BOOK BLITZ: Claimed Without Mercy by Dulce Dennison

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Title: Claimed Without Mercy

Author: Dulce Dennison

Cover Artist: Marteeka Karland

Publisher: Changeling Press

Release Date: April 24, 2026

Genre: Action Adventure, Contemporary, Mystery /Suspense /Intrigue, New Releases, Romance

Themes: Capture Fantasy, Dark Romance, LGBTQ+ Gay, Mafia /Organized Crime

Book Length: Novel

Page Count: 150

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Synopsis

Captive. Claimed. Protected by the devil himself.

I’m Tyson Hughes’ right hand. Collector. Enforcer. Executioner. When a low-level idiot tries to clear his debt by offering up his own nephew, I expect a clean transaction. A body to move. A message to send. Business.

I don’t expect Kellen. Bruised. Beautiful. Untouched by this world in ways that make my jaw lock. He looks at me like I’m either the devil come to claim him… or the only thing standing between him and worse. Taking him wasn’t part of the plan. Delivering him to Tyson would’ve been easier. Smarter. Safer. Instead, I claim him.

Now he’s living under my roof, breathing my air, learning the rules of a world I don’t sugarcoat. I’m not a hero. I don’t rescue people. I own what’s mine. I protect it. And I destroy anyone stupid enough to threaten it. But the deeper I pull Kellen into my life—into the violence, the loyalty, the blood that binds us—the harder it is to tell where captivity ends… and desire begins.

When the debt comes due, I’ll have to choose. Tyson’s empire. Or the young man I claimed without mercy—and refuse to let go.

Excerpt

Claimed Without Mercy
Dulce Dennison
All rights reserved.
Copyright ©2026 Dulce Dennison

Ian

I watched the men work, arms folded across my chest. The dim lights of the warehouse cast long shadows as they moved product from one crate to another, their movements precise and mechanical. Nobody spoke much — they knew better. When I oversaw an operation, I expected efficiency, not conversation. The tattoos on my forearms seemed to pulse in the half-light, a reminder to everyone present of who I was and what I was capable of. The man who made problems disappear.

“Faster,” I said, my voice echoing against the concrete walls. “We need this shit loaded before sunrise.”

The men picked up their pace, sweat beading on their foreheads. This shipment was worth seven figures — premium grade heroin straight from our overseas connections. The kind of product that kept Tyson’s empire running and our pockets lined.

I paced between the rows of crates, watching each man’s hands, each movement. Trust wasn’t something I gave easily, especially not to the low-level soldiers Tyson assigned to these jobs. Most were competent enough, but all it took was one fuck-up, one greedy asshole, and we’d have cops swarming the place or, worse, a war with another organization.

Something caught my eye. A slight hesitation from one of the newer guys — skinny fuck with a neck tattoo that screamed prison ink. He glanced over his shoulder when he thought I wasn’t looking, then slipped his hand into his jacket pocket just a little too casually.

I moved behind a stack of crates, circling around until I was positioned where he couldn’t see me. Three years of working as Tyson’s enforcer had taught me to spot a rat before they even knew they were one.

“Something interesting in your pocket, Alvarez?” I asked, appearing beside him like a shadow.

He jumped, nearly dropping the bag he was holding. “No, Mr. Grant. Just checking the time.”

“Really? Pull it out, then.”

His eyes darted to the exit, calculating the distance. I knew that look. I’d seen it dozens of times before on the faces of men who thought they could outsmart me.

“Now,” I said, not raising my voice. I never had to.

“It’s nothing, I swear –”

I grabbed his wrist, twisting until he gasped in pain, then reached into his pocket myself. My fingers closed around a small plastic bag containing about twenty grams of our product. The weight of it told me everything I needed to know.

“Everyone stop,” I commanded, and the warehouse fell silent. “Gather round. Seems we need to have a little lesson in loyalty.”

The men formed a circle, their faces grim. They knew what was coming. They’d seen it before, or at least heard the stories.

I held up the bag. “Alvarez here thinks he deserves a bonus. Isn’t that right?”

“Please, Mr. Grant, I wasn’t –”

My fist connected with his jaw before he could finish the sentence. He stumbled backward but didn’t fall. Good. I wanted him conscious for what came next.

“Tyson Hughes pays you well,” I said, addressing everyone now. “He provides for your families. Keeps the cops off your backs. And in return, he asks for one thing.” I grabbed Alvarez by the throat. “Loyalty.”

I slammed him against a crate, my hand still tight around his neck. His eyes bulged, face turning red, then purple.

“You know what happens to thieves in this organization?” I asked, loosening my grip just enough for him to breathe.

He nodded frantically, gasping for air.

“Tell them,” I demanded, nodding toward the other men.

“They… they die,” he choked out.

I smiled. “Usually. But tonight, I’m feeling generous.”

Relief flooded his face for a brief moment before I slammed my knee into his groin. As he doubled over, I caught him with an uppercut that sent him sprawling across the concrete floor.

The men watched in silence as I approached Alvarez, who was now curled into a ball, blood trickling from his split lip. I knelt beside him, keeping my voice low enough that only he could hear.

“I’m going to let you live, but not out of mercy.” I pulled a switchblade from my pocket and flicked it open. “You’re going to be a message.”

What happened next filled the warehouse with screams that the thick walls swallowed whole. The men watched, faces impassive but eyes wide with fear as I made my point in blood. When I was done, Alvarez lay sobbing on the floor, clutching what remained of his left hand.

“Get him patched up,” I told two of the men. “Then drop him at the emergency room across town. Make sure he understands that if he says a word about where he was or who did this, the next visit won’t be so pleasant.”

They nodded and dragged Alvarez away, leaving a smear of crimson across the floor. I turned to the remaining men, wiping my blade clean on a handkerchief.

“Finish loading the shipment. I want everything out of here in thirty minutes.”

They scattered like cockroaches under a light, moving twice as fast as before. The metallic smell of blood hung in the air, mixing with the dust and chemical odors of the warehouse. I checked my watch. Almost 3 AM.

My phone vibrated in my pocket. A text from Tyson:

Need you at the house. 9 AM sharp. Important matter to discuss.

I stared at the message, feeling a familiar mix of pride and anxiety. A direct summons from Tyson usually meant one of two things: I’d fucked up, or he had a special job that only I could handle. Given that I’d been running operations smoothly for months, I was betting on the latter.

I supervised the rest of the loading in silence, watching as the men carefully avoided the bloodstain on the floor. By 4:15 AM, the warehouse was empty except for me and the lingering evidence of what happened to those who betrayed Tyson Hughes.

I locked up and climbed into my black Audi, the leather seat cool against my back. The night had turned cold, but I barely noticed. My mind was already on the meeting with Tyson, wondering what assignment awaited me. Whatever it was, I’d handle it. I always did. That’s why, despite everything, I was still alive when so many others weren’t.

I pulled out of the warehouse district, leaving behind the night’s violence and heading toward my apartment for a few hours of sleep before meeting with the only man I’d ever truly respected. The only man who’d ever given me a chance when everyone else saw nothing but gutter trash. The man who’d made me what I was.

For Tyson Hughes, I’d do anything. And he knew it.

I pulled up to Tyson’s estate at 8:55 AM, early as always. The gates opened automatically — security knew my car. As I drove up the long, winding driveway, I caught glimpses of the sprawling mansion through the trees. Tyson had built all this from nothing, clawing his way up from the streets to become the most powerful man in the city’s underworld. And he’d picked me. Even after all these years, that fact still hit me in the chest sometimes, a mixture of pride and the constant fear of disappointing him.

I parked next to Tyson’s collection of luxury cars and straightened my tie in the rearview mirror. Despite only three hours of sleep, I looked presentable. The dark circles under my eyes were practically permanent fixtures anyway.

The front door opened before I could knock. Nick, Tyson’s longtime second-in-command, greeted me with a curt nod.

“He’s in his study,” he said, stepping aside.

I walked through the marble-floored foyer, past priceless artwork and antiques that Tyson collected not because he gave a shit about art, but because they signified his rise from poverty. Everything in this house was a trophy, a reminder of victories and conquered enemies.

The study door stood ajar. I knocked anyway.

“Come in, Ian,” Tyson called.

He sat behind a massive oak desk, silver hair immaculately styled, wearing what I knew was a hand-tailored suit that probably cost more than most people made in a month. At fifty-three, Tyson Hughes carried himself with the ease of a man who knew his own power and had no need to flaunt it. When he killed, he did it with a phone call, not his hands. Those days were behind him.

“Right on time,” he said, looking up from his computer and removing his reading glasses. “How’d the shipment go last night?”

“Clean and quick. One minor issue that’s been handled.”

Tyson raised an eyebrow. “What kind of issue?”

“Alvarez tried skimming product. Won’t happen again.”

“Is he breathing?”

I nodded. “Missing some fingers, but alive. I figured he’d be more useful as a warning than a corpse.”

A smile touched the corners of Tyson’s mouth. “Smart. That’s why I trust you with these things.” He gestured to the chair across from him. “Sit. Drink?”

“It’s not even ten.”

“Since when has that ever stopped either of us?”

I smiled despite myself and took the seat. Tyson poured two glasses of scotch from a crystal decanter, sliding one across the desk to me.

“You look like shit,” he said casually. “Not sleeping?”

“Sleep’s overrated.”

“Not when I need you sharp.” He leaned back in his chair, studying me with those penetrating gray eyes that saw everything. “You’ve been pushing yourself too hard lately.”

“Just doing my job.”

“Your job is to follow orders and stay alive. Can’t do either if you’re running on fumes.”

I took a sip of the scotch, letting the burn distract me from the fact that Tyson was the only person on earth who could talk to me like this without ending up in pieces.

“I’m fine,” I said. “What’s this important matter you wanted to discuss?”

Tyson’s expression shifted, his eyes hardening. “Sean Collins.”

The name hung in the air between us.

“What about him?” I asked.

“He owes us three hundred grand. Has for almost six months now.” Tyson took a long swallow of his drink. “I’ve been patient. Sent Nick to have a chat with him twice. Sent messages through mutual associates. Nothing.”

“You want me to collect.”

“I want you to make an example of him.” Tyson’s voice dropped, became colder. “Collins thinks because he’s got connections with the Irish that he’s untouchable. He’s been spreading word that I’ve gone soft in my old age.”

My jaw clenched. “That’s a mistake.”

“A fatal one.” Tyson stood up and walked to the window, looking out over his manicured gardens. “Sean Collins is a particular kind of vermin. Beats the girls who work for him, sometimes kills them if they try to leave. Has a taste for the young ones too.”

“Want me to take care of him permanently?” I asked, already knowing the answer.

Tyson turned, his expression softer now, almost paternal. “Not yet. First, get my money. Make him understand who he’s dealing with.” He returned to his desk and pulled out a file, sliding it across to me. “Here’s everything you need to know. Addresses, hangouts, known associates. His nephew lives with him — kid named Kellen Lin. Collins had custody since the boy’s mother died. He’s an adult now but hasn’t moved out.”

I flipped through the file. Photos, financial records, property deeds. Tyson was nothing if not thorough.

“The nephew — he involved in Collins’ business?” I asked.

“Not as far as we know. Works at a coffee shop. Keeps to himself.” Tyson refilled his glass. “Use your judgment there.”

He didn’t need to finish the sentence. Collateral damage was part of the job.

“When?” I asked, closing the file.

“Yesterday would’ve been good. Today’s acceptable. By the end of the week, non-negotiable.”

I nodded, downing the rest of my scotch in one swallow. “Consider it done.”

“I always do when I give you an assignment.” Tyson smiled, the kind of smile that had always made me feel like I belonged somewhere. “That’s why I chose you, Ian. From the first day I pulled you out of that shithole your father called a home, I knew you were different. You understand loyalty.”

“You gave me a life,” I said simply. It wasn’t flattery. It was fact. Before Tyson, I was nothing. A fifteen-year-old kid with a junkie father and violence in my blood. Tyson had channeled that violence, given it purpose and direction.

“And you’ve repaid that a thousand times over.” He walked around the desk and put a hand on my shoulder. “Collins is just the beginning. I’m getting older, Ian. Starting to think about the future of this organization.”

My heart skipped a beat. We’d never discussed succession before, though everyone in the hierarchy wondered who would take over when Tyson eventually stepped aside. I’d always assumed it would be Nick, but at the same time, Nick was also getting up there in years. Both men were close in age and had worked side-by-side for as long as anyone could remember. But if I thought about it, I was probably the next closest to Tyson, the most trusted after Nick.

I left the study with the file tucked under my arm and a sense of purpose burning in my chest. Tyson had called me “his boy.” It wasn’t the first time, but it never failed to hit something deep inside me — that hungry, abandoned part that had never known a real father’s approval.

For Tyson, I’d collect this debt and a thousand more. I’d tear Sean Collins apart if necessary. Because when Tyson Hughes looked at me like that — with pride and expectation — I felt like I was worth something. And that feeling was more addictive than any drug I’d ever tried.

Purchase at Changeling Press

Meet the Author

Dulce Dennison is a pen name for gay and LGBTQA+ themed love stories from best selling MC romance author Harley Wylde, AKA award-winning science fiction/paranormal romance author Jessica Coulter Smith. From cowboys to shapeshifters, Dulce/Harley/Jess believes in love in all shapes and sizes, and that everyone deserves a happily-ever-after.

Website | Facebook | Twitter

 

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BOOK BLITZ: Cain’s Chameleon by Mark G. Bearss

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Historical Fiction Mystery Thriller

Date Published: 01-26-2026

Publisher: Bearss Lair Books

If the newspaper reported your death and no one questioned it, would you
correct the mistake… or take the lifeline?

Dan Driscoll is consumed by gambling debt, cornered by bookies and loan
sharks, forced to bet on one last scheme. When things turn violent and two
people are shot, his best friend, Stan Neumann, swallows what he suspects. He
can’t risk divulging a closely-held family secret.

Then a body washes up on the Lake Michigan shoreline, and the lake gives Dan
what the bookies never would: a way out. Authorities call it an accident and
list him as the drowning victim. For Dan, it’s an escape route delivered
in black ink.

He becomes a ghost, an imposter, a chameleon. But lies don’t stay
buried.

As America is pulled into World War II, Stan enlists, choosing duty on his
terms before the draft can rewrite his life. In Pearl Harbor, one chance
encounter dredges up a name he thought was long buried.

War changes everything, but it doesn’t erase unfinished business. And
when the truth demands to be heard, how long can a stolen life stay buried
before the past comes to collect?

 

 

 While author Mark Bearss was setting the stage for his retirement, concerned
co-workers would ask, “What are you going to do when you’re not
working?” He found this question rather curious. It should have been
posed, “What are you going to do first?” Mark knew that if travel
was involved, he had had enough of commercial flights after 28 years of
teaching for the medical device industry. Mark yearned for road trips –
to visit those places he only saw from 38,000 feet. Little did he know that
wish journeyed down an unexpected fork in the road. He would become an author.

While conducting genealogy research, Mark discovered archived de-classified
military documents that revealed the name of a U.S. Navy destroyer his father
served aboard during WWII. The reason this was a poignant discovery was
because, while growing up in Grand Rapids, Michigan, his father made no
mention of this. Apart from being a U.S. Naval Reserve flight instructor, he
knew his father served aboard the carrier USS ESSEX. But in what capacity?
That, too, was not revealed. More discoveries materialized the further he dug.
In fact, there was a lot more his father didn’t mention. This
wasn’t unusual. Many WWII veterans didn’t talk about what happened
back then.

Because of the pandemic, the National Archives in St. Louis was closed and
rendered Lt. Bearss’ military records unavailable. Thus began a project
that challenged Mark’s research endeavors for over two years and about
5,000 miles on the road. The biographical sketch was sorted from creative
Internet search strings, history books, navy publications, and networking with
journalists, librarians, archivists, bloggers, aviation enthusiasts, museum
and historical society curators, navy veterans, relatives, and more. One
online resource that was instrumental in tracking his father’s journey
was the weekly newspaper published in the county where his parents grew up:
The Oceana Herald. It included a Local News section where family members and
organizations could submit a short blurb about a relative’s visit, a
social gathering, or – where a son or husband was currently stationed.

This project culminated in 2022 with Mark’s first publication titled,
Undisclosed Stories Discovered: Honoring the World War II Military Journey of
Lt. Joseph Ward Bearss, USNR. When asked what was one of the highlights
surrounding this story, he described the road trips to seek out and discover
places where his father lived, trained and was stationed during the war. What
prompted him to write this as a biography took place during a meeting with the
curator of the World War II Home Front Museum on St. Simons Island, Georgia.
St. Simons Naval Air Station was the site for the U.S. Naval Radar Training
Station, where Lt. Bearss was trained in shipboard radar operations, enemy
interception, and Fighter Direction. While the museum had ample archived
materials about the facility, it had very little documented about the
servicemembers who trained there.

Only 250 copies were printed. Mark went back on the road in his Class-B
motorhome and personally donated those copies to family members, friends and
relatives, the librarians, archivists, researchers, museums, curators,
historical societies, newspapers, The American Heritage Center, VFW Posts,
airport FBOs, and other assorted WWII enthusiasts in 12 states who helped in
his endeavors. It was a two-fold reward. Not only did his father’s story
finally become told, Mark experienced the pleasure of meeting all these
wonderful people who were his resources, advisors, collaborators, and
consultants. Up until that point, they were only names in an email contact
list.

You’re probably asking, “How is all this relevant to Mark’s
new novel, Cain’s Chameleon?” It was the research from The Oceana
Herald that planted the seed for this story. While perusing its issues, Mark
stumbled on two articles that piqued his curiosity. The first reported an
attempted murder in a home close to his family’s summer cottage on Lake
Michigan. The second reported a drowning victim that washed up on the beach
right where Mark and his friends used to play. Just two more stories never
divulged while growing up. He wondered, Were these two events related? Then
Mark decided — he would make them related.

Contact Links

Website

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Purchase Link

https://mybook.to/CainsChameleon  

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RABT Book Tours & PR

BOOK TOUR: Maiden Tomb by Cynthia Sally Haggard

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Maiden Tomb

Twelve Cursed Maidens Series
Book One
Cynthia Sally Haggard

Genre: Fairytale Retelling, Fantasy
ASIN: ‎ B0DNWVFZ81
Publisher: ‎Cynthia Sally Haggard Press
Publication Date: ‎ February 4, 2025

Tagline: Would you marry a stranger to free your sisters from imprisonment?

Book Description: 

In this retelling of The Twelve Dancing Princesses, sixteen-year-old Justice wants to release her sisters from the maw of Father’s imprisonment. But what can she do? The easiest way would be to find suitors for them.

However, that is not so easy, for Justice’s elder sisters are strange. What with All-Gifted’s madness, Protectress’s hair writhing with snakes, Death-Bringer’s grief (not to mention her strange name), Shining’s too-overt sexuality, Maiden’s tart tongue, Shadow’s crippling shyness, no sensible man would want her sisters as wives. Which leaves Justice, the seventh daughter, the one who possesses a quiet authority.

Justice has already acquired an admirer in the shape of Lord Nobody, who proclaims his undying love for her. But what does he really want? And doesn’t he have a wife already?

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Excerpt – P r o l o g u e ~ The Twelve Mysterious Daughters

Playful speaks

In the past week or so since we’ve arrived, life has taken on a predictable rhythm. I spend the mornings entertaining the ladies of the castle, with the lyre, my singing, playing knucklebones, and listening to their gossip. Truth to tell, nothing they say is particularly interesting as high-born ladies spend their time inside. When they are not diverting themselves with such pastimes as I provide, they are spinning, weaving, running the household, and caring for their children. They talk incessantly about their children. They know little of the outside world.

I escape after the midday meal, taking advantage of the ladies’ habit of resting as the sun’s chariot crests at the highest point of the day. While they sleep, I head out into the scorching countryside looking for Father.

We sit together in the shade, while Father does some task, usually repairing something, while I tell him everything I’ve learned the evening before. It is not that hard. Because I am small, and people are now familiar with my face, no one pays me any mind as I take my seat at the bench that runs along the side of the huge table where all the working folk of the castle eat their meals.

Father has told me never to be inquisitive, but I am dying to know more about the twelve mysterious ladies locked up in the castle tower, the ones people whisper about behind their hands when they think no-one is noticing.

As the light of the sun drains from the sky, as the king’s men sink lower onto wooden benches eating dish after dish, quail, pheasant, peacock, duck, eggs, bread, olive oil, wine, and olives, the noise of seven hundred men sharing jokes, laughing, and swilling wine reverberates around the hall.

Finally, I can take it no more.”Is it true what they say about the King’s daughters?”

The grizzled stranger on the bench next to me wipes the grease off his mouth with the back of a hand and spits out an olive pit.

“Where’ve you popped up from? You shouldn’t be here. You’re only a young lad.”

I am used to these remarks. After I left home I took a ship that was blown off course, taking me west to the land of the Italoi. I had to beg for money in the streets and in the taverns and it was not long before I heard news of Father, who was sailing to the west of this land.

And so I made my way across steep mountains before coming down to a lush plain. Playing my lyre to entertain strangers I followed their directions to the sea, to a wide bay within sight of a simmering, high, conical-shaped mountain.

And there, in a tavern, I met Father.

Now we are traveling home together. But Father is not here on the bench beside me, as he should be, but outside at a nearby farm pretending to be a stable hand.

This is one of Father’s clever strategies. He is a master at extracting information. He calls his strategy “divide and conquer” and it means that I have to use my lyre to find a berth for the night in some local chieftain’s house. This is not usually difficult, especially if there are ladies around because for some reason they always want to pet me.

Meanwhile, Father finds work on the outside as a shepherd, farmhand, or stable boy. By concealing his origins and pretending to be dumb, drunk, or both, Father is able to overhear a great many things. We have a plan to meet every day at noon, I escaping the blandishments of the ladies to visit the local farm for milk, cheese, eggs where I could happen upon the new stable boy, farmhand, or shepherd.

The only fly in the ointment is my age. I am only twelve years old and to my great annoyance, I look it. So Father made me memorize some phrases to offer when this issue arises.

“Father is here with me, but is suffering with an ache to his belly.”

One sentence is usually enough for most people. Father has instructed me never to offer explanations that are not asked for as it only makes people more curious.

But the fellow is staring at me, waiting for more.

I turn my eyes down. “Father told me to eat supper and then berth with him in the stable yard.”

“He’s the new stable hand, is he?”

I nod.

“Much good he’ll be with a bellyache.”

I look up. “Do you have a remedy for that good sir?”

Father always stresses the importance of asking for advice when a conversation turns sour, as it flatters the vanity.

The fellow hawks and spits, rising from his seat. “You’ll have to go to the kitchens for that, son.” He ambles off.

I return to my meal, hoping the others will forget about me and the conversation I’ve just had. Fortunately, it is that time of the meal when men turn tipsy. Pretty soon they are laughing, singing, and telling dirty jokes. One song goes like this:

 “There once was a king with twelve daughters—”

                        —”Twelve bee-yoo-tiful daughters,” sing the others in an out-of-tune chorus.

“But he refused to marry them off—”

                        —”Twelve bee-yoo-tiful daughters!”

“And why did he refuse to marry them off?”

                        —”Twelve bee-yoo-tiful daughters!

“Because they would make unsuitable wives—”

                        —”Twelve bee-yoo-tiful daughters!”

“The eldest is mad.

The second is bad.

The third is sad.

The fourth too bold.

The fifth too shrill.

The sixth too shy.

The seventh too just.

While the eighth loves her father too much—Ha! Ha!

The eighth loves her father too much!

The ninth is a boy.

The tenth a mermaid.

The eleventh a goddess.

While the twelfth has only five years, five years,

The twelfth daughter has only five years.”

“Do not touch!” yells someone to guffawing laughter.

The men pick up their song again:

“But the one you need to watch for is number four, number four,

The one you need to watch for is number four.

For the fourth daughter is a very naughty girl,

With large bold eyes and a nearly naked form—”

This goes on for some time. The fourth daughter seems to fascinate the men. I chew thoughtfully. Somehow, I must find a way of meeting her.

I turn to another man. “Is it true he locked all twelve of his daughters up in a high tower?”

The man nods.

“Why are they going on about the fourth daughter? I thought it was the eldest who dishonored the family name—”

“Keep your voice down,” hisses the fellow. He looks around and then stares back at me from under bushy brows. “Your information is quite good, boy. Most of what you say is true.”

“Which part is false?”

The fellow rises to his feet. “If you’ll take my advice, you’ll keep your mouth shut. Folk pay with their lives by asking too many questions.” He glances around and draws his forefinger across his throat.

“But—” I gesture to the men singing lustily.

“They’re drunk.”

“But—” I say again. But the man vanishes into the press of sweaty male bodies.

Outside, it is a lovely evening with a couple more hours to run before the sun dips below the trees. The castle tower stands up like a finger, a beckoning, a warning, that people can see for miles around. If their eyesight is good, they will see a window set high in the tower, just underneath the tiled roof. On a fine day, the window unlatched, the wind carries the sound of voices, the high sound of girls’ voices gossiping, chattering, giggling. Now, on this late summer evening, someone closes that high window shut. I catch a glimpse of a heart-shaped face with deep-set dark-grey eyes, and light-brown hair drawn back into a braid. Which daughter could she be? Not number four, for she is dressed modestly in a light woolen robe dyed a soft grey to match her eyes.

I lift my head to the moon, a thin fingernail of a crescent. A shiver runs up my spine. Something is going to happen within the month, I can feel it. This place hums with suppressed tensions.

Father will be so interested when I see him tomorrow.

About the Author:

Cynthia Sally Haggard was born and reared in Surrey, England.

About 40 years ago, she surfaced in the United States, inhabiting the Mid-Atlantic region as she wound her way through four careers: violinist, cognitive scientist, medical writer, and novelist.

Her first novel, Thwarted Queen, a saga set in 1400s England with a Game of Thrones vibe, won the 2021 Gold Medal IPPY Award for Audiobook. Her second novel, Farewell My Life, a dark historical about a hidden murderer, won the 2021 Independent Press Award for Women’s Fiction and was a 2019 Distinguished Favorite for the New York City Big Book Award. (Farewell is now a set of four novellas that make up the Grace Miller series.)

Maiden Tomb, the first of four projected novellas that will form the Twelve Cursed Maidens series, was a 2026 Distinguished Favorite for the Independent Press Award. Cynthia graduated with an MFA in Creative Writing from Lesley University, Cambridge MA, in June 2015.

When she’s not annoying everyone by insisting her fictional characters are more real than they are, Cynthia likes to go for long walks, knit something glamorous, cook in her wonderful kitchen, and play the piano.

You can visit her at:

Twitter ~ https://x.com/cynthiasallys
Blog ~ https://cynthiasallyhaggard.com/blog/
Website ~ https://www.cynthiasallyhaggard.com
Facebook ~ https://www.facebook.com/cynthia.haggard
Instagram ~ https://www.instagram.com/cynthiasallyhaggardauthor/
Facebook ~ https://www.facebook.com/cynthiasallyhaggardnovelist

BOOK BLITZ & GIVEAWAY: Fracture by Basar Gorur

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Fracture
Basar Gorur
(Shadow Sovereign Series, #1)
Publication date: April 17th 2026
Genres: Adult, Techno Thriller

A murdered diplomat. A dying man’s cryptic message. A conspiracy that could shatter NATO.

When U.S. geopolitical strategist Roger ‘Simms’ Osbourne receives word that his colleague and friend Aslı Green has been killed, he inherits more than grief. He inherits her secret: evidence of a sophisticated Russian operation that sank a Ukrainian tanker and made it look like an accident.

Sent to London to sell a critical NATO surveillance system, Simms quickly discovers his official mission is compromised. A powerful British political faction, backed by shadowy money and royal connections, is determined to see him fail. The deeper he digs into Aslı’s murder, the more he realizes the two threats are connected.

Forced to abandon the rulebook, Simms assembles an unlikely alliance: his embattled team, a mysterious operative named Katya who knows too much, and assets on both sides of the law. Together, they uncover a sprawling network funneling Russian profits through international shell companies to fuel a political war against the West.

But Russian Admiral Sidorov isn’t waiting for the dust to settle. His devastating military demonstration exposes NATO’s vulnerabilities and humiliates the alliance on the world stage. And lurking beneath it all is an even darker secret: Chinese technology at the heart of Russia’s most advanced weapons.

Now Simms must wage war on three fronts: political, financial, and military. Because if he fails, his friend died for nothing. And the next strike won’t be disguised as an accident.

For fans of Tom Clancy, Mark Greaney, and Brad Thor.

Goodreads / Amazon

—

EXCERPT:

Ankara. Surveillance van outside Mikhail’s apartment. Evening.

Jack adjusted the lens for the hundredth time. Jones was sorting sunflower seeds by some private system known only to God and possibly his therapist.

“Stilettos,” Jones said.

“We’re not doing this.”

“We’re absolutely doing this. We’ve been here four hours. I’ve counted the bricks on that building. There are 2,847. I’ve earned a conversation.”

“You counted wrong. There are 2,846.”

“You counted them too?”

“Shut up.” Jack refused to look at him. “What about stilettos?”

“Women wear them voluntarily. On purpose. They pay extra for the privilege of balancing on pencil erasers.”

“Groundbreaking analysis. Call the sociology department.”

“I’m serious. Men’s fashion evolution went: uncomfortable, less uncomfortable, sweatpants. Enlightenment achieved. Women’s fashion went: uncomfortable, more uncomfortable, here’s a torture device from the Spanish Inquisition, but we made it beige.”

Jack checked the window. Nothing.

“Maybe they like being tall.”

“Platform sneakers exist. Wedges exist. Sensible block heels exist. Those chunky things that look like orthopedic equipment for fashionable astronauts.” Jones cracked a seed with surgical precision. “The stiletto isn’t about height. It’s about violence.”

“Violence.”

“Think about it. Historically, women couldn’t carry weapons. Swords, daggers, frowned upon. Very unlady-like. But shoes?” Jones gestured broadly, scattering shells. “Nobody regulates footwear. So some genius says, what if we put a three-inch steel spike on a pump and call it couture?”

“That’s actually not terrible.”

“I’m occasionally not terrible. Mark the calendar.”

The radio crackled. Static. The universe’s way of saying nothing was happening, and nothing would happen.

“You know they were daggers first,” Jones said. “Fifteenth century. Little needle-point shivs for punching through armor gaps.”

Jack checked the monitor. Still dark. “We are not talking about fashion history.”

“It’s tactical history. ‘Stiletto’ comes from stilus. The little metal spike Romans used for writing.” Jones pointed a shell at Jack. “It literally means ‘angry pen.’ The shoe is just a knife you can walk in.”

“You made that up.”

“Look it up. CIA even tried to weaponize them in the fifties. Program called Stiletto Rose. Pop-out blades in the heel.”

“Bullshit.”

“Swear to God. Total failure. Mechanics didn’t work. But someone tried.” Jones grinned. “Boredom is the mother of weapons development.”

Jack massaged his temples.

“Your ex-wife had stilettos, didn’t she?”

“Louboutins. Red soles. Cost more than my first car.” Jones found a seed worthy of consumption. “She never wore them. Kept them in the box. I asked why. She said they weren’t for wearing, they were for knowing she could wear them.”

“That explains the divorce.”

“Many things explain the divorce. Most of them are my fault. Some of them footwear-adjacent.”

The window remained dark. Jack was developing a personal vendetta against it.

The radio crackled.

“All teams, target vehicle approaching.”

Jack grabbed the camera. Jones swept the sunflower seeds aside.

“Finally,” Jones said. “I had a whole bit about platform shoes being siege equipment.”

“Save it.”

“Battering rams for the fashion-forward.”

“I will leave you here.”

Author Bio:

Başar Görür;

Writes geopolitical techno-thrillers grounded in institutions, leverage, and the real mechanics behind modern power. He has a BA degree in International Relations.

During his military service, he served on the personal staff of the Commander of the War Academies, working directly for a four-star air force general as an aide and translator. That experience informs how he writes briefings, decision cycles, and pressure under uncertainty.

He later held senior executive roles at PwC and at 3M Corporation headquarters, operating in multinational environments where cross-border incentives and capital flows shape outcomes. He now leads a private asset-management business.

Outside of work, he is a licensed captain and avid scuba diver who spends several months each year at sea and has traveled extensively. These experiences shape the Shadow Sovereign series.

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BOOK BLITZ & GIVEAWAY: Nocturne by Tricia D. Wagner

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Nocturne
Tricia D. Wagner
Publication date: April 14th 2026
Genres: Fantasy, Young Adult

In NOCTURNE, sixteen-year-old Livi learns the truth of who she is—a Siren, her people known only to legends. She must learn to master her powers of influence, strength, and destruction to stop a warmongering Admiral from drafting her best friends, capturing and killing her people, and decimating her homeland of Nocturne.

Goodreads / Amazon / Barnes & Noble / iBooks / Kobo

—

EXCERPT:

Livi stood before the tavern’s bleak threshold, its heavy door cobbled of wrecked ships.

She peered through its ragged window, quieting the wiser part of her, an inner voice calling for her to turn back. And truly, she was stunned that she’d mustered the daring to try this.

There were dozens of men here—sailors all brooding over their flagons, many looking to be harboring grudges.

The tavern’s splintery walls were studded with trophies—toothy payaras, dry in their death throes, tacked beneath golden portraits of infamous Korps Mariner ships and their dread captains.

The men frequenting this sand-dusted, fish-pongy tavern—The Orphic, were the sun-beaten sailors and damaged soldiers of Merritaine, mercenaries and relieved fighters who’d reached the shore of old age still breathing.

No one dared step a toe in The Orphic unless he bore epic tales—bloody acts of acclaim on the baleful blue seas.

Many here had killed. Some for honorable causes in noble wars, yes. But they’d killed.

For all their savagery, though, they were brave.

Livi had heard enough stories to understand them as uniformly dauntless and skilled. If anyone could help her skip Merritaine’s coast and reach Nocturne, he’d be drinking here.

Through the brume of pipe smoke, she measured each face for hints of affability. Or at least for traces of good humor—signs that someone might consider her offer. If she could just single out one sailor more approachable than not, perhaps she could move to him unnoticed.

But that wouldn’t happen. Women scarcely set foot here, and sixteen-year-old girls certainly didn’t.

A few of the sailors came across as jovial—but even they harbored an undercurrent of trouble in their looks, their ease striking like a gusty southerly bathing the seaside, forecasting a typhoon’s assault.

The afternoon seemed all at once to grow late, a shaft of misted sunlight sluicing through the windows and casting the place in watery relief.

In fixing on that panorama of ocean, Livi could almost see Nocturne’s peaks in the deep west, its moonstone shores marbled with the shadowy ash given by its volcanic chain.

Those heights, she had to reach. For it was said that Nocturne’s high places were hived with sea caves—chambers shining with waters rumored to have healing properties.

Some believed those springs could stave off even death.

Livi eased from her jacket a small jar of pearls, each perfect, as plump as a blueberry—these a mere sampling of the trove she’d collected. They ought to be more than enough to buy passage to Nocturne from someone here bearing the skill, and the gall, and the ship, and the time to set sail for the Isles, along with some assurance that he could ferry her through storms, over waters where lurked sharks and killer whales and squids that tore up boats, and finally beyond the dread Maelstroms.

Livi had imagined this moment many times—making her bold approach in The Orphic, striking a deal. She’d imagined that arriving at this brink would feel like the onset of her escape.

But in finally standing here, readying to approach men alleged to be the most barbarous in Merritaine, the idea seemed beyond reckless.

Célian, her best friend—maybe more—would be sick at the thought of her here. And truly, in darkening this threshold, she felt she was skimming the rim of the Maelstroms, those great whirlpools unceasing in their churning, twisting what strayed near straight down in a tempest, claiming ships and seafarers alike as a part of themselves.

The bright Merrow Ocean glinting in, though, delivered some steadfastness. For at the sight of its rolling, Livi could gather a sense of what it might feel like, teaming with someone here, cruising on his scabrous ship to the treacherous west.

A man seated at the tavern’s back corner stood out a touch.

He looked a decade younger than the rest, and he had all his limbs, which was saying something. He seemed not resentful, or affable, or angry—just somber. His solemnity made it clear that he wanted to be left to himself.

But it also lent an impression of patience. Maybe he’d listen.

She edged open the tavern’s door and crept in. She eased behind a column in the entryway and held still.

She’d have to get to the somber man quick. If she drew too much attention, the barkeep—a tall man, his eyes sharp to check all the action, his manner busy and swift with his bottles—would cast her out before she could lay down one word of her offer.

Or worse—he’d let the men handle the disruption.

Livi stepped from the shade, into the amber light of the tavern.

Author Bio:

As a young reader, writers were like gods and goddesses to now author Tricia D. Wagner. She never could have imagined weaving tales like her favorite storytellers, until a fateful April dinner conversation with her husband about a lecture he attended got her mind whirling. By the end of that summer, she’d written 400,000 words: a speculative fiction trilogy. Wagner felt as if she’d emerged from a cocoon as some new sort of creature. She was hooked.

It was important to Tricia to sharpen her skills, and she immersed herself in workshops, guides, and writing communities, learning from editors how to hone her craft. She did this for years, and the result is her newly released novella The Strider and the Regulus, two independently published novelettes, four soon-to-be published novellas, and five as yet unpublished novels. She found writing to be a method for becoming the person she felt she was born to be. Wagner finds that writing inspires her to be a better person, truer to herself.

The ideas and substance of Tricia’s writing comes from a very deep place that is strongly stimulated by setting. Often, when she has completed a story, she feels as if she’s been to her story world, whether it’s on the map or not. She likes to believe all the places she writes about exist somewhere, somehow.

In writing her stories, Wagner was surprised and delighted to discover how real the characters become to an author; that for many writers, their characters end up as their most treasured friends. She loves to delve into them to mine their natures, secrets, and desires—to tell their stories with the legitimacy they deserve. In studying her characters, she finds she has the opportunity to shape herself, inching closer to the person she wants to become.

Wagner believes revision is magical in its power to make a good book great, and early drafts are only the beginning of a story’s journey. Any idea can wind up a good story, but with reflection and time and improvement, it can become art. Once Wagner completes a revision project, it feels miraculous how many fresh approaches have manifested and how much truer the story feels.

Wagner hopes her readers feel enchanted when they read her stories; that after completing one, it seems they’re drifting out from under a spell. This is exactly how she feels when she finishes writing a story. She hopes to that her writing might expand their minds, spirits, and worlds a bit, and she hope they fall in love with her characters and are moved by her artistry of language.

When she isn’t writing poignant works of literary fiction, Wagner is a Director of Adult Education – ESL Programs at a community college, a job and staff that she loves. In her spare time she enjoys refining her writing craft to discover new angles and landscapes that might enrich her writing palette. One such example is a recent course she took in learning to read ancient Egyptian hieroglyphs, something that’s sure to end up in a story at some point. Wagner lives in Rockford, Illinois, with her husband and three darling cats.

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RELEASE BLITZ: Somewhere in Nowhere by Steven Gellman

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Title: Somewhere in Nowhere

Author: Steven Gellman

Publisher: NineStar Press

Release Date: 04/14/2026

Heat Level: 2 – Fade to Black Sex

Pairing: Male/Male

Length: 238

Genre: Contemporary YA, Genre/lit, young adult, family-drama, gay, lesbian, high school, lesbian mothers, coming out, funeral, friendship group, friends to lovers

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Description

Coming out is hard, especially when you have two gay moms. At least it is for Simon Bugg. He doesn’t want the world to think that having gay parents has turned him gay. And he certainly doesn’t want anyone to know about the alien in his stomach that’s trying to kill him.

It’s Simon’s senior year and his world just turned upside down. When his mom scores a dream job, Simon lands at a new school away from the only friends he has ever known. Now, his mom is overworked and chronically stressed, and his deadbeat dad is back on the scene. Navigating a new school and new friends is a challenge for a neurotic overthinker, and Simon finds himself turning to his rescue cat and a local barista for support. But when Simon meets the handsome PJ in drama class, he gets talked into a date that he derails in spectacular fashion.

With a little help from his friends—new and old—Simon finds his way back to PJ. But how can he have a real relationship with the boy of his dreams when he’s convinced he’s going to die? No one knows about the nightly alien attacks at 11:22. Why then, and why do they keep getting worse? Simon must face a dark secret inside before he loses his chance with the boy he loves.

Excerpt

Somewhere in Nowhere
Steven Gellman © 2026
All Rights Reserved

11.22 p.m.

Fat drops of rain splatter across the windshield as I watch the speedometer creep ever higher. Curfew has come and gone. It’s no longer a question of will I get home late, but rather, how late will I be. Carole will be cool about it, but Mom will lose her shit. I push ahead faster. The cool air is exhilarating as it rushes through my window and works its way in and around each tight curl on my head. I feel practically airborne as I race against the clock. I haven’t forgotten Mom’s threat to take my car from me if I keep missing my curfew. I can do this. Just a little faster and I’ll be home. If I’m lucky, I might even sneak in unnoticed. Unlikely, but possible.

The sky opens and rain sheets across the windshield in torrents that the wipers try, but fail, to slice through. I fumble with the crank to roll the window up against the spray pelting my face. The dashboard clock advances to 11:22 and the air is sucked from my lungs. Time seems to slow, and I glance at the photo tucked into the visor. My throat is closing! Mags, Neel, and I had crammed into the photo booth for one last picture before I moved away. I can’t breathe! We’re making silly faces, but the raindrops splattering the photo make it look like we’re crying. I can’t breathe! Instinctively, I let go of the wheel and reach for my throat when I feel movement. In my stomach. Scratching. It feels like something wants out.

The car careens to the right. The abrupt shift in my trajectory snaps my attention back to the road. The headlights cast a glimmering runway on the wet asphalt. I slam on the brakes, and the car begins to spin out of control. A cold sweat trickles down my neck. Tires scream against the rough surface below as a panorama of cutting rain and passing lights spills across my field of vision. This is it. I’m going to die.

The car comes to an abrupt halt. I’m looking back toward the way I just came, but the angle is wrong. My eyes lock back on the clock. Still 11:22. My breath returns in shallow clips, but at least I’m breathing. Come on, Simon. Get it together. I gather my bearings and quickly realize that I’ve slid off the road and into the ditch. I take stock of the situation. I didn’t hit anything. Nothing hurts, and the car seems fine, but I am wrecked. I press on the accelerator, the tires spin, but the car doesn’t budge. Shit! I have to make it home, and fast. If Mom takes the car from me, I’ll never see Mags and Neel again. I press harder, the engine revs, and the tires grind deeper into the mud. I’m completely stuck. Now I’m really going to be in trouble. I lean my head against the steering wheel.

My shock gives way to self-pity and fear. Something warm drips down my face and onto my lips. It tastes metallic. Blood? No. Not metallic, salty. I lick the tears from my lips. Movement from beyond the now-fogged-up windows has my hair standing on end.

“Who’s there!” I cry out.

No one answers.

A shadow moves across the windshield, and I close my eyes in fear. When I reopen them, flashes of red and blue blur my vision. A bright light shines through my driver-side window, hurting my eyes. I put my hand up to shield from the glare.

“Kid, are you all right?” a voice says.

The light fades, and I put my hand down to see a police officer lowering her flashlight. I roll down my window.

“Looks like someone’s had quite the adventure. Are you hurt?”

My words stick in my throat like a thick spoonful of peanut butter.

“I’m going to ask you again. Are you hurt?”

Then the word vomit begins. “I’m okay now, but I was rushing home to beat curfew, and then the car was spinning, and I couldn’t breathe, and there was something…”

“Slow down.” She puts a hand on my shoulder. “Tell me what happened. You said there was something?”

I can’t tell her the truth. My face flushes with embarrassment. “There was…a deer,” I lie.

“A deer?”

“Yes, that’s it. I swerved to avoid a deer and now I’m stuck.” I can’t possibly tell her that I thought something was scratching from the inside.

“I see.” She seems dubious. “Are you sure you’re okay?”

“Yeah, I think I’m fine. Just shaken up.”

“Have you been drinking?”

“No, officer, I promise.”

“Well, I’m still going to need you to blow into this.”

She holds out a small metal box with a plastic tube on top. I do as she asks.

“Okay, good. Now I’ll need your license and registration.”

“Am I in trouble?” I hand her what she asks for.

“Just sit tight. I’ll be right back.”

She strides over to her cruiser. She’s gone so long; I can’t begin to imagine what she’s doing back there. I chew the corner of my thumbnail. She must be writing a ticket. Or worse, preparing to take me to jail! My brain won’t stop catastrophizing.

“You good?” Reappearing at my window, she hands me my license and registration but doesn’t wait for my answer. “I called for a tow truck to pull you back onto the road; it should be here soon. I would also like to call your parents. You seem shaken, and I don’t want you back on the road alone once we get you out of this ditch.”

Oh my God, why is this happening to me? I begin to cry, and she pats my shoulder.

“Hey, come on, stop that. Everything is fine. This could be a lot worse. You know that, right?”

I nod and rub the tears from my cheeks.

“Do you have a phone?”

I nod again.

“Please dial a parent or guardian and I’ll talk to them so you don’t have to.”

I pull my phone from my pocket, tap my contacts, and hand her the phone. “It’s my mom.”

She takes the phone and steps away out of earshot. I watch her pace back and forth talking on my phone in the rain that has slowed to a soft mist. I don’t even want to think about Mom’s reaction to getting a phone call from a police officer. I shiver as she walks back to me.

“Your mom is on her way. She’ll be here shortly. So, what do you kids like to talk about these days? Here, I have one for you. I have two dogs named Taylor and Swift. Funny story…”

This is going to be a long wait.

Purchase

NineStar Press | Books2Read

Meet the Author

Steven Gellman is an award-winning songwriter turned author whose stories hum with the same heart and honesty found in his music. Inspired by the books of Judy Blume that once kept him company through his own adolescence, Steven now writes coming-of-age fiction that gives voice to LGBTQ+ teens finding their way in an ever-changing world.

When not writing novels or performing music, Steven can be found in a comfy chair with a book in one hand and a cup of tea in the other. Steven lives in Maryland’s Piedmont region with his husband and a houseful of rescued companion animals.

Somewhere in Nowhere is his first novel.

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Apologies for the Interruption

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I’m afraid I was offline for about two weeks as I dealt with being sick, ran around taking care of a sick husband and kids, then once I was all germ free I traveled to a few book signings, visited with my mother (who isn’t in the best of health), then paid a visit to my aunt and cousins. Made it home to utter chaos (I’ve decided they really can’t survive without me), and I’m now getting things back on track!

So stay tuned for more book posts heading your way this month!

TEASER: The Snob by Megan Slayer

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Dark Romance, Age Gap

Date Published: April 3, 2026

Carley Mathers isn’t just the “party girl” daughter of
a congressman. She’s more. But these days, in a world of fake friends,
she’s determined to keep only true ones close. Because she puts them at
arm’s length, her classmates at college refer to her as “The
Snob.” But she comes from wealth and means — she shouldn’t be
able to mix with her bodyguard, right?

Dacre Jennings has been given the job of protecting Carley while she’s
off at college. The same classmates who make light of her silence also make
fun of him, too. He doesn’t care that they think she lives with the old
man. He’d rather she lived with him than alone. He sees the real woman,
and he’s been in love with her for as long as he’s worked for the
family.

With threats on her life, Dacre refuses to let Carley be used or abused.
He’ll put his life on the line for her, as long as he knows he’s
got her heart as well.

EXCERPT

Carley Mathers closed her notebook and put her pen back in the front pocket of
her backpack. She wasn’t a fan of taking notes, but the only way
she’d keep the dates for all the paintings straight was to write them
down.

“Going home to Grandpa?” Selena, one of the girls Carley thought
she might become friends with, asked. “Hang around people your own age.
Do some gambling. Party or something else that’s normal?”

“Would it kill you to go to the frat party?” Missy snapped.
“You like to drink. Guys like you. Might get us some action and we could
win some money, since you’ve got tons. You can spare some. Any of that
ring a bell?”

Carley rolled her eyes and zipped her backpack. She’d had enough of
those vices. It was time to grow up and settle down — or at least take her
education seriously. Growing up the daughter of a politician and influencer
was bad enough, but she’d exploited her position for years.

She grabbed her backpack and turned on her heel, ignoring the women. She
hadn’t come to the University of Nevada to be sucked into a gambling
situation. She’d wanted to further her education.

“God, she’s such a fucking snob,” Missy said.
“Won’t talk to anyone.”

“That old man is her boyfriend,” Selena said. “Probably
won’t let her go out. Has to keep her on a leash.”

If they only knew… Carley left the lecture hall and met Dacre in the
lobby. “Hiya, Grandpa.”

“Grandpa?” Dacre left his post by the doorway and fell in step
with her. “That’s a new one.”

“Not all that new.”

“Who said it?”

She stopped near the entrance doors to the art building and nodded over her
shoulder. “The two brunettes over there. They wanted me to go to a frat
party and make a damn fool of myself. I’ve had it with those
days.”

He held the door for her as she stepped into the early October sunshine.
“It’s warmer than I thought it would be.”

“I don’t mind. I like the warmth.” She elbowed him as they
walked together. “They said I’m a snob.”

“You are.”

She jabbed him again. “Take that back.”

“Sorry, but no.” He kept walking. “You don’t talk to
anyone, don’t mix with your peers, and keep to yourself.”

“That doesn’t make me a snob.”

“No,” he said. “But you come to class wearing expensive
stuff and not talking much. It allows people to make up their own stories
about you. They know what you’ve done and expect you’ll keep doing
it.”

She sighed. She’d been such a bad girl in her younger days. Younger
days… who was she kidding? She was only nineteen. But in her short
years, she’d drunk most everyone under the table. She’d partied
more than anyone her age should’ve been doing and tried too many things
that should’ve been forbidden for someone underage. Being the child of
wealth meant no one kept her in line — certainly not her parents. As far as
she was concerned, her parents used her bad behavior to further their own
causes.

“I’m sorry,” he said. “I didn’t mean to touch a
nerve.”

“It’s okay.” She shrugged. “It’s not like I can
hide my past. I can’t hide my name, either. Everyone thinks they know
who I am, but no one takes the time to get to know the real me.”

“You don’t exactly open yourself up to it.” He joined her at
the truck. “You’re a wonderful person and cute as a button, but no
one sees it. All they see is you keeping tight-lipped and away from
everyone.”

“Wouldn’t you?” She fell onto the passenger seat. She waited
for him to do a quick search of the vehicle before he joined her in the cab.
“All clear?”

“Clear.” He closed the driver’s side door. “I
don’t blame you for being guarded. I told you, it’s perfectly
fine. You’ve had a lot of attention, and I get why you don’t want
it.”

She clicked her belt into place. “But?”

“But you’re not going to escape it. Unless you change your name or
completely change your face, you’re going to have to put up with the
attention.” He put the truck into gear. “The girls said
you’re a snob?”

“And wanted me to go to a party to act the fool and get them
guys.” She arranged her backpack between her feet, then withdrew her
phone. The device buzzed, drawing her attention. “Sorry. I won’t
be your circus animal.”

“I’d like to think that’s not the case, but I’m sure
it is.” He drove across the student lot. “It doesn’t help
that I’m following you around and trying to keep you safe. They see me
around and think I’m some kind of old pervert.”

“My grandfather.” She swiped through the screens to her texts.
“You don’t look that old.”

“Grandfather?” he asked. “I’m only twenty years older
than you. Yes, I could be your father, but grandfather? I’m hurt.”

“You don’t look thirty-nine.”

“Forty, but who’s counting?”

“When did you turn forty?” She put her phone down and stared at
him. “Why didn’t I know when you had your birthday?”
She’d been oblivious for years, but this was inexcusable.

“Two months ago.” He shrugged and flexed his hands on the wheel.
“It’s okay. I try not to remember it.”

“That’s not right. We should’ve had a party.”

“You were moving into school. I had better things to do and you
didn’t need to be concerned with me.” He kept driving through
campus to the condominiums.

“I don’t care. I would’ve liked to have known so we
could’ve had a party, even if it was just you and me.” She
would’ve done something nice for him and even bought a present.

“Your father told me to keep it quiet.”

“He’s a jackass.” She wasn’t the biggest fan of her
famous father. “I hate that he said that.”

“It’s okay.”

“Stop saying that.” She picked her phone up again. “This
stupid thing won’t stop buzzing. I don’t have anything due or
reminders set.” She’d been careful to note when she had to turn in
projects and if she had tests so she didn’t blow her grade point
average. She refused to keep riding her parents’ coattails.

“What’s up?” He parked in the garage of the condo they
shared. “Another test?”

“Nope.” She scrolled through the message, then swiped to her email
where she read the rest of the information. “Fucking hell.”

“Watch your mouth.” He put the garage door down and took the key
from the ignition. “What’s wrong?”

She sighed and scrolled through the mandate again. “It would appear my
father is being considered for a role in the president’s cabinet and he
— my father — has decided to have a party. He’s dictating I show up at
said party and that I wear something slinky, he says, so I can attract a
husband. The president’s son will be there, as well as the son of a
diplomat and some dipshit who has an artificial intelligence startup. Why is
he throwing me at these men? What if I don’t like them?”

“You don’t.”

“Duh.” She turned her phone over on her lap. “He’s
sending the private jet to come get me.”

“Don’t you have a test on Monday?”

“I do. Art history.” She folded her hands on her phone. “I
don’t want to go, but I can’t refuse him.”

“I know.” He opened the driver’s side door. “But it
would’ve been nice if he’d have told me.” He rounded the
hood to her side of the truck.

“You didn’t know?”

“Nope.” He slid his phone from his back pocket. “Not a
word.”

“You’re coming with me.” She insisted on it.
“I’m not going if you don’t.”

“I’m not leaving you to those wolves.” He opened her door
for her. “Sweets, I’m stuck to you like glue.”

“You’re good glue.” She grasped his hand and squeezed his
fingers. She’d had a crush on him for years but kept that to herself. He
didn’t see her as a desirable woman. She was “cute as a
button.” What young woman wanted to hear that? It was a kiss of death.
Like telling her she was one of the guys. She allowed him to help her from the
truck, then stumbled forward into his arms.

“Hi.” He crooked his brow. “You okay?”

She’d always felt a tingle when he touched her. Now, that tingle had
turned into full electrical jolts. Her pussy throbbed and she longed to kiss
him. He didn’t look forty. Hell, he barely looked thirty. What he did
look like was sexy enough that she wanted to wrap herself around him. He was
just her type — older, tall, slightly graying at the temples, a weathered
look around his eyes and just the right amount of stubble on his cheeks and
chin to abrade her skin. Plus, he had killer blue eyes.

“Carley?” He tipped his head. He’d started wearing a
baseball cap and zipped hoodie to blend in more with the college students.
“You’re staring at me.”

“What’s not to stare at?” She stayed in his arms and sighed.
“You’re…” She almost said dreamy, but that
wasn’t right. He was dreamy, but he was more than that. With him, she
felt safe. Respected. Heard.

“Not me,” he said. “I’m not supposed to be touching
you.”

“Do you want to?” She stood and righted herself, trying to look
less flustered. “Sorry. I should behave.” She grabbed her backpack
before hurrying into the condo. She’d made a fool of herself and hated
that she’d allowed herself to be vulnerable, even if only for a second.

“Carley.” He hurried after her. “Wait.”

 

About the Author

Megan Slayer, aka Wendi Zwaduk, is a multi-published, award-winning author of
more than one-hundred short stories and novels. She’s been writing since
2008 and published since 2009. Her stories range from the contemporary and
paranormal to LGBTQ and white hot themes. No matter what the length, her works
are always hot, but with a lot of heart. She enjoys giving her characters a
second chance at love, no matter what the form. She’s been nominated at
the LRC for Best Author, Best Contemporary, Best Ménage, Best BDSM and
Best Anthology. Her books have made it to the bestseller lists on various
e-tailer sites.

When she’s not writing, Megan spends time with her husband and son as
well as three dogs and three cats. She enjoys art, music and racing, but
football is her sport of choice. She’s an active member of the Friends
of the Keystone-LaGrange Public library.

Author on Twitter

Author on Instagram

 

Publisher on Facebook, Instagram, Twitter, and TikTok: @changelingpress

Save 15% off any order at ChangelingPress.com with code RABT15

 

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BOOK BLITZ & GIVEAWAY: Trial by Town by Sharon Fernicola

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Trial by Town
Sharon Fernicola
Publication date: March 31st 2026
Genres: Adult, Mystery

A gripping small town murder mystery

In the quiet coastal town of Keansbury, reputation is everything.

When eighteen-year-old Peter Keans—the heir to the town’s most powerful family—is found murdered, shock quickly turns to certainty. A young woman is arrested, and for all residents the case appears simple.

Justice, they believe, will be swift.

Attorney Katie Russo isn’t so sure.

Invited to review what seems like an open-and-shut prosecution, Katie begins to notice small inconsistencies buried beneath the surface of the investigation. As she looks deeper, she discovers a community bound by loyalty, economic dependence, and an unspoken understanding that some truths are better left alone.

With the trial approaching and tensions mounting, long-held assumptions begin to fracture. In a place where reputation defines identity and silence protects power, the search for truth threatens far more than a single verdict.

TRIAL BY TOWN is a character-driven small town murder mystery about justice, moral ambiguity, and the quiet pressure of a town determined to protect its own.

Perfect for readers who enjoy small town suspense, courtroom drama, and mysteries where the truth hides behind reputation and power.

For fans of Defending Jacob and Anatomy of a Scandal comes a gripping small town murder mystery where reputation, power, and truth collide.

Goodreads / Amazon

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EXCERPT:

“Mr. VanAnt, as you may know, the Professor asked me to speak with Miss O’Neill. I did so only to be of help.” She made certain her tone continued calm and reassuring, not wanting to give the misimpression that she was speaking as a defense attorney. “Miss O’Neill is unwavering in her claim of innocence.”

He was quick to respond, the red deepening in color. “I’m not surprised by anything she says. She’s always been a strange girl. Her uncle was strange. I guess it was just in the genes. However, that’s not an excuse. Mrs. Russo, as far as myself and this community are concerned, she killed him. Whether by accident or intentional, she killed him. The sooner she’s removed from here, the better. We have enough to deal with without her presence being a constant painful reminder.”

He tried to take another sip of coffee, but his shaking hand made him unsteady. A small amount poured onto the table. Katie grabbed a few napkins to blot up the puddle. She worried that she may have pushed him too far, but as concerned as she felt for him, she was compelled to continue the discussion.

“I can only imagine the pressure you’ve been under. The Professor mentioned that Mr. Keans Sr. has had virtually no involvement with the business since his son’s death.”

He paused a moment, then looked directly at Katie. “One does what one needs to do to survive. I have a responsibility to our customers, our workers, our community, and our families. A lot of people have been affected by this tragedy, and I’ll do everything and anything it takes to see that this business continues.”

Katie felt a chill up her spine. His words almost sounded like a threat. Perhaps he wasn’t quite the gentle giant she had thought. It was clear that the conversation had gone as far as it was going to go. “I’m certain you have everyone’s support and appreciation.”

Katie glanced at her watch and noted the lateness of the hour. “I’ve taken up enough of your time.” She rose and extended her hand. “This was an unexpected pleasure meeting you, and I very much enjoyed the tour.”

“Likewise.” He held the chair for her, the way a gentleman did in an old black-and-white film, and then escorted her to the elevator. “I hope you don’t mind if I say goodbye here. I have a few hours of paperwork ahead of me and I’d better get started.”

“Not at all. Again, thank you.”

He stood there looking at her until the doors closed. The chill she got earlier seemed to return. She tried to explain away her discomfort. After all, he had a right to feel such anger, and it wasn’t directed toward her. More chills as she walked briskly to the car, only this time, they were caused by the late afternoon breeze off the water. She slid into the seat and turned on the engine and the heater and waited until she was sufficiently warmed. As she drove out the gate, she thought about his words. Other than Jennifer, everyone she’d spoken to since arriving were aligned in their sentiment, although none expressed it so succinctly as Mr. VanAnt. “The sooner she’s removed from here, the better.” Katie rounded the bend, happy to be heading toward the comfort of the Professor’s home.

As he lost sight of her car, VanAnt drew the blinds and returned to his paperwork.

Author Bio:

Sharon Fernicola is a writer drawn to layered mysteries, emotional realism, and characters who challenge assumptions. Her fascination with crime and justice began early, watching Perry Mason with her father and falling in love with the genre’s blend of intellect and drama. Her debut novel, Trial by Town, explores the fragile line between perception and truth in a small town desperate to preserve its legacy.

In her 70s, Sharon completed three triathlons, obtained dual Italian–American citizenship, and wrote her first book—living proof that bold dreams don’t come with an expiration date. She brings a poetic sensibility to her storytelling, blending suspense with empathy and nuance. When she’s not writing, she’s mapping out her next adventure or putting in time at the gym, always chasing the next challenge with curiosity and grit.

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Trial by Town Blitz

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BOOK BLITZ: The Guilt of Others by Sara Burrell

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Mystery

Date Published: February 25, 2026

Publisher: Seacoast Press

The Guilt of Others opens with the sound of a gunshot in an overcrowded
office. But who was shot—and who pulled the trigger—remains a
mystery. Told through the intertwined perspectives of multiple characters,
each harboring secrets and scars from past and present, the story slowly
unravels the emotional and psychological web of trauma, secrets, and buried
motives binding them together. With nine suspects, three possible weapons, and
a detective whose instincts are starting to betray her, the search for the
truth unearths secrets no one was prepared to face.

 

About the Author

 

 Sara Burrell grew up in Mableton, Georgia. She is a graduate of Young Harris
College and The University of Georgia. Sara is in her twentieth year of
teaching, and is currently a teacher at an elementary school in Georgia where
she is the gifted program coordinator for third, fourth, and fifth grade
students. Her husband of 18 years, 2 children, 2 hound dogs, and 2 cats
provide plenty of adventure and excitement to her already-busy days. Through
all that, she also writes books. The Guilt of Others is her second novel. Her
first, Newsworthy, released in 2023, was praised for its suspenseful plot and
surprising twists.

Contact Links

Website

Instagram

Facebook

Purchase Links

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RABT Book Tours & PR