I'm featuring Nearly Broken by Devon Ashley on my blog today as a part of the Nearly Broken blog tour organised by AToMR tours! Scroll down to read an excerpt from what looks like a pretty heartwrenching and intense addition to the New Adult genre. :)
We’d both gone missing at one point, but Claire had one thing I didn’t. Someone to notice. So why was I the one still here and she the one still gone?
Nineteen year old Megan Smith has spent the past year working in a small town diner in the middle of nowhere. Life is quiet, simple, safe. Then comes the news that her look-a-like has gone missing.
Still damaged both physically and mentally, Megan's not looking to be noticed. Wherever she goes from here, it's a road she needs to take alone. But when Nickolas Ellis takes the job as the new nightshift cook, it scares her how easily her defenses crumble down, down, down for him. But there are secrets she can't bear to share with just anyone, unspeakable acts that continue to haunt, and when the similarities of Claire’s abduction couples with the fear of an unwanted visitor in town, the urge to run before it all happens again intensifies, threatening the only happiness Megan's ever found.
New Adult; Romantic Suspense/ Realistic Fiction
Recommended for 17+ for mature and disturbing situations, language and sexual content.
I thought I’d have enough time to shower and make it back to the safety of my room before he got back. No such luck. I gathered my dirty clothes and froze two steps into the living room, nothing but a towel wrapped around my body. I frantically debated whether to make a run for the bedroom or retreat to the bathroom.
Sitting on the sofa reading a paper he must’ve picked up, his torso turned my way. I gasped, my heart suddenly putting in double the effort. His lips parted, and all expression fell from his face as he honed in on the last place I wanted him to look. My damaged skin was a stark contrast to the creamy beige complexion of my healthy skin. I hated the look of disgust most people gave when they caught sight of it, or the pity the others gave.
I didn’t wait to see which was going to appear on him.
Making a mad-dash for the bedroom, I roughly slid the doors closed behind me. Backing up, I sat on the edge of the bed, releasing a few silent tears, hating the splotchy spots randomly splashed across my arms, chest and abdomen, even getting part of my left breast. My right forearm got burned the worst. It was the spot I always covered first, to protect its deformity at all costs. That spot reminded me of a topographic world ball, similar to the raised peaks that marked the mountains and ridges, though mine were more subtle. At least I hoped they were, because my mind could sometimes be cruel with its interpretation.
One year, five months, sixteen days since I singed my lungs, my skin melting before my eyes.
But what I hated most about my burns was the constant reminder of why I had them. Of what I’d done.
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