ARC Review + Exclusive Excerpt | Splinters of You by Anne Malcom

2020. április 27., hétfő

50709502. sy475

Words are my weapon.
Stories wrap around my soul, choking me, capturing you.
I don't work in dreams.
I don't offer escapes.
I cage you within my nightmares.

Magnolia Grace is a horror writer, despite what the name might suggest.
One of the best in the business, if you asked around.
Pressure comes with that title. Expectation for the next nightmare. The next bestseller.
That's what it is.
She can't be healthy. Because that means she won't write.
And she hasn't been writing.
A looming deadline and a crumbling psyche drive her into the woods. To a cabin which was the site of a grizzly murder.
A serial killer, butchering women, toying with her.
Her plan is to borrow some of the horror that seeped into the soil.
But hers follows her.
The woods are meant to be her escape. But they are almost her demise.
He was an unlikely saviour. An unexpected muse. He has horrors of his own. A motorcycle club looking to settle a score. A soul too broken to offer her anything but pain.

5 *SELFISH* star

Splinter of You is the first book in the Retired Sinners MC series. It is completely different than Anne's other books. It is her DARKEST book EVER and it has become my fav from her. It is more than horror, romance, mistery and crime, it is more than ABOVE ALL. It is EVERYTHING! It inspired me, yes maybe I'm weird, but that doesn't appeal to me. The story was inhaled me into the first pages and I enjoy every single moment while a read.

We can read this story in present time from Magnolia's POV. She is a horror writer, she's the darkest and the most honest heroine who I know. In spite of all these she is very likeable character to me. She has skeletons in her closet, she is lonely, but she like that. I liked that she didn't think too hard, don't want to comply with anyone. She did what she wanted.

Beside the dark heroine we can know a similar and yet completely different hero. His name is Saint. He is patient and caring but but there are skeletons in his closet too.
They are perfect together but they are destroy each other too. They don't want fake people in their lives. Like you or me.

This book is a war! War with ourshelves, with everyone. But maybe in the end you finally have peace. I find peace!

I cannot tell how much I love this book!!! Splinters of You gripped my soul, and yours will too! What I feel is indescribable. I want to cry, broken and crushed. I'm can't wait to read the next books in the series.

Értékelésem magyarul

A Splinters of You a Retired Sinners MC sorozat első része. Ez a könyv teljesen más mint amit eddig Anne Malcom-tól olvashattunk. Ez a legsötétebb könyvet melyet valaha írt, mégis ez a kedvencem az írónőtől. Ez a könyv sokkal több mint egy horror, romantikus, misztikus vagy krimi történet, MINDNÉL SOKKAL TÖBB. EZ a könyv MINDEN! Inspirált engem, igen tudom hogy talán kicsit furcsa vagyok, de nem érdekel. Az első oldaltól kezdve beszippantott! Élveztem minden pillanatot!

Magát a történetet jelen időben Magnolia szemszögéből olvashatjuk. Ő egy horroríró, ő a legsötétebb és legőszintébb karakter akit "ismerek". Ettől függetlenül mégis nagyon szimpatikus számomra. Igen, rengeteg csontváz van a szekrényében, igen, magányos, de ő szereti ezt. Nem gondolja túl a dolgokat, nem akar megfelelni senkinek. Azt teszi amit akar.

A legsötétebb hősnő után megismerhetjük a hozzá hasonló és mégis teljesen különböző hőst is. Saint-nek hívják. Ő türelmes és törődő férfi, de bizony az ő szekrényében is rengeteg csontváz van. 

Ők teljesen tökéletesek együtt de teljesen tönkreteszik egymást. Utálják a hamis embereket az életükben. Csakúgy mint te vagy én. 

Ez a történet egy HÁBORÚ. Háború önmagunkkal és mindenkivel. De a végén talán megtalálhatjuk a békét. Én megtaláltam.

El nem tudom mondani mennyire IMÁDTAM ezt a könyvet! A Splinters of You rabul ejtette a lelkemet, és a tiédet is rabul ejti majd! Leírhatatlan amit érzek. Sírni, sőt törni-zúzni akarok! Alig várom hogy olvashassam a következő részt!


"Her blood was like wine. Aged. Rich. Rare. No one else would spill it but me."

  I knew I made a mistake the second I pulled off the interstate and onto a winding road, poorly paved, full of potholes, bordered by dense wood. 
  Even though I'd only been on the road a handful of minutes, with the open spaces of the interstate still visible in my rear view, the feeling of suffocation was overwhelming. The wood strangled me. Nature smothered me-
  I had to clutch the steering wheel to stop myself from slamming on the brakes, turning the car around, and driving all the way back to my apartment in New York. The city had never felt this suffocating, despite the fack it had one of the highest population densities in the country. Despite the fact there was no such thing as privacy, where people defecated on the streets, fucked in parks, had babies in cabs, and died everywhere, but that was what I'd liked about it. The life was lived in the open. Started in the open. Ended that way. There was an ugly honesty that fed my own ugly soul.
  Granted, I had a lavish, spacious apartment overlooking the park, and even with the millions it was worth, it wasn't exactly huge. Plus, it was one I had up until about a week ago, shared with whi was now my ex-fiancé.
  Though, I figured if I did turn around right now, swallow all of my pride, abandon my dignity, I could take the ex out of that title.
  No, I couldn't do that. Fail before I'd even truly started. That wasn't an option anyway. The aforementioned apartment was already in escrow-thank you to the New York property market - and all my stuff that wasn't in the back of the car - which was a lot despite the car being full to the brim-was in storage.
  My friends (people who pretended to like me for their own selfish reasons and that I pretended to like my own) had thrown the goodbye party, pictures were taken, and farewells were made. Though the closest of my friends had considered having me committed against my will as she thought I'd truly gone crazy when I announced I'd be leaving the loud, dirty noisy city I had once loved to move to a tiny town in Washington State that was barely on any maps.
  I was, of course, crazy. All authors were crazy, weren't they? If I could still call myself and author. I hadn't written in mondths and my overly large advance from my latest book was dwindling-draining, really-in one of the most expensive cities in the world. The kind of citiy I'd always dreamed about. The kind of life I'd always dreamed about. Sure, I had money to back it up with. I could pay back the advance and retire, if I wanted to be careful. Quiet. But it wasn't about the art. It was about the empty page. If it came down to it, materialistic and superficial shrew I'd turned myself into, I'd still trade a full page for an empty bank account. 
Though I'd never had that problem. Not since I started writing. Not since my debut set the world on fire.
  But lately, I'd felt lost. Restless, despite my literary success, my bulging bank accoung, my rabid, if not obsessive, readers. I liked that obsession. No I loved it, The darker the better. The mail that bordered on psychotic and maybe should've been passed on to a law enforcemetn professional...yeah, that was my favorite.
I was living a life most true artist never got to live while creating. Henry David Thoreau, Melville, Emily Dickinson, the name a few. They lived sad, sparse lives, and their books made them millionaires in death.
  I had parties thrown for me-despite the fact I despised every guest and the leeches throwing the-I wen on talk shows, book tours. Again, I hated those and had significantly cut down on them the past two years, and cancelled all my upcoming ones. My reason for that wasn't exactly hatred, but it was a lie I told myself to keep it all together.
  But still, in my career, despite the dark shadows, I had it 'all.'
  Personally-surface level, of course- I also had it "all."
  The man who got down on one knee with that deep red box edged with gold and promise. He wore ten thousan-dollar suits. He had been featured as one of the most eligible bachelors in the city. Family was moneyed, snobby, and still had household staff. Everything that was wrong with society and wrong with us as humans, it was still desirable. We all ached to be part of the club that had systematically destroyed empathy, humanity.
Even me. The dark sheep of my family, the literary world. I reveled in being an outcast but basked in the beige, rich, and bigoted world of my fiancé, and the boyfriend that came before him. 
  Then there were the hotel rooms. The rooms I had once loved for their lack of personality and wealth of possibly only taunted me with  my empty page and broken brain. That yawning emptiness that only intensified as I continued not writing.
  Not writing turned me into...something.
  Someone decidedly more volatile and unhinged than I already was before, which was pretty fucking unhinged.
  I became more paranoid, uncomfortable, moody, all-around evil, if I was honest. My vision sharpened as well. I saw too clearly just how much I'd been lying to myself. The horrid and vapid life I'd wrapped myself up in. Starting with the man who gave me the tacky, expensive, and cliché diamond I'd slid off my finger the same morning I'd bought the cabin is Washington.
  Yes, bought. Sight unseen. In somewhere as drastically different from New York as I could possibly get. I wasn't known for doing thing by halves, and this was a full overhaul of my life.
The plan was to lock myself away from civilization-if that't what you could call New York-and write a book I'd promised my publisher. That's what all the great writers did, didn't they? Shut out all outside distractions, forced themselves to look forwards for the story, for their madness.
  It had seemed so simple, so enticing. it was a Band-Aid over a bullet wound, to be sure, but I thought it would tide me over for this book, at least.
  But now, staring at the road, feeling the trees swallowing me up...yeah, it was not enticing at all.
  I'd made a mistake.
  A huge one.
  But I had to follow it through.
  So, I followed the road.

© Anne Malcom, 2020

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