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4.5 Blue Ribbons!
"SLAVES OF LOVE is an erotic and slightly voyeuristic treat. Find out if Shena can convince Keern of her innocence before it is too late by reading this enticing story."
Carol, Romance Junkies

4 Hearts!
"It's fast paced, exciting, and there is a lot of sex… Slaves of Love is one of those books that will have you thinking long after you get done…"
Julia, The Romance Studio

"[Opal Carew] has done a great job in developing a well-written story about the healing power of love. The passion they share and the love that is built between them is very romantic as well as heart-warming. This book is for all the hopeless romantics. I know they will enjoy this as much as I did."
Kim, Cupid's Library Reviews

Shena stood in the center of the finely appointed room, feeling a little faint. Two leather chairs sat facing a large window, the drawn curtains hiding whatever view lay beyond. She longed to sink into one of the chairs and fall into a deep, peaceful sleep, but she knew she wouldn’t be able to sleep even if she dared to sit. Which she did not.

Over the weeks aboard the trader ship, she had learned very well what happened when she disobeyed whatever man happened to be master at the time. Her back still stung from the lashes she’d received, a punishment she’d been told many slave owners preferred, probably for its entertainment value. Just like her father had. She preferred to avoid any more and she felt certain sitting without being given permission would be considered disobedient.

A door opened. She did not look at the man. That would be a sign of insolence. She kept her gaze cast downward.

“Look at me.”

She glanced up at him with unfocused eyes, making out the vague image of a tall, bearded man with dark, piercing eyes.

Keern stared at her, acutely aware of the hollows at the base of her neck and the gaunt look of her face. She had lost weight.

She stared up at him with eyes dull and lifeless, until her gaze caught on his – and held. A glimmer of fear, and possibly – pain? – rippled across the placid blue pools, but no recognition.

He strode toward her and grabbed her chin, a little too roughly, and locked gazes with her.

“Look at my face. Do you remember me?”

Confusion washed across her features, then recognition sparked in her eyes.

“Keern.” His name shuddered from her. Her voice, trembling with torment, quavered slightly.

* * * * *

He savored the effect, committing it to memory, tucked away in a place he could retrieve it often to soothe the vivid recall of pain too long subdued. Inflicted by her. Of a heart too long shattered. Broken by her.

“What are you doing here?” she asked.

His gaze locked on hers and held tight. She shrank slightly.

“I own you and I intend to make you pay for the death of my brother.”

She stood trembling.

“You lied to your father. You told him I’d stolen your virginity. He and his men attacked my family. He killed my brother, thinking it was me.”

She shook her head, her eyes wide and liquid.

“I know, Keern. I’m so sorry. I -- “

“Shut up!” he barked.

She flinched at his harsh words and he pressed towards her.

“There is one reason, and one reason only, why you are here. So I can punish you for the pain you have caused.” His jaw clenched around the words.

“But I didn’t -- ”

“Shut up! I don’t want to hear your lies.”

“You won’t let me explain?”

“Why should I? I remember all too well how good you are at deceit.”

He stepped toward her. Her back stiffened and she refused to step back, but she couldn’t quite hide the flicker of trepidation in her eyes.

“Are you afraid of me?” he asked.

She held up her chained hands, eyes glittering with defiance. The chain clinked together, swinging back and forth in an arc.

“You hold the key to my destiny. You decide if I live or die. I’d be a fool not to fear you.”

Unwanted admiration flickered through him.

He took another step toward her, putting his chest within an inch of the tip of her breasts.

Keern expected her to retreat, to step back from his looming presence, but she stood firm, claiming a small piece of ground as her own.

Surveying her with a cool sweep of his eyes, intending to shake her damnable calm, he felt his body tense with anticipation of what was to come. Her simple, white gown followed the curves of her body in an alluring fashion – and only two thin straps held it up.

He’d waited so long. He’d imagined his revenge a thousand times. Now he could barely restrain himself. But he would. He planned to enjoy this to the fullest. He would linger over every step. Her breasts rose and fell in an unsteady rhythm, though she held her head high and didn’t flinch at his perusal.

Yes, he could wait. To feel her body writhe beneath his own, as her vulnerable flesh succumbed to his strength. To taste her sweet womanly flesh with his tongue, especially the honey-tipped nipples that remained in his dreams, perpetually glazed with shimmering droplets of water. To smell the womanly scent of her as she responded to him, with the slippery glaze of feminine readiness. To see her face, tilted back in the agony of blissful passion, overwhelmed into vibrant submission. To hear her beg for the release only he could provide, as he was so sure she would, then the strangled moan of pleasure as she slipped from this reality to the ‘little death’ of orgasm.

Yes, he would enjoy this. But, if his desire was for revenge, why did his fantasy include her pleasure? Perhaps it was simply the male need to know he could satisfy his woman.

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