Stolen Tears Fantasy Romance Bundle

She must protect the tears--and her own heart--no matter the cost.

Join Ambry Csille in her quest to protect a stolen vial of tears containing the most powerful magic ever shed from a formidable, tyrannical army. Ambry makes deals with sirens, plunges deep into love with a mysterious warrior before knowing the secrets of his past--including the very reasons she can't be with him--and fights off soldiers who wield claws that can suck the very magic from her bones.

The Arcaians are going to use the tears to steal magic. If they fall into the wrong hands, Ambry's entire world would be in peril. She is their protector and must keep them safe at all costs.

With bold twists, riveting world-building, and a slow-sizzle romance, find out why readers say The Stolen Tears Series by USA Today bestselling author Cortney Pearson is their "favorite series ever!"

Chapter One
Ambry

He’s watching me. The sensation makes my skin crawl.

He’s a new soldier—one I haven’t seen in Cadeht City before. His hair is dark with a single blue streak, and a magitat of what looks like some kind of bird marks below his left ear.

I try to keep my attention on the conveyor belt in front of me, on the jewel-toned gems I’m supposed to be picking out among the black and gray rubble. But the back of my neck prickles.

The other Arcaian soldiers on patrol meander, watching us work. Some stop to talk to one another. Some plant their hands on their hips just above the wretched claws hanging on their belts.

But this man? Every time I peer back, his eyes are on me.

And I can’t figure out why.

The conveyor belt rumbles. The metallic scent of sulfur and glass from the nearby mine fills my nose. I concentrate so hard on the coal-colored rocks, I barely notice any of them.

Beside me, Gwynn reaches toward the clusters and plucks a red gem from the rest, tossing it into the bags hanging on the edges.

Streaks of startling silver glisten from the gears working the contraption. Up at the top of the belt where the rocks are being dumped, a woman sits, slumped over in exhaustion, powering the machine with her magic.

At least I don’t have her job.

“Do you see that soldier?” I whisper to Gwynn, grateful for the rumbling noises to shield my voice. “The one with blue hair?”

She wipes a blonde hair away from her face, smearing a streak of dirt across her cheek, and peers toward our guards.

“The cute one?”

Revulsion stirs my stomach. He’s handsome, sure, but he skulks along the exit, head bent in a predatory kind of way.

I’ve never much cared for predators.

“He’s not cute,” I argue with a shudder. “He’s creepy.”

“Whatever you say,” Gwynn says.

Rocks rumble past on the belt, having newly been dumped from the most recent excavation. The glint of something green catches my eye, and I dart my hand out and snatch it up, narrowly avoiding a larger rock as it rolls onto its side.

The machine lets out a groan. The sound is familiar, and the jagged, rumbling conveyor belt whines to a stop, leaving a deafening disquiet in its place. Brandt, Gwynn, and the others around us mutter under their breaths, wondering what’s going on.

I glance at the direction of the sun through the clouds overhead and angle my head to one side, working through a knot in my shoulder. Either something has been lodged in the gears, or it’s go time.

I’m hoping it’s the latter.

An Arcaian soldier appears at the top of the belt, not far from where the woman who’s been powering it sits. Her magic no longer spits from the machine’s hinges. She falls over—from exhaustion, probably.

Like the others around me, I peer toward the soldier who stopped the machine, noting the badges on his shoulders and the claw hanging from his belt.

“Good work today,” he announces. “The new shift is about to begin. Same time tomorrow.”

Several people farther up the line from where Gwynn and I stand wipe their hands on their shirts or the aprons they wear to protect their clothes. Brandt, who’s a year or two above me in school, runs a hand over his shaved head and lifts his other fist in the air as if in triumph at coming to the close of the day.

I don’t blame him. Most of us have been here since school got out—and others who are older than we are, for probably longer. But many of them are like me: they lost their parents to the conscription.

Gwynn is the only one I know of who still lives with her mom.

One by one, workers step away from the belt. My mouth is parched. I’m eager for a drink, so I make my way toward the steel fence surrounding the mine yard’s entrance.

I peer behind me again, wondering where Ren is. He and the others that tunnel into the mine itself are usually out by now.

After a quick glance behind her, Gwynn leans in close and digs into her pocket. “Look at the one I found today,” she says, tightening her fist around it.

“That’s rare,” I say, peering at the amethyst-colored stone. Its bright purple hue isn’t one we regularly find on the belt.

But I don’t like the color purple. It’s too indicative of the soldiers’ hands. Purple is the color of their control.

“You should turn that in,” I say, tipping my water bottle back. Cool liquid splashes into my mouth, but like rain in the desert, it’s not enough to quell my parched throat.

“Like angels I should.”