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BOOK BLITZ: By Dawn – The 13th House by Martha Wickham

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Horror/paranormal

Date Published: 11-22-2025

Nine Tales. Nine Secrets. All Before Dawn.

In the shadow of Bloomstone
Manor, a dilapidated estate hauntingly known as “Lily Lane”, the veil between
the living and the dead is impossibly thin. This collection of nine paranormal
mystery stories explores inheritances, dark family legacies, and spectral
demands, all bound by the Manor’s enduring, dark influence.

This
Halloween, meet the three students who dare to knock on the door of “The 13th
House”—a black, unnumbered prison that holds the sinister secrets of the
past. Their trick-or-treating leads them to a terrifying collection of
artifacts: a bent spoon, a rusted key, and a doll’s eye. Every artifact is a
clue left by a child who vanished, whispering pleas for help from beyond the
grave. The teens must solve the mystery and free the spirits before the
night’s magic fades, or they might become the next secret the old house
keeps.

Every house has a debt. Every ghost has a tether. Uncover the
restless spirits and broken promises that demand attention and resolution.
When the clock strikes dawn, the secrets settle back into the dust and the
lilies—and it may be too late.


Excerpt

Night of the Spirits 

 

Anthony pushed through the thick brush that had swallowed the old path. His
friends told him the house was hidden somewhere ahead, rumored to be haunted.
When he finally saw it, the place looked half-demolished, with climbing walls
that had paint curling and peeling. Yet every window was perfectly intact.

He
opened the front door. Stale, cold air rushed out, thick with dust. His
footsteps echoed through the empty living room.As he moved down the hallway,
the front door suddenly slammed. He spun around and ran back, and in that
moment, he was sure he heard a whisper: Sam.The door wouldn’t budge. He
was trapped. He tried the windows too none of them opened.

Again, the
whisper came, louder this time. Sam.

“Who’s Sam? I’m not
Sam!” he shouted.

A hiss answered him, followed by footsteps
upstairs. Heart pounding, he raced up the stairs. At the top, he stopped and
listened. The footsteps were clear, moving steadily into an empty room. He
followed them.

Moonlight spilt across the floor through a bare window.
The invisible footsteps crossed the room and came to a stop at the closet.
Inside, there was only a small box containing a single book. The spirits
wanted him to find it; maybe it would explain everything.

He lifted the
book. It was an old, battered ledger. Inside, a name was written: Samuel. He
began to read.I made a promise to the spirits trapped here. One of them is
buried downstairs. I swore I would help free them with my rituals. I study the
occult, and they own a golden statue worth a fortune. It must be used in the
ritual. If I hide it now, I can return for it later. No one alive will see me
take it.

Anthony reached deeper into the box and pulled out a loose page,
a torn sheet from another book. It carried a chant and the instructions for a
ritual to free spirits.A freezing gust swept through the room. Then a booming
voice declared:“Complete the ritual by dawn, or be trapped here
forever!”

“What am I supposed to do?” he asked the
spirit.

Once again, he heard footsteps descending the stairs and followed
them. Near the kitchen, the basement door creaked open. He cautiously stepped
down the dark basement steps and saw the cloud-like spirit hovering over a
crypt in the floor, where it looked like a ritual had been started over
someone’s grave. Candles and matches were scattered nearby.

About the Author

 

Martha Wickham has a knack for finding the
ghosts hidden in the dust. A lifelong student of the arcane and the artistic,
Martha has an Associate’s Degree and professional writing credentials, but she
honed her skills in the thrilling shadows of screenwriting and horror. Martha
lives for the secrets that only come out “By Dawn”. You can discover more of
her work, including her newest audiobooks, at your favorite retailer.

Contact Link

Purchase Links

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TEASER: Ace by Harley Wylde

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(Savage Raptors MC)

 

Motorcycle Club Romance, Age Gap, Suspense

Date Published: January 9, 2026

He’s the calm before the storm. She’s the chaos that makes
him feel alive.

 

Marci: Running only works for so long when the devil hunting me wears a badge.
I’ve spent a year hiding behind fake names and cheap motel rooms,
praying I could disappear. Bryson Corners was supposed to be a quiet stop
before I ran again.

Then I walk into The Broken Spoke and meet Ace. He looks at me and I feel
safe… and I believe him. I shouldn’t. Attachment gets people
killed. But every time he touches me, every time he stands between me and the
world, I want to stay instead of run.

Ace: I’ve learned the hard way that peace never lasts. Managing the bar
keeps me steady — until Marci walks in, scared and stubborn and pretending
she doesn’t need anyone. She’s mine before I can stop it.

She’s running from something brutal, and whoever wants her will have to
go through me — and through the Savage Raptors MC. I’ve fought for my
brothers, my patch, my life… but for her?

I’ll burn the world down.

 


An emotional age-gap MC romance full of danger, loyalty, and the kind of love
that takes root and refuses to let go.

 

EXCERPT

Marci

The Honda’s engine ticked while heat faded, each sharp sound far too
loud in the afternoon quiet. I sat behind the wheel, hands locked around the
steering wheel, knuckles white, and counted my breaths the way I’d
trained myself to do whenever panic climbed my throat. One. Two. Three. The
parking lot stretched empty before me except for a single pickup truck near
the building’s entrance, and I’d already checked every mirror
twice to make sure no one had followed me here.

The Broken Spoke hunched low under the Oklahoma sky, weathered boards faded
from sun and storms, neon sign quiet during daylight hours. The whole place
looked tired and rough around the edges, the kind of bar where broken people
carried wounds behind their eyes, where forgetting felt easier than healing.

I peeled my fingers from the steering wheel, joints stiff from the grip.
Shaking returned, small at first, then stronger once my focus locked on the
tremor. Two years of this — two years since I’d walked away from
everything I knew, carrying only a backpack and clothes from a life better
left behind. I learned to hide the tremor. Learned to keep my hands busy, to
move like I belonged anywhere, even on days when my balance barely held.

A Help Wanted sign waited in the window, same place I saw yesterday during a
slow drive through town. I had bartended, waitressed, cleaned houses, taken
any job paying cash, asking no questions. Those jobs kept me fed and moving
forward. My ribs remembered hunger. My heart remembered the way loss hollowed
me out.

I drew a breath rough enough to scrape my throat and reached for the door
handle. One step at a time. Survive first. Trust later.

I grabbed my purse from the passenger seat and checked my reflection in the
rearview mirror. Blonde hair pulled back in a ponytail, no makeup except a
touch of lip gloss I’d worried off an hour ago. I looked tired. I looked
like someone who’d been running for too long. But I also looked
ordinary, forgettable, and the point settled heavy in my chest.

The door handle felt slick under my palm as I pushed the door open. Heat
washed over me in an instant, thick afternoon warmth turning every breath into
work. I locked the car — muscle memory by now, even though nothing inside
held any value — and started across the parking lot.

Each step carried a quiet prayer for a place where I could disappear, earn
enough to survive, and not draw attention. Ordinary helped. Forgettable kept
doors from slamming in my face. I clung to both, even when my heart begged for
something more.

Gravel crunched under my sneakers. I kept my gaze moving, scanning the tree
line beyond the building, the road I’d just come from, the shadows under
the eaves where someone could wait unseen. Old habits. Survival instincts kept
me alive this long. I couldn’t let go of those instincts, no matter how
hard I tried to believe safety waited here for me.

The hinges announced my entrance in a drawn-out creak, a sharp warning
dragging tension through my shoulders. Inside, the bar sat dim and cool, the
smell of old beer and wood polish settling over me like a memory I
didn’t know I needed. My eyes took a moment to adjust, shapes forming
slowly from the gloom. Tables and chairs. A long bar, bottles lined up behind
the counter. A jukebox quiet in the corner, waiting for someone brave enough
to wake the music.

A small part of me wanted to collapse into the comfort promised by that
familiar scene. A larger part stayed on guard, ready for danger around every
shadow. Hope and fear fought under my skin, and neither side won.

And a man.

He straightened from a crouch beside a stack of crates, turning toward me in
an unhurried movement conveying complete awareness of his surroundings. Tall
— easily over six feet. Broad through the shoulders from real labor, not
hours in a gym. Dark hair needing a cut, hazel eyes finding mine and holding
my gaze through an intensity strong enough to steal a breath from my lungs.

“We’re closed.” His voice was deep, measured. It
didn’t need to be raised to command attention.

“I saw the sign. The Help Wanted sign. I was hoping to talk to someone
about the position.”

He studied me for a long moment, and I forced myself not to fidget under his
gaze. I’d gotten good at standing still, at appearing calm even when my
pulse was hammering. He set down the clipboard he’d been holding and
walked closer, his movements economical, controlled.

“What’s your name?” he asked.

“Marci. Marci Robbins.”

“I’m Ace. I manage this place.” He leaned against the bar,
arms crossing over his chest. “You have experience?”

“Yes.” I’d practiced this part, rehearsed what I’d
say. “I’ve bartended before. A few different places over the
years. I’m good with customers, I show up on time, and I’m a hard
worker.”

“Where was your last job?”

The question I’d been waiting for. “A place in San Antonio. Small
bar, nothing fancy. It closed down a few months back, and I’ve been
moving around since then, picking up work where I can find it.”

His gaze hadn’t left my face. He was looking at me the way people looked
when they were trying to see past the surface, searching for whatever you were
hiding. I had seen the same look before — from cops pulling me over for a
busted taillight, from landlords asking for references I could never provide,
from strangers sensing something off and failing to name the source.

“You got any references?” he asked.

“No.” I met his gaze directly. “The owner of my last place
died, and I lost touch with the other employees after it closed. But I can
prove I know what I’m doing if you give me a chance.”

“Why The Broken Spoke?”

“I need work.” Simple. Honest. “I’m new to the area
and this was the first place I saw hiring. I’m not picky about where I
work as long as it’s steady.”

He nodded slowly, leaving me unsure whether anything positive would come from
the moment. My hands wanted to shake again, so I shoved them into my pockets.
The bar felt too quiet around us, just the hum of coolers and the distant
sound of traffic from the road. I’d already mapped the exits — front
door, back door through what I assumed was the kitchen, emergency exit near
the restrooms. Automatic assessment, the kind I did everywhere now.

“Family in the area?”

“No.” The word landed sharper than I wanted. I tried to soften the
moment through a shrug. “Just me.”

Something shifted in his expression, though I couldn’t read the meaning.
He pushed off the bar and stepped behind the counter, reaching for a glass. He
filled the glass from the tap and set the water in front of me.

“Drink,” he said.

I hadn’t realized how thirsty I was until the glass was in my hand. I
drank half before I could stop myself, the cool water cutting through the
dryness in my throat. When I lifted my gaze, he still watched me, and a new
intensity in his eyes replaced whatever I’d seen before. Not quite
sympathy. Not quite suspicion. Something in between.

“The work’s hard. Long hours, late nights. We get a rough crowd
sometimes — bikers, locals, people passing through. You have to be able to
handle yourself.”

“I can handle myself.”

“You sure about that?” The question wasn’t challenging,
exactly. More like he was genuinely asking, trying to gauge whether I
understood what I was signing up for.

“I’m sure.”

He studied me for another moment, then nodded. “All right. I’ll
give you a trial shift. Tonight. Be here by six. I’ll show you the ropes
and see how you do. If it works out, the job’s yours.”

 

About the Author

Harley Wylde is an accomplished author known for her captivating MC Romances.
With an unwavering commitment to sensual storytelling, Wylde immerses her
readers in an exciting world of fierce men and irresistible women. Her works
exude passion, danger, and gritty realism, while still managing to end on a
satisfying note each time.

When not crafting her tales, Wylde spends her time brainstorming new
plotlines, indulging in a hot cup of Starbucks, or delving into a good book.
She has a particular affinity for supernatural horror literature and movies.
Visit Wylde’s website to learn more about her works and upcoming events, and
don’t forget to sign up for her newsletter to receive exclusive discounts and
other exciting perks.

 

Author on Facebook, Instagram, & TikTok: @harleywylde

 

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

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

 

Pre-Order Today

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BOOK BLITZ: With These Hands by T.R. Motley

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Crime Thriller

Date Published: December 3, 2025

At the age of 13, Aurelia’s entire life changes when her parents
begin to align themselves with the Juarez Cartel, running drugs and
trafficking women through Rio Bravo, their small town off the Rio Grande
River. Determined to get away from this life, Aurelia collects years of
evidence on the cartel.

At the age of 17, she is forced to run when her parents arrange a marriage to
a cartel member. After working with the FBI to take down most of the cartel,
she is placed in a protection program. Unbeknownst to her, the Juarez Cartel
has rebuilt and is stronger now than before.

In a twist of fate, Aurelia is kidnapped, forced to marry Diego, son to the
leader of the cartel, and produce an heir. Diego, who becomes an unseen ally,
along with Aurelia begin to align themselves with individuals throughout
Mexico to take down the cartel. They will fight, blackmail, and kill to
protect those they love.

In an act of desperation, Diego makes the ultimate sacrifice and enlists the
help of Daniel Zimmerman, a U.S. FBI agent and Aurelia’s first love. On
the day of the raid, will everyone make it out of Mexico alive?

About the Author

T.R. Motley. I have lived in Oklahoma all of my life. For the last 28
years now, I have dedicated my life to taking care of my family and other
families as a nurse. I worked in the Pediatric ICU for 25 years taking care of
extremely sick children. There were highs, when I was able to place a child in
his parent’s arms after a being on life support to watch the smile on both of
their faced for a very long time. There were lows, when I placed a child in
their parent’s arms, which would be the last time they would ever hold them.

My love of books started as a teen when life was not the best, and I would
place myself in the characters shoes and get lost in the story. As an adult,
it was my escape from reality in a sometimes cruel world. Along the way, my
own stories began to swirl in my head. I always wanted to put those stories on
paper, but needing to be a responsible adult, took the safe route.

On my last week in the PICU, my fellow coworkers and I went on a float trip.
Several people asked if we had it to do over again, would we still have become
a nurse. Surprisingly, only two people said they would. When going around and
asking what everyone would have done instead, I said I would have become an
author. Silence ensued for a minute, before there was a chorus of, “Go for
it!” Two months later, I did a ton of research and started my first novel.
Seven months later, I had a completed piece of work. Months of beta reading
and changes along with and editor, helped round out what my book has become.

Now, twenty years later, I am pursuing that dream of storytelling.

Aurelia’s story is about overcoming any obstacle, even when being pushed down
from every angle for most of her life. It is about seeing some of the worst
circumstances in life, facing those head on and fighting back to make her life
better. It is about believing that just because you were born into a certain
life, you can fight for what you want and make your way out. It is about
finding love in the worst circumstances and having life ripped away once more.
It is about a woman fighting in a man’s world and excelling. It is about
finding friends in the misted of tragedy and realizing sometimes people will
fight for you just as hard.

We see the mark drug cartels not only leave on the U.S. and Mexico in general,
but in the lives of real people. We see how easy human trafficking and
bringing drugs in from Mexico can be. We learn that people are so greedy for
power and money, that they allow these things to happen. People that should
protect us. This is a powerful story of how Aurelia, who is immersed into this
world, not only fights for herself, but others who have been drug in along
with her. There are powerful characters that Aurelia meets along the way who
join forces to not only help her with this fight but become the family she
never had.

This is a romantic suspense novel, appropriate for ages 18+ (adult only).

Contact Links

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Amazon

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BOOK BLITZ & GIVEAWAY: Ceremony of Innocence by Stephen Asher

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Literary / Historical Fiction

Date Published: 12-02-2025

Publisher: Scrivener Quill

It is June 1924 when an inquisitive but skeptical Gemma Danforth
graduates from Wellesley College. Despite a loving family, an idyllic New
England girlhood, and family summers in the Hamptons, little had assuaged her
doubts Now, with college behind them, she and two classmates leave America
bound for post war France where they will be immersed in the pulsating culture
of European modernism. While in France, she reunites with her Paris based
parents, and, in Nice, amidst its creative ferment, she falls in love with
Rhys, a British aristocrat and ex-pat journalist. During this year spent along
the Cote d’Azur, encounters with Sara and Gerald Murphy, Somerset
Maugham, Zelda, Isadora Duncan and others, adds a depth and richness to the
ambience of le midi. And so begins the process of displacing her doubts.

She and Rhys return to American where their values collide with antithetical
and alien attitudes. It is these experiences that come to challenge long-held
beliefs and provide a vivid counterpoint to their recent immersion in the
Modernist aesthetic and world view.

Resolved to return to France, Gemma shares a final day in America with Gerald
Murphy at his ocean front Hampton estate. As this unhurried afternoon unfolds,
it becomes clear that Gemma’s skepticism and doubtfulness have been
replaced with a clear-sighted maturity and hardened resolve. The next morning,
aboard the Ile de France, Gemma and Rhys sail for France.

 

About the Author

Stephen Asher is a graduate of UCLA and was subsequently educated at the
University of Rochester School of Medicine, University of California San
Francisco, and St. Catherine’s College Oxford. His professional life was
spent as a neurologist, often walking the fine line separating the mind from
the brain, a vantage point which encouraged a perspective molded not only by
the scientific and the rational but also shaped by the aesthetics of the
senses. It is this unity of world view that fashions one of the novel’s
central themes.

Asher and his wife were drawn to Idaho’s arid vistas, glistening rivers,
and rugged skylines. As a travelling angler, he has pursued Atlantic salmon
throughout their natural range, has sought sea run brown trout in Patagonia,
and steelhead in his home waters in the Pacific Northwest. He and his wife
have cycled much of France, and, during quiet times at home, he enjoys music
and plays cello.

Previously, he has published essays, and short pieces in the British sporting
literature. He is a member of the F. Scott Fitzgerald Society, the Barbara Pym
Society, and is a proud supporter of PEN America. He lives in Idaho with his
wife, adult children, and his bird dogs.

 

Contact Links

Website

Facebook


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TEASER TUESDAY: The Dhampir by Angela Knight

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A Destined Mates Vampire Romance Novella


Dark Fantasy Romance

Date Published: January 2, 2026

Publisher: Changeling Press

An ancient vampire, Hunter can command any woman he wants — except the
one woman he needs. His mate.

Genevieve Drake is a Dhampir — half vampire, half mortal, born and bred to be
the perfect complement to her vampire mate, like those of her family for
sixteen generations. Instead, she chose to become a cop. Three months ago she
survived a vicious attack by a psychotic ex that left her with psychic scars
and a desperate need for a new line of work. Time to rethink her future.

Hunter is tall, dark and handsome — and very, very powerful. He’s also
been waiting for Genevieve. She was just eighteen when he had a vision that
they’d one day become lovers. He’s been biding his time ever
since. But Genevieve’s experiences have left her unable to trust any
man, even Hunter.


If he wants them to have a future, the vampire will have to find a way to
banish her ghosts…

Excerpt

Copyright ©2026 Angela Knight


The vampire’s bodyguard was sloppy when he searched Genevieve Drake. He
missed at least three places where she could have stashed weapons. Would have
stashed weapons, if she hadn’t been going to an interview for a job she
desperately needed. To add insult to injury, he smirked up at her when he
crouched at her feet to pat her down, hands lingering on her thighs and
calves.

Genevieve gave serious thought to kneeing him in the jaw.


Finally, after a last knowing leer, the guard ushered her into Hunter’s
sprawling office, then closed the heavy double doors and left them alone.


“Ms. Drake.” Tall, radiating a power that made her Dhampir senses
vibrate like harp strings, the vampire stepped around his big rosewood desk to
shake Genevieve’s hand, his grip careful and warm. His touch sent a flush of
magic radiating up her arm. Her mouth went dry, and she felt her nipples peak.
“It’s a pleasure.”


Her body’s intense response surprised her. She’d felt dead from the neck
down for months. “Please call me Genevieve, Mr. Hunter.” Not Genny. Never
Genny. Smiling up at him, she used all her years undercover to keep her
expression no more than pleasantly professional.


“It’s just Hunter,” the vampire said in a black velvet purr of a voice.
He gave her a slow, white smile, his eyes the sharp and startling blue of an
arctic wolf. His features were starkly masculine, with a long swoop of a nose
and a broad, square chin. His hair was thick and black, just long enough to
touch his collar.


He gestured her away from his desk toward two armchairs that sat facing
each other. Just beyond the chairs, a plate glass window ran the length of the
room. Sixty stories below, the glittering glory of Atlanta spread across the
night.


As Hunter ushered her to the chairs, Genevieve studied him. If anything,
the vampire was more impressive than she remembered. Easily six-foot-two, he
had a powerful build that made him look like a warrior even camouflaged in
black Armani. His tie was a splash of crimson against his white shirt, while
cufflinks of onyx and gold adorned his French cuffs.


“It’s good to see you again,” Hunter said as they sat. The chairs were
positioned so close, their knees almost touched. It was not exactly the
arrangement she’d have expected for a job interview — but then, this was not
a typical job interview. “You were what — fifteen? — when last I saw you.”


“Sixteen,” Genevieve corrected. And madly infatuated with you. But that
was something she had no intention of sharing. And anyway, it had been
fourteen years ago.


Before Gary. Before she’d been left bleeding in a dirty alley with the
last of her illusions in shreds.


Hunter probably knew about her painfully intense crush. Probably knew
about Gary, too, for that matter. As her father always said, you can’t hide
anything from a vampire, so don’t even try. “It was good of you to grant me
this interview.”


“Not at all. I need an assistant, and you have excellent
qualifications.” He watched her settle back into the chair’s soft wine red
leather. His gaze sharpened. “Something concerns you.”


Genevieve hesitated, caught between her desire not to offend and her
sense of duty. She needed the job, but her family had been Dhampir for sixteen
generations.


Duty won. “Your bodyguard was more interested in feeling me up than in
making sure I wasn’t armed. I could have knocked him cold at least twice. In
my opinion, he constitutes a security risk.”

Hunter lifted a cool black brow. “He’s a former Navy SEAL.”

“And a current idiot.”


“You are blunt, bordering on rude.” Hunter smiled, satisfaction in his
eyes. “And every bit as fearless as I would have expected of Tommy Drake’s
daughter.”

She relaxed back into her chair. “Well, that’s a relief.”


“That I took the criticism well?” His arctic eyes heated to burning blue
as he watched her cross her legs. Her knee inadvertently brushed his, and the
contact sent magic flaring up her thigh. Straight into her sex.


She tried to ignore the pulse of erotic heat that flared low in her
belly. “No, I’m relieved you ordered your man to play the fool to test my
honesty. I’d hate to think you’d hire someone that sloppy.”


The vampire laughed, a deep, masculine rumble, seductive and warm. “No,
I have not survived three hundred and forty years by surrounding myself with
sloppy bodyguards. And there’ve been times even careful ones…” Hunter
stopped and rolled his powerful shoulders as if shrugging off a painful
memory.


“Sometimes it doesn’t matter how careful or well-trained you are.”
Genevieve’s voice dropped to a whisper. “Especially if you’re betrayed.”


He studied her, going still as a predator. Seeing too much. “The scars
from betrayal go to the soul. And they never quite fade, do they?”


“Not so far.” Genevieve forced a smile and deliberately sought to turn
the conversation back to business. “What are you looking for in a personal
assistant?”

You, Hunter thought.

 

About the Author

New York Times best-selling author Angela Knight has written and published
more than sixty novels, novellas, and ebooks, including the Mageverse and
Merlin’s Legacy series. With a career spanning more than two decades,
Romantic Times Bookclub Magazine has awarded her their Career Achievement
award in Paranormal Romance, as well as two Reviewers’ Choice awards for
Best Erotic Romance and Best Werewolf Romance.

Angela is currently a writer, editor, and cover artist for Changeling Press
LLC. She also teaches online writing courses. Besides her fiction work,
Angela’s writing career includes a decade as an award-winning South
Carolina newspaper reporter. She lives in South Carolina with her husband,
Michael, a thirty-year police veteran and detective with a local police
department.

 

Author Links

Author’s Website

Author on Facebook

Author on Twitter

 

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

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

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TEASER: Spirit Bear Conspiracy by Anne Kane

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Brotherhood of the Wild 1

A Riptide MC Romance

MC Romance

Date Published: January 2, 2026

Publisher: Changeling Press

My mission: Save my woman, guard the secret of the rare spirit bear, and
take down the poachers.

Ryland — I was tailing a gang of poachers, certain they’d lead me
straight to their kingpin, when a stray arrow from a crossbow slammed into me.
Pain lanced through me and everything faded to black. In that blur of
unconsciousness, I could have sworn a pure white bear stood over me, calm as
can be. When I opened my eyes again, a woman — curvy and impossibly beautiful
— was watching me with the cutest look of mixed concern and distrust on her
face.

Kimberly — I thought I was alone on a tiny island off the coast of British
Columbia until an arrow from a crossbow barely missed skewering me. With my
dog Diego at my heels, I ran to hide in a maze of caves, my heart pounding.
Crouched down in the dark, I listened in terror as voices and footsteps
floated to me from outside. I prayed the shooters wouldn’t find the
spirit bear that inhabited this place. When I finally crept back out into the
daylight, I found I wasn’t the only target — but the unconscious man
lying in a pool of his own blood wasn’t talking. Victim or one of them?


Excerpt
Copyright ©2026 Anne Kane

Ryland

A sudden squawk of alarm sounded directly in front of me. The quiet morning
exploded into sound as a covey of startled pheasants took flight.

Damn! I was hiding in the thick brush off the side of the path, out of sight
of my quarry, but right behind the fucking birds. One of the poachers turned,
aiming a crossbow straight at the panicked birds. Straight at me.

Double damn.

I ducked low to the ground, hoping to avoid detection. My handgun was nestled
in its shoulder holster, and a couple of my favorite throwing knives were
strapped to my thighs but there were six poachers and one of me. Not sure why
they were using crossbows instead of firearms. Maybe they wanted to avoid
making any noise that might bring attention to their presence, but I
couldn’t imagine who they thought might hear them on this deserted piece
of dirt off the coast of British Columbia.

Even without guns, though, the odds were against me. I braced myself as the
arrow arced its way toward me.

Moving to avoid the projectile wasn’t an option. I couldn’t afford
to let the poachers detect my presence. My mission depended on them not
knowing they’d been made.

The shooter had already turned back to catch up with the rest of the group
when the sharp tip of the projectile sliced through the meaty outer part of my
upper arm. I gritted my teeth as blood spurted from the wound.

Son of a bitch, that hurt.

Still, it was a lucky shot — a flesh wound, even if a painful one. I’d
had worse. Just one foot to the left and it would have gone straight through
my heart. A broadhead arrow could prove fatal under the right circumstances.

The flapping of the pheasants’ wings made so much racket that it drowned
out any noise I made as I lowered myself to the ground, grimacing at the red
stain spreading on my sleeve. I needed to staunch the bleeding. Like it or
not, the chase was over for today.

I glanced down at my watch. I was cutting it close. I needed to get back to my
boat and report in. If William didn’t hear from me on schedule,
he’d send the troops storming in to find me and that would blow any
chance we had of learning what these guys were up to.

I leaned back against a moss-covered tree stump in the center of the bushes.
The sound of the poachers joking amongst themselves as they retreated let me
know my presence hadn’t been detected.

Well, at least that was a positive.

I’d been tailing these jerks for almost a week now, ever since an
anonymous tip-off to the Operations Center had clued William in on their
activity in this neck of the woods. When they’d landed on this island
though, I was baffled. What could there possibly be here that would interest
an international ring of poachers? If they’d been farther north or on
the mainland, I would have assumed they were going after bears for their
saleable parts, a lucrative business these days. Bear gall was in high demand
in the traditional Chinese medicine markets for its supposed healing
properties. Bears were territorial creatures, though. On an island this small,
the chances of finding more than one were slim, assuming you even found one.
Hardly worth the effort of getting here.

Wincing, I shifted my weight slightly to take the pressure off my injured arm.
I didn’t dare leave my hiding spot, not yet. I needed to be sure the
poachers didn’t circle back. They were a nasty bunch, not above killing
someone if they thought they could get away with it.

I closed my eyes, gritting my teeth against the pain lancing through my arm.
The slow drip of water hitting the rocks beside me had a mesmerizing effect.
Or was it the blood from the wound?

I pivoted my head to look at my injured arm. Despite the copious amounts of
blood staining my shirt and the ground beneath me, the wound didn’t
appear serious. The flow of the blood would have cleaned out any foreign
debris, and the arrow had missed hitting the artery.

Yup, I’d definitely had worse.

Using my good arm, I pulled a knife out of the sheath strapped to my thigh and
sliced a large swath of fabric from the front of my shirt to use as a
makeshift bandage. A tight compress would staunch the bleeding long enough for
me to make my way back to the mainland and get it taken care of properly.

I struggled to remove my belt, the worn leather creaking and groaning in
protest as I pulled it loose.

It should not have taken that much effort. Maybe I’d lost more blood
than I thought. Didn’t matter. I wasn’t dying, and the mission
took precedence over a little discomfort.

The reason we had decided to investigate this group was the anomalies. This
was one loaded group of badass poachers. Normally poachers were a solitary
bunch, untrusting and cynical in the extreme. Finding two or three teamed
together to go after larger prey wasn’t uncommon but teaming up like
these guys were doing was totally out of character.

I’d been following them since they’d arrived from Hong Kong and
met up with a local guide of questionable repute. It was evident that the
meeting had been scheduled ahead of time. Prior to heading north, the five
stayed at the Vancouver Airport Hotel for the night. That meant they had money
behind them. They’d rented a Jeep and driven to their staging area,
where they parked the Jeep in a forestry site lot on the coast. A fully
stocked boat, complete with captain, was waiting for them, and they motored
straight to this little island.

That was a considerable amount of effort just to reach this deserted piece of
land in the Pacific Ocean. If not for the bug I’d managed to plant on
one of the poachers at the airport, I would have lost contact with them. It
was impossible to track a boat on the open ocean without visual sightings, so
stealth required electronic solutions.

It would take someone with local knowledge to even find the island. It
certainly didn’t show on international maps, and as far as I knew it
wasn’t big enough to have a formal name, just a number on the navigation
grid. That still didn’t explain what the attraction was, though. Given
the people involved, there had to be some tie-in to the illegal poaching
running rampant in this part of Canada. I just needed to figure out what it
was.

I’d heard rumors one of the protected spirit bears inhabiting one of the
small islands in this area. I knew they were extremely rare, but no one had
been able to verify the story, and I put it down to a myth the locals used to
lure tourists to the area. A quick Google search confirmed that the small
population of spirit bears in this part of the world lived farther north,
around Haida Gwaii.

Surely a group of international thieves would know better than to get taken in
by such a blatant tourist-trapping lie? The parts from such a creature would
be worth a devil’s ransom, but it would be difficult to harvest salable
items from a myth. More likely, they were after something else, something
valuable. But what?

I folded the soft strip of flannel from my shirt and placed it over the wound
on my arm. The bleeding had slowed, a good sign. Gritting my teeth, I wrapped
the belt around the makeshift bandage and pulled it tight.

A searing bolt of pain sliced through the raw wound, and colored dots danced
before my eyes. I concentrated on my breathing as I waited for the throbbing
to subside.

Looked like the wound was worse than I’d thought.

I’d left my medi-kit on the boat, but I’d seen a birch tree a few
lengths back. My grandfather had been a bit of a survivalist and had shown me
how to make a traditional wound dressing from birch bark. That would serve to
dull the pain until I retrieved the medi-kit and the heavy-duty painkillers in
it. I’d outgrown that macho, I-can-take-the-pain stage a long time ago.

I got to my feet, using the massive tree stump to steady myself. For a moment,
the world swam in front of my eyes. Great, just what I needed.

I closed them, waiting for the forest to stop moving. When it did, I pushed
off from the stump, trekking slowly in the direction of the beachhead where
I’d left my boat.

One foot in front of the other. Easy as that. I could do this.

My arm throbbed, and I glanced down. No fresh blood. Good.

I stopped by the birch tree, dropping to one knee. Using a sharp-bladed
hunting knife to slice off a few lengths of bark, I shredded it into fibers
and formed them into a compress. Sucking in a deep breath, I gently placed the
birch bark poultice over the raw flesh and reapplied the dressing, securing it
with the belt.

Resting for a bit to let the pain ease up, I rose to my feet and continued in
the direction of the boat.

Seconds later, I stumbled over a surface root, thudding heavily to my knees.
The loss of blood must have weakened me more than I’d realized, and it
took a long moment before I managed to get back up. I picked up a broken tree
limb, leaning on it for balance.

My focus narrowed. I needed to get to the boat. Keeping my hold on the
makeshift walking stick, I took a step. Better, much better.

The birch bark compress supplied some relief from the pain in my arm.
I’d had worse injuries back in my military days. I could do this.

Concentrate. The boat.

Need to get to boat.

Need to report back in.

Whatever these guys were after, the Brotherhood of the Wild would put a stop
to it. We had the advantage of operating internationally, bypassing local
bureaucracy. And we had money. Money could open doors and make officials look
the other way.

Boat. Need to get to the boat.

I stumbled again, pausing to lean on a tree until my vision cleared.

Clenching my jaw, I pushed myself upright and took one step. Then another.

Leaning heavily on the walking stick, I steadied myself. The notion of balance
seemed to have deserted my brain entirely, and I compromised with a slow
shuffling gait that kept me on my feet and heading in the right direction.
That was really all I needed.

I felt myself start to fall again and reached out for the closest tree. Had I
even made it twenty feet since the last time I’d had to reach for a
tree? Maybe. But not much farther.

I took a deep breath and tried to clear my head. Nope. Wasn’t going to
work this time. Never mind. I just needed to keep moving in the direction of
the boat. That was all.

Just keep moving.

About the Author

Anne Kane lives in the beautiful Okanagan Valley with a bouncy little rescue
dog whose breed defies description, a cantankerous Himalayan cat, and too many
fish to count. She spent many years trying to fit in and act normal, but
finally gave up the effort. She started writing romance in 2008, and her fate
was sealed when she won a publishing contract with Red Sage Publishing and
just a month later Changeling Press accepted her first submission. Since then
she has published more than thirty stories in a variety of sub-genres, all
with a happily ever after.

She has two handsome sons and six adorable grandchildren and enjoys spending
time with them whenever she can. Her hobbies, when she’s not playing
with the characters in her head, include kayaking, hiking, swimming, playing
guitar, singing and of course, reading.

 

Author Links

Website

Facebook

Twitter (X)

Goodreads

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: Elmer Kelton’s The Blessing by John Bradshaw

Posted on by

Western Adventure, Historical Mystery

Date Published: 12-03-2025

Publisher: Devil’s Claw Press

Hewey Calloway, Elmer Kelton’s favorite footloose cowboy, has
always been known to have a generous nature, readily giving to those in need.
Time has finally mellowed Hewey and given him some wisdom that was lacking in
his youth, but deep down, he’s still the same old Hewey. In this sequel
to The Smiling Country, a beneficiary to one of Hewey’s past
generosities pays him back, and with interest. Knowing Hewey would decline a
monetary repayment, he is gifted land back in Upton County.

Trouble is, it was bought from his old adversary, Fat Gervin, who is still as
crooked as ever. Gervin finds a seeming loophole in the contract and tries to
pull another fast one on Hewey, who is fed up with Gervin’s endless
treachery. Tensions rise, and when Gervin is shot, it’s Hewey
who’s on the hook for the crime. But things are never as they seem, and
it’s up to an eclectic cast of characters to sort it out, and for Hewey
to learn what’s really important in life.

Written by longtime journalist turned novelist John Bradshaw, who was selected
by The Elmer Kelton Estate to continue the Hewey Calloway tradition.

 

About the Author

John Bradshaw is a native of the small town of Abernathy, Texas. He is
an award-winning journalist with well over a thousand published stories. Elmer
Kelton’s The Familiar Stranger, co-authored with Steve Kelton, is his
first book.

Bradshaw attended South Plains College followed by Texas Tech University. He
spent several years shoeing horses for a living as his writing career
progressed.

While the desire to write books was always there, Bradshaw first pursued a
career in journalism. He wrote numerous stories for ranching, horse and
horseshoeing magazines.

Growing up, Livestock Weekly came in the mail once a week, as it does for most
in the livestock industry. Writing for Livestock Weekly was always a goal, and
in 2005 Bradshaw’s first story was published. It was a profile of
Brownie Metzgar, a humorous cowboy still working in a feedlot while in his
late 80s.

In 2007 Bradshaw accepted a fulltime position with Livestock Weekly. While
with the paper he had over a thousand stories published, as well as enough
market reports to give him permanent nightmares.

Horses have always played an important role in his life. The son of a
horseshoer, he has spent a significant amount of time either on or under a
horse. He still shows in both ranch horse and reined cow horse competitions.

He and his wife, Sara, live outside Abernathy. Sara owns an architecture firm,
SK Architecture Group, and they raise Spanish goats, hair sheep and cattle.

In 2013 the couple had a stillborn son, Fox Joaquin Bradshaw. After several
years of heartbreak they adopted an infant boy, whom they named Julian Boone
Bradshaw. Boone died in his dad’s arms following an accident at the barn
five days before his sixth birthday.


Contact Links

Website

Facebook

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TEASER TUESDAY: Tiny by Marteeka Karland

Posted on by

Motorcycle Club Romance, Suspense, Age Gap

Date Published: December 19, 2025

 

 


A giant of a man with a shattered soul. A mother running on fear and fury.
Love isn’t even an afterthought.

 


Tiny — Christmas meant nothing to me. Just cold nights and bad memories. Then
she arrived at Haven. Penny. A woman who’s already fought her share of
battles. She and her girls light up this place like the most beautiful of
Christmas lights. I never thought I’d crave my own family. But watching
them hang ornaments and laugh? Feels like coming home.


Penny — I don’t believe in miracles. Not anymore. Not until I meet a
man who looks like sin and loves like salvation. Tiny’s scarred, quiet,
and so gentle with my girls it breaks my heart. This Christmas, we’re
not running. We’re starting over. All of us. Including Tiny. One kiss,
one breath, one strand of lights at a time, I will build my girls a future to
look forward to. And maybe, just maybe, my own Christmas miracle can withstand
the storm about to crash down on us.

 


Tiny (Kiss of Death MC 9) is a gritty, emotional, and deeply romantic story of
survival, redemption, and a protective alpha hero who would burn the world
down to keep his family dafe. Can be read as a standalone in the Kiss of Death
MC series.

 


WARNING: Depictions of domestic abuse, violence, and strong language may be
triggers for some readers. Reader discretion is advised.

 

EXCERPT

 

Tiny

I ducked my head and turned slightly sideways as I stepped through the door of
the large warehouse, a habit born from years of door frames too small for my
frame. The club had renovated the structure several months ago because the
club’s old ladies demanded the place be secured for their new project.
The shelter only accepted horribly abused women deemed high risk for
retaliatory violence from their abusers. We’d started calling the
shelter Haven. The girls all did their best to make it a haven. It also meant
men with my size weren’t exactly welcome.

I smelled fresh coffee when I stepped inside, a stark contrast to the leather
and exhaust fumes that clung to my clothes. Inside, the few conversations
stuttered to silence as heads turned my way. The newer people stared at me
with wide eyes and a touch of fear. I was used to it. Nearly seven feet tall,
shoulders wide as a doorway, with a mohawk and a beard you could lose a small
animal in, I never entered a room without changing its atmosphere.

Violet spotted me from across the common area and waved me over with an
enthusiastic smile. I moved carefully, each step measured, making myself as
predictable as possible. Prison taught me how to move without threatening, how
to exist in a space where sudden movements could get you shanked. Also taught
me how to use my size to every advantage I could. Here, those same skills
served a different purpose.

“Tiny, I’m glad you could make it,” Violet said, her voice
warm but pitched just loud enough that others nearby could hear. Deliberate.
Showing them I was expected and approved of. Safe.

“Knight asked me to check the security systems,” I replied,
keeping my voice soft. When you’re my size, everything about you can
intimidate, even your voice. Especially when there were young children around.
It’s why I played Santa at Christmas. It helped the kids associate me
with Santa so when they saw me out and about, they remembered. At least, that
was my theory. It had worked pretty well last year, but the very nature of
this place meant the kids didn’t stick around long. Though, I was pretty
sure the old ladies had invited every mother and child who’d come
through this place in the last year to the Christmas party.

As I headed to the back of the big room where the security office sat nestled
off to itself, I noticed three new faces huddled on the worn sofa near the
window. A woman in her mid to late twenties with light brown hair and hazel
eyes sat in the corner with a book while the girls played quietly on the floor
with LEGOs. All three glanced up as I neared the office door.

The girls, though they appeared to be twins, had very different stances. One
with fists clenched, shoulders squared, stood to put herself slightly in front
of her sister. The other girl reached for a threadbare stuffed rabbit with one
missing eye, clutching it to her tightly.

I recognized the signs as clearly as if they’d been written in neon. The
way the woman’s eyes darted to the exits, how she stood slowly, not
making any sudden moves, to put herself between me and her daughters.

“This is Penny and her daughters, Zelda and Kira,” Violet said,
gesturing toward them. “They arrived a few days ago. Penny, this is
Tiny. He’s with the same club Riot’s with. They provide security
for us here.”

I nodded once, not approaching. “Ma’am.”

The woman, Penny, gave me a tight smile that didn’t quite reach her
eyes. It was the smile of someone who’d learned to hide her true
emotions.

“Tiny helps maintain our security system,” Violet continued, her
voice still carrying that deliberate lightness. “And he sometimes
escorts our residents when they need to go to appointments or court dates.
Tiny is an amazing friend to have in those kinds of situations.”

“Yes,” Penny whispered. “I imagine he is.”

I thought Violet would move with me to the office where we could talk.
Instead, she sat on the other end of the couch from Penny. There were two more
couches in the area arranged in the shape of a U. Normally, I’d take a
seat as far away from the women as I could, but I’d still be at a
distinct height advantage even sitting down. So, I sank to the floor, sitting
cross-legged with my back against the couch.

The change was immediate. I watched Penny’s shoulders relax. The girl
unclenched her hands, giving me a curious look. From my position on the floor,
I was still eye level with most people standing, but the psychological
difference mattered.

“Knight and I updated the cameras last week,” I said to Violet,
keeping the conversation normal, mundane. “But he thought one on the
east side might have a small blind spot.”

Violet nodded, following my lead. “That’s the one near the service
entrance, right? I noticed it seemed off when I checked the monitors
yesterday.”

As we talked, I kept my peripheral vision on the small family. Though Zelda
had relaxed somewhat, she still kept a wary gaze on me. Kira watched me with
cautious curiosity now. She clutched her rabbit tighter, its worn fabric
testament to years of comfort sought.

Then it happened. The rabbit slipped from her grasp, falling to the floor and
bouncing once before settling a few feet from where I sat. The girl froze,
eyes wide with alarm.

I didn’t move immediately. Instead, I telegraphed my intentions clearly.
“Would you like me to get your friend for you, Kira?” My voice was
soft as I addressed her directly.

The girl looked to her mother, who gave a barely perceptible nod. Only then
did I slowly unfold one long arm, reaching for the toy. I kept my movements
smooth and deliberate, picking it up with the gentlest grip I could manage.

I didn’t extend it toward her — that would force her to come to me.
Instead, I leaned over, stretching as far as I could, and placed the rabbit
gently on the floor halfway between us, then returned to my original position.

“Thank you,” the woman, Penny, said when her daughter didn’t
speak.

The moment crashed into me like a wave, dragging me back fifteen years. My
sister Julie, sixteen and broken, flinching from every raised voice after what
that bastard did to her. The way she’d curl into herself when men came
near. The stuffed horse she’d kept since childhood that she clutched at
night when she thought no one would see.

The same stuffed horse that had been torn to pieces the day I came home and
found her hurt and half dead.

I blinked away the memory. That had been the worst night of my life. I think
it hurt just as bad as when she died a few days later.

“Tiny’s road captain for the club. He also helps with security
both here and at the clubhouse.” Violet spoke to Penny and her voice
pulled me back to the present. “He’s been instrumental in setting
up our security systems here.”

I shifted uncomfortably at the praise, my vest creaking again with the
movement. I understood why Violet was doing it. These women needed to know I
wasn’t a threat, but praise had never sat well with me. Not before
prison, and certainly not after. “Just trying to help,” I mumbled,
examining the tattoo on my forearm to avoid meeting anyone’s eyes.

“Tiny volunteers for most of the escort duties when our residents need
to go to court,” Violet continued. “He’s been a huge help to
many of the women who’ve passed through here.”

I glanced up to find Penny studying me with a careful gaze. Not fearful
anymore, but assessing. I recognized that look too. She was recalculating,
reshuffling whatever assumptions she’d made when I first walked in. No
doubt because she knew Violet had a point. I was a big fucker. The
intimidation factor alone was generally enough to keep unwanted people at a
distance.

“Good to know.” Penny spoke softly, almost timidly. I got it and
wasn’t insulted. I didn’t know their story, but to be here in the
first place, there had to be some pretty horrific details.

The smaller girl had reclaimed her rabbit by now, holding it against her chest
as she whispered something into its tattered ear. For just a moment, our eyes
met, and I saw something there that squeezed my chest tight. Not fear, not
anymore. Something closer to recognition.

I knew that feeling. The paradox of finding safety with someone who looked
like they could crush you with one hand. I’d seen it in the eyes of
younger inmates who gravitated toward me in Terre Haute, seeking protection in
my shadow. It was a burden I carried willingly, both inside those walls and
now here, in this shelter with its mismatched furniture and reinforced doors.
I wasn’t an overly religious person, but I’d always felt God put
me on this earth with my size and strength to be a protector. It had started
with my sister. Now I did my best to continue as much as I could. It took a
while, but I could usually prove that sometimes safety came in unexpected
packages. Like a giant with a mohawk and prison tattoos, sitting cross-legged
on the floor to avoid scaring a little girl and her stuffed rabbit.

That’s when I noticed the small movement at the edge of my vision. Kira,
the girl I’d handed back her stuffie, had moved in my direction. The
stuffed rabbit dangled from her hand as she took one cautious step in my
direction, then another. Penny was distracted, talking with one of the shelter
staff, but her sister had noticed. Zelda’s eyes narrowed and I could
almost see the fierce protective instinct that sometimes rode me, too, envelop
her. She stood but didn’t immediately hurry our way.

I remained perfectly still, not wanting to spook either of them. The
girl’s approach reminded me of how stray cats would sometimes appear at
the prison fences, wary and ready to bolt at the slightest provocation, but
driven by some need stronger than fear. She stopped several feet away, her
small fingers working nervously at the rabbit’s worn fabric. Up close, I
could see the careful stitches where someone had repaired a seam, the worn
spot where fur had been loved away. A well-tended comfort object. Someone
cared enough to keep fixing it.

“His name is Mr. Hoppers,” she said, voice barely audible. The
first words she’d spoken in my presence.

I nodded solemnly, giving the introduction the gravity it deserved.
“Good name.”

She studied me with an intensity that belied her age. Not the fearful
assessment I was used to, but something different. Searching. Her eyes tracked
from my hands to my face, then back to my hands again.

“You have big hands,” she observed.

“Yes.”

“But you were careful with Mr. Hoppers.”

I understood then what she was doing. Testing a theory. “I try to be
careful with things and people smaller than me.” I shook my head slowly.
“I don’t like hurting people.”

Her head tilted slightly. “My dad has big hands too. But he breaks
things.”

The simple statement hit me like a punch to the gut. I kept my expression
even, though something hot and angry flared in my chest. “Some men
don’t know how to be careful.”

She nodded as if I’d confirmed something important. Then, with
deliberate care, she extended her arms, offering me the rabbit. The trust in
that gesture staggered me. I held perfectly still, afraid that any movement
might shatter this fragile moment. Then, with the same care I’d use
handling a newborn, I accepted the offering, cradling the worn toy in palms
that could crush a man’s skull.

“He likes you,” she said with the conviction of absolute
certainty.

“I’m honored,” I replied, meaning it more than she could
know.

That’s when I saw it, the recognition in her eyes. Not of me
specifically, but of something in me that felt safe despite appearances.
I’d seen the look often but this was the first time I could say someone
making that judgment had the right of it. I could be deceptively calm. Until I
wasn’t. But not with this girl. Or anyone here seeking shelter.

The moment stretched between us like a bridge, this strange connection forged
in the quietest of gestures. I gently returned Mr. Hoppers to her waiting
hands, and she clutched him close again, a half-smile ghosting across her
face.

Then the spell broke when the very kind of man this little girl had been
running from just walked into the Goddamned foyer.

“Let me in, you little bitches! I know she’s in there!” The
male voice exploded from outside the main area but still inside the warehouse,
followed by the sound of something hitting the front door hard enough to
rattle the windows. I wasn’t certain how he’d gotten in but I knew
at least two of the brothers wouldn’t be far behind him.

 

 

About the Author

Marteeka Karland is an international bestselling author who leads a double
life as an erotic romance author by evening and a semi-domesticated housewife
by day. Known for her down and dirty MC romances, Marteeka takes pleasure in
spinning tales of tenacious, protective heroes and spirited, vulnerable
heroines. She staunchly advocates that every character deserves a blissful
ending, even, sometimes, the villains in her narratives. Her writings are
speckled with intense, raw elements resulting in page-turning delight entwined
with seductive escapades leading up to gratifying conclusions that elicit a
sigh from her readers.

Away from the pen, Marteeka finds joy in baking and supporting her husband
with their gardening activities. The late summer season is set aside for
preserving the delightful harvest that springs from their combined efforts
(which is mostly his efforts, but you can count it). To stay updated with
Marteeka’s latest adventures and forthcoming books, make sure to visit her
website. Don’t forget to register for her newsletter which will pepper you
with a potpourri of Teeka’s beloved recipes, book suggestions, autograph
events, and a plethora of interesting tidbits.

 

Author on Instagram & TikTok: @marteekakarland

Author on Facebook

 

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

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


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TEASER: Player by Jamie Targaet

Posted on by


Motorcycle Club Romance, Suspense, Christmas Romance

Date Published: December 12, 2025

I’ve played every game there is. But this time, it’s for
keeps.

 

Heather — Brick promised me a good paying job. I just didn’t know he
was working for a cartel. When their money went missing, I was hunted along
with him, used and finally left with the Hounds of Hell MC in Mercy to answer
for his crimes. If not for Player, I would have wound up dead or worse. He
claimed me as his old lady to keep me from being turned over to the cartel. He
shielded me, fought for me. And somehow, I started to believe I mattered
again. The cartel is still gunning for me, but Player’s not backing
down. He says I’m his, and I want to be. If we can survive this.

Player — I’m called Player for a reason. My life’s been a string
of one-night stands and bad decisions. Until Heather. She’s scared and
in over her head, but there’s something about her I can’t shake.
When Brick left her in Mercy, running from the cartel he stole from, I made a
choice. I don’t care what she’s done or what they think she knows.
Heather is under my protection now. And if anyone wants her, they’ll
have to go through me — and every single brother I’ve got.

 


Warning: Player contains adult language, explicit sex, violence, threats of
torture, stalking, and references to past emotional abuse. It also features a
dirty-talking alpha biker who will cross every line to protect the woman he
claims as his own.

EXCERPT

 

Player

The Hounds of Hell clubhouse sat at the far end of Main Street, past the reach
of the twinkling lights and holiday carolers who’d turned Mercy’s
annual tree lighting into a full-blown event last night. Normally, the Hounds
didn’t bother with Christmas decorations because they were too much
trouble, too much cheer. But this year was different.

Deva, Razor’s old lady, made it clear even if the club wasn’t
going to feel like home, the place could at least look the part for the
holidays. No one was going to tell the president’s lady no. So now
mismatched strands of blinking lights clung to the porch like a half-hearted
apology, and the scent of pine fought to cut through layers of leather, smoke,
and liquor. Inside, the mood was anything but festive.

Since Player had lost a bet, one he still claimed was rigged, he’d
earned the honor of decorating the Christmas tree Deva had dropped off at the
clubhouse the night before. The tree was still boxed in Razor’s office,
fake pine branches and all, along with a tub of lights, ornaments, and exactly
one glitter-covered star Snow refused to touch.

Player had his hand on the doorknob, figuring he’d grab the box and let
Razor know he was making good on his punishment. But then he paused, hearing
Razor and Snow talking in low and clipped voices, the kind of conversation you
didn’t interrupt unless invited. Whatever was going down in there, it
wasn’t about garland or tinsel.

He heard the rumble of a bike pulling in out front. Curiosity made him let go
of the doorknob and head for the front of the clubhouse to see who’d
come calling.

The bike now parked out front belonged to Brick, a patch from the Mississippi
chapter in Biloxi. From what he remembered, the guy was all swagger and no
spine. Player didn’t like him, but Brick had never been dumb enough to
test anyone here directly. He’d visited Mercy a couple of times in the
past, but he always had the good sense to fly under the radar.

A second rider dismounted, swinging one long leg over the back of the bike. A
woman. No, not just a woman. A vision.

Her dark jeans clung to her like old sin, her boots dusted with grit from the
road. A leather jack hung too heavy on her slender frame. When she pulled off
the helmet, she shook loose long, glossy dark spirals of hair. She turned her
head enough for Player to catch a flash of wide green eyes and a full mouth. A
woman who looked like that should be all sass and fire, but there was a
wariness about her. Her gaze moved over the front of the clubhouse as though
being there filled her with dread. She expected trouble.


Was she with Brick? How had he gotten a woman who looked that good? Brick
looked like he’d crawled out from under a busted oil pan and
hadn’t changed his shirt since. He had a thick neck, and a gut
stretching the bottom of his cut. He wore his hair slicked back, as if he
thought he still had a full head of it. The man’s nose was twisted from
too many fights he probably hadn’t won, and a mouth that curved like he
was about to lie.

Brick turned and spoke to her. She nodded and followed him. There was a subtle
shift in her posture. Her shoulders were tight. She was bracing for a fight.

Player wasn’t buying those two as a couple. She didn’t belonged on
the back of Brick’s bike or in his bed unless money was involved.
Staying in the shadows near the main entrance, he folded his arms and watched
as Brick swaggered toward the clubhouse.

The main door opened, and Brick walked in with the woman, just in time to see
Razor and Snow walk back to the front of the house.

“Brick,” Razor said, voice flat. “Didn’t expect to see
you.”

Brick gave Razor a lazy grin. “I’m calling in that favor, brother.
Need a place to crash for a while. Lay low.”


Favor, huh? Player stepped toward the front door. Razor didn’t do
favors. Anyone who knew the man knew that. But Player had a pretty good idea
what favor Brick was talking about.

Back when Sadie had first showed up in Mercy, before becoming Axel’s old
lady, they’d found a tracker on her car, put there by the abusive Mafia
boyfriend she’d been running from. To throw him off, Ryder, Axel’s
twin, had driven the vehicle all the way to Mississippi. The Biloxi Hounds had
been the ones to help him make the tracker disappear without a trace.

If that was the “favor” Brick meant, it wasn’t much of one.
Ryder wouldn’t have needed a lot of help to lose the tracker. If Brick
was desperate enough to stretch the truth about something like that, there was
a lot more to why he’d shown up here with a woman on the back of his
bike.

Razor’s stare was ice cold. Apparently their president didn’t like
Brick any more than Player did. Player leaned against the wall, letting his
presence be known. Brick’s gaze moved toward him and back. Player
smiled.

Razor looked Brick over like he was already sorting out the lie.
“Funny,” he said. “I don’t remember owing you
shit.”

Brick tipped his chin up. “You don’t, huh? What about when Ryder
came down to Mississippi with that tracker you needed gone? Who do you think
helped him ditch it in the bayou, so no one found it?”

Razor’s gaze didn’t so much as flicker. “I remember Biloxi
helping him out. Didn’t know that meant you specifically.”

Brick gave a shrug meant to look casual. “I was there. Helped ditch the
thing myself. Figured that kind of help might buy me a place to breathe for a
few days.”

“You think you’re in the right place for that?”
Razor’s voice was low, dangerous.

Snow shifted beside him, arms crossed. Player watched the way Brick’s
gaze bounced between them, like he couldn’t decide who’d swing
first.

“You want a roof? I want answers,” Razor went on. “Why
you’re here. What kind of heat’s chasing you.” Razor’s
hazel-eyed gaze shifted to the woman standing behind him. “And her? She
yours?”

Brick gave a one-shoulder shrug. “Yeah. She rides with me.”

“Didn’t ask if she rode in with you. I asked if she’s
yours.”

“Heather’s with me,” Brick said, a little more force in his
voice now. “You don’t need to worry about her.”

“If she’s under this roof, she’s my business,” Razor
told him. “You want her here, then I need to know she’s not a
problem.”

Brick chuckled without humor. “She won’t be. She knows how to stay
quiet.”

Snow’s jaw muscle moved. Their VP didn’t like men who talked about
women as if they were property. Not in his clubhouse. Not since he met his
little blonde baker, Emily.

Snow remained silent, his gaze locked on Brick like he was already considering
the consequences of dragging the fucker out by his dirty collar. Player felt
the same way, and not only because Brick was an asshole. They’d all seen
worse. What bothered him was the way the young woman with him stood behind
him. She was keeping quiet, and she didn’t look down or even move.
Seemed like she didn’t want to draw attention. Was she afraid of
something? The only thing he knew for sure about her was she didn’t
belong with a man like Brick. Player couldn’t decide if that made her
more interesting or more dangerous.

About the Author

Jamie Targaet is the author of the Hounds of Hell MC. She’s anxious to
introduce you to this club of gorgeous, dominant men and the lucky women who
surrender to them. The ride is going to get wild at times, not going to lie.
But there’s thrilling action, scorching hot sex scenes, and all the feels.

Jamie writes erotic romance for Changeling Press, a little fanfiction on the
side, and she’s an aspiring horror writer in another life. She enjoys time
with her family (including the fur babies). She likes good horror movies and
shows, emo metal and classic rock, and time spent in other worlds writing and
reading. She loves hearing from readers and is looking forward to hearing from
you.

Author on Amazon

Author’s Website


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


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RELEAZE BLITZ & GIVEAWAY: The Valentine Lines by TK Sheffield

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Cupid trades arrows for scones in a magical screwball comedy

Romantic Comedy, Humor Novel, Light Fantasy

Tropes: Valentine’s Day romance, Small Town Romance Slow Burn Romance,
Found Family, Forbidden Romance, Meddling Family

Publisher: Making Hay Press

Date Published: 12-09-2025

“The Valentine Lines” reimagines Cupid—aka Bart
McGee—as an underdog ditching the corporate grind of Mt. Olympus, Inc.,
for small-town life in quaint Mineral Point, Wisconsin. When Bart launches a
matchmaking business and falls in love with a local baker, chaos ensues as his
meddling Olympus relatives crash the scene. It’s packed with snappy
banter, slapstick escapades, mythological mishaps, and thoughtful explorations
of love, trust, and self-discovery.

It’s a modern “Bell, Book, and Candle.” A light,
literary escape for readers craving whimsy with emotional resonance.

 


No sex, politics, foul language. Manuscript winner/finalist in CIBA (humor)
and Southwest Writers.

 

About the Author

 

 TK Sheffield, MA, writes stories to laugh and escape, including new a romcom
“The Valentine Lines,” and “Nellie’s Island,” a children’s horse
story set in Mackinac Island. Sheffield also writes funny cozy mysteries, “The
Devil Wears Prada” meets a Wisconsin supper club, which have earned an IBPA
Humor medal, a Claymore, and an IPPY. She’s on the Wisconsin Writers
Association’s board, host of the Wispresso Café, an author talk
show, and a member of Blackbird Writers, Sisters in Crime, and SCBWI.

Contact Links

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