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Contemporary, dark romance, rom-com, paranormal and omegaverse.
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Age-gap, slow burn and family dynamics. Read Keepsake for an ugly cry

Spicy cabin fever? More smut, less plot, please. Start the Lost Omegas series today!

Rom-com, full of banter with a British MMC? The Final Rose is your best bet!

Dark, spicy and nostalgic? Binge The Royal Ballet Series today!

Come to college and fall for your best friend. Read Love me, Maddie Mendoza today

Brazilian and Irish, Amy Oliveira is a contemporary romance author dedicated to writing about the two things you shouldn't skip on: therapy and smut.Amy's leads are strong, flawed, and very open about their mental health struggles. And her heros are understanding, lovable, and often pierced.The combination results in a delicious slow burn with a lot of heart and a lot of heat.

Support your community and preorder Gates of Bellthorn from an indie bookstore.
This is an exclusive edition that comes with NSFW interior art, vellum overlay, bonus content and digitally signed.

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Sable Briarwick: Leo, 20, brattyLex Morwen: Gemini, 23, quick wittedOrion Rook: Taurus, 22, addicted to the chaseSoren Rook: Taurus, 22, full of principlesHadrian Vale: Scorpio, 23, stubbornParker Hollow: Aquarius, 22, cunning

IMPORTANT: THIS IS THE UNEDITED FIRST CHAPTER.

Chapter 1- Sable

“Mom’s dead.” My father’s voice pulls my eyes off the road, and I remove my earbuds to hear him clearly. The semester just ended, and he picked me up from the dorm a few minutes ago. My things sit piled in the back of his Lexus. While I’m glad to see him, he typically sends a driver.
“What did you say?” I ask, not even nervous, just certain I misunderstood. There’s no way he picked me up from school, calm and cool, to tell me his wife of twenty-five years is dead.
“Mom. Is. Dead,” he repeats, cutting each word off with his teeth, his eyes on the road and not on me. My own gaze darts from one window to the other, sure that I’m going crazy because a hallucination would make more sense than what’s happening right now.
“I-I don’t understand,” I stutter, watching Dad’s profile. His brown eyes narrow to slits as he watches the road with an odd defiance. His blond hair matches mine, but something is different. Before I can assess the situation, he presses the gas, and the car picks up speed. My back hits the seat, and my phone tumbles out of my hand.
“Dad, what are you talking about?” I try once again.
“Mom is dead,” he repeats, delivering the blow with the same carelessness.
His words sink into my heart like a sharp dagger. My stomach drops, and my head shakes. “What happened?”
He pauses like he’s remembering. The first flicker of emotion he’s shown twitches at the corner of his mouth. “I won’t go to jail, Sable. I won’t leave you and your mother to face the humiliation of my public ruin. This is the only way.”
“The only way?” Something living and terrified claws at the back of my throat, understanding his intentions better than I can. A pit opens in my stomach, and my father presses harder on the gas. “Daddy, what do you mean?” I haven’t called him that in years, since I was a little girl, but I might as well be one, terrified and hoping my father will stop whatever joke this is. My gaze searches the car for a camera because I’m surely being pranked.
“I’m not the man I’ve claimed I was, Sable. But you don’t need to worry.” He’s always been a man of action—not the most present father, but a good one. I trust him because I know what kind of dad he can be. Things have just been strained this last year.
“Why wouldn’t I worry? Where is my mother?” He’s not making sense, and my mind flashes back to a story I heard about his mother needing to be sent away. Is my father unwell?
“She’s already gone, baby. Don’t worry, we’re going too.”
“Going where, Dad?!” I scream, my voice ripping through several octaves as it bounces off the car and hurts my own ears.
The wheel jerks, and time ceases to mean anything. My eyes stick to him, trying to make sense of what he’s saying. His features blur with my tears, and I don’t notice the water below until we’re aimed directly at the guardrail.
“No, please—Dad!” The last word is a scream as we smash through the metal barrier, and the tires lose contact with the bridge beneath us. My stomach bottoms out as we fly through the open air. The windows are closed, and for a split second, I’m reminded of the giant Ferris wheel we rode on to see New York City.
Time suspends all around me just before the car loses speed. We start to fall, no longer pointed into the sky. My throat closes around a silent scream, and rather than the high pitch of my terror, deafening silence fills the car. The summer sun burns so bright. I wonder if we’ve already left the earth behind. Maybe I’m already dead.
The painful impact as we hit the water convinces me we’re alive, but not for long. My screams mix with my sobs as water seeps into the car. My father lies unconscious against the steering wheel, head smacked and blood spilling. His eyelids flicker—proof of life—but it suddenly registers that he wasn’t lying.
He already killed my mother.
Fingers stumbling, I try to undo my seat belt, but it sticks, and the water filling the car gives no pause. The cold infuses into my bones, and I’m more real than I’ve ever been, closer to death than I ever wanted to be. I shove and shove, a pointless scream climbing when it finally gives. My heart aches as I consider what to do with my father, still unconscious and wearing a seat belt. His buckle opens more easily than mine did, but it snags on his unconscious body, and he’s still caught. Painfully, I have to accept that I can’t get us both out.
Do I even want to help him now? Two distinct people war inside me…
What’s left of my phone floats next to me, bringing me back to the present. Not long ago, during a boring night in, I watched a video about how to break auto glass in an emergency—maybe fate was looking out for me. With a sense of determination, I pull the headrest out from behind me and swing the metal end into the window. The first strike does nothing, not a crack or chip, and I scream in pure frustration. My panic might remove my ability to breathe before the water has a chance to.
I swing again, and a small crack appears this time. Tiny, so fucking tiny but it’s enough to give me hope. With one final swing, it breaks.
Water rushes into the car, and I work quickly to clear the pane of glass, noticing I’m slicing my hands only when blood floats in the water closing around my eyes. I grab the outer edge of the door for leverage and push off with my feet at the same time. We land on the bottom of the river just before I manage to free myself. My clothes pull me down like an anchor, and I kick off the car to propel myself forward.
The current rolls me before I can right myself. Why didn’t I take swimming more seriously? Being a Briarwick, I’ve had lessons and tutors for everything for as long as I can remember, but I never was much of a diver. That weakness shows now. Forcing my way back to the surface, I forget about the things trying to drag me back: my father dying beneath the water, my mother already dead above me, and the horrible truth at which he hinted. Instead, I focus on what my swim coach said about controlling my breath. My arms belong to someone else as I push. Between the cold and exertion, I can barely feel them.
My eyes burn, but I force them to remain open to ensure I’m going the right direction. Dizziness tumbles my head and guts, but the sun above me serves as a clear target. The surface sits so close, but my lungs burn so badly I’m not sure that it’s worth it. I want to take a breath just to end the suffering. Some deep survival instinct is the only thing that stops me. Bursts of color pop in my vision as my brain scrambles for oxygen it won’t find. Just as everything’s about to go black, I break the surface, but I wind up inhaling as much water as air.
“Holy shit, she made it!” someone shouts from the banks.
“Thank fuck,” a masculine voice curses.
The sky above is dark, swallowing the flashing lights of the first responders. Strong arms close around me, and I let myself be dragged, too weak to make sense of who is taking me.
“You're safe now,” he promises.
But I know it's a lie because if my father killed my mother, and I killed my father…
The Briarwicks’ curse is real.

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Sable Briarwick's wardrobe was designed by Katleen Amazonas.Katleen is a Brazilian designer based in Ireland, trained in Fashion Design with a strong focus on textiles, print, and illustration. Her work blends a love for creating garments and surface designs with a passion for visual storytelling, whether through fashion pieces or on paper.Follow Katleen on Instagram today.