Cuervo's Carnival

Cuervo’s Carnival A DARK MMF ROMANCE N.J. WEEKS Copyright © 2023 by N.J. Weeks All rights reserved. This is a work of fiction. Any names, characters, places, and incidents either are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review. Cover Designer/Graphics: Pia with Crimsonsdesigns Editor: Stevi Mager, SML Editorial Proofreader: Angie, Lunar Rose Services Ebook ISBN:979-8-9871626-2-0 Paperback ISBN:979-8-9871626-3-7 Created with Vellum For those who find themselves in the pit of despair that comes with grief… Know that your pain is valid, and your healing journey will not look like everyone else’s for it is your own. May the burden of your loss be the evidence your soul needs to remember you once possessed something worth living in memory. Because in that memory is where your mind can find solace when your heart craves the embrace your arms so desperately seek. For memory, though a lucid concept, is one that should be cherished because it is in the moments that live within our hearts that the flesh may continue to live on. And on a less intense note, this book is for my Poe Hoe’s…enjoy! Author’s Note Cuervo’s Carnival is a dark, suspense, romantic thriller that contains explicit content not intended for readers under 18 years of age. *This short novel is inspired by Edgar Allan Poe’s ‘The Raven’, this by no means is a retelling. It is a loose (very loose) reimagining. This content includes: Explicit sex scenes (praise, degradation, mild impact blood, spit play, edging, amaurophilia, breath play), explicit language, murder, graphic violence, mentions of foster care system/trauma, mentions of terminal illness/cancer, mentions of abuse, death, afterlife, grief, manipulation. Spotify Playlist Cuervo’s Carnival Playlist Spotify Contents Prologue: Lola 1. Lola 2. Lola 3. Lola 4. Lola 5. Lola 6. Paxton 7. Lola 8. Cillian 9. Lola 10. Lola 11. Cillian 12. Lola 13. Lola 14. Paxton 15. Lola 16. Cillian 17. Lola 18. Paxton 19. Lola 20. Lola 21. Lola 22. Lola 23. Lola 24. Cillian TWO MONTHS LATER… Afterword Acknowledgments About the Author Also by N.J. Weeks Prologue: Lola I remember the first time I felt the violent chill of premonition wreak havoc on my flesh. It was a cold so piercing that my memories are still haunted by the way it penetrated past my outsides. Marring my soul with the reminder that life is merely a waiting game until death’s final act. It is in moments like these that nightmares are formed. And it is in places like the one I find myself in today, with my bloodied machete in hand, that nightmares become a reality. Dreams don’t exist here, only truths that become exposed for better or worse. And beneath the veil of deception comes the slow and torturous end to what it means to live a life stuck in the clouds. Wishing, wanting, waiting for things to be like what they appear to be in our dreams. But dreams are deceiving, because they are simply the lies that our hearts tell us to soften the blow of the wicked truths that always find a way to creep into our lives. A pessimistic stance, yet it is one I have come to embrace, since I’ve never been much of a dreamer anyway. I’d rather spend my days in an abandoned hell than run to a hollow heaven. So long as I am with them, mis alas, I welcome the burn. I’ve come to accept my fate and wear my destiny with pride, just like I do the ink that covers my skin. The ones who don’t understand me, will learn to fear me. Because the girl they have spent their lives discrediting is now the 1 Lola “If you want to feel our hands wrapped around that pretty, little neck of yours again when we share the honor of filling you, be a good girl and just stick to the fucking plan. We are off-limits until the arrangement is terminated. Got it, Morta?” “Then what?” “Then, you’ll be ours forever…alive or dead.” Their stipulation echoes in my mind, along with the mental image of their ink-drawn frames towering over me. The harshness that entrapped their words was intended to be a warning, but the way it blended with their deep, raspy voices only solidified how alive they made me feel. Even in lucid memory, both of their sultry vibrato’s serenade something deep within my soul, a soul that has felt empty without mis alas, my wings, by my side. It’s an attraction, a connection, a bond unlike anything I have ever experienced before. Their words, much like them, are equal parts rough as they are sensual. Demanding while still being effortless. They both possess traits that are a constant mixture of intoxicating and infuriating. And even in their contradictions, they provide me with everything I need and nothing I don’t. As I stand here, miles away from them, threading the lanyard that holds the key to my Nightster in between my fingers, I debate if I should heed their warning or pay them a visit. They should know by now that the only context I will comply with their demands is when I am being fucked by them. Otherwise, it will be a cold day in hell before I allow any man—let alone two—to tell