There’s a stereotype for how a convicted felon appears to the public.
Connor Stevens fit that bill.
His reputation preceded him. With a hard body and vivid tattoos dispersed across his flesh, he certainly drew the judgmental eyes of conservative tight-asses. Even I had those same thoughts…regardless of how highly Blake spoke of him.
But those opinions were about to be challenged.
I’d promised to pick Connor up from prison—where he’d served eight years for manslaughter. When Blake passed away, I had every intention of honoring our agreement. Taking Connor home would be my ultimate show of gratitude. Blake never disclosed why Connor killed a man, and I never had the guts to ask. Ever daunted, and against my better judgment, I soon grew to feel close to Connor, in spite of how perverse it was. Still, I vowed to brush off those feelings at all costs.
At least I thought I would. Until all hell broke loose…
Diving head-first, I relished in the time spent in Connor’s damnation. But when he was thrust into hell, it didn’t matter how wrong it was to love him. It was immaterial what he’d done…or why. I came out swinging and clawing, and submerged into the inferno with him, refusing to leave until we both walked out hand in hand. My instinct was to fight.
Connor wouldn’t burn alone.
I would save him.
Or turn to ash right beside him.
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