Rogue Rider


By Larissa Ione

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They’re here.

They ride.

The Four Horsemen of the Apocalypse.

Born of a match between good and evil, four siblings stand between hell’s minions and everything they want to destroy. They are the Lords of Deliverance, and they have the power to ward off Doomsday . . . or let it ride . . .

Rogue Rider

Jillian Cardiff came to this remote mountain town to forget the demon attack that almost killed her. Instead, she rescues-and falls for-a gorgeous stranger who has no memory of anything other than his name. Handsome, charming, and protective, Reseph seems like the kind of man whom Jillian can trust. But with hints of a troubling history of his own, he’s also the kind of man who can be very dangerous . . .

Reseph may not know why he mysteriously appeared in Jillian’s life, but he knows he wants to stay. Yet when Jillian’s neighbors are killed, and demon hunters arrive on the scene, Reseph fears that he’s putting Jillian in danger. And once it’s revealed that Reseph is also Pestilence, the Horseman responsible for ravaging the world, he and Jillian must face the greatest challenge of all: Can they forget the horrors of a chilling past to save the future they both desire?


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Table of Contents

A Preview of Eternal Rider

Bonus: Apocalypse: The Lords of Deliverance Compendium


Copyright Page

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It was cold. So fucking cold.

He opened his eyes, but he saw… nothing. Groaning, he shifted, because he seemed to be facedown. Yeah… he was doing a face-plant, all right. But where was he? All he could see was snow. No, that wasn't true; he could see trees laden with snow. And snowbanks laden with snow. And snow laden with more fucking snow.

So he was in a forest… with snow. But where? Why?

And who the hell was he?


The name slurred through his ears as if uttered by a drunken man.


Sounded vaguely familiar, he supposed. Reseph. Okay, he could work with that. Especially since no other names popped into his head.

Weakly, he tried to push himself to his knees, but his arms wobbled like rubber, and he kept falling on his face. After four tries, he gave up and just lay there, panting and shivering.

Somewhere overhead, an owl hooted, and a few minutes later, a wolf howled into the growing darkness. Reseph took comfort in the sounds, because they meant he wasn't alone. Sure, the owl might fly over and shit on him, and the wolf might eat him alive, but at least he'd have company for a little while.

He didn't know much about himself, but he knew he didn't like to be alone.

He also did not like snow.

Curious then, how he'd ended up alone in the snow. Had someone abandoned him here? A tremor of anxiety shook him on the inside as hard as the cold was shaking him on the outside. Surely someone was looking for him.

He held onto that hope as he gradually became aware of a gnawing ache in his bones, accompanied by a stabbing pain in his head. Looked like he was in for a little unconsciousness. Cool. Because right now, he was both freezing and burning up, hurting and numb. Yep, passing out would be a good thing.

Real. Fucking. Good.

Idiot. Dumbass. Meteorological moron.

Jillian Cardiff mentally cursed the meteorologist who screwed the pooch on the timing of this blizzard. She had nothing against weather people; hell, she'd worked with them for years in the FAA. But this… this was ridiculous.

Now she was in a rush to get back to her cabin before visibility went completely to shit and her draft horse, Sam, got testy.

"Come on, boy." She gave the big sorrel an affectionate slap on the shoulder. "The rest of the firewood can wait."

Sam followed her, not needing to be led by the rope snapped to his halter. He knew the way home and was as eager as she was to get inside a warm, cozy building. The sled carrying a quarter cord of firewood dragged behind him, cutting through the five feet of fresh snow they'd gotten a few days ago. This new storm would probably dump another couple of feet, and by the end of December they'd have more snow than they'd know what to do with.

The wind shrieked like a living thing, and snow blasted her face. Hefting her rifle more securely onto her shoulder, Jillian put her head down and pushed against the gale. Times like this, she really missed Florida. Not that she'd ever go back. Some things you just couldn't forget.

Like being torn apart by demons.

She shivered, but it had nothing to do with the temperature. She was not going there again. The attack was behind her, and as long as she didn't watch TV, get on the Internet, or look at her scars, she never had to think about it.

A long, mournful howl pierced the late afternoon darkness. Had to be close if she could hear it over the wind. Sam snorted and tossed his head, and she slowed to take the lead rope and give him a pat on his white-blazed nose.

"It's okay, buddy. The wolves won't bother us." No, wolves generally left humans alone. If anything, cougars were the big concern. In recent weeks, two area hunters had been found torn to pieces, the carnage blamed on the big cats.

She could handle a cougar. What she couldn't handle was the dark. Demons lurked in the dark.

Abruptly, Sam reared up, a desperate whinny breaking from his big chest. The rope jerked out of Jillian's hand, and she nearly lost her footing in the icy snow as she scrambled to catch it. Sam's front hooves hit the ground and his shoulder rammed her, sending her tumbling down an incline. Her yelp cut off as she slammed into a tree trunk.

Pain spiderwebbed around the right side of her rib cage, and ouch, that was going to be tender tomorrow.

"Dammit, Sam," she muttered, as she crawled back up the snowy slope, pausing to grab the rifle that had been flung into a snowbank.

Sam was snorting, going nuts as he pawed at a snowdrift. Jillian dug ice from places ice shouldn't be as she clomped through the snow, wondering what in the world had startled Sam and now had him so freaked out.

"You'd better be digging up a pot of gold, you mangy—" She broke off with a startled gasp.

A man… a naked man… his body facedown and covered in a dusting of snow, lay in a messy sprawl just off the trail.

"Oh, my God." Her hands shook as she stripped off her glove and brushed aside his long, platinum hair to put her fingers to his throat. His skin was icy to the touch, which she expected, but when the steady thump of a pulse bounded against her fingertips, she nearly jumped out of her own skin. He was alive. With a strong pulse. Holy cow, how?

Okay, so… think. She had to get help, but they were in the middle of an intensifying snowstorm, and there was no way off the mountain except by snowmobile. She couldn't risk that in the storm, and it could take hours to get to the nearest town. He could be dead by then.


Praying this guy wasn't a serial killer and trying not to think too hard on why he'd be in the mountains, naked, in the winter, she eased Sam up the trail until the sled was alongside the man's body. As quickly as she could, she heaved the firewood to the other side of the path and tucked the ax into the loop on Sam's padded harness.

Rolling the man onto the sled was not as easy as she'd hoped. The guy was heavy as a damned boulder and huge. And… handsome. And very, very naked.

"Really?" she muttered to herself. "You're going to notice how hot he is now?"

Granted, it was impossible not to notice those things, but she still felt a little guilty as she ran her hands over him, checking for injuries. Aside from being unconscious and as frozen as a fish stick, he appeared to be uninjured.

Interesting horse tattoo on his right forearm, though. When she'd skimmed her fingers over it, she'd felt a dim vibration, as if the henna-colored lines pulsed with a mild electrical current. Too bad warmth didn't ride in on that current, though, because damn, she swore the temperature plummeted twenty degrees in the few minutes it took to check the guy out.

As if Mother Nature had some sort of grudge against her, the biting cold wind picked up even more, and the snow, which she normally loved, became an enemy. It was probably stupid of her, but she stripped off her coat and laid it over the guy, tucking the coat's sleeves carefully beneath him. The shirt layers she was wearing should protect her for a while, as long as they hurried.

"Let's go, Sammy." She urged the gelding to move faster than she'd normally like, but nothing about this situation was normal.

She was freezing and exhausted by the time she smelled the smoke from her wood stove, and her eyelashes were crusted with ice by the time she eased Sam up to the rickety porch. The frigid air burned her lungs with each breath as she dragged the man's dead weight off the sled and then unhitched Sam. She'd remove the harness later. Right now she had to get the man into the house and the horse into the barn.

She ran the thirty yards to the barn and, battling the wind, tugged open the door. Sam trotted inside, but she didn't bother taking him to his stall. He'd find it on his own.

Too bad getting the man to her bedroom wasn't nearly as easy as putting up the horse. As a fitness freak who worked a small farm, Jillian wasn't a wuss, but she thought she might have dislocated something as she dragged Fish Stick across the floor. She spent another ten minutes heaving and straining to lift him onto her bed.

Once he was sprawled out on his back, his broad shoulders taking up an enormous amount of room on the mattress, she cranked the electric blanket to the highest setting and checked his pulse. Still strong. Shouldn't it be sluggish? She'd taken basic CPR classes as well as Search and Rescue training, and from what she remembered, hypothermia caused a slow, weak pulse. Fish Stick's couldn't be more opposite. Steady, surging, and she swore his skin had already pinked up a little.

Leaving the mystery alone for now, she checked the phone, and sure enough, it was dead. Next, she stoked the fire and turned up the electric heat to eighty degrees. She was lucky to have electricity at all, actually. The power kept flickering, and it was probably only a matter of time before it went the way of the phone line.

Ooh, and then she'd be alone, in the dark with no phone, in the middle of nowhere… with a stranger.

This was a horror movie setup. She even had the token small animal to prove the situation was serious and make all the women in the audience worry.

Her Bengal cat, Doodle, watched the activity from his bed in front of the wood stove, unconcerned that there was a strange man in the house. But then, nothing really fazed him. As long as he had food and someone to pet him, he didn't bother to get excited about much.

"You're a big help there, buddy." She shot Doodle a dirty look as she changed into dry sweats and slippers. "I'm going to check on the complete stranger in my bed, but don't worry about me, okay?"

Doodle blinked his green eyes at her.

Wishing she had a big dog right about now, Jillian slipped into the bedroom. As she entered, Fish Stick sighed and shifted in the bed, just the smallest movement, but enough to give her a bit of hope.

Then his eyes popped open.

Startled, she leaped back, slapping her hand over her mouth. His eyes… God, they were amazing. The lightest shade of blue, and crystal clear, like the edge of a shallow glacier. They bored into her, but there was nothing cold about them. The raw heat in them pierced her all the way to her core.

Feeling silly for her overreaction but with her legs trembling anyway, she returned to the bedside.

"I'm Jillian. I found you in the woods. You're going to be okay." She wasn't sure if he understood or not, but his eyes closed, and his thickly muscled chest began to rise and fall in a deep, regular rhythm. His color was good now, and his full lips, once pale and chapped, were a smooth, dusky rose.


What now? Maybe she should get something hot into his stomach. Quietly, she started for the door to put some broth on the stove.

"Hey," he rasped, his voice a broken whisper. "Did I… hurt you?"

She inhaled sharply and turned, risking a look at him. Once again, his eyes drilled into her, but this time, they seemed to… glow a little.

"No." She swallowed dryly. "No, you didn't hurt me."

His long, golden lashes fluttered down, as if he was satisfied by her answer. But dear God, why would he think he might have hurt her?

Who the hell had she brought into her house?


Fish Stick didn't wake up again for a full twenty-four hours.

When he did, it was only long enough to drink a cup of hot beef broth. He hadn't said a word, had merely stared at her with those gorgeous blue eyes and then fallen back into a deep sleep, as if he'd been awake for a year.

Jillian had tried to call Stacey, a local sheriff's deputy and her best friend of twenty years, but the phone lines were still down. Figured. The storm seemed to have stalled, and Jillian decided she was going to hunt down that meteorologist and beat him with his own anemometer.

Doodle had taken to the stranger, and if the cat wasn't eating or chasing one of his toys, he was curled up on the bed. The little traitor.

At the forty-six-hour mark, Jillian went to check on Fish Stick, her heart doing a crazy little skip when she saw him sprawled in her queen-sized bed, taking up the whole thing. For some reason, her thoughts went to what he'd do with a woman in it. Someone his size needed a king mattress, especially if he had… company.

Stop it. Why in the world was she thinking like that about a total stranger whose name she didn't even know? Maybe because, even in his sleep, he exuded power, an off-the-charts masculinity that made every female hormone quiver.

Stop. It.

The covers had slipped low on his hips, revealing hard-cut lower abs and sinewy obliques that disappeared under the sheet. Just one inch lower, and there would be nothing left to the imagination. She'd gotten a good look when she'd brought him in, but now that his skin had color in it again, he was a totally different man. Before, he'd been like a marble statue, weak as a baby. Now… oh, boy.

His hair, a thick, long mane of white gold, had been hopelessly matted. A couple of times she caught him growling in his sleep and tearing at it, so she hoped he wouldn't mind that she'd sort of… cut it.

She'd left it as long as she could, but the shoulder-length cut was still a good twelve inches shorter than it had been.

Now it spilled over the red flannel pillowcase like spun silk, and really, it was so not fair that a man had better hair than she did. Better hair and eyelashes. Dammit, women paid to get lashes as long and thick as his.

"This is getting ridiculous," she muttered, as she sank onto the mattress beside him. He's just a man. A man who appeared to be in his late twenties and gifted with a freakishly perfect body.

She palmed his forehead, relieved to find that he was neither feverish nor cold.

She reached for the covers to tug them up when suddenly, in an impossibly fast movement, he grabbed her, whipped her roughly beneath him, and slammed his forearm across her throat. Fear spiked, sharp and biting. Under his weight, she could barely move, and with his arm on her windpipe, she could barely breathe.

His eyes were shards of winter ice as they bored into her, and she immediately reevaluated her estimate of his age. He might look to be no more than twenty-eight, but his eyes… they were ancient.

"Who are you?" he growled. "Where am I?"

"I—" She coughed, trying to suck air into her burning lungs. He let up on her throat. A little. "I'm Jillian." She gulped a breath. "You're in my house."

His gaze narrowed, and she felt like a deer pinned by a wolf. "Why?"

"I found you," she rasped. "In the snow. You were almost dead."

He frowned. "That's impossible."

"That you were almost dead or that you were in the snow?"

Confusion flashed in his eyes, and he let up on the pressure a little more. "I'm not sure."

"Okay," she said slowly, not wanting to agitate him again. "Let's start with something simple. What's your name?"

"I think… I think it's Reseph."

"You think?"

The pressure on her throat lessened to almost nothing, but each breath still burned. "Reseph is the only name that comes to me."

He wasn't sure about his own name? And what an odd name it was. His deep, resonant voice did have the slightest accent, though. Not that she could identify it. "Do you know where you're from?"

"No idea. I can't remember… anything." He pushed up, his shoulders and biceps flexing with power, and looked down at his naked body. "Did we fuck?"

She nearly choked. "No."

"Why not?" He eased back down on top of her and buried his face in her neck, inhaling deeply. This time she felt the distinct presence of an erection settling against her pelvis. The buzz in the very air around him shifted suddenly from menacing to blatantly erotic, but no less dangerous.

Oh, God. "Because we're complete strangers."

He lifted his head. "So?"

So? This was not going well. "Look, maybe you should, ah, get off me, and we'll discuss everything over dinner."

"Dinner?" He grinned, and good Lord, he was stunning when he wasn't scaring her half to death. "Totally on board with that. I'm starving. Maybe we could fuck first?"

This time she did choke. "Sex is not on the table. But chili is."

"You can have sex on tables," he said, and great, she was now picturing doing things in the kitchen that had nothing to do with eating. At least, not eating food.

"Chili," she croaked. "No sex."

He appeared to consider that, and she nearly passed out from relief when he rolled off her. "Okay, so where's the food?"

"Kitchen." She leaped off the bed, ignoring his amused grin and trying not to look at his erection… his very nice erection… which he wasn't making any effort to cover up.

Nope, he lay on his back, legs spread, one arm behind his head as if he was in his house, in his bed, and she was merely the date he'd invited home last night.

Again, she wondered just who she'd brought into her house, because this guy was not flying with a full crew. Definitely not right in the head.

Averting her gaze, she backed toward the door. "I'm going to see if I can find you something to wear. Feel free to use the shower—"

He was already halfway to the tiny master bathroom. Despite her annoyance, she couldn't peel her eyes away from his body as he strode across the wood floor. Every muscle was a fluid work of art as they powered his strides, bunching and rippling. And that ass… sweet Jesus, he had the nicest set of glutes she'd ever seen.

He disappeared into the bathroom, and she swore the last flex of his butt muscles was just for her. Oh, this guy had to go.

While he showered, she headed to the kitchen to stir the Crock-Pot of chili before taking the stairs down to the cellar. Half of the underground space was dedicated to food storage, but the other half was piled high with the remnants of her life in Florida, and with huge Rubbermaid containers of Christmas ornaments and things that had belonged to her parents.

She hadn't been through any of this stuff since she moved here, and she cursed her misty eyes as she pawed through one of the plastic tubs of her parents' clothing. Every shirt brought back a memory, every pair of shoes a story.

Just grab something and get it over with.

Jillian wasn't sure "grabbing something" would be adequate. Although her father had been a tall man, there was nothing of his that would fit Reseph well. She supposed he'd have to make do with the forest green flannel pajama bottoms and the oversized black sweatshirt.

Glad to be done digging through memories, she trudged back up the stairs and nearly swallowed her tongue when she stepped into the kitchen at the same time that Reseph sauntered in.

Completely naked.

"Um… you couldn't find a towel?"

He looked down at himself. "I found a towel. I'm dry."

The man apparently had absolutely no inhibitions. "Right. Silly me." She shoved the clothes at him. "Do you think you hit your head?"

"Might be why my memory is gone," he said, and okay, sure, that might explain the amnesia, but that wasn't what she'd been getting at.

While he dressed… reluctantly, it seemed… she spooned chili into bowls. As she reached into a drawer for spoons, she sensed a presence behind her. Reseph's warmth engulfed her as he peered over her shoulder.

"Looks good."

So Reseph had no inhibitions and no concept of personal space. At least he'd put the clothes on.

"It is good," she said, scooting out from under his shadow. "It's my mom's recipe." She placed the bowls on the table—opposite ends.

"I wonder if I have a mom." There was a thread of… sadness?… fear?… worry?… in his voice. Maybe it was a mix of all three.

She could only guess at how she'd feel if she woke up in a strange place with no memory of how she got there or who she was. The idea that there was a family out there who might be looking for him—including, maybe, a wife—had to be unsettling.

Especially since he'd wanted sex from a complete stranger. Jillian hoped to hell he wasn't married.

"Let's get some food in you, and we'll see what we can figure out." She opened the fridge. "I have milk, water, orange juice, Sprite—"


"Sorry. Out of beer." She liked a cold one now and then, but it just wasn't a winter drink.

"Chili without beer is a crime in some places," Reseph said. "Well, it should be. Sprite, please."

She grabbed two cans and two glasses, and when she turned around, Reseph was seated. But he'd moved his bowl to a seat closer to hers. She sighed. Her mom would have said he needed to be house-trained.

"Thank you," he said softly.

"It's just chili."

He shook his head, his wet hair brushing the sweatshirt collar. "For that, and for taking care of me."

As if he were embarrassed, he looked down at the bowl and dug in.

Reseph had never seen a woman as beautiful as Jillian or tasted anything as awesome as her chili. Well, he was pretty sure of the never part. With her chin-length dark hair that was clipped shorter at the nape and brilliant green eyes, Jillian drew his gaze as often as his bowl drew his spoon. He was ravenous for both company and food, which made him wonder how long he'd been without either.

He finished off the bowl before Jillian had eaten a quarter of hers.

"I'll get you more." She started to stand, but he gripped her forearm and held her down.

"You've done enough. I can get it." Though he supposed if he let her serve him, he'd be able to watch her fine ass sway in those worn jeans that hugged her perfect curves. Not even the worn black and blue flannel shirt she wore could hide what he suspected was a fantastic body.

No, he'd felt enough of that body when she'd been beneath him on the mattress to more than suspect.

She looked a little flustered… from his touch, maybe? He got that, because her warm skin felt so good under his hand, good enough that he wanted to leave it there. And he did, for a few seconds longer than was appropriate.

Because somehow he knew what appropriate was. He just didn't care.

Had he always been like that? He was kind of a dick, wasn't he?

With a mental shrug, he fetched a heaping bowl of chili and returned to the table. "So. Where are we?" When she gave him a startled look, as if he wasn't sure he was in a kitchen, he laughed. "In the world. Where are we in the world?"

"Oh." She smiled in obvious relief. A beautiful smile on a generous mouth and lips the color of a ripe apple. Made him wonder if they'd taste as sweet. "Colorado. We're in the Rockies, near the Wyoming border."


Her sable brows shot up. "Why?"

The spoon clacked as he dug into his bowl. "Why do you live here?" Why was he here?

"Um… because it's where I grew up. I inherited the cabin from my parents when they passed away."

He dug deep into his brain, trying to find a memory that involved his own parents, but there was nothing. "What do people do around here?"

"For a living, you mean?" When he nodded, she sipped her drink, as if needing time to come up with an answer. "Well, I guess they mostly work in the ranching, logging, or hunting industries. The nearest town is barely a speck on the map."

"So why would I be here?"

She shook her head, making her hair sweep against her jaw in soft waves. "I have no idea."

"Maybe I was hunting?"

"You were naked. And you didn't have a gun or bow."

Bow. For some reason, having a bow… it sounded familiar. Naked? That sounded familiar, too. But maybe not naked in the snow.

He considered the winter-nudist scenario. "Were there tracks near me? Maybe I was attacked."

"If so, you don't have a mark on you." A soft blush spread across her cheeks, and he grinned.

"Got a good look at me, huh?"

"I was checking for injuries." She cleared her throat. "In any case, you weren't injured, and there weren't any tracks near you, but the blizzard would have covered up any."

He thought about that for a second. "What were you doing out in a blizzard?"

Her spoon clinked against her bowl as she fished for a kidney bean. "I was collecting the last of the firewood I cut yesterday."

"Firewood…" He recalled the trees he'd seen while he was lying in the snowbank. "What's the date?"

"December tenth."

Cool. He might not like snow, but December was his favorite month. "It's Christmas time. Maybe I was out here to get a Christmas tree."

"Naked, with no ax or vehicle? And if you were, you were trespassing on private property."

Reseph finished off his soda and asked, "You found me on your property?"


He watched her stir her chili, her hands delicate but work-roughened. "You live here by yourself?"

"Yep again."


She shrugged, making the embroidered black wolf emblem on the pocket of her shirt dance. "I like being by myself."

Reseph definitely did not like being alone. "Do you have a mate?"

One dark eyebrow climbed up. "Like, a friend?"

"Like a lover. You know, a mate."

"I'd sure like to know where you're from," she muttered. "But no. No… mate."

For some reason, he liked that answer. "Why not? You're pretty. You should have lots of them."

She coughed a little. "Maybe we should concentrate on your situation."

She was probably right, but he wasn't sure where to even start. "Do you have a computer?"

"I do, but the Internet is dial-up, and it's twitchy. Like the electricity."

"What about TV?"

"I have a satellite dish, but it doesn't always work."

Twitchy Internet and electricity, spotty television, and snow. Christ, Jillian lived in hell. "What do you do out here? How do you keep busy?"

"I read a lot. Hike in the woods and hunt mushrooms. It isn't hard to stay busy. The farm takes up a lot of my time."

Hunt mushrooms? Who did that when you could buy them at the store? "Sounds like you're massively tied down."

Annoyance flickered across her face. "I'm not tied down. I love it here."

"But you're alone." He eyed her, thinking she was too beautiful to ever be alone. "And a farm is a lot of responsibility."

"Neither of those things are bad," she said, but Reseph wasn't so sure. Being alone sucked, and responsibility was just another way to say tied down. "And how did we get back onto me as the topic of conversation?"

"I have a history of a snowbank," he said simply. "And I don't even like snow."


  • "Doomsday is fast approaching unless the remaining Horsemen of the Apocalypse can prevent it. In the previous Lords of Deliverance novel, Thanatos, the horseman of Death, was tricked and now the world may shake with his anger. Gifted storyteller Ione's tales are gripping and dark, filled with tragedy and hope. Transfixing!"—RT Book Reviews on Lethal Rider
  • "Ione's third Lords of Deliverance paranormal builds the secondary story line of Immortal Rider into a rollicking ride of thrills, angst, and sexual heat. Thanatos, aka Death, is one angry Horseman of the Apocalypse. Aegis Guardian and OCD sufferer Regan Matthews molested him while he was drugged, and those around him conspired to keep her resultant pregnancy a secret. Thanatos kidnaps Regan, vowing to keep her his sexual prisoner, but her genuine remorse over tricking him to impregnate her so that the birth of their baby might prevent the Apocalypse wears down his resolve and opens the door to a fiery and moving romance between damaged souls. Meanwhile, those trying to avert the upcoming end of the world must cope with double-crossing Watchers, false prophecies, vampires with a grudge, and the ongoing treachery of Death's brother Pestilence. Ione humanizes her leads and also captures the urgency of their mission, resulting in a very satisfying read."—Publishers Weekly on Lethal Rider
  • Ione has a true gift for imbuing her characters with dark-edged passion. . . a top notch read."—4 stars, RT Book Reviews on Desire Unchained
  • "The author's hard-edged style infuses the story with darkness while taking it to sizzling heights."—4 stars, RT Book Reviews on Pleasure Unbound
  • "The third book in Ione's supercharged Demonica series ignites on the first page and never looks back."—4 1/2 stars, RT Book Reviews on Passion Unleashed
  • "Wicked...Decadently Sinful...Prepare to be burned."—Gena Showalter, New York Times bestselling author on Desire Unchained
  • "Ione brings to life a riveting world filled with sizzling sensuality, dark wit, and wicked hot demons."—Lara Adrian, New York Times bestselling author on Passion Unleashed

On Sale
Nov 20, 2012
Page Count
432 pages

Larissa Ione

About the Author

New York Times bestselling author and Air Force veteran Larissa Ione traded in a career in meteorology to pursue her passion of writing. She has since published dozens of books. She now spends her days in pajamas with her computer, strong coffee, and supernatural worlds. She believes in celebrating everything, and would never be caught without a bottle of Champagne chilling in the fridge . . . just in case. She currently lives in Wisconsin with her retired U.S. Coast Guard husband, her son, a rescue cat named Vegas, and her very own hellhounds, a King Shepherd named Hexe and a Belgian Malinois named Duvel.

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