PRECOG'S PERCEPTION by Emily Carrington #LGBTQ+ #ShifterRomance @ChangelingPress

(Psychic Soulmates 1)

A SearchLight Paranormal Romance

LGBTQ+ Shifter Romance

Date Published: May 1, 2026

Publisher: Changeling Press

When the world doesn’t catch fire, Amaruq doubts his precognition. Can Nootaikok’s love heal him?

A stillborn pup, precognition unfulfilled, and raging guilt plague a trans werewolf. Amaruq’s suspicion that there’s something wrong with him, and that the death of his and Nootaikok’s child is his fault, colors all that he does. Traumatized, he denies himself pleasure.

Nootaikok will have none of that. He takes Amaruq on a “working vacation” back to the scene of Nootaikok’s greatest mistake. As both of them struggle with feelings of inadequacy and undeservingness, their bodies and souls still demand release.

Will their fears pull them apart or can passion lead back to love and forgiveness?

Excerpt

Copyright ©2026 Emily Carrington

They’d started their mentor/mentee relationship with letters. Amaruq didn’t know about Jeremy, but for him, the fear of being found out in this digital age inspired him to write physical correspondence. Amaruq had a feeling he should be sharing these concerns with his mate, but he couldn’t bear for Nootaikok to know how guilty he felt. So, he wrote to the Night Wanderer who had become his friend.

Dear Jeremy,

I hate what I have become. I’m a sneak who doesn’t know how to apologize to my lover for losing our child. I get it that a stillbirth isn’t exactly my fault. I did nothing to make it happen. The issue is that I don’t want to try again. Try for another baby. It wasn’t just losing our child, our pup, but the dysmorphia I endured being pregnant when I’ve worked so hard to be my authentic male werewolf self. I do not, no matter what, regret that Nootaikok and I were trying for a baby. I don’t. I just don’t want to try again. In spite of my precognitive vision. That future glimpse guarantees I’ll be pregnant again at some point, as I saw Nootaikok and I surrounded by werewolf pups of many ages. I just don’t want to be.

I also dread Nootaikok finding out.

Speaking of dread, I can easily believe Nootaikok is angry with me for making him leave his position in DC. I’m afraid of the argument we’ll eventually have. I just wanted to be near you, where I’ve always felt safe. That’s the wrong kind of emotion to have for someone who isn’t my mate. Please don’t misunderstand. I’m not sexually attracted to you in any way. It’s just that you rescued me from the hell of living under my parents’ roof and inspired me to become part of the Miscellaneous Magical Creatures Department. It’s just that, now that you’ve moved to DC, I want to return. I know Nootaikok wouldn’t get his job back, though, and I don’t want him to be humiliated by having to walk those same halls every day as just a tracker and not the head of the whole world’s Tracker Central.

He stopped his pen before he could disclose more about his fears. Surely this letter, which was basically a rambling jumble of all his terror, wouldn’t help anything.

He shredded the page and tossed it in the garbage can in the den. There would be no leaving it around for someone else to discover.

Today, Friday, was his last day of parental leave. On Monday, he’d be expected to resume his work at the MMCD. He needed to pull himself together.

With that in mind, Amaruq looked around the den and then down at himself. He still looked slightly pregnant. He’d been slowly exercising away the pounds he’d gained as he tried to make a hospitable home for their pup to grow. Since he was a werewolf, he wouldn’t look ready to deliver much longer. Maybe six weeks total, which would mean another week or two.

He headed for the doorway to the den, determined to go for a run and maybe, by doing so, make himself feel more grounded in his body and less like a spirit drifting over the earth, unattached to anything but pain.

* * *

They were arguing again. For crying out loud, Nootaikok thought, it’s like he’s my spouse instead of my tracker partner.

He glared at Luis, the psychic vampire with whom he’d been paired less than six months ago. Luis was, by all accounts, including his own, one of the best damn negotiators/spies/hunters/executioners in the United States. Luis’s prowess was matched only by the arrogance Nootaikok swore radiated off him in waves now. Funny, but the infernal psychic vampire hadn’t struck Nootaikok as full of himself when he’d accompanied Tilthos Charles to the international meeting of magical creatures that had happened over a year ago.

At first, when he and Luis initially began working together, Nootaikok had borne Luis’s grief and discontent. Luis’s former tracker partner had moved with his mate to the nation’s capital, and Luis had been understandably upset. He and his former partner had worked together for a decade or more, becoming one of the most formidable tracker teams in the world.

However, Nootaikok had been dealing with Luis’s grumpiness for close to half a year, and the frustration he felt was threatening to boil over.

He took in a breath, counting to five before releasing it soundlessly. “Luis,” he said, “I’m not injured. I heal as quickly as any werewolf, and I have earned the right to take the risks other trackers do. Please don’t hamper my working or your own. Going out without another tracker when I’m standing right here is foolish.” He paused, saw Luis was about to object, and added, “I don’t want to be the one to take your dead body back to Tilthos Charles.”

That last got through. Nootaikok could see it in the dropping of Luis’s shoulders and the way he pressed his lips together. Tilthos Charles, Charlie to those closest to him, was the alpha of their shared pack. He was also Luis’s mate and husband. Less than a year ago, Tilthos Charles had been the target of malicious intent from other werewolves and the former queen of the grand fae. He’d suffered what would have been called in humans of the 1900s a “nervous breakdown.” He’d been healed but, since it was less than twelve months since he’d recovered, Luis was understandably protective.

“Fine,” Luis muttered. “Are you ready to go?”

Nootaikok checked the gun in its holster at the small of his back. “Yes.”

“Come on then.” Luis strode out of his office, leading the way toward the back parking lot.

Nootaikok kept pace with him. “Tell me about this one.”

“Didn’t you read the briefing?” Luis demanded.

Sighing, Nootaikok answered, “She’s most likely a werewolf or half werewolf. It’s unlikely she’s from the United States as the humans she’s left alive say she spoke to them in a thick Russian accent. That doesn’t preclude her being from the US, though.”

“Or she’s been sent here.”

They settled into Luis’s car, which Nootaikok didn’t like, because it meant Luis got to drive. Luis was his alpha’s mate, and Nootaikok wasn’t a werewolf so dominance didn’t affect him as much. Still, he liked being in charge of his own transportation. Years of being the senior member of his own tracker team had spoiled him. Also, when he’d been the leader of Tracker Central in Washington, DC, he hadn’t been at anyone’s mercy.

“One of the sharpshooters managed to get a tag on her,” Luis said. “Let me check the GPS and see if she’s still where they left her.”

“She was in a village not too far from here,” Nootaikok said. He wanted to ask why the sharpshooter hadn’t taken her out since she’d been killing humans. Before he could formulate the question in a way that would possibly cause less offense, Luis cursed.

“She’s headed toward the pack house.”

Nootaikok pulled out his phone as Luis peeled out of the parking lot.

Luis commanded, “Call the house. Tell whoever’s there to get everyone inside.”

 

About the Author

Emily Carrington is a multipublished author of male/male and transgender women’s speculative fiction. Seeking a world made of equality, she created SearchLight to live out her dreams. But even SearchLight has its problems, and Emily is looking forward to working all of these out with a host of characters from dragons and genies to psychic vampires. And in the contemporary world she’s named “Sticks & Stones,” Emily has vowed to create small towns where prejudice is challenged by a passionate quest for equality. Find her on Facebook at Shapeshifter Central or on her website.

 

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SHADE by Jamie Targaet #MCromance @ChangelingPress

 

(Cottonmouth MC 2)

A Hounds of Hell MC Romance

MC Romance

Date Published: May 1, 2026

Publisher: Changeling Press

The moment I see Jazz, I know I can’t let her walk away.

Jazz: My sister Claire disappeared three weeks ago. The police are calling the case a runaway, but I know better. Rumor has it the Cottonmouths and Sinister Skin are behind the girls going missing in Oak Grove -- the reason no one asks too many questions. So I go looking for her myself.

I never expected to find the answers waiting behind the doors of a biker compound -- or in the green eyes of the quiet enforcer who looks at me like I already belong to him. Shade says he will find Claire. But men like him don’t do favors. They make promises. And the way he says mine sounds an awful lot like forever.

Shade: Oak Grove is supposed to belong to the Cottonmouths again. We bled to take it back. But the men we drove out didn’t disappear. They just got smarter, quieter, and more dangerous. Then Jazz walks into my life. And I know I can’t let her go.

I know the men who took Claire are tied to the same rot we just carved out of this town. And they’ve made one fatal mistake. They turned this into my fight. I won’t stop until the threat is buried. The Cottonmouths protect their own. The war they started is about to end in blood.

Warning: Adult content, violence, strong language, and dark themes including human trafficking. There’s no cheating, no cliffhanger, and a guaranteed HEA.

Excerpt

Copyright ©2026 Jamie Targaet

Shade

The compound was quiet, and the yard was littered with toolboxes, paint cans, and various other supplies we were using to patch everything up after the club’s civil war a few weeks ago.

Our place had been torn to hell in the shootout that took place when we took Eli and his slimy inner circle down, getting them the fuck out of our chapter and compound. Vendetta, the man who’d once been Tank but who had survived the hanging meant to kill him, had led us back to reclaim the Oak Grove chapter for the loyal Cottonmouths. We’d won with a little help from the Hounds of Hell in Mercy. After the celebration, our compound was left with bullet holes, splintered frames, and busted glass. It had been a hell of a mess to clean up, and we weren’t done yet.

I was out back, replacing the siding on the last barrack that needed outside repairs. I had a hammer in one hand, and a headache that had been riding me since dawn. Still, I couldn’t shake the thought that we just might be wasting our damn time. We’d fix this place up, sure, but for how long? Yeah, Eli was dead and some of his crew were gone with him. But not all of them. Creep had been shot but he’d somehow survived that night. That fucker could still be running around. A few others loyal to Eli had made it out too.

Sinister Skin wasn’t going anywhere. Of that I was sure. And until we flushed out the rest of that rot, the repairs we made almost felt like a Band-Aid over a bullet wound.

“Guess it’s time to start on indoor repairs,” Ripper muttered, strolling out with a cold beer and no shame.

Vendetta followed him out, looking a little rougher than he usually did. But that was our friend’s new normal these days. The patch on his chest said president, and he wore it like it had its claws dug into him. Dylan had finally got him to sleep a full night last week. Ripper and I damn near threw a party. Vendetta was a good man but he’s a grouchy asshole on no rest.

“Got word from Mercy this morning,” Vendetta said, cracking his neck. “Snow says there’s no sign of the cartel left over there. At least not so far. Guess threatening Player’s girl wasn’t the brilliant move El Cuervo thought it was.”

Ripper snorted. “You mean right before she pulled a gun on him? Shit, I’ll never forget the look on Player’s face. Like he was about to pass out and propose all at the same time.”

Vendetta smirked. “Yeah, the cartel folded faster than I thought they would, honestly. If I had to guess, the Hounds haven’t seen the last of them.”

“If they come back, are we helping out?” Ripper said.

Vendetta nodded. “Most likely. Locked and loaded.”

I didn’t disagree, but I didn’t join in either. Cartel trouble made for good stories now that the business was done. But we were still knee-deep in our own brand of hell here in Oak Grove dealing with the remnants of Sinister Skin. The Hounds in Mercy had booted them out of their territory. It looked like we still needed to do the same.

“I’m glad we helped them out.” Shaking his head, Vendetta said, “It’s the least we could do. We couldn’t have taken this place back with just half the club. They helped us pull it through.”

Before any of us could say more, I heard footsteps coming closer. Two of our prospects, Cowboy and JJ, came running in like their asses were on fire. Both were out of breath, wide-eyed, and wired.

“Boss,” Cowboy gasped. “You’re gonna want to hear this.”

Vendetta straightened up instantly. I set down the drywall knife and wiped dust from my hands.

“We just saw Creep,” JJ said. “He ain’t dead.”

Silence fell like a goddamn hammer. I fucking knew it. Creep. That scrawny piece of shit had a face I wish I could forget and a scar down the middle of his chest that I’d personally gifted him. The bastard was supposed to be out of Oak Grove. Gone and smart enough to stay gone. I’d known he wasn’t dead.

Vendetta’s voice dropped low. “Where?”

JJ swallowed hard. “Here, on the edge of our own fucking property.”

My head snapped up. “You’re kidding me. He came here?”

“And he wasn’t alone,” JJ said. “Eagle was with him.”

I had to laugh at that. “Eagle? That prick’s still walking?”

JJ nodded. “And get this. They had a couple of guys with them we didn’t recognize. They weren’t from around here, but they looked like muscle.”

“They approach you?” Vendetta asked.

Cowboy shook his head. “Nah. They saw us coming and bolted. Didn’t say a damn word.”

“Vehicle?” Vendetta asked.

“Black SUV. Nice one,” Cowboy answered. “Tinted windows. Couldn’t see plates.”

Of course, it was a nice SUV. Sinister Skin loved riding on money they didn’t earn.

Vendetta stepped in closer. “Where exactly did you see them?”

“At the old south gate,” Cowboy replied. “Right where the fence line dips.”

I shook my head. Fifty acres of land surrounded the compound, most of it wild and untouched. The woods were thick enough that a man could ghost through them without ever being spotted. We had cameras and sensors up at the main gates, but out there? A couple of wrong turns and someone could camp out on us for days before we ever knew.

Vendetta must’ve been thinking the same thing, because his eyes narrowed in that calculating way of his.

Vendetta’s gaze met mine. “You thinking what I’m thinking?”

I already was.

“If I had to guess, they’re trying to rebuild,” I said. “Trying to keep Sinister Skin’s shit alive under a new flag.”

“Or a temporary one,” Ripper added.

Vendetta gave the two younger Cottonmouths a nod. “Good work. Now I want you two to stay on the perimeter today. Keep eyes on it. No contact, no hero shit. Just eyes.”

JJ’s spine straightened like he’d just won an award. “Yes, sir.”

“You see anyone besides Creep and Eagle, you let us know right away,” Vendetta added.

The prospects headed back the way they came. As soon as they were out of earshot, Vendetta turned toward me.

Creep. Eagle. Unknown muscle. Icons of every problem we hadn’t finished burning out of Oak Ridge.

“They’re scouting us,” Vendetta muttered.

“Yeah,” I said, rolling my shoulders, muscles humming for a fight. “And they’re stupid enough to do it on our land.”

Ripper shook his head. “The fuckers are still here and still working with Sinister Skin. Jesus.”

“I’d bet on it,” I muttered. It was already leaving a bad taste in my mouth. “Sinister Skin doesn’t give a shit who the club president is. They made a deal with Eli, not the patch. They’re still going to expect the Cottonmouths to hold up our end of the bargain.”

Vendetta nodded grimly. “Not these Cottonmouths. We didn’t agree to any of it, and I’ll go to war over that. That’s Creep and Eagle’s problem now. That group will expect business to keep moving. And if it doesn’t --”

“They’re dead,” I finished for him.

All three of us stood there letting that sink in. We weren’t just talking about traitors. We were talking about assholes left from Eli’s regime, caught in a trap of their own making. Hell, we could still be implicated because of Eli and his bunch before it was all over with.

Vendetta exhaled frustration, the half-empty beer bottle in his hand forgotten. “All right. Let’s lock it down.”

Now we’re talking. I was already keyed up.

“I want double coverage on both gates,” Vendetta went on, his voice cool and clipped in that way that always meant shit was about to get serious. “No one gets in or out without us knowing.”

Ripper tossed his empty bottle into the trash. “You think they’re close?”

“They’re testing the fence,” Vendetta muttered. “Probably trying to figure out where we’re soft.” He turned to Ripper. “Go call Snow. See if he can hook us up with a surveillance system around the south gate. Sounds like we need it.”

Ripper nodded, already moving. Snow, the Hounds’ VP, ran an electronic security system in Mercy, which was handy right now. But I knew he really wanted Ripper out of earshot to talk to me in private.

Vendetta looked at me. “Shade --”

“I’m going,” I cut in, letting him know there was no way I wasn’t.

He studied me for a second. “I need eyes, not a body count.”

I didn’t say anything. Vendetta had been watching me ever since that night when we took back the club, since I put a bullet in Eli without blinking. No hesitation. No second thoughts. Just the right thing done fast.

Vendetta respected restraint. Hell, I respected him that night. Dylan’s uncle or not, Vendetta held the line and kept his cool, even when Eli spat on everything this club ever stood for.

But me? I didn’t have that kind of patience. Eli had tried to take down the entire chapter. He was a stain on the Cottonmouth name. He’d had it coming, and somebody needed to do what everyone else was too damn careful to do.

And Vendetta knew it. At times, he watched me like he was waiting to see which version of me he’s going to get: the one who listens, or the one who pulls the trigger and deals with the consequences later.

Either way, I decided maybe I’d be going.

I gave a sharp nod. “You’ll get what you need.”

 

About the Author

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

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

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Claimed Without Mercy by Dulce Dennison #GayRomance @ChangelingPress

Gay Enemies to Lovers Romance

Date Published: April 24, 2026

Publisher: Changeling Press

Captive. Claimed. Protected by the devil himself.

I’m Tyson Hughes’ right hand. Collector. Enforcer. Executioner. When a low-level idiot tries to clear his debt by offering up his own nephew, I expect a clean transaction. A body to move. A message to send. Business.

I don’t expect Kellen. Bruised. Beautiful. Untouched by this world in ways that make my jaw lock. He looks at me like I’m either the devil come to claim him… or the only thing standing between him and worse. Taking him wasn’t part of the plan. Delivering him to Tyson would’ve been easier. Smarter. Safer. Instead, I claim him.

Now he’s living under my roof, breathing my air, learning the rules of a world I don’t sugarcoat. I’m not a hero. I don’t rescue people. I own what’s mine. I protect it. And I destroy anyone stupid enough to threaten it. But the deeper I pull Kellen into my life—into the violence, the loyalty, the blood that binds us—the harder it is to tell where captivity ends… and desire begins.

When the debt comes due, I’ll have to choose. Tyson’s empire. Or the young man I claimed without mercy—and refuse to let go.

WARNING: Intended for readers 18+. Dark MM mafia romance. Possessive antihero. Captor/captive tension, dubious consent. High heat. Guaranteed HEA. No cheating.

Excerpt

Copyright ©2026 Dulce Dennison

Ian

I watched the men work, arms folded across my chest. The dim lights of the warehouse cast long shadows as they moved product from one crate to another, their movements precise and mechanical. Nobody spoke much -- they knew better. When I oversaw an operation, I expected efficiency, not conversation. The tattoos on my forearms seemed to pulse in the half-light, a reminder to everyone present of who I was and what I was capable of. The man who made problems disappear.

“Faster,” I said, my voice echoing against the concrete walls. “We need this shit loaded before sunrise.”

The men picked up their pace, sweat beading on their foreheads. This shipment was worth seven figures -- premium grade heroin straight from our overseas connections. The kind of product that kept Tyson’s empire running and our pockets lined.

I paced between the rows of crates, watching each man’s hands, each movement. Trust wasn’t something I gave easily, especially not to the low-level soldiers Tyson assigned to these jobs. Most were competent enough, but all it took was one fuck-up, one greedy asshole, and we’d have cops swarming the place or, worse, a war with another organization.

Something caught my eye. A slight hesitation from one of the newer guys -- skinny fuck with a neck tattoo that screamed prison ink. He glanced over his shoulder when he thought I wasn’t looking, then slipped his hand into his jacket pocket just a little too casually.

I moved behind a stack of crates, circling around until I was positioned where he couldn’t see me. Three years of working as Tyson’s enforcer had taught me to spot a rat before they even knew they were one.

“Something interesting in your pocket, Alvarez?” I asked, appearing beside him like a shadow.

He jumped, nearly dropping the bag he was holding. “No, Mr. Grant. Just checking the time.”

“Really? Pull it out, then.”

His eyes darted to the exit, calculating the distance. I knew that look. I’d seen it dozens of times before on the faces of men who thought they could outsmart me.

“Now,” I said, not raising my voice. I never had to.

“It’s nothing, I swear --”

I grabbed his wrist, twisting until he gasped in pain, then reached into his pocket myself. My fingers closed around a small plastic bag containing about twenty grams of our product. The weight of it told me everything I needed to know.

“Everyone stop,” I commanded, and the warehouse fell silent. “Gather round. Seems we need to have a little lesson in loyalty.”

The men formed a circle, their faces grim. They knew what was coming. They’d seen it before, or at least heard the stories.

I held up the bag. “Alvarez here thinks he deserves a bonus. Isn’t that right?”

“Please, Mr. Grant, I wasn’t --”

My fist connected with his jaw before he could finish the sentence. He stumbled backward but didn’t fall. Good. I wanted him conscious for what came next.

“Tyson Hughes pays you well,” I said, addressing everyone now. “He provides for your families. Keeps the cops off your backs. And in return, he asks for one thing.” I grabbed Alvarez by the throat. “Loyalty.”

I slammed him against a crate, my hand still tight around his neck. His eyes bulged, face turning red, then purple.

“You know what happens to thieves in this organization?” I asked, loosening my grip just enough for him to breathe.

He nodded frantically, gasping for air.

“Tell them,” I demanded, nodding toward the other men.

“They… they die,” he choked out.

I smiled. “Usually. But tonight, I’m feeling generous.”

Relief flooded his face for a brief moment before I slammed my knee into his groin. As he doubled over, I caught him with an uppercut that sent him sprawling across the concrete floor.

The men watched in silence as I approached Alvarez, who was now curled into a ball, blood trickling from his split lip. I knelt beside him, keeping my voice low enough that only he could hear.

“I’m going to let you live, but not out of mercy.” I pulled a switchblade from my pocket and flicked it open. “You’re going to be a message.”

What happened next filled the warehouse with screams that the thick walls swallowed whole. The men watched, faces impassive but eyes wide with fear as I made my point in blood. When I was done, Alvarez lay sobbing on the floor, clutching what remained of his left hand.

“Get him patched up,” I told two of the men. “Then drop him at the emergency room across town. Make sure he understands that if he says a word about where he was or who did this, the next visit won’t be so pleasant.”

They nodded and dragged Alvarez away, leaving a smear of crimson across the floor. I turned to the remaining men, wiping my blade clean on a handkerchief.

“Finish loading the shipment. I want everything out of here in thirty minutes.”

They scattered like cockroaches under a light, moving twice as fast as before. The metallic smell of blood hung in the air, mixing with the dust and chemical odors of the warehouse. I checked my watch. Almost 3 AM.

My phone vibrated in my pocket. A text from Tyson:

Need you at the house. 9 AM sharp. Important matter to discuss.

I stared at the message, feeling a familiar mix of pride and anxiety. A direct summons from Tyson usually meant one of two things: I’d fucked up, or he had a special job that only I could handle. Given that I’d been running operations smoothly for months, I was betting on the latter.

I supervised the rest of the loading in silence, watching as the men carefully avoided the bloodstain on the floor. By 4:15 AM, the warehouse was empty except for me and the lingering evidence of what happened to those who betrayed Tyson Hughes.

I locked up and climbed into my black Audi, the leather seat cool against my back. The night had turned cold, but I barely noticed. My mind was already on the meeting with Tyson, wondering what assignment awaited me. Whatever it was, I’d handle it. I always did. That’s why, despite everything, I was still alive when so many others weren’t.

I pulled out of the warehouse district, leaving behind the night’s violence and heading toward my apartment for a few hours of sleep before meeting with the only man I’d ever truly respected. The only man who’d ever given me a chance when everyone else saw nothing but gutter trash. The man who’d made me what I was.

For Tyson Hughes, I’d do anything. And he knew it.

I pulled up to Tyson’s estate at 8:55 AM, early as always. The gates opened automatically -- security knew my car. As I drove up the long, winding driveway, I caught glimpses of the sprawling mansion through the trees. Tyson had built all this from nothing, clawing his way up from the streets to become the most powerful man in the city’s underworld. And he’d picked me. Even after all these years, that fact still hit me in the chest sometimes, a mixture of pride and the constant fear of disappointing him.

I parked next to Tyson’s collection of luxury cars and straightened my tie in the rearview mirror. Despite only three hours of sleep, I looked presentable. The dark circles under my eyes were practically permanent fixtures anyway.

The front door opened before I could knock. Nick, Tyson’s longtime second-in-command, greeted me with a curt nod.

“He’s in his study,” he said, stepping aside.

I walked through the marble-floored foyer, past priceless artwork and antiques that Tyson collected not because he gave a shit about art, but because they signified his rise from poverty. Everything in this house was a trophy, a reminder of victories and conquered enemies.

The study door stood ajar. I knocked anyway.

“Come in, Ian,” Tyson called.

He sat behind a massive oak desk, silver hair immaculately styled, wearing what I knew was a hand-tailored suit that probably cost more than most people made in a month. At fifty-three, Tyson Hughes carried himself with the ease of a man who knew his own power and had no need to flaunt it. When he killed, he did it with a phone call, not his hands. Those days were behind him.

“Right on time,” he said, looking up from his computer and removing his reading glasses. “How’d the shipment go last night?”

“Clean and quick. One minor issue that’s been handled.”

Tyson raised an eyebrow. “What kind of issue?”

“Alvarez tried skimming product. Won’t happen again.”

“Is he breathing?”

I nodded. “Missing some fingers, but alive. I figured he’d be more useful as a warning than a corpse.”

A smile touched the corners of Tyson’s mouth. “Smart. That’s why I trust you with these things.” He gestured to the chair across from him. “Sit. Drink?”

“It’s not even ten.”

“Since when has that ever stopped either of us?”

I smiled despite myself and took the seat. Tyson poured two glasses of scotch from a crystal decanter, sliding one across the desk to me.

“You look like shit,” he said casually. “Not sleeping?”

“Sleep’s overrated.”

“Not when I need you sharp.” He leaned back in his chair, studying me with those penetrating gray eyes that saw everything. “You’ve been pushing yourself too hard lately.”

“Just doing my job.”

“Your job is to follow orders and stay alive. Can’t do either if you’re running on fumes.”

I took a sip of the scotch, letting the burn distract me from the fact that Tyson was the only person on earth who could talk to me like this without ending up in pieces.

“I’m fine,” I said. “What’s this important matter you wanted to discuss?”

Tyson’s expression shifted, his eyes hardening. “Sean Collins.”

The name hung in the air between us.

“What about him?” I asked.

“He owes us three hundred grand. Has for almost six months now.” Tyson took a long swallow of his drink. “I’ve been patient. Sent Nick to have a chat with him twice. Sent messages through mutual associates. Nothing.”

“You want me to collect.”

“I want you to make an example of him.” Tyson’s voice dropped, became colder. “Collins thinks because he’s got connections with the Irish that he’s untouchable. He’s been spreading word that I’ve gone soft in my old age.”

My jaw clenched. “That’s a mistake.”

“A fatal one.” Tyson stood up and walked to the window, looking out over his manicured gardens. “Sean Collins is a particular kind of vermin. Beats the girls who work for him, sometimes kills them if they try to leave. Has a taste for the young ones too.”

“Want me to take care of him permanently?” I asked, already knowing the answer.

Tyson turned, his expression softer now, almost paternal. “Not yet. First, get my money. Make him understand who he’s dealing with.” He returned to his desk and pulled out a file, sliding it across to me. “Here’s everything you need to know. Addresses, hangouts, known associates. His nephew lives with him -- kid named Kellen Lin. Collins had custody since the boy’s mother died. He’s an adult now but hasn’t moved out.”

I flipped through the file. Photos, financial records, property deeds. Tyson was nothing if not thorough.

“The nephew -- he involved in Collins’ business?” I asked.

“Not as far as we know. Works at a coffee shop. Keeps to himself.” Tyson refilled his glass. “Use your judgment there.”

He didn’t need to finish the sentence. Collateral damage was part of the job.

“When?” I asked, closing the file.

“Yesterday would’ve been good. Today’s acceptable. By the end of the week, non-negotiable.”

I nodded, downing the rest of my scotch in one swallow. “Consider it done.”

“I always do when I give you an assignment.” Tyson smiled, the kind of smile that had always made me feel like I belonged somewhere. “That’s why I chose you, Ian. From the first day I pulled you out of that shithole your father called a home, I knew you were different. You understand loyalty.”

“You gave me a life,” I said simply. It wasn’t flattery. It was fact. Before Tyson, I was nothing. A fifteen-year-old kid with a junkie father and violence in my blood. Tyson had channeled that violence, given it purpose and direction.

“And you’ve repaid that a thousand times over.” He walked around the desk and put a hand on my shoulder. “Collins is just the beginning. I’m getting older, Ian. Starting to think about the future of this organization.”

My heart skipped a beat. We’d never discussed succession before, though everyone in the hierarchy wondered who would take over when Tyson eventually stepped aside. I’d always assumed it would be Nick, but at the same time, Nick was also getting up there in years. Both men were close in age and had worked side-by-side for as long as anyone could remember. But if I thought about it, I was probably the next closest to Tyson, the most trusted after Nick.

I left the study with the file tucked under my arm and a sense of purpose burning in my chest. Tyson had called me “his boy.” It wasn’t the first time, but it never failed to hit something deep inside me -- that hungry, abandoned part that had never known a real father’s approval.

For Tyson, I’d collect this debt and a thousand more. I’d tear Sean Collins apart if necessary. Because when Tyson Hughes looked at me like that -- with pride and expectation -- I felt like I was worth something. And that feeling was more addictive than any drug I’d ever tried.

 

About the Author

Dulce Dennison is a pen name for gay and LGBTQA+ themed love stories from best selling MC romance author Harley Wylde, AKA award-winning science fiction/paranormal romance author Jessica Coulter Smith. From cowboys to shapeshifters, Dulce/Harley/Jess believes in love in all shapes and sizes, and that everyone deserves a happily-ever-after.

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Golfing, Gardens, & Ghosts by Mary Seifert #CozyMystery #Giveaway

Cozy Mystery

Date Published: 01-28-2026

Publisher: Secret Staircase Books, an imprint of Columbine Publishing Group, LLC

School’s out for the summer and math teacher Katie Wilk needs something to occupy her time, something beyond helping to plan Jane Mackey’s upcoming wedding. So, when Jane suggests golf lessons and Katie secures a part-time job at the Shady Oaks Country Club to cover the cost of her golfing gear, it seems like a win-win plan. Unfortunately, the club’s irascible golf pro seems to make enemies wherever he goes, so when his body turns up near the 14th hole, it’s anyone’s guess who might have done him in.

Katie doesn’t really want another murder to investigate, but Officer Ronnie Christianson is back to his old ways, and it looks like he’ll do what it takes to implicate her in the death. And Katie just happens to have seen a potentially incriminating clue, behind a secret garden wall that few know about. Can Katie, Jane, and Ida ask enough questions to find out what really happened before the police come after her?

 

Praise for this amazing cozy series by multiple award-winning author Mary Seifert:

2024 Chanticleer International Book Awards - Semi-Finalist - Mystery & Mayhem category

2024 Killer Nashville Silver Falchion Award - Top Pick - Cozy Mysteries

2024 International Impact Awards - Winner - Books in a Series

 

“…. a solid 5 out of 5 stars. For those seeking not just a mystery but an immersive experience, Mary Seifert's debut novel [is] the perfect companion for a cosy night in, a cup of tea, and a journey into the heart of a captivating mystery.” – Maverick, Movies & Murder, Online Book Club.org

 

“...an intricate mystery with plenty of action and suspense. Plus, I like the dog.” David Housewright Edgar Award winning author of Something Wicked

 

“From navigating small town life to solving puzzling murders, Katie and Maverick are a delight.” —Mindy Mejia, international bestseller author

 

“Immediately captivating! Katie and Maverick are destined to become a notable amateur sleuth team in the mystery world.” –Connie Shelton, USA Today bestselling author

 

“I thoroughly enjoyed this debut book by Mary Seifert! This well written and thoughtful story kept me engaged with fun characters, interesting information and mind and math puzzles. Looking forward to book two!” James, 5-star online review

 

“Fun read! The author has an authentic voice and has done her research. The plot covers many topics: dogs, history, the inner workings of hospitals, family dynamics, and more. I especially enjoyed the puzzles and little-known historical facts that were part of the story. Maverick, Movies & Murder kept my interest and left me wanting more. Highly recommend!” Beth, online 5-star review

 

“…very much looking forward to her next!!! I can’t get enough of Ms. Seifert’s books!!” – proudarmymom, 5 stars

 

“…plenty of unanticipated twists and turns. It kept [me] up reading to see what was going to happen next!” – RHN, 5 stars online

 

“Maverick, Movies, and Murder isn't merely a cosy mystery; it's a literary embrace, a narrative that unfolds in layers, revealing both the familiar and the unexpected.” OnlineBookClub.org review

 

Excerpt

“I can’t imagine you didn’t inherit my ability to sit still and do absolutely nothing. I’m the king of procrastination.”

I laughed. “This from a man who plans every minute of his day.”

“Yes, but I make certain I plan all my sitting-still time first. I might have some ideas for you.”

Poised to take note of Dad’s constructive contributions, I said, “Do tell.”

He leaned back in the chair and crossed his arms. “You could pick up a new hobby.”

…

“I could teach you to cook. Maybe. Or you could bike.”

I plopped my elbow on the table and supported my cheek in my hand. “You and Ida have tried to teach me to cook. It’s been practically impossible, and there’s only so much biking I can do.” I shook my head yet listened for something novel.

“You could sleep in.”

“Tried that.” I side-eyed my pup and exhaled.

“You could learn a craft like … crocheting or knitting.”

Two more words made the list. He waited for an enthusiastic response, which didn’t happen, but nuggets of ideas turned over in my head as I chewed my final morsel of bacon. Our landlady, Ida Clemashevski, was a creative whiz not only at cooking, but with her passions of art, acting, music, and probably crafting as well.

“There’s always fishing,” he said, cautiously optimistic. “Or get a part-time job?”

I jotted a few words next to his recommendations and drew a fish.

Dad asked, “What’s that?”

Having confirmed my lack of any artistic talent, my sketch disappeared under scribbles. “I’ll think about taking up a hobby, but meanwhile, it seems I’ll simply have to resign myself to mundane chores …” I hopped up. “Nothing exciting. Something like doing the dishes.” I juggled the serving platters, plates, and silverware and deposited them in the sink, leaving the delicate cups for a second trip.

Soap foamed under the cascade of hot water, and I scrubbed slowly to eat up at least a portion of my free time. Although Dad reached for a towel, I shooed him out of the kitchen, knowing how much he valued his predictable weekday schedule: a hearty first meal of the day, a one-mile walk around the neighborhood—rain or shine, an in-depth read of the newspaper from cover to cartoons, an exercise class at the Y, and his volunteer stint at the library.

“No doubt, by week’s end you’ll have discovered a new and more streamlined method for doing dishes. You know I love you.” He kissed my forehead and headed for the door and a day of sunshine. “But we’ve got to keep you occupied and out of trouble, or you’ll never get rid of the crazy nickname you earned.”

I called to his retreating back, “Just because I’ve been in the wrong places and involved in the resolution of several serious crimes, I really don’t think I deserve the moniker ‘Katie Wilk, the murder magnet.’”

 

About the Author

Mary Seifert is the mastermind behind the captivating Katie and Maverick Cozy Mysteries, a 2024 International IMPACT Award winner for books in a series. If you love a thrilling whodunit with a sprinkle of humor and a dash of charm, her books are for you. Her novel Maverick, Movies & Murder was a finalist for the 2023 American Fiction Award, and Santa, Snowflakes & Strychnine earned a spot as a 2024 Chanticleer Murder and Mayhem finalist. Set in the picturesque landscapes of West Central Minnesota, where the lakes begin, Mary’s stories are as cozy as a warm cup of cocoa on a chilly day.

Mary’s love affair with books began in her grandfather’s secretive basement backroom library, where she read childhood favorites, Heidi, Black Beauty, National Velvet, Charlotte’s Web, Charlie and the Chocolate Factory, and devoured works by literary greats such as Agatha Christie, Sir Arthur Conan Doyle, Erle Stanley Gardner, Wouk, Chandler, du Maurier, Ellery Queen, Margaret Mitchell, Steinbeck, Hemingway, Salinger, Bradbury, Tolkien, and Pasternak, to name just a few. These early literary adventures, combined with lively book discussions with her mother and siblings helped shape her love for mysteries and complex narratives. Her father’s gift of outrageous storytelling added exaggeration to her arsenal, lending a playful twist to her writing.

Mary grounded her passion for storytelling when she shared her love of reading with her children, solving puzzles alongside beloved characters like Nancy Drew, the Boxcar Children, and the Hardy Boys, and that passion is growing, watching the next generation learn to read. She proudly believes her kids, their significant others, and her grandchildren are the smartest in the universe, and she’s not shy about letting the world know it!

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OKTOBER by Marteeka Karland #MCromance @ChangelingPress

(Kiss of Death MC 13)

MC Romance

Date Published: April 17, 2026

Publisher: Changeling Press

Mia looks like heartbreak. When her toxic ex follows, he doesn’t know what he’s up against.

Mia: I caught my boyfriend cheating with my best friend. So I did what any emotionally stable woman would do. I rented a secluded cabin in the Smoky Mountains and swore off men forever. Then the motorcycles arrived, along with Oktober. He’s six feet of tattooed temptation with a voice like sin and a stare that says he’s already picturing me against the nearest solid surface. He doesn’t offer sympathy. He offers control. And after being lied to, gaslit, and humiliated, control sounds… therapeutic. What starts as a revenge-fueled vacation fling turns into possessive heat, obsessive chemistry, and the kind of dark romance that makes bad decisions feel like personal growth. But when my toxic ex tracks me down, I learn two things. Eric still thinks I belong to him. He has no idea who he’s competing with.

Oktober: I came to the mountains for downtime with my MC brothers. Beer. Bikes. No drama. Then I found Mia next door looking like heartbreak wrapped in stubborn pride. I don’t chase women. I don’t beg. And I definitely don’t do feelings. I claim. She says she just wants a distraction. I give her protection, obsession, and enough heat to make her forget her ex’s name. When the idiot shows up trying to intimidate her, I almost feel bad for him. Almost. Kiss of Death MC doesn’t tolerate disrespect.

“Touch her and die” isn’t a cute slogan. It’s community policy.

 

Excerpt

Copyright ©2026 Marteeka Karland

Mia

I walked up the three flights of stairs to our apartment, conference badge still hanging from my neck, my rolling suitcase bumping rhythmically against each step. The academic panel had ended early. Budget cuts meant fewer speakers, fewer questions, fewer reasons to stay. I hadn’t texted Eric. The thought of surprising him, of seeing his face light up when I walked through the door two days ahead of schedule, made my lips curve into a smile. We might even head early to the little cabin retreat I’d been planning for after the weekend. Maybe I’d call ahead and see if I could get it starting tonight or tomorrow. I shifted the takeout bag to my other hand and dug for my keys, the scent of his favorite pad thai spiraling up from the paper sack.

The hallway stretched before me, same beige carpet I’d walked nearly every day for the past six months since I’d moved in with Eric. Our door waited at the end, looking exactly as it always did. I took comfort in the mundane. I loved surprises but preferred my quiet, steady life as drama free as I could keep it.

I opened the door and stepped inside the spacious apartment Eric owned in downtown Nashville. I heard them before I saw them. A muffled laugh, a thump against a wall in the bedroom. For a moment as I approached the closed door, I thought maybe Eric was watching something on his laptop. He did that sometimes, sprawled across our bed as he watched or even worked from bed. When he did, he sometimes hit the wall as he shifted.

The bedroom door swung open, and time moved to slow motion around me. Eric’s bare back faced me, the knobs of his spine visible as he hunched over her. My best friend, Jade’s, legs were wrapped around his waist, her head thrown back against my pillow on my side of the bed. Her dark hair spread across the soft linens I’d washed before leaving for the conference the day before.

My keys dangled from suddenly numb fingers. Thank God I’d set the takeout bag on the counter as I’d passed by the kitchen or I’d have dropped it. Just like I did the keys two seconds later.

They froze. Their heads turned in unison, like puppets controlled by the same string.

“Mia!” Eric’s voice cracked as he shoved up from Jade and the bed, his junk on full display. Without a condom. Just ducky. “Jesus -- you’re… You weren’t supposed to --”

Jade yanked the sheet up to her chin, her eyes wide and glassy. “Oh God, Mia, I can explain --”

Could she? Could she explain why my best friend since sophomore year of college was naked in my bed with my boyfriend of three years? Could she explain why they were both looking at me with expressions more annoyed than ashamed, as though I’d interrupted something that was rightfully theirs?

I didn’t want to hear it.

I stood there, my suitcase forgotten in the hallway, watching Eric scramble to pull on his jeans. His mouth was moving, explanations tumbling out. I heard something about loneliness and mistakes and too much wine. His words hit a barrier around me, sounds without meaning. I noticed things instead. Like the wineglass on my nightstand with Jade’s lipstick on the rim. The way she clutched my sheet to her chest like she had any right to modesty in this moment. The condom wrappers on the floor.

“Mia, please say something,” Eric pleaded, his hand reaching for my arm.

I stepped back. My body felt disconnected, operating on primitive autopilot while my mind floated, watching this scene unfold to someone else, trying to detach myself from the stark reality of what I’d just witnessed.

“How long?” My voice sounded weak and thready. Like I had to force the words out. I suppose I did because I really had no desire to know how long I’d played the fool and looked like an idiot in front of all our friends.

They exchanged a look. That look told me everything I needed to know.

I turned away, walking to the closet where we kept our luggage. Eric followed, his bare feet slapping against the hardwood.

“Mia, it’s not what you think. It just happened. We were both missing you --”

I pulled my large duffel bag from the top shelf, the one I’d planned to use for our cabin trip next week. The trip I’d booked six months ago because Eric had complained we never went anywhere, just the two of us.

“Mia, please --” Jade appeared in the doorway, my robe wrapped around her body. My robe. On her body. “We never meant to hurt you. It was a mistake.”

I moved around our apartment like a ghost. The only thing I really needed was my laptop and that was still packed. The duffel had already been packed with my favorite, most comfortable clothes from jeans and T-shirts to a couple of nice sundresses for the early spring weather. Plenty of underwear and my toiletries. Beyond that, I didn’t need anything else.

“What are you doing?” Eric’s voice rose, panic edging in. “You can’t just leave. We need to talk about this.”

I looked at him then, really looked at him. His face, the face I’d woken up to nearly every morning since I’d moved in with him six months ago, suddenly seemed foreign.

“The cabin,” I said, zipping the duffel bag closed. “I’m going to the cabin.”

“Our cabin trip? That’s next weekend.” His confusion was genuine, as if he thought we might still have a future with plans and dates to keep.

“No,” I replied. “My cabin trip. You’re not invited and I need some space to think.”

I walked past them both, grabbing my purse from the hook by the door. My suitcase waited in the hallway, a silent witness. I left it there. I didn’t want anything I’d packed for the conference. This homecoming had further emphasized why I hated drama. It also reminded me of how I’d changed my life’s direction to meet Eric’s expectations and needs. I’d chosen academia over social work even though my own background had called me to that field.

“You can’t drive all the way to the Smokies right now,” Jade said, her voice thin with forced reason. “It’s getting late. You’re upset. Stay at my place if you need space from Eric.”

The laugh that escaped me was brittle. “Are you for real right now?”

I was already down the hallway, duffel bag slung over my shoulder, when Eric caught up with me. “The cabin’s over three hours away. You’re not thinking clearly. At least let me drive you.”

I shook him off. “Don’t touch me. You never get to touch me again, Eric.”

I hurried out of the apartment building and got into my car. As I tried to leave, he got in front of my vehicle and stopped me.

“Mia! Stop acting like this! Go back inside and we can discuss this like adults.”

“Get out of my way or I’m going to run you over, Eric.”

He smirked. “No, you won’t.”

I saw red.

Eric must have seen something shift in my expression because his eyes widened. He backed up and out of the path of my vehicle, just before I gunned it and peeled out of the parking lot.

* * *

 

About the Author

Marteeka Karland is an international bestselling author who leads a double life as an erotic romance author by evening and a semi-domesticated housewife by day. Known for her down and dirty MC romances, Marteeka takes pleasure in spinning tales of tenacious, protective heroes and spirited, vulnerable heroines. She staunchly advocates that every character deserves a blissful ending, even, sometimes, the villains in her narratives. Her writings are speckled with intense, raw elements resulting in page-turning delight entwined with seductive escapades leading up to gratifying conclusions that elicit a sigh from her readers.

Away from the pen, Marteeka finds joy in baking and supporting her husband with their gardening activities. The late summer season is set aside for preserving the delightful harvest that springs from their combined efforts (which is mostly his efforts, but you can count it). To stay updated with Marteeka's latest adventures and forthcoming books, make sure to visit her website. Don't forget to register for her newsletter which will pepper you with a potpourri of Teeka's beloved recipes, book suggestions, autograph events, and a plethora of interesting tidbits.

 

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Flight of the Valkyrie by Curtis G. Smith #ScienceFiction

Book 1 of the Asatru Saga

 

Science Fiction, Techno-thriller

Date Published: 03/01/2026

Onboard the International Space Station, Naval Astronaut Claire McFadden is enjoying another routine mission in space when an unexpected explosion cripples the station. With one of her crewmates dead and the station quickly losing altitude, she struggles to bring it under control and buy the crew time until rescue hopefully can come. Unfortunately, NASA does not have a manned spacecraft to reach them, and the other international space agencies cannot or will not help, leaving the crew stranded.

With the station coming dangerously close to a fiery reentry, her old love and fellow former Navy pilot, Steve Paige, offers a radical and risky solution. The company he works for as a test pilot is developing a next-generation spacecraft, the Valkyrie. However, Steve is conflicted about his motive for volunteering for the mission. Is it duty to fellow astronauts or lingering emotions for Claire?

As NASA and the U.S. State Department scramble for a solution, Claire investigates what caused the improbable accident. She learns of a sinister plot to use the ISS as a retaliatory weapon aimed at Washington, D.C. This compels her to try to piece together who and how the station was sabotaged before it is too late.

The people behind the attack will stop at nothing to keep the identity of the culprit a secret. Even if someone can save her and the crew, Claire is the only one who knows what really happened, making her the target of an international assassin. The stakes are high as all parties understand that the incident could spark World War III.

 

About the Author

Curtis Smith blends his expertise in physics, engineering, and robotics to craft science fiction novels grounded in reality, inviting readers into a world where technology meets imagination. This hub fosters vibrant discussions among readers and writers alike, celebrating the art of storytelling rooted in true science.

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Devil's Man by Kira Stone #LGBTQ+ #DarkRomantasy @ChangelingPress

LGBTQ+ Dark Romantasy

Date Published: April 10, 2026

Research at Loveland College has never been quite so productive...

Devil's Man: Roman vows to have Carter, a reclusive professor, one way or another. Roman's devilish scheme to seduce Carter succeeds, to the great pleasure of all involved, but their tryst ends with dire consequences. To stay alive, Roman and Carter will have to face their deepest fears.

Between the Covers: Leah has to discover why Loveland College students are obsessed with having sex in her section of the college library. Leah turns to Sam, a Campus Security Detective, for expert advice. Together they seek the truth... Between the Covers.

Mayan Destiny: Professor Patrice Valez dreams of Mayan ruins and gods of old. When she wins a grant to study an obscure Mayan temple, she's stunned, and not entirely happy, to discover her Mayan obsession has a purpose -- and a price.

Bump in the Night -- "Department of Paranormal Research." Wade's colleagues laugh at the title on his office door. But if he can debunk the ghosts of the famed Hoag Mansion, he'll finally start getting the recognition he deserves. What he finds instead are things that go bump in the night...

EXCERPT

"Over here."

There was an impatient huff before a woman said, "I thought you said you knew where it was."

Leah Spencer paused in the act of replacing a book into its proper Dewey decimal order on the shelf. She looked around but didn't see anyone. Still, the sounds of heavy breathing were coming from a nearby location.

"I do. It's right here." Teeth of a zipper were parted.

"That is not what I'm looking for." This time instead of sounding aggrieved, the female's voice dripped with amusement.

Oh, crap. Not again. Her section of the library had to be the hottest make out spot on campus lately.

"Suck me," a male voice hissed.

"Like this?"

"Oh, yeah. That's it."

He started to moan. Wet sounds slipped between the logically ordered tomes to reach Leah's ears. Her face heated, and so did her feminine core.

"Lick it."

Apparently his lover complied because inarticulate encouragement ensued. Leah considered peeking around the spines to catch a glimpse of their faces so she could give a description to campus security, but as soon as she moved, the book in her hands rasped against the ones on the shelf at her waist.

"What was that?" the woman asked, suspicious.

Leah froze, her heart beating frantically at the thought of being discovered. It would certainly get her fired if the administration learned she'd been listening to, rather than interrupting, the copulating couple. Assuming, of course, that she survived the humiliation of being labeled a sexual voyeur.

"It's nothing. Ignore it," her partner replied.

"I really think --"

He cut her off. "No one ever comes up here. No one except people like us. Might get crowded, but we're not going to get in trouble."

His partner seemed reassured by his explanation. "Yeah, I guess you're right."

Safe for the moment, Leah carefully stepped out of her shoes so her feet wouldn't make a sound as she dashed down the main corridor, away from the action. Once she'd reached her miniscule office, she picked up the phone and dialed a number she knew by heart.

"It's happening again," Leah said as soon as Campus Security Detective Samuel Zheng answered.

"Damn. That makes the fourth time today."

The husky tenor of his voice jumpstarted the lust already simmering in her veins. Leah wished she were brave enough to intimately touch herself during one of these conversations. So far, she hadn't dared. But to come to the sound of his voice, to be that close to him whether he knew it or not, would be... would be... pathetic.

"Leah?"

She sighed, dismissing the fantasy and zeroing in on reality. "Yeah, I'm here."

"I'm on my way. Don't let them leave."

Right, she thought as the dial tone echoed in her ear. Even if Sam ran the whole way, it would take him ten minutes to arrive. She was a five-foot-nothing couch potato. How was she supposed to restrain two healthy adults if they were determined to go? Keep them riveted with a discourse on the finer points of fellatio?

Assuming they hadn't already left, she'd have to stay where she could monitor them. Listening to their passionate directives. Picturing them...

Enough!

As quietly as she could, Leah tiptoed back to her hiding place. Again, somehow she betrayed her presence. Damn Sam for asking her to do his job!

"There's another noise," the woman hissed. "Someone's coming."

"No one is coming but me, baby. Suck me a little harder, would ya?"

The woman chuckled softly. "Mmm, you're such a big boy. Gonna have to find something special to do for you." In the quiet, close quarters, Leah detected the rustle of fabric, followed by the snick of a bra being undone. "How about this, stud? Does it do anything for you?"

"That... is so... hot."

Images of what they might be doing flickered through Leah's mind. She closed her eyes. Their out-of-sync heavy breathing fueled the white-hot lust pulsing between her legs. She envisioned a pair of plump breasts surrounding a hard shaft, the rosy head peeking up from the deep, lily-white valley.

"Gonna let me fuck you?" the guy panted out.

"No, I want you to come like this. All over my breasts."

"Oh, yeah."

The smell of sex permeated the air. Leah's clit throbbed. She didn't want to risk moving around too much for fear of scaring them off, but she had to do something to soothe the ache in her swollen clit. Using the only option that came to mind, Leah placed a heavy tome between her legs. As quietly as possible, she ground against it so the rigid spine rode over her pussy, sending ripples of pleasure through her body.

People often teased her about getting off on books, but this was the first time she'd actually attempted it. The thought almost made her giggle, but she choked it off.

"That's it. Fuck my tits, stud."

"Gonna come," he announced.

"Do it for me. Do it now."

Leah was near the edge herself. As he grunted through his climax, Leah rubbed the book between her legs. Given the volume's size, it took both hands although she badly wished one were free to pluck at her pebbled nipples.

She'd never felt so wanton in her life. She imagined semen coating the woman's breasts, his hands rubbing it in. Her mouth licking him clean. All the while, her BOB substitute stroked her into a frenzy of wet, hot need.

"Here, let me get that." Whatever the man's offer entailed, his partner seemed to enjoy it. Her cry of pleasure triggered Leah's release. It wasn't the best orgasm of her life, but her reaction was intensified by the fact that she'd made it happen at all. In the library. Where she could have been caught at any second.

What in the hell had she been thinking?

As she pondered the depths of her recent depravity, the lights overhead dimmed for a full ten seconds, then brightened again. It signaled the five-minute warning before the staff started herding students out of Loveland College Library. Shit! Where was Sam?

About the Author

Kira Stone has been around the block…the writer’s block, that is.

From vamps and witches to historical heroes, from futuristic scientists to paranormal corporate executives, from Canadian werewolves to off-world shifters, Kira has written about them all. Manlove has sparked hot and heavy in many of her plots, but Kira also finds a lucky lady to keep the sexy heroes company from time to time. While Scotland remains her favorite place in the world, Kira is constantly in search of new adventures to add to the creative primordial ooze where her best stories are born.

 

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Lila's Journey by Jane Coletti Perry #HistoricalFiction #Giveaway

Historical Fiction

Date Published: 05-19-2024

Publisher: Mustard Seed Press

It’s 1866 on the Santa Fe Trail. Sixteen-year-old Lila Bonner is forced to make a life-changing decision that leaves her frightened and alone. With help from a kindhearted stranger, Lila reaches Council Grove, Kansas, where she hopes to build a new life. Fortified with determination, and tapping into a strength she didn't know she had, Lila deals with basic survival, Indian unrest, and an epidemic. As she develops into a wise, capable young woman, an unspeakably evil plot threatens her life as well as a blossoming romance. Her fate hangs in the balance between the person who betrayed her, the man she loves, and the woman she's become.

Excerpt from Lila’s Journey

She kept up a brisk pace through the wooded path as the sun peaked in and out of the clouds, shifting the shadows of the trees. Some of the trees had shed their leaves, but the mighty oaks still clung to theirs, and they rattled in the breeze. She kept her arms under her cloak for warmth but slowed momentarily when the sound of the rattling changed. She did a quick turnaround but saw nothing. “Must have been some critter scampering about,” she said, and picked up her pace again.

It happened so fast it scarcely registered.

Large hands overpowered her and grabbed her from behind, one covered her mouth, the other circled her waist. A surge of adrenaline triggered a painful heartbeat in her chest. She screamed through the clamped hand, but the sound was choked off. Lila struggled to free her arms from inside her cloak while she wildly kicked backwards. The harder she fought, the fiercer the grip. Lila raised her leg and shot it backwards again, this time hitting a shin. A rough voice cursed in her ear.

She was lifted off her feet and shoved against a tree, snapping the side of her head against the trunk. Pain shot through her head. Dazed, she made a feeble attempt to grab the arms. A hand slapped hard against her face. Spots danced before her eyes with the disappearing daylight, then nothing.

 

When Lila came out of the fog of unconsciousness, she found herself in darkness. She was blindfolded. She was on a horse with someone sitting behind her, someone with unspeakable body odor whose breath reeked of whiskey. What was happening? Who has done this? She had a throbbing headache, made worse with each step of the horse over the uneven ground.

Reaching for her head, she realized her hands were bound together. Why am I tied up? This makes no sense. She was a captive and there was nothing she could do to give herself any advantage. The realization sent her into a frenzy of fear, and tears swelled under her blindfold. Dear God, what am I to do?

Now fully awake, her heart pounded as she tried to clear her head. She had no idea how long she’d been unconscious, no idea where she was, no idea who sat behind her in the saddle. She shuddered to think who her captor was and what he had in mind.

 

About the Author

Award winning author Jane Coletti Perry’s second novel, Lila’s Journey, will be released summer 2024. Her short story “Lila’s Song” won Women Writing the West LAURA Award (2021) and is the prequel to Lila’s Journey. Her previous historical fiction novel, Marcello’s Promise (2019), was inspired by her family’s immigrant story. She loves nothing more than digging into history and discovering unique stories unless it’s bringing those stories to life through writing. An English major, Perry graduated from Iowa State University and participates in writer’s workshops, conferences, and local writing groups.

When she’s not writing, Jane is singing in a choir, exercising in some fashion, or soaking up nature from a shady spot in the yard with a good book. She and her husband live in Kansas and have two children and six grandchildren. She treasures time spent with their far-flung family and still entertains the fantasy of appearing on Dancing with the Stars for Grandmas, although the clock is ticking. . .

Jane is a member of Women Writing the West, Western Writers of America, and Wyoming Writers, Inc.

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Cressida's Sacrifice by Mikala Ash #Steampink #Romance @ChangelingPress

Steampunk Romantic Suspense

Date Published: April 10, 2026

 

 

 Clara looks for love in an alien city of lust. Can Cressida’s passion save the love of her life?

Automaton engineers Clara Wheeler and Edmund Blake travel to the moon with spiritualist Cordelia and her automaton lover, Adam, along with Home Office Agent Harry Kincaid. Clara has a suspicion their chaperones, the lusty Lunarians Pamela and Burton, are not the beautiful technologically advanced benefactors they seem. Clara fears the pair are hideous monsters, killing humans to possess their bodies.

Cressida Troy, now the Empress of Space, Nil Ilson, has sacrificed her humanity to marry the Lunarian emperor, Mon Ilson -- perhaps the most powerful witch of them all. As their visit to the lusty city progresses, both in and out of bed, Clara learns more than she wanted. She fears the experiment to open a portal to the other side risks not only the destruction of the Lunarians, but of humanity as well.

 

EXCERPT

 

I am very old, sometimes new, and my changes are looked forward to.

I am mostly silver, and occasionally wear a ruddy hue, but I am hardly ever blue.

I am brightest at night, and control the oceans with all my might.

And bless toiling farmers with my pearly light.

What am I?

Embarrassingly childish doggerel I know, but I enjoy composing riddles. They also afford a distraction from troubling thoughts. The puzzles can be complex and obtuse which I relish, or simple and obvious. The former irritates Edmund, my fellow Lovelace Protocol engineer exceedingly. He accuses me of showing off.

In the circumstances this one was far too easy to solve, and Burton Sobel, my Lunarian guide who’d become my lover, didn’t even bother saying the solution. He condescended to give me a reassuring smile as he tightened the buckle of my seat belt.

In desperate need for a more substantial diversion, I looked up into his handsome face with an obvious invitation. Taking the hint his lips quickly claimed mine with a passionate kiss. I returned it with enthusiasm, and felt instantly guilty, for I was simply using him. I needed him on my side if I was to solve the Lunarian riddle.

“Don’t be concerned,” he said after a long moment. He had mint green eyes, and his unwavering regard was disconcerting. Did he know what I was up to, I wondered. “I will look after you. I promise.”

“Thank you,” I told him, and snatched another kiss. I had to be sure I’d won him back after my beastly accusations. Though I believed them to be true, for the moment I must deny them. “You’ve been very kind. I’m quite recovered. I apologise for my wild imaginings.”

“Don’t dwell on it,” he said, and kissed me again. “It’s been a difficult few days.” He gave my hand a squeeze before pushing himself away to check on my fellow passengers.

Difficult indeed. The two automatons, Jack and Jill, my colleague Edmund Blake had been ordered to take to the Moon had broken their Lovelace Protocols and tried to kill Miss Cordelia Warrington, one of our fellow passengers.

I watched Burton glide gracefully toward the others. Like all Lunarians he was preternaturally beautiful, and that observation made me rehash my fears about them. Why did they look like us? If, as the rumours went, they came from the planet Mars, how was it they resembled humans in every respect? If Mr. Darwin was correct, that species evolved over time by accidental mutation, and the successful alteration selected by nature, how could two species separated by the gulf of space be so alike?

Not only that. Why were they so good-looking? Every Lunarian I had met, and granted that was precious few, were striking in their attractiveness. The observation was not mine alone. Even The Times declared them “diamonds of the first water -- exquisite, flawless, and as radiant as the Koh-i-Noor that graces our Sovereign’s crown.”

What aspect of impartial nature could select so handsome a race? Was that selection natural at all? I thought not.

That was not the only aspect that caused me discomfort. It was their character. Noted again by newspaper columnists who had the opportunity to meet them, the people from the moon were always polite to extremis in private, their behaviour in public impeccable. To me they were just too perfect.

That they had first come to the attention of the general public with a dazzling display of raw power -- destroying hundreds of airships and navy vessels in an instant. That dramatic appearance had saved the empire from a sneak attack by our European foes. The Queen’s wholehearted embrace of them, natural enough I suppose as they had come to us in our hour of need, worried me. The officious manner in which Her Majesty’s agents had press-ganged Edmund and me into our current situation further deepened my suspicions.

If that wasn’t enough, what I had surmised in the last few days terrified me. It seemed their leader, Mon Ilson, was a powerful witch who had mastery over life and death. Apparently, Mon Ilson was immortal. Our mission was to bring automatons to the moon so he could experiment on transferring the soul of a dead man into a machine. This was impossible, I was certain, however it seemed he could harness his magical powers to make the transfer possible.

The dark conclusion of my fears and surmising was that I suspected that Mon Ilson was transferring the souls of Lunarians into the bodies of humans he had killed. Not that he should choose only ill-featured victims, but he selected only attractive people to kill. It seemed to make his crime more perverse, if that were possible. My thread of reasoning was absurdly simple, like my silly riddles. No wonder Edmund scoffed and thought me eligible for a darkened cell in Bedlam or Coney Hatch. He had pulled at each strand, and my surmises had unravelled -- at least in his estimation -- into a messy pile of yarn. He seemed unaware that his infatuation with his Lunarian lover may have biased his criticism.

Nevertheless, I had entertained the notion that I was the victim of a crazed delusion, but Mr. Frasier -- Cordelia’s contact in the spirit world -- had given me some hope. Discovering that there really was a spirit world was yet another assault on my scientific creed. That I now relied upon a dead man to seek out the souls of those foully murdered by Mon Ilson to prove my claim, made me further doubt my sanity.

Madness aside, my assertion that the Lunarians intended to subjugate all of humanity, employing the military and industrial might of our Empire to accomplish it, was as clear to me as water. What galled me most was the betrayal of our sovereign, Queen Victoria. Willing or unwilling, weak or wilful, it seemed to me she had become a partner in this most diabolical crime, and it saddened me deeply to think it.

So, what was I to do about this?

I looked about the cabin. We were a strange collection: three women, two men, and one automaton. First was Miss Cordelia Warrington, a spiritualist who was to play a crucial role in a bizarre and outlandish experiment. She and Mr. Frasier, who I must insist is real as all my hopes rely on him, were to contact the soul of one Fritz von Wellen, and by doing so allow the Lunarian emperor to magically conduct him into the brain of an automaton. It was ludicrous to be sure. To deposit an incorporeal soul into a head filled with copper and brass ratchets and gears is simply preposterous.

“Doesn’t your soul, an incorporeal entity, reside quite happily in a vessel of flesh and blood?” Burton had reminded me with a condescending smile. “How is brass any different?”

I had bitten my lip. “Touché,” I replied. I suspected the experiment was simply the camouflage of the real task -- the transfer of Fritz’s soul into the body of a recently murdered human being.

 

About the Author

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

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