Tuesday, 20 October 2015

Pretty When You Cry Blitz

Pretty When You Cry by Skye Warren 
(Stripped #3) 
Publication date: October 20th 2015
Genres: Adult, Romance



Synopsis:
“Dark, perverse, and unbearably erotic, Pretty When You Cry is Skye Warren at her gritty best.”
~ Anna Zaires, USA Today bestselling author of Twist Me
A new dark romance novel from the New York Times bestselling author of Wanderlust and Prisoner…
I came from a place of dirt floors and holy scriptures. They told me the world outside was full of sin, and the first night I escape, I find out it’s true. Ivan saves me, but he does more than that. He takes me. He makes me his own girl.
My conditioning runs too deep. Ivan sees what I am.
That’s the thing about showing a mouse to a cat. He wants to play. And it’s terrifying, even for me. Because the only thing darker than my past is his.


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Excerpt One

The bed is the largest one I’ve ever seen, but somehow too small for two people. Too 

small if one of the people is Ivan. He’s physically large and, more than that, terrifying. What will 

he do to me? I can’t fight him. God, I’m not sure I want to try. Home. 

In the end I push back the heavy blankets, almost as thick as my sleeping pallet in 

Harmony Hills, and climb onto the bed. The pillow is perfectly soft, so clean, and I let myself 

drift away. I’m floating on a cloud, plush and high up.

I dream in those moments. I dream about color and light. I dream about the sky.

There is a deep voice from above and all around me, telling me to get on my knees. 

Commanding me to pray. This is the first time in my life I’ve ever skipped bedtime prayers. The 

first time I haven’t begged for salvation. I’m not going to beg, not ever again.

The hand on my face doesn’t feel angry. It isn’t a slap for my insolence. It strokes down 

my temple and cups my cheek. My eyes flutter open. Ivan.

“Candace,” he says in the same deep voice of my dream.

And there’s a look in his eyes, the same look Leader Allen gives Mama. The same look 

he started giving me. That look is the reason Mama sent me away.

“You’ll stay here,” he says softly. “I don’t want you to dance, but you can stay.”

The allure of it beats through me, a heart of its own, thumping away to a dream that isn’t 

mine. Safety. Home. I want those things, but I want freedom more. I want the flash of lights and 

of skin. I want the power those women had onstage. 

Ivan wants to put me in a cage, but what I really want is to fly.

“Okay,” I lie, because one sin becomes many. Leader Allen taught me that, and he was 

right. I’ll convince Ivan, though. One day I’ll dance on that stage, and Ivan will watch me.

One day he’ll teach me everything there is to know.

The praise washes over me, undeserved and darkly pleasurable, a stroke along my spine. 

It feels good, but I know what it is. A trap. A chain around my ankle to keep me on the ground. 

In this moment, it locks me so tight that I’d accept anything he did to me. If he were to touch me 

the way the woman with the kind eyes meant. The way Leader Allen touches Mama during 

Ivan leans down, and I hold my breath. Large hands take hold of the blanket, lift slightly. 

I feel everything between us—anticipation and denial, lust and fear corded together. We feel 

them together, breathe them in through the air, pulse them with each beat of our hearts. It’s a 

kind of knowledge, this feeling, connecting a thousand nerve points to the core of my body. This 

is what he meant by teaching me. This and so much more.

Then he pulls the blanket higher, tucking it around me. “Good night,” he says, eyes 

He is silver and light, made even brighter by the shadows behind him. It’s strange, the 

disappointment I feel that he isn’t going to touch me. He isn’t going to teach me. Not tonight. 

Then he’s gone, shutting the door against the dark, locking me in. And I slide away into 

sleep, without dreams, without color, with only the shameless black of contentedness, knowing I 

Excerpt Two

So far, a city looks exactly how I thought it would—gutted buildings and dark alleys.

This morning I woke up on my floor mat in Harmony Hills. Sunlight streamed through 

the window while dust rose up to meet it. The white walls somehow kept their color despite 

A desperate trek through the woods and a series of bus rides later, I made it to a city. This 

city. Tanglewood. It could have been anywhere. They’re all the same, all sinful, all scary—and 

the only thing that makes this one special is that I ran out of money for bus tickets.

My shoes are made of white canvas, already fraying and black from the grime of the 

streets. I made these shoes by hand when I turned twelve, and the heel on the left side has never 

fit quite right. But the bamboo soles lasted for years in the hills. Now they’re cracking against 

concrete. I can feel every lump in the pavement, every loose rock, every rounded hump as the 

sidewalk turns to cobblestone and then back again.

That’s not the worst part.

There’s someone following me. Maybe more than one person. I try to listen for the 

footsteps, but it’s hard to hear over the pounding in my ears, the thud of my heart against my 

chest. Panic is a tangible force in my head, a gritty quicksand that threatens to pull me down.

I could end up on my knees before this night is over.

But I don’t think I’ll be saying my evening prayers.

Men are standing outside a gate that hangs open on its hinges. They fall silent as I walk 

close. I tighten my arms where they are folded over my chest and look down. If I can’t see them, 

they can’t see me. It wasn’t true when I was little, and it’s not true now. 

One of them steps in front of me.

My breath catches, and I stop walking. My whole body is trembling by the time I meet 

his eyes, bloodshot red in a shadowed face. “What’s your name?” he asks in a gravelly voice.

“Now that’s not very polite, is it?” Another one steps closer, and then I smell him. They 

couldn’t have showered in the past day or even week.

Being quiet and obedient and small is a virtue too. “I’m sorry. I just want to—”

I don’t know what comes next. I want to run. I want to hide. I want to pretend the past 

sixteen years as a disciple of the Harmony Hills never happened. None of that is possible when 

I’m surrounded by men. I take a step back and bump into another man. Hands close around my 

A sound escapes me—fear and protest. It’s more than I would have done this morning, 

I’m turned to face the man behind me. He smiles a broken-toothed smile. “Doesn’t matter 

My mouth opens, but I can’t scream. I can’t scream because I’ve been taught not to. 

Because I know no one will come. Because the consequences of crying are worse than what will 

Then the man’s eyes widen in something like fear. It’s a foreign expression on his face. It 

doesn’t belong. I wouldn’t even believe it except he takes a step back.

My chest squeezes tight. What’s behind me? Who is behind me that could have inspired 

that kind of fear? The men surrounding me are monsters, but they’re backing off now, stepping 

away, hands up in surrender. No harm done, that’s what they’re saying without words.

I whirl and almost slip on a loose cobblestone. 

The man standing in front of me is completely still. That’s the first thing I notice about 

him—before I see the fine cut of his black suit or the glint of a silver watch under his cuff. 

Before I see the expression on his face, devoid of compassion or emotion. Devoid of humanity.

“We didn’t know she worked for you,” one of the men mumbles.

They’re still backing up, forming a circle around us, growing wider. I’m in the middle. 

I’m the drop, and the men around me form a ripple. Then they fade into the blackness and are 

It’s just me and the man in the suit.

He hasn’t spoken. I’m not sure he’s going to. I half expect him to pull out a gun from 

somewhere underneath that smooth black fabric and shoot me. That’s what happens in the city, 

isn’t it? That’s what everyone told me about the outside world, how dangerous it is. And even 

while some part of me had nodded along, had believed them, another part of me had refused.

There had to be beauty outside the white stucco walls. Beauty that wasn’t contained and 

controlled. Beauty with color. Only apparently I was wrong. I haven’t seen anything 

He’s beautiful in a strange and sinful way, one that makes me more afraid. Not colorful 

exactly. His eyes are a gray color I’ve never seen before, both deep and opaque at the same time. 

The building itself is beautiful too with its wrought iron gate around a large courtyard. The 

fountain in the center is broken, but that only adds to the mystique.

The marquee sign reads Grand, a flash of neon pink against the black night.

He steps closer, the light from the sign illuminating his face, making him look even more 

I couldn’t answer those other men, but I find something inside for him. I find truth. “I’m 

not allowed to say my name to someone else.”

He studies me for a long moment, taking in my tangled hair and my white dress. “Why 

Because God will punish me. “Because I’m running away.”

He nods like this is what he expected. “Do you have money?”

I have twenty dollars left after bus fare. “Enough.”

His lips twist, and I wonder if that’s what a smile looks like on him. It’s terrifying. “No, 

you don’t,” he says. “The question is, what would you do to earn some?”

My voice is just a whisper. “I’m a good girl.”

He laughs, and I see that I was wrong before. That wasn’t a smile. It was a taunt. A 

challenge. This is a real smile, one with teeth. The sound rolls through me like a coming storm, 

“I know,” he says gently. “What’s your name?”

He studies me. “Pretty name.”

His voice is deep with promise and something else I can’t decipher. All I know is he isn’t 

really talking about my name. And I know it isn’t really a compliment. “Thank you.”

“Now come inside, Candace.”

He turns and walks away before I can answer. I can feel the night closing in on me, the 

sharks in the water waiting to strike. It’s not really a choice. I think the man knows that. He’s 

counting on it. Whatever is going to happen inside will be bad, and the only thing worse is what 

I hurry to catch up with him, almost running across the crumbled driveway, under the 

marquee sign for the Grand, past the broken fountain, desperate for the dubious safety of the man 

who could hold the darkness at bay. It’s the same thing that kept me in Harmony Hills for so 

long—fear and twisted gratitude.

AUTHOR BIO:
Skye Warren is the New York Times and USA Today Bestselling author of dark romance. Her books are raw, sexual and perversely romantic.

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