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Crowne Jewel

Crowne Jewel

368 pages
Heat Level: 🔥🔥🔥🔥
$20.00 - $20.00
$20.00
$20.00 - $20.00
$20.00

Crowne Jewel is the fifth standalone in the Crowne Brothers.

A hot protector, wounded soldier, an ex she never thought she'd get over.

Protect me at all costs.

That's the mission my father placed on Anton Markov-my new bodyguard. Shield me from a ruthless, faceless stalker. The menace hijacked my online presence, levied chilling threats my way, and promised to unleash a barrage of damage to me personally and professionally.

There's one problem with Anton.

It's simple. I despise him.

He stole everything years ago-my heart, dreams, and dignity. With a four-line farewell note stuck to my kitchen table, he broke my heart and almost my spirit.

But it seems Anton has his own collection of grievances over what happened in New York, and he's not willing to let them go.

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The story includes non-binary besties, a past abortion that no one feels guilty about, and a hundred right ways to act with an independent woman. The danger to Lyric is real and manifests in stalking, ugly threats, and descriptions of violence that may take some readers out of the story. Oh, also role-play shenanigans, a guy who stands up for her when she's speaking, and two people who bring each other sandwiches in case they're hungry. 

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“I’ll give you a thousand dollars to put that phone down.” Anton taps the table with three fingers. He’s wearing a silver bracelet. The top of his hand has a Ukrainian trident tattooed on it. 


He didn’t have that in New York.


“I’m working,” I say, tapping out an Instagram post and then speeding it off into the cloud.

Now I have no excuse to look at my screen, but I’m not taking orders from Anton, so I scroll around for funsies and pretend to ignore him.


“Is that what you call it?”
The muscles under Anton’s Issey Miyake black turtleneck have filled out in the last three years. They’re smacking Kelly silent. Once we’re out of here, the pent-up verbiage is going to come spilling out of her like a pot of rice that’s been on the burner too long. 


Dinner’s been torture. I’m supposed to be talking to Laing about boosting his content, but before my drink even arrived, my worst-ex-ever decided to accept an invitation shouted at a traffic light. It’s been tense ever since.


“How about,” I say, still not looking up, “I’ll give you two thousand to tell us what you’ve been doing for a living.”