Skeletal Hearts

SKELETAL HEARTS SABRE SECURITY #2 J ROSE WILTED ROSE PUBLISHING CONTENTS Trigger Warning Prologue - Leticia 1. Harlow 2. Hunter 3. Harlow 4. Theo 5. Harlow 6. Harlow 7. Enzo 8. Harlow 9. Hunter 10. Harlow 11. Leighton 12. Harlow 13. Theo 14. Harlow 15. Harlow 16. Harlow 17. Enzo 18. Harlow 19. Leighton 20. Harlow 21. Harlow 22. Theo 23. Harlow 24. Hunter 25. Harlow 26. Harlow 27. Theo 28. Harlow 29. Harlow Epilogue - Enzo Playlist Want more from this shared universe? Acknowledgments About the Author Newsletter Also By J Rose Copyright © 2023 J Rose Published by Wilted Rose Publishing Edited by Nice Girl Naughty Edits Proofreading by The Eclectic Editor Cover Design & Formatting by Books and Moods First Edition | March 2023 All rights reserved. This is a work of fiction. Any names, characters, and events are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to persons living or dead, establishments or events is coincidental. This book or any portion thereof may not be reproduced or used without the express permission of the author, except for the use of brief quotations in the context of a book review or article. www.jroseauthor.com ISBN: 978-1-915987-03-7 (eBook edition) ISBN: 978-1-915987-02-0 (Paperback edition) For those who live with guilt, you are still worthy of love. TRIGGER WARNING Skeletal Hearts is a contemporary reverse harem romance, so the main character will have multiple love interests that she will not have to choose between. This book is very dark and contains scenes that may be triggering for some readers. This includes physical and psychological abuse, torture, sexual assault and abuse, imprisonment, graphic violence, serial murder, PTSD, Trichotillomania, suicidal ideation and attempted suicide. If you are triggered by any of this content, please do not read this book. This is a slow-burn romance, so the relationships will develop over time, and the spice level will build with each book. “Tell me every terrible thing you ever did and let me love you anyway.” - Edgar Allen Poe PROLOGUE - LETICIA BLACK WATER - THE PEOPLE’S THIEVES London Bridge is falling down. Falling down, falling down. Tugging the hood of my bright-red raincoat up to shield my plaited pigtails, I hum the tune of my favourite song while leaving the school gates. London Bridge is falling down. My fair lady. Rain patters against my coat in a soft drizzle. It’s cold, probably a little too cold to be walking home. Build it up with wood and clay. Wood and clay, wood and clay. The hum of cars whizzes past me along the quiet street. Build it up with wood and clay. My fair lady. Staring down at my patent leather school shoes, I count each step. One after another. Cross the road. Check for traffic. Stick to the zebra crossing. Wood and clay will wash away. Wash away, wash away. There’s a loud rumble from above me. Heart pounding, I speed up, heading for the outcrop of trees that marks my path home over the nearby farmer’s field. Wood and clay will wash away. My fair lady. My legs are tired as I squelch through wet mud and rain puddles. The village vanishes, swallowed by high bushes clustered with tiny, ripe blackberries. I stop to collect handfuls of berries and fill my pockets. The droplets of sour tartness burst on my tongue. Grandma Sylvie bakes the best blackberry crumble. I better take some for her. When my pockets are overflowing and my hands are stained dark purple with juice, I return to the rough path cutting through the shoulder-high crops. It’s scary out here. I wish Daddy were here to walk me home like he usually does. Mummy took me to school in her big, loud car this morning. She wasn’t happy. I don’t ever see her smile anymore. Send a man to watch all night. Watch all night, watch all night. My quiet humming fills the bleakness of the field’s silence. Send a man to watch all night. My fair lady. Grandma taught me that song. She picks me up sometimes, when Mummy is asleep on the sofa with her favourite book and an empty wine glass. Or when Daddy doesn’t come home for a few days and makes everyone mad. We get ice cream and feed the seagulls, even in winter. It makes me laugh when their beaks tickle my hand. If you stand real still, they’ll peck the food right from your palm. Checking the sparkly, pink Dora the Explorer watch around my wrist, I bite my lip. It’s getting dark fast, and I still have half an hour to walk. I come this way with Daddy sometimes, when he can walk straight. But never alone. That isn’t allowed. Tummy rumbling, I dig into my supply of blackberries. The pops of sugary sourness keep me going as I squelch through thick, glue-like mud. The rain has stopped now, but my uniform is soaking wet. Movement in the distance slows my footsteps. The tall stalks of corn are swaying. A headful of thick, chocolate-coloured hair appears first. Then, a big smile and a scary, hooked nose, almost like a clown. The man waves. Still frozen, I wave back with a blackberry-stained hand. He doesn’t look too scary, apart from his big nose. Kind of old and wrinkled, though, like the man who lives next door to Grandma. “Hey there,” he calls out. Clutching the straps of my backpack, I tentatively approach him. “Hello.” “Are you lost, sweetie?” “No. I’m going home.” He looks around the deserted field. “Through here?” I nod, my lip jutted out in defiance. “Hmm. It’s getting a bit dark, isn’t it?” “I’m a big girl. I can walk home alone.” His laugh is tinkly. I like it. “Well, a big girl like you should be just fine. I don’t like the dark, though. Can you show me the way in case I get scared?” I blink up at him. “You get scared?” “Sometimes,” he replies with a wink. “The dark isn’t