Friesian Spark

friesian spark flamebound book one s. z. cypress Friesian Spark Flamebound Book 1 by S.Z. Cypress Friesian Spark is a work of fiction. Names, family names, characters, places, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales, is entirely coincidental. Friesian Spark, Flamebound Book 1 COPYRIGHT 2022 by S.Z. Cypress. All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission of the author except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews. 3 Book Series (each ending on a cliff hanger) Sweet, Slow Burn Reverse Harem Romance Shapeshifters Fantasy on the Farm Multi-POV (6+ characters) Cover & Graphics by Nerd Sisters Designs Formatting by November Sweets Created with Vellum Friesian Spark, Flamebound Book 1, is dedicated to Dr. Jennifer Cultrera and her staff at Florida Cancer Specialists. With her expert care and the support of her staff, I am here to play with my grandchildren, support my children, rub my puppies’ bellies, care for my father and write this book. contents 1. Erin 2. Red 3. Obsidian 4. Erin 5. Obsidian / Din 6. Erin 7. Red 8. Mel 9. Erin 10. Red 11. Erin 12. Ash 13. Erin 14. Din 15. Ash 16. Erin 17. Ash 18. Mel 19. Erin 20. Ash 21. Red 22. Din 23. Red 24. Erin 25. Erin 26. Ash 27. Erin 28. Mel 29. Red 30. Ash 31. Red 32. Erin 33. Erin 34. Erin 35. Ash 36. Din 37. Ash 38. Mel 39. Red 40. Erin Song References Acknowledgments About the Author Coming Soon one erin Central Florida, Saturday, April Fools’ Day She’d slept like a horse who’d been ridden hard and put up wet. Infamous for her nightly battle with insomnia, Erin Cheval couldn’t remember the last time she’d slept so deeply. Exquisitely and thoroughly rested, she should have bounced from her bed, but it felt so good to lay there, she couldn’t force her body into motion. Sunlight poured through the two dormer windows fronting the attic, lighting the odd angles and spaces. Beneath the end gable, her foster father had installed three floor-to-ceiling windows looking over the barn pasture. The awkward layout and the primitive decor suited her. One day the room would be renovated with all the luxuries of electricity and insulation, painted a sunny yellow or a comforting blue, but for now she’d make do with nails for hangers and kerosene lanterns for reading lights. She stretched, making the air mattress rumble beneath her. More important than enjoying a lazy morning, she never got up before mentally reviewing her task list from the previous day and setting her priorities. Her singular focus remained the bunkhouse. It had taken every minute of the time she’d allotted, but she’d managed to finish sanding and priming the drywall. Today, as soon as she could make her limbs move, she’d tackle the tilework in the bathroom, paint, hang blinds and curtain rods and attach all the electrical covers. Next weekend, if her helpers kept their current schedules, they’d assemble the second-hand beds. Then she could turn Red loose on the bedding, curtains and other finishing touches. With fingers and toes crossed, she’d finish the bunk house in time for the scheduled inspection from Family Services. Every check on her punch list brought her closer to welcoming foster kids to get-away weekends until she was approved to supervise a group home. Then she’d tackle financial security, a kitchen, bathroom, the garden, livestock… After three years of hard work on the five-acre Florida ranchette, the list was so long she could barely see the end, but one day she, Mel and Red would open the doors to teens who otherwise couldn’t be placed in a stable home. Then she’d sit back and drink a mint julep. She wasn’t sure what that entailed but it was the drink of the Kentucky Derby so she figured the fancy cocktail would be an appropriate celebration. Over time, they would create a real family. They’d celebrate real holidays. She wouldn’t lie to the kids and promise if they were good enough, new parents would come for them. She’d make sure their home here, with them, was enough. The thought of realizing her dreams raised her to a sitting position. She pushed back the covers and swept her legs off the blow-up mattress, barely missing the rickety snack tray sitting beside her bed. Rocking on the edge of the mattress, she tugged the slack elastic on her favorite running shorts back to her waist, then raised the tattered hem of a vintage t-shirt from the rock concert bag to wipe her eyes. The lettering had long ago given up the ghost, but anyone would recognize the subway patterned white tile on Pink Floyd’s The Wall. Her legs trembled as she attempted to stand. Instead, she bounced on the edge of the mattress. Her sandy blonde hair fell across her eyes. Startled, she stopped. Her brain might be ready to run, but her body needed to warm-up. With a chuckle, she reached for her aching calves and rubbed them from her ankles to her knees, noting she needed to address the abundance of bleached hair on her legs with a weed eater. The tightness loosened as she squeezed muscles defined by climbing, pushing, pulling and lifting since their move to the farm. Even now, climbing up and down the ladder a million times in a week was a workout. “Guess I don’t have to go to the gym.” As if she’d ever had the time or money to increase her fitness any way other than physical labor. Downstairs, the front screen door snapped closed, banging off the frame. Erin glanced at her wristwatch. Nine o’clock. Nine? When had she ever slept this late? Never. “What the Hell, Erin?” Light staccato steps on the stairway warned Melanie hadn’t