Change of Heart by Hailey Edwards (The Potentate of Atlanta Book 3)
English | 2020 | Fantasy | ePUB | 2.8 MB
Hailey Edwards writes about questionable applications of otherwise perfectly good magic, the transformative power of love, the family you choose for yourself, and blowing stuff up. Not necessarily all at once. That could get messy. She lives in Alabama with her husband, their daughter, and a herd of dachshunds.
When a lethal drug targeting paranormal citizens is unleashed on the streets of Atlanta, Hadley hits the clubs to pin down the dealer. The party is just getting started when a mysterious fae with his own agenda offers her a taste of power she can’t refuse if she wants to purge the evil from her city.
Hadley already owes Natisha seven beating hearts to satisfy their bargain, but the price the fae demands from Hadley might as well be her soul. He strips away her tiny spells, her necessary illusions, and leaves her bare to face judgement from the one person she never wanted to see her truth.
Now Hadley’s fate rests in Midas’s hands, and all she can do is hope the future she glimpsed for them doesn’t slip through his fingers.
Midas paused in leading a group of rail-thin girls with lank hair and haunted eyes through a kata when he spotted the pint-sized bouncer en route.
“Midas,” she said, her voice loud enough to carry. “Your girlfriend is here.”
An invisible hand pressed a cosmic mute button, and the chatter in the gym died a swift death.
Nostrils flaring, Midas whipped his head toward the doorway where I stood.
And he smiled.
Like I was the only person in the world.
Like the dozens of onlookers no longer existed for him.
Like I had made his whole night by showing up out of the blue.
A tremor in my knees warned me I was in over my head with him and sinking fast, but I held my ground.
“Wait.” The girl scrunched up her nose. “She’s really your girlfriend?”
The kid looked me up and down, a frank assessment of the results from running five miles after I woke at dusk.
Sweaty blonde hair curled beneath a discount Atlanta Braves ball cap. Stains darkened the underarms of a thrift store tank top. Bleach splotched my ripped leggings. Mismatched socks peeked out above the ratty heels of unbranded sneakers with holes in both toes. A rusty safety pin kept the left strap on my sports bra from unraveling. And, the pièce de résistance, a pimple dead center in my forehead, large enough to be my third eye.
This level of sexy couldn’t be taught. Either you were born with it, or you died trying.
Dozens of gazes fell on me, assessing and dismissing me as a potential rival, as the women waited for him to blow me off and get back to teaching.
“You forgot your phone.” I held it up, pinched between two fingers. “Figured you might want it back.”
With the debt we owed Natisha hanging over us, our phones were our lifelines.
Ford was worth the astronomical debt we incurred with the vicious old fae, but I dreaded paying up.
“Excuse me,” Midas told the girls, then appointed one to continue the exercise. He raked his long fingers through his damp and wavy hair then loped over to me. “You didn’t have to bring it all the way down here.”
“I was in the neighborhood.” I bit the inside of my cheek. “Like two-thirds of the women in that gym.”
That dangerous smile of his turned predatory. “Jealous?”
“You’re the one with a raging crush on me.” I rolled a shoulder. “I keep you around because it’s cute.”
The flash of his teeth set my stomach quivering as he leaned in. “You think I’m cute?”
“I didn’t say you.” I pricked his princely ego. “Your crush.” I watched him deflate. “That’s what’s cute.”