GRIFFIN by Marteeka Karland #MCromance

Motorcycle Club Romance, Suspense, Age Gap

Date Published: July 17, 2026

Veda -- I went into Enclave Éclipse looking for the truth about my missing sister. I walked out with evidence of murder, trafficking, dirty cops, corrupt judges, and a target on my back. The Steel Serpents want me silenced. Nashville’s most powerful men want my proof buried. Then Griffin, a dangerous Kiss of Death MC enforcer, pulls me out of the fire and into his world of blood, vengeance, and outlaw justice. He’s brutal, protective, and impossible to resist. And when he calls me his, God help anyone who tries to take me.

Griffin -- Veda Garrison should have run from me. Instead, she aimed a gun at my chest and dared me to betray her. Big mistake, sweetheart. Now she’s mine to protect, mine to crave, and mine to keep alive. Her evidence could destroy a trafficking ring, ignite a war with the Steel Serpents, and expose men powerful enough to own the law. They want Veda? They’ll have to come through me.

 

Warning: Adult themes including kidnapping, sex trafficking, and political corruption, which may trigger some readers. Protective ex-con hero, HEA, and, as always, no cheating, no cliffhangers.

EXCERPT

 

Veda

Four months of work fit inside a hollowed-out pen pressed against my sternum. Ten minutes ago, I decided this was the last night I would ever set foot inside Enclave Éclipse. The back office held its usual smells. Lemon furniture polish from the cleaning crew that came through Tuesdays and Fridays, the dry-paper musk of ledgers stacked four deep on the metal shelving, and underneath all of it the faint sour note of Carl Pruitt’s cologne, which he reapplied every afternoon at three like a man trying to mask his lover’s perfume before he went home to his beautiful wife.

Carl’s desk sat in the middle of the room, the dominant feature. Oversized, mahogany veneer, the leather chair behind it big enough for a man twice his size. The bottom drawer was the one I had photographed last, the one where the master ledger lived under a false bottom that any auditor with a ruler would have found in nine seconds. Carl was not bright. He’d been skimming his bosses for a year and change, and that, I suspected, was about to matter to Carl in a very huge, very permanent way.

I crouched behind the second shelving unit with my knees pressed together, trying to keep my breathing slow and shallow when I heard the front buzzer go. Then the hallway door. Then the murmur of voices that did not belong to Carl.

I froze when the office door opened and four men walked in. Carl came first, walking on his own but not by choice. His collar was already dark with sweat and his hair stuck to his forehead. Behind him came two men I had never laid eyes on. But the man who entered last almost made me whimper in fear.

I’d seen Iron twice before, both times here at the club and only from a distance. He was broader up close. The tattoos that climbed up the side of his neck disappeared into his short beard and over his shaved head. His gaze swept the room and stopped at the desk. He noticed the open ledger on top of it that I hadn’t had time to put away. He noticed the chair. He didn’t notice me, because I sat very still and I had picked my hiding place in week two for a reason. Thank God I had a small, wiry frame.

“Sit,” Iron said.

Carl sat. The leather chair sighed under him.

Iron walked to the desk. He looked down at the open ledger. He looked at Carl. He did not raise his voice. In fact, he used all the inflection he might if he ordered a cup of coffee. “Someone’s been going through the books,” Iron said, still not raising his voice. He tapped a thick finger on the open ledger. “These numbers are wrong.”

Carl’s Adam’s apple bobbed. “I don’t know what you’re talking about. I keep everything --”

“You’ve been skimming, Carl. That’s fine.” Iron smiled, a bare flash of teeth. “Everyone’s got their hand in the cookie jar. But someone else has been keeping their own set of numbers. And that’s not fine.”

“I don’t -- I swear to God, I wouldn’t --” Carl’s voice cracked.

Iron snatched Carl by the hair and slammed his face into the desk with a wet crack. Carl’s nose sprayed blood across the ledger pages. Iron hauled him up by the hair, Carl’s feet barely touching the floor, and slammed him down again. This time the sound was different, duller, and Carl’s legs kicked once and then stopped moving entirely. Iron let go. Carl slumped sideways in the chair, his head lolling, one hand flopping limply against the desk edge before he slid to the floor.

I pressed my hand flat over my mouth and watched Carl’s hand from my hiding place. I kind of felt bad but Carl was a swine and he deserved everything about to happen to him.

Iron turned to one of the other men. “Clear the hallway.”

The man nodded and left the room. Seconds later, I heard the thud of something heavy hitting the wall, a muffled shout cut short, then the scrape of something being dragged. The door opened again, and the man returned with two of the hallway workers, a young man with a sleeve of tats and a woman with her dark hair in a tight bun. Both had their hands bound behind them with zip ties, both looked like they’d been smacked around. Terrified didn’t begin to describe the pair.

“Against the wall,” Iron said.

The two men pushed the workers to the far wall. The woman tried to speak, her words slurred through what was probably a broken jaw. “Please -- we didn’t --”

The shots came before she could finish. I couldn’t be sure because I didn’t have a direct line of sight, but I thought they’d both been shot in the head. Blood spread across the laminate wood flooring in a dark pool.

Iron’s men began pulling files from the cabinets, sliding hard drives into a duffel bag one of them had brought in. They worked methodically, opening each drawer in turn, checking the contents before removing them. One of them moved to Carl’s desk, opened the bottom drawer, and pulled out the master ledger. He handed it to Iron, who fanned the pages with his thumb, then nodded and set it aside.

My pen camera had gotten it all. Every page, every column of numbers, every name. Four months of surveillance distilled down to what would fit on a micro SD card.

Iron turned in a slow circle. Again, I couldn’t see everything but I imagined he gave the room a final once over. Then, without changing his tone, he said, “They’re still here.” The other men stopped what they were doing.

“Someone was in this room tonight,” Iron continued. “They were going through these books when we arrived. They’re still in the building.” He looked at the two men. “Find them.”

I held my breath. My fingers pressed harder against my lips. One of the men spoke up. “You want us to check the whole place?”

“I want you to find them,” Iron snarled. “Start with the offices and work out.”

The men nodded and left the room, moving into the hallway. Iron remained behind, standing over Carl’s body with his arms crossed. I could see him now. He looked down at the ledger on the desk. There was no way to miss Carl’s blood smeared over the cover. He turned his gaze back to the door, then at the window on the far wall.

One of the men returned. “Garage is clear. Kitchen’s clear.”

“Keep looking,” Iron said.

The man left again. Iron pulled out his phone, sent a text, then put it away. He paced the length of the room once, then again, his boots leaving prints in the blood on the floor.

I needed to get out. I needed to move. But Iron was still in the room, and the two men were searching the building, and if I stepped out from behind this shelving unit I would be exactly as dead as Carl.

The second man came back. “Rest of the building’s clear. You want us to check the roof?”

Iron shook his head. “They’re still here.” He looked at the door. “They’re good at hiding, but they made a mistake. They left this ledger open when they heard us coming in. They didn’t have time to put it away.” He tapped his finger on the desk. “They’re still in this room.”

My heart stopped for a full second, then kicked back into double-time. This was it. In mere seconds I’d be dead. Or worse.

The men looked around, confused. “There’s nowhere to hide in here except --”

“Under the desk,” Iron said. “Check under the desk.”

The first man dropped to his knees and shined a flashlight under Carl’s massive desk. The beam swept in a wide arc, illuminating the empty knee well. I was still behind the shelving unit, pressed flat against the wall, my knees pulled tight to my chest.

“Nothing,” the man said.

Iron’s jaw tightened. “Check again.”

The man ducked his head lower, shining the light into every corner of the space under the desk. “I’m telling you, there’s nobody there.”

Iron nodded, finally satisfied. “Get the rest of the files. Then we burn the place.”

The two men returned to the filing cabinets. They worked quickly now, pulling out folders and stacks of paper, dumping them into the duffel bag. One of them returned to the hallway and came back with a plastic jug. He unscrewed the cap and began pouring a clear liquid across the floor. The sharp chemical reek cut through the air. Smelled like gasoline or something similar.

My eyes started to water. I pressed my sleeve against my nose.

Iron watched his men work, then checked his watch. “Two minutes,” he said. “Then we’re gone.”

They finished packing the duffel and stepped into the hallway. Iron paused at the door, took one last look at the office, then pulled it closed behind him.

I waited silently, not daring to move or even breathe too much in case I coughed on the fumes. I heard the front door of the building open and close. I heard the rumble of engines starting outside. Then the fire started with a hollow whomp. Smoke began to push under the office door in a gray curl.

I couldn’t stay behind the shelving unit. Smoke was already thickening along the ceiling, and the acrid smell burned my nostrils. I needed to get to the window on the far wall. Surely to God the men had all left before the building was completely engulfed.

The smoke got thicker, pushing through the office doorway in billowing gray clouds. Flames licked at the door facing, eating through the wood with hungry crackles.

I crawled, keeping low beneath the smoke. The heat pressed against my skin. My eyes stung. I ripped off my jacket and wrapped it around my right forearm, creating a makeshift pad to protect myself. The window on the far wall was my only way out. A narrow rectangle set high in the exterior wall, just wide enough for my shoulders if I turned sideways.

I hurried to the window. Grabbing an ornate wooden paperweight, I hurled it at the glass. The window shattered with a musical crash. I cleared the jagged edges as best I could, then hoisted myself up.

Bits of glass from the window frame bit into my palms. I got my upper body through, then twisted to bring my legs after me. The drop was about ten feet to asphalt of the alley below. I went through feet first, pushing off from the window frame with my hands.

The fall seemed to last forever. My stomach lurched. The ground rushed up to meet me. I hit the pavement, stumbling forward. Pain shot up my legs and I fell forward, rolling until I hit the brick wall of the building on the other side of the alley.

Above me, flames licked at the edges of the broken window. The fire had taken hold of the building’s interior. Smoke filled the alley as more of the building caught fire and hot wind swirled around me, the fire creating its own down draft. My eyes watered and stung, and I coughed with every intake of breath. In minutes, the entire structure would be engulfed and I needed to be far away from here.

I scrambled to my feet and backed against the wall, putting distance between myself and the burning building. Embers now swirled in the air like orange snow. Somewhere in the distance, a siren wailed.

I hurried to the side of the building where I’d stashed a .38 revolver I’d purchased at a gun show a few months back. I’d always known there was a good possibility I’d get caught and had protected myself the only way I could think of. Didn’t do me a lot of good outside the building, but they had metal detectors we had to pass through before entering. I’d stashed the weapon out here knowing that window would be my best way out in a bad situation. Thankfully, the weapon hadn’t been noticed by anyone. I pulled it from my hiding place and clutched the weapon to me like a lifeline.

The alley stretched about fifty yards in either direction. To my right, it dead-ended at a brick wall. To my left, it opened onto the street that ran past the front of the Enclave Éclipse. Going that way meant risking being seen by whoever responded to the fire and I didn’t know if I could see a threat coming with my eyes burning and stinging.

The sirens grew louder. I couldn’t be here when they arrived. I had no doubt Iron had killed everyone in the building. If anyone other than me escaped, they’d be getting as scarce as I wanted to. Everyone who worked there knew shady shit got done inside that building. Most of them kept their heads down, collected their cash, and ignored everything else. No one wanted to get caught up in this mess. On either side of the law.

Halfway to the street, I heard the distinctive rumble of a motorcycle engine, cutting through the wail of sirens. The sound grew louder. I froze, pressing myself against the alley wall again. The smoke still hampered my vision and I couldn’t be certain I headed away from danger rather than straight into it.

I huddled against the alley wall, gun at the ready, though I doubted the way I trembled would encourage the guy to keep his distance if he confronted me. Half blinded by the smoke, I doubt I could have hit anything from any distance. The pen camera was still tucked into my bra, the micro SD card secure inside it. I absolutely could not lose that drive.

I took a breath and closed my eyes briefly. Sweat trickled from my hairline, mixing with the ash and soot on my skin to drip into my eyes. I raised my hand to swipe at the drops. I saw the blood before I touched my face. My palm must have caught the edge of the window as I climbed out because a gash split the meaty part of my palm. I didn’t think it was too deep, but I definitely needed to clean and bandage it.

I had no car. I’d taken the bus here, like I did every night. I couldn’t go to the police because two of the names on my list were Williamson County deputies, and I had no way of knowing how many were dirty. I couldn’t go home because Iron knew someone had been in that building, and he would start pulling threads until he found me.

The sirens in the distance weren’t coming for me. They were coming for the fire, and eventually for the bodies inside. By the time the first responders arrived, I needed to be gone and the guy on the motorcycle made that seriously difficult.

I’d gotten myself into this situation because of my sister. Tessa Garrison. Twenty-one years old. My only family after Mom checked out. She worked at the Enclave Éclipse for six weeks as a cocktail waitress and then disappeared. The police finally let me file a missing persons report a month after she vanished, only to close it two weeks later with a professional shrug. With no leads and no evidence of foul play, the officer working her case decided maybe she didn’t want to be found.

So I took matters into my own hands. I got a job as a bookkeeper at a tax preparation office three blocks from the Éclipse. I made a lifted key when the night manager left his key ring on the bar during his smoke break. The guy had two keys for the club on the same ring and, thankfully, hadn’t noticed one being gone in the bundle of keys he kept. I bought a hollowed-out pen camera from a guy who sold spy gear out of his van behind the flea market. I took photos of every ledger, every receipt, every name that passed through Carl Pruitt’s sweaty fingers I could manage to get my hands on.

Finally, I found what I searched so hard for. The one transaction that shouldn’t have been there. Five thousand dollars, cash, entered the same night Tessa disappeared. I never found Tessa’s phone and her body never turned up. But I found enough to know she’d likely been taken. And the people who took her were the same people who owned the Enclave Éclipse, who paid off deputies to look the other way, who thought they could make problems disappear with cash and threats. People like Iron.

The fire was fully involved now, visible flames from the window I’d originally jumped from licked up the wall in an orange glow. I needed to get out of here. Fast.

Taking a breath, I hurried down the alley, the driving certainty that danger hunted me nearly throwing me into a panic. As I stumbled out of the alley onto the sidewalk I collided with a large, solid body. Strong hands gripped my shoulders, steadying me, or I’d have fallen on my ass.

“Easy there.” I shied back, backing up several steps to stand against the building. I couldn’t see the guy clearly. His form resembled a blurry blob, with the occasional glimpse of a person‑shaped blob. “Hey, I’m not gonna hurt you. Are you OK? Were you in the building?”

The guy’s question made me grip my gun all the harder. Iron knew someone was inside the room, or, at least, the building. If this guy was one of Iron’s men, I’d have no hope of fighting him off. I raised my gun, tightening my grip. I still didn’t know if I could actually pull the trigger. I mean, I could, but hesitating would be just as bad as not shooting. Either way, I’d be dead.

The figure took a step forward, then another, his movements careful and measured. I raised the gun, pointing at the center of what I hoped was his chest. My finger settled alongside the trigger. I didn’t trust myself not to shoot accidentally and hurt someone innocent.

“Don’t come any closer,” I called, my voice steady despite the fear crawling up my throat. My hand trembled wildly as I held the heavy firearm. My other hand burned, but I had to bring it up to hold the gun relatively steady.

The figure stopped. For a long moment, we faced each other in the alley. The fire cast jumping shadows across the pavement. The sirens wailed, almost on top of us now.

“You’re bleeding.” He spoke in a calm voice. “And the cops are thirty seconds out. You want to explain why you’re standing outside a burning building with a gun, or do you want a ride somewhere that isn’t here?”

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.

 

Author on Instagram & TikTok: @marteekakarland

Author on Facebook: https://www.facebook.com/experiencethemagicmk

 

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

 

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Amused and Amazed by Willa Okati #LGBTQ+ #Romance @changelingpress

LGBTQ+ Romance

Date Published: July 10, 2026

Publisher: Changeling Press

Laughter and love go together like peanut butter and chocolate for men in search of a tasty treat!

The Drag Queen of Faerie: The course of true love just won’t run smooth for hunk-next-door Will Taylor, who’s in search of that special someone. All that focused energy attracts the attention of Queen Mab’s less-well-known cousin Mabbey, the Drag Queen of the Faeries.

Valentine’s Vow: Friends and casual bed buddies Thom and Ryan don’t buy into the whole “true love” spiel. They have a good time together. Why would they want more? Luckily for this clueless pair, St. Valentine shows them how to appreciate a good thing when they’ve got it.

Independence Day: The boys are back -- and they’re at it again. Ryan and Thom have returned for some hot Fourth of July action, but their newfound romance may just hit the skids when it comes to coming out as a couple.

Straight Man and Coffee Guy: Straight Man is anything but. He just doesn’t have a sense of humor. And in a city with so many superheroes there’s no one left to rescue, his power is attracting the freaks -- like Coffee Guy from the diner across the road, who has the power of the never-ending cup. Misfits in a mad, mad, mad world, they’re pretty much perfect for each other.

 

Excerpt from Straight Man and Coffee Guy

Copyright ©2026 Will Okati

"So what would you say if I told you I was here to make every dream you've ever had come true?"

SM didn't even glance up from the magazine he was flipping through. Not that he'd been paying attention to the glossy pages. The skin magazine was designed for seriously lecherous and perverted types. Lots of pink, pouty things that kind of made his flesh want to shrivel up and his brain run away to hide. Still, better low-class reading material than none at all. Nothing else to do on the graveyard shift, was there?

"I'd ask if you were either AWOL from the City Genie conglomerate, wonder what you were selling, and pray you were the guy with the coffee I ordered --" he checked his watch -- "an hour ago."

"One out of three ain't bad." A cardboard tray smacked down on the hotel check-in counter. SM gladly abandoned his perusal of the so-called literature to reach up and grab a paper cup.

On his way, he spared a glance for the delivery boy. Not bad. Not bad at all. The kind of boy-next-door good looks that got his motor revving... or would if it weren't right around 3 a.m. Nothing short of an earthquake could get him excited enough to do much of anything this time of day.

He raised the lid and took a sip -- then choked. "This is cold!"

The delivery guy shrugged. "Well, you did it order a while back. Is it my fault it took this long to get away from the late-night crowd to bring the stuff over? And why did you order four cups, anyway? Have you got someone stashed under there?" He leaned over the counter, as if to check.

SM hastily knocked his magazine off into a trashcan. "No!"

"Come on, a hunk like you? There's someone under there." The coffee guy tilted up and over, resting his belly on the ledge, peeking. "Is that what I think -- no, just your shoe. Interesting. You dress like a wage slave drone, but those are some snappy sneakers."

"Sometimes I have to run to put out fires," SM replied dryly. Which was true enough. On more than one occasion, he had, especially when Combustion Man got too worked up. Oh, he didn't usually set more than the beds ablaze, but someone had to be quick on the draw with an extinguisher.

The truth was he wore the sneakers because they were comfortable, and it was one way of giving management the finger. Not that he'd admit it, of course, to a diner jockey.

He paused. "A hunk like me?"

"Well, yeah." Once he'd gotten up there, the coffee guy sat on the ledge, swinging his own sneakered feet back and forth. "You're a definite hottie. At least an eight on a scale of one to ten. Why do you think I waited to bring your coffee over myself?"

"To be annoying?"

"There is that," Coffee Guy agreed cheerfully. SM didn't see any harm in calling him that. It was neatly printed on his diner nametag, pinned crookedly on his tight-fitting T-shirt. "It's one of my better attributes."

"I'd hate to see the worse ones." SM took another sip of the brew. He blinked. "It's hotter."

"Thanks." Coffee Guy flexed his muscles. "I kind of thought so, myself."

"No, you dolt. I meant the coffee. It's not as cold anymore." SM took a careful sip and almost burned his tongue. He looked up accusingly. "Okay, give. How'd you do that?"

Coffee Guy shrugged. "It's a city full of real comic book heroes, right? Just about everyone and their brother has some kind of freaky power. I have dominion over the almighty bean, blessed be the name of Java. Behold." He pointed at SM's cup, which refilled the slight distance back up to the lid. "Talk about your never-ending pot."

"You're kidding me." SM drank again. "How'd you get a sweet talent like that?"

"As if it's special." Coffee Guy snorted. He started to flick through the check-in register. "All it gets me is the graveyard shift at a hotel diner. Or is this a motel? I can never keep it straight."

"Hotel. They have hallways and doors that open from the inside. Motels open onto the street."

"You learn something new every day."

"Keeps the brain active." SM peered at the cardboard tray with his other three, now steaming, cups of coffee. "Do you have the ability to summon cream and sugar as well?"

"Somehow I knew you'd be the kind of guy who had a sweet tooth." CG grinned at SM and reached into his pockets. "Wasn't room on the tray, but I came through in the clinch."

"Oh, God. You're an angel." SM groaned in pleasure as he cracked open two still-cool plastic cup-ettes of condensed milk and poured them in his cup. The sugar came next: three packets. "Swizzle stick?"

"They're not called swizzle sticks, moron."

SM cut CG a sharp look. "Oh, yeah? What's the right name, then?"

"Hell if I know." CG swung his legs a few more times while SM fixed his coffee to his pleasure. He even whistled a few bars of a tune, pretty badly off-key. In the middle of a bar, just as SM was recognizing the melody, he broke off to say, casually, "I kind of figured you to be the kind of guy who likes cream."

About the Author

Willa Okati (AKA Will) is made of many things: imagination, coffee, stray cat hairs, daydreams, more coffee, kitchen experimentation, a passion for winter weather, a little more coffee, a whole lot of flowering plants and a lifelong love of storytelling. Will's definitely one of the quiet ones you have to watch out for, though he -- not she anymore -- is a lot less quiet these days.

 

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

 

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Master of the Hunt by Angela Knight #DarkFantasy #Romance @changelingpress

Dark Fantasy Romance, Mystery & Suspense

Date Published: July 10, 2026

A werewolf prince and a lovely fairy police chief battle mad gods for the fate of a kingdom.

 

Sidhe Prince Dearg Galatyn is a werewolf, spymaster, and Blade of the Dragon God. When his deity sends him visions of a beautiful cop’s horrific murder, Dearg must save her at all costs. Otherwise, she won’t be the only one to die -- and his kingdom could be lost.

Iona Anann is the granddaughter of Maeve, the Mother of Fairies. Her day job is police chief of Summerwood, a quirky town full of magical creatures who make fantasy films. When the dragon god’s feared werewolf weapon shares his horrific visions, she is forced to accept Dearg as her bodyguard.

Then murder comes to Summerwood as the assassin begins picking off victims -- with Iona and her prince as his ultimate targets.

Locked in a pressure cooker of blood, magic and madness, Iona and Dearg begin to fall in love. But stalked by killers and psychotic gods, will they even live out the week?

 

Warning: Adult situations, graphic violence and language. No cheating, guaranteed HEA.

 

EXCERPT

 

My second cousin was plotting treason again.

I strode toward the private library in my parents’ wing, my boots clicking over the jeweled tiles. I needed to brief Dad on Goran Galatyn’s plot. We had to quell the bastard’s little rebellion before he dragged us all into another civil war.

My hand slid to the messenger pouch that held the evidence of Goran’s guilt. For the past month, I’d had my spies working to discover the extent of the treason -- the allies Goran had assembled, the knights, mercenaries, and armsmen he’d recruited or hired. My agents were well-placed and reliable -- a high-ranking knight, a noblewoman, one of my cousin’s so-called friends, and Goran’s mistress, all of whom had reason to hate the bastard. The evidence they’d collected was solid, corroborating each other even though none of them knew about the others. I’d compiled the reports and documents they’d produced into a coherent picture that revealed just how close Goran was to launching an attack.

Fortunately, the plot had yet to pick up steam. My father was a popular king, generous and fair, and his Morven subjects weren’t interested in swapping him for a predatory tyrant. Not after my uncle’s hellish reign.

With Dad’s approval, I’d head for my cousin’s mansion in the morning and… remind him why betraying King Llŷr Galatyn was a bad idea. Goran, you cretin, Dad gave you one second chance already. That’s all you g --

The vision hit between one step and the next, driving into me like a tournament lance. My knees buckled. I tripped, my face smacking the marble with a painful pop of light. The world dropped away.

Huge, brilliant eyes stared into mine, irises somewhere between green and gold, hot and lazy with passion. One corner of the woman’s lush mouth crooked up as she smiled. Her hair was long, a gleaming mass of green curls that tumbled around pale, bare shoulders. Her graceful fingers slid through my hair, her touch both sensual and soothing. “I love you,” she breathed, her voice throaty, rich with need. “I need you. Now.”

My c*ck hardened in a rush. No surprise, given the feel of her lean, athletic body, the sweet curves of her small breasts. But what did surprise me was the peace I felt -- as if I’d found the love my parents had. This is a hell of a lot better than my usual vis --

I should have known better.

The vision shattered into a thousand fragments amid breathless howls of pain. The accompanying image was worse. Huge talons gripped the woman I’d just been making love to, digging in as the creature crushed and twisted her like a scullery wringing a rag. Bones crunched and her green eyes bulged, screams breaking off into a breathless wheeze of terror and anguish. An immense raptor beak punched into her belly…

No! My horror snapped like thin ice over hot rage. I roared, trying to draw the jeweled sword at my hip, but my body lay paralyzed.

The vision tore, the pieces flying away like shreds of parchment in a hurricane.

My vision version gripped the curve of the woman’s ass as I pressed her against the wall. “I swear they won’t get you as long as I --”

Shreds flew, and she was dressed like an American cop in a black uniform, a gold badge gleaming on her chest. She stood crouched and ready with a longsword in her hands in front of a shop window. The English words Summerwood Spells and Potions flowed in gold script across the expanse of plate glass. Lovely face cold with fury, she stepped forward, swinging the sword with impressive strength --

Another blade rammed straight through her chest. Her unseen attacker lifted her off her feet and kicked her body off his sword, sending her flying backward to slam into the window. It shattered, and she fell into the display beyond, landing amid tumbling bottles that broke under her weight.

Sickened, I stared through the glass shards as she writhed in pain, gasping, the light draining from her huge green eyes as pumping blood soaked the window display --

The scene broke apart again, and she pressed silken and strong against vision-me as I suckled her pretty bare breasts --

I watched her die again.

The tortuous visions went on and on, me making love to her, then witnessing her murder, each death more twisted and violent than the last -- eaten by monsters, screaming in agony as she burned like a torch, crushed under a hurtling boulder, thrown by unseen hands over the edge of a cliff, hacked apart with a massive axe. Nightmare piled on nightmare until I prayed for her torture to end.

I was no stranger to watching people die -- I’d killed my share. But watching the cop die again and again drove sick, helpless despair through me. In between those hideous deaths, she stared into my eyes with a love I’d thought I’d never find. Women bedded me for the power and bragging rights that came with fucking a prince, but they didn’t love me. I was the King’s dog, not quite Sidhe enough despite my royal blood.

To everyone, it seemed, but her.

The vision tore for the last time, and I found myself lying on cold tiles staring at a marble column, my head aching so hard, my eyes throbbed.

“What. The fuck. Was that?” The words emerged as a rumbling growl. I pushed myself to hands and knees that were as huge and furry as the rest of my body, fingers tipped in three-inch claws. My werewolf form. When did I shift?

Didn’t matter. I had to find her, protect her, whoever she was. Right the hell now.

Yes, Cachamwri’s voice rumbled from the depths of my mind, the Dragon God’s magic vibrating in my bones. Without her, we’re all lost. Find her in Summerwood and let nothing separate you until she’s safe. Show no mercy to any who would feed upon her.

Over the fifteen years since Cachamwri had demanded my service, I’d never craved a mission. I craved this one. I had to save her. I couldn’t let her die, let her suffer, let the assassins torture her. I’d have gone after her even without your orders.

I know. That’s why you’re my Blade. The god sounded smug.

But Cachamwri wasn’t the only one I owed a duty to. I’ve got to tell Dad I’m going. I can’t let him get blindsided by this… whatever the hell it is.

Yes, tell him. But be quick. Without you, she’ll die tonight.

I struggled to my feet, as clumsy and aching as if I’d been beaten with a bag of bricks. Grimly, I headed down the corridor, the pain falling away as Cachamwri’s strength flooded me, washing away the ache and confusion.

Bones crunched and her green eyes bulged. Screams breaking off into a breathless wheeze of terror and anguish. An immense raptor beak punched into her belly --

The hall spun, and I stumbled against the wall, swallowing bile. I’d be experiencing flashbacks until I fulfilled my assignment. Goran Galatyn’s rebellion would have to wait.

Your father will have no kingdom to save if she dies, the dragon god told me.

I didn’t doubt Cachamwri. Whoever was behind this was a monster, and I wanted him dead as badly as my god did. I’d never met the green-haired woman, but I knew her. Her taste, her smile, her passion. I wanted to know even more. Ached to know everything.

Some sane part of me rebelled. This isn’t me. I didn’t do love at first sight -- not after getting kicked in the teeth by court ladies so often. Especially not because of a vision, for Cachamwri’s sake. I wasn’t that kind of impulsive idiot.

But this clawing need said otherwise. I couldn’t let the fuckers kill her.

You have thirty minutes. No longer. Cachamwri’s thundering presence faded to a distant mental rumble. I sighed in relief as the crushing pressure lifted. Reaching for my magic, I shifted back to Sidhe form, the blue brocade and silk of my court garb returning, jeweled sword swinging in its scabbard by my left hip.

Something stung my leg like a hive of bees, the pain so sharp, I jerked and swore. An abrupt, grinding hunger rolled over me -- not for food, but the blood of the woman’s would-be assassins.

 

About the Author

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

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

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Electric Boy by Nicky Silber #LGBTQ #Romance @ChangelingPress

LGBTQ Romance, Romantic Comedy

Date Published: July 3, 2026

In ‘80s London, the fantastical Julian Collier is a charismatic punk rock band frontman. Everyone is drawn to him, including Rahul, his best friend and bandmate, who has loved him for years.

When a mysterious upper-class stranger suddenly inserts himself into their lives, it becomes clear Julian isn’t entirely straight, and the two men struggle for Julian’s affections. But the best man might not win this fight.

 

EXCERPT

 

Hoxton, London, UK

November 1987

The Barber & Pony was a poor excuse for a pub, as far as Rahul was concerned. The ancient booths held grime older than Rahul himself. The watery draught was just this side of unpleasantly warm. The air was so thick with smoke he could have cut it with a blunt butter knife and spread it on the pub’s stale pork scratchings. Even an oblivious bystander could have told you that Rahul Chaand detested The Barber & Pony; yet he had patronised the pub every single week since he had moved back to London three years ago. Sometimes more than once a week. Three, four times even. He came because of him.

He was at the bar tonight, as he was most nights, with his skinny elbows propped on the pockmarked mahogany, and head hanging between the sharp hillocks of his shoulders. Rahul came to The Barber & Pony because it was his boozer. Rahul would have followed him to the ends of the Earth, let alone a crummy pub in Hoxton. He knew it was pitiful. There was hardly anything about their relationship that didn’t paint Rahul in a distinctly desperate shade of pathetic. He’d come to terms with that long ago. It didn’t matter to him anymore. All that mattered to Rahul was that Julian Collier was upset. And he needed to be here for him, just as he always was.

“What’s this I hear about a row?” he said in a light, unthreatening tone as he slid onto the stool beside Julian.

“What’re you on about?” He was already slurring. That wasn’t a good sign.

Julian was, by nature, a sunshiny young man with few troubles to cloud his unburdened mind. He wasn’t a rich man. He wasn’t famous. He didn’t have a particularly successful relationship and his friend group was distressingly small. But he was beautiful, fashionable, and well loved. He was passionate about music, and the fact that he both sold records and played in a band did much to nourish his simple soul. But Rahul suspected the main reason that Julian was a happy person was because he was simply born that way. He came into the world with a sunny disposition that life and circumstance had often endeavoured to strip from him.

On occasion, however, a mood as heavy and dark as a storm cloud would settle upon his narrow shoulders, usually brought on by the emotional vampire he liked to call a girlfriend. Thankfully, these sulks tended to be mercifully short, and Rahul found himself to be adept at pulling his best friend out of them even quicker.

Having gotten word from Leroy about the positively massive row that Julian and his girlfriend had engaged in, Rahul had come as soon as he was able.

“He’ll cost me customers,” Leroy, the bartender, had told him after repeating some of the choice words that had been screamed. By the time Rahul had arrived, Aisling, the “girlfriend,” seemed to be long gone, though Julian remained at the bar, sullen and unmoveable as he sank deeper and deeper into his cups. Time for the ol’ Rahul-man to shine, eh? He fancied himself the Julian Whisperer. And it stood to reason. After all, no two people knew each other as well or as deeply as they.

“C’mon, small fry,” he began with the familiar nickname, one that was his alone to use. Julian, being of average height, was short to Rahul only, who at any given moment was the tallest man in the room. “I know you and Aisling have had it out again. What’s she think you’ve done this time? Ruined the economy? Started the Cold War?”

“Can’t do anything right, as far as she’s concerned,” he pouted self- indulgently.

“Tell me about it. It’s practically every other week she’s picking a fight. I’ll never understand why you put up with her and her nagging.”

“She’s not a nag, all right?” Julian contradicted. “She’s just got a point of view. She’s a modern woman.”

“All right, all right,” Rahul backed off, sensing they had not yet arrived at the well-worn territory of slagging off his girlfriend before they inevitably made up again. “A modern woman, sure. Do you want to talk about it? What happened? Maybe talk about it back at your flat?”

“I’m not going anywhere,” he continued to pout, planting himself more firmly at the bar just as Leroy passed both Rahul and Julian fresh glasses of beer. Rahul shot the bartender an incredulous look to which Leroy only shrugged helplessly and retreated.

Rahul sighed and tried again. “Fine. We’ll stay right here. As long as we talk. You’re good at talking, Julesy. That’s what draws people to you. The Talker Extraordinaire, that’s what they call you. Silver-tongued. Couldn’t shut you up if I tried.”

“Wouldn’t let you try. I’d be too busy talking.” A smile threatened to break free, like the sun peeking out behind clouds. “You’d try to get a word in edgewise and bam, there I’d be, gabbing away.”

“Gabby Gabber. Gabriel Gabber to your friends.”

Just as Julian seemed ready to add another rung in the ladder of nonsense, his smile disintegrated like a sandcastle in the surf and the dark mood retook him. “She hates it when I talk like this, you know? Says it’s stupid. Maybe she’s right. I really am quite stupid.” His long, pale fingers fumbled out a cigarette, and, failing to find a lighter, let it hang limply from his lips.

Rahul sipped at his beer to cover his profound disappointment. He’d been so close to lifting his friend out of this funk. His fight with Aisling must have cut him deeper than he’d realised. They fought frequently, breaking up every other week only to make up again, but the fights seemed to Rahul to always be superficial things -- who left the toilet seat up and who used whose hair spray -- and the rows were just as easy to overcome as a result. Rahul blamed Aisling, mainly. Julian was as amiable as a fluttering butterfly unless he was provoked.

“She never did,” Rahul exclaimed, aghast. “Did she really say that?” And, in a softer, more serious tone, “You’re not, you know. Stupid.”

“Must be. Else why would I keep making her mad?”

Rahul took pity on him and finally extricated his own lighter from his jacket pocket, lighting Julian’s cigarette for him.

“Because she’s horrendous,” Rahul answered the rhetorical question. “And nothing could ever make her happy. Even you. Now why don’t you tell me what really happened, eh?”

“Wouldn’t you like to know.”

“Sorry?” Rahul’s face scrunched in confusion, pausing with the glass halfway to his lips.

“S’your fault, innit?” Julian grumbled, pulling his own lukewarm pint closer. “Me and Ash falling out. She was right. It’s always your fault.”

Rahul knew he shouldn’t take it personally. These were the aftershocks of his row with Aisling. But he couldn’t help the curiosity that welled within him. “How is it my fault exactly?”

“Aisling and me’d be married already if it weren’t for you being all… third-wheel. Always getting in the way.”

The words hit him hard and sharp in the chest, threatening to puncture his heart. He doesn’t mean it, he tried to convince himself. He’s smashed. Aisling’s upset him. He’s just having a bit of a tantrum, that’s all. It was with great effort that Rahul trampled the well of emotion threatening to bubble over and plastered on a placid smile beneath his moustache.

“You don’t mean that.”

“Do too. I use up all the good part of me on you, and then I’ve got none left for her.”

“You’re talking nonsense, Jules. Obviously you’re upset. I can see that. Let’s just get you home and we’ll talk about it like adults.” He wrapped his fingers around Julian’s upper arm, but the shorter man shook him off, swaying dangerously on his stool as he did so. He turned eyes on Rahul that burned blue as an electrical fire.

“That’s just it. You’re always trying to control me. You think you’re so much better than me, don’t you? Just ‘cause you went to your fancy uni and I stayed back here. Just cause your dad owned shops and I never even had a dad.”

“How could you think that I…” Rahul trailed off, shocked into silence. He had never, since he’d met Julian as a child, thought himself better than him. They both came from nothing. It was one of the founding principles of their friendship. And they still had nothing. Nothing but each other. Julian knew this, consciously. This wasn’t him talking, it was the booze, and Rahul had to keep that in focus before he lost his temper.

“Look,” he began slowly, carefully metering out his words. “You’ve had a long day, yeah? I know I’m around a bit more than I ought to be sometimes, but that’s because I’m taking care of you. You know that. Mel knows that. She asks me to take care of you. I’m sorry that Aisling has a problem with it, but that can hardly be helped. Next time you see her, tell her I’m sorry. Now. Why don’t you come with me and we can forget all about it, yeah?”

He reached for Julian again but this time Julian’s hand struck first, finger extended into a sharp point that thrust into Rahul’s chest like a very entitled dart. He poked him. “No. No no no. You listen to me,” Julian slurred. His blue eyes that had once burned were now melted back into glassy puddles that couldn’t quite focus on Rahul. “You don’t come in here like a… a… a jumped-up ponce with an anaemic caterpillar on his lip and tell me what to do, yeah? I’ll leave when I wanna leave. And you don’t control me, like Ash says. I’m my own man. I do what I want.”

Rahul flinched from the poke as if he’d been pushed. Anger surged in him like an ungrounded electric current. He chugged the remainder of his pint to keep his ire from boiling over and slammed the empty glass down on the counter. The resentment from years of Julian taking their friendship for granted began to rise to the surface. It was with monumental effort -- a deeper tribute to his love for Julian than Julian would ever know -- that he reined that rage into a dull simmer, something that would burn but wouldn’t scald. But even the bravest of wounded animals still lash out.

“You do what you want, eh?” Rahul snapped. “Or you do what Aisling tells you?” It wasn’t fair, of course, but hurt people hurt people, or so they say.

“Least I have somebody who tells me what to do.”

Rahul’s chest tightened. Julian clearly wasn’t playing fair either.

“I’d rather be alone than shackled to that girlfriend of yours,” he ground out.

“Or you’re just jealous.”

“Or you’re just an entitled little twat that can’t tell when someone’s trying to help him.”

“Trying to help me? Some help. Who asked you?”

“No one. You know what? Absolutely no one.” Rahul threw up his hands and stood, his heart pounding in his ear. He and Julian hadn’t fought like this in… he could scarcely remember when. They hadn’t even fought like this back when they’d… Well. Back then. Pulse thundering, he donned his coat and took off for the cold, drizzly London streets, not stopping to check if Julian was following him.

He still felt himself choke with guilt, however, when he made it halfway down the street and realised his friend had stayed behind. He would be fine. Right? Surely he would be fine. He’d been drunker than this on his own and made it home all right. He’d be fine… Wouldn’t he?

No, it wasn’t Rahul’s problem. If Julian wouldn’t let him help, then there was nothing for it. He couldn’t help someone who refused to be helped. Until he begged Rahul’s forgiveness and of course Rahul buckled like a flaccid accordion. Like he always did. Because it was Julian. And he was Rahul. And that’s how they worked. Or didn’t.

 

 

About the Author

As a queer, nonbinary, person of color, Nicky Silber has made it their mission to bring diversity into all of their creative outlets. Born in New York, raised in Mexico, they studied fine art in San Francisco and have worked in the video game industry since 2012. They currently live in the wilds of North Carolina with their young son and too many pets. Their only two goals in life are to continue to tell queer love stories and, to a lesser extent, finally knit their own sweater.

 

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ZEPHYR by Mychael Black #LGBTQ #Romance @ChangelingPress

LGBTQ Romance, Romantasy

Date Published: July 3, 2026

A one-night stand changes Aaron and Zach’s lives forever.

 

Aaron Pryce has lived a reclusive life for centuries, content with his dogs and his cabin. A one-night stand, however, sends his comfortable existence into a whirlwind. He’s the best candidate to take over the former House Zalis, but nothing is ever easy. When he visits the compound, he gets the shock of his life.

Zach Cane couldn’t get the man he’d spent one night with out of his head. So imagine his surprise when they meet at Saridan Tower weeks later. As they work to navigate a new relationship, old secrets from Aaron’s past come to light… none of them good.

 

WARNING: Depictions of domestic violence, child abuse, violence, and strong language may be triggers for some readers. Reader discretion is advised.

EXCERPT

“There is no way in hell I am going to take over an entire house.”

The words -- my words -- still rang clear in my head. Two weeks had passed since that conversation with Raphael Santos. I had been very determined to nix the idea completely, but a tiny glimmer of “what-if” lingered. I also couldn’t fathom the work needed to run what was left of House Zalis now that its founding leader, Ivan Zalis, was dead.

Raph had been right, though. The house needed a magic user to run it. I wanted to kick myself for even thinking about it.

Swift on the heels of that came the reminder that it wasn’t just me and the pups now. Although we hadn’t talked about the future during the past couple of lunch dates we’d had since our unexpected meeting at Saridan Tower, there was no denying Zach Cane and I were mates. I had known that first night, when a few hours of insanely hot, quasi-anonymous sex had sealed my damn fate.

I didn’t know if Zach had any clue what we were. Surely, as an alpha, he did, but he hadn’t shown any indication that night or any time since. I certainly hadn’t told him either. I was still struggling with it myself. I’d spent my entire life torn between hoping for my fated mate and praying I never found him. I put the blame squarely at my parents’ feet, too. My alpha father, Stefan, had been a narcissistic asshole who’d used his magic to cause trouble for just about anyone he met, and my omega stepfather, Martin, had despised him for it. I’d been hidden away by him in hopes that my own magic would never be an issue. Hell, Martin had forced me to live as a laicas, a commoner. When he died, though, all bets were off. That’s when I began honing my skills as an Incantas. But watching my folks’ marriage deteriorate, magic or no, soured me on relationships.

Then Zach waltzed into my life.

Barking from inside the house snapped me back to the present. I realized I’d been sitting in the truck for longer than intended. I got out and grabbed the bags of dog food. As soon as I stepped into the house, all four pups swarmed me as if they’d been starving.

“It’s only been an hour, you idiots,” I said with a laugh.

I set the bags down and sat on the floor to get kisses and tail-smacks in the face. I never really intended to have this many pets. I’d started with one, then came another. Then I rescued two more. Now I couldn’t imagine life without my furbabies.

“Okay, okay,” I said as I stood. “Let’s get you nutcases fed.”

I picked up the bags and headed for the kitchen. The cabin wasn’t huge, but it suited me perfectly. I spent the majority of my life here after Martin whisked me away once they split up. Growing up, I hated the isolation, but, over time, I soon preferred it to the city and being around other people. I still had an apartment at Saridan Tower, but this was home. Just me and the pups.

My phone rang as I started filling the four food dishes. I answered it and put it on speaker.

“Hey.”

“Got a minute?” Deacon Saridan asked.

I glanced over at the phone and inwardly sighed. I had the feeling I knew what this was about. “Sure.”

“I’ve been in talks with Javier Torneau. We agree that, while the former House Lorthaen should be dissolved completely, what remains of House Zalis is simply too important, magic-wise. That said, they need a leader.”

“Fuck,” I grumbled. I sat down at the dining table and sighed. “Deacon…”

“I know it isn’t something you really want, but you’re the most obvious choice,” my half-brother said. “You’re one of the strongest Incantas in this area.”

“I don’t want to lead.”

“That’s precisely why you’re the best choice,” Deacon countered. “You’re not the type to let any sort of power go to your head.”

I grimaced. “That’s what Raph said. Have you two been talking?”

Deacon chuckled. “Perhaps, but we’re right.”

“You’re also an asshole,” I muttered. “Both of you.”

“So I’ll see you this afternoon then for a meeting? Say… two?”

“Ugh. Fine. Jackass.”

Deacon laughed. “See you then.”

We hung up, and I dropped my head to the tabletop, tempted to bang it a few times for good measure. Yes, I knew they were right. Ivan Zalis had been a Spiritori, but his death left a lot of good magic users in limbo without a leader. Magiens, Incantas, even a few Spiritori made up what had once been House Zalis. That much firepower, so to speak, couldn’t be unchecked and left to float around without direction and someone to watch them. An Incantas could also weed out the undesirables from the ones who just wanted to live without trouble. Much like myself.

When my phone pinged with a text, I half dreaded looking at it. I did, though, and couldn’t help but smile. Despite the mates issue lingering like an elephant between us, seeing Zach’s name pop on my screen made me ache with a hunger I hadn’t felt for anyone before meeting him.

Got any plans this evening?

 

About the Author

Mychael Black has been writing professionally since 2005. He writes gay romance and erotica, but also het romance as Carys Seraphine and queer fantasy as Katherine Cook.

He's an avid PC gamer with a love for RPGs, a horror fanatic, and a fantasy nut. He also has a weakness for anything relating to skulls, dogs, and Spongebob Squarepants.

Mychael lives on the Eastern Shore of the US with his family. He loves to hear from readers, be it via email or Facebook.

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