Maw of Mayhem MC, Book 1
Shifter Romance
Date to be Published: February 2, 2024
Publisher: Changeling Press
Out of options and on the run after her psychotic father’s released
from prison, Kit Parson heads to the only place she might be safe from him,
the Maw of Mayhem MC. The unexpected move buys her time, but also puts her
at risk. Surrounded by shifters, her inner cat begs to be released, and
after witnessing a brutal attack on her mother as a child, she refuses to
let the monster out. Totally doable, provided no bodily fluids are ever
exchanged.
That takes the MC’s hot-as-hell VP, Grimdarke James, officially off
the table. Mourning the recent murder of the club’s alpha and
struggling to control his inner cat, the tattooed Viking god is on thin ice.
If he goes feral again, he’ll be put down. Which makes his cat’s
insistence that Kit belongs to him problematic, upsetting the delicate
balance of the MC’s internal politics, and the woman blackmailing
Grim.
But when Kit’s father catches up with her, Grim has no choice but to
trust his cat, and Kit can’t deny their chemistry. Can they hold on to
each other when everything is trying to tear them apart? After a gruesome
triple murder propels them deeper into the paranormal world, they find
themselves with unlikely allies, even as their enemies threaten to destroy
everything they hold dear.
Excerpt
Copyright ©2024 AK Nevermore
Upstate New York in the fall was beautiful, and it made Kit want to
puke.
She gripped the steering wheel tighter, her sweaty palms slicking the
leather, and glanced in her rearview, then at her phone’s GPS. No
service -- again. Damn it. This was not where she wanted to be…
Wait. Signs for a trailhead were coming up. Thank you, sweet baby Jesus.
She pulled onto the shoulder, staring blankly at the plexi-covered map
tacked onto the tiny shelter in front of the car. Woodbine Swamp Trail.
Shit. She’d missed the turn-off for the house. Ugh! How could
everything in this shit town look the same and so frickin’ different
all at once?!
Fifteen years will do that, genius.
Her forehead dropped to the steering wheel, bumping it thrice. Stupid.
Stupid. Stupid. She couldn’t do this. She couldn’t --
Goddamnit, girl, grow a pair!
Enough. Wasn’t like she had a choice. She pushed back in her seat and
slapped the car in reverse, hoping like hell there wasn’t anything
behind her. Frickin’ hatchback was stuffed to the gills with the sad
remains of her life, and she wasn’t up for losing any more of
it.
Kit dashed away a tear. And whose fault was that?
She just had to blow shit up. Couldn’t duck her head and keep
punching numbers, because lay low was too big of a fucking ask. Nope, fuck
overtime at the accounting firm, had to go out there and twerk her ass at
the club, knowing full well that milkshake wasn’t gonna bring anything
but trouble to her yard.
Her mind leapt to that tall drink of golden Viking god pissing in a sink,
covered in tattoos and oozing temptation. Yup. Case in point, and as much as
it shocked the shit out of her, she’d been into him.
So fucking into him, like, wanted him into her.
Not happening.
She bit at a cuticle, trying to ignore the very real possibility she was
about to deliver herself to his doorstep, and the fact that her panties had
just soaked clean through.
Son of a -- Chanté would quip something about chickens coming home
to roost, but they weren’t even Kit’s damned chickens. And why
the fuck chickens? Woman was NYC born and raised, you’d think
she’d have useless witticisms about pigeons.
Damn, though. He was fiiine…
Stop it.
You’d think she’d be more concerned about the shifter shadowing
her for the past two weeks… the one whose face starred in her
nightmares. Reaper hadn’t approached her, but his message was clear,
and like a fucking cat, he’d been playing with her.
… Run, little mouse…
Kit’s teeth clenched at the memory of her father’s gravelly
twang. She put the car in gear and kept driving in the wrong direction. Away
from the house, toward the last damned place she wanted to go, and the only
place she had left. Two weeks of couch surfing and shitty motels had made
that abundantly clear, and her flat fucking broke.
Back to the scene of the crime, the one place she hoped like hell he
didn’t have the balls to go back to.
Motorcycles rumbled in the distance and her gut threatened to rebel, cold
sweat pebbling her skin. She licked the anxiety from her lips.
The rumble grew, and a moment later a stream of leather and exhaust whipped
by her as a convoy of bikes sped past, heading back toward civilization. A
manic giggle burbled from her throat, and she took a slow --
Shit! Gas pedal, girl, you gotta keep your shit together…
Focus. Drive to the damned compound. One more mile.
… And keep it together. Hah! Fat fucking chance. She blew out a
breath, her temples thudding with the beginnings of a migraine. Goddamn.
After all those years of praying to be out from under Claymore James’s
thumb… this had not been part of the fantasy.
Getting shit-faced, twerking on his grave, and then setting the MC’s
compound on fire, yes. Pulling up to the chain-link gate and asking to see
Mud Knuckle?
Nope. Can’t say that’d made the list, but here she was.
I mean really, Mud Knuckle? Kit sighed, rubbing a temple. If she needed any
further confirmation her life had officially gone to shit:
Ta-frickin’-da.
One of the dopey-looking prospects manning the gate eyed her, pursing his
lips. The scraggly little pornstache he was rocking made his mouth look like
a porcupine’s asshole.
Moron leaned in her window. “Ain’t no muddy knuckles
here.” He snickered, shooting his zit-infested buddy a look.
Kit sighed. Great, they were gonna fuck with he
“Nah,” Zits said, ambling closer to leer. “But I
ain’t opposed to rectifyin’ that situation.” He grinned,
making a lewd gesture.
Whoo. Ten points for originality there, son. She rolled her eyes and
unbuckled her seatbelt. It was showtime. The two high school rejects
scrambled back, wide-eyed when she threw open the door and got out, leaving
the hoodie she’d permanently borrowed from Chanté on the seat.
Fuck, it was hypothermia cold.
“What? I thought we was ‘wreck-t-fyin’ that
sits-e-ate-shon,’” she finger quoted, mimicking his dipshit
twang and cocking a hip.
Pornstache’s throat bobbed, taking in her tight tee and yoga pants.
God, men were pigs. Pathetic, predictable pigs. Flash them braless DDs, and
their brains shorted out faster than a hairdryer in a bathtub. Add the fact
that her nipples were hard enough to cut glass, and the poor boys
didn’t stand a chance.
“Uh, yeah.” Pornstache tugged on his cut and cleared the squeak
from his throat. Slack-jawed, Zits smacked his shoulder, earning himself a
glare. “I mean, hell yeah. We’re down, baby.”
Kit arched her back, stretching. Damn, that felt good after five hours
behind the wheel. Pornstache groaned like he was about to wreck-t-fy in his
pants. She sauntered over and ran a finger down his sternum.
“Then how ‘bout you boys open the gate so I can move my car out
of the way and get down to business.”
Zits moved so fast he just about face-planted rushing to unlatch the big
chain-link section on wheels blocking the compound’s access road.
He’d pulled it halfway across the pavement by the time Kit got back
into her car. Pornstache shook his head like a dog, blinking as the door
clunked shut, and he stumbled over to help his buddy.
Suckers.
Kit almost felt bad as she drove past, waggling her fingers.
Okay, no, she didn’t. She wriggled back into the hoodie, one hand on
the wheel and shivering. Her stomach churned as she drove around the last
bend to the chapter house, half expecting the entire club to be out there
waiting for her. The woods opened up --
And the lot was empty.
Of frickin’ course it was empty. The funeral was today. Now. She
could still make it. Wasn’t that why she’d blown out of the city
so fast? To spit on Claymore’s grave like she’d told
Chanté she was going to? Get some kind of fucked-up closure?
Yeah, has nothing to do with the fact you’re being stalked by a
psycho.
Kit bit back a sob, coasting the last few hundred feet to a stop in front
of the long, two-storied building. It was ugly. A dark, cinderblock gray,
squatting against a barren hillside. She bit her lip, eyes flicking to the
last window on the left, waiting for the shitty mini blinds to part.
They didn’t. Wouldn’t.
Dead. Everything looked fucking dead. Probably because it was.
Fuck this shit. She jerked up the emergency brake and killed the engine.
Slammed the door open, then shut. Stomped across the half-frozen muddy lot,
odd bits of gravel and glass crunching beneath her boots. Eyes fixed on the
burnt-out jaws scored into the surface of the MC’s chapter house door,
she approached the belly of the beast -- and stepped into the Maw of
Mayhem.
About the Author
AK Nevermore enjoys operating heavy machinery, freebases coffee, and gives
up sarcasm for Lent every year. A Jane-of-all-trades, she’s a
certified chef, restores antiques, and dabbles in beekeeping when
she’s not reading voraciously or running down the dream in her beat-up
camo Chucks.
Unable to ignore the voices in her head, and unwilling to become medicated,
she writes Science Fiction and Fantasy full time.
She pays the bills editing, wielding a wicked hot pink pen and writing a
column on SFF. She also belongs to the Authors Guild, is a chapter treasurer
for the RWA, teaches creative writing, and on the rare occasion,
sleeps.
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@changelingpress
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