Charlotte “Charlie” Bisset, born to witches but without any magical power whatsoever, is slowly settling into her relationship with medical doctor and vampire Hugo and with Laurette, Elven royalty and passionate baker. While Charlie is reluctant to commit to moving in with her Elf, New Elvenswood is plagued by unnatural vermin attacks.
Hugo is not a possessive vampire, or at least he tries not to be when it comes to his lovers. Yet, his human lover in particular regularly brings out Hugo’s wilder vampire side even if all he wants for her is sweet, fairy-tale love. Odd attacks on unsuspecting people in their city only leave Hugo more unsettled.
Will the Elf Laurette finally get to claim both his lovers publicly as the thruple approaches the next step in their relationship? Will the vermin defeat our heroes in this urban fantasy romantic comedy? Approach the bonfire and find out… if you dare.
Excerpt
New Elvenswood General Hospital quieted during the night, but in Hugo’s experience, no hospital was ever really still. This morning, after another night spent in the OR, the handover during shift change felt calm to Hugo, though. While he filled in his ICU patient’s chart for the team of the next shift, he watched the nurses gossip and stuff their faces with chocolate Easter eggs someone had left at the nurses’ desk.
How is it spring already? Hugo thought, double-checking his prescriptions.
It was only just Midwinter. But of course, the Equinox had come and gone and announced the seasonal shift, and now it was almost Easter, which Hugo saw as the modern catch-all of the traditional spring festivals, and after, it would be Beltane soon.
Generally, as a vampire, Hugo took only a passing interest in seasonal festivities. They marked the passing of time, but with time to spare ahead of him, the festivals were more or less like the hands of a clock, not extraordinary, just steady. However, this year, seeing the chocolate treats in their shiny foil wrappers and the wicker basket full of colored straw and colorful diabetes traps on the nurses’ counter, Hugo felt like an alarm was going off inside him. The sense of an old grandfather clock slowly ticking away time had vanished. His recently changed relationship status had everything to do with that.
Satisfied with his chart after one last check, Hugo walked toward the nurses’ station.
“Oh, good morning, Dr. Glover,” the day nurse said. Hugo had met her a few times, but he still needed to glance at her nametag.
“Nurse Lopez,” he said, handing her the chart. “I’m leaving this one in your capable hands.”
“Ah, a doctor’s handwriting I can actually read,” Lopez swooned, taking the chart and looking it over. Hugo had to agree with her that most younger doctors were not properly trained in cursive.
“Don’t tell me her hands are more capable than mine,” Walters said. He was one of two ICU head nurses. So far as Hugo could tell this was because he managed to bring not just skill but also cheer to the job.
“Never,” Hugo said with a wink. “And by the way, take me off the roster for the Easter weekend, would you?”
“Huh?” Lopez said. “Don’t you always work the holiday shifts?”
Technically true when I was single, Hugo thought. Charlie, born to witches but without inheriting the skill, was not likely to mind much whether he worked or not, but their other lover, Laurette, never passed up any opportunity to celebrate anything, and if Hugo wasn’t there, he’d never hear the end of Laurette’s complaints.
Unless I can convince Charlie to help me convince Laurette to let this celebration go. It was unlikely for the Elf to forego any celebration, however. Hugo knew that all too well.
Then again, while witches focused on the Equinox and on Beltane more, they usually adapted to the surrounding culture to some degree, and New Elvenswood, with its larger-than-average witch population, had Easter fires, complete with the burning of effigies as proxy sacrifices, as well as an Easter egg hunt that was fun for the children and meant to bring prosperity to the grownups who participated.
If she insists, I might be the first vampire in the history of the city to go on an egg hunt with a witch descendant, even if she isn’t a witch. Hugo wasn’t sure whether he wanted to roll his eyes at the idea. He wasn’t sure whether he liked it, running through the woods with Charlie in search of painted eggs, but something about it did seem appealing.
Laurette probably wouldn’t want to come. He lacks the outdoorsy spirit.
Yet, Laurette was willing to do many a thing he didn’t enjoy if it meant pleasing their human lover. The Elf had even — on more than one occasion — interrupted his baking for Charlie. And, while Laurette could be pushy beyond reason, he had so far not pestered Charlie one tiny bit about her failure to come to a decision about moving in with him. Laurette had asked her to do so this past Valentine’s Day among a rain of trickster arrows and a short trip to hell.
“He has a girlfriend now, didn’t you hear?” Walters said, pulling Hugo out of his thoughts.
Lopez looked Hugo up and down.
“Shame,” she said. “You know, I’m into women, but if I’d ever make an exception, they’d better look like you — tall, raven-haired, mysterious, and with those pretty blue, to-die-for eyes.”
Hugo cleared his throat.
“Well, thank you for that… compliment?” he said.
She nodded.
“Yes. Definitely a compliment. So what? Are you settling down? Moving in together?” She wiggled her eyebrows. “Making more adorable –”
“No,” Hugo said. Heavens, if this is what I have to put up with, I feel for every woman who doesn’t want to pump out eggs like the Easter bunny. “But we are spending the weekend together.” He hoped so. He needed to let Charlie know and find out what her plans were. And then, he’d have to navigate whatever extravaganza their Elf had planned.
Elven extravaganza… Hugo sighed, long and deep, and the nurses exchanged a look.
“Sounds like she’s a right handful,” Lopez said. She patted his arm. “I’ve been there, and yes, they are usually the hottest ones.”
Alexa Piper writes steamy romance that ranges from light to dark, from straight to queer. She’s also a coffee addict. Alexa loves writing stories that make her readers laugh and fall in love with the characters in them. Connect with Alexa on Facebook or Instagram, follow her on Twitter, and subscribe to her newsletter!
Elora isn’t a robot, but she isn’t human either. She’s an abominable combination of the two, a cyborg. For this offense, she must face judgment in a court of law. There, it will be decided if she’s a person, owed the same rights as any other, or an object, owed no rights at all.
But when a last-ditch effort to demonstrate her humanity backfires, Elora is faced with an element of human nature she always hoped to avoid: love. The consciousness of a dead man is accidentally downloaded into her cybernetic brain, and she becomes infatuated with his still-living husband—whether she wants to or not.
For Elora, making her way in a solar system that fears and hates her has been hard enough. Now, she must do it as an intermediary between lovers while keeping her own heart in check. With the trial fast approaching, and anti-robot protesters demanding her head, Elora can’t afford to get swept up in someone else’s love story.
It’s the first taste of freedom I’ve had in weeks. It could also be my last. I march handcuffed down the labyrinthian corridors of the Aidos to be ejected out of an airlock, or have my metal components melted down and recycled into engine parts, or be squashed in a giant garbage disposal. No one’s actually told me where I’m going, but it can’t be anywhere good.
An armored squad of meatheads forced me from my cell without a word. They press the barrels of their rifles into my back to keep me walking. The Aidos was assigned to deliver me to the Minos Justice Station for my trial, but we should have arrived three days ago. Plenty of time to find a dark corner of empty space where they could ditch my body without being noticed. I’d been told my confinement was for my safety as well as everyone else’s but always suspected the scale tipped slightly in favor of everyone else’s. Looks like I was right.
We finally arrive at our destination. The door hisses open…and it isn’t an airlock. It’s a conference room. A massive blank viewscreen hangs behind a shiny circular table. Paul Margot, my lawyer, sits beside it, balancing his chair on its back legs and playing a handheld video game. Not a care in the world. As usual, an expensive suit and tie drape his gangly old body, and he’s combed his scarce hair to the side to hide the bald patches. The smell of peppermint wafts from him, the odor so strong I swear I see a green menthol cloud looming in the air.
A Japanese man stands with his arms crossed on the other side of the screen. He isn’t wearing the black-armored uniform of the guards but rather the stark white with gold trim of the Aidos crew. He has a dashing gentleman sort of look about him, and the decorations on his shoulder suggest he’s high in rank. But despite whatever power he might have, he’s hesitant to approach me—like I’m a live bomb. And it’s not an unfair comparison. During the Great Human-AI War, many robots were exactly that. Humankind nearly went extinct in that war, so I don’t blame him for handling me with caution.
A million questions pop into my mind at once, but I settle for the most pertinent: “What the hell?”
“Well, hello to you too,” Paul says.
“See?” the Japanese officer says to him instead of me. “She made it just fine. Now, I’m going to have to ask you to step out.”
“Actually, I think I’ll stay. No one talks to my client without me present.”
“I’m not interested in the legal matters concerning your client, Mr. Margot.”
“And I’m not interested in whatever secret sciency things you have onboard this ship.” Paul laughs. “But I stay. Go right ahead. She can be a little snippy though. Don’t say I didn’t warn you.”
I’m so grateful for Paul. I know the things he does are because he wants to win his case, but sometimes I feel like he actually cares about me.
Still. “Is someone going to tell me what’s going on?” I say, louder this time.
“I apologize, Ms. Cussons.” The Japanese officer stares at me with the same stupefied ogle everyone gives me the first time. There’s been a great deal of discussion over what exactly I am—ranging from papers published in scientific journals to angry rants on internet forums—but the term “half-robotic abomination” would seem to apply. I prefer Metal-American. Either way, most people know about Elora Cussons, the illegal cyborg in the news, and when they hear my story, they think of a half-robotic, hideous monster. When they actually see me, it’s never quite what they were picturing. On the outside, I’m a perfectly ordinary, unspoiled, twenty-two-year-old woman from Kauai. My tan skin and long, mud-brown hair are indistinguishable from any of my neighbors’. Although, the red prison jumpsuit isn’t in fashion.
“Do you know who I am?” the man asks after a moment.
“That’s a negative.” I mock his uptight military bearing.
“My name is Hamasaki. I’m captain of the Aidos. I hope you’ve been treated well.”
“Mm-hm, the brig is simply lovely.”
He clears his throat and straightens his blouse. “I’ll get right to the point, Ms. Cussons. Do you know where we are?”
“You should probably assume I don’t know anything. It’ll be easier.”
“Right. Sorry. This is an unusual situation for me too. We’re parked outside of the Great Compass. A member of our crew is head of research here, and he’s gotten himself into some trouble.”
“Wait, the Great Compass?” Paul cuts in. “I thought research on the Compass was shut down. Some guy died or something last year?”
“Yes, someone did. That’s why our people don’t interact with the technology here anymore. It’s observational study only. At least, it’s supposed to be. Turns out, our guy bit off more than he could chew and was injured a few days ago. We were on our way to pick him up and transport him to the medical facilities on the Minos, which is how we got tagged with giving you a lift. Come to find out, it’s a little more complicated than we thought. He’s inside the core of the Compass itself, which is deadly to biological lifeforms. Going in there was how we lost our crewmember last year, and we can’t risk any more losses by sending in a rescue team. We’ve been scratching our heads since we got here, trying to think up solutions, and one of our people thinks she might have something.”
“You want me to do it,” I conclude. It was easy to follow his story to its inevitable end.
“Wait, wait, wait,” Paul practically bellows. “If you’re trying to force my client—”
“No, nothing like that.” Hamasaki reclaims the reins of the conversation. “No one is forcing Ms. Cussons into anything. But with robotic machines being illegal, she’s our best chance. We’ve had experts in medicine, biology, cybernetics, the whole bit reviewing her files, and everyone agrees. Because she’s more mechanical than biological, if there’s ever been a candidate for safe exposure to the Great Compass, it’s her.” He returns his attention to me. “We wouldn’t ask this of you if we didn’t think there was a high chance of success. We’ve already gotten permission from the council handling your case, and they’ve agreed to push your trial back. But of course, you’re free to refuse. What do you say? Want out of your box? Want to be a hero?”
It’s obvious why he’s asking me himself rather than send a lackey. He’s a salesman. He’s charismatic and energetic, and his good looks don’t hurt either. An excited gleam twinkles in his eye, and I can tell he thinks I’m sold.
Kristin L. Stamper is a writer of YA and adult science fiction. Her interest in storytelling dates back to her childhood when she brought her ideas to life through play-pretend. Once society had successfully pressured her into knocking that off, writing became her new creative outlet. After high school, she spent seven years as an Information Systems Technician in the US Navy, gaining experience in computers and robotics. Currently, she is the mother of a toddler whose favorite pastime is banging on the keyboard while mommy tries to write.
When Trey tells Rainn he’s giving him a very special Christmas gift, he never dreams it will be a tattoo. The matching dragons on their bodies is the sign of a bond never to be broken – at least that’s the plan, until a sudden moment of violence changes everything and Rainn and Trey’s relationship is torn apart.
Returning to his hometown after seven years, Rainn finds that everything is different now, not least where Trey is concerned. Having moved in with his cousin, Marcie, and her husband, Dave, he tries to pick up the threads of his old life as best he can and make the most of the second chance he’s been given.
The holiday season is a time for remembrance and forgiveness for past mistakes, and while volunteering at a Christmas dinner for the homeless, Rainn has an unexpected opportunity to rekindle the bond between himself and Trey.
He would remember this evening for the rest of his life. The strings of colored lights twinkling in the window, the industrial rock playing on the battered old boom box and, most of all, the scratch of the needle as it traced over his shoulder blade.
It hurt, but not in the way he’d been expecting. This was a good pain, not like the time he’d fallen while climbing a tree at the age of six and broken his wrist. That had been agony, and even though the fracture had long since healed, he still recalled how he’d yelled for his mom as he nursed his injured arm. Now, as the tattoo artist continued to work and the machine buzzed, endorphins kicked in and Rainn felt high, the way he did when he ran for miles through the woods surrounding the town.
Still, he couldn’t believe he’d agreed to this. When he and Trey met up, Rainn had expected their usual Friday night out. A couple of beers at O’Malley’s and then a good, hard, bedspring-rattling fuck in Trey’s apartment or Rainn’s bedroom in the home he shared with his mother. Even, if they couldn’t wait until they made it to either of those places, the back seat of Trey’s car. So, when Trey turned to him, blue eyes shining, and said, “I’ve got something special in mind for us. It’s my Christmas present to you,” he hadn’t known what to expect.
As they drove, Trey went on, “You know this is our six-month anniversary, right?”
Rainn nodded. He couldn’t believe the time had passed so quickly since the night he’d looked up from the pool table in the back room of O’Malley’s and seen the tall, dark-haired stranger standing in the doorway, clutching a bottle of Sam Adams. When their eyes met, Rainn had felt an instant connection. He knew it sounded crazy to talk about love at first sight—that didn’t exist outside those soppy Hallmark movies his mom watched—but even then, he’d known this guy was the one.
He hadn’t bothered to finish his game of pool. He’d stuck his cue back in the rack on the wall, walked over to the stranger, and said, “I’ve not seen you in here before.” Not much of a pickup line, but it had worked. Five minutes later, he and Trey had been sitting at one of the bar’s rickety tables, talking and laughing like they’d known each other all their short lives. They’d had their first kiss on the way out to Trey’s cherry-red Nova. They hadn’t stopped kissing, or laughing, since.
“So, you’re taking me for dinner at that fancy French place on Cooper Street?” Rainn asked, pondering the nature of Trey’s surprise. “Or maybe you’ve booked us into that swanky B and B over in Winchester, the one where they bring you breakfast in bed in the morning?”
Trey snorted. “On my wages? You know I’d love to, Rainn, but even with the overtime I’m putting in right now—” Trey had a job in the canning plant on the road out to Winchester, stacking boxes in the delivery warehouse. Hard work had given him a physique Rainn never tired of admiring, with firm biceps and a flat, well-toned belly, but it didn’t pay anywhere near well enough for expensive treats.
“It’s okay, I’m only teasing,” Rainn assured him. “As long as I have you, I’d be happy with a ham and swiss on rye at Dottie’s diner and a night camping out under the stars.”
“Well, it’s the wrong time of year for sleeping under canvas,” Trey pointed out. “There’s snow on the ground, or hadn’t you noticed?”
“When you’re around, I can’t pay attention to anything else but you. So, come on, what’s the surprise?”
“Another minute and we’ll be there. Oh great, looks like there’s a parking spot right outside…” Trey flashed his turn signal and brought the car to a halt.
The part of Prospect they were in had seen better times. Many of the stores on this stretch of Main Street had signs on the windows advertising clearance sales or, in the case of what had been a video rental place, had gone out of business altogether. At first, Rainn couldn’t understand why Trey would bring him here. Was he trying to score drugs for the two of them, or get them both robbed? Then Rainn registered the name on the storefront where they’d parked—Hellheart Ink—and the vivid designs etched on the plate glass window.
“This…is a tattoo parlor.”
“Well, ten out of ten for the deduction work, Sherlock.” Trey grinned and pushed a stray lock of black hair out of his eyes. “Come on. Our appointment’s for seven o’clock sharp, and Hunter doesn’t like to be kept waiting.”
“You booked us…” Rainn sat, trying to process what Trey had said. Hadn’t he once told Trey he hated the fad for tattoos? All those Chinese characters that didn’t mean what their wearer thought they did, and those cheap-looking tramp stamps so many girls had inked just above the crack of their ass… There’s making a bad decision, and then there’s making one that’s bad and permanent. No thank you. “I don’t want to go ahead with this.”
“I know what you said, Rainn, but Hunter’s an artist. And I’ve asked him for a design that means something to us. Something to show how strong the bond between us really is.” Trey placed his hand on Rainn’s and gave his fingers a gentle squeeze. “A good tattoo doesn’t fade, and neither will my love for you.”
Coming from anyone else, the line would have made Rainn throw up in his mouth a little, but he knew Trey to be sincere. “So, this design…”
“We’ll talk about it inside. Hey, you trust me, don’t you?” Trey got out of the car before Rainn could make any other objections. Sighing, and still unsure he was doing the right thing, Rainn unbuckled his seat belt before following Trey inside the store.
Hellheart Ink was brightly lit, with a couch running along one wall where clients could wait for their appointments, and posters showing all manner of tattoo designs, from well-known cartoon characters to elaborate Celtic knots. Rainn tried his best to ignore the faint antiseptic smell of the room and the anxiety churning in his gut.
You trust me, don’t you? Of course, he did. What he and Trey had was special, and he knew his lover wouldn’t do anything to hurt him or make any decision on his behalf that might have unpleasant consequences.
“Hey, how can I help you?” The short, shaven-headed man who greeted them was a walking billboard for his own services. He wore a black tank top that revealed both his arms were tattooed all the way to his shoulders, and his left earlobe was stretched by a silver tunnel piercing. “I’m Hunter.”
“Trey. And this is Rainn.” Trey gestured to Rainn, who uttered a quiet hello. “We have an appointment for seven o’clock.”
“Sure, come through.” As Hunter led them deeper into the shop, Rainn wondered if there was time to change their minds. Does Trey really want to go through with this? Do I?
The back room of the shop contained an industrial black tattooing chair, designed to allow the person being inked to sit in comfort while giving Hunter access to all parts of their body, and padded bench seating along one wall. Trey and Rainn sat, while Hunter picked up a ring binder and set it on the bench beside Trey.
“Before we go any further,” Hunter said, “I need to make sure neither of you is under the influence of drink or drugs right now. If you are, then I’m sorry but, legally, I can’t tattoo you.”
“No, we’re both good,” Trey assured him.
“Great, well, why don’t you take a look through the designs and find something you like?”
“Oh, I already know what we want,” Trey said, surprising Rainn even further. “This one here.” He had flipped through the pages of the binder, and now he pointed to a stylized image of a Chinese dragon in solid black, with long, sinuous curves and a burst of flame issuing from its snout.
“Good choice,” Hunter commented.
Why a dragon? Rainn wanted to ask, but Trey was already outlining the reasons for his choice. “Yeah, I like it because it’s simple but it’s classy, you know? And I read somewhere the dragon is supposed to be the Chinese symbol of good luck and prosperity—and we could all do with a bit of that, right?” He winked at Rainn. “But most important, Rainn and I were both born in 1988, which is the year of the dragon.”
“Is that right?” Rainn had never paid the least attention to horoscopes or fortune-telling or any of that mumbo jumbo. Basing your life around something that might happen simply because you’d been born on a certain day of the year didn’t make any sense to him.
Trey nodded. “And I wanted something special to both of us. To show we have a bond that can’t be broken.”
“Okay, so now we’ve decided on the design, which one of you is going first?” Hunter asked.
“I will.” Rainn hadn’t realized he’d spoken until the words were out. He hadn’t intended on volunteering, but deep down he must have wanted to get this over with.
“Right, if you want to get in the chair and make yourself comfortable.” Hunter started looking through his stencils to find the one he needed; then he turned back to Rainn. “Wait, where did you say you wanted the tattoo again?”
“I didn’t.” Before Trey could make the decision for him, Rainn said, “On my shoulder blade.” That way, if he had any regrets, the tattoo wouldn’t be somewhere he could see it unless he looked in the mirror. More importantly, it wouldn’t alert other people to how foolish he’d been to let Trey talk him into this.
“Sure. And the same for you?” Hunter looked over at Trey.
“Yeah.” Trey smiled at Rainn as he spoke. “Exactly the same.”
Rainn had stripped off his shirt and sat in the chair so that his back faced outward.
“Right, the first thing I’m going to do is clean the area…”
He caught a faint smell of rubbing alcohol before Hunter wiped the skin he was about to tattoo. Then the stencil was applied to his shoulder. Rainn took deep, slow breaths, doing his best to center himself. This would only hurt more if he was tense.
Hunter set rock music playing, the beat heavy and insistent. It did nothing to drown out the high-pitched buzz of the tattoo machine somewhere near Rainn’s ear.
“I’m not going to tell you this isn’t going to hurt,” Hunter said, “but if it gets too much for you at any point, I want you to be sure and let me know.”
The needle bit into his skin, and Rainn swallowed a curse. For a moment, heat flared in his nerve endings, but then it died away, only for the sensation to be repeated a split second later. At first, he didn’t know how he would endure this. Then the pain ebbed and sweetened, and he realized everything was going to be fine. Trey wouldn’t make him face something he couldn’t handle. Like he’d said when they’d walked in, this was all about trust.
Tears pricked Rainn’s eyes, and he swiped them away, hoping Trey hadn’t noticed.
“You okay there, buddy?” Hunter asked, concern clear in his tone. His voice sounded like it came from a long way away. Rainn supposed it wasn’t unusual for people to cry on the tattoo table, but it wasn’t pain making him emotional. It was love for Trey, pure and simple.
Elizabeth Coldwell is a multi-published author and the former editor of the UK edition of Forum magazine, where she was responsible for publishing a number of now very well-known authors for the first time, as well as honing her own writing.
She lives in East London, is a season ticket holder at Rotherham United, and a keen cook. Her recipe for peanut butter brownies is available if you ask nicely… Learn more on Elizabeth’s Website.
Book One of the Stylite Chronicles. A curious art history student disturbs a lonely recluse holed up in an historic building in downtown Pittsburgh’s “Golden Triangle”. Together, they investigate the mystery behind the building and in the process unearth evidence of a long-dead, illicit love affair. Will that ancient romance help kindle a modern one for our history sleuths at the same time?
It’s a Mystery, History, Romance.
Excerpt
Egbert seemed quite taken by the end result and my ego swelled several sizes as he looked at the pictures, even asking me to make them bigger at times so he could see certain details better. I started to explain some of the various techniques I’d employed and why I’d added some of the different elements.
“I like this part,” he said, his finger shaking slightly as he pointed towards a particularly detailed part of my painting that incorporated some of the details from the cornice work of the building.
I beamed once again. Having him like my work meant a lot to me; which was odd, because usually, as long as I liked my work I didn’t care so much what others thought. But all of a sudden it mattered what THIS guy thought. That was different. It made me uncomfortable, but uncomfortable in a good way maybe. I’d have to think on why, exactly, that was. Later, though, because I was too busy bragging to my man to worry on it right then.
“. . . Yeah. I’m pretty happy with how it turned out and all,” I summarized when it seemed like we’d talked the painting to death finally. “Now I just have to hope that my professor agrees when I turn it in tomorrow.”
“So, as of tomorrow, you’re done with the project?” Egbert asked, sounding a little disappointed by that prospect.
“Yeah. Which is good, too, because I have to get started on studying for finals for my other classes, all of which I put off while I was working on this monster.” When Mystery Man looked away, seeming to hesitate about whatever it was he’d been about to say, I felt like I’d said something wrong. To backtrack I asked, “why? Was there something else? Something you think I missed?”
“No. No, nothing like that,” he stumbled over whatever it was he meant to say for a moment or two until it seemed like he just decided to blurt it out. “It’s just that, when you seemed interested in that old letter and the drawing, I remembered that my grandfather had a file of old records he kept that he’d found when he bought the building, and I thought you might be interested in looking through them. But, if you’re done with the project, I guess you wouldn’t be interested . . .”
“No! I mean, yeah, I’m finished with the project, but I would definitely love to take a look at whatever you’ve found. Really. If you’re okay with that?”
He looked relieved when I insisted I was still interested and I watched as he unlocked one of the drawers of his desk and pulled out a huge leather binder, filled to the brim with ageing papers. I was surprised that the file was one of the least clean things in the entire building. There might have even been some dust on the jacket of the folder. But, since it was dust that had been in the building for a while, as opposed to dust that came from some stranger outside, maybe it was safe enough, because my man just swiped at it perfunctorily with one of his wipes and then seemed good.
He placed the folder on the desk and pushed it towards me. “Here, knock yourself out.”
I paused briefly before making my way over and running my hand along the smooth leather surface of the file folder; it was so soft. “Wow.”
“You can . . .” He cleared his throat once again. “You can take it home with you to have a look through if you’d like. I just . . . I need it back.”
I couldn’t seem to control my face around this man, I don’t think I’d smiled this much in years. He was basically inviting me back! Well, that’s what I was taking from it anyway. “You know, I might have questions while I’m looking through this stuff. If I can’t figure it out, maybe I could come back and you could go over it with me? You might know more about the history, after all,” I suggested.
He shrugged his shoulders nonchalantly, like it didn’t bother him either way, but I knew that he liked my suggestion. “Sure. I could make time,” he replied, trying to sound all cool and unconcerned even though I could detect a smile hiding in that beard of his. “I’m . . . I’m not busy tomorrow afternoon.”
I wondered when he was ever busy, seeing as he didn’t seem to ever leave the building, but I didn’t think our relationship was ready for that line of questioning yet. “Sounds great. I should be done with classes by around three tomorrow. How about I come back after that?”
“Okay,” he agreed readily enough. “Although, I suspect this is probably the first time in history someone invited their burglar to come back for more.”
“I’m not a burglar. Just . . .”
“Just a brat. I know,” he teased me with that glint of humor in his eyes that I was starting to get to like.
“Good thing you like brats, huh?” I replied, because, yeah, I WAS a brat and, as a brat, I wasn’t about to let him get the last word like that. Then I picked up the binder full of documents and my bag and started for the door before he could say anything more. “See you tomorrow, Egbert.
“Later, Brat.”
In my head I was already planning out what I’d say when I saw my Mystery Man the following day as I galloped down the stairs and out the lobby doors. I felt a little giddy – which was a word you really don’t understand until it happens to you, but which I now totally GOT, because I felt giddy as a fucking school girl and that was really pathetic, I know, but it was how I felt so deal with it, okay…
Tag Gregory and Lily Marie are the co-authors of several exciting romance series, including the Time Adventures Series and The Stylite Chronicles. Tag has been writing for almost a decade, bringing an eclectic background as a lawyer, microbiologist, all-around nerd, and adventurer. Lily has also been writing for several years, is a resident of the UK, and is the more visually creative of the two. Together they bring an off-kilter sense of humor, unbounded curiosity, a love of details, and astonishing powers of research to all their writing. If you are looking for a gripping story, with compelling characters that deal with real world issues, then you’re in the right place.
It’s been six weeks since Halloween. Six weeks since Grace stumbled into the ER, almost dead and begging for help. Six weeks since she lost every single memory, including her own name.
Taken in by the mysterious Sisters of the Order of Saint Raphael the Healer, Grace’s wounds are dressed and she is assured her memories will return—in time. But does Grace want her memories back? Maybe she’s chosen to forget them, maybe there’s a reason. The sisters hide things from her. They whisper things about her.
When a demon forces its way into the convent, it declares that Grace is a demon too. Grace demands answers. Answers that may reveal not only who she is, but that the sisters might not be who they say they are, either.
Grace knelt on the kneeling bar, whatever it was the sisters called it, and folded her hands together behind the pew in front of her. She dropped her voice to a whisper. “Sister Monica.”
The novice nun kneeling beside her shook her head a millimeter, her curls almost bursting through her headscarf, and clenched her hands tighter. Her lips moved over a prayer, her eyes squinched closed.
Grace grinned and scooted closer. She did close her eyes, though, making a clumsy sign of the cross over her shoulders. An approximation, at least. Her inability to get it right exasperated the sisters on a damn near hilarious level. “Are we doing your coming-of-age ceremony today?”
Monica’s lips stopped moving, and she pressed them together. They didn’t disappear into nothingness the way the mother made hers do, but by the time Mon was Mother Mary’s age, she’d be able to do it better. She leaned, her umber skin mellow in the low light of the sanctuary, and whispered so quiet Grace had to listen with all she had to catch it. “Either shut up and pray or leave and meet me in your room.”
Grace swallowed, the blood rushing to her cheeks. “Sorry, Mon. I didn’t mean to upset you. I just wanted to take communion with you, if you were going to take your vows.”
Mouth dropping open, Monica turned to her. “Why would you want to do that?” Her voice echoed off the vaulted ceiling, the walls, and the windows, including the lone stained-glass window in the sanctuary.
One of the other sisters, Eliana probably, shushed. The shush was so sharp it may have cut the air as it sped across the cavernous room.
Monica stood, stuffing her rosary under her robes, and grabbed Grace above the elbow. She tugged, not unkindly.
Grace held her abs with one hand and stood. The twinge as she did brought back her first memory with force. The splat-splat-splat of her own intestines as they hit the floor of the hospital emergency room. Everything before that moment, including how she’d been gutted, was a deep well of nothing.
Her next memory, which was much nicer, was of Monica, sitting next to her hospital bed and assuring her that her full memory would return in time.
As the sanctuary doors closed, the chilly hallway enveloped them. The morning sun hadn’t had a chance to penetrate it yet, and the walls radiated last night’s cold.
Grace shivered and shook her head to clear it of the slapping sound her guts had made when they hit the tile. For all the good it’d do. “Sorry. I thought you were going to get your habit today and stuff. Take your vows. All that.”
Monica shook her head with a frown. “Mother Mary told me I’m not ready yet. I guess I have more study to do.” Still walking, she looked Grace up and down. “How’re your wounds?”
“Healing.”
“You’re a fast healer.”
“Only because you help me.” She rubbed the scar below her stomach. “Glad we finally got the bandages off. How long have I been here again?”
“The Order took you in from the hospital about”—she drew out the u, squeezing her eyes closed—“six weeks ago?”
“Weird. I feel like I’ve known you a lot longer than that.”
They turned a corner, bright sun flooding the next hallway—Grace’s favorite hallway—dust motes dancing along the shafts, and stopped before the only other stained-glass window in the place.
Raphael the Archangel stood outlined in pinks and blues, gold shining all around his head and shoulders, what the sisters called his halo. His glowing hands rested on the heads of two penitents who knelt before him, their eyes bleeding.
Monica smiled. “The feeling’s mutual.” Cheeks tinged red, she crossed herself, curtsied to Raphael, and continued down the hall.
Grace cast a glance at the window. Raphael’s face wore an out-of-place expression of serenity while blessing two people who cried tears of blood. Despite the eyes, she found peace in the scene.
She caught up to Monica, running her hand through the two inches of hair on her head, the healing scar a line slashed through it. “That library is the darkest room in this convent. You’d think they’d want windows so you could actually see the words in the books.”
“The books are old, Grace. They’d react badly to sunlight. We’ve had this conversation.” She stopped, one hand on an enormous door handle. “Did you want to keep me company today?”
“I was serious about the communion, Mon.” Grace bit her lip. Six weeks’ worth of changing bandages and chatting and following her around the convent made Grace feel close to Sister Monica. Like a real friend. This ceremony was a Big Deal to Mon, and Mon was a Big Deal to Grace. It only seemed right to do it with her, even if she wasn’t Catholic.
Monica eased the creaking door open. “I’ll speak to Mother Mary.” With the hand not holding the door, she brushed her fingertips along Grace’s cheek.
Grace’s heart tripped a beat. Something about the way her fingers moved like butterfly feet made Grace lose her breath.
“Thank you. You’re a good friend. I hope you’re still here when I take my vows.”
Brows knit, Grace peeked into the library. She lowered her voice. “Where would I go? I don’t even remember who I am, much less where home is.”
Monica shrugged, her robes shifting with a soft sigh. “If your memory comes back, you’ll probably want to leave.” She sucked a sharp breath over her teeth. “Not that I don’t want you to get your memory back. I just meant—”
“I know. I hope I’m still here too.” Grace smiled, lips stretched tight. “If I remember who I am before then, I’ll come back just to share your communion. Okay?”
Frowning, Monica lowered her eyes. “I’d like that.”
Bethany is a southern transplant in the west, where she’s made her home with her kids, partner, pets, and several hostages…er…houseplants she hasn’t killed yet. Poetry was her first love, and she’s been writing since she could hold a pencil. Horror is her sweet spot, but all things sci-fi and fantasy are also deeply entrenched in her heart.
The coup should have been simple: oust the tyrannical regents and restore the rightful heir to the throne. No one expected the rightful heir to be dead, or for his younger brother to be missing. The search for the missing prince is important, but not as important as putting the destroyed country back together. At least, that’s what Aiden thinks until he stumbles on a terrible crime ring and a pair of beautiful green eyes that might just derail everything he’s been working towards.
Meetings, meetings, meetings! His whole life was meetings!
Aiden was going to go mad, screaming and hair pulling included, if he had to go to another meeting. As if that weren’t bad enough, after the endless rounds of meetings, he had paperwork. Endless bloody stacks of paperwork. For every piece he finished, another fucking dozen appeared on his desk. He couldn’t escape from it all. He was a frigging soldier, not a paper pusher, and he hated sitting still. His new position as captain of the guard required he attend to his new duties, rather than actually being out in the city where the real work was, but Aiden was thinking of stuffing it all and running away.
In fact, that sounded like a great idea. Fuck them all anyway. He deserved a long weekend off. Aiden slammed his pen down on his desk, glad to have his decision made, and stood with a violent shove of his chair.
“I’m done for the day,” he snapped to his shocked-looking secretary across the room.
Ernest nodded. Aiden had worked with Ernest long enough to know Ernest would have blindly agreed even if Aiden had declared he was off to fuck a duck, but Ernest didn’t mind the damned paperwork, so Aiden kept the kid around anyway.
“It’s after midnight, sir,” Ernest replied softly. “Shall I hold your appointments until tomorrow afternoon?”
Aiden winced at the thought of having any more meetings. “Push them until Monday morning. I should be able to think straight by then.” If he had to go to another meeting any earlier than Monday, he might actually snap and strangle someone.
Ernest nodded in agreement again and quickly made a note in the ledger on his desk before jumping up to help Aiden with his coat.
“What should I tell Major Trell, sir, if he comes calling?” Ernest asked before Aiden could fasten his buttons and get out the door to freedom.
“Tell the old bastard that he should have planned a little better before he threw his coup, and anything that goes wrong in my absence is his fault,” Aiden snapped as he wrenched the door open and slammed it behind him.
A muffled “Yes, sir” sounded from behind the door.
“And take tomorrow off too, Ernest,” Aiden yelled before stomping off.
Aiden didn’t go to his rooms in the castle. He could easily be found there and dragged off to something “vitally important” that Aiden didn’t give a fuck about. He needed to be out there doing, not sitting on his ass.
Before the coup, Aiden had led men. He had been in charge of keeping the city safe, catching criminals and murderers and putting them behind bars so people felt safe at night. He had loved the job and the men and women he had commanded. Trell, the bastard, had promised Aiden he could have his job back after the coup. Hell, that was one of the reasons Aiden had joined with Trell in the first place.
The coup had been a disaster, plain and simple. They had taken power back from the regents, yes, but instead of reinstating the heir like they had originally planned, they were stuck putting the country back together themselves.
Ten years before the coup, the king had started forgetting things. It was only recent edicts, meeting times, and simple things in the beginning, but five years ago, when he forgot the names of his wife and two sons, the physicians declared the king needed to be sequestered for his own safety.
The king’s oldest child was only fifteen at the time, so the council had chosen the grand duke and the queen to act as joint regents on behalf of the heir until he came of age. Given how quickly the councilors chose two people mostly unsuited for the task, Aiden had little doubt they had been bribed. Aiden would have let it go—that was politics after all—except then the council had allowed the regents’ excess to take over.
For the subsequent five years of the regents’ rule, food, goods, and a lot of money had gone into the castle and only bodies had come out. Taxes were raised, and the crown stopped paying for the goods it consumed. Prices for wheat skyrocketed after a late-summer storm wiped out much of one year’s crops, and the crown demanded more instead of helping the people it served.
The last straw for Aiden had been when the city guard had been disbanded. His beloved troops were left penniless and without prospects, as was he for that matter. When Trell approached Aiden, Aiden had been more than happy to lend his influence to the coup.
The queen and the grand duke had been killed in the fighting. The king had survived the coup, somehow. Trell and Aiden had gone to see him once the castle was secured and found a clueless and helpless child in place of the strong man Aiden remembered.
Trell had always planned to reinstate the king’s heir to the throne, not take power himself—which was why he was still considered a major despite the fact he was basically running the country—but when they broke into the heir’s room, they had found him lying in bed, dead. His body had been left where he had been murdered, and when Trell’s soldiers entered the room months later, they found a bloated and decaying mass of nearly indistinguishable flesh. No doubt the regents had claimed he was “indisposed” or something equally indelicate to keep anyone from asking questions, and removing the prince from the picture had also removed anyone who might have had the power to protest the regents’ actions.
The king’s younger son and only other child had never been located, had in fact been missing since the regents took power, which meant the task of putting the city and country back together after five years of mismanagement fell to Trell and Aiden. It also meant that, while the city guard had been reinstated, Aiden couldn’t be there for his troops until everything else had also been cleaned up. Instead, he was stuck with the bloody paperwork.
Still, one night walking the beat would go far to lift his spirits. Aiden couldn’t stop a small smile from stretching his lips at the thought. One night to remind him what he was working so bloody hard to achieve might even reground him. The sooner he finally got through those endless fucking piles of paperwork, the sooner he could return to the job he actually liked.
He did try to keep abreast of some of the cases that were baffling his troops. Ernest put together a weekly report for him, and Aiden always found the time to read it. The most distressing one on the list was the ring of underage prostitutes. Ordinarily it would be easy enough to find the pimp and arrest him and then find safe homes for the kids being abused, but there were mitigating circumstances. No one could actually locate the pimp, for one, and for another, any time one of the kids actually spoke to the guard they were found with their throats slit the next morning.
Aiden wasn’t in uniform, and it had been quite a few years since he had been able to patrol the lower city; maybe his face wouldn’t be recognized. He could easily pretend to be just another man out looking for a suck and a poke.
With his plans firmly in mind, Aiden finished sneaking out of the castle and headed into the city proper. He had a small townhouse where he would change clothes into something more disreputable and then go see what delights the lower city had to offer him.
When Mell Eight was in high school, she discovered dragons. Beautiful, wondrous creatures that took her on epic adventures both to faraway lands and on journeys of the heart. Mell wanted to create dragons of her own, so she put pen to paper. Mell Eight is now known for her own soaring dragons, as well as for other wonderful characters dancing across the pages of her books. While she mostly writes paranormal or fantasy stories, she has been seen exploring the real world once or twice.
Cole loves the city. He loves the noise, chaos, and having tacos delivered at 2 a.m.
He loves his job at Ward Security. He might look like a bodyguard, but there’s nothing better than being counted as one of the hacking tech triplets.
There is no way he will ever love horses, cows, and the great wide open of Texas.
At least, that’s what he thinks until JB Alexander rides into his life.
He can’t deny the burning attraction of JB’s easy smile and weird sense of humor.
And while they’re dodging gun shots, crazy neighbors, meddling family, and secret plots, Cole might be forced to admit that he’s found an even greater love.
Wicked Outlaw is the sixth full-length novel in the Ward Security series and is jam packed with crazy neighbors, wild gun shots, a horse named Dopey, llamas, code names, a bisexual awakening, and new beginnings.
Excerpt
He was about to put on his headphones for some music when Rowe’s red head popped around the doorway. “Cole, I need you in my office.”
Cole set the headphones down and stood. He followed his boss and settled in one of the chairs in front of the desk.
Surprisingly, Rowe’s area was one of the hot spots for the entire building. His large office with the big, comfortable black leather couch tended to become a random crossroads or meeting place. All throughout the day, people popped in and out to ask Rowe questions, bring him updates, or share a joke. And Rowe welcomed every last one of them, regardless of what they did at the company.
They had meetings there often and the cool, blue paint on the walls gave the room a comforting feel. Cole might feel more at home in the tech room, but this was his second-favorite spot at Ward Security. Rowe always greeted him with a smile or a teasing comment like they were old friends.
“How’s the hand?” Rowe asked with a wicked smirk. He dropped behind his desk and relaxed in his large leather desk chair. “You cleaned that man’s clock pretty good.”
“Sore, but fine,” he replied, once again flexing his hand in his lap. “He still in police custody?”
Rowe shook his head. “No, bastard got out. They couldn’t hold him for threats. Which brings me to the problem I brought up last night. Derrick Briggs is a piece of work, with dirty hands in several deep pots, one of which is the local mob.”
Cole’s heart skipped a beat. The mob. Shit. No wonder Gidget had been so hesitant to talk about it. This was definitely worse than he’d imagined. “You think he’s going to come after me?”
“I do. I’d like to put Sven on you for the time being—”
“No,” Cole interrupted. “I don’t need a bodyguard. Look at me.” He tapped both hands on his broad chest. “I’m nearly as big as Sven. I can take care of myself.”
Rowe shook his head, not looking convinced in the least. “Not against a bullet.” He paused and added with a wry grin, “And nobody is as big as Sven.”
“A bodyguard isn’t going to help with a bullet, either.”
“Sven also has years of training. He knows what to look for, and he knows exactly how to handle an armed assailant or assailants.”
Cole glared at his boss for a moment. He didn’t think he’d ever utter these words. Never truly thought about it, but he was feeling cornered. Maybe it was time, considering the line of work he was in. “Then train me.”
Rowe leaned back in his chair, eyeing Cole closely. Cole held his breath. He loved his job behind the computer, working at Ward Security. He’d never had any interest in doing what the bodyguards did.
At last, Rowe shook his head. “Like I said, years of training. We don’t have that kind of time. But I am going to remember this moment.” He pointed at Cole, his smirk returning for a heartbeat. “However, I came up with a different idea. You, laying low for a while. Out of town.”
Cole’s eyes flared open wide. “What? No, that’s not a good idea, either.”
“It’s an excellent idea, and it’s not a suggestion. I’ve already called a friend, JB Alexander, and set everything up.”
Cole vaguely remembered meeting JB a couple of years ago. Thin guy, about six feet tall with blond hair. “Wait, isn’t he from Texas?”
Rowe nodded, the corner of his mouth turning up in a half grin. “On a ranch outside of Austin. It’s the perfect place for you to hole up while I work on getting Derrick Briggs behind bars.”
“You’re saying you want me to go to Texas.” Cole scrubbed a hand over his face, trying to get his brain to process the insanity Rowe was force-feeding him. “Isn’t this a bit of overkill?”
“I don’t think it is.” Rowe leaned forward, placing his forearms on the top of his desk. “Last night wasn’t Briggs’s first encounter with the cops. He’s managed to sneak out of assault charges and more in the past. There are rumors a few guys have disappeared because of him.”
Cole could feel the blood drain from his face to pool nauseatingly in his stomach. A kind of cold clamminess clung to his skin. This was getting worse by the second.
“Not only did you come between him and what he sees as his property, but you made him look like a chump in a very public, very high-brow place. He’s gonna want you dead in the worst way.”
“I see what you mean,” Cole replied in a low, rough voice.
“Good. Then it leaves me with two choices. One is that I put Sven on you and possibly another guy, twenty-four seven. At least until we know this guy won’t come after you.”
But that meant putting friends and coworkers directly in the line of fire to protect his ass. No, that wasn’t an option.
“I still won’t go for that.”
Rowe held up both his empty hands in front of him as if to say Cole was taking the decision out of his hands.
Jocelynn Drake and Rinda Elliott have teamed up to combine their evil genius to create intense gay romantic suspense stories that have car chases, shoot outs, explosions, scorching hot love scenes, and tender, tear-jerking moments. Their first joint books are in the Unbreakable Bonds series.
Having returned to the continent following Warren’s illness, Stephan and Warren are certain they’ve escaped the notice of spies from Seveihar and are ready to build a new future for themselves. However, their quiet life is shaken once again when they receive a message from Stephan’s sister, Nessa. She begs him to return home and help her stand against their older brother, Robert, who is abusing his power by oppressing his subjects and starting an unnecessary war with the neighboring country of Esnia.
With dark family secrets coming to light, Stephan is faced with a difficult choice between safety and happiness in exile with the man he loves, and his duty as a prince to protect his people from tyranny. And yet, amid all the dangers, the greatest risk he might face is a broken heart…
The Homecoming Prince is the final book in The Castaway Prince series. For best enjoyment, please read the books in order.
“I’m glad to say you look slightly less awful today,” Stephan said.
His tone was teasing, but it masked a very real concern. Warren’s bout of illness had been so prolonged and so grave that for a while Stephan had feared the worst.
Those days had been nothing short of horrible. He’d known plenty of wretchedness and weathered plenty of dangers, but nothing could ever come close to the long hours spent by his lover’s sickbed, holding his hand, wiping the sweat off his brow, and hoping the next rattling breath wouldn’t be the last while Warren thrashed about with fever.
“Always such a sweet talker,” Warren said.
A weak smile played on his lips as he brought a cup of tea to his mouth. He sat up on the narrow bed, propped against a stack of pillows. The only room they could afford at the inn had a tiny fireplace, which gave off more smoke than heat. The feeble flames fought a losing battle against the mid-autumn chill seeping through the windows and walls. But Stephan had piled all the blankets he could find on the bed, and the tea was hot and strong, at least.
Stephan took his own cup, savoring the warmth that spread through his fingers.
“You should go downstairs to the common room and warm by the big fire,” Warren said, having undoubtedly noticed him shiver. The illness did nothing to lessen his usual perspicacity. “Maybe get something to eat too.”
Stephan shook his head. They were running too low on funds for him to luxuriate in more than one meal a day now, and they’d already eaten lunch. Besides, he wouldn’t leave Warren alone in a drafty, cramped room while he enjoyed himself downstairs. Had their roles been reversed (as they so often had been), Warren wouldn’t have moved from Stephan’s side even for a moment unless for some dire need.
“I don’t actually mind the winter,” Stephan said wistfully. “We’ve been traveling through hot-climate lands for so long, the nip in the air is refreshing. It reminds me of home.”
Warren raised a skeptical eyebrow, but Stephan was being truthful. He’d loved Segor; the short time spent living together in the port city of Varta, free to express their love for each other, had been the happiest in his life. But when they were forced to flee, pursued by his brother Robert’s assassins, things had begun to go awry. The South Isles, where they’d found a temporary refuge, had proved too much of an extreme environment for them to thrive in. When Warren had fallen sick, the local physician had advised he return to the familiar climate of the continent—which they had, despite the risk inherent in such a journey.
“I do miss Seveihar sometimes,” Stephan confessed, coming to perch on the edge of the bed with his cup of tea. Warren folded his long legs, making room for him. “Even the winters at the castle, with the winds whistling through window cracks, and those endless creaking staircases. I always knew the cold and the snow would abate eventually, and then it’d be spring again, and then summer. The summers were always so beautiful there, up in the mountains.”
“I remember.” Traces of hoarseness clung to Warren’s voice, but already he sounded so much more vital than before. “I remember how you loved to roam the woods around the castle. Until…”
“Until it became too dangerous for me to go out on my own,” Stephan said. “It still is.”
The old pain of realizing his own brother hated him enough to plot his assassination flared back into life. The worries and tribulations of the last few weeks had almost made him forget the true reason for his self-imposed exile, but he knew better now than to think it was all behind him. The events that had driven them from their safe little haven in Segor into the dangers of the unknown had demonstrated all too clearly that they couldn’t afford to let their guard down again.
Warren reached for Stephan’s hand, threading their fingers together, and they exchanged a brief, bitter smile. Some of Stephan’s anger and disappointment dissipated into their shared warmth, as they always did.
“I’m sorry,” Stephan said.
“For what?”
“I seem to always bring danger to our doorstep. Even when we move halfway across the world.”
“And if it weren’t for you, I’d never have seen anything of the world.”
“Don’t joke. You fell sick because of me. If I hadn’t been so careless in Varta, we wouldn’t have had to travel so far, putting so much strain on you. It’s my fault.”
“It’s not,” Warren said. “And if I had a choice, I would have done it again. All of it. I would do anything just to be with you.”
Stephan shook his head, swallowing around the lump suddenly lodged in his throat.
“I love you,” he said, ignoring the treacherous crack in his voice. “So much.”
Warren’s hand on his tightened, and his eyes flashed in the low lighting, illuminated by the same surge of desire that washed over Stephan. That smoldering look made Stephan’s heart beat faster, filling him with the hope and relief for which he’d yearned for days.
He took the half-empty cup out of Warren’s hand and leaned down to brush his lips against his, tasting the strong flavor of steeped herbs.
It took some effort to pull back. He wanted nothing more than to sink further into Warren’s embrace, but the faint wheezing in Warren’s chest reminded him of the need for prudence.
“It’s late. I’ll go downstairs to fetch us some dinner,” Stephan said, rising from the bed. The desire to see Warren hale again outweighed the need to be frugal.
“I’m not that hungry. At least, not for food. Can’t you stay?”
“You need to eat to get your strength back,” Stephan said sternly. “If you can kiss, you can chew.”
Warren rolled his eyes and sighed dramatically, settling back on the pillows. “Fine. Just please hurry back.”
A voracious reader from the age of five, Isabelle Adler has always dreamed of one day putting her own stories into writing. She loves traveling, art, and science, and finds inspiration in all of these. Her favorite genres include sci-fi, fantasy, and historical adventure. She also firmly believes in the unlimited powers of imagination and caffeine.
Having returned to the continent following Warren’s illness, Stephan and Warren are certain they’ve escaped the notice of spies from Seveihar and are ready to build a new future for themselves. However, their quiet life is shaken once again when they receive a message from Stephan’s sister, Nessa. She begs him to return home and help her stand against their older brother, Robert, who is abusing his power by oppressing his subjects and starting an unnecessary war with the neighboring country of Esnia.
With dark family secrets coming to light, Stephan is faced with a difficult choice between safety and happiness in exile with the man he loves, and his duty as a prince to protect his people from tyranny. And yet, amid all the dangers, the greatest risk he might face is a broken heart…
The Homecoming Prince is the final book in The Castaway Prince series. For best enjoyment, please read the books in order.
“I’m glad to say you look slightly less awful today,” Stephan said.
His tone was teasing, but it masked a very real concern. Warren’s bout of illness had been so prolonged and so grave that for a while Stephan had feared the worst.
Those days had been nothing short of horrible. He’d known plenty of wretchedness and weathered plenty of dangers, but nothing could ever come close to the long hours spent by his lover’s sickbed, holding his hand, wiping the sweat off his brow, and hoping the next rattling breath wouldn’t be the last while Warren thrashed about with fever.
“Always such a sweet talker,” Warren said.
A weak smile played on his lips as he brought a cup of tea to his mouth. He sat up on the narrow bed, propped against a stack of pillows. The only room they could afford at the inn had a tiny fireplace, which gave off more smoke than heat. The feeble flames fought a losing battle against the mid-autumn chill seeping through the windows and walls. But Stephan had piled all the blankets he could find on the bed, and the tea was hot and strong, at least.
Stephan took his own cup, savoring the warmth that spread through his fingers.
“You should go downstairs to the common room and warm by the big fire,” Warren said, having undoubtedly noticed him shiver. The illness did nothing to lessen his usual perspicacity. “Maybe get something to eat too.”
Stephan shook his head. They were running too low on funds for him to luxuriate in more than one meal a day now, and they’d already eaten lunch. Besides, he wouldn’t leave Warren alone in a drafty, cramped room while he enjoyed himself downstairs. Had their roles been reversed (as they so often had been), Warren wouldn’t have moved from Stephan’s side even for a moment unless for some dire need.
“I don’t actually mind the winter,” Stephan said wistfully. “We’ve been traveling through hot-climate lands for so long, the nip in the air is refreshing. It reminds me of home.”
Warren raised a skeptical eyebrow, but Stephan was being truthful. He’d loved Segor; the short time spent living together in the port city of Varta, free to express their love for each other, had been the happiest in his life. But when they were forced to flee, pursued by his brother Robert’s assassins, things had begun to go awry. The South Isles, where they’d found a temporary refuge, had proved too much of an extreme environment for them to thrive in. When Warren had fallen sick, the local physician had advised he return to the familiar climate of the continent—which they had, despite the risk inherent in such a journey.
“I do miss Seveihar sometimes,” Stephan confessed, coming to perch on the edge of the bed with his cup of tea. Warren folded his long legs, making room for him. “Even the winters at the castle, with the winds whistling through window cracks, and those endless creaking staircases. I always knew the cold and the snow would abate eventually, and then it’d be spring again, and then summer. The summers were always so beautiful there, up in the mountains.”
“I remember.” Traces of hoarseness clung to Warren’s voice, but already he sounded so much more vital than before. “I remember how you loved to roam the woods around the castle. Until…”
“Until it became too dangerous for me to go out on my own,” Stephan said. “It still is.”
The old pain of realizing his own brother hated him enough to plot his assassination flared back into life. The worries and tribulations of the last few weeks had almost made him forget the true reason for his self-imposed exile, but he knew better now than to think it was all behind him. The events that had driven them from their safe little haven in Segor into the dangers of the unknown had demonstrated all too clearly that they couldn’t afford to let their guard down again.
Warren reached for Stephan’s hand, threading their fingers together, and they exchanged a brief, bitter smile. Some of Stephan’s anger and disappointment dissipated into their shared warmth, as they always did.
“I’m sorry,” Stephan said.
“For what?”
“I seem to always bring danger to our doorstep. Even when we move halfway across the world.”
“And if it weren’t for you, I’d never have seen anything of the world.”
“Don’t joke. You fell sick because of me. If I hadn’t been so careless in Varta, we wouldn’t have had to travel so far, putting so much strain on you. It’s my fault.”
“It’s not,” Warren said. “And if I had a choice, I would have done it again. All of it. I would do anything just to be with you.”
Stephan shook his head, swallowing around the lump suddenly lodged in his throat.
“I love you,” he said, ignoring the treacherous crack in his voice. “So much.”
Warren’s hand on his tightened, and his eyes flashed in the low lighting, illuminated by the same surge of desire that washed over Stephan. That smoldering look made Stephan’s heart beat faster, filling him with the hope and relief for which he’d yearned for days.
He took the half-empty cup out of Warren’s hand and leaned down to brush his lips against his, tasting the strong flavor of steeped herbs.
It took some effort to pull back. He wanted nothing more than to sink further into Warren’s embrace, but the faint wheezing in Warren’s chest reminded him of the need for prudence.
“It’s late. I’ll go downstairs to fetch us some dinner,” Stephan said, rising from the bed. The desire to see Warren hale again outweighed the need to be frugal.
“I’m not that hungry. At least, not for food. Can’t you stay?”
“You need to eat to get your strength back,” Stephan said sternly. “If you can kiss, you can chew.”
Warren rolled his eyes and sighed dramatically, settling back on the pillows. “Fine. Just please hurry back.”
A voracious reader from the age of five, Isabelle Adler has always dreamed of one day putting her own stories into writing. She loves traveling, art, and science, and finds inspiration in all of these. Her favorite genres include sci-fi, fantasy, and historical adventure. She also firmly believes in the unlimited powers of imagination and caffeine.
What if love threatened to destroy everything you’d worked for?
Hockey right winger Tyler Jensen isn’t thrilled to get the news he’s been traded to the Bethesda Barracudas. The team may be red-hot in the rankings, but there’s someone there he’d rather not have to see every day.
Defenseman Kevin Moore is one of the top-rated rookies in the country. He’s living the dream playing for the Barracudas—until he hears that his old high-school crush Tyler is joining the team. Ty was once everything Kev wanted, but their age difference got in the way. Tyler decided a three-year gap was too much and left Kevin behind.
In Bethesda, Tyler doesn’t take long to notice that Kevin has grown up into precisely the kind of man he can’t resist—brawny, brainy, and beautiful. Kev feels the pull too, and as the men become closer, they work hard to keep their budding relationship secret. Professional hockey may be welcoming gay players now, but Ty and Kev aren’t sure management would like the idea of two Barracudas taking teamwork to an entirely new level.
As the playoffs loom, news of their romance gets out. Ty and Kev, caught in a storm of controversy that threatens to destroy them, need a power play to save their careers. How will they find one before it’s too late?
Fire in the Ice delivers on the promise that second chances can work and dreams can come true. If you like exciting hockey, plenty of humor, a beautiful HEA, new adults, young athletes, and enough heat to burn down the house, this book is for you.
The fire alarm went off! I sat bolt upright, my heart pounding like a bass drum and the soaring panic making it hard to breathe. Just as I threw a leg over the side of the bed, I realized I didn’t know where the door was. Hell, I couldn’t even remember what city we were in. Sweat ran into my eyes, and I called for Thompson, my roommate. He didn’t answer. Had he run for safety and left me sleeping?
I finally came around enough to realize the noise wasn’t the fire alarm—it was the alarm on my phone. Thompson wasn’t there because we weren’t on a road trip. In fact, he and I weren’t even on the same team anymore. The Seattle Cohos had traded me, and I was a Bethesda-fuckin-Barracuda now. Woo-hoo! The fact that I had a terrible crush on one of my new teammates, who definitely did not return the feelings, made my new life a thrilling prospect. I wondered if there was any chance Kevin might change his mind and give me a chance. Doubtful, after what happened last fall.
It was way too early to get up, and I stretched my way through a big yawn. I’d flown to DC with Birky Ferrell, my teammate who had also been traded, and we didn’t get into town until about eleven the night before. That had only been eight p.m. Seattle time, so I didn’t fall asleep for hours. According to my phone, it was currently seven a.m. in Washington, and I was due in Bethesda by eight thirty. Time to get my ass out of bed and into the shower.
Lucky me, I had a whole new team to get to know. Too bad they’d played in Seattle only ten days earlier, and I’d gotten into it with one of their defensemen, Pierre Gagné. The rest of the game hadn’t exactly been friendly between the Barracudas and me, and I didn’t know what kind of reception to expect at Cuda Arena. I hoped they’d be in the mood to let bygones be bygones.
An hour later, Birky and I were in an Uber creeping its way through rush-hour traffic toward Bethesda. Bob Shuford, the head coach, wanted to see us before our first practice with the team. I studied Birky’s profile while he looked out the window. His craggy face was handsome, and he wore his brown hair in a crew cut. Birky was an enforcer, so he got into his share of brawls, and a few scars gave his face character.
He turned his attention away from the street. “You nervous?”
“No more than you.”
“We’ll be fine. They’re lucky to have us. You heard they made Johnson captain?”
“Yeah, I saw that last night.”
Birky shifted in his seat, so he could see me. “You know him, right? I’ve seen you two talking when the teams played each other.”
“We went to prep school together at St. Mark’s.” I took a deep breath and leaned back in the seat. Nick and I had so much more than gone to prep school together, but that was a lifetime ago. For five of the last seven years, we’d only been friends from a distance.
“Seems like a good guy.”
I smiled. “Nick is one of the nicest men you’ll ever meet. Best thing they could have done, making him captain. He was team captain in high school, and he’s a born leader.”
“Sounds like what they needed. Keefer’s an ass.”
“You’re almost right.”
He cocked his head.
“Nick as captain is what we need, Birky. We’re Barracudas now.”
Ryan Taylor and Joshua Harwood met in law school and were married in 2017. They live in a suburb of Washington, DC, and share their home with a big, cuddly German shepherd. Ryan and Josh enjoy travel, friends, and advocating for causes dear to their hearts. Ryan also loves to swim, and Josh likes to putter in the garden whenever he can. The romance they were so lucky to find with each other inspires their stories about love between out and proud men.
Cyprus Reid is an enigma who courts the spotlight while carefully maintaining her mystique, intriguing legions of fans with her stylistic lyrics and a voice that brings many to tears. Even more intriguing than her all-male entourage is the fact that people are dying to get to her… literally.
To ex-Navy SEAL-turned-government intelligence operative Jason Giles, Cyprus is either a victim of an elaborate conspiracy, or the most fiendish killer since Jack the Ripper. Sure, the victims had shady pasts and shared a connection to a strange incident at Mount McKinley some fifty years ago, but that doesn’t mean they deserved to die, seemingly drained of life while engaged in acts of wanton carnality.
Jason is sent to discover the truth, but what he finds is more seductive, more intriguing, more enticing than a mere boy in a dress. What Jason finds is the existence of The Coven. And once they discover you, there is no going back.
“Ms. Reid, you are looking perfect tonight. Look this way, please!”
“Ms. Reid! You are an inspiration! I love you!”
“Ms. Reid! Ms. Reid! You are a goddess!”
“You are a dirty tramp, and you seduce men into worshiping you, you nasty slut!”
“You stole my husband, you bitch!”
“I hope you rot in hell!”
And Cyprus, as usual, ignored it all.
The flashing bulbs temporarily blinded her, but she ignored the minor inconvenience as well, as she moved with her customary style and grace down the wrinkled red carpet that had been rolled out for her visit.
She turned and flashed one last mysterious smile at the gathered crowd, both the hateful and the adoring fans, and silently made her way into the safety of the hotel.
“Ms. Reid?” She looked up at the oh-so-proper, British-accented voice, realizing absently that it was the hotel manager.
She paused, giving the short, balding man her full attention, noting how he flushed a little at her scrutiny.
The doors behind them closed with a <em>whoosh</em>, muting the noise and shouts of the crowd, though bulbs continued to flash as paparazzi desperately tried to get that winning shot of one of the world’s most beautiful and renowned vocalists.
“Um.” He cleared his throat, tugging at his collar as he shifted from foot to foot, more like an adolescent than a grown man. “Security has been tightened on your floor as you requested. Also, you are the only occupant of the twenty-seventh floor, though we can easily accommodate you and your entourage in the penthouse suite.”
“Thank you and that will be all,” a tall, long-haired man spoke, towering over both the manager and Cyprus. “Though we appreciate the hospitality you and your staff have provided thus far, Ms. Reid does not prefer the penthouse or any of the presidential suites. The twenty-seventh floor is perfect for our needs.”
The manager froze, staring at the man as if suddenly noticing his presence and that the sheer aura surrounding Cyprus had rendered the world blind to anyone else around her.
But then, that was part of her mystery.
Cyprus Reid never traveled with fewer than five men, five painfully handsome, dominating men.
How anyone could ever not notice them was a complete mystery, but usually they managed the neat theatrical trick of fading into the background. Once they decided to be seen, however, a blind man couldn’t miss them.
Each stood over six feet tall — five perfectly formed men, each unique and differently beautiful in his own way, who made it a point to surround and protect Ms. Reid from any and all activities that could be considered dangerous, especially keeping any unsavory fanatics at bay.
The one who spoke to him — Unus, he had discovered — the one with long, dark hair, appeared to be the spokesman for the rest of the group. If there was anything to be settled, this one was the one to do it.
He stood before the manager, his perfectly cut Savile Row suit doing nothing to hide the raw masculinity and barely leashed savagery that seemed to glow from his eyes.
The other four, all mystery men of different ethnic backgrounds and styles, moved in closer, alert to any trouble that might develop.
“V-v-very g-good, s-sir,” the manager stuttered, growing nervous now that all that male power was directed toward him. He reached into his pocket, then took a quick step back as all the men moved forward, hiding Cyprus behind a wall of muscle.
“It’s just the electronic key card,” he quickly explained, sweating under his collar as if suddenly fearing for his very life. “Just the key. No one else besides our head of security has a copy.”
“Your head of security?” the man asked, leaning forward, getting closer so that the manager could make out small, very fine tribal tattooing along his hairline, down in front of his ears, and down into the collar of his shirt.
“Jason Giles,” the manager explained. “Very good, comes highly recommended. He is securing the twenty-seventh floor as we speak. Ms. Reid’s safety is our chief concern.”
A slim, dusky hand reached between the two of them, halting any movement the tall man might have made and pulling him back into line.
“Very good.”
He conceded to the smaller female whose hand now rested on his arm, nodding once. “Ms. Reid is exhausted…”
“Oh, excuse me!” The manager snapped back into host mode and hastily directed the small party to the private elevators. “These only stop at executive floors, like the twenty-seventh,” he explained, while placing the card against a small scanner.
The doors immediately opened, and he quickly ushered them inside. The men immediately surrounded Cyprus protectively. Within seconds, they were whisked to the proper floor, and all exited into the plushly carpeted, brightly lit hall.
“As requested, Ms. Reid’s room is in the center. The rooms on either side of her are prepared for occupancy and can be accessed only though the interior doors that are in Ms. Reid’s main suite. All others are closed off and locked, both electronically and by physical means. This floor is as safe as Fort Knox.”
That said, he led them to a door where another man, one with nearly white-blond hair, stood at attention.
Instantly, the men were once again on high alert, their bodies tensing as they formed a barrier between Cyprus and the unknown man.
“This is Jason Giles,” the manager introduced. “He is head of security, hired exclusively for your safety during this visit.”
“An honor.” Jason spoke softly, his eyes going to the odd collection of men who surrounded the artist.
“We thank you.” The long-haired spokesman for the group eyed the strange male carefully. “But your services, though appreciated, are not needed.”
There was steel in that voice only a dead man could miss. The undercurrents flowed strongly and were rife with testosterone.
“Be that as it may,” Jason replied, “I remain your first line of defense. If something gets out of hand, I will do my best to quell it before it even makes it this far. And if you have any issues, no matter how minor, be sure to let me know. Any extra security is a must. We all have to protect the beauteous Ms. Reid,” he added, with barely veiled sarcasm.
“If you think –” the now disgruntled leader of apparent party-toy men began, but a slim hand pressing against his arm stopped him again.
Huffing and visibly fighting to control himself, the man nodded and stepped aside.
And Jason got his first glimpse of the real-life Cyprus Reid.
Stephanie is a USA Today Best Selling, multi published, multi award-winning author, Master Costumer, handicapped, wife and mother of two.
From sex-shifting, shape-shifting dragons to undersea worlds, sexually confused elemental Fey and homo-erotic mysteries, all the way to pastel-challenged urban sprites, Stephanie has done it all, and hopes to do more.
Stephanie is an orator on her favorite subjects of writing and world-building, a sometime teacher when you feed her enough tea and donuts, an anime nut, a costumer, and a frequent guest of various sci-fi and writing cons where she can be found leading panel discussions or researching varied legends and theories to improve her writing skills.
Stephanie is known for her love of the outrageous, strong female characters, believable worlds, male characters filled with depth, and multi-cultural stories that make the reader sit up and take notice.
Jocelynn Drake and Rinda Elliott have teamed up to combine their evil genius to create intense gay romantic suspense stories that have car chases, shoot outs, explosions, scorching hot love scenes, and tender, tear-jerking moments. Their first joint books are in the Unbreakable Bonds series.
Stephanie is a USA Today Best Selling, multi published, multi award-winning author, Master Costumer, handicapped, wife and mother of two.