Blurb
Lyra Jay Kellie’s plane goes down in a violent Montana storm, leaving her stranded, injured, and completely alone. Her pilot is dead. Her satellite phone is useless. And the wilderness is closing in fast.Then another crash lights the sky.
Nathan Wesley survives his own wreck—barely—thanks so Lyra, who drags him from the burning plane. Grateful and determined, he vows to get her back to civilization, no matter what it costs.
But the Rockies don’t forgive mistakes. Something is stalking the forest. Resources are vanishing. And the storm isn’t done with them yet.
Together, Lyra and Nathan must outrun the cold, the mountains, and the unseen danger hunting them.
Survival is the goal—falling for each other might be the only thing that saves them.
Original (First 500)
"Lyra! Come here now!" I yelled, irritatedly tapping the toe of my shoe.
"What, what do you want?"
She stalked into the room as if she owned the place. Well, news flash, I own this place. Half of it, at least. It's my right and no one around here seems to act like it.
"What is this mess?" I demanded and looking at all the filth on the floor and then back at Lyra. This is disgusting, who lives like this? When I was a teenager, I never lived like this.
"Um, I'm packing. I'm going to go with dad to Fort Peck," she quipped and I glared at her. This girl has such an attitude and David never fixed it. That's what happens when you baby twenty year olds.
"Well do you have to make a damn mess just to pack a few bags?" I crossed my arms over my chest. She mirrored my glare and frustration bubbles in my chest.
"It's not a mess. But don't worry, I know where everything is and I'll be out of here tomorrow," she smirked at me, putting a hand on her hip.
"Thank god..." she muttered under her breath.
"You disrespectful, annoying little brat. Someone is going to have to teach you to have some manners," I said lowly.
"Oh I have manners, you're just not worthy of receiving them," Lyra said defiantly. I could feel my blood boil and my face redden.
"And how exactly am I not worthy in your eyes?" I said through clenched teeth.
"Well, let's see. One, you're a bitch. Two, you're trying to steal all of my father's money but let's face it, as long as I'm around, you won't touch it. Three, I just plain resent you. Do you need more reasons? I have a list," she chuckled.
We were far past civil commentary.
"I am not trying to take your fathers money!" I gasped. Lie, but she's only a witless teenager, she doesn't know any better.
Really, David is loaded. I would love to get in on more than what I'm privy to, but he's got little miss everything and would hand his still beating heart over to the little rat.
"You're a liar," Lyra spat flatly.
"That's it! Give me your phone, your grounded!" I held my hand out to take her phone.
I had to do something about this girl or I'll never get anything I need to do done, dammit.
Lyra let out a humorless guffaw "I'm twenty years old and pay my own phone bill. You've got no right."
She continued to laugh, making me angrier by the minute. This girl was a walking entity of sass and I was close to beating it out of her.
"Wow, you're really off your rocker now. Does dad know you're getting crazier by every year?" she chuckled and quirked the corner of her lips into that annoying little smirk of hers.
"Lyra! Come here now!" I yelled, irritatedly tapping the toe of my shoe.
"What, what do you want?"
She stalked into the room as if she owned the place. Well, news flash, I own this place. Half of it, at least. It's my right and no one around here seems to act like it.
"What is this mess?" I demanded and looking at all the filth on the floor and then back at Lyra. This is disgusting, who lives like this? When I was a teenager, I never lived like this.
"Um, I'm packing. I'm going to go with dad to Fort Peck," she quipped and I glared at her. This girl has such an attitude and David never fixed it. That's what happens when you baby twenty year olds.
"Well do you have to make a damn mess just to pack a few bags?" I crossed my arms over my chest. She mirrored my glare and frustration bubbles in my chest.
"It's not a mess. But don't worry, I know where everything is and I'll be out of here tomorrow," she smirked at me, putting a hand on her hip.
"Thank god..." she muttered under her breath.
"You disrespectful, annoying little brat. Someone is going to have to teach you to have some manners," I said lowly.
"Oh I have manners, you're just not worthy of receiving them," Lyra said defiantly. I could feel my blood boil and my face redden.
"And how exactly am I not worthy in your eyes?" I said through clenched teeth.
"Well, let's see. One, you're a bitch. Two, you're trying to steal all of my father's money but let's face it, as long as I'm around, you won't touch it. Three, I just plain resent you. Do you need more reasons? I have a list," she chuckled.
We were far past civil commentary.
"I am not trying to take your fathers money!" I gasped. Lie, but she's only a witless teenager, she doesn't know any better.
Really, David is loaded. I would love to get in on more than what I'm privy to, but he's got little miss everything and would hand his still beating heart over to the little rat.
"You're a liar," Lyra spat flatly.
"That's it! Give me your phone, your grounded!" I held my hand out to take her phone.
I had to do something about this girl or I'll never get anything I need to do done, dammit.
Lyra let out a humorless guffaw "I'm twenty years old and pay my own phone bill. You've got no right."
She continued to laugh, making me angrier by the minute. This girl was a walking entity of sass and I was close to beating it out of her.
"Wow, you're really off your rocker now. Does dad know you're getting crazier by every year?" she chuckled and quirked the corner of her lips into that annoying little smirk of hers.
My Edit
I descended the half of the double stairway that led from my and David's wing of the house -- okay, let's be real -- mansion. I swept my gaze over the flawless marble stairs, the miniature statue of Venus de Milo set into an arched niche halfway down, the perfectly polished ebony wood banister. I wore flowing pastel blue robe over matching frilly silk nightgown. Slippers with kitten heels like a heroine in a black-and-white movie, clicked with each step.
Then I saw that my husband's twenty-year-old brat had taken over my formal living room, entryway, and the stairs that led up to the guest wing.
"Lyra!" I screamed in fury. I felt my beauty mask crack. I hated this girl. She ruined everything.
Lyra walked into the formal living room from the deck as if she'd earned the place, not me. She wore jeans and a t-shirt, her blonde hair swept back in a neat ponytail. The toes of her red socks dotted with white hearts peeked out from under the hem of her jeans.
"What is this mess?" I demanded. Clothes, bags, shoes, and other stepdaughter detritus littered every inch of my flawlessly-decorated home.
"Um, I'm packing," she answered distractedly, looking around. "I'm going with my dad to Fort Peck." Her usual vitriol was at bay, her voice even, and she didn't meet my gaze. I'd overheard David on the phone with her a few days before she'd come to visit, making her promise not to pick fights with me. It seemed like she intended to keep that promise verbally, but assaulting the pristine beauty of my home meant war, as far as I was concerned.
"Well do you have to make such a mess just to pack a few bags?" I crossed my arms, the fluffy sleeves of my dressing gown tickling my chin. "You have a bedroom, private bath, and walk-in closet you could be doing this in."
"It's not that bad," she said. She looked around again. "Don't worry, I know where everything is. And, I'll be out of here tomorrow." She turned to fuss with a make-up bag that she'd left open on my foyer table. She'd shoved the enormous bouquet out of center in order to make space for her crap. "Thank God..." she muttered under her breath.
"You disrespectful brat," I spat. "Someone needs to teach you some manners." My mask cracked even more with my scowl and started sliding down my face. I pulled at the pieces, collecting them with the French-tipped fingernails of my left hand, and piling them neatly in the palm of my right hand. If I'd been born rich, I'd probably just toss them onto the floor for the staff to clean up, but unlike this monster who had been spoiled every second of her twenty years, I had respect for my possessions.
"Oh I have manners, you're just not worthy of receiving them," Lyra said with a faux sweet smile. She finally turned to look me directly in the eye.
That born-rich, nose-in-the-air expression made my blood boil. I took a step toward her. "And how exactly am I not worthy in your eyes?" I asked, through clenched teeth. As though we hadn't had this fight a million times.
"Well, let's see. One, you're a bitch. Two, you're trying to steal my father's money. Three, you're lazy. It's almost noon and you're still in your pajamas," she added, with a sweeping gesture toward my elegant nightwear. "Do you want more? I have a list," she said, disgust twisting her pretty face.
Her promise to her father lasted about as long as I had expected. Lyra hated me as much as I hated her.
My husband is still handsome for his age, but his best feature is his money. But his worst feature is his devotion to this little rat. He'd hand his still-beating heart over to her, if she asked for it.
I have to do something about this girl.
(Original word count: ~490 → Edited: ~677)
I descended the half of the double stairway that led from my and David's wing of the house -- okay, let's be real -- mansion. I swept my gaze over the flawless marble stairs, the miniature statue of Venus de Milo set into an arched niche halfway down, the perfectly polished ebony wood banister. I wore flowing pastel blue robe over matching frilly silk nightgown. Slippers with kitten heels like a heroine in a black-and-white movie, clicked with each step.
Then I saw that my husband's twenty-year-old brat had taken over my formal living room, entryway, and the stairs that led up to the guest wing.
"Lyra!" I screamed in fury. I felt my beauty mask crack. I hated this girl. She ruined everything.
Lyra walked into the formal living room from the deck as if she'd earned the place, not me. She wore jeans and a t-shirt, her blonde hair swept back in a neat ponytail. The toes of her red socks dotted with white hearts peeked out from under the hem of her jeans.
"What is this mess?" I demanded. Clothes, bags, shoes, and other stepdaughter detritus littered every inch of my flawlessly-decorated home.
"Um, I'm packing," she answered distractedly, looking around. "I'm going with my dad to Fort Peck." Her usual vitriol was at bay, her voice even, and she didn't meet my gaze. I'd overheard David on the phone with her a few days before she'd come to visit, making her promise not to pick fights with me. It seemed like she intended to keep that promise verbally, but assaulting the pristine beauty of my home meant war, as far as I was concerned.
"Well do you have to make such a mess just to pack a few bags?" I crossed my arms, the fluffy sleeves of my dressing gown tickling my chin. "You have a bedroom, private bath, and walk-in closet you could be doing this in."
"It's not that bad," she said. She looked around again. "Don't worry, I know where everything is. And, I'll be out of here tomorrow." She turned to fuss with a make-up bag that she'd left open on my foyer table. She'd shoved the enormous bouquet out of center in order to make space for her crap. "Thank God..." she muttered under her breath.
"You disrespectful brat," I spat. "Someone needs to teach you some manners." My mask cracked even more with my scowl and started sliding down my face. I pulled at the pieces, collecting them with the French-tipped fingernails of my left hand, and piling them neatly in the palm of my right hand. If I'd been born rich, I'd probably just toss them onto the floor for the staff to clean up, but unlike this monster who had been spoiled every second of her twenty years, I had respect for my possessions.
"Oh I have manners, you're just not worthy of receiving them," Lyra said with a faux sweet smile. She finally turned to look me directly in the eye.
That born-rich, nose-in-the-air expression made my blood boil. I took a step toward her. "And how exactly am I not worthy in your eyes?" I asked, through clenched teeth. As though we hadn't had this fight a million times.
"Well, let's see. One, you're a bitch. Two, you're trying to steal my father's money. Three, you're lazy. It's almost noon and you're still in your pajamas," she added, with a sweeping gesture toward my elegant nightwear. "Do you want more? I have a list," she said, disgust twisting her pretty face.
Her promise to her father lasted about as long as I had expected. Lyra hated me as much as I hated her.
My husband is still handsome for his age, but his best feature is his money. But his worst feature is his devotion to this little rat. He'd hand his still-beating heart over to her, if she asked for it.
I have to do something about this girl.
(Original word count: ~490 → Edited: ~677)
Critique
Setting
We know that these characters are a) in Alexandra and David's home and b) Lyra is visiting. Other than that, we're not given a lot of context for the scene. Based on Alexandra throwing a conniption over the mess, we would expect to be in a smaller apartment or condo. But the mention of how rich David is suggests otherwise, which could be confusing to a reader.
In the original excerpt, the stepmother, Alexandra reads as an exaggerated evil stepmother. If she was as deeply unstable as her demanding Lyra's phone suggests, her husband would notice. Even if Alexandra is "crazy", she's still intelligent. Like, having the same argument with your twenty-year-old stepdaughter every time you see her is pretty immature, but we all behave irrationally when we're jealous. If we want to ground Alexandra's emotional immaturity, an easy way to do that is to give her a quick back story where she had to fight for what she has whereas Lyra takes it for granted.
In the original excerpt, Alexandra remarks on Lyra not needing to destroy the whole house just to pack a few bags. This is a good observation that I think got a little lost in the original, so I just highlighted it in my version. Compare:
"What is this mess?" I demanded and looking at all the filth on the floor and then back at Lyra. This is disgusting, who lives like this? When I was a teenager, I never lived like this.
"Um, I'm packing. I'm going to go with dad to Fort Peck," she quipped and I glared at her. This girl has such an attitude and David never fixed it. That's what happens when you baby twenty year olds.
"Well do you have to make a damn mess just to pack a few bags?" I crossed my arms over my chest. She mirrored my glare and frustration bubbles in my chest.
With:
"What is this mess?" I demanded. Clothes, bags, shoes, and other stepdaughter detritus littered every inch of my flawlessly-decorated home.
"Um, I'm packing," she answered distractedly, looking around. "I'm going with my dad to Fort Peck." Her usual vitriol was at bay, her voice even, and she didn't meet my gaze. I'd overheard David on the phone with her a few days before she'd come to visit, making her promise not to pick fights with me. It seemed like she intended to keep that promise verbally, but assaulting the pristine beauty of my home meant war, as far as I was concerned.
"Well do you have to make such a mess just to pack a few bags?" I crossed my arms, the fluffy sleeves of my dressing gown tickling my chin. "You have a bedroom, private bath, and walk-in closet you could be doing this in.".
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