Tag Archives: Changeling Press

PREORDER BLITZ: Rebel (Devil’s Boneyard MC) by Harley Wylde

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(Devil’s Boneyard MC)

Motorcycle Club Romance, Age Gap, Suspense

Date Published: May 23, 2025


 

Are you ready to dive into a world where love and vengeance
intertwine?

 

Rio — I thought I had my future mapped out with the Army until two men
shattered that dream, leaving me medically discharged and lost. I journeyed
west, then returned east after a call from my superior, urging me to testify
against those who hurt me. When I stepped into a biker clubhouse along the
way, I never expected to find a place I could truly call home. Rebel makes
me want to trust again. He’s charming, bold, protective, and
understanding. I started my journey as a way to escape my past. I ended up
finding a family — and possibly love.

Rebel — The moment Rio walked into the clubhouse, she had my attention.
Proud, confident, and armed, she’s a storm ready to be unleashed. When
her past comes looking for her, I know I’ll do whatever it takes to
keep her safe. Those men have made a fatal mistake. They thought they were
hunters. What they don’t know is that I’m the predator, and they
aren’t walking out of my town alive.

 

Love isn’t just a feeling. It’s a battle worth fighting
for.

 

Warning: Rebel is intended for readers 18+ due to adult situations, bad
language, and violence. The story contains content some readers may find
difficult to read. There’s a guaranteed HEA, no cheating, and no
cliffhanger!

 

EXCERPT

I leaned against the wall near the bar, nursing my whiskey and watching the
usual Friday night chaos unfold. The Devil’s Boneyard clubhouse pulsed
with life around me — half-naked women draping themselves over patched
members, Prospects hustling drinks, the bass from the speakers vibrating
through the floorboards. Then she walked in, pushing the door open with more
force than necessary, like she needed everyone to know she wasn’t
sneaking in. The metal hinges had protested with a squeal that somehow cut
through the roar of Guns N’ Roses blasting from the speakers. For a
split second, a few heads turned — then most went back to their business.
Not mine. I kept watching.

Strawberry-blonde hair, fierce blue eyes, and a don’t-fuck-with-me
stride that parted the crowd like Moses and the Red Sea. Something electric
snapped in the air, and I knew my quiet night had just gotten a hell of a
lot more interesting.

She stood there in worn jeans, combat boots, and a leather jacket that had
seen better days. Not trying to show skin like the club girls but somehow
commanding more attention. Her eyes scanned the room with military
precision, taking stock of every exit, every threat. I recognized that look.
Had worn it myself once.

The clubhouse wasn’t much to look at. Worn hardwood floors bearing
cigarette burns and knife marks that told stories of parties past. The walls
were covered in a collection of road signs, license plates, and probably a
bit too much Harley-Davidson memorabilia. The lighting was shit — dim
yellow bulbs — but it hid the stains well enough.

She wrinkled her nose, probably at the cocktail of smells — stale beer,
motor oil, leather, sweat, and the unmistakable scent of sex. Her shoulders
tensed as two hang-arounds brushed past her, but she stood her ground.
Didn’t flinch. Interesting.

Charming sat at his usual table in the corner, silver-threaded hair
catching the light as he nodded at something Havoc was saying. Even from
across the room, you could feel his presence. His years as president had
that effect. Men unconsciously straightened when he looked their way,
women’s voices dropped to deferential tones. Not out of fear — though
plenty feared him — but out of the kind of respect that can’t be
demanded, only earned.

I watched her clock him immediately. Smart girl. In a room full of
predators, she’d identified the alpha in seconds. Her eyes narrowed
slightly, assessing, calculating. But she didn’t approach. Instead,
she made her way to the bar, keeping her back to the wall, ordering
something I couldn’t hear over the music.

“Who’s the new blood?” Chaos appeared beside me, beer in
hand, voice unnecessarily loud as usual.

“Don’t know yet,” I said, not taking my eyes off her.
“But I’m about to find out.”

“She looks like she’d cut your dick off for saying hello
wrong.” He grinned, obviously considering this a challenge rather than
a warning.

“Then I better say it right.” I drained my whiskey and set the
glass down with a decisive clink.

Across the room, one of the club girls — a blonde with tits that defied
gravity and the IQ of a doorknob — was trying to chat her up. Probably
recruiting for the stable, or assessing if she would be a rival. The
strawberry blonde’s expression had gone from cautious to thunderous.
Time to intervene before something ugly happened.

I crossed the floor in long strides, noticing how several of the brothers
were now watching with idle interest. New female faces always drew
attention, especially ones that didn’t fit the typical groupie
mold.

“Tiffany,” I said to the blonde, not bothering with
pleasantries, “I think Java’s looking for you.”

She pouted, those silicone lips forming a perfect bow. “I’m
just being friendly, Rebel.”

“Be friendly elsewhere.” My tone left no room for
argument.

She huffed but retreated, her six-inch heels clicking against the hardwood.
I turned to the newcomer, close enough now to see the freckles scattered
across her face and the tension in her jaw.

“The recruitment pitch gets old fast,” I said, not bothering
with introductions yet. “You looking for someone specific, or just
lost?”

Her eyes — startlingly blue up close — locked onto mine. “Do I look
like the type that gets lost?”

Southern accent. Georgia, maybe. And an attitude I could feel from three
feet away.

I smirked. “No, you look like the type that walks into a biker
clubhouse alone on purpose. Which means you’re either crazy or have a
death wish.”

“Or I can handle myself.” Her hand shifted slightly, drawing my
attention to the slight bulge under her jacket. Carrying. Interesting.

“I don’t doubt it.” I gestured to the bartender for two
more drinks. “But even the best fighters might think twice about a
thirty-to-one ratio.”

The corner of her mouth twitched — not quite a smile, but close.
“Thirty? I counted fourteen, and half of them are too drunk to stand
straight.”

I laughed, genuinely surprised. “You military?”

Something darkened in her expression. “Was.”

The bartender slid two whiskeys toward us. I pushed one her way.
“I’m Rebel.”

She eyed the drink suspiciously. “Original.”

“Says the girl who hasn’t given her name at all.”

She picked up the glass, sniffed it, then took a small sip. Testing.
“Rio.”

“Like the city?”

“Like the river. It flows where it wants to.”

I raised my glass in acknowledgment and took a swallow, feeling the burn
hit my throat. “So what brings you to our humble establishment, Rio
who flows where she wants to?”

Her eyes flicked around the room again, lingering on a group of Prospects
playing pool. “Just passing through. Heard this was where the action
is in this shithole town.”

“And what kind of action are you looking for?” I kept my tone
neutral, but we both knew what the question implied in a place like
this.

She met my gaze head-on, challenge sparking. “Not the kind
you’re thinking.”

“You’d be surprised what I’m thinking.”

A commotion near the door drew our attention. Two Prospects escorting a
belligerent drunk outside, his protests lost in the music. Rio’s hand
had drifted back toward her concealed weapon, her body tensing for
trouble.

“Relax,” I said, stepping slightly closer. “Just the
usual Friday night housekeeping.”

“I don’t relax in places I don’t know with people I
don’t trust,” she said, but her hand dropped back to her
side.

I studied her for a moment — the way she held herself, alert but not
skittish. Dangerous but controlled. “Smart policy.”

Across the room, Charming’s gaze connected with mine, one silver
eyebrow raised in silent question. I gave a subtle nod. Nothing to worry
about. Yet.

“Your President’s watching,” Rio said without turning
around. The observation impressed me — she’d maintained awareness of
the room without being obvious about it.

“He notices everything,” I confirmed. “Especially
strangers with hidden weapons.”

 

About the Author

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

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

 

Author on Facebook, Instagram, & TikTok: @harleywylde

 

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

 

Pre-Order Today


RABT Book Tours & PR

PREORDER BLITZ: Sanguine Shadows by Will Okati

Posted on by

 

LGBTQ+ Vampire Romance

Date Published: April 11, 2025

 

 

This is where everything changes.

 

Darce has done his best to live off the radar as one of the bloodkind,
keeping himself separate from the company of other vampires and the danger
they court. The cowboy might be lonely in his solitude, but he’s safe.

Raven’s come to change that. He’s come to change everything.

A newly made bloodkind, Raven’s out to shake up the old world order that
oppresses their kind. He carries Darce along in his wake like a leaf on the
tide, pushes and goads and tops from the bottom, inciting Darce to lust,
passion and action. He makes a centuries-old cowboy feel alive again,
something well worth taking risks for.

But when Raven challenges the Sanguine, the most dangerous of all vampires,
has he gone too far?

 

 

EXCERPT

 

All he’d wanted was a quiet drink.

Darce swirled the drop or three of tequila left in his shot glass and
raised it to the guy who tended bar in this backwoods dive. If he had a
name, or if the bar did, Darce didn’t know it and he liked it that way. Tall
and skinny as a pool cue, his head shaved just as bald, he didn’t talk much
and took Darce’s glass with a grunt. Didn’t ask what Darce wanted. You had
your choice here of PBR, Bud, Jose and JD. Like ’em or find somewhere else
to drink.

Tequila suited Darce fine. Didn’t do anything for him, no, his being a dead
man walking and all — vampire, as some might say — but he’d developed a
taste for agave over the years. He held up one finger. Already had two, and
three was one more than his usual.

The bartender shrugged, not giving too much of a damn. Maybe the folks
around here knew what he was. Maybe they didn’t. Knew enough to keep their
mouths shut, anyway.

One more drink in peace and it’d be time to walk. He had a peaceful stretch
of road home, nothing but the cicadas and bullfrogs and the yellow half-moon
to guide him on his way. Nothing to hinder him.

Until the stranger slid onto the bar stool next to Darce and jostled him
like they were old friends, bumping his shoulder. “I’ve got this
one,” he said. Sounded young. “One for me, too.”

The bartender eyed Darce’s new companion.

“I’ll pay my own way,” Darce said; that, and nothing more.

“Ouch. Not too friendly there, cowboy,” the new arrival said. He
swung around to give Darce a bold once-over.

Out of his peripheral vision, Darce got a good enough look at the new kid.
Pretty. Fresh-faced and young, his jaw cut firm and his grin made for
promising wicked deeds in the dark. He had a dusting of freckles on his nose
and cheeks that nearly tempted Darce into a snort of humor because he’d seen
a lot in his time but a vampire with a scattering of pale sepia freckles was
a new one on even him.

“I’m Raven,” the vamp said, offering his hand along with his
unlikely name. Darce snorted quietly. Raven, Silvershadow, Witchlight, Darce
had heard ’em all and believed none. This one would be newly made, then, not
knowing of the rules by which their kind lived. Which were no rules at all,
for the most part, except to watch your back in case someone was sneaking up
to shove a silver knife in it, and most of all to keep to yourself.

“That a fact,” Darce said, not asking it. He caught the shot
glass as the bartender slid it his way, amber drops spilling over the backs
of his fingers.

Raven waited, then laughed under his breath. “And you’re not going to
tell me your name. That’s okay. I already know who you are.”

Darce stilled. That was more than he cared to have bandied about.
“You’d be wise to keep that to yourself. That and your own name. Names
get you in trouble.”

“Do they really,” Raven murmured. He swallowed his drink like a
man with nary a grimace nor a cough. Not new to that game, at least.

Darce shot him a sideways glare. He shook his hair back and slammed the
tequila neat, no salt or lime around here. Damn hair; it’d been long, near
to chin length when he’d come across, and no matter how he cut it back it’d
grow out by the next new moon.

Freckles there had short hair, crisp-cut dark, some kind of gel keeping it
stuck up in spikes that looked sharp enough to prick a finger on. So young
he was damn near veal, and fresh meat for any who cared to take a bite. No
wonder he’d been turned. Someone had wanted to keep him that young and
pretty for good, was Darce’s bet.

And he’d gotten away. Darce wondered how, for a second, then discarded the
question. Not his business. He backslapped his empty shot glass across the
bar and licked his lips to get the last of the burning-hot taste off
them.

“Now there’s a pretty sight,” Raven said, his gaze hot where it
glanced over Darce’s face.

A vampire sometimes liked to pretend to breathe, to mix in all the better,
and for the most part Darce did it well. He drew air in through his nose and
let it out slow and smooth. “You want to watch that kind of talk around
here,” he said. “Matter of fact, you want to keep your mouth
tighter shut overall if you don’t want trouble.”

Raven laughed loud enough to draw a few wary looks. No one who drank in
that backwater Texas dive wanted to draw attention, except this young’un.
“You honestly think you’re fooling anyone?” He lazily drew his
finger around the rim of his shot glass. “Look around you, old man.
Pretty crowded in here tonight for a place like this. I count fifteen heads,
yours and mine and Baldy’s not included, and it’s not a big bar. Yet there’s
an empty space three men deep all around you. No one wants to get too close.
They all know, even if they don’t say. Maybe they don’t want to admit it’s
true, but somewhere inside them they all know what you are — what I am —
and that’s why they leave you be.”

Darce ground his back teeth together. His fangs, folded up against the top
of his mouth usually, rattlesnake-style, slid down and pricked his tongue as
he clamped his jaw shut.

“Must be lonely.” Raven pushed his luck, shifting closer.
“How long’s it been since you traded more than a handful of words with
anyone else? How long have you been around, old man?”

Something cool and firm brushed the top of Darce’s thigh, tantalizingly
close to his groin. He inhaled sharp and quick, and cursed it as a giveaway
that Raven pounced on as sly and quick as a fox.

“If you want,” Raven said, thumbing half an inch away from
Darce’s stiffening cock — it had been a long, long time, whether he’d admit
it out loud or not, “I’ll leave you be. All you have to do is say ‘go,’
and I’ll be out the door.”

“Like hell you would.”

“I think we’re gonna get along, you and me.” Raven stroked higher
up and closer. “You know me already.”

“I know you’re trouble walking on two legs,” Darce said. He
fought with the urge to rise into the teasing pressure. Damn, it’d been half
of forever since someone, anyone, laid a hand on him not in anger or with an
addict’s mindless craving. “I know I want you on your way as fast as
you think you can run.”

“No, you don’t.” Raven’s palm molded over Darce’s cock, his touch
firm and strong as any vampire’s, and for half a moment Darce burned with
curiosity over what this kid’s story was, anyway. What’d shaped him this
way? He forgot that in the next second when Raven moved fast in the way of
their kind, faster than most, his lips brushing Darce’s ear, and said,
“I could leave, or I could take you around back and suck your
dick.” He pierced Darce’s earlobe with one of his fangs, slim and
needle-sharp. “Your choice.”

 

About the Author

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.

 

Will on Facebook

Will’s website

Will on Etsy

 

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

 

Pre-Order Today

 

 

RABT Book Tours & PR

TEASER: Reclaiming Venom by Harley Wylde

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(Dixie Reapers MC)

Motorcycle Club Romance, 2nd Chance Romance

Date Published: April 11, 2025

 

 

What happens when a life shrouded in memories fades away, leaving only a
faint echo of love?

 

Ridley — Life can change in an instant. For me, it was the day I got that
devastating call — my world crumbled when I found out my husband, Venom,
had been shot. He woke up, but the man I loved was a stranger. Then someone
gave me a great idea. Make him fall for me all over again! Venom might not
remember our past, but deep down, I know our connection is still
there.

Venom — I woke up in a hospital, no idea how I got there or what the hell
happened. The angel by my bed seems familiar and yet not. Then she tells me
she’s my wife. What the hell?

But as I spend time with Ridley, every story she shares awakens something
deep within me. Her laughter, her warmth… the taste of her
lips… every moment I spend with her ignites a spark that feels so
right. I may not remember our years together, but I know one thing for sure:
she’s mine.

Fall in love with the thrill of the ride, the heartache of forgotten
memories, and the fierce determination of a love that refuses to die.

WARNING: Reclaiming Venom is intended for readers 18+ due to adult
situations, bad language, and violence. While Reclaiming Venom can be read
as a standalone, we recommended you read Venom (A Dixie Reapers MC 1) and
Emergency Date (Swift Angels MC 2) first to better appreciate Reclaiming
Venom.

 

 

EXCERPT

Venom

I moved quickly, coming up behind Tinker. I couldn’t believe this
asshole was still alive. Pressing the barrel of my gun to his head, I made
sure I had his fucking attention. “Drop it. Now!”

Tinker froze, a string of curses spilling from his lips. Slowly, he turned
to face me, realization dawning in his eyes.

“You sneaky bastards,” he snarled.

Torch and Bull emerged from the shadows, their own weapons trained on
Tinker. The old man’s face contorted with rage. “This is all
your fault,” he spat at us. “You and your damned
club!”

Torch stepped forward. “Until you decided to stir up shit, we all
thought you were dead. Why now, Tinker? Why didn’t you just stay
gone?”

Tinker’s laugh was bitter. “You want to know why?”

His gaze darted to Justin, the President of the Swift Angels MC. “I
only found out about him a year ago. My own flesh and blood, a cop. I
watched. I waited. Hoped maybe he’d at least be dirty, something I
could work with.”

I got it. Sort of. I hadn’t been too pleased to find out my son,
Dawson, was not only a fireman, but also the VP of another club. I’d
hoped he’d follow in my footsteps. But now, I had to admit I was proud
of the man he’d become.

“Then I realized,” Tinker continued, a cruel smile twisting his
features, “that the Swift Angels had ties to you Dixie Reaper scum.
That’s when I knew it was time to make my move. All these decades,
waiting for a chance to get revenge, and it fell right into my
lap.”

“It’s over, Tinker. You’ve lost. Do you really think
you’ll get out of this alive? We may not have made sure you were dead
last time, but things are different now,” I said.

Tinker’s grin widened. “You sure about that,
Venom?”

Without warning, chaos erupted. Two men materialized from the shadows
behind Justin. Shit! Wire had said Tinker would be alone. Where the hell had
these men come from?

“Justin, down!” Logan yelled, but it was too late.

A deafening crack split the air. Justin’s body jerked, his blue eyes
wide with shock. Blood bloomed across his chest, a crimson stain spreading
rapidly. “Shit,” he muttered, his voice barely audible before
his knees buckled.

Logan appeared shocked at first, then the paramedic sprang into action. He
snatched the med bag he’d brought as a precaution and sprinted toward
Justin’s fallen form.

Two more shots went off, and pain hit me like a fucking freight train. I
stared at Tinker in confusion as I sank to the ground, everything going dark
around the edges of my vision. I could hear everything around me, even
though it felt like I was down a long tunnel, voices echoing.

“Logan! Hurry the fuck up!” Dawson’s frantic voice cut
through the chaos.

I felt something pooling beneath me and realized it was my own fucking
blood. The world got darker and darker, and I knew I was going under. Jesus
fucking Christ! I’d lived this damn long, and a snake like Tinker got
the drop on me?

Ridley… What the hell would she do without me? I didn’t want
to leave her. There was still so much I wanted to see and do with her.
Regret slammed into me, as I tried to recall if I’d told her I loved
her before we left.

“Diego!” Logan barked. “Keep pressure on Justin’s
wound. I need to check on Venom.”

I felt someone drop beside me, but I couldn’t make out any shapes
anymore.

“We need ambulances,” Logan shouted. “Two of them.
Now!”

I felt someone rip open my shirt and try to staunch the flow of blood, but
I knew it was too late. Nothing could save me now.

“Dad.” Dawson’s voice broke as someone knelt beside me.
Was it Dawson? “Dad, can you hear me?”

I heard Logan’s voice on the other side of me. “He’s lost
a lot of blood. We need to get him to the hospital immediately.”

Logan worked on packing my wounds. I wanted to tell him to save someone
else, that I’d finally come to the end of my journey, but I
couldn’t form the words. My body felt cold, and soon even the noises
around me faded to nothing.

Ridley… I’m so fucking sorry for leaving you. I’ll
always love you.

* * *

Ridley

I stared at my son in horror, seeing my husband’s blood all over him.
I wordlessly handed him a change of clothes and watched as he rushed off to
a bathroom. Jesus. He’d told me it was bad, but… there was so
much blood.

I looked over at Torch, and he came closer.

“What happened?” I asked. “There were so many of you. Was
Tinker really that hard to take down?”

Torch sighed and ran a hand over his beard. “He wasn’t alone.
Not Wire’s fault. Somewhere he picked up two helpers. While Venom had
his gun to Tinker’s head, the other two came out of nowhere. They shot
Justin first, and while our focus was on him, the other one shot
Venom.”

I pressed a hand to my chest, my knees feeling weak. “How bad? And
don’t fucking lie to me, Torch.”

“It’s bad, Ridley,” he murmured. “He nearly coded
in the ambulance. By some miracle, the paramedics were able to get him back.
They rushed him to surgery the minute we arrived. If it hadn’t been
for Logan, he’d have died before they even got there.”

Right when my knees gave out, someone caught me. I glanced up to see Viking
behind me. He hugged me tight before picking me up and carrying me over to a
chair. He gently eased me down, and I leaned forward, pressing my head to my
knees.

“This can’t be happening,” I whispered. “All these
years, and this happens now? He was supposed to be safer. He stepped down as
VP, and I thought, for sure, most of the danger was behind us.”

Torch took the spot beside me, and Savior sat on the other. We remained
silent, praying and hoping for good news. It felt like an eternity before
two doctors came out. One talked to the Swift Angels first about Justin, and
the other came to me. He faced me, his expression grim, and my heart
dropped.

“Venom has a long road to travel before he’s back on his feet.
He made it through surgery, but… we lost him. We were about to call
time of death, when his heart started beating again. He’s been moved
to recovery, but it’s been decided it would be best to place him in a
coma to help with the healing process.”

“What…” I licked my lips. “What does that
mean?”

“He’s going to sleep until his body is mostly repaired. Then
we’ll see if we can get him awake again.”

“What do you mean you’ll see?” Panic welled inside me.
“He has to wake up!”

The doctor nodded. “I understand how you feel, but his
situation… it’s not the best. For a man his age, well.
There’s a lot of trauma to his body. There’s no way of telling
when he’ll wake up.”

“Or if, right?” I asked, giving a bitter laugh.
“You’re telling me he’s alive, but I may never get the
chance to talk to him again? To see his eyes open, or hear him laugh? What
the hell am I supposed to do with that?”

I heard my voice rising but couldn’t stop it. Tears streaked my
cheek, and I felt the hysteria welling inside me. Then my son was there.
Dawson wrapped me in his arms, and I sobbed against his chest while he spoke
with the doctor.

Venom. You better come back to me! I can’t live without you.

 

About the Author

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

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

Author on Facebook, Instagram, & TikTok: @harleywylde


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

Pre-Order Today

RABT Book Tours & PR

PREORDER BLITZ: Fallen by Megan Slayer

Posted on by

Paranormal Romance

Date Published: April 4, 2025

 

 

He may be her salvation — if she’s willing to lose her wings all over
again.

 

Livia was cast out of heaven for the crime of falling in love with a human.
So what’s a fallen angel to do when she meets the man of her dreams? Falling
certainly has its perks.

Ty didn’t expect the angel at his party to be fallen or to have a murky
past. He also didn’t expect her to end up in his arms. Now he’s not about to
let the past stand in the way of their future.

 

EXCERPT

 

Parties are so lame.

Livia crossed her arms and stared at the people swaying before her. Hard
rock blasted from the speakers and rumbled the floor. She flicked a lock of
her hair over her shoulder. Dancing, laughing, and more than enough
drinking. She sighed. When was the last time she’d danced and laughed? Hell.
She couldn’t remember.

She wanted to dance, to wrap her arms around a torso thick with muscle, to
rest her head on a taut set of pecs and hear the heartbeat of a red-blooded
male like the one she’d drooled over in her history course. He’d mentioned
throwing an event. She wanted to see him, to see if he was actually like the
persona she’d created for him in her mind.

She snorted. Meeting a guy was probably not the best reason to attend a
costume party off campus, but who cared? It wasn’t like she had anyone
keeping tabs on her.

A young man dressed as a gladiator ambled toward her. “Hel-lo,
beautiful.” A wide grin curled his lips. His blond hair flopped over
his brow as he winked and pointed to her with his sloshing cup. “You
shouldn’t stand in the corner alone. Might get your wings dirty.”

Wings? She crooked one brow. She’d come as a Madonna look-alike, not an
angel. When she glanced over her shoulder, sure enough, her wings were there
— translucent, but there. Odd. “They’ll wash.” Her wings had been
ripped off over two thousand years prior. When – and how — the hell had
they come back?

“Yeah?” He wobbled on his feet. “Feathers work in a washing
machine?” He burped and his dark eyes widened. “I made a
funny.” He swayed again and splashed beer onto her bustier.

Livia gritted her teeth. This wasn’t the man she had in mind. Her dream man
didn’t slop alcohol on anyone — as far as she knew. Was the man in her mind
simply a figment of her imagination? An impossibility? Probably. She’d been
around far too long and seen more than her share of good men fall by the
wayside.

At least washing the beer stench out of her clothes wouldn’t be too
difficult.

“So, do ya wanna go make out?” He licked his lips. “I’m a
great kisser, and I bet you do wonders with those tits.”

“Go home, Brett.”

Livia’s blood turned to fire in her veins. The deep, gravelly voice set her
nerves on edge. If the drunken fool would just blow, she could at least see
the guy who’d come to her aid. If he was Tyler from history class, then even
better.

“Butt out, Ty.” Brett smacked his lips. “We were gonna have
sex. Me and those lovelies.” He reached out, hands hovering over her
chest. “Come to Brett. Again.”

Again? Who was this clown? “I wouldn’t have sex with you if you were
the last man alive,” Livia snapped and slapped his hands away.
“You spilled beer on me, and you’re an ass.”

“You’d know.” He swayed into her personal space and murmured in a
much less slurred tone, “I never forgot you.”

Never forgot her? What the hell was this guy drinking? She stared at the
drunken gladiator. Nothing about him really stood out. Still, at her age,
everything looked a little familiar. He couldn’t possibly be him. Isaiah was
dead. She’d seen him die over three centuries ago.

“Okay, time for Brett to go home. I don’t want shit on my carpet, and
she’s not interested.” The owner of the deep voice stepped out from
behind Livia and grabbed Brett’s arms. Her jaw dropped. This man was the
man. The man. Tyler Wilson embodied her innermost desires, and he was right
there protecting her.

Lean muscle filled out Ty’s tall frame. What would it feel like to have his
hands on her body? To run her fingers through his thick, dark hair and
listen to him murmur dirty things as they explored each other’s bodies —
what would it be like? A flash of bodies moving together and the look of
sheer lust in his blue eyes filled her mind. Oh, good God, it would be
almost heaven. Her pussy clenched and liquid heat coated her panties.

If he felt the heat, too. She couldn’t hope to be so lucky again. The
run-in with Brett or whoever he was had served as a cold reminder of what
she’d fallen for and couldn’t have.

Both men moved through the throng of people and disappeared. She should
stick around and find out if Ty was interested or if he was just keeping an
eye on his property. Not that she could blame him. Dumped beer could be
murder on a sound system. Not that her opinion mattered much. She was just a
partygoer like everyone else there. She folded her arms. Every moment she
waited, her conscience ate into her a little more. Waiting made her look
weak. It made her look needy. Was she needy?

Maybe. Damn.

No. She’d waited long enough. If he really wanted to talk to her, he’d have
come back. She turned and made her way to the apartment door and rummaged
through the pile of coats, looking for hers. Guys like Ty had women chasing
them in swarms. She’d been witness to that every time she walked out of the
Saunders Building. She wasn’t going to follow him around like a damned
puppy. Coat in hand, she turned toward the door. She plowed into a scantily
clad tiger giggling with a cowboy.

“Watch it,” the tiger snapped. “Nice wings, though. Costume
outlet, or did you get them online? I’ve been looking for some just like
them. I want a set. Michael, buy me some like that.”

Livia rolled her eyes. The truth was much too involved. Obscure always
worked. “I don’t remember.”

The cowboy tipped his hat. “Wanna join in?” He bobbed his brows,
and his gaze went straight to her chest. “We’re always looking for
more, and looking at those boobs, you’d be one hell of a third.”

“Michael! You said I was the only one,” she squealed. “No
more thirds.”

Michael shrugged. “Can’t blame me for asking.” He turned his
attention back to Livia. “You in?”

If they only knew what she’d done during her lifetime. “I’m good. No
thanks.” Livia ducked her head and stepped out into the hallway. She
didn’t look up until she hit the stairwell door.

Finally. Freedom.

Livia stopped on the landing and stared up at the sky through the round
stairwell window. Her heart ached. He was out there somewhere. The one man
to complete her. Was he still alive? Had she’d only imagined his death? Or
was she doomed to walk the Earth for the rest of eternity, alone?

Tears burned at the corners of her eyes. It was foolish to pine for the
assumed dead, especially when they’d parted so badly. Still, Isaiah held her
heart and her life in his hands, just as he’d had for the last couple
thousand years.

Footsteps thumped behind her, but she didn’t bother to look up.

“Angel?”

About the Author

Megan Slayer, aka Wendi Zwaduk, is a multi-published, award-winning author
of more than one-hundred short stories and novels. She’s been writing
since 2008 and published since 2009. Her stories range from the contemporary
and paranormal to LGBTQ and white hot themes. No matter what the length, her
works are always hot, but with a lot of heart. She enjoys giving her
characters a second chance at love, no matter what the form. She’s
been nominated at the LRC for Best Author, Best Contemporary, Best
Ménage, Best BDSM and Best Anthology. Her books have made it to the
bestseller lists on various e-tailer sites.

When she’s not writing, Megan spends time with her husband and son as
well as three dogs and three cats. She enjoys art, music and racing, but
football is her sport of choice. She’s an active member of the Friends
of the Keystone-LaGrange Public library.

 

Author on Facebook

Author on Twitter

Author on Instagram

 

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

 

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TEASER TUESDAY: Deuce (Riptide MC) by Anne Kane

Posted on by

Riptide MC, Book 2

 

MC Romance

Date Published: March 7, 2025

Publisher: Changeling Press


 

First impressions and all that… Sophia tried to nail me with a tire
iron.

 

Sophia:

All I wanted was a decent guy who would treat me right and be a good dad to
the kids I’d like to have someday. My first two dates from the
“premier dating app” were total duds. Date number three gave me
the creeps in person. Turns out my instincts were spot on. He slipped
something in my coffee, threw me in the back of a van, and headed out to
sell me! Lucky for me, dad’s a doomsday prepper. Taught me mechanics,
hand to hand combat… all the things you teach your little girl if you
think the world is going to hell. So I pried the door open with a tire iron
and jumped out. And landed at the feet of a 6′ 6″ tatted up
biker.

 

Deuce:

When Rattler and I stopped behind a van at a railroad crossing. a woman
came hurtling out the back like an avenging angel. Blood dripping from road
rash on her arm, she still tried to nail me with a tire iron. Turns out a
trafficking ring abducted her, and she isn’t keen on the idea of being
sold to the highest bidder. She has guts, I’ll give her that. After my
old lady split, I thought I was done with couples shit, but Sophia makes me
rethink my life. Sophia’s mine, and if those assholes want her back,
they’re going to have to go through me.

 

WARNING: Deuce contains graphic violence and adult situations. There is no
cheating, no cliff-hangers and a guaranteed happily-ever-after. Enjoy!

 

Excerpt

All rights reserved.

Copyright ©2025 Anne Kane

 

A fresh wave of dizziness assailed me, and my vision blurred.

“You don’t look so good.” George sounded concerned,
meeting my eyes for the first time since we’d met. “Some fresh
air might help. How about we step outside for a minute?”

“Good idea,” I mumbled. My tongue felt too big for my mouth.
What was happening?

I pushed myself to my feet, and George came around the table. Putting an
arm around my waist, he helped steady me as I stumbled toward the exit.
Thank goodness we’d picked a table near the door. The dizziness
worsened, and I was having trouble seeing.

“Can I help?” It was the girl from the counter. “Should I
call someone?”

By now, if George hadn’t been holding me up, I would have fallen flat
on my face.

“Can you get the door for us?” George sounded confident, like a
man who had things under control. “She just needs a little fresh
air.”

“No problem.”

She opened the door and I staggered outside, leaning heavily on George. The
fresh night air hit me in the face, but it didn’t make me feel any
better. My stomach started to churn. Add nausea to the list of
symptoms.

Someone wrapped an arm around me from the other side and helped George half
carry me across the parking lot. I turned my head, attempting to see who the
new person was but a fresh wave of dizziness assailed me.

“Parked the van over there away from the lights.”

That would be the new person. A guy. I didn’t recognize the voice.
Deep. Possibly sounding creepier than George. I tried to pull away but
whatever was happening left me too weak.

We stopped for a moment, and the creaking of metal hinges sounded loud in
the night.

“Up you go.” George grasped me by the waist. The touch of his
hands creeped me out, but I was too weak to protest.

“Careful. Don’t want to bruise her up. Hard to get full price
for damaged goods.” This comment came from the mystery man as I
concentrated on keeping the contents of my stomach where they
belonged.

“I know what I’m doing. Not like this is my first
time.”

I felt myself being lifted and placed down on a pile of material that
smelled like used motor oil. George’s presence disappeared, and I
heard the metallic echo of a door slamming shut.

I rolled over, and the sudden movement increased the nausea. I pushed
myself up on all fours, my head hanging down as I took deep breaths and
tried to steady myself. The smell from the questionable stuff under me did
not help with the nausea.

The floor shifted suddenly, and I lost my balance, falling to the floor. My
stomach heaved in protest, and I vomited up the bitter coffee along with the
lasagna I’d had for dinner before heading off to meet George.

Having emptied my stomach, I collapsed on my side, breathing heavily. The
nausea and dizziness retreated to a manageable level. I opened my eyes
cautiously.

I could see better now. It was dark, but as my eyes adjusted to the dim
lighting, I realized I was in some type of vehicle, and it was moving. I
recalled the words of the mysterious second man. A van – like a
delivery truck. There was a wall. I couldn’t get upfront to where the
guys were sitting. And I was damn sure I didn’t want to go where they
were taking me.

I pushed myself upright into a sitting position. Despite the lingering
dizziness in my head, one thing was abundantly clear. I needed to get out of
here.

I used a handful of whatever I was laying on to wipe my face, gagging at
the smell. Standing seemed like a bad idea, with the van lurching back and
forth. It needed a decent alignment. Or some new shocks. Whatever. Not my
problem.

I crawled to the back of the vehicle. I was still weak, but as my head
slowly cleared, I realized I must have been drugged.

The bitter tasting coffee. George must have slipped something in my coffee
when I went to get the rags to clean up his mess. Had the mess been
intentional to get me out of the way so he could spike my drink?

These guys knew what they were doing, and that spurred my need to escape.
There were two of them and one of me. Even if I managed to throw off the
effects of the drug, there was no way I could fight off two full grown men.
My imagination went into overdrive. I had to assume wherever they were
taking me was not public. They could do whatever they wanted and there would
be no one to hear me scream.

Fear-fueled adrenaline overpowered the remaining drug in my system. I
scrambled my way to the back of the van and clawed at the doors.

I screamed as loud as I could. Surely someone would hear me and go for
help. Or call the cops. People didn’t seem to want to get involved
these days, but surely a woman screaming from inside a van would get some
kind of response.

“Scream all you want. No one else can hear you,” George shared
with an repulsive chuckle.

Weren’t these delivery vans supposed to have a release on the inside
so people didn’t get trapped in them? I got unsteadily to my feet and
reached up as high as I could, sliding my hands down the doors. It had to be
here somewhere.

Two thirds of the way down, I found it. My heart sank. There was a latch
all right, but someone had broken it off. When I tried to push it, the latch
swung loosely around in a circle without any effect on the doors.

I screamed in frustration and banged on the doors until my hands felt raw.
Sinking down on my haunches, I let out a helpless sob.

I pulled myself together. I wasn’t going to just sit here and wait
for whatever sick plans these guys had for me. I crawled across the floor,
feeling frantically for something, anything, that I could use to pry the
doors open.

In the front corner, I found it. A tire iron. Gripping it tightly, I made
my way to the back of the van just as it lurched to a stop.

I could hear loud engines, other vehicles pulling up behind the van. I
screamed again. And again. Surely they could hear me, but I wasn’t
going to count on it.

Standing was a whole lot easier now that the van was still. I inserted the
sharp edge of the tire iron between the two doors and pried. Nothing
happened. I screamed in frustration and jerked harder on the tire iron.
Nothing.

I could feel time running out. Fear of what George and his buddies had in
store for me intensified with each passing moment. I had to get out of here.
No knight in shining armor was going to ride in on a white horse and save
me.

I moved the tire iron down so that it was in line with the broken release
and threw my entire body weight against it. For a second, it held fast. Then
the lock gave way with a loud screech of bending metal.

The doors burst open.

Off balance, and still gripping the tire iron with both hands, I fell out
of the van and landed on the pavement with a painful jolt. I rolled over and
staggered to my feet.

Less than a car length away, staring at me from the back of a shiny red and
chrome motorcycle, was the most dangerous looking man I’d ever
seen.

About the Author

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

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

 

Author on Facebook

Author on Twitter

 

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

 

 

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TEASER TUESDAY: Archangel by Marteeka Karland

Posted on by

 

(Black Reign MC 11)

A Bones MC Romance

 

Motorcycle Club Romance

Date Published: February 21, 2025

Publisher: Changeling Press


 

Archangel is always perfect. In complete control. Which makes him a
challenge I can’t resist…


Sonya: Just because I put a blow-up doll in the neighbor’s holiday
yard ornament, or send various embarrassing items up the flagpole
occasionally, doesn’t mean I’m a bad person. But my father
doesn’t see things that way. So he sends me to a man he thinks can
help me “find my inner self.” Otherwise known as get some kind
of job. Just my luck, the man he sends me to is the man I’ve had a
crush on forever. Archangel is strong, soft-spoken, always in control, and
the most perfectly made man I’d ever seen. He’s unflappable. I
can’t resist, even knowing the price I’ll pay. I just hope I can
slink the walk of shame back home before he knows I’m gone. That might
be the only chance I have of protecting my heart.

Archangel: I don’t know what Thorn was thinking when he sent his
daughter to me. Sonya has plagued my every filthy fantasy since the first
time she came home from college to visit friends at my club. I’d known
then I needed to stay away from her. Not only am I way too old for her, but
her daddy is the president of their club. Which puts me and Black Reign MC
in a delicate position. What I could never have predicted was Sonya taking
matters into her own hands. Sonya running isn’t a surprising. Kinda
expected that. What wasn’t on my Bingo card was my forgotten past
catching up with me.

 

 

Excerpt

Copyright ©2025 Marteeka Karland

 

Two blocks down, I saw a big, black Harley heading our way. Even from this
distance the roar of the pipes was distinctive. And I knew the sound well. A
dense trail of smoke had covered the four lanes from where one of the
residences was burning a small pile of brush. Just like in the movies, the
big Harley I’d known was attached to that rumble parted the haze with
smoke circling behind him like a jet trail. The man sitting on the bike was
just as intimidating as the machine. All the scene needed was a slow-motion
sequence and it would be perfect.

Archangel. He was the most unflappable man I’d ever met. There was an
eerie calm surrounding him most of the time. Sure, he laughed and had a good
time like anyone else, but he was the peacemaker. The person everyone called
when they didn’t want El Diablo or El Segador to take up the cause.
More than once, I’d heard Archangel make the statement you knew when
you had a successful negotiation because neither party was completely
satisfied. He didn’t play favorites, and he was always fair, but the
man had a giant stick up his ass the size of a telephone pole.

He crossed across two lanes of traffic at the corner to pull into the
parking lot of the courthouse, not even hesitating at the light as he did.
Brazen, considering where he was, and that three deputies and two city cops
were sitting close by. He parked the bike in front of Lawdawg’s truck
before turning it off and putting down the kickstand. A long, thickly
muscled leg was lifted over the seat as Archangel dismounted and walked
toward the truck and Lawdawg.

I knew there was drool dripping from the corner of my mouth, but I
didn’t fucking care. Archangel was the most perfectly built man
I’d ever had the pleasure of viewing. No matter how many times I saw
him, he was still awe-inspiring. If anyone saw me, all I had to do was point
at the man and any red-blooded woman on the planet who looked would
understand. He wore snug, black jeans. The material clung to his hips and
thighs in all the right places. He didn’t have on a shirt, but his
plain, leather vest covered most of his rippled torso. Which left his arms
bare, and a sliver of chest and abdomen showing when he walked. Muscles and
thick veins roped his arms. Tattoos peeked from his vest and crept up his
arms. His salt-and-pepper hair was over his collar but artfully shaggy, and
his beard was full and neatly trimmed. Mirrored aviator sunglasses rounded
out his outfit. The man rocked it like the ultimate bad boy.

“Hoooooly shit. Are you seeing this?” Linnie sounded in awe and
I glanced at her sharply.

“What the shit, Linnie, you whore!” I wasn’t really mad.
This was how we communicated.

“What?” She didn’t take her gaze from Archangel and the
question was more of a demand. “Tell me you weren’t eye fucking
him too and I’ll be ashamed. Or something. OK. No, I won’t be
ashamed, but look me in the eyes and tell me you weren’t eye fucking
him. Besides, we always eye fuck him together.”

“I’d love to. But I’m too busy eye fucking him to look
you in the eyes and tell you I’m not eye fucking him. Because
I’m eye fucking him like crazy. Also, I’ve changed my mind. We
can’t eye fuck him together anymore.”

“You sure know how to pick ‘em, Sonya. If you change your mind
and decide he’s too much work, let me know. I’ll give it a
shot.”

“Like hell.” I turned and hissed at my friend.
“Mine.”

“You know he’s so much older than you as to not be believed,
right? The man is practically ancient!”

“Red and Rosana have more of an age gap than me and
Archangel.”

“Right. Use their successful age gap relationship to justify your
own. I’m sure it will go over with your dad as well as it would with
my own father.” She had a point.

“Why’s he here, I wonder?”

“Don’t know, Sonya, but if the look on his face is any
indication, the reason can’t be good.”

Whatever was being said between Archangel and Lawdawg seemed to have gotten
under Archangel’s skin. He snatched his glasses from his face and
leaned into Lawdawg’s space. His lips moved, but I couldn’t tell
what he was saying. Mainly because Archangel had his teeth clenched. Lawdawg
shrugged and jerked his head toward the truck where we sat and watched them
from the back seat.

Archangel turned his head to look at the truck and us. Lawdawg spoke,
gesturing with his hands a couple of times while Archangel continued to
stare.

Finally, he nodded, and stepped away from Lawdawg, moving toward the truck.
Archangel came to my side and opened the door. “Come on. Out with
ya.” When I hesitated, he added. “Or I’ll haul you out
over my shoulder. Choice is yours.” Though his eyes looked like he was
furious, his face was relaxed and his voice was calm.

“What crawled up your ass?” The only person in the world I
loved pushing more than Lawdawg was Archangel. Probably because both men
were so naturally uptight yet unflappable. Anyone who followed the rules so
close to the edge should feel anxious at least some of the time. Neither of
these men were. Both of them stayed true to their consciences, but when the
shit hit the fan, they were the calm, driving force behind fixing the fan
and cleaning up the shit.

“When I’m called an hour and a half away to take a young woman
in hand who’s acting like a spoiled teenager, it tends to eat away at
my social niceties.”

“Look, you don’t want my company, I’ll happily catch a
ride back with Linnie and Talia. I’m not sure why anyone called you to
begin with. I don’t belong to your club.”

“No. You don’t, thank God, but your daddy thinks you need a
come-to-Jesus meeting about what you’re gonna do with your life. I owe
him one, so I got drafted.”

I blinked. “Are you fucking kidding me?”

“Afraid not, Sonya. Now, come with me. We’ve got a long ride
ahead. You can rest tonight, but tomorrow we’re going to sit down and
figure out your next steps in life.”

“Oh really.” I raised an eyebrow at him. “What if I
don’t want to talk with you about my future? I happen to like my life
the way it is.”

“And that’d be great. Except for stunts like this.” When
I would have continued to argue with him, Archangel snagged my upper arm and
pulled me with him to his bike. His hold wasn’t painful, but it was
clear he wouldn’t tolerate me trying to get away from him.

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.

Contact Links

Author on Instagram & TikTok: @marteekakarland

Author on Facebook

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

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TEASER TUESDAY: Razor (Hounds of Hell MC) by Jamie Targaet

Posted on by

Hounds of Hell MC (#6)

MC Romance

Date Published: 2/7/2025

Publisher: Changeling Press


 

She’s a spark I never saw coming, in a fight I can’t afford to
lose.

 

Deva — No Mercy Ink is my sanctuary, the shop I built with my brother
Jackson. But after a string of attacks leaves him in the hospital, I’m
left to defend everything we’ve worked for. That’s when Razor
storms into my life — intimidating, loyal, and maddeningly protective.
He’s everything I’ve avoided in a man, yet I can’t deny
the pull between us. But as danger closes in, it’s clear Victor
Grayson and his crew will stop at nothing to destroy us. Razor swears
he’ll keep me safe, but how can I trust him with my heart when my
survival demands I protect myself?

Razor — Leading the Hounds of Hell means protecting my family at any cost.
When Deva’s world collides with mine, she’s more than just a
mission — she’s a fire I can’t extinguish. Fierce, stubborn,
and utterly captivating, she’s determined to fight for her shop, even
if it puts her in Grayson’s crosshairs. But this isn’t just
about the club or Mercy anymore — it’s about her. The deeper I fall,
the higher the stakes. To win this war, I’ll have to face my past,
defend my future, and prove to Deva that she’s not just worth fighting
for — she’s worth everything.

 

 

Excerpt

Copyright ©2025 Jamie Targaet

 

Deva

Zipping the front of her coat against the bitter cold wind of January, Deva
Crane climbed out of her SUV. After slinging her backpack over one shoulder,
she walked from where she parked behind the building. She and her brother
Jackson had been lucky to have rented a space in the strip mall when they
did. Theirs was a corner shop in a gritty, historic part of Mercy. Dark,
graffiti-style art covered the outer wall of the building, perfect for their
vibe. Decades of imagery and symbols decorated that wall conveying
rebellion, strength, and transformation.

Deva and her brother, called Outcast by his biker brothers, had opened the
shop three years ago. She was damned proud of what they’d built. The
shop’s bold neon sign read “No Mercy Ink” in fiery red and
cool white. She liked the way the sign caught people’s eyes on gray,
rainy days, and the ominous light cast on the street outside at night. It
had been her brother’s idea to tint the windows, and it was a good
one. The lighting made the intricate tattoo designs they displayed there
stand out, giving passersby a taste of the artistry within while maintaining
privacy. A small wrought-iron bench sat out front under the old metal awning
with a bucket that served as an ashtray, finishing the exterior — an
invitation to rest, get lost in thought, smoke a cigarette…

Deva unlocked the shop to get started with her day. As she flipped on the
light, she smiled. Inside the shop was a weird mix of her style and her
brother’s, like an odd cross between an art gallery and an old biker
bar. The walls were painted in dark, muted tones of indigo and slate gray.
There were metal accents and hints of exposed brick lending an authentically
rough vibe to their studio. Framed tattoo flash, custom designs, and photos
of some of their best works hung on the walls.

The waiting area in the front had metal stools and a weathered leather sofa
bought from thrift stores. She placed their high-end aftercare products and
branded merch in a glass display case there. No Mercy Ink was stamped on
everything from leather jackets to T-shirts and trucker hats.

Their tattoo stations were further in, separated by worn steel dividers,
offering their clients a little more privacy. There were three stations. One
was hers, one was Jackson’s, and a third that she hoped to fill one
day with another hired artist. They just needed to get their profit margin a
little higher to finally pull that off. Each station had a tattoo chair, a
tool cabinet, and an adjustable lighting rig. The workstations were well
organized with tattoo machines, bottles of ink, and sterilized needles. The
presentation was important to her because it showed their pride in their
craft. Jackson usually kept his area bare bones, all except for a photo of a
phoenix tattoo that he kept there. It was odd because she was pretty sure it
wasn’t his work. Her station had warmer lighting and a few plants,
reflecting her creative style.

Her goal had been to work on paying bills this morning, since she had no
appointments scheduled today. Business off the street didn’t pick up
until lunchtime or after. But suddenly the door sensor triggered the low
rumbling sound of a chopper engine that Jackson assured her would be so
cool. At first, she’d begrudgingly tolerated it. Over time, she came
to love the rumble of the sensor. Still, Deva had to wonder who was
there.

It was a familiar-looking young woman Deva couldn’t quite place, with
long, red curls and big eyes who stood in the waiting area, looking more
unnerved than excited. Her dark winter coat reached her knees and had a faux
fur-lined hood that she eased back. A tattoo virgin? Deva smiled when the
woman’s gaze found her.

“Hi, there,” Deva said. “Can I help you?”

A flush of color brightened the young woman’s face — no one blushed
quite like a natural redhead — and she nodded. “Yes, I was hoping to
make an appointment to speak with Deva.”

“That’s me. And I’ve got a few minutes. We just opened.
Come on back.” Deva motioned for the woman to follow her, heading for
her own station. Motioning to the tattoo chair, she said, “Have a
seat.”

The woman’s green-eyed gaze took in everything before she sat down,
perching on the edge of the chair. The visitor’s emotions were
palpable, her posture hesitant. Deva waited patiently, giving her the time
and space to speak when she was ready. Whatever it was the young woman was
dealing with, it was obviously still haunting her.

“My boyfriend recommended you,” she explained.
“Axel?”

That got Deva’s attention. Axel was one of the twin enforcers of
Mercy’s chapter of the Hounds of Hell. The same MC her brother
belonged to.

“I know him,” Deva said. “My brother is Outcast. We
co-own this shop and we’re both artists here.”

A little of the tension in her pretty face eased at that. “Outcast
is… very nice.”

Deva laughed. “No, he’s not. He’s a quiet, broody
asshole, but I love him.”

The redhead smiled. “He is quiet and…” Shaking her head,
she held out a hand. “I’m Sadie Downing.”

“Sadie. Well, I’m honored that Axel sent you to me,” Deva
said. “What can I help you with?”

“I’d like to get a tattoo. To, um, cover something up.
It’s…” Sadie paused, drawing in a deep breath, then rose
from the chair instead, her movements deliberate. Shrugging off her heavy
coat, she draped it over the divider and swept her long red curls over her
left shoulder. With hesitant hands, she tugged her shirt off one shoulder,
revealing just enough for Deva to glimpse the markings. What little she
could see was enough to make her stomach twist.

With Sadie glancing over her shoulder, Deva asked, “May
I?”

At Sadie’s nod, Deva gently shifted the shirt and bra strap to reveal
the full extent of the damage. The words “Bobby’s Bitch”
were crudely carved into her skin, a brutal mark of ownership. The sight
infuriated Deva. The jagged, uneven lines spoke volumes — rage,
entitlement, and pain. It was a violation, both physical and emotional,
leaving scars that went far deeper than the skin. Just the thought of the
agony Sadie must have endured made Deva’s stomach churn.

Deva adjusted Sadie’s strap and blouse back into place with care.
Sinking into the chair, Sadie swiped at the tears spilling down her cheeks.
Deva reached for the box of tissues on the counter, handing her one. It took
every ounce of control Deva had not to cry alongside her.

“I’m… sorry,” Sadie said, her voice trembling as
she dabbed at her eyes with the tissue. “Axel thought maybe there was
a way to cover it up. It’s not that he’s bothered by it —
he’s actually been so kind. It’s just…” Her voice
trailed off, unable to finish, the weight of her pain and vulnerability
hanging heavy in the air.

“You want to reclaim that part of you,” Deva said simply.

“Yes.” Sadie nodded. “I’m sure that’s so bad
that there’s probably not a lot you can do but…”

“There’s plenty we can do to cover that,” Deva assured
her. “I get a lot of requests to cover old wounds and scars these
days. It’s a specialty of mine.”

Sadie’s eyes widened, flashing hope. “You can?”

Deva nodded and reached beneath the counter to retrieve a photo album. She
flipped it open to a specific section, her fingers brushing over the pages
with care. Positioning the album on her lap, she turned it so Sadie could
see the images through the protective clear plastic sheets.

“Most of these are cover-ups for cutting scars.” Deva gestured
to the first two pages, which showcased intricately tattooed inner forearms.
The designs were bold yet delicate, turning painful memories into something
personal, meaningful. “But not all,” Deva added, flipping
through the rest of the pages. The other photos featured stunning tattoos
covering hips, thighs, and backs — art meant to reclaim and
transform.

 

About the Author

Jamie Targaet is the author of the Hounds of Hell MC. She’s anxious to
introduce you to this club of gorgeous, dominant men and the lucky women who
surrender to them. The ride is going to get wild at times, not going to lie.
But there’s thrilling action, scorching hot sex scenes, and all the
feels. 

Jamie writes erotic romance for Changeling Press, a little fanfiction on
the side, and she’s an aspiring horror writer in another life. She enjoys
time with her family (including the fur babies). She likes good horror
movies and shows, emo metal and classic rock, and time spent in other worlds
writing and reading. She loves hearing from readers and is looking forward
to hearing from you.

Author Contact Links

Author on Facebook

Author on Amazon

Author’s Website

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

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PREORDER BLITZ: Rain Catcher by Mikala Ash

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Sci-Fi Romance, Multicultural & Interracial

Date Published: January 24, 2025

 

 

2147: Pollution has poisoned the earth, the seas and the air. Fresh, clean water is as precious as gold.

 

Rauni’s Mistress (Rain Catcher 1)

In the squalid red light district of Hobart Town, Roxy Talia earns her living as a porn star to make ends meet. Tobin Kane follows the monsoon rains across the ocean, collecting precious fresh water before it falls into the polluted seas. He and his crew have been blackballed within the industry. Tobin is determined to find a way to keep his beloved ship, the Rauni. That involves Roxy, the sexy vixen who holds the key to saving his future and has been the star of his lusty fantasies for years. Tobin will do whatever it takes to keep his ship — even if he has to kidnap Roxy to do it…

 

Aqua Vitae (Rain Catcher 2)

When Audrey Purcell’s lover Kirk disappears in the aftermath of a bomb blast, the bittersweet experience transforms the shy, bookish girl into a brazen and reckless risk taker. Each shore leave sees her swimming in alcohol and rejoicing in one-night stands — her latest fling being Joachim Muller, a navy commander with a body to die for. Her career takes a great leap forward when she’s given command of a derelict rain catcher, the Aqua Vitae — but her success comes with a price. The echoes of her painful past clash with the promise of the future, threaten her lifelong dream with destruction.

EXCERPT

Excerpt from Rauni’s Mistress

 

With wide eyes and a madly beating heart, Roxy Talia watched the tall,
good- looking stranger enter the crowded hotel bar.

He was absolutely perfect.

His crisp uniform proclaimed him to be an officer, non-military, a merchant
mariner of some sort. Standing in the doorway, silhouetted against the
street lights, he presented an imposing figure, broad shoulders, trim waist,
nicely shaped legs. Once he’d removed his face mask, he’d scanned the dimly
lit bar room with barely disguised distaste. His chiseled features wore a
sad, resigned expression.

When his dark, intense eyes settled on her where she sat at the bar and the
spare stool beside her, Roxy’s heart fluttered. Her nipples had hardened the
instant his eyes met hers. That warm feeling in her belly she’d thought
she’d never feel again washed through her like a spring tide.

He fit her needs exactly, but what was it about him? Her response was as
bewildering as it was desired. She’d often thought these last few years that
she’d become anesthetized to good-looking men. After all, she had her pick
yet here he was, the man she had assumed didn’t exist, shattering her jaded
expectations.

He strode toward Roxy, fixing her with an unwavering gaze.

Roxy gasped, and her sudden intake of breath surprised her. She was
actually nervous at the approach of this man. She took a deep breath to calm
herself and tamped down the fear that her disguise was not good
enough.

That afternoon, Roxy had taken considerable steps to prepare her deception.
She’d dressed in a conservative business suit with a white blouse and
knee-length gray skirt. She’d chosen platform stilettos to give her height,
a tight bandeau to minimize her bust and a platinum wig to disguise her
natural jet hair. For her face, she’d applied ivory foundation and powder to
hide her golden skin, blue lipstick to alter the line of her lips and a fake
mole on her right cheek. To hide her trademark green eyes, she’d inserted
blue contacts and added azure eyeliner and turquoise shadow to alter their
shape.

The hodgepodge of styles, business and tart, created a jarring amalgam of
looks that would confuse any observer. At least that was what she’d
intended. She believed herself to be unrecognizable and the three drunks who
had tried to pick her up so far tonight hadn’t seen her for who she truly
was.

This man, however, was sober. It would be the test of her preparation and
acting skills to fool him. He towered above her, his face impassive, his
attitude commanding. “This seat taken?”

His voice was like honey. It flowed into her ear like sweet syrup, warming
her all the way down to her fluttering belly.

“No,” she said. The voice she’d decided on was deeper than her
own, husky with a faint European accent to hide the Australasian nasal
twang. She’d been practicing all afternoon, intending it to lead any
listener to think she was just another environmental refugee trying to fit
into Hobart Town and not quite succeeding.

The officer sat down. There hadn’t been even a flicker of recognition. If
anything, he displayed total indifference.

Roxy relaxed. Surreptitiously she gazed at the stranger in the bar’s
mirror. In between the bottles of imported and domestic Aqua and Hydra water
and the ubiquitous range of Gills Beer, she considered his heavily defined
features, trying to get a handle on his personality, as if facial lines told
you anything about the inner workings of the mind.

His ebony skin, wearing the sheen of perspiration which was unavoidable in
Hobart Town’s enervating humidity, glowed in the bar’s dim lighting. His
short, black hair was closely cropped, exposing a nicely shaped skull. His
face was heavily textured and seemed to attract the shadows.

“I’m Tobin,” he said and she jumped in surprise.

He was staring back at her reflection. “I’m Su Sha Xie,” she
said, quickly adopting the name of her worst enemy in kindergarten, a
petulant little girl who once had stolen her crayons.

His dark eyes narrowed. “Funny, you don’t look Chinese.”

“It’s a long story.”

Tobin signaled to the barman. “I’m not into long stories today. Want
another?”

“Why not?”

He fished out his card, scowled and flicked it to the barman. “Wanna
sit?”

She followed his gaze to a newly vacated table in the corner. “I
thought we were.”

“Something more comfortable.”

“I’m not a hooker,” she said.

“I didn’t think you were.” He stood up and waited, looking down
at her. “Coming?”

Tobin’s self-confidence was staggering. Then she figured out what it really
was. He didn’t care if she came with him or not. She was just a woman to
him, one of thousands out on this hot Hobart night. Roxy quelled her
momentary annoyance by reminding herself that this was exactly why she was
here in disguise. She wanted, for once, to be just an ordinary woman.

“Sure.”

The barman returned with two beers. Tobin took his card, picked up the
bottles and, weaving through a group of drunken marines, strode over to the
table.

Roxy followed. The view of his physique from behind was as impressive as
from the front. His broad shoulders gave way to bulging biceps which were
barely contained by the short sleeves of his shirt. He sported a trim waist,
slim hips and oh so tight buns atop sturdy but shapely legs. The musculature
of which screamed both stamina and strength.

Roxy approved. Unlike the men she knew, Tobin’s body lacked the artificial
contours gained in the gym. He was used to real work, and hard work at
that.

Tobin sat down without waiting for her. “I meant it. I’m not a
hooker.”

“I believe you.” He took a swig of his beer, his eyes fixed on
hers. “I’m not looking for a hooker.”

“What are you looking for?”

He took a swig of beer and motioned to the chair.

She sat.

“So, keeping it short, what’s your story?” she asked finally,
putting an amused tone in her voice.

He looked into his beer. “No potted histories, please. Let me tell you
who you are and then I’ll tell you who I am.”

Her heart stopped. Damn it, he’d recognized her after all. She’d hoped she
could have at least one encounter with someone who didn’t know who she was.
Her anticipation of the night she’d planned collapsed and the despair in the
bottom of her chest stirred.

“We are two of a kind,” he said slowly. “You tell me you’re
not a hooker, I say I believe you. Then you tell me again to make sure. You
are balancing on stiletto heels to make you appear taller than you really
are. You are wearing an appalling wig and, geeze, to apply all that makeup
you must have used a bricklayer’s trowel. So, I’m assuming you don’t want to
be recognized.”

His eyes trapped her in an inescapable gaze and she felt like she was
falling into their dark depths. Within her chest her heart thudded like a
prisoner beating against prison bars and in her ears, her blood roared. She
could barely breathe waiting for him to say her name and shatter her desire.
She so much wanted this stranger not to recognize her.

“You don’t want to be recognized,” he repeated. “Well,
that’s fine by me. I don’t want to know who you really are, and I’ll believe
whatever you tell me.”

Confusion roiled inside her mind. What game was he playing? Did he
recognize her or not?

Roxy cleared her throat. “You said we are two of a kind.”

“Well, you see, Su, I don’t want to be me tonight either. So the
reason I’m here, in this bar in this dodgy hotel in this stinking rotten
town, is to be anyone but me, okay? Like you, I want to be someone else, if
just for the night.”

 

About the Author

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

 

Author on Facebook

Author on Twitter

 

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

 

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PREORDER BLITZ: Wildcard by Angela Knight

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Sci-Fi Romance, BDSM

Date Published: November 22, 2024

 


 

 

Passion’s the pot when Rowan Kerr draws the Wildcard.

 

Though she lives in a world of Beyonce and iPhones, Indra Fox thinks she
may be an alien. She’s too strong, too fast, and heals too quickly to
be merely human. But she doesn’t know for sure, because her parents
refused to tell her. Nor would they explain why she — and her equally
superhuman best friend, Diana Newman — were raised to be warriors.

When their families are murdered, Indra and Diana seek revenge on their
killers, Satan’s Horsemen. Then Diana is kidnapped, and Indra goes
undercover at a strip club the gang owns to discover where her friend has
been taken.

But when Rowan Kerr walks into the club, Indra realizes he’s even
more powerful than she is. Rowan says he knows who she really is and what
she was created to do, but she must go with him to learn the truth.

Indra will do anything to save Diana. Including embracing her destiny as
something more than human.

Rowan thinks Indra could be the teammate — and lover — he dreams of. But
she’s mad as hell about being kept in ignorance, and she’s
convinced that she’s been betrayed by the woman he works for.
What’s worse, she’s not wrong. Can he convince her to take a
chance on him? And can Indra and Rowan defeat the very real aliens who are
behind Diana’s abduction?

 

They’d better, or humanity will pay the price for their
failure.

 

 


 

EXCERPT

Rowan

I eyed the long, low stucco building as I got out of the car.

Pink neon depicted the outline of a writhing nude woman with a tail and cat
ears wrapped around a purple neon stripper pole. More neon read “Pole
Katz Gentleman’s Club,” in red.

You sure this is the right address? I asked my computer implant.

Qubit’s silky female voice replied, Her nanos ping from this
location, and have been doing so for five hours a night for thirty-eight
days. There’s a 93.8 percent chance she’s working here.

Why? She sure doesn’t need the money. I frowned at the neon stripper.
Has to be hunting.

Odds are running at 87.6, Qubit agreed.

Indra Fox was going to be about as happy to see me as a serial killer
finding cops at the door. And for the same reason.

I headed for the purple awning over the club’s entrance. Even without
enhanced senses, I’d have been able to hear the music — Beyonce
purring about getting frisky in a limo.

Qubit displayed results from sensor scans and web searches along the
periphery of my visual field, flashing the club’s layout and the
number of people inside — one hundred and fifty-three patrons and staff. Of
those, one hundred and fifty-two were Nats — natural humans. There was only
one who wasn’t. Indra Fox.

Double doors led into a narrow, black-walled foyer vibrating with music
just short of deafening. To my left stood a cashier’s window where a
bored-looking woman in a bare-midriff Pole Katz T manned a Square station. A
sign over the window informed me of the twenty-dollar cover charge.

“Hi, there,” the cashier purred, giving me an approving
once-over.

Pulling out my wallet, I peeled off a twenty and handed it over.

“Thanks,” she said. “Enjoy.”

“I’m sure I will.” I turned to find a narrow-eyed bouncer
glowering by the curtained entry to the main room. He wore black chinos and
a black T that said SECURITY in all caps. He looked the part, too —
six-foot-three, 232.8 pounds, per Qubit’s sensors — with skin the
color of teak, a shaved head, and full-sleeve tats on massive arms. Judging
from his expression, he didn’t like the looks of me. Probably because
big as he was, I was bigger. I suspected he was also trying to figure out if
I was a cop. Or worse, if I’d get drunk and disorderly, and if he
could handle me if I did.

Dude, you wouldn’t have a prayer.

“Don’t touch the girls,” he warned. “Be a
gentleman.”

“I’m never anything but.”

He looked dubious, but I gave him a twenty-dollar tip, and he relaxed as if
reassured. Which might be a bit premature, depending on what happened with
Fox.

I stepped past him through the curtained doorway into an eye-searing storm
of thumping music and colored light. The club’s dark walls were
covered with neon silhouettes of women in erotic poses, and the floor was
scuffed dark wood. A curving translucent bar glowed to the right, edged in
yet more neon.

You need to buy a drink first, Qubit told me. There’s an etiquette to
patronizing these places, and you don’t want to draw attention.

Yeah, I’d hate to be conspicuous. I was six and a half feet tall.
Conspicuous was pretty much baked into the cake. Snorting, I headed to the
bar to collect an overpriced Scotch, then turned to work my way through the
crowd as Qubit scanned for our target.

The focus of the room was an oval stage with a pair of sturdy chrome poles,
a set of four steps at one end. A ring of plump chairs in red velvet
surrounded it, occupied by rapt patrons. Additional groupings of chairs and
tables clustered around that, mostly men, with a few couples scattered here
and there.

A blonde Nat girl worked one of the poles to the cheers and hoots of the
customers. I headed for the chairs around the stage.

If you sit there, you’ll be expected to tip every dancer, Qubit
warned as I dropped into the sole unoccupied seat.

Money not being a problem — one of the perks of working for Mama — I
shrugged. Fine. If Fox is dancing, I want to make eye contact. According to
her file, the only one of us Indra had ever met was Diana Newman. I wanted
to see how she’d react to me.

The blonde dancer bounced upward, grabbed the pole hand over hand and swung
her way around it, arching her leanly muscled body into a seductive curve.
She was down to a G-string and pasties, so she must be most of the way
through her act.

I would have been interested, but I could smell her. Not that she smelled
bad — fresh sweat, some kind of floral shampoo and citrus body wash, a hint
of mint from her mouthwash. But underneath that, she smelled Nat. So no, not
my type, though she had the kind of lean grace you get from swinging around
a pole for hours a day.

Frowning, I watched her spin and grind. Why hadn’t Mama ordered Indra
Fox and Diana Newman picked up when their parents were murdered? Or if not
then, once it became clear they were stalking the killers?

Instead, Mama had let the two run. Now Newman was offline too, and Fox was
still killing assholes.

The blonde finished her routine. Absently, I held up a ten. The Nat
sauntered over and knelt so I could tuck it into her G-string. Giving me a
dazzling smile, she winked. “Want a lap dance?”

I smiled and shook my head. Looking disappointed, she stood and headed for
the next bill. The guy who waved it looked a lot more enthusiastic.

This whole fucking thing is weird. Fox has capped four men in the past
year. Why not pick her up before now? Mama doesn’t approve of merking
people, even actual mercs.

It was a rhetorical question, but Qubit answered anyway. She didn’t
share her reasoning.

There’s a shock.

Not that I was shedding any tears for Fox’s victims. According to the
police files Qubit had hacked, they’d been members of Satan’s
Horsemen, a mercenary gang suspected in a slew of illegal shit — drug
trafficking, prostitution, gun running, murder for hire. No wonder the cops
didn’t care they’d ended up room temperature. Though judging by
the crime scene pics, Fox’s temper was almost as nasty as mine.

The local po-po also suspected Pole Katz was run by the Horsemen, though a
couple of raids had turned up jack in the way of evidence. All they’d
managed to do was charge two girls with allowing a little too much groping
during lap dances.

Any of the gang present?

 

 

About the Author

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

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

 

Author Links

Author’s Website

Author on Facebook

Author on Twitter


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

 

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TEASER TUESDAY: Balor by Harley Wylde

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(Balor’s Saints MC)

 

Fantasy Romance, Motorcycle Club

Date Published: November 15, 2024

 

 

Tap into the magick, feel the heat, and ride along with the Balor’s Saints MC on this unmissable journey of danger and desire.

 

Belladonna: My father, the leader of my coven, is a monster. When I hear
him talking about selling me in marriage to another coven, I know I need to
escape. And there’s only one hope. I have to find the mage who
prophesied to father the most powerful child seen in centuries and get him
to sleep with me.

I knew tricking the notorious dark mage Balor Hades into bed was risky. But
I’d planned to be gone before my spell wore off. Just one
problem… He woke up before I did. Now he’s confined me to his
house… and he’s beyond pissed.

Balor: The witch should have never darkened my doorstep. She definitely
shouldn’t have cast a spell on me. But she did, and now I know
she’s mine… my fated mate. I’ve waited two hundred years,
and now that I have her in my grasp, I’m not letting her go.
I’ll put everything on the line to protect her, even from her own
father. But can the town of Darkwood survive a battle with her coven?

My brothers in the Balor’s Saints MC have my back, even if they
aren’t too sure about Belladonna just yet. With them on my side, I
know we’ll get through this. Except I’ve been keeping something
from them — my real identity. When they find out, will all hell break
loose? Or will they still stand with me to fight against the supernatural
storm brewing?

 

Dive into this supernatural romance that mixes spicy passion with
pulse-pounding action.

 

 

EXCERPT

Balor

Adjusting my leather jacket, I stepped into the clubhouse, letting the door
swing shut behind me. Casual attire suited my alter ego — jeans, a plain
T-shirt, and the jacket that was more than just a piece of clothing. It was
a symbol.

The low hum of conversation filled the room, mingling with the scent of
leather and beer. The clubhouse had an air of camaraderie, the kind that
came from shared secrets and mutual respect. Balor’s Saints MC — my
club. My men. Even if they didn’t realize it yet.

I nodded to someone across the room, my gaze sweeping over the familiar
faces. Collin lounged on the couch, his eyes fixed on the TV screen. The
crime drama playing out seemed a bit too close to home. I’d heard the
whispers when he’d come to town. Seen the warrant myself. He’d
seemed genuine when he’d said the crime had been justified. Still. I
liked to make sure he wasn’t killing anyone while he was here.

I’d built this club gradually, but the idea had come to me about
twenty years ago. Maybe slightly longer, or shorter. As long as I’d
been alive, forget days blurring together. Entire years did. Collin had
joined us about five years ago. I knew for a human that was a decent amount
of time. For the rest of us, it was barely a blip on our radar. None of
these men had known one another before I’d brought them into the club,
and they hadn’t all moved to town even close to the same timeframe.
But somehow, we worked well together, even though we all had a darker side,
including the human. My club brothers weren’t saints — despite our
club name — but we didn’t harm the innocent.

I took in the sharp angles of his face, the pale blue eyes that seemed to
not miss a thing. I didn’t think anything in the room escaped his
notice. Collin was always watchful. I’d wondered if it was because of
the life he’d led running from the law, or if it was something else.
Right now, he seemed at ease. His dark hair was short, the faintest hint of
a five-o’clock shadow along his jaw. He didn’t bother to look my
way as I crossed the room to take a seat beside him.

I watched Clay and Jackson play a game of darts. My gaze moved to the TV. I
didn’t need to look at Collin for what I had planned. I doubted
he’d even realize what I was doing. My magick slid along my skin, like
the soft caress of a lover. I let it slither out, searching. When it brushed
against Collin’s thoughts, I felt the familiar tingle in my
fingertips. He didn’t even flinch. No indication he knew what
I’d done. I’d gotten better at being subtle. No images of blood
or fear. I did see a few images of him fucking one of the strippers down the
road. I wouldn’t deny it made my dick hard. I’d never claimed to
be a saint. Even my club brothers didn’t know how true that was.

“Show any good?” I nodded to the TV.

He snorted. “It’s crap. But it’s better than
nothing.”

The low hum of the TV nearly drowned out the sound of the darts hitting the
board. Someone had turned off the lights in the front of the building, and
shadows crept along the walls in the great room.

Collin shifted on the couch. “Didn’t expect to see you
tonight.”

I offered a faint smile. “Had some business in town. Thought
I’d stop by, have a drink with my club brothers.”

Clay pulled a dart free from the board a few feet away. I watched as the
muscles in his back bunched under his shirt. He threw the dart, and I heard
the thud as it hit the target.

“Not bad,” Jackson Mays said. He pulled his own darts free and
stepped back.

Jackson’s gaze lingered on me for a moment, and I saw his eyes
darken. Not with lust. No. The necromancer didn’t want to fuck me. He
wanted to pull me apart and see what made me tick. I’d have to watch
him. I’d never admit it, but I didn’t know everything he could
do. I’d need to look into his kind a bit more, see how much of a
threat he could be. Another thing I’d been putting off. It
wasn’t like Jackson hadn’t been here for about a decade already.
Then again, there was a chance I wouldn’t be able to dig up much,
regardless of which contacts I used. He seemed like the type who knew how to
keep his secrets buried.

His raven hair was neatly trimmed, his clothing immaculate. I’d
noticed he preferred darker colors, and today was no different. The shirt
and jeans he wore were black, even his boots.

“Think you can do better?” Clay asked.

“I can try.” Jackson’s tone remained calm and
measured.

Clay threw his last dart and joined us, grabbing a beer from the fridge
before he settled into a chair. “You’ve got to be cheating.
There’s no way you’d consistently win against me, not when my
reflexes are better.”

“Just lucky.” Jackson’s lips twitched.

Ben, who’d been sitting at the table, looked up from his phone. He
seemed to see right through me. His dark hair was mussed as if he’d
run his fingers through it repeatedly. A perpetual smirk played on his lips,
and I could see the appeal he’d have for a lot of people. He had a
roguish charm and oozed danger. His looks and confidence didn’t hurt
either. I knew better than to assume he was harmless. I could see it in the
way he carried himself. The others didn’t seem the least bit concerned
about him.

I’d heard a little about him before he joined the club nearly twelve
years ago. Not enough to satisfy my curiosity. He kept to himself a lot.
I’d considered trying to read his thoughts but worried it might scare
him off. I’d wait it out. If he was a threat, we’d figure it out
sooner or later. I’d hoped it would be later. I liked him, and I knew
the others did too.

He stood and made his way over to us. His movements were almost ethereal in
their grace. There was something almost intimate about it, and it made me
understand why so many people offered up their necks to him, or any other
veins he wanted to sink his fangs into.

“This is what we’ve come to? Watching bad TV because
we’re too lazy to find the remote?” he asked.

I chuckled. “It’s not so bad. Beats staring at a wall.”
These men were my brothers, not by blood but by choice. And yet I lied to
them every fucking day. If they ever found out… No, it wouldn’t
do me any good to go down that road. Not until I had to. Sooner or later, my
identity would come out. Nothing remained a secret forever.

Clay took a swig of his beer. “Heard some weird things going on in
town. You hear anything?”

I shrugged. “I hear a lot of things. Some of them might even be
true.”

Ben snorted. “You’d think people would have better things to do
than gossip.”

“Humans have always gossiped,” I said. “It’s in
their nature. But supernaturals are even worse.”

Collin leaned back, stretching his legs out. “So, what’s the
word on the street, then?”

I let my gaze drift over him. “I hear there’s a human in town
who likes to play house with a bunch of supernaturals. As in keeping them
like pets.”

Jackson’s eyes darkened, and I wondered if he’d be seeking out
that person and liberating the enslaved people. Our people. There
weren’t a lot of humans in this town, not compared to the number of
supernatural beings, but the ones we did have didn’t typically cause
trouble. But this person was new and clearly didn’t know the rules
yet.

“Know what else I heard recently?”

 

 

About the Author

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

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