Published by 1001 Dark Nights Press on 8/25/20
Genres: Contemporary Romance
Buy on Amazon US
Find the Author: Website, Facebook, Goodreads, Amazon, Instagram, Newsletter
Camilla Fasbender has a secret.
Underneath her posh accent and designer clothes lies the evidence of her pain.
Every heartbreak, every bad day, every setback has left a scar.
From behind her camera, she shows the world what to see. And it isn't her.
He sees right through her carefully constructed facade.
And he's going to slash it all to pieces.
**Every 1001 Dark Nights novella is a standalone story. For new readers, it’s an introduction to an author’s world. And for fans, it’s a bonus book in the author’s series. We hope you'll enjoy each one as much as we do.**
Slash, an all new sizzling hot 1,001 Dark Nights Standalone Novella in the Slay series by New York Times bestselling author Laurelin Paige is available now!
Slash by Laurelin Paige is a 1001 Dark Nights novella set in the Slay Quartet world. Readers will not have to read the quartet to read the novella. This story can be seen as an extra treat for long-time readers of the author or an introduction for newbies. Slash is a story of a woman’s journey and scars. It was emotional and candid. Camilla Fassbender is a woman with a secret hidden under layers polish and Hendrix may just be what she needs.
Add Slash to Goodreads: https://bit.ly/3cXowMm
Hendrix didn’t strike me as ridiculous. Or impulsive. Or silly.
Why on earth, then, would he believe that there could be something worth seeking out with me? If that’s what he meant at all. Which…he did, didn’t he?
It’s confusing, and confusion makes me hide, on the whole. But since I can’t hide because I’m the fucking teacher in this class—seriously, how did this happen?—and for some reason the educator is expected to stay present, I find my confusion turning to anger. It works itself through me until the beauty of our night together is cropped out of my memory and what’s left is trite and fleeting. His presence feels nothing like flattery—which it did feel flattering, admittedly, for a half second there in the midst of everything else. Now, though, it just feels invasive and unprofessional and mean.
Perhaps I’d confront him about it, if I were a different sort of person, one who isn’t afraid to stand up to a challenge. One who isn’t afraid to live her life.
But I’m not that sort of person, so after I give out the assignments and send the students on their way, I plan to gather my things and get on my way as soon as possible, so fond of hiding that I am. I was stupid enough to believe—or perhaps hopeful is the better term—that Hendrix would let me do that, as he’d let me leave that night in Paris, not that I’d given him a choice.
He doesn’t, though, of course. Of course. He approaches me, his leather camera bag slung over his shoulder, a man satchel underneath.
“Camilla,” he says in that American accent that makes me both cringe and swoon all at once, and for the briefest of moments I find myself considering something different for a change. I consider staying.
But underneath my long sleeve polo neck, my skin throbs with an intensity that equals the blaring of a car alarm, and I think of Fred waiting for me at home to take him out for ice cream and the dead husband who hurt me as much as he loved me and the ugliness that marks me inside and out. And in the chaos of those thoughts, there is no option to stay.
“You being here is in bad taste,” I say before he has a chance to say anything else. “Don’t do this to me.”
I brush past him then, and with the heat of that brief contact following me in radiating waves, I rush outside to disappear among the Saturday-morning Londoners who are out enjoying the early signs of spring.