On these wicked shores, p.1
On These Wicked Shores, page 1
ON THESE WICKED SHORES
KATHERINE QUINN
ON THESE WICKED SHORES
By
Katherine Quinn
Copyright © 2022 Katherine Quinn
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Edited by Charissa Weaks
Cover Design by MiblArt.
All stock photos licensed appropriately.
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Published in the United States by City Owl Press.
www.cityowlpress.com
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For information on subsidiary rights, please contact the publisher at info@cityowlpress.com
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events or locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental and not intended by the author.
Except as permitted under the U.S. Copyright Act of 1976, no part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, or stored in a database or retrieval system, without the prior consent and permission of the publisher.
To my mother Nancy, who is my biggest fan.
PRAISE FOR KATHERINE QUINN
“Forbidden romance, whispers of hidden gods, and the mysteries of the roughest seas animate this adventure while leaving plenty of potential for future installments. Fans of the enemies-to-lovers trope will be pleased.”
— Publisher’s Weekly
“Quinn's writing style is lush and lyrical, her premise unique and spellbinding, the love story magical and full of heat. Readers will cheer for Margrete and Bash and gasp at the twists and turns.”
— Ashley R. King, Author of Painting the Lines and Forever After
“A sweeping and extravagant fantasy weaving in romance and adventure that takes the reader in a voyage into a world they’ll never want to leave.”
— E. E. Hornburg, Author of The Night’s Chosen
“My stomach is a riot of butterflies. This book is phenomenal and a new favorite with romance that is both HOT and sweet and just makes me yearn. And the end is so, so good. My heart is racing.”
— Desirée M. Niccoli, Author of Called to the Deep
“The world building is phenomenal. The descriptions of the buildings, the castle, the ship on the ocean, everything is so vividly detailed you feel like you are there… You will be enthralled with this tale.”
— Beyond the Stars Book Blog
“Filled with heart-wrenching twists and an addictive, sexy romance, On These Wicked Shores delivers a tantalizing escape into a dark and dangerous fantasy adventure where the lines between good and evil and love and hate blur. Readers will beg for more of Quinn’s lush world.”
— Charissa Weaks, Author of The Witch Collector
CONTENTS
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Prologue
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Chapter 40
Chapter 41
Chapter 42
Epilogue
Sneak Peek of The Witch Collector
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Acknowledgments
About the Author
About the Publisher
Additional Titles
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Don’t miss more of The Azantian Trilogy coming soon, and find more from Katherine Quinn at www.katherinequinnauthor.com
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Until then, discover THE WITCH COLLECTOR, by City Owl Author, Charissa Weaks!
Every harvest moon, the Witch Collector rides into our valley and leads one of us to the home of the immortal Frost King, to remain forever.
Today is that day—Collecting Day.
But he will not come for me. I, Raina Bloodgood, have lived in this village for twenty-four years, and for all that time he has passed me by.
His mistake.
Raina Bloodgood has one desire: kill the Frost King and the Witch Collector who stole her sister. On Collecting Day, she means to exact murderous revenge, but a more sinister threat sets fire to her world. Rising from the ashes is the Collector, Alexus Thibault, the man she vowed to slay and the only person who can help save her sister.
Thrust into an age-old story of ice, fire, and ancient gods, Raina must abandon vengeance and aid the Witch Collector or let their empire—and her sister—fall into enemy hands. But the lines between good and evil blur, and Raina has more to lose than she imagined. What is she to do when the Witch Collector is no longer the villain who stole her sister, but the hero who’s stealing her heart?
GET IT NOW!
PROLOGUE
DARIUS
Darius had worn many faces over the centuries of his long, long existence, and he’d gone by twice as many names. Yet as he hovered over a sleeping Margrete and her Azantian king, he found himself wishing his true name would slip past her lips, for once free of derision or scorn.
He’d forgotten what it was like to feel.
It was both a blessing and a curse that Margrete Wood helped remind him.
For months, he’d infiltrated her dreams, sneaking through the cracks of a fragile reality. Like seeds, he planted thoughts, watering them until they grew. Oftentimes, they served his purposes—to make Margrete yearn for the power she refused to express. He’d witnessed her struggle over the long weeks. She couldn’t tame his brother’s magic and had no idea she was to blame for her own failure—because she didn’t remember.
Remember what she once had been to him.
But that had been another life, Darius supposed, and he couldn’t fault her for her ignorance. He only recently allowed himself to get close enough to glimpse the familiar soul shining beneath. At first, he’d foolishly believed her to be some unassuming human, lucky enough to have been in the right place at the right time, gifted with the powers of a god. How very wrong he’d been. Darius saw the truth now, and it blinded him.
If only she would remember me.
But she didn’t, and she wouldn’t—unless he forced his hand.
So every night he opened his soul—his own magic seeping into her veins, giving her just a taste. Eventually, she wouldn’t be able to hinder herself and hide from who she was, and then she’d take her place beside him. All would be right again.
When dawn chased away the night, Darius would melt into the shadows he commanded. But he never truly left her.
Not when this woman was the key to his salvation.
Margrete Wood carried Malum’s heart, his brother’s divine essence. The final boost of power he needed to reign as the sole ruler of the boundless waters. That, and she’d inadvertently stolen something else, something far more precious than his brother’s magic. But that would all come to light later. He’d make sure he revealed his cards at just the right time.
Of course, Malum’s final act—done just before Darius ended him once and for all—had been to place a symbol of protection upon Margrete’s skin, a roiling wave grazing her collarbone. That damned mark made it impossible for Darius to steal her newfound power, but more importantly, it denied him complete access to her mind. Sure, he could slip inside for moments at a time, but he couldn’t stay long, and Darius was never fond of being a bystander in a game of his own making.
He decided he’d create a new game.
One with rules he could control.
Darius was resourceful and notorious for bending the rules, and something told him Margrete would be a challenge he wouldn’t soon forget. If she was who he knew her to be, then he would expect nothing less.
A smile blossomed as he watched Margrete’s eyes flutter in her sleep. Soon their fates would be irrevocably tied together, and he would finally, finally, no longer be alone. The thought made a foreign warmth settle in his chest. The sensation was a nice one.
Below his towering shadow, Margrete hooked an arm around the Azantian king’s bare waist, her pert nose nuzzling his hair. So at ease, so sickeningly happy. The unconscious act of tenderness made him clench his fists.
The love Margrete possessed for her king vexed him to no end, and when Dar
That should be me.
During these long months, he longed to reach out and feel the softness of her skin. He’d held back during his nightly visits, afraid of reliving the overwhelming emotion that had assaulted him the last time he touched her. But he grew tired of his role as a silent observer.
Against his will, Darius remained at her bedside until dawn beckoned. She appeared so frail in her mortal body. Weak and easily broken. Still, he felt her spirit, her soul, and it sang to him until the early morning hours.
With a frustrated growl, Darius turned to leave, knowing there was much work to be done to fix a mistake committed a thousand years past. But his feet abruptly stilled as though an invisible cord snapped and grew taut. That cord pulled him back to the bed, and this time, when he reached out, he didn’t stop himself. He couldn’t.
Darius trailed a lone finger down her cheek, the skin just as soft as he recalled. Better, even. She felt like summer itself—warm and light and full of hope. His heart pulsed erratically, and in that captured moment in time, memories he hadn’t allowed himself to hold on to rushed back to him.
He smiled. Maybe he could right the past and change his future.
Maybe he could have it all.
CHAPTER ONE
MARGRETE
Margrete Wood bolted upright in bed.
Someone had been here.
Watching her.
Touching her.
For months she’d felt eyes upon her, even in her sleep. But this time, when she woke with a gasp, her cheek prickled as if the graze of phantom hands lingered. She brought her finger to touch the tingling skin as she glanced at her king.
Thank the gods, he still slept. He’d been restless as of late, and she’d sensed a great change fall upon him like a poisonous shroud. Then again, they’d all changed since that fateful day her father attacked.
Margrete shifted to brush the strands of hair from Bash’s brow when something crinkled in her lap. She went still. A brittle black leaf, outlined in crimson, lay on her thigh. Frowning, she picked it up and spun it around, admiring the intricate black swirls that were reminiscent of waves. She’d never seen anything like it on Azantian, or the mainland for that matter, and she was well versed on the subject of botany. Just as she brought it closer, wanting to inspect its elaborate details, a powerful gust of wind from the balcony stole it from her fingers. The leaf fluttered in midair, as if not wishing to leave, right before the breeze swept it up and away.
Instinctively, she reached out, driven by an inexplicable need to catch it—
A wave of ice shattered against her mind.
Margrete gasped, and the smell of salt clogged her senses. Where she’d touched the leaf, her skin prickled, but she didn’t have the strength to focus on that—she mostly felt a sweeping surge of crushing power flooding her veins.
Her back bowed violently, and she fell against the pillows.
The coldness in her hands stretched to her neck, where it wrapped around her throat like a noose. Her lips parted, a pathetic puff of air escaping.
It was happening again.
Another vision.
Another nightmare come calling.
She fisted the sheets as her loose grip on reality was wrenched away. Slowly, painfully so, she sank further into the velvet darkness of her mind, dragged to an endless void that housed only horrors.
Delicate wisps of black shadows swirled behind her eyes, and flashes of silver sparked like enraged lightning. It was unnatural—the light, the tendrils of ashen fog rolling through the obscurity like long, spindly fingers.
A breeze reeking of decay and rot swept through the abyss, the scent pungent and bitter. It blew across the expanse of nothingness until it revealed a grand ship she knew all too well.
The Phaedra.
Steel clouds curled about the vessel, and ghoulish silhouettes rose like withering blooms from the waves. Higher and higher these wraiths ascended until they arced and plummeted to the wooden decks, descending across the ship in a single falling wave.
Margrete blinked, willing away the creatures, the demons. Their shrill screams pierced the foul air and rattled her bones, leaving her ears ringing. Evil. Whatever they were, they reeked of malicious intent.
Abruptly, the scene shifted, and the night sky quivered forcefully. In place of the mighty Phaedra, only wasted sails and splintered wood remained. A sliver of a wary moon cast the world in an unearthly white glow, and the charcoal waters cradled the ruins of a devastating shipwreck.
The Phaedra was gone.
In this distorted hallucination, Margrete heard Bash’s name. Nothing but a whisper at first, it became a song sung by a chorus of sinister voices that twisted it into something devious and wicked.
His name was a haunting chant as the haze cleared and an obscure island took shape in the distance, well beyond the wreckage of the ship. She squinted, but the image never settled, and all she managed to see was a single figure standing on its shores.
She choked back a scream as the figure blurred and erupted into a fine misting of gray dust. He might’ve vanished, but Margrete knew who it was, who had stood on those shores. But rather than fear, she felt…warmth.
It was a harsh, metallic scent in the air that shook her from her daze. The edges of reality slowly sharpened at the corners, and the sea-glass walls of their chambers wavered back into focus.
She lowered her eyes to the source of the smell, her heart racing. Blood blossomed on her palm from where her nails dug into the flesh, four curved lines of crimson a reminder of the horror she’d witnessed.
This had been the fifth hallucination—or whatever one could call them—since her father attacked Azantian months ago. Since Darius slayed his brother and vanished into sea-foam.
And she’d been left to pick up the shattered pieces.
Although brief, what Margrete saw during these episodes, these cryptic glimpses, left her reeling. Sometimes she saw the outline of a shadowy couple, their limbs entwined in a fervent embrace, black trees rising up all around them. Their faces were obscured, but something about them held a trace of familiarity.
Other times, like tonight, death greeted her with open arms.
Just as she had every other time these visions plagued her, Margrete sought the safety of the man nestled at her side.
Bash, the King of Azantian, looked rather angelic when he slept, though she would never admit that to his face. Bash was many things, but self-conscious, he was not. Now that he was unconscious, she freely admired him without his cocky grin making an appearance.
A grin she very much loved.
Bash’s tattooed chest rose and fell rhythmically, his well-defined body sculpted by the gods themselves. He wore a linen shirt, though the buttons were undone, and her eyes trailed lower still, following the fine dusting of dark hair that crept below the blankets. Heat warmed her cheeks. Even though she’d explored and tasted every inch of him, he still managed to wring such a heated reaction from her.
