Silent Redemption

By Duna Morgan

Love silences the past like a Phoenix rising from the ashes...

 

Haunted by a traumatic past that left nothing but silence in its wake, Harley Wilder, a gifted pottery artist, has lost faith in happily ever afters and the enchantment of anything magical. Her only solace is in her work. Her only peace is on the farm she inherited from her aunt. There she lives in quiet reverie, hiding from the shadows and the pain of the past.

Until Alex Malone turns her world inside out. From New York City, he wants to bring Harley's unique art to the global stage, yet he harbors a dark secret that could shatter the delicate trust they've built. In this captivating tale of art, healing, and redemption, will Harley and Alex discover a profound love that transcends the scars of their pasts?

Author note: This standalone novella contains explicit and sensual content intended for mature audiences. The story line explores themes of passion and intimacy, and the narrative may include scenes with heightened spice intensity. We acknowledge that individual preferences vary, and some readers may find certain content provocative or uncomfortable. We encourage you to consider your personal comfort level and discretion before embarking on this literary journey.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Duna Morgan
• Release date: Mar 31, 2024
• ISBN: 9798224452835

Duna Morgan

Meet Duna Morgan, a mother-daughter team, who are two accomplished authors, writing ultra seductive novellas. With their love for both reading and writing, they have carved out a distinctive niche, delving into the intricacies of passion, desire, and the dynamics of romantic relationships.

Book preview

Chapter 1

S hit! he swore as he hit the brakes, swerving to miss the girl on the bicycle.

Too late, he tapped the bicycle wheel as he rolled to a stop, sending the girl and her bicycle flying into a water-filled ditch. Turning off the engine, he jumped from the car and ran to the injured girl.

Are you all right, Miss? he asked as she stood up, drenched and covered with grass and tadpoles. A loaf of bread and a basket of strawberries floated to the surface around her. Let me get that for you.

Jerking the handlebars out of his reach, she stumbled, nearly colliding with a mailbox sporting pink and white balloons with a sign that read, It’s a girl! She hauled her bicycle up the slope to the road’s edge. The frame was bent, and she sighed, giving him a scathing glare.

He stilled, his heart thudding hard inside his chest. Oh, my God, it’s her. Harley Wilder. What had he done?

Her dark hair hung in a stringy, wet mess with a few flopping tadpoles scattered here and there. Smudges of mud and grass smeared the delicate perfection of her skin. The edge of a pink scarf around her neck pulled downward from the weight of the soggy fabric, and the faint hint of scars gave away her identity. It was a punch to his gut. He couldn’t help but notice the way her wet summer dress clung to her curves, and he mentally cursed himself for his horndog response.

He came to his senses. I’ll be happy to— he began.

She ignored him, walked around him, and dragged her bike along the road.

Wait! He said, starting after her. Please. I’m so sorry.

Meeting his gaze, she blew out an irritated puff of air. Her hand reached up to adjust the sagging scarf, re-covering her scar. He couldn’t believe she was standing in front of him. Hell, he couldn’t believe he’d knocked her into a muddy ditch. Where were his manners? Let me take you home, he offered, placing his hand over his heart. It’s the least I can do. And I’ll pay for your bike repairs.

She tilted the bicycle toward him, and he released a slow, steady breath, not realizing he’d been holding it. He seriously had to score some brownie points fast. Lifting the bike with ease, he carried it around to the trunk, hearing her faint footsteps behind him. He leaned the bike against the back and retrieved his keys from the ignition. He pushed the proper button on the fob, and the trunk popped open, revealing his luggage.

Sorry about that, he said sheepishly. My plane was late. I didn’t stop to check in at the motel. I’m late for an appointment. And why am I bothering you with this? Her eyes narrowed. He knew he needed to backpedal fast or lose before he even began. Dragging out his luggage, he opened the car door and pushed both suitcases onto the back seat.

Once the bicycle was secured, he opened the passenger door, and she paused with arms crossed, raising an eyebrow. He tapped a finger against his chest. I only have the best intention to take you wherever you’d like to go, he said. She nodded before sliding onto the leather seat. He climbed into the driver’s side and started the car. Where to?

She pointed straight ahead, and with no traffic in sight on the county road, he eased onto the pavement. They drove in silence for several miles before she tapped the dashboard and pointed for him to make a left turn.

It was then that he saw the sign. Persephone, standing proudly at the road's edge. The very location he was to have arrived at for his appointment with the owner. Did Harley work there? He slowed and made the turn, driving along the graveled and rutted driveway to the house at the end. Shutting off the engine, he took his keys to open the trunk, lifting out the bent bicycle.

Rather than allowing her to take the bike, he carried it to the front door, where he leaned it against the porch post. She started up the steps, but he called her back. "Do you work at Persephone? he asked. I’m supposed to have a meeting with the owner. I know I’m late—"

She motioned for him to follow her, and he walked around the side of the house to a building that sat beyond the house out front. The name Persephone had been engraved on the sign and under it, the name of the owner, Bethel Osgood. She pointed to herself, then the sign.

Confused, he nodded. He knew for a fact that she wasn’t Bethel Osgood, but what choice did he have but to play along? "Then, I guess I’m here to see you. I’m Alex Malone. I work for Wanderlust Art. Pleased to make your acquaintance."

Harley pointed to a rocking chair on the porch, asking Alex to take a seat, and then she lifted the edge of her soaked, muddy dress. After signaling her desire to change, she flexed her fingers out with all ten displayed. Assured he understood as he took a seat, she headed inside, her heart thumping hard with every hurried step.

She sagged against the closed front door, shutting her eyes and covering her mouth with her hand. A buzz of erratic emotions rushed through her body—so much that she trembled. She had trouble sorting through her thoughts, eclipsed entirely by adrenaline and something else.

Her hand slipped down over her chin, caressing her scarf-covered throat. Releasing a deep breath, she tried to regulate her breathing and calm her raging nerves. Never in her life had she met such a man. The way he looked at her with those clear, blue eyes was as if he knew all her secrets.

The gentleness of his voice stirred the butterflies in her stomach, flashing a surge of white-hot desire she didn’t believe could exist. Never had a man captured her undivided attention or made her lose all rational thought. She should be livid with him for knocking her headfirst into a ditch, for almost killing her, and for ruining her bicycle. She should be angry with him for missing their appointment, and yet she was a complete mess.

Alex Malone wasn’t like anyone she’d ever met. His broad shoulders filled out his black leather jacket, and his white t-shirt hinted at powerful muscles underneath. When he had maneuvered her bicycle into his car, she got a glimpse of his backside in his jeans. The man had a lush, toned ass and hard thighs. Lust was an emotion she’d never entertained, but at this moment, she was boxed in and held captive—a slave to its power. His lips—stop! Get a grip, Harley. She mentally shook away her next thought.

She needed to get out of her cold, wet clothes. Heading toward the bathroom, she stripped as she went, fighting the wet material as it clung to her skin.

Gazing at herself in the mirror, she grimaced. Good Lord. She was a mess. She was covered in mud and grass. There were a few tadpoles caught in her hair. Leaning closer, she squinted. What was that? She tried to pry her dark hair apart, but it was tangled and plastered to her skull. Pink and white plastic confetti dotted her hair. She frowned, but then she remembered the It’s a girl! sign while she wore the remnants of someone’s gender reveal party. Can't get around it—I have to shower.

Ignoring enticing thoughts about the sexy man sitting on her porch, she washed quickly, eager to discover the exact nature of his visit. His initial contact, on company letterhead, had been brief. He wanted to meet with her to see if her work was exceptional enough to meet the eccentric demands of art-eager clients the world over. His interest had intrigued her, and she responded to his request for an appointment.

Now that he was here, what would he say? How would she handle the interview when she had no voice with which to speak? As she pulled up her jeans, she thought about the scar on her neck. At times, being mute sucked, and she sure didn’t want to explain to him how her voice had been destroyed—her mother killed—at the hands of a drugged man bent on robbing the grocery store where they had been shopping.

She lightly blew her hair dry and pushed her feet into comfortable, leather mules before looking into the mirror and signing to her reflection, I wish you were here, Aunt Bethel. You’d know how to handle Alex Malone.

Rushing downstairs, she hurried into the kitchen and poured two glasses of lemonade she had made that morning before her trip into town. Armed with a glass in each hand, she braced