Wounded Blog Tour: Excerpt & Giveaway

Wounded
Author: Jasinda Wilder
Genre: New Adult Contemporary Romance
Release Date: December 16, 2012
 
Description:

War has taken everything from me. My family. My home. My innocence. In a country blasted by war and wracked by economic hardship, a young orphan girl like me has very few options when it comes to survival. Thus, I do what I must to live, to eat, and I try very hard to not consider the cost to my soul. My heart is empty, and my existence brutal.

The one impossibility in my life is love.

And then I meet HIM.

War is hell. It takes a chunk out of a man's very soul to do the kinds of things war demands of you. You live with fear, you live with guilt, and you live with nightmares. If you haven't been through it, there's no understanding it. War leaves no room for love, no room for tenderness or softness. You gotta be hard, closed off, and ready to fight every moment of every day. Lose focus for a split second, and you're dead.

Now the only thing that can save me is HER.  

I have nothing to do but think. Nothing but memory and pain.
Derek is dead. It just hit me. I was too involved in the pain and in the mystery of Rania, but now, alone while she "works," all I have to do is feel the pain. Derek is dead.
God. He was my best friend. My only real friend. My brother. I've killed for him. We've stood over each other's bleeding bodies.
He's gone, but the pain won't let me cry. I can't. I don't know how anymore. After my parents died I wept, alone in a bathroom. I haven't since. Not for anything.
I won't cry for Derek, either. He wouldn't want me to. He'd tell me to get drunk in his memory. Bang a hot chick for him. Of course, none of that will happen now.

The reality of my situation is hitting me. I'm wounded, surrounded by insurgents. There's no sign of my unit. They might eventually come back for me, or at least to find my body. Until then, I'm stuck here. Reliant on this girl, this slip of a thing, this prostitute.
Rania. Her name is music. Her eyes are veiled pools of expression. She hides behind anger, behind toughness. It's all an act. I see the pain. See the fear. See the need. She's lonely. She hates what she does.

I think I confuse her as much as she does me.
She's back, cleaning herself up. It's a familiar pattern now. She returns from the building next door, a half-destroyed mosque, I think it's called. The irony of a prostitute operating in a bombed-out church isn't lost on me. 

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