Amazon Top 100 Bestseller Paper & Paid Kindle 2016 in 3 Sub-Genres

Bea leaned her forehead against the cool, bare frame of the window in her flat above the Victorian bookshop, Sevón. The evening air pressed in, thick with the hum of the city, and her gaze drifted down to the neon graffiti that sprawled across the metal shutters below, its colours bleeding into the old brick walls like veins of rebellion. A car roared past, its headlights slicing through the gloom, and Bea winced, turning her eyes away from the harsh glare. A commotion stirred her attention—down on the street, a cab driver was cursing at a drunk who had lobbed a beer can dangerously close to his car. The can clattered and rolled, rattling across the pavement before it disappeared into a heap of litter next to an overturned bin.

Here, in the tangled heart of South London, nothing surprised her anymore. The chaos, the noise—it was all part of the backdrop, a symphony of dysfunction that she'd grown used to. Yet, it never felt like home. Not really. Home was a place she longed for, somewhere far from this grime. What she truly wanted now was simple: to sink into bed, tuck herself under the soft weight of blankets, a steaming mug of tea in one hand, and a novel in the other—a balm to soothe the gnawing ache of regret. She'd been tormenting herself all day for agreeing to go to Leanne’s party. But Liza, her best friend, wouldn’t let her back out. And Brandon—of course he’d be there. How could he not? He was Leanne’s brother, after all. A sigh escaped her, carrying with it the weight of too many memories left unresolved.

The warmth of her breath fogged the glass, and without thinking, Bea traced a finger through the condensation, the squeak of it sharp in the stillness as she drew a large question mark. She stared at it, the symbol hanging there like an echo of all the uncertainty inside her. Then, with the heel of her palm, she wiped it away. Her footsteps felt heavy as she wandered down the narrow hallway toward her bedroom, the familiar sense of deflation settling over her like an old, unwelcome coat.

Sitting on the edge of the bed, she glanced down at her outfit—a pair of old River Island jeans, a gold jumper, and flats. Comfort, every time. She chuckled under her breath, a self-deprecating laugh, but the sound barely reached the walls of the quiet room. As she reached for her cup, the dregs of tea already cold, the phone rang. The shrill sound startled her, sparking a flicker of panic that had been simmering in the pit of her stomach all day.

She took a steady breath, trying to calm the sick churn rising inside. It wasn’t anything, surely. Just nerves. The dread of facing him again. The dread of another argument, of past wounds tearing open, raw and exposed. Her uncle’s words surfaced in her mind: Leave the past where it belongs—in the past. But the past, she knew, had a way of creeping back into the present when you least expected it. With a sigh, she answered the call.

“Hi, Liza.”

“You ready? I’m outside. Oh, and the girls are with me.”

“Ready as I’ll ever be. Coming.” Bea gave herself a quick spritz of the Issey Miyake perfume that sat neglected on her dresser. She paused, bottle in hand, the scent clinging to the air around her. When was the last time I even wore perfume? She couldn’t remember.

Pulling on her coat, she made her way downstairs, her fingers fumbling to secure the lock of the bookshop door. The latch stuck, cranky as always, and she yanked it hard until it finally clicked into place. The night greeted her with a biting chill, and she pulled her coat tighter, rushing down the narrow alleyway beside the shop. Liza was waiting, the gleaming black of her new Mini Cooper barely visible in the shadows, save for the silver flecks in the paint glinting faintly beneath the yellow streetlights.

As she approached the car, her footsteps quickening, Bea’s heart thudded with the weight of anticipation. The night felt like a threshold—one she wasn’t quite ready to cross, but one she couldn’t avoid either. The air around her buzzed with a sense of inevitability, a quiet pulse, as if the city itself held its breath, waiting.

Writing round the block ~ Book Blog & Reviews

Genre: Fantasy, romantic drama

Epic fantasy, coming-of-age, romantic drama and mythology: this book is a finely woven carpet of great fiction.

An intricately imagined fantasy, suspenseful action, two beautifully interwoven love stories (not the kind of paranormal love triangle I was anticipating), and a lot of well-crafted drama. Brilliant – I want more!