Writer In Progress: New Release - Shattered - The Russian Guns # 5 by Bethany-Kris @BethanyKris @sparklebooktour

Presented by: Sparkle Book Tours

Shattered - The Russian Guns # 5

by Bethany-Kris

Audience: Adult 18+, New Adult - Genre: Contemporary, Suspense, Organized Crime - Format: E-book & Paperback - Publisher: Bethany-Kris - Cover by: Jay Aheer - Editor: Elle Leigh - Pages: Full length novel – 100k - ISBN: 978-0-9937797-6-3 - Date Published: July 2nd, 2015

“Don’t fall in love with me. I ruin beautiful things.”
Love made him this way, but life makes him stay.
Life doesn’t give a redo. There’s no rewind or pause button to take you back or stop time. Once something happens, it happened. The most tragic of those times in his life, the ones he wouldn’t get back and the moments he could never fix, reminded Demyan Avdonin of a bullet meeting glass.
The impact of the bullet doesn't break the glass into pieces, but instead, leaves behind a single hole surrounded by a spider web of cracks. Fragile cracks that, when handled with the utmost care, would splinter into shards of what used to be.
Demyan thought he had been broken beyond repair once, four long years ago.
He was wrong.
She touched the glass, unknowing of the cracks holding him together. These are the broken pieces of a shattered man and the woman who made him live.
Life made him this way, but love makes him stay.

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Something was happening to him, and it was because of her. He was letting it happen because he liked the way she got under his skin, made him think, and forced him to feel. Even if it wasn’t always fucking pretty.
Demyan wasn’t sure how he felt about that other than the fact he didn’t want to think about it at all. Hooking up was one thing, but acting cozy was completely different and not what he should want.
“Demyan—”
“Don’t,” he forced out.
“But—”
Demyan turned on his heel, a hand flying up in the air to stop her from saying another thing. He made a swift beeline for the front door, grabbing his jacket off the back of the couch where he tossed it the night before.
“Demyan!”
At the front door, he tugged on his coat before yanking on his shoes.
“Demyan, please just wait a second,” Claire pleaded. “Please!”
Her cry sliced him straight down to the fucking bone. Like it ached in his heart because he was the one making her hurt. She was just feet away from him. Christ, he could reach out and touch her, soothe her if he wanted, but he couldn’t.
“Don’t do that,” Demyan said sharply, standing straight and trying to force back the rising anxiety and anger.
Claire snapped away from him as if he’d stuck out at her with his hand. “Do what?”
“That.”
“I don’t understand wh—”
Demyan waved at her. “That right there. This can’t be something. We can’t be something. Don’t do that.”
“Demyan, you’re freaking out over nothing.”
No, he wasn’t.
There were tears in her eyes. They weren’t falling, but they were there. She was hurt by his rejection, and he didn’t know how to handle what was going on inside his head and heart. So, it was pretty goddamn simple for Demyan. He needed to stop whatever this was before it went any further.
Straight for the kill, like any good monster would do.
“Don’t fall in love with me. I ruin beautiful things.”
Claire flinched. “Why would you say that?”
“You can’t fall in love with someone like me and you certainly can’t afford to believe there’s something here or that you can make me better again. I am broken—unobtainable and unfixable. I don’t need a fucking martyr in my life. I’ve got enough of those as it is.”
“Ouch.”
“Just … don’t.”
“Fall in love with you.”
“Exactly,” Demyan muttered.
“Why would you say that?” she repeated.
Wasn’t it obvious?
“Claire—”
“Why would you tell me not to fall in love with you and then in the next sentence, call me beautiful?” Because she was.

Bethany-Kris is a Canadian author, lover of much, and mother to three very young sons, one cat, and two dogs. A small town in Eastern Canada where she was born and raised is where she has always called home. With her boys under her feet, a snuggling cat, barking dogs, and a spouse calling over his shoulder, she is nearly always writing something ... when she can find the time.