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.
Spending more than half my life in prison taught me how to survive, not how to
live.
Jag — I took the fall for my club once and it cost me everything. Freedom
doesn’t feel like freedom when your past is still hunting you. Kiss of
Death MC is different now. Safer. Smarter. And full of things I don’t
trust. Like kindness, loyalty, and Ada. She sees too much. Asks the hard
questions. And somehow makes me want things I buried a long time ago. Wanting
her is dangerous. Touching her could destroy us both. But when an old enemy
resurfaces and targets her to get to the club, walking away isn’t an
option. I’ll protect her. Even if it costs me everything… again.
Ada — I know the difference between monsters and men who’ve survived
hell. Jag Kross is the most dangerous man I’ve ever met. And the most
broken. He doesn’t want saving. He doesn’t believe he deserves
love. And he definitely doesn’t want me anywhere near his darkness. Too
bad. When someone starts watching me, following me, threatening everything the
club protects, Jag becomes my shadow. My shield. My temptation. He says
he’s not a good man. I say he’s exactly the one I want. I’m
not afraid of the scars he carries. I’m afraid of what happens if he
leaves.
EXCERPT
Jag
The gates of USP Terre Haute swung open with a mechanical groan that I’d
heard a thousand times from the other side. This time, I was walking out.
The guard shoved a manila envelope into my hands without meeting my eyes.
“Use your prison ID until you get your state issued ID. Inside the
envelope you’ll find your release papers, a debit card with two hundred
dollars. I was informed you didn’t need a ride?” He finally looked
up at me, bored, and raised an eyebrow in question. When I didn’t
answer, he shifted his weight with a huff. “Well?”
“Was there a question?”
“Do you have a fuckin’ ride or not, buddy?” He slapped a
piece of paper down in front of me.
“What’s this?” I asked, nodding to the form.
He slapped a pen down on top of the paper. “Says you understand the
terms of your release supervision and that failure to comply can, and likely
will, result in an extended stay in the Hilton back here.” He hiked his
thumb over his shoulder, indicating the prison.
Instead of answering him, I picked up the pen and signed my name at the bottom
across the highlighted line. “Anything else?”
When the guy shook his head, I stormed out the door. I had no idea if Knuckles
followed through with his promise to have guys waiting on me when I got out. I
hadn’t called him, but he’d told me I wouldn’t have to. When
I was released, there would be a couple of brothers from Kiss of Death to
offer me a ride back to Nashville, if I wanted to go. I hadn’t really
been sure if I’d take him up on the offer even if he did actually show,
but when the prison asked me where I planned on setting up residence,
I’d told them Nashville.
I stepped across the threshold, the highly recognizable line between captivity
and freedom in the form of a smaller gate through a big-ass fucking prison
gate. I squinted against the natural light. Closing my eyes, I inhaled deeply,
then relaxed.
Nothing happened.
“Expecting the air outside the yard to smell different than it did
inside the yard?” The guy had one elbow resting on the open window of a
black F-150 in the slot two spaces over. Another, a truly massive man, rested
against the bed of the truck next to the first guy, like they’d just
been having a chat. He’d crossed his legs at the ankles and his arms
over his chest, his pose casual.
“Jag?” the giant asked. “I’m Tiny. This is
Rancor.” He was soft-spoken, his voice a gruff rumble.
I nodded once, acknowledging but not inviting further conversation.
“Ready to roll?” Tiny asked, gaze friendly.
I shrugged and nodded again, fingers digging into my palms, the sharp pain
grounding me.
Tiny straightened. “Front or backseat, man?”
“Back.”
Tiny nodded respectfully, obviously expecting my choice since Rancor
hadn’t offered to move. He climbed behind the wheel while I opened the
back passenger-side door. I tossed the small bag holding my few possessions
across the seat to the far side of the vehicle. Sitting behind the passenger
left Rancor with a huge blind spot. While the driver could still watch me, he
needed to watch the road, too. I didn’t think these guys meant me harm,
but I also wasn’t going to get shanked my first hour out of prison.
The interior of the truck smelled like leather and tobacco. Clean. No blood.
No piss. No sweat. No puke. Definitely nice for a change.
The rumble vibrated through the seat and into my bones, a foreign sensation
after years of concrete and steel. Of all the things I’d missed in
prison, I’d missed riding my bike the most. I’d been away for
thirty-seven years. My bike had probably long since been sold off.
As we pulled away, I allowed myself one last glance at the prison. The
limestone walls and razor wire had been my entire world. I’d learned to
kill there. I’d learned to survive there. I’d forgotten how to
live anywhere else.
Tiny met my eyes briefly in the rearview mirror. “Long ride to
Nashville.” He handed me something I recognized as some kind of smart
phone. I’d never held one, but I’d seen them on TV, watched as
people used them in commercials or movies, when I’d been allowed to
watch. Also, a few of the guards didn’t bother with the policy on no
phones out of the locker rooms.
“Scroll through.” He used his finger to drag the screen upward,
revealing more. Yeah, I’d seen that before from some of the guards.
“It’s my social media feed. I set it to show articles you might be
interested in about Nashville. I like to call it my ‘Long-Term
Incarcerated’s Guide to the New World.’” I took the phone
from him. “It gives you some information about our club, the shelter we
help fund and protect, as well as terms you might not be familiar with. A
bunch of the guys got together, at our old ladies’ insistence, and made
a list of things hardest for them to adjust to when reentering society.”
He shrugged. “Some of the guys found it helpful. Including me.”
I grunted. Though, I had to admit, this surprised me. I’d been worried
about looking like an idiot when someone handed me something like the famed
“Three Seashells” and I looked just as dumb as Stallone’s
character.
I still didn’t know if I could concentrate while basically helpless in a
moving vehicle with two men I didn’t know who had served time just like
me. And had likely learned the same lessons I’d learned. Yeah.
Concentrate fully on something right now? Not fucking likely. I kept my
expression neutral and pretended to take in the material for a moment until I
was sure neither of them watched me too closely. Then I turned my head to look
out the window instead.
My reflection stared back at me from the glass — hollow eyes, angular face,
hair cropped close to my scalp. Prison-pale skin already burning under the
unfiltered sunlight. I barely recognized myself. The man in the reflection
wasn’t the one who’d gone inside. He was something else now.
Something hardened and remote. Something dangerous.
An hour into the trip, the interstate rolled beneath us, mile markers ticking
by like a countdown to something I wasn’t sure I was ready for. Tiny
kept both hands on the wheel except when he leaned one arm on the window.
Rancor sat with one arm propped on the window ledge, fingers drumming
occasionally to whatever was playing low on the radio.
The silence stretched between us, but it didn’t feel uncomfortable. I
thought, maybe these guys understood I needed time to adjust to friendly
company. Though I couldn’t trust them yet, my respect for them grew with
the care they showed for my sanity.
After another half hour of silence, other than the low music on the radio,
Tiny turned his head slightly to speak to me. “Knuckles runs a tight
ship. We’ve got legitimate business fronts now. Auto shop’s doing
well. Custom work bringing in good money. Also help with a shelter for
especially traumatized and terrorized women and children.” He shrugged.
“Most of the time, we just have a couple guys stand outside the gate.
Their… problems tend to give us a wide berth.” Tiny chuckled
darkly.
“Legal?” I said, the word feeling strange on my tongue.
Tiny shrugged. “Mostly. Still got side hustles, but we’re careful.
Knuckles makes sure of it. Shelter’s all on the up-and-up.” He
spoke like the shelter was his pride and joy. I used to talk about my bike
with that kind of reverence, so I knew this place meant something to the man.
There was another beat of silence before Rancor glanced at me in the rearview
mirror. “We know what you did for Kiss of Death that put you behind
bars.” He waited until I met and held his gaze. “That ain’t
this club anymore. We have each other’s back, and no one takes the fall
for anything.”
“Ain’t goin’ back.” I snarled the words before I could
stop myself. “Gave my fuckin’ soul for this club once. Not sure I
can do it again. If that’s a deal breaker, you can drop me off
here.”
“Never said you had to, brother. Knuckles knows his people. You
don’t have to prove anything. In his eyes, you’ve already proven
everything he needed to see, and he’ll make sure you never go
back.”
Rancor reached forward and turned up the volume slightly as “Sympathy
for the Devil” came on. My fingers twitched involuntarily against my
thigh. I’d had a cellmate who would sing this under his breath for
hours, driving the guy in the next cell into a rage. Ended with a shank to the
kidney during yard time. Though I liked the song, my cellie’s singing,
not so much. And he was a dick. Fun times.
We crossed the state line into Kentucky, the landscape gradually shifting. The
F-150 ate up the miles, comfortable in a way that made me uncomfortable. Too
soft.
Tiny pulled into a truck stop off the interstate. “Need to fill
up,” Tiny announced. “You want to stretch your legs?”
I shook my head. The thought of navigating the open space, the strangers, was
all too much to attempt right now.
“Be right back,” Rancor said, unfolding himself from the passenger
seat. “Taking a piss.”
I watched them through the windows as they moved around the station. Tiny
pumped gas while Rancor disappeared inside, reappearing minutes later with a
plastic bag.
A family pulled up at the neighboring pump, a man and woman, with two kids
arguing in the back seat. The woman laughed at something the man said, her
head tipping back to expose her throat. The children tumbled out, shoving at
each other, voices high and piercing. One of them looked my way, curious eyes
meeting mine before the mother called him back to her side.
I turned away, something hollow opening up in my chest. I’d forgotten
what families looked like. Forgotten I used to want one of my own.
Tiny and Rancor returned to the truck, Tiny sliding behind the wheel while
Rancor passed a plastic bag over the seat to me.
“Got you some water, sandwich, chips,” he said.
“Wasn’t sure what you’d want.”
I took the bag, not meeting his eyes. The scent of barbecue sauce wafted from
the bag as I opened it. “Thanks.” The word came out rusty, unused.
I opened the water first, taking a quick pull before unwrapping the sandwich
and taking a bite, nearly closing my eyes in bliss as rich barbecued pork
exploded across my tongue. “Christ,” I muttered.
Rancor chuckled softly. “Yeah, man. I think I had basically the same
reaction to my first good meal on the outside.”
“Ain’t sure that qualifies as a good meal,” Tiny muttered.
“A ham sandwich would be better than what we got in that place.”
Rancor waved off Tiny’s words. I agreed with him.
“Still fuckin’ good.” I took another bite, fumbling with the
napkin when I realized I probably looked like some kind of primitive who
didn’t know how to eat in civilized company. One more thing to add to
the list of things to get used to again.
Another hour and we entered the outskirts of Nashville. Tiny made a call and
the sound came through the car radio.
“We got a room ready for him.” I’d recognize Knuckles’
voice anywhere. The man had literally saved my sanity the short time
we’d been cellies. “He’s gonna want some time to himself to
transition, but I don’t want him isolated.”
“You just assume he came with us,” Rancor said, shooting Tiny an
amused grin. “Maybe he said fuck off.”
Knuckles barked out a laugh. “Oh, I’m sure he told you to fuck
off. Just maybe not out loud. But yeah. I’m sure he came. I know my
people, Rancor.”
“I came.” Not sure why I thought I had to speak up, but Knuckles
only grunted.
“Of course you did. This is your home. Rat Man did you dirty.”
“Almost there, Prez,” Tiny said. “Ten minutes.”
“Good. I’ll meet you at the main warehouse.” There was a
pause. “Hannah made sure you’d have everything you need,” he
continued. “She talked to every fucking guy in the place, so she and the
other women could give you as comfortable a place as they could. I know
you’re not a man who’d want a fuss made or anything but expect the
old ladies to make sure you have plenty of home-cooked food in your fridge for
when you’re hungry.”
“I — what?”
“You heard me.”
“Yeah, and I guess I’m not sure which surprises me.”
Knuckles grunted again. “The fact that you have your own fridge, or the
fact the girls bothered to stock it?”
“Both, I guess.”
“See you soon.” The call disconnected.
“Expect them to drop by often because our women can be mother
hens.” Rancor continued the conversation as we turned onto a narrow,
paved but crumbling road that cut between abandoned warehouses. “They
won’t let you suffer in silence, no matter how often you tell them to
leave. They don’t get their feelings hurt with big, surly bikers, but
oddly, they usually know when to back off before they get irritating.
It’s the weirdest fucking thing.”
That got a laugh from Tiny. “My two hellions haven’t figured out
when to back off. Don’t expect they will either.”
“Oh, your girls know where the line is. They simply refuse to let a
little thing like an imaginary line in the sand stop them.”
Rancor’s grin said he enjoyed the show on more than one occasion.
I thought I might see irritation in Tiny’s expression, but instead I saw
fondness and pride. Tiny loved whoever he was talking about. Likely loved the
fact they didn’t stop when they should. The revelation settled something
else inside me and my respect for the men grew a little more.
“Why?” I asked softly. “I feel like I’m bein’
set up or some shit. You guys don’t know me and the few who do know I
ain’t a kind man.”
“Club takes care of its own,” Rancor said quietly. “Whether
our own want it or not.”
Something twisted in my chest — not pain exactly, but its close cousin. Why
would anyone prepare for me? I was nobody to these people. The club had
changed since I’d been a member. I doubted anyone knew me from anywhere
but Terre Haute. Maybe not even then. The idea that someone had thought about
what I might need, had taken time to prepare for my arrival didn’t
compute with the world as I understood it.
“Don’t need special treatment,” I managed, voice rough.
The Kiss of Death compound emerged from the industrial wasteland like a
fortress. Which was exactly what it was. Camo netting stretched between
warehouses arranged in a defensive square, breaking up sight lines and
confusing surveillance. I counted four visible cameras covering the entrance
alone, probably a dozen more I couldn’t see. Smart setup. Defensible.
And it was designed to keep people out. Not to hold them inside.
Tiny slowed at a reinforced gate. A guard in a booth nodded recognition, and
the gate slid open. We rolled through to a big warehouse well away from the
entrance to the compound.
Knuckles stood waiting at the inner entrance, arms crossed over his chest. He
was built solid, heavily muscled but leaner and shorter than Tiny.
Tiny parked the truck in front of the warehouse, cutting the engine. I stepped
out of the cage, feet planted firmly on the gravel. The air smelled of motor
oil, leather, and something delicious cooking.
“Good to see you breathing free air,” Knuckles said, extending his
hand.
I took his hand, the handshake brief but firm. His eyes held mine, assessing
but not demanding. He didn’t try to establish dominance through the
handshake, didn’t pump my arm or crush my fingers. Just a simple
acknowledgment between equals which surprised me. Even if I were technically
still part of Kiss of Death, Knuckles, as the president, outranked me
significantly.
“Appreciate the welcome,” I said, the words coming easier than I
expected.
Knuckles nodded, seeming to understand all I wasn’t saying.
“Let’s get you settled.”
He led the way through the compound, Tiny and Rancor falling in behind us. A
few club members moved about their business. They looked up as we passed,
nodding respectfully but didn’t approach.
“Bottom floors of the outer buildings are club business,” Knuckles
explained, voice low enough that only I could hear. “Upper floors are
apartments for patched members. Inner buildings are all living quarters.
“Hannah, my woman, assigned you a unit in the east building, second
floor,” Knuckles continued. “Quieter side of the compound.”
Knuckles stopped at a door at the corner of the back side of the building. He
handed me a keycard. “Room’s yours as long as you want to stay.
Old ladies will make sure you’re stocked. Don’t ask them to do
your laundry. They will shank you.”
That got a bark of laughter out of me when I hadn’t expected to feel
like smiling so soon. “I appreciate the place to crash.”
“No thanks necessary.”
The apartment was simple but far larger than any space I’d occupied in
nearly four decades. A main room with a couch and coffee table. Small kitchen
area with actual appliances. A window overlooking the compound below.
“Basics are all here,” Knuckles said, remaining by the door.
Giving me room. “The girls brought linens and shit, so you’ve got
bedding and towels. There’s probably a box of toiletries in the
bathroom.” He motioned to a set of doors next to each other on one end
of the room. “Bedroom and bathroom.” He pointed in the other
direction. “Spare room for whatever the fuck you want to do with
it.”
I moved farther into the space, checking the place out. Clean surfaces. No
dust. The faint scent of something lemon. Someone had prepared this place
recently, anticipating my arrival. The thought was unsettling in its kindness.
“Bathroom’s got everything you need,” Knuckles continued.
“Hot water takes about thirty seconds to kick in. Pressure’s good
and the shower is large. There’s also a bathtub. Anything else you need,
just say the word.” He paused, watching me carefully. “When the
old ladies come by to bring you more food, let them in, please.”
My head snapped up, surprised by his insight. I’d been calculating how
long I could go without opening that door, how to minimize contact until
I’d found my bearings.
Knuckles gave me a knowing look. “They mean well. And trust me, you
don’t want to be on their bad side.”
A faint smile tugged at my lips again before I could suppress it.
“Noted.”
“I’ll leave you to get settled,” Knuckles said, stepping
back into the hallway. “Club meeting tomorrow at noon if you want to
join. No pressure. Just know you’re welcome. When or if you’re
ready to take an active role in the club, we would all welcome you to find
your place with us.” He gave me another grin. “Welcome home,
brother.”
He closed the door behind him with a soft click, and I was alone. Truly alone
for the first time in years outside of AdSeg — what most people call solitary
confinement, or Administrative Segregation. Whatever you call it, AdSeg was
the only time I didn’t have a cellmate breathing in the bunk below. No
guards passing by at regular intervals. No constant background noise of men
living in forced proximity.
Just silence.
I stood motionless in the center of the room. The space felt impossibly large
after my cell, the silence deafening after years of constant noise.
I moved to the window, drawn by the natural light. Below, club members moved
about their business. Two men working on a Harley. A woman carrying what
looked like groceries toward another building. Normal life continuing in its
rhythm.
My reflection stared back at me from the glass, superimposed over the scene
below. A man caught between worlds, belonging to neither. The prison had
released my body but kept pieces of my soul. The club had offered shelter but
couldn’t give me back what I’d lost to them before. I thought I
should move on, put this chapter of my life behind me, but the thought made my
insides twist. Knuckles was right. Though the compound had moved location, the
spirit of the club I’d first joined was within this fenced-off land. I
could feel the energy all around me and it felt like home.
I placed my palm against the cool glass, watching my breath fog a small
circle. Outside, the sun was setting, casting long shadows across the
compound. The stranger in the glass looked back at me, equally lost in a world
he no longer understood.
About the Author
Marteeka Karland is an international bestselling author who leads a double
life as an erotic romance author by evening and a semi-domesticated housewife
by day. Known for her down and dirty MC romances, Marteeka takes pleasure in
spinning tales of tenacious, protective heroes and spirited, vulnerable
heroines. She staunchly advocates that every character deserves a blissful
ending, even, sometimes, the villains in her narratives. Her writings are
speckled with intense, raw elements resulting in page-turning delight entwined
with seductive escapades leading up to gratifying conclusions that elicit a
sigh from her readers.
Away from the pen, Marteeka finds joy in baking and supporting her husband
with their gardening activities. The late summer season is set aside for
preserving the delightful harvest that springs from their combined efforts
(which is mostly his efforts, but you can count it). To stay updated with
Marteeka’s latest adventures and forthcoming books, make sure to visit her
website. Don’t forget to register for her newsletter which will pepper you
with a potpourri of Teeka’s beloved recipes, book suggestions, autograph
events, and a plethora of interesting tidbits.
Heat rages out of control as the pub burns. The only thing hotter is the
woman watching the flames.
Diana Kendall just had an argument with the owner of Cornwall’s pub. Now
Cornwall’s is burning to the ground. Diana’s an enigma, an artist,
beautiful and intelligent, but strangely aloof. How can Mike resist? But when
he wakes up the next morning, Diana’s gone.
It’s not until Mike sees a naked woman disappear into an art gallery
with a wolf at her side that the real trouble starts. The woman looks
incredibly like Diana. But what is the mysterious apparition trying to tell
him?
Mike needs to find out what’s really going. Does Diana’s fiery
past tell the story, or will he get burnt by Vengeful Fire?
As he watched the flames, Mike wondered if Prometheus had known what he was
doing when he stole fire from the gods and turned it over to mankind. Humans
had been nothing but trouble ever since.
The alcohol fueled flames consuming Cornwall’s Pub were hypnotic —
mesmerizing and beautiful. They writhed in an almost sensual way. No, Mike
corrected himself. The flames were sensual — the rhythmic way the tongues of
fire bent and unbent were undoubtedly sexual, as if they were alive, pyrrhic
creatures in the throes of orgasm, riding the stiff wooden beams that fueled
their passion. There was even a sense of playful capriciousness about the
sound of splintering beams, which created a staccato beat cheekily mimicking
the act — the fucking act, the act of fucking.
Mike thought there was even something sexual about the words that described
fire. Tongues of flame that licked, seething cauldrons of searing molten heat,
glowing embers pulsing white hot, bursting explosions of showering sparks, inflamed… His mental thesaurus eventually failed him and he settled in
to enjoy the show.
Several roof beams collapsed with a whoosh. Sparks showered the street and
plumes of acrid smoke belched out of the roiling flames.
Mike looked forward to the climax of the act, when the last sinews of
structure that held the roof aloft would melt, bend and break as the building
collapsed completely into the smoldering debris of orgasm.
Moments later there was another explosion, no doubt the last of the bottles of
bourbon, gin and scotch that had lined the mirrored bar. The firecracker bangs
brought a cheer from the fickle crowd, who twenty minutes earlier had been
drinking and singing within the Cornwall’s convivial walls. The crowd,
Mike thought, were like jilted lovers who laughed self-consciously at the
misfortunes of an unfaithful ex-partner.
Adrenaline still pumped madly through Mike’s veins as if he’d just
come inside the cock-melting pussy of some stranger. He had reason. He’d
been the one who’d shouted the alarm causing these rats to desert the
sinking ship. Not one, he noted, had stayed to fight the hungry flames. No one
had been loyal and true, though they’d drunk there, as he had, for the
last several years. Ten minutes after the final climax of this act of
consuming passion they’d likely be drinking at someone else’s bar.
He felt unaccountably guilty, like the concerned friend who had to break the
news of an infidelity. Knowing that what he did would have ramifications
beyond a simple busted relationship. A step once taken…
Across from him, in the semicircle of voyeurs, stood a dark-haired girl, tall
and lithe. He remembered her from earlier in the night. She was a stranger to
the bar, a newbie, attractive enough to stop conversation… at least on
the men’s parts and, he recalled, some of the girls too.
The pulsating conflagration illuminated her pensive face. She had striking
features; high cheekbones, full lips, large dark eyes and long straight ebony
hair that reached her waist. She seemed strangely familiar but he
couldn’t place her. She wasn’t someone overtly famous, someone who
was always in your face like a movie star. More likely she was a lingerie
model or perhaps he’d seen her in a TV commercial.
His interest in her had been heightened, of course, by the ruckus she’d
caused. An argument with the manager of the place, that stuck up prick
Cornwall himself.
There followed a brief, angry exchange with the bouncer who’d been
instructed to escort her furious body off the premises. Mike had left his seat
to go to her assistance but she’d been too quickly ejected and by the
time he’d reached the street she’d gone.
She’d returned an hour or so later, just before he raised the alarm
about the fire. He noticed she’d come in the side door that led from the
alley. Her serious and cunning expression reminded him of a jilted lover who
can’t resist sneaking into the ex’s bedroom. The scene of so many
orgasms; where so much cum had been ejaculated, spilled, and swallowed. Just
once more to lie on the sodden sheets of love.
Mike made a decision and moved between the drunken observers and stood beside
her. Amazingly, despite the choking, plastic laden smoke that swirled around
them, she smelled of… oranges.
“Hi there,” he said.
“Do I know you?”
She hadn’t looked at him. Her eyes were fixed on the firefighters, those
modern knights with watery lances who battled the angry chimera; the mindless
fire-breathing beast.
“No. I saw you earlier when you had a row with that prick
Cornwall.”
“So?”
“I really don’t think you should be standing here. The fire chief
will tell the police that the fire was deliberately lit. The police will then
interview the staff and they’ll describe you and they’ll see you
here watching the place burn down. Not a good look.”
She turned to face him then, dark eyes sizing him up. The rippling flames were
reflected in them and he found himself lost in those glowing embers, looking
for his silhouette.
“What do you have in mind?”
Infidelity, a sweet, sweet friend. “The smoke has made me thirsty. I
know a bar across town that’s not so… hot.”
Her full lips curled into a smile. One last look at the inferno and a shrug as
if it didn’t matter anymore. The deed was done. “Lead the
way.”
Mike took her arm in his and pulled her gently through the swelling crowd, now
ten deep. The Cornwall had been popular and would, no doubt because of its
prime location, be rebuilt and open for business within six months. Bigger and
better, like a whore returning to her favorite corner after a boob job.
The Glass Half Full was a pretentious little dive frequented by philosophy
students. Mike liked it. Some of the regulars even knew his name. She gave it
an appraising glance through the frosted windows before nodding and following
him in.
“What do you do?” she asked once settled on a high stool at a
round pedestal table.
Mike couldn’t help but notice how her full breasts rested on the
tabletop. “Webpage designer. And you?”
“Student. Art.”
“I guessed it.”
“And how did you do that?” she said tiredly.
He lowered his eyes to her hands. “Paint on your fingertips.”
She laughed and the pure tones resonated playfully in his ears. “I could
be a house painter.”
“Interior design?” he countered.
“Renaissance art.”
“Ah, ceilings. Just as good. Forgive me, but I may not know art but
I…”
“… yeah, yeah, don’t say it.”
He took a sip of his beer but couldn’t take his eyes off her. He felt
strangely comfortable being with her. No nerves at all, which was unusual,
given the circumstances. He was, after all, sitting with a stunningly
beautiful woman who he desperately wanted to fuck.
Usually, whenever he was alone with a new girl, he had butterflies the size of
eagles flying out of formation in his stomach. “I was in the art gallery
just the other day,” he said suddenly to fill the silence. “And I
realized the thing about reality is that it’s, in fact, an
illusion.”
He shuddered inside. What an incredibly stupid passé thing to say.
She’d think him a pretentious prat, which was precisely what he was at
that very moment.
She lent toward him, unaccountably interested. “How so?”
“Well, meaningless rays of light enter our eyes and excite some neurons.
Neuro-chemicals jump across synapses. These excite more neurons. A pulse of
electrical current travels to the next synapse and so on until eventually our
brain sorts them into some sort of matrix we can consciously interpret.”
Her nod of interest urged him on. “But it’s an illusion, something
our brains make up. It’s all a fiction. There are gaps, things we
don’t see, because of lighting or perspective. Our brain fills in those
gaps with assumptions and pre-conceived ideas. We see what we expect to see.
Due to our common brain structure and culture we fill the gaps the same way
and the result is we all share the same illusion.”
She licked her bottom lip and for a moment he lost his train of thought.
“Like a mass hallucination?” she prompted.
He nodded, grateful for her lifeline. “Something like that. I know
it’s been said before. It’s hardly an original thought, but it
struck me there in the gallery and for the first time I knew what it meant.
There was this painting…”
“How unusual to find one of those in there.” Her eyes twinkled
mischievously in the Glass’s dim lighting.
He smiled back. He knew she wasn’t being sarcastic, only getting into
the spirit of the absurd that seemed to have fallen about him this evening. He
actually liked her. “That’s what I thought,” he said,
joining in the fun. “This particular painting was just a mass and swirl
of fine lines in blue ink. The title of the painting was “Stand
Back,” so I did. And the lines resolved themselves into a face. It was
the artist resting her head on her forearm while she drew her own face while
looking at a mirror. It was quite brilliant, but it showed me that reality is
perception, excuse the cliché. That an alien being seeing that
painting, having not seen anything else from Earth, would just see some fine
lines in blue ink.”
“And apart from the face, what else did you see that an alien would not
have?”
“Emotions are hard to judge.”
“Try.”
He put on an aristocratic English accent. “It’s like looking at
paintings from the eighteenth century, don’t you know.”
He saw her lips tighten as she suppressed her laughter. “I
don’t.”
“I can see what they have painted — that shared human knowledge again.
But not what’s going on within the minds of the people depicted even
though they’re only a few hundred years in the past… because
their world view is completely different from ours… they’re an
enigma.”
“The girl in blue ink,” she said slowly. “Is she an
enigma?”
About the Author
Aussie Mikala Ash used to be a mild-mannered training & development
consultant by day, and a wild sci-fi and paranormal adventure writer by night.
Now she is a brazen full-time writer and nature photographer who is
concentrating on having among other things, “… bags, and bags of
fun!” Mikala can be found on Facebook and on Twitter.
An ancient vampire, Hunter can command any woman he wants — except the
one woman he needs. His mate.
Genevieve Drake is a Dhampir — half vampire, half mortal, born and bred to be
the perfect complement to her vampire mate, like those of her family for
sixteen generations. Instead, she chose to become a cop. Three months ago she
survived a vicious attack by a psychotic ex that left her with psychic scars
and a desperate need for a new line of work. Time to rethink her future.
Hunter is tall, dark and handsome — and very, very powerful. He’s also
been waiting for Genevieve. She was just eighteen when he had a vision that
they’d one day become lovers. He’s been biding his time ever
since. But Genevieve’s experiences have left her unable to trust any
man, even Hunter.
If he wants them to have a future, the vampire will have to find a way to
banish her ghosts…
The vampire’s bodyguard was sloppy when he searched Genevieve Drake. He
missed at least three places where she could have stashed weapons. Would have
stashed weapons, if she hadn’t been going to an interview for a job she
desperately needed. To add insult to injury, he smirked up at her when he
crouched at her feet to pat her down, hands lingering on her thighs and
calves.
Genevieve gave serious thought to kneeing him in the jaw.
Finally, after a last knowing leer, the guard ushered her into Hunter’s
sprawling office, then closed the heavy double doors and left them alone.
“Ms. Drake.” Tall, radiating a power that made her Dhampir senses
vibrate like harp strings, the vampire stepped around his big rosewood desk to
shake Genevieve’s hand, his grip careful and warm. His touch sent a flush of
magic radiating up her arm. Her mouth went dry, and she felt her nipples peak.
“It’s a pleasure.”
Her body’s intense response surprised her. She’d felt dead from the neck
down for months. “Please call me Genevieve, Mr. Hunter.” Not Genny. Never
Genny. Smiling up at him, she used all her years undercover to keep her
expression no more than pleasantly professional.
“It’s just Hunter,” the vampire said in a black velvet purr of a voice.
He gave her a slow, white smile, his eyes the sharp and startling blue of an
arctic wolf. His features were starkly masculine, with a long swoop of a nose
and a broad, square chin. His hair was thick and black, just long enough to
touch his collar.
He gestured her away from his desk toward two armchairs that sat facing
each other. Just beyond the chairs, a plate glass window ran the length of the
room. Sixty stories below, the glittering glory of Atlanta spread across the
night.
As Hunter ushered her to the chairs, Genevieve studied him. If anything,
the vampire was more impressive than she remembered. Easily six-foot-two, he
had a powerful build that made him look like a warrior even camouflaged in
black Armani. His tie was a splash of crimson against his white shirt, while
cufflinks of onyx and gold adorned his French cuffs.
“It’s good to see you again,” Hunter said as they sat. The chairs were
positioned so close, their knees almost touched. It was not exactly the
arrangement she’d have expected for a job interview — but then, this was not
a typical job interview. “You were what — fifteen? — when last I saw you.”
“Sixteen,” Genevieve corrected. And madly infatuated with you. But that
was something she had no intention of sharing. And anyway, it had been
fourteen years ago.
Before Gary. Before she’d been left bleeding in a dirty alley with the
last of her illusions in shreds.
Hunter probably knew about her painfully intense crush. Probably knew
about Gary, too, for that matter. As her father always said, you can’t hide
anything from a vampire, so don’t even try. “It was good of you to grant me
this interview.”
“Not at all. I need an assistant, and you have excellent
qualifications.” He watched her settle back into the chair’s soft wine red
leather. His gaze sharpened. “Something concerns you.”
Genevieve hesitated, caught between her desire not to offend and her
sense of duty. She needed the job, but her family had been Dhampir for sixteen
generations.
Duty won. “Your bodyguard was more interested in feeling me up than in
making sure I wasn’t armed. I could have knocked him cold at least twice. In
my opinion, he constitutes a security risk.”
Hunter lifted a cool black brow. “He’s a former Navy SEAL.”
“And a current idiot.”
“You are blunt, bordering on rude.” Hunter smiled, satisfaction in his
eyes. “And every bit as fearless as I would have expected of Tommy Drake’s
daughter.”
She relaxed back into her chair. “Well, that’s a relief.”
“That I took the criticism well?” His arctic eyes heated to burning blue
as he watched her cross her legs. Her knee inadvertently brushed his, and the
contact sent magic flaring up her thigh. Straight into her sex.
She tried to ignore the pulse of erotic heat that flared low in her
belly. “No, I’m relieved you ordered your man to play the fool to test my
honesty. I’d hate to think you’d hire someone that sloppy.”
The vampire laughed, a deep, masculine rumble, seductive and warm. “No,
I have not survived three hundred and forty years by surrounding myself with
sloppy bodyguards. And there’ve been times even careful ones…” Hunter
stopped and rolled his powerful shoulders as if shrugging off a painful
memory.
“Sometimes it doesn’t matter how careful or well-trained you are.”
Genevieve’s voice dropped to a whisper. “Especially if you’re betrayed.”
He studied her, going still as a predator. Seeing too much. “The scars
from betrayal go to the soul. And they never quite fade, do they?”
“Not so far.” Genevieve forced a smile and deliberately sought to turn
the conversation back to business. “What are you looking for in a personal
assistant?”
You, Hunter thought.
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.
My mission: Save my woman, guard the secret of the rare spirit bear, and
take down the poachers.
Ryland — I was tailing a gang of poachers, certain they’d lead me
straight to their kingpin, when a stray arrow from a crossbow slammed into me.
Pain lanced through me and everything faded to black. In that blur of
unconsciousness, I could have sworn a pure white bear stood over me, calm as
can be. When I opened my eyes again, a woman — curvy and impossibly beautiful
— was watching me with the cutest look of mixed concern and distrust on her
face.
Kimberly — I thought I was alone on a tiny island off the coast of British
Columbia until an arrow from a crossbow barely missed skewering me. With my
dog Diego at my heels, I ran to hide in a maze of caves, my heart pounding.
Crouched down in the dark, I listened in terror as voices and footsteps
floated to me from outside. I prayed the shooters wouldn’t find the
spirit bear that inhabited this place. When I finally crept back out into the
daylight, I found I wasn’t the only target — but the unconscious man
lying in a pool of his own blood wasn’t talking. Victim or one of them?
A sudden squawk of alarm sounded directly in front of me. The quiet morning
exploded into sound as a covey of startled pheasants took flight.
Damn! I was hiding in the thick brush off the side of the path, out of sight
of my quarry, but right behind the fucking birds. One of the poachers turned,
aiming a crossbow straight at the panicked birds. Straight at me.
Double damn.
I ducked low to the ground, hoping to avoid detection. My handgun was nestled
in its shoulder holster, and a couple of my favorite throwing knives were
strapped to my thighs but there were six poachers and one of me. Not sure why
they were using crossbows instead of firearms. Maybe they wanted to avoid
making any noise that might bring attention to their presence, but I
couldn’t imagine who they thought might hear them on this deserted piece
of dirt off the coast of British Columbia.
Even without guns, though, the odds were against me. I braced myself as the
arrow arced its way toward me.
Moving to avoid the projectile wasn’t an option. I couldn’t afford
to let the poachers detect my presence. My mission depended on them not
knowing they’d been made.
The shooter had already turned back to catch up with the rest of the group
when the sharp tip of the projectile sliced through the meaty outer part of my
upper arm. I gritted my teeth as blood spurted from the wound.
Son of a bitch, that hurt.
Still, it was a lucky shot — a flesh wound, even if a painful one. I’d
had worse. Just one foot to the left and it would have gone straight through
my heart. A broadhead arrow could prove fatal under the right circumstances.
The flapping of the pheasants’ wings made so much racket that it drowned
out any noise I made as I lowered myself to the ground, grimacing at the red
stain spreading on my sleeve. I needed to staunch the bleeding. Like it or
not, the chase was over for today.
I glanced down at my watch. I was cutting it close. I needed to get back to my
boat and report in. If William didn’t hear from me on schedule,
he’d send the troops storming in to find me and that would blow any
chance we had of learning what these guys were up to.
I leaned back against a moss-covered tree stump in the center of the bushes.
The sound of the poachers joking amongst themselves as they retreated let me
know my presence hadn’t been detected.
Well, at least that was a positive.
I’d been tailing these jerks for almost a week now, ever since an
anonymous tip-off to the Operations Center had clued William in on their
activity in this neck of the woods. When they’d landed on this island
though, I was baffled. What could there possibly be here that would interest
an international ring of poachers? If they’d been farther north or on
the mainland, I would have assumed they were going after bears for their
saleable parts, a lucrative business these days. Bear gall was in high demand
in the traditional Chinese medicine markets for its supposed healing
properties. Bears were territorial creatures, though. On an island this small,
the chances of finding more than one were slim, assuming you even found one.
Hardly worth the effort of getting here.
Wincing, I shifted my weight slightly to take the pressure off my injured arm.
I didn’t dare leave my hiding spot, not yet. I needed to be sure the
poachers didn’t circle back. They were a nasty bunch, not above killing
someone if they thought they could get away with it.
I closed my eyes, gritting my teeth against the pain lancing through my arm.
The slow drip of water hitting the rocks beside me had a mesmerizing effect.
Or was it the blood from the wound?
I pivoted my head to look at my injured arm. Despite the copious amounts of
blood staining my shirt and the ground beneath me, the wound didn’t
appear serious. The flow of the blood would have cleaned out any foreign
debris, and the arrow had missed hitting the artery.
Yup, I’d definitely had worse.
Using my good arm, I pulled a knife out of the sheath strapped to my thigh and
sliced a large swath of fabric from the front of my shirt to use as a
makeshift bandage. A tight compress would staunch the bleeding long enough for
me to make my way back to the mainland and get it taken care of properly.
I struggled to remove my belt, the worn leather creaking and groaning in
protest as I pulled it loose.
It should not have taken that much effort. Maybe I’d lost more blood
than I thought. Didn’t matter. I wasn’t dying, and the mission
took precedence over a little discomfort.
The reason we had decided to investigate this group was the anomalies. This
was one loaded group of badass poachers. Normally poachers were a solitary
bunch, untrusting and cynical in the extreme. Finding two or three teamed
together to go after larger prey wasn’t uncommon but teaming up like
these guys were doing was totally out of character.
I’d been following them since they’d arrived from Hong Kong and
met up with a local guide of questionable repute. It was evident that the
meeting had been scheduled ahead of time. Prior to heading north, the five
stayed at the Vancouver Airport Hotel for the night. That meant they had money
behind them. They’d rented a Jeep and driven to their staging area,
where they parked the Jeep in a forestry site lot on the coast. A fully
stocked boat, complete with captain, was waiting for them, and they motored
straight to this little island.
That was a considerable amount of effort just to reach this deserted piece of
land in the Pacific Ocean. If not for the bug I’d managed to plant on
one of the poachers at the airport, I would have lost contact with them. It
was impossible to track a boat on the open ocean without visual sightings, so
stealth required electronic solutions.
It would take someone with local knowledge to even find the island. It
certainly didn’t show on international maps, and as far as I knew it
wasn’t big enough to have a formal name, just a number on the navigation
grid. That still didn’t explain what the attraction was, though. Given
the people involved, there had to be some tie-in to the illegal poaching
running rampant in this part of Canada. I just needed to figure out what it
was.
I’d heard rumors one of the protected spirit bears inhabiting one of the
small islands in this area. I knew they were extremely rare, but no one had
been able to verify the story, and I put it down to a myth the locals used to
lure tourists to the area. A quick Google search confirmed that the small
population of spirit bears in this part of the world lived farther north,
around Haida Gwaii.
Surely a group of international thieves would know better than to get taken in
by such a blatant tourist-trapping lie? The parts from such a creature would
be worth a devil’s ransom, but it would be difficult to harvest salable
items from a myth. More likely, they were after something else, something
valuable. But what?
I folded the soft strip of flannel from my shirt and placed it over the wound
on my arm. The bleeding had slowed, a good sign. Gritting my teeth, I wrapped
the belt around the makeshift bandage and pulled it tight.
A searing bolt of pain sliced through the raw wound, and colored dots danced
before my eyes. I concentrated on my breathing as I waited for the throbbing
to subside.
Looked like the wound was worse than I’d thought.
I’d left my medi-kit on the boat, but I’d seen a birch tree a few
lengths back. My grandfather had been a bit of a survivalist and had shown me
how to make a traditional wound dressing from birch bark. That would serve to
dull the pain until I retrieved the medi-kit and the heavy-duty painkillers in
it. I’d outgrown that macho, I-can-take-the-pain stage a long time ago.
I got to my feet, using the massive tree stump to steady myself. For a moment,
the world swam in front of my eyes. Great, just what I needed.
I closed them, waiting for the forest to stop moving. When it did, I pushed
off from the stump, trekking slowly in the direction of the beachhead where
I’d left my boat.
One foot in front of the other. Easy as that. I could do this.
My arm throbbed, and I glanced down. No fresh blood. Good.
I stopped by the birch tree, dropping to one knee. Using a sharp-bladed
hunting knife to slice off a few lengths of bark, I shredded it into fibers
and formed them into a compress. Sucking in a deep breath, I gently placed the
birch bark poultice over the raw flesh and reapplied the dressing, securing it
with the belt.
Resting for a bit to let the pain ease up, I rose to my feet and continued in
the direction of the boat.
Seconds later, I stumbled over a surface root, thudding heavily to my knees.
The loss of blood must have weakened me more than I’d realized, and it
took a long moment before I managed to get back up. I picked up a broken tree
limb, leaning on it for balance.
My focus narrowed. I needed to get to the boat. Keeping my hold on the
makeshift walking stick, I took a step. Better, much better.
The birch bark compress supplied some relief from the pain in my arm.
I’d had worse injuries back in my military days. I could do this.
Concentrate. The boat.
Need to get to boat.
Need to report back in.
Whatever these guys were after, the Brotherhood of the Wild would put a stop
to it. We had the advantage of operating internationally, bypassing local
bureaucracy. And we had money. Money could open doors and make officials look
the other way.
Boat. Need to get to the boat.
I stumbled again, pausing to lean on a tree until my vision cleared.
Clenching my jaw, I pushed myself upright and took one step. Then another.
Leaning heavily on the walking stick, I steadied myself. The notion of balance
seemed to have deserted my brain entirely, and I compromised with a slow
shuffling gait that kept me on my feet and heading in the right direction.
That was really all I needed.
I felt myself start to fall again and reached out for the closest tree. Had I
even made it twenty feet since the last time I’d had to reach for a
tree? Maybe. But not much farther.
I took a deep breath and tried to clear my head. Nope. Wasn’t going to
work this time. Never mind. I just needed to keep moving in the direction of
the boat. That was all.
Just keep moving.
About the Author
Anne Kane lives in the beautiful Okanagan Valley with a bouncy little rescue
dog whose breed defies description, a cantankerous Himalayan cat, and too many
fish to count. She spent many years trying to fit in and act normal, but
finally gave up the effort. She started writing romance in 2008, and her fate
was sealed when she won a publishing contract with Red Sage Publishing and
just a month later Changeling Press accepted her first submission. Since then
she has published more than thirty stories in a variety of sub-genres, all
with a happily ever after.
She has two handsome sons and six adorable grandchildren and enjoys spending
time with them whenever she can. Her hobbies, when she’s not playing
with the characters in her head, include kayaking, hiking, swimming, playing
guitar, singing and of course, reading.
