TEMPTATION'S TANGLE

 

 

 

Why this Book

Some desires refuse to be untangled.

Carlo knows better than to chase temptation, but when Ivy enters his world, resisting becomes impossible. Engaged to a man who offers stability, Ivy is torn between duty and the intoxicating pull of something forbidden. Their connection is undeniable—an electric current neither can escape—but some lines, once crossed, cannot be redrawn.

Sloan, has spent her life mastering control—until Ivy threatens to unravel everything. Fiercely ambitious and unwilling to be cast aside, she refuses to lose her place in Carlo’s world. But Sloan isn’t just another woman scorned—she’s a strategist, a force to be reckoned with, and she knows exactly how to turn desire into destruction.

And then there’s Samaera—the silent puppeteer in the shadows, watching, waiting, pulling the strings. She whispers in ears, stokes suspicions, and plants seeds of doubt, ensuring that no one escapes unscathed. What’s her endgame? Only she knows, but one thing is certain—she’s not here to play fair.

Loyalties shift. Secrets surface. And as the tangled web tightens around them, the question remains:

Is it love they crave, or the thrill of breaking the rules?

A novel of forbidden attraction, calculated betrayal, and the dangerous game of wanting what you shouldn’t.

 

Read Sample Below

 

 

 

Chapter 1

 

Carlo 

POV (point of view)

 

The Invitation

The loneliness crept in slowly, filling the empty spaces of my 220-acre property like a fog that refused to lift. I had tried social networks, dipped my toes into the digital currents where people pretended to connect, but nothing stuck. No real conversation, no spark. I wouldn’t call it desperation—at least, not yet—but I knew one thing for certain.

I needed to do something.

The full moon spilled silver light across my backyard, turning the land into something eerie, almost enchanted. Sympathy for the Devil played on the stereo, Mick Jagger’s voice curling through the night. I leaned back, staring at the sky, and muttered to myself, What about sympathy for me?

And then—something happened.

A notification. An email, urgent. The sender? Anonymous.

It was the kind of message that makes your pulse skip, not because of what it said, but because of what it felt like. A coincidence, or something else entirely?

The words unfolded on the screen, laced with an unsettling familiarity:

Allow me to introduce myself.
I have walked through the corridors of time, a whisper in the ears of kings, a shadow cast over empires, a smirk on the lips of those who pull the strings. I have watched men rise and fall, their ambitions turning to dust beneath their own hands. I have stood at the crossroads of fate, nudging the scales ever so slightly—never too much, just enough to let them believe it was their own doing.

I was there when faith wavered, when the weight of doubt pressed down upon the shoulders of the divine. I saw justice delivered by hands washed clean, watched history rewrite itself in blood and betrayal. St. Petersburg, Berlin, Dallas—names etched into time with the ink of consequence. I rode with the storm, sat in the war rooms, and smiled as the world burned, only to be rebuilt by hands just as eager to destroy.

It is a game, you see. A game of power, of desire, of choices made in the quiet recesses of the soul. The line between villain and hero has always been a matter of perspective, as fluid as the turning of the tide.

And you? You are already playing.

So, be careful whom you trust. Be mindful of the hands that guide, the lips that whisper, the eyes that linger too long. Some are here to lead, others to mislead. Some build, others dismantle. And some… some are merely watching, waiting, letting the pieces fall as they may.

Pleased to meet you.
I hope you guess my name.
But what will haunt you most—is the nature of my game.

At the bottom, one final line:  All I need is your soul.

I scoffed, the weight of my own exhaustion pressing against me. My soul? Yeah, right. What a joke.

I had never believed in any of it—souls, God, the Devil. They were just stories, myths wrapped in fear and control. A fairy tale for people afraid to accept that the world is chaos.

At least, that’s what I used to believe.

A restless energy surged through me, and before I knew it, I was outside, staring up at the brilliant full moon, feeling something I couldn't quite explain. A challenge? A dare?

I threw my arms wide and howled into the night.

"YES! YES! YES!"

I laughed at myself, shaking my head. But then, quieter, I whispered:

"Did you hear that?"

No reply.

Yet.

The Inferno and the Temptation of Connection

 

My ties to The Inferno stretch back through the years, tracing a path to its founding days, when Nigel stood behind the bar like a benevolent king, ruling not with power but with presence. My first visit to Swan Hills led me straight to The Inferno, where Nigel’s welcome was more than a greeting—it was an initiation. He slid a beer across the counter, raised his own in silent camaraderie, and asked about me, not as a customer, but as someone who had just arrived at the threshold of something meaningful. That night, he unknowingly handed me something far more intoxicating than a drink—a sense of belonging.

 

That was my first taste of Reciprocal Hospitality, the unspoken exchange between a business and its patrons, where loyalty isn’t bought but cultivated through genuine connection. Over the years, ownership changed, new faces came and went, yet that rare, lingering essence endured.

 

Though I am no longer in the hospitality industry myself, my experiences at The Inferno taught me something profound—the power of being seen, the way a simple gesture can turn a stranger into a regular, a regular into a loyalist.

 

It was a conversation with Chelsea, a neighbor I often saw on the road, that unexpectedly nudged me toward a new experience. Our chats were brief but genuine, a shared moment of familiarity. I had once given her permission to ride her horse on my land, a small gesture she appreciated, and in return, she shared something with me—a curiosity.

 

One day, she casually mentioned she had taken up roller skating. I hadn’t realized Swan Hills had a rink, let alone a scene for it. But as she spoke about the Friday night roller disco at the ARC Center, there was something in her voice—a flicker of excitement, an invitation into something unknown. “You should try it,” she said with a grin.

 

I did.

 

And I liked it.

 

The rhythm, the movement, the effortless glide—it unlocked something almost forgotten, something reminiscent of the frozen ponds and late-night hockey skates of my youth. So, I bought myself a new pair of inline skates. And as the weeks passed, I found myself drawn back to that Friday night ritual, losing myself in the motion, in the music, in something that felt both new and deeply familiar.

 

One particular Friday, after a night on wheels, I hesitated before heading home. I don’t know why.

 

Maybe it was the crisp night air pressing against my skin. Maybe it was the hum of the city, the whisper of unfinished thoughts. Or maybe, as I walked toward my Dodge Durango, key fob in hand, there was something else—a pull, an impulse, the faintest whisper of temptation.

 

On the drive, the car’s high-performance stereo wrapped me in sound, each note vibrating through the cabin. And yet, something felt incomplete.

 

I turned the wheel.

 

At least at The Inferno, I could sip a drink, listen to live music, maybe even hear a familiar voice.

 

The servers at The Inferno have always been exceptional—not just in service, but in presence. There have been nights when their warmth transformed the room, when their small gestures, effortless and sincere, reminded me why I kept coming back.

 

That night, after my unintended return, I felt adrift, a sensation I couldn’t quite shake. Maybe it was the solitude of my land, or maybe it was the unfamiliarity of finding myself in new routines without knowing where they led.

And then—like an echo of the past—a server approached.

Bright, effortless, present, welcoming me as if I had never left. There was no hesitation, no obligation in her words—just a warmth that filled the space between us, grounding me, even if just for a moment.

She never knew Nigel. But in that moment, she carried his legacy.

It was then I realized—the allure of The Inferno had never been about the drinks, the music, or even the history. It was about the connection. The invitation, subtle but persistent, to step into something that made you feel seen.

A taste of something that, once known, was impossible to forget.

And just as I settled into the comfort of the moment, she said.

"Please allow me to introduce myself…, I am Samaera"

“I have not seen you here before, you should consider coming more often.”

A familiar chill brushed against me, a breeze that wasn’t just felt—it was recognized. The same subtle current had passed through me earlier that evening, just as I was walking toward my vehicle. It wasn’t the eery wind alone; it carried something unspoken, something unseen—like a whisper at the edge of awareness, lingering just long enough to make me wonder if I was truly alone.

I smiled and said, "I think I'll take you up on that invitation."  

But even as the words left my lips, a slow chill coiled its way up my spine—an unshakable feeling that I had just stepped into something far bigger than I understood.

After all, some invitations aren’t extended by accident.

A  New Direction

Since Samaera’s offhand comment and casual invitation to visit The Inferno more often, I found myself slipping back into familiar routines—ones I hadn’t realized I missed until I was already indulging them.

I had always been a creature of habit, finding solace in the predictable rhythms of my life. Every Saturday afternoon, like clockwork, I would visit my favorite neighborhood pub, order the same black coffee and sandwich, and sit at the same table by the bar. It was a ritual I clung to, a sanctuary of familiarity in a world that often felt chaotic. My routine was my armor, a silent barrier against the unpredictable nature of life. I suppose it had become my way of coping after the loss of something far less tangible than a person—the loss of connection.

My life outside the pub was quiet, almost too quiet. My main companionship was my property, sprawling and wild, teeming with life where I found a peculiar sense of belonging. The Sandhill Cranes with their graceful dances of love and partnership, the Trumpeter Swans gliding with beauty and elegance across the water, their wings slicing the air with effortless grace. Canadian geese honking in harmonious chaos, ducks paddling with carefree abandon, the sharp intelligence of ravens, the fierce watch of hawks, and on rare, lucky days, the majestic flight of an eagle or the ghostly glide of a snowy owl. Occasionally, wayward deer or a moose would trespass through, their quiet presence a reminder of the world’s untamed corners.

And then there was Panda, my dog—a cross between a border collie and an American husky. He was an oversized brute, much larger than his petite husky mother and his collie father, with mismatched eyes and a heart full of loyalty. Panda was more than a pet; he was a confidant, a silent companion who listened without judgment and loved without condition.

Despite the richness of nature around me, there was a persistent void, an emptiness that echoed louder than the calls of the cranes or the rustle of leaves in the wind. It was the absence of sincere human companionship. Relationships had come and gone, fleeting connections that left little more than shadows in their wake. They lacked true love, genuine companionship—no real emotion or passion to tether me to someone else's soul. I wasn’t recovering from a specific heartbreak or mourning a singular loss; it was more like an ache that never fully healed because it had no precise wound. A longing stitched into the fabric of my daily existence.

I often found myself wondering why true passion eluded me. I had met many pretty faces, but never true beauty—the kind that seeps into your bones, that anchors you with a glance, that feels like something you could hold onto and never want to let go. Pretty fades; beauty endures.

So, I settled into my routines. They were reliable, predictable, and devoid of the risk of disappointment. It was tough to add variety to life when loneliness filled the spaces variety should occupy. My rituals weren’t just habits; they were the framework of a life lived on autopilot, a defense against the sting of unmet expectations.

But one Saturday, the universe decided to rewrite my story.

As I approached my usual table, I heard it—a melody so enchanting, so utterly alive, that it seemed to shimmer in the air. It was laughter. Not just any laughter, but a cascade of joy so pure and radiant that it felt like sunlight breaking through a storm. My gaze was drawn to its source: Ivy. She stood near the bar, laughing at something one of the regulars had said, her golden hair catching the afternoon light like spun gold. Her laughter was a symphony, each note a delicate balance of vivacity and mystery, as though it carried secrets only the heart could decipher.

I stood frozen, my breath caught in my chest, as if the world had paused to let me savor the moment. Her laughter was unlike anything I had ever heard—vibrant, yes, but laced with a haunting undertone, a whisper of something deeper, something achingly beautiful. It was as if her joy had been forged in the fires of life’s trials, tempered by sorrow, and polished by resilience.

Compelled by an invisible force, I moved to my usual table, my heart racing as if it had just awakened from a long slumber. Ivy approached with her notepad in hand, her eyes sparkling like stars, her face glowing with a serenity that seemed to defy the world’s chaos.

“The usual?” she asked with a playful smirk, her tone dripping with mock familiarity, as if we were long-lost friends sharing an inside joke.

“Absolutely,” I replied, matching her sarcasm with a grin, “I’d hate to break my decades-long tradition.”

She chuckled softly, her laughter a light ripple that seemed to dissolve any awkwardness. For the next half-hour, I was spellbound. I watched her move gracefully from table to table, her laughter weaving in and out of conversations like a familiar tune. Her joy was infectious, her radiance magnetic, and I found myself drowning in the warmth of her presence. The pub faded into a blur, the chatter of patrons dissolving into background noise. There was only her—her laughter, her smile, and the inexplicable pull she had on my soul.

When she returned with my coffee and sandwich, I mustered the courage to speak.

I’ve seen her here before—always laughing, always radiating something I couldn’t quite define. But today, for the first time, I want to say something.

“That was… incredible,” I said, my voice trembling with sincerity. “Your laughter—it’s like music. And your smile… it’s radiant. I’ve never seen anything like it.”

She looked at me, her eyes widening in surprise before softening with warmth. “Thank you,” she said, her voice gentle. “That’s kind of you to say. I’m Ivy, by the way.”

“I’m Carlo,” I replied, feeling both nervous and exhilarated. “Do you always bring this much light into a room?”

She laughed again, and the sound wrapped around me like a warm embrace. “Every Saturday,” she teased. “It’s my way of reminding people that joy exists, even in the smallest moments.”

We talked briefly whenever she had a moment between tables. Her words were like poetry, her presence a balm to my weary soul. She spoke of simple pleasures—reading in quiet corners, impromptu adventures, the beauty of rain against a window. There was an undercurrent of mystery in her stories, as though she had seen both the shadows and the light and chose to dwell in the glow. By the time I left, I knew my life had shifted on its axis.

From that day on, Saturdays were no longer about routine—they were about anticipation. About her. Each week, I returned to the pub, not for the coffee or the sandwich, but for the chance to hear her laughter, to bask in the glow of her smile, and to lose myself in the magic of her presence.

It wasn’t just her laughter or her smile that captivated me—it was the way she made me feel. Alive. Seen. As though the world held infinite possibilities, and I was only just beginning to discover them.

Was it love at first sight? Perhaps. Or perhaps it was something even more profound—a reminder that life’s most beautiful moments often come when we least expect them. All because I had paused to listen to the unexpected melody of her laughter and the radiance of her smile.

And so, my Saturdays became a symphony of hope, a dance of connection, and a journey into the unknown. All because of her. All because of Ivy.

But as she handed me the bill that first day, she paused, her smile tinged with something I couldn’t quite place. “I might not be here next Saturday,” she said softly, her fingers brushing the edge of the receipt as if it held answers I could only guess at.

My stomach tightened.

 

My heart sank, yet hope flickered. Because sometimes, the most unexpected melodies linger long after the music has faded. And sometimes, if you’re lucky, they lead you to a place where beauty endures.

It had been years since I had felt an impulse this sharp, this immediate.

Not attraction. Attraction was easy, fleeting. This was something deeper, more dangerous.

Like recognition.

And I had no goddamn clue why.

I forced himself to look away, exhaling sharply. Maybe it was just the loneliness creeping in, warping his perception. Maybe it was the long stretch of nights spent not feeling much of anything at all.

But as he tipped back the last of his coffee, the taste bitter on his tongue, he knew one thing for certain.

That laugh was going to haunt him.

And that woman?

She was a problem waiting to happen.

 

I have walked through the corridors of time, a whisper in the ears of kings, a shadow cast over empires, a smirk on the lips of those who pull the strings.

 

 Ivy

Laughter has always been my refuge. It dances on my lips like sunlight on water, concealing the shadows that linger beneath. People hear it and assume I’m effortlessly, endlessly happy. But the truth is, I laugh because I know what it feels like to ache in places no one can see.

I’m a student nurse, in my final year, with six months left until graduation. Between clinical rotations, textbooks, and long shifts at the pub, life feels like an endless cycle of demands. I live with my parents, not out of choice but practicality, saving every penny I can. Their home is familiar, comforting even, but sometimes it feels like I’m paused in a life I’m ready to fast-forward.

Then there's Zeus, my aloof tomcat. Every evening, I let him out to roam, watching as he vanishes into the night like a little shadow with whiskers. I love animals, maybe because they ask for nothing more than presence. Unlike people, they don’t complicate affection with expectations.

I do have a boyfriend, though he lives in another city. We’ve been trying to make the distance work, but the spaces between our calls feel wider than the miles that separate us. Loneliness creeps in during quiet moments, like when I’m folding laundry or pouring coffee for strangers. I wonder if what I feel is real or if it’s just the ache of isolation masquerading as longing. I question whether my desire for connection is rooted in genuine affection or simply the emptiness left when companionship fades into absence.

That Saturday, I wasn’t planning to be anyone’s symphony. I had come to work at the pub, my apron tied loosely around my waist, my notepad tucked in my pocket. The familiar clink of coffee cups, the comforting hum of conversation—it was my white noise, my backdrop for reflection.

But something was different that day. Maybe it was the warmth of the afternoon sun casting golden halos on the wooden floor, or the way one of the regulars told a joke so absurd I couldn’t hold back my laughter. Genuine, unfiltered laughter. The kind that bubbles up from somewhere deep, catching me off guard.

I didn’t notice him at first—the man by the bar, Carlo. But when I finally glanced his way, I found him watching me, his eyes filled with something I couldn’t quite name. Curiosity? Awe? Loneliness wrapped in wonder? It was as if my laughter had reached into his chest and gently tugged at something fragile, something hidden.

When I brought his order, he surprised me with his words.

“That was… incredible. Your laughter—it’s like music. And your smile… it’s radiant. I’ve never seen anything like it.”

I should’ve been embarrassed, but I wasn’t. There was sincerity in his voice, a quiet vulnerability that disarmed me.

“I’m Ivy,” I replied, my heart doing an unexpected somersault.

“I’m Carlo,” he said, his smile tentative yet warm, like the first rays of dawn breaking over a quiet horizon.

Dark hair, wavy and a little unruly. A strong jawline, dusted with the kind of scruff that made a man look either tired or dangerous—or both.

And those eyes. Deep brown, steady, unreadable.

My stomach dipped. A reaction I ignored.

We talked briefly, but those small exchanges felt like moments stretched in time. Simple words, simple gestures, yet they resonated deeply, as if we were speaking a language only the two of us understood. When I handed him the bill, I hesitated, my fingers brushing against his for a fleeting second.

“I might not be here next Saturday,” I said, unsure why I felt the need to tell him.

His brow furrowed, just slightly, and for a moment, I thought he might ask why. But he didn’t. Instead, he nodded, his gaze lingering on mine as if memorizing the moment.

As he left, I wondered if he’d think of me. What I didn’t expect was how much I’d think of him.

Because sometimes, the most unexpected melodies aren’t the ones we hear—they’re the ones that echo long after the music has faded. They’re the ones that settle in your chest, humming softly, reminding you of a moment you didn’t realize would change everything.

And as I wiped down the tables and stacked the chairs, I couldn’t shake the feeling that something had shifted. Something small, something quiet, but something undeniable.

Because sometimes, laughter isn’t just armor. Sometimes, it’s a bridge. And sometimes, if you’re lucky, it leads you to someone who makes you wonder if maybe, just maybe, you don’t have to carry the weight of the world alone.

It was just curiosity. That’s all.

She wouldn’t forget those eyes.

Not today.

Maybe not for a while.