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Blog of L.V. Lane

Who is ready for a sneak peek at the prologue of Bitter Poetry?


I was craving darkness when I wrote this, and I did not hold back. High stakes, high emotion, and a plot to sink your teeth into! I have fallen deeply in love with our heroine, Carmela, and our two flawed heroes, Christian and Dante.

Enjoy the prologue. A little teaser of what is to come ...


Deluxe Hardback Edition available on Kickstarter
Deluxe Hardback Edition available on Kickstarter

Prologue

Carmela

Le Petit Café. The name is French; it serves Colombian coffee, and the owners are third-generation Italians. It sounds messy, but the coffee is excellent, and the bistro-style decor has charm. Also, it’s considered part of the family, and I’m allowed to come here for my coffee and normality fix.

Normality? What does that even mean? I don’t think I’ve experienced a normal day in my whole life. But as I stare out the broad, slightly foggy window at the rain-slicked sidewalk, I see it passing in the form of everyday citizens going about their lives.

“Is this seat taken?”

I turn from my people watching, confused that someone is speaking to me, and make eye contact with a handsome man in a business suit. Probably an actual businessman and not—well, he looks regular, for want of a better word.

“I was waiting for someone,” I politely lie.

He smiles. “Well, he or she are not here yet, are they?”

Maybe his playful persistence usually wins him some points. It just leaves me faintly irritated. As I spot Christian sliding off his high stool beside the counter, my irritation shifts to unease. “You really should leave.”

“But we haven’t even exchanged names.”

His megawatt smile finally falters as he turns to see a man wearing a suit—this one not of the business variety—bearing down on us.

“Which part of fuck off did you not understand, asshole?” His deceptively soft voice bears a faint hint of amusement.

“Christian—” I start.

“I was just speaking to the lady.” The businessman turned asshole fronts up to Christian, giving him an up-down look of distaste. “I don’t believe that’s a crime… or any of your goddamn business.”

I grimace.

“Start praying.” Christian smiles cheerfully.

Mr. Persistent finally picks up on the vibe and takes a hasty step back—too slow. Christian fists the lapels of his suit and jerks him toward the small counter.

Tony, the proprietor, doesn’t utter a word as Christian manhandles the former customer around the counter and out the back of the tiny shop.

My chest heaves. My hands are shaking. I close my eyes briefly, wishing this were not real.

When I open them again, my coffee still awaits me, going cold. The few other patrons pointedly go back to their business.

My chair makes a sharp screech across the wooden floor as I stand.

“Mrs. Gallo—” Tony steps forward like he might block my path. When I keep going, he quickly steps aside, lifting his hands. He, at least, knows better than to touch me.

That doing so is signing his death warrant.

Speaking to me without my husband’s permission is apparently not much better.

I slam through the door just as Christian slams his fist into the man’s stomach. The rough grunt as the blow takes the wind out of him is followed by a crack as Christian yanks the man’s head down to meet his rising knee.

Blood splatters.

“Chris!” My voice is high and anxiety steeped, and his head whips around.

Meanwhile, the former customer’s eyes turn vacant. He wobbles in slow motion before he slides to the tiled floor. Another louder crack follows as his head makes contact.

I blink down at him, made stupid by the horror. I’m trying to process what happened, but I rarely see the ugly side of my world, and it still comes as a shock.

Christian’s dark eyes slide to the door I just passed through and back to me. His face softens into a smirk at odds with the violent scene. “What are you doing back here, babe?”

The man on the floor gurgles, redirecting Christian’s attention. He casually lifts a booted foot. His intention belatedly registers as his heel comes down toward the man’s vulnerable head.

“Don’t!” The scream feels like it’s torn from me—I’m surprised when he actually stops.

He lowers his foot to the floor beside the victim’s head and quirks one brow at me. Too pretty, too young, and yet his face tells a story in the faint scars: the evidence of his brutality and lifestyle.

The door creaks behind me, and Tony edges inside.

“Get one of the boys to dump him at the hospital,” Christian says, his voice soft and completely calm. “And get a takeout coffee for Mrs. Gallo.”

Tony nods, turns, and leaves.

Suddenly I can’t breathe. It’s like my throat has been sewn shut, and a terrible hoarse sound is all that I can manage.

Delayed shock?

A panic attack? Even surmising what it is, doesn’t help me get air into my lungs.

Christian palms my throat and yanks me over the body so abruptly that I crash into him. His other arm anchors me when my legs cut out. “Look at me, babe,” he says. “You’re okay. Just look at me.”

Touching him might be making it worse.

Behind me, I hear the door leading to the coffee shop open again, followed by footsteps and low voices.

“Breathe for me, Carmela. Slow and easy.” His body is solid and represents a confused source of safety. His hand is warm against my skin, the same hand that just administered violence to an innocent man.

Someone curses.

I suck in some much-needed air and try to break free. “Take your hands off me.”

“You’re as white as a sheet,” he says, glancing at whatever is happening behind me.

I hear scuffling and muttering as they drag the man out.

I can’t tear my gaze away from Christian’s.

Cold.

A monster.

A killer.

Completely unhinged.

My bodyguard.

And my jailer.

The man that my husband pays to ensure my life and the lives of anyone who stupidly stumbles into it play by his rules.

We’re alone. The silence is broken only by the rough saw of my breathing.

He still has not released me.

“Can’t have you fainting on my watch.” He winks. “Mr. Gallo would not be pleased.”

The faint lines forming at the corner of his eyes catches my attention. He smiles easily and often.

“You were going to kill him,” I hiss. Death—near death—triggers emotions I fight to push down.

He finally releases my throat and steps back. Where his fingers touched feels like a brand.

Strangely, the ghost of his fingers locked around my throat centers me and keeps the demons of the past at bay.

He shrugs.

No apology.

“You smell aroused. Clean yourself up in the washroom.” He adjusts the cuffs of his suit and smirks. It transforms his looks from handsome to devastating for the female population. His smile should be illegal or, at the very least, come with a health warning. “If word gets out you get off on violence, who knows where that might lead?”

It’s not the violence.

Not only, I correct.


Bitter Poetry: A Dark Mafia Romance

Possessive alphas x 2 

Arranged marriage💍

Second chance 💔

Escaping a bad relationship ⛓️‍💥

Forbidden love 🖤

Dark secrets 🤫

Slow burn🔥

Spice🌶️

Antagonists you will love to hate ☠️


Coming 1st August 2025!




Bitter Poetry Teaser
Bitter Poetry Teaser




Special Edition Dust Jacket
Special Edition Dust Jacket


Updated: Nov 13, 2024



Ready for a new Coveted Prety romance? Sneaky peek at How to Keep a Fae...

Chapter One

Adaline

Feeder. That is my designation. That is what I am. You’ll find me at the bottom of the hierarchy, barely above the breeders.

Not that I consider myself superior to anyone and might even envy the breeders in the still of the night.

Here in Sanctum, status among fae is all about the power of your blood and what it offers to the alpha warriors who take it. The blood of breeders has no benefit, save it acts as an aphrodisiac for the alphas given leave to rut them through their heat.

To breed them.

I have never felt an alpha’s touch during my heats. Feeders are isolated—alone, untended.

Sometimes, I wish I were a breeder, to have a child to nurture, to feel them grow within my body, to love him or her until the time comes when we must part, even though that is a pain of a different kind.

Alpha children are initiated, changed so they can consume blood, indoctrinated, and trained as warriors and in war. At least a female child gets the stay with her mother.

I sigh. That is a sore point, too.

Breeders, feeders, and alphas are all lowly in the eyes of the imperials—the fae with the potent blood that heals and enhances the recipient and can even offer longevity of life.

I dream of such a life. To be imperial is to hold a position of command and power and to love someone of your choosing, maybe even to take a mate.

Feeders do not mate, breeders neither, at least not often. And we definitely do not get any choice in the warriors allocated to us.

Blood.

Power.

We have a culture that is all about surviving amid the endless war.

Dreams are not for me. I am a feeder. That is my purpose. To give myself and my blood freely to any warrior in need.

To any warrior, whether he is in need or not.

Connection.

I crave a connection. Something that lasts beyond the intimacy of the moment. The younger me was content to enjoy the pleasures of many, but now I find I want something more. Maybe there comes a time when all feeders harbor these feelings. Certainly they are whispered often enough during quiet times when the alphas have no need of us.

It is not all bad. There is humor and laughter amid the sorrow; joy, and passion, too. I am not the only omega who has snuck into the warrior hall during celebrations to seek the attention of an alpha for no reason other than pleasure. I am a fae, a wingless fairy, and an omega. We are known for our gregarious, giving nature. We love pretty things and comfort. We love to dance and sing. As for mischief, it is part of our soul.

But we are also sensitive.

We feel everything, both good and bad, so very deeply.

My faraway look redirects to my chamber, the small, intimate space with stone walls hung with thick tapestries and the aged wooden floor covered in an equally vibrant rug. My nest—the essential part of every omega’s room—and whatever her rank or breed, and on which I lounge, is thickly layered with brightly woven blankets and decorated cushions. They do not skimp on our comfort, at least. House Silva, my house, one of many within the undercroft of Sanctum, is but a small cog in a giant system of wheels, playing a part. In the cruel world we live there is no place for compassion beyond how it might be used to facilitate our survival.

Our harsh, precarious existence juxtaposes the closeted nature of our lives and the luxury of our rooms. On one side, feeders and breeders do not experience war, nor do we ever leave Sanctum. On the other, the impacts are thrust upon us, breaking us as surely as any blade or blow when the warriors return littered with wounds.

My gaze lowers to the book I was reading, its pages worn from use. It is one of many secretly passed among feeders and breeders, the low fae and humans of the undercroft. Every page is filled with all we long for: love, companionship, a family unit… a happily ever after.

This one is about a young fae claimed, scandalously, by not one but four mates. Such books are forbidden, and should it be discovered in my possession, punishment would be swift and sure. That Denna, the mistress of House Silva, would also remove the cherished book from circulation is by far the worst punishment of all.

I feel like I am still new to this, yet at other times, I feel inexplicably old. I am still young in fae years, although if I were human, I would be considered mature.

I think that makes it worse. Holds me in reserve from allowing my heart to attach and seek favorites. Knowing the mainly human alphas who pass through our lives will age faster than us. Even a lowly feeder like myself would live longer than a warrior, for a while a few of them carry fae blood from their birth mothers, should they have been born to a breeder, more often, they are alphas conscripted from human lands.

Attachments.

“We cannot form attachments.” How often does our house mistress, Denna, drill that into us?

Frequently.

“There is only pain in that pathway,” she said.

Denna is cold and hard, but underlying it is pain that she chooses not to share with me or any of the feeders in her house. Her story is her own, I decide bitterly. We each have one. We each have hopes, fears, and aspirations.

We each lose sight of them.

“Adaline!” Denna’s stern hail rouses me from my musings.

I quickly snap my book shut and thrust it deep under the cushions of my nest. My house mistress is not one for wiles or fancies. She deals harshly with any signs of emotion in us, and worse, should any of us dare show favor to one male over another. Many have favorites, although they do not speak of them beyond whispers and shared empathy under the sensitive gaze of sister feeders and breeders.

I rush to my doorway and push the thick woven covering aside. Doors are not permitted here, but the covering provides some semblance of privacy, hiding us from view even if it does little to mute sounds.

My heart rate quickens as I peer out into the corridor. I am not the only omega at her doorway, for Denna is calling many names.

Behind her come the warriors, alphas, bloody and wounded from battle, returned home to us through the portal. My stomach turns over with pity and rage. That I lie upon a fancy nest while they fight to keep us safe breaks me down and wounds my heart.



Excerpt How to Keep a Fae Copyright © 2024 L.V. Lane

Coming 15th November!





How to Keep a Fae

I’m a feeder. My role is to give blood.

A transaction, nothing more.

We’re not supposed to have favorites nor nurture infatuations.

And we’re definitely, under no circumstances, supposed to fall in love.

But I did—twice.

A human alpha who steals my breath and calls me his queen.

An intense, dominant fae warrior who unbridles new desires.


I wonder if they feel the same way.

If they ever talk about me.


As it turns out, the two men are best friends and they both want to claim me.


What they haven’t realized is that they’re both pursuing the same fae… at least, not yet.



Trope breakdown

  • MFM fae vampire novel

  • Forbidden love

  • Love triangle to Why choose

  • Alpha vampire MMC

  • Fae vampire MMC

  • Fae omega FMC

  • H heal from her 🩸🥛💦

  • DVP with 🪢

  • Mating, breeding & HEA!


  • Feb 20, 2023
  • 2 min read

Abby

We were in a garden pod, surrounded by racks of vegetables and fruit…and soil. There was an awful lot of soil. We had just survived an attack and were trapped behind a sealed door, on the other side of which anything might be happening.

It felt wildly inappropriate to be even thinking about this.

“Just to be absolutely clear,” Kade said, looking me straight in the eye. “When you said you were giving your submission, you mean you’re giving yourself to us to do whatever we want with?”

I nodded slowly.

“Fucking,” he said, making my eyes widen and bringing a little spasm to my womb. “We are going to want to fuck you.”

Swallowing past the tightness in my throat, I nodded again.

“Say the words, Abby. I don’t want there to be any confusion about what’s about to happen and that you agree.”

“Yes,” I said.

“Both of us,” he continued bluntly.

My heart gave a little thud of anticipation. “Yes,” I said again.

Kade smiled. “Good girl… Now there’s just a small detail we haven’t covered yet—we’re not alphas.”

“Oh,” I said inadequately, my brows pinching together in confusion. I’d been sure they had to be alphas. Beta controllers were being phased out, but I supposed there must be some in service. Or maybe they were former beta controllers. Still, his comment had thrown me off a little. They just seemed more…intense than I presumed a beta might be.

“Are you beta controllers?” I asked, searching myself to see if I was disappointed by this discovery. I thought I might have been, which was ridiculous because neither man was disappointing. They were the most imposing betas I’d ever met.

Clearly, I needed to seek therapy for myself, which was ironic, all things considered. Maybe it was because alphas were so close to deltas—my dynamic match. I’d never met a delta and likely never would, so I’d latched onto them as a second best, much like they were seeing me.

The smirk that bloomed on Kade’s lips brought a clench to belly. He shook his head slowly. “No, we’re deltas.”

The blood drained from my face. I tried to take a step back, only to find the wall of Jordan’s body. His hands tightened on my hips, and his dark chuckle stirred a frisson of fear.

Deltas? No, they were teasing me. It was a very poor joke. Deltas were rarer than omegas, and then there was the matter of their hook… No, I wasn’t going there.

“Ah,” Kade said. “I do love that look on a woman’s face when they realize we have a hook. And unlike alphas, we don’t need to wait for a rut or bonding before it comes out to play. It’s there all the time.” He winked. “It does sting a little when it latches, so I’ve been told, but we’ll make it good for you.” His eyes turned hooded, predatory. “Make sure you’re so thoroughly distracted, you’ll barely notice it.”

Jordan leaned in close again. “And once we’re latched nice and deep, you won’t stop fucking coming.”

A cold spasm swept the length of my spine. What had I just done? What the hell had I agreed to do…with two deltas?

Excerpt, Savage Control, copyright © L.V. Lane 2022

Coming 17th November!


©2023 by L.V. Lane.

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