by Elaina Jadin
Fawn
Elaina Jadin
Marie Robinson
The contents herein are protected by copyright law and may not be reproduced or distributed in any form by any means, without the authors’ written permission, except for reviewers, who may quote short excerpts for the purpose of review. Uploading, copying, or distributing any part of this book, other than short excerpts for review purposes, constitute unlawful piracy and theft of the author’s intellectual property.
Copyright © 2020 Elaina Jadin and Marie Robinson. All rights reserved.
www.jadinpress.com
www.authormarierobinson.com
Names, characters, locations, and events come from the authors’ imagination or are used fictiously. This story is presented as a creative work of fiction. Any resemblance to real individuals, alive or deceased, events, or locations, is entirely coincidental. All characters depicted are over the age of 18. This book is intended for mature audiences only.
Created with Vellum
To my own three badass Alphas—Charissa, Crystal, and Courtney. You are my biggest cheerleaders, my most trusted and hilarious critics, and you know how to wield the whip when it’s needed. This journey wouldn’t be the same without you. Thank you for putting up with my shenanigans and for being your wonderful selves!
And to my Beloved Beta Bitches, each of you are amazing. Your enthusiasm for reading and eagerness to dive into my stories are a constant reminder of why I love what I do, even if some of you do get five-named regularly for being rebellious wenches. You brighten my days and make the Torture Den a fantastic place to hang out. Keep being awesome.
♥
Elaina
Contents
About Elaina
About Marie
Fawn
1. Jemma
2. Jemma
3. Jemma
4. Draven
5. Jemma
6. Jemma
7. Draven
8. Jemma
9. Jemma
10. Kade
11. Jemma
12. Bishop
13. Jemma
14. Jemma
15. Jemma
16. Draven
17. Draven
18. Jemma
19. Jemma
20. Jemma
21. Kade
22. Kade
23. Jemma
24. Jemma
25. Kade
26. Kade
27. Draven
28. Jemma
29. Bishop
30. Jemma
31. Bishop
32. Jemma
33. Bishop
34. Jemma
More To Read
About Elaina
Elaina found her love of writing at a young age—as a kid her favorite pastime was staying up late to read books and scribble out stories under the covers. She’s been writing ever since, and still burns the midnight oil to sneak in words when everyone else is asleep.
After living in various parts of the country, Elaina settled in the Eastern US with her family and their many pets. She loves dark coffee, big slices of chocolate cake (or pie!), family game night, city skylines at night, watching it snow, and laughing at her husband’s antics.
Elaina’s books explore a variety of relationships, from the traditional to the unconventional, including menage and reverse harem romance. She co-writes as Bethany Jadin and Bella Blake.
Discover more books to love—visit Elaina’s author page on Amazon or her website to find the latest completed series, standalones, preorders, and new releases!
Sign up for Elaina’s newsletter and join her readers’ group on Facebook, Jadin’s Maidens, for sneak peeks, cover reveals, and other exclusive content, plus be the first to know about upcoming books!
About Marie
Marie Robinson has worn many hats in the publishing industry, both traditional and independent. She began to write the stories of her heart in 2017, with her literary holy trinity being fantasy, romance, and adventure.
She has been featured on multiple podcasts and presented at writing conferences. In 2019, she became a co-founding member of Harbinger Press, all while continuing to write the stories that keep her up at night.
She credits the works of Kate Elliot, Mary Robinette Kowal, Mercedes Lackey, Tamora Pierce, and Brandon Sanderson as influences of her love of reading and her own stories.
Read more of Marie Robinson’s work on Amazon and never miss a release by signing up for her newsletter. Then join her fan group on Facebook where you’ll always be the first to hear about new books, exclusive giveaways, and a look behind the scenes!
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Fawn
A Dark Mafia Shifter Romance
by
Elaina Jadin
Marie Robinson
blackfang barons book one
1
Jemma
Fuck.
I bolt up in bed, my heart racing like I’ve been pushed off a cliff. Cold sweat covers my skin, the blankets doing nothing to stop the shiver that wracks through me.
My stomach churns and I wonder if this is going to be a bad night, a night where I throw up from fear. From the dread that resides, fresh and palpable, in my memories.
My terrifying dreams don’t need the help of a twisted imagination. Not when I’ve lived through a nightmare as real as the air I breathe, the memory playing on repeat when I sleep.
It’s always the same, every detail. Sometimes it’s as though I’m experiencing it for the first time—those are the nights when fear devours all my senses. I’m trapped in that horrifying state of suspense, my nerves stretched taut like strings ready to snap, with razor blades of terror slicing into my stomach.
I haven’t decided if that’s better or worse than the nights where I know what’s going to happen, but I'm helpless to stop it. Powerless to save my parents from being brutally murdered in front of me. Those are the nights when the pain consumes me, wrecking my heart all over again.
In stories, great heroes are often born from pain and fear. But so are great villains. And this isn’t a comic book, and their deaths aren’t my origin story of becoming a great… anything.
Losing my parents that night was the beginning of my fall. They were the strong, solid earth beneath my feet. Without them, the edge of the cliff gave way and I tumbled down the jagged slope until I crashed onto the ground, bloody, bruised, and barely holding it together.
I keep picking myself up and putting one foot in front of the other no matter how many times I stumble, but the scars, those run deep.
Blindly, I reach through the dark for the water bottle I always keep next to my bed, my throat hoarse as if I’d actually been screaming and not just in my dreams.
The tepid water fills my stomach like lead and does nothing to settle it. I fight back a gag as another raw wave of panic hits, but it’s futile.
I barely make it to the toilet before the water comes racing back up, the sharp twist of my insides and the burn against my throat so strong that I may as well be vomiting glass.
The bathroom tile is chilly, and the wall heater clicks on, blasting me with dry, hot air that smells like burnt dust. I’m sure it’s a fire hazard, but I’m just as sure that the landlord doesn’t give a fuck. This apartment complex would probably be worth more in insurance money if it were to burn down.
The wall behind my back anchors me to the prese
nt as I lean against it, trying to calm my racing heart and jangling nerves. The memories continue to press into my thoughts, desperate to cast their black shadow over me once again. Scrubbing my eyes with the heels of my palms, I try to force them back, to not give myself over to them.
But the distant snarl of a dog sounds a warning bell inside me, and I know I’ve lost the battle. Reliving it in my dreams wasn’t enough tonight. The terror has to play out in living color while I’m awake, too.
Memories wash over me like a tidal wave, consuming everything as they pull me into their dark depths.
The alley was the fastest way home. On one end of the long, narrow passage was the street our house sat on, and at the other end was a large park carved out of abandoned lots after the city tore down a cluster of condemned buildings.
It was getting late and shadows were already settling across the streets, cloaking the city with a shroud of the unknown. My mom hadn’t wanted to go through the alley. But we had coupons that were about to expire, and we were in a hurry to make it to the store before it closed.
Dad led the way, and as we stepped into the shadows, my mom grabbed my hand and held it tightly, something I normally would have balked at. I was thirteen going on thirty, with one foot firmly planted in the safe cocoon of childhood and the other testing the boundaries of adolescence. I was equal parts sheltered innocence and dreamy-eyed bravery, but that night I was squeezing her hand just as tight.
Heavy clouds were rolling in, blocking the full moon, and the yellow glow of the street lamps didn’t reach more than a few paces into the alley. Between the late hour and the brewing storm, the alley felt even more sinister than usual.
Despite our trepidation, we made it through fine.
My mom let out a nervous laugh of relief as we stepped out of the shadows and crossed the street. We’d walked through there so many times without harm, and yet every time I looked back over my shoulder into the thick, inky blackness, I felt as if we’d escaped something.
But ahead of us was the park with the big playground, one of my favorite places in the world.
Despite its location in a run-down neighborhood, it was one of the bigger parks in the city, with a sprawling wooden play structure made to look like a castle. There were swings and four different slides. My friends and I would lie on the merry-go-round, spinning slowly while stargazing or cloud-watching.
I’d spent hours of my childhood playing there with kids from the neighborhood. It had a labyrinth of narrow passages inside and weird angles that created a few tiny pockets of space perfect for hiding in. We were spies and assassins, pirates and castaways, kings and thieves. And we loved tucking ourselves in those hideaway nooks during games of tag and hide-and-seek.
It was windy that night as the winter storm moved in, the brisk gusts pummeling my face and blasting across my ears. Maybe if it hadn’t been, we’d have heard the growls sooner.
Or smelled the scent of something feral and dangerous in the air. Anything to hint that we should have avoided the park.
Then my parents would still be alive.
But it wasn’t until we were halfway through the park that I saw our flashlight glinting off a pair of golden eyes and heard a low, sickening snarl beneath the howl of the wind.
Three shadows separated themselves from the dark and became massive dogs—the biggest I’d ever seen—with rough, shaggy coats and enormous paws. But it’s their eyes that still haunt me the most. I had no idea what evil looked like until that night.
They went for my dad first. My mom didn’t scream or stare in horror, or hesitate for even a second. She grabbed my hand and ran as fast as she could.
I kept up, pumping my legs hard to keep pace, her fist gripping me so tightly I might have cried out in pain if it weren’t for my terror and confusion. We were about ten feet from the play structure when we fell.
It’s strange, the details you remember from traumatic events.
Some moments are gone, lost forever like puzzle pieces that immediately fell through the cracks into the abyss. Other parts are so vivid and crisp, it’s as if time slowed down and recorded every sight, sound, and sensation with brutal clarity.
I remember how my palms burned from the scrape of wood chips. I remember how her unbuttoned wool coat cloaked me as she fell on top of me. I remember how her soft dark hair tickled my cheek. And I remember how it felt when they pulled her off of me—like someone had suddenly snatched a warm blanket away from me in the middle of the night, the chilly air quickly finding my skin once more.
Harsh snaps of gnashing teeth sounded over my head, their fetid breath coiling above me in white puffs. I could hear my mom screaming, the shrill, panicked sounds of agony and terror. I scrambled toward the structure, the small entrance of one of the tunnels mockingly close.
Somehow, I made it. I twisted and contorted myself through the little passageways, shoving my teenage body into places designed for small children. Each corner scraped my shoulders and hips, the wood biting into my back as I pushed on.
As I scrambled through the labyrinth of twists and turns, the whole structure reverberated and shook as the beasts slammed themselves against the sides and lunged into the openings, trying to reach me. But their massive frames couldn’t fit into the narrow tunnels. They would have to batter the walls down if they wanted me.
I stuffed myself into an odd-shaped nook that gave me just enough room to tuck my legs in close. As I huddled there, with my arms wrapped tight around my knees and hot tears racing down my cheeks, I could hear the vicious snarls and rumbling growls over the wind. I pressed my hands against my mouth, too terrified to break down into sobs.
I thought I heard my mom or dad at one point, whimpering my name. It could have been the wind whistling through the wooden slats around me, but it wrenched pain from my pounding heart, tearing at my soul as a thick knot of sorrow formed in my throat.
All night I sat there, frozen in fear and grief, unable to move, unable to help my parents.
The only thing I could do was whisper my mother’s favorite lullaby, over and over.
Frère Jacques, Frère Jacques, dormez-vous? Dormez-vous? Sonnez les matines, sonnez les matines, ding dang dong.
The frigid night air gusted through the wooden slats, chilling the sweat that drenched my skin and clothes. My parents had let me carry the one cell phone we had, but it was gone—dropped on the ground during the frantic sprint with my mom or tugged free from my pocket as I wedged myself through the tunnels.
Either way, I had no choice but to wait. Whether for death or rescue, I wasn’t sure. As the night wore on and the dogs continued their relentless attack against the structure, I became unsure of which outcome I hoped for more.
Every cruel bark and rough growl made the walls close in tighter around me until finally the cold and the dark claimed me.
When the first responders arrived, they had to use the jaws of life to get me out. I don’t even remember how they knew I was there. Maybe I called out to them, or maybe they saw the damage where the animals had tried to get to me. Maybe they spotted the tiniest glimpse of my bright red jacket through the slats, the one mom had bought me a week before from the consignment shop.
My throat was swollen shut, my lips frozen into rigid lines, and my whole body was stiff, as if every muscle was bound in thick chains. I couldn’t talk, even if I’d known what to say. There were no words. Not for the grief or the horror waging a war inside me.
No language on Earth held the power to adequately sum up the trauma of hearing those creatures rip my parents from limb to limb.
But I did scream. Not at first, though.
My body was limp as they wheeled me to the ambulance, my eyes heavy with fatigue. I watched the faces hovering over me through half-closed eyelids, a vague notion settling over me that I might actually be dead. Then one of the police dogs caught a scent and started barking.
I knew I was screaming so loud the force burned like razors against my swollen throat, yet I couldn
’t help it. I’d gone from a lifeless hull to a girl possessed with manic frenzy, kicking and pushing, desperate to run to safety, but I couldn’t stop myself.
It took half a dozen strong arms to keep me from clawing my way free. They strapped me down to the stretcher and the last thing I remembered was a kind looking woman bending over me, and the prick of a needle.
2
Jemma
I was in intensive therapy at the state institution for two years before they released me into the care of my aunt on my dad’s side. She was almost fifteen years older than my dad and didn’t know what to do with a young teenager, let alone one as fucked up as me.
Her apartment was on the basement level of an aging building on one of the worst streets in the city, and my bedroom was a windowless room without a closet or a proper door. It was still an improvement compared to the place I’d been sequestered at.
