Playing with Passion Theta Series Book 1
Read Playing with Passion Theta Series Book 1 Online
Authors: Gayle Parness
Tags: #vampires, #demon, #paranormal romance, #magic, #werewolves, #theta, #paranormal series, #nyc adventure, #werewolves demons and vampires, #demon villian
Playing With
Passion
Theta Series Book
1
By Gayle Parness
Copyright 2015 Gayle
Parness
Smashwords
Edition
For Jessica and
Sean
In honor of your wedding
Because we can find love in the most
unexpected of places…
“Gayle has created an
amazing world, filled with characters you will both love to hate,
and some you will grow desperately attached to. Throughout the
book, the growth of the characters was realistic and entertaining,
and I found myself utterly engrossed in their adventures. As an
editor, I was impressed with Gayle’s writing – as a reader, I was
engrossed and can’t wait to read the second book in the
series.”
4 1/2 stars.
The Pedantic
Punctuator
Playing with Passion is a paranormal
romance/futuristic adventure for adult readers.
Find out more about the
series here:
http://www.gayleparness.com
“
We’re coming for you.”
C.H.
CHAPTER ONE
: Atlanta, GA. - The year,
2175
The Director lit his cigar with a
snap, the fingertip flame leaping from finger to finger
to
thumb, lighting all five. They danced
and flared before fusing into a larger ball held spinning above his
open palm. Ingrid's boss was close enough for the heat to flush her
skin and irritate her eyes. A few inches closer and she'd
burn.
"Your production manager complained
you have been pulling in too much power during rehearsals. You are
draining his reserves." He flicked cigar ash on the floor, inches
from her bare feet.
She held her ground. "Has he? Mack
rarely speaks to me about it." The entire troupe agreed that their
production manager, Mack Stone, was a man of few intelligent
words.
"You'll follow the rules tonight. It's
a packed house." The Director closed his fist to smother the ball
of flame without even a wince, his body designed to withstand
hellfire. Taking a long pull on his cigar, he held the poison
inside his lungs as if he were smoking weed. He knew the smell of
cigar smoke made her nauseous, but it was all part of the game they
played.
"Yes, sir." She stared at the floor,
hoping he'd accept her submissive stance and short answer and leave
her the hell alone. Instead, like a bored child playing with a toy,
he puffed a cloud of cigar smoke into her face, expecting her to
back away. She held her breath and blinked furiously, but stayed
steady. Ingrid wasn't the kind to run, never had been. However,
she'd play The Director’s dominant/submissive games for only so
long before she lashed out, damn the consequences.
"Your Mack is too soft – says he
doesn't often punish you when you dance over the line." Stepping
into her personal space, he circled her, using his monstrous size
and the heat of his energy to intimidate. Reaching out, he threaded
a clump of her long brunette waves through his wide fingers,
tugging her closer.
Ingrid could do nothing to prevent him
from touching her. Like all thetas, she was his property, and he
relished reminding her whenever possible.
She expelled her held breath in a slow
hiss, clutching at the skirt of her dress and forcing her body to
remain still. It was anger that held her in place, along with the
knowledge The Director was made of blood and bone, organs and
muscle. No matter how magically gifted, a creature with a beating
heart could always be killed. The fact that none of his powerful
enemies had managed to take him out, only made her more determined
to be the one who did.
"Mack has asked for your transfer to
another troupe," he added, the stench of his breath
repellant.
"Mack's an incompetent toad. And a
liar." She'd spat out the words, affronted that her all-powerful
boss would believe anything the troupe's slime ball PM told him.
She'd been punished plenty of times, since beating a female was the
only way this particular Mack could get it up. She had the bruises
to prove it, and the disgusting memories.
The Director growled his response.
"That temper will kill you." He'd stopped directly behind her on
the second pass, puffing more smoke into her hair. She gagged on
the miasma of scents, the sour musk of demon and the metallic odor
of blood combining with the foul cigar. She twitched as his icy
palm caressed her neck, her most vulnerable spot. His enormous hand
completely encircled her delicate flesh, a collar to mark his
ownership. Ingrid couldn't restrain the shivers that caressed her
skin, and she clenched her jaw in disgust at her own
weakness.
Every one of her instincts told her to
run as far and as fast as she could, but The Director was an
ancient predator, his skills born warring on distant galaxies, and
he loved the hunt almost as much as the kill.
Having gotten the reaction he wanted,
The Director laughed softly. He took in a breath of her scent, now
tinged with fear, despite her efforts to stay calm. "Mmm. I might
have to punish you myself." The rumbling vibration of his voice
crawled across her skin, traveling all the way to her clenched
toes.
Most troupe Ingrids would already be
weeping on the dressing room floor at The Director's feet, pleading
for leniency, but she'd had enough meetings of this type to know
how far he'd go. The show was due to go up in thirty minutes, and
The Director wouldn't risk doing anything that might affect her
performance. If audience members asked for a refund, the story
would hit the underground news channel. Demand would lessen and
ticket prices would plummet, along with his reputation.
As The Director returned to his
original spot by the door, she forced a smile and locked gazes with
her enemy, blue on black. "You'll be pleased by what you experience
tonight. I won't disappoint the audience or you, sir."
Tonight she'd give the performance of
her life and he'd allow her to live another day or week or month.
The game would be played again at their next meeting, and despite
the danger, Ingrid had to admit she sometimes enjoyed the rush of
adrenalin that came with these sessions.
It didn't hurt her chances of survival
that she was the most popular Ingrid in the country. The Stone
Troupe's shows sold out in less than five minutes. The only troupe
more prominent was the Hudson River Troupe on Staten Island, and
that was because of the popularity of their male ingénue and the
incredible abilities of their production manager.
She'd endure weeks of beatings for a
chance to work with that group of powerful thetas.
The Director must have sensed their
time was limited, saying, "We'll speak again after the
performance." He left as abruptly as he’d arrived, another nasty
cloud of cigar smoke his parting gift.
Ingrid ran to the window,
struggling with the release until she finally got it open. She
leaned her forehead on the locked security bars and filled her
lungs with Atlanta air to calm her racing heart.
If only the asshole could get cancer…
There was a knock on the door. "Places
in twenty."
Ingrid answered with the traditional
response. "Thank you, twenty. Um, Alan... did...?"
"He left through the backstage door
two minutes ago."
"Thanks." Her relief was monumental,
but she couldn't linger by the window for long. After darting
through some stretching exercises, bringing her body and mind into
focus for the performance, Ingrid dressed in a simple dance costume
of tights, tank, and chiffon skirt, touched up her makeup, and
joined the other actors in the wings. In the familiar comfort of
the theatre, she let go of everything except the story the Stone
River Troupe would project on this night for this sold out audience
of sorcerers and witches.
When Alan announced
places,
the troupe took
in a dose of Mack's axis power, opening their psycores and
connecting to each individual thread sent out by the hundreds of
anonymous minds in the dark beyond the proscenium. Alan Stone’s
beautiful music filled the house and the performance
began.
Ingrid arched her back in a sensuous
display as she was lifted smoothly above Gene’s head. Her partner
held her steady with only one hand, the muscles in his bare arm,
shoulders and back tensing under the strain. She'd grown fearless
over the months they'd worked the routine together, the strong and
steady thrum of his axis power and the clarity of his psycore
energy adding to her confidence. He wouldn't drop her, even after
the fourth lift in as many minutes. Gene Stone was a perfectionist,
a male always focused on his work. She trusted him, something that
didn't come easily to a female with her troubled
background.
Ingrid stretched her arms
out to the sides as Gene turned smoothly beneath her, the amber and
pink stage lights warming her skin.
One
day she’d truly fly away
, she mused. She’d
break the chains forged through pain, threats, and forced isolation
and escape her slavery. Under The Director, thetas lived in fear,
but Ingrid was learning to leave fear behind, to move forward—to
hope. Soon she'd teach the others what she'd learned, and then, who
knew? Perhaps they'd all fly.
As they'd practiced dozens of times,
she twisted in Gene's grip, flipping from his grasp, and landing
with only the whisper of chiffon across bare skin. Long fingers
stroked her back, her chest, her arms as the music swelled around
them and their bodies swayed in harmony. Each movement, sound,
scent, and touch created by the troupe was a sensory feast
projected into the audience's minds, now opened wide and vulnerable
in anticipation.
