**STOP BACK ON THE 31ST FOR A HALLOWEEN GIVE-A-WAY
Hi, and thank you for having me on your blog!
I’ve always been fascinated by dark
psychological thrillers that mess with your mind and keep you on the edge of
your seat. I toyed with the genre writing my debut novel Wild Hearted, but labeled
it a crime drama. Its sequel, Carnivora, evolved over six years to become a
full-blown hold-your-breath thriller that deals with grave issues such as
kidnapping, child sex trafficking, and self-harm.
Telling five parallel stories with
as many voices, it gives you the perspectives of a police informant, a hunted
gangster, a mad avenger, an inconsolable girlfriend, and a psychotic kidnapper.
I pull no punches weaving these stories, so be prepared for a dark, gritty, and
graphic read – a little dirty on the erotic side – that I hope will play with
your strings and stick with you for a long time.
Please note that this is part 1 of Carnivora
and I am currently working on parts 2 and 3, so if those cliffhangers at the
end are killing you, don’t despair. The continuation is right around the
corner!
Blurb
Fight evil with evil.
TOMOR
Crime lord Tomor is serving a life sentence
behind bars. Without warning, he’s abducted by mysterious men. A sick manhunt
is on, with people around him dying like flies. He will need all his street
flair and gangster skills to prevent his loved ones from ending up on the death
list.
LUZ
Luz grieves the loss of her lover while striving
to take care of their baby. The last thing she needs is to fall for the new
neighbor.
DAVID
A year after he betrayed his adoptive father and
sent him to jail, David is slowly rebuilding his life. Then everything falls
apart again: he learns that Tomor has escaped, and his police connections lead
him to a child sex trafficking ring involving cold, powerful men.
The cops are in over their heads with “Project
Carnivora” … Perhaps the only one who can help bust the pedophile predators is
an equally vicious devil: Tomor, the country’s most hunted criminal.
Available
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book on your to-read shelf on Goodreads
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that inspired me to write the book on Pinterest
Excerpt
“Time to change your
bandage again,” the nurse mutters, voice cool, and pulls my orange-colored
sleeve up to the elbow.
She unrolls the long
strip of bandage from my wrist and tugs at one corner of the gauze plastered on
my wound. It sticks as if glued to the freshly grown skin, and instead of
removing the gauze carefully, she tears if off hard, discharging pain through
my arm, wrist-to-shoulder.
I open my eyes and lift
my head off the pillow. “What the fuck are ya doing, trying to reopen the wound
or something?”
“Like you care.” She
stops pulling and glares, gauze between her fingers. “I can see who you are
inside. You’re playing tough, aren’t you, bad guy? But you can’t fool
me.”
“Shut up.” I lay down
again, huffing, and stare at the white ceiling above me with its rows of long
neon lights.
“You’re a good man.”
I glance back. “I said,
shut the fuck up.”
Her eyes shine. She
rips off the remaining gauze, ignoring my grunt of pain, and throws it in a
bin. “Look.”
No fuck.
“Look at it,” she
insists, voice low and demanding.
No. I know what I’ve
done, and I can imagine what it looks like. A six centimeter-long deep,
reddish, scratched-up ridge along my artery. Layers of skin, fat, meat, and
whatnot must be visible and sweating a pinkish liquid from the reborn pores. I
don’t need to see it.
I guess the girl wants
me to be so horrified, I’ll never attempt suicide again. That’s right. She
wants to shock me into acceptance.
You gotta be fucking
kidding me, little thing.
She shakes her head. “I
don’t understand why they gave you the life sentence.”
“You mean they shoulda
given me the chair?”
Instead of responding
to my sarcasm, she pivots to look up at the clock and widens her eyes as if
realizing she forgot an appointment. Face tense, she returns to her work,
applies some cool, gel-like liquid on the wound, and bandages it with quick
routine moves.
What’s up with her? In
my three days in this woman’s company, I’ve noted the things that make her
tick. Maybe she’s upset because I’m leaving the infirmary soon. Earlier, she
said she didn’t know when I’d be ready to go back to my cell. She probably
knows now, but doesn’t want to tell me.
The door opens. She
jumps.
A uniformed guard pokes
his head in, checks the small room, and exits.
She seems frozen in
place, features tense. Staring ahead and taking deep breaths as if trying to
regain composure.
I cock my head a
little. “What’s going on? They gonna transfer me?”
She visibly swallows
and fixes her gaze on some point on the wall.
I snicker. “Are you sad
‘cause I’m leaving?”
Ha, I can be so ugly,
when the girl clearly likes me.
As she sits there
avoiding me, I take the time to check out her tits, and drink in the amazing
sight of their pressing against her green blouse with each breath. She doesn’t
have a name tag. Come to think of it, none of the personnel do. Evidently, so
the inmates can’t identify their ‘caretakers’, and should they by some miracle
leave the premises, track them down.
I nod to her blouse.
“What’s your name?”
She twists back to me, brows
raised, before shaking her head. “I can’t tell you that.”
“C’mon, I’ll never see
you again.” I grin, then add with an ironic snicker, teasing her, “They’ll
never let me slash my wrists, or hang myself.”
She looks away and
busies herself collecting the medical stuff, throwing a quick, almost invisible
glance to the door. What the hell is making her so nervous?
Coldness fills my
chest. Something’s up.
“Come on, Babe,” I coax
with my most gentle, sensual voice, wanting to buy time. “Tell me your name.”
“Why?” she whispers,
fidgeting with the roll of bandage.
“’Cause I want a name
to your pretty face when I jack off in my cell.”
About the author
Lea Bronsen likes her reads hot, fast, and edgy, and strives to give her
own stories the same intensity. After a
deep dive on the unforgiving world of gangsters with her debut novel Wild
Hearted, she divides her writing time between romantic suspenses, dark erotic
romances, and crime thrillers.
Meet
Lea Bronsen on
