Tag Archives: NineStar Press

BOOK BLITZ: Part of Me Fell Into You by Eule Grey

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Title: Part of Me Fell Into You

Author: Eule Grey

Publisher: NineStar Press

Release Date: 11/25/2025

Heat Level: 3 – Some Sex

Pairing: Male/Male

Length: 33800

Genre: Contemporary romance, gay, bisexual, British, twins, cycling, ND, ADHD, crime family, anxiety, depression, loneliness, siblings, family drama

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Description

A gangster’s life is hard. As the youngest son of a Chicago mobster lord, Fionn O’Grady is no stranger to crime, even though he’s clean and renowned for kissing rather than fighting. It’s a lonely life for a pizza-loving redhead. All he’s ever wanted is an easy-going boyfriend who doesn’t take life too seriously. It’s too bad that no man will date him because of his family.

Trouble comes when a UK undercover cop infiltrates the O’Grady mansion. According to the family, it’s up to Fionn to gain revenge by kidnapping the cop’s kid brother. Kidnap? Fionn couldn’t hurt anyone, certainly not a handsome young man needing a caring boyfriend.

As the chaotic brother of an undercover cop, Oli Green is endlessly fascinated by gangsters, particularly pizza-loving redheads. At twenty, Oli’s no kid—he fantasises about being kidnapped by a gentle gangster to guide him through his first time. Bonus points for emo villains! Above all, Oli wants an easy-going boyfriend who doesn’t take life too seriously…

Fionn and Oli fall together as the gangster lord tightens his net around them. Is Fionn strong enough to decide what matters most—family honour or the tug of his heart?

Gangsters live hard, but they love even harder.

Excerpt

Excerpt
Part of Me Fell into You
Eule Grey © 2025
All Rights Reserved

Chapter One
Fionn

Fionn O’Grady was working at a figurine factory in Boston when the boss yelled him into the office.

“Miller. In here now.”

The other workers nudged one another knowingly. “Told you,” one of them muttered, evading Fionn’s questioning, startled gaze.

A familiar shiver traversed Fionn’s spine. It was the end of an eight-hour shift, and he was exhausted. Still, he liked to finish his art before knocking off for the day. Carefully, almost lovingly, he placed his paintbrush across the soldier figurine’s feet with a “Back soon” before scurrying into the office. He silently prayed he wasn’t facing unemployment again.

Inside the office, the boss loomed, disgust plastered across his face. He threw rather than handed Fionn a paper wallet. “Here are your documents, Tom Miller. Now scram, O’Grady scum. Did you think I wouldn’t find out who you are? I don’t hire gangsters, even ones with your painting skills. Scram.”

Fionn didn’t ask how the boss had discovered his identity. Nor did he challenge Mr Moss’s choice of words—‘scram’—for a worker who’d single-handedly painted a battalion of figurine soldiers in one day. There’d be no point now that Mr Moss knew who Fionn was.

“All right, then. The final soldier needs a varnish.”

Fionn grabbed his coat and exited the factory with a sickening sensation; the concrete beneath his feet tried to suck him into the bowels of the earth, down, down, down. He wished there were someone he might call, a friend to share the load, maybe even a boyfriend. But there was nobody.

At the bus stop, he waited in line behind two jostling teenage boys. Their youthful skirmish soon turned into passionate necking. Maybe the hormonal steam rising from the boys caused Fionn’s invisible armour to buckle and fall away one plate at a time.

Or maybe the breathlessness tearing suddenly at his throat was born not of longing but loss. Whatever the cause, the boys’ frantic energy caused an ache to spread, searing Fionn’s muscles and nerves and settling inside his chest. A catastrophic influx of emotion shattered his habitual numbness, rendering him vulnerable against a flood of memories and cravings he couldn’t name. Could it be nostalgia squeezing his lungs for the hopeful teen he’d once been, craving a kiss from the neighbour? Or was it something else?

In his head, the words, “You’re lonely,” shouted in his sister’s voice.

Fionn baulked. The reminder of his sister, followed by some talented graffiti that had been sprayed on a wall, snapped at his energy and will. One word in particular reminded him of the many countries he’d lived in without ever finding a home or an accent that felt right.

Outsider.

Maybe his changeable accent explained why he never fitted, no matter what. He’d been told at various times that he sounded Irish, Welsh, British, or American.

Lonely, his sister whispered again.

Fionn walked away from the graffiti, muttering to himself. Ach, sure, it’d been months since his boyfriend had left without a backwards glance, throwing cruel words impossible to forget. You’re related to the O’Grady scum? Don’t contact me again. Same old, same old. But it wasn’t as if Fionn was a stranger to hardship. On the contrary, he was well used to fleeing at midnight with two carrier bags. Therefore, the unexpected churning in his stomach and head made no sense at all.

Still, it took a grave effort to return to his customary state of numbness, to push aside the memory of his sister, Sinéad. The teenage boys now had their hands down each other’s jeans, not that Fionn cared, because he didn’t.

When it was his turn to board the bus, Fionn grabbed the handle to jump on.

The driver held up a hand, shouting, “No O’Gradys. You’re banned. This city has had enough.” Then he pointed at a poster on the window bearing the faces of Fionn’s family, his mugshot in the middle. As if the poster weren’t condemning enough, the passengers joined in the tirade of hatred by shouting and making rude gestures.

The bus driver sped away, leaving Fionn stranded. He stumbled backwards into a low wall, cheeks blazing, shame burning every inch of his freckled skin. Although he didn’t wish to know what his family had been up to now, he wouldn’t have minded knowing why the whole city had turned against him. In twenty-five years, Fionn had never been involved in crime, and he never would be.

Despair gripped his heart. How could one live without a job or money? The rent was due. He’d been relying on the wage from the figurine factory to tide him over until he made his fortune painting landscapes. Dad wouldn’t allow his youngest son back into the O’Grady home until Fionn agreed to work for the ‘business’. Mum was as bad as Dad, and his other siblings were older, each deeply immersed in the gangster underworld. The O’Gradys genuinely saw nothing wrong with their way of life. To them, he was the problem.

Despite the apocalypse gathering in his chest, it was a pleasant, warm evening. Spring wafted from hanging baskets and potted flowers: lavender, rose, lemon. Along with the scents, a heavy bout of sadness settled on Fionn. His beloved twin sister’s name was in his mouth before he could stop it. How could he help it? Though Sinéad had left years ago, Fionn still recognised a geranium from a petunia. His sister had loved floral scents, spending hours among flowers in the fields surrounding the family mansion. Her passion had naturally passed to her brother, who’d adored her.

Sinéad had been the clever one, running from the family at fifteen, never to return. If only the twins had saved enough money for two air tickets to England, Fionn would have fled with her, but they hadn’t managed it. By the time he’d earned enough to buy a flight from two paper rounds and night shifts at a paint factory, Fionn had forgotten the mobile number Sinéad forced him to memorise before she left. The numbers had jumbled in his anxious, ADHD brain alongside the fear of what Dad would do if he discovered the plan. For years, Fionn waited for Sinéad’s call. It never came. Ten years later, every pretty redhead resembled her.

He’d made many attempts over the years to locate his sis on social media, to no avail. She’d undoubtedly found a safer life under a new name. A nasty inner voice insisted she was better off without her brother anyway, since he was as chaotic as a giraffe on skates, fuelled by impulsivity and paper art.

Fortunately, Fionn kept an emergency packet of tissues in his pocket. Without it, he wouldn’t have survived the despair threatening to undo the façade of normality in which he survived.

He produced a tissue, ripped it into bits, and crafted a tiny bus. When he’d finished it, he felt immeasurably better. For Fionn, art represented a safety jacket when the storms appeared.

He propped up the paper bus on the wall where he’d collapsed, figuring someone else might need it. The panic faded, leaving a familiar determination to survive no matter the odds.

When he was able to breathe calmly, Fionn began the ten-mile walk home, expecting every tree to turn into a cop or, worse, a knife-wielding gangster. He was useless in a fight, yet beneath the anxiety, he yearned for a scrap like those he’d had with Sinéad as a child, fights that ended in laughter and a glass of fizzy pop. Since she’d left, life had become a pursuit of rent and bills rather than what it should have been: laughter, love, fun, fun, fun.

After miles of trudging, Fionn paused at a shop to buy a water bottle. The shopkeeper immediately slammed the door shut, pointing at a poster identical to the one on the bus. “Get lost, O’Grady!”

It was the final straw. Fionn sank onto a patch of grass, head in hands. His messy red hair falling into his eyes reminded him of his sister, whose long locks had once reached her bottom. Man, he missed her and the safety of family members he could trust.

Not even emergency tissues saved him from the brink of hopelessness. He hit rock bottom on the grass amidst the scent of summer flowers. Moments passed into hours.

Fortunately, the mental darkness never lasted long. Finally, a tiny light appeared, growing brighter every second.

Fionn recognised the light as a need for action, which, in turn, would shatter the awful greyness threatening to undo him. The urge to move, to fill the empty void, wasn’t new or without risk. He’d always been impulsive, even reckless. Mostly, he recognised the craving for what it was—part of his ADHD—but sometimes, he trusted his instincts despite the consequences.

A risky idea danced into his mind provocatively. Instead of heading to his apartment, he could walk to the family mansion, which was nearby, and confront his parents. After all, there was nothing left to lose. The visage of a repentant scene, where Dad begged for forgiveness, teased Fionn mercilessly: I missed you, son.

The temptation to return home quickly became too great to ignore. Fionn told himself he only wanted to see the family one last time. Yeah, it was time to confront them and then leave the city to start anew elsewhere. He should’ve done so ages ago. Surely Dad wouldn’t deny his youngest child a second chance? The great gang lord might offer to help contact Sinéad, wherever she was. Dad was a stubborn ass, but he’d always loved the twins—up until they’d begun saying no, anyway.

Fionn walked quickly towards his childhood home. By nature, he was cheerful and optimistic. The city had got him down, but things would improve once he got away. A long time ago, he’d forgiven his parents for throwing him out and his siblings for shunning him. Fionn had been born with a generous nature not even the O’Gradys had quenched.

Thirst and a wave of panic at the far end of the O’Grady driveway forced Fionn to a halt. It had been a year since the Sunday dinner when Dad offered him a job hacking into a bank.

“Easy work, son,” Dad had said. “Time you settled down and moved back with the family instead of slumming it in the seedy shithole you call home. My son working in a paint factory? No. You make me a laughing stock.”

Fionn had tried hard to stay calm, to stick to his guns. “Dad, no. I don’t want anything to do with crime, remember? I’m happy where I am in life. Okay? I’m different from you, but it doesn’t mean we can’t still get along. We’re family—right?” Fionn had laughed. Most people experienced the same conversation with their parents, albeit with different issues. Whereas school friends had negotiated bedtime, Sinéad and Fionn had argued about firearms.

His father had turned his back, beefy arms crossed, neck rigid with anger. “You break my heart. Get out of here. Don’t come back.”

Fionn had stupidly tried to reason with him, tugging at Dad’s arm, trying to make peace as always. “Dad? Can’t we talk about it?”

The awful scene ended abruptly when the family security guard, a tall woman with tattoos, dragged Fionn across the room before hurling him outside into the rain. She turned once before locking the family home.

“You heard the boss,” she’d said. “You’re rubbish.”

Fionn was left homeless, bitter jealousy souring his heart. What kind of father preferred a security guard to his own son?

“No, you’re rubbish,” he’d shouted futilely. But it was too late. The guard had already locked the door and drawn the blinds. Nobody wanted to hear what Fionn had to say, never mind act upon his wishes.

With hindsight, Fionn wished he could’ve accepted the job and made his father happy; he really did. He loved his dad and still craved the gang lord’s approval and love. But crime? Fionn couldn’t partake then or now. One hacking job would lead to another. Anyway, he was pants at anything like that. All Fionn had ever been good at was art and snuggles.

The painful memory of being thrown out of the family home immobilised him. It took a while before Fionn could wipe his face and walk down the driveway towards the family mansion, so thirsty not even the memory of Dad’s final haunting words slowed his progress. You’re an embarrassment.

It was a surprise to find the front door wide open. Mum never left the door open. Instinctively, Fionn knew something was very wrong. A black, ragged hole opened up within his chest. As children, he and Sinéad had always feared retribution, stabbings, and worse.

He rushed forward despite the danger, expecting to find the bodies of his family strewn across the living room.

Instead, the security guard who’d thrown him out months ago appeared and rugby-tackled him to the ground with a snarl.

Grass cuttings, earth, and flowers smacked Fionn in the face. He soon stopped fighting back. “For fuck’s sake. What is it with you and beating me up? Get off me,” he gasped.

The guard straddled him, holding his hands above his head, intent on winning. “Fionn O’Grady, at last. We’ve been waiting for you. As with the rest of the O’Grady scum, you’re under arrest. Time to pay for your crimes, rubbish. This town has had enough.”

With a quick flick of her wrist, she held up a police identity card bearing her photo and name. Charlie Green.

Purchase

NineStar Press | Books2Read

Meet the Author

Eule Grey has settled, for now, in the north UK. She’s worked in education, justice, youth work, and even tried her hand at butter-spreading in a sandwich factory. Sadly, she wasn’t much good at any of them!

She writes novels, novellas, poetry, and a messy combination of all three. Nothing about Eule is tidy but she rocks a boogie on a Saturday night!

For now, Eule is she/her or they/them. Eule has not yet arrived at a pronoun that feels right.

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RELEASE BLITZ: The Rivers Will Run Red by Keira North

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Title: The Rivers Will Run Red

Series: House of Drǎculeşti

Author: Keira North

Publisher: NineStar Press

Release Date: 07/01/2025

Heat Level: 1 – No Sex

Pairing: Male/Male

Length: 81100

Genre: Paranormal, urban fantasy, dark, supernatural, immortal, vampires, shifters, werewolves, merfolk, MLM romance, found family, nonbinary character, Transylvania, Romania, Romanian mythology, folklore, #ownvoices: Romanian author, #ownvoices: nonbinary author

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Description

In the wake of a devastating attack by a rogue coven of vampires, hunter-turned-werewolf Ileana returns to the ruins of her family home. Believing her sister, Tamara, survived the attack, Ileana seeks the help of Liviu, the werewolf who turned her, and Evdochia, a hauntingly powerful vampire descended from Vlad Țepeș himself.

The attack is the first strike in a looming war threatening the fragile truce between humans and mythical nightwalkers. With time slipping away and danger closing in from all sides, Ileana and her allies must race to find Ravenswatch, the ancient fortress where the vampire coven is preparing to strike again.

Excerpt

The Rivers Will Run Red
Keira North © 2025
All Rights Reserved

Girl Who Cried Wolf

“When the blood moon rises, beware of the pricolici.”
— From the wisdom of werewolf hunters in Crișana-Banat

“It’s here, I swear,” Luca said. “Just a little farther.”

With a small nod, Ileana said, “Uh-huh.”

Her companion couldn’t see that, of course. He was already charging ahead through the underbrush, so she had no choice but to follow, pulling her ratty cardigan tighter around her bony shoulders. She was all of thirteen and outgrowing her old clothes faster than she could get new hand-me-downs. Whatever survived her nightly escapades usually found its way to her younger sister, Tamara, much to the latter’s chagrin.

Luca didn’t need to worry about the cold. He wore a thick, fur-padded coat that molded perfectly to his slim body. A boy of fifteen, more nimble than strong and taller than Ileana by a head, his hair was wheat-colored and unruly, and he had piercing blue eyes and thick brows that made him look like he was always frowning. Ileana felt a strange flutter in her stomach whenever he looked her way. She wanted him to look at her but also not, and she found the whole thing equal parts vexing and confusing.

Luca was already blooded too. On a family hunting trip to the southern reaches of Oltenia, he’d found and killed a moroi, a risen dead who’d been walking around for so long it was more bone than corpse. Luca talked about it like he’d offed the great Impaler himself. Still, his one kill trumped Ileana’s none.

Despite the full moon crossing the night sky somewhere above, the jumble of branches overhead cast a dense shroud over the sodden, uneven ground. Where Luca moved with the sure step of a journeyman hunter, Ileana had to stop and feel her way around tree stumps and patches of half-melted snow, pushing her long bangs out of her face every other step. Her hair was a dark, muddy brown in the sunlight. Here, under the canopy, it was black, and thick, and annoying.

“C’mon!” Luca shouted from somewhere ahead.

She walked faster, or at least as fast as her skinny legs could carry her. Where Luca was growing like a weed, Ileana was more of the short persuasion. For now, she’d tell herself whenever she looked in the mirror, standing on tiptoe and tilting her chin up.

A soft patch of earth gave way under her foot. With a startled yell, she fell forward, arms flailing in search of something to stop her fall. She felt a sting across the back of her right hand when she scraped it against the rough bark of a tree, but at least she’d stopped herself before she tumbled forward and scraped her knees too. Tears prickled at the corners of her eyes, swiftly followed by shame. She sniffled and bit her lower lip. Cradling her injured hand with her good one, she scurried ahead.

Soon, the trees dwindled away and the ground sloped gently downward toward a small pond, its ragged edges obscured by a dense thicket of cattails and pickerel weeds. With nothing to blot it out, the moon shone bright, its light tracing sparkling ripples across the water.

Pretty, Ileana thought.

And then, stealing a glance at her companion, He’s pretty too.

Luca was waiting for her by the water, toying with his hunting knife, his hair shimmering like threads of spun gold. He caught her eye and grinned wide, tossing the knife up in the air. He caught it by the tip, then tossed it again, catching it by the handle this time. The blade flashed in the moonlight. It looked like silver. Good for werewolves and basilisks, Ileana’s mind supplied, a rote response. She had her own knife stashed away in her boot, but the blade was steel, not silver. She rarely parted with it these days. Like a real hunter.

“Over there,” Luca said, turning away from her to wave his hand toward whatever they’d come here to find.

Ileana turned to follow the line of his finger to where he was pointing. She spotted a storm drain on the other side of the pond, an old, battered thing with bits of rebar poking through the crumbling concrete. She’d ventured inside a few times over the years. The way was barred by a sturdy metal grill some twenty paces in, but that hadn’t stopped her from pretending she was descending deep into another realm in search of glimmering treasure and forbidden magick. That was all make-believe, though, and she was done with it now that she was well on her way to being a grown-up. Hunters didn’t waste their time with make-believe. They found it, and they killed it.

“What’s there?” she asked.

“It’s a wolf,” the boy said, “and I’m gonna kill it.”

A gust of wind tickled them from the side, poking through Ileana’s cardigan and the flimsy shirt underneath. She stuck her hands deep into her pockets, hissing as the wound on the back of her hand scraped against the rough fabric.

“A wolf?” she said, her eyes flicking back to the drain. “Just the one?”

“Maybe it got lost, I dunno.”

“So how do you know it’s a wolf?” Ileana pressed. “It could be just a stray dog or—”

“Because I saw it, all right? Earlier, when I was…” The boy’s face twisted in a scowl that was more comical than angry.

“When you were, what?”

“Gramma sent me looking for frogs again.” He shuffled his foot.

Ileana snorted a laugh. “So, the mighty hunter went out to whack some toads with a stick. How’d you fare on that perilous adventure?”

“They taste good, okay? And, and anyway, that’s not—it doesn’t matter. I know there’s a wolf in there, and I’m gonna kill it and make something from its pelt.”

“You’re going to kill the wolf with a knife?” Ileana said, her left eyebrow quirking higher than the right one. “They’re stronger than humans, y’know. Faster too.”

“Don’t be stupid, Leana. This is what I’m gonna kill it with.” Speaking, Luca pulled aside his woolen coat enough to show her the revolver tucked into his waistband.

Ileana had seen that gun before, on an ornate plaque above the mantelpiece in Luca’s ancestral home on the other side of the hill. She’d asked one of her cousins to hold her up so she could look at it once, when she was smaller, and she remembered it clearly. The grip was silver with intricate bone inlays, a relic of a time when craftsmanship was still a thing. Luca’s family could trace their lineage all the way back to Aron Vulpe—Aron the Fox—the famed hunter who’d driven the vampires of the Țepeș clan from the hillsides of Crișana-Banat and into the far reaches of the Carpathian Mountains. Three hundred years later, their coffers still ran deep.

“Does your dad know you took that?” she asked, a hint of unease tinging her words. She’d seen the bruises on the boy’s face and wrists more than once.

He flashed her another grin. “I’ll have it back before he knows it’s gone. And you’re not gonna tell on me, yeah?”

“Maybe I won’t, if you ask me nice.” The thought hadn’t even crossed her mind, but Luca didn’t need to know that.

He pursed his lips. “If you’re gonna be like that, you can go home already.”

“But I already know,” Ileana said smugly.

“Then I’ll—I’ll make you something nice from its pelt, how about that?”

“I’ll kill my own,” she said, sweet as it was to think about getting a gift from him. “Or maybe I’ll kill a werewolf and take its pelt. And I won’t do it with some rusty old gun.”

He scoffed, looking her over. “Yeah, right. Maybe in a year or two.”

Ileana bristled at that. Every night, when her family went to sleep, she snuck out into the woods behind her home, Nightshade Lodge, and hacked and slashed until her arms grew so tired she couldn’t raise them anymore, practicing her knife throwing and fending off imaginary beasts. And she was getting good, she could tell.

That was where Luca had found her earlier tonight. “I wanna show you something,” he’d told her, and she’d let him talk her into coming along. Mostly because there was something about him that made her want to punch him in his stupidly handsome face and then kiss it all better. Not that she’d ever kissed anyone before, but she’d read about it in a book, and it didn’t sound all that bad.

The object of her secret thoughts snapped his fingers right under her nose, yanking her back into the present with a startled, “Huh?”

“I said, I’m going. You can stay here if you’re scared.”

“Pfft. I’m not scared. But,” she said after a moment, “are you sure—”

“Good. Let’s go.” He started ahead without waiting to hear the rest of the objection.

Purchase

NineStar Press | Books2Read

Meet the Author

Keira North is a queer, nonbinary, Romanian author living in Montreal. They use storytelling as a medium to explore their heritage and identity and strive to be the change they want to see in the (literary) world. When they’re not writing, they like to make music, play video games, and read copious amounts of fanfiction and indie works.

Website | Instagram | Bluesky

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RELEASE BLITZ & GIVEAWAY: The Spy by Mell Eight

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Title: The Spy

Series: Princes of Toval, Book Three

Author: Mell Eight

Publisher: NineStar Press

Release Date: 06/10/2025

Heat Level: 1 – No Sex

Pairing: Male/Male

Length: 57800

Genre: Historical fantasy, adventure, baking, magic, missing person, MM Romance, politics, royalty, spies

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Description

After spending two years away at culinary school, learning the arts of baking and magic, all Karl wants to do after graduation is return home to the kitchen where he grew up. However, when Karl’s adoptive uncle asks him to do a little favor for him along his journey, of course Karl says yes. He needs to find a missing person, one who may have been captured somewhere in Yaroi, a neighboring country to Karl’s home in Toval.

Finding the missing person is hard enough. Add in each of their secretive pasts, and the implications and dangers inherent with being a Prince of Toval, and a simple rescue turns into a deadly adventure. Especially once Karl learns just why Ama was arrested in the first place. Karl’s chances of returning home to use his newly honed baking skills dwindle as escaping the situation with their heads still attached is proving to be almost impossible.

Excerpt

The Spy
Mell Eight © 2025
All Rights Reserved

Prologue
Ama knew how he had gotten into this situation. The Yarokai had excellent noses, so sniffing him out, tracking him down, and capturing him had been far easier than in most of the places Ama went to sneak around. Even his magic hadn’t been enough to prevent his capture, warning him too late that he should have taken his chances heading for the border rather than holing up and trying to hide.

What Ama didn’t know was how he was going to get out of this with his head still attached to the rest of his body. The Yarokai were, in general, a suspicious bunch, insular, and parochial. Any strangers in the cities within the country of Yaroi received extra scrutiny. Tracking them all had to be difficult, since the majority of Yaroi’s cities were coastal trade cities along the Eiroi Strait with merchants, sailors, and travelers from other countries coming and going constantly. They were the main entry port to the rest of the continent for land-based travel too, so Yaroi always had caravans of foreigners crossing through.

Ama had planned to blend in. He arrived at Yaroi’s capital city of Yari with a merchant caravan, acting as a guard to deter thieves, and then spent plenty of time each day visibly working to negotiate a contract to leave Yaroi with a different caravan. Only in the quiet hours around noon, when any good Yarokian was meditating and business was never conducted, or in the dark of night, had Ama tried sneaking around.

He had never failed so miserably.

Sensory deprivation was the worst sort of punishment for a Yarokai, so Ama’s cell didn’t have any windows to allow light or air in. The door was thick wood with only a small flap at the bottom to push meals through. While depriving sight, sound, and smell might be particularly terrible for the Yarokai, it wasn’t exactly a walk in the park for Ama either, especially since he was basically convicted before they could put him on stage for a sham trial.

At least Ama would go to his execution knowing his last mission had been successful. Queen Trina would be relieved to know that much. Aunt Millie would be sad to know he was gone, although given her abilities, she probably already knew he was in trouble. She was too far away to help, though, so Ama wasn’t counting on that. Aunt Millie knew better too. In her four years since taking the throne in Namin, she had become a good and trustworthy ruler, and Namin was beginning to return to prosperity. She wouldn’t do anything to jeopardize that, including engaging with Yaroi on his behalf, particularly after what he had just done. Even if Yaroi didn’t use military assets to attack Namin, they controlled the trade from the Eiroi Strait. If they leveled extra tariffs on Namese goods or simply refused to allow Namese goods to be traded through Yaroi ports, Namin’s economy would backslide. No, Ama was definitely on his own there.

At least Ama had visited home recently, to see all his aunts, uncles, and cousins, and had visited Namin too. Seeing Aunt Millie was always fun. She had been too busy at the time to really talk though. The last time Ama had actually sat down with her alone for more than a hurried lunch, before she went on to her next meeting and Ama returned to work, had been four years ago, right after her coronation. Ama had hoped her words at the time meant he had a happy future in front of him, but now he knew better. She had meant he shouldn’t worry about his future because he would be executed before he had a chance to actually achieve his dreams.

“If you want my advice, I think you should continue adventuring on Prince Braxton’s behalf. Have some fun for a few more years, and maybe someday you’ll find whatever it is you’re actually searching for.”

Even Toval, who had assigned him this delicate mission, wouldn’t be able to save him. They couldn’t admit they had sent him to Yaroi, that they were involved at all, nor that they knew Ama even existed—all for the same reasons Namin wouldn’t dare help Ama. No, Ama had to take complete responsibility for this fiasco. That was the only way to save Toval and Namin, as well as to ensure the last parts of this mission were successful.

Ama shifted on the hard stone bench, the only furniture in his cell, and leaned against the rock wall, attempting to get as comfortable as possible. He tried to focus on happier memories as he waited to die.

The first time he had seen Prince Braxton, looking so strong and powerful on a horse as he rode through Ama’s home village. Ama making the decision to help Prince Braxton any way he could and going about gathering information so he could convince Braxton to hire him. The second time he had seen Braxton, he had snuck into Braxton’s camp and startled him. Once Braxton calmed down, Ama had managed to convince Braxton Ama was only there to share information. That memory made him smile.

Another of his favorite memories was more recent. Namin’s aggressions against Toval had grown too much, so Toval had decided to intervene by sending troops to support a coup. Braxton had asked if Ama might be able to find someone suitable to sit on the Namin throne after they removed the king of the time, which meant finding someone capable of wielding Namin’s royal magic. Ama had traveled only a few hours before finding Aunt Millie, who had chosen to come to him, to support Ama in Ama’s quest to help Braxton in any way the Tovalians needed. Now Aunt Millie was Queen Carmillian of Namin.

Ama couldn’t say how much time passed as he sat in the tiny prison cell, inwardly focused on his memories —a couple days, at least, but he couldn’t be sure. Food came, but not at regular intervals, so Ama couldn’t use that to gauge time. After what felt like a very, very long time, he finally heard the scrape as the lock was turned. The door opened with a slow groan, the light beyond almost blinding Ama. He blinked, trying to clear the spots from his vision, and a grinning guard eventually came into view. A pair of manacles in his hands were held out in Ama’s direction.

“Your punishment has been decided,” the guard stated as Ama stood and walked over to the door, arms outheld for the guard to place the manacles around Ama’s wrists. He didn’t say anything more, instead, shoving Ama forward so he stood in the middle of a circle of guards. They walked for a while, the floor sloping slowly upward, only the torches set into the walls at intervals supplying any light. The group paused when they reached a door, then waited for the guard in front to unlock it and pull the door open. He stepped aside and waved for Ama to go through first.

The guards and the excited crowd surrounding the perimeter of the stone-flagged amphitheater just outside the door let Ama get a good look at his punishment for a few long moments. Eager anticipation emanated from the crowd as they let him take it all in. Ama swallowed hard, but his resolve was firm. He would complete his mission no matter what they did to him.

“Anytime you want to tell us everything, this will stop,” the guard growled in Ama’s ear.

“There’s nothing to tell. I didn’t do anything wrong,” Ama replied. He tried to sound unconcerned, but his throat was dry and stomach clenched. He had hoped for a quick hanging or beheading, not a slow death like this, but either way, he would endure–for the sake of everyone he had to protect.

He had to.

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Meet the Author

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.

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RELEASE BLITZ & GIVEAWAY: A Flash of Golden Fire by AE Lister

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Title: A Flash of Golden Fire

Series: The Arrow and the Flame, Book One

Author: AE Lister

Publisher: NineStar Press

Release Date: 06/03/2025

Heat Level: 3 – Some Sex

Pairing: Male/Male

Length: 337 PAGES

Genre: Historical Fantasy, action/adventure, age gap, BDSM, pirates, sailors, hurt/comfort, magic/magic-user, menage, foul-mouthed bird

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Description

Twenty-two-year-old Simon White begs for a place on Captain Dinesh Martin’s pirate ship, the Arrow. When he proves hilariously inadequate at most tasks, he finds himself in the captain’s quarters as cabin boy, housekeeper, and bed warmer.

Captain Martin used to be a British naval officer, until he became disenchanted with the hypocrisy, racism, and classism of the institution and embarked on a life of piracy. He runs an organized and efficient vessel and prides himself on the men with whom he surrounds himself. He is esteemed and admired, and he gives them as good a life as they’ve ever known.

But Simon has more than a few surprises up his sleeve, including some frightening powers, and Dinesh learns that sometimes a pretty appearance and amenable disposition can fool even an experienced man of the seas.

Excerpt

A Flash of Golden Fire
AE Lister © 2025
All Rights Reserved

Salvation

Port Royal, 1781

The sea smelt of salt and death.

The bustling port city on the southern shores of Jamaica ran with booty and blood. The Brethren of the Coast or, more familiarly, men of dubious employ, otherwise known as pirates, came to the city to trade the goods they had amassed at sea in questionable circumstances. Of course, there was honour among thieves and all of that, but there were also short tempers and ravenous appetites for more than food and good ale.

Food and ale…

I licked my cracked lips and huddled deeper into the threadbare jacket I’d pulled off a washing line an hour earlier. It was the only clean thing on me, in fact. My other garments were stained and filthy, like my frigid skin.

So far, this coastal town hadn’t fulfilled its imaginary promise of a fresh and welcome start. I’d left the town of my birth to embark on a new life, thinking that my luck might be better in Port Royal.

Born in Spanish Town to missionary parents, I had been orphaned at twelve, following a calamity that had left them dead, and I was lucky enough to have been taken in by a friend of my mother’s, who saw to it to educate and care for me as best he could. My life was decent, though dull, until the age of twenty-one when he died of yellow fever, and I was forced to look to my own means for survival. I should have found my own way before that advanced age, but Carago had enjoyed looking out for me, since his wife had died in birthing his only son, who had lived for three days before following her.

Perhaps my childlike attitude and spoilt sense of entitlement were due to Carago’s fatherly indulgences, although innocence had flown from me long before his passing.

So far, in Port Royal, I’d been attacked at knifepoint by a fearsome fellow the night after I’d arrived and also robbed of all my belongings but for a meagre allotment of coin that I’d hidden in my boot. He’d left me with a sore shoulder, a black eye, and a newfound respect for, and fear of, strange men.

In Spanish Town, my encounters with strange men had been more cordial, although nothing I would ever have described to Carago, who, to my bad luck, had held a similar attitude to those of my father and wider society. An unruly mop of red hair and a face full of freckles had ensured me a boyish countenance that I’d likely retain into middle age—God willing I got there to enjoy the benefit. Men liked the look of me, to be frank, and I hadn’t lacked for companionship, although only in brief, physical bursts that had still proved rewarding.

I’d heard of the Brethren of the Coast—supposedly a breed of men who’d taken to a life of piracy with a different kind of philosophy, holding themselves to a higher standard than the average swashbuckling vagabond. If these visionaries did, in fact, exist, and if I could find one of them and beg for a place aboard his ship, perhaps I could prove my worth and gain passage off this pisspot of an island. A life at sea was a much better prospect than one on land at this point, and I was ready for an adventure.

I ducked into a tavern called The Penny Whistle to get out of the rain that now came in torrents, but not before I became soaked to the skin and chilled further. Quite a sorry thing to be so adrift at twenty-two, bedraggled and wet and without prospects.

The tavern was warm, at least, and nobody turned me out. A fire roared and crackled in a large hearth, in front of which a motley group of strangely attired men were seated at tables, their attention captured by an imposing figure who stood with his elbow on the mantle as he regaled them with animated voice and gestures.

I slunk to a stool by the bar and sat, my stomach cramping as the scent of cooking food filled my nostrils. I soon found myself as transfixed as the others.

The man was everything a pirate captain ought to be.

He was of indefinable race—likely a mixture of at least two. He was exceptionally handsome in a way far beyond his physical appearance, which was unique and appealing. And he was an excellent orator, regaling his audience with honeyed words and dramatic cadence.

He wore the jacket of a British officer, although the item had seen years of wear, and the badges had been removed, or torn from the cloth. The garment looked fine on him and gave him a ruffled distinction. His shirt and breeches were navy issue as well. He looked more put together than his crew, who sported the mismatched garb of unaligned men of the sea. He had the accent of a British officer and the elocution of a magistrate.

The serving wench made her presence known, approaching the captain, laughing in the way women do when they want a man to think of them fondly. But as far as I could tell, her charms weren’t working upon him.

The crew was another matter.

“Oy, my darling, come here and perch on me knee awhile,” a heavyset fellow suggested, leering at the young woman and waggling his eyebrows.

“Now, now, Mister Denbrooke. What would your wife think?” the captain said with an indulgent smile.

“My wife, Captain Martin,” Mr Denbrooke said, “is probably spreading her ample thighs for the butcher and the baker at the moment. So she wouldn’t care a damn.”

Captain Martin. I’d been right in my supposition.

“Oh, go on,” the girl said and flounced to the bar where she frowned and pretended to be unaffected by the captain’s disinterest.

Everyone laughed and the captain grinned wider.

“Never was able to keep her satisfied,” Mr Denbrooke continued. “I’ve only got one cock, and she likes to have three at once.”

The men laughed and Captain Martin nodded.

“Hmm. Well, I can’t fault your wife for that,” he said.

The men laughed harder and some even hooted, and my foggy brain couldn’t keep up.

I concentrated on dealing with the hunger pangs that assailed me and rehearsed ways I could approach this formidable man who took up space with such entitled ease.

“Hello, my name is Simon White. I’d like a position on your ship.” Or, perhaps I should say, “Simon White here. You gotta place for me on board?” or “I’m strong and quick—when I’m fed, at least—Are you taking on crew?”

None of these were likely to get me what I needed, so I sat there, suffering, whilst they shoveled beef stew into their gobs and tore up whole loaves of bread to devour amongst themselves. My mouth became dry as I watched. What I wouldn’t do for an ale or even a paltry glass of water.

There were things I’d thought about doing. Things that men paid dearly for in the back alleys and the whorehouses. But I couldn’t bear the thought of trading an activity I enjoyed so much for food and drink or coin. I hadn’t gotten to a point so desperate to fall into that. If I could only get onto Captain Martin’s ship, I wouldn’t have to contemplate a life of whoredom.

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Meet the Author

AE Lister is a Canadian non-binary author with a vivid imagination and a head full of unique and interesting characters. They write explicit, adult LGBTQ+ romance. They also write much less graphic Young Adult LGBTQ+ romance under Alison Lister.

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RELEASE BLITZ & GIVEAWAY: The Timeslot Paradox by Jeff Womack

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Title: The Timeslot Paradox

Author: Jeff Womack

Publisher: NineStar Press

Release Date: 05/13/2025

Heat Level: 2 – Fade to Black Sex

Pairing: Female/Female

Length: 100500

Genre: Science Fiction, time travel, time portal, time jump, time slot, rescue, revenge, romance, lesbian romance, friends to lovers, paradox, disabilities, found family, interracial/intercultural, university, computers, hacker, temporal engineer

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Description

Empowering time travelers to communicate across decades, an eager and gifted temporal engineer develops a secret mail drop, hidden in plain sight on a university campus. Codename: the Timeslot.
A charismatic physicist and a focused, revenge-driven hacker go to daring lengths to escape the man who murdered their best friend and fiancé—his boss.

A grieving musician in search of closure uncovers her late father’s notebook, written before she was born but, impossibly, dated twenty-five years in the future.

Generations later, another engineer, brilliant but disorganized, struggles to repair the abandoned Timeslot equipment after years of disuse. Her unexpected discovery draws this disparate group of men and women into a cascade of events which echo across a century of recent-past and near-future history.

Journals from five intertwining lives, Black, White, Asian, queer, straight, disabled, and not, blend time travel with mystery, revenge, found family, vintage music, sci-fi references, and even a little romance.

Excerpt

The Timeslot Paradox
Jeff Womack © 2025
All Rights Reserved

1

Crystal

August 1993

I spent weeks cleaning out the house before I discovered the secret compartment.

Unexpectedly, the lowest dresser drawer was crammed full of socks, far more colorful than I would ever wear. I slid the whole thing out to tilt them into the donation box. Shaking the drawer to free the last pair, I felt something shift, just before a false bottom hinged open, and a book fell out among the clothes.

The unmarked tan cover had no title, no call number, nothing.

Three months before, Mom had…faded to silence like the final song on an album. After the funeral, when the flow of her friends bringing food over eventually slowed and stopped, I slipped into a deep funk. No desire to move on, I’d just spun in place, the crackle of static at the center of a record repeating over and over.

My counselor suggested that the grief process could be helped by changing how I thought about the house. Even though I lived there alone, it still felt like Mom’s. So, I cleaned and sorted absolutely everything. Like learning to play an instrument, the only way to improve was practice. So, I practiced. I practiced being a self-sufficient adult, one shelf, one box, one drawer at a time.

Sorting and cleaning became the therapy that finally lifted my needle out of that endless groove.

Slowly, I’d worked my way through the entire basement, most of the garage, the kitchen, nearly everything except Mom’s bedroom. I knew I needed to build up to it, so I left her room to last. That morning, I’d stood in her doorway, debating between the dresser and the closet. It didn’t matter much. Since I was several inches taller, most of her clothes would be donated anyway.

Gently lifting the book out of the box, I opened it to the first page, where handwritten text began. “James was my best friend, and now he’s dead.” The date didn’t make any sense though: July 2018.

An unpublished novel set in the future? As a librarian, Mom lived her entire life around books. So maybe? Except this wasn’t her familiar handwriting. It was far too messy. Why go to such trouble to hide it?

Sitting on the floor, the socks forgotten, a story unfolded, page by page: time travelers, friendship, loss, escape, revenge, and even a little romance.

I read until my legs fell asleep. Standing unsteadily, a folded bundle of paper covered with undecipherable math calculations slipped out from between the pages onto the floor. Tucked inside, I found two white rectangles. I used the smaller, a worn piece of unlabeled plastic to mark my place in the book. The larger showed writing in one corner that I recognized was Mom’s. “Charles and me, 1968.” I flipped it over to see an old black-and-white photo of a smiling couple posing on a stair landing. An Asian man in shirt and tie had his arm around the waist of a White woman in a floral dress. She had straight dark hair parted in the middle.

Mom only had a few photos of my dad. Her favorite hung in the hall, the rest stayed in an album. I’d seen them all many times, but never this one. Dad looked the same as in all his other photos, but Mom was so young, her hair longer than I remembered and years before any gray crept in.

On the wall behind them, the bottom corner of an antique picture frame showed. I leaned close and noticed a dog in the painting. Gasping, I sat up straight. I knew that painting! I knew exactly where they stood.

I headed out the door so fast I barely remembered to lock up. Parking always sucked near the student union, so I paid for the parking garage. Through hallways, past meeting rooms, the main lobby, and then halfway up the atrium stairs brought me to a landing with a painting of the first dean of the university…and his dog.

I stepped back and held out the photo. It lined up perfectly: the corner of the painting with the brass plaque underneath, the curving handrail to the stairs, all of it. The only things missing were my parents.

The only things missing were my parents.

That hit me hard. My counselor said grief was a road that winds back on itself. On a stair landing, empty except for me and a century-old dog, I didn’t even realize I was crying until an older woman passed by and asked if I was okay. I wiped my cheeks, told her I was fine, and walked away, back toward my car, my house, and the book my dad had left behind.

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NineStar Press | Books2Read

Meet the Author

Jeff is an architect, archer, author, costumer, hiker, home-brewer, re-enactor, woodworker, etc. etc. etc. He lives in the suburbs of Denver, Colorado, with his family.

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RELEASE BLITZ: Blood Which Burns by BL Jones

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Title: Blood Which Burns

Series: Liquid Onyx, Book Five

Author: BL Jones

Publisher: NineStar Press

Release Date: 05/06/2025

Heat Level: 3 – Some Sex

Pairing: Male/Male

Length: 128900

Genre: Fantasy, family drama, gay, sci-fi/fantasy, superheroes, vigilante

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Description

Three months ago, Rex discovered a world-shattering truth about what it means to be a Liquid Onyx survivor and experienced devastating losses in the process.

Rex, momentarily gripped by raw fury and freshly torn grief, committed an act of shocking violence and was reforged by it.

Unable to face his new, fractured reality, he ran away from everyone who loved him and threw himself into the life of a morally grey vigilante.
Every choice Rex makes pushes him one step closer to embracing his father’s legacy. But there are other legacies who won’t let Rex fall into that darkness without a fight.

At his lowest point, will Rex find the strength and courage to step out of Alex Nova’s shadow and finally become the man—and the hero—everyone needs him to be?

Excerpt

Blood Which Burns
BL Jones © 2025
All Rights Reserved

ANDY

I was six the first time I broke into my mum’s lab.

Even at that age, I knew I wasn’t allowed in there because it was full of dangerous and fascinating things.

I had to break into the lab at least two dozen times before Mum gave in and simply took me down there with her.

She would sit me up at a table and give me work to do. Just simple things at first, calculating equations and mixing low-risk substances as required.

When I watched my mum move through her lab, I marvelled at her intellect. She knew so much, understood so much of the world that I did not.

It seemed to me she was one of the most brilliant people alive, and I wanted to be exactly like her.

Then there was my dad, a man like a natural disaster, unrelenting and inexplicably dangerous, his unique genius as captivating and destructive to watch as a tornado tearing across continents. His mind was unrivalled, a man destined to change the world.

And he did. With my mum’s help. My parents were the creators of Liquid Onyx, the gods of superheroes, the killers of children.

But, in most ways, Alex Nova was the man who taught me how to swim at our local pool and how to do a cartwheel, who took me out for ice cream when I did well on a test in school. He was the man who tickled me until I cried with laughter and dried my tears away when I got hurt falling off my skateboard. He was the man who told me I could do anything I wanted with my life because I was brave and clever, when all anyone else did was call me pretty.

My dad was my hero, not because of his extraordinary mind or the things he could do with it, but because he was my dad, and I loved him desperately.

When he died, my world crumbled and my heart broke. A piece of my childhood was set ablaze, never to be recovered from the ashes.

From then, it was just Mum and me. Mum became my everything; there was no one else, really. She didn’t want me to have any contact with my dad’s side of the family, and her side didn’t want anything to do with either of us.

Mum tried to make up for it by always being there when I needed her, by being my best friend. She came to all my science competitions and supported my academic dreams with all the attention, energy, and money she could spare. She bought me enough books to sink a ship and took me to museums all over the world, encouraging me to seek knowledge wherever I could find it.

I came out at fifteen and Mum made me a cake with the pansexual flag colours, which we ate together in front of the TV, watching our favourite 80s eighties films, quoting lines from Top Gun and Back to the Future in terrible American accents.

For a very long time, all I had in my life was my mum and my work.

Then there was Dru, who was too easy to love, and through her I met my little brother for the first time. Rex. A boy I’d been thinking about for too many years, imagining what he would be like and all the things we might have in common. Shared DNA doesn’t have to mean much, I know that, but it still felt like a connection I couldn’t pass on the potential of. I was too curious, have always been too curious by nature. Mum used to say that was how she knew I’d grow up to be a scientist like her and Dad.

Now, Mum is dead, and it was Rex who murdered her, and all I could do was scream for him to stop. Useless. Fucking stupid. As if my pleading would mean anything to him at that moment, after what I saw in that factory, what happened to Damon North. After what happened to our uncle Roux.

Thing is, I was right about how it would feel to meet Rex. There was a connection, instant and visceral. I felt it wind around my heart like barbed wire the moment our eyes met across the university lawn. Eyes the exact replica of our dad’s. He looked so much like Alex Nova, my breath had caught in my throat, threatening to choke me up. It had been a long time since I saw our dad’s face, and seeing it reflected back at me, albeit in an undeniably younger and angrier iteration, was bizarre. It’s like there was an edge there in the cut of my brother’s cheekbones, in the sardonic twist to his mouth that I can’t remember our dad ever possessing. Almost too much to deal with. But when he looked at me, I felt something, a tether pulling taut between us, and I’m certain, even now, that Rex felt it, too.

That’s what makes hating him so hard.

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NineStar Press | Books2Read

Meet the Author

BL Jones is a twentysomething British author who spends all her free time reading and writing and taming her three much younger brothers. She works as a BSL interpreter in Bristol and lives with a temperamental bunny named Pepsi. She’s been writing stories since she was five, rarely sharing them with anyone except her numerous stuffed animals. BL has had a difficult journey into discovering and accepting her own queerness, and therefore believes that positive, honest, and authentic stories about queer people are very important. She hopes to contribute her own stories for people to have fun with and enjoy.

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NEW RELEASE BLITZ & GIVEAWAY: Specimen by C. Quince

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Title: Specimen

Series: PRISM Agents, Book One

Author: C. Quince

Publisher: NineStar Press

Release Date: 03/11/2025

Heat Level: 3 – Some Sex

Pairing: Male/Male

Length: 105100

Genre: Science Fiction, MM romance, sci-fi, interracial/intercultural, former military, spies, secret agents, aliens, vampires, covert missions, cosy mystery, paranormal, paranormal sleuthing, sci-fi fantasy, action, British humour

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Description

David Cortez, a decorated US Marine, is now on the run from his own government after escaping a top-secret CIA lab when an experimental medical procedure turned sour.

While lying low in Mexico, an assassin sent from British Intelligence tracks him down. However, Sonny from MI6, a British-Iranian with a cockney accent, offers David a choice: join his team, or be killed.

David chooses to work with Sonny, not only because he wants his life back, but because he feels a kinship with the man.

They’re also both in the unique position of being the only living test subjects with alien DNA in their blood. Could that explain the strong attraction between them?

Excerpt

Specimen
C. Quince © 2025
All Rights Reserved

Tijuana, Mexico

David was being followed.

He couldn’t see who the tail was; every time David paused to do a little window shopping on the street and check his six in the window’s reflection, the tail managed to hide. Whoever they were, they were good at slipping by undetected.

David wasn’t sure who it was. Agency, probably, or another US-based shadowy government division. He should’ve picked Venezuela to lie low, but Mexico was his home, his heritage. He had lingered here longer than he should; he knew that, but he’d been so careful, using different names and cash only. He’d grown a beard to blend in and kept moving from place to place, never settling. David had been looking over his shoulder for six months. Now it seemed the bastards had finally caught up to him.

The sun was low in the sky, turning the clouds pink and orange. Vendors in the busy street were out in full force, providing good cover. David calmly made his way down the street, not letting on that he knew he was being followed—but if his tail was worth their salt, they’d know that he knew.

If his tail was a US Government agency like David suspected they were, they wanted one of two things: One, they wanted to keep tabs on him. Two, they wanted to bring him in. The latter would involve kidnap in some form or other; then they’d transport him to a black site—a soundproofed lab where nobody would hear him scream.

David should know. He’d been through that scenario once, and once was enough. If they thought he would come in quietly after what they’d done to him, they had another thing coming.

In the early evening hubbub of Tijuana, David led his tail down side streets and off the beaten path. He knew this town like the back of his hand, and it gave him the advantage.

On an ill-lit street, popular with gang members from the local cartel, a neon bar sign flickered on and off over an open doorway. David ducked in there. Immediately inside the door was a set of steps descending into darkness. David hurried down. At the bottom of the stairs, another open doorway awaited him. David knew the bar; it was small, gloomy, lit only by neon, and it was popular with drug dealers. Today it was busy enough, with music playing loud, and David was able to slip in without attracting attention.

He planned to lie in wait and watch who came through the door after him, so he situated himself at the far end of the bar, facing the entrance. He ordered a light beer. The bartender opened a bottle and stuck a wedge of lime in the top before handing it over.

David took the beer but didn’t drink yet. His eyes were trained on the doorway. Nobody had followed him in, which meant they were hanging back.

If the shoe had been on the other foot and David was the one doing the tailing, he wouldn’t have run straight into the unknown either. That meant this tail wasn’t a local, much as he’d suspected.

David leaned on the bar more casually and poked the lime wedge down into the bottle so he could take a sip of beer. He happened to catch his own reflection in the mirror behind the bar. Illuminated by red neon light, David’s tan skin looked darker than it usually did. He’d grown his hair out to ear length, the colour a mid-brown shade kissed by the sun. His full beard was a darker shade of brown. He looked like a local.

It was ironic; he’d spent his youth in California trying to look less Mexican, trying to fit in with the White kids in his grade. He’d lightened his hair with frosted tips for a while there—hair in the early ’00s…not great. David was half Mexican on his father’s side. His mother was Caucasian American from San Diego.

Now David had fled the US, he wanted to look more Mexican. He had felt shielded by his disguise so far, but maybe it was time for a new disguise. A new location.

Still no one had come through the door. That was nearly five minutes, a lifetime in surveillance work.

David was about to cut and run, when a figure appeared at the entrance. For a moment David tensed, but he soon saw that this figure was tiny. A short Mexican woman, and likely not his tail. She was the first of a group of local youths entering the bar. Two women, three men.

David relaxed some. These were Mexican kids. He could tell by looking at them; their dark hair, their complexions, and their clothes. The shoes gave it away: slides and sandals weren’t exactly standard surveillance footwear. These were civilians.

As the lively group came further into the bar to order their drinks, David noticed that one pair of feet among them had on black boots.

Bingo.

That was his tail, the man at the back of the group. Likely he had waited for a group to enter the bar and tacked himself on. Clever.

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NineStar Press | Books2Read

Meet the Author

Quince is a MENA-British author who lives in England, enjoys sci-fi and fantasy, history, and Halloween.

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NEW RELEASE BLITZ: To Tempt a Troubled Earl by Fearne Hill

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Title: To Tempt a Troubled Earl

Series: Regency Rossingley, Book One

Author: Fearne Hill

Publisher: NineStar Press

Release Date: 03/04/2025

Heat Level: 3 – Some Sex

Pairing: Male/Male

Length: 77200

Genre: Historical, historical romance, gay, UK, aristocracy, rich man/poor man, enemies to lovers, hurt-comfort, humorous, slow burn, opposites attract, scoundrels

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Description

A chancer and a rogue, Kit Angel is down on his luck. Presenting himself at Rossingley Hall in the dead of night, he begs an audience with the eleventh earl, the most enigmatic nobleman in Regency England.
The visit has purpose. Kit, hungry to ruin the baronet who ruined his sister, believes Rossingley is the only man who can help him.

Lando Duchamps-Avery, Eleventh Earl of Rossingley, doesn’t trust the sinfully handsome stranger one bit. He does not care for the tales he spins, his hot temper, or his thick, ebony curls. And, most definitely, he is not in thrall to the delicious golden hoop dangling from Kit Angel’s left ear. Lando has his own motivations to ruin the same lord, and the two men form an uneasy alliance.

As the dangerous plot they hatch unfurls, the suspicious earl and the shady scoundrel are increasingly thrown together. Whilst the wily earl gradually surrenders to his growing attraction, Kit can’t make up his mind if he wants to swive him, declare undying love for him, or throttle him.

Bit by bit, as mutual desire swells between them, Kit wins over the earl’s body, his passion, and his trust.
But in order to win the earl’s elusive heart? The scoundrel must risk losing everything.

This first book in the new Rossingley Regency romance series introduces Lando Duchamps-Avery, nineteenth-century predecessor to Dr Lucian Avery of the contemporary Rossingley romance series. With Lando’s story, we return to southern England and the Rossingley estate. This book can be read as a standalone.

Excerpt

To Tempt a Troubled Earl
Fearne Hill © 2025
All Rights Reserved

Rossingley Estate

Summer, 1821

“You have visitors, my lord.”

Inglis floated across the eleventh Earl of Rossingley’s sleepy eyeline, looking peevish. Lando swore the man had silken castors in place of feet. With white-gloved hands clasped together in front of his vexed frame, his head butler awaited his response.

“And you have chosen to disturb me about this because…” Lando tilted his balloon of brandy this way and that, playing the flickering candlelight against the delicately engraved crystal. That the evening was late was an irrelevance. He and his butler were of the same accord; visitors at any time of day were unusual, unwarranted, and unwelcome.

“A Mr Christopher Angel, my lord. And his sister, Miss Anne. The young man says it’s important.”

One of a pair, the balloon glass had been a gift from dear Charles. “I know of no one named Angel. Begging the question ‘important for whom’?”

“He didn’t make that distinction, my lord,” admitted Inglis. “But he gave the impression the matter is somewhat urgent.”

Lando took a warming sip of brandy. The drink of the damned. He didn’t especially care for it, but he fancied it lent him a louche, philosophic air. “What is urgent is seldom important, Inglis,” he deemed, pleased with his wisdom. Rousseau himself might make a similar pronouncement. “If it’s alms he’s after, toss him a half-crown, some cold meats, and send him on his way.”

The gloved hands wrung together. “I did try that, my lord. But he’s…ah…more insistent than our usual callers, and neither is he a pauper. And…” Inglis paused. Never let it be said the butler couldn’t milk a drama. “He…he mentioned one of his close relations. His uncle. One…ah…a former cavalry officer sadly no longer with us, God rest his soul.”

As Inglis made the sign of the cross, Lando took another, more contemplative sip. So many good men had fallen during the wars in France, and a chap struggled to keep up. “Oh, yes?”

Inglis cleared his throat. “Yes. A…ah…Captain Charles Prosser, my lord.”

Like rancid vinegar, the fine liquor soured on the earl’s tongue. He fought to swallow it down. Perhaps he should have stuck to port after dinner. Maybe it would have better softened the dull ache now swelling behind his rib cage. Captain Prosser. His dearest Charles, his lover. His heart.

Lando didn’t make his older lover’s acquaintance until after the wars, from which Charles returned hale and hearty. But where French bayonets and the battlefields of Trafalgar had failed, the insidious wasting disease prevailed. An annoying tickle became a cough, a cough tinged with blood. Slowly, inexorably, his lover faded away, their time together, in all of its perfection, too brief. A life only half lived; a conversation forever unfinished. Lando, not daring to be at Charles’s bedside at the end, heard the news of his passing from a mutual friend some two weeks after his lover had been buried beneath Kentish loamy earth.

Three long years ago. Yet even now, at unprepared moments such as this—and was there ever such a thing as a prepared one?—that name still had a powerful hold upon the eleventh earl. If Inglis hadn’t broken the crushing silence, it might have persisted well into the night.

“I have taken the liberty of passing the young man’s sister over to Mrs Sugden, my lord. The girl is in a state of great distress. And I have shown her brother to the small parlour. He’s…ah…not fit for the library.”

Inglis’s waspish voice sounded as if coming from an awfully long way away. “My lord might wish to be more suitably attired before receiving him?”

Tipping back his fair head, Lando forced another swallow of fiery amber liquid. For a second or two, it threatened to reappear, then he pulled himself together. Ridiculous. Three years gone and one mention of Charles turned him into a limp dishrag. Well, it was high time it didn’t. Time to make a clean breast of things. Time to stop bloody moping. Charles would have hated him squandering his salad days drinking alone and brooding in front of a dying fire.

He cast his gaze down his spare frame. Fussy Inglis might wish him more suitably attired, but Lando gave not a fig. As purportedly one of the richest men in England, Lando could host a ball clad in only his underclothes, and the ton would declare it the latest fashion in Paris. He pinned Inglis to the spot with his pale eyes.

“I’m decent. Uninvited callers find me as I am, or not at all. As you damned well know.”

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Meet the Author

Fearne Hill lives deep in the southern British countryside with three untamed sons, varying numbers of hens, a few tortoises, and a beautiful cocker spaniel.

When she is not overseeing her small menagerie, she enjoys writing contemporary romantic fiction. And when she is not doing either of those things, she works as an anaesthesiologist.

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BOOK BLITZ: In Flight by K.R. Collins

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Title: In Flight

Series: Sophie Fournier, Book Eight

Author: K.R. Collins

Publisher: NineStar Press

Release Date: 02/18/2025

Heat Level: 1 – No Sex

Pairing: Female/Female

Length: 74100

Genre: Contemporary, Romance, contemporary, sports, family-drama, lesbian, ice hockey

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Description

As she enters her ninth season in the North American Hockey League, Sophie’s pressure on herself to perform well has never been higher. Next season will mark a decade as the first woman in the League, a milestone no one will let her forget, especially as her expected replacement will be old enough to be drafted herself.

Sophie has the support of Coach Elison and her team behind her. She has come into her own on the ice as the captain and face of the Concord Condors. Off the ice, her life is looking good as well. She and Elsa are living together with plans to build a home, provided Concord signs them to contract extensions.

As always, though, it isn’t enough. Sophie has her eyes set on the Maple Cup, the trophy given to the best hockey team each year. She has all the motivation she needs—a contract to live up to, a personal hockey hero on the team who has never lifted the Cup before, and a need to prove herself, again, before Emily Skelton is drafted and takes the League by storm.

Excerpt

In Flight
K.R. Collins © 2025
All Rights Reserved

Sophie greets Armand Mason with a smile and a brief handshake. Mason is a middle-aged man with dark skin and even darker hair. He wears a green button-down, but the sleeves are rolled to his elbows in deference to the summer heat.

His grip is firm but not overpowering. He has callouses on his hands, in different places than Sophie does. She suspects his are from holding pencils or, maybe in this modern age, a tablet stylus. Sophie’s callouses are from gripping her hockey stick and from all the weightlifting she does.

Elsa shakes Armand’s hand next. “Thank you for agreeing to meet with us,” she says.

Elsa, who normally only has a scant few inches on Sophie, has closer to four today, because she’s wearing wedge sandals. They’re open-toed to show off her lime-green toenail polish. The color clashes with Elsa’s dress, a light-pink halter-top. The green-pink combination reminds Sophie of watermelon, but she’s smart enough not to mention it to Elsa.

While her girlfriend—and that’s still a thrill, thinking of Elsa as her girlfriend—is understanding of Sophie and her quirks, Sophie doubts that will extend to being compared to a watermelon.

Sophie doesn’t wear a sundress like Elsa or business casual like Armand. She wears black capri leggings and a black T-shirt boasting her team’s name and logo.

The Concord Condors are New Hampshire’s North American Hockey League team. Their logo is a condor with its wings stretched wide and a hockey stick clutched in its talons. Concord was one of the newest teams to be added to the league. The NAHL decided New England could support two teams, one in Boston and one in Concord, and that the proximity would create a rivalry which would sell tickets.

In the early years, there wasn’t much of a rivalry. Concord was where Boston fans went because the tickets were cheaper. Now, though, Concord is a proper NAHL team. They have a Maple Cup to their name, having won hockey’s most coveted prize in Sophie’s third season. She hasn’t managed to do it again, but she has a good feeling about this year.

Sophie gestures for Armand to sit at the booth she and Elsa picked out at the coffee shop. She and Elsa sit side by side opposite him. This year is going to be a good one, for many reasons. Yes, Sophie is chasing the Cup again, something she will do every year she’s still playing in the NAHL, but there are other things she’s focused on.

She has a girlfriend to take out on dates. She has a contract negotiation she wants done with before the summer is over. She has plans to go to Sweden with Elsa, then for Elsa to visit Sophie in Thunder Bay.

And, of course, she has this meeting with Armand Mason, a local architect.

Sophie and Elsa plan to sign contract extensions this summer, the two of them committing to Concord for as many years as they can. They’ve already committed to each other, for more than the eight or ten years their hockey contracts will last. Another declaration of their intent is this: planning a house together.

They’re going to build their dream house. They’ll have enough bedrooms for when their respective families come to visit or for when their teammates need a place to crash. They’ll have a sleek, modern kitchen where Sophie can cook when she has the energy and heat up team-prepared meals when she doesn’t. They’ll have an open living room with enough seating to host their teammates.

It will be perfect, and Armand is going to help them make it happen.

“Are congratulations in order?” Armand asks with a glance between them.

It isn’t an unfair guess, and Sophie feels a twinge of guilt for lying to him, for using him, as she smiles and says, “Not yet. We’re hoping by the end of the summer to have ironed out our new contracts. Once the ink is dried, we can begin building, but we wanted to start planning ahead of time. We think it will go well.”

Armand’s surprise morphs into a polite smile.

Sophie knows the assumptions people will make about her and Elsa. They see them together and think they’re a couple. They are a couple, but Sophie doesn’t want the wider world to know. So few things in her life are allowed to be hers, are private, that she clings to this one.

She was the first woman drafted into the NAHL. It means she’s been the first for a lot of milestones in the league. She is the face of her franchise, and in some ways she’s the face of the league. It’s a lot of responsibility, and she accepts that it’s part of the price of entrance.

She doesn’t want to be the first hockey player to openly date their teammate. She doesn’t want the pressure or the attention or the people who will dig into every detail of her life. She values her privacy. Even more, she values her relationship with Elsa, and she doesn’t want to constantly defend it against people trying to twist it into something bad.

Armand won’t be the only person to make assumptions based on Sophie and Elsa planning a house together, but there won’t be a lot of people like him, either. For most of the hockey world, Sophie and Elsa are simply Sophie and Elsa. They shared an apartment in Elsa’s first season in Concord, and they’ve shared a house every season since. There was a brief time when Elsa moved in with a boyfriend, but she was back with Sophie the next season.

Their relationship is teammates being teammates. Sophie is happy to feed into the misdirection, because it allows her to protect what’s most important to her. She and Elsa will plan their house, and pictures will leak from today’s meeting. The two of them will train with each other, first in Sweden then in Thunder Bay. At some point, they’ll sit down with Concord’s front office and sign matching contracts.

It isn’t the first time Sophie has spun a narrative. It is, by far, the largest scale deception she’s ever undertaken. Part of her feels guilty for it. There aren’t many out athletes, and this is an opportunity for her to be a role model and a spokesperson. The thought of it exhausts her. Maybe, it’s selfish. Or maybe, it’s self-preservation. She isn’t sure. She’ll bring it up with Dr. Malone in her next therapy appointment. For now, though, her relationship with Elsa is a well-guarded secret.

Elsa’s immediate family knows, and Sophie’s brother knows. Soon, Sophie will have to tell her parents, but she doesn’t intend to tell anyone else. Concord’s front office won’t be told, her teammates won’t be told. One day, she’ll tell a wider audience, either because it leaks or because she’s ready to, but she isn’t ready now. And Elsa isn’t pressuring her.

“We’d like to stay within a thirty-minute drive of Concord,” Sophie tells Armand once they each have their beverage of choice. Sophie has a smoothie which has too much sugar to be healthy, but there’s fruit in it so she can pretend.

Elsa doesn’t even make that small effort. Her iced coffee has several syrup shots and a tall spiral of whipped cream. It’s a toothache in a cup, but Elsa’s happy with it so Sophie doesn’t say anything.

“I don’t know if that limits what we can do,” Sophie adds because Armand is their architect, not their realtor.

“Are you looking to build a large house?” Armand asks.

“No,” Elsa answers, and she grins at Sophie’s look. “He’s thinking McMansion. We want space, but not that much.”

Armand smiles and ducks his head, almost bashful. “Large isn’t exactly a precise word.”

“A little bigger than what we have now,” Sophie says. She slides the pictures and specs of their current house across the table.

The house is a good size for them, but its true benefit is the attached in-law apartment. It’s the perfect place for their respective families to stay when they visit. They’re close enough to see, but there’s enough separation that Sophie and Elsa don’t feel crowded. Would it be weird to have two in-law apartments in their future house?

“The biggest upgrade will be in the size of the yard,” Elsa says. “We’re looking to put in a saltwater pool.”

“We aren’t,” Sophie says. She tries to frown at Elsa’s impish look, but Elsa’s too pleased with herself for Sophie to hold out for very long. They have playfully argued about their pool since they first considered the idea of building a house.

Elsa wants something whimsical and impractical, a saltwater pool with a grotto and a waterfall. Sophie thinks if she’s going to have a pool, it should be a lap pool, something with purpose. Unlike their disagreement over toasters, which was solved by buying two, Sophie doesn’t think this one will be solved by having a pool for each of their preferences.

Armand laughs at their antics and sips his tea before he pulls out a blank piece of paper. “Let’s make a list. No judgements yet, anything and everything you might want. Next session, we can whittle it down based on practicality and preference.”

“All right,” Sophie says.

Her life is measured in milestones; from leagues she’s broken into to hockey achievements, even to things like her first car, her first apartment lease, her first house. This is another milestone, planning a house with the woman she wants to live with for the rest of her life.

Under the table, where no one will see, Sophie reaches for Elsa’s hand. Elsa meets her halfway, and they lace their fingers together.

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Meet the Author

K.R. Collins went to college in Pennsylvania where she learned to write and fell in love with hockey. When she isn’t working or writing, she watches hockey games and claims it’s for research. Find K.R. on Twitter.

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RELEASE BLITZ & GIVEAWAY: A Little More Hope by Pauley J Ray #LGBTQIA #Contemporary

Posted on by

Title: A Little More Hope

Series: Hot Property #2

Author: Pauley J. Ray

Publisher: NineStar Press

Release Date: 07/18/2023

Heat Level: 3 – Some Sex

Pairing: Male/Male

Length: 87900

Genre: Contemporary, Age-gap, Alpha Males, Businessmen, Physical Assault, Coming Out, Sexual Discovery, Hurt/Comfort, PTSD/Post-traumatic stress, Slow Burn

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Description

After a vicious assault leaves him a virtual recluse, businessman Mason Wilder escapes to his friend’s beach house in the small seaside town of Melrose Bay to heal and come to terms with the shadow of the man he has become.

When Ashton Michaels, wanderer, surfer, loner, unexpectedly inherits a rundown shack of a house, he must decide: keep running from his disastrous past relationships or return to the place he loves, finally put down some roots, and learn to live life with all its consequences.

After a chance encounter with his elusive next-door neighbor, Ash can see Mason is hurting and it releases his protective, caring side and he knows he’ll do anything he can to aid the handsome, broken man in such desperate need of help.

Mason initially resists the offer of help from Ash, but the guy is persistent and for reasons he can’t figure out, Mason feels drawn to him. When Ash decides to keep and renovate his new home, impulsively Mason joins him and in the process of rebuilding the house, Mason begins to rebuild his life and confront his fears.
He must also learn to come to terms with his unexpected attraction to a man for the first time in his life. Ash is a solid, comforting, and caring presence and offers Mason everything he’s been searching for since his brutal attack.

Ash is falling hard for the quiet and troubled man he’s spending all his time with but is worried the past will only repeat itself and Mason will leave him all alone like everyone else.

Can Mason finally put his demons to rest to move forward with his life and will Ash be able prevent his fear of being left behind from ruining his chance at love?

Excerpt

A Little More Hope
Pauley J. Ray © 2023
All Rights Reserved

Safe.

A single word encompassing a whole world of images and feelings.

Cozy nights in front of the TV.

Being held in the arms of a loved one.

Safe. Something I recognized with bone-deep certainty I’d never feel ever again.

Rinsing the suds from my body along with my dark thoughts, I shut off the water and opened the shower door, cooler air filling the stall, setting off goose bumps along my skin. Grabbing the nearest towel and carefully drying myself off, I hissed at the tenderness in my muscles as I bent to rub my legs, the pain from my damaged ribs a constant ache in my side.

Shit, I was a mess.

After padding into the bedroom, I dressed carefully in clean sweatpants and a T-shirt, mindful of my injuries. I wasn’t trying to impress anyone, least of all Gabe, who’d already seen me at my worst. I wasn’t going out and hadn’t since the first day I’d gotten out of the hospital, so who cared what I wore?

Running my fingers through my damp hair to settle the too long strands in place, I emerged from the bedroom to see Gabe in the kitchen, his jacket now hanging on the barstool. He’d pulled a couple of plates from the cupboard and set them out on the countertop, ready for the food.

When I reentered the living area, Gabe pressed a couple of buttons on the microwave. “You were in there awhile, so I decided to give them a reheat,” he said by way of explanation. When the bell pinged, he retrieved the two sandwiches, and unwrapping them from their paper packaging, placed them on the plates.

“Sorry,” I mumbled, “I didn’t realize I’d taken so long.”

He shrugged. “No problem,” and he gestured with his head as he picked up the plates. “Go sit.”

I carefully sat down in my favorite black leather armchair as he handed me my sandwich before he settled on the sofa to my right.

We sat together in silence. He was waiting for me to speak, but I didn’t have much to say. To give myself thinking time, I picked up my food and took a large bite of my sandwich. The sweetness of the salt beef slid over my tastebuds before the bitter sauerkraut came after. After days of nothing, the simple meal tasted delicious.

“So?” Gabe’s tone made me inwardly groan.

Putting down my sandwich I gave him a direct look. “I’m fine. Okay?”

He scoffed. “So fine you’ve not left your apartment in over a week?”

I sighed. I’d been doing a lot of that lately.

“Look, Gabe.” I stopped talking, as whatever I said next would be a lie. I wasn’t fine, but I wasn’t sure how to go about fixing my mess, or how to express my thoughts clearly enough to tell him so.

I wasn’t sure about anything anymore.

Sitting forward on the edge of the sofa, Gabe gave me a sympathetic smile. I fucking hated it. “Look, I know it’s a struggle, and I get it.” He held up his hands. “And I’m not trying to patronize you.”

I gave a slight head tilt, in appreciation of him saying so.

“But you can’t continue on this way. You do know that, right?”

Deep down, I did, but any decisions about how to move forward with my life were all so muddled in my mind that I struggled to find a way out.

“I do,” I replied. “But it’s hard. There’s so much noise in my head, but I can’t work out how to make it stop.”

“Maybe you should take a break for a while, get a change of scenery.”

I frowned. “Change of scenery?”

“Yeah, get out of the city for a bit. Relax.”

“Relax?” I kept repeating him, but for some reason, his words weren’t registering.

“Is there an echo in here?” he deadpanned. “Yes, get away, relax.”

Hmm, maybe. I’d not thought about leaving the city, preferring to barricade myself inside my apartment behind a solid closed door where no one could get to me. But leaving my sanctuary meant being exposed, being vulnerable, and I wasn’t comfortable with the concept at all.

Regardless, I mulled his comments over, and in theory, I agreed my current situation wasn’t healthy, and I’d reluctantly admit to going a little stir crazy, but venturing out into the city unnerved me. All the noise and the people, the narrow side streets and alleyways made me shudder inwardly. But going somewhere quiet, somewhere peaceful, away from everyone and everything currently reminding me of my assault?

“Where would I go?” I asked, unable to recall the last time I’d not worked in the office twelve or more hours a day, at least six days a week. Even if traveling to inspect a construction project in another city, I’d be on-site all day and ordering room service in the evening. I’d never had any time at all to relax and unwind.

Despite being the partner in charge of our luxury eco hotels and resorts, I didn’t have any clue where to go now.

“I have the perfect place,” he replied, answering my unspoken thought.

“Oh?” I waited expectantly for him to elaborate.

“I’ve a house a few hours up the coast in a small community, so not too many people to contend with. The place is perfect. On the edge of town and overlooking the sea, there’s even direct access to a beach only the locals tend to use.”

I stared at the man on the sofa opposite me. Gabe, who thrived on excitement and adventure, who loved nothing more than immersing himself in all the activities a major city had to offer, and I mean all, had a second home, a beach house in a quiet coastal town?

“You have a beach house?” I sputtered, incredulity clear in my voice. “Somewhere… quiet?”

Gabe snickered, “Glad to know I can still surprise you, but yep”—he held up his hands—“guilty as charged.”

“Since when?”

A dark shadow crossed his face, making me frown. When the penny dropped, I could have kicked myself. Of course, this was after his split with Karl and David.

“Sorry, I should have thought.”

He waved my apology off. “It is, what it is,” he stated far too blandly, making it obvious, despite being over two years since their split, the wounds remained painfully open. “I needed somewhere to regroup. To sort my head out. My assistant told me about the place. Apparently, her mom and dad love it, so I thought ‘what the hell’ and went to check it out.”

“I’m guessing you liked what you saw?”

A genuine smile crossed his face this time, one actually reaching his eyes. “I did, and when the house I rented came up for sale last year, I bought the place.”

“Wow.”

Gabe stared at me squarely. “So I do know something of what I’m talking about. Okay, the scenario’s not the same as yours, but I understand the need to get away and work through your trauma at your own pace, and with minimal distractions. To remove yourself from familiarity to regain some semblance of order and control over your life.”

He’d hit the nail smack bang on the head, as that’s exactly how I felt.

“It’s yours if you want it,” he said, and I instantly wanted to grab this lifeline he offered and so badly needed. As if sensing my mood, he sat back and shoved his hand into his pants pocket, and pulling out a single key, he placed it on the coffee table between us. “I got an extra one cut,” he explained. “I’ll email you the directions this afternoon.”

“You’re so sure I’d go?” I asked, picking up the paper.

“Hell, no, but I like to be prepared.”

“Thank you.” Some of the tension I’d carried around the last couple of weeks melted away. “Really, thank you.”

“You’re welcome,” he replied simply as he pointed at the food on my plate. “Now eat. You look like a scrawny ass chicken for fuck’s sake.”

Purchase

NineStar Press | Books2Read

Meet the Author

Pauley J Ray has been making up stories in his head for as long as he can remember, and now gets to write those stories down in his own gay romantic fiction, involving sexy, complicated, and flawed characters searching for their happily ever after.

When not writing, he loves meeting up with friends and can’t wait to get outdoors with his husband, hiking, camping and traveling to new and exciting places as often as they can.

He feels extremely lucky to be able to sit at his laptop, all day, every day, creating the heartfelt, angsty and passionate romance books he himself loves to read.

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