My Lady's Choosing: An Interactive Romance Novel(90)

Well, now you’ve gone and done it! Turn to this page, you wanton orgasmic harlot.





You reach for a broken statue with which to bash Loveday’s head in. But it is too far away, and so you claw at the vicar’s traitorous blue eyes—to no avail. The world starts to go black…and then brightens again as you awaken to find Craven breathing new life into your mouth.

“I heard your whole sorry tale,” he says to Loveday. “I would have gotten here sooner, but I had to scale the locked gates of the garden.”

“This is my house,” Loveday spits.

“This is my home,” Craven spits back.

The two men fight.

To your horror, Loveday, though smaller and more finely made, turns out to be stronger than you realized. Craven might actually lose. You watch with dizzying hopelessness, but then you hear a tiny voice in your ear: “Find your move.”

It is young Alexander, who has followed you all, unseen, into the eldritch garden. He manages to throw Loveday off his father with far more strength than a child should have, and he speaks in a strange, high-pitched voice.

“You got Mama to kill me. It was a big knife. Then she pushed me in the fire. I fought so hard, but it wasn’t enough. Papa tried to save me, but I was already gone. Mama didn’t expect to trip and fall in the fire. I watched her burn. She deserved it. You deserve it, too.”

Loveday’s face contorts with disbelief. “NO! NO! I will kill you all! And even if I don’t, no one will believe you.”

Loveday backs away as he speaks, while you, Craven, and the possessed Alexander stalk toward him, united as a family. Suddenly a flash of lightning breaks open the sky. A tree branch falls and stabs Loveday through his traitorous heart.

For a moment, the shadows seem to illuminate a familiar, triumphant, dark-haired beauty wielding the branch. But only for a moment. Alexander promptly faints, and you and Lord Craven carry him back to his rooms.





Go to this page.





You deftly duck out of Farouk/Fabien’s reach and launch yourself at a nearby abandoned stall. Grabbing the first thing that comes to hand—a heavy earthenware tagine that you can barely lift—you swing round just as a pair of strong hands grabs you firmly by the waist.

Fabien’s gray-green eyes glow victoriously…then quickly dim as you smash the heavy ceramic over his head. You quickly slip the pistol from his waistband, aim it at the nearest henchman, and shoot. You barely graze the man’s shoulder, but it seems enough to spook the band of henchmen. They scatter and run deep into the souk. You turn to face Fabien, but he seems to have melted into the crowd, like a spirit summoned away by a vengeful goddess.

“Dash it!” You pull a dazed Kamal to a seated position. He has been beaten severely about the head by one of the henchmen. “I would have at least liked to catch one of those scoundrels for questioning.”

He stares at you in wide-eyed admiration. “Truly, you are an exceptional woman, miss. The Lady Evangeline is lucky to have found such a companion.”

Though you are charmed by his reverence for your surprising triumph, you have no time for flattery.

“That’s very nice of you to say, Kamal, but we must get back to Lady Evangeline. I’m sure she will want to hear about this. Kamal?”

You look down and realize that your trusted friend has collapsed from his head wound. You sigh. Carrying him back is going to be hard work.





Turn to this page.





You wrap yourself in a cloak and follow the sound of howling to the edge of an eldritch garden surrounded by an ornate wrought-iron gate currently in a state of romantic disrepair. The howls have ceased. Strangely disappointed, you perch atop a stone structure, only to realize it is a fallen angel—the likeness of Lord Craven’s first wife.

You leap to your feet, alarmed. Your erstwhile seat is, in fact, her grave.

“The governess pays her respects,” growls a sultry voice. You suppress a shriek. Lord Craven is lounging languidly against a broken pair of angel’s wings, his eyes and hair wild, a brandy snifter in one hand. There is no mistaking the look in his eyes—unchecked desire. Your body riots with passion.

“How strange—” You breathe deeply and hope to shake the fear—or is it excitement?—from your tone before continuing. “How strange to be so far from home and alone with naught but forgotten crypts and fallen angels to keep one company.”

Lord Craven rises slowly. You drink the sight of him like wine. He stalks toward you, his beautifully muscled frame straining against the pressures of lust. “The only eyes that can perceive any wickedness yet to occur here are long dead, girl.”

You fix him with a level, if hungry, gaze. “I am currently faced with a pair that speak quite to the contrary, if I may be so bold.”

“You may be much bolder, girl.” He places your trembling hand on his manhood, which has grown as stiff as the eldritch garden’s wrought-iron gate.





Do you give in to your hopeless, wild passion right there in the garden? Turn to this page.

Or do you run to preserve your purity, if only for a moment more? Turn to this page.





              “Lord Craven is lounging languidly against a broken pair of angel’s wings, his eyes and hair wild, a brandy snifter in one hand.”