Falling For My Dad’s Killer Read Online Flora Ferrari

Categories Genre: Alpha Male, Insta-Love Tags Authors:

Total pages in book: 47
Estimated words: 45217 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 226(@200wpm)___ 181(@250wpm)___ 151(@300wpm)

He’s the last person I should want—the man who killed my dad. So why is it I always find him in my dreams, never in my nightmares where he belongs?
He’s out of prison now.
I don’t expect him to show up on my doorstep, even though I asked to see him. And I defiantly don’t expect what he does next.
I never expect him to kiss me. I never expect him to claim me. I’ve been fantasizing about him for way too long, and now here he is.
This is so wrong, but I can’t fight it as things get steamier and he gets more obsessed. Even if he didn’t go to prison for killing my dad, he’s over twice my age.
He’s an ex-convict. He can be brutal and savage, but I still want him. I can’t stop myself, especially when he gets jealous and possessive.
I wonder if I can give him what he wants. I’m a virgin, after all.
Then something happens that shatters my entire world. I can’t trust Jamie. I can’t trust anybody.
But it’s too late to run. Jamie’s demons are chasing him, and I’m going to get caught in the crossfire. As things spin out of control, I learn something that will change my world.

* Falling for My Dad’s Killer is an insta-everything standalone romance with a HEA, no cheating, and no cliffhanger.

*************FULL BOOK START HERE*************



It’s one hell of a feeling pulling up outside this house. I sit in my car for a while, looking across the sunny street, the outside still feeling intimidating in a way I don’t like at all. It makes me feel weak. I never felt weak inside.

I was never one of those bullying idiots, extorting other prisoners, trying to make a name for himself by causing the most harm possible. I held my own when it came down to it. More than once, I had to hurt some men who thought they were big, bad wolves, but really, they were yapping pups who needed to be put in their place.

The lawn has been freshly mown, and the curtains are open. It’s a small box-shaped house, probably only one or two bedrooms, but it looks like it’s been cared for. Lucy Hutchinson lives here.

A few days ago, I finished my sentence for killing her father. The warden told me she’d written, asking if I’d like to meet. It’s a risk being here, but I couldn’t refuse. She deserves respect after everything she’s lost.

I should think about my sister, Kylie, and my nephew—confusingly named Kyle—living on the West Coast. It’s an unseasonably bright day on the East Coast today. However, they live in the land of always sunny, a world of soccer practice, TV, and ice cream. They never have to worry about being shanked with a carved bar of soap.

It’s been so long since I’ve had a run-in with the so-called bogeyman. It should be safe. I wish it were only me who was in danger. That way, I could face it all without ever having to worry.

I’m forty-two now. I went to prison when I was twenty-nine. That’s a big chunk of my life in prison. Sometimes, this feeling of hopelessness touches me. This feeling that my best days were lost, rotting in a cell. Enough, goddamn. I’m getting macabre.

I walk across the street, taking slow breaths. We arranged this meeting through the system. They advised Lucy to meet somewhere public, but she said she was fine meeting at her home.

The street is fairly busy. A few kids cycle up and down. A woman is sunbathing in her front yard, lying in a chair, wearing a bikini. I remember how the other inmates talked about their plans with women when they reached the outside and the sexual adventures they’d go on. However, I find I’m not interested. Maybe I’m just numb.

I knock on the door.

“One second,” a woman calls.

It’s definitely a woman’s voice. That shouldn’t be a surprise. Lucy Hutchinson became a woman while I’ve been inside. She was nine when I went in. She’s twenty now. She’s lived most of her life without her dad. I’d say she was better off, but it’s not my place to make judgments like that.

Rage boils in me for a second. It rises from a deep, ignored place, a section of myself I attempt to keep closed-off. If I let it out, this fire will burn everything up. The anger infuses and floods me whenever I think about those years inside. The fights. The boredom. Nothing to do except read and write and lift weights.

When Lucy opens the door, I stare. I stare like a real creep. I can’t help it. There must be some mistake. This can’t be the same little girl who I once saw sitting in the back of her father’s car, the tiny terrified-looking thing with wide eyes, fidgeting endlessly.