Sarah Kay Moll
Welcome to the blog today! I have a fabulous extract from Dark City by Sarah Kay Moll, which publishes tomorrow!! If that stunning cover isn’t enough to whet your appetite, this extract certainly will! But first, here is a little bit more about the book and its lovely author:
About the Book
Jude has a tender heart. Yet he was born into a criminal empire and groomed from childhood to step into his father’s violent footsteps. To survive, he created a second personality. Ras is everything Jude isn’t—cruel, remorseless, and utterly without fear, as incapable of love as Jude is of malice.
But when Ras meets a ruthless socialite, he begins to feel a strange stirring of emotion, a brush of Jude’s passion against his own dark heart. Meanwhile, Jude finds himself with a knife in his hand, the evil in Ras’s soul bleeding into his own.
As the walls between them crumble, they could lose everything—their lovers, their family, and their hold on the dark city itself.
Coming together could break them…or make them whole.
To purchase a copy of this book, you can follow the links below:
About Sarah Kay Moll
Sarah Kay Moll is a wordsmith and an amateur homemaker. She’s good with metaphors and bad with coffee stains, both of which result from a writing habit she hasn’t been able to quit. She lives a mostly solitary life, and as a result, might never say the right thing at parties. She’s passionate about books and has about five hundred on her to-read pile. When she does go out, it’s probably to the library, the theater, or the non-profit where she works.
Sarah lives in a beautiful corner of western Oregon where the trees are still changing color at the end of November and the mornings are misty and mysterious. She spends her free time playing video games and catering to her cat’s every whim.
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Extract from Dark City
Ras makes his way down from the deck of the yacht, stained with the blood of a man foolish enough to cross his criminal syndicate. He walks through the pleasantly lit, opulently decorated rooms of the yacht, looking for goodies to steal—cash, jewelry, or if he’s lucky, drugs.
“Hey.” A low voice, with a slight huskiness to it, like coarse fur, comes from a corner of the room. A beautiful woman, maybe twenty years old, smiles at him, a curve of full, luscious lips. She holds her chin high, arrogant and unafraid, and her feet barely seem to touch the ground as she walks toward him. With every step, her hips sway, her silky black dress rippling and flowing over her like an unbroken stream of water. She reminds him of one of those ancient Egyptian statues, queens with long, slender necks set to rule the world.
“You’re a syndicate hitman, aren’t you?” she says, stopping her approach only when they’re close enough he could kiss her if he leaned forward. Now he can see the color of her eyes, brown like sugar cooked to a crystalline crisp, with the same shine. She watches him distantly, her composure icy and flawless.
“Yes,” he says. “And I never leave any witnesses after I do a job.”
“You should reconsider,” she says, and just when he thinks she’s going to kiss him, something sharp scratches against his stomach, a little paring knife pressed to his side.
“Let me off this fucking boat,” she whispers, “or I will gut you.”
It takes some time before he can focus on anything besides the cold turn of her lips, her calculating gaze, like he’s nothing more than a chess piece held between her fingers, hovering above the board as she considers her move. But finally he gets his shit together and strikes, a hand as quick as a cobra, catching her wrist in its bite. He twists hard, instinct and training replacing thought, until she drops the knife onto the carpet beneath them. She doesn’t make a sound.
The next moment seems to stretch and linger, her wrist still in his hand, her eyes cold and fearless as a winter night, as though she could match him, darkness for darkness.
He, who feels nothing, is unsettled by the stirring within him, by the way her every last detail seems fraught with meaning. The bones of her slender arm beneath the heavy press of his fingertips, the steady firm shape of her mouth, the curves of her body beneath a black satin dress that falls soft as a negligee.
She is dangerous, to him, to his father, to the syndicate. And yet…
He lifts the hand that holds her wrist. “Move your hand in a circle.”
She obeys, her hand moving gracefully, delicate fingers, long nails painted wine red. There’s no wince of pain, no hesitation or difficulty. Nothing is broken or sprained, and, for some reason, he’s glad.
“Let me go,” she says, as though her force of will alone could save her.
“Will you keep your mouth shut?” he asks, the words a surprise to himself the moment they leave him.
The corner of her mouth turns up in a cold smile, like she knows she’s won. “I’m not an idiot.”
“How can I trust you?”
“My name is Scarlett Bancroft,” she says. “If I tell anyone, it won’t be hard to find me.”
The last name, at least, is familiar to him; one of the city’s oldest, richest families. The Bancrofts built this city, or so one of the more prominent members of the family liked to say until his campaign for mayor was cut short by a bullet.
“Why aren’t you afraid of me?” he asks, fingers still on her wrist, reluctant to break the current he can feel flowing between them, two circuits feeding into each other a blue-white arc of electricity.
“I have nothing to lose,” she says indifferently. Not a cry of desperation or a plea for pity, just the simple statement of a fact.
“People will be here to take care of the body in fifteen minutes. Be gone by then.”
She nods, and where he expects relief, gratitude, there’s only a kind of determined fatigue, a long march through a cold night not yet over.
“My name is Ras.” He lifts her hand to his lips, kissing her palm, then releases her and turns all at once, walking quickly into the night without looking back.
Wasn’t that wonderful?!
Huge thanks to Sarah Kay Moll for appearing on the blog with a wonderful extract from Dark City!