My favorite book I've ever written is out now! 💋
Hello hello my darlings!
I have a brand new release for you, and it's my favorite book I've ever written. It's $3.99 and available in KU too. And it's almost 400 pages!
Keep reading for the blurb, links and excerpt!
This isn't love. It's obsession.
She escaped me once, but she won't be that lucky this time.
My little bird looks even prettier with the scar I carved into her cheek.
I watch her... I follow her... I wait for the right moment to take what's mine.
I ruined her life once, and now it's time to clip her wings and cage her.
Eight years ago, a sicko ruined my life.
He cut me open and made me bleed, and I hid the truth to protect him.
Now, a scar marks me as damaged goods.
That's why I stay in the shadows. I trust them.
Until they start talking back...
And the man who took my innocence comes back to stalk me.
Tyrant Stalker is a full-length dark romance novel from USA Today and Amazon bestselling author Isabella Starling.
Dove and Nox's story begins in Tyrant Twin, but you can read this book as a standalone.
★★★★★ "Oh, my poor soul! Tyrant Stalker, this utterly fantastic book, is one breathtaking, intensely dominating page-turner that's irreversibly heart-swooning addictive and hauntingly seductive!
★★★★★ "This baby is so dark, twisty, powerful, leaves you hungry in a way that only another Isabella Starling book can satisfy."
★★★★★ "Intensely twisted and sinfully dark, this book lures you in and engulfs you in its wicked embrace for one truly mind-blowing, temperature raising, wild ride."
Every love story has an expiration date.
I believed mine had already expired. When I tumbled into that abyss below the cliffs, I thought my life was over. But I had a guardian angel watching over me. Too bad I wasn't worthy of fucking saving.
When I woke up, they told me I'd been in a coma for six years. Six fucking years of my life, wasted while I was plugged into machines that helped me breathe.
I asked about them first. Kade and June.
They told me they were alive and well with three children. I fucking hated them even more when I found out about that. But after finding out about their happily ever after I stopped giving a damn. There was still one person though, one addiction from my past I couldn't bring myself to let go.
That addiction had a name – Dove Canterbury. I fixated on her like I had done on June before. I slowly recovered, my thoughts filled with the desire to own her again. It was in part what helped me recover, giving me the strength to overcome all the difficulties of my new life.
But I did it. I got through it all with one person on my mind – the little bird that was the only one to escape my gilded cage unscathed. Well, not completely unscathed.
I smirk as I put out my cigarette under my boot. I'm standing in an alley facing a small house on the outskirts of LA. It's busy here, busy and fucking hot. But I don't give a shit about that. All my attention is focused on the door of that house, glued to it as I wait for the only inhabitant of 1490 Westwood Boulevard to show her pretty face.
It's fucking gut-wrenching. This moment could change the rest of my life, and hers. I know where she lives now. There will be no running anymore. I've got her right in the palm of my hand.
As I wait, I notice a purple butterfly land on the handle of her front door. She's like a Disney fucking princess too, apparently, attracting critters and shit.
The door opens and out she comes. Long, flowing dark locks, glossy, hiding her beautiful face. She doesn't wear makeup anymore, but she hasn't stopped trying. She carries herself like a woman that knows her worth, even though you'd never think it from her outfit. Baggy black clothes hide her body, but from where her wrists peek out, I can tell she's thin. Painfully so.
She looks so different than she used to. Gone is her light blonde hair, replaced with a pitch-black color. I think it's her natural hair, and it looks beautiful.
My cock hardens in my pants as I watch her leave the house. She’s carrying a small grocery bag in one hand. I’m curious as she heads into a side alley and I stay closely behind, breathing in the remnants of her scent as I follow her. I stay in the shadows, making sure she won't see me. I'm not going to expose myself so fast. No, I'm going to play Dove's mind like a goddamn instrument, pulling and playing with the strings until she's convinced she's going fucking insane. I can't fucking wait.
I watch her approach a homeless man in the alley and my fists tighten. I don't want her interacting with other men. But she doesn't seem afraid of the slumped figure on the ground. She offers him the grocery bag and they chat before she heads back home. My cock can't handle the sight of her. Six years of obsession, of dreaming about her for six goddamn years, are back to haunt me. And now she's here, the personification of all my desires, right here, at the touch of my fingertips.
I'm no longer Parker Miller. I stopped being the crazed, abused boy who was so angry at the world a long time ago. Now I'm Nox. I live in the night, in the shadows, and I'm never going to look for excuses for who I am anymore. My brother and his wife think I'm a monster. I think they're fucking right. And I'm done fighting what I should have admitted a long fucking time ago.
I watch Dove disappear back inside her house. I don't want to leave. The binds that tether me to her are pulling, taut and strong, reminding me she's the one who has the power here, because she holds my sick, twisted heart in the palm of her hand.
I fight the urge to palm my cock and turn my back to the house she lives in. I can't stay here for too long, can't risk her noticing. I have to stay in the shadows. I've been patient for so long, biding my time until I take her, steal her back, give her the home she deserves in a cage by my bed. I can keep waiting, as long as it fucking takes. Because I know she's going to end up as my goddamn property.
Walking down the street, I find the café where I'm supposed to meet him. Marissa's father, my benefactor, the poor fucking sod who's dumb enough not to blame me for the death of his only daughter.
Sometimes I wonder whether Thom Hodge secretly knows I'm the one who killed his kid. If he does, he's never mentioned it or shown any suspicion. His love for his only child is overshadowed by what he sees in me. Even in death, Marissa is worthless to him.
I don't think about her often, because the thought of her fills me with an emotion I'm not familiar with – guilt.
Hers was the first life I took. Not the first blood I spilled, but the first time I hurt deeply enough to watch her life essence drip out of her. She's gone now, so it's no use obsessing over the fact she's dead. Her father sure as fuck isn't.
I slide into the booth next to Hodge, avoiding his gaze. He looks hopeful, the poor fucking fool. He has so much hope, sees so much potential in me. But I'm not the genius artist he wants me to be. I'm just an abused kid who grew up into a monster and likes to unleash the full fury of his anger on a blank fucking canvas.
"Hello, Nox," he greets me politely. "I'm so glad to see you settling in."
I narrow my eyes at him. The poor fuck flew in from New York just to see me, trying to convince me to do a show, to go public with my work and stop just selling it to loaded collectors with a taste for the gruesome art world. I'm not going to do what he wants, though. I don't want my brother and his wife finding me, not now that I'm so close to claiming my little bird, caging her and crushing her fragile wings so she can never leave me again.
"Why did you come here?" I ask him.
Hodge places his intertwined fingers on the table and smiles at me. "I already ordered for us."
"I'm not eating or drinking."
"Are you taking care of yourself, Nox? You look strong enough."
"Answer my fucking question," I hiss in lieu of an answer.
Hodge smiles and moves back as a waitress places two plates of food before us. I am hungry, but I'm not going to eat in front of this man. Once the woman disappears, he begins talking, and it's the same old shit, just a different day. Some gallery opening, so many opportunities, if I would just come to one of them, speak to some of the owners, the collectors, the benefactors. Everyone wants to know the sick, fucked up mind behind the shit I create. But I'm not some goddamn zoo animal, inviting people to poke and prod at my brain. I keep my thoughts private because I don't trust a soul.
"You came here for nothing," I hiss at Hodge. "I'm not doing a show."
"Nox, I know you need the money."
"Just sell more of my shit then."
"You'll have to paint more so I can do that."
The bastard's right, though I'll never admit to my own wrongdoings. He has nothing to sell because it's been months since I've painted anything. Art doesn't come easily now. It feels like I’m squeezing water out of a fucking stone. When I was younger, I was filled with inspiration, with the desire to paint, to put my filthy thoughts on paper. But not now. Now, it's a chore to get anything out that doesn't feel pretentious as fuck. A part of me does miss it. The part that's hoping Dove will inspire me, if for nothing else than to create something for Hodge to sell before I blow all the money I have left.
I live a humble life, and it doesn't seem as if Dove needs money, but I've gotta be at least self-sufficient. I'll be fucking damned if I let someone else pay for me.
"I'll do my best," I mutter, pushing the plate of food away from me as I get up. "You can go back home now."
"No." I brush down my leather jacket. "I told you over the fucking phone, I'm not interested in doing shows or anything where I have to be there in person."
"I hope someday I can change your mind. Until then, Nox." Hodge smiles his stupid fucking hopeful grin. "Keep creating."
I want to fucking punch the bastard. I don't even understand why I hate him so much after all he's done is help me.
Ignoring my instinct to pummel his jaw into dust, I walk out of the café and back into the hot street. I hate this fucking weather. It's too fucking hot for me. I thrive in the cold, in the darkness. I'm a New Yorker, not a basic fucking LA bitch. But LA has Dove, and New York doesn't, so I'll stay here for the foreseeable future.
I should head back home, but I can't resist the urge to drop by Dove's house one more time.
Her window is open and the sound of calming, sad music pours out into the street. I check to make sure there's no one around and slide into the shadows of her house. I look through her window. The place looks good, tidy and organized. I can hear the sound of her shower running. The door of her bathroom is open. I could walk right in there and take her. Right now. No regrets.
Fighting the urge seems like an impossible fucking task. All I want is to wrap my fingers around Dove's sweet little throat, squeeze until she has trouble breathing. But I can't. Not yet.
Patience was never a virtue of mine, so it takes everything in my beat-up body to pull away from the window. As I start my walk back to the nearby motel where I'm renting a shitty room, I think about Dove. How she did this to herself, because she's the only person in my sad fucking life that ever loved me.
I remember her as a teenager, barely legal, so fucking stunning. I couldn't see it back then, too crazed by my obsession for June. But I see it now. I see her beautiful, tortured soul beneath the dark exterior she's built up for herself. I know she still loves me. That kind of obsession never goes away. I should fucking know.
Smiling to myself, I find myself wondering how soon I can twist her mind, how soon I can hold her throat in my clenched fingers again.
It's a funny thing, love. And there's such a thin line between love and obsession. A line I love skirting over, dancing on the edge, pushing myself and the object of my affection, holding her over the precipice of madness.
Falling in love means allowing your mind, your body and your soul to be consumed by the other person.
Unfortunately for Dove Canterbury, falling in love with me also meant signing her own death sentence.