The Master's Pet, Part 1: Claimed by Eden Myles

Author:Eden Myles [Myles, Eden]
Language: eng
Format: mobi
Publisher: Courtesan Press

PREVIEWS & EXCERPTS

Read a three-chapter excerpt of Adalind Winter’s sizzling hot M/M debut novel The Little Death (The Erotic Mysteries of Dorian Gray):

Chapter 1

The victim was named Melany Webber—23, Caucasian, brown hair, blue eyes, roped to a St. Andrew’s cross in the center of a private room at Club Bacchus, her throat slashed and the lower part of her abdomen ripped open by a deep, jagged wound. The violence had been fast, methodical and messy, but the perpetrator had taken great care to remove her internal organs and arrange them in a circle on the floor around the body.

There was something almost ceremonial about the crime scene, 39-year-old Detective Dash Chandler thought, rubbing thoughtfully at the wedding band on his left hand like it was the lamp of a djinn that might grant him all the answers he needed. Sadly, after almost ten years of working homicide, he knew better. Nothing was ever easy. Human beings’ endlessly creative and fiendish cruelty to each other knew no bounds. Likewise, there was never a simple, clear-cut answer to any of it.

“I want all the camera footage you can find and I want this place dusted down top to bottom,” he ordered the forensic team as it scurried about.

The crime scene was kicking him in the back of the brain. He’d seen—or, more likely—read about something similar. He just needed time to remember.

While the cops on duty, along with the M.E and her assistants, fluttered around him, Dash carefully removed the notebook he always carried with him in the inside pocket of his smoothly pressed raincoat and started making notes. He could hear some of the cops muttering off in their corners. He was a method guy, liked to make plenty of notes, and had a huge dry board in his office he used to study the cases assigned to him. Some of the guys on the force thought that was pretty funny; he didn’t care about their opinion, only that he caught the bastards responsible for their crimes. The way he looked at it was, if they thought police work was funny, they were never going to get out of their uniforms anyway, so they were never going to be his problem.

He knew that something would come to him soon. “What do we know about the victim?” he asked one of the rookies putting up yellow crime scene tape. The kid briefly consulted his own crumpled notes in his pocket, gotten when he interviewed several patrons of the club prior to Dash’s arrival. He was making notes, which was good. Unlike the other clowns, he might make it out of his uniform one day. “Melany Webber. Single, 23, worked as a party planner to the rich and famous. She was a member of this club.”

“Bacchus,” Dash said, looking around the room at the black pleather furnishings, racks of whips and floggers, sawhorses, Eton benches, and the X-shaped St. Andrews’ cross set up in the center of the room—the place where Melany had met her end.

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