When interstellar mercenary Captain Nick Rand rescues a beautiful enemy from
his own men, he thinks she’s the answer to his vampire prayers. On the verge
of starvation thanks to the destruction of his hemosynther, he’s in desperate
need of a female blood donor.
Lieutenant Zara Tahir needs Nick Rand as badly as he needs her. Without Nick’s
blood, Zara’s overactive immune system will kill her.
But Zara has no intention of embracing captivity. While she’s willing to
exchange blood for blood, maybe even play a kinky game or two with the
handsome vampire dominant, he’s still the enemy. She can’t allow herself to
see him as anything more.
Then Rand’s enemies make things a lot more complicated…
Hunger chewed Captain Nick Rand until he felt like a bone in a wolf’s jaws. It
wasn’t just a hunger of the body, though his gut felt hollow and his hands had
a tendency to shake. Didn’t matter how much food he ate, how much water,
coffee, or whiskey he drank. None of it touched the craving that gnawed at his
brain, making it hard to think about anything but what he needed. Even now,
when the enemy might be drawing a bead on his skull, all he wanted was blood.
Hot, red and seductive as a siren — a taste that reminded him of sex and the
cool touch of a woman’s hands.
Rand fought to ignore that bottomless need. He didn’t have time for it now, no
matter how hungry he was. Enemy temp shelters surrounded him, dome shapes
dappled with camouflage until they were indistinguishable from the forest
floor.
They made his shoulder blades itch.
Invisible, a silencer field muting the sound of his footfalls, he padded
between the shelters, beam rifle raised as he swept its muzzle from side to
side, scanning for potential attackers. His stomach growled so loudly he
wondered if the noise could be heard outside his silencer field. He ignored
his hunger, fighting to concentrate past the savage need. As he’d been
fighting for every endless hour of the previous nine days.
Instead, Rand focused on the familiar process of searching the enemy camp. He
could hear the rasp of his breathing in his helmet as he ducked into one empty
tent after another, though the silencer muted the sound past four or five
centimeters.
In his helmet com, he heard the murmur of his men reporting in as they
filtered through the camp, searching for the enemy. They had no more luck than
he’d had. The Falaran Coalition battalion had melted into the surrounding
forest, leaving behind smashed equipment, hastily abandoned meals and wrecked
temporary shelters. Apparently they’d been alerted to the approach of the
G.A.E. force at the last minute, dropped everything, and run like hell. Wise
of them, considering they were outgunned and outmanned. The colony was small,
without the economic resources Godsson’s more established planetary population
could command. Their armor was certainly no match for the G.A.E.’s.
Still, they could have left someone behind. Maybe in camouflage armor like his
own, surrounded by a field of energy that bent light, rendering the sniper
invisible.
But you could bend all the light you wanted to, and it wouldn’t stop Rand from
picking up your scent. Vampires had great noses. And great speed, great
endurance, and enough raw strength to take on a mech unit with no backup at
all.
Which was why he had been hired in the first place, despite the G.A.E.’s
disdain for mercenaries in general and vampires in particular. The generals
who led the Glorious Army of the Enlightened didn’t know a damned thing about
war. Nick Rand, on the other hand, had spent the past two decades fighting in
a dozen wars on a dozen planets. His combat reflexes weren’t just muscle
memory — they were burned in all the way down to his DNA.
Which was why the G.A.E.’s brass had decided they could ignore his food
preferences.
He moved in a liquid glide into the next tent. Sweeping his rifle over the
whole space in a smooth arc, he ordered a sensor scan. The answer came back a
heartbeat later. Sensor scan completed. No enemy located, said the computer
implanted at the base of his brain. He breathed deep, scenting the air just to
be sure. And froze.
The tent belonged to a woman. Actually, more than one. Perfume lingered in the
air: lilacs and star roses and the natural scent of female bodies. Rand
inhaled, drinking in the lush aroma. His eyes closed for just a heartbeat as
he imagined the taste of blood and pussy.
Months. It had been months since he’d had a woman. Godsson taught females were
corrupting influences who’d blunt his soldiers’ warrior instincts. He insisted
women belonged at home, teaching their children piety and submission to the
will of their Most Exalted — i.e., Godsson himself.
Yeah, right. Why the female cultists tolerated this airlock blow, Rand had no
idea. It was no wonder the million or so Falarans had refused to join
Godsson’s six million plus worshipers, badly outnumbered or not.
I should never have taken this fucking job. Never mind that he’d needed work.
Peace had broken out all over with its usual rotten timing. Absolutely no one
had been hiring. Had it not been for Godsson’s decision to invade the
neighboring planet Falara, Rand would have been forced to find a security job,
and he hated bodyguard work with a passion.
But after a year with the G.A.E., the idea of keeping some arrogant prick
alive was starting to sound pretty damned good. For one thing, he wouldn’t be
slowly starving to death among zealots who considered him a pervert.
He wished G.A.E. HQ would quit fucking around and send him a new hemosynther.
The last time he’d commed them, Supplies and Requisitions claimed the ‘synther
was on order, scheduled to arrive from Earth next week in a shipment of
medical equipment. Rand had told the requisitionist it had better, or he was
coming to HQ to sink his teeth into something with a pulse.
The man had blanched. As if Rand would touch his sweaty neck with a nine meter
radiation probe. His blood would probably taste like burned coffee and stale
doughstries anyway.
Growling under his breath, Rand left the tent — and heard the scream coming
from the other end of camp. A woman’s voice, crying out in rage and pain.
He was running before the echo died.
* * *
If she hadn’t been so sick, she could have made the G.A.E. bastards pay a
higher price when they found her in the middle of the camp. Unfortunately, it
had been more than a month since her vampire had died, and Lieutenant Zara
Tahir was deep in blood sickness.
They surrounded her, a yelling, laughing mob of massive shapes in helmets and
black armor emblazoned with Godsson’s halo and planet logo. Those suits gave
them enough raw power to take on a blast tank and win.
Even so, Zara hadn’t made it easy for them. Even in her lighter V.S.S. armor,
she had the advantage in speed and agility. Fighting ferociously, she
triggered a spontaneous nosebleed. Feeling the hot wetness rolling down her
upper lip as she spun and kicked, she snarled. It had been far too long since
she’d tasted vampire blood. Wouldn’t be long before her own immune system
killed her.
Not that these fuckers would give it the chance. They were pissed, and they
planned to kill her. And worse.
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.
Five
stargazers defy the odds and find love and adventure as they travel across the
galaxy.
Descended from the witches of old Earth, Stargazers
are highly sought after, both by legitimate sources and by pirates who enslave
them and use their talents to bend energy to power space ships and detect
people’s presences from great distances.
Wanton: When Tarik’s brother is
captured by the Intergalactic Council, the handsome cyborg realizes he’ll need
the help of a Stargazer if a rescue mission is to succeed. But when he kidnaps
Krystal, he’s torn between rescuing his brother and his growing attraction to
the talented witch.
Willful: Born both a Stargazer and Daughter-Heir to
the throne of New Zanadles, Jazlyn is used to a life of pampered luxury. But
when the planet runs into financial trouble, her leisurely life is replaced by
a whirlwind of Intergalactic Council intrigues and the lusty attentions of her
new employers.
Wild: When Stargazer Anaya stows away on a ship belonging
to a cynical bounty hunter, Ryland assumes she’s a runaway sex slave and
offers her a choice: be returned to her master or stay and serve his every
desire.
Wayward: When Abbie is kidnapped, Kat, her twin, boldly offers
her services to a very sexy pirate captain in return for his help. Tore is
fascinated by the sexy young Stargazer, but how far is she willing to go to
save her sister?
Sinful: Breanne is on a mission is to rescue a fellow
Stargazer who fell prey to pirates, and she can’t do that from the brig of
Roark’s spaceship. When she convinces Roark they should join forces, they find
out just how powerful they can be together. The pirates don’t stand a chance
against their combined wrath.
Publisher’s Note: Stargazers
contains the previously published novellas Wanton, Willful, Wild, Wayward and
Sinful.
Excerpt from Wanton
Tarik watched the young woman pacing the cargo bay of his ship. Tall and
willowy, she stalked the width of the cell with angry strides of long, slim
legs. A short, fitted tunic did little to hide her shapely figure, and he felt
a spark of heat ignite in his gut despite his mistrust of her kind. Wisps of
wavy, chestnut hair escaped from the single braid that hung to her waist, and
her green eyes sparkled with rage. He felt the corner of his mouth tilt
upward as she aimed a kick at the wall. He’d bet if he could hear what she was
muttering, it wouldn’t be very ladylike. Of course, she wasn’t really a lady.
Krystal de Mylar was a Stargazer, one of the few who hadn’t yet sold her
talents to the Intergalactic Council. Probably holding out for a better deal,
he thought cynically. The lack of military security surrounding her had
made her an ideal target when he realized he needed to acquire one of the
accursed witches in order to rescue his brother. Tarik’s renegade status made
it impossible to post a job proposal with the Stargazers’ Guild, so he’d
simply used his resources to plan and execute the perfect kidnapping.
Unfortunately, none of his cybernetic enhancements would help him explain to
the infuriated redhead why he’d spirited her away from her home without her
consent. The woman stopped pacing and pivoted to face the hovering droid,
her eyes narrowed so that the green irises sparkled like gems. She’d obviously
realized someone was monitoring her. A flicker of heat ran up his spine as she
stood still, legs spread and hands on hips. Her mouth moved, and his attention
dropped to her full, luscious lips as they moved slowly in exaggerated
speech. You are going to regret this. It wasn’t hard to read her
lips. Or the threat in her eyes. He sure hoped she didn’t know how to wrap the
interplanetary energy lines around his neck. “Not exactly what I’d
expected.” He turned to address his second-in-command. “I pictured someone
older, and tougher.” Ryan grinned. “And a little less mouthwateringly
attractive? Might have made it easier to deal with her. Do you want me to go
in first and soften her up a bit? Your reputation with the ladies doesn’t bode
well for gaining her co-operation.” Tarik sighed. They’d managed to
spirit Krystal out from under the noses of her parents and her bodyguards
without a problem, but they needed her to co-operate if they hoped to
accomplish their mission. Stargazers could sense the energy lines that
connected the stars and planets. They had the ability to grasp those lines and
harness the energy for their own use. If she agreed to help them rescue his
brother Cynn, all they’d need to do was narrow down his location and the witch
could use the energy lines to get them in and out of Intergalactic space
undetected by the patrolling warships. He didn’t understand how the Stargazers
accomplished it, but the results were irrefutable, which explained why the
unscrupulous bastards running the Intergalactic Council made a point of hiring
as many of the witches as possible. Before his parents were murdered by
the Council, they’d likened the Stargazers’ abilities to the witches of Old
Earth, who used the planet’s ley lines to feed their magic. They’d been
baffled though, by the Stargazers’ tendency to accept employment with the
restrictive Intergalactic Council. He sighed, running his fingers through his
short hair. The longer he put this off, the angrier the witch would get. “Get
her into a set of restraints and bring her up to the interrogation chamber.”
He turned to leave, pausing when Ryan grabbed his arm. He looked pointedly at
the offending hand, raising one eyebrow questioningly. Ryan let go of his
arm. “Restraints? Are you serious? She’s already pissed. You need to convince
her to help us, and treating her like a criminal isn’t going to win you any
brownie points.” That might be true, but he wanted her under control
until she agreed to help. “Just the wrist restraints, then.” He ignored Ryan’s
glare of disapproval. “If I understand the theory, she can’t hook into the
power of the energy lines without lifting her arms, so we should be safe
enough.” Ryan’s disbelieving snort told him what his second-in-command
thought about that. “Get her up there. Now.” He issued the command in
what he hoped was a stern tone, pivoting to stalk out of the room. The damn
witch hadn’t been on his ship for a full solar cycle and already she was
causing trouble.
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.
Spending more than half my life in prison taught me how to survive, not how to
live.
Jag — I took the fall for my club once and it cost me everything. Freedom
doesn’t feel like freedom when your past is still hunting you. Kiss of
Death MC is different now. Safer. Smarter. And full of things I don’t
trust. Like kindness, loyalty, and Ada. She sees too much. Asks the hard
questions. And somehow makes me want things I buried a long time ago. Wanting
her is dangerous. Touching her could destroy us both. But when an old enemy
resurfaces and targets her to get to the club, walking away isn’t an
option. I’ll protect her. Even if it costs me everything… again.
Ada — I know the difference between monsters and men who’ve survived
hell. Jag Kross is the most dangerous man I’ve ever met. And the most
broken. He doesn’t want saving. He doesn’t believe he deserves
love. And he definitely doesn’t want me anywhere near his darkness. Too
bad. When someone starts watching me, following me, threatening everything the
club protects, Jag becomes my shadow. My shield. My temptation. He says
he’s not a good man. I say he’s exactly the one I want. I’m
not afraid of the scars he carries. I’m afraid of what happens if he
leaves.
EXCERPT
Jag
The gates of USP Terre Haute swung open with a mechanical groan that I’d
heard a thousand times from the other side. This time, I was walking out.
The guard shoved a manila envelope into my hands without meeting my eyes.
“Use your prison ID until you get your state issued ID. Inside the
envelope you’ll find your release papers, a debit card with two hundred
dollars. I was informed you didn’t need a ride?” He finally looked
up at me, bored, and raised an eyebrow in question. When I didn’t
answer, he shifted his weight with a huff. “Well?”
“Was there a question?”
“Do you have a fuckin’ ride or not, buddy?” He slapped a
piece of paper down in front of me.
“What’s this?” I asked, nodding to the form.
He slapped a pen down on top of the paper. “Says you understand the
terms of your release supervision and that failure to comply can, and likely
will, result in an extended stay in the Hilton back here.” He hiked his
thumb over his shoulder, indicating the prison.
Instead of answering him, I picked up the pen and signed my name at the bottom
across the highlighted line. “Anything else?”
When the guy shook his head, I stormed out the door. I had no idea if Knuckles
followed through with his promise to have guys waiting on me when I got out. I
hadn’t called him, but he’d told me I wouldn’t have to. When
I was released, there would be a couple of brothers from Kiss of Death to
offer me a ride back to Nashville, if I wanted to go. I hadn’t really
been sure if I’d take him up on the offer even if he did actually show,
but when the prison asked me where I planned on setting up residence,
I’d told them Nashville.
I stepped across the threshold, the highly recognizable line between captivity
and freedom in the form of a smaller gate through a big-ass fucking prison
gate. I squinted against the natural light. Closing my eyes, I inhaled deeply,
then relaxed.
Nothing happened.
“Expecting the air outside the yard to smell different than it did
inside the yard?” The guy had one elbow resting on the open window of a
black F-150 in the slot two spaces over. Another, a truly massive man, rested
against the bed of the truck next to the first guy, like they’d just
been having a chat. He’d crossed his legs at the ankles and his arms
over his chest, his pose casual.
“Jag?” the giant asked. “I’m Tiny. This is
Rancor.” He was soft-spoken, his voice a gruff rumble.
I nodded once, acknowledging but not inviting further conversation.
“Ready to roll?” Tiny asked, gaze friendly.
I shrugged and nodded again, fingers digging into my palms, the sharp pain
grounding me.
Tiny straightened. “Front or backseat, man?”
“Back.”
Tiny nodded respectfully, obviously expecting my choice since Rancor
hadn’t offered to move. He climbed behind the wheel while I opened the
back passenger-side door. I tossed the small bag holding my few possessions
across the seat to the far side of the vehicle. Sitting behind the passenger
left Rancor with a huge blind spot. While the driver could still watch me, he
needed to watch the road, too. I didn’t think these guys meant me harm,
but I also wasn’t going to get shanked my first hour out of prison.
The interior of the truck smelled like leather and tobacco. Clean. No blood.
No piss. No sweat. No puke. Definitely nice for a change.
The rumble vibrated through the seat and into my bones, a foreign sensation
after years of concrete and steel. Of all the things I’d missed in
prison, I’d missed riding my bike the most. I’d been away for
thirty-seven years. My bike had probably long since been sold off.
As we pulled away, I allowed myself one last glance at the prison. The
limestone walls and razor wire had been my entire world. I’d learned to
kill there. I’d learned to survive there. I’d forgotten how to
live anywhere else.
Tiny met my eyes briefly in the rearview mirror. “Long ride to
Nashville.” He handed me something I recognized as some kind of smart
phone. I’d never held one, but I’d seen them on TV, watched as
people used them in commercials or movies, when I’d been allowed to
watch. Also, a few of the guards didn’t bother with the policy on no
phones out of the locker rooms.
“Scroll through.” He used his finger to drag the screen upward,
revealing more. Yeah, I’d seen that before from some of the guards.
“It’s my social media feed. I set it to show articles you might be
interested in about Nashville. I like to call it my ‘Long-Term
Incarcerated’s Guide to the New World.’” I took the phone
from him. “It gives you some information about our club, the shelter we
help fund and protect, as well as terms you might not be familiar with. A
bunch of the guys got together, at our old ladies’ insistence, and made
a list of things hardest for them to adjust to when reentering society.”
He shrugged. “Some of the guys found it helpful. Including me.”
I grunted. Though, I had to admit, this surprised me. I’d been worried
about looking like an idiot when someone handed me something like the famed
“Three Seashells” and I looked just as dumb as Stallone’s
character.
I still didn’t know if I could concentrate while basically helpless in a
moving vehicle with two men I didn’t know who had served time just like
me. And had likely learned the same lessons I’d learned. Yeah.
Concentrate fully on something right now? Not fucking likely. I kept my
expression neutral and pretended to take in the material for a moment until I
was sure neither of them watched me too closely. Then I turned my head to look
out the window instead.
My reflection stared back at me from the glass — hollow eyes, angular face,
hair cropped close to my scalp. Prison-pale skin already burning under the
unfiltered sunlight. I barely recognized myself. The man in the reflection
wasn’t the one who’d gone inside. He was something else now.
Something hardened and remote. Something dangerous.
An hour into the trip, the interstate rolled beneath us, mile markers ticking
by like a countdown to something I wasn’t sure I was ready for. Tiny
kept both hands on the wheel except when he leaned one arm on the window.
Rancor sat with one arm propped on the window ledge, fingers drumming
occasionally to whatever was playing low on the radio.
The silence stretched between us, but it didn’t feel uncomfortable. I
thought, maybe these guys understood I needed time to adjust to friendly
company. Though I couldn’t trust them yet, my respect for them grew with
the care they showed for my sanity.
After another half hour of silence, other than the low music on the radio,
Tiny turned his head slightly to speak to me. “Knuckles runs a tight
ship. We’ve got legitimate business fronts now. Auto shop’s doing
well. Custom work bringing in good money. Also help with a shelter for
especially traumatized and terrorized women and children.” He shrugged.
“Most of the time, we just have a couple guys stand outside the gate.
Their… problems tend to give us a wide berth.” Tiny chuckled
darkly.
“Legal?” I said, the word feeling strange on my tongue.
Tiny shrugged. “Mostly. Still got side hustles, but we’re careful.
Knuckles makes sure of it. Shelter’s all on the up-and-up.” He
spoke like the shelter was his pride and joy. I used to talk about my bike
with that kind of reverence, so I knew this place meant something to the man.
There was another beat of silence before Rancor glanced at me in the rearview
mirror. “We know what you did for Kiss of Death that put you behind
bars.” He waited until I met and held his gaze. “That ain’t
this club anymore. We have each other’s back, and no one takes the fall
for anything.”
“Ain’t goin’ back.” I snarled the words before I could
stop myself. “Gave my fuckin’ soul for this club once. Not sure I
can do it again. If that’s a deal breaker, you can drop me off
here.”
“Never said you had to, brother. Knuckles knows his people. You
don’t have to prove anything. In his eyes, you’ve already proven
everything he needed to see, and he’ll make sure you never go
back.”
Rancor reached forward and turned up the volume slightly as “Sympathy
for the Devil” came on. My fingers twitched involuntarily against my
thigh. I’d had a cellmate who would sing this under his breath for
hours, driving the guy in the next cell into a rage. Ended with a shank to the
kidney during yard time. Though I liked the song, my cellie’s singing,
not so much. And he was a dick. Fun times.
We crossed the state line into Kentucky, the landscape gradually shifting. The
F-150 ate up the miles, comfortable in a way that made me uncomfortable. Too
soft.
Tiny pulled into a truck stop off the interstate. “Need to fill
up,” Tiny announced. “You want to stretch your legs?”
I shook my head. The thought of navigating the open space, the strangers, was
all too much to attempt right now.
“Be right back,” Rancor said, unfolding himself from the passenger
seat. “Taking a piss.”
I watched them through the windows as they moved around the station. Tiny
pumped gas while Rancor disappeared inside, reappearing minutes later with a
plastic bag.
A family pulled up at the neighboring pump, a man and woman, with two kids
arguing in the back seat. The woman laughed at something the man said, her
head tipping back to expose her throat. The children tumbled out, shoving at
each other, voices high and piercing. One of them looked my way, curious eyes
meeting mine before the mother called him back to her side.
I turned away, something hollow opening up in my chest. I’d forgotten
what families looked like. Forgotten I used to want one of my own.
Tiny and Rancor returned to the truck, Tiny sliding behind the wheel while
Rancor passed a plastic bag over the seat to me.
“Got you some water, sandwich, chips,” he said.
“Wasn’t sure what you’d want.”
I took the bag, not meeting his eyes. The scent of barbecue sauce wafted from
the bag as I opened it. “Thanks.” The word came out rusty, unused.
I opened the water first, taking a quick pull before unwrapping the sandwich
and taking a bite, nearly closing my eyes in bliss as rich barbecued pork
exploded across my tongue. “Christ,” I muttered.
Rancor chuckled softly. “Yeah, man. I think I had basically the same
reaction to my first good meal on the outside.”
“Ain’t sure that qualifies as a good meal,” Tiny muttered.
“A ham sandwich would be better than what we got in that place.”
Rancor waved off Tiny’s words. I agreed with him.
“Still fuckin’ good.” I took another bite, fumbling with the
napkin when I realized I probably looked like some kind of primitive who
didn’t know how to eat in civilized company. One more thing to add to
the list of things to get used to again.
Another hour and we entered the outskirts of Nashville. Tiny made a call and
the sound came through the car radio.
“We got a room ready for him.” I’d recognize Knuckles’
voice anywhere. The man had literally saved my sanity the short time
we’d been cellies. “He’s gonna want some time to himself to
transition, but I don’t want him isolated.”
“You just assume he came with us,” Rancor said, shooting Tiny an
amused grin. “Maybe he said fuck off.”
Knuckles barked out a laugh. “Oh, I’m sure he told you to fuck
off. Just maybe not out loud. But yeah. I’m sure he came. I know my
people, Rancor.”
“I came.” Not sure why I thought I had to speak up, but Knuckles
only grunted.
“Of course you did. This is your home. Rat Man did you dirty.”
“Almost there, Prez,” Tiny said. “Ten minutes.”
“Good. I’ll meet you at the main warehouse.” There was a
pause. “Hannah made sure you’d have everything you need,” he
continued. “She talked to every fucking guy in the place, so she and the
other women could give you as comfortable a place as they could. I know
you’re not a man who’d want a fuss made or anything but expect the
old ladies to make sure you have plenty of home-cooked food in your fridge for
when you’re hungry.”
“I — what?”
“You heard me.”
“Yeah, and I guess I’m not sure which surprises me.”
Knuckles grunted again. “The fact that you have your own fridge, or the
fact the girls bothered to stock it?”
“Both, I guess.”
“See you soon.” The call disconnected.
“Expect them to drop by often because our women can be mother
hens.” Rancor continued the conversation as we turned onto a narrow,
paved but crumbling road that cut between abandoned warehouses. “They
won’t let you suffer in silence, no matter how often you tell them to
leave. They don’t get their feelings hurt with big, surly bikers, but
oddly, they usually know when to back off before they get irritating.
It’s the weirdest fucking thing.”
That got a laugh from Tiny. “My two hellions haven’t figured out
when to back off. Don’t expect they will either.”
“Oh, your girls know where the line is. They simply refuse to let a
little thing like an imaginary line in the sand stop them.”
Rancor’s grin said he enjoyed the show on more than one occasion.
I thought I might see irritation in Tiny’s expression, but instead I saw
fondness and pride. Tiny loved whoever he was talking about. Likely loved the
fact they didn’t stop when they should. The revelation settled something
else inside me and my respect for the men grew a little more.
“Why?” I asked softly. “I feel like I’m bein’
set up or some shit. You guys don’t know me and the few who do know I
ain’t a kind man.”
“Club takes care of its own,” Rancor said quietly. “Whether
our own want it or not.”
Something twisted in my chest — not pain exactly, but its close cousin. Why
would anyone prepare for me? I was nobody to these people. The club had
changed since I’d been a member. I doubted anyone knew me from anywhere
but Terre Haute. Maybe not even then. The idea that someone had thought about
what I might need, had taken time to prepare for my arrival didn’t
compute with the world as I understood it.
“Don’t need special treatment,” I managed, voice rough.
The Kiss of Death compound emerged from the industrial wasteland like a
fortress. Which was exactly what it was. Camo netting stretched between
warehouses arranged in a defensive square, breaking up sight lines and
confusing surveillance. I counted four visible cameras covering the entrance
alone, probably a dozen more I couldn’t see. Smart setup. Defensible.
And it was designed to keep people out. Not to hold them inside.
Tiny slowed at a reinforced gate. A guard in a booth nodded recognition, and
the gate slid open. We rolled through to a big warehouse well away from the
entrance to the compound.
Knuckles stood waiting at the inner entrance, arms crossed over his chest. He
was built solid, heavily muscled but leaner and shorter than Tiny.
Tiny parked the truck in front of the warehouse, cutting the engine. I stepped
out of the cage, feet planted firmly on the gravel. The air smelled of motor
oil, leather, and something delicious cooking.
“Good to see you breathing free air,” Knuckles said, extending his
hand.
I took his hand, the handshake brief but firm. His eyes held mine, assessing
but not demanding. He didn’t try to establish dominance through the
handshake, didn’t pump my arm or crush my fingers. Just a simple
acknowledgment between equals which surprised me. Even if I were technically
still part of Kiss of Death, Knuckles, as the president, outranked me
significantly.
“Appreciate the welcome,” I said, the words coming easier than I
expected.
Knuckles nodded, seeming to understand all I wasn’t saying.
“Let’s get you settled.”
He led the way through the compound, Tiny and Rancor falling in behind us. A
few club members moved about their business. They looked up as we passed,
nodding respectfully but didn’t approach.
“Bottom floors of the outer buildings are club business,” Knuckles
explained, voice low enough that only I could hear. “Upper floors are
apartments for patched members. Inner buildings are all living quarters.
“Hannah, my woman, assigned you a unit in the east building, second
floor,” Knuckles continued. “Quieter side of the compound.”
Knuckles stopped at a door at the corner of the back side of the building. He
handed me a keycard. “Room’s yours as long as you want to stay.
Old ladies will make sure you’re stocked. Don’t ask them to do
your laundry. They will shank you.”
That got a bark of laughter out of me when I hadn’t expected to feel
like smiling so soon. “I appreciate the place to crash.”
“No thanks necessary.”
The apartment was simple but far larger than any space I’d occupied in
nearly four decades. A main room with a couch and coffee table. Small kitchen
area with actual appliances. A window overlooking the compound below.
“Basics are all here,” Knuckles said, remaining by the door.
Giving me room. “The girls brought linens and shit, so you’ve got
bedding and towels. There’s probably a box of toiletries in the
bathroom.” He motioned to a set of doors next to each other on one end
of the room. “Bedroom and bathroom.” He pointed in the other
direction. “Spare room for whatever the fuck you want to do with
it.”
I moved farther into the space, checking the place out. Clean surfaces. No
dust. The faint scent of something lemon. Someone had prepared this place
recently, anticipating my arrival. The thought was unsettling in its kindness.
“Bathroom’s got everything you need,” Knuckles continued.
“Hot water takes about thirty seconds to kick in. Pressure’s good
and the shower is large. There’s also a bathtub. Anything else you need,
just say the word.” He paused, watching me carefully. “When the
old ladies come by to bring you more food, let them in, please.”
My head snapped up, surprised by his insight. I’d been calculating how
long I could go without opening that door, how to minimize contact until
I’d found my bearings.
Knuckles gave me a knowing look. “They mean well. And trust me, you
don’t want to be on their bad side.”
A faint smile tugged at my lips again before I could suppress it.
“Noted.”
“I’ll leave you to get settled,” Knuckles said, stepping
back into the hallway. “Club meeting tomorrow at noon if you want to
join. No pressure. Just know you’re welcome. When or if you’re
ready to take an active role in the club, we would all welcome you to find
your place with us.” He gave me another grin. “Welcome home,
brother.”
He closed the door behind him with a soft click, and I was alone. Truly alone
for the first time in years outside of AdSeg — what most people call solitary
confinement, or Administrative Segregation. Whatever you call it, AdSeg was
the only time I didn’t have a cellmate breathing in the bunk below. No
guards passing by at regular intervals. No constant background noise of men
living in forced proximity.
Just silence.
I stood motionless in the center of the room. The space felt impossibly large
after my cell, the silence deafening after years of constant noise.
I moved to the window, drawn by the natural light. Below, club members moved
about their business. Two men working on a Harley. A woman carrying what
looked like groceries toward another building. Normal life continuing in its
rhythm.
My reflection stared back at me from the glass, superimposed over the scene
below. A man caught between worlds, belonging to neither. The prison had
released my body but kept pieces of my soul. The club had offered shelter but
couldn’t give me back what I’d lost to them before. I thought I
should move on, put this chapter of my life behind me, but the thought made my
insides twist. Knuckles was right. Though the compound had moved location, the
spirit of the club I’d first joined was within this fenced-off land. I
could feel the energy all around me and it felt like home.
I placed my palm against the cool glass, watching my breath fog a small
circle. Outside, the sun was setting, casting long shadows across the
compound. The stranger in the glass looked back at me, equally lost in a world
he no longer understood.
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.
Who would have thought a woman asking for help would be the reason Kane
finally earns his patch?
Jade: I didn’t go looking for trouble — trouble found me. Again. When
the danger turns real, there’s only one man I trust enough to ask for
help. Kane. He’s stepped in before, when things got rough, but this time
it’s different. This time, someone wants me gone. Walking into the
Savage Raptors’ MC should terrify me, yet somehow it feels like the only
place I might survive. And the man sworn to protect me? He might be the most
dangerous of all.
Kane: I’ve helped Jade before. Fixed her problems. Kept her safe. But
this time, the stakes are higher, and so is the risk to my club. Jade
doesn’t belong in my world, and I sure as hell don’t belong in
hers. Still, walking away isn’t an option. When danger closes in,
I’ll stand between her and the fire. Once I claim someone as mine, I
don’t let go. I’ll burn their world to the ground before I let
anyone take her from me.
Warning: This story contains adult themes, violence, and trauma. Intended for
mature readers only. HEA guaranteed. No cheating.
EXCERPT
Kane
Football played on my TV, but my brain refused to care who scored.
Sound stayed low enough to fill the room without turning my place into a damn
cave. Noise helped when the compound settled down, when the night stretched
long and quiet and a Prospect’s mind started chewing on everything he
couldn’t control. My shoulders still ached from hauling boxes at the
shop, then running errands for patched brothers until my legs felt like dead
weight. Grunt work never stopped. Prospects didn’t earn the right to
slow down.
Beer warmed in my hand while the screen flickered in front of me. I took a
swallow anyway, because habit came easier than rest. Sleep should’ve
grabbed me the second I hit my couch. Instead, I sat there, elbows on my
knees, staring straight ahead while my thoughts drifted to the same place they
always went.
Do more. Prove yourself. Don’t fuck up.
A Prospect lived inside a narrow lane. He worked hard, kept his mouth shut,
learned fast, and didn’t bring trouble to the club’s door. He
didn’t make choices that risked patched men. He didn’t drag
unknown chaos onto club property and hope the President appreciated the
surprise.
Those rules existed for a reason.
Savage Raptors didn’t hand out patches because a man wanted one. They
handed them out because a man earned one, bled for one, proved he had the
spine to carry it without breaking under the weight. A year of work might not
be enough. Two might not be enough. A single wrong decision could erase
everything.
No patch. No brotherhood. No family.
I’d wanted this anyway.
My gaze swept over the small house, stirring up a familiar mix of gratitude
and impatience. Four walls inside the compound. One bedroom. Ugly carpet.
Scuffed paint. An abandoned couch. A mismatched recliner. The coffee table had
endured more spilled beer than any furniture deserved to survive. Whenever I
flipped the switch, the kitchen light flickered as though the bulb longed for
death but lacked the decency to follow through.
The fridge hummed loud enough to irritate me at night. Pipes clanked when the
water ran cold. Nothing worked perfectly. Nothing looked pretty.
Roof over my head mattered more than pretty.
My phone rested facedown on the coffee table. No one would text me this late
unless something went sideways, and brothers tended to call when they wanted a
Prospect moving fast. I should’ve showered and crashed. Muscles begged
for sleep. Mind refused to cooperate.
Patched brothers didn’t pretend. They lived their code, protected their
own, and expected the same loyalty back.
I wanted to be one of them.
Setting my beer back onto the table, I leaned against the couch cushion and
closed my eyes briefly. The announcer’s voice droned on while crowd
noise rumbled through the speakers. My breathing slowed.
A prickle crawled along the back of my neck.
Eyes snapping open, I scanned the room. Nothing had changed. Shadows remained
in their corners. The air felt still and undisturbed. Despite this, something
tightened in my gut — an instinct impossible to ignore.
That feeling never showed up for no reason.
I turned my head slightly and listened. Fridge hum. The faint tick of the
cheap wall clock. A distant engine beyond the fence, somewhere out on the
road. Football noise. Nothing else.
My hand slid toward the side table because training lived deeper than logic.
Fingers brushed the Glock I kept there. I didn’t grab it yet. I waited,
listening harder, making sure my mind didn’t invent problems out of
boredom.
A sharp knock hit my front door.
Hard enough to rattle the frame.
I sat up fast, heart slamming once against my ribs. The knock came again,
quick and frantic. Not the steady rap of a brother. Not some drunk brother
stumbling around. Desperation lived in those blows.
I snatched the Glock and moved off the couch in one smooth motion. Feet
carried me to the door without making noise. I stayed to the side of the
frame, not directly in front of it, because I’d learned better than to
stand where a bullet might come through.
No voice followed.
No footsteps.
Only breathing, shaky and uneven, right outside the door.
“Who is it?” My voice came low, controlled.
“Kane?”
A woman calling my name at this hour should’ve triggered every alarm
bell. Setup. Trap. Maybe someone testing how a Prospect handles unexpected
visitors. Despite my suspicion, genuine fear resonated in her voice. Panic
carried a distinctive edge — a tremble impossible to manufacture without
having experienced real terror.
With my gun ready, I slid the deadbolt back while keeping the chain secured,
then eased the door open enough to peer outside.
Cold air rushed in.
Empty porch.
My gaze cut left and right, scanning what I could see past the edge of the
house. Nothing moved near my place. No shadow lingered. No figure waited.
Breathing came again, closer this time, but not from the porch.
From the hallway window.
I shut the door and pressed my eye to the narrow side window. Outside, the
walkway stretched toward the guard shack and main internal road, with security
lights casting yellow pools across the gravel. Farther down the path stood a
figure, half in shadow, half in light.
A woman.
Arms wrapped around herself, shoulders hunched against cold and fear. Damp
tangles of dark hair framed her face. Purple and ugly, a bruise bloomed along
one cheekbone. From beneath her coat collar crept another mark. Her eyes
darted everywhere, scanning the quiet compound as though expecting an attacker
to emerge from the darkness.
Jade.
My chest clenched hard.
We’d crossed paths a few times in town. Months earlier, I’d found
her stranded near one of the club’s businesses with a flat tire and lug
nuts refusing to budge. Being close enough to help, I did. She’d
responded with gratitude so intense it seemed I’d handed her a gold bar
instead of basic assistance. The following week at the diner, cheeks flushed
pink and voice timid, she’d pressed a coffee into my hand — someone
clearly unaccustomed to kindness from strangers.
Occasional sightings followed. Grocery store. Walking into work. Brief
encounters. Polite. Never lingering.
Now she stood inside the compound.
Someone had let her past the gate.
That meant trouble.
Out of habit, I threw on my cut, grabbed my keys, and shoved my phone into my
pocket. The Glock slid into the waistband at the small of my back. Surprises
weren’t my thing, especially when they arrived wearing bruises.
Cold air slapped my face as the door swung open. Jade whipped her head toward
me with such force I felt the panic radiating from her. For a brief moment,
relief flickered across her expression — quick and fragile, as though she
couldn’t trust it to last.
“Kane.” My name came out of her mouth on a broken breath.
“I… I’m sorry. I didn’t know what else to do.”
“Stop.” I closed the distance fast, keeping my body between her
and the open walkway. “Who let you in?”
Her hands shook as she tried to gesture back toward the guard shack. “I
went to the gate. I told them I needed you. I begged. I said –” Her
voice cracked. “I said I was scared.”
Anger surged through me, sharp and immediate, not at her. At whatever had put
her in a place where begging strangers felt like the best option.
“Tinker?” I called out, voice carrying.
The guard shack door opened. Tinker stepped out, bundled in a jacket, face
hard and alert. His gaze flicked to Jade, then back to me.
“Prez knows.” Tinker didn’t waste words. “Saw her on
camera. Called me. Told me not to turn her away. Told me to notify you and
keep eyes on the road.”
So Atilla had made the call before I even stepped outside.
That eased one knot in my chest, then tightened another. If Atilla knew, the
situation already mattered. Presidents didn’t wake up for minor
problems.
“I see them.” My jaw clenched. “Did anyone follow her
in?”
“Gate camera shows her car only,” Tinker said. “No tail. No
slow roll behind her. No second set of headlights. Doesn’t mean nobody
watched her leave town, but nobody came through our gate after.”
Jade struggled for each breath, and I could see the terror in her eyes.
“You planning to stand out here all night?” I turned my head
slightly, dropping my voice to a gentle rumble. “Or would you rather
come inside?”
For several heartbeats she remained frozen. No step toward me. No retreat
either. When her gaze finally locked with mine — wide, bloodshot, desperate
— something beneath my sternum wrenched painfully.
She didn’t trust safety anymore.
“Inside,” she whispered.
“Good.” I kept my hand low, not reaching for her. People
who’d been grabbed didn’t like sudden touch, no matter who offered
it. “Stay close. If anything feels off, you tell me.”
She nodded, small and shaky.
We moved down the walkway toward my place. Tinker stayed near the guard shack,
watching our backs, gaze scanning the fence line and the road beyond. Security
lights threw our shadows across the gravel. Jade flinched at every sound —
distant engine, wind rattling something metal, even the soft bark of a dog
farther down the property.
Her fear didn’t come from imagination. Something had taught her to
react.
My front porch light flicked on when we neared. I unlocked the door and
stepped inside first, scanning the room out of habit. Nothing had changed
since I’d sat on the couch. TV still glowed. Beer still sat on the
table. My place looked normal.
Normal didn’t mean safe.
I turned toward Jade and stepped back, giving her space to enter.
She crossed the threshold with the caution of someone expecting the floor to
collapse beneath her. Inside my living room, her shoulders remained tight
while her gaze swept across corners and windows.
Behind us, I secured our safety — door shut, deadbolt slid home, chain
hooked. Each lock clicked into place with solid finality.
The tension in Jade’s frame eased a fraction. A flicker of relief
appeared, only to be immediately overwhelmed by fear.
“Sit.” My hand gestured toward the couch. “Water? Coffee?
Something stronger?”
Her attention caught on my waistband, and I wondered if I’d turned just
enough for her to spot my Glock. After swallowing hard, she averted her eyes
— unwilling to appear intimidated by a weapon in a biker’s home.
“Water,” she managed. “Please.”
I moved into the kitchen and filled a glass. Pipes clanked. Tap ran cold. I
set the glass on the coffee table in front of her and crouched down across
from her, far enough not to crowd, close enough to see her face.
The purple bruise on her cheekbone stood out in stark relief under my living
room light. Along her neck, a faint scratch trailed downward before vanishing
beneath her coat collar. Near the elbow, her torn sleeve revealed a spreading
dark stain.
“Tell me what happened,” I said.
Jade fixed her gaze on the water glass as though it contained all the answers
she needed. Beneath her crossed arms, her fingers dug into her own ribs,
clutching herself in a desperate self-embrace. Each breath came shallow and
uneven, her chest rising and falling in an irregular rhythm.
Words finally spilled out, rough and uneven. “He came to my apartment. I
thought the locks would hold. I changed them. I installed a chain. I did
everything I could think of.”
“Who?” I kept it simple. Panic made stories tangle.
Her gaze lifted for a fraction, met mine, then dropped again. “The man
who says I owe him. The one who’s been watching me.”
My stomach knotted itself. For weeks, rumors circulated through the club about
some asshole pressuring vulnerable people around town. He squeezed anyone who
seemed an easy mark — predatory loans, brutal collections, interest
compounding faster than mold after rain.
Until now, I’d had no idea Jade numbered among his victims.
“Name.”
She swallowed. “Roth.”
A slow burn crawled up my spine. The name rang familiar to every member of our
club. Though not cartel-level, his connections made him a genuine threat. In
his world, money and intimidation purchased anything he desired.
“How long has he been after you?”
Her answer came thin. “A while. Months. Maybe longer if you count when
my brother… when he first owed them money. I didn’t understand
they’d come after me until it was already too late.”
Anger rolled slowly through my chest, heavy and dark. “Your brother owed
Roth money.”
Her head shook. “Someone. He mentioned a name once, but I didn’t
listen. Should have.” She dragged in a breath and looked away.
“Then he got arrested. I thought the worst part had passed. I thought
whatever mess he’d made stayed his problem. Those were his choices. Not
mine.”
“Men like Roth don’t care about differences,” I said.
Jade nodded, eyes glassy. “A month after my brother went to prison, they
appeared at my door. Called me part of the collateral. Somehow they’d
learned where I worked, lived, when I came and went. Even my friends’
names.” Her voice trembled. “When I explained about having no
money, their response was simple — other payment methods existed.”
My jaw clenched until it ached. “Did they touch you?”
The color vanished from her face. She froze, then gave a single shake of her
head.
“They attempted to,” she whispered. “Made their point clear
enough. A neighbor walking down the hall interrupted before… “
She swallowed hard. “Afterward, I never answered knocks. Changed my
routes home. Slept fully dressed because their return seemed
inevitable.”
Unwanted scenes played across my mind while my fists curled, hungry for
contact.
“Why seek me out at our gate?” The question emerged harsher than
intended.
A tear escaped, rolling down her cheek before she quickly wiped it away.
“Remember fixing my tire? Months back, near the east side grocery? The
lug nuts wouldn’t budge until you stopped to help. You inspected the
spare, then followed behind to ensure my car wouldn’t break down
again.”
Memory hit hard. Tight jeans. Messy ponytail. Stubborn chin. The way she
apologized for taking up my time before I’d even touched the tire iron.
When she bought me coffee later, I’d wanted to ask for her number. I
hadn’t.
Prospects rarely dated if they wanted a patch. Our time belonged to the club.
An easy lay was one thing, but I’d wanted more from her.
“You were kind. You didn’t make me feel stupid. You didn’t
ask for anything.” She sniffed hard, furious at herself for crying.
“When I saw you the next week at the diner, you remembered my name. You
remembered.”
Her voice broke at the last word.
“Whenever I saw you after that, I felt… safe. Not once did you
look at me as though I were a problem.” Her shoulders curled inward.
“People talked about the club. Some claimed you were dangerous. Others
said nobody messed with anyone under your protection. In my mind, if anyone
could keep Roth away, it would be you.”
Across her expression spread a shame suggesting she expected mockery for
trusting rumors and a Prospect who hadn’t been patched in yet.
I sat there and felt responsibility settle in my bones.
“Tonight he kicked my door open.” Her words came faster now, panic
rising again. “Locks slowed him down, but not enough. He came in angry.
He said I was ignoring his calls. He said I was running out of chances.”
One hand twisted her sleeve tight. “He threw my coffee table. He pulled
my hair. He told me I didn’t understand what he could do.”
My hands clenched. “How did you get away?”
“The phone in his pocket buzzed and distracted him.” Her chest
heaved with shallow breaths. “He spat curses, then announced he’d
return later. The way he strode out — as though he owned every inch of the
building — made me think he’d get back into my apartment no matter what
I did.” A hard swallow caught in her throat. “After his footsteps
faded, I bolted. My hands grabbed only keys and emergency cash from beneath
the floorboard. No clothes. Nothing else mattered. For miles I drove while
headlights in my rearview mirror transformed into his pursuing car.”
Her gaze lifted and locked on mine. “I didn’t think it through. My
head kept screaming one thing. Find Kane.”
Rules existed for a reason. Prospects didn’t bring outsiders onto club
property. Prospects didn’t add unknown danger to the compound and hope
the President appreciated the surprise.
I knew all of that.
Jade trembled on my couch, purple bruise stark against her pale skin. Sending
her away would be condemning her to a grave.
“Did you call the cops?” I asked.
A harsh laugh escaped her, ugly and bitter. “Weeks ago I tried. Filed a
report. Nothing happened.” She wrapped her arms tighter around herself.
“The next day one of his men sat in my diner, smiling across the counter
as though we shared some private joke.” Her voice dropped to nearly a
whisper. “When I returned to follow up, suddenly nobody had time. My
problem belonged to nobody but me.”
I blew out a slow breath, forcing my anger down into something useful. Rage
didn’t help Jade, didn’t protect her. It could get me killed and
get the club dragged into a mess at the wrong angle.
Atilla needed to hear her full story. Through Tinker, he knew about her
arrival at the gate, but the President remained unaware of crucial details.
Rising from my seat, I pulled out my phone to check the time.
Late.
Too damn late for another call without pissing him off. Mostly because a
ringing phone would wake the kids. Still, he knew she was here. Surely he
expected me to reach out?
Yeah, silence would enrage him more when everything eventually surfaced.
When I faced Jade again, her gaze followed my movements with resignation, as
though she already saw herself being escorted back into the darkness beyond
our compound.
“I’m calling my President,” I said. “He needs your
story from you, but he needs to know the basics right now.”
Fear flickered bright. “He’s going to send me away.”
“He might want to.” I couldn’t lie to her. “I
won’t let you walk back into the dark alone tonight.”
Tears gathered again, but she blinked them back hard. Her chin lifted a
fraction, stubbornness showing through fear. She looked like she hated needing
anyone.
So did I.
I called Atilla.
Two rings. He answered, voice rough, awake. “Talk.”
“She’s inside my house now. The gate opened on your order. Roth
broke into her apartment earlier. Grabbed her hair, threw furniture around.
His phone rang, pulling him away. Before leaving, he promised to return. She
fled straight to our compound, terrified and alone.”
Silence sat heavy on the line for a beat.
“What else?” Atilla asked.
“Brother went to prison. Debt started there. They called her collateral.
She tried cops. No help.” I kept it tight. “She came because she
trusted me.”
“Bring her to church,” he said. “Now.”
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
Sometimes wonder finds you when you least expect it.
Cece Belle is a high-functioning neurodivergent. She’s also a big
believer in destiny, but when her soulmate Robby dumps her mid-flight to
Israel, she instantly regrets ever telling him she’s on the spectrum.
Not one to dwell in misery, Cece sips some chamomile hibiscus tea to set
herself straight. And with meditation and spirituality on her side, she looks
to what’s next. Yet another blow hits when she is kicked out of her
rabbinical studies program for “strange behavior.”
Then, she meets Joel. With his quirky demeanor and ability to say all the
right things, he gives Cece the desire to begin a new relationship.
There’s only one main obstacle: Cece loves living in Los Angeles, and
Joel is a diehard New Yorker.
She marries him anyway, despite misgivings that extend beyond their geography.
After all, this is her carefully drawn plan—marriage, then kids, then
happily ever after. Sometimes though, the best-laid plans are better left in
dreamland where they can’t go awry.
Cece in Wonder Land is a twisty journey down a rabbit hole of unexpected
anxieties, disappointments, and more questions than answers. But where there
is hope, there is life, and maybe Cece can hang on for the next bit of wonder
bound to come her way.
Excerpt
Cece meditated with her eyes open the night before.
She prayed.
Cried herself to sleep.
Despite a heavy feeling in her chest that fluctuated between hurt and
humiliation, Cece rallied enough energy to attend the early morning
orientation breakfast. She sat next to her best friend, Sharone. It was a
true-blue friendship born the first day of rabbinical school. Sharone was an
attractive woman, a recent graduate of Columbia university. In her limited
free time, between schoolwork and her internship, she practiced yoga and
encouraged Cece to join her, for better mental clarity and focus.
Sharone wore her long brunette hair neatly tucked into a bright red scrunchie.
Cece easily confided in Sharone, perhaps because they were two of the older
graduate students in their class. Starting rabbinical school at the
“ripe age” of twenty-five made Cece feel old compared to most of
her classmates.
“Talk to me, Cece,” Sharone said, her brow furrowing with concern.
“What happened? I’m here for you.” She looked attentively at
Cece, centering in on her friend’s unusual frazzled, almost dazed
expression.
Sobbing, Cece replied, “Robby . . . broke . . . up . . . with me. I
can’t take this anymore.
How am I supposed to live without him? I’m shattered. What the hell went
wrong?”
At that moment, Robby snagged a seat at their table as if nothing was wrong.
“Good morning, both of you,” he said cheerfully. “Good to be
here in Israel!”
Cece lost it. Payback time. She jumped up and poured a pitcher of polar
chilled water atop Robby’s flaxen head. Robby gasped in shock, then
scurried with a humiliated expression to the cafeteria kitchen in search of a
dry towel. Cece felt a moment’s satisfaction, but she’d failed to
anticipate the reaction of her classmates, who wondered what was with all the
dramatic “waterworks.” One classmate, supposedly Cece’s
friend, yelled out from across the room, “That woman’s not well.
Get help!”
Sharone, who was more compassionate, calmed her down and took her aside.
“You really showed Robby. Good for you. He’s a snake to do what he
did.”
Cece felt seen and understood. “Thank you. You get me. You understand my
language. Life is a series of building blocks and education is the foundation.
You ask me how I feel? This is about me and my future.” Thank goodness
for friends like Sharone.
An administrative assistant entered the dining hall. In a no-nonsense tone of
voice, she announced, “Cece, the dean wants to see you.”
About the Author
Born and raised in Los Angeles, Bonnie S. Priever majored in communications
studies at UCLA before moving to Philadelphia. There, she attended the
Reconstructionist Rabbinical College, which prepared her for an assistant
directorship at the Israel Levin Senior Adult Center in Venice, California.
As a way to process emotions and stay connected to her spirituality, Bonnie
started writing about her experiences. In 2023, Newsweek published her
personal essay about the challenges of aging. Currently, she combines her
passion for writing and her love for live theater as a reviewer for CurtainUp,
an online theater magazine.
Bonnie loves to travel but always looks forward to coming home to LA. She has
one grown son and a backlog of great ideas. Based on a true story, Cece in
Wonder Land is her first novel.
In Doford Peaks, a small mountain town, 19-year-old Ethan lives with his
grandma. His life is quite normal, at least as normal as it can be for someone
with asthma. A winter morning walk turns dramatic when he and his grandma
discover an 18-year-old girl, Mia, who is unconscious and injured. As Mia
recovers, bits of her past emerge, attracting agents Gibson and Cooper of the
Bureau of Supernatural Investigation (BSI). A complex web of secrets
associated with the Defense Forces of Genesis (DFOG) intertwines their fates.
As the truth emerges, Ethan and Mia must face the horrifying reality of The
Wolf Experiment.
Excerpt
Chapter 1
A whimper pulled me from my sleep, and my eyelids
fluttered open. Gracie’s snout was right in front of me, her light gray
fur softly brushing against my cheek. As her pale blue eyes looked into mine,
her tail began to wag. There was no way I was getting up, and I rolled over to
the other side of my bed, where Hank stood waiting. He fixed his golden eyes
on me, his pure white fur seeming darker in the dim light of my bedroom.
Sunlight filtered through the two large skylights above my bed, casting a warm
light over my room. The rays continued to spread across posters of my favorite
bands, my world map marked with where I wanted to visit, my only plant that I
hadn’t killed, and my high school guitar leaning against my bookcase. My
wolves whimpered again, signaling it was time to get up. Glancing at the clock
on my nightstand, it read 6:00 a.m. I pulled the covers over my head and
tried to fall back asleep, but that didn’t work out well. My wolves
howled as they jumped onto my king-sized bed. Sitting up, I shook off the
sleepiness and raised my open palms toward Hank. “We’re bros,
Hank. Help me out here. It’s too early. Can’t you and Gracie give
me a little more time?” Hank reacted by leaping off my bed,
sprinting into the hallway, and then vanishing. Gracie fixed her fierce gaze
on me, but I avoided her eyes. The sound of Hank’s paws tapping against
the floor broke the silence as he charged back into my room, his leash clamped
in his mouth. I shook my head in frustration, tossed aside my covers, and
walked into the bathroom. They followed closely behind me. “At the very
least, let me take a quick shower before we go for a walk.” I
didn’t let either of them protest with a bark, howl, or whine and
stepped into the shower. Turning on the hot water, my wolves settled onto the
cool porcelain tile of the bathroom, their eyes on me, waiting. My thoughts
drifted back to one year ago when I discovered the abandoned wolf puppies on
my way home from the local store. They huddled together on the roadside,
trembling and shaking, too young to be without their mother. Their bodies were
mere skin and bones, and they had that look in their eyes that they were ready
to give up. I tucked them into my jacket and rushed home, fully aware that my
grandma would not be pleased with my impulsive decision, but I had to save
them. My grandma’s eyes widened in disbelief when she saw the
little bundles of fur sticking out from my jacket as I walked in the door.
“Ethan, did you bring wolves into my house?” She let out a deep
sigh and was definitely annoyed, but as she noticed their desperate state, her
disapproval began to fade. She quickly ushered me and the puppies into her
clinic and examined them thoroughly. “I’m a physician, not a
veterinarian,” she said, “but these puppies are severely
dehydrated and malnourished. I can give them fluids, and you need to buy puppy
milk replacement from the feed store. Let Walter know they are wolf pups and
about four weeks old. He will know what to give you.” Gracie’s
and Hank’s urgent barks jolted me into the present and forced me to
quickly finish my shower. Staring at myself in the double mirrors over the
bathroom vanity, I saw bits of my grandma in me. We both had curly, caramel
brown hair, although hers had strands of gray. The left corner of our smiles
was slightly crooked, a trait that ran in the family. Our hazel eyes had more
green than brown, and while she stood at 5’6″ and weighed 125 pounds, I was
taller at 5’10” and weighed 165 pounds. She was a tough, 66-year-old
woman with a strong personality who never remarried after my grandfather
passed away. I never knew him. He died before I was born. Grandma, being the
town’s physician and surgeon, was accustomed to interacting with people
and found comfort in those conversations. As for me—I was a loner and
found socializing to be a challenge. I preferred the company of animals over
people. Hank and Gracie were my best friends. All I truly needed was their
companionship, along with my grandma’s, of course. When I was five,
my parents left me at my grandma’s house. That was fourteen years ago.
We lived in Doford Peaks, a small mountain town in the state of Oakridge, with
a population of around 1,200. With winter fully upon us, I dressed in utility
pants, a long-sleeved T-shirt, and my winter boots to prepare for the cold. I
also dressed Hank and Gracie in their waterproof winter coats and booties.
Along with my down jacket, I grabbed a beanie and gloves. I stuffed my cell
phone, inhaler, and compass into my pants pockets. With Gracie’s and
Hank’s leashes in hand, I left my bedroom and dropped my jacket, beanie,
and gloves on the entryway table. Hank and Gracie followed me into our
rustic kitchen, with exposed wooden beams and oak cabinets. Grandma
particularly loved the large windows that allowed natural light to stream
across the stone-tiled floor and the breathtaking views of the surrounding
mountains. She was seated at the antique wooden table in the center of the
kitchen, sipping a cup of coffee. Grabbing a granola bar and a bottle of
water, I breathed in the rich aroma of French roast. “Morning, Grandma.
You’re up early.” “Ethan, good morning. A slight
emergency brought me into the clinic.” She sipped her coffee and
continued, “LuAnn fell on the ice and sliced her hand open. She needed
several stitches.” Grinning, she said, “She asked about
you.” “Please stop with the matchmaking.” “She’s
intelligent and attractive, much like you.” “That
doesn’t mean I have to date her.” “It doesn’t
mean you have to date her. But what’s the harm in having a casual cup of
coffee?” “Being single works for me. Plus, I wouldn’t
know how to talk to her, and I wouldn’t want to give her the wrong idea.
Can we change the subject?” She placed her coffee mug on the
counter. “Fine. Are you going out for a walk with your wolf
pack?” I scratched Gracie and Hank behind their ears. “As
much as I wanted to sleep in, they insisted I get up and take them for a
walk.” Her gaze drifted to one of the large windows, where
snowflakes were gently falling outside. Turning her attention back to me, she
asked, “Do you have your inhaler?” I patted my pocket.
“Yes, Grandma.” “What about your cell phone?” “I
have that too.” “Since it’s snowing, you should
definitely take a jacket, and—” My chin bobbed toward the
door as I interrupted her. “I have a jacket, a beanie, and
gloves.” “Hmm. What about water or a snack?” I
groaned and replied, “Grandma, I’m 19. I’m not a kid
anymore. I can take care of myself.” A protective expression
crossed her face as she placed her hand on her hip. “Ethan, no matter
how old you get, in my eyes, you’ll always be my precious
grandson.” A sigh escaped my lips, and I shrugged my shoulders.
“Do you want to just come with me?” Her hazel eyes brightened
with a smile as she waved a finger at me. “That’s a great
idea,” she said. “I’ll get my coat.” Grandma came
back wearing a down jacket. She was bundled up in winter clothing. A scarf was
wrapped around her neck, and gloves covered her hands while she tucked her
hair beneath the hood of her jacket. She grabbed a bottle of water from the
cupboard and tucked it into her jacket pocket. Then she reached for
Gracie’s leash. “Gracie can come with me.” “Gracie
is definitely easier to control than Hank. He tends to pull a lot, especially
when he catches a scent.” I handed her Gracie’s leash. “That’s
true!” she said with a smile. “I’m ready. It’s
beautiful right now. The sun is breaking through the clouds, the snow is
falling, and the air smells of pine cones. What more could we ask
for?” “You sound like a greeting card, Grandma.” A
chuckle escaped her lips. “I do, don’t I?” She opened the
solid wood door and replied, “After you.” Wood siding wrapped
around my grandma’s single-story home. The deep green roof blended into
the surrounding trees, and the many windows let in tons of light, which my
grandma loved. I led Hank through the doorway and onto the wraparound deck. We
made our way down the stairs and onto the cement driveway. Continuing down the
sloped driveway, we passed Grandma’s clinic, a smaller replica of the
main house. Glen’s truck had cleared the road of snow. At 70, he was
still going strong as the owner of a snowplow truck company. His silver hair
was often dusted with snow, mirroring the bushy eyebrows that framed his kind,
gray-blue eyes. Every time I saw him, he was wearing a flannel shirt, a heavy
jacket, jeans, and boots. Maybe they were his favorites or maybe it was his
uniform, but at least he was consistent. We walked along the towering
pine trees, now filled with snow, lining both sides of the road. The crisp,
cool air stung my cheeks, so I pulled my beanie down as far as possible and
still be able to see. Hank and Gracie strolled alongside us, their noses in
the air, sniffing at whatever scents they could find. Grandma asked,
“Would you like to talk about the letter your parents sent?” “I
don’t,” I abruptly replied. “I think we ought to talk
about it,” she insisted. I looked at her, hoping my expression
conveyed my hurt, frustration, and exhaustion. “Grandma, I love you. I
know my dad is your son, and I don’t mean any disrespect, but they
handed me off to you fourteen years ago. Mom and Dad haven’t visited me
for any occasion—birthdays, Thanksgiving, or Christmas. They ghosted me!
I couldn’t care less about their stupid letters.” “I
understand where you’re coming from,” she sympathized.
“Although I don’t support the choice they made, I know it was very
tough for them to leave you in my care, and I can only imagine how confusing
this all is for you. I don’t know what your letter said, but in my
letter, they reiterated their continued search for a cure for asthma. Their
letter made it very clear that they’re doing everything possible to help
you live a healthier, happier life. I hope you know how much both your parents
love you.” “Researching for fourteen years, Grandma?” I
exclaimed, my voice filled with exasperation. “I’m sure even you
don’t even believe that.” “I know they love
you.” “If they truly loved me, they would have been present
in my life instead of concentrating on scientific research. My parents
didn’t want a flawed son.” Her hand touched mine as she
paused. “Ethan, you can’t possibly believe that.” “Regardless
of what I believe, the fact remains that I have asthma, and I manage it. You
stood beside me, not my parents. They’ve been absent most of my life.
Even if they returned now, I probably wouldn’t want to see them.
I’m sorry, Grandma.” I softened my tone. “My anger is
directed at them, not you, and I’m just not ready to forgive
them.” She hugged me tight and reassured me. “Ethan, I will
always be here for you.” In her arms, emotions surged within me,
and tears threatened to fall. Hank and Gracie surrounded me, nuzzling their
furry heads against my body in an attempt to comfort me. As I pulled away, I
admitted, “Talking about them doesn’t help. It only makes matters
worse.” “I understand how you feel. Everything is going to be
okay, I promise. Let’s continue our morning walk with Hank and Gracie
and enjoy the day together.” Relieved, I nodded, and we continued
down the road. Hank and Gracie glanced back at me occasionally to ensure I was
okay. As we walked, the various smells around us began to capture their
attention more than my presence. They trotted happily alongside me, their
snouts pressed to the pavement, wagging their tails as they sniffed every
tree. “It’s chilly today,” Grandma said and shivered
and then glanced at me. “How are you feeling? Any shortness of
breath?” “So far, so good, but I agree it’s super cold.
Maybe we can cut our walk short.” “Good idea, and I
agree.” Hank suddenly stopped, raised his nose, and howled. A few
birds scattered from the branches above, startled by his abrupt call. Had he
sensed something: an approaching storm or another animal nearby?
Gracie’s ears perked up as she lifted her head and let out a softer but
equally determined howl. My wolves stood side by side, their eyes scanning the
horizon, alert to something I couldn’t see. Hank started tugging on his
leash, and I pulled backward. “What is it, Hank?” “I
don’t see anything,” Grandma said, glancing around the area. I
peered between the trees, searching and feeling compelled to understand what
Hank and Gracie were sensing. “They definitely smell something.
Let’s check.” “I am not sure if it is safe,
Ethan.” “Grandma, we need to investigate. If it’s an
injured animal or more abandoned pups, we can call Marsha and have her send
her wildlife team out here.” “Fair enough.” Grandma
nodded. I released the slack on Hank’s leash and commanded,
“Find it! Hank and Gracie raced ahead, tugging Grandma and me
along. Our breaths rose into the air like swirls of smoke. Frost covered the
road, crunching beneath our boots as we followed my wolves. As we went down
the road, the trees got thicker and thicker, reaching up to the pale sky,
casting shadows, and blocking out the sun. My wolves’ noses skimmed
along the damp earth, sniffing. Occasionally, they paused to circle a spot
several times before continuing on their determined path with their noses once
again on the ground. They sped up and tensed their bodies as they focused on
the trail that led us up the hill to a cliff that looked like the entrance to
a cave. Despite the cold, beads of sweat formed on my forehead, and a
tightness spread across my chest. The familiar constriction gripped my lungs
the higher we climbed. I couldn’t wait any longer. I needed my medicine.
Fumbling in my pocket, I reached for my inhaler. I could feel Grandma’s
eyes fixed on me as I struggled to breathe. Grandma’s voice was
tense as she ordered, “Stop and use your inhaler. You’re having
trouble breathing.” “Hank is pulling me too hard. I can take
a puff while I’m moving.” “Nonsense,” Grandma
said, taking Hank’s leash from me and bringing both Hank and Gracie to a
halt. The wolves howled in protest. “There, now they’ve stopped.
Please, Ethan, use your inhaler right now, and I mean it.” I
didn’t argue and put my inhaler in my mouth, pressed the button,
releasing the medication, and breathed deeply. After a few seconds of inhaling
and exhaling, the pressure lessened, and I put my inhaler back in my pocket.
Gradually, the tightness in my chest vanished. “Better?” I
nodded. “I can’t risk your health for Hank and Gracie to
chase down some scent. We need to turn back.” “No, Grandma!
I’m fine. If there’s an animal in trouble, we need to save it.
I’ll never forgive myself if we don’t keep going.” Her
lips formed a thin line, and her brow furrowed with disapproval. Grandma knew
that Hank and Gracie were not just my pets. They knew me better than any
human. They were part of our family. I felt a deep responsibility to protect
all animals, and my grandma knew that. Again, I begged, “Please,
Grandma.” After several minutes of hesitation, she finally
responded, “We’ll proceed, but if you have another episode,
we’re finished.” She handed Hank’s leash back to me. I
let out a sigh of relief. “Thank you. I’ll be okay. I
promise.” She huffed and waved me forward. After hiking up the
hill, we arrived at the cave, its dark entrance framed by jagged rocks. A
thick fog floated within the darkness, reminding me of dry ice. I had my
doubts about going inside. The cave floor could be unstable or wild animals
could be hiding inside. And what if the air was thin and stale and triggered
my asthma? But Hank and Gracie were insistent, pulling on their leashes to get
closer. Peering into the cave, Grandma asked, “Did you bring a
flashlight?” “No, I didn’t,” I replied, my eyes
widening as a thought struck me. “I can use the app on my
phone.” When I pulled my phone out of my pocket, Hank leapt
forward, yanking his leash from my grip. Gracie followed suit, breaking free
from Grandma’s hand and racing after Hank. I switched on the flashlight
app, flooding the cave with light. The beam flickered across dirt and jagged
rocks. I pointed it upward, and Hank and Gracie running down a narrow
passageway fell into view. The musty stench and distant sounds of water
dripping grew stronger as we followed them. “They must have found
the source,” Grandma said, matching my pace. My heart raced as fear
tightened in my throat at the thought of something harming my wolves.
“I’m freaking out,” I blurted, trying to keep my phone
steady with trembling hands. I had no idea what this cave contained, whether
it was safe, or what Hank and Gracie had stumbled upon. They never disobeyed
me. Maybe Grandma was right about turning back. “They’ll be
fine. They’re strong creatures. Just try not to worry.” “I’m
trying not to.” Hank barked sharply, his call signaling to me that
he needed me. I rushed blindly into the cave, adrenaline coursing through me.
The sound of Grandma’s boots brushing against the cave floor echoed
behind me as she ran.
The flashlight beam caught something ahead, but the darkness obscured my view.
Upon closer inspection, I saw Hank and Gracie circling something on the
ground. Slowing down, I hoped it wasn’t an injured animal. As Grandma
reached the spot ahead of me, she gasped. I stood still, unable to take
another step. “Grandma, what’s going on? What is it?” As
her gaze turned toward me, she said, “Not a what, but a who. It’s
a young woman, maybe 18 or 19 years old.” “What?” I
rushed forward, closing the distance to the scene. I halted just behind
Grandma, who was kneeling beside an unconscious girl, curled up in a fetal
position, wearing a hospital gown. Hank and Gracie stood close by. Her long
strawberry blonde hair was a matted, tangled mess hanging over her face. Her
pale skin stood out in contrast to the bruises and deep red cuts all over her
arms, legs, and especially her bare feet. Pus oozed out of them. Grandma
was in full-on doctor mode, checking the girl’s pulse, listening to her
breathing, and examining her numerous wounds. As she assessed the girl’s
condition, her eyes narrowed in concentration.
“Jesus,” I whispered. “Is she alive?” “Her
pulse is weak, and her breathing is shallow, but she’s alive,”
Grandma confirmed, her focus on the girl. “Her body temperature is low.
It could be hypothermia. She’s wearing a wristband, but it’s not
from the hospital in town.” She turned to me. “Give me your
jacket. She needs to warm up.” I removed my jacket and handed it to
Grandma, who carefully wrapped it around the girl. “We need to get
her out of here and to my clinic immediately,” Grandma urged. “We
can’t carry her, and I need my medical van. You’ll need to keep a
close watch on her while I go get the van. Be prepared that you may have to
perform CPR if her heart stops.” My jaw dropped slowly as the
weight of responsibility washed over me, sending a wave of anxiety coursing
through my body. The thought of performing lifesaving measures on someone was
terrifying. What if I screwed up? “I’m your bookkeeper. This is
beyond my capabilities,” I said, gesturing toward the girl. “I
can’t help her.” “You can handle this. Besides,
we’ve trained many times on all emergency procedures.” The
cave felt as if it were closing in around me. Memories of Grandma’s
first aid lessons flooded my mind, each one a jumbled mess of instructions and
distant recollections. I shook my head firmly. “No, I can’t do it.
What if she wakes up and sees some guy standing over her? You know I’m
not comfortable with people. She’ll probably freak out. Just let me go
get the van, and you stay here.” Grandma looked at me, as if
weighing my suggestion, but her expression remained firm. “I understand
your hesitation, but she needs medical treatment immediately. You’ll
have to run to the house, Ethan. I can’t risk you having an asthma
attack. It’s better if I go.” The thought of being alone with
an unconscious stranger filled me with anxiety. What if I made a mistake and
ended up making things worse instead of better? What if her injuries worsened,
and I wasn’t able to save her? Every rational part of me screamed at me
to let Grandma handle it. I had to be the one to get the van.
“I’ve hiked trails many times—maybe not up a mountain, but
I’ve covered long distances without an episode. Plus, I have my inhaler.
Please let me get the van, Grandma.” She studied me for several
minutes, probably envisioning various scenarios and their likely outcomes.
After sighing, she relented. “All right. The keys to my van are in my
office in the top drawer on the right side of my desk at the clinic, not my
home office.” I nodded and turned to leave but quickly faced
Grandma again. My gaze shifted to Hank and Gracie. Instead of coming with me,
they remained by the girl’s side. My brows furrowed in confusion. Why
had they tracked her in the first place, and why were they so protective of
her? Was it her injuries? The blood? The situation? It didn’t make
sense. “Ethan, what’s wrong?” Grandma asked,
interrupting my thoughts. I glanced at her before shifting my focus back
to my wolves. “Hank and Gracie,” I said. “It’s odd how
they’re behaving. They don’t even know this girl that
they’re trying so hard to protect.” “We can figure that
out later. Right now, we need to get this girl to my clinic.” She waved
me away. “Go now and hurry back. Stay safe.” “I
will.” I cast one final glance at Hank and Gracie before hurrying out of
the cave.
About the Author
Laura Daleo is an accomplished multi-genre author known for weaving
captivating tales across dark fantasy, urban fantasy, supernatural/paranormal,
sci-fi, and young adult fiction. Her acclaimed Immortal Kiss series showcases
her unique take on vampiric lore, reimagining the origins of vampires through
the lens of the Egyptian pantheon. Originally from San Diego, California,
Laura now calls Tucson, Arizona home, where she shares her life with her two
beloved dogs, Rose and Cooper.
Heat rages out of control as the pub burns. The only thing hotter is the
woman watching the flames.
Diana Kendall just had an argument with the owner of Cornwall’s pub. Now
Cornwall’s is burning to the ground. Diana’s an enigma, an artist,
beautiful and intelligent, but strangely aloof. How can Mike resist? But when
he wakes up the next morning, Diana’s gone.
It’s not until Mike sees a naked woman disappear into an art gallery
with a wolf at her side that the real trouble starts. The woman looks
incredibly like Diana. But what is the mysterious apparition trying to tell
him?
Mike needs to find out what’s really going. Does Diana’s fiery
past tell the story, or will he get burnt by Vengeful Fire?
As he watched the flames, Mike wondered if Prometheus had known what he was
doing when he stole fire from the gods and turned it over to mankind. Humans
had been nothing but trouble ever since.
The alcohol fueled flames consuming Cornwall’s Pub were hypnotic —
mesmerizing and beautiful. They writhed in an almost sensual way. No, Mike
corrected himself. The flames were sensual — the rhythmic way the tongues of
fire bent and unbent were undoubtedly sexual, as if they were alive, pyrrhic
creatures in the throes of orgasm, riding the stiff wooden beams that fueled
their passion. There was even a sense of playful capriciousness about the
sound of splintering beams, which created a staccato beat cheekily mimicking
the act — the fucking act, the act of fucking.
Mike thought there was even something sexual about the words that described
fire. Tongues of flame that licked, seething cauldrons of searing molten heat,
glowing embers pulsing white hot, bursting explosions of showering sparks, inflamed… His mental thesaurus eventually failed him and he settled in
to enjoy the show.
Several roof beams collapsed with a whoosh. Sparks showered the street and
plumes of acrid smoke belched out of the roiling flames.
Mike looked forward to the climax of the act, when the last sinews of
structure that held the roof aloft would melt, bend and break as the building
collapsed completely into the smoldering debris of orgasm.
Moments later there was another explosion, no doubt the last of the bottles of
bourbon, gin and scotch that had lined the mirrored bar. The firecracker bangs
brought a cheer from the fickle crowd, who twenty minutes earlier had been
drinking and singing within the Cornwall’s convivial walls. The crowd,
Mike thought, were like jilted lovers who laughed self-consciously at the
misfortunes of an unfaithful ex-partner.
Adrenaline still pumped madly through Mike’s veins as if he’d just
come inside the cock-melting pussy of some stranger. He had reason. He’d
been the one who’d shouted the alarm causing these rats to desert the
sinking ship. Not one, he noted, had stayed to fight the hungry flames. No one
had been loyal and true, though they’d drunk there, as he had, for the
last several years. Ten minutes after the final climax of this act of
consuming passion they’d likely be drinking at someone else’s bar.
He felt unaccountably guilty, like the concerned friend who had to break the
news of an infidelity. Knowing that what he did would have ramifications
beyond a simple busted relationship. A step once taken…
Across from him, in the semicircle of voyeurs, stood a dark-haired girl, tall
and lithe. He remembered her from earlier in the night. She was a stranger to
the bar, a newbie, attractive enough to stop conversation… at least on
the men’s parts and, he recalled, some of the girls too.
The pulsating conflagration illuminated her pensive face. She had striking
features; high cheekbones, full lips, large dark eyes and long straight ebony
hair that reached her waist. She seemed strangely familiar but he
couldn’t place her. She wasn’t someone overtly famous, someone who
was always in your face like a movie star. More likely she was a lingerie
model or perhaps he’d seen her in a TV commercial.
His interest in her had been heightened, of course, by the ruckus she’d
caused. An argument with the manager of the place, that stuck up prick
Cornwall himself.
There followed a brief, angry exchange with the bouncer who’d been
instructed to escort her furious body off the premises. Mike had left his seat
to go to her assistance but she’d been too quickly ejected and by the
time he’d reached the street she’d gone.
She’d returned an hour or so later, just before he raised the alarm
about the fire. He noticed she’d come in the side door that led from the
alley. Her serious and cunning expression reminded him of a jilted lover who
can’t resist sneaking into the ex’s bedroom. The scene of so many
orgasms; where so much cum had been ejaculated, spilled, and swallowed. Just
once more to lie on the sodden sheets of love.
Mike made a decision and moved between the drunken observers and stood beside
her. Amazingly, despite the choking, plastic laden smoke that swirled around
them, she smelled of… oranges.
“Hi there,” he said.
“Do I know you?”
She hadn’t looked at him. Her eyes were fixed on the firefighters, those
modern knights with watery lances who battled the angry chimera; the mindless
fire-breathing beast.
“No. I saw you earlier when you had a row with that prick
Cornwall.”
“So?”
“I really don’t think you should be standing here. The fire chief
will tell the police that the fire was deliberately lit. The police will then
interview the staff and they’ll describe you and they’ll see you
here watching the place burn down. Not a good look.”
She turned to face him then, dark eyes sizing him up. The rippling flames were
reflected in them and he found himself lost in those glowing embers, looking
for his silhouette.
“What do you have in mind?”
Infidelity, a sweet, sweet friend. “The smoke has made me thirsty. I
know a bar across town that’s not so… hot.”
Her full lips curled into a smile. One last look at the inferno and a shrug as
if it didn’t matter anymore. The deed was done. “Lead the
way.”
Mike took her arm in his and pulled her gently through the swelling crowd, now
ten deep. The Cornwall had been popular and would, no doubt because of its
prime location, be rebuilt and open for business within six months. Bigger and
better, like a whore returning to her favorite corner after a boob job.
The Glass Half Full was a pretentious little dive frequented by philosophy
students. Mike liked it. Some of the regulars even knew his name. She gave it
an appraising glance through the frosted windows before nodding and following
him in.
“What do you do?” she asked once settled on a high stool at a
round pedestal table.
Mike couldn’t help but notice how her full breasts rested on the
tabletop. “Webpage designer. And you?”
“Student. Art.”
“I guessed it.”
“And how did you do that?” she said tiredly.
He lowered his eyes to her hands. “Paint on your fingertips.”
She laughed and the pure tones resonated playfully in his ears. “I could
be a house painter.”
“Interior design?” he countered.
“Renaissance art.”
“Ah, ceilings. Just as good. Forgive me, but I may not know art but
I…”
“… yeah, yeah, don’t say it.”
He took a sip of his beer but couldn’t take his eyes off her. He felt
strangely comfortable being with her. No nerves at all, which was unusual,
given the circumstances. He was, after all, sitting with a stunningly
beautiful woman who he desperately wanted to fuck.
Usually, whenever he was alone with a new girl, he had butterflies the size of
eagles flying out of formation in his stomach. “I was in the art gallery
just the other day,” he said suddenly to fill the silence. “And I
realized the thing about reality is that it’s, in fact, an
illusion.”
He shuddered inside. What an incredibly stupid passé thing to say.
She’d think him a pretentious prat, which was precisely what he was at
that very moment.
She lent toward him, unaccountably interested. “How so?”
“Well, meaningless rays of light enter our eyes and excite some neurons.
Neuro-chemicals jump across synapses. These excite more neurons. A pulse of
electrical current travels to the next synapse and so on until eventually our
brain sorts them into some sort of matrix we can consciously interpret.”
Her nod of interest urged him on. “But it’s an illusion, something
our brains make up. It’s all a fiction. There are gaps, things we
don’t see, because of lighting or perspective. Our brain fills in those
gaps with assumptions and pre-conceived ideas. We see what we expect to see.
Due to our common brain structure and culture we fill the gaps the same way
and the result is we all share the same illusion.”
She licked her bottom lip and for a moment he lost his train of thought.
“Like a mass hallucination?” she prompted.
He nodded, grateful for her lifeline. “Something like that. I know
it’s been said before. It’s hardly an original thought, but it
struck me there in the gallery and for the first time I knew what it meant.
There was this painting…”
“How unusual to find one of those in there.” Her eyes twinkled
mischievously in the Glass’s dim lighting.
He smiled back. He knew she wasn’t being sarcastic, only getting into
the spirit of the absurd that seemed to have fallen about him this evening. He
actually liked her. “That’s what I thought,” he said,
joining in the fun. “This particular painting was just a mass and swirl
of fine lines in blue ink. The title of the painting was “Stand
Back,” so I did. And the lines resolved themselves into a face. It was
the artist resting her head on her forearm while she drew her own face while
looking at a mirror. It was quite brilliant, but it showed me that reality is
perception, excuse the cliché. That an alien being seeing that
painting, having not seen anything else from Earth, would just see some fine
lines in blue ink.”
“And apart from the face, what else did you see that an alien would not
have?”
“Emotions are hard to judge.”
“Try.”
He put on an aristocratic English accent. “It’s like looking at
paintings from the eighteenth century, don’t you know.”
He saw her lips tighten as she suppressed her laughter. “I
don’t.”
“I can see what they have painted — that shared human knowledge again.
But not what’s going on within the minds of the people depicted even
though they’re only a few hundred years in the past… because
their world view is completely different from ours… they’re an
enigma.”
“The girl in blue ink,” she said slowly. “Is she an
enigma?”
About the Author
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.
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
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?
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.
A contract of power. A marriage of enemies. A love written in blood,
bound by desire.
Caterina: My father thinks he owns me. A spoiled mafia princess, good for one
thing — marriage to strengthen his empire. But I refuse to be sold to a cruel
man. If he wants an alliance, I’ll give him one — on my terms. So I go
to Dante De Luca, the De Luca family’s most dangerous enforcer. Cold.
Controlled. Lethal. Our contract marriage is supposed to be business, not
desire. Then he touches me, and everything I thought I knew about power and
control shatters.
Dante: Caterina Lombardi doesn’t know what she’s started. She
wants protection. I want her. She thinks she can use me to defy her father,
but once she’s mine, she stays mine. She’s fire wrapped in silk —
reckless, beautiful, and born to test every rule I’ve ever followed. But
in our world, rebellion comes with blood, and enemies are closing in.
I’ll burn everything to protect her… even if it means becoming
the monster she fears.
A dark mafia romance filled with obsession, betrayal, and dangerous passion.
For readers who love possessive alpha heroes, spoiled princess heroines,
enemies-to-lovers heat, and contracts written in blood.
WARNING: Intended for readers 18+ The Enforcer’s Possession includes
dark and possessive elements, emotional intensity, and morally gray behavior.
EXCERPT
Caterina
I sprawled across the velvet chaise near my bedroom windows, one leg dangling
over the armrest, my phone pressed to my ear while Adriana went on about some
party at the Castellano estate. I wasn’t really listening. Instead, I
picked at the silk blouse I’d tossed aside an hour ago — Valentino,
bought last week, already boring — and let my gaze drift across the disaster
zone my room had become.
Designer clothes lay scattered across the marble floors like expensive
casualties. A Gucci dress hung half-off my bed frame. Three pairs of
Louboutins created a hazardous path to my bathroom. My jewelry cases sat open
on every available surface, catching the afternoon light and throwing rainbow
refractions across the walls.
“Cat? Are you even listening to me?”
“Hmm?” I shifted, letting the blouse fall to the floor.
“Sorry, what?”
“I said Marco asked about you. Again.” Adriana’s voice held
that knowing tone that made me want to reach through the phone and smack her.
“He wants to know if you’ll be at –”
“Tell Marco to go fuck himself.” I sat up, reaching for my
discarded iced coffee on the side table. Watered down. Disgusting. I set it
back without drinking. “I’m not interested in whatever trust fund
baby wants to play gangster this week.”
“He’s not that bad.”
“He wore a fedora to Lucia’s birthday party. A fedora, Adi.”
She laughed, and I felt myself smile despite my mood. That was the thing about
Adriana — she got it. She understood what it was like to live in this world,
to be decorative and controlled and expected to smile through it all.
“Fair point,” she said. “So what’s got you in such a
charming mood today? And don’t say nothing, because I can hear it in
your voice.”
I stood, pacing toward my walk-in closet. The motion felt good, gave me
something to do with the restless energy crawling under my skin. “My
father. What else?”
“What did Giuseppe do now?”
“He’s acting like I’m some prized mare to be traded off to
the highest bidder.” I stepped into the closet, running my hand along
the row of couture gowns that lined one wall. Versace, Dolce & Gabbana,
Armani — thousands of dollars of fabric I was expected to wear while playing
the dutiful daughter. “Apparently, he’s been having meetings.
About my future.”
“Meetings.” Adriana’s voice went flat. She knew what that
meant. We all did.
“With families. Old families. Traditional families who think women
should be seen and not heard.” I grabbed a dress at random — something
in emerald green I’d worn once to a charity gala — and pulled it off
its hanger. Held it up. Put it back. Wrong. All wrong. “He actually told
me yesterday that it was time I started thinking about settling down. Settling
down. I’m twenty-one, not forty.”
“What did you say?”
“I told him I’d rather die.”
Adriana sucked in a breath. “Cat. You didn’t.”
“I did.” I moved to my vanity table, surveying the collection of
high-end makeup and perfumes arranged across its surface. My reflection stared
back at me from the mirror — dark hair falling in waves past my shoulders,
green eyes sharp with anger I couldn’t quite bank. I looked like my
mother had at my age, according to the photos. Before Papa had worn her down
into the perfect Mafia wife. “He didn’t appreciate it.”
“I’m shocked.”
“The thing is, he doesn’t even see it. Doesn’t see how
fucking archaic it all is.” I picked up a lipstick, twisted it open,
then put on a little across my lips. “We all know he’s doing this
for himself or the family, but I’m sure part of him also thinks
he’s protecting me. Providing for me. Making sure I’m taken care
of.”
“By selling you off to some capo’s son?”
“Basically.” I walked back to the windows, looking out over the
Lombardi estate gardens. Perfectly manicured hedges, marble fountains, rose
bushes that cost more to maintain than most people made in a year. Beautiful.
Like a gilded cage. “He keeps talking about duty and family and legacy.
As if I’m just another asset to be leveraged. At the same time, I know
he feels women are inferior. I’m sure he doesn’t believe I could
ever take care of myself.”
“You are, though. To him.” Adriana’s voice was gentle, which
somehow made it worse. “In his world, that’s what daughters are
for.”
I pressed my forehead against the cool glass. “I know. That’s what
makes it so Goddamn frustrating. He genuinely believes he’s doing right
by me. That finding me a wealthy, connected husband is the best thing he can
offer.”
“What about what you want?”
“What I want doesn’t factor into the equation.” I turned
away from the window, surveying my room again. The luxury that surrounded me
suddenly felt suffocating rather than comfortable. “I’m a
Lombardi. I’m supposed to want what’s best for the family.”
“And what do you want?”
The question hung in the air. I didn’t have a good answer. I wanted
freedom, but freedom to do what? I’d never had to think about it before.
My life had always been mapped out — private schools, designer clothes,
carefully curated social events, and eventually a marriage that would
strengthen family alliances.
“I want to choose,” I said finally. “I want to choose who I
fuck, who I marry if I marry, what I do with my life. Is that too much to
ask?”
“For Giuseppe? Probably.”
I laughed, but it came out bitter. Moving back to the chaise, I dropped onto
it dramatically, throwing one arm over my eyes. “He’s been worse
lately. More controlling. Like he knows something I don’t.”
“Maybe he does.”
“That’s what I’m afraid of.” I let my arm fall,
staring at the ceiling. The fresco up there — some Renaissance reproduction
that had cost a fortune — suddenly seemed ridiculous. Everything in this room
was ridiculous. Beautiful and expensive and utterly meaningless. “I can
feel it, Adi. Something’s coming. Some decision he’s already made
that’s going to change everything.”
“Have you tried talking to him? Actually talking, not just
fighting?”
“You can’t talk to Papa. You can plead your case and then watch
him do whatever he was going to do anyway.” I sat up, running my fingers
through my hair. My diamond bracelet caught on a strand and I yanked it free
with more force than necessary. “He pretends to listen, nods in all the
right places, and then completely ignores everything you’ve said.”
“What about Sofia?”
“Mama?” I snorted. “She’s worse. At least Papa is
honest about being a controlling bastard. Mama just smiles and suggests I try
being more accommodating. More understanding of the family’s
needs.”
“Ouch.”
“Yeah.” I stood again, unable to stay still. The restless energy
was back, stronger now. I moved to one of my jewelry cases, running my fingers
over the pieces inside. Tiffany, Cartier, Bulgari — gifts from my father,
purchased with blood money and given with the expectation of gratitude.
“She’s been doing this so long she doesn’t even see it
anymore. The way she swallows her opinions, plays the perfect hostess,
pretends not to notice when Papa comes home with blood on his cuffs.”
“Is that what you’re afraid of? Turning into her?”
The question hit too close to home. I closed the jewelry case with a sharp
snap. “I’d rather die,” I said again, and this time I meant
it with everything in me.
“Well, don’t do that. Your funeral would be boring and I’d
have to wear black, which washes me out.”
Despite everything, I smiled. “You’re the worst.”
“I’m the best and you know it.” I could hear her moving
around on her end, probably getting ready for whatever evening plans she had.
“Look, I know you don’t want advice –”
“Then don’t give it.”
“– but maybe pick your battles. Giuseppe’s old school.
You’re not going to change his mind by going head-to-head with him every
time.”
“So what, I should just roll over and accept whatever he decides?”
“No. I’m saying be smart about it. You’re clever, Cat.
Probably the smartest person I know, even if you are a spoiled brat.”
“Fuck you.”
“Love you too. My point is, if you’re going to fight him, make it
count. Don’t waste your energy on every little thing.”
I wanted to argue, but she wasn’t wrong. Papa responded to strength, to
strategy. Throwing tantrums — no matter how justified — just made him
dismiss me as a child. “Fine. I’ll be strategic.”
“Liar. You’re going to do something dramatic and probably get
yourself grounded, aren’t you?”
“Probably.” I glanced at my closet, an idea already forming.
“There’s a family dinner tonight. Something important, based on
how tense everyone’s been.”
“Oh no.”
“Oh yes.”
“Caterina Lombardi, whatever you’re planning –”
“Gotta go, my warden’s here.” I’d heard the footsteps
in the hall, recognized my mother’s measured pace. “I’ll
call you later.”
“Don’t do anything I wouldn’t do.”
“That leaves me a lot of options.” I ended the call, dropping my
phone onto the chaise just as my bedroom door opened.
Mama swept into my room like she was entering a ballroom, her posture so
perfect it made my spine hurt just looking at her. She wore a cream-colored
Chanel suit that probably cost more than a compact car, paired with pearls
that had been in the family for three generations. Every dark hair sat exactly
where it was supposed to. Not a wrinkle in sight. She looked like the poster
child for “Mafia wife perfection,” and it made me want to scream.
Her gaze traveled across the disaster of my room — the scattered clothes, the
open jewelry cases, the general chaos — but her expression remained serene.
That was Sofia Lombardi’s superpower. Nothing ruffled her. Ever.
“Caterina.” She said my name like it was a complete sentence, with
just enough weight to convey disappointment without actually expressing it.
“Mama.” I stayed where I was on the chaise, not bothering to sit
up straighter or pretend I was doing anything productive. Let her see the
mess. Let her judge it. I didn’t care.
That was a lie. I cared. But I’d rather die than admit it.
“I wanted to remind you about tonight’s dinner.” She stepped
farther into the room, her heels clicking precisely against the marble. Even
her footsteps were measured. “Your father expects everyone to be present
and properly dressed by seven.”
“Properly dressed.” I let the words hang in the air between us,
loaded with all the implications they carried. “You mean demure and
obedient? Quiet and decorative?”
“I mean appropriate for a family gathering.” Her tone remained
gentle, but I caught the steel underneath. Mama had spent twenty-some years
perfecting the art of being firm while sounding pleasant. “We have
important guests coming.”
“Of course we do.” I sat up, swinging my legs off the chaise with
deliberate carelessness. One of my discarded shoes clattered across the floor.
“Let me guess. Someone essential. Someone whose opinion matters. Someone
Papa wants to impress.”
Mama’s lips pressed together for just a moment — the only crack in her
composure. “This is vital to your father.”
“Everything is a key component to Papa. His reputation, his alliances,
his legacy.” I stood, moving to my vanity and picking up a bottle of
perfume just to have something to do with my hands. “His ability to
control every aspect of his daughter’s life.”
“Caterina.” This time my name came with a sigh, and when I glanced
at her reflection in the mirror, I saw something that might have been
weariness in her eyes. “Must you make everything a battle?”
“Must he treat me like property?” I set the perfume down harder
than necessary. The glass bottle made a sharp sound against the marble vanity
top. “I’m not a business asset, Mama. I’m a person.”
“No one said you weren’t.”
“They don’t have to say it. They just act like it.” I turned
to face her directly, crossing my arms. “Do you know what he told me
last week? That it was time I started considering my options. My options. Like
I’m shopping for a new car instead of thinking about my future.”
Mama moved to my bed, perching on the edge with practiced grace. Even sitting
casually, she looked like she was posing for a portrait. “Your father
wants what’s best for you.”
“What’s best for the family, you mean.”
“Sometimes those things align.”
“And when they don’t?” I challenged. “What happens
when what’s best for the family means sacrificing what I want? What I
need?”
She looked at me then, really looked at me, and for a moment I saw something
genuine beneath the polished exterior. Regret, maybe. Or recognition.
“We all make sacrifices, Caterina. That’s what it means to be part
of something larger than ourselves.”
“I didn’t ask to be part of this.” My voice came out sharper
than I intended. “I didn’t choose the Lombardi name. I
didn’t choose this life.”
“None of us do.” She stood, smoothing her skirt even though it
didn’t need smoothing. “But it’s the life we have. The
question is what we do with it.”
I wanted to argue more, to push until that perfect composure cracked and she
admitted how much she’d given up, how much she’d swallowed to be
Giuseppe Lombardi’s wife. But I also knew it was pointless. Mama had
made her peace with her choices a long time ago. She’d decided that
compliance was easier than resistance, that playing the role was safer than
fighting the script.
I’d never be able to do the same.
“Seven o’clock,” she said again, moving toward the door.
“Please don’t be late. And, Caterina?” She paused, her hand
on the doorknob. “Wear something appropriate.”
I drummed my manicured nails against the vanity top, the sharp click-click-click filling the silence. It was a nervous habit I’d never
been able to break, and one that drove my father crazy. Mama’s gaze
flicked to my hand, but she said nothing. Just waited.
“I’ll be there,” I said finally. “Properly dressed and
everything.”
Something in my tone must have warned her, because her eyes narrowed slightly.
Not angry, just… knowing. She’d raised me, after all. She knew
when I was planning something.
“Caterina –”
“I said I’ll be there.” I gave her my sweetest smile, the
one I used when I was about to do something that would make Papa’s blood
pressure spike. “You can count on me.”
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.
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