Bred to be the perfect soldiers, Javen and Gara are running from the the
very people they were created to protect.
Javen and Gara were bred to be the perfect soldiers, protecting New Earth from
the scourge from above. As lovers, they were created to resonate in perfect
harmony with each other, their lives the stuff of legends. But they proved to
be evolution’s darlings, developing beyond anything the scientists had ever
dreamed of, their advancement eclipsing that of their creators.
Now their only hope is a planet of their own, where they can live free — free
to construct a new society based on the ideals of justice and honor. But with
dangerous factions at work, a mysterious prophesy, and an old enemy amassing,
this stunning melody may ring out with the perfect notes to save the worthy
and unworthy alike.
Freedom demands an awful price.
Publisher’s Note: Space Opera Duet originally released as two separate
novellas.
“Bonded, let down my braid?” The silver-haired man asked the question politely
as he gracefully dropped to his knees beside his beloved.
Javen looked up at his tora through silver lashes, his purple eyes gleaming in
anticipation as he licked full, pouty lips. His lithe body was covered in an
odd type of silk wrap, the weave plainly visible, but the material soft as
air. Several colorful strands of blue and purple, strands of hair from fallen
comrades, made up a pattern in the cloth. His long, pale fingers rested on his
slim thighs, his poise perfect as he awaited the response.
“Shall I unbind you, my mate?” The question was asked in a low, gravelly
voice, the desire and intent clear. Gara the Red, High Lord Chancellor of this
particular space station far above New Earth Sphere, observed his mate, his
cock swelling, his blood running hot. “Shall I release you to take what
pleasures I can off that pale body of yours?”
Javen seemed to shiver, though his body remained perfectly still. He inhaled
deeply, breathing in the scent of his bonded, trilling a soft, vibrating song
of desire as he felt his own erection grow. “Unbind me, bonded, if you
dare… if you have a need of the pleasures this pale flesh can bring
you.”
Javen tilted his head to the side, shifted his shoulders, and allowed his robe
to slide from one shoulder, exposing a chest decorated with what appeared to
be elaborate, pale purple tattoos.
Javen’s scales were beautiful, strong, soft and iridescent against his pale
skin. They outlined his hairline at his forehead, trailed down along his neck
to the backs of each arm. They overran the backs of his hands, giving him the
look of an exotic jeweled statue. They continued around his chest, across his
lower abdomen, and down his outer thighs.
Naked, he was a thing of grace and style, of beauty that no human being could
dare possess. But… he was not human. He wiggled his talon-tipped toes
in excitement, his eyes burning with desire.
“Oh, I have a need,” Gara chuckled, reaching down and cupping his cock,
running the flat of his hand along its hardness. Javen could almost feel the
heat wafting off his beloved’s body, and thrummed louder.
Gara threw back his head and moaned, his own touch stoking his desires higher
as he observed the signs of need in his usually reserved mate. Javen was one
of the most polite, perfectly poised ryuujin who had ever been created. To see
him react so wildly to his own heat cycle… Magnificent.
Gara ripped his tunic from his body, ruffling his wild mane of red hair and
exposing his broad, scarred chest in the process, tossing the shreds of
material aside.
“Come,” he purred, reaching out with both hands, tangling his fingers in his
mate’s hair. “Come ease my need.”
He gripped the bands of ribbons that liberally twined through his mate’s
braid, a braid he himself had placed in Javen’s hair earlier that morning.
Javen tossed his head back, his trill growing deeper in his throat as he
exposed his neck, his most vulnerable point, to his beloved.
Gara wasted no time in bending over and running his clawed fingers over
Javen’s neck, caressing the soft, firm skin and the raised scales that he so
loved to touch, to lick, to nibble and suck.
Javen nestled into his mate’s palm, his trill softening as Gara’s hands — his
strong, scarred hands — pushed the robe from his body, allowing it to fall
around his waist.
“Do you have any idea how hard you make me?” Gara growled. He moved closer,
closing his eyes and pulling in the spicy scent of his mate’s neck, the heat
of his desire so at odds with his cool skin.
“I can –” Javen reached up, pressing his hands to the heat between his
bonded’s thighs, feeling the rigid column of flesh that throbbed at his
caress. “– feel.” His other hand joined the first, tugging at the tie at the
waist, wanting the material gone that separated him from what he wanted.
He lifted his head again, leaning forward to nuzzle into his bonded’s groin,
bathing the head of his mate’s cock with his cool breath. Throwing back his
head, Gara purred and gripped his beloved’s head, pushing him deeper against
his crotch.
“That is what you want?” Gara demanded.
“Yes,” Javen snarled, his eyes near glowing as he rose up to his full height,
towering over his lover by more than a few inches.
“Then come and take it.”
About the Author
Stephanie is a USA Today Best Selling, multi published, multi award-winning
author, Master Costumer, handicapped, wife and mother of two.
From sex-shifting, shape-shifting dragons to undersea worlds, sexually
confused elemental Fey and homo-erotic mysteries, all the way to
pastel-challenged urban sprites, Stephanie has done it all, and hopes to do
more.
Stephanie is an orator on her favorite subjects of writing and world-building,
a sometime teacher when you feed her enough tea and donuts, an anime nut, a
costumer, and a frequent guest of various sci-fi and writing cons where she
can be found leading panel discussions or researching varied legends and
theories to improve her writing skills.
Stephanie is known for her love of the outrageous, strong female characters,
believable worlds, male characters filled with depth, and multi-cultural
stories that make the reader sit up and take notice.
I took an oath to save lives. Protecting Katy’s more than that — it’s
becoming personal.
Dread — Nothing prepared me for finding a woman and her little girl
stranded on the side of the highway. Katy’s terrified, exhausted, and
hiding from something — or someone. She keeps waiting for me to ask
questions. I don’t need answers to know they need protection. The Hades
Abyss Motorcycle Club takes care of its own. And whether she’s ready to
admit it or not, Katy is already under my protection.
Katy — Running was supposed to keep my daughter safe. Instead, it left us
stranded with a broken SUV and nowhere to go. Then Dread pulled up. He’s
gruff, stubborn, and impossible to push away. Every day I spend behind the
gates of Hades Abyss makes it harder to remember why I should leave. Ellie
finally feels safe, and my heart is starting to believe we might have found a
home.
But the man I escaped isn’t finished with me. If he comes for us, I know
he’ll discover the worst mistake of his life was threatening the woman
Dread has claimed as his own.
The highway stretched ahead like something half-melted, the asphalt rippling
in the midday heat until the horizon disappeared into a silver wash. No shade.
No cover. Just the sun beating down on two lanes of cracked blacktop and the
thin strip of gravel shoulder where my SUV sat crippled, the rear end canted
at a drunken angle, passenger-side tire blown and gone soft against the
stones.
I’d already dragged the spare out from under the cargo hold, heavy and
awkward in my hands, and positioned the jack as best I could. The metal base
wobbled on the uneven gravel, finding purchase in small divots that shifted
whenever I applied pressure. Not stable. Nothing about this was stable.
My fingers kept sliding off the lug wrench. The nuts were torqued down by some
mechanic with gorilla hands and a pneumatic gun, or maybe years of highway
vibration had fused them to the studs. Either way, the wrench handle grew
slicker with every attempt, sweat coating my palms until the metal felt like
it had been oiled. I wiped my hands on my shorts, left dark smears, tried
again. The wrench turned a fraction of an inch before my grip failed. I
adjusted, set my feet wider, and threw my weight into it. My arms shook. Not
the fine tremor of fatigue — a deep, structural quiver that started in my
shoulders and ran down through my elbows to my wrists. Shaking that meant my
body was running out of things to burn.
Ellie sat on the running board in the narrow strip of shade cast by the
SUV’s open door, knees pulled up to her chest, arms wrapped around her
shins. Her light brown hair was dark with sweat at the roots, plastered in
damp curls against her neck. She watched me with a small, tight frown that
didn’t belong on a seven-year-old’s face.
“Are we going to be late?” she asked.
“No, sweetie. We’re not in a hurry,” I said.
“Does it hurt your hands?”
“It’s just a little hard to turn, that’s all.”
“How much longer?” she asked.
“Not long. Almost done.”
Each answer came out in a steady voice I didn’t recognize, a measured
calm that lived nowhere near the hollow panic pulling taut inside me. The heat
was warping my vision. The horizon kept tilting — a slow, nauseating roll
through my skull, like the world was trying to tip itself over. I planted my
feet harder. The gravel shifted under my sneakers.
I got the first lug nut loose after three tries, the wrench finally catching
and turning with a metallic shriek that cut through the thick air. The second
came easier. My shirt clung to my back, soaked through at the shoulder blades
and along my spine. The ponytail I’d tied that morning hung heavy
against my neck, the elastic digging a wet groove into my scalp.
The third nut wouldn’t budge. I leaned into the wrench until my body was
at a forty-five-degree angle, heels digging into gravel, and felt something
give — not the nut, but the jack. It shifted sideways with a scrape of metal
on stone, and the SUV dropped half an inch. I jerked back, heart hammering,
and pressed my hand to the hot quarter panel to steady myself. The metal
burned. I left it there. The sharpness helped me focus, at least. Something I
could feel besides the heat and the fear.
Ellie said my name. Just “Mom,” soft and careful — the tone she
used when she was scared but trying not to show it.
“It’s fine,” I told her. “We’re fine. Almost
done.”
I wasn’t almost done. The jack needed resetting. I crouched beside it,
my knees popping, and wrestled the base into a new position, digging shallow
trenches in the gravel with the edge of my palm. The metal was hot enough to
raise a blister. I didn’t check. Sweat ran into my eyes, stinging, and I
wiped it away with the back of my wrist, leaving a streak of grit across my
forehead.
Back to the wrench. I braced one foot against the tire itself for leverage,
wrapped both hands around the handle, and pulled. My shoulders screamed. The
nut turned — a quarter inch, then nothing. I repositioned, pulled again.
Another quarter. The progress was measured in fractions, each one costing more
than the last.
The fourth nut came free suddenly, the wrench spinning loose and nearly
catching me across the shin. I stumbled back, caught myself on the bumper, and
stood there breathing hard. The air felt thick enough to chew. My lungs worked
and nothing changed.
One nut left. The last one.
I set the wrench, lined it up with shaking hands, and threw everything I had
into the turn. My vision grayed at the edges. Not a gentle fade — a hard,
sudden dimming, like someone had turned a dial on the world’s
brightness. The gravel tilted under me. I let go of the wrench and dropped
into a crouch, head down between my knees, hands braced on my patellas.
Breathe. Just breathe.
Ellie said something I couldn’t make out through the blood pounding in
my ears.
“I’m okay,” I said, or tried to say. The words came out
strained and hollow. “One second.”
The gray receded slowly, pulling back from the edges of my sight like water
draining from a tub. I stayed crouched until the gravel stopped moving, then
pushed myself upright using the bumper for support. My legs felt like
they’d been filled with wet sand.
The last nut was still there. The jack wobbled on its uneven perch. The spare
lay in the dirt where I’d dropped it, the tread pattern filling with
fine dust.
Almost done.
I wasn’t almost done.
* * *
The sound reached me before I saw the source — gravel crunching under wide
tires, a slow, deliberate roll that didn’t belong to a highway-speed
vehicle. I turned, wrench still clutched in my right hand, and watched a
weathered gray pickup ease onto the shoulder behind my SUV.
The engine cut. A door opened.
The man who stepped out was large. Not just tall — though he was that, well
over six feet — but built through the shoulders and chest in a way that
suggested strength accumulated over decades rather than sculpted in a gym.
Dark hair, gray at the temples. Plain gray T-shirt, faded jeans, boots that
had seen actual use. And over it all, a black leather vest lined with patches
I couldn’t read from where I stood, except for the largest one across
the back: HADES ABYSS in white letters that caught the sun.
I straightened. My body moved before my brain caught up — one step sideways,
placing myself directly between him and the open door where Ellie sat. The
wrench handle dug into my palm. I didn’t set it down.
He stopped a few yards away. Not advancing. Hands at his sides, visible,
relaxed. His eyes — steel blue, I registered distantly — moved over me in a
single pass that felt nothing like being looked at. Precise. Evaluating.
Missing nothing: flushed face, sweat-soaked shirt, the slight tremor in my
stance I couldn’t hide anymore. Then his gaze shifted to Ellie, the same
evaluation compressed into seconds, gentler around the edges but no less
thorough.
“Shay Thomas,” he said. His voice was calm. Level. No urgency in
it. “Most people call me Dread. I’m a doctor.”
I said nothing. The heat pressed down between us, heavy and silent.
“Both of you need to get out of this heat right now.” He
didn’t phrase it as a question. Didn’t soften it with a please or
cushion it with reassurance. He turned, walked to his passenger door, and
pulled it open. Cold air poured out in a visible wave, carrying the faint
smell of leather and clean air underneath. The vents were already running,
aimed at the seat.
I didn’t move. The wrench was still in my hand, my knuckles white around
it.
He didn’t push. Didn’t repeat himself or step closer or try to
reason with me. He stood beside the open door, one hand resting on the frame,
and waited. The patience in him carried its own force — steady, unhurried,
taking up exactly as much space as he needed and not an inch more.
A bead of sweat traced the line of my spine from nape to tailbone. My vision
pulsed once, gently, the gray creeping back along the periphery. The heat made
the decision. I set the wrench down in the gravel, turned to Ellie, offered my
free hand, and said, “Come on, baby. Just for a minute.”
She slid off the running board and took my hand. Her fingers were small and
hot. I guided her to the truck, one step at a time, my legs functioning on
some last reserve of strength I hadn’t known was there. The cold hit us
in layers — first my face, then my chest, then a full-body shock that made
the sweat on my skin go instantly clammy. Ellie made a small sound, almost a
whimper, and pressed against my side.
Dread closed the door behind us and circled to the driver’s side. He
didn’t get in. Instead, he crouched in the open doorway, bringing
himself to eye level with me where I sat in the passenger seat. Close enough
to reach, far enough to leave space.
He took my wrist without asking, two fingers pressed against the inside pulse
point. His hand was cool and dry. He held for a count I couldn’t follow,
then released and pressed the back of his hand to my forehead. The touch
lasted three seconds, maybe four.
“How long have you been out here?” he asked.
“I don’t know. Half hour. Maybe more.”
“When did you last have water?” he asked.
“This morning. In the car.”
“Are you nauseated?”
“Yes,” I said.
“Lightheaded?”
“Yes.”
He nodded once, no change in expression, and turned to Ellie. She had shrunk
back against the seat, knees drawn up, watching his hands with wide eyes. Not
scared, exactly. Cautious, watching him with the wariness of a creature that
hadn’t decided about him yet.
“What’s your name?” he asked her. His voice dropped, not to
the singsong adults use with children, but quieter. More contained.
“Ellie,” she said, barely above a whisper.
“Hi, Ellie. I’m Shay. Does your tummy feel okay?”
She thought about it. Nodded.
“Head hurt?”
Small shake.
“Throat dry?”
Nod.
He reached into the center console and pulled out a bottle of water. Not cold
— room temperature, the sort that had been sitting in a vehicle for a while
— but he twisted off the cap and handed it to her without offering it to me
first. Smart. She took two careful sips, then passed it to me. I drank. The
water tasted like plastic and salvation.
Dread watched us both, his gaze moving between my face and Ellie’s with
the same measured attention. When I lowered the bottle, he took it back,
recapped it, and set it in the cup holder.
“Stay here,” he said. “Both of you. Don’t get out
until I come back.”
He closed the door. Through the windshield, I watched him walk to my SUV,
crouch beside the jack and pick up the lug wrench I’d left lying in the
dirt. He examined it for half a second, then set to work.
Ellie’s hand found mine under the edge of the seat. Her fingers were
cool now, the heat leaching out of them in the blast of AC. I squeezed once,
gently, and didn’t let go.
* * *
I watched him through the windshield. Dread moved with the ease of someone
who’d done something ten thousand times and stopped counting — each
motion flowing into the next without hesitation or wasted effort. He
positioned the jack with two adjustments, tested the base with his boot, and
nodded once to himself. He closed his hand around my lug wrench, the same one
that had nearly broken me, and started in with easy, practiced turns.
The first nut came loose in his hand like it had been waiting for permission.
He set it on the hub cap, and glanced at the other four, already in a neat row
where I’d left them — the only things I’d managed before my grip
gave out. No straining on his end. No throwing his weight into it. Just the
smooth turn of a wrench in capable hands, one clean rotation, and he lifted
the flat tire away as if it weighed nothing.
Ellie pressed against my side, her shoulder tucked under my arm, both of us
slowly cooling off in the blast of AC. The cold had stopped feeling like a
shock and started feeling like a state my body remembered — a baseline it had
forgotten existed. My shirt was still damp, but the fabric had gone from
soaked to merely clammy, and the trembling in my arms had subsided to a faint,
background hum I could almost ignore.
Dread rolled the spare into position, lined up the holes, and lifted. The tire
settled onto the studs with a solid thunk. He replaced the lug nuts by hand
first, tightening each one finger-tight in a star pattern, then reached for
the wrench. Five rotations per nut, same star pattern, each turn measured and
even. No guesswork. No testing. He knew exactly how tight they needed to be.
When the last nut was set, he lowered the jack in a smooth, controlled drop.
The SUV dropped onto its new tire with a creak of suspension. Done. From blown
flat to roadworthy in less time than it had taken me to loosen two nuts.
But he didn’t straighten up and wave us over. Didn’t dust his
hands and head back to the truck. He crouched beside the rear wheel well
instead, one hand braced against the quarter panel, and ran his other palm
along the hub behind the new spare. His fingers traced a flaw I couldn’t
see from inside the cab. He went still. Not the pause of a man thinking — the
complete, motionless freeze of someone who has found exactly what they were
looking for, and it wasn’t good.
He stood, wiped his hands on a rag pulled from his truck bed, and walked back
to the passenger window. I rolled it down. The heat rushed in, a wall of wet
air that made the cold from the vents feel suddenly artificial.
“Wheel bearing’s shot,” he said. No lead-in. No cushion. His
expression hadn’t changed — same level gaze, same measured delivery —
but the words landed like stones. “You’ve got a spare on, but this
vehicle isn’t safe to drive. Another mile, maybe less, and you’ll
lose that wheel entirely.”
I felt my jaw tighten. The muscles along the back of my neck locked.
“How bad?”
“Not a roadside fix. Needs a shop. New bearing, possibly a new hub
assembly depending on how long it’s been failing.” He paused,
giving me time to absorb it, then continued in the same flat tone.
“Driving it risks more than a second flat. At speed, a wheel separation
could roll the vehicle.”
I looked at Ellie. She was watching me, not him, her gaze tracking the minute
shifts in my expression with the hypervigilance of a child who’s learned
to read the weather in her mother’s face. I smoothed my features by
force. Smiled at her — or tried to. My mouth felt stiff with it.
Then I looked back at Dread.
The SUV sat twenty feet away, rear end now level on its spare tire, looking
deceptively whole. Everything we owned was packed inside it. Clothes in trash
bags and suitcases. Ellie’s stuffed animals in a pillowcase. My laptop
and the external drive with five years of tax records and every photo
I’d ever taken of her. The box of granola bars and bottled waters
I’d stockpiled for the drive. The map folded in the glove box with three
possible destinations circled in pen, none of them committed to, because
commitment meant permanence and permanence meant he could find us.
Now the vehicle itself had become the threat. The thing I’d trusted to
carry us away was falling apart underneath us, and the man telling me so stood
at my window with the patience of someone who delivered bad news for a living
and had long since stopped being surprised by how people took it.
My hands went still in my lap. Fingers interlaced, thumbs pressing against
each other. A pose I’d held in hospital waiting rooms and police
stations and the driver’s seat of a different car five years ago,
watching the rearview mirror for headlights that didn’t belong.
Ellie leaned against me. Her body was slight, barely there, but having her
against me quieted some of the panic. She tipped her head back and looked up
at me, her blue-gray eyes clear and untroubled by anything except the question
forming on her lips.
“What happens now?” she asked.
The air conditioning hummed. Dread waited at the window, hands resting on the
frame, his expression giving away nothing. Beyond the glass, the highway
stretched empty in both directions, heat rippling off the blacktop in waves
that made the horizon waver and dissolve.
I didn’t have an answer.
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
England, 1816. A nosferatu, a rogue vampire, hunts unchecked through
Sussex. Jeremy Takeshi Colbourne is honor-bound by ancestral duty to find and
destroy such madmen. Foremost among the vampires of England, he must find a
way to ensure the safety of the English citizens and the vampires that live
among them.
Then Jeremy and his blood-host Morgan Holland discover a brutally savaged
girl. With this latest victim of the nosferatu, Jeremy realizes the time has
come to make Morgan aware of the Colbourne responsibilities. But the situation
could not have come at a worse time.
For years, Morgan has served as Jeremy’s blood-host. Though Morgan adheres
faithfully to his Contracted terms, he refuses to surrender to the sexual
seduction that completes each feeding. He yields neither his body nor his
heart, though Jeremy yearns for both.
As the nosferatu’s atrocities grow, Jeremy must ask everything of Morgan to
gain the strength needed to fight the ravening monster. Will Morgan relent and
give up body and heart to help Jeremy defeat their enemy, or will the battle
destroy them both?
EXCERPT
Jeremy cursed at the knock on the oaken door of his study. Morgan had
attempted to corner him several times today. Pure cowardice had driven Jeremy
to take refuge here, a place his loyal Host rarely intruded on, since it held
the Buddhist shrine housing his mother’s mortuary tablet. He glanced at
the portrait standing behind the black stone, wishing for a bit of Keiko
Yamakawa’s legendary strength.
Evading Morgan had taken a toll on Jeremy. The Contracted day for his feeding
had come and gone. Today marked two full weeks since Morgan had wrenched
himself from Jeremy’s grasp, nearly bleeding to death before Jeremy
could administer the requisite clotting agent. The sight of Morgan’s
injuries had seared itself into Jeremy’s mind, rendering him unwilling
to risk another such incident.
It almost made him wish to return to Japan, despite the difficulties involved.
Obtaining the necessary dispensation from the Tokugawa Shogunate had been hard
enough when he left. Lord Matsumae had done what he could, but it had taken
his mother’s personal attendance on Emperor Kōkaku and an appropriate
gift to Tokugawa Ikeharu to get it done. Going back would be far worse,
despite his home’s exemption from the Sakoku Edict. Even so, he was
tempted. If only to avoid what he now faced.
The knock came again, harder than before, followed immediately by the entrance
of Morgan Holland. “Excuse me, Lord Colbourne. While I am always loath
to disturb you in your sanctum, you cannot avoid me forever.”
Exasperation filled Morgan’s voice, underscored by heavy concern.
Jeremy risked a glance at his Host, unwilling to see but drawn nonetheless.
The wounds on Morgan’s neck had healed; his skin flushed a healthy hue.
Unlike usual feedings, the last one had left two ragged scars, visible
reminders of Jeremy’s lack of control. Even now, the remnants of
Morgan’s refusal echoed in his mind, invading his dreams.
“I am not convinced you are well enough to support a feeding,
Holland,” he hedged, though his Host showed no lingering signs of ill
effects. “Your wounds have barely healed.”
Morgan sighed. “I understand your reluctance after the debacle last
time, but you cannot risk your health or your sanity by some idiotic attempt
at endurance. I am prepared to meet my Contracted terms without qualms.”
“So you say. Nonetheless, your refusal made quite an impression.
I’d prefer not to endure that again so soon.”
Morgan’s cheeks heated with angry embarrassment. “Then break
Contract, my lord, and find someone more willing to accommodate all of your
needs. Or go back to Japan.”
The slap of the words felt like a further refusal. Jeremy straightened in his
chair, denying the spike of pain, determined to retain his rationality. Fear
was anathema to the Barons of Colbourne and to the Yamakawa family. Being
afraid to feed on his Contracted Host shamed both houses. He stood, feeling
the weakness of flesh from self-deprivation.
“After twelve years? I’d rather not, thank you. You’re all I
need. Or want.” Jeremy considered the irony of his irrational thoughts
mere moments before. “It is far harder to return than to leave,”
he added. “While my home in Matsumae is exempt from the Sakoku Edict,
only my status as a noble Chi no Kami allowed me to leave in the first place.
I have no wish to reverse the process any time soon.”
Morgan considered for a moment and then gave him the ghost of a smile.
“Then please stop delaying the inevitable. Despite what happened before,
I refuse to watch you kill yourself, however noble your ancestors may have
found the practice. It would render all my efforts worthless.”
“Such things are not reserved for my ancestors,” Jeremy growled.
“If I chose seppuku, who would be my second? You’d still have to
watch me die.”
“At least it would not be this slow death you’re attempting
now.”
Trust Morgan to know him well enough to hit so close to the truth of the
matter. Jeremy allowed silence to reign for a moment and then gave a grudging
chuckle. “No quarter, I see. You win, Holland. Give me two hours, and
I’ll meet you in the sanguis cubiculum.”
Two hours would give Jeremy sufficient time to contact William Carter. After
this long, the sexual urges would be difficult to suppress, but he could not
afford another mistake like the last time.
Morgan nodded to him. “Two hours, then, Lord Colbourne. I will be
ready.”
* * *
At the appointed time, Morgan waited as instructed, nervous despite his
earlier words to Colbourne. He touched the scars on his neck gingerly,
wondering. For all his bravado and calm facade, the thought of facing
Colbourne’s fangs disturbed him. That last bite had driven into his neck
without preparation, the savage sting a hint of what mankind had faced in the
early days of the nosferii. Yet beyond the pain, another sensation had lurked,
one he was reluctant to recall.
Perhaps it was only the remnants of the lust that rose in him every time
Colbourne fed, but the agony of the unprepared bite had seemed to turn into a
hazy pleasure at the end, before he’d passed out. Perhaps the
recollection was only some perverse blending of his memories.
Colbourne entered the sanguis cubiculum through the far door. Morgan caught a
brief glimpse of another person before the closing door blocked his view.
So he arranged for his companion to be available immediately after he is
finished with me.
In spite of the obvious benefits to the situation, the idea irritated Morgan
for some reason. Though he refused to offer up his body for postfeed sex,
he’d always steadfastly ignored Colbourne’s subsequent retreat to
his rooms for several hours. To have that person here, in the antechambers of
the sanguis cubiculum, the mere thought left a burning ache in Morgan’s
gut. This was his domain, his sacred trust, no one else’s.
“Are you ready, Holland?”
The deeply sensuous voice rippled over Morgan’s skin, bringing him to a
half-aroused state before the feeding started. He did his utmost to quash the
reaction, trying vainly to focus on something other than Colbourne’s
mouth.
A hand reached for his chin, gently turning his face away to expose the length
of his neck.
“I’m sorry, Morgan,” Colbourne whispered.
Morgan felt the faintest tremble in his master’s hand. He turned his
head the opposite direction, offering the undamaged side. “Here,
Master,” he urged, “feed from here.”
Colbourne’s tongue touched him gently, tracing a line across his skin
before stopping. “No, I think not,” he said, trailing his fingers
past Morgan’s throat. “I’d rather feed from a different
source today. Your neck is still healing.”
Morgan shivered as his master’s hand roamed down his front, then stroked
along the inside of his thigh.
About the Author
Autumn grew up loving history, mythology, and all things Japanese, not
necessarily in that order. This eclectic love affair has bled over into her
writing, and her stories are always well spiced with the taste of Japan,
strange mythological beasties, or the lords and ladies of the ton. Sometimes
all three, leading to dark desires and forbidden loves.
And after all, dangerous passions should lead to uninhibited love.
What if they’re not just friends? It could be murder!
After Julian’s sister sets him up with a charming Frenchman, Rahul
thinks he may be getting over Julian, especially since Julian is back with his
ex, Michael. Their band is finally taking off and the future seems bright.
Then Julian hints he may return Rahul’s feelings. But what might happen
if they become more than friends?
WARNING: Violence, Drinking/Substance use, Mentions of murder, Trauma/PTSD.
EXCERPT
Julian’s flat was a disaster, but Mel couldn’t be sure if it was
on account of Julian tearing the place apart in a fit of pique or if it was
always like this. Based on what his room had been like when she and her big
brother had lived at home, she didn’t really doubt this was just the way
he lived.
Mel hadn’t been here since the day Julian had moved in three years ago.
She saw enough of her brother at the place where they worked, the place where
they drank, and the place where they performed. She hardly needed to come
round his place to get even more time with the manic muppet.
Julian even did devastation manic. He was pacing around the living room,
pulling at his hair, talking a mile a minute. Mel could hardly keep up with
what he was saying, if he was saying anything at all and not just babbling
incoherently.
“… just a jazzy giraffe freak clomping around my life with his
big stupid hooves and not even looking for oncoming traffic or
anything… wouldn’t even slow down at a zebra crossing, even if
there was kids in it, or like countryside sheep or whatever… just plow
right through ‘em — WHAM — ‘sorry, missus, was this your
daughter sheep? Too bad, I’m after Julian, can’t slow down or
I’ll lose him!’ Honestly, it’s like he
isn’t…”
Mel grabbed a handful of Julian’s fake leather jacket as he came past
and yanked him down onto the sofa beside her. He looked startled and
disorientated, like a somnambulist being unceremoniously awoken. He blinked at
Mel as though only just now noticing her.
“You’ll give yourself an aneurysm going on like that,” Mel
said coolly, lighting up a cigarette.
Her words were the scissors that cut the strings of Julian’s loosely
gathered sanity. He crumpled in on himself, burying his face in his hands. For
one horrified moment, Mel thought he might be crying. But he just groaned, a
long pitiful noise like that of a wounded animal.
“It’s all gone tits up, hasn’t it?” he mumbled into
his palms.
It had in fact, in Mel’s opinion, gone tits up. Julian’s best
friend, Rahul — the “jazzy giraffe freak” — had told
Julian’s creepy blond boyfriend, Michael, that Rahul and Julian had
slept together. Michael had ended things with Julian. Julian had clobbered
Rahul (a very un-Julian-like thing to do). Rahul then confessed his undying
love for Julian and Julian had… run off. Cowardly little prick.
Rahul wasn’t just Julian’s best friend, he was also the most
musically talented member of their band — a band Mel played bass in, mind.
Without him, the band would dissolve into nothing and Julian would be left
rudderless. He lived for their shite band. Hell, he lived for Rahul. The two
of them needed each other like foxes needed bins. This melodramatic
love-triangle nonsense was going to make all of their lives positively
implode. Well, maybe not Mel’s life. She owned a record shop and
she’d be fine. And maybe not Kwambe’s life either. He was too cool
to be affected by anything. But definitely Julian and Rahul’s lives, and
Mel had sworn, years ago when her and Julian’s mum had started drinking,
that she would look out for her empty-headed brother and keep him safe.
She’d been fixing his life ever since. She’d be damned if she
wasn’t going to fix it this time.
“It ain’t so bad,” Mel told Julian. She nudged him until he
peeked out between the fingers he held over his eyes. She extended a cigarette
to him. He took it and let her light it for him. It was the most affectionate
gesture she’d offered him in quite some time. “One of you could be
dead. That’d really be something to cry about.”
He threw her a withering glare with his red-rimmed eyes.
“So, you shagging that Michael bloke, then?”
Julian choked slightly on the smoke in his throat. He’d never told her,
in so many words, that he was dating Michael. Michael had just shown up one
day, hanging around Julian, while Julian stared at him with the eyes of a boy
looking at a bloody Christmas tree. Julian had also never told her he was a
bit bent either, but Mel had worked that out on her own, too.
Julian fidgeted with the cigarette butt in his fingers. It was odd to see
him… if not embarrassed, then apprehensive. He usually did things like
he couldn’t give a shit what others thought, though Mel knew that was a
load of horse shite. He acted like he didn’t care, but no one cared more
what other people thought than Julian Collier. He’d been caring since
they were kids, only he’d gotten better at pretending. The thing is,
when you want people to think you’re really cool, you have to get them
to think you don’t care what they think. Julian was also obsessed with
people thinking he was a little daft. That much was lucky, because, as far as
Mel was concerned, he was a little daft.
He nervously pushed his fringe off his forehead only for it to flop back down
at an uneven angle. “Yeah. Or, well, I was.”
“He chucked you ‘cause you and Rahul shagged?”
“That sounds like we did it yesterday,” Julian whinged. “It
was ages and ages ago. Back at uni. And we were both drunk as you like. It
didn’t even count, if you ask me.” Despite himself, he was going
quite red around the ears and getting splotchy red patches high on his cheeks.
“I’d forgotten all about it. I can’t even believe Rahul
remembered. And that he told Michael. Imagine that!”
It was all coming together now. She remembered the trip Julian had taken up
North to visit Rahul, only to come back one day early, all jumpy and not
wanting to talk about it. Afterward, he’d not seen Rahul for years.
Then, when Rahul came back, they were all distant and weird around each other.
They’d had a drunken fumble together, of course. For one of them it was
just an awkward night that had compromised a friendship. For the other…
“He also told you that he loves you,” Mel reminded him around her
cigarette butt.
Julian folded his arms and hunched his shoulders in that way he did when he
was stopping himself from covering his ears like he would’ve as a little
kid. “Whatever. He’s confused. I dunno. He can’t love me.
That’s just mental. He’s my best mate — he was my best mate. He
just thinks he’s in love with me ‘cause he loves me, you know,
like friends or whatever. And anyway, that’s the other reason Michael
dumped me, you know? He could see Rahul’s all obsessed with me and he
didn’t want to get himself in the middle of whatever it is we’ve
got going on. He didn’t want to end up like Aisling did. Having rows all
the time ‘cause Rahul’s put himself between us.”
Hearing the name of Julian’s ex-girlfriend gave Mel pause. “Were
you shagging him when you were still with Aisling?”
Julian dropped his cigarette. He retrieved it before it could burn a hole in
the carpet next to the constellation of cigarette burns already there.
“No. ‘Course not,” he said defensively in the way he did
when he was lying. “I’d never cheat on her, would I?”
“I don’t know,” Mel said. “Would you?”
“I mean — all right, so I’d started seeing him a bit when we were
still together,” Julian immediately capitulated. Mel beamed. So she
could still wheedle the truth out of her brother after all. “But we
didn’t sleep together or anything. It wasn’t cheating. Not
really.” He was imploring as if Mel were the barrister presiding over
his case. She was only a curious third party with no stake in the game. So she
merely shrugged.
He ran an unhappy hand through his hair, which by now was standing up at all
sorts of odd angles. “What am I gonna do?”
“What you’ve gotta do is get your shit together. Both of you. I
got a business to run, you know? What am I supposed to do? Sack one of you and
hire somebody neither of you ballbags have fucked? And we got a band, or have
you forgotten that as well?”
“I thought you hated the band.”
“I do, but I’ve started counting on that extra gig dosh.” It
felt good to pay for her grass with money that didn’t come directly from
her dead nan’s business. “And you love the damned thing. Are you
gonna find yourself a replacement keyboardist slash guitarist who shares your
same crazy vision of a dystopian soundscape? Think it’s easy to find one
of them? You gonna put an ad out in The Sun?”
“Why don’t you ask Rahul?” Julian cried. “He’s
the one who’s gone and cocked everything up! It’s his fault for
having feelings — or thinking he’s got feelings. If he weren’t
obsessed with me, he’d have never sabotaged my relationship. If he were
following somebody else around like a bleeding puppy, then maybe me and
Michael would still be together.”
“That’s it,” Mel said, snapping her fingers in the air.
“What is?” Julian asked dubiously.
“We need to set Rahul up with somebody. Get him to fall in love with
somebody else. That way Michael won’t have anything to worry about and
the two of you can make up. Then you and Rahul can get back to being mates,
and Bob’s your uncle — everything back to normal.”
Julian’s dubiosity had not dissipated. “You reckon? I
dunno.” He made a face somewhere between a sneer and a wince that made
it look like he was about to sneeze. “He’s been building his
feelings up for me for years, said so himself. I don’t think we can come
in with some, erm…”
“Bloke. He is gay, you know.”
“Right — some bloke — and think he’ll be all gone on him in two
shakes and forget all about me. He thinks he loves me, you know? That’s
massive, that is. When someone’s got gangrene, you don’t come in
with a plaster and think that’s gonna make it all better.”
“Trust me. I know what I’m doing. You leave it all up to me.
I’ll sort it. I always do.” And even though she was wearing her
best smug expression, he still had the gall to look less than convinced.
About the Author
As a queer, nonbinary, person of color, Nicky Silber has made it their mission
to bring diversity into all of their creative outlets. Born in New York,
raised in Mexico, they studied fine art in San Francisco and have worked in
the video game industry since 2012. They currently live in the wilds of North
Carolina with their young son and too many pets. Their only two goals in life
are to continue to tell queer love stories and, to a lesser extent, finally
knit their own sweater.
A cautionary political tale that shines a light on the danger to our
country when the wrong people have too much money and power.
The Vote is a political thriller built around a conspiracy among powerful
political actors, billionaires, and party operatives who seek to manipulate
the constitutional amendment process in order to permanently reshape the
structure of American government. The mechanics of American politics,
particularly the Article V constitutional amendment process, is the framework
that informs the central premise of the novel. The current political landscape
of the country lends credibility to the story and gives the narrative an
interesting and timely foundation.
The manuscript opens with a series of interconnected storylines involving
political figures, wealthy conspirators, and emerging state-level candidates.
These threads gradually reveal a coordinated effort to gain control of state
legislatures and Congress as part of a broader plan to fundamentally alter the
country’s political system. The concept itself is ambitious and grounded
in recognizable political realities.
Excerpt
Rudolph Conover fumed as the jet he’d sent to convey Aldon Powers
to the Conover compound in Southern Illinois sat idling somewhere in Texas. No
sign of Powers. No explanation. No apology. The plane should have left hours
ago.
For Conover, meetings such as today’s were a carefully choreographed
dance, designed to shape an opponent’s mental disposition and ultimately
their amenability to whatever it was he wanted from them. Everyone was an
opponent in Conover’s world and everything was meant to intimidate, from
the jet’s amenities to the obsessive focus on secrecy to the quirkiness
of his compound. When dealing with men like Powers, it was his way of
reminding them of his preeminence in the hierarchy of billionaires. On rare
occasions when someone dared to play by their own rules, he did not take it
well. Today was one of those occasions.
Conover’s wife, Marcia, slipped into the war room where he sat. The
meeting was scheduled to begin shortly. “Any communication from
Powers?” he asked, irritated.
She shook her head.
“How can he be so disrespectful?”
She put her hand on his shoulder, “You have every right to be upset.
I’ll go see if there is any news.”
Conover knew Powers was difficult and unpredictable but it was impossible not
to respect him. A modern-day Edison, he was a daring visionary and the most
technologically disruptive man in a century. His companies had mastered space,
the Earth’s outer crust, and the ocean’s depths. The man had
become so indispensable that some feared him as a veritable government unto
himself, unfettered by borders and the normal rules of behavior. Everybody
needed something from him that only he could give. Conover wanted to be a
warlord. Powers wanted to be God.
About the Author
David Swanson was raised on a dairy farm in central Michigan. He
received a degree in political science from the University of Puget Sound and
an advanced degree in foreign trade from the Thunderbird Graduate School of
International Management. Between degrees, he served a stint in the United
States Navy.
In 1981, he founded Daavlin, a medical technology company that eventually grew
into a prominent player in the field of dermatology. As part of his career, he
stepped foot on every continent and dipped his toes in every ocean on earth.
Reading, writing, traveling, acting, and directing live theater are his
favored pastimes.
He’s also a lifetime political junkie. As this book goes to press,
Swanson is a candidate for the Ohio House of Representatives.
When loyalty fractures, only the ruthless survive.
Lila — I walked into Savage Raptors territory with proof one of them is a
traitor. Stupid? Maybe. But numbers don’t lie — and someone inside
their club is selling intel. I won’t stay silent, even if it means
putting myself in the crosshairs. Spade doesn’t trust me. He watches me
like I’m the threat. But he’s wrong. The danger is already wearing
his patch.
Spade — Outsiders don’t accuse my brothers and live to tell about it.
Lila shows up with spreadsheets and nerve, claiming betrayal inside my club. I
bring her under my roof to prove her wrong. Instead, I find evidence
she’s right. Now I have a choice — protect my brotherhood at any
cost… or protect the woman who just became mine. If someone’s
playing both sides, I’ll end it. As for Lila? She’s mine. And once I
claim something, I don’t let it go.
A slow-burn MC romance with loyalty, betrayal, and a guaranteed HEA. No
cheating.
WARNING: Intended for readers 18+ years of age. This book contains mature
themes including motorcycle club–related criminal activity, violence,
strong language, and references to trauma. Reader discretion is advised.
EXCERPT
Spade
It wasn’t often we held Church without every patched member present, but
all things considered, we were operating this one with a skeleton crew. Moving
with deliberate precision Atilla gathered the evidence spread across the
table. The room fell silent. Brothers shifted in their seats, tension thick
enough to cut. I kept my face blank, waiting. When Atilla finally looked up,
his eyes were cold steel, decision made. The verdict was coming, and every man
in the room knew it would change everything.
“The evidence is compelling.” Atilla’s voice filled the room
without raising above a conversational tone. Decades of authority behind it.
“We have a problem.”
Stinger slammed his fist on the table. “We can’t trust her! This
whole thing reeks.”
“Shut up.” Atilla didn’t even look at him. His focus
remained on the papers, then shifted to me. “Spade. She stays with you.
Under guard. Protected and watched. Twenty-four seven.”
I nodded once. No questions needed.
“You believe this shit?” General pushed away from the table, chair
scraping across the floor. “Some random Horsemen bitch walks in with
paperwork, and we’re supposed to –”
“Yes.” Atilla cut him off. “We are. Because these dates
match our failed runs. Every time.” He tapped the folder with one
finger. “You got a better explanation for how they knew about the
Colombian meet? That was Church business only.” Church business was
sacred. Patched members only.
“Could be coincidence,” Tinker offered, but his voice lacked
conviction.
“This many times?” Lila spoke for the first time, her voice steady
despite being surrounded by hostile men. “That’s one hell of a
statistical anomaly.”
Wildcard’s hand drifted toward his waistband. “You don’t
speak unless spoken to.”
I caught his eye, shook my head slightly. He backed down, but his face stayed
dark with anger.
Atilla stood, signaling the meeting’s end. “Spade has point on
this. Full authority. Anyone who gets in his way answers to me.” He
fixed each brother with a hard stare. “Until we know who’s clean
and who isn’t, information stays compartmentalized. Need to know
only.”
The implications hung heavy. Trust — our foundation — had just been
officially suspended.
“Move her now,” Atilla told me. “Take the back exit. Fewer
eyes.”
I rose, gesturing for Lila to follow. She gathered her remaining papers,
clutching the folder against her chest like armor. Smart. In this room,
information was her only protection.
The brothers parted as we moved toward the door, their faces a study in
conflicting emotions. Suspicion. Anger. Unease. Each one wondering if they
were under scrutiny. Each one wondering who among them couldn’t be
trusted.
“Keys.” I held my hand out to Wildcard, who’d driven her car
into the compound.
He slapped them into my palm with unnecessary force. “Watch your
back,” he muttered, low enough that only I could hear.
Warning? Or threat? Hard to tell. I filed it away for later analysis.
The back hallway was empty, dim emergency lights casting long shadows. Lila
kept pace beside me, not behind. Her gaze scanned everything — exit signs,
security cameras, door locks. Cataloging. Memorizing. I noticed but
didn’t comment.
“Where are we going?” she asked as we stepped into the cool night
air.
“My place. On the compound.”
My Harley waited in its usual spot, glossy black paint catching moonlight. I
handed her a helmet from the saddlebag, watching as she adjusted it with
practiced hands. Not her first time on a bike, then.
“Hold tight,” I instructed, swinging my leg over the seat.
“And keep that folder secure.”
She slid on behind me, zipped her precious evidence into her jacket, then put
her arms around my waist. Her grip was firm but not desperate. The engine
roared to life beneath us, vibrating through my bones the way it always did.
Familiar. Grounding.
We pulled away from the clubhouse, headlight cutting through darkness. The
compound spread before us — twenty acres of Savage Raptors territory. My home
for twenty years. Now potentially compromised.
I took the long route deliberately, giving her the tour she hadn’t asked
for. Security checkpoint at the main gate — two armed brothers nodding as we
passed. Motion sensors along the perimeter fence, red lights blinking in
sequence. Camera poles at strategic intersections, covering approach angles
and blind spots. The garage where we kept our vehicles — always guarded,
always locked.
In my side mirror, I watched her head turn, taking in each detail. Not casual
observation. Assessment. She was mapping our security, finding the gaps.
Professional habit or something more?
Brothers stopped to watch us pass, hands resting casually near weapons. Word
had spread already. The Horsemen’s accountant. The potential trap. The
security risk. Comments followed in our wake.
“Who’s the bitch?”
“President’s orders.”
“Fucking VP’s gone soft.”
I ignored them. Petty bullshit wasn’t my concern. Finding our leak was.
We passed the shop where club business happened away from prying eyes. The
mess hall where brothers ate together. The row of cabins where Prospects lived
during initiation. All the while, her grip remained steady, her body angled to
see everything we passed.
My house sat apart from the others — VP privilege and personal preference.
Single story, secure, isolated. I cut the engine in the driveway, silence
rushing in to fill the void.
“This is it?” she asked, removing the helmet.
“Home, sweet home.” I swung off the bike, taking the helmet from
her hands. “For both of us now.”
She stood, pulled the folder out of her jacket, and clutching it tightly
against her chest. Never letting go of it. Smart woman.
The security light above my porch caught her face at an angle, highlighting
the bruise on her jaw. In the harsh white glow, it looked worse than before —
blue-black center fading to sickly yellow at the edges. The kind of hit meant
to hurt, not just intimidate.
“How did you get into the compound in the first place?” I asked.
“I threatened to rip off the Prospect’s balls if he didn’t
let me through.”
I stared her down, knowing that hadn’t been enough to get her through
the gate.
She sighed. “I told him I had intel his President would want and that
the club was in jeopardy. Then I leaned out the window a little, giving him a
glimpse down my shirt. It’s amazing how many doors open when you show a
guy your boobs.”
Well, fuck. She had a point. Most men wouldn’t see her as a threat. And
our Prospects did tend to think with their dicks. Especially the younger ones.
“They really did try to kill you,” I said, not a question.
Her gaze met mine, unflinching. “Yes. And they’ll try again when
they realize what I took.”
“Good thing you’ve got the Savage Raptors watching your back
now.” I unlocked my front door, punching in the security code.
“Is it?” She stepped past me into the house. “Guess that
depends on which one is selling you out.”
I couldn’t argue with that logic. We both knew the enemy could already
be inside these walls. Could be any face we passed tonight. Could be someone
I’d called brother for years.
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
Frontier & Pioneer Western Fiction; US Historical Fiction;
Action/Adventure
Date Published: March 20, 2026
With all the swagger of a classic western, a legendary buffalo claims his
rightful place among the genre’s most iconic heroes.
Meet Rathuun. Born in an idyllic canyon, tragedy strikes on his first day. A
grizzly bear scatters the herd, devours his twin, and leaves him to shiver and
die. But the buffalo calf with a white spot on his chin survives.
The plains are changing fast. Wagons roll west in endless streams. Telegraph
wires stretch across the horizon. Locomotives scream down polished rails,
slicing through the earth. Extinction
seems imminent when everyone wants to kill the biggest buffalo on the prairie.
Native people shoot arrows and drive herds over cliffs. Hide hunters slaughter
millions. An obsessed buffalo assassin is determined to wipe them all out and
change the world forever. There’s an army of barking rifles, and they’re all
pointed at Rathuun.
Will the hunters take Rathuun’s head and leave his carcass to rot on the
prairie?
This sweeping epic thunders across the American West, taking listeners
to unforgettable western landmarks. If you like classic westerns, thrilling
action, and high-stakes historical adventures, grab your copy by the horns.
Welcome to the prairie!
Excerpt
Rathuun heard a fierce roar that rattled between his ears.
He had just finished nursing for the first time since he was born a
thrum, hours earlier. His mother’s warm breath had tickled his flank
just moments ago.
It was a peaceful morning on the prairie, but in a flash, everything had
changed.
The thunderous roar boomed again. The entire brum was on the move.
In his haste to lead his followers away from danger, Drumm sounded the
alarm and leapt forward. The old bull crashed into Rathuun, sending the thrum
sprawling.
Rathuun’s legs wobbled as he tried to stand. It was a miracle that
the collision hadn’t broken him. There was an instinctive pull to follow
the brum, and it was centered beneath his chin, between his front legs.
He blinked rapidly, whipping his head from side to side, searching for
his mother. Moments ago, she had been beside him. “Hathah!” he
bleated, searching for the young cow who was his whole world.
But he knew she was gone. Gone with all the others. Why had she left him
behind?
He shivered at the realization that he was all alone. His heart throbbed
against his ribs. It was a struggle to make sense of what had happened.
Everything turned upside down and sideways. The panicked brum quickly
vanished as the plains swallowed the pounding hooves and flashing tails,
leaving nothing but a faint echo of their distant bellows.
It was eerily silent in the wake of the wild scatter of the
buffalos’ frenzied exodus. Rathuun took a tentative step forward, not
knowing what to do or which way to go.
Dust choked the air. His third, translucent eyelid swept sideways across
his eye, clearing away the grit kicked up by the fleeing brum. He stood, dazed
and completely alone.
Or so he thought. The silence quickly gave way to horrible sounds.
Rathuun turned his head. Twenty feet away, something moved. A dark,
hulking monster hunched over something. Rathuun’s blood pounded with
fear. There was a heavy thump in his chest. Then he saw the creature.
It was a rumbler.
About the Author
David Fitz-Gerald writes frontier and pioneer western fiction from the
wilds of western Vermont—about as far west as you can get without
slipping into New York.
Though he’s never wrangled beeves to market, Dave was a top hand on his
grandfather’s dude ranch in the Adirondack Mountains… before he
turned ten. He’s lived most of his life on dirt roads. Whenever he gets
the chance, he travels west to recharge his spirit on the windswept prairies.
He’s an Adirondack 46’er which means that he’s hiked to the
top of every mountain in the park. In 2018, Dave completed the 1960s fitness
craze by hiking 50 miles in one day. That’s one heck of a long walk, but
not nearly as grueling as the iconic trails that he chases in his fiction.
Even after all these years, Dave still has his head in the clouds like Ken
from MY FRIEND FLICKA, and a quiet, self-reliant spirit like Sam from THE
TRUMPET OF THE SWAN. That blend of wonder, heart, and spirit runs through the
characters he portrays. His editor states he is “exceptionally good at
creating real moments between characters”—and readers seem to
agree.
Dave’s breakthrough series, Ghosts Along the Oregon Trail won
Chanticleer’s Grand Prize for Book Series. He’s now the author of
nearly twenty novels and counting, and as long as there’s coffee in the
kitchen, Dave will be plotting one adventurous story after another.
She found her strength. I’ll makes sure no one takes it again.
Jade — I ran from a man who broke me, only to land in the arms of a biker who
could destroy what little I have left. Rip is an alpha protector with a
dangerous edge I can’t seem to resist. He sees too much, wants too much,
and makes me crave things I swore I’d never risk again. He gives me the
courage to believe in myself. When my past refuses to let me go, I know I can
surrender or stand and fight. If my ex thinks he can take everything from me
again, he’s about to learn exactly how wrong he is.
Rip — The first time I see Jade, she’s barely holding herself together,
a trauma survivor trying to outrun a nightmare who won’t stay buried.
She’s still fragile enough I know better than to push my way into her
life, even when every instinct tells me to pull her close and never let her
go. I don’t expect her to see me as anything more than a safe place.
Whether I claim her or not, my MC brothers will lay down their lives for her.
And when the smoke clears and the blood is washed away, Jade will know she was
always meant to be mine. Forever.
EXCERPT
Jade
The soft, warm lighting in the small dining room did little to reassure me. I
stared at my hands resting on the scarred wooden table, watching them tremble
against my will. Three weeks at Haven, and my body still hadn’t gotten
the message that I was safe now. Safe. What a strange word to apply to
homelessness, to sitting in a communal room, surrounded by women who
couldn’t meet my eyes because we all recognized the shame in each
other’s faces.
I pulled down my sleeve to cover the faint, yellowing bruise on my wrist. My
ribs still throbbed with a dull persistent ache that no amount of ibuprofen
could completely relieve. The pain was almost comforting — a reminder that I
hadn’t imagined it all, that I wasn’t crazy. My fingers brushed
against my cheekbone, the swelling finally gone but the discoloration still
visible beneath the concealer I’d carefully applied that morning.
A little boy, maybe five or six, darted past me chasing after his sister, both
of them laughing. Their mother called after them in a hushed voice. All the
women here spoke quietly most of the time, as if normal volume might shatter
whatever fragile peace we’d found. Or too afraid our respite would end
in violence once again. I watched them without trying to seem like I was
watching. Their mother had dark circles under her eyes, but she smiled when
she caught them, tickled them until they squealed.
I looked away. There was an intimacy to their bond that felt invasive to
witness, like I was trespassing on something precious. I didn’t belong
here, among these women who’d fled with children, with purpose. What did
I have? A business degree I’d never used, a dried-up marketing career,
and a suitcase only half full of clothes I’d grabbed while Eric was at
work. No kids. No friends left. Just bruises and tremors and the growing
realization that I had nowhere else to go.
“Jade? Do you have a moment?”
I looked up to see Ada approaching, a clipboard tucked under her arm and a
sympathetic smile on her face. Since I’d come here, I’d learned
that every woman from that club Mia’s new man belonged to volunteered at
this place. The men guarded Haven but never made the residents feel smothered.
In fact, I only saw them occasionally. Everyone here cared. Probably too much
sometimes. I saw the few people who came through here. Everyone had a sob
story and most of them were horrific. By comparison, I had it pretty easy.
“Of course,” I said, straightening my posture automatically.
Ada slid into the chair opposite me and placed the clipboard on the table
between us. “Your thirty-day evaluation period ends this weekend,”
she said, her voice soft. “I have your extension paperwork here. I hate
that we have to do shit like this, but it gets us money for supplies.”
She smiled.
My heart stuttered. I hadn’t realized how terrified I was of her saying
anything else until the relief flooded through me. “Yes,” I said
too quickly, then bit my lip. “I mean, if that’s OK. I’m
still working on… figuring things out.” I had to force myself not
to wring my hands. I didn’t used to be like this. I didn’t want to
be like this now.
Ada pushed the clipboard toward me. “That’s what we’re here
for. I just need your signature.”
I picked up the pen, my fingers trembling. I gripped it tighter, trying to
control the shake as I signed my name. Ada watched without commenting on my
obvious anxiety. She was good at that — giving people dignity even when they
were falling apart.
“Thank you,” she said, taking back the clipboard. “The
extension is for another sixty days. After that, we’ll reassess.”
I tried to smile but couldn’t quite commit. I knew how pathetic I looked
by not getting back in the game of life, but the thought of trying to explain
the abrupt departure from my previous job, of interviewing with visible
bruises, of having to be around strange men who might remind me of Eric, could
send me into a panic attack.
“Jade, honey? You OK?”
I glanced up at Ada when she spoke. Short answer? No. I wasn’t OK.
Better answer? “Fine,” I said. “Just tired.”
Her eyes softened with understanding that made me want to crawl under the
table. “There’s a resume workshop on Thursday. No pressure, but it
might help to interact with others. And group therapy tomorrow at four is open
to everyone.” She put her hand on my shoulder. “There’s no
rush, you know. I’m checking boxes because it’s required. You take
as much time as you need. We call this place Haven for a reason.”
When she left, I let my shoulders slump, exhausted by the brief interaction.
Across the room, a woman about my age was showing her daughter how to braid
string into a friendship bracelet. Another was helping her son with what
looked like math homework. I’d wanted that once. A family. To be all
domesticated and stuff.
Eric had told me he had the same dream. Turned out, his dream had been more
about building himself up by keeping someone under his foot. It had been me
since before college. Then he wanted Mia but wanted his fucking mind games
with me too.
I picked at a dangling hangnail until it bled, sucking the small wound.
I’d come to Haven because the nice lady who’d brought me said this
place would keep Eric away from me. No questions asked. I stayed in Haven
because I was officially homeless and had nowhere else to go. The sad truth
was, I hated the thought of leaving this place because I’d never stayed
anywhere I felt safer than I did at Haven.
What came next? The question circled in my head like a vulture. I
couldn’t stay here forever, but I couldn’t imagine a life outside
these walls either. Not when Eric was still out there.
I wrapped my arms around myself, pressing against the bruises on my ribs until
the physical pain drowned out everything else.
The crash shattered the afternoon quiet like a gunshot. I didn’t see
what happened. First, the ball bouncing across the linoleum, then a little boy
chasing after it. One or both of them hit the table where a ceramic vase sat
just a little too close to the edge. I only registered the sound as it
exploded against the floor, blue and white shards spraying outward like
shrapnel. My body reacted before my mind could catch up. Flinch. Gasp. Arms
over face. Heart instantly hammering against my ribs as if trying to punch its
way out of my chest.
The rational part of my brain knew it was just a broken vase. Just a
child’s accident. But my body was already in full survival mode, dumping
adrenaline into my bloodstream. My ears rang. My vision tunneled. My muscles
coiled tight, ready to do anything I could to avoid what usually came after a
crash.
I sucked in a sharp breath that hurt my throat. Held it. Forgot how to release
it. The common room had gone still. Through the gaps between my fingers, I saw
women frozen in various postures of interrupted activity. Some exchanged
knowing glances and looks of sympathy, a language survivors recognized as a
trigger response. Others deliberately turned away, giving me privacy in my
panic, or maybe protecting themselves from the mirror I’d become.
“I’m so sorry,” the little boy’s mother murmured,
already on her knees, gathering ceramic pieces into her cupped palm.
“Tyler, go put your ball away, please.” Her voice was tight but
controlled. Tyler looked terrified, his lower lip trembling as he clutched the
rubber ball to his chest and scurried away.
“It’s fine,” someone said. “Just an accident. Our
fault for having something not kid-proof in here.”
“I’ve got a dustpan,” another woman offered, heading toward
the supply closet.
I forced my arms down, away from my face. Attempted a smile that probably
looked more like a grimace. My hands wouldn’t stop shaking, but I
couldn’t just sit there like a broken doll while everyone else handled
the situation. I slid from my chair and knelt beside the boy’s mother.
“Let me help,” I said, reaching for a larger piece of ceramic.
She glanced up at me, her expression a careful blank. “Thanks.”
My fingers trembled so badly I couldn’t pick up the shard. I tried
again. Failed again. The third time I managed to grasp it, but my hand shook
so hard that I dropped it almost immediately. It clattered against the floor,
breaking into smaller pieces.
“Sorry,” I whispered, mortified.
“We’re all a hot mess,” she said with a watery smile.
“How about we do the best we can and understand we’re all
ghosts.”
The woman with the dustpan and a hand vacuum arrived, sweeping carefully to
get the larger pieces before using the vacuum. I tried again to help but my
breath came in shallow gasps that weren’t bringing in enough oxygen.
Black spots danced at the edges of my vision. I was going to pass out and make
an even bigger scene.
I stumbled to my feet and backed away, scanning for somewhere to retreat. The
bathrooms were too far. The dormitory area was up a flight of stairs. My legs
couldn’t even manage to make it to the elevator much less make it up a
flight of stairs. Luckily, I found an empty corner by the bookshelves,
partially screened by a large potted plant. I made my way there on wobbly
legs, pressing my back against the wall and sliding down until I sat on the
floor, knees pulled tight to my chest.
I used to be good at talking myself down from the ledge. Back when the panic
attacks were just garden variety anxiety and not the souvenirs of systematic
abuse. I tried now, struggling to find the rhythm of controlled breathing that
had once been second nature.
I pressed my forehead against my knees, trying to make myself smaller. A tear
leaked from the corner of my eye, sliding hot down my cheek. Then another. I
wiped them away furiously with the heel of my hand. I was not going to cry in
this fucking corner like a child because someone broke a vase. I was not going
to be this broken thing Eric created.
But the tears kept coming, silent but unstoppable. They weren’t really
about the vase or even about the flashback. They were tears of pure
frustration at my body’s betrayal and my mind’s inability to
distinguish past from present. And for how pathetic I’d been for so
long. Now I had nothing.
* * *
I’d come to an agreement with Hannah. I help out with housekeeping,
cooking, and anything else needed in Haven, and I could stay longer. At least,
that was the agreement I proposed. She’d smiled and told me that of
course I could stay. That there were no conditions and I could stay as long as
I wanted. As safe as I felt here, I knew it would be a long while before I
“wanted” to leave. And also, I didn’t really believe
they’d let me stay here much longer. It was past time I left. I just
couldn’t make myself go.
Now, I pushed the supply caddy, which seemed to weigh a ton, its wheels
squeaking as I pushed it down the hallway. Hannah had asked me to deliver
fresh towels and toiletries to the linen closet where everyone got what they
needed. A simple task, but it got me away from the sympathetic glances after
my meltdown in the common room. The building designated for Haven had been a
former warehouse. But someone had converted the place into a very comfortable,
very soothing atmosphere inside.
I passed the small office and approached the security station that controlled
access to the entire building. The security here was insane and every security
guard working here took their job very seriously. No one got inside Haven who
didn’t belong. The door was ajar, and I slowed as I heard Hannah’s
voice from inside, clearer and more authoritative than her usual soft-spoken
manner.
“– have to adjust the rotations since Noose’s funeral. We
can’t leave any gaps in coverage, especially at night. The restraining
orders don’t mean shit if –”
I hesitated outside the door, not wanting to interrupt but also curious about
the changes happening around us. Noose had been killed just before I came
here. He’d died in the same fire that had nearly claimed the lives of
Mia and Oktober, as well as Pain and Inferno. The Kiss of Death MC had been
providing security for Haven since its founding, a fact that had initially
terrified me until I realized they were the only thing standing between the
women here and the men who might come looking for them. More than once,
I’d been ashamed of the way Eric had called these men criminals.
I’d learned that, while most of them had killed, they’d all had
good reasons for what they’d done and had taken their punishment.
I knocked lightly on the doorframe, the caddy parked beside me. “Sorry
to interrupt. I have supplies for –”
The words died in my throat as I stepped into the doorway and saw who Hannah
was talking to. A large man filled the small security office with his presence
across from Hannah. The Kiss of Death leather cut stretched across shoulders
that could have belonged to a linebacker. His dark hair was buzzed short on
the sides but longer on top, and a shadow of stubble darkened his jaw. But it
was his hands that held my attention. They were large and weathered with scars
across the knuckles. I didn’t know this man, but he obviously belonged
to the club.
I froze, instinctively. I didn’t like strange men. Most of the women
here had issues with strange men. I gaped at the guy, feeling like prey caught
in a predator’s trap.
“Jade, perfect timing,” Hannah said, seemingly oblivious to my
reaction. “This is Rip. He’s taking over Noose’s security
detail.” She turned to the man. “Rip, this is Jade. She’s
been with us about three weeks now and has been helping with a few chores.
She’s been a lifesaver in so many ways.” Hannah gave me a smile
before reaching out to take my hand and tug me farther inside the office.
“If you can’t find something, find Jade. She’ll either know
where it is or if we have whatever it is you need.”
I managed a tight nod, my throat too dry for words. This man was here to
protect us, not harm us. I knew he wouldn’t be here if he were a bad
person, but my body didn’t get the memo.
“Rip’s going to be handling the night shift security,”
Hannah explained, filling the quiet.
I nodded again, stealing a glance at the man from beneath my lashes. I found
it difficult to read the guy. His gaze was direct and penetrating, taking in
everything around him. When they met mine, I felt a jolt of emotion. Not fear,
exactly, but I knew he could see straight through to the very core of me and
saw the wreckage hidden underneath the surface. His eyes were intense but
kind.
The longer he looked at me, the more his gaze narrowed. He looked almost
startled. He turned his head slightly toward me and rubbed the center of his
chest absently as though it ached.
I dropped my gaze immediately, studying the scuffed toes of my shoes. My chest
tightened with the familiar anxiety that men triggered in me. This man saw
things I didn’t want him to see. I knew it like I knew my own name.
“Good to meet you,” I managed to say. I backed toward the door,
eager to escape the intensity of his gaze. “I should let you get back to
it.”
Rip nodded once. He still hadn’t spoken, but somehow his silence
wasn’t threatening. It felt considerate. As if he understood that his
voice might be too much for me right now.
I slipped out of the doorway and leaned against the wall in the corridor,
breathing deeply to slow my racing heart. Through the partially open door, I
could hear Hannah resuming their conversation as if they hadn’t been
interrupted.
I pushed away from the wall and headed back toward the common area, my mind
replaying those few moments of eye contact. There had been something oddly
comforting about the weight of his gaze. Rip hadn’t given me the
predatory assessment I’d grown accustomed to from Eric but simply
waited. Watchful in the way a guardian surveys their charge.
Strangely, for the first time since arriving at Haven, I felt truly seen. Not
as a victim or someone who’d betrayed her best friend, but as a person
worth protecting.
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.
Carley Mathers isn’t just the “party girl” daughter of
a congressman. She’s more. But these days, in a world of fake friends,
she’s determined to keep only true ones close. Because she puts them at
arm’s length, her classmates at college refer to her as “The
Snob.” But she comes from wealth and means — she shouldn’t be
able to mix with her bodyguard, right?
Dacre Jennings has been given the job of protecting Carley while she’s
off at college. The same classmates who make light of her silence also make
fun of him, too. He doesn’t care that they think she lives with the old
man. He’d rather she lived with him than alone. He sees the real woman,
and he’s been in love with her for as long as he’s worked for the
family.
With threats on her life, Dacre refuses to let Carley be used or abused.
He’ll put his life on the line for her, as long as he knows he’s
got her heart as well.
EXCERPT
Carley Mathers closed her notebook and put her pen back in the front pocket of
her backpack. She wasn’t a fan of taking notes, but the only way
she’d keep the dates for all the paintings straight was to write them
down.
“Going home to Grandpa?” Selena, one of the girls Carley thought
she might become friends with, asked. “Hang around people your own age.
Do some gambling. Party or something else that’s normal?”
“Would it kill you to go to the frat party?” Missy snapped.
“You like to drink. Guys like you. Might get us some action and we could
win some money, since you’ve got tons. You can spare some. Any of that
ring a bell?”
Carley rolled her eyes and zipped her backpack. She’d had enough of
those vices. It was time to grow up and settle down — or at least take her
education seriously. Growing up the daughter of a politician and influencer
was bad enough, but she’d exploited her position for years.
She grabbed her backpack and turned on her heel, ignoring the women. She
hadn’t come to the University of Nevada to be sucked into a gambling
situation. She’d wanted to further her education.
“God, she’s such a fucking snob,” Missy said.
“Won’t talk to anyone.”
“That old man is her boyfriend,” Selena said. “Probably
won’t let her go out. Has to keep her on a leash.”
If they only knew… Carley left the lecture hall and met Dacre in the
lobby. “Hiya, Grandpa.”
“Grandpa?” Dacre left his post by the doorway and fell in step
with her. “That’s a new one.”
“Not all that new.”
“Who said it?”
She stopped near the entrance doors to the art building and nodded over her
shoulder. “The two brunettes over there. They wanted me to go to a frat
party and make a damn fool of myself. I’ve had it with those
days.”
He held the door for her as she stepped into the early October sunshine.
“It’s warmer than I thought it would be.”
“I don’t mind. I like the warmth.” She elbowed him as they
walked together. “They said I’m a snob.”
“You are.”
She jabbed him again. “Take that back.”
“Sorry, but no.” He kept walking. “You don’t talk to
anyone, don’t mix with your peers, and keep to yourself.”
“That doesn’t make me a snob.”
“No,” he said. “But you come to class wearing expensive
stuff and not talking much. It allows people to make up their own stories
about you. They know what you’ve done and expect you’ll keep doing
it.”
She sighed. She’d been such a bad girl in her younger days. Younger
days… who was she kidding? She was only nineteen. But in her short
years, she’d drunk most everyone under the table. She’d partied
more than anyone her age should’ve been doing and tried too many things
that should’ve been forbidden for someone underage. Being the child of
wealth meant no one kept her in line — certainly not her parents. As far as
she was concerned, her parents used her bad behavior to further their own
causes.
“I’m sorry,” he said. “I didn’t mean to touch a
nerve.”
“It’s okay.” She shrugged. “It’s not like I can
hide my past. I can’t hide my name, either. Everyone thinks they know
who I am, but no one takes the time to get to know the real me.”
“You don’t exactly open yourself up to it.” He joined her at
the truck. “You’re a wonderful person and cute as a button, but no
one sees it. All they see is you keeping tight-lipped and away from
everyone.”
“Wouldn’t you?” She fell onto the passenger seat. She waited
for him to do a quick search of the vehicle before he joined her in the cab.
“All clear?”
“Clear.” He closed the driver’s side door. “I
don’t blame you for being guarded. I told you, it’s perfectly
fine. You’ve had a lot of attention, and I get why you don’t want
it.”
She clicked her belt into place. “But?”
“But you’re not going to escape it. Unless you change your name or
completely change your face, you’re going to have to put up with the
attention.” He put the truck into gear. “The girls said
you’re a snob?”
“And wanted me to go to a party to act the fool and get them
guys.” She arranged her backpack between her feet, then withdrew her
phone. The device buzzed, drawing her attention. “Sorry. I won’t
be your circus animal.”
“I’d like to think that’s not the case, but I’m sure
it is.” He drove across the student lot. “It doesn’t help
that I’m following you around and trying to keep you safe. They see me
around and think I’m some kind of old pervert.”
“My grandfather.” She swiped through the screens to her texts.
“You don’t look that old.”
“Grandfather?” he asked. “I’m only twenty years older
than you. Yes, I could be your father, but grandfather? I’m hurt.”
“You don’t look thirty-nine.”
“Forty, but who’s counting?”
“When did you turn forty?” She put her phone down and stared at
him. “Why didn’t I know when you had your birthday?”
She’d been oblivious for years, but this was inexcusable.
“Two months ago.” He shrugged and flexed his hands on the wheel.
“It’s okay. I try not to remember it.”
“That’s not right. We should’ve had a party.”
“You were moving into school. I had better things to do and you
didn’t need to be concerned with me.” He kept driving through
campus to the condominiums.
“I don’t care. I would’ve liked to have known so we
could’ve had a party, even if it was just you and me.” She
would’ve done something nice for him and even bought a present.
“Your father told me to keep it quiet.”
“He’s a jackass.” She wasn’t the biggest fan of her
famous father. “I hate that he said that.”
“It’s okay.”
“Stop saying that.” She picked her phone up again. “This
stupid thing won’t stop buzzing. I don’t have anything due or
reminders set.” She’d been careful to note when she had to turn in
projects and if she had tests so she didn’t blow her grade point
average. She refused to keep riding her parents’ coattails.
“What’s up?” He parked in the garage of the condo they
shared. “Another test?”
“Nope.” She scrolled through the message, then swiped to her email
where she read the rest of the information. “Fucking hell.”
“Watch your mouth.” He put the garage door down and took the key
from the ignition. “What’s wrong?”
She sighed and scrolled through the mandate again. “It would appear my
father is being considered for a role in the president’s cabinet and he
— my father — has decided to have a party. He’s dictating I show up at
said party and that I wear something slinky, he says, so I can attract a
husband. The president’s son will be there, as well as the son of a
diplomat and some dipshit who has an artificial intelligence startup. Why is
he throwing me at these men? What if I don’t like them?”
“You don’t.”
“Duh.” She turned her phone over on her lap. “He’s
sending the private jet to come get me.”
“Don’t you have a test on Monday?”
“I do. Art history.” She folded her hands on her phone. “I
don’t want to go, but I can’t refuse him.”
“I know.” He opened the driver’s side door. “But it
would’ve been nice if he’d have told me.” He rounded the
hood to her side of the truck.
“You didn’t know?”
“Nope.” He slid his phone from his back pocket. “Not a
word.”
“You’re coming with me.” She insisted on it.
“I’m not going if you don’t.”
“I’m not leaving you to those wolves.” He opened her door
for her. “Sweets, I’m stuck to you like glue.”
“You’re good glue.” She grasped his hand and squeezed his
fingers. She’d had a crush on him for years but kept that to herself. He
didn’t see her as a desirable woman. She was “cute as a
button.” What young woman wanted to hear that? It was a kiss of death.
Like telling her she was one of the guys. She allowed him to help her from the
truck, then stumbled forward into his arms.
“Hi.” He crooked his brow. “You okay?”
She’d always felt a tingle when he touched her. Now, that tingle had
turned into full electrical jolts. Her pussy throbbed and she longed to kiss
him. He didn’t look forty. Hell, he barely looked thirty. What he did
look like was sexy enough that she wanted to wrap herself around him. He was
just her type — older, tall, slightly graying at the temples, a weathered
look around his eyes and just the right amount of stubble on his cheeks and
chin to abrade her skin. Plus, he had killer blue eyes.
“Carley?” He tipped his head. He’d started wearing a
baseball cap and zipped hoodie to blend in more with the college students.
“You’re staring at me.”
“What’s not to stare at?” She stayed in his arms and sighed.
“You’re…” She almost said dreamy, but that
wasn’t right. He was dreamy, but he was more than that. With him, she
felt safe. Respected. Heard.
“Not me,” he said. “I’m not supposed to be touching
you.”
“Do you want to?” She stood and righted herself, trying to look
less flustered. “Sorry. I should behave.” She grabbed her backpack
before hurrying into the condo. She’d made a fool of herself and hated
that she’d allowed herself to be vulnerable, even if only for a second.
“Carley.” He hurried after her. “Wait.”
About the Author
Megan Slayer, aka Wendi Zwaduk, is a multi-published, award-winning author of
more than one-hundred short stories and novels. She’s been writing since
2008 and published since 2009. Her stories range from the contemporary and
paranormal to LGBTQ and white hot themes. No matter what the length, her works
are always hot, but with a lot of heart. She enjoys giving her characters a
second chance at love, no matter what the form. She’s been nominated at
the LRC for Best Author, Best Contemporary, Best Ménage, Best BDSM and
Best Anthology. Her books have made it to the bestseller lists on various
e-tailer sites.
When she’s not writing, Megan spends time with her husband and son as
well as three dogs and three cats. She enjoys art, music and racing, but
football is her sport of choice. She’s an active member of the Friends
of the Keystone-LaGrange Public library.
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.
