Bound By The Night: Dark Heat / Dark Dreams / Dark Fantasy
Dark Heat, Dark Dreams & Dark FantasyMonica Blackship hunts down creatures that shouldn’t exist. Stephanie Adams has the power to shape nocturnal visions. And if it’s weird, Jase Davis is on it. They’re all members of the Crew, an international consortium devoted to explaining the unexplainable.In this enthralling trilogy of novellas, three intrepid investigators face a daunting array of paranormal dangers, from deadly cryptids to dream thieves. They’re ready for ghosts, monsters and other strange phenomena. But is their greatest challenge distinguishing reality from fantasy, or separating work from pleasure?
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Praise for the novels of New York Times bestselling author Megan Hart
âHart excels at creating female leads who know exactly what they want and donât make excuses for their lifestyle. Following this heroineâs journey is exciting.â
âRT Book Reviews on Vanilla
âMeticulously sensual details and steamy interludes make this an achingly erotic read.â
âRT Book Reviews on Flying
âNaked is a great story, steeped in emotion. Hart has a wonderful way with her characters ⦠She conveys their thoughts and actions in a manner that brings them to life. And the erotic scenes provide a sizzling read.â
âRT Book Reviews
âYou wonât ever be disappointed with Megan Hart!â
â Under the Covers on Out of the Dark
MEGAN HART is an award-winning and New York Times bestselling author of more than thirty novels, novellas and short stories. Her work has been published in almost every genre, including contemporary womenâs fiction, historical romance, romantic suspense and erotica. Megan lives in the deep, dark woods of Pennsylvania with her husband and children.
You can contact Megan through her website at www.MeganHart.com.
These stories are for everyone who knows to keep their toes under the blankets so the Bogeyman canât tickle them.
Table of Contents
Megan Hart
Everything had gone dark.
And oh, there was pain, great slashing waves of it washing over her as though sheâd fallen into an ocean of agony and was being swept away to drown. Blindly, Monica raked the air in front of her and found nothing but emptiness. Hot and stinking breath assaulted her. Then the ground came up to slam into the back of her head and the darkness became sprinkled with the sharp white points of painstars behind her eyes.
She rolled onto her hands and knees, already pushing upward. She had to get to her feet or it would open her throat with teeth and claws like razors. And this rancid cave, this pit, was not the place where Monica intended to die.
Sheâd lost her knife but swept the ground to look for it and found it with her fingertips. The slice of pain was brief but would ache and burn later. If she was lucky enough to survive being mauled, sheâd take those scars gratefully. She found the hilt and grabbed it up as she got to her feet. She turned, slashing outward, nothing but blackness in front of her.
She hit something solid, the blade sinking deep, and Monica didnât wait but pulled it out and stabbed again. Sticky heat flooded her hands. She kept going. Something shoved her again, at the same time grabbing with thick, scaly fingers so she couldnât fall. Couldnât get away.
Teeth on her throat.
Her own voice, screaming.
Then, the blood.
Monica Blackship woke with a gasp, her hands slashing at the air in front of her before she realized she wasnât in the cave but in her own bed. Alone, thank God. Though in the next moment as the sob wrenched out of her throat, she desperately wished she had someone to cling to.
Brad was gone. A whole month, by now. She didnât blame him, not really. Heâd stayed longer than she would have if the situation were reversed. But that was the kind of man he was. The good guy, the hero. Heâd tried to save her, but she was past saving. It had been too much for him, in the end.
Still, the bed was vast and empty without him, and though she wasnât afraid of darkness, it was so much easier to bear with someone else beside her. She gave in to tears. They leaked from the corners of her eyes and slid down to fill her ears, which was annoying as hell and effectively stopped her from totally surrendering to the indulgence of her misery.
She wouldnât be able to sleep again. The dream always meant the end of the night for her, no matter what time it occurred. Monica rolled to look at the clock, relieved to see that at least it would be morning soon. She wouldnât have chosen to be awake at this hour, but at least she could get up without feeling as though the entire night had been wasted. She could maybe even be a little productiveâsheâd pay for it later in the day when she couldnât keep her eyes open, but there was nothing to be done about it now.
She swung her legs over the edge of the bed, unable to stop herself, as always, from hesitating just that little bit as her feet hit the floor. Monsters were real, though sheâd never encountered one that lived under the bed. It never stopped her from imagining the bite of talons severing her Achilles tendon, of writhing tentacles dragging her under the bed. She settled her feet firmly onto the hardwood planks and used her toes to find the soft edges of the braided rag rug her grandmother had given her.
