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Blog of L.V. Lane

Priya’s book (formerly known as Taken), has been renamed Prize. I have the cover done...but I’m sitting on it for a little bit ;)

The drafting has gone really well, and I’m up to 20k words. (I’m guessing about a third of the way through).

I’d like to add that I’m at 20k words, and no one has been spanked yet...or touched...not even a kiss! But it’s about to kick off now 😈

I love Priya so much, and I’m having fun with this book. One of my favorite things about this ‘Prey’ series is the freedom to use words like ‘wench’ and ‘lass’ in an authentic context. Poor Priya, a lifetime of ‘bratting’ is about to catch up with her.

Snippet ~ Hawthorn

“She is playing you,” I say reasonably. I fear Bram is not to be reasoned with. “She has no interest in Dawson. The only reason she humors the lad is because she knows how well it vexes you.”

Bram growls as he paces. He is a civilized Alpha mostly, but occasionally his inner darkness slips out.

To be fair to Bram, Priya’s antics vex us all. After the infamous incident at the ruins, she was sent off to her aunt—much to everyone’s relief.

Then she returned after some scandal with a stable lad that I still don’t have the full details on.

Prey: A Fantasy Reverse Harem

Release Date: 31st July


I am prey.

This is not pity talking, this is an acknowledgment of a fact.

I am small and weak—I am an Omega—I am a prize that men war over.

For a year, I have hidden in the distant corner of the Empire.

But I am running out of food, and I am running out of options.

That I must leave soon is not a decision for today, though, but a decision for tomorrow.

Only tomorrow's choices never come.

For tonight brings strangers who remind me that I am prey.

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Prologue, Omega Awakening.

Copyright @ L.V. Lane 2020

When we are born, we don’t know what our future holds.

But in some cases, we can make a guess.

I was the daughter of a dynamic and non-dynamic. My mother died when I was a small child.

She was the non-dynamic.

My father, a Mu composer of some renown, had fallen in love with my mother before they’d known what they would become.

It was unusual for such a paring, or so I learned later on.

At the time, it sounded like a fairy tale, the great composer, and the lowly girl from the poor side of town. I remembered a lot of happiness in our lives: my mother’s laughter, my father twirling me in the air until I was dizzy, cotton candy, piano notes.

Even back then, I had a great imagination. I would build forts with blankets and chairs. Steal a cooking spatula for a sword and smite invisible monsters while playing in my favorite hideaway under the stairs.

I didn’t need people.

I know that was an odd thing for a little girl to surmise.

But I didn’t.

There was something perfectly comforting about the love my mother and father shared. I didn’t need to be part of it, but I was aware of it as a thing of beauty on my periphery. I had adventures waiting for me in the under stairs hideaway, and I submerged myself in those worlds.

All things must end.

That was one of the most difficult lessons that I learned.

I learned that lesson the day my mother died.

My father grieved. We both did. It was a very confusing time.

There was no laughter or cotton candy, no piano notes, only quietness and tears. Grief, in its quintessence, is selfish. My father told me this one night while he was tucking me into bed. We are sorry that the person is gone, but we are sorrier that they have left us alone.

I spent a great deal of time in my hideaway under the stairs, puzzling over the nuances of grief. Adults were, by nature, complicated. They had desires that were not always logical, nor good, and they acted upon them recklessly, and without a great deal of thought toward the consequence.

My father hired a pretty Beta nanny to care for me while he worked. She tried to be my friend; I didn’t need one. My mother had been content to let me play, the new nanny thought my desire for isolation to be wrong.

I have always been good at reading people, even as a child. It was like I had a built-in detector that told me of other people’s needs. My nanny wanted to befriend me, but there was a fakeness to it, and motives that were as apparent to me as a red-flag to a mythical bull.

She had no genuine desire for friendship. What she really wanted was for my father to like her, and a connection between these two quests existed in her mind.

I had no desire to aid her quest. It was her quest, not mine. Mine still involved cooking spatula swords, and castles, while memories of my mother’s undemanding love held me safe.

All things must end.

My querulousness earned my father’s scolding.

I was difficult. I should make an effort to be normal.

My father was lonely. The pretty Beta was there.

When one situation ends, another must begin.

I learned that the day my father remarried.

Release date: 1st June

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