1. Mina

"—adangerous criminal escaped from the nearby Crixley Institution. Please be on the lookout for a?—"

"Can we turn that down?" I jerked my head up from behind my computer screen and yelled in the vague direction of the downstairs studio.

"—in other local news, a brand new fashion exhibition is coming to the Crookshollow Museum, featuring some of the hottest designers of the last decade, and the neighborhood feud over a pet duck reaches new heights as?—

"What's that?" Quoth yelled back. "You want us to put on some Motown?"

"—And now, for the weather, this cold front we've been monitoring looks to be closing in, which means that we could be in for a wet week ahead?—"

"No Motown." I deleted the email address I'd written incorrectly for the third time. "I just want you to turn the volume down?—"

The door to my office flung open all the way. Oscar lifted his head from my foot as Morrie poked his around the corner. "Gorgeous, I heard you yelling about how much you hate clowns. Is a clown bothering you? Is one of those sadistic, rouged, banana-foot flamingos keeping you from your work? Fear not, because I'm here to help. I'll make certain no clown ever darkens your doorstep again?—"

"You don't need to go on a clown-murdering spree," I sighed. "I just want you guys to turn the radio down. I can't concentrate with all the noise."

"Oh, sorry." Morrie frowned. "It's just that Smooth Loamshire is giving away a lifetime supply of cheesecakes to the first caller who hears the magic sound, and I was hoping to win it for the wedding. I know how much you love cheesecake."

He's…what?

I rested my elbows on my desk and glared in the vague direction of the Napoleon of Crime. "Heathcliff already has Oliver baking round the clock on some elaborate dessert concoction that I'm not allowed to know anything about. I don't think we need a lifetime supply of cheesecake."

Even with my poor eyesight, I could tell Morrie was making his pouting face. "If you recall, you insisted we invite the whole village to this shindig. Never underestimate the abilities of a horde of polite British party guests to decimate the dessert buffet. I'm simply being pragmatic."

"Fine, but you're the world's foremost criminal mastermind, in possession of deep coffers filled with ill-gotten gains. Surely you can purchase your own cheesecakes?"

"That's not the point. I'm trying to be romantic." Morrie pouted. "Heathcliff gets to plan a whole wedding for you. Quoth's downstairs creating yet another artistic masterpiece that will have you swooning. All I'm allowed to do is show up and look pretty, which granted, is a job to which I am particularly well-suited, but I'd like to swoop in as the cheesecake-supplying hero, or some other hero who will romantically save the day and have you kneeling at my feet?—"

"Luckily, I have just the job for you. Can you romantically turn the volume down?" I peered over my computer screen and the piles of embossed paper my Braille printer was still spitting out. "I've got the last of my press invites to send out, and then I have to get the edited manuscript to Jerry over at Argleton Print or he won't be able to print enough copies in time for the launch party."

I ran my fingers along my Braille display, checking over the text of my email for what must have been the thirtieth time. I'd been training for months on using a screen reader – software on my phone and laptop that figured out what was on screen and allowed me to use keyboard commands to navigate and do pretty much anything a sighted person could do. Usually, I had the screen reader read out what was on screen, but when I was working on my book, I preferred to use the Braille display. When the computer reads to you, it doesn't pick out when you drop an apostrophe or use here instead of hair. But with the Braille display, I could check every word, phrase, and sentence with my fingers to make sure that they were perfect.

I needed everything about this book to be perfect.

I'd spent the last two months since I got back from the Meddleworth Writers Retreat (where I didn't do much writing but we did solve a doozy of a murder) holed up in this room for nine hours a day, frantically polishing my debut novel. I'd written a fictionalized version of what happened to me over the last two years – getting fired from my dream fashion job, returning to the small English village where I'd grown up, getting a job in a magical bookshop, solving a murder (or eight), finding out that I'm the daughter of the blind poet Homer, slaying literature's most infamous vampire, and falling in love with Heathcliff Earnshaw, James Moriarty, and Quoth the raven.

Even without my fictional embellishments, the story would never pass for a biography. Which was probably just as well that I was publishing it under a pseudonym, since I'd filled it with loads of smut. Hey, sex sells, right?

I wanted my book to help people heal after a setback. And all romance readers understand the healing powers of multiple orgasms.

I'd come to Nevermore Bookshop broken and lonely. I thought my diagnosis meant that my life was over. Instead, I stumbled into adventures I never imagined possible, and I fell in love with three beautiful, impossible men, and somehow (partially through the healing power of great cock), I learned to love myself again.

I realized that my disability was part of me, but it didn't have to define me.

Now, I was ready to share that story with the world. And hopefully, make some money.

Owning a bookshop that's forced to compete against The-Store-That-Shall-Not-Be-Named wasn't exactly a road to riches, and I had bills to pay and guide dog food to purchase and a grandmother cat with six baby kittens who needed to be kept in the lifestyle to which they'd become accustomed.

I didn't just want to write a book, I wanted a career where my creative spirit could thrive, like the career in fashion I'd given up when I started losing my sight.

I decided to self-publish my book after my writing friend Christina showed me how she uploaded hers to The-Store-That-Shall-Not-Be-Named, created a paperback that prints on demand whenever someone orders it, and arranged for all her fancy London literary friends to blurb and review it. She was doing really well, and I was hoping a little bit of her magic would rub off on me.

Which was why I was trying to organize the biggest book launch that Nevermore Bookshop had ever seen.

The evening after my wedding.

Because I was bonkers.

Originally, the wedding and book launch were going to be a month apart, but Heathcliff had some issues with our original venue and Cynthia offered us Lachlan Hall, but only if we could do it the day before the book launch.

When Heathcliff first suggested the idea, I thought it would be a fun way to extend the celebrations and enable our out-of-town friends to attend both events if they wanted.

Reader, I was wrong.

Launching your debut novel a day after your wedding was not fun, especially when I'd been inviting publishers, reviewers, and every bookish person I knew for weeks and they were all ignoring me.

I thought that with the connections I'd made at Meddleworth and from bookselling, and our modest following online (I'd made some videos of Quoth hopping along the bookshelves and Oscar helping me put books away, and they'd gone semi-viral), people would be interested in my book.

But so far, with the exception of my friends in the village, Morrie's ex-boyfriend Sherlock, and the Argleton Spirit Seekers Society, I hadn't got a single RSVP. And it was starting to freak me out.

—join us on Smooth Loamshire for an hour of non-stop country and western classics. Yee-haw!

"Morrie, the radio." I shot Morrie my best blind-girl glare. "Please."

"Since you asked so nicely."

Morrie snapped out his foot and, with the precision of a mathematician who's trained in the martial arts since childhood, slammed the door shut.

I swallowed.

"That's not what I meant," I said, but my mouth had gone dry. Tension crackled between us, as it always did when Morrie walked that tightrope between his need to control everything and the dark chaos of his psyche. "I have to finish these emails, and proofread my manuscript, and…"

"And?"

"Uh." I forgot what else I had to do. Morrie had that effect on me.

Morrie regarded the pile of Braille pages on my desk with a smirk that I could sense even when I couldn't actually see it. "I thought you finished proofreading the manuscript last month."

"Yes, but then I randomly opened it to page 23 and discovered I'd used a semicolon instead of a colon, and now I'm doubting everything."

Morrie leaned over the desk and cupped the back of my neck, pulling me out of my seat and across the desk until our lips were an inch apart. Every atom of me sizzled with anticipation, trapped in the web that only James Moriarty could spin.

The purr of his voice rumbled through my body, stoking an ache deep in my belly. "My little perfectionist. Do you know what I think these pages need?"

"Is it a fancypants London reviewer, publishing executive, or paper to review them? Because you'd be right."

"I think they need you spread out over them, coming around my cock like a good girl."

"Morrie…" I sighed but knew I couldn't fight him as his breath trailed down my neck and to

my collarbone. He wasn't even touching me and I was already a quivering mess.

"We shouldn't do this. I don't have time. The book launch is in five days," I managed to breathe out as his lips finally met my skin, kissing the spot on my collarbone that lit my body on fire.

"If that's how you really feel," he whispered into my skin, "I'll let you get back to work."

Morrie drew back sharply.

By Isis.

I whimpered involuntarily, already missing his touch.

"What—" but I didn't get a chance to finish the sentence before I felt him come up behind me, his hips trapping mine against the edge of the desk, his body caging me in.

I closed my eyes, blocking out the light and just feeling each new sensation as his hands

roamed over my body. My skin prickled everywhere his expert hands touched, even through my clothes.

He slid down my body, kneeling behind the desk. I heard Oscar whimper as he retreated into the corner behind the desk, so his poor innocent doggie eyes wouldn't be assaulted by whatever Morrie intended to do. There was a light tap at my ankles, then an abrupt push when I didn't comply, shoving my legs wide.

"Morrie, what are you doing?" I managed to ask between deep breaths.

"Letting you work, gorgeous. Go on, keep doing what you're doing."

I snorted. "How am I supposed to do that when you're down there, doing whatever you're doing?"

He laughed that cruel, arrogant laugh of his, the one that utterly disintegrated my self-control as the vibrations tickled my bare skin where my skirt met my thighs.

"That's not my problem, gorgeous. I never said that I wouldn't be a distraction." His kisses trailed up my leg as his strong hands pushed my legs wider, giving him better access to my body.

Morrie pressed a hand into the small of my back, bending me over the desk and giving him better access to what he was wanting.

His lips skirted over my panties, driving me absolutely wild. I pressed my cheek against a stack of pages, knowing I was probably flattening the dots so I wouldn't be able to read them later, but I didn't care.

Morrie breathed heavily before he pushed aside the fabric with his deft fingers and let the pad of his thumb roam over my lips.

"If your book launch is in five days, that means that in four days, you're going to be my wife."

"Morrie," I gasped as his finger circled me.

"I love it when you say my name," he whispered, his breath caressing me. "And soon, Mina Wilde, all of this will be mine."

He slid his finger inside me, stroking in a slow, languid rhythm.

"Not just yours," I managed to choke out.

"No, not just mine. Ours. Mine and Heathcliff's and Quoth's. You'll be shackling yourself to three nefarious villains forever. But judging by how wet you are, I don't think you mind at all. They say that it's bad luck to defile the bride before the wedding night, but I've never been one for obeying the rules."

He dived his tongue inside me.

I gasped at the new sensation, gripping the desk to keep my balance. His tongue pressed needfully against me. My nipples pressed against the Braille paper, hard as pebbles through my shirt.

"Yes," Morrie murmured against me. "I think you'll make a lovely wife, Mina Wilde."

My skin prickled as he lapped up every drop of me, taking his sweet, deliberate time. He added his fingers to spread me further as he thrust his expert tongue in and out of me before dragging it up to circle my clit.

"Morrie, I'm so close," I gasped, leaning forward, the rough dots of the Braille paper brushing against my cheek. I slid my arm out to grip the other edge, sending a pile of pages cascading to the floor.

It would probably take me hours to get everything back in order. A few minutes ago, I would have been panicking about it, but as fireworks rippled through my core and stars burst behind my closed eyelids, that was the last thing on my mind as I cried out my orgasm, riding it on Morrie's expert tongue.

"Do you want more distracting?" he growled, sinking his teeth lightly into the flesh of my ass while his fingers built me up again with slow thrusts.

"Yes, please," I begged, pushing my hips forward to meet his awaiting thrusts.

Morrie laughed as his tongue plunged back inside me, matching the push and pull of his fingers.

He drove me senseless with this onslaught. The whole world collapsed into a pinprick, nothing existing anymore outside of the pleasure he offered me. My next climax was hard and fast, bursts of light shooting through me as my whole body shook. More Braille pages tumbled off the desk.

Before I could even come down from my high, Morrie was up and his strong body behind

me, holding me in place as I slumped over the desk, my skirt now wrapped around my waist.

A dopey smile crossed my face as I laid my cheek back down on the Braille pages, knowing that my skin would bear the imprint of all the raised dots. Morrie slapped my ass playfully, making me yelp, before he gripped my hips and entered me in one long thrust.

Just like his tongue, he moved with a cool, controlled manner that had my knees buckling, and

I was glad I had the desk to grab onto as he impaled me with his monstrous cock.

"Are you going to come for me again, gorgeous? Are you going to scream my name as you come all over my cock? Are you going to make Quoth downstairs jealous that he's not up here distracting you, too?"

"Yes, yes," I moaned, pushing my ass back against him, sending another avalanche of paper falling to the floor.

Damn, how many of those sheets were there?

I was quickly drawn back to the moment by the build-up of pleasure pooling between my thighs. The sheer size of Morrie stole the breath from my lungs, and when he worked his way inside me with that insouciant arrogance of his, as if being spread out beneath him was what I'd been asking for all along, I became a mess.

By Hathor, but Morrie is good at getting me out of my own head.

"That's it, gorgeous. Come for me, my future wife. Let me hear you scream my name." Morrie thrust harder as he reached between my legs, circling my wet clit with his fingers.

He groaned again, the sound absolutely feral, and I knew with shuddering certainty that the last vestiges of his well-honed control had finally snapped. When he drove into me again, it was with such force that the desk creaked and slid across the floor.

"Mina." His hips thrust as his voice rumbled inside my chest. His scent swirled around me, that familiar grapefruit and vanilla aftershave that belied his villainous nature.

I answered with an incoherent moan that might've been his name and might've been my shopping list, but it didn't matter when I writhed beneath him, pinned to the desk by his strong hands and the relentless pace of his hips.

"Morrie," I moaned again, riding his touch as the electricity hit me fast and hard like a bolt of lightning. This time, when my orgasm hit, I didn't try to hold back, and rode the wave hard, screaming out Morrie's name as I let my body spasm beneath his.

"Fuck, Mina," he growled, pushing harder, gripping my waist as I felt him release the final flimsy thread of his control.

I tried to steady my breathing as I collapsed back onto the desk. Morrie stayed inside me for a moment longer, leaning over to lay a trail of kisses down my skin before pulling out.

Morrie lay down, resting his cheek on the desk beside me, crushing more Braille dots. His vanilla and grapefruit scent wafted around me, and I found myself relaxing. He reached over, digging his long, expert fingers into the knots in my shoulders.

I wanted to protest and tell him I had so much more work to do, but as my thighs still tingled and the tension in my shoulders fell away, I knew there was no way I could say no to a bit of pampering.

The book could wait just a little longer.

"Listen to me, gorgeous. So what if none of those publishing bigwigs show up. Everyone who matters to you is going to love your book. You shouldn't be worrying about this now," he murmured as his fingers dug into a particularly stubborn knot.

Maybe he's right. So what if no one came to my book launch? It didn't matter. In four days, I was marrying three of literature's greatest villains, who I loved more than I'd love a Henry Rollins-era Black Flag reunion tour, and nothing else mattered?—

DING.

That's an email!

"Leave it, gorgeous, we're snuggling," Morrie groaned.

But I'd already rolled over and was frantically searching for my phone. My fingers grazed it, right on the edge of the table. I picked it up and clicked on the email sender.

My phone read out the sender's name. "Jan Whately."

TheJan Whately.

My heart pounded against my ribs. Jen was the editorial director at my dream publishing house and a friend of Christina Olivian. I'd met her six months ago when Christina brought her into Nevermore to search for a first-edition Oscar Wilde as a gift for a friend.

After I picked my jaw up off the ground, we got to chatting. Jen gave me her card. We'd been emailing back and forth a bit after I tracked down that Oscar Wilde for her. I'd sent her an invite and an advance copy of the book, and I knew it was a long shot, but I'd been secretly hoping that she'd love my book so much that she'd want to pick it up for publication, maybe a print-only deal where I got to publish the ebook but they made one of those pretty gilded-edge special editions…

"Who is that, gorgeous?" Morrie's hands roamed over the curve of my ass.

"Jen Whately. The publisher I was telling you about. The one I was hoping…"

I nearly dropped my phone.

Morrie sat up, instantly interested. "Go on, read it out. I want to hear how brilliant she thinks you are and how many zeroes are on the end of the cheque she's offering you for your brilliant, smutty book."

With trembling hands, I clicked on the email. My phone started to read out Jan's reply:

Mina,

Thank you very much for the invite. I'm a big fan of your little bookshop, so I'm going to give you some advice that I don't give freely to the gazillion other aspiring writers who contact me. First, you're self-publishing your book, which isn't looked upon favorably in my industry. Second, making your heroine blind is going to be a hard sell. Readers want to feel as though they relate to a heroine, and they won't be able to if she can't see. I'm sorry, I know this isn't what you want to hear.

Write something more commercial, or rewrite this book without the blindness, and I'll happily look at it.

I wish you all the best, and I hope to return to your charming store when I'm next in the area.

Yours, Jen

My heart thudded against my chest. People can't relate to my heroine? But…

I wanted to argue. I wanted to scream that people seemed to relate to me just fine.

I wanted to explain how desperately I needed to read a story like this when I first got my diagnosis.

But there was no point.

Jan knew best. She was the publishing expert.

She knows what she's talking about. If she says that my book isn't commercial enough, then…

Morrie grabbed my phone from my hands and scanned the email. "I cannot believe she said that to you. I hope this woman enjoys one-of-a-kind designer accessories, because I'm going to weave her intestines into an elegant evening purse."

I squeezed my eyes shut. Astarte, don't let me start crying in front of him. "Morrie, don't make a big deal about it. Please."

"I'm going to string her teeth onto a necklace and knit her eyebrows into a winter coat?—"

"How would you even get enough fibre from eyebrows for—never mind. Morrie?—"

"Mina, she said that people can't relate to your story. Can't relate to your story. Everyone in the world can relate to the story of having to find yourself again after a setback. Everyone except me, that is, because I've never experienced a setback in my life."

"It's fine." I snatched my phone from him and shoved it back into my pocket. As I straightened my skirt, I swallowed down the hurt until it was deep inside me. "Jen knows this industry. If she doesn't think it's relatable, she's probably right. It explains why no one's returned my emails."

"Mina, don't?—"

"I'm fine with it, really. It's a quirky little book. I shouldn't expect so much. Even if no one comes to the book launch, the four of us and the Spirit Seekers Society will still have an amazing time." I forced a smile. "And look on the bright side, this way we'll know there will definitely be enough sausage rolls."

I looked away from him, frantically trying to blink back the tears. I didn't want to cry four days before my wedding day.

I've made a huge mistake.

I worked so hard on this book. I poured everything I had into it. All my friends who read it said that it's a fun story. I guess I'd been cocooned within their praise for so long that I was so sure people would love it, that if I could just get the word out, I'd find an audience who wanted to read about a heroine who fell into a magical bookshop, solved murders, and fell in love with three fictional men.

But clearly, I was wrong.

"You sound so disappointed?—"

"I'm fine!" I bent over my laptop again, typing random gibberish on the screen. "Now, I've got a ton of work to do and only days to do it in, so can you please go downstairs and tell Quoth to turn down the radio?"