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    Rain
    Rain
    Rain
    Ebook87 pages1 hour

    Rain

    By Taryn Kincaid

    ()

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    About this ebook

    Sleeping Beauty in a post-apocalyptic land...

    In a world gone mad, where little remains but a vast wasteland of sand, the leader of a troop of roving warriors welcomes a brave young woman into his midst.

    Much as he burns for her, Major Clay Worthington swears to keep his distance from the mysterious woman, so sensitive even the stinging rain can wound her.

    Rosina Brierly is besotted with the formidable soldier and will gladly trade her life for one torrid night of blissful passion in his arms.

    But when sleep overcomes them, will true love prevail?

    LanguageEnglish
    PublisherDecadent Publishing
    Release dateJun 1, 2015
    ISBN9781613338483
    Rain

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      Book preview

      Rain - Taryn Kincaid

      The unauthorized reproduction or distribution of a copyrighted work is illegal. Criminal copyright infringement, including infringement without monetary gain, is investigated by the FBI and is punishable by fines and federal imprisonment.

      Please purchase only authorized electronic editions and do not participate in, or encourage, the electronic piracy of copyrighted materials. Your support of the author’s rights is appreciated.

      This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, 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.

      Rain

      Smashwords Edition

      Copyright © 2015 by Taryn Kincaid

      ISBN: 978-1-61333-848-3

      Cover art by Syneca Featherstone

      All rights reserved. Except for use in any review, the reproduction or utilization of this work, in whole or in part, in any form by any electronic, mechanical or other means now known or hereafter invented, is forbidden without the written permission of the publisher.

      Published by Decadent Publishing Company, LLC

      Look for us online at:

      www.decadentpublishing.com

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      Dedication

      To my dad, who called me princess but didn’t need me to remain one. And to my mom, who by example showed me women could be whatever they chose to be. Thank you for reading me all those stories. Miss you every day.

      Rain

      By

      Taryn Kincaid

      A Beyond Fairy Tales

      Adaptation of Grimms’ Little Brier-Rose

      Better Known as Sleeping Beauty

      Chapter One

      Brierly.

      She hunched her shoulder in an effort to escape the huge male hand shaking her and tried to burrow back into the depths of sleep. After so many nightmarish days and restless nights, she’d missed countless hours and had much to make up for. If only she could. Sleep, ever elusive. And, at this moment, she wanted nothing more.

      "Come on, Sandrina. You’ve caught enough zzzzzs. Wake up, soldier."

      Her name was Rosina, Rosina Brierly. She had to keep reminding herself because of origins so hazy very few people knew her real name anymore. The large males with whom she traveled called her many things as the whim struck them. They liked nicknames. Sandrina had stuck because, they said, she seemed more at home in the desert than they did.

      Their vocabulary and teasing sometimes perplexed her. Catching zzzzzs, they called those trips into deepest slumber, conjuring images of one of them grasping the lowercase letters in his fist and knocking himself out with them. She snatched those zzzzzs when she could, as did the men. Her hard-bitten companions might be the biggest and toughest males she’d ever encountered, but the same subterranean forays into unconsciousness occasionally seized them all when their bodies simply could go no farther.

      Damn it, princess. Wake the fuck up. Another jolting shake. Rougher. But the deep, familiar voice, strong as the man it belonged to, soothed her in some odd way, making sleep delicious and safe, giving her a sense of security certain and profound enough to let her remain in the twilight place between dreamland and the fully conscious state. The voice might rise and fall, like sand dunes shifting in the wind, but most often it rang with the authoritative clarity of the dark end of the spectrum, rarely light like his companions’ voices.

      They joked a lot, the other soldiers. Even in the face of death. Especially in the face of death. But not this one. No nonsense. Did he imagine he’d split his stern face apart with a smile if he attempted one?

      They liked ribbing her, the other men said. Another curious word. Their benign jabs had nothing to do with the bones that stood out on her torso when she hungered, as she nearly always did, nor the sculpted waves dominating the well-defined chests of the troops. Nor did ribbing have to do with those tasty meat delicacies, slathered with sauce, which they roasted over grills and gnawed on with such gusto when supply shipments arrived at their outposts. Or when they managed to locate elusive game while out on the maneuvers that took them far from their barracks and camps. And the scavengers, well—

      Sandy. Come on, baby.

      Another shake. They called her Sandy because she preferred to sleep in the soft sand beneath the stars and clear night sky, instead of in their suffocating tents with them.

      An obstinate wave of defiance rippled through her now. This particular man rarely called her Sandy, and she did not like it from him. Worse still, she did not like him calling her baby. She did not want him thinking of her as a child.

      Brierly, she muttered, only half awake, still clutching at the remnants of fleeing sleep. Rosina Brierly. I am a woman, and you are not my father.

      Jesus. The word blasted from his mouth, an explosive denial of any familial relationship between them. "I know that, princess. He took a breath, apparently summoning patience. Brierly. Rosina. Let’s go, damn it."

      She’d been named for a flower. But none of them had ever seen a rose, she suspected. The only roses she knew of had been embroidered on her lacy drawers and camisoles years ago, when she’d been but a slip of a girl. She’d never known who had performed that painstaking needlework. But artistry it had been. After her underthings had been reduced to frayed

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