Hi, and thank you for having me on your blog!
Iāve always been fascinated by dark psychological thrillers that mess with your mind and keep you on the edge of your seat. I toyed with the genre writing my debut novel Wild Hearted, but labeled it a crime drama. Its sequel, Carnivora, evolved over six years to become a full-blown hold-your-breath thriller that deals with grave issues such as kidnapping, child sex trafficking, and self-harm.
Telling five parallel stories with as many voices, it gives you the perspectives of a police informant, a hunted gangster, a mad avenger, an inconsolable girlfriend, and a psychotic kidnapper. I pull no punches weaving these stories, so be prepared for a dark, gritty, and graphic read ā a little dirty on the erotic side ā that I hope will play with your strings and stick with you for a long time.
Please note that this is part 1 of Carnivora and I am currently working on parts 2 and 3, so if those cliffhangers at the end are killing you, be patient. The continuation is right around the corner!

Blurb
Fight evil with evil.
TOMOR
Crime lord Tomor is serving a life sentence behind bars. Without warning, heās abducted by mysterious men. A sick manhunt is on, with people around him dying like flies. He will need all his street flair and gangster skills to prevent his loved ones from ending up on the death list.
LUZ
Luz grieves the loss of her lover while striving to take care of their baby. The last thing she needs is to fall for the new neighbor.
DAVID
A year after he betrayed his adoptive father and sent him to jail, David is slowly rebuilding his life. Then everything falls apart again: he learns that Tomor has escaped, and his police connections lead him to a child sex trafficking ring involving cold, powerful men.
The cops are in over their heads with āProject Carnivoraā ⦠Perhaps the only one who can help bust the pedophile predators is an equally vicious devil: Tomor, the countryās most hunted criminal.
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Excerpt
āTime to change your bandage again,ā the nurse mutters, voice cool, and pulls my orange-colored sleeve up to the elbow.
She unrolls the long strip of bandage from my wrist and tugs at one corner of the gauze plastered on my wound. It sticks as if glued to the freshly grown skin, and instead of removing the gauze carefully, she tears if off hard, discharging pain through my arm, wrist-to-shoulder.
I open my eyes and lift my head off the pillow. āWhat the fuck are ya doing, trying to reopen the wound or something?ā
āLike you care.ā She stops pulling and glares, gauze between her fingers. āI can see who you are inside. Youāre playing tough, arenāt you, bad guy? But you canāt fool me.ā
āShut up.ā I lay down again, huffing, and stare at the white ceiling above me with its rows of long neon lights.
āYouāre a good man.ā
I glance back. āI said, shut the fuck up.ā
Her eyes shine. She rips off the remaining gauze, ignoring my grunt of pain, and throws it in a bin. āLook.ā
No fuck.
āLook at it,ā she insists, voice low and demanding.
No. I know what Iāve done, and I can imagine what it looks like. A six centimeter-long deep, reddish, scratched-up ridge along my artery. Layers of skin, fat, meat, and whatnot must be visible and sweating a pinkish liquid from the reborn pores. I donāt need to see it.
I guess the girl wants me to be so horrified, Iāll never attempt suicide again. Thatās right. She wants to shock me into acceptance.
You gotta be fucking kidding me, little thing.
She shakes her head. āI donāt understand why they gave you the life sentence.ā
āYou mean they shoulda given me the chair?ā
Instead of responding to my sarcasm, she pivots to look up at the clock and widens her eyes as if realizing she forgot an appointment. Face tense, she returns to her work, applies some cool, gel-like liquid on the wound, and bandages it with quick routine moves.
Whatās up with her? In my three days in this womanās company, Iāve noted the things that make her tick. Maybe sheās upset because Iām leaving the infirmary soon. Earlier, she said she didnāt know when Iād be ready to go back to my cell. She probably knows now, but doesnāt want to tell me.
The door opens. She jumps.
A uniformed guard pokes his head in, checks the small room, and exits.
She seems frozen in place, features tense. Staring ahead and taking deep breaths as if trying to regain composure.
I cock my head a little. āWhatās going on? They gonna transfer me?ā
She visibly swallows and fixes her gaze on some point on the wall.
I snicker. āAre you sad ācause Iām leaving?ā
Ha, I can be so ugly, when the girl clearly likes me.
As she sits there avoiding me, I take the time to check out her tits, and drink in the amazing sight of their pressing against her green blouse with each breath. She doesnāt have a name tag. Come to think of it, none of the personnel do. Evidently, so the inmates canāt identify their ācaretakersā, and should they by some miracle leave the premises, track them down.
I nod to her blouse. āWhatās your name?ā
She twists back to me, brows raised, before shaking her head. āI canāt tell you that.ā
āCāmon, Iāll never see you again.ā I grin, then add with an ironic snicker, teasing her, āTheyāll never let me slash my wrists, or hang myself.ā
She looks away and busies herself collecting the medical stuff, throwing a quick, almost invisible glance to the door. What the hell is making her so nervous?
Coldness fills my chest. Somethingās up.
āCome on, Babe,ā I coax with my most gentle, sensual voice, wanting to buy time. āTell me your name.ā
āWhy?ā she whispers, fidgeting with the roll of bandage.
āāCause I want a name to your pretty face when I jack off in my cell.ā
About the author

Lea Bronsen likes her reads hot, fast, and edgy, and strives to give her own stories the same intensity. After a deep dive on the unforgiving world of gangsters with her debut novel Wild Hearted, she divides her writing time between romantic suspenses, dark erotic romances, and crime thrillers.
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