Violets & Violence (24 page)

Morgan Parker is the fake name of a former banker. He enjoys all things chocolate, has an addiction to non-fat cappuccinos and sleep. In fact, he can sleep anywhere. For that matter, he can drink cappuccinos and eat chocolate anywhere as well.

              When Morgan isn’t writing he is either sleeping, working, or chauffeuring his children to and from their activities.

              He loves hearing from his readers and fans, so follow him on Facebook and send him a message.

If you like this kind of story, then you might want to look at one of my bigger projects for 2015.
Hearth
is a series about death and pure love, and the first novel is scheduled for publication on March 1, 2015. Make sure you mark that date in your calendars!

              Until then, I hope you enjoy the Prologue.

Hearth

I remember my father singing to me as a child. He loved me. More. He loved me
more
. I could see it in his big blue eyes, the way he looked at me while he sang in a voice as dry as a Cuban cigar or eighteen-year old scotch.

You are my sunshine / My only sunshine / You make happy / When skies are grey / You’ll never know, Annabella / How much I love you / Please don’t take / My sunshine… away.

Once he finished, he would give me a big smile, and those dark eyes of his would grow wide and damp like all that love he harbored for me sought to spill out of his heart and its only way to do that was through those eyes. He would take my head with his soft hands and kiss my forehead, cheeks – the right side first, the left side next – chin and, lastly, the tip of my nose.

“I love you,” he said.

And I would reply, “I love you, too.”

“Ah, but Annabella, I love you more.”

I believed him, too. Because it was the truth.

As I got older, that love never faltered. But it cracked. First when I started dating Trainor – a small crack, barely noticeable. And then that crack got a little bigger with Ben. And bigger and bigger as time wore on.

Eventually, that crack grew so wide that it was all I saw; this big gap bordered by what remained of my father’s heart.

I never broke another human as much as I did my father.

And then I died.

But he still loved me.
More
.

If I had been around to witness it for myself, I would have learned that love doesn’t break. But spirits do. And broken spirits fight. They don’t know why, but they fight for the love they will never hold in their arms or sing to sleep ever again.