Bared to You (Crossfire, Book 1) by Sylvia Day

By Sylvia Day

*looks retail

Our trip begun in fire...

Gideon pass got here into my realistic lightning within the darkness-beautiful and incredible, jagged and white-hot. i used to be attracted to him as I'd by no means been to something or an individual in my existence. I craved his contact like a drug, even realizing it's going to weaken me. i used to be unsuitable and broken, and he opened these cracks in me so easily...

Gideon knew. He had demons of his personal. and we might develop into the mirrors that mirrored each one other's such a lot deepest wounds... and wishes.

The bonds of his love remodeled me, while I prayed that the torment of our pasts didn't tear us apart...

"When it involves brewing up scorchingly sizzling sexual chemistry, Day has few literary rivals." -- Booklist

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Additional resources for Bared to You (Crossfire, Book 1)

Sample text

Gangrenous molds took to the foundations before the roofs were fairly nailed down. Mud crept up their sides and paint fell away in long white slashes. Some terrible plague seemed to overtake them one by one. They were rented to families of gaunt hollow-eyed and darkskinned people, not Mellungeons and not exactly anything else, who reproduced with such frightening prolificness that their entire lives appeared devoted to the production of the ragged line of scions which shoeless and tattered sat for hours at a time on the porch edges, themselves not unlike the victims of some terrible disaster, and stared out across the blighted land with expressions of neither hope nor wonder nor despair.

The drinkers would pause, liquid tilting in their glasses, the structure would shudder violently, a broom would fall, a bottle, and the inn would slowly right itself and assume once more its normal reeling equipoise. The drinkers would raise their glasses, talk would begin again. Remarks alluding to the eccentricities of the inn were made only outside the building. To them the inn was animate as any old ship to her crew and it bred an atmosphere such as few could boast, a solidarity due largely to its very precariousness.

You’ns get in here. We goin to Knoxville, proud to hep ye out. Sylder presented them each with a welcoming smile as they climbed in and studied each in turn his face under the domelight. He dropped into the Hopper—the steep twin fork road—without braking. The little one between him and Tipton squealed once and then hushed with her hand clapped over her mouth as they swerved across the pike and shot out into blackness, the lights slapping across the upper reaches of trees standing sharply up the side of the hollow.

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