Title: Point of No Return
Author: Olivia Luck
Amazon US: http://amzn.to/1IkhYAp
Amazon UK: http://amzn.to/1SnlNvJ
Amazon CA: http://amzn.to/1SnlTnd
I had it all: an adoring husband, supportive friends, thriving career, a homey condo in the city.
I had it all except for love from my family. But life was good because I had him. Max was everything I dreamed a husband could be and somehow he loved me just as wildly as I loved him.
Unit one cruel night he was stolen from me.
Then I had nothing but a vicious battle ahead of me. It's a struggle so treacherous, I'm not sure if I'll make it out with my heart in tact. But on the other side of that brutal war waits the most wondrous prize.
Will I allow myself to move forward?
Olivia Luck captures tragedy and healing beautifully with her novel Point of No Return. Her other novels New Point and Pressure Point should be read before Point of No Return because there are crucial plot points in those novels that set up Violet's story in this novel. Reading the other two novels will also give backgrounds into all of the characters, and (HELLO!) they are also fantastic reads.
Violet has lost her soulmate. I'll spoil that much because the synopsis does. Her world is shattered and raw. Luck's words convey the myriad of emotions this widow faces poetically and force you to feel loss right alongside the heroine. I broke with Violet and struggled as she muddled through life in a grief induced haze. Slowly, with hesitation and resistance, Violet begins to rebuild her life. The potential in her professional life helps ease parts of her ache. The other shards of her heart are tended to by the friendships she built before fate's cruelty was bestowed upon her. The supporting characters are the balm that helps soothe her mourning. I loved the strength of the friendships she had formed. The bonds were uplifting and heartwarming amid a sea of agony and loss.
Olivia Luck lives in the middle of the US with her husband and pooch. She loves writing, reading, pizza, dogs, good TV, cooking and spending time with her family. But not necessarily in that order. Olivia writes New Adult Romance.
Get in touch with Olivia, she adores emails: email@example.com
When my husband works overnights at the fire station, I sleep on his side of the bed. Max doesn’t know that. Even though he spends more nights in our bed than out of it, I miss him enough to burrow in the sheets that emanate the remnants of his aftershave. I feel cocooned in his arms even when he’s not around. Sleep comes easier over here.
That’s where I am, tucked underneath the down cover, safe in a dreamless slumber, when a pounding rouses me. My heart leaps in surprise and I launch into a seated position, hand hovering over my chest. With a blind hand, I feel along the bedside table to find my glasses and jam them onto my nose. Knuckle pounding against wood doesn’t cease when I capture the time.
Nothing good can come of someone knocking on your door at one in the morning.
I scoot off the bed and shrug into the lightweight robe that lies on my husband’s suit valet.
He hates it when I leave my things there, I think numbly. Somehow, my body’s moving forward, even though every nerve ending screams for me to crawl back into bed and pretend this is a dream. It’s almost as if I know the Grim Reaper lurks on the other side of that door. I imagine a black hooded robe and bony skeletal fingers clutching a scythe waiting for me.
If there were enough time, I’d bargain with him. Beg to replace my life for his. Give up everything I have on God’s green earth for the man who gave me the gift of a full, flourishing life.
A knock on the door means it’s too late for brokering. If a ringing phone yanked me from sleep, it wouldn’t be this daunting. The fear wouldn’t be overpowering all of my other senses.
With a quivering hand, I flip on a light switch and unlatch the lock on our front door.
Their faces are grim, solemn. Hot tears blur my vision before I can identify who has come to deliver the news. Even before they speak, a strangled cry rips from my throat and my knees buckle. Like a puppet cut from its strings, I collapse to the floor. Strong arms catch me, encircling my waist, squeezing me tight.
The pressure of this man’s arms around me is the only thing reminding me that I’m still alive and not thrust into the depths of hell.
“Don’t say it,” I shriek. A feral cat stole my voice box, the howls ripping from my body completely unlike any other sound I’ve ever made.
“Violet.” This time the stern voice fights through the tornado of emotion and I blink hazily upward.
“Felix,” I whisper through a dry, cracked throat. Soot and ash still mar his cheeks, hair disheveled in every which way. Weariness seeps off him—from the slump in his shoulders to the exhaustion in his eyes.
“We lost him. I’m so sorry. We lost him.”I don’t remember much of anything after that.