TEASER: The Wolf Experiment by Laura Daleo

Urban Fantasy / Werewolf

Date Published: 01-23-2026

 

 In Doford Peaks, a small mountain town, 19-year-old Ethan lives with his
grandma. His life is quite normal, at least as normal as it can be for someone
with asthma. A winter morning walk turns dramatic when he and his grandma
discover an 18-year-old girl, Mia, who is unconscious and injured. As Mia
recovers, bits of her past emerge, attracting agents Gibson and Cooper of the
Bureau of Supernatural Investigation (BSI). A complex web of secrets
associated with the Defense Forces of Genesis (DFOG) intertwines their fates.
As the truth emerges, Ethan and Mia must face the horrifying reality of The
Wolf Experiment.

 

 

Excerpt

Chapter 1

A whimper pulled me from my sleep, and my eyelids
fluttered open. Gracie’s snout was right in front of me, her light gray
fur softly brushing against my cheek. As her pale blue eyes looked into mine,
her tail began to wag. There was no way I was getting up, and I rolled over to
the other side of my bed, where Hank stood waiting. He fixed his golden eyes
on me, his pure white fur seeming darker in the dim light of my bedroom.
Sunlight filtered through the two large skylights above my bed, casting a warm
light over my room. The rays continued to spread across posters of my favorite
bands, my world map marked with where I wanted to visit, my only plant that I
hadn’t killed, and my high school guitar leaning against my bookcase. My
wolves whimpered again, signaling it was time to get up. Glancing at the clock
on my nightstand, it read 6:00 a.m.
I pulled the covers over my head and
tried to fall back asleep, but that didn’t work out well. My wolves
howled as they jumped onto my king-sized bed. Sitting up, I shook off the
sleepiness and raised my open palms toward Hank. “We’re bros,
Hank. Help me out here. It’s too early. Can’t you and Gracie give
me a little more time?”
Hank reacted by leaping off my bed,
sprinting into the hallway, and then vanishing. Gracie fixed her fierce gaze
on me, but I avoided her eyes. The sound of Hank’s paws tapping against
the floor broke the silence as he charged back into my room, his leash clamped
in his mouth.
I shook my head in frustration, tossed aside my covers, and
walked into the bathroom. They followed closely behind me. “At the very
least, let me take a quick shower before we go for a walk.”
I
didn’t let either of them protest with a bark, howl, or whine and
stepped into the shower. Turning on the hot water, my wolves settled onto the
cool porcelain tile of the bathroom, their eyes on me, waiting. My thoughts
drifted back to one year ago when I discovered the abandoned wolf puppies on
my way home from the local store. They huddled together on the roadside,
trembling and shaking, too young to be without their mother. Their bodies were
mere skin and bones, and they had that look in their eyes that they were ready
to give up. I tucked them into my jacket and rushed home, fully aware that my
grandma would not be pleased with my impulsive decision, but I had to save
them.
My grandma’s eyes widened in disbelief when she saw the
little bundles of fur sticking out from my jacket as I walked in the door.
“Ethan, did you bring wolves into my house?” She let out a deep
sigh and was definitely annoyed, but as she noticed their desperate state, her
disapproval began to fade. She quickly ushered me and the puppies into her
clinic and examined them thoroughly. “I’m a physician, not a
veterinarian,” she said, “but these puppies are severely
dehydrated and malnourished. I can give them fluids, and you need to buy puppy
milk replacement from the feed store. Let Walter know they are wolf pups and
about four weeks old. He will know what to give you.”

Gracie’s
and Hank’s urgent barks jolted me into the present and forced me to
quickly finish my shower. Staring at myself in the double mirrors over the
bathroom vanity, I saw bits of my grandma in me. We both had curly, caramel
brown hair, although hers had strands of gray. The left corner of our smiles
was slightly crooked, a trait that ran in the family. Our hazel eyes had more
green than brown, and while she stood at 5’6″ and weighed 125 pounds, I was
taller at 5’10” and weighed 165 pounds.
She was a tough, 66-year-old
woman with a strong personality who never remarried after my grandfather
passed away. I never knew him. He died before I was born. Grandma, being the
town’s physician and surgeon, was accustomed to interacting with people
and found comfort in those conversations. As for me—I was a loner and
found socializing to be a challenge. I preferred the company of animals over
people. Hank and Gracie were my best friends. All I truly needed was their
companionship, along with my grandma’s, of course.
When I was five,
my parents left me at my grandma’s house. That was fourteen years ago.
We lived in Doford Peaks, a small mountain town in the state of Oakridge, with
a population of around 1,200. With winter fully upon us, I dressed in utility
pants, a long-sleeved T-shirt, and my winter boots to prepare for the cold. I
also dressed Hank and Gracie in their waterproof winter coats and booties.
Along with my down jacket, I grabbed a beanie and gloves. I stuffed my cell
phone, inhaler, and compass into my pants pockets. With Gracie’s and
Hank’s leashes in hand, I left my bedroom and dropped my jacket, beanie,
and gloves on the entryway table.
Hank and Gracie followed me into our
rustic kitchen, with exposed wooden beams and oak cabinets. Grandma
particularly loved the large windows that allowed natural light to stream
across the stone-tiled floor and the breathtaking views of the surrounding
mountains. She was seated at the antique wooden table in the center of the
kitchen, sipping a cup of coffee. Grabbing a granola bar and a bottle of
water, I breathed in the rich aroma of French roast. “Morning, Grandma.
You’re up early.”
“Ethan, good morning. A slight
emergency brought me into the clinic.” She sipped her coffee and
continued, “LuAnn fell on the ice and sliced her hand open. She needed
several stitches.” Grinning, she said, “She asked about
you.”
“Please stop with the matchmaking.”
“She’s
intelligent and attractive, much like you.”
“That
doesn’t mean I have to date her.”
“It doesn’t
mean you have to date her. But what’s the harm in having a casual cup of
coffee?”
“Being single works for me. Plus, I wouldn’t
know how to talk to her, and I wouldn’t want to give her the wrong idea.
Can we change the subject?”
She placed her coffee mug on the
counter. “Fine. Are you going out for a walk with your wolf
pack?”
I scratched Gracie and Hank behind their ears. “As
much as I wanted to sleep in, they insisted I get up and take them for a
walk.”
Her gaze drifted to one of the large windows, where
snowflakes were gently falling outside. Turning her attention back to me, she
asked, “Do you have your inhaler?”
I patted my pocket.
“Yes, Grandma.”
“What about your cell phone?”
“I
have that too.”
“Since it’s snowing, you should
definitely take a jacket, and—”
My chin bobbed toward the
door as I interrupted her. “I have a jacket, a beanie, and
gloves.”
“Hmm. What about water or a snack?”
I
groaned and replied, “Grandma, I’m 19. I’m not a kid
anymore. I can take care of myself.”
A protective expression
crossed her face as she placed her hand on her hip. “Ethan, no matter
how old you get, in my eyes, you’ll always be my precious
grandson.”
A sigh escaped my lips, and I shrugged my shoulders.
“Do you want to just come with me?”
Her hazel eyes brightened
with a smile as she waved a finger at me. “That’s a great
idea,” she said. “I’ll get my coat.”
Grandma came
back wearing a down jacket. She was bundled up in winter clothing. A scarf was
wrapped around her neck, and gloves covered her hands while she tucked her
hair beneath the hood of her jacket. She grabbed a bottle of water from the
cupboard and tucked it into her jacket pocket. Then she reached for
Gracie’s leash. “Gracie can come with me.”
“Gracie
is definitely easier to control than Hank. He tends to pull a lot, especially
when he catches a scent.” I handed her Gracie’s leash.
“That’s
true!” she said with a smile. “I’m ready. It’s
beautiful right now. The sun is breaking through the clouds, the snow is
falling, and the air smells of pine cones. What more could we ask
for?”
“You sound like a greeting card, Grandma.”
A
chuckle escaped her lips. “I do, don’t I?” She opened the
solid wood door and replied, “After you.”
Wood siding wrapped
around my grandma’s single-story home. The deep green roof blended into
the surrounding trees, and the many windows let in tons of light, which my
grandma loved. I led Hank through the doorway and onto the wraparound deck. We
made our way down the stairs and onto the cement driveway. Continuing down the
sloped driveway, we passed Grandma’s clinic, a smaller replica of the
main house. Glen’s truck had cleared the road of snow. At 70, he was
still going strong as the owner of a snowplow truck company. His silver hair
was often dusted with snow, mirroring the bushy eyebrows that framed his kind,
gray-blue eyes. Every time I saw him, he was wearing a flannel shirt, a heavy
jacket, jeans, and boots. Maybe they were his favorites or maybe it was his
uniform, but at least he was consistent.
We walked along the towering
pine trees, now filled with snow, lining both sides of the road. The crisp,
cool air stung my cheeks, so I pulled my beanie down as far as possible and
still be able to see. Hank and Gracie strolled alongside us, their noses in
the air, sniffing at whatever scents they could find.
Grandma asked,
“Would you like to talk about the letter your parents sent?”
“I
don’t,” I abruptly replied.
“I think we ought to talk
about it,” she insisted.
I looked at her, hoping my expression
conveyed my hurt, frustration, and exhaustion. “Grandma, I love you. I
know my dad is your son, and I don’t mean any disrespect, but they
handed me off to you fourteen years ago. Mom and Dad haven’t visited me
for any occasion—birthdays, Thanksgiving, or Christmas. They ghosted me!
I couldn’t care less about their stupid letters.”
“I
understand where you’re coming from,” she sympathized.
“Although I don’t support the choice they made, I know it was very
tough for them to leave you in my care, and I can only imagine how confusing
this all is for you. I don’t know what your letter said, but in my
letter, they reiterated their continued search for a cure for asthma. Their
letter made it very clear that they’re doing everything possible to help
you live a healthier, happier life. I hope you know how much both your parents
love you.”
“Researching for fourteen years, Grandma?” I
exclaimed, my voice filled with exasperation. “I’m sure even you
don’t even believe that.”
“I know they love
you.”
“If they truly loved me, they would have been present
in my life instead of concentrating on scientific research. My parents
didn’t want a flawed son.”
Her hand touched mine as she
paused. “Ethan, you can’t possibly believe that.”
“Regardless
of what I believe, the fact remains that I have asthma, and I manage it. You
stood beside me, not my parents. They’ve been absent most of my life.
Even if they returned now, I probably wouldn’t want to see them.
I’m sorry, Grandma.” I softened my tone. “My anger is
directed at them, not you, and I’m just not ready to forgive
them.”
She hugged me tight and reassured me. “Ethan, I will
always be here for you.”
In her arms, emotions surged within me,
and tears threatened to fall. Hank and Gracie surrounded me, nuzzling their
furry heads against my body in an attempt to comfort me. As I pulled away, I
admitted, “Talking about them doesn’t help. It only makes matters
worse.”
“I understand how you feel. Everything is going to be
okay, I promise. Let’s continue our morning walk with Hank and Gracie
and enjoy the day together.”
Relieved, I nodded, and we continued
down the road. Hank and Gracie glanced back at me occasionally to ensure I was
okay. As we walked, the various smells around us began to capture their
attention more than my presence. They trotted happily alongside me, their
snouts pressed to the pavement, wagging their tails as they sniffed every
tree.
“It’s chilly today,” Grandma said and shivered
and then glanced at me. “How are you feeling? Any shortness of
breath?”
“So far, so good, but I agree it’s super cold.
Maybe we can cut our walk short.”
“Good idea, and I
agree.”
Hank suddenly stopped, raised his nose, and howled. A few
birds scattered from the branches above, startled by his abrupt call. Had he
sensed something: an approaching storm or another animal nearby?
Gracie’s ears perked up as she lifted her head and let out a softer but
equally determined howl. My wolves stood side by side, their eyes scanning the
horizon, alert to something I couldn’t see. Hank started tugging on his
leash, and I pulled backward. “What is it, Hank?”
“I
don’t see anything,” Grandma said, glancing around the area.
I
peered between the trees, searching and feeling compelled to understand what
Hank and Gracie were sensing. “They definitely smell something.
Let’s check.”
“I am not sure if it is safe,
Ethan.”
“Grandma, we need to investigate. If it’s an
injured animal or more abandoned pups, we can call Marsha and have her send
her wildlife team out here.”
“Fair enough.” Grandma
nodded.
I released the slack on Hank’s leash and commanded,
“Find it!
Hank and Gracie raced ahead, tugging Grandma and me
along. Our breaths rose into the air like swirls of smoke. Frost covered the
road, crunching beneath our boots as we followed my wolves. As we went down
the road, the trees got thicker and thicker, reaching up to the pale sky,
casting shadows, and blocking out the sun.
My wolves’ noses skimmed
along the damp earth, sniffing. Occasionally, they paused to circle a spot
several times before continuing on their determined path with their noses once
again on the ground. They sped up and tensed their bodies as they focused on
the trail that led us up the hill to a cliff that looked like the entrance to
a cave.
Despite the cold, beads of sweat formed on my forehead, and a
tightness spread across my chest. The familiar constriction gripped my lungs
the higher we climbed. I couldn’t wait any longer. I needed my medicine.
Fumbling in my pocket, I reached for my inhaler. I could feel Grandma’s
eyes fixed on me as I struggled to breathe.
Grandma’s voice was
tense as she ordered, “Stop and use your inhaler. You’re having
trouble breathing.”
“Hank is pulling me too hard. I can take
a puff while I’m moving.”
“Nonsense,” Grandma
said, taking Hank’s leash from me and bringing both Hank and Gracie to a
halt. The wolves howled in protest. “There, now they’ve stopped.
Please, Ethan, use your inhaler right now, and I mean it.”
I
didn’t argue and put my inhaler in my mouth, pressed the button,
releasing the medication, and breathed deeply. After a few seconds of inhaling
and exhaling, the pressure lessened, and I put my inhaler back in my pocket.
Gradually, the tightness in my chest vanished.
“Better?”
I
nodded.
“I can’t risk your health for Hank and Gracie to
chase down some scent. We need to turn back.”
“No, Grandma!
I’m fine. If there’s an animal in trouble, we need to save it.
I’ll never forgive myself if we don’t keep going.”
Her
lips formed a thin line, and her brow furrowed with disapproval. Grandma knew
that Hank and Gracie were not just my pets. They knew me better than any
human. They were part of our family. I felt a deep responsibility to protect
all animals, and my grandma knew that.
Again, I begged, “Please,
Grandma.”
After several minutes of hesitation, she finally
responded, “We’ll proceed, but if you have another episode,
we’re finished.” She handed Hank’s leash back to me.
I
let out a sigh of relief. “Thank you. I’ll be okay. I
promise.”
She huffed and waved me forward.
After hiking up the
hill, we arrived at the cave, its dark entrance framed by jagged rocks. A
thick fog floated within the darkness, reminding me of dry ice. I had my
doubts about going inside. The cave floor could be unstable or wild animals
could be hiding inside. And what if the air was thin and stale and triggered
my asthma? But Hank and Gracie were insistent, pulling on their leashes to get
closer.
Peering into the cave, Grandma asked, “Did you bring a
flashlight?”
“No, I didn’t,” I replied, my eyes
widening as a thought struck me. “I can use the app on my
phone.”
When I pulled my phone out of my pocket, Hank leapt
forward, yanking his leash from my grip. Gracie followed suit, breaking free
from Grandma’s hand and racing after Hank. I switched on the flashlight
app, flooding the cave with light. The beam flickered across dirt and jagged
rocks. I pointed it upward, and Hank and Gracie running down a narrow
passageway fell into view. The musty stench and distant sounds of water
dripping grew stronger as we followed them.
“They must have found
the source,” Grandma said, matching my pace.
My heart raced as fear
tightened in my throat at the thought of something harming my wolves.
“I’m freaking out,” I blurted, trying to keep my phone
steady with trembling hands. I had no idea what this cave contained, whether
it was safe, or what Hank and Gracie had stumbled upon. They never disobeyed
me. Maybe Grandma was right about turning back.
“They’ll be
fine. They’re strong creatures. Just try not to worry.”
“I’m
trying not to.”
Hank barked sharply, his call signaling to me that
he needed me. I rushed blindly into the cave, adrenaline coursing through me.
The sound of Grandma’s boots brushing against the cave floor echoed
behind me as she ran.
The flashlight beam caught something ahead, but the darkness obscured my view.
Upon closer inspection, I saw Hank and Gracie circling something on the
ground. Slowing down, I hoped it wasn’t an injured animal. As Grandma
reached the spot ahead of me, she gasped. I stood still, unable to take
another step. “Grandma, what’s going on? What is it?”
As
her gaze turned toward me, she said, “Not a what, but a who. It’s
a young woman, maybe 18 or 19 years old.”
“What?” I
rushed forward, closing the distance to the scene. I halted just behind
Grandma, who was kneeling beside an unconscious girl, curled up in a fetal
position, wearing a hospital gown. Hank and Gracie stood close by. Her long
strawberry blonde hair was a matted, tangled mess hanging over her face. Her
pale skin stood out in contrast to the bruises and deep red cuts all over her
arms, legs, and especially her bare feet. Pus oozed out of them.
Grandma
was in full-on doctor mode, checking the girl’s pulse, listening to her
breathing, and examining her numerous wounds. As she assessed the girl’s
condition, her eyes narrowed in concentration.
“Jesus,” I whispered. “Is she alive?”
“Her
pulse is weak, and her breathing is shallow, but she’s alive,”
Grandma confirmed, her focus on the girl. “Her body temperature is low.
It could be hypothermia. She’s wearing a wristband, but it’s not
from the hospital in town.” She turned to me. “Give me your
jacket. She needs to warm up.”
I removed my jacket and handed it to
Grandma, who carefully wrapped it around the girl.
“We need to get
her out of here and to my clinic immediately,” Grandma urged. “We
can’t carry her, and I need my medical van. You’ll need to keep a
close watch on her while I go get the van. Be prepared that you may have to
perform CPR if her heart stops.”
My jaw dropped slowly as the
weight of responsibility washed over me, sending a wave of anxiety coursing
through my body. The thought of performing lifesaving measures on someone was
terrifying. What if I screwed up? “I’m your bookkeeper. This is
beyond my capabilities,” I said, gesturing toward the girl. “I
can’t help her.”
“You can handle this. Besides,
we’ve trained many times on all emergency procedures.”
The
cave felt as if it were closing in around me. Memories of Grandma’s
first aid lessons flooded my mind, each one a jumbled mess of instructions and
distant recollections. I shook my head firmly. “No, I can’t do it.
What if she wakes up and sees some guy standing over her? You know I’m
not comfortable with people. She’ll probably freak out. Just let me go
get the van, and you stay here.”
Grandma looked at me, as if
weighing my suggestion, but her expression remained firm. “I understand
your hesitation, but she needs medical treatment immediately. You’ll
have to run to the house, Ethan. I can’t risk you having an asthma
attack. It’s better if I go.”
The thought of being alone with
an unconscious stranger filled me with anxiety. What if I made a mistake and
ended up making things worse instead of better? What if her injuries worsened,
and I wasn’t able to save her? Every rational part of me screamed at me
to let Grandma handle it. I had to be the one to get the van.
“I’ve hiked trails many times—maybe not up a mountain, but
I’ve covered long distances without an episode. Plus, I have my inhaler.
Please let me get the van, Grandma.”
She studied me for several
minutes, probably envisioning various scenarios and their likely outcomes.
After sighing, she relented. “All right. The keys to my van are in my
office in the top drawer on the right side of my desk at the clinic, not my
home office.”
I nodded and turned to leave but quickly faced
Grandma again. My gaze shifted to Hank and Gracie. Instead of coming with me,
they remained by the girl’s side. My brows furrowed in confusion. Why
had they tracked her in the first place, and why were they so protective of
her? Was it her injuries? The blood? The situation? It didn’t make
sense.
“Ethan, what’s wrong?” Grandma asked,
interrupting my thoughts.
I glanced at her before shifting my focus back
to my wolves. “Hank and Gracie,” I said. “It’s odd how
they’re behaving. They don’t even know this girl that
they’re trying so hard to protect.”
“We can figure that
out later. Right now, we need to get this girl to my clinic.” She waved
me away. “Go now and hurry back. Stay safe.”
“I
will.” I cast one final glance at Hank and Gracie before hurrying out of
the cave.


About the Author

 
 Laura Daleo is an accomplished multi-genre author known for weaving
captivating tales across dark fantasy, urban fantasy, supernatural/paranormal,
sci-fi, and young adult fiction. Her acclaimed Immortal Kiss series showcases
her unique take on vampiric lore, reimagining the origins of vampires through
the lens of the Egyptian pantheon. Originally from San Diego, California,
Laura now calls Tucson, Arizona home, where she shares her life with her two
beloved dogs, Rose and Cooper.

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TEASER: Vengeful Fire by Mikala Ash

Dark Fantasy / Paranormal Romance

Date Published: February 6, 2026

Publisher: Changeling Press

Heat rages out of control as the pub burns. The only thing hotter is the
woman watching the flames.

Diana Kendall just had an argument with the owner of Cornwall’s pub. Now
Cornwall’s is burning to the ground. Diana’s an enigma, an artist,
beautiful and intelligent, but strangely aloof. How can Mike resist? But when
he wakes up the next morning, Diana’s gone.

It’s not until Mike sees a naked woman disappear into an art gallery
with a wolf at her side that the real trouble starts. The woman looks
incredibly like Diana. But what is the mysterious apparition trying to tell
him?

Mike needs to find out what’s really going. Does Diana’s fiery
past tell the story, or will he get burnt by Vengeful Fire?

 


Excerpt

Copyright ©2026 Mikala Ash

As he watched the flames, Mike wondered if Prometheus had known what he was
doing when he stole fire from the gods and turned it over to mankind. Humans
had been nothing but trouble ever since.

The alcohol fueled flames consuming Cornwall’s Pub were hypnotic —
mesmerizing and beautiful. They writhed in an almost sensual way. No, Mike
corrected himself. The flames were sensual — the rhythmic way the tongues of
fire bent and unbent were undoubtedly sexual, as if they were alive, pyrrhic
creatures in the throes of orgasm, riding the stiff wooden beams that fueled
their passion. There was even a sense of playful capriciousness about the
sound of splintering beams, which created a staccato beat cheekily mimicking
the act — the fucking act, the act of fucking.

Mike thought there was even something sexual about the words that described
fire. Tongues of flame that licked, seething cauldrons of searing molten heat,
glowing embers pulsing white hot, bursting explosions of showering sparks,
inflamed… His mental thesaurus eventually failed him and he settled in
to enjoy the show.

Several roof beams collapsed with a whoosh. Sparks showered the street and
plumes of acrid smoke belched out of the roiling flames.

Mike looked forward to the climax of the act, when the last sinews of
structure that held the roof aloft would melt, bend and break as the building
collapsed completely into the smoldering debris of orgasm.

Moments later there was another explosion, no doubt the last of the bottles of
bourbon, gin and scotch that had lined the mirrored bar. The firecracker bangs
brought a cheer from the fickle crowd, who twenty minutes earlier had been
drinking and singing within the Cornwall’s convivial walls. The crowd,
Mike thought, were like jilted lovers who laughed self-consciously at the
misfortunes of an unfaithful ex-partner.

Adrenaline still pumped madly through Mike’s veins as if he’d just
come inside the cock-melting pussy of some stranger. He had reason. He’d
been the one who’d shouted the alarm causing these rats to desert the
sinking ship. Not one, he noted, had stayed to fight the hungry flames. No one
had been loyal and true, though they’d drunk there, as he had, for the
last several years. Ten minutes after the final climax of this act of
consuming passion they’d likely be drinking at someone else’s bar.
He felt unaccountably guilty, like the concerned friend who had to break the
news of an infidelity. Knowing that what he did would have ramifications
beyond a simple busted relationship. A step once taken…

Across from him, in the semicircle of voyeurs, stood a dark-haired girl, tall
and lithe. He remembered her from earlier in the night. She was a stranger to
the bar, a newbie, attractive enough to stop conversation… at least on
the men’s parts and, he recalled, some of the girls too.

The pulsating conflagration illuminated her pensive face. She had striking
features; high cheekbones, full lips, large dark eyes and long straight ebony
hair that reached her waist. She seemed strangely familiar but he
couldn’t place her. She wasn’t someone overtly famous, someone who
was always in your face like a movie star. More likely she was a lingerie
model or perhaps he’d seen her in a TV commercial.

His interest in her had been heightened, of course, by the ruckus she’d
caused. An argument with the manager of the place, that stuck up prick
Cornwall himself.

There followed a brief, angry exchange with the bouncer who’d been
instructed to escort her furious body off the premises. Mike had left his seat
to go to her assistance but she’d been too quickly ejected and by the
time he’d reached the street she’d gone.

She’d returned an hour or so later, just before he raised the alarm
about the fire. He noticed she’d come in the side door that led from the
alley. Her serious and cunning expression reminded him of a jilted lover who
can’t resist sneaking into the ex’s bedroom. The scene of so many
orgasms; where so much cum had been ejaculated, spilled, and swallowed. Just
once more to lie on the sodden sheets of love.

Mike made a decision and moved between the drunken observers and stood beside
her. Amazingly, despite the choking, plastic laden smoke that swirled around
them, she smelled of… oranges.

“Hi there,” he said.

“Do I know you?”

She hadn’t looked at him. Her eyes were fixed on the firefighters, those
modern knights with watery lances who battled the angry chimera; the mindless
fire-breathing beast.

“No. I saw you earlier when you had a row with that prick
Cornwall.”

“So?”

“I really don’t think you should be standing here. The fire chief
will tell the police that the fire was deliberately lit. The police will then
interview the staff and they’ll describe you and they’ll see you
here watching the place burn down. Not a good look.”

She turned to face him then, dark eyes sizing him up. The rippling flames were
reflected in them and he found himself lost in those glowing embers, looking
for his silhouette.

“What do you have in mind?”

Infidelity, a sweet, sweet friend. “The smoke has made me thirsty. I
know a bar across town that’s not so… hot.”

Her full lips curled into a smile. One last look at the inferno and a shrug as
if it didn’t matter anymore. The deed was done. “Lead the
way.”

Mike took her arm in his and pulled her gently through the swelling crowd, now
ten deep. The Cornwall had been popular and would, no doubt because of its
prime location, be rebuilt and open for business within six months. Bigger and
better, like a whore returning to her favorite corner after a boob job.

The Glass Half Full was a pretentious little dive frequented by philosophy
students. Mike liked it. Some of the regulars even knew his name. She gave it
an appraising glance through the frosted windows before nodding and following
him in.

“What do you do?” she asked once settled on a high stool at a
round pedestal table.

Mike couldn’t help but notice how her full breasts rested on the
tabletop. “Webpage designer. And you?”

“Student. Art.”

“I guessed it.”

“And how did you do that?” she said tiredly.

He lowered his eyes to her hands. “Paint on your fingertips.”

She laughed and the pure tones resonated playfully in his ears. “I could
be a house painter.”

“Interior design?” he countered.

“Renaissance art.”

“Ah, ceilings. Just as good. Forgive me, but I may not know art but
I…”

“… yeah, yeah, don’t say it.”

He took a sip of his beer but couldn’t take his eyes off her. He felt
strangely comfortable being with her. No nerves at all, which was unusual,
given the circumstances. He was, after all, sitting with a stunningly
beautiful woman who he desperately wanted to fuck.

Usually, whenever he was alone with a new girl, he had butterflies the size of
eagles flying out of formation in his stomach. “I was in the art gallery
just the other day,” he said suddenly to fill the silence. “And I
realized the thing about reality is that it’s, in fact, an
illusion.”

He shuddered inside. What an incredibly stupid passé thing to say.
She’d think him a pretentious prat, which was precisely what he was at
that very moment.

She lent toward him, unaccountably interested. “How so?”

“Well, meaningless rays of light enter our eyes and excite some neurons.
Neuro-chemicals jump across synapses. These excite more neurons. A pulse of
electrical current travels to the next synapse and so on until eventually our
brain sorts them into some sort of matrix we can consciously interpret.”

Her nod of interest urged him on. “But it’s an illusion, something
our brains make up. It’s all a fiction. There are gaps, things we
don’t see, because of lighting or perspective. Our brain fills in those
gaps with assumptions and pre-conceived ideas. We see what we expect to see.
Due to our common brain structure and culture we fill the gaps the same way
and the result is we all share the same illusion.”

She licked her bottom lip and for a moment he lost his train of thought.

“Like a mass hallucination?” she prompted.

He nodded, grateful for her lifeline. “Something like that. I know
it’s been said before. It’s hardly an original thought, but it
struck me there in the gallery and for the first time I knew what it meant.
There was this painting…”

“How unusual to find one of those in there.” Her eyes twinkled
mischievously in the Glass’s dim lighting.

He smiled back. He knew she wasn’t being sarcastic, only getting into
the spirit of the absurd that seemed to have fallen about him this evening. He
actually liked her. “That’s what I thought,” he said,
joining in the fun. “This particular painting was just a mass and swirl
of fine lines in blue ink. The title of the painting was “Stand
Back,” so I did. And the lines resolved themselves into a face. It was
the artist resting her head on her forearm while she drew her own face while
looking at a mirror. It was quite brilliant, but it showed me that reality is
perception, excuse the cliché. That an alien being seeing that
painting, having not seen anything else from Earth, would just see some fine
lines in blue ink.”

“And apart from the face, what else did you see that an alien would not
have?”

“Emotions are hard to judge.”

“Try.”

He put on an aristocratic English accent. “It’s like looking at
paintings from the eighteenth century, don’t you know.”

He saw her lips tighten as she suppressed her laughter. “I
don’t.”

“I can see what they have painted — that shared human knowledge again.
But not what’s going on within the minds of the people depicted even
though they’re only a few hundred years in the past… because
their world view is completely different from ours… they’re an
enigma.”

“The girl in blue ink,” she said slowly. “Is she an
enigma?”

 

About the Author

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

Author Links

Author on Facebook

Author on Twitter

 

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

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TEASER: Ace by Harley Wylde

(Savage Raptors MC)

 

Motorcycle Club Romance, Age Gap, Suspense

Date Published: January 9, 2026

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

 

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

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

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

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

I’ll burn the world down.

 


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

 

EXCERPT

Marci

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

And a man.

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

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

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

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

“What’s your name?” he asked.

“Marci. Marci Robbins.”

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

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

“Where was your last job?”

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

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

“You got any references?” he asked.

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

“Why The Broken Spoke?”

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

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

“Family in the area?”

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

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

“Drink,” he said.

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

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

“I can handle myself.”

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

“I’m sure.”

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

 

About the Author

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

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

 

Author on Facebook, Instagram, & TikTok: @harleywylde

 

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

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

 

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TEASER: Spirit Bear Conspiracy by Anne Kane

Brotherhood of the Wild 1

A Riptide MC Romance

MC Romance

Date Published: January 2, 2026

Publisher: Changeling Press

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

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

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


Excerpt
Copyright ©2026 Anne Kane

Ryland

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

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

Double damn.

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

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

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

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

Son of a bitch, that hurt.

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

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

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

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

Well, at least that was a positive.

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

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

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

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

Yup, I’d definitely had worse.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Concentrate. The boat.

Need to get to boat.

Need to report back in.

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

Boat. Need to get to the boat.

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

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

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

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

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

Just keep moving.

About the Author

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

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

 

Author Links

Website

Facebook

Twitter (X)

Goodreads

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

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TEASER: The Enforcer’s Possession by Harley Wylde

(Ruthless Alliances #1)

 

Mafia Romance, Age Gap, Suspense

Date Published: November 28, 2025

A contract of power. A marriage of enemies. A love written in blood,
bound by desire.


Caterina: My father thinks he owns me. A spoiled mafia princess, good for one
thing — marriage to strengthen his empire. But I refuse to be sold to a cruel
man. If he wants an alliance, I’ll give him one — on my terms. So I go
to Dante De Luca, the De Luca family’s most dangerous enforcer. Cold.
Controlled. Lethal. Our contract marriage is supposed to be business, not
desire. Then he touches me, and everything I thought I knew about power and
control shatters.

Dante: Caterina Lombardi doesn’t know what she’s started. She
wants protection. I want her. She thinks she can use me to defy her father,
but once she’s mine, she stays mine. She’s fire wrapped in silk —
reckless, beautiful, and born to test every rule I’ve ever followed. But
in our world, rebellion comes with blood, and enemies are closing in.
I’ll burn everything to protect her… even if it means becoming
the monster she fears.

A dark mafia romance filled with obsession, betrayal, and dangerous passion.
For readers who love possessive alpha heroes, spoiled princess heroines,
enemies-to-lovers heat, and contracts written in blood.

 


WARNING: Intended for readers 18+ The Enforcer’s Possession includes
dark and possessive elements, emotional intensity, and morally gray behavior.

 

EXCERPT

 

Caterina

I sprawled across the velvet chaise near my bedroom windows, one leg dangling
over the armrest, my phone pressed to my ear while Adriana went on about some
party at the Castellano estate. I wasn’t really listening. Instead, I
picked at the silk blouse I’d tossed aside an hour ago — Valentino,
bought last week, already boring — and let my gaze drift across the disaster
zone my room had become.

Designer clothes lay scattered across the marble floors like expensive
casualties. A Gucci dress hung half-off my bed frame. Three pairs of
Louboutins created a hazardous path to my bathroom. My jewelry cases sat open
on every available surface, catching the afternoon light and throwing rainbow
refractions across the walls.

“Cat? Are you even listening to me?”

“Hmm?” I shifted, letting the blouse fall to the floor.
“Sorry, what?”

“I said Marco asked about you. Again.” Adriana’s voice held
that knowing tone that made me want to reach through the phone and smack her.
“He wants to know if you’ll be at –”

“Tell Marco to go fuck himself.” I sat up, reaching for my
discarded iced coffee on the side table. Watered down. Disgusting. I set it
back without drinking. “I’m not interested in whatever trust fund
baby wants to play gangster this week.”

“He’s not that bad.”

“He wore a fedora to Lucia’s birthday party. A fedora, Adi.”

She laughed, and I felt myself smile despite my mood. That was the thing about
Adriana — she got it. She understood what it was like to live in this world,
to be decorative and controlled and expected to smile through it all.

“Fair point,” she said. “So what’s got you in such a
charming mood today? And don’t say nothing, because I can hear it in
your voice.”

I stood, pacing toward my walk-in closet. The motion felt good, gave me
something to do with the restless energy crawling under my skin. “My
father. What else?”

“What did Giuseppe do now?”

“He’s acting like I’m some prized mare to be traded off to
the highest bidder.” I stepped into the closet, running my hand along
the row of couture gowns that lined one wall. Versace, Dolce & Gabbana,
Armani — thousands of dollars of fabric I was expected to wear while playing
the dutiful daughter. “Apparently, he’s been having meetings.
About my future.”

“Meetings.” Adriana’s voice went flat. She knew what that
meant. We all did.

“With families. Old families. Traditional families who think women
should be seen and not heard.” I grabbed a dress at random — something
in emerald green I’d worn once to a charity gala — and pulled it off
its hanger. Held it up. Put it back. Wrong. All wrong. “He actually told
me yesterday that it was time I started thinking about settling down. Settling
down. I’m twenty-one, not forty.”

“What did you say?”

“I told him I’d rather die.”

Adriana sucked in a breath. “Cat. You didn’t.”

“I did.” I moved to my vanity table, surveying the collection of
high-end makeup and perfumes arranged across its surface. My reflection stared
back at me from the mirror — dark hair falling in waves past my shoulders,
green eyes sharp with anger I couldn’t quite bank. I looked like my
mother had at my age, according to the photos. Before Papa had worn her down
into the perfect Mafia wife. “He didn’t appreciate it.”

“I’m shocked.”

“The thing is, he doesn’t even see it. Doesn’t see how
fucking archaic it all is.” I picked up a lipstick, twisted it open,
then put on a little across my lips. “We all know he’s doing this
for himself or the family, but I’m sure part of him also thinks
he’s protecting me. Providing for me. Making sure I’m taken care
of.”

“By selling you off to some capo’s son?”

“Basically.” I walked back to the windows, looking out over the
Lombardi estate gardens. Perfectly manicured hedges, marble fountains, rose
bushes that cost more to maintain than most people made in a year. Beautiful.
Like a gilded cage. “He keeps talking about duty and family and legacy.
As if I’m just another asset to be leveraged. At the same time, I know
he feels women are inferior. I’m sure he doesn’t believe I could
ever take care of myself.”

“You are, though. To him.” Adriana’s voice was gentle, which
somehow made it worse. “In his world, that’s what daughters are
for.”

I pressed my forehead against the cool glass. “I know. That’s what
makes it so Goddamn frustrating. He genuinely believes he’s doing right
by me. That finding me a wealthy, connected husband is the best thing he can
offer.”

“What about what you want?”

“What I want doesn’t factor into the equation.” I turned
away from the window, surveying my room again. The luxury that surrounded me
suddenly felt suffocating rather than comfortable. “I’m a
Lombardi. I’m supposed to want what’s best for the family.”

“And what do you want?”

The question hung in the air. I didn’t have a good answer. I wanted
freedom, but freedom to do what? I’d never had to think about it before.
My life had always been mapped out — private schools, designer clothes,
carefully curated social events, and eventually a marriage that would
strengthen family alliances.

“I want to choose,” I said finally. “I want to choose who I
fuck, who I marry if I marry, what I do with my life. Is that too much to
ask?”

“For Giuseppe? Probably.”

I laughed, but it came out bitter. Moving back to the chaise, I dropped onto
it dramatically, throwing one arm over my eyes. “He’s been worse
lately. More controlling. Like he knows something I don’t.”

“Maybe he does.”

“That’s what I’m afraid of.” I let my arm fall,
staring at the ceiling. The fresco up there — some Renaissance reproduction
that had cost a fortune — suddenly seemed ridiculous. Everything in this room
was ridiculous. Beautiful and expensive and utterly meaningless. “I can
feel it, Adi. Something’s coming. Some decision he’s already made
that’s going to change everything.”

“Have you tried talking to him? Actually talking, not just
fighting?”

“You can’t talk to Papa. You can plead your case and then watch
him do whatever he was going to do anyway.” I sat up, running my fingers
through my hair. My diamond bracelet caught on a strand and I yanked it free
with more force than necessary. “He pretends to listen, nods in all the
right places, and then completely ignores everything you’ve said.”

“What about Sofia?”

“Mama?” I snorted. “She’s worse. At least Papa is
honest about being a controlling bastard. Mama just smiles and suggests I try
being more accommodating. More understanding of the family’s
needs.”

“Ouch.”

“Yeah.” I stood again, unable to stay still. The restless energy
was back, stronger now. I moved to one of my jewelry cases, running my fingers
over the pieces inside. Tiffany, Cartier, Bulgari — gifts from my father,
purchased with blood money and given with the expectation of gratitude.
“She’s been doing this so long she doesn’t even see it
anymore. The way she swallows her opinions, plays the perfect hostess,
pretends not to notice when Papa comes home with blood on his cuffs.”

“Is that what you’re afraid of? Turning into her?”

The question hit too close to home. I closed the jewelry case with a sharp
snap. “I’d rather die,” I said again, and this time I meant
it with everything in me.

“Well, don’t do that. Your funeral would be boring and I’d
have to wear black, which washes me out.”

Despite everything, I smiled. “You’re the worst.”

“I’m the best and you know it.” I could hear her moving
around on her end, probably getting ready for whatever evening plans she had.
“Look, I know you don’t want advice –”

“Then don’t give it.”

“– but maybe pick your battles. Giuseppe’s old school.
You’re not going to change his mind by going head-to-head with him every
time.”

“So what, I should just roll over and accept whatever he decides?”

“No. I’m saying be smart about it. You’re clever, Cat.
Probably the smartest person I know, even if you are a spoiled brat.”

“Fuck you.”

“Love you too. My point is, if you’re going to fight him, make it
count. Don’t waste your energy on every little thing.”

I wanted to argue, but she wasn’t wrong. Papa responded to strength, to
strategy. Throwing tantrums — no matter how justified — just made him
dismiss me as a child. “Fine. I’ll be strategic.”

“Liar. You’re going to do something dramatic and probably get
yourself grounded, aren’t you?”

“Probably.” I glanced at my closet, an idea already forming.
“There’s a family dinner tonight. Something important, based on
how tense everyone’s been.”

“Oh no.”

“Oh yes.”

“Caterina Lombardi, whatever you’re planning –”

“Gotta go, my warden’s here.” I’d heard the footsteps
in the hall, recognized my mother’s measured pace. “I’ll
call you later.”

“Don’t do anything I wouldn’t do.”

“That leaves me a lot of options.” I ended the call, dropping my
phone onto the chaise just as my bedroom door opened.

Mama swept into my room like she was entering a ballroom, her posture so
perfect it made my spine hurt just looking at her. She wore a cream-colored
Chanel suit that probably cost more than a compact car, paired with pearls
that had been in the family for three generations. Every dark hair sat exactly
where it was supposed to. Not a wrinkle in sight. She looked like the poster
child for “Mafia wife perfection,” and it made me want to scream.

Her gaze traveled across the disaster of my room — the scattered clothes, the
open jewelry cases, the general chaos — but her expression remained serene.
That was Sofia Lombardi’s superpower. Nothing ruffled her. Ever.

“Caterina.” She said my name like it was a complete sentence, with
just enough weight to convey disappointment without actually expressing it.

“Mama.” I stayed where I was on the chaise, not bothering to sit
up straighter or pretend I was doing anything productive. Let her see the
mess. Let her judge it. I didn’t care.

That was a lie. I cared. But I’d rather die than admit it.

“I wanted to remind you about tonight’s dinner.” She stepped
farther into the room, her heels clicking precisely against the marble. Even
her footsteps were measured. “Your father expects everyone to be present
and properly dressed by seven.”

“Properly dressed.” I let the words hang in the air between us,
loaded with all the implications they carried. “You mean demure and
obedient? Quiet and decorative?”

“I mean appropriate for a family gathering.” Her tone remained
gentle, but I caught the steel underneath. Mama had spent twenty-some years
perfecting the art of being firm while sounding pleasant. “We have
important guests coming.”

“Of course we do.” I sat up, swinging my legs off the chaise with
deliberate carelessness. One of my discarded shoes clattered across the floor.
“Let me guess. Someone essential. Someone whose opinion matters. Someone
Papa wants to impress.”

Mama’s lips pressed together for just a moment — the only crack in her
composure. “This is vital to your father.”

“Everything is a key component to Papa. His reputation, his alliances,
his legacy.” I stood, moving to my vanity and picking up a bottle of
perfume just to have something to do with my hands. “His ability to
control every aspect of his daughter’s life.”

“Caterina.” This time my name came with a sigh, and when I glanced
at her reflection in the mirror, I saw something that might have been
weariness in her eyes. “Must you make everything a battle?”

“Must he treat me like property?” I set the perfume down harder
than necessary. The glass bottle made a sharp sound against the marble vanity
top. “I’m not a business asset, Mama. I’m a person.”

“No one said you weren’t.”

“They don’t have to say it. They just act like it.” I turned
to face her directly, crossing my arms. “Do you know what he told me
last week? That it was time I started considering my options. My options. Like
I’m shopping for a new car instead of thinking about my future.”

Mama moved to my bed, perching on the edge with practiced grace. Even sitting
casually, she looked like she was posing for a portrait. “Your father
wants what’s best for you.”

“What’s best for the family, you mean.”

“Sometimes those things align.”

“And when they don’t?” I challenged. “What happens
when what’s best for the family means sacrificing what I want? What I
need?”

She looked at me then, really looked at me, and for a moment I saw something
genuine beneath the polished exterior. Regret, maybe. Or recognition.
“We all make sacrifices, Caterina. That’s what it means to be part
of something larger than ourselves.”

“I didn’t ask to be part of this.” My voice came out sharper
than I intended. “I didn’t choose the Lombardi name. I
didn’t choose this life.”

“None of us do.” She stood, smoothing her skirt even though it
didn’t need smoothing. “But it’s the life we have. The
question is what we do with it.”

I wanted to argue more, to push until that perfect composure cracked and she
admitted how much she’d given up, how much she’d swallowed to be
Giuseppe Lombardi’s wife. But I also knew it was pointless. Mama had
made her peace with her choices a long time ago. She’d decided that
compliance was easier than resistance, that playing the role was safer than
fighting the script.

I’d never be able to do the same.

“Seven o’clock,” she said again, moving toward the door.
“Please don’t be late. And, Caterina?” She paused, her hand
on the doorknob. “Wear something appropriate.”

I drummed my manicured nails against the vanity top, the sharp
click-click-click filling the silence. It was a nervous habit I’d never
been able to break, and one that drove my father crazy. Mama’s gaze
flicked to my hand, but she said nothing. Just waited.

“I’ll be there,” I said finally. “Properly dressed and
everything.”

Something in my tone must have warned her, because her eyes narrowed slightly.
Not angry, just… knowing. She’d raised me, after all. She knew
when I was planning something.

“Caterina –”

“I said I’ll be there.” I gave her my sweetest smile, the
one I used when I was about to do something that would make Papa’s blood
pressure spike. “You can count on me.”

 

 

About the Author

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

When not crafting her tales, Wylde spends her time brainstorming new
plotlines, indulging in a hot cup of Starbucks, or delving into a good book.
She has a particular affinity for supernatural horror literature and movies.
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

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TEASER: Invisible Monsters by Angela Knight

Sci-fi Romance, BDSM, Second Chances

Date Published: November 14, 2025

Can two Rangers find love when they’re haunted by invisible
monsters — inside and out?

 

Earth civilians are obsessed with selfies and social media, but my life
revolves around alien starships, superhuman strength, and A.I. implants. Too
bad none of it helped when I was captured and tortured. Now I crave revenge,
but as a genetically engineered Ranger, I must obey Mothership’s rules:
protect humanity. Never kill.

When another alien ship sends monsters to invade Earth, Mothership’s
Rangers must stop them. My new Ranger teammate is everything I shouldn’t
crave: handsome, skilled, and haunted by his own dark past. He helped rescue
me from torture, but it cost him his entire team. Now I’m the mess
he’s got to clean up.

 


Battling invisible monsters may be the death of us, but our mutual attraction
is undeniable. Can we stop an alien invasion despite our dangerous chemistry?

 

EXCERPT

 

Present Day

Diana

I stared at the screen, watching the Earth grow larger as our transport raced
toward it. Even after two months as one of Mothership’s Rangers, the
sight reminded me how strange my new life had become. Down there, people were
obsessed with selfies, celebrities, and social media. I’d plunged into a
world of giant alien starships, AI brain implants, and super-strength.

And worse.

An image flashed through my head — the sadistic grin on Roger Bannon’s
face as he leaned in, the surgical drill whining as it spun. I’d fought
not to scream as the drill bit in.

Roger loved it when I screamed.

I shoved away the memory, hard. If I wasn’t careful, that thin face with
those pale, rabid eyes would start running through my head on an OCD loop.
“I should have killed you when I had the chance,” I muttered.

Next to me, Ian Cartwright turned to give me a narrow stare. “What did
you say?”


Damnit, Diana, you’re not supposed to creep out your battle buddy.

“Bad memories.”

His expression softened, ice-blue eyes going a little less chilly. “I
can imagine.”


No, you really can’t.
I didn’t say it aloud. Cartwright already
thought I was a human hand grenade just waiting for somebody to pull my pin.
The team didn’t need that kind of distrust, especially in the middle of
an op.

I looked away to see Indra Fox watching me in concern. Crap, I’d even
freaked her out. She and our team leader, Rowan Kerr, sat on one of the other
bench seats beside the huge oval screens that lined the transport’s
curving fuselage.

Indy had been my best friend all my life, my sister in every way but blood.
She could read me as if she were telepathic. “Having a flashback?”
She tilted her head, long, dark hair swinging around her face, green eyes
startling against the silken fall of black. Like me, Indy had a tough,
athletic build from the combat and strength training we’d had from the
time we could walk. Our dads hadn’t been fooling around.

“I’ve got it handled.”

“Cyberpunk could block those if you’d let him.”

She was right — my AI brain implant could suppress the firing synapses that
triggered those memories. “I’m not going to give Roger the
satisfaction.”

Rowan Kerr snorted. “Satisfaction’s the last thing Bannon’s
feeling.” Our team leader was even bigger than Cartwright, though his
features were less classically handsome, with the rich golden coloring of his
Latino heritage. His angular features and intense gaze made him look like
he’d escaped a temple in ancient Greece. “If he even thinks about
what he did to you, he’ll get a one-way trip to PTSD hell. Pissing
Mothership off is never a good idea.”

“She still turned him loose. He could try it again.” That’s
why I dreamed of killing him, First Reg or no First Reg. If Bannon was dead,
he’d never come back.

Cartwright gave me a frustrated glower. “Newman, he can’t. His
conditioning won’t let him. If you violate the First Reg again,
you’re going to find out why — the hard way. You’ve used up the
only second chance you get.”

That just pissed me off. “If Mothership had rescued Indra and me when
Satan’s Horsemen murdered our –”

“How about not starting a fight in the middle of a mission?” Rowan
interrupted. “We’ve got a child and his family to rescue.
Preferably before the damn Boars grab them.”

I shut my mouth so fast, my teeth clicked. I’d seen the file photo in
Aiden Scott’s dossier. Just eight years old, the kid had huge brown eyes
in a pale, round little face under a flyaway mop of dark hair, his grin wide
and white and missing a couple of baby teeth.

When Aiden was diagnosed with a high-risk medulloblastoma at age four, doctors
treated the brain tumor with surgery, chemo, and radiation. He’d still
relapsed three years later. The boy would probably be dead now, except
Mothership spotted his family’s medical GoFundMe. She’d sent a
Ranger team to the Scott family with an offer to heal Aiden. His parents
hadn’t looked a gift miracle in the mouth — just packed him up and
flown off with the Rangers.

Giant alien spaceships are a lot less scary than losing a child.


Mothership
’s doctors had infused Aiden’s body with nanotech —
molecule-sized bots that hunted down every cancer cell in his body and killed
them all. Then the tech corrected the genetic condition that caused the cancer
while healing the damage it had inflicted. He’d been healthy and happy
within three months.

But that nanotech also made him a tempting target for the Boarosans
who’d invaded the solar system a decade back. The humans whose bodies
the Boars used as unwilling hosts were as vulnerable to disease as everyone
else, and the aliens wanted to keep their meat suits healthy. That was why
they’d ordered the Horsemen to kidnap me, why Bannon and his
“researchers” had cut me, scarred me, peeled me so they could
watch my tech put me back together. They’d hoped to reverse engineer my
nanotech.

They could easily do the same to Aiden. Mothership’s simulations
predicted that since I’d escaped, the Boar might well decide to go after
the Cured she’d treated.

The idea of that sweet little boy at the mercy of the same aliens who’d
given me to Roger…


Rescuing Aiden’s a hell of a lot more important than beefing with my own
team. Better mend some fences.

I gave Ian a tight nod. “Sorry for going off on you, Cartwright.
Rowan’s right — an op isn’t the time to get pissy.”

He studied me thoughtfully. Rangers were universally attractive —
Mothership’s genetic engineering at work — but Ian was even more
gorgeous than the typical agent. His face was intensely masculine, all high
cheekbones and square jaw, his nose aquiline, his mouth wide, with a lower lip
I longed to nibble. He wore his sable hair in a severe style that made him
look even harder, sexier, but it was his eyes that pulled me in. An icy blue,
they were ringed and rayed in a rich cobalt, watchful and cool. People tend to
dismiss a man that pretty, but Cartwright was also six-five and built like an
NFL defensive lineman. As one of Mothership’s Rangers, he was even more
dangerous than he looked.

“I started it.” His voice rumbled in a way that made me yearn to
exchange more than snark with him. “Shouldn’t have poked the
wound. I’m sorry.”

“Let’s just… start over, okay? The point is getting Aiden
and his family to safety.”

His nod was tight and controlled, like everything else about the man.
“Works for me.”

 

About the Author

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

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

Author on Facebook

Author on Twitter

 

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

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TEASER: Echoes of Fortune – Shadows Over Cozumel by David R. Leng

Mystery, Thriller

Date Published: November 11, 2025

 

What would you risk to uncover a secret buried for over 150 years?


From bestselling and multi–award-winning author David R. Leng comes the
next pulse-pounding installment in the Echoes of Fortune series.


His debut, Echoes of Fortune: The Search for Braddock’s Lost Gold
,
captivated readers and earned a 4.5-star rating on Goodreads. Now the
adventure continues with a brand-new novella that plunges deeper into
history’s deadliest secrets.

When historian Jack Sullivan, Smithsonian curator Emma Wilson, and fellow
former Navy SEAL Steve Johnson set out for a Thanksgiving dive off Cozumel,
they expect nothing more than warm waters and forgotten wrecks. Instead, they
uncover a Confederate ghost ship that vanished in 1865—along with a
sealed brass tube containing secrets powerful enough to change history.

But they’re not alone. Shadowy mercenaries and a black-hulled yacht
stalk their every move, determined to silence them before the truth surfaces.
From dazzling reefs to the back alleys of Veracruz, Jack and his team are
forced into a deadly game where history isn’t past—it’s a
weapon.


Some secrets don’t want to be found. And some will kill to stay buried.

Perfect for fans of Steve Berry, Clive Cussler, Dan Brown, and James Rollins,
Shadows Over Cozumel delivers nonstop action, historical intrigue, and a
mystery that spans centuries.

Excerpt

Chapter 1

 

 

Cozumel Mexico

Thursday, November 22, 2018

8:56 AM

 

The black mega yacht waited beyond Cozumel’s harbor mouth, a dark
predator lurking in sunlit waters. Cruise ships gleamed at the pier, fishing
boats slipped out toward the open sea, but this vessel did not belong. Sleek,
silent, and perfectly placed in deeper water, it radiated intent.

At the bow rail, a man in a white Panama hat with a dark band stood with
military stillness, his weathered hands gripping the binoculars trained on the
harbor. A gold watch caught the light as he lifted his wrist to check the
time.

A striking young woman approached in a sheer white cover-up over her swimsuit,
her smile as rehearsed as the silver tray she carried. She might have been a
model from one of the glossy magazines scattered in the salon, another prop in
the theater of wealth the man commanded.

Ice clinking, he took the drink without a glance, eyes locked on the port, as
if even beauty and luxury were beneath his notice.

“Sir,” a subordinate murmured, appearing at his shoulder,
“the Americans arrived last evening. Right on schedule.”

The binoculars never wavered.

“Our marine park contact confirmed they requested to dive La
Sombra
.” The man paused, then continued in his Caribbean accent,
“We’ve been tracking them since they arrived. Sullivan—the
professor, the tall one. His Smithsonian curator fiancée. And his
fellow former SEAL friend. Our hacker says he’s been digging into the
Del Rio.

Through the lenses, he watched three figures board the Maria Elena—a
tall, blond man helping the athletic woman with her gear, the muscular Black
man arranging air tanks with quiet efficiency.

“Possibly lethal. High profile,” he noted. “We should keep
this out of the media if we can. Let them dive.” He lowered the
binoculars, his eyes tracking the dive boat pulling from the pier. “But
if they become a problem…history will bury them too.”

About the Author

 

 David R. Leng, known for his expertise in risk management and insurance, now
ventures into the world of fiction with his latest historical thriller, Echoes
of Fortune. With a distinguished career spanning over 30 years, David is the
author of International #1 Best Sellers including “Insured to Fail” and “The
10 Laws of Insurance Attraction,” and has saved clients over $42 million in
premiums and overcharges. As Executive Vice President and Partner of the
Duncan Financial Group, David is celebrated for his innovative Risk Profile
Improvement Process and has earned numerous accolades, including Advisor of
the Year by the Institute of WorkComp Professionals. An avid contributor to
industry publications, David’s passion extends beyond his professional
achievements to include boating, skiing, woodworking, and supporting his local
high school’s musical productions. His foray into historical thrillers
reflects his deep storytelling skills and a lifelong commitment to engaging
and captivating audiences.

Contact Links

Website

Facebook


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TEASER: Rattler by Anne Kane

(Riptide MC)

 

Motorcycle Club Romance, Age Gap, Suspense

Date Published: November 7, 2025

 


Lily ran from a nightmare straight to Rattler’s arms. He’s all leather,
muscle and lethal promise. Dare she hope for an HEA?

 

Lily — Abusing me was bad enough, but when my a**hole of a boyfriend
threatened to shoot a tiny kitten, I brained him with a pot of spaghetti sauce
and ran — straight into the arms of the tattooed VP of the Riptide MC.
He’s everything my ex isn’t, and that gives me hope. He promises
to keep Scrapper and I safe, but my ex isn’t the forgiving kind. He said
he would kill me if I left him and I know he’s going to come looking for
revenge.

Rattler — She might be younger than me in years, but there’s a world of
experience looking out of those gorgeous eyes, and it isn’t the good
kind. When she pulled a gun on me, I knew she was my kind of woman.
She’s on the run from an a**hole who used her as a punching bag. He
might have the local law enforcement in his pocket, but me and my brothers in
Riptide have military experience, and sometimes vigilante justice is
necessary.

 


Trigger Warning: This is an MC action thriller romance. It contains violence,
abuse, coarse language, vigilante justice, and adult situations. No cheating,
no cliffhangers, and a guaranteed happily ever after. Enjoy!

EXCERPT

 

Rattler

Thor and Janet were actually going to tie the fucking knot! I suppose I should
have seen it coming, but they’d been playing friends-with-benefits for
so long I guess I thought that’s all they’d ever be. And now here
I was — sitting in a bakery waiting for a box of frilly wedding-type cupcakes
to take back to the clubhouse for the old ladies to sample. Not sure how I got
conned into playing fetch. I was happy for them and all, but you’d think
they could have sent a prospect, not the fucking VP.

The bell on the door tinkled, and I looked up as a woman came in. She looked
rough. More than rough. One eye was black, and through the open collar of her
coat I could see a circle of greenish yellow bruises on her neck. Her clothes
looked like she’d slept in them, and she had a bulging backpack slung
across one shoulder. She looked young, too young to be stuck in the kind of
relationship those bruises indicated.

She glanced in my direction and quickly looked away. Yeah, she was scared of
something. Or more likely, someone. She walked up to the counter, and I
noticed a slight limp. Probably from the same incident that gave her that
black eye.

Maybe I was wrong. Ace always chided me for jumping to conclusions. She could
have been in a car accident or tripped and fallen down a flight of stairs. The
problem was, in my experience, that only happened once in a very long while.
I’d bet my bottom dollar there were more bruises hidden under her
clothes, in varying shades of blue, yellow, and purple. Evidence of an ongoing
series of attacks.

Impotent assholes who beat up on their women were one of my triggers, and I
looked outside to see if maybe this was my lucky day. Maybe the asshole was
here with her.

She asked the woman behind the counter for a coffee, and when the lady turned
to get it, she grabbed a muffin and stuffed it in her pocket. The attendant
turned back and sat the cup of steaming coffee on the counter and rang in the
purchase. Pulling a few bills out of her bra, the newcomer paid the bill and
hurried back outside, gulping the coffee down as she went. I watched as she
turned the corner and headed down the alley beside the bakery.

Standing, I strode over to the counter. Tossing a couple of bills on the
counter, I smiled. “For my coffee, and the muffin you forgot to charge
my friend for.”

“Your friend?” Her brows raised in disbelief.

“That’s right. She must not have seen me waiting for her.
I’ll be back in a few minutes for those cupcakes.” I pivoted and
strode out the door before she could ask exactly how anyone could miss seeing
someone as big as me.

I turned the corner and saw the woman crouched down at the far end of the
alley, petting a kitten that had its head poked out of her backpack. She gave
me the side-eye as I sauntered toward her, trying to look as unthreatening as
possible.

I obviously didn’t do a very good job. She waited until I was about ten
feet from her, far enough away not to touch her but close enough to block the
view of anyone who happened to walk past the mouth of the alley. Then she
straightened up and pulled the gun out from under her shirt. She made damn
sure I saw her flick the safety off.

“Don’t come near me.” She pulled the backpack a little
closer as if to protect the tiny scrap of a kitten in it.

Did I seriously look like the kind of guy who’d hurt a kitten?

Apparently, she thought so. I held my hands up. “I just wanted to talk.
I’m not going to harm you.”

She didn’t look convinced. “Tim send you?”

I frowned, taking in her battered appearance. “Tim the guy that did that
to you?”

She didn’t answer for a moment, and the gun didn’t waver.
“Fuck off.”

I had to work at not smiling. The swear words sounded cute coming out of such
a tiny thing. “No, I have no fucking idea who Tim is. I just saw you
come in and nick that muffin and wondered if maybe you needed a hand. I paid
for the muffin, by the way, so you don’t have to worry about
that.”

She snorted. “Not high on my list of worries right now.”

“Fair enough.” I gestured at the ground. “Doesn’t look
all that comfortable down there. Care to come back into the bakery and we can
talk?”

“Why would I want to talk to you?”

I shrugged. “I’m a nice guy. No offense, but it’s pretty
obvious you’re running from someone. Maybe I can help. Do you have
somewhere to go? I can offer you and your little companion there a
ride.”

Her eyes narrowed, and I could see her calculate the odds of me being a serial
killer. “I’m looking for the Riptide MC. Do you know where to find
them?”

 

About the Author

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

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

 

Author Links

Website

Facebook

Twitter (X)

Goodreads

 

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

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TEASER: Convention of Dragons by Emily Carrington


LGBTQ, Dark Fantasy, Polyamorous, Shapeshifters

Date Published: October 31, 2025

When duty calls, where will the heart go?

Joel’s twin has been hurt, and Joel decides to stay with him rather than
join his new lovers across the sea. But fate, and a serial killer, have other
plans.

Parisa and Noah are drifting apart and without Joel they might lose everything
they’ve built.

Can this new throuple fight together to win their happiness or will evil
triumph?


EXCERPT

 

“Hooo-elll…”

It was Parisa’s voice, but he couldn’t touch her physically or
telepathically. All Joel’s senses were blurred.

Joel wasn’t sure if he’d passed out, but everything was foggy. Not
dark, since he had no concept of light beyond the meaning of the word, but
misty. It was like the fog that clung to his face and arms, to his hearing and
sense of smell when he’d visited England thirty years ago. He’d
never forget that sensation of everything being muffled. The sound of his own
voice had been right, but the tapping of his cane tip on the cobblestones in
London had been oddly removed from the rest of him. He’d actually fallen
a couple of times in London, not because he couldn’t feel the ground but
because he had tried too hard to rely on the sound of his cane to tell him the
depth of things like cracks and steps.

Now, although the sense of being wrapped in cotton persisted, he felt even
more cut off from the world because he was really two people. He
couldn’t attend to his own movements or speech while living in
Jules’s head. Especially not when Jules was so distant from the world.
His whole spirit seemed caught up in confusion and fear. So although Joel and
Jules sometimes lived in each other’s heads for brief moments, there had
never been such a fundamental separation from physical reality.

Dimly, he could feel a hand caressing his face. He tried to reach up and catch
those fingers, but his arms felt like they weighed a hundred pounds. He
attempted another connection with Jules, one that would allow him to
communicate more than just his confusion and to feel Jules’s sense of
dislocation. That, too, failed.

Someone spoke then, their voice cutting through the fog. “Joel.”
It was James, the dragon guarding him. “Joel, come back. Follow me if
you’re turned around.”

He clung to those words and finally managed, by trailing after them in the
psychic world, to reestablish himself in the realm of touch, hearing, and
scent.

The person caressing his face paused and Parisa asked, “Can you hear me,
Joel?”

“Yes,” he croaked, his throat dry.

“Drink,” she answered, and he opened his mouth, unsure if he would
feel a glass against his lips or her cupped hand. He registered the water as
cool and drank as palmfuls were brought to his lips. From where he’d
heard Parisa’s voice, he’d expected the water to come from another
angle. Maybe Noah was actually giving him the refreshing liquid.

“James?” he asked between mouthfuls.

“He’s not here,” Parisa said, “although I heard him
too. It was like he somehow tapped into a telepathy that could be carried to
more than one person.”

“Are either of you hurt?” Joel asked.

“No,” Parisa answered after a moment. He wondered what caused the
hesitation. Then she explained. “Noah is shell-shocked, I think.
He’s –”

“I’m fine,” Noah said firmly. “Just… sorry
about…”

Struggling to raise his head, Joel felt hands tighten on his shoulders. He
fought down the instantaneous panic that clawed at his throat. “Unless
there’s a reason for me to be lying on my back,” he said as gently
as he could manage, “I’d rather sit up.”

The hands released him and as he sat up, crossing his legs, he felt
Parisa’s breath on his shoulder blade. He was still naked. He shivered
and instinctively pulled his legs up to shield his stomach and softer bits. He
wasn’t afraid of Parisa or Noah, but he felt vulnerable. “What
happened?”

“There was an explosion,” Noah said, and he did sound a little
shocky because his voice trembled. “Over at the other house, we
think.”

“Definitely not here,” Parisa put in. “Do either of you need
a towel? There aren’t robes in here, and I don’t think we should
leave the bathroom until we get the all-clear.”

So, that was why his bare butt was on tile. “Did you two carry me in
here?”

Again, there was that momentary pause. Then Parisa said, “I helped Noah
and carried you, yes.”

Their location made sense even if nothing else did. As far as Joel knew, the
bathroom might be the only room in the smaller house without windows.

Not like the one that had blown inward, injuring Jules.

He shivered as that realization, sent by his twin, hit him. Jules didn’t
actually know it had been a window, but he’d had glass taken out of his
arm so he’d made an educated guess. Joel said, “Soon as we can, I
need to get to Jules. Something’s seriously wrong with him.”

“Can you feel him?” Parisa asked, her hand warm on his back.

“Not now but…” He shivered again, unable to help himself.
“He was muffled, or that’s what it felt like. Like having your
head wrapped in a blanket.”

Noah began, “Did he –”

Someone interrupted, throwing open the door. “Here they are,” said
James, his voice tight.

“Good,” said a voice that came out slightly tinny. “Help is
on the way but it’s a good hour out. See if you can move them to this
building.”

“Will do.” James crouched, his voice coming from off to
Joel’s right. “Are any of you hurt?”

Joel shook his head. “I’m fine. It didn’t happen
here.” He reached out toward James’s voice, but Parisa caught his
hand.

“Agent Tavery,” she said softly, “you’re
bleeding.”

 

About the Author

Emily Carrington is a multipublished author of male/male and transgender
women’s speculative fiction. Seeking a world made of equality, she
created SearchLight to live out her dreams. But even SearchLight has its
problems, and Emily is looking forward to working all of these out with a host
of characters from dragons and genies to psychic vampires. And in the
contemporary world she’s named “Sticks & Stones,” Emily
has vowed to create small towns where prejudice is challenged by a passionate
quest for equality. Find her on Facebook at Shapeshifter Central or on her
website.

 

Author’s Website

Emily on Facebook

Emily on Twitter

 

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

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TEASER: Chains by Marteeka Karland

 

Kiss of Death MC

 

Motorcycle Club Romance, Suspense, Age Gap

Date Published: October 17, 2025

 


Three black cats. One grumpy biker. Fate’s about to get witchy. And
wickedly hot.


Elvira – Halloween’s my favorite holiday, until one teeny mishap
with my practice spell. Suddenly I’m homeless, stinking of swamp gas,
and dragging three black cats into a biker compound… Where I meet
Chains. Big, broody, and superstitious as hell, he glares at my “demon
spawn” like they’re plotting his death. But the way he looks at
me? Let’s just say my spell isn’t the only thing that’s
likely to combust. He’s all hard muscle and harder attitude, and I
can’t tell if he wants to banish me… or bend me over the couch
and have his wicked way with me. I would definitely approve of option number
two!

Chains — I don’t fear much after nine years inside, but Ellie is chaos.
She’s a walking disaster. Loud, messy, and makes Halloween look like a
lifestyle, not a holiday. And her damn cats have me spooked. I tell myself
she’s trouble. Too naïve. Too good. Then she kisses me, and
suddenly I’m ready to sell my soul for another taste. My MC brothers
think it’s funny. Screw em. Elvira’s mine. And if anyone touches
her, I’ll burn this place to the ground.

 


WARNING: Chains contains memories of domestic abuse and manipulation. However,
there is a happy-ever-after ending that will make you feel warm and fuzzy.


EXCERPT

 

Elvira

I stood in the center of my apartment, surveying the disaster zone that used
to be my living room. The cauldron, which was actually just my favorite stock
pot, lay on its side on the stove. Dark green liquid dripped steadily from the
countertop by the stove onto the cheap linoleum floor. My witches’ brew
experiment had gone spectacularly wrong, again, filling the air with a stench
so foul it made my eyes water. I’d only wanted to create a love potion.
Instead, I’d concocted what smelled like a demonic skunk had mated with
rotting eggs in a garbage fire.

“It’s okay, babies,” I cooed to the three black cats,
who’d retreated to their carriers the moment the pot bubbled over.
“Mommy just had a tiny magical mishap.”

Lucifer hissed from behind his carrier door, his yellow eyes narrowed in
judgment. Binx paced in tight circles, while Salem had his paws pressed
against his nose. Even my familiars couldn’t stand the smell.

“I know, I know. I should have followed the recipe.” I pulled my
tank top over my nose, breathing through the fabric. “But who has time
to find owl feathers and moonwater on a Tuesday night?”

I flung open every window in my apartment, the October air rushing in but
barely making a dent in the stench. The smoke detector, which had been
screaming for ten minutes, finally quieted. Green sludge dripped from the
ceiling above the stove where the potion had splattered during its violent
eruption. My carefully arranged Halloween decorations were now coated in
something that looked like radioactive snot.

“We can fix this,” I muttered to myself, only half convinced.
“Just need some bleach, maybe an exorcism, definitely a new
carpet…”

The pounding on my door made me jump. “Miss Blackheart!” Yeah. He
didn’t sound happy. “Open the door right now!”

“Coming, Mr. Peterson!” I sang out in my cheeriest voice,
frantically attempting to right the fallen cauldron. Green goo sloshed over my
fingers, burning slightly. “Just freshening up!”

I wiped my hands on my black jeans and pulled my long hair back into a heavy
ponytail. Taking a deep breath, I immediately regretted it as the fumes hit my
lungs, I opened the door with my most innocent smile even as my eyes watered.

Mr. Peterson stood there, his face the color of an overripe tomato. The vein
in his forehead throbbed with such intensity I worried it might burst. His
nostrils flared before he clamped a hand over his nose as the wall of stink
hit him.

“What in God’s name –” He choked, stumbling backward.
“The entire building smells like… like…”

“Aromatherapy!” I offered brightly. “It’s a, um, rare
Eastern technique for cleansing negative energy.”

His eyes bulged as he peered past me into the apartment. “Your ceiling
is green! There’s smoke everywhere!”

“That’s part of the process?” My voice lifted higher with
each word, betraying my desperation.

“The Johnsons in 3B are throwing up. Mrs. Wittlesby’s cat fainted.
The Andersons’ dog is howling like it’s seen a ghost.” He
thrust a piece of paper at me. “This is an eviction notice. You’re
out, Miss Blackheart.”

I took the paper with trembling fingers. “But Mr. Peterson, I’ve
always paid my rent on time, and –”

“I don’t care if you paid your rent in gold bars! You’ve
violated every health code in existence. People are evacuating the damn
building!” The longer he spoke, the louder he got. And he’d been
pretty damned loud to start with.

Behind me, one of my cats let out a mournful yowl. “Those damn black
cats of yours,” he muttered, making the sign of the cross. “I knew
they were bad news.”

I felt my cheeks flush. “Don’t blame my cats for this.
They’re innocent.”

“You have until tonight to get out,” he bellowed, gesturing wildly
at my smoke-stained ceiling. “Eight hours! After that, I’m calling
animal control for those beasts and the hazmat team for… whatever
hellbrew you’ve cooked up in here.”

“But where am I supposed to go?” My voice cracked, the reality of
my situation finally sinking in. “You can’t kick me out with no
notice!”

“Not my problem. And it’s my damn building; I’ll do whatever
the hell I want. Take it to court if you want. Don’t care. But until you
get a court date, I want you out of here!” He stepped back, pulling a
handkerchief over his nose. “I’ve put up with the stink for the
last time. Eight hours, Miss Blackheart. Not a minute more.”

The door slammed in my face. I stood there, clutching the eviction notice,
feeling the edges of panic creeping in. Sure, I could take him to court.
He’d have to call the police to force me to leave and they
wouldn’t make me unless there was a court order. But, honestly, I knew
it was time to move on. I wasn’t ready to leave yet. I’d hoped to
save a little more money before then. But maybe this was a sign.

My hands shook as I turned to face my ruined apartment. The clock on the wall
shaped like a grinning skull showed it was already noon.

“Well, shit,” I whispered to no one in particular.

I sank down onto my potion-spattered couch, the eviction notice crumpling in
my grip. My eyes burned, and not just from the fumes. I really wasn’t
sure where I was going to go. I had a couple thousand dollars in my savings
account, and a hundred in my checking to do me until payday. If I could find a
new place that wasn’t too expensive, I might have enough for a security
deposit and first month’s rent. If I was really lucky. And that was
assuming I could find something in the next eight hours. Right. Not a
snowball’s chance in hell.

I glanced at my phone, scrolling through the pitiful list of contacts until I
came to Carrie’s number and took a deep breath. We weren’t exactly
close friends, but she’d always been kind to me at the coffee shop where
I worked weekends. She seemed like a really nice person. She’d offered
me a place to crash the last time my landlord threatened to kick me out. I
hadn’t taken her up on the offer then since I only knew her from the
coffee shop, but I wasn’t sure I had many options at the moment.

The phone rang three times before she picked up. “Ellie! Hey!” She
sounded excited. To hear from me?

“Hey.” I tried to keep my voice steady, but it wavered.
“I’m so sorry to bother you, but I’m having a bit of an
emergency.”

“Oh no, Ellie! What kind of emergency? Are you all right?” Carrie
sounded distressed. She was such a sweet person I had no doubt she genuinely
was distressed.

“I… um… may have accidentally created a biohazard in my
apartment and gotten evicted?” I laughed, the sound hollow and
desperate. “I need to be out by eight tonight, and I have nowhere to go,
and I have my cats, and –” My voice broke, tears threatening.

There was a muffled commotion in the background. I could hear Carrie talking
and other people responding, but it was like she had her hand over the speaker
or something. I closed my eyes, bracing for rejection.

“Now drop me a pin and we’ll get over there.” Carrie sounded
determined and, I thought, authoritative? Like she was the one giving the
orders and everyone else was doing her bidding. So, I did as she instructed.
“We’ll be there in fifteen minutes.”

Relief flooded through me so fast I nearly dropped the phone.
“We?” My voice came out a squeak. I knew Carrie’s man was a
member of a local motorcycle club called Kiss of Death. Which I kind of liked
the sound of, but it was still a motorcycle club. Honestly, though, I kind of
thought the guys I’d met at the coffee shop were much safer than some of
the people living in this building.

“Oh yeah! The girls are gonna get you a room ready while Hannah and I
are bringing Knuckles and Hawk. We’ll get you packed up and out of there
in no time.”

“I don’t want to cause anyone any trouble, Carrie. It’s bad
enough I’m asking you guys for a place to stay.”

“Nonsense! We all want to help!” There was more racket in the
background, then Carrie was back. “We’re bringing boxes and some
big contractor bags. Anything you want to keep that’s soiled or smells
too bad we can put in there and wash later. Be on the lookout for a blue
Bronco.”

 

About the Author

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

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

 

Author on Instagram & TikTok: @marteekakarland

Author on Facebook

 

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

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