The pride is ready for some changes… particularly when it comes
to their sleeping arrangements.
Laithe’s Pride: Laithe needs a mate. With males outnumbering females ten
to one, odds are he won’t find her among the Felidae. Rowan needs a
change of pace, but she definitely wasn’t expecting a 7’ tall, fur
covered man to walk into her life.
Asad’s Mate: Asad has lusted after Catan since the pride rescued the
little Lynx from a brutal attack. Asad is the only man Catan ever wanted, but
is he what the big Leo needs?
Usama’s Journey: Thrust into a world he didn’t know existed,
Aaron’s forced to adapt to life among alien beings. Despite his
misgivings, he can’t stop thinking about both the fun-loving Lev and the
wise-cracking Morgan.
Lev’s Discovery: Navin’s brother’s rival won’t rest
until he claims Navin. Navin needs a protector, fast. Isha will protect Navin
under one condition — Navin must submit to Isha. Completely…
Navin’s Master: Ever since his brother fought in the last mate hunt,
Navin’s life has been a living nightmare. Rajiv’s rival
won’t rest until he claims Navin. Navin needs a protector, fast.
Rowan’s Men: Rowan’s going all out for Laithe and Fahd this
Christmas. Homemade presents, baking and a heck of a surprise are going to
keep her men on their toes this year.
Rowan Brandt had never felt lower than at this particular moment in her life.
Her day-to-day life consisted of trudging through the crowds, bypassing people
who could care less if she lived or died, and she felt alone. Strange to feel
alone while surrounded by people, but the truth was, she’d never really felt
anything other than alone.
But this day in particular just happened to be worse than most. Like fate had
decided to step in and give her a big kick in the ass.
This morning sucks big time.
Her day had started out well enough with the most fabulous dream. She couldn’t
remember much about her dream man, but she remembered his deep, penetrating,
amber eyes. It was like he’d looked right into her soul with those eyes. He
seemed so familiar for some reason — like she knew him. He felt so familiar,
so comfortable, she’d instantly relaxed in his presence.
She couldn’t remember anything else because just at the moment she thought he
would speak — they were rudely separated by the sound of her telephone
ringing.
A phone call telling her she was late for her dentist appointment sent her
into a panicked frenzy. Twelve minutes later, after getting ready in record
time, she was hurrying for her bus.
Running down the five flights of stairs in her apartment building — she could
never depend on the outdated elevator actually coming when it was called —
she was already out of breath.
Rounding the corner of her building, she realized that someone had cut out a
section of the sidewalk ahead of her. Veering off the path, she squished down
into the mud lining the side of the pavement. It looked like the landscapers
hadn’t finished laying the sod yet. Rowan fumed as the black muck oozed around
her foot.
When she pulled up her foot, her left shoe remained firmly stuck in the mud. A
fitting analogy for her life, but nevertheless, the last thing she needed this
morning.
Grabbing the shoe, she quickly hopped back over to the sidewalk, managing to
put on the mud-caked remains before continuing toward the bus stop a block
over.
By the time Rowan was nearing the stop she could see her bus just coming up
the road. Fearing that he’d go right past her, she began running to get to the
stop in time.
Huffing, she frantically waved him down, gasping for breath as the bus pulled
to a noisy stop beside her. Flashing her bus pass at the bored driver she
began moving to the back of the bus.
Plopping down beside an older woman Rowan tried to calm her breathing,
attempting to take in slower breaths. Holding her large bag on her lap, she
leaned her head back and closed her eyes.
“You know, if you lost just a little weight, you wouldn’t have trouble
breathing, dear.”
Her eyes popped open at the words coming from the woman beside her. Smiling
tightly, Rowan did her good deed for the day and neglected to tell the woman
to shut up and mind her own business.
Twenty minutes later, and exactly forty-two minutes late for her appointment,
she entered the dentist’s office.
“You’re lucky we aren’t going to charge you for your missed appointment.”
“I’m so sorry, I don’t know what happened. I know I set my alarm, so I’m no
–”
“Right, I’m sure you did,” the woman at the front desk said, interrupting her
apology. “Please sit down and we’ll get to you when we have an opening. It may
take some time,” she said with no apology and a hint of impatience in her
voice.
God, what a wonderful way to start a Monday.
About the Author
Jade’s writing is as eclectic as her reading tastes. She’s also been known to
accept writing challenges from friends and family just to see their reactions.
She’s a firm believer that love and romance are universal concepts, no matter
a person’s gender identity or sexual orientation.
I came to Cutter’s Creek with a false name, a beat-up car, and one
rule — don’t get attached.
After years with the FBI, a prison sentence, and a family legacy I want
no part of, disappearing seems like the smartest thing I’ve ever done.
Lucy Alvarez could pour coffee at a small-town diner and leave the second
trouble found her.
I didn’t account for Molly Morrison — or her father.
Seven-year-old Molly slips past defenses trained professionals never could.
Blake is quiet, observant, and far too good at noticing everything I
don’t say. I should keep my distance from both of them. Instead, I find
myself building a life I never expected to have.
Then my past finds me.
I’ve always known when to fight and when to run. But this time, running
means leaving Blake and Molly behind. And I think I’m finally done
running.
WARNING: Hiding in Cutter’s Creek includes references to human
trafficking, organized crime, incarceration, violence, and past trauma. It
also includes strong language and sexual content intended for adult readers.
I pulled into Cutter’s Creek on a Tuesday afternoon, and the town
didn’t seem to notice. The gravel lot beside the gas station was empty
except for a pickup with a boat trailer hitched to it, and my ten-year-old
Civic rolled to a stop with the cracked side mirror catching a gray sky. The
gas station doubled as a bait shop, according to the hand-painted sign in the
window, which told me most of what I needed to know about the place before I
ever cut the engine.
I had picked Cutter’s Creek off a map three days earlier, in a motel
outside Amarillo, using criteria I’d developed over eight years of
finding people who didn’t want to be found. Population around five
hundred. No interstate within forty miles. No regional airport, no casino, no
anything that would bring in outside traffic or outside money. A town that
small didn’t show up in databases unless somebody went looking for it
specifically, and nobody was going to go looking for it specifically. That was
the whole point. If I couldn’t have found me here, nobody could.
I cut the engine and sat there with my hands on the wheel.
The main road ran maybe a quarter mile, and I saw most of it from the lot. A
grocery store sat across the street, its name painted by hand on a board above
the door, the letters a little uneven, like whoever did it had gotten tired
toward the end. Farther down there was a hardware store, a church with a
gravel parking lot, a squat brick building that might have been a post office
or a bank or both, and a diner with a faded red-and-white awning. Even from
here I could see the white card taped inside the diner’s glass door.
Help Wanted, probably. Everything else looked like it would rather be left
alone.
Out of habit, I ran the assessment anyway. Two ways in and out of town by
road, north and south. Sightlines were long and clean, which cut both ways.
Anybody coming would be visible for half a mile, but so would I. The buildings
were low, one and two stories, nothing with a rooftop worth worrying about. It
took me about ninety seconds to conclude that Cutter’s Creek presented
no tactical concerns whatsoever, which was either reassuring or depressing,
depending on how I chose to look at it. I decided not to look at it.
The smell came in through the cracked window before I opened the door. Diesel
from the pumps and, underneath it, creek mud, that green smell of slow water.
Somewhere behind the gas station there had to be the creek the town was named
for. I’d look at it eventually. There was no rush. There was, for the
first time in longer than I wanted to count, no rush about anything.
Eleven days. That was the entire age of the woman sitting in this car, and I
ran the arithmetic behind her the way you press a bruise, to find out whether
it still hurt in the same place. Six weeks on the Gulf Coast before that,
recovering at Jeb’s place from what had been done to me. Before Jeb, the
Dixie Reapers. Before the Dixie Reapers, a prison. Before the prison, a
career.
My father was dead. Ernesto with him, which was the only sentence my life had
ever handed me at a discount. Everything the two of them had spent forty years
building had come apart in a single night while I was in no condition to watch
it happen, and I had made my peace with not having been there, mostly. My
badge went with them. The men who had opened the prison door for me had opened
it because they thought I could be useful. When I turned out not to be, one of
them had arranged for something to go into my arm, and there was no version of
it in which men like that simply forgot my name. Jeb never understood that
part, mostly because I never explained it to him. I wasn’t hiding from
my father. I had outlived my father. I was hiding from everyone else who had
ever had a use for me, and there were more of them than I cared to count.
And Emmie was safe. That was the line at the bottom of the column, the one all
the rest of it added up to. My sister had married a man who put himself
between her and Luis Montoya without needing to be asked twice, and she was
living behind a gate in Alabama with a hundred people who would do the same
thing without being asked at all. She didn’t know where I was. She
wasn’t going to. That was the last thing Lupita Montoya did, and of
everything on the list it was the only item I had chosen freely, and it was
the only one that cost.
I should have gotten out of the car then. Instead I sat for another minute,
longer than made sense, watching the road. Nobody drove past. A screen door
slapped shut somewhere down the block and that was the extent of the
afternoon’s activity. This was what I had wanted. I reminded myself of
that, the way you remind yourself to take medicine that tastes bad, and then I
got out.
The duffel bag was on the back seat. One bag. Everything I owned fit in it
now, which had seemed efficient when I packed it and seemed like a stunt now
that I was standing in a gravel lot in a town I’d never heard of two
weeks ago. I pulled it out and my grip on the strap was tighter than it needed
to be. I noticed my knuckles going white and made myself loosen my hand, one
finger at a time. The bag didn’t weigh much. That wasn’t the
problem. On paper, I owned considerably more. Luis Montoya’s will left
all of it to me.
I locked the car, which was probably unnecessary in a town like this, and
walked toward the hardware store. There was a Room For Rent notice in the
grocery store window, hand-lettered like everything else here, with an arrow
that pointed vaguely up the street and a name and the words see Earl at the
hardware store, upstairs. I’d spotted it from the lot. Convenient.
Suspiciously convenient, said the part of my brain that had spent eight years
being paid to be suspicious, but I told that part of my brain that small towns
had rooms for rent because small towns were dying, and there was nothing more
to it than that.
Before I reached the door, I stopped on the sidewalk and mouthed the name to
myself. Lucy Alverez. My jaw worked through it stiffly, like the syllables
didn’t fit right, like a line I hadn’t finished memorizing. Lucy
Alverez. Lucy. I’d chosen it because it was close enough to my real name
that I’d turn my head if someone called it, and far enough that it
wouldn’t ring any bells in the wrong ears. On paper it was clean. Out
loud it still felt like a lie, because it was one. I’d been Lucy Alverez
for eleven days and I was still waiting for the name to feel like anything
other than a coat I’d stolen off a rack.
The landlord was where the sign said he’d be, in a cramped office at the
top of a staircase behind the hardware store’s register. He was
somewhere north of seventy, wearing a hearing aid in one ear that he clearly
didn’t trust, because when I said I was there about the room he cupped
his other ear and made me say it again, louder. I said it again, louder. That
was fine with me. A half-deaf landlord asks fewer follow-up questions.
He asked how long. I said month to month. He asked if I had cash. I did. He
named a number that would have been a rounding error in most cities, and I
counted it out on his desk while he watched the bills and not my face. He
never asked my name. He never asked what brought me to Cutter’s Creek,
or what I did for work, or whether anyone would be joining me. He wrote in a
spiral notebook, slid a key across the desk on a plain metal ring, and pointed
at the ceiling.
He pushed a key across the desk with two fingers. “End of the hall.
Bathroom’s shared with the room next door, but there’s nobody in
the room next door.”
“Thank you.”
“What?”
“Thank you.” Louder this time.
He waved that off and went back to whatever he’d been doing before I
interrupted his afternoon. The whole transaction had taken four minutes.
I’d worked cases where getting a hotel receipt took longer.
The room was at the end of the hall, like he’d said. It had a bed, a
dresser, a chair, and one window facing the main road. I stood in the doorway
and gave it the same ninety seconds I’d given the town. One point of
entry through the door, one through the window, and the window had a straight
drop to an awning I could use if I had to. The lock on the door was a joke,
but I could fix that. The sightline from the window covered the whole street
in both directions. Professionally, I approved. Personally, the room was small
and smelled faintly of sawdust from the store below, and there was a water
stain on the ceiling shaped like nothing in particular, and it was mine, and
it produced a feeling I didn’t have a word for and didn’t try to
find one.
I didn’t unpack. I set the duffel on the bed, looked at it, and picked
it back up.
The honest moment came standing there in my rented room with the bag back on
my shoulder. I could have waited until Thursday, or the next week, or until
the cash ran lower and forced the issue. But I’d seen the card in the
diner’s door, and I knew myself well enough to know that if I sat in
this room tonight with nothing to do tomorrow, I would start finding reasons
to leave. Momentum was the only thing I had going. So I locked the door behind
me, went down the stairs, past the landlord who didn’t look up, and out
onto the main road.
The diner was a five-minute walk. The Holt Family Diner, according to the
sign, in lettering that had been repainted more than once over the same
outline. The red-and-white awning had faded closer to pink and cream, and
through the front window I could see a menu board on the wall, hand-lettered
in chalk, listing things like meatloaf and chicken fried steak and three kinds
of pie. The white card taped inside the glass door said HELP WANTED in block
capitals, and underneath, smaller: ask for Ruth.
I stood outside for a moment, looking at my reflection in the glass. A woman
of thirty in plain clothes with her dark hair pulled back and a duffel bag
over her shoulder, looking like what she was, which was somebody who had just
arrived from somewhere and wasn’t saying where. I couldn’t do
anything about that. I forced my shoulders down from where they’d crept
up around my ears and arranged my face into the neutral, approachable one, the
expression I’d practiced in motel mirrors between Amarillo and here.
Lucy Alverez was friendly. Lucy Alverez was open. Lucy Alverez had never
testified before a Senate subcommittee, never woken in a motel room with drugs
in her system she hadn’t put there, and never spent six weeks on the
Gulf Coast recovering from what someone else had done to her. I pulled the
door open and a bell above it announced me to the room.
My eyes moved before the rest of me did. That was training, and it happened
whether I wanted it to or not. Front door behind me, second exit through the
kitchen at the back, past the swinging door. Windows along the front wall
giving anyone inside a full view of the street, and giving the street a full
view of anyone inside. A pie case near the register with curved glass that
reflected the whole dining room, so a person standing at the counter could
watch the door without turning around. I filed that away as useful and hated,
a little, that I’d noticed it at all.
There were maybe six people inside. None of them looked at me directly. All of
them were watching me. I’d spent enough years in rooms full of people
pretending not to watch each other that I could feel it like a change in
temperature. In a town this size, a stranger with a duffel bag was going to be
the most interesting thing that happened all week, and I had just volunteered
for the position.
Behind the counter, a woman in her early sixties was wiping down the
countertop. Silver hair pinned up in a bun that was losing the fight, an apron
dusted with flour, and a rhythm to the wiping that said she had done this
motion in this spot for thirty years and expected to do it for thirty more.
She didn’t look up when the bell rang. She finished the section of
counter she was working on, moved to the next, and let me stand there for the
length of time it took me to understand that she knew who was in her diner at
all times and didn’t need to look up to confirm it.
“I’m here about the sign,” I said. “The help wanted.
I’m looking for Ruth.”
“You found her.” She kept wiping for another few seconds, then set
the rag down and looked at me. Her eyes were sharp. Whatever the flour and the
bun and the slow hands suggested, I had the uncomfortable feeling that she was
reading me faster than I was reading her. “Can you carry four plates at
once?”
It wasn’t the question I’d prepared for. I’d built Lucy
Alverez a modest work history, references at businesses that had closed, a
story about a divorce and a fresh start, all of it ready to deploy. None of it
was required.
“Yes,” I said.
“Do you have a problem with early mornings?”
“No.”
Ruth nodded slowly, like both answers had been the expected ones and neither
had told her anything. Then she asked the third question, in the same level
voice, and it landed differently than the first two.
“Are you staying?”
I opened my mouth and nothing came out. It was a simple question. It was the
simplest question anyone had asked me in a year, and I didn’t have that
one loaded and ready. I had everything else. My jaw tightened. My gaze dropped
a half-inch, to the counter she’d been wiping, and I made myself bring
it back up to her face. She waited. She didn’t repeat the question or
soften it or fill the silence for me. The regulars along the counter had gone
very interested in their coffee.
Was I staying? I had a room I’d rented and a name I’d owned for
eleven days and a car with a cracked mirror. Every instinct I had said keep
the answer vague, keep the exits open, commit to nothing you can’t walk
away from. Those instincts had kept me alive. They had also gotten me here,
alone in a diner in a town nobody could find, with everything I owned cutting
a groove into my shoulder.
“Yes,” I said.
Ruth studied me for a moment longer. I don’t know what she saw.
I’d like to think my face gave her nothing, but I’d been off my
game for a while and she struck me as the kind of woman who’d spent
decades reading faces across that counter and rarely got one wrong. Whatever
she found, she didn’t comment on it. She picked the rag back up.
She picked the rag back up. “You can start Thursday. Six in the morning.
Wear shoes you can stand in.”
“Thursday. Thank you.”
She was already wiping the counter again, the same slow, methodical strokes,
like the conversation was finished and the matter was settled, and apparently
it was. No application. No references. No questions about where I’d come
from or why a woman my age turned up in Cutter’s Creek with one bag and
no explanation. Either she didn’t care or she’d decided the
answers would come along eventually on their own schedule, and I honestly
couldn’t tell which one worried me more.
I stood there a beat longer than I needed to, the duffel strap digging into my
shoulder, the regulars still tracking me from the edges of their vision, the
pie case reflecting the whole room back at me in curved glass. Then I nodded
to nobody in particular and turned for the door.
That morning I’d woken up in a motel with a destination but no room, no
job, and nothing planned beyond reaching Cutter’s Creek. Now I had all
three.
The bell rang behind me on my way out, and nobody in the diner turned to watch
me go. They didn’t have to. In a town this size, they all knew
they’d be seeing me Thursday.
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
Bred to be the perfect soldiers, Javen and Gara are running from the the
very people they were created to protect.
Javen and Gara were bred to be the perfect soldiers, protecting New Earth from
the scourge from above. As lovers, they were created to resonate in perfect
harmony with each other, their lives the stuff of legends. But they proved to
be evolution’s darlings, developing beyond anything the scientists had ever
dreamed of, their advancement eclipsing that of their creators.
Now their only hope is a planet of their own, where they can live free — free
to construct a new society based on the ideals of justice and honor. But with
dangerous factions at work, a mysterious prophesy, and an old enemy amassing,
this stunning melody may ring out with the perfect notes to save the worthy
and unworthy alike.
Freedom demands an awful price.
Publisher’s Note: Space Opera Duet originally released as two separate
novellas.
“Bonded, let down my braid?” The silver-haired man asked the question politely
as he gracefully dropped to his knees beside his beloved.
Javen looked up at his tora through silver lashes, his purple eyes gleaming in
anticipation as he licked full, pouty lips. His lithe body was covered in an
odd type of silk wrap, the weave plainly visible, but the material soft as
air. Several colorful strands of blue and purple, strands of hair from fallen
comrades, made up a pattern in the cloth. His long, pale fingers rested on his
slim thighs, his poise perfect as he awaited the response.
“Shall I unbind you, my mate?” The question was asked in a low, gravelly
voice, the desire and intent clear. Gara the Red, High Lord Chancellor of this
particular space station far above New Earth Sphere, observed his mate, his
cock swelling, his blood running hot. “Shall I release you to take what
pleasures I can off that pale body of yours?”
Javen seemed to shiver, though his body remained perfectly still. He inhaled
deeply, breathing in the scent of his bonded, trilling a soft, vibrating song
of desire as he felt his own erection grow. “Unbind me, bonded, if you
dare… if you have a need of the pleasures this pale flesh can bring
you.”
Javen tilted his head to the side, shifted his shoulders, and allowed his robe
to slide from one shoulder, exposing a chest decorated with what appeared to
be elaborate, pale purple tattoos.
Javen’s scales were beautiful, strong, soft and iridescent against his pale
skin. They outlined his hairline at his forehead, trailed down along his neck
to the backs of each arm. They overran the backs of his hands, giving him the
look of an exotic jeweled statue. They continued around his chest, across his
lower abdomen, and down his outer thighs.
Naked, he was a thing of grace and style, of beauty that no human being could
dare possess. But… he was not human. He wiggled his talon-tipped toes
in excitement, his eyes burning with desire.
“Oh, I have a need,” Gara chuckled, reaching down and cupping his cock,
running the flat of his hand along its hardness. Javen could almost feel the
heat wafting off his beloved’s body, and thrummed louder.
Gara threw back his head and moaned, his own touch stoking his desires higher
as he observed the signs of need in his usually reserved mate. Javen was one
of the most polite, perfectly poised ryuujin who had ever been created. To see
him react so wildly to his own heat cycle… Magnificent.
Gara ripped his tunic from his body, ruffling his wild mane of red hair and
exposing his broad, scarred chest in the process, tossing the shreds of
material aside.
“Come,” he purred, reaching out with both hands, tangling his fingers in his
mate’s hair. “Come ease my need.”
He gripped the bands of ribbons that liberally twined through his mate’s
braid, a braid he himself had placed in Javen’s hair earlier that morning.
Javen tossed his head back, his trill growing deeper in his throat as he
exposed his neck, his most vulnerable point, to his beloved.
Gara wasted no time in bending over and running his clawed fingers over
Javen’s neck, caressing the soft, firm skin and the raised scales that he so
loved to touch, to lick, to nibble and suck.
Javen nestled into his mate’s palm, his trill softening as Gara’s hands — his
strong, scarred hands — pushed the robe from his body, allowing it to fall
around his waist.
“Do you have any idea how hard you make me?” Gara growled. He moved closer,
closing his eyes and pulling in the spicy scent of his mate’s neck, the heat
of his desire so at odds with his cool skin.
“I can –” Javen reached up, pressing his hands to the heat between his
bonded’s thighs, feeling the rigid column of flesh that throbbed at his
caress. “– feel.” His other hand joined the first, tugging at the tie at the
waist, wanting the material gone that separated him from what he wanted.
He lifted his head again, leaning forward to nuzzle into his bonded’s groin,
bathing the head of his mate’s cock with his cool breath. Throwing back his
head, Gara purred and gripped his beloved’s head, pushing him deeper against
his crotch.
“That is what you want?” Gara demanded.
“Yes,” Javen snarled, his eyes near glowing as he rose up to his full height,
towering over his lover by more than a few inches.
“Then come and take it.”
About the Author
Stephanie is a USA Today Best Selling, multi published, multi award-winning
author, Master Costumer, handicapped, wife and mother of two.
From sex-shifting, shape-shifting dragons to undersea worlds, sexually
confused elemental Fey and homo-erotic mysteries, all the way to
pastel-challenged urban sprites, Stephanie has done it all, and hopes to do
more.
Stephanie is an orator on her favorite subjects of writing and world-building,
a sometime teacher when you feed her enough tea and donuts, an anime nut, a
costumer, and a frequent guest of various sci-fi and writing cons where she
can be found leading panel discussions or researching varied legends and
theories to improve her writing skills.
Stephanie is known for her love of the outrageous, strong female characters,
believable worlds, male characters filled with depth, and multi-cultural
stories that make the reader sit up and take notice.
I took an oath to save lives. Protecting Katy’s more than that — it’s
becoming personal.
Dread — Nothing prepared me for finding a woman and her little girl
stranded on the side of the highway. Katy’s terrified, exhausted, and
hiding from something — or someone. She keeps waiting for me to ask
questions. I don’t need answers to know they need protection. The Hades
Abyss Motorcycle Club takes care of its own. And whether she’s ready to
admit it or not, Katy is already under my protection.
Katy — Running was supposed to keep my daughter safe. Instead, it left us
stranded with a broken SUV and nowhere to go. Then Dread pulled up. He’s
gruff, stubborn, and impossible to push away. Every day I spend behind the
gates of Hades Abyss makes it harder to remember why I should leave. Ellie
finally feels safe, and my heart is starting to believe we might have found a
home.
But the man I escaped isn’t finished with me. If he comes for us, I know
he’ll discover the worst mistake of his life was threatening the woman
Dread has claimed as his own.
The highway stretched ahead like something half-melted, the asphalt rippling
in the midday heat until the horizon disappeared into a silver wash. No shade.
No cover. Just the sun beating down on two lanes of cracked blacktop and the
thin strip of gravel shoulder where my SUV sat crippled, the rear end canted
at a drunken angle, passenger-side tire blown and gone soft against the
stones.
I’d already dragged the spare out from under the cargo hold, heavy and
awkward in my hands, and positioned the jack as best I could. The metal base
wobbled on the uneven gravel, finding purchase in small divots that shifted
whenever I applied pressure. Not stable. Nothing about this was stable.
My fingers kept sliding off the lug wrench. The nuts were torqued down by some
mechanic with gorilla hands and a pneumatic gun, or maybe years of highway
vibration had fused them to the studs. Either way, the wrench handle grew
slicker with every attempt, sweat coating my palms until the metal felt like
it had been oiled. I wiped my hands on my shorts, left dark smears, tried
again. The wrench turned a fraction of an inch before my grip failed. I
adjusted, set my feet wider, and threw my weight into it. My arms shook. Not
the fine tremor of fatigue — a deep, structural quiver that started in my
shoulders and ran down through my elbows to my wrists. Shaking that meant my
body was running out of things to burn.
Ellie sat on the running board in the narrow strip of shade cast by the
SUV’s open door, knees pulled up to her chest, arms wrapped around her
shins. Her light brown hair was dark with sweat at the roots, plastered in
damp curls against her neck. She watched me with a small, tight frown that
didn’t belong on a seven-year-old’s face.
“Are we going to be late?” she asked.
“No, sweetie. We’re not in a hurry,” I said.
“Does it hurt your hands?”
“It’s just a little hard to turn, that’s all.”
“How much longer?” she asked.
“Not long. Almost done.”
Each answer came out in a steady voice I didn’t recognize, a measured
calm that lived nowhere near the hollow panic pulling taut inside me. The heat
was warping my vision. The horizon kept tilting — a slow, nauseating roll
through my skull, like the world was trying to tip itself over. I planted my
feet harder. The gravel shifted under my sneakers.
I got the first lug nut loose after three tries, the wrench finally catching
and turning with a metallic shriek that cut through the thick air. The second
came easier. My shirt clung to my back, soaked through at the shoulder blades
and along my spine. The ponytail I’d tied that morning hung heavy
against my neck, the elastic digging a wet groove into my scalp.
The third nut wouldn’t budge. I leaned into the wrench until my body was
at a forty-five-degree angle, heels digging into gravel, and felt something
give — not the nut, but the jack. It shifted sideways with a scrape of metal
on stone, and the SUV dropped half an inch. I jerked back, heart hammering,
and pressed my hand to the hot quarter panel to steady myself. The metal
burned. I left it there. The sharpness helped me focus, at least. Something I
could feel besides the heat and the fear.
Ellie said my name. Just “Mom,” soft and careful — the tone she
used when she was scared but trying not to show it.
“It’s fine,” I told her. “We’re fine. Almost
done.”
I wasn’t almost done. The jack needed resetting. I crouched beside it,
my knees popping, and wrestled the base into a new position, digging shallow
trenches in the gravel with the edge of my palm. The metal was hot enough to
raise a blister. I didn’t check. Sweat ran into my eyes, stinging, and I
wiped it away with the back of my wrist, leaving a streak of grit across my
forehead.
Back to the wrench. I braced one foot against the tire itself for leverage,
wrapped both hands around the handle, and pulled. My shoulders screamed. The
nut turned — a quarter inch, then nothing. I repositioned, pulled again.
Another quarter. The progress was measured in fractions, each one costing more
than the last.
The fourth nut came free suddenly, the wrench spinning loose and nearly
catching me across the shin. I stumbled back, caught myself on the bumper, and
stood there breathing hard. The air felt thick enough to chew. My lungs worked
and nothing changed.
One nut left. The last one.
I set the wrench, lined it up with shaking hands, and threw everything I had
into the turn. My vision grayed at the edges. Not a gentle fade — a hard,
sudden dimming, like someone had turned a dial on the world’s
brightness. The gravel tilted under me. I let go of the wrench and dropped
into a crouch, head down between my knees, hands braced on my patellas.
Breathe. Just breathe.
Ellie said something I couldn’t make out through the blood pounding in
my ears.
“I’m okay,” I said, or tried to say. The words came out
strained and hollow. “One second.”
The gray receded slowly, pulling back from the edges of my sight like water
draining from a tub. I stayed crouched until the gravel stopped moving, then
pushed myself upright using the bumper for support. My legs felt like
they’d been filled with wet sand.
The last nut was still there. The jack wobbled on its uneven perch. The spare
lay in the dirt where I’d dropped it, the tread pattern filling with
fine dust.
Almost done.
I wasn’t almost done.
* * *
The sound reached me before I saw the source — gravel crunching under wide
tires, a slow, deliberate roll that didn’t belong to a highway-speed
vehicle. I turned, wrench still clutched in my right hand, and watched a
weathered gray pickup ease onto the shoulder behind my SUV.
The engine cut. A door opened.
The man who stepped out was large. Not just tall — though he was that, well
over six feet — but built through the shoulders and chest in a way that
suggested strength accumulated over decades rather than sculpted in a gym.
Dark hair, gray at the temples. Plain gray T-shirt, faded jeans, boots that
had seen actual use. And over it all, a black leather vest lined with patches
I couldn’t read from where I stood, except for the largest one across
the back: HADES ABYSS in white letters that caught the sun.
I straightened. My body moved before my brain caught up — one step sideways,
placing myself directly between him and the open door where Ellie sat. The
wrench handle dug into my palm. I didn’t set it down.
He stopped a few yards away. Not advancing. Hands at his sides, visible,
relaxed. His eyes — steel blue, I registered distantly — moved over me in a
single pass that felt nothing like being looked at. Precise. Evaluating.
Missing nothing: flushed face, sweat-soaked shirt, the slight tremor in my
stance I couldn’t hide anymore. Then his gaze shifted to Ellie, the same
evaluation compressed into seconds, gentler around the edges but no less
thorough.
“Shay Thomas,” he said. His voice was calm. Level. No urgency in
it. “Most people call me Dread. I’m a doctor.”
I said nothing. The heat pressed down between us, heavy and silent.
“Both of you need to get out of this heat right now.” He
didn’t phrase it as a question. Didn’t soften it with a please or
cushion it with reassurance. He turned, walked to his passenger door, and
pulled it open. Cold air poured out in a visible wave, carrying the faint
smell of leather and clean air underneath. The vents were already running,
aimed at the seat.
I didn’t move. The wrench was still in my hand, my knuckles white around
it.
He didn’t push. Didn’t repeat himself or step closer or try to
reason with me. He stood beside the open door, one hand resting on the frame,
and waited. The patience in him carried its own force — steady, unhurried,
taking up exactly as much space as he needed and not an inch more.
A bead of sweat traced the line of my spine from nape to tailbone. My vision
pulsed once, gently, the gray creeping back along the periphery. The heat made
the decision. I set the wrench down in the gravel, turned to Ellie, offered my
free hand, and said, “Come on, baby. Just for a minute.”
She slid off the running board and took my hand. Her fingers were small and
hot. I guided her to the truck, one step at a time, my legs functioning on
some last reserve of strength I hadn’t known was there. The cold hit us
in layers — first my face, then my chest, then a full-body shock that made
the sweat on my skin go instantly clammy. Ellie made a small sound, almost a
whimper, and pressed against my side.
Dread closed the door behind us and circled to the driver’s side. He
didn’t get in. Instead, he crouched in the open doorway, bringing
himself to eye level with me where I sat in the passenger seat. Close enough
to reach, far enough to leave space.
He took my wrist without asking, two fingers pressed against the inside pulse
point. His hand was cool and dry. He held for a count I couldn’t follow,
then released and pressed the back of his hand to my forehead. The touch
lasted three seconds, maybe four.
“How long have you been out here?” he asked.
“I don’t know. Half hour. Maybe more.”
“When did you last have water?” he asked.
“This morning. In the car.”
“Are you nauseated?”
“Yes,” I said.
“Lightheaded?”
“Yes.”
He nodded once, no change in expression, and turned to Ellie. She had shrunk
back against the seat, knees drawn up, watching his hands with wide eyes. Not
scared, exactly. Cautious, watching him with the wariness of a creature that
hadn’t decided about him yet.
“What’s your name?” he asked her. His voice dropped, not to
the singsong adults use with children, but quieter. More contained.
“Ellie,” she said, barely above a whisper.
“Hi, Ellie. I’m Shay. Does your tummy feel okay?”
She thought about it. Nodded.
“Head hurt?”
Small shake.
“Throat dry?”
Nod.
He reached into the center console and pulled out a bottle of water. Not cold
— room temperature, the sort that had been sitting in a vehicle for a while
— but he twisted off the cap and handed it to her without offering it to me
first. Smart. She took two careful sips, then passed it to me. I drank. The
water tasted like plastic and salvation.
Dread watched us both, his gaze moving between my face and Ellie’s with
the same measured attention. When I lowered the bottle, he took it back,
recapped it, and set it in the cup holder.
“Stay here,” he said. “Both of you. Don’t get out
until I come back.”
He closed the door. Through the windshield, I watched him walk to my SUV,
crouch beside the jack and pick up the lug wrench I’d left lying in the
dirt. He examined it for half a second, then set to work.
Ellie’s hand found mine under the edge of the seat. Her fingers were
cool now, the heat leaching out of them in the blast of AC. I squeezed once,
gently, and didn’t let go.
* * *
I watched him through the windshield. Dread moved with the ease of someone
who’d done something ten thousand times and stopped counting — each
motion flowing into the next without hesitation or wasted effort. He
positioned the jack with two adjustments, tested the base with his boot, and
nodded once to himself. He closed his hand around my lug wrench, the same one
that had nearly broken me, and started in with easy, practiced turns.
The first nut came loose in his hand like it had been waiting for permission.
He set it on the hub cap, and glanced at the other four, already in a neat row
where I’d left them — the only things I’d managed before my grip
gave out. No straining on his end. No throwing his weight into it. Just the
smooth turn of a wrench in capable hands, one clean rotation, and he lifted
the flat tire away as if it weighed nothing.
Ellie pressed against my side, her shoulder tucked under my arm, both of us
slowly cooling off in the blast of AC. The cold had stopped feeling like a
shock and started feeling like a state my body remembered — a baseline it had
forgotten existed. My shirt was still damp, but the fabric had gone from
soaked to merely clammy, and the trembling in my arms had subsided to a faint,
background hum I could almost ignore.
Dread rolled the spare into position, lined up the holes, and lifted. The tire
settled onto the studs with a solid thunk. He replaced the lug nuts by hand
first, tightening each one finger-tight in a star pattern, then reached for
the wrench. Five rotations per nut, same star pattern, each turn measured and
even. No guesswork. No testing. He knew exactly how tight they needed to be.
When the last nut was set, he lowered the jack in a smooth, controlled drop.
The SUV dropped onto its new tire with a creak of suspension. Done. From blown
flat to roadworthy in less time than it had taken me to loosen two nuts.
But he didn’t straighten up and wave us over. Didn’t dust his
hands and head back to the truck. He crouched beside the rear wheel well
instead, one hand braced against the quarter panel, and ran his other palm
along the hub behind the new spare. His fingers traced a flaw I couldn’t
see from inside the cab. He went still. Not the pause of a man thinking — the
complete, motionless freeze of someone who has found exactly what they were
looking for, and it wasn’t good.
He stood, wiped his hands on a rag pulled from his truck bed, and walked back
to the passenger window. I rolled it down. The heat rushed in, a wall of wet
air that made the cold from the vents feel suddenly artificial.
“Wheel bearing’s shot,” he said. No lead-in. No cushion. His
expression hadn’t changed — same level gaze, same measured delivery —
but the words landed like stones. “You’ve got a spare on, but this
vehicle isn’t safe to drive. Another mile, maybe less, and you’ll
lose that wheel entirely.”
I felt my jaw tighten. The muscles along the back of my neck locked.
“How bad?”
“Not a roadside fix. Needs a shop. New bearing, possibly a new hub
assembly depending on how long it’s been failing.” He paused,
giving me time to absorb it, then continued in the same flat tone.
“Driving it risks more than a second flat. At speed, a wheel separation
could roll the vehicle.”
I looked at Ellie. She was watching me, not him, her gaze tracking the minute
shifts in my expression with the hypervigilance of a child who’s learned
to read the weather in her mother’s face. I smoothed my features by
force. Smiled at her — or tried to. My mouth felt stiff with it.
Then I looked back at Dread.
The SUV sat twenty feet away, rear end now level on its spare tire, looking
deceptively whole. Everything we owned was packed inside it. Clothes in trash
bags and suitcases. Ellie’s stuffed animals in a pillowcase. My laptop
and the external drive with five years of tax records and every photo
I’d ever taken of her. The box of granola bars and bottled waters
I’d stockpiled for the drive. The map folded in the glove box with three
possible destinations circled in pen, none of them committed to, because
commitment meant permanence and permanence meant he could find us.
Now the vehicle itself had become the threat. The thing I’d trusted to
carry us away was falling apart underneath us, and the man telling me so stood
at my window with the patience of someone who delivered bad news for a living
and had long since stopped being surprised by how people took it.
My hands went still in my lap. Fingers interlaced, thumbs pressing against
each other. A pose I’d held in hospital waiting rooms and police
stations and the driver’s seat of a different car five years ago,
watching the rearview mirror for headlights that didn’t belong.
Ellie leaned against me. Her body was slight, barely there, but having her
against me quieted some of the panic. She tipped her head back and looked up
at me, her blue-gray eyes clear and untroubled by anything except the question
forming on her lips.
“What happens now?” she asked.
The air conditioning hummed. Dread waited at the window, hands resting on the
frame, his expression giving away nothing. Beyond the glass, the highway
stretched empty in both directions, heat rippling off the blacktop in waves
that made the horizon waver and dissolve.
I didn’t have an answer.
About the Author
Harley Wylde is an accomplished author known for her captivating MC Romances.
With an unwavering commitment to sensual storytelling, Wylde immerses her
readers in an exciting world of fierce men and irresistible women. Her works
exude passion, danger, and gritty realism, while still managing to end on a
satisfying note each time.
When not crafting her tales, Wylde spends her time brainstorming new
plotlines, indulging in a hot cup of Starbucks, or delving into a good book.
She has a particular affinity for supernatural horror literature and movies.
Visit Wylde’s website to learn more about her works and upcoming events, and
don’t forget to sign up for her newsletter to receive exclusive discounts and
other exciting perks.
Author on Facebook, Instagram, & TikTok: @harleywylde
Publisher on Facebook, Instagram, Twitter, and TikTok: @changelingpress
Themes: Alien Encounters, Capture Fantasy, Dark Romance, LGBTQ+ Bisexual /Nonbinary /Transgender, Multicultural & Interracial, Multiple Partners, Second Edition, Shapeshifters
Series: Tales of the Quiet Kitty (#5)
Book Length: Box Set
Page Count: 278
Synopsis
These futuristic sci-fi tales are anything but quiet.
Board the Quiet Kitty Waveship and travel with Brant Sel, a Sh’Bahkyr Tygyr and his crew: Bevel-leveB, a Medusoid Jenari with a sentient cock, and Willa, a Sprite from the wounded planet Sparkle.
Brought together by fate, these three have common goals — to rescue and gather their lost peoples so they can take down the corrupt, brutal Corporation, run by the most evil beings in the three Galaxies… Humans.
The door opened and the sensor controlled walkway winked out beneath her weighted feet. Almost sorry to reach her destination — she so rarely had a chance to see daylight — Willa plodded heavily into the interview room, her small ankles locked into a pair of slaver’s cuffs. Head down, neck bowed, she flicked her eyes about in quick, furtive forays, taking in the room’s sparse furnishings: a six foot long cushioned slab and a straight-backed, armless chair. Noting the absence of tweezers, whips, electronic probes and other sadistic devices with a thankful sigh and a renewed sense of hope, she dared to sneak a quick glance at the room’s other occupant, determined to somehow influence him to take her with him. A harsh, swift breath lifted her full breasts and set her covering plumes to fluttering.
Before her stood a grey-skinned bi-pedal Being lounging at ease, his long slender hands resting on the upper horizontal bar of a tall-backed chair. He faced her, his nude body — tall, slim and muscular — displaying a total lack of self-consciousness. A thick mop of unruly platinum hair waved in the brush of an unseen — and unfelt — breeze, falling over his forehead to obscure his sightless silver eyes. His mouth hung open, allowing a nineteen-centimeter tongue, coated with cilia, to protrude slightly.
She identified the Being as a Jenari. A member of a race powerful enough to stand up to the Corporation, his kind usually did not travel in Corporate Space. Jenari rarely mingled with other races, remaining a mystery rarely seen among the Corporation’s citizenry. Because of this much speculation abounded regarding their peculiar genetic makeup.
She had heard enough about the genetically blind, Medusoid race to know the Jenari’s tongues served as their true “eyes.” With their tongues, they “tasted” the air, able to sense their environment more accurately than could most sighted persons.
Currently, the naked alien appeared nonchalant and relaxed. His posture broadcast his sense of control, his power over her in this private chamber, obviously unaware how easily that privacy — his privacy — had been breached. The so-called secure interrogation cubicle was anything but, her master having ordered it wired for video and sound, rendering it accessible and easily monitored by him.
The Jenari cocked his head toward her now, giving the impression of eyeing her askance, locating her so accurately, she almost doubted his sightlessness.
“Sso… you are Willa. Your masster tellss me he hass had you trained ass a SSexengineer… capable of keeping a Dinyar-classs Wavesship and a medium number of crew in tip-top orgassmic condition.”
The male’s sibilant words slid from his lips. He framed his sentences oddly, their cadence broken and rendered choppy by the repeated extrusion of his tongue. The cilia laden appendage darted out between every several words, sipping the air in her direction.
“You look much too fragile for ssuch sstrenuous work. A female of your delicassy sshould be cossseted and cared for… your cunt well conditioned with frequent usse… your ssweet cream churned with a long thick sspoon…”
Willa felt the Jenari’s thick voice, his dulcet tones, flowing over her, calming her jangling nerves. Her pussy, long denied any easing, dewed in response to the pictures his words painted. A strong compulsion beat at her, making her want nothing so much as to loll at his feet in adoration.
Strange, how clear his words are, given that he speaks using that crowded appendage… Oh, Drasarka — not so strange when he is attempting to mind-thrall me!
“Sparkle!”
With a negating shake of her head and an inward surge of disgust at the endless power-games of males, she threw up her mind blocks, easily winning free of the subliminal influence. Angered beyond thinking, she verbally blasted the alien, incensed he would try such a trick on her. “Your mind speak will not work on me, Jenari.”
She tossed her head, meeting his renewed mental challenge with a sneer. “I am a Sprite. I cannot be compelled by your voice, nor can your honeyed words thrall me.”
The alien’s wide mouth spread in a practised movement that aped a smile. “You are a fressh ssassy baggage! I can ssee why your masster ssayss you invite beatingss, sslave!” His lips closed in a thin line, concealing his tongue.
She cringed, damning her mouth and her loss of self-control. By Sparkle! When would she learn to keep her comments to herself? What would she do if her unruly anger lost her this chance of escape?
It had taken too long to convince her master she truly wished to serve his plans by spying for him. She had spent the long, grueling years learning about ship propulsion units, drive flux capacitors and other diverse technical entities for just such a chance as this: escape. During that time, she’d swallowed her gorge and taken the physical abuse and so-called sexual cruelties Lord Avron had doled out, never letting on how his milder tortures ignited her carnal hungers. She’d only slipped up once, but that lapse had proven costly.
Avron had somehow learned she needed his release — any partner’s release — inside her, needed the life-giving fluid of come washing the walls of her sex in order to flourish and grow a healthy set of pinions and fronds. Since that time, he’d kept her at the minimum edge of physical and psionic sexual starvation, taking pleasure in gauging what lengths she would go to, the degradations she would endure in order to receive a few drops of come.
Years of maneuvering, of posturing and subterfuge had paid off. Lately, unrest and political furor had escalated within the Corporation. Due to financial setbacks and personal miscalculations, Lord Avron had lost respect among his peers. The other Corporation Lords, like canker-phish — more deadly than the great blalor-sharks of Trofu that devoured their own young — hovered about, sniffing around his weakness, waiting for his failure. Her master had been forced to regroup, jettisoning some of his plans for advancement just to maintain his present lofty position among the powerful despots.
Unwilling to go outside his private power base to obtain help and whatever information he sought, it had been easy to convince him of her willingness to win the position as Sexengineer aboard the Quiet Kitty Waveship and garner information from its crew to transmit back to him. Why he had become obsessed with this vessel, she neither knew nor cared. All that concerned her lately was finding her scattered people. Sparkle called for her and its other children, its summons an imperative she could not ignore. Time was fast running out for her. If she messed this interview up, she knew Avron would kill her.
Belly roiling with resentment, she averted her face to hide her grimace and abased herself before the alien — probably her last chance at freedom. “I offer apologies to you, Gentle-Being. I beg you to take no offence.”
“Be at easse, Ssprite. I tesst all who sseek to sserve aboard my vesssel. No one sso eassily controlled iss welcomed aboard my Quiet Kitty. Let uss begin anew…”
One long arm extended palm up, in the manner of greeting peculiar to her slavers, the alien stepped from behind the chair, unerringly approaching Willa. “I am Bevel, masster of the Quiet Kitty Waveship.”
She choked, eyes riveted in desperate immediate hunger to his newly revealed sex. Obviously, her information loop had seriously failed to include some pertinent data…
Standing before her, hands extended, awaiting her acknowledgement of his greeting, the alien was an impressive sight. Or rather, the impressive sight was his more than ten inch penis swaying lazily between his grey muscular thighs. A darker grey than the rest of his skin, the Medusoid cock undulated back and forth, its serpent-like moves hypnotic, compelling, drawing her fascinated gaze.
A funny thing happened on the way to the grave… In 2006, Cammy was diagnosed with Pulmonary Sarcoidosis and given two weeks to live. She promptly discharged herself AMA — Against Medical Advice — since, as she stubbornly informed her doctors, she could die at home far more comfortably than at the hospital. But then… she got an idea for a new story. Then another, and another…
Fifteen years and dozens of fantastic tales later, Cammy passed quietly in her sleep, at home, as was her wish. We miss her. Her work lives on, and we hold her in our hearts. Cammy decided many years ago that upon her passing, she wished to donate her royalties to The Quiet Kitty fund, which helps authors with emergency medical expenses. We do, to keep her in our hearts and minds.
She found her strength. I’ll makes sure no one takes it again.
Jade — I ran from a man who broke me, only to land in the arms of a biker who
could destroy what little I have left. Rip is an alpha protector with a
dangerous edge I can’t seem to resist. He sees too much, wants too much,
and makes me crave things I swore I’d never risk again. He gives me the
courage to believe in myself. When my past refuses to let me go, I know I can
surrender or stand and fight. If my ex thinks he can take everything from me
again, he’s about to learn exactly how wrong he is.
Rip — The first time I see Jade, she’s barely holding herself together,
a trauma survivor trying to outrun a nightmare who won’t stay buried.
She’s still fragile enough I know better than to push my way into her
life, even when every instinct tells me to pull her close and never let her
go. I don’t expect her to see me as anything more than a safe place.
Whether I claim her or not, my MC brothers will lay down their lives for her.
And when the smoke clears and the blood is washed away, Jade will know she was
always meant to be mine. Forever.
EXCERPT
Jade
The soft, warm lighting in the small dining room did little to reassure me. I
stared at my hands resting on the scarred wooden table, watching them tremble
against my will. Three weeks at Haven, and my body still hadn’t gotten
the message that I was safe now. Safe. What a strange word to apply to
homelessness, to sitting in a communal room, surrounded by women who
couldn’t meet my eyes because we all recognized the shame in each
other’s faces.
I pulled down my sleeve to cover the faint, yellowing bruise on my wrist. My
ribs still throbbed with a dull persistent ache that no amount of ibuprofen
could completely relieve. The pain was almost comforting — a reminder that I
hadn’t imagined it all, that I wasn’t crazy. My fingers brushed
against my cheekbone, the swelling finally gone but the discoloration still
visible beneath the concealer I’d carefully applied that morning.
A little boy, maybe five or six, darted past me chasing after his sister, both
of them laughing. Their mother called after them in a hushed voice. All the
women here spoke quietly most of the time, as if normal volume might shatter
whatever fragile peace we’d found. Or too afraid our respite would end
in violence once again. I watched them without trying to seem like I was
watching. Their mother had dark circles under her eyes, but she smiled when
she caught them, tickled them until they squealed.
I looked away. There was an intimacy to their bond that felt invasive to
witness, like I was trespassing on something precious. I didn’t belong
here, among these women who’d fled with children, with purpose. What did
I have? A business degree I’d never used, a dried-up marketing career,
and a suitcase only half full of clothes I’d grabbed while Eric was at
work. No kids. No friends left. Just bruises and tremors and the growing
realization that I had nowhere else to go.
“Jade? Do you have a moment?”
I looked up to see Ada approaching, a clipboard tucked under her arm and a
sympathetic smile on her face. Since I’d come here, I’d learned
that every woman from that club Mia’s new man belonged to volunteered at
this place. The men guarded Haven but never made the residents feel smothered.
In fact, I only saw them occasionally. Everyone here cared. Probably too much
sometimes. I saw the few people who came through here. Everyone had a sob
story and most of them were horrific. By comparison, I had it pretty easy.
“Of course,” I said, straightening my posture automatically.
Ada slid into the chair opposite me and placed the clipboard on the table
between us. “Your thirty-day evaluation period ends this weekend,”
she said, her voice soft. “I have your extension paperwork here. I hate
that we have to do shit like this, but it gets us money for supplies.”
She smiled.
My heart stuttered. I hadn’t realized how terrified I was of her saying
anything else until the relief flooded through me. “Yes,” I said
too quickly, then bit my lip. “I mean, if that’s OK. I’m
still working on… figuring things out.” I had to force myself not
to wring my hands. I didn’t used to be like this. I didn’t want to
be like this now.
Ada pushed the clipboard toward me. “That’s what we’re here
for. I just need your signature.”
I picked up the pen, my fingers trembling. I gripped it tighter, trying to
control the shake as I signed my name. Ada watched without commenting on my
obvious anxiety. She was good at that — giving people dignity even when they
were falling apart.
“Thank you,” she said, taking back the clipboard. “The
extension is for another sixty days. After that, we’ll reassess.”
I tried to smile but couldn’t quite commit. I knew how pathetic I looked
by not getting back in the game of life, but the thought of trying to explain
the abrupt departure from my previous job, of interviewing with visible
bruises, of having to be around strange men who might remind me of Eric, could
send me into a panic attack.
“Jade, honey? You OK?”
I glanced up at Ada when she spoke. Short answer? No. I wasn’t OK.
Better answer? “Fine,” I said. “Just tired.”
Her eyes softened with understanding that made me want to crawl under the
table. “There’s a resume workshop on Thursday. No pressure, but it
might help to interact with others. And group therapy tomorrow at four is open
to everyone.” She put her hand on my shoulder. “There’s no
rush, you know. I’m checking boxes because it’s required. You take
as much time as you need. We call this place Haven for a reason.”
When she left, I let my shoulders slump, exhausted by the brief interaction.
Across the room, a woman about my age was showing her daughter how to braid
string into a friendship bracelet. Another was helping her son with what
looked like math homework. I’d wanted that once. A family. To be all
domesticated and stuff.
Eric had told me he had the same dream. Turned out, his dream had been more
about building himself up by keeping someone under his foot. It had been me
since before college. Then he wanted Mia but wanted his fucking mind games
with me too.
I picked at a dangling hangnail until it bled, sucking the small wound.
I’d come to Haven because the nice lady who’d brought me said this
place would keep Eric away from me. No questions asked. I stayed in Haven
because I was officially homeless and had nowhere else to go. The sad truth
was, I hated the thought of leaving this place because I’d never stayed
anywhere I felt safer than I did at Haven.
What came next? The question circled in my head like a vulture. I
couldn’t stay here forever, but I couldn’t imagine a life outside
these walls either. Not when Eric was still out there.
I wrapped my arms around myself, pressing against the bruises on my ribs until
the physical pain drowned out everything else.
The crash shattered the afternoon quiet like a gunshot. I didn’t see
what happened. First, the ball bouncing across the linoleum, then a little boy
chasing after it. One or both of them hit the table where a ceramic vase sat
just a little too close to the edge. I only registered the sound as it
exploded against the floor, blue and white shards spraying outward like
shrapnel. My body reacted before my mind could catch up. Flinch. Gasp. Arms
over face. Heart instantly hammering against my ribs as if trying to punch its
way out of my chest.
The rational part of my brain knew it was just a broken vase. Just a
child’s accident. But my body was already in full survival mode, dumping
adrenaline into my bloodstream. My ears rang. My vision tunneled. My muscles
coiled tight, ready to do anything I could to avoid what usually came after a
crash.
I sucked in a sharp breath that hurt my throat. Held it. Forgot how to release
it. The common room had gone still. Through the gaps between my fingers, I saw
women frozen in various postures of interrupted activity. Some exchanged
knowing glances and looks of sympathy, a language survivors recognized as a
trigger response. Others deliberately turned away, giving me privacy in my
panic, or maybe protecting themselves from the mirror I’d become.
“I’m so sorry,” the little boy’s mother murmured,
already on her knees, gathering ceramic pieces into her cupped palm.
“Tyler, go put your ball away, please.” Her voice was tight but
controlled. Tyler looked terrified, his lower lip trembling as he clutched the
rubber ball to his chest and scurried away.
“It’s fine,” someone said. “Just an accident. Our
fault for having something not kid-proof in here.”
“I’ve got a dustpan,” another woman offered, heading toward
the supply closet.
I forced my arms down, away from my face. Attempted a smile that probably
looked more like a grimace. My hands wouldn’t stop shaking, but I
couldn’t just sit there like a broken doll while everyone else handled
the situation. I slid from my chair and knelt beside the boy’s mother.
“Let me help,” I said, reaching for a larger piece of ceramic.
She glanced up at me, her expression a careful blank. “Thanks.”
My fingers trembled so badly I couldn’t pick up the shard. I tried
again. Failed again. The third time I managed to grasp it, but my hand shook
so hard that I dropped it almost immediately. It clattered against the floor,
breaking into smaller pieces.
“Sorry,” I whispered, mortified.
“We’re all a hot mess,” she said with a watery smile.
“How about we do the best we can and understand we’re all
ghosts.”
The woman with the dustpan and a hand vacuum arrived, sweeping carefully to
get the larger pieces before using the vacuum. I tried again to help but my
breath came in shallow gasps that weren’t bringing in enough oxygen.
Black spots danced at the edges of my vision. I was going to pass out and make
an even bigger scene.
I stumbled to my feet and backed away, scanning for somewhere to retreat. The
bathrooms were too far. The dormitory area was up a flight of stairs. My legs
couldn’t even manage to make it to the elevator much less make it up a
flight of stairs. Luckily, I found an empty corner by the bookshelves,
partially screened by a large potted plant. I made my way there on wobbly
legs, pressing my back against the wall and sliding down until I sat on the
floor, knees pulled tight to my chest.
I used to be good at talking myself down from the ledge. Back when the panic
attacks were just garden variety anxiety and not the souvenirs of systematic
abuse. I tried now, struggling to find the rhythm of controlled breathing that
had once been second nature.
I pressed my forehead against my knees, trying to make myself smaller. A tear
leaked from the corner of my eye, sliding hot down my cheek. Then another. I
wiped them away furiously with the heel of my hand. I was not going to cry in
this fucking corner like a child because someone broke a vase. I was not going
to be this broken thing Eric created.
But the tears kept coming, silent but unstoppable. They weren’t really
about the vase or even about the flashback. They were tears of pure
frustration at my body’s betrayal and my mind’s inability to
distinguish past from present. And for how pathetic I’d been for so
long. Now I had nothing.
* * *
I’d come to an agreement with Hannah. I help out with housekeeping,
cooking, and anything else needed in Haven, and I could stay longer. At least,
that was the agreement I proposed. She’d smiled and told me that of
course I could stay. That there were no conditions and I could stay as long as
I wanted. As safe as I felt here, I knew it would be a long while before I
“wanted” to leave. And also, I didn’t really believe
they’d let me stay here much longer. It was past time I left. I just
couldn’t make myself go.
Now, I pushed the supply caddy, which seemed to weigh a ton, its wheels
squeaking as I pushed it down the hallway. Hannah had asked me to deliver
fresh towels and toiletries to the linen closet where everyone got what they
needed. A simple task, but it got me away from the sympathetic glances after
my meltdown in the common room. The building designated for Haven had been a
former warehouse. But someone had converted the place into a very comfortable,
very soothing atmosphere inside.
I passed the small office and approached the security station that controlled
access to the entire building. The security here was insane and every security
guard working here took their job very seriously. No one got inside Haven who
didn’t belong. The door was ajar, and I slowed as I heard Hannah’s
voice from inside, clearer and more authoritative than her usual soft-spoken
manner.
“– have to adjust the rotations since Noose’s funeral. We
can’t leave any gaps in coverage, especially at night. The restraining
orders don’t mean shit if –”
I hesitated outside the door, not wanting to interrupt but also curious about
the changes happening around us. Noose had been killed just before I came
here. He’d died in the same fire that had nearly claimed the lives of
Mia and Oktober, as well as Pain and Inferno. The Kiss of Death MC had been
providing security for Haven since its founding, a fact that had initially
terrified me until I realized they were the only thing standing between the
women here and the men who might come looking for them. More than once,
I’d been ashamed of the way Eric had called these men criminals.
I’d learned that, while most of them had killed, they’d all had
good reasons for what they’d done and had taken their punishment.
I knocked lightly on the doorframe, the caddy parked beside me. “Sorry
to interrupt. I have supplies for –”
The words died in my throat as I stepped into the doorway and saw who Hannah
was talking to. A large man filled the small security office with his presence
across from Hannah. The Kiss of Death leather cut stretched across shoulders
that could have belonged to a linebacker. His dark hair was buzzed short on
the sides but longer on top, and a shadow of stubble darkened his jaw. But it
was his hands that held my attention. They were large and weathered with scars
across the knuckles. I didn’t know this man, but he obviously belonged
to the club.
I froze, instinctively. I didn’t like strange men. Most of the women
here had issues with strange men. I gaped at the guy, feeling like prey caught
in a predator’s trap.
“Jade, perfect timing,” Hannah said, seemingly oblivious to my
reaction. “This is Rip. He’s taking over Noose’s security
detail.” She turned to the man. “Rip, this is Jade. She’s
been with us about three weeks now and has been helping with a few chores.
She’s been a lifesaver in so many ways.” Hannah gave me a smile
before reaching out to take my hand and tug me farther inside the office.
“If you can’t find something, find Jade. She’ll either know
where it is or if we have whatever it is you need.”
I managed a tight nod, my throat too dry for words. This man was here to
protect us, not harm us. I knew he wouldn’t be here if he were a bad
person, but my body didn’t get the memo.
“Rip’s going to be handling the night shift security,”
Hannah explained, filling the quiet.
I nodded again, stealing a glance at the man from beneath my lashes. I found
it difficult to read the guy. His gaze was direct and penetrating, taking in
everything around him. When they met mine, I felt a jolt of emotion. Not fear,
exactly, but I knew he could see straight through to the very core of me and
saw the wreckage hidden underneath the surface. His eyes were intense but
kind.
The longer he looked at me, the more his gaze narrowed. He looked almost
startled. He turned his head slightly toward me and rubbed the center of his
chest absently as though it ached.
I dropped my gaze immediately, studying the scuffed toes of my shoes. My chest
tightened with the familiar anxiety that men triggered in me. This man saw
things I didn’t want him to see. I knew it like I knew my own name.
“Good to meet you,” I managed to say. I backed toward the door,
eager to escape the intensity of his gaze. “I should let you get back to
it.”
Rip nodded once. He still hadn’t spoken, but somehow his silence
wasn’t threatening. It felt considerate. As if he understood that his
voice might be too much for me right now.
I slipped out of the doorway and leaned against the wall in the corridor,
breathing deeply to slow my racing heart. Through the partially open door, I
could hear Hannah resuming their conversation as if they hadn’t been
interrupted.
I pushed away from the wall and headed back toward the common area, my mind
replaying those few moments of eye contact. There had been something oddly
comforting about the weight of his gaze. Rip hadn’t given me the
predatory assessment I’d grown accustomed to from Eric but simply
waited. Watchful in the way a guardian surveys their charge.
Strangely, for the first time since arriving at Haven, I felt truly seen. Not
as a victim or someone who’d betrayed her best friend, but as a person
worth protecting.
About the Author
Marteeka Karland is an international bestselling author who leads a double
life as an erotic romance author by evening and a semi-domesticated housewife
by day. Known for her down and dirty MC romances, Marteeka takes pleasure in
spinning tales of tenacious, protective heroes and spirited, vulnerable
heroines. She staunchly advocates that every character deserves a blissful
ending, even, sometimes, the villains in her narratives. Her writings are
speckled with intense, raw elements resulting in page-turning delight entwined
with seductive escapades leading up to gratifying conclusions that elicit a
sigh from her readers.
Away from the pen, Marteeka finds joy in baking and supporting her husband
with their gardening activities. The late summer season is set aside for
preserving the delightful harvest that springs from their combined efforts
(which is mostly his efforts, but you can count it). To stay updated with
Marteeka’s latest adventures and forthcoming books, make sure to visit her
website. Don’t forget to register for her newsletter which will pepper you
with a potpourri of Teeka’s beloved recipes, book suggestions, autograph
events, and a plethora of interesting tidbits.
Genres: Action Adventure, Dark Fantasy, Futuristic, Mystery /Suspense /Intrigue, New Releases, Romance, Sci-Fi , Urban Fantasy
Themes: Alien Encounters, Dark Romance, LGBTQ+ Bisexual /Nonbinary /Transgender, Multiple Partners, Second Edition
Series: Claimed (#3)
Book Length: Box Set
Page Count: 114
Synopsis
Lexa never really knew what it meant to live until she was condemned to die.
Framed for a crime she’d never even contemplated, Lexa Mercer’s doing thirty days or death on the Intergalactic Broadcasting Channel’s hit reality show Nariasma. She owes her life to one of the show’s hottest contestants — and a ghost of a man no one is supposed to know exists.
Roan of the Northlands is a man made famous by enduring his sentence on the space station Nariasma. Lexa has seen the rugged hunk on television, but she never imagined he’d be rescuing her from hunters who’ve paid to kill criminals.
Roan’s strange companion Jenner is convinced Lexa is the key to their freedom. Surviving and keeping her alive is just part of the challenge. Now Roan has more to lose than his future. He’s made the mistake of falling in love with Lexa, and that makes him the one thing he’s never been on Nariasma — vulnerable.
Roan and Jenner will give all they’ve got to protect Lexa. Jenner’s convinced she’s the only one who can save them. But does she have the strength to change their reality?
Lexa’s mouth felt dry. She tasted a bitter metallic tang on her tongue. For a few seconds she lay, hurting, with her eyes closed. Her head ached as she sat up. She didn’t remember much at first, but then the horror of Dom’s death and her sham of a trial came rushing back in a torrent.
She groaned and opened her eyes. The room was small. Bright light shone down from a single fixture in the ceiling. She was dressed in a dark brown leather corset and matching — too tight — leather pants. She ran her hands over her backside. The horrible pants weren’t ass-less, and she was glad of that, at least. There was a black nylon utility vest over her shoulders. A row of silver and gold sequins sparkled on the hem of the vest. The combination of style and material was strange. Glam survivalist?
She closed her eyes and rubbed the bridge of her nose in an attempt to clear her foggy mind. Her stomach rolled. Someone had seen her naked when she’d been at her most vulnerable. Shivering, she forced herself to stop thinking about how dirty having been stripped made her feel. Pushing herself up, using the wall, she managed to get to her feet.
The door slid open with a whoosh. Whoever designed the room had hidden the door so well she’d never even noticed it until it opened. A tall woman watched her mutely.
Lexa flinched under the scrutiny. “Why are you here? What’s happening to me?” Lexa screamed the questions at the woman as her hysteria rose.
“You’ll have a ten second head start. Go right to avoid the desert. Get to the trees, and you’ll have a better chance. Here is your pack. It’s all any of the contestants start out with. Inside you’ll find a utility knife, canteen and matches. Millions of fans will be watching you. Take solace in knowing you won’t die alone.” The woman spoke without any hint of emotion or remorse.
“I don’t plan to die at all,” Lexa said. She hated how this woman had written her off. She wasn’t doomed. She wasn’t going to give up. Just because wealthy men had paid for a license to hunt her didn’t mean she was automatically condemned. “I’m going to serve my time and return home.”
Sympathy flickered across the woman’s features, but she quickly covered the expression with a scowl. “Few have lived long enough to serve their time. No woman has left this place alive. Many find it easier just to walk out and wait for the end.”
“I’ve never been good at taking the easy way out. I’ll take my chances with the woods. Why are you giving me advice?”
“It’s been a long time since we’ve had a woman as young as you on the show. I’d like to make the most of your time.” The tall stranger’s words held the ring of truth.
Lexa shrugged. “I’ll do my best to outlast my sentence. I’d hate it if Interplanetary Broadcasting lost ratings due to my untimely demise. How bad can a month be?” Lexa spoke as sarcastically as possible. She didn’t know if the cameras were already watching her, but she had a feeling they might be. Hatred for the mindless people watching her injustice boiled in her core. Until now, she’d been just like them.
The reality of how meaningless human life was hit her with shocking force.
The woman’s eyes darkened. “May the enlightenment of justice guide your path.”
Her sentence had begun. The cameras were watching. The woman’s use of words made that clear. “Um, thanks, I’ll make my own light. I’ve had a taste of justice, and it wasn’t for me.” Her new reality was a terrifying example of how deep a lie could burrow to masquerade as truth. She glared at the woman. No matter how afraid she felt she refused to let her fear show.
The emotionless expression taking over the woman’s face made her shiver. “What happens now?” Lexa asked.
“Now you survive, or not. Either way, it’ll be good TV.”
Lexa’s eyes widened as the woman shoved her out the door.
She ended up on an elevator and not in a hallway as she’d expected. As her brain kicked in, she realized it was now or never. With shaking hands, she took the items from the pack and shoved them in the few pockets her thin vest offered. She’d seen this show a few times — enough to know the bright orange backpack was a good way to die.
Now she wished she’d watched more often. Her mother hated the show and always said it was low class and not what her daughter should watch.
Just as she put the last item into a secure place and dropped the bright bag, the elevator stopped. Her heart raced. Her heavy breathing was the only sound she could hear.
The doors opened and bright sunlight flooded the dark space to blind her. She took a shaky step and saw trees in the distance. She took the woman’s advice and ran toward them.
In her mind, she started to count. One… two… three… The ten seconds would be over long before she reached the trees. She didn’t look back, afraid of what she’d see. They’d be waiting. Men had paid for the privilege of killing her for the entertainment of bored television viewers back home.
A breeze ruffled her hair. Everything felt so real here, but it wasn’t a planet. It was a space station. Terror hit her in the stomach so hard she stumbled. Horrified, she watched the ground coming at her face as she fell forward. She was giving her life to those bastards too easily. Her eager executioners would be upon her in seconds.
Eight… nine… ouch. She landed as her ten seconds ended. Rolling to her back, she sat up only to see three well-armed men wearing body armor aiming old-fashioned high-powered automatic rifles at her.
Death. She wasn’t ready. Hands grabbed her roughly. The brutality of their grip caused her shock to turn into terror. She didn’t scream or struggle. The raw panic kept her still. She was standing because those large hands hand pulled her to her feet.
“Run!”
She spun around and her breath hitched in her throat. He was glorious.
Roan of the Northlands, one of the sexiest men on TV, was rescuing her. He grabbed her wrist and pulled her forward just as the first shot rang out. Dirt erupted next to her foot. “Go!”
Ashlynn Monroe is a busy working mom. She loves her kids and family. Her greatest joy is creating stories to entertain others, and she hopes they bring a little more romance into the world. She’s been writing since her teens for her own enjoyment but decided in her thirties to share her imagination with readers. Ashlynn enjoys biking, camping, reading, video games, and filling her home and life with love. If she’s not working or chasing children, you can find her daydreaming up her next tale of romance.
Time traveler, highwayman, beast, and storyteller — it’s going to be a wild ride.
Wild Ride — Strange dreams tell Nikos he’s meant to be more than a Secret Keeper, tracking the predatory Nightlings. Alexei, a time traveler from the past, has come to find Nikos and take him back to the year 2007. It’s going to be a wild ride…
Hell at One Dark Window — It’s the end of the world as we knew it. For most folk survival is all that matters, and the only justice to be found comes at the end of a pistol or the point of a stake. Barrett, a vampire and a highwayman, gets his kicks out of stealing from robber barons. He’s going to take his human lover, Nathaniel, and getting the hell out of Dodge. So to speak. All he needs is to pull off one last big job…
Blood Red — On the coldest night of the year, Ros is cast out of a village for the sin of lying with another man. He’s meant to go to his death, but stumbles instead into the enchanted garden of a Beast… a vampire Beast. Will the Beast find the salvation he’s sought for so long in the arms of a wise and willing story teller?
Sidetracked — An escort-for-hire, Devon’s just been humiliated and stiffed by his patron of the evening. When the subway taking him home switches tracks, Devon finds himself alone with a man in a white mask and gloves, a man who embodies every sexual fantasy Devon’s ever had. Is this a dream, or has he found himself Phantom Night Rider?
Look for me by moonlight;
Watch for me by moonlight;
I’ll come to thee by moonlight,
Though hell should bar the way!
Alfred Noyes
“The Highwayman”
“You’re quiet tonight, lover.”
“Am I?”
“Not a word’s passed your lips except ‘harder,’ ‘more,’ and ‘oh, God…’ and those I recall being spoken in the heat of passion. You’ve not made a peep since. Being the smart type myself, despite all appearances, this tells me you’ve got something going on in that busy mind of yours. You care to share?”
“I don’t know yet.”
“Well, that’s fair.” Cool, strong arms wrapped around Nathaniel’s waist, pulling him backwards against his lover’s body. “Of course, you know I don’t plan to let up until you spill the whole pot of beans.”
Nathaniel gave a soft laugh despite himself. “I know you won’t.”
“So? Save us a little trouble, and tell me what’s on your mind right now.”
“Not yet.” Nathaniel raised his hand and placed it palm-down on the cold window glass, where he stood staring out into the night, down to the abandoned stretch of cracked pavement running past his apartment. “There aren’t words, so far.”
“Hmm. Never known you to be at a loss before.” Nathaniel’s lover jostled him gently, playfully. “Never did meet a man who liked so much to talk about anything and everything. Apples to anthills. That’s why I took a shine to you in the first place — well, aside from an ass you could bounce quarters off and your pretty face. Sing for me.”
“O figlio perdito –“
Nathaniel’s lover jostled him. “Smarty-pants.”
“Yeah.” Nathaniel leaned into his lover’s firm, gentle hold, savoring the feel of being held strong and sure by someone who’d never let him fall. Life taught gay men an early lesson: don’t trust anyone unless you know for a fact they won’t turn on you, and that they mean it when they say they love you. His partner had it all, did it all, said it all, and meant it all.
Nathaniel should have been able to be open about what was worrying him. Yet somehow, he found that he couldn’t put his thoughts into words. Not yet.
His lover seemed to accept that. One thing about him, he did know when not to push. He simply held Nathaniel and rocked them soft and easy against one another, sexy yet comforting. “It’ll be all right,” he murmured after a moment. “Whatever’s got you fretting, it’ll be just fine.”
Nathaniel’s lips curved in a smile. “I know.”
He reached down to lay his hands over his lover’s, feeling the same mild shock as he had the first time they touched, finding them to be cool and satin-slick despite a few calluses. They held still as if carved from marble. No human could ever hold such a pose without so much as twitching.
Nathaniel had learned that there were more things on heaven and earth, Horatio, and so forth, but even he’d had a hard time accepting that the gorgeous man, all tousled hazelnut hair, twinkling blue eyes, and ready wit, was, of all things, a vampire.
Honestly, weren’t vampires supposed to at least give a nod to tradition? He’d seen enough wannabes in his time to know the accepted look was unrelieved black from hair to clothes to boots. This man — vampire — on the other hand, gloried in wearing a soft flannel shirt, molded-on and faded blue jeans, and clean but battered sneakers. No thick, chunky jewelry, save for a cross necklace.
Yeah, a cross.
When he’d leaned back against the bar counter in the sports watering hole where they’d met, arms crossed, grinning broadly, Nathaniel had cracked up and told the man he had a hell of an imagination.
The vampire had shrugged, and asked for one night to prove himself.
Nathaniel didn’t usually go for one-night stands, but this man had the look, he had the wit, and you had to admire someone with balls big enough to tell such outrageous stories.
He’d taken the vampire up on his offer.
And back in his apartment, when sharp fangs that were in no way fake pierced the soft skin of his neck, where throat met shoulder, and the vampire drank deep of his blood, Nathaniel had realized this was no lie. He’d found an honest-to-Satan vampire, and brought him home to bed.
What a bedding it had been, too! Tangled, sweaty limbs, lips and tongues fighting for dominance in wet, devouring kisses, and hands everywhere, from pinching nipples to gently rolling balls to stripping heavy, swollen cocks. Cool fingers, slick with oil, slipping inside Nathaniel, stretching him open with more patience and tenderness than any mortal had ever shown. The feel of the vampire’s cock splitting him open, making him ache for more even as it was given to him, and then the blissful burn of being totally filled… well, Nathaniel hadn’t minded the blood loss by then.
To his surprise, it still hadn’t bothered him when he came down from his orgasm, when he and the vampire lay tangled together in a mass of sweaty sheets, stained with one another’s come, marked by new-forming bruises and love bites. He’d let the vampire rest atop him, not breathing but still quaking in every muscle from the force of his climax, and thought, So, this is a vampire. If this is a creature of the night, I’ll take him over a human any day.
The vampire had chuckled, as if reading Nathaniel’s thoughts. He’d raised his head and grinned. “Barrett,” he’d said, stroking Nathaniel’s cheek. “My name’s Barrett. D’you believe me now?”
Barrett. Nathaniel let himself fall into the soothing, rocking rhythm. When Barrett began to hum, some old tune by Johnny Cash that just fit his raspy voice, Nathaniel almost closed his eyes and purred with the pleasure of it.
Yes, his lover was a killer. More, he was a thief, a gambler, and an all-around bad guy. But Barrett loved Nathaniel with all his un-beating heart, would do anything for him, and that was what mattered in the end.
Nathaniel stared out the window, at the lonely stretch of highway beneath them. He took in a deep breath, and nodded. “Yes,” he said. “Don’t leave me tonight. Promise you won’t leave me.”
Will Okati (formerly known as Willa) has lived through a few Interesting Times, but come out the other side a little grayer, a little wiser, and ready to get writing. Still as passionate about coffee, cats, and crafts as ever, but knowing that to your own self you must be true. Also still one of the quiet ones to watch out for, but life — like storytelling — is always a work in progress.
When interstellar mercenary Captain Nick Rand rescues a beautiful enemy from
his own men, he thinks she’s the answer to his vampire prayers. On the verge
of starvation thanks to the destruction of his hemosynther, he’s in desperate
need of a female blood donor.
Lieutenant Zara Tahir needs Nick Rand as badly as he needs her. Without Nick’s
blood, Zara’s overactive immune system will kill her.
But Zara has no intention of embracing captivity. While she’s willing to
exchange blood for blood, maybe even play a kinky game or two with the
handsome vampire dominant, he’s still the enemy. She can’t allow herself to
see him as anything more.
Then Rand’s enemies make things a lot more complicated…
Hunger chewed Captain Nick Rand until he felt like a bone in a wolf’s jaws. It
wasn’t just a hunger of the body, though his gut felt hollow and his hands had
a tendency to shake. Didn’t matter how much food he ate, how much water,
coffee, or whiskey he drank. None of it touched the craving that gnawed at his
brain, making it hard to think about anything but what he needed. Even now,
when the enemy might be drawing a bead on his skull, all he wanted was blood.
Hot, red and seductive as a siren — a taste that reminded him of sex and the
cool touch of a woman’s hands.
Rand fought to ignore that bottomless need. He didn’t have time for it now, no
matter how hungry he was. Enemy temp shelters surrounded him, dome shapes
dappled with camouflage until they were indistinguishable from the forest
floor.
They made his shoulder blades itch.
Invisible, a silencer field muting the sound of his footfalls, he padded
between the shelters, beam rifle raised as he swept its muzzle from side to
side, scanning for potential attackers. His stomach growled so loudly he
wondered if the noise could be heard outside his silencer field. He ignored
his hunger, fighting to concentrate past the savage need. As he’d been
fighting for every endless hour of the previous nine days.
Instead, Rand focused on the familiar process of searching the enemy camp. He
could hear the rasp of his breathing in his helmet as he ducked into one empty
tent after another, though the silencer muted the sound past four or five
centimeters.
In his helmet com, he heard the murmur of his men reporting in as they
filtered through the camp, searching for the enemy. They had no more luck than
he’d had. The Falaran Coalition battalion had melted into the surrounding
forest, leaving behind smashed equipment, hastily abandoned meals and wrecked
temporary shelters. Apparently they’d been alerted to the approach of the
G.A.E. force at the last minute, dropped everything, and run like hell. Wise
of them, considering they were outgunned and outmanned. The colony was small,
without the economic resources Godsson’s more established planetary population
could command. Their armor was certainly no match for the G.A.E.’s.
Still, they could have left someone behind. Maybe in camouflage armor like his
own, surrounded by a field of energy that bent light, rendering the sniper
invisible.
But you could bend all the light you wanted to, and it wouldn’t stop Rand from
picking up your scent. Vampires had great noses. And great speed, great
endurance, and enough raw strength to take on a mech unit with no backup at
all.
Which was why he had been hired in the first place, despite the G.A.E.’s
disdain for mercenaries in general and vampires in particular. The generals
who led the Glorious Army of the Enlightened didn’t know a damned thing about
war. Nick Rand, on the other hand, had spent the past two decades fighting in
a dozen wars on a dozen planets. His combat reflexes weren’t just muscle
memory — they were burned in all the way down to his DNA.
Which was why the G.A.E.’s brass had decided they could ignore his food
preferences.
He moved in a liquid glide into the next tent. Sweeping his rifle over the
whole space in a smooth arc, he ordered a sensor scan. The answer came back a
heartbeat later. Sensor scan completed. No enemy located, said the computer
implanted at the base of his brain. He breathed deep, scenting the air just to
be sure. And froze.
The tent belonged to a woman. Actually, more than one. Perfume lingered in the
air: lilacs and star roses and the natural scent of female bodies. Rand
inhaled, drinking in the lush aroma. His eyes closed for just a heartbeat as
he imagined the taste of blood and pussy.
Months. It had been months since he’d had a woman. Godsson taught females were
corrupting influences who’d blunt his soldiers’ warrior instincts. He insisted
women belonged at home, teaching their children piety and submission to the
will of their Most Exalted — i.e., Godsson himself.
Yeah, right. Why the female cultists tolerated this airlock blow, Rand had no
idea. It was no wonder the million or so Falarans had refused to join
Godsson’s six million plus worshipers, badly outnumbered or not.
I should never have taken this fucking job. Never mind that he’d needed work.
Peace had broken out all over with its usual rotten timing. Absolutely no one
had been hiring. Had it not been for Godsson’s decision to invade the
neighboring planet Falara, Rand would have been forced to find a security job,
and he hated bodyguard work with a passion.
But after a year with the G.A.E., the idea of keeping some arrogant prick
alive was starting to sound pretty damned good. For one thing, he wouldn’t be
slowly starving to death among zealots who considered him a pervert.
He wished G.A.E. HQ would quit fucking around and send him a new hemosynther.
The last time he’d commed them, Supplies and Requisitions claimed the ‘synther
was on order, scheduled to arrive from Earth next week in a shipment of
medical equipment. Rand had told the requisitionist it had better, or he was
coming to HQ to sink his teeth into something with a pulse.
The man had blanched. As if Rand would touch his sweaty neck with a nine meter
radiation probe. His blood would probably taste like burned coffee and stale
doughstries anyway.
Growling under his breath, Rand left the tent — and heard the scream coming
from the other end of camp. A woman’s voice, crying out in rage and pain.
He was running before the echo died.
* * *
If she hadn’t been so sick, she could have made the G.A.E. bastards pay a
higher price when they found her in the middle of the camp. Unfortunately, it
had been more than a month since her vampire had died, and Lieutenant Zara
Tahir was deep in blood sickness.
They surrounded her, a yelling, laughing mob of massive shapes in helmets and
black armor emblazoned with Godsson’s halo and planet logo. Those suits gave
them enough raw power to take on a blast tank and win.
Even so, Zara hadn’t made it easy for them. Even in her lighter V.S.S. armor,
she had the advantage in speed and agility. Fighting ferociously, she
triggered a spontaneous nosebleed. Feeling the hot wetness rolling down her
upper lip as she spun and kicked, she snarled. It had been far too long since
she’d tasted vampire blood. Wouldn’t be long before her own immune system
killed her.
Not that these fuckers would give it the chance. They were pissed, and they
planned to kill her. And worse.
About the Author
New York Times best-selling author Angela Knight has written and published
more than sixty novels, novellas, and ebooks, including the Mageverse and
Merlin’s Legacy series. With a career spanning more than two decades,
Romantic Times Bookclub Magazine has awarded her their Career Achievement
award in Paranormal Romance, as well as two Reviewers’ Choice awards for
Best Erotic Romance and Best Werewolf Romance.
Angela is currently a writer, editor, and cover artist for Changeling Press
LLC. She also teaches online writing courses. Besides her fiction work,
Angela’s writing career includes a decade as an award-winning South
Carolina newspaper reporter. She lives in South Carolina with her husband,
Michael, a thirty-year police veteran and detective with a local police
department.
Five
stargazers defy the odds and find love and adventure as they travel across the
galaxy.
Descended from the witches of old Earth, Stargazers
are highly sought after, both by legitimate sources and by pirates who enslave
them and use their talents to bend energy to power space ships and detect
people’s presences from great distances.
Wanton: When Tarik’s brother is
captured by the Intergalactic Council, the handsome cyborg realizes he’ll need
the help of a Stargazer if a rescue mission is to succeed. But when he kidnaps
Krystal, he’s torn between rescuing his brother and his growing attraction to
the talented witch.
Willful: Born both a Stargazer and Daughter-Heir to
the throne of New Zanadles, Jazlyn is used to a life of pampered luxury. But
when the planet runs into financial trouble, her leisurely life is replaced by
a whirlwind of Intergalactic Council intrigues and the lusty attentions of her
new employers.
Wild: When Stargazer Anaya stows away on a ship belonging
to a cynical bounty hunter, Ryland assumes she’s a runaway sex slave and
offers her a choice: be returned to her master or stay and serve his every
desire.
Wayward: When Abbie is kidnapped, Kat, her twin, boldly offers
her services to a very sexy pirate captain in return for his help. Tore is
fascinated by the sexy young Stargazer, but how far is she willing to go to
save her sister?
Sinful: Breanne is on a mission is to rescue a fellow
Stargazer who fell prey to pirates, and she can’t do that from the brig of
Roark’s spaceship. When she convinces Roark they should join forces, they find
out just how powerful they can be together. The pirates don’t stand a chance
against their combined wrath.
Publisher’s Note: Stargazers
contains the previously published novellas Wanton, Willful, Wild, Wayward and
Sinful.
Excerpt from Wanton
Tarik watched the young woman pacing the cargo bay of his ship. Tall and
willowy, she stalked the width of the cell with angry strides of long, slim
legs. A short, fitted tunic did little to hide her shapely figure, and he felt
a spark of heat ignite in his gut despite his mistrust of her kind. Wisps of
wavy, chestnut hair escaped from the single braid that hung to her waist, and
her green eyes sparkled with rage. He felt the corner of his mouth tilt
upward as she aimed a kick at the wall. He’d bet if he could hear what she was
muttering, it wouldn’t be very ladylike. Of course, she wasn’t really a lady.
Krystal de Mylar was a Stargazer, one of the few who hadn’t yet sold her
talents to the Intergalactic Council. Probably holding out for a better deal,
he thought cynically. The lack of military security surrounding her had
made her an ideal target when he realized he needed to acquire one of the
accursed witches in order to rescue his brother. Tarik’s renegade status made
it impossible to post a job proposal with the Stargazers’ Guild, so he’d
simply used his resources to plan and execute the perfect kidnapping.
Unfortunately, none of his cybernetic enhancements would help him explain to
the infuriated redhead why he’d spirited her away from her home without her
consent. The woman stopped pacing and pivoted to face the hovering droid,
her eyes narrowed so that the green irises sparkled like gems. She’d obviously
realized someone was monitoring her. A flicker of heat ran up his spine as she
stood still, legs spread and hands on hips. Her mouth moved, and his attention
dropped to her full, luscious lips as they moved slowly in exaggerated
speech. You are going to regret this. It wasn’t hard to read her
lips. Or the threat in her eyes. He sure hoped she didn’t know how to wrap the
interplanetary energy lines around his neck. “Not exactly what I’d
expected.” He turned to address his second-in-command. “I pictured someone
older, and tougher.” Ryan grinned. “And a little less mouthwateringly
attractive? Might have made it easier to deal with her. Do you want me to go
in first and soften her up a bit? Your reputation with the ladies doesn’t bode
well for gaining her co-operation.” Tarik sighed. They’d managed to
spirit Krystal out from under the noses of her parents and her bodyguards
without a problem, but they needed her to co-operate if they hoped to
accomplish their mission. Stargazers could sense the energy lines that
connected the stars and planets. They had the ability to grasp those lines and
harness the energy for their own use. If she agreed to help them rescue his
brother Cynn, all they’d need to do was narrow down his location and the witch
could use the energy lines to get them in and out of Intergalactic space
undetected by the patrolling warships. He didn’t understand how the Stargazers
accomplished it, but the results were irrefutable, which explained why the
unscrupulous bastards running the Intergalactic Council made a point of hiring
as many of the witches as possible. Before his parents were murdered by
the Council, they’d likened the Stargazers’ abilities to the witches of Old
Earth, who used the planet’s ley lines to feed their magic. They’d been
baffled though, by the Stargazers’ tendency to accept employment with the
restrictive Intergalactic Council. He sighed, running his fingers through his
short hair. The longer he put this off, the angrier the witch would get. “Get
her into a set of restraints and bring her up to the interrogation chamber.”
He turned to leave, pausing when Ryan grabbed his arm. He looked pointedly at
the offending hand, raising one eyebrow questioningly. Ryan let go of his
arm. “Restraints? Are you serious? She’s already pissed. You need to convince
her to help us, and treating her like a criminal isn’t going to win you any
brownie points.” That might be true, but he wanted her under control
until she agreed to help. “Just the wrist restraints, then.” He ignored Ryan’s
glare of disapproval. “If I understand the theory, she can’t hook into the
power of the energy lines without lifting her arms, so we should be safe
enough.” Ryan’s disbelieving snort told him what his second-in-command
thought about that. “Get her up there. Now.” He issued the command in
what he hoped was a stern tone, pivoting to stalk out of the room. The damn
witch hadn’t been on his ship for a full solar cycle and already she was
causing trouble.
About the Author
Anne Kane lives in the beautiful Okanagan Valley with a
bouncy little rescue dog whose breed defies description, a cantankerous
Himalayan cat, and too many fish to count. She spent many years trying to fit
in and act normal, but finally gave up the effort. She started writing romance
in 2008, and her fate was sealed when she won a publishing contract with Red
Sage Publishing and just a month later Changeling Press accepted her first
submission. Since then she has published more than thirty stories in a variety
of sub-genres, all with a happily ever after.
She has two handsome sons
and six adorable grandchildren and enjoys spending time with them whenever she
can. Her hobbies, when she’s not playing with the characters in her
head, include kayaking, hiking, swimming, playing guitar, singing and of
course, reading.
