Goddess of Pain
GODDESS OF PAIN
BLOOD MOON RISING
EXPRESSO PUBLISHING, LLC
Copyright © 2020 by Katie May
All rights reserved.
No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, brands, and incidents are the products of the author’s imagination or used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
Cover by CReya-tive
Edited by Expresso Publishing, LLC
Proofread by Meghan Leigh Daigle with Bookish Dreams. Editing
This is a Reverse Harem Paranormal Romance and is not suited for those under the age of 18.
To Rosie! Love you, my sweet little fur baby.
About the Author
Also by Katie May
This is a fantasy reverse harem romance and is not suitable for anyone under the age of 18. It contains strong language, psychotic males, and sexual situations. If such material triggers or offends you, please do not buy or read this book.
Growing up in a male-dominated household made me insane.
And while dating was a pain in the ass, I learned a few very important things—how to fight and how to survive. The twins, only two years older than me, ensured that I knew how to throw a punch. My eldest brother taught me how to take one. And my father? He taught me everything else.
As I tug on my purple skirt, I’m painfully aware of the footsteps echoing behind me, barely audible. Oh, this person is good, there’s no doubt about it.
But I’m better.
Feigning oblivion, I make a right instead of the left that would normally take me to Georgie’s Bar—a sleazy restaurant that I bartend at part time.
Rule number six: Change up your routine.
The element of surprise is crucial in these first few moments. If an attacker believes they know everything about you, they’ll become complacent. The random change in your routine will have them scratching their head.
I keep my pace deceptively light as I dig around in my purse. Unfortunately, I left my phone back at the two-bedroom apartment I share with my best friend, Avery. If this attacker has been following me as long as I suspect, he knows this.
I stop abruptly in front of a storefront window and begin to reapply my pink lipstick. The footsteps behind me stop as suddenly as my own, but I’m not fooled. He’s somewhere behind me, lurking like an ominous shadow.
With a sigh, I recap my lipstick and continue my trek towards the bustling street with numerous streetlights.
Rule number two: Find a crowd.
I don’t run. The last thing I want to do is clue this person in to the fact that I know he’s following me.
Finally, I reach the street and am immediately engulfed in the bright lights. It’s unsurprisingly crowded, the asphalt teeming with people of all ages. I spot a couple that appears to be in their mid-thirties arguing with a younger girl, who is more than likely their daughter. A group of men up ahead laugh raucously as they push and shove at one another.
I only breathe easier when I no longer feel the eyes searing the skin on the back of my neck.
With sure steps, I cross street after busy street until my stalker’s presence is nothing but a lingering nightmare.
THE LIGHTS ARE off when I step into my apartment, comfortably situated on the third floor. The open floor plan allows the kitchen to bleed into the living room and the living room to transition into a dining room. There’s a single hallway immediately to the right of the main entrance with two bedrooms and two bathrooms branching off.
“Baby girl, is that you?” a familiar voice queries from the living room. When I switch on the light, I see Avery’s head tilted over the back of the couch to smile up at me. His dirty blond hair is incredibly tousled, a few strands curling in front of his eyes, and his dimples make an impromptu appearance. “What are you doing home already? I thought you had to work.”
“Called in sick,” I fib as I kick off my shoes and move to sit beside him on the settee. Immediately, he places his arm over the back of the couch, and I snuggle into the warmth of his embrace. The relationship between us is strictly platonic—it always has been—but even I can appreciate how incredibly attractive my best friend is. His body appears to be chiseled from the gods themselves, every inch of him pure masculine perfection.
“Are you okay? Do you have a fever?” he asks anxiously, placing his hand on my forehead to test my temperature.
“I’m fine,” I assure him. “But what are you…?” I gesticulate wildly towards the television, just as a sledgehammer hits the side of an unsuspecting female’s head. Blood gushes from the wound as she falls to the ground, eyes glazed.
“What am I watching?” He begins to idly draw circles into the skin of my upper arm as he focuses back on his movie. “Killer Cheerleading Part Three.”
“Oh…wow,” I murmur absently as a second female races across the street, topless. Her larger than normal breasts bounce as she attempts to run from the—you guessed it—second naked cheerleader who follows behind her, holding a machete. “They made a part one and two?”
“And four, five, six, and seven,” he clarifies as the first girl predictably trips over a branch and falls onto the ground. The murderer’s finally able to catch up with her victim and hovers above, machete raised and naked chest heaving. The camera zooms in on