Bite-sized horror stories are brought to you by twenty-five authors. From
creepy crawlies to the seemingly normal pets. From hideous monsters lurking in
the dark to charismatic people showing their true colors.
Each tale is precisely 100 words and leaves a long-lasting chilling
effect. Some will make you question the security of the world around you, and
what’s more terrifying than that?
Featuring drabbles by the following authors: Bernardo Villela, K.J.
Watson, David J. Vowell, Joshua Ginsberg, A.L. Smith, Petina Strohmer, Zari
Hunt, Paul Burgess, Diana Parrilla, Angel Zapata, Vanessa Bane, Marc Sorondo,
Jacek Wilkos, Arvee Fantilagan, Jodie Francis, Alex Azar, Andreas Flögel,
Jade Kalb, Andrew Buckner, Ken Whitson, Jãnis Bogužs, Andrea Tillmanns,
C.L. Hart, S.F.J. Painter, Monica Wenzel, Dragan Ivanović, and J.E. Feldman.
Excerpt
One Moonlit Night
Copyright 2025 by C. L. Hart
As fourteen-year-old Nevil Teodoro climbed down the trellis near his bedroom
window, a blood-curdling scream pierced the darkness, startling him so badly
that he nearly fell. Juan Soto, the head groundskeeper, ran up from the
gardens, his clothes covered in mud and his face pale as the moon.
“What’s goin’ on, Ese?” Nevil asked as he finished his
descent. “You look like you seen a ghost!”
“Get back in the house, Chico, and call Mama Cecilia.”
“You trippin’, Juan Solo? You want me to call una bruja vieja and
not la policia?”
“Ain’t no policia can stop a moon vampire!”
About the Author
C. L. Hart is an editor who writes or a writer who edits. She primarily pens
dark fantasy (often Lovecraftian) and sweet romance. She resides in a tiny
town on the Northeastern Colorado plains with her adult son, her cat daughter,
and her cat grandson. When not editing, writing, or rehabilitating eldritch
horrors, she enjoys coloring, crafts, and cooking things that she hopes will
be palatable to someone besides the eldritch horrors.
Two dragons are pulled into a murder mystery when their lover is
targeted.
The blind grandson of the world’s most powerful dragon matriarch wants a
male and female dragon in his bed. He’s bold enough to get what he
wants. Unfortunately, so is the serial killer hunting his family.
A male-female land dragon couple long for their matriarchal society to be
equal across the board. As they fight for their needs, they meet the water
dragon who will change their lives.
Now a serial killer has these three in his sights.
EXCERPT
There had been another death, this one of a female dragon Joel had never heard
of. She was a distant relative, though, a water dragon who lived in Central
America, trying to stay under the radar, as it were, by thriving in the
coastal waters of Costa Rica. Or at least she had been thriving. Lady
Claudette had called to warn their mother to keep Joel and Jules close.
“Rumor has it this monster is on the move north again.”
Joel Junior, whose name was pronounced in the Spanish style, Ho-el,
hadn’t actually meant to disregard his grandmother’s orders, but
his twin, Jules, was out swimming and Joel didn’t want anything to
happen to him. Jules was an impulsive dragon, and he would have probably gone
swimming even if he’d been there to hear the phone call.
With Jules most likely already in the water, Joel couldn’t use his sense
of smell to find his twin. Instead, because Jules wouldn’t give a crap
about a telepathic sending — wouldn’t bother to reply, in other words
— Joel stripped on the Alaskan shore, shivering slightly even though it was
May and the ice here had largely melted. He assumed his scaly form, all eight
feet of sapphire-blue scales, and walked into the water. For humans, he
understood, this would have been a Polar Swim despite the fifty-degree
weather, but for him, it felt like coming home. Eyes open but blind, he
submerged completely and used his other sense, the one honed by years of
blindness and necessity, and sought his brother’s large presence in the
water. It was almost like sonar, but not quite, being a combination of sound
and psychic sense.
He encountered a pod of orcas closer in to shore than usual. He knew them to
be members of the dolphin family rather than narwhals because of the amount of
water they displaced. Orcas were almost twice the typical narwhal’s
length. Now using his telepathy because the sea mammals disrupted his ability
to “listen” to the water beyond them, he reached beyond them to
see what had driven them toward the land. Orcas weren’t afraid of much.
He found his brother and another dragon devouring a school of fish. He swam
toward them, giving the pod a wide margin even though he wasn’t a threat
to them. Either the orcas could sense the dragons’ magic or they knew
something the dragons didn’t know about the deeper water. With the
enigmatic and relatively new interlopers into the Alaskan waters, it was hard
to tell. Unlike narwhals, which had shifters among their numbers, Joel
didn’t know if that was true of any other sea-going mammal.
He approached and recognized the shape of his brother’s mind. He sent
out a blast of sound, a snort through his nose, and realized the other dragon,
whom he’d taken for their friend Jean Pierre, was a female dragon. His
brother wasn’t hunting, then, or not just hunting. Like Joel himself,
Jules was bisexual, although he mostly flirted only with female dragons.
Jules snorted back at him and flicked his tail, stunning several fish. These
he gobbled up before heading farther out into the bay. The female dragon went
with him.
Joel vaguely recognized her as a distant cousin and wondered at his initial
assessment. Water dragons weren’t exactly inbred, but they were
connected by strong ties that meant they couldn’t lightly date those who
might even bear a strand of similar DNA.
Deciding his brother wouldn’t listen just now, and telling himself no
dragon had yet been accosted while in the water, he used his sense of the
current to lead him back toward land.
Surfacing, he shifted back to human and walked out of the Arctic Ocean. If any
human had seen him, doubtless they would have screamed, or run to get him a
blanket. But there were no humans here in this part of Alaska. Sparsely
populated as the state was, this little cove and the land that touched it was
private property, where no one except the sons of Lady Nicole and all the
servants played. Joel’s and Jules’s grandmother hadn’t even
been here, afraid as she was that whoever was killing members of her family
would find their way here.
Joel used to wonder if she thought he and his twin, nearly seventy years old,
couldn’t take care of themselves. Yes, they were blind, but, no, that
didn’t make them helpless. The two of them hadn’t been permitted
to leave the area around the palace for over a dozen years.
He made his way to the large rock where he’d left his white cane. But
when he was a stone’s throw from the place he always used to hold his
clothes and cane, he sensed someone there. He paused, listening. He heard
nothing. He reached out telepathically and found a shielded mind that he
didn’t recognize.
“You’re Joel,” the stranger with an American accent said,
although he pronounced Joel’s name correctly.
Wary, Joel took a step back. Despite his bravado of a moment ago, he was
anxious. This male dragon was a stranger to him.
Male dragon? He processed that knowledge, realizing he’d gained as much
from scent as psychic feel. “Who are you?”
“I guess I’m your uncle.”
That didn’t comfort Joel, not in the slightest. “What are you
doing here?” Was someone in their family killing other dragons?
He’d heard stories of dragons who ate others of their kind.
He tried to calm himself. If this was indeed the one stalking his family, he
sounded awfully casual. Not at all like a serial killer, in other words.
Although, beyond reading braille books and listening to the television crime
shows, how would Joel know what a mass murderer sounded like?
“I’m trying to decide if I’m really the best person to be
guarding you and your brother.” He shifted on the rock, the sound of
denim scraping against granite making Joel take a second step back.
“What are you doing?” he asked.
“Taking out my cell phone. It’s time I let your mother know her
defenses were easier to breach than she thinks.”
Joel gained his eight feet of height, putting on his scales. If this was the
one who’d been threatening his family, the last thing Joel wanted to do
was present him with an easy target. He channeled all his telepathic ability
into a single word and sent it to Jules. Danger. Then he settled himself for
hand-to-hand fighting.
“Why are you…” The other male dragon sounded flummoxed.
“I’m not a threat to you. I’m here to protect you.”
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.
Warning: This is a Razor’s Edge Daddy Dom BDSM Erotica short
story. Expect limited plot and character development, and lots of heat. If
you’re looking for a lengthy plot driven erotic romance, this is not it!
Every night with Max is a rush, a storm of sensation and wild, beautiful
chaos. But today? Today feels different. From the moment Max wakes me, in the
naughtiest of ways, I know something’s about to change. I have a feeling
whatever he has in store for me today may break me, unravel me to my very
core, only to rebuild me stronger than ever before.
I woke up to the feel of Max’s tongue between my thighs, pulling me from
sleep with waves of pleasure that made my back arch off the silk sheets.
“Fuck, Max,” I gasped, my fingers tangling in his dark hair as he
worked me with that skilled mouth of his. The morning light streaming through
the windows of our suite caught the blue of his eyes as he looked up at me,
never breaking rhythm. He knew exactly how to make me come undone, his tongue
circling and flicking until my orgasm forced a scream from my throat as I
trembled beneath him.
“Good morning, beautiful,” he murmured against my skin, his voice
rough with desire. “I wanted to give you a treat.” Another swipe
with his tongue. Another moan from me. “Before you go to work
today.”
“Work?” Oh, boy… I tried to act nonchalant, but I thought
I’d failed when Max smirked at me.
“Yep. And, boy, are you going to need your strength today.” The
wicked gleam in his eyes never failed to make me wet. That always meant
something naughty and fun as fuck was about to follow.
I could barely form words as he continued his assault on my senses, building
me higher and higher once more until I shattered with a cry that echoed
through the room. My body convulsed as waves of pleasure crashed over me, and
Max didn’t stop until I lay panting and boneless beneath him.
He crawled up my body like the predator he was, all muscle and controlled
power, before claiming my mouth in a kiss that tasted of me and pure hunger.
“You’re insatiable,” I said, my voice a hoarse whisper.
“Daddy Jacob said I should put you in a good mood.” The rough
timbre of his voice vibrated through my chest. “I’m just following
orders.”
A shiver of anticipation raced through me. Daddy Jacob did this often for me
and his Kitten — a game we played. He and Max knew how we loved our
“jobs” and they both took great delight in keeping me and Kitten
as busy as we wanted to be. I’d come to love this play time. I also
loved coming back to our suite and letting Max question me and repeating every
single thing I’d done while away from him.
He didn’t push into me. Not yet. Instead he braced his weight above me,
his arms caging me in, and bent to kiss me. His kiss, soft, almost reverent,
carried the taste of my pussy on his tongue, filthy and sweet. I opened for
him, letting him take what he wanted.
Max kissed like he did everything. With full attention, like there was nothing
else in the world. I wrapped my arms around his neck, pulling him closer,
burying my fingers in his thick hair. He growled low, a vibration that started
in his chest and echoed in mine.
When he broke away, his face hovered just above mine, his eyes impossibly blue
and focused.
“I need you, Max,” I whispered, my body still on edge despite the
two earlier orgasms.
He flashed me a wolfish smile. “You’ll have me, little
Bunny.”
Max reached over the edge of the bed, rummaging in the nightstand, a practiced
move. Condoms and lube were two staples in this house. With practice ease, Max
tore open the packet and rolled the condom down his length with a downward
stroke of his hand. For a second, I let myself savor the view, admiring the
way his cock jutted from his body, thick and veined and angry red at the tip.
I ached for him to fuck me.
Max must have seen the hunger on my face because he gripped my hips tighter,
his fingers digging into my soft curves. He lined up, teasing the head along
my slit, and the heat of the intimate contact the ultimate tease.
He paused, holding himself at my entrance, his mouth at my ear. “You
ready, Bunny?”
About the Author
Welcome to Wanda Violet O.’s world of bedtime fantasy, where you’ll find a
variety of sexy creatures ready to drink their fill. Wanda specializes in
extreme kink. Monsters, BDSM role play… she’s got it all. Come take a look
for yourself!
What would happen if a man of integrity, calm judgment, and firm
conservative principles were elected our President? Would he do better than
what we have? Or might he discover that behind America’s expressed
principles something still lingers from the Fall? That behind our longing
for justice, for community, for fairness, for freedom, for beauty,
proportion, for the things that nurture all that is good, Something is still
out there?
Let’s see.
Excerpt
Ed Baker, professor of political science emeritus, watched a burst of snow
obliterate the lights on the opposite shoreline. The world out the window
got smaller. Since Melody had introduced him to her lake home in the
northwestern part of the state, this had seemed a haven and a refuge. Now it
began to feel like a premonition of four years for America. Dark, icy, and a
threat to your life.
It was early yet
today, not even breakfast time, and he’d finished email, lounging over
his computer at the kitchen island. Melody was sleeping in a bit, dealing
with some sort of cold for the last day or so. He was a little worried how
fast this had come on and how weak she was. Another cup of coffee? I believe
I will.
Looking back at him,
faintly mirrored in the window, he saw a white-haired, white-bearded figure
of middling height, dark wire-framed glasses, a little thicker around the
middle than was probably healthy. Shadowy in a robe and slippers. That’s me, he thought. Pretty conventional. Beard and hair trimmed.
Not ratty, not too well turned out. No lean Jordan Peterson, no pudgy,
sloppy Jeff Bridges, no crisp Alec Guinness. No old surprises, and I feel
like I’m fresh out of new ones. Just me.
When his journey
into being a gadfly, a subtle saboteur, had begun four years ago, he had
been widowed, a little thinner, clean-shaven, and dark-haired with some
threads of white. Not any longer, he thought, and sighed happily.
He thought about that hyphenated estimate of the country’s emotional
condition: “pre-suicidal.” He wouldn’t have expected the
presidential election of 2024 to have turned out to be so emotionally
devastating. When Former President Frederick Underwood Gray had
“disappeared,” fleeing to Moscow in the face of possible
impending arrest, and current President Gerard Freeman had decided to
withdraw so both parties could start over, Baker had been cautiously
optimistic. Both Democrats and Republicans had publicly talked about a
“reset,” with reaffirmation of “first principles”
about government. He hoped for new platforms.
It hadn’t
happened.
About the Author
Dr. Richard Sherry is the author of the Baker Mischief series, including A
Month of Sundays (2022) ; Mondays, Mondays (2023) ; and First Tuesday 2024.
The political thriller series introduces retired political science professor
Dr. Ed Baker, determined to open up American politics to daylight. He is
almost always up against both the law and forces attempting to conceal their
influence on American life. In A Month of Sundays, Baker uncovers who owns
senators up for election in 2020 and releases their emails to the voters in
their states. In Mondays, Mondays, he reveals a “voting bloc” in
the Supreme Court and who is influencing them. In First Tuesday, Baker and
his former students look at the influential forces behind the 2024
presidential election, with surprising results.
Richard released a memoir in 2020, The Long Run: Meditations on Marriage,
Dementia, Caregiving, and Loss (2020), about his first wife’s illness and
death.
Richard is a retired college professor and administrator. He resides in
Minnesota and winters in Arizona with his wife Marjorie Mathison Hance,
author of the North lakes Murder Mystery Series.
Elmer Kelton’s Hewey Calloway, one of the best-loved cowboys in all
of Western fiction, returns in this novel of his middling years, as he looks
for work―but not too much work―in 1904 West Texas.Hewey Calloway had
intended to pass straight through Durango, Colorado, en route to visit a
friend several miles northeast of the city. He had left his home range about
a year before, with a herd of young horses. It was supposed to be a
relatively straightforward affair; deliver the horses, collect the payment,
and return home with the money. Things got out of hand, however, and there
he was in Durango a year later with plans to go north rather than south. Oh,
well, he thought, he had always wanted to see new country.
It isn’t long before his travels lead him to a cabin on a rainy night.
There he meets a young man, sick as a dog, who weakly tries to send him off.
And for good reason: the man has smallpox, and soon enough, Hewey catches
the deadly disease. The man cares for him in turn, and it’s just as he is
feeling better that the man disappears. The next morning a Pinkerton
detective turns up with posse, looking for a wanted bank robber.
As he travels north, Hewey seems to run in with both the young man who
tended to him, as well as the detective. But something seems off about the
Pinkerton detective, and Hewey keeps his mouth shut. When he reuinites with
his friend Hanley, they do everything they can to get to the bottom of the
mystery that threatens both theirs and this young man’s life.
Excerpt
At daybreak Hewey was tying up his bedroll, preparing to head out, when he heard a loud voice from outside.
“Hello the house! Whoever’s in there, show yourself!” The voice was commanding and not a bit friendly.
Hewey opened the door and stepped out onto the broken- down little porch. He saw better than a half-dozen riders arrayed in front of the cabin, all armed to the teeth. They were not pointing those guns at him, but they were all casually standing ready. That prompted a momentary urge to jump back inside and bar the door, tempered by a sudden recollection that the cabin door didn’t even have a bar.
“What can I do for you?” Hewey asked the man who appeared to be in charge.
“The name’s Murphy. I’m with the Pinkertons.” Hewey took an immediate dislike to the man who called himself Murphy. He dressed more like a town dude than a cowboy or lawman, but it was his manner that rubbed Hewey the wrong way. He had small, mean eyes that made Hewey mistrust the man instantly. Hewey had always felt he could read a horse by its eyes, and in his experience the same usually worked on a man.
“We’ve been trailing a bank robber for better than two weeks, and we received information that he was holed up near here. Maybe in this very cabin. For all we know, you’re him.”
“You got the wrong man,” Hewey replied, “I’m Hewey Calloway. But I suspect I might’ve spent some time with the feller you’re after.” Hewey explained how he came to be there and to become well acquainted with their quarry.
“Smallpox, you say,” answered the Pinkerton man.
About the Author
John Bradshaw is a native of the small town of Abernathy, Texas. He is an
award-winning journalist with well over a thousand published stories. Elmer
Kelton’s The Familiar Stranger, co-authored with Steve Kelton, is his
first book.
Bradshaw attended South Plains College followed by Texas Tech University.
He spent several years shoeing horses for a living as his writing career
progressed.
While the desire to write books was always there, Bradshaw first pursued a
career in journalism. He wrote numerous stories for ranching, horse and
horseshoeing magazines.
Growing up, Livestock Weekly came in the mail once a week, as it does for
most in the livestock industry. Writing for Livestock Weekly was always a
goal, and in 2005 Bradshaw’s first story was published. It was a
profile of Brownie Metzgar, a humorous cowboy still working in a feedlot
while in his late 80s.
In 2007 Bradshaw accepted a fulltime position with Livestock Weekly. While
with the paper he had over a thousand stories published, as well as enough
market reports to give him permanent nightmares.
Horses have always played an important role in his life. The son of a
horseshoer, he has spent a significant amount of time either on or under a
horse. He still shows in both ranch horse and reined cow horse
competitions.
He and his wife, Sara, live outside Abernathy. Sara owns an architecture
firm, SK Architecture Group, and they raise Spanish goats, hair sheep and
cattle.
In 2013 the couple had a stillborn son, Fox Joaquin Bradshaw. After several
years of heartbreak they adopted an infant boy, whom they named Julian Boone
Bradshaw. Boone died in his dad’s arms following an accident at the
barn five days before his sixth birthday.
What happens when a life shrouded in memories fades away, leaving only a
faint echo of love?
Ridley — Life can change in an instant. For me, it was the day I got that
devastating call — my world crumbled when I found out my husband, Venom,
had been shot. He woke up, but the man I loved was a stranger. Then someone
gave me a great idea. Make him fall for me all over again! Venom might not
remember our past, but deep down, I know our connection is still
there.
Venom — I woke up in a hospital, no idea how I got there or what the hell
happened. The angel by my bed seems familiar and yet not. Then she tells me
she’s my wife. What the hell?
But as I spend time with Ridley, every story she shares awakens something
deep within me. Her laughter, her warmth… the taste of her
lips… every moment I spend with her ignites a spark that feels so
right. I may not remember our years together, but I know one thing for sure:
she’s mine.
Fall in love with the thrill of the ride, the heartache of forgotten
memories, and the fierce determination of a love that refuses to die.
WARNING: Reclaiming Venom is intended for readers 18+ due to adult
situations, bad language, and violence. While Reclaiming Venom can be read
as a standalone, we recommended you read Venom (A Dixie Reapers MC 1) and
Emergency Date (Swift Angels MC 2) first to better appreciate Reclaiming
Venom.
EXCERPT
Venom
I moved quickly, coming up behind Tinker. I couldn’t believe this
asshole was still alive. Pressing the barrel of my gun to his head, I made
sure I had his fucking attention. “Drop it. Now!”
Tinker froze, a string of curses spilling from his lips. Slowly, he turned
to face me, realization dawning in his eyes.
“You sneaky bastards,” he snarled.
Torch and Bull emerged from the shadows, their own weapons trained on
Tinker. The old man’s face contorted with rage. “This is all
your fault,” he spat at us. “You and your damned
club!”
Torch stepped forward. “Until you decided to stir up shit, we all
thought you were dead. Why now, Tinker? Why didn’t you just stay
gone?”
Tinker’s laugh was bitter. “You want to know why?”
His gaze darted to Justin, the President of the Swift Angels MC. “I
only found out about him a year ago. My own flesh and blood, a cop. I
watched. I waited. Hoped maybe he’d at least be dirty, something I
could work with.”
I got it. Sort of. I hadn’t been too pleased to find out my son,
Dawson, was not only a fireman, but also the VP of another club. I’d
hoped he’d follow in my footsteps. But now, I had to admit I was proud
of the man he’d become.
“Then I realized,” Tinker continued, a cruel smile twisting his
features, “that the Swift Angels had ties to you Dixie Reaper scum.
That’s when I knew it was time to make my move. All these decades,
waiting for a chance to get revenge, and it fell right into my
lap.”
“It’s over, Tinker. You’ve lost. Do you really think
you’ll get out of this alive? We may not have made sure you were dead
last time, but things are different now,” I said.
Tinker’s grin widened. “You sure about that,
Venom?”
Without warning, chaos erupted. Two men materialized from the shadows
behind Justin. Shit! Wire had said Tinker would be alone. Where the hell had
these men come from?
“Justin, down!” Logan yelled, but it was too late.
A deafening crack split the air. Justin’s body jerked, his blue eyes
wide with shock. Blood bloomed across his chest, a crimson stain spreading
rapidly. “Shit,” he muttered, his voice barely audible before
his knees buckled.
Logan appeared shocked at first, then the paramedic sprang into action. He
snatched the med bag he’d brought as a precaution and sprinted toward
Justin’s fallen form.
Two more shots went off, and pain hit me like a fucking freight train. I
stared at Tinker in confusion as I sank to the ground, everything going dark
around the edges of my vision. I could hear everything around me, even
though it felt like I was down a long tunnel, voices echoing.
“Logan! Hurry the fuck up!” Dawson’s frantic voice cut
through the chaos.
I felt something pooling beneath me and realized it was my own fucking
blood. The world got darker and darker, and I knew I was going under. Jesus
fucking Christ! I’d lived this damn long, and a snake like Tinker got
the drop on me?
Ridley… What the hell would she do without me? I didn’t want
to leave her. There was still so much I wanted to see and do with her.
Regret slammed into me, as I tried to recall if I’d told her I loved
her before we left.
“Diego!” Logan barked. “Keep pressure on Justin’s
wound. I need to check on Venom.”
I felt someone drop beside me, but I couldn’t make out any shapes
anymore.
“We need ambulances,” Logan shouted. “Two of them.
Now!”
I felt someone rip open my shirt and try to staunch the flow of blood, but
I knew it was too late. Nothing could save me now.
“Dad.” Dawson’s voice broke as someone knelt beside me.
Was it Dawson? “Dad, can you hear me?”
I heard Logan’s voice on the other side of me. “He’s lost
a lot of blood. We need to get him to the hospital immediately.”
Logan worked on packing my wounds. I wanted to tell him to save someone
else, that I’d finally come to the end of my journey, but I
couldn’t form the words. My body felt cold, and soon even the noises
around me faded to nothing.
Ridley… I’m so fucking sorry for leaving you. I’ll
always love you.
* * *
Ridley
I stared at my son in horror, seeing my husband’s blood all over him.
I wordlessly handed him a change of clothes and watched as he rushed off to
a bathroom. Jesus. He’d told me it was bad, but… there was so
much blood.
I looked over at Torch, and he came closer.
“What happened?” I asked. “There were so many of you. Was
Tinker really that hard to take down?”
Torch sighed and ran a hand over his beard. “He wasn’t alone.
Not Wire’s fault. Somewhere he picked up two helpers. While Venom had
his gun to Tinker’s head, the other two came out of nowhere. They shot
Justin first, and while our focus was on him, the other one shot
Venom.”
I pressed a hand to my chest, my knees feeling weak. “How bad? And
don’t fucking lie to me, Torch.”
“It’s bad, Ridley,” he murmured. “He nearly coded
in the ambulance. By some miracle, the paramedics were able to get him back.
They rushed him to surgery the minute we arrived. If it hadn’t been
for Logan, he’d have died before they even got there.”
Right when my knees gave out, someone caught me. I glanced up to see Viking
behind me. He hugged me tight before picking me up and carrying me over to a
chair. He gently eased me down, and I leaned forward, pressing my head to my
knees.
“This can’t be happening,” I whispered. “All these
years, and this happens now? He was supposed to be safer. He stepped down as
VP, and I thought, for sure, most of the danger was behind us.”
Torch took the spot beside me, and Savior sat on the other. We remained
silent, praying and hoping for good news. It felt like an eternity before
two doctors came out. One talked to the Swift Angels first about Justin, and
the other came to me. He faced me, his expression grim, and my heart
dropped.
“Venom has a long road to travel before he’s back on his feet.
He made it through surgery, but… we lost him. We were about to call
time of death, when his heart started beating again. He’s been moved
to recovery, but it’s been decided it would be best to place him in a
coma to help with the healing process.”
“What…” I licked my lips. “What does that
mean?”
“He’s going to sleep until his body is mostly repaired. Then
we’ll see if we can get him awake again.”
“What do you mean you’ll see?” Panic welled inside me.
“He has to wake up!”
The doctor nodded. “I understand how you feel, but his
situation… it’s not the best. For a man his age, well.
There’s a lot of trauma to his body. There’s no way of telling
when he’ll wake up.”
“Or if, right?” I asked, giving a bitter laugh.
“You’re telling me he’s alive, but I may never get the
chance to talk to him again? To see his eyes open, or hear him laugh? What
the hell am I supposed to do with that?”
I heard my voice rising but couldn’t stop it. Tears streaked my
cheek, and I felt the hysteria welling inside me. Then my son was there.
Dawson wrapped me in his arms, and I sobbed against his chest while he spoke
with the doctor.
Venom. You better come back to me! I can’t live without you.
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
“Love before Covid – A raw, philosophical dive into love’s messy reality—unflinching, dark, and unapologetically human. Unlike typical romance novels, LOVE BEFORE COVID is a dialogue-driven exploration of human flaws and ideologies, blending fiction with metaphysical inquiry. It’s not about comfort; it’s about confrontation and insight.”
Laced with dark humour, it is best described as traumatic (sur)realism.
Love Before Covid takes the reader on a journey through the mind of Joe
Pastorius – jazz fan, poet, and victim of horrendous sexual and emotional
abuse at the hands of his mother.
The real-time dialogues between the characters that emerge from Joe’s
unconscious come via arguably corrupted memories and dystopian dreams. They
tell us more about Joe than he could ever know, and perhaps more about our
world than you could ever imagine.
Dialogues entail an exploration of clashing perspectives and opinions, that
cause reflection. Today though, our world has been infiltrated by online
dialogues that tend to feel like wild unfiltered streams of human thought,
raw, chaotic and often polarising and devoid of much reflection. Arguably
that attitude, and lack of reflection is mirrored by the characters you will
encounter. The reflection comes from the reader as the situations unfold.
Your moral boundaries will without doubt be pushed to the limit.
You will meet an altruist who can’t stand up for himself, a charming
but violent public intellectual, a beautiful dancer who hates fat people, a
flirty and gregarious bartender who will do anything to get pregnant, a
traumatised art historian who never wants to be a mother, a successful
intellectual Mexican writer who is secretly disapproving of her childhood
friend’s career as a pornstar, the teenage genius son of that pornstar
who has sexual fantasises about his mother, a woman who is pressured into
cutting off her penis and a successful therapist who has a habit of ruining
people’s lives.
And yes, before you ask, some of the characters in this book eventually
catch Covid 19. However, there is always hope. For Joe Pastorious, that
comes in the form of the psychopath named Janet Waverley.
Excerpt
INTRODUCTION
Dear Reader,
This book is both a novel and a collection of dialogues.
The dialogues in this book are moving thought experiments. They portray
elaborate, unfolding situations which, at every turn, force the reader to
examine his or her philosophical intuitions about a range of topics,
situations and people.
These dialogues are not merely fiction told in dialogue form. Fiction is
drama that may (incidentally) comment upon or examine philosophical issues.
Drama normally involves scenes in which dialogue is used to set up and
advance a plot. In this book, plots are used to set up and advance the
dialogues of the characters.
The dialogues in this book are something like philosophy, because the
dramatic elements are merely a pretext to examine the philosophical issues
raised by the situations in which the characters talk to each other. The
dialogues happen in real time and are often deeply frustrating, as dialogues
are in real life. Reading this book, you may feel as though you are
listening in on a series of intensely private conversations.
If you heard any of these conversations in real life, you might feel as
though you were being privy to a rather juicy bit of gossip. Or you might
call the police. You might shed a tear. You might even masturbate (and then
read some more traditional philosophy).
Like any piece of philosophy, the writing in this book is sometimes
laborious. However, unlike traditional philosophy, the aim of this book is
to explore, rather than resolve, a set of philosophical concerns. There are
even issues raised in this book that many well-regarded philosophers find
quite silly – too silly to take seriously as philosophy.
Love Before Covid is thus an attempt to invoke the gadfly spirit of
Socrates in the 21st century, largely by abandoning the academic tradition
he inspired. This book is expected to irritate both lovers of philosophy, as
well as lovers of fiction. It may even irritate people from both sides of
the 21st century’s culture wars.
The plot concerns the love life of a man called Joe Pastorious. However,
this book does not tell you what to think of Joe, nor does it sing his
praises by showing how much he conforms to the most cherished values of our
time. Like many non-fictional people, Joe Pastorious is a complex human
being. You may love him or hate him. To call him imperfect would be an
understatement, but the degree to which he is likeable or loathsome is
thoroughly up to you.
There are other fictional people in this book who also dialogue, but they
only make appearances because of our protagonist. In some ways, they explain
Joe, much more than Joe explains himself.
Joe Pastorious met his wife Janet Waverley in the autumn of 1999. Joe and
Janet fell in love in a place called Leicester, which is a small city in the
middle of England. Many things have been said of Leicester, but one thing
that is not said enough is it is a fantastic place to fall in love. It was
the perfect place for Joe and Janet to fall in love. This is true, despite
the fact that Joe and Janet’s love is anything but perfect.
To truly understand the imperfect nature of this love, we must go back, not
to the beginning, but to an imaginary autumn of 2002. It’s not enough
to merely remember this autumn, from the vantage point of an imaginary
present. We instead must adopt this moment’s perspective, seeing its
events as though they were happening now.
When in the present, one can’t predict the future. Hence, the present
is the best place to understand imperfect people. When people are dead and
we know absolutely everything they have ever done, this creates an illusion
of certainty the present thankfully wipes away. You can’t trust a
corpse, because there is nothing about a corpse’s decisions that may
hurt or disappoint you.
A living, breathing person is not like this. They are only capable of being
truly understood, when they can be trusted. They can only be fully trusted
when their future is uncertain.
Love’s power resides in the romance of this uncertainty.
About the Author
During the pandemic Dr Greg Scorzo completed his first novel ‘LOVE BEFORE COVID’ as well as producing an innovative radio play based on 6
chapters from that book, also called – LOVE BEFORE COVID. available on our YouTube Channel. and via Audioboom with links to all major podcast platforms.
Greg says, “I was interested in the challenge of writing a novel that was formally experimental, while still being easy for a mass audience to
read and understand. I love the idea of a piece of philosophy that is simultaneously a work of fiction, and a philosophical thought experiment which can function like a great, twisty roller coaster of a story that asks
the reader many questions. Unlike traditional philosophy and many fashionable works of literature, this book purposefully asks questions without giving answers, encouraging readers to think (and emote) for themselves.”
Since gaining his PhD in Philosophy in 2011, Greg Scorzo has aimed to find
creative and original ways to take philosophical thinking outside of
academia. By using modern accessible philosophical dialogue inpublic talks,
podcasts and his novel Love Before Covid, Greg explores clashing
perspectives and opinions that cause reflection. Based in Leicester, he was
a founding member of Culture on the Offensive and runs the podcast The
‘Art of Thinking’.
Dialogues entail an exploration of clashing perspectives and opinions that
cause reflection. Statements and declarations can close minds.
The ‘Art of Thinking’ with Greg Scorzo podcast is available on
YouTube where he does friendly philosophical interrogation of ideas
with many interesting thinkers. Also available via Audioboom linking to all
major podcast platforms.
His extended essays on Arts and Culture as well as Cultural Issues are
available on this platform http://www.gregscorzo.com
He has a passion and extensive knowledge of film and music.
From 2017 – 2020 Greg Scorzo was active in running over 60 engaging
voluntary community sessions, centred around ‘The Art of Thinking’ The focussed on universal philosophical themes, arts and culture and cultural issues. The ethos behind these events was to encourage the use of EMPATHY, CLARITY and COURAGE in ensuing dialogues with the audience. These were organised by COTO.
He also took up invitations to partner and run sessions at other events,
including the Battle of Ideas Festival at the Barbican London, the
Philosophy Now conference, Leicester Comedy Festival and DeMontfort
University’s Cultural Exchanges festival. He is always interested to
partner up with other like minded people.
In a world where so many dark things go bump in the night, terror awaits
around every corner as these authors take horror stories to the next level.
Discover ghosts, demons, and your worst nightmares. Read at your own
risk.
Featuring twenty-nine stories by Joshua Williams, Stephen A. Roddewig,
Joseph Hirsch, Max Blood, Paul Lonardo, Matt Spencer, S.J. Walker, Kelly
Barker, Gregory Scott Matics, Gaetan Battaglia, Fred Phillips, Cassandra
Jones, Barend Nieuwstraten III, Sean E. Britten, Larry Hodges, Donalee
Moulton, Arlo Z. Graves, C.L. Hart, Robb T. White, Kelly Piner, Benjamin
Curt Unsworth, Trixie Nisbet, Jennifer Papillo, Justin Jones, Diana
Parrilla, Jared Thomason, J.M. Bengtsson, Caleb James K., and J.E.
Feldman.
Full Cold Moon
Story Genre: Shifters, werewolf
Wolf shifter Roza Van Rompaye awakens in a basement filled with Christmas
decorations with a silver manacle around her ankle. Her captor spiked her
drink with silver nitrate, and now he wants her to be his mate and to turn
him. Roza isn’t about to do either. She warns her captor that he will
die if she is still a prisoner when the full cold moon rises.
Excerpt
No matter how I struggled, I couldn’t get free of the chains I was
bound in.
“You’d better hope they hold when the full moon comes out, you
silly shit,” I snarled.
The cadaverous young man with the watery green eyes, blemished face, and
greasy disconnected fuchsia pompadour presented me with a rectangular box
wrapped in metallic celadon paper.
“I don’t want presents from you,” I snapped, turning away.
“If you think holding a woman captive on Christmas Eve is seduction, I
guarantee you’ll die a virgin. Gavril Kuroki, president of GrassHopper Green
Construction and renowned seducer of both men and women, would be horrified
to learn his son was holding his favorite architectural consultant prisoner
in a dungeon that looks like Santa’s elves got hammered and puked all over
the walls while he tries to win her affections with cheesy lingerie. What
the hell is wrong with you, Yair?”
“Roza, please, just look,” Yair insisted. He eagerly unwrapped
the box, revealing a silky puce nightgown. “I’m not trying to
turn you into a sexual object, and I’d never force myself on you. I
know you’re not like those easy women who ride the cock carousel any
chance they get. This negligee is elegant and ladylike, like
you.”
“I’ll never be the fawning captive princess of your
pathetic fantasies.”
“My love, it pains me to keep you prisoner, but until you accept me
as your alpha, I must.”
“Being chained to a concrete wall in a windowless basement stuffed
with Christmas decorations like a holiday goose full of apples and bread
pains me. This plot to make me fall in love with you by forcing a full-blown
English Christmas on me is insane. We’re in Cresval, South Dakota, for
Krampus’ sake, not jolly old London town. I’m the
thirty-five-year-old spawn of a Dutch-American agnostic farmer, not the
demure daughter of flipping Bob Cratchit.”
About the Author
C. L. Hart is an editor who writes or a writer who edits. She primarily
writes Lovecraftian fantasy and horror with the occasional sweet romance
thrown in to upset the cosmic apple cart. This is her second year
participating in the annual For the Love of Winter anthology from First
Coast Romance Writers. She is a member of ACES Editing Society, The Denver
Horror Collective, First Coast Romance Writers, The H. P. Lovecraft
Historical Society, Passionate Ink (writing as Lil DeVille), Regency Romance
Writers, and Rocky Mountain Romance Writers.
When John Standcliff, Satan’s bounty hunter, is summoned to Earth to claim
the soul of a serial killer, he finds the worst of hell’s tortures can be no
worse than the pain of falling in love with a mortal woman.
Corinne Rogerio has come to Maine to research six murders that took place
back in 1656. She has no idea that the handsome stranger she meets in an old
cemetery is actually the murderer she’s been studying. Even worse, he’s been
sent to track down a serial killer who is closer to her than she ever
imagined.
EXCERPT
Sparks shot from John’s ax each time it struck the trunk of the steel tree.
Every blow jolted through his aching arms and rang in his ears, yet he
almost welcomed the racket. He’d lost track of how long he’d dwelled in the
steel forest, chopping tree after tree without pause for food, water, or
sleep. His demon’s body could survive for decades without rest or
sustenance. If he ceased chopping long enough, the bleeding sores on his
palms would heal and his muscles would almost magically stop aching.
Unfortunately he must continue the drudgery until given the order to
halt.
All around him, the smooth gray trees stretched for miles. As punishment
for his crimes, John labored alone, chopping steel trees in Satan’s forest,
only ceasing when sent to collect yet another evil soul to toil in
Hell.
“Hello, John.”
The sneering voice echoed throughout the forest and made John’s skin
prickle with disgust. Pausing, he listened to his own panting breath in the
stillness. Sweat dripped into his eyes and trickled down his torso, soaking
into the wet waistband of his black trousers. He waited for the voice to
continue. Usually when Bee called, it was to send him on one of his gruesome
missions.
“Oh, John, your services are required. Won’t it be nice to go home
again?”
“Home, Bee?” John curled his lip. The little bastard loved
playing with people. Three-hundred-forty-eight years ago, John had been far
more gullible. The first few times Bee had promised him a meeting with his
sister or even a chance to escape from Hell, he had actually believed
him.
At first he had looked forward to visiting the mortal world, but eventually
the illusion shattered. Without friends or family, the world was a lonely
place. People feared him and kept their distance. It was as if they sensed
the evil inside him and instinctively stayed away. Never again would he
experience the comfort and total relaxation of sleep, to close his eyes in
complete surrender. Perhaps worst of all was his inability to fully enjoy
lovemaking. He could pleasure women and feel intense sexual stimulation, yet
climax eluded him.
“Can’t you think of a better story than that?”
“It’s not a story. Your hometown reeks of evil. Our master has been
smelling it for quite some time now and he wants it. You go get it for him,
John, and this time there might be something in it for you.”
“Beelzebub, leave us,” said a soft, musical voice. It sent a
tingle down John’s spine and filled him with such warmth that he nearly
panicked. After so many years in Hell, nothing touched him anymore. What
sort of evil had Bee conjured that could stir his emotions again? The voice
continued. “Once a soul is condemned to Hell, it is rarely allowed a
chance for redemption. There are sometimes cases of a good soul doing evil,
and though it is not condoned, under special circumstances someone like you
may be given the opportunity to move on, providing certain specifications
are met.”
John closed his eyes and drew a deep breath. “It’s not going to work,
Bee. I no longer believe in fairy tales.”
“Bee is gone. His kind cannot abide me.”
“I suppose you’re from up there?”
“I’m from everywhere. I know no bounds. Listen carefully to what I
tell you, John Standcliff. Fulfill the task set for you and send the evil in
your hometown to Hell. Do it without harming an innocent soul, and you will
be freed from Satan’s realm and allowed your chance at
redemption.”
John laughed humorlessly. “You don’t give up, do you, Bee?”
“Believe what you will, but you have only this one
opportunity.”
“Oh, just one?” John’s voice dripped sarcasm.
“At least in this millennium. You’re not the only demon in Hell who
deserves a second chance.”
“Then give one of them my turn. I don’t want it.”
“I understand why you don’t believe me, but keep my offer in mind
during your return to the world of the living. If I’m lying, then you’ll be
no worse off than you are now, but if I’m telling the
truth…”
The voice faded. Moments later, Bee appeared beside John. He was nothing
more than a dark cloud, loosely resembling the shape of a man. Bee
shuddered. “Glad she’s gone. Now. Are you ready to get to
work?”
“Who am I after this time?”
“As usual, I can’t give you too many details. After all, I’m not
supposed to be catching the soul. That’s your job.”
“Bee…”
“It’s a serial killer. Here’s his scent.” Bee’s cloudy black hand
swept beneath John’s nose. The faint aroma was all a demon required to track
his prey. “While you’re there, why don’t you break your own rules and
hack apart some humans? The master loves it when his demons terrorize the
living.”
“Just send me out of here so I can get this over with.”
Blackness enveloped John, and in those dark moments between Hell and Earth,
he absorbed the details of his new identity and a crash course on life in
the twenty-first century.
About the Author
Always a fan of romance and the paranormal, I started writing over twenty
years ago. My first story was accepted for publication in 1996. Since then
I’ve written over one hundred short stories, novellas and novels. I
love to blend genres. I also love horror and a happily ever after, so if
you’re looking for romance with witches, aliens, vampires, angels,
demons, shapeshifters and more, there’s a good chance you’ll
find something to your taste here.
When I’m not writing, I enjoy reading, watching horror and action
movies, working out and spending time with my family and pets.
For three centuries, Nara’s existence has revolved around providing sexual gratification to men not of her choosing. As a concubine enslaved by a brutal master she knows only as the Conqueror, Nara can do nothing but obey his every cruel whim. But a hundred years ago, Nara discovered where her real talents lie. She can invade dreams; and in those dreams, she’s the one
in control. Not the men whose thoughts she pervades. Not the Conqueror. Just her.
Rafe Osmond is a Dream Walker committed to eradicating every last trace of
dream ragers, those whose dark arts not only terrorize, but also kill
innocent dreamers. After he watches Nara terrifying a man she’s recently
serviced, Rafe sets off after her — with a vengeance. But when he finds
her, he also stumbles upon a long-forgotten temple steeped in ancient
mystery, and a terrifying evil.
Together, Rafe and Nara must destroy a power darker and deadlier than
either of them imagined. But first, Rafe must convince Nara that there is
more to dreams than ravages of pain and whimpers of terror… and to do
that, he has to show her unbelievable pleasure…
EXCERPT
“You think you’re ready for this?”
Rafe Osmond took a deep, steadying breath and closed his eyes. The pillow
beneath his head felt soft and inviting, but his body hummed with
anticipation. How could Master Choeki expect him to fall asleep? He licked
his suddenly dry lips. “I’m ready.”
He felt the dip in the mattress as the Master sat down beside him and
leaned over to light a candle on the nightstand. “Good. Remember what
I’ve taught you.”
“Patience, kindness, strength,” Rafe repeated for the thousandth
time. “We are dream walkers. People count on us to dispel dark dreams,
to preserve their sanity. I won’t forget.”
“And if you encounter a rager?”
“I’ll stop him. At any cost.”
Master Choeki grunted his approval and rose from the bed. “Sleep. I’ll
be here when you return.”
Rafe folded his hands across his chest and waited for sleep to come. He’d
been training at the Dream Academy for three years. Since the day he’d first
presented himself to the Master, they’d entered dreams together, rescued
dreamers from themselves countless times, but they’d never encountered a
rager. Sometimes, Rafe wasn’t sure whether the stories of powerful creatures
who killed humans in their dreams were even true. He’d never seen one. The
Master had told him that when his abilities became strong enough, he’d be
able to sense a rager from a distance, without even having to enter a
dream.
If his current abilities were any indication, it would be a long time
before that happened.
* * *
Rafe didn’t remember falling asleep. One moment he was lying on the
training bed in the Dream Academy, and the next, he was here, standing in a
brightly lit restaurant.
White linen tablecloths, napkins and pristine table settings awaited
patrons, but the place was empty. Crystal glasses caught the light from the
overhead chandelier and fragmented it in a rainbow of colors that splashed
over the pale walls, leading Rafe’s gaze to the large window overlooking the
street. Outside, the city looked deserted. Moonlight played in puddles, and
rain fell with heavy drops on the pavement, but there were no people huddled
under umbrellas, no cabs honking as they sped down city streets.
A soft moan caught his attention, and he spun around quickly, scanning the
restaurant. “Hello? Anyone here?” Another groan echoed through the
room, followed by a giggle and a soft gasp.
Rafe’s pulse raced as he moved forward. Just his luck to stumble into an
erotic dream on his first night alone. He’d encountered a few when
accompanied by Master Choeki, but they’d never lingered long. Sensual dreams
rarely turned into nightmares.
He spotted the couple at last, in a corner booth at the back of the
restaurant. He walked toward them slowly, trying to stay in the shadows as
much as possible. There had to be a reason his dream talent led him here.
Sometimes, his ability to sense nightmares was triggered by a false alarm,
nothing more than a rough edge to sex play. Other times, the possibility of
a nightmare was real. Dreams could turn dark in the blink of an eye, often
without the dreamer’s knowledge or consent. That’s why he was here. To watch
over the dreamer and protect them.
And to destroy dream ragers. The Master’s voice echoed in Rafe’s head, and
he waved it away. He didn’t sense a dream rager. Not that he knew what
sensing one was supposed to feel like, but he assumed it had to be hostile,
dark, powerful. A strong sensation of malevolent evil would crawl up his
spine. There was none of that here. Just two lovers indulging in a little
fun.
He inched closer to get a better look. What could it hurt, lingering for a
moment or two? He’d move on soon. The Master would never know he dallied
here.
He stopped breathing when he caught sight of a woman’s shapely behind. His
cock stiffened instantly as he took in her long legs, wide hips, slender
waist, and smooth coppery skin. Hair the color of dark, rich honey had been
swept into an untidy heap on top of her head. He took another step forward,
hoping for a glimpse of her face. He wished she’d turn around, but she was
busy sucking a stiff cock.
Her lover lay on his back on one of the white linen tablecloths Rafe had
admired earlier, hands folded behind his head, eyes closed, mouth parted in
ecstasy.
Rafe’s hand moved to his cock. He palmed the stiff length, hoping for a
little relief. He knew he should leave, but couldn’t. Not yet. How often
would he have a chance to witness something like this?
The woman released her lover’s cock. It slid from her mouth with a loud
pop, and she turned to face Rafe. Her features were even more beautiful than
he’d expected. Long, black lashes framed gold-rimmed dark eyes. High
cheekbones and full lips suggested an exotic background. He expected ire, or
shock at the very least, but got neither. Instead, she moved forward and
grasped his hand, tugging him close to her. “Are you here to stop
me?”
Rafe’s mouth was suddenly dry. “I’m here to save you.”
She laughed, the sound low and sensual. “Really? My hero.” Her
tone held neither sarcasm nor anger. “I hope you can stay a
while.”
“Who are you?” His thoughts felt sluggish as she pressed her
naked body against him. He felt her hard nipples graze his chest even
through the shirt he wore and he stifled a groan.
“I’m Nara. This is Vince.”
“Vinny,” the man corrected. He sat up, casting a bewildered stare
at Rafe. “Who’s this?”
“Our rescuer, apparently,” Nara said before Rafe could reply.
“Though I’m not yet sure what he’s supposed to be saving us
from.”
With quick, expert motions, she unzipped his jeans and slid them over his
hips. His briefs followed. “I really can’t stay.”
“Sure you can.” She gripped his hand and placed it over her sex.
Shaved bare, her skin felt deliciously warm and all too inviting. His cock
pulsed. A shudder trembled through his body.
It’s only a dream.
Dreams were as real as the dreamer made them. This wasn’t his dream, but it
didn’t mean he couldn’t share in the dreamer’s delight.
Only a dream, he repeated to himself. What can it hurt?
About the Author
Award-winning author Lacey Savage loves to write about her dreams — or
more specifically, she loves to breathe life into her steamy fantasies (and
she’s got plenty!). She pens erotic tales of true love and mythical destiny,
peopled with strong alpha heroes and feisty heroines. A hopeless romantic,
Lacey loves writing about the intimate, sensual side of relationships. She
currently resides in Ottawa, Canada, with her mischievous husband and their
loving cat.
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@changelingpress
