Date Published: 12-08-2023
Without a heart, death and love are equally impossible.
James's heart has been stolen. He knows because he got stabbed in the chest
and didn't even bleed. On the plus side, he isn't dead! On the minus side,
whoever has his heart can control him, and until he gets the heart back, he
is incapable of feeling love for anyone but the thief. Whoever that may
He has to get the heart back, and quickly. But with an assassin in the mix, and a vengeful ex-lover, and a suspicious fiancée, and no idea who to trust or where to look, the task won't be easy. Especially when, with a stolen heart, he can't even really trust himself.
About the Author
Melody Wiklund is a writer of fantasy and occasionally romance. In her free time, she loves knitting and watching Chinese dramas. And she’s never summoned a spirit or an assassin… or at least so she claims.
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Excerpt from "Heart Stealer"
His chest felt tight and empty at the same time. But that
wasn’t exactly a new thing. He’d been anxious all week.
A sound in the hall behind him. He turned, readying himself
to greet an acquaintance, but was brought up short by the sight of the young
maid who had been staring at him in the ballroom.
She was looking at him as keenly now, if not more so.
“Do I know you?” he blurted. Which was stupid, because why
would he know a maid? And he was sure he didn’t recognize her.
She shook her head solemnly. “We’ve never met before today,
“Oh.” His face heated. “Never mind, then. I just thought,
“But I know an old friend of yours.”
She stepped closer, up into his space. “Charlotte Taylor
sends her love.”
He stiffened. “Charlie? You know Charlie?” As for her
love—“Listen, if she sent you, I can’t—I’ve spoken to her about this already.
“You’re not through, James,” the maid said. “That’s what she
sent me to tell you.”
She was close enough to whisper in his ear. There was a
dizzying scent of lilacs on her, and he had begun to lean away when he felt
something like a punch in the ribs. He stumbled back, gasping and clutching at
his chest. His hands folded around warm metal, warm from where the maid had
been holding it, tucked behind her back. The handle of a knife.
The knife was sticking out of his chest.
He gasped, staring at it. But it didn’t hurt. The puncture,
the stab itself, had hurt, but the wound did not. And no blood was coming out
of it either.
A prop knife?
Then the maid grabbed his shoulder and yanked the knife out
of him. It came out clean, not a trace of blood on it. Nor did blood well up
from the wound when it left him. No red stained his shirt or jacket. Not a drop
fell to dirty the recently-polished cream-tiled floor.
The maid stared at the knife, then at him, somehow even more
intensely than before, eyebrows furrowed. “What are you?”