New at Changeling Press: Cimmerian by Torri Heat #darkfantasy @torriheat

The Venators’ secrets are getting darker, but can Ava and Jasper’s love survive the truth?A demon has possessed Ava’s best friend in the pack. Jasper and Ava are fighting an unthinkable deadline to complete an impossible task. It’s Monica’s life against Ava’s in this race against the clock.

But new secrets, new allies, and new mates within the pack turn even the most practical plans into the most dangerous. Werewolves, witches, and weddings make for a deadly combination…

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Copyright ©2021 Torri Heat

Thump. Thump. Thump.

The thumping had been the soundtrack to my life since we had returned to the pack lands, and I was about to snap. I wasn’t sure if I was going to smack Jasper upside the head, or go certifiably insane, but one of the two situations was guaranteed to happen. I was staring at my computer, willing my brain to work, but all I could focus on was the fact I had seven days, and that God awful thumping.

Thump. Thump. Thump.

I slammed my laptop shut, swinging my feet over the edge of Adrian’s worn couch, and made my way to the back door. On the back patio, where Adrian had set up a makeshift punching bag, was my boyfriend, Jasper Knight. Who just happened to be working the bag like it had done him wrong in a previous life. We dealt with our nerves and agitation in different ways. I threw myself into work. Jasper threw punches.

I leaned against the frame of the screen door, watching him for a minute, all muscle and tanned skin. If only this were a different time, a different life. “Something bothering you?” I asked.

Thump. “No,” Jasper grunted. He gave the bag a solid right hook that sent it swinging, then reached across, pulling it back into place.

I sighed, crossing my arms. “Jasp. We have to talk about this.” This meaning the demon currently cohabiting Lucy’s body, while expecting me to bring my mother to them.

He gave me a quick glance out of the corner of his eye, before hitting the bag with a deadly uppercut. “Nothing to talk about.”

Jasper hadn’t come to bed last night after we got home from the party. The party where I had run away deep into the forest, after Lucy who wasn’t really Lucy. Where a demon demanded my mother or myself pay the debt in seven days. We had decided it was safer to be on pack lands while we sorted all of this out and had arrived at Adrian’s doorstep. Adrian hadn’t seemed surprised to see us at his door again and had sleepily gestured toward the already prepped air mattress. I had tossed and turned on the half-deflated mattress, cold without Jasper’s warm skin next to mine. The upside to not sleeping? No dreams to haunt me. Small miracles.

I ran a hand through my hair, glaring at my stubborn boyfriend. “Fine.” I turned to head back into the house, the screen door slamming shut behind me. He’d come in when he was ready, and I wasn’t about to fuel his pouting any more than necessary.

“Wait.” Jasper’s voice called out behind me, and I stopped and looked back. He steadied the bag with a wrapped hand, using the other to wipe the sweat off his forehead. He looked up at me with hooded eyes. “Ava. I… I can’t lose you.” His voice broke, and I nearly broke with it. We had been through so much, more than any two people should. Surely this wouldn’t be enough to bring us down. Fuck that. I wouldn’t let it.

“Jasp, I…” I what? I was sorry? Because I wasn’t. I wouldn’t go look for my mother? Because I would. Anything I was planning to say would’ve been a lie. I met his dark stare, his caramel eyes pleading with me. I shook my head. No. I wouldn’t cave. “Jasper. I have to do this.”

His expression hardened. “I don’t know what kind of hero complex you’ve developed, but you don’t have to.”

Rich coming from him… Jasper happened to be the king of hero complexes. I raised a brow, making sure to keep a lock on my thoughts the best I could. Last thing I needed right now was Jasper hearing everything I was thinking about him, including some choice curse words. “And how do you suggest we deal with the situation at hand? Pretend it’s not happening? Maybe we could offer Beau up as another sacrifice?”

Jasper groaned, opening his mouth to speak, but at that exact moment, Beau rounded the corner. His skin was tanned, a light smattering of freckles covering his bronzed face. He looked healthy, so at odds with the man I had seen in the hospital. He gave me a roguish grin, his teeth white and bright. “What kind of sacrifice are you offering me up as now, baby girl? Are there going to be other girls involved?”

Jasper and I both whipped around, glaring at Beau who merely smirked, raising his hands in defense. “Whoa. Don’t let me interrupt this couple’s spat.”

“I didn’t know you were back.” Jasper ran a hand through his thick, dark hair, giving me a stern look. I knew the look. It meant this conversation wasn’t over.

Beau shoved his hands into his pockets. “Just got back like five minutes ago. Was about to drag my ass to bed, but I heard you working the bag and figured I should stop by first.”

“I’ll let you two get caught up,” I said, refusing to meet Jasper’s glare. His stare bored hotly into my face. “We weren’t talking about anything important.”

I turned and stormed toward the guest room, Beau murmuring apologies to Jasper behind me. He didn’t have anything to apologize for. Jasper was being impossible, immovable, and he needed to understand I had to find Monica.


Torri Heat has always loved control. Her mind was blown when she discovered she could control entire worlds through story writing. Throw some steamy romance in there, and it was pretty close to perfection. Torri loves dark heroes who ride off into the sunset on their motorcycles, fierce heroines who can fend for themselves, and a sprinkle of the paranormal to keep things interesting. When she’s not creating alternate realities you can find her managing her three ring circus of kids and animals.

Find all of Torri’s books and sign up for her newsletter at her website, or follow her on social media. You can also leave reviews!

Now in Paperback: The Slayer by Stephanie Burke #darkfantasy #BDSM @FlashyCat

Revenant is what they call him. For centuries, Kye has not lived, he has merely existed. Moving from city to city, continent to continent, Kye is always searching for the one man who visited upon him the destruction of his family and the shattering of his soul.

Tali is a woman with a mission of her own. Her objective, find the vampire Balthazar and, by any means, send what is left of his soul fleeing from this life.

When two slayers meet, the results are bound to be… Violent. Explosive. And erotic. But if they both work together, they may overcome the insane odds stacked against them and, just possibly, come out alive.

Publisher’s Note: This book was previously published and has been re-edited for this release.

Get the paperback at Amazon


All rights reserved.
Copyright ©2021 Stephanie Burke

God, he hated enemas.

But a man — he snorted at the thought — had to do what he had to do. With a grimace of disgust, he quickly prepared the small plastic bottle and thoroughly cleaned his insides before he headed for the showers. He had to scour away the feeling of violation before he soaked in the vanilla scented waters he’d prepared earlier.

The comforting smell of the perfumed steam was incentive enough for him to hurry through his scrubbing so that he would have adequate time to soothe himself in the steaming waters of his bath.

He stared down at his feet morosely, watching the last of the soapy water roll down the drain, before crossing the tiled room on silent feet. Walking quietly had become second nature to him and more than once it had saved his life. With a barely audible sigh, he lowered himself into the hot water, shuddering slightly as it first burned then loosened his muscles, preparing him for what lay ahead.

He closed his eyes, inhaled her scent, and allowed his thoughts to drift.

Tonight could be the night he found the peace he craved by gleefully slaughtering that bastard and bathing in his blood.

It always came down to his maker and the blood. Both tasted of regret and salvation. The blood and Balthazar were all he craved, hated and feared.

He remembered his first taste, as her blood spurted wetly from her neck, her eyes going wide in pain and fear before they began to glaze over in death. He remembered the tearing at his own throat, his own screams and how sweet Balthazar tasted. How he’d begged for more.

The discreet beeping at his wrist pulled him from his circling thoughts. He had wasted enough time pampering his flesh. It was time to go to work. He rose from the tepid waters, his hair flowing down his body like dark silken waves, clinging to his muscled flesh as he stepped from the tub.

Heedless of the water that splashed the floor, he grabbed a large bath sheet from a rack and wrapped up his dripping hair, the scent of vanilla and cinnamon followed him as he moved. Vanilla was a comforting smell, but also one of remembrance. He would remember always how she delighted in its scent, how after days, she smelled like candy and rot.

He spun around to exit the bath, the smooth pale scars that scored his back catching the light from his bedroom. He’d worked hard so no scar tissue would hinder his movements, worked for years to make the scars soft and supple as the rest of his dark skin.

His eyes were a strange combination of green and gold that constantly warred for supremacy. It had a way of unnerving people, those swirls of green and gold, and that suited him just fine. He wanted to unnerve people, to make them back off with only a stare.

“Thank God gender-fuck is in,” he muttered, as he stopped in front of an expansive wardrobe. With his delicate features and a few strokes of a makeup brush, he could easily make himself look ultra-fem, though his masculine jaw line and the way he moved marked him unmistakably as male.

He tugged the towel away from his hair, tossed back the chin-length bangs that framed the front of his face, and whipped the long mass back over his shoulder.

Quickly he fashioned a long braid with the still slightly damp knee-length hair. He left the fringe to frame his face, making it easy to shake over his eyes and hide his face from scrutiny. He tied a small chain of bells to the end of his braid. It didn’t matter that they tinkled lightly as they brushed against his bottom; he could make them silent when he chose but that sound would likely drive his intended target mad as he tried to discover where the light, joyful sound came from as he was stalked and menaced.

Sometimes, he thought ruefully, he was a bit like a cat, toying with its prey before moving in for the kill.

In the length of the braid he hid seven long metal points, thin enough to be hidden totally in his hair, but strong enough to bring death at a distance.

Tucking his fringe behind his almost too-delicate ears, he returned his attention to the closet.

He pulled a pair of butter soft snow white pants from their hanger. He would have to be careful of the blood. He really liked these pants and no matter how you scrubbed, blood always left reddish-brown stains on white leather.

Slowly he eased the pants up his legs, loving the feel as the leather instantly conformed to his skin. These pants were tight enough that underwear was all but impossible. The pants closed with a thin leather thong that laced across his tight abdomen, emphasizing the muscle definition there as well as exposing the thin line of soft dark hair that started just beneath his navel.

His boots were cross-tied with silver buckles, leaving spaces for the knives and pockets that easily fit beneath the straps. These boots were also made of leather and had very low heels, heels that could be twisted the right way to expose secret compartments that were extra security for a man in his position.

Digging deeper in his closet, he pulled out an embroidered black and red knee length tunic. The Oriental style cut of the tunic included a banded collar and shoulder fasteners of white roped silk. The silk garment was light and easy to maneuver.

After securing the inside and shoulder fasteners, he stepped back to examine himself in the mirror. He looked like a beautiful, androgynous, and sadistic wet dream– almost like his true self. Turning, he wrapped himself in a cloak before ghosting away from his lair. He walked softly into the night, the tinkling of the bells in his hair the only signal of his passing.


Stephanie is a USA Today Best Selling, multi published, multi award-winning author, Master Costumer, handicapped, wife and mother of two.

From sex-shifting, shape-shifting dragons to undersea worlds, sexually confused elemental Fey and homo-erotic mysteries, all the way to pastel-challenged urban sprites, Stephanie has done it all, and hopes to do more.

Stephanie is an orator on her favorite subjects of writing and world-building, a sometime teacher when you feed her enough tea and donuts, an anime nut, a costumer, and a frequent guest of various sci-fi and writing cons where she can be found leading panel discussions or researching varied legends and theories to improve her writing skills.

Stephanie is known for her love of the outrageous, strong female characters, believable worlds, male characters filled with depth, and multi-cultural stories that make the reader sit up and take notice.

New at Changeling Press: Beholden to the Devil by ML Uberti #contemporaryromance #organizedcrime #newadult @mluberti_writer

Zoe Xavier has been taking care of her brother since they were kids, and now that he’s in debt to the richest and most dangerous family in Waterston, Kentucky, she will have to do more than just pay back Quint Lear with money.

Quint and his brothers are determined to carry on the nefarious family business, but his intentions with Zoe seem outside Quint’s normal behavior. When her life is in danger, will he continue to be the devil Zoe is afraid of, or will she be able to see beyond that to the man inside?

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All rights reserved.
Copyright ©2021 ML Uberti

“I can do this,” I told myself aloud, steering my car into a parking space on a dark street near a narrow alley. “I can do this. It’s important. I’m not afraid. I can do this.”

I was totally lying, but maybe my subconscious would be fooled into bravery and this whole knee-knocking, pants-pissing experience would be a breeze.

Unlikely, but I could dream.

I shoved open the door to my rusted-out Chevy truck, a hand-me-down that had been first passed on to my cousin Lita, who had it before me. You couldn’t have the headlights, radio, and windshield wipers on at the same time or it would blow a fuse. So if it was raining at night, you had to turn the music off. Which was really just a couple of AM stations that came in fuzzy.

But it ran so I kept it. Not that I could afford anything else — and thanks to my brother Tyler, I probably never would.

Tyler was the reason I was on this little errand, walking as quietly and swiftly as I could toward a dingy brick building affixed at the intersection of two off-map, seedy streets, with crumbling concrete steps and a pink neon sign that simply said: BEER. No clever tavern name or funky hipster décor. One window, the magenta light, and a brown wood door.

I took a deep breath, steeled my nerves, and threw the door open.

A few heads came up to look at me, but mostly I was largely unnoticed in the dim interior. A smattering of old-timers at the bar, a couple dry humping in a booth, a handful of bikers shooting pool. I didn’t see who I was there to find, so I figured I better ask. I wanted to get this over as quickly as possible.

The bartender was a surly-looking man with a long white beard and a shiny bald head. His face was affixed in a frown but I thought it might permanently look like that. Just years of shit life reflected back in his features.

“Hi.” I began to smile, then dialed it back when he sneered in reply. Okay, not a happy-go-lucky crowd. I could dig that. “I’m looking for someone.”

His head swiveled around as he took in the entirety of the room. “Well, then — look,” he stated, a brow raised in suggestion.

“Someone — uh, I don’t see him,” I took another cursory glance around. “His name is Quint Lear.”

It was like the proverbial record scratch as all chatter ceased instantly and every eye in the place swung to me.

“Quint Lear? What the hell you want with him?” one of the boomers at the bar asked in a ridiculously loud tone.

“Just — uh, a personal errand,” I fumbled. “I — he –” I paused. I should have rehearsed. “It’s a personal errand.” I repeated lamely.

“Chuckie!” the bartender bellowed loudly, not taking his eyes off me, and smirking when I jumped at little at his shout.

A gangly young guy with a shock of red hair poked his head out from the window that delineated the kitchen from the bar room. “Yeah?”

“Got a girl here wants to see Q. He around?” the man went on, still not looking away from me.

“Lemme see — she cute?” He peered deeper into the room and took me in top to toe. “Yeah, she’s cute,” he added with a lewd grin, then vanished.

I forced another smile — I had been cuter a few years back in high school, when I was a cheerleader, and homecoming queen, and had a hell of a lot less problems than I do now. But my father died, my mom started drowning herself in pills and booze and my little brother started selling drugs for a very, very bad man.

Mr. Quint Lear.

Who my only sibling Tyler owed ten thousand dollars to. And honestly, it may as well be ten million since I was just as likely to be able to raise that and hand it over to the man of the hour.

I had three hundred and eighteen bucks in the bank. My mom had an insurance policy worth maybe five hundred dollars if we cashed it in. Any savings we’d had had been wiped out by my dad’s medical bills. Which is why Tyler thought he would help out our little family slinging meth to addicts down by Lawson Avenue and up toward Davidson.

But he got greedy, listened to a stupid friend of his, and now he owed the Lear family ten grand. And the Lears weren’t known for their charity.

I tugged on my jean jacket, pulling it closer around me. I had thrown on a black top and jeans, not thinking maybe I should show a little more skin, entice Quint Lear. I didn’t want to go down that road, but I literally had nothing else to offer him besides my beat-up truck and three hundred and eighteen dollars.

The young guy appeared through a swinging door beside the bar, nodded his head at me then tipped it backwards, gesturing to follow.


Starbucks aficionado, lover of throw blankets and betrayer of all things kale, ML Uberti is a Wayne State University graduate and Metro Detroit author with a predilection for oddities and happy endings. She is mom to three autistic kids, 2 ridiculously stupid dogs and wife of a teacher and musician who has endless patience for her impeccably bad taste in Netflix shows and murder documentaries. She is thrilled to dip her toe into scifi romance from contemporary and hopes you enjoy her big, brooding alien alphas and resilient fairy tale queen

Now in Paperback: The Prince and the Painter by Emily Carrington #LGBTQ #romanticsuspense @CarringtonEmily

The Prince and the Painter (Part 1): Aaron and Jason would gladly spend all their time in bed together, but they’re haunted by their pasts. A rapist and a serial killer are stalking Aaron, and Jason’s growing love may not be enough to protect either of them.

The Prince and the Painter (Part 2): Aaron and Jason must face their demons. But those demons never counted on the love between them growing from a single flame to a raging inferno. Now, just maybe their demons will have trouble with them.

Painter’s Pride (Part 3): Jason and Aaron have been together since Aaron was a freshman. Now he’s a senior and getting ready to pursue his art career in NYC. Jason believes in Aaron, but his boyfriend’s refusal to let Jason help is pulling them apart. Will the season of hope bring them together or will it destroy their love forever?

Warning: The Prince and the Painter deals with issues of PTSD, M/M rape, hate crimes, stalking, kidnapping, and torture. Jason and Aaron’s stories may be triggers for some readers.

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Copyright ©2021 Emily Carrington
Excerpt from The Prince and the Painter (Part 1)

Jason stared helplessly at a blank piece of paper after the teacher was done explaining their first lesson in androgyny. This class is too advanced for me. He could draw stick people. Hell, he could draw graphs full of figures and parabolas. He could even draw the mathematically correct plans for a simple architectural structure. But this… Forms and lines, shading and curves… He was lost.

Thank God it was only the first week of classes and he could quit this one and find another.

In the meantime, he was caught by the androgynous wo/man reclining on the block in the center of the room. Aaron — or Erin — wouldn’t be his first crush on a not-quite-male-or-female person, and surely s/he wouldn’t be the last. There was something beautiful, artful about an androgynous human being. In a way that had nothing to do with the androgyny of buildings and animals, people who could be either male or female, or maybe some alternative to these two opposites, were simply nature’s gift to the world.

Jason concentrated on one of the model’s eyes and drew that. The shape wasn’t exactly circular, but starting from a geometrically perfect arc helped him keep the basic curve. He made the pupil and iris before drawing the outside. It was far from perfect, but he thought he’d caught the slight upturn at the corner that seemed to reflect the model’s smile.

When Jason sat back, he realized he was sweating. Shaking his hair out of his eyes, he looked at his picture. It didn’t look exactly like the eye before him, but it did at least look like someone’s eye. Then he glanced at the clock and saw thirty minutes had passed. How was he possibly going to finish the rest of the drawing?

He cursed under his breath. That single eye took up most of the top half of the page.

On the platform, the model adjusted position, leaning on elbows that looked near as pointy as a protractor’s needle. In fact, all of the model’s features — face, arms, legs, chest — were narrow. They had a chin like a triangle and cheekbones like two half circles. That doesn’t sound flattering at all, but damn if s/he doesn’t look hot with those features.

Giving up on squeezing the rest of a face onto the first sheet, Jason put this one at the bottom of his stack. Then he tried drawing the angle of the elbow on the block and the shadow under it.

This drawing failed miserably. Too bad they’re aren’t as easy on the pencil as they are on the eyes. Jason smirked in spite of his failure and shuffled this drawing also to the bottom of the pile.

The model’s eyes sparkled as if s/he knew what Jason was thinking.

By the time the class was over, Jason had six failed drawings and no progress.

“If you check the class website on Poster –” the SUNY Besker website “– you can choose one of Aaron’s poses to draw. Your first drafts are due Wednesday.” And the teacher began packing up.

Jason got up and approached her. “I wanted to let you know I’ll be dropping this class.” He realized he’d brought two of his drawings with him and showed her, feeling shamefaced.

She took the pictures, studied them for a moment, and then said, “I think this class is too advanced for you.”

Everyone else was leaving. Jason nodded.

“Don’t give up on it, if art is what you really want to do,” she told him. “But learning to swim by falling into the deep end is really not the best way to go.”

Jason winced. He returned to his desk to collect his failures. What was I thinking, working with live models?

“You didn’t draw anything?” the model asked from behind him.

Jason groaned and covered his face. “Yeah,” he told the unknown voice because he couldn’t keep his mouth shut, “but it all looks like shit.”

“Let me see.” A delicate hand with long fingers took Jason’s stack of paper and shuffled through. “I like this one.”

Jason looked up into the guy’s face, knowing the model was male because of his voice. His narrow face held a pair of hypnotic, dark brown eyes. “Which one? They’re all pretty terrible.” That was an understatement.

Aaron retreated to the raised platform in the middle of the room and hiked one skinny hip up onto it. “I like this one,” he repeated, and then showed Jason the drawing of his eye.

Jason shook his head. “That one’s okay, but it’s not small enough. If I could even fit your nose in there it would be a miracle.”

“You just need a bigger piece of paper.” He slid off the edge and returned the drawing. “You haven’t taken an art class before?”

“Is it that obvious?”

“Not from your work, from your face.” Aaron grinned. “Let me see that page again.”

He bent over Jason’s eye drawing, flipped the paper over, and wrote something on the back with one of Jason’s pencils. “Here. Try this book. It’ll make your life easier, especially if this isn’t your passion.”

Jason read the underlined title and frowned. “It sounds like a biology book.”

Aaron laughed. “It’s an art book. I promise. But it’s more enjoyable and less technical than most.” He headed for the door. “I’ll see you later, Jason.”


Emily Carrington is a multipublished author of male/male and transgender erotica. Seeking a world made of equality, she created SearchLight to live out her dreams. But even SearchLight has its problems, and Emily is looking forward to working all of these out with a host of characters from dragons and genies to psychic vampires.

Find Emily Online: Facebook | Twitter

New at Changeling Press: Killian Unbound by Rebecca York #darkfantasy #paranormalromance @RebeccaYork43

Princess Sabina has always obeyed her father, King Norwen. But when he plans to marry her to a ruthless prince, she runs away. Soon captured, she’s thrown into a tower cell to await her punishment.

The prison is already occupied — by a terrifying ghost. Hiding her fears, she befriends him, hoping they might help each other. As they grow close, she realizes he’s not a phantom but an enchanted mortal who remembers nothing of his past. Physical contact with Sabina is the key to bringing back the memory of the man she learns is named Killian. The more intimate they become, the more he remembers.

Their shared adversity forges a bond between them, but will they be free to acknowledge their love for each other, or will her ruthless father capture her and drag her away from the man she’s coming to love?

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All rights reserved.
Copyright ©2021 Rebecca York

Returning to the straw, Sabina curled on her side and drew her knees up, lying with her eyes closed. She had thought she was in the worst trouble of her life when her father had decreed that she would marry Bayard. Apparently, things could always get worse.

When she felt a ripple of movement in the air of the chamber, her eyes blinked open, probing her surroundings. The afternoon sun was dimming, turning the corners of the room into dark wells. She saw nothing, heard nothing, yet now that she was lying here quietly, she sensed an unseen presence watching her. The hairs on the back of her neck prickled, and she sat up.

The sods had primed her expectations, and tension sizzled through her as she waited for the specter to show itself. She must stay awake and watchful, but exhaustion tugged at her. After a few minutes, she dropped off to sleep, and for a few blessed hours, she was lost to the world — until a moaning noise made her jerk awake. Disoriented, she struggled to remember where she was and why.

All the horror came rushing back. Her father had sent men to find her. Now she was in a prison cell that was supposed to be haunted. Moonlight filtered in through the window. But from where she lay in the corner of the room, she could see little. In the darkness, she strained to bring the scene into focus.

Inching back, she sat up and pressed against the wall, creating a false sense of comfort. At least nothing could sneak up behind her. Or might a specter have that ability?

The moan came again, raising the hairs on the back of her neck. It sounded like something out of a ghost story. In the next moment, she felt an eerie vibration in the air around her that sent invisible fingers walking up and down her spine. It was followed by a low hum that steadily increased, jarring her teeth as the sound reached a painful level.

She might have screamed for it to stop if she’d thought that would do any good. Clamping her hands over her ears and pulling her elbows in close, she hunched down, trying to make herself a smaller target for whatever was making itself known in this fashion. But the wind rose to gale levels, blowing through the room like a winter storm. In a desperate effort to find shelter, she pulled the blanket over her head, but a strong gust came out of nowhere, ripping the covering from her fingers.

It was a deliberate assault. Or mayhap a display of power. Clenching her teeth, she fought not to scream. The presence in this room, whatever it was, wanted to scare the spit out of her, and it was doing an excellent job. The bowl and pitcher, plate and cup on the table began to rattle. Then one by one, they flew off the horizontal surface and bounced against the wall. She put her arms over her head for protection, but none of the flying objects hit her. After they’d crashed to the stone floor, the slop bucket clattered to its side.

There was nowhere for her to hide from the whirlwind. All she could do during the storm was flatten herself against the wall, her fists clamping around handfuls of straw. She would have sworn the room was rocking, although she didn’t know how that would be possible. She let out a sigh of relief as the swaying stopped, but there was more to come. A finger of wind came down, poking at her body. Touching her face, her neck, her breasts, then farther down to the juncture of her legs.

She slid to the side, trying to get away from the too intimate assault, wondering how much more of this she could stand. “Stop it,” she shouted into the tempest. “Stop it! You’re not going to drive me mad with these childish tricks.”

She wasn’t sure where the bold words came from, mayhap from her frustration at one more indignity.

The wind had lessened in response to her order. Encouraged, she sat up and stared across the room. There was nothing to see, only a sense of whirling air. “Stop your ridiculous temper tantrum,” she ordered. “If we’re locked in here together, don’t you think it’s better to be friends?”

The wind calmed.

Building on her success, she switched to her best princess voice. “I’d be grateful if you cleaned up the mess you’ve made with the bucket.”

For a long moment nothing happened. Then in the dim light, Sabina saw the wind attack the puddle that had spread onto the floor when the makeshift chamber pot had tipped over. As she watched, the liquid began to flow toward the crack at the bottom of the door, then out onto the landing. She hoped one of the human vermin out there would slip in it.

“Thank you,” she said politely.

The bucket righted itself. The other items in the room began returning to the table one by one, as though someone was gathering them up and carrying them. But she still saw no one. The response amazed her. Emboldened, she asked, “Were you trying to frighten me?”

There was a long pause before a low voice that came from the wind answered, “Yes.”

Elated that they were communicating, she asked, “Who are you?”

After another hesitation, it answered, “I do not know.”

“What are you?”

Again the hesitation. Again a mournful reply, “I wish I knew.”

The words and the defeated tone of the disembodied voice made Sabina’s stomach clench. “Do you know how long you’ve been here?” she asked.

“No.” The voice was deep and masculine.

“Mayhap we can figure it out together.”

“Why would you do that?” he challenged.

She thought about her own situation — and his. “Because I can tell you are suffering.”

When he spoke again, she caught a mixture of roiling emotions — anger, surprise, hope. “Nobody else who came here ever wanted to help me.”

“Mayhap because of the way you introduced yourself.”

When the observation was met by silence, she asked, “What can you tell me about yourself?”

This time the response was angry. “Nothing. My memory is wiped clean, like ripples from a still pond. Everything before I… found myself here is a black void.” He made a frustrated sound. “I do not even know where here is.”

“This is a room in an old fortress, or maybe a small castle.”

“What country is this?” he asked suddenly.


“I do not know it.”

“I think we are in the eastern part of the country. I’ve never been to this place before, either. Armed men brought me here after a long ride through the countryside. They did not wear the gold and black livery of my father’s guards. They were dressed like ruffians, but that could be a disguise.”


“My father is the king of Longmead. I ran away from his castle. I’m sure he has sent men to search for me, but he might not want it widely known that I have absconded.”


“So the wrong people will not know I am missing. My father wants to cement an alliance with a neighboring country by marrying me to the prince there.” It was her turn to feel frustrated. “But these men may be acting on their own, thinking to exchange me for a fortune in gold.” She sighed. “It could be that my father does not know my whereabouts.”

“That sounds… messy.”

“Yes.” She swallowed hard. “And I guess you don’t know why you are here.”

The answer came in a burst of the ghost’s familiar anger. “I told you, I know nothing. I can explain nothing.”

She struggled to remain calm as rage and frustration flowed around her in the tower room. “Then tell me what I can do to help you?”


New York Times and USA Today Best-Selling Author Rebecca York began her career as a journalist writing articles for newspapers and magazines, but after several years decided to try writing fiction. She’s a highly successful author of over 50 romantic suspense and paranormal novels and is the head of the Columbia Writers Workshop. Her many awards include two Rita finalist books. She has two Career Achievement awards from Romantic Times: for Series Romantic Suspense and for Series Romantic Mystery. Her Peregrine Connection series won a Lifetime Achievement Award for Romantic Suspense Series. She collects rocks, and enjoys cooking, walking, reading, gardening, travel, and Mozart operas.

Visit the author online: Facebook | Twitter | Website

Now in Paperback: Beast/Hawk by Harley Wylde #mcromance #agegap

Beast (Reckless Kings MC 1)

Lyssa — I should have known I’d end up with a biker. I always liked a bad boy in grease-stained jeans. If there’s one thing I’ve dreamt about the last few years, it’s Beast. The moment our lips touch, I know he’s going to be mine.

Beast — A goddess walked into my clubhouse and turned my life upside down… But her daddy is Torch, President of Dixie Reapers MC, and her grandfather is world-renowned assassin Casper VanHorne. Good thing I’m not just any man. I’m Beast. President of the Reckless Kings MC. And I’m the man who’s going to claim Lyssa…

Hawk (Reckless Kings MC 2

Hayley — If I’d realized chasing Cuddles through the biker compound would result in the hottest night of my life, I might have fixed my hair and dressed a little better. Not that Hawk seemed to mind. I just didn’t realize the night would end with a free gift — one that’s an eighteen-year-long commitment.

Hawk — Never thought I’d make it to forty without finding someone special. Hayley’s the last woman I should fall for. If I’d known our one night had repercussions, I’d have tried harder to find her. Finding out I have a daughter is the scariest thing ever, but it means I get what I want most. A family.

WARNING: Beast/Hawk Duet contains scenes of graphic violence and adult relationships, as well as some well-meaning meddlesome bikers who aren’t above causing a bit of mischief.

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Copyright ©2021 Harley Wylde
Excerpt from Beast


Brick flashed his phone screen to me with a wide grin. “They look good, don’t they?”

I nodded. What else was there to do? I wasn’t so big an asshole I’d deny his sister any true happiness she could find. I’d wanted it to be with me, but after all she’d been through, she’d needed a clean break and a fresh start. Far the fuck from here.

“Kid looks cute.”

“Yeah, she does. Charlotte keeps calling Jenna her miracle baby.” Brick sighed. “I miss the hell out of her.”

He wasn’t the only one. I understood why Charlotte had left, even gave her my full support. Still hurt like a bitch, watching her taillights fade into the distance, knowing damn well she’d never set foot in this town, or even this state, ever again. She’d lost her baby, and the doctors had said she might not have another. She’d proved them wrong.

“How’s what’s-his-face?” I asked.

Brick snorted. “You don’t like saying his name, do you?”

Nope. Not even a little. Every time Brick showed me pictures of Charlotte and her family, I thought about everything I’d lost the day she’d left. I’d been in love with her since long before I should have noticed her. Didn’t matter. I wasn’t what she needed. In the end, she’d settled in Alaska, found herself a nice, ordinary guy who worked for the National Park Service as a wildlife biologist. The guy made enough to take care of Charlotte and their daughter by legal means, and as much as I wanted to hate the man, he seemed like a decent sort.

Brick sighed. “Rob is doing fine. Got a promotion last week, in fact. Charlotte seemed excited.”

Perfect. “Great! I’m sure Rob is the perfect husband for her, and the best dad ever.”

“Look, brother. I’m sorry Charlotte left. I know you had feelings for her, but she’s in a good place. Rob treats her like a queen, and she’s far away from all the shit the club deals with. The only danger she might face is a fucking bear or wolf. And I mean the animal kind, not the humans we run across who are fucking rabid.”

I knew he was right. Knew it, but didn’t have to like it.

“Fine. She should have moved away from here, from the club. I’m glad she’s safe and loved. I won’t say I’m thrilled she’s gone, but I’m happy for her.”

It wasn’t a complete lie. I really did want her to be happy, even if it wasn’t with me. I could do without all the pictures of her new life. Brick liked showing off his sister and her kid, and I accepted it. Just didn’t like it being shoved in my face every damn week.

“You ready for tomorrow?” Brick asked.

Not even close. “Did Torch say what the fuck he wanted?”

“You really haven’t paid attention, have you? It wasn’t Torch who called. It was Venom. The club needs a favor.”

Of course, they did. Everyone wanted something. “What time are they arriving?”

“Any second. Something about wanting to rest tonight, then talk in the morning before they head out first thing.”

“Guess I better drink up.” I finished off my beer and got another. Didn’t have anyone to blame for my shit mood except myself. If I’d made a move on Charlotte sooner, she never would have gotten hurt. She’d have been mine, and I’d like to think we’d have been happy. Hindsight was a bitch.

It was unusual for a club to ask for a favor without giving any details. The Dixie Reapers were a good sort, so I wasn’t worried they’d ask for more than I was willing to give. Even if it was a bit odd. They had clubs they were closer to, even tied to by blood. So why come here? For that matter, why not settle this shit over the phone? It wasn’t exactly a short drive.

The clubhouse doors swung open and light spilled through the doorway, silhouetting a petite woman with curves in all the right fucking places. Hair black as pitch and skin white as snow. Fuck. I sat up a little straighter. Hadn’t seen the likes of her around here before. Maybe today wasn’t such a shit day after all.

She slowly turned her head, taking in the room. When she spotted Brick and me, she sauntered forward, the doors shutting behind her. My eyes adjusted to the dim interior again and I sucked in a breath. A tight black sweater clung to her like a second skin. Ripped denim molded to her shapely legs. The black boots on her feet were tiny but badass. She looked like a biker’s wet dream.

“Dibs,” I murmured, not taking my gaze off her.


Harley Wylde is the International Bestselling Author of the Dixie Reapers MC, Devil’s Boneyard MC, and Hades Abyss MC series.

When Harley’s writing, her motto is the hotter the better — off the charts sex, commanding men, and the women who can’t deny them. If you want men who talk dirty, are sexy as hell, and take what they want, then you’ve come to the right place. She doesn’t shy away from the dangers and nastiness in the world, bringing those realities to the pages of her books, but always gives her characters a happily-ever-after and makes sure the bad guys get what they deserve. 

The times Harley isn’t writing, she’s thinking up naughty things to do to her husband, drinking copious amounts of Starbucks, and reading. She loves to read and devours a book a day, sometimes more. She’s also fond of TV shows and movies from the 1980’s, as well as paranormal shows from the 1990’s to today, even though she’d much rather be reading or writing.

You can find out more about Harley or enter her monthly giveaway on her website. Be sure to join her newsletter while you’re there to learn more about discounts, signing events, and other goodies!

New at Changeling Press: The Ambrosia Directive by Mikala Ash #steampunk #romanticsuspense @ash_mikala

The end is nigh. It’s all or nothing! Elizabeth Hunter-Payne has been abducted by her archnemesis Vladimir. Lucius, his patchwork man, a chimera assembled from body parts of the dead, “rescued” her from a sham charge of murder.

Now a pariah, separated from everyone who cares, Elizabeth finds herself in a luxury country estate where the gentry throw off the shackles of convention and consume copious quantities of an aphrodisiac called ambrosia and participate in salacious shenanigans involving wanton servants, well-endowed sex machines, and a familiar doppelganger. All provide cover for Vladimir as he advances his ultimate plot: to destroy the empire and possess Elizabeth body and soul.

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Copyright ©2021 Mikala Ash

My New Home
April 1860

I dreamt of the realm of love.

It is a wondrous place not found on any navigator’s chart or cartographer’s globe. It is a strange land founded on the extremities of human emotion, bounded only by imagination and endurance, lapped by limpid oceans of joy, contentment, and safety, harried by turbulent seas of jealousy, despair, and disappointment. We are blessed if we can but visit this arcadia where colours are overbright, fragrances are both fleetingly delicate and ferociously evocative, and a mere touch is the fuse that ignites explosions of exquisite sensation. Doubly blessed are those fortunate enough to live their whole lives within its shimmering borders.

I was riding in this strange land beside my dear husband Jonathan as he was before he left for the war. He and I rode through this perfect dreamscape on horses of infinite grace and swiftness, not knowing we were but visiting, and our time here short. Beneath a cerulean sky, and over undulating hills of verdant green we rode, laughing and urging each other on. Faster and faster we went, the wind rushing through our hair, raindrops stinging our cheeks.

Jonathan and I were fresh from making love beneath the overarching limbs of weeping willows on the banks of a looking-glass lake. Our sweat had dried, our pulsing inner muscles relaxed, the delicious languor replaced by bursts of playful energy. We’d indulged in tickling and wrestling, and, of course, kissing. Diamond drops falling from our leafy ceiling heralded a spring shower, so we had dressed swiftly and took to our glorious steeds.

As if by magic two others glided in and joined us. Felix was the first man I had made love to after Jonathan’s death. His was a beautiful soul, and it was he who had reawakened my sensuality, and taught me how to break the shackles of convention.

Then came Baudry, Dr. Jack Baudry, an honourable man who like me was an Agent of Her Majesty the Queen. He had said he loved me and had proved it, risking his life for me time and again. I deeply regretted our parting. Pride and jealousy had tainted my heart. But this was no time to think of that final argument. It was much better to remember our passionate lovemaking on the rug in front of his fireplace, the flames warming my flesh outside, his tongue setting me alight on the inside. It was marvellous to see his handsome smiling face.

Surrounded by the three men who had kissed my heart, I was exultant, my blood pumping and my soul singing. I could ignore the grim reality that Jonathan was dead, Felix had been beaten to an inch of his life, and Baudry, wonderful Baudry, was lost to me. In my dream the four of us rode on, carefree and laughing.

Oh, the joy! The thudding of hooves over the soft grass, the rapid breathing of the horses, the jangling of the bridles and stirrups, and the sweet laughter of my gallant husband by my side. We approached a hedgerow, and I turned a mischievous eye to my darling, and with a saucy wink urge him to jump with me. I catch but a glimpse of a little man who abruptly stands, emerging from the shadows like some malicious goblin. My horse screams and shies in surprise, rears up to pummel the creature with its hooves, and I am unseated, light as a dandelion flying through the blue until the green rushes up to meet me, and all goes dark.


I opened my eyes. “Jonathan?”

He gazed down at me, his beautiful eyes clouded with loving concern, the fine planes of his face creased with anxiety. With one hand he pressed a damp cloth against my forehead, and with the other squeezed my fingers. His touch was warm and reassuring, and my heart commenced to gallop.

Jonathan? My darling Jonathan? I see him, but how could this be? Something is wrong. This cannot be. I tell myself this is a lie.

My Jonathan is dead, his body mouldering these five years in the muddy battlefield of Sebastopol.

Yet Jonathan continued to tenderly caress my forehead. I screamed.

“Elizabeth. Do not be afraid. It is I. Nathanial Royston. Your brother-in-law.”


Nathanial Royston. The doppelganger. My beloved husband’s twin, parted from his brother as a newborn, and taken to a new life in India. For a moment confused images from Grove Hall Asylum filled my mind. I had been looking down at a photograph I had plucked from the hand of a monster. The bloodied image showed a man resembling my dear husband sitting in a madman’s laboratory, smiling at Vladimir, the Russian agent responsible for Jonathan’s death. I had assumed from the start the picture to be of Nathanial and not my husband, the photograph just another sick antagonism by the obsessed Russian.

I screwed my eyes against a throbbing headache. “Nathanial?”

“Gently now, sister. You have been unwell.” He puffed up a pillow and gently placed it behind my head.

“I have?” I looked around me. I was enveloped in silken sheets and soft woollen blankets, surrounded by luxury. The bed, a velvet-draped four poster was a bower within a sweetly scented room that was crowded with tall-backed chairs and Oriental style screens. Atop a dressing table where coloured perfume bottles glinted, was a gilded mirror reflecting the cool yellow light of the lamps. Wine-coloured velvet curtains fell from ceiling to floor. A comforting blaze in an ornate fireplace cast the room in a warm golden glow.

“Where am I?” I said, my voice husky and dry.

“Somewhere in England, the country, but where I cannot say.” He filled a glass from a crystal decanter on the nightstand and brought it to my lips. “Here, drink this.”

The golden liquid emitted a luscious aroma that was thick and sweet. “What is it?”

“Ambrosia. It will refresh you.”


Aussie Mikala Ash used to be a mild-mannered training & development consultant by day, and a wild sci-fi and paranormal adventure writer by night. Now she is a brazen full-time writer and nature photographer who is concentrating on having among other things, “… bags, and bags of fun!” Mikala can be found on Facebook and on Twitter.

New at Changeling Press: Come For You by Willa Okati #LGBTQ #paranormalromance #mpreg @willa_okati

Gabriel, a dreamer and a librarian, is so shy and introverted that he’s still a virgin Omega at twenty-five — but he can’t help wishing fairy-tale Prince Charmings were real and that one would find him. One does, a rough-hewn but outgoing, captivating quarryman Alpha called Wynn. For them, it’s love at first sight. Gabriel doesn’t care if they’re an odd couple, no matter what others and his Beta co-librarian Cameron thinks about it.

But the happy ending is harder to come by. When Gabriel’s almost full term with their first child, there’s an accidental explosion at the quarry that leaves Wynn trapped behind a wall of rubble. Waiting for news – any news – and hoping against hope, all Gabriel has to comfort himself with is the memory of his fairytale of a love story. He’s so lost in dreaming he doesn’t realize he’s in labor and needs to get to a doctor.

Who will rescue who?

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Copyright ©2021 Willa Okati

Love at first sight was only for stories, or so Wynn had always been told.

Fairy-tale princes that carried you away beneath their hills, who danced the night away with you, and left you changed.

So he’d always been told.

Everyone who’d ever told him that had been wrong.

The second he laid eyes on the cute little librarian with the glasses and the sweetest smile he’d ever seen, Wynn knew: everyone else was so, so wrong, and he was going to prove that.

* * *


Tick. Tick. Tick.

The clock perched on their windowsill wasn’t old enough to be vintage or antique, and wasn’t new enough to be anything but old, but Gabriel liked it anyway. He’d painted the metal frame brass, then scuffed it with sandpaper until it took on a patina of age.

“Like it’s been through a war or something,” Wynn had said, turning the thing over in his strong, work-scarred hands to marvel at it. “What made you think of doing that?”

Gabriel took the clock away, his hands so much smaller and fairer than Wynn’s that he let them linger there, so long that Wynn took one of them in his and kissed the back of his knuckles. “Because time matters,” he tried to explain, lifting his hand to Wynn’s hair to ruffle the short, still-wayward sandy strands. “Because I wanted it to be beautiful.”

No one besides Gabriel ever got to see Wynn’s best smile, the one that made him warmer than the sun, and that sent a slow-rolling wave of pleasure tingling down to his toes. “You’re beautiful.”

“Stop it, I’m not.”

“Shh.” Wynn pressed his lips to Gabriel’s hot cheek and laid his hand on Gabriel’s belly. “You’re beautiful if I say you are, and I do. So there.”

When he said it, Gabriel believed him. He raised himself to wind his arms around Wynn’s neck and pulled him down into a kiss. One kiss, and then another, and then —

* * *


Tick. Tick. Tick.
“Hey. Where’d you go?” Tucked up big and hard and solid behind him, his chest pressed to Gabriel’s back, Wynn nosed against Gabriel’s ear. “Come back.”

Gabriel blinked out of the daydream he’d drifted into. It happened more and more often these days, but he’d been told that was natural for Omegas this close to giving birth. He looked down to where Wynn’s big hand splayed wide over his belly, and even it wasn’t big enough to cup more than the top. They’d been twined together for an hour, maybe more, taking their time and letting the fire build.

He glanced at the clock — they had half an hour before the alarm rang, not enough but enough to make use of — and covered Wynn’s hand, turning his head as far as he could toward Wynn’s mouth. “I’m here.”


Willa Okati (AKA Will) is made of many things: imagination, coffee, stray cat hairs, daydreams, more coffee, kitchen experimentation, a passion for winter weather, a little more coffee, a whole lot of flowering plants and a lifelong love of storytelling. Will’s definitely one of the quiet ones you have to watch out for, though he — not she anymore — is a lot less quiet these days.

New at Changeling Press: The God’s Wife by Lena Austin #paranormalromance #LGBTQ @Lena_Austin

The God’s Wives — noblewomen sworn to protect and serve Egypt by any means, be it assassination, sorcery, or seduction. Raised from infancy to be the wife of Pharaoh, Hati knows her duty. She will win the Pharaoh’s heart, form a psychic connection with him, produce his children, and rule beside him as the wife of the Living God. She is the power behind the throne. But when Pharaoh dies, pregnant Hati must rule alone as Regent-Queen, protecting the Empire for her unborn child and another child of Pharaoh carried by a concubine.

Senmut has been in love with Hati since he first took her virginity, but he knows their love can never be more than a secret affair. When the disinherited brother of the dead Pharaoh arrives, claiming to be the true heir since no woman has the ability to rule an Empire, Hati must prove her worth and do more than simply be Regent-Queen. She must shave her hair, dress as a man, and become Pharaoh Hatshepsut, the first woman Pharaoh of Egypt.

Senmut becomes part of Pharaoh Hati’s inner circle, and the father of her second child. It will take all the might, muscle, sorcery, and deviousness of the God’s Wives and their allies to keep Hati on the throne long enough for the true heir of Pharaoh to be born. Can their love survive in a court surrounded by enemies on all sides?

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All rights reserved.
Copyright ©2021 Lena Austin

“Senmut!” shrieked a young girl’s voice. “You came!”

Without warning, Senmut found his arms full of a beautiful dancer in nearly full panoply. Even the perfume cone was already on her head, filling his nostrils with the delightful scent of expensive oils. He prayed for fortitude and unwound the girl’s arms from around his neck so he could see who she was, before his body betrayed him.

The tiny imp in front of him turned a full circle to show off what little there was of her costume before facing him with a grin. Only then did recognition dawn.

“Hati?” he gasped in wonderment. His childhood friend had grown to full womanhood in the space of the few years he’d been away in the army, serving at the southern gates with Nubia. Senmut gulped and tried to think of something intelligent to say. “Um, I like that costume you are almost wearing.”

Hati laughed, the sound a cross between a chuckle and giggle he remembered. “Isn’t it something?” She wiggled and pranced a moment while

Senmut stared. The costume was little more than golden chains and baubles, and not a scrap of linen to hide her charms. And there were plenty of charms to view. Never a tall child, she was still fairly short, but the once-flat chest was now full and lush. Long, streamlined muscles bespoke of the many years of physical training. The face was the only constant, with slashing cheekbones and the slanted, otherworldly eyes of the Egyptian nobility. Those lips he knew well for taunting him were full and tempting. The whole package was an invitation to the kind of impropriety that would get a man killed without mercy.

“I never dreamed I’d get a costume like this when I told you I’d dance before my cousin the Pharaoh to win his heart… or at least his lust,” she added, winking.

Senmut barely remembered that long ago conversation over a game of mehen, the snake game. “Yes, you said you were training to be a God’s Wife in the temple, and that you would dance before the Pharaoh and become his wife. I didn’t believe you then.”

Hati was unoffended by his childhood skepticism. She laughed as she walked over to a pitcher of plain beer and offered him some. “I remember your commoner tastes. See? Here’s your nasty old beer,” she said with a twinkle in her eye.

Now it was Senmut’s turn to laugh. It was an old game between them and distracted him away from her changed physical appearance. He pretended to snatch the cup from her hands with a frown, and then retorted, “Give me beer, bread, and salt and I’ll work a full day. You, royal one, with your rich foods and date wines will be fat and drunk long before that.”

“Hah! Royal family I may be, but do I look fat and drunk to you?” Hati performed the nearly impossible moves of a dancer, seeming to flow effortlessly into positions that made Senmut’s muscles ache nearly as much as his groin. He shifted his scribe’s tablet lower and drank deeply of the bitter brew.

“Enough! Have mercy on an unmarried scribe!” he cried. “You sorceresses of the God’s Wives would make any man ache, as you well know.” He looked at his beer in mock suspicion, as if she might have put any one of the many aphrodisiacs known to the women of the God’s Wives in his goblet. It dawned on him that Hati needed no such aides to make a man look on her with desire.


Someone cursed Lena Austin with “may you have a life so full you’ll have many tales to tell your grandchildren.” Lena’s a “fallen” society wench with a checkered past. She’s been a licensed minister, hairdresser, Realtor, radio DJ, exotic dancer, telephone service tech, live-steel medievalist swordswoman, BDSM Mistress, and investment property manager. Not necessarily in that order. She never finished that degree in marine archaeology, but did learn to scuba — she’s got a lifetime of “Research material!”

Hey, why waste these stories on kids who won’t listen anyway? Writing them down is a nice way to spend her retirement. What? You expected an ex-BDSM Mistress to take up crocheting or something?

New at Changeling Press: Savage (Devil’s Fury MC) by Harley Wylde #mcromance #agegap #romanticsuspense @HarleyW_Writer

Mariah — I knew my dad, a Dixie Reaper, wouldn’t understand why I wanted to date a cop. It’s why I’d planned to elope with Ty, until it all went so very wrong. My dad caught me, tossed me into the car, and drove me hours away to the Devil’s Fury. I didn’t know he’d already promised me to someone else. Savage. The Devil’s Fury MC Treasurer. A man who set butterflies loose in my stomach at first sight.

The man might have claimed me as his, but he runs every time we’re in the same room together. I can’t tell if he’s just that turned off by me, or if there’s another woman. Whatever it is, he either needs to let me go, or make me his — in all ways. I just never expected the surprise left at the gates, and the way it would make my heart break, or the fact my ex would be a lunatic. I should have known life would throw me a curveball. Or two. Nothing is ever easy.

Savage — Claiming a woman sight unseen didn’t seem like such a bad thing. It wasn’t like I had anyone I wanted to settle down with. The fact she’s two decades younger than me might have given me pause at one point, but not anymore. Then she arrives, spitting and hissing like an angry kitten. I try to do the right thing and give her time. Except clearly that was the wrong thing to do.

I’ll make her realize she’s the only one I want, claim her in every way possible, but first… I need to take care of business. The dirty cop who preys on women and children will be taught a lesson he won’t soon forget. Should have known the daughter of a Dixie Reaper wouldn’t shy away from getting her hands dirty and wouldn’t need saving. Not sure how I got so lucky to call her mine, but I’m holding on tight to Mariah. She’s the best thing to ever happen to me.

WARNING: Savage is part of the Devil’s Fury MC and contains bad language, adult situations, dark content, and violence some may find difficult to read. But there’s a guaranteed happily-ever-after, no cliffhanger, no cheating, a super cute little girl, and some adorable kittens.

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All rights reserved.
Copyright ©2021 Harley Wylde


My jaw ached from grinding my teeth. I stared out the window, refusing to even look at my dad. I couldn’t believe he’d hauled me away from Tyson. Another few minutes, and we’d have been gone. I wondered who’d told. Could have been the Prospect at the gate, or any of my dad’s spies around town. I should have waited until dark. Even though I’d begged Ty to wait, he hadn’t listened.

“Can’t ignore me forever,” my dad said.

Want to bet?

We crossed the Alabama state line and entered Florida. He hadn’t said exactly where we were going. Devil’s Boneyard? They weren’t far from our current location. I wanted to ask. Pressing my lips together, I forced myself to remain silent.

“Fine. Pout like a damn kid, Mariah, but it’s not going to change anything. Settle in. We still have a bit of a drive.”

I looked over at him. What the hell did that mean? The Devil’s Boneyard was only another hour, if that. So where were we going? When he took the ramp to head north into Georgia, my stomach knotted. Oh, shit.

“We’re going to see Farrah?” I asked before I could stop myself.

“Nope, but same location.”

Shit. If we weren’t going to see Farrah, then who? Did my dad want my brother-in-law, Demon, to scare the hell out of me? Because it wouldn’t be hard. Just being in his presence was enough to make me pee myself. I knew he doted on my sister, but it didn’t change his scare factor. I’d heard the stories of what he’d done when people crossed him or the Devil’s Fury.

I tried not to fidget as the truck ate up the miles. My nerves were shot by the time we arrived. Expecting my dad to stop at Farrah’s or even the clubhouse, I couldn’t hold back my gasp as he kept going. Bile rose in my throat, and I scanned the area, not having a damn clue whose house we’d be visiting. The fact he’d packed my clothes and a box of my books didn’t bode well for this being a quick stop.

Since my dad had taken my phone, I couldn’t even text Ty to let him know my current location. I knew he’d have come for me. We may not have made our flight today, but we could have gotten another one.

We came to a stop outside a sprawling home. It might have only been one-story, but I could tell it was far from small inside. I got out and stood by the truck, not knowing what to expect. The front door opened and when I saw the large man who strolled out to meet us, my stomach flipped.

“You made good time,” Savage said, holding his hand out to my dad.

“Needed to get her out of there immediately. Caught her trying to run off with the cop.” My dad glared at me. “Nothing to say, Mariah?”

“Why am I here?” I asked.

Savage’s eyebrows rose and he rocked back on his feet. “Damn. I’m guessing this is a conversation we should have inside. Y’all come in. Need me to get anything from the truck?”

“I threw a box of her books in the back seat, and she has a bag of clothes. I can send the rest in a few days.” My dad started walking to the house. “Getting old’s a bitch. I’m using your bathroom.”

Savage snickered.

My dad tossed a phone at him. “That’s hers. She can have it back, but I’m not giving it to her. She may call that shithead cop.”

Savage caught the phone, looked at it a moment, then handed it to me. “No calls or texts until we talk. Don’t make me regret letting you have that back.”

He opened the back door of the truck and hauled my stuff out like it didn’t weigh anything. I had no choice but to follow him into the house. He set my things down inside the door and motioned for me to have a seat in the living room. Gray slate floors stretched in every direction, and the light gray walls added to the drab color scheme.

I sank onto a black leather sofa and eyed the unusual coffee table. It had to be custom-made. The base looked like a large cut tree trunk. Etched into the top were the colors for the Devil’s Fury, and a piece of glass set over the top, cut to match the edges. I hadn’t ever seen anything like it. The wood had been distressed or stained to a dark charcoal.

To my left, a flat screen TV hung from the wall. It had to be at least sixty inches or more. Across from the couch and table were two chairs, and a smaller table set between the two. An ottoman sat catty-corner to one of them, and I figured it must be where Savage usually sat. The chair looked more worn than the other one.

My dad entered the room, his arms folded, and he glared at me. I narrowed my eyes right back and waited to see why he’d brought me here.

“What did you mean you caught her trying to leave with the cop?” Savage asked, sinking into one of two leather chairs, the one I’d thought would be his. He sprawled, reminding me of a big jungle cat.

“Ty and I are getting married,” I said.

Savage tensed. “That right?”

“I didn’t tell her,” Dad said. “I should have, but I was biding my time.”

Savage arched an eyebrow. “That worked out well, didn’t it?”

The look they shared told me something was up. Why had my dad brought me here? What had he kept from me?

“Tell me what?” I asked.

“Casper VanHorne arranged for Savage to claim you as his old lady. You’re already promised to him, Mariah, so you can’t marry the damn cop.”


Harley Wylde is the International Bestselling Author of the Dixie Reapers MC, Devil’s Boneyard MC, and Hades Abyss MC series.

When Harley’s writing, her motto is the hotter the better — off the charts sex, commanding men, and the women who can’t deny them. If you want men who talk dirty, are sexy as hell, and take what they want, then you’ve come to the right place. She doesn’t shy away from the dangers and nastiness in the world, bringing those realities to the pages of her books, but always gives her characters a happily-ever-after and makes sure the bad guys get what they deserve. 

The times Harley isn’t writing, she’s thinking up naughty things to do to her husband, drinking copious amounts of Starbucks, and reading. She loves to read and devours a book a day, sometimes more. She’s also fond of TV shows and movies from the 1980’s, as well as paranormal shows from the 1990’s to today, even though she’d much rather be reading or writing.

You can find out more about Harley or enter her monthly giveaway on her website. Be sure to join her newsletter while you’re there to learn more about discounts, signing events, and other goodies!