Stalked By The Mad Dog Nephew
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For years, I played the role of the fragile, fading wife in the Garrison dynasty, a "little doll" who looked like she’d break if the wind blew too hard. My husband, Augustus, treated me like a piece of inconvenient furniture, while his volatile nephew, Brandon, stalked me like a predator in the shadows.
Everything shattered during a family brunch when Augustus’s mistress, Gilda, lounged in his shirt and announced she was pregnant with the Garrison heir. Instead of hiding his shame, my husband beamed with pride and slid a thick manila envelope across the table in front of his gloating parents.
"We need to make room for the family, Avery," he said coldly, "and you’re barren." His mother laughed, calling me a "worthless asset" who provided no value to the lineage. They offered me fifty million dollars to disappear—a pathetic pittance for a man worth over four billion.
I let a single, perfect tear fall, playing the part of the defeated, broken woman they all expected me to be. They didn't see the cold calculation behind my watery eyes or know that I had spent three years documenting every illegal insider trade and offshore account Augustus owned.
I didn't just sign the papers; I walked into the final settlement meeting in a sharp black suit and shredded their offer in front of their faces. I demanded two billion dollars in cash and controlling voting shares, threatening to hand the SEC the evidence that would send Augustus to federal prison for life.
As he lunged at me in a blind rage, realization dawning that he had underestimated me, I leaned in and whispered the final blow. I told him about the box of condoms in his nightstand and the silver needle I used to ensure Gilda got pregnant.
"I gave you exactly what you wanted, Augustus," I smiled as I walked out with half his empire. "And in exchange, I got my freedom."
Stalked By The Mad Dog Nephew Chapter 1
Rain slashed against the tinted windows of the limousine, a rhythmic drumming that matched the pounding in Avery Preston's temples. She didn't move to open the door immediately. Instead, she sat in the climate-controlled silence, staring at the neon sign of the Vanguard Club blurring through the wet glass. Her fingers, manicured to a pale, harmless nude, trembled slightly in her lap.
It was a practiced tremor.
"Mrs. Garrison?" the driver asked, his eyes meeting hers in the rearview mirror. "Do you need an umbrella?"
"No, thank you, Charles." Her voice was soft, barely a whisper. It was the voice everyone expected from her. The voice of a woman who was slowly fading away, consumed by nerves and a constitution too fragile for the harsh realities of New York City.
Avery pulled her coat tighter around her throat, stepping out into the deluge. The cold dampness bit at her skin, but she didn't hurry. She adjusted her posture, hunching her shoulders just enough to look small, defenseless. The bouncer at the velvet rope took one look at her pale face and the expensive cut of her soaking coat and unhooked the barrier without a word.
She stepped inside.
The bass hit her chest first, a physical thud that vibrated through her ribs. The air inside was thick, a cloying mixture of expensive cologne, stale cigarette smoke, and the metallic tang of spilled alcohol. Avery navigated the crowd, keeping her eyes downcast, playing the part of the terrified wife searching for a wayward relative.
The bartender, a man with tired eyes and a heavy beard, didn't need to ask who she was looking for. He simply jerked his chin toward the far corner of the room, a VIP booth shrouded in shadow.
Avery walked toward the darkness.
Glass crunched under her heels. The sound was sharp, distinct even over the music. She stopped at the edge of the booth.
Brandon Garrison was sprawled across the leather banquette like a fallen king. His shirt was unbuttoned halfway, revealing a chest sheen with sweat. His knuckles were split open, fresh blood trickling down his fingers to stain the pristine white tablecloth. He was laughing, a low, guttural sound that had cleared the immediate area of anyone sane.
A waitress, terrified and holding a dustpan, tried to approach the mess of shattered tumblers on the floor.
"Leave it," Brandon snarled, not looking at her. He waved a hand aggressively, sending a half-empty bottle spinning off the table. It crashed against the wall. The waitress flinched and scurried away.
Avery took a breath, holding it in her lungs until it burned. She stepped into his line of sight, clutching her purse to her stomach as if it were a shield.
"Brandon," she said. Her voice wavered perfectly.
He froze. The laughter died in his throat. Slowly, agonizingly slowly, he turned his head. His eyes were bloodshot, wild, the pupils blown wide. He looked like a man who had been running for days, or perhaps hunting.
A slow, dark smirk spread across his face as he recognized her.
"Aunt Avery," he drawled. The title dripped with venom. "Did Augustus send his little nurse to fetch me?"
"Please, Brandon." Avery took a step closer, careful to avoid the glass. "It's late. You're bleeding. Let's go home."
He stood up.
The movement was sudden, violent. He towered over her, six feet and two inches of coiled muscle and drunken rage. He kicked the heavy oak table aside as if it were made of cardboard. The crash silenced the nearby conversations.
Avery didn't back down, though every instinct in her body screamed at her to run. She couldn't break character. Not here. Not yet.
He cornered her against the high back of the leather booth. The smell of him-whiskey, copper blood, and a feverish, overwhelming body heat-invaded her senses. He leaned down, invading her personal space until his nose was inches from hers.
"Home?" he whispered, his voice rough like gravel. "To that mausoleum? To your husband who is currently balls-deep in his secretary?"
Avery flinched. It was a reflex she allowed herself. "Stop it, Brandon."
"You're such a dutiful little doll, aren't you?" His hand shot out, grabbing her wrist. His grip was iron-tight, bruising. He pulled her hand away from her chest, exposing her. "Do you even have a pulse, Avery? Or are you just plastic all the way through?"
His face moved closer. The line between aggression and desire blurred terrifyingly. He was looking at her mouth, his eyes dropping to her lips with a hunger that had no place between a nephew and his aunt by marriage.
"Let's see if you break," he murmured.
He leaned in to kiss her. It wasn't a kiss of affection; it was a weapon. A tool of humiliation meant to shatter the fragile reality she clung to.
Survival instinct overrode the script.
Avery's free hand moved before she registered the decision. She slapped him.
The sound was a sharp crack, cutting through the heavy bass of the club music. Her palm stung, a burning sensation that traveled up her arm. She gasped, her chest heaving, realizing instantly that she had slipped. The terrified, submissive Avery Preston would never strike a Garrison.
Silence stretched between them, heavy and suffocating.
Brandon didn't recoil. He didn't get angry.
He slowly lifted his hand to his cheek, touching the red mark blooming there. And then, he smiled. It wasn't the mocking smirk from before. It was a genuine, dark smile that didn't reach his eyes.
"There she is," he whispered, almost reverently. "Why do you stay with a man who doesn't even want you, Avery? When you have fire like that?"
Avery regained her composure, pulling the mask back into place with a sheer force of will. She yanked her wrist from his grip, rubbing the spot where his fingers had dug in.
"Get in the car, Brandon," she ordered, her voice trembling not with fear, but with a suppressed fury she couldn't let him see. She turned her back on him, walking away without checking if he would follow.
She didn't need to look. She could feel him behind her. He followed her out of the club, not like a chastised relative, but like a predator stalking its prey.
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Stalked By The Mad Dog Nephew of Contents
New Release Novels
7.3
After Ethan went bankrupt, I took him in as my kept man.
Every day he was touched by me, pinned down on the bed while I did whatever I wanted.
His face flushed red, yet he could only endure the humiliation.
Until one day I overheard him on the phone with someone. He said, “Yeah, I didn't actually go bankrupt. So what? Anyone who dares let Brooke know can wait to die!”
And my name is Brooke.
7.6
I was the fiancée of the Chicago Outfit’s heir, a bond sealed by blood and eighteen years of history.
But when his mistress pushed me into the freezing pool at our engagement gala, Jax didn’t swim toward me.
He swam past me.
He scooped up the girl who pushed me, cradling her like fragile glass, while I struggled against the weight of my gown in the murky water.
When I finally dragged myself out, shivering and humiliated before the entire underworld, Jax didn’t offer a hand. He offered a scowl.
"You’re making a scene, Eliana. Go home."
Later, when that same mistress shoved me down the stairs, shattering my knee and my dance career, Jax stepped over my broken body to comfort her.
I overheard him telling his friends, "I’m just breaking her spirit. She needs to learn she’s property, not a partner. Once she’s desperate enough, she’ll be the perfect obedient wife."
He thought I was a dog that would always return to its master. He thought he could starve me of affection until I begged for scraps.
He was wrong.
While he was busy playing protector to his mistress, I wasn't crying in my room.
I was packing his ring into a cardboard box.
I cancelled my transfer to UCLA and enrolled at NYU instead.
By the time Jax realized his "property" was missing, I was already in New York, standing next to a man who looked at me like a queen, not a possession.
9.2
It all started with one encounter.
One night with a man whose touch felt like sin and whose scent still haunts my skin.
I never meant to fall - but when I caught my boyfriend, the Alpha's son, cheating on me, something inside me broke.
And that's when he found me - a stranger cloaked in dominance and danger. His hands promised ruin, his lips whispered damnation.
I gave in. Just once.
Or so I thought.
Now, I've been hired as the Alpha's new secretary.
And when I walked into his office, the world stopped.
Because he's not a stranger.
He's him.
The man from that night.
The man I should have never touched.
The father of my ex.
I tell myself I can resist him - that I can keep my secret buried. But every time his gaze lingers, every time that deep, commanding voice wraps around my name, my resolve burns away.
This isn't love.
It's an obsession. Possession. Darkness disguised as desire.
And I know one thing for sure - once an Alpha sets his eyes on you...
He never lets go.
9.3
Fallon Bayliss, a young, successful painter from New York, has nightmares, and some parts of her memory are missing. One night, she gets abducted by Sean, a vampire. And that brings her to the very beginning, first to London where she worked as a waitress, and then back to Rome.
Remembering she spent the last year and a half there as that vampire's pet, his sex slave, under the false identity. And all the things he has done to her recall the awful pain, realizing she both hates and desires him.
Her doom started at her 19th birthday party when she met Hope Douglas, looking identical to her. Fallon has no clue vampires exist. And that Hope is a vampire hunter when she offers her a lucrative deal. Fallon takes it, falling into the trap and committing the biggest mistake of her life.
Now Sean wants to turn her into a vampire and keep her forever. Fallon carries a secret of her own, but so does Sean. And the plot slowly unfolds from the moment of her abduction.
9.4
Sign these papers. Our marriage is over."
Amelia Hart froze. Her stomach tightened. She was carrying Damian Blackwood's child, and he had no idea.
For five years, she raised their son in secret, building her own life, her own career, and her own strength. But when Amelia returns to the city as a successful architect, she finds Damian standing in her path, the man who abandoned her without a second thought.
As the little boy she loves grows closer to the father he's never met, Amelia must navigate betrayal, ambition, and lingering heartbreak. Meanwhile, Vanessa Cole, Damian's former lover, schemes to keep them apart.
Will Damian be able to earn back Amelia's trust? Can Amelia forgive the man who left her alone to raise their child? Or will Vanessa's manipulation destroy any chance at redemption?
This is a story of love, loss, and the secrets that can shape a family, and the second chances that might heal it.
9.5
Ten years ago, a storm tore through Burke Manor and destroyed my life. I was just an eight-year-old orphan hiding in the shadows when a rotted balcony railing gave way, sending the heir to the Burke fortune plummeting to the pavement.
Before the ambulance even arrived, the lie was set in stone.
"She pushed him!" my rival screamed, and the world instantly branded me a murderer.
I was hauled away in a police cruiser, losing everything. A decade later, I was an eighteen-year-old mechanic in Queens, covered in grease and struggling to keep my Nana Rose alive.
But the past doesn't stay buried. Finn Burke returned in a black Maybach, looking like a predatory emperor. When Nana suffered a massive heart attack, the hospital demanded a deposit I couldn't pay, and Finn was there with a checkbook and a contract of "indebted servitude."
He bought my grandmother's life and, in exchange, he bought me. He dragged me back to the manor, locked a titanium GPS shackle around my wrist, and forced me to be his personal caretaker.
He wants me to manage his pain, to bathe him, and to look at his crippled legs every day as a reminder of the "sin" he says I committed. He calls me his property, a slave to a debt I can never repay.
But while massaging his legs, I felt something impossible—muscle tone and reactive tension that shouldn't exist after ten years of paralysis.
He thinks he’s broken me, but he’s forgotten one thing. I’m a mechanic; I know when someone is hiding what’s under the hood.
Finn Burke is lying about his legs, and I’m going to find out why, even if I have to burn this manor down to get the truth.
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