The Lost Sacrifice: Depraved Monsters and Decadent Myths, #2

By V.T. Bonds

Stolen from the Demon's lair.

They marked and mated me against my will, forever changing my fate.

I thought nothing could be worse than being sacrificed to a demon and given to a werewolf.

I was wrong.

Being separated from them is worse.

*This Dark Omegaverse Romance is not for the faint of heart. If explicit scenes, violence, and D/s themes offend you, please abstain. Proceed with caution.*

• Language: English
• Publisher: V.T. Bonds
• Release date: Oct 31, 2020
• ISBN: 9781953950017

V.T. Bonds

V.T. Bonds is an avid reader of all things filthy and enticing. They began the slide into darkness one book at a time. And now the results are complete. V.T. Bonds’ imagination has blossomed into darkness so extensive they cannot withhold it from you any longer. Embark on a thrilling, steamy journey with them. Let them share their corruption with you, one book at a time.

Book preview

The Lost Sacrifice

The Sacrifice Trilogy Part 2

Depraved Monsters and Decadent Myths

V.T. Bonds

Copyright © 2020 by V.T. Bonds

Cover design by V.T. Bonds

All rights reserved.

No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

*This Dark Omegaverse Romance is not for the faint of heart. If explicit scenes, violence, and D/s themes offend you, please abstain. Proceed with caution.*

Dedication

To you – You read. I write. Somehow along the way, you found me, and you’ve decided to read at least one more story from me. Amidst the millions of variables, here we are. I may not know you by name, but I know your literary deviancy, and I’m thankful for you. Keep making awesome reading choices.

The Lost Sacrifice

Her

Thoughts coalesce within my blanketed mind, little snippets of info gathering to produce a disjointed picture. My heart beats with a steady surety—the rhythmic pumping provides a sturdy buffer between myself and obscurity. I attempt to survey my body, but after beginning at my toes several times and never feeling successful, I stop.

It doesn’t seem worth the effort, so I wait, unable to find an ounce of urgency within my thoughts.

This seems somewhat familiar, but when I try to focus on why, a daunting cloud warns me away.

I resume my vague suspension.

My eyelids lift. Each centimeter gained a slow revealing of the ceiling above me. Light brown lines carry uniform patterns, and after an age, I recognize long blades of grass. A few more heartbeats provide a more secure clarity—these long blades of grass are lashed and woven together to make a solid barrier between myself and the sky.

My brain supplies a simple word to explain what I see.

Rushes.

As though guided by fate, I sit up. For some unclear reason, my mind highlights my body’s lack of aches and pains.

I look down at myself and find my form clad in loose white material. With straps atop my shoulders and a fitted bodice, it ends just above my knees, the flowy cloth thin like silk, barely thick enough to hide the outline of my nipples.

After a few moments, the word negligée emerges from my mental fog.

A slight discomfort arises with the word, but when it fades, I conclude it must not matter.

I've seen this before.

I latch my eyes onto my toes and wiggle them, watching as they respond exactly how I expect them to. I flex my calves and point my toes toward the floor.

Taking a deep breath, I watch my chest inflate.

Pushing it out, I watch it deflate.

I shrug my shoulders. Bend and straighten my elbows. Wiggle my fingers.

Everything works. I have no pain. It all seems normal.

Nothing is right.

The light tan of the walls make me feel like I’m underground, the thick clay circling me in earth. Darker than the roof, the dried mud displays no corners or bumps, the surface strangely even.

My little bed sits in the middle of