Jacqueline's Reads: Exiled (Madame X #3) by Jasinda Wilder [REVIEW + Giveaway]

New York Times bestselling author Jasinda Wilder presents the conclusion to Madame X’s erotic saga of discovery.

My name is Madame X.

My heart is torn in two.

And now I have to choose...

Caleb is everything to her: lover, caretaker, the man who gave her life meaning when she had none. But as she seeks the truth about herself and her past, she discovers that unravelling Caleb’s web of lies might very well be impossible.

Logan is everything she never knew she wanted: freedom, joy, and a passion she couldn’t anticipate. But is Logan’s love enough to save her from herself, from Caleb, and from the tumultuous truth of her past?

Caught between two equally compelling and seductive men, X must make the ultimate choice. But there’s more at stake than just her heart...

5 Emotional, Roller Coaster (I wouldn’t have it any other way) Stars

If you are anything like me and are a super fan of the series, you probably have been looking at your calendar and counting down to this moment. The moment where you can read the final book in the Madame X series.

The feels this book and this series makes me feel. I love absolutely everything about this series. I love the emotions it makes me feel, I love how I never know what’s going to happen and I love Isabel, the battered Heroine.

Regardless of whoever team you are on, Caleb or Logan, you will be really happy with Exiled. It’s a beautiful story about power, redemption and uncovering secrets. EVERYTHING you have been asking yourself will be answered.

The thing I love most about exiled is how well developed the characters are. You REALLY FEEL for each character. There’s pain, there’s longing and there’s the need to do what’s best for you.

Caleb

I love Caleb, he’s the tortured Hero you want to hate and maybe you do, but you also love deeply. He’s not hearts or flowers, he’s not even decent at times, but he has passion and he has conviction and he gets what he always wants. He wants his Madame X. And this only confuses Isabel more.

“Your eyes are shadows. Haunted. As if for the first time in all the years I’ve known you, a curtain has been pulled aside, and I am suddenly truly seeing the contents of your soul”

“You make love to me as if it hurts to do so. As if the pleasure of being inside me is too much”

“He’s not a substance I can merely stop buying. I can’t just suffer the withdrawals, or go to rehab, or a clinic. I can’t just quit him. It’s not that simple.”

Logan

Logan is the good guy, the guy that tells you that he loves you and comforts you when you are sad. He will also lay down his life for you and for that you are grateful, but the guilt festers. Logan was shot by Caleb and Isabel feels guilty. Most of the fans love Logan and I can see why, he’s the PERFECT guy, but he’s always in Caleb’s shadows. I feel like in Exiled, Logan stepped it up a notch and my opinion of him has changed slightly. I see him in a different light and I got to say, he’s looking pretty good.

“But I feel beautiful, because Logan’s touch always does that. Makes me feel needed. Wanted. Beautiful. Even when he doesn’t say a word.”

“I will myself to him. I would with all my soul belong to him and only him forever.”

“Men have fought wars over the love of a woman, Isabel. And trust me when I say you’re the kind of woman wars are fought for.”

Isabel

Isabel works hard in trying to uncover her past. How is she and Caleb connected? Where did she come from? Can she truly be with Logan without Caleb in the shadows? Isabel gets more flashbacks throughout the book and they are sweet and kind of a tear jerker. I love that we get questions answered, but at the same time, we still get the Caleb and Logan dynamics.

I’ll be honest; the Caleb and Logan dynamics is the BEST part of this whole series. I love the feud and I never wanted it to end.

Overall, Exiled is everything that is expected and more. It will tear you up in pieces, but also give you warm closure. I love the series, I love the author and I loved Exiled.

An ARC was provided

EXCERPT
EXILED by Jasinda Wilder

“How old am I? Why did you tell me I was mugged, when I was really in a car accident? Why did you tell me I was eighteen when I went into the coma? How long was I in the coma?” I’m stalking closer to you with each question. My voice rises with each question. “What is the truth? What is the truth about me, Caleb? Or Jakob, should I say?”

You fly across the intervening space in the blink of an eye. Your huge powerful hand grips my chin, my throat. Tips my head backward. Your other hand curls around the base of my spine and jerks me flush against your body.

“Jakob Kasparek is no more. He is no one. He does not exist. My name . . . is Caleb.” Your voice is ice, sharp as razors and deadly as a viper’s venom.

Your fingers crush my jaw, pinch my windpipe. I am pinioned against you. Helpless. And then your lips crash against mine. Roughly, at first. Angrily. Violently. With shocking, lip-bruising force . . .

You kiss me.

With mesmerizing, hypnotic passion, you kiss me. Rough becomes gentle. This, perhaps more than the kiss itself, stuns me. The tenderness, it is exquisite. You kiss me delicately. Skillfully. You kiss me, and you kiss me, and I am breathless. Your tongue whispers against my lips, slips graceful between my teeth and tangles with my tongue. Your palms play against my back. Fingertips dimple my flesh, and slide lower.

What is happening?

Your sorcery, it is not this affection. This is some new magic. Some new witchcraft.

The kiss, your kiss, Caleb, it is like nothing I have ever felt in my life. You kiss me as if you’ve been waiting for all of eternity to kiss me thus, as if you are starved for my lips, thirsting for my mouth. You clutch my back and hold me to you as if you are terrified to lose me. And your hand, clutching and crushing my jaw, loosens. Gentles. Glides up, over my cheek, past my ear, and into my hair. You lean into me, until I am bent backward over your palm, and I am held up by your strength alone.
There is no breath, with this kiss. No thought. Nothing. Just this kiss.

“God, Isabel. Isabel.” You whisper this against my lower lip. It is a breath only, so low I might have imagined it.

It is a plea, that whisper. A broken, pain-barbed plea.

What does it mean? I cannot begin to understand.

You break the kiss. Stagger backward as if wounded. Your eyes are shadows. Haunted. As if for the first time in all the years I’ve known you, a curtain has been pulled aside, and I am suddenly truly seeing the contents of your soul.

For a moment then, you are Jakob. A young boy abandoned to fate, abandoned to the cruel streets of New York. I see the truth in the tale you told. You wipe your mouth with your wrist, brow wrinkled in confusion. Eyes coruscating with agony. You are sixteen-year-old Jakob, the whore-boy. The drug addict. The plaything.

And it is Jakob who kisses me once more. Who with hesitancy and tenderness unzips my dress. Plucks open my bra. Slides off my panties. It is Jakob who divests himself of his clothes. Who presses his skin against mine.

I am wrapped up, woven into a spell, tangled in the fabric of a lie engineered out of truth. It is Jakob who lifts me off my feet, carries me to my bed. Lays me down.

Who kisses me,

and kisses me,

and kisses me . . .

It is Jakob.

And God, Jakob is something I cannot resist. Caleb’s power, skill, and relentless hunger, but with a tenderness and vulnerability only Jakob could possess. Confusion and hatred and loathing and disgust boil in some secret cauldron within my soul, but Jakob’s fiery touch sears it away. I know this touch. It knows me. Knows my body, knows how to bring me to writhing need with but a whisper of a fingertip against me, just so.

Jakob, Caleb, the names tangle. The vulnerability in your eyes is at war with shadows. Violence is an oil slick across the gentility in your features.

Fuck, I am lost. I am drowning.

You stare down at me, and you let me see something in you. Some hint of a soul. And it is a soul at war. A soul in pain. You kiss me with that pain, and it is jagged. Your breath is rough and ragged as you lave kisses over my breasts. As you finger my opening and drive me to moans as only you can. You drag a thick finger through my wetness and caress me to orgasm, and you kiss me as I whimper. While you are kissing me, while I am whimpering and clenching and writhing and shaking, you thrust your hips, and you enter me. And when your hip bones clash against mine, you break the kiss and you fix your embattled, pain-racked eyes on mine. Your eyes do not leave me as you push into me. Do not leave mine as you withdraw. Your face takes on the expression of a man in utter agony. As if you are ripping away a mask surgically implanted in your skin. As if you are ripping open your soul and letting me see the gaping wounds life has left in you.

You make love to me as if it hurts to do so. As if the pleasure of being inside me is too much, and thus is pain. Exquisite torment. An agony of ecstasy. That term is much bandied about, but when it really occurs—a true agony of ecstasy—the reality of it is hellish to witness. Such overpowering bliss it is an overload. A too-long hit of pure oxygen to dying lungs. A feast of rich food on an empty, starving stomach.

Your hips piston against mine. You are levered over me, staring down at me as you drive in and out of me like a madman, like a man possessed. I hold on to you and try to pierce the wildness in your eyes, try to see into you, try to catch some glimpse of who you are and why you’re doing this, what it means.

You moan, brokenly. Tortured groans. Your manic, fucking thrusts falter with intensity, and you release inside me. You are not blinking, not even breathing now, thrust deep, spasming. Hips fluttering.

A groan escapes you. The sound of a shredded soul.

Your forehead lowers to mine.

You are gasping, each outbreath a grunt, a moan, a groan.

“Isabel.” That whisper again.

As if my name is an incantation. A prayer to an unknown god.

A time without measure, seconds, minutes. I do not know.

And then you lift your head, seek my eyes. Looking for something.

“Caleb?”

My time with Jasinda (see I wasn't lying!) I'm desperate to meet her again. More photos - > HERE

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New York Times and USA Today bestselling author Jasinda Wilder is a Michigan native with a penchant for titillating tales about sexy men and strong women. When she’s not writing, she’s probably shopping, baking, or reading.

Some of her favorite authors include Nora Roberts, JR Ward, Sherrilyn Kenyon, Liliana Hart and Bella Andre.

She loves to travel and some of her favorite vacations spots are Las Vegas, New York City and Toledo, Ohio.

You can often find Jasinda drinking sweet red wine with frozen berries and eating a cupcake.

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