Here is an excerpt from Unbroken:
There was nothing right about this. Michael was aware enough to understand that. However, he lacked an efficient moral compass, and usually found himself in unpredictable situations because of it.
This was one hell of a situation.
He hadn’t taken his eyes off the dark shape lingering on his balcony, not as the door shut, not as he twisted the lock, not even as he crossed the room, stepping between boxes and piles of clothes, and stood with his feet poised at the edge of the carpet. The white lace curtain tied to the top of the French door billowed gently, a whisper dividing Michael from Victor.
“Hello again,” Victor said. His eyes caught the light from inside, glinting like a cat’s would. He sighed, a far too human sound for someone who had transcended their humanness. “Boneyard, huh? Good choice.”
Michael blinked. He replayed what Victor said, trying and failing to understand. His lips parted and a warm gust fogged the air in front of his mouth. Victor appeared before he could speak. One moment he’d stood near the balcony wall, far enough away that the darkness shrouded him, and a second later, his clawed fingers curled effortlessly around the neck of the bottle.
“Are you going to answer my question?” Michael asked. He tipped his head back, leaning away from Victor’s smile before it pressed into his skin. Victor’s thumb brushed his wrist, a simple, fleeting touch. “What…” Michael closed to his eyes. “What the hell are you?”
A laugh, stunted and low, bloomed in Victor’s throat. He tugged the cold bottle from Michael’s hand and lifted it to his mouth. “I’ve missed this, you know.” He took a sip, then another. “Craft beer. Not, like, your coworker’s friend brewed it in their basement craft beer, but—” he met Michael’s eyes and took another swig “—the good stuff.”
Michael sidestepped into the middle of the balcony. His eyes trailed the horizon where tall trees worked a jagged pattern between the dark navy sky and the black mountain peaks in the distance. He was not naïve enough to believe Victor would be gone when he glanced over his shoulder, and somehow, he hoped for the opposite.
The bottle nudged his hand and Michael took it without question. He tipped it against his mouth, still warm and slick from Victor’s lips, and took a sip.
“I’m a few things.” Victor spoke like someone who had lived long enough to know the difference between fear and being afraid. One was an essence—a tangible thing that filled a room, and the other was a state of mind. Michael recognized fear, felt it stirring the air around them, but this time he wasn’t afraid. “I’m the son of Chastity Drake, Second to Margo Lewellyn, matriarch of the Pacific Northwest Lewellyn clan.”
Michael’s eyes drifted from the horizon to where Victor stood, bathed in the light from a dim outdoor lamp above the door. Gray moths bounced off the bulb. Victor’s copper skin glowed, his face suddenly softer, horns gone where they’d sprouted from his temples seconds ago, fingers long, elegant, and clawless.
“And that makes me a witch,” Victor added. He lifted his chin, lashes dark as an oil spill across his cheeks, and swept his gaze from Michael’s boots to his nose. He held his arms out. “This is what I was before I died eleven months ago.”
Handsome, Michael thought. Normal. “What…” He didn’t want to repeat himself. What are you, what are you, what are you? It was a tired question, and he didn’t think asking it would get him an answer. “What did you become?”
A confident stride beneath the light and Victor closed the distance between them. Shadows stretched and bent, chasing away the illusion and revealing the wicked thing from before. Horned and regal, etched with bones that pushed too hard against his skin and a smile that curved like a crescent moon.
“Powerful,” Victor whispered. He looked down his nose at Michael, head tipped to catch his gaze, and tugged the bottle from his hand. “I had something to sell and a buyer willing to wait, but unfortunately my timing was off, and—” another sip, another smile “—the deal I’d made went through quicker than I thought it would.”
Witch. Sell. Buyer. Powerful.
Michael pulled a cigarette from the pale blue pack in his coat pocket. He willed his hands to stay steady, but they trembled around the lighter, thumb on the metal wheel, flicking and sparking. “Fuck…” The curse sounded immature, a naïve attempt at feigning confidence. Michael’s ears turned pink and his cheeks heated.
“Impatient,” Victor said. His hand came to rest on Michael’s jaw, claws sharp on his skin. Everything tilted. The balcony. Michael’s thoughts. The air in his chest. The night sky. Michael watched, enraptured, as his lips parted and he blew on the tip of the cigarette. The paper sparked. Michael inhaled. Smoke poured into his lungs. “There, see? That wasn’t hard.”
Trying to focus with Victor’s thumb curled over his chin was nearly impossible. This—Michael’s flushed skin and Victor’s very real, very impossible presence—felt untrue the same way guilt felt untrue. No matter how certain Michael was that he did not lean into Victor’s hand, he still found more of Victor’s palm on his cheek. “So, the rumors are true? Witches live in Port Lewis?”
“Witches live everywhere.”