. One of my discarded shoes clattered across the floor. “Let me guess. Someone essential. Someone whose opinion matters. Someone Papa wants to impress.”

Mama’s lips pressed together for just a moment -- the only crack in her composure. “This is vital to your father.”

“Everything is a key component to Papa. His reputation, his alliances, his legacy.” I stood, moving to my vanity and picking up a bottle of perfume just to have something to do with my hands. “His ability to control every aspect of his daughter’s life.”

“Caterina.” This time my name came with a sigh, and when I glanced at her reflection in the mirror, I saw something that might have been weariness in her eyes. “Must you make everything a battle?”

“Must he treat me like property?” I set the perfume down harder than necessary. The glass bottle made a sharp sound against the marble vanity top. “I’m not a business asset, Mama. I’m a person.”

“No one said you weren’t.”

“They don’t have to say it. They just act like it.” I turned to face her directly, crossing my arms. “Do you know what he told me last week? That it was time I started considering my options. My options. Like I’m shopping for a new car instead of thinking about my future.”

Mama moved to my bed, perching on the edge with practiced grace. Even sitting casually, she looked like she was posing for a portrait. “Your father wants what’s best for you.”

“What’s best for the family, you mean.”

“Sometimes those things align.”

“And when they don’t?” I challenged. “What happens when what’s best for the family means sacrificing what I want? What I need?”

She looked at me then, really looked at me, and for a moment I saw something genuine beneath the polished exterior. Regret, maybe. Or recognition. “We all make sacrifices, Caterina. That’s what it means to be part of something larger than ourselves.”

“I didn’t ask to be part of this.” My voice came out sharper than I intended. “I didn’t choose the Lombardi name. I didn’t choose this life.”

“None of us do.” She stood, smoothing her skirt even though it didn’t need smoothing. “But it’s the life we have. The question is what we do with it.”

I wanted to argue more, to push until that perfect composure cracked and she admitted how much she’d given up, how much she’d swallowed to be Giuseppe Lombardi’s wife. But I also knew it was pointless. Mama had made her peace with her choices a long time ago. She’d decided that compliance was easier than resistance, that playing the role was safer than fighting the script.

I’d never be able to do the same.

“Seven o’clock,” she said again, moving toward the door. “Please don’t be late. And, Caterina?” She paused, her hand on the doorknob. “Wear something appropriate.”

I drummed my manicured nails against the vanity top, the sharp click-click-click filling the silence. It was a nervous habit I’d never been able to break, and one that drove my father crazy. Mama’s gaze flicked to my hand, but she said nothing. Just waited.

“I’ll be there,” I said finally. “Properly dressed and everything.”

Something in my tone must have warned her, because her eyes narrowed slightly. Not angry, just… knowing. She’d raised me, after all. She knew when I was planning something.

“Caterina --”

“I said I’ll be there.” I gave her my sweetest smile, the one I used when I was about to do something that would make Papa’s blood pressure spike. “You can count on me.”

 

Harley Wylde is an accomplished author known for her captivating MC Romances. With an unwavering commitment to sensual storytelling, Wylde immerses her readers in an exciting world of fierce men and irresistible women. Her works exude passion, danger, and gritty realism, while still managing to end on a satisfying note each time.

When not crafting her tales, Wylde spends her time brainstorming new plotlines, indulging in a hot cup of Starbucks, or delving into a good book. She has a particular affinity for supernatural horror literature and movies. Visit Wylde's website to learn more about her works and upcoming events, and don't forget to sign up for her newsletter to receive exclusive discounts and other exciting perks.

Website * Facebook * X * Instagram * Bookbub * Amazon * Goodreads

Follow the tour HERE for special content and a $20 giveaway!

Enter The Enforcer’s Possession Giveaway Here