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Pound of Flesh Sophie Jackson

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Title: Pound of Flesh

About Pound of the Flesh by Sophie Jackson

Errors of the past should not determine the present and future. So the writer Sophie Jackson believed when she created her book, Pound of the Flesh. Passionate love between a prisoner and a simple teacher formed the basis of this sentimental story.

Note that Sophie Jackson has already left our world, leaving behind a small but significant legacy in the form of several love affairs, which continue to be read in all countries.
  The plot unfolds interestingly and intriguingly. Two people from different social backgrounds meet once. But first, the story of their lives is told.

Kat Very correct girl. In other words - "an athlete, a Komsomol member and just a beauty." Twenty-five years old. From a prosperous and wealthy family. And here it surprises everyone with the fact that he gets a job as a teacher in prison! Especially against her mother. After all, once their father and husband were killed by the same criminals, who are now going to train the main character. Moreover, the murder of the father was committed in front of his daughter. How then to treat all prisoners? Nothing but hate! But once the girl made a promise to dad to help people who would need her help. The time has come.

Carter A twenty-seven-year-old man is used to “burning” his life. Since childhood, he has been wandering in colonies, and then in prisons. His environment is just as bad guys as he is. He did not see another life. Serving the next term, he meets Kat in prison. And lo! The meaning of existence is found.

The main characters begin their relationship with hostility. Rejection and disgust gradually develops into friendship. And there, and love is at hand! Broken and notorious from childhood, two people begin to see salvation in each other. Now fighting your own fears is much easier, there is hope to correct the mistakes of the past and start all over from scratch. Will they succeed?

You will enjoy reading this touching story with notes of detective and eroticism. The book is full of experiences of heroes and bed scenes. In addition to the relationship of lovers, Sophie Jackson shows all the "charm" of the relationship between mother and daughter. A realistic description of the quarrels and family showdowns make this novel even more vital.

The book "Pound of the Flesh" is written in a good literary language, captivates with an original plot. A great alternative to a lonely evening. We recommend taking with you on a long trip - time will fly by!

On our site about books, you can download the site for free without registering or read the online book “Pound of Flesh” by Sophie Jackson in the formats epub, fb2, txt, rtf, pdf for iPad, iPhone, Android and Kindle. The book will give you a lot of pleasant moments and true reading pleasure. You can buy the full version from our partner. Also, here you will find the latest news from the literary world, learn the biography of your favorite authors. For beginning writers, there is a separate section with useful tips and tricks, interesting articles, thanks to which you yourself can try your hand at literary mastery.

Quotes from Pound of the Flesh by Sophie Jackson

The true cause of events may have nothing to do with the apparent.

“The longest road begins with the first step.”

Finally, thanks to those readers who patiently read to the end of my long list of thanks. Help yourself with Oreo cookies and Coca-Cola. You honestly deserve it.

A pound of flesh that I demand, I bought

Not cheap; he is mine, I want him!

W. Shakespeare. Venetian Merchant, Act 4, Scene 1

The hasty sound of their steps echoed the frantic beating of her heart. Father tightly, almost to pain, squeezed her hand. The short legs of a nine-year-old girl did not keep pace with her father's broad steps. She was forced to almost run, which she did. She had never seen her father like this: with tightly pressed lips and angry, gloomy eyes. Just like the sky above their heads. Usually, walking with her, father smiled carefreely. Today it seems to have been replaced. She was no longer at the age when tears react to all unexpected things, but now she was terribly anxious to roar.

The sound behind her made her turn around. She saw five whose faces were hidden by hoods. They had just turned out of the alley and were now rapidly approaching. Like wild beasts chasing prey. Father walked quickly, but they caught up.

Her neck stiffened with fear. Father told her something. Probably reassuring, so as not to be afraid. Suddenly, the speech broke: the father was stabbed in the back, and he was flat on the sidewalk, dropping his daughter. She lost her sense of where the top and bottom are. Knees bruised on a concrete sidewalk. Barely lifting her head, she screamed: her father was hit with a baseball bat in the back of the head. He was hit twice, and twice she heard a strange thud.

She didn’t see the one who hit her face in the face. The blow was so strong that she rolled head over heels from the sidewalk to the roadway. Bright multi-colored stars danced before his eyes, and his father's loud, strained cries rang in his ears. He managed to get up and hit one attacker. She watched in horror at the retaliation of strangers. Father was beaten with fists, legs and bats.

Surrounding his father, the attackers loudly and rudely demanded his wallet. Through the cacophony of their voices, her father reached her. Father told her to run away from here. He was beaten, he asked, begged her to run away. Her legs suddenly froze. How can a father ask her to run away? After all, she must help him, save him! Her face was wet with tears. She screamed something, and her voice resembled the squeak of a small frightened animal.

Father was hit in the temple. He began to settle, then fell. And then she rushed to him, but she was seized by the hand and dragged in the opposite direction. She sobbed with relief, thinking she was a policeman or one of her father's guards. But the dragger was not much higher than her. His face was also covered in a dirty black hood.

The stranger dragged her away from the place where her father was beaten. She screamed and struggled, begging to let her go. He hissed at her from under the hood, demanding to shut up. Does this arrogant not understand that her father needs her help? If she does not immediately help her father, he will be beaten to death. However, the stranger continued to drag her down the street. So they defeated a couple of blocks. A stranger pushed her through the door of a settled, empty house. And from the place where her father remained, revolver shots were now heard.

Screaming at the top of her lungs, she finally broke free and ran back. The stranger caught up with her, threw her onto the sidewalk and crushed her with his body. She continued to yell and kick. Soon, she felt that everything was heavy. Her screams gave way to convulsive sobs. She lay with her forehead buried in cold concrete.

Then a stranger in a black hood picked it up and dragged it back to the front door of an abandoned house, where it was no warmer than on the street. She was still trying to fight back. Stranger only nozzles. She knew that she must return to her father. I have to make sure everything is in order with my father. She did not allow anything else. With one hand the stranger held her by the shoulders, the other propped her cheek. His hand was icy.

She must have lain in the front door for more than one hour. Perhaps she even fell asleep. I woke up in the arms of a bearded man who was carrying her to an ambulance. Opening her eyes swollen with tears, she saw police officers, orderlies and several cars with red and blue flashing lights.

The adults had such faces ... She did not yet know that then they would pursue her, appearing in nightmares. But she understood correctly: today, her father will not put her to bed and will not carefully pop out the blanket.

Neither today nor ever after.

Wesley James Carter, Arthur Kill prisoner, unpredictable in his tricks and twists that added headaches to prison officials, smirked at the annoyed warden. That ten minutes in a row demanded that he name his prison number. To say that the overweight, balding overseer was irritated by the impudent behavior and the arrogant smirk on Carter's physiognomy would mean significantly downplaying the situation. The fat man was the embodiment of impotent anger. All that was needed was foam from his mouth.

© I. Ivanov, translation, 2016

© Edition in Russian, design.

LLC "Publishing Group" Alphabet-Atticus "", 2016

Publishing house AZBUKA®

To my mother, to whom I owe forever

This book would never have appeared without the love, support and encouragement of so many people.

First of all, I sincerely thank my family, especially my mother. My addictions (it would be more correct to call them “sticks”) changed with feverish speed and enviable constancy. Mom met them with bulging eyes, and yet all this time, while throwing me from side to side, she was my personal support group. While I was writing this novel, it seemed to me more than once that everything was going awry and would end in nothing, although then it turned out exactly the opposite; while I buried my head in edits and panicked that the book would never be published, my mother was always there, reassuring me and assuring me that everything would work out. You have always been and will remain my heroine. I love you.

Sally, Ryan, Babs, Irene, Nikki, Caro, Sash and Lisa, my dear princesses and fans of the computer game PAW. Who would have thought? You constantly supported me while I writhed in the throes of creativity. Three times a month (sometimes less often) I sent you new chapters, and you read them patiently and conscientiously. And our lengthy discussions on Skype? Finally, our meeting in Manchester, when I delighted you with the news that the “Pound of Flesh” would still be published? This is not forgotten. You are amazing women and amazing friends. I’m very lucky in life that I have you.

The next bunch of thanks to my amazing online family: Steph, my queen of subtraction, Kim, my sweet bore, Afiye, my little twin, Lauren, my dear little girl. Many thanks to Tara Sue-Mi for invaluable advice and support, J.M. Darkhower for inspirational words; thanks Liv, Laura, Rose ... I could continue this list. I guess I'm a terrible lucky guy, since I have so many of you. Thanks to you, your enthusiasm, those parts of the novel where I skidded became much more readable, and those that seemed to me successful became even better. I consider it my duty to thank every reader, reviewer, blogger, all those whose names I don’t even know, but who, through their posts, reposts, retweets, “likes”, various computer tricks, promoted my novel “to the people” in one way or another. My love for you has no limits. The fact that the novel has come out is by no means the least and your merit. I could not imagine how many those who believe in me and my writing. In my responses, I was far from always being patient and benevolent. Thank you for keeping me in every way: good, bad and disgusting. I am proud of you and would be honored to meet everyone. The treat is at my expense.

So I got to you, my Pennsylvania soul mate Rachel. My guardian angel. It seems that only yesterday I sat at your computer and tapped the prologue to “Pound of the Flesh”. Who would have thought? My girl, we have come a long way with you, and my love for you is as strong as that day when I received an email and read your review. Your creativity and your sunny nature are very dear to me. You are an amazing friend with an amazing family, and I can’t wait until I can spend the summer with you again, laughing excitedly.

I continue to thank. Next in line is Lorella Belli, my literary agent, the most dedicated person in the literary world! Working with you was an amazing journey. It happened that the situation looked very lousy, but you never, in a single word, made me doubt myself. In the moments when I was ready to give up everything and give up, you did not lose hope. Friendly people like you still have to look. I literally reverence your faith and your willingness to fight. Without these qualities of yours, romance would still remain my dream. Thank you very much for everything that you have done and continue to do in terms of promoting the book and in relation to me. And thank you so much, my American co-agent Louise Fury. I always smile, remembering your love for the heroes of the novel. You are just a rock. One can only dream of such bosom friends.

I sincerely thank Mickey Newding, my publisher, the unmatched matchless woman. You have truly holy patience, otherwise you would not have endured so many of my bziks!

Many thanks to the amazing teams of Simon & Shuster and Gallery Books. You believed in me and in my romance and helped make the dream a reality.

Finally, thanks to those readers who patiently read to the end of my long list of thanks. Help yourself with Oreo cookies and Coca-Cola. You honestly deserve it.

A pound of flesh that I demand, I bought

Not cheap; he is mine, I want him!

W. Shakespeare. Venetian Merchant, Act 4, Scene 1

The hasty sound of their steps echoed the frantic beating of her heart. Father tightly, almost to pain, squeezed her hand. The short legs of a nine-year-old girl did not keep pace with her father's broad steps. She was forced to almost run, which she did. She had never seen her father like this: with tightly pressed lips and angry, gloomy eyes. Just like the sky above their heads. Usually, walking with her, father smiled carefreely. Today it seems to have been replaced. She was no longer at the age when tears react to all unexpected things, but now she was terribly anxious to roar.

The sound behind her made her turn around. She saw five whose faces were hidden by hoods. They had just turned out of the alley and were now rapidly approaching. Like wild beasts chasing prey. Father walked quickly, but they caught up.

Her neck stiffened with fear. Father told her something. Probably reassuring, so as not to be afraid. Suddenly, the speech broke: the father was stabbed in the back, and he was flat on the sidewalk, dropping his daughter. She lost her sense of where the top and bottom are. Knees bruised on a concrete sidewalk. Barely lifting her head, she screamed: her father was hit with a baseball bat in the back of the head. He was hit twice, and twice she heard a strange thud.

She didn’t see the one who hit her face in the face. The blow was so strong that she rolled head over heels from the sidewalk to the roadway. Bright multi-colored stars danced before his eyes, and his father's loud, strained cries rang in his ears. He managed to get up and hit one attacker. She watched in horror at the retaliation of strangers. Father was beaten with fists, legs and bats.

Surrounding his father, the attackers loudly and rudely demanded his wallet. Through the cacophony of their voices, her father reached her. Father told her to run away from here. He was beaten, he asked, begged her to run away. Her legs suddenly froze. How can a father ask her to run away? After all, she must help him, save him! Her face was wet with tears. She screamed something, and her voice resembled the squeak of a small frightened animal.

Father was hit in the temple. He began to settle, then fell. And then she rushed to him, but she was seized by the hand and dragged in the opposite direction. She sobbed with relief, thinking she was a policeman or one of her father's guards. But the dragger was not much higher than her. His face was also covered in a dirty black hood.

The stranger dragged her away from the place where her father was beaten. She screamed and struggled, begging to let her go. He hissed at her from under the hood, demanding to shut up. Does this arrogant not understand that her father needs her help? If she does not immediately help her father, he will be beaten to death. However, the stranger continued to drag her down the street. So they defeated a couple of blocks. A stranger pushed her through the door of a settled, empty house. And from the place where her father remained, revolver shots were now heard.

Sophie jackson

© I. Ivanov, translation, 2016

© Edition in Russian, design.

LLC "Publishing Group" Alphabet-Atticus "", 2016

Publishing house AZBUKA®

To my mother, to whom I owe forever

This book would never have appeared without the love, support and encouragement of so many people.

First of all, I sincerely thank my family, especially my mother. My addictions (it would be more correct to call them “sticks”) changed with feverish speed and enviable constancy. Mom met them with bulging eyes, and yet all this time, while throwing me from side to side, she was my personal support group. While I was writing this novel, it seemed to me more than once that everything was going awry and would end in nothing, although then it turned out exactly the opposite; while I buried my head in edits and panicked that the book would never be published, my mother was always there, reassuring me and assuring me that everything would work out. You have always been and will remain my heroine. I love you.

Sally, Ryan, Babs, Irene, Nikki, Caro, Sash and Lisa, my dear princesses and fans of the computer game PAW. Who would have thought? You constantly supported me while I writhed in the throes of creativity. Three times a month (sometimes less often) I sent you new chapters, and you read them patiently and conscientiously. And our lengthy discussions on Skype? Finally, our meeting in Manchester, when I delighted you with the news that the “Pound of Flesh” would still be published? This is not forgotten. You are amazing women and amazing friends. I’m very lucky in life that I have you.

The next bunch of thanks to my amazing online family: Steph, my queen of subtraction, Kim, my sweet bore, Afiye, my little twin, Lauren, my dear little girl. Many thanks to Tara Sue-Mi for invaluable advice and support, J.M. Darkhower for inspirational words; thanks Liv, Laura, Rose ... I could continue this list. I guess I'm a terrible lucky guy, since I have so many of you. Thanks to you, your enthusiasm, those parts of the novel where I skidded became much more readable, and those that seemed to me successful became even better. I consider it my duty to thank every reader, reviewer, blogger, all those whose names I don’t even know, but who, through their posts, reposts, retweets, “likes”, various computer tricks, promoted my novel “to the people” in one way or another. My love for you has no limits. The fact that the novel has come out is by no means the least and your merit. I could not imagine how many those who believe in me and my writing. In my responses, I was far from always being patient and benevolent. Thank you for keeping me in every way: good, bad and disgusting. I am proud of you and would be honored to meet everyone. The treat is at my expense.

So I got to you, my Pennsylvania soul mate Rachel. My guardian angel. It seems that only yesterday I sat at your computer and tapped the prologue to “Pound of the Flesh”. Who would have thought? My girl, we have come a long way with you, and my love for you is as strong as that day when I received an email and read your review. Your creativity and your sunny nature are very dear to me. You are an amazing friend with an amazing family, and I can’t wait until I can spend the summer with you again, laughing excitedly.

I continue to thank. Next in line is Lorella Belli, my literary agent, the most dedicated person in the literary world! Working with you was an amazing journey. It happened that the situation looked very lousy, but you never, in a single word, made me doubt myself. In the moments when I was ready to give up everything and give up, you did not lose hope. Friendly people like you still have to look. I literally reverence your faith and your willingness to fight. Without these qualities of yours, romance would still remain my dream. Thank you very much for everything that you have done and continue to do in terms of promoting the book and in relation to me. And thank you so much, my American co-agent Louise Fury. I always smile, remembering your love for the heroes of the novel. You are just a rock. One can only dream of such bosom friends.

I sincerely thank Mickey Newding, my publisher, the unmatched matchless woman. You have truly holy patience, otherwise you would not have endured so many of my bziks!

Many thanks to the amazing teams of Simon & Shuster and Gallery Books. You believed in me and in my romance and helped make the dream a reality.

Finally, thanks to those readers who patiently read to the end of my long list of thanks. Help yourself with Oreo cookies and Coca-Cola. You honestly deserve it.

A pound of flesh that I demand, I bought

Not cheap; he is mine, I want him!

W. Shakespeare. Venetian Merchant, Act 4, Scene 1

The hasty sound of their steps echoed the frantic beating of her heart. Father tightly, almost to pain, squeezed her hand. The short legs of a nine-year-old girl did not keep pace with her father's broad steps. She was forced to almost run, which she did. She had never seen her father like this: with tightly pressed lips and angry, gloomy eyes. Just like the sky above their heads. Usually, walking with her, father smiled carefreely. Today it seems to have been replaced. She was no longer at the age when tears react to all unexpected things, but now she was terribly anxious to roar.

The sound behind her made her turn around. She saw five whose faces were hidden by hoods. They had just turned out of the alley and were now rapidly approaching. Like wild beasts chasing prey. Father walked quickly, but they caught up.

Her neck stiffened with fear. Father told her something. Probably reassuring, so as not to be afraid. Suddenly, the speech broke: the father was stabbed in the back, and he was flat on the sidewalk, dropping his daughter. She lost her sense of where the top and bottom are. Knees bruised on a concrete sidewalk. Barely lifting her head, she screamed: her father was hit with a baseball bat in the back of the head. He was hit twice, and twice she heard a strange thud.

She didn’t see the one who hit her face in the face. The blow was so strong that she rolled head over heels from the sidewalk to the roadway. Bright multi-colored stars danced before his eyes, and his father's loud, strained cries rang in his ears. He managed to get up and hit one attacker. She watched in horror at the retaliation of strangers. Father was beaten with fists, legs and bats.

Surrounding his father, the attackers loudly and rudely demanded his wallet. Through the cacophony of their voices, her father reached her. Father told her to run away from here. He was beaten, he asked, begged her to run away. Her legs suddenly froze. How can a father ask her to run away? After all, she must help him, save him! Her face was wet with tears. She screamed something, and her voice resembled the squeak of a small frightened animal.

Father was hit in the temple. He began to settle, then fell. And then she rushed to him, but she was seized by the hand and dragged in the opposite direction. She sobbed with relief, thinking she was a policeman or one of her father's guards. But the dragger was not much higher than her. His face was also covered in a dirty black hood.

The stranger dragged her away from the place where her father was beaten. She screamed and struggled, begging to let her go. He hissed at her from under the hood, demanding to shut up. Does this arrogant not understand that her father needs her help? If she does not immediately help her father, he will be beaten to death. However, the stranger continued to drag her down the street. So they defeated a couple of blocks. A stranger pushed her through the door of a settled, empty house. And from the place where her father remained, revolver shots were now heard.

Sophie jackson

Pound of flesh

© I. Ivanov, translation, 2016

© Edition in Russian, design.

LLC "Publishing Group" Alphabet-Atticus "", 2016

Publishing house AZBUKA®

To my mother, to whom I owe forever

Acknowledgments

This book would never have appeared without the love, support and encouragement of so many people.

First of all, I sincerely thank my family, especially my mother. My addictions (it would be more correct to call them “sticks”) changed with feverish speed and enviable constancy. Mom met them with bulging eyes, and yet all this time, while throwing me from side to side, she was my personal support group. While I was writing this novel, it seemed to me more than once that everything was going awry and would end in nothing, although then it turned out exactly the opposite; while I buried my head in edits and panicked that the book would never be published, my mother was always there, reassuring me and assuring me that everything would work out. You have always been and will remain my heroine. I love you.

Sally, Ryan, Babs, Irene, Nikki, Caro, Sash and Lisa, my dear princesses and fans of the computer game PAW. Who would have thought? You constantly supported me while I writhed in the throes of creativity. Three times a month (sometimes less often) I sent you new chapters, and you read them patiently and conscientiously. And our lengthy discussions on Skype? Finally, our meeting in Manchester, when I delighted you with the news that the “Pound of Flesh” would still be published? This is not forgotten. You are amazing women and amazing friends. I’m very lucky in life that I have you.

The next bunch of thanks to my amazing online family: Steph, my queen of subtraction, Kim, my sweet bore, Afiye, my little twin, Lauren, my dear little girl. Many thanks to Tara Sue-Mi for invaluable advice and support, J.M. Darkhower for inspirational words; thanks Liv, Laura, Rose ... I could continue this list. I guess I'm a terrible lucky guy, since I have so many of you. Thanks to you, your enthusiasm, those parts of the novel where I skidded became much more readable, and those that seemed to me successful became even better. I consider it my duty to thank every reader, reviewer, blogger, all those whose names I don’t even know, but who, through their posts, reposts, retweets, “likes”, various computer tricks, promoted my novel “to the people” in one way or another. My love for you has no limits. The fact that the novel has come out is by no means the least and your merit. I could not imagine how many those who believe in me and my writing. In my responses, I was far from always being patient and benevolent. Thank you for keeping me in every way: good, bad and disgusting. I am proud of you and would be honored to meet everyone. The treat is at my expense.

So I got to you, my Pennsylvania soul mate Rachel. My guardian angel. It seems that only yesterday I sat at your computer and tapped the prologue to “Pound of the Flesh”. Who would have thought? My girl, we have come a long way with you, and my love for you is as strong as that day when I received an email and read your review. Your creativity and your sunny nature are very dear to me. You are an amazing friend with an amazing family, and I can’t wait until I can spend the summer with you again, laughing excitedly.

I continue to thank. Next in line is Lorella Belli, my literary agent, the most dedicated person in the literary world! Working with you was an amazing journey. It happened that the situation looked very lousy, but you never, in a single word, made me doubt myself. In the moments when I was ready to give up everything and give up, you did not lose hope. Friendly people like you still have to look. I literally reverence your faith and your willingness to fight. Without these qualities of yours, romance would still remain my dream. Thank you very much for everything that you have done and continue to do in terms of promoting the book and in relation to me. And thank you so much, my American co-agent Louise Fury. I always smile, remembering your love for the heroes of the novel. You are just a rock. One can only dream of such bosom friends.

I sincerely thank Mickey Newding, my publisher, the unmatched matchless woman. You have truly holy patience, otherwise you would not have endured so many of my bziks!

Many thanks to the amazing teams of Simon & Shuster and Gallery Books. You believed in me and in my romance and helped make the dream a reality.

Finally, thanks to those readers who patiently read to the end of my long list of thanks. Help yourself with Oreo cookies and Coca-Cola. You honestly deserve it.

A pound of flesh that I demand, I bought

Not cheap; he is mine, I want him!

The hasty sound of their steps echoed the frantic beating of her heart. Father tightly, almost to pain, squeezed her hand. The short legs of a nine-year-old girl did not keep pace with her father's broad steps. She was forced to almost run, which she did. She had never seen her father like this: with tightly pressed lips and angry, gloomy eyes. Just like the sky above their heads. Usually, walking with her, father smiled carefreely. Today it seems to have been replaced. She was no longer at the age when tears react to all unexpected things, but now she was terribly anxious to roar.

The sound behind her made her turn around. She saw five whose faces were hidden by hoods. They had just turned out of the alley and were now rapidly approaching. Like wild beasts chasing prey. Father walked quickly, but they caught up.

Her neck stiffened with fear. Father told her something. Probably reassuring, so as not to be afraid. Suddenly, the speech broke: the father was stabbed in the back, and he was flat on the sidewalk, dropping his daughter. She lost her sense of where the top and bottom are. Knees bruised on a concrete sidewalk. Barely lifting her head, she screamed: her father was hit with a baseball bat in the back of the head. He was hit twice, and twice she heard a strange thud.

She didn’t see the one who hit her face in the face. The blow was so strong that she rolled head over heels from the sidewalk to the roadway. Bright multi-colored stars danced before his eyes, and his father's loud, strained cries rang in his ears. He managed to get up and hit one attacker. She watched in horror at the retaliation of strangers. Father was beaten with fists, legs and bats.