see for myself if it was true that every day Shahryar

(Persian: شهريار, “king”) married a new virgin, and then

sent yesterday's wife to be beheaded. It was written

and I had read, that by the time he met Scheherazade,

the vizier's daughter, he’d killed one thousand

women.

Something went wrong with my efforts. I arrived

in the midst of the story and somehow exchanged

places with Scheherazade – a phenomena that had

never occurred before and that still to this day, I

cannot explain.

Now I am trapped in that ancient past. I have

taken on Scheherazade’s life and the only way I can

protect myself and stay alive is to do what she did to

protect herself and stay alive.

Every night the King calls for me and listens as I spin tales.

And when the evening ends and dawn breaks, I stop at a

point that leaves him breathless and yearning for more.

And so the King spares my life for one more day, so that

he might hear the rest of my dark tale.

As soon as I finish a story... I begin a new

one... like the one that you, dear reader, have before

you now.

Chapter 1

Wearing nothing but a pair of jeans and a bad ‘tude, Diego Stone lay on the sky bridge of his boat and stared up at the San Francisco sky. It was butt-ass cold, turbulent and moody, all of which suited him just fine.

He had no idea why he’d left sunny, warm, sexy San Diego.

Oh, wait, he did.

He’d received a text asking him to show up for his brother’s important, all-hands-on-deck wedding planning lunch that, as Rocco’s best man, Diego was required to attend. A text. And not from Rocco, but from his fiancé, Tyler.

Hands behind his head, feet crossed, Diego purposely relaxed his body one inch at a time. It was a technique he’d learned early on during a childhood as tempestuous and unstable as the sky above him. A childhood he’d spent right here in San Francisco.

When he cleared his head the best he could, he rose to get things over with. Being back in town for the next week was going to suck hard, but he knew of only one way to get through shit, and that was to plow straight ahead.

As far as command performances went, he could’ve tried a little harder to muster up some enthusiasm, but after ten years of being an island of one, he was out of practice at the whole family thing.

The French House at one p.m., the text had said. And, apparently, his presence was both needed and required. Funny, because once upon a time when Diego had desperately needed and required Rocco’s presence, he hadn’t gotten it.

Damn. And here he’d told himself that he was over the past.

He glanced down. He’d spent the past few years running a small boat charter service for a guy who didn’t like to get his hands wet. Since Diego loved being on the water, the job had been tailor-made for him. He moonlighted as a tattoo artist as well to keep his skills honed, and he loved that gig, too. But in his current lifestyle, dressing up meant tucking a t-shirt into his board shorts.