Showing posts with label supernatural romance. Show all posts
Showing posts with label supernatural romance. Show all posts

Wednesday, April 9, 2025

Sanguine Shadows Preorder Blitz #rabtbooktours

 

LGBTQ+ Vampire Romance

Date Published: April 11, 2025

 

 

This is where everything changes.


Darce has done his best to live off the radar as one of the bloodkind, keeping himself separate from the company of other vampires and the danger they court. The cowboy might be lonely in his solitude, but he's safe.

Raven's come to change that. He's come to change everything.

A newly made bloodkind, Raven's out to shake up the old world order that oppresses their kind. He carries Darce along in his wake like a leaf on the tide, pushes and goads and tops from the bottom, inciting Darce to lust, passion and action. He makes a centuries-old cowboy feel alive again, something well worth taking risks for.

But when Raven challenges the Sanguine, the most dangerous of all vampires, has he gone too far?

 The following excerpt contains material suitable only for readers 18+.

EXCERPT


All he'd wanted was a quiet drink.

Darce swirled the drop or three of tequila left in his shot glass and raised it to the guy who tended bar in this backwoods dive. If he had a name, or if the bar did, Darce didn't know it and he liked it that way. Tall and skinny as a pool cue, his head shaved just as bald, he didn't talk much and took Darce's glass with a grunt. Didn't ask what Darce wanted. You had your choice here of PBR, Bud, Jose and JD. Like 'em or find somewhere else to drink.

Tequila suited Darce fine. Didn't do anything for him, no, his being a dead man walking and all -- vampire, as some might say -- but he'd developed a taste for agave over the years. He held up one finger. Already had two, and three was one more than his usual.

The bartender shrugged, not giving too much of a damn. Maybe the folks around here knew what he was. Maybe they didn't. Knew enough to keep their mouths shut, anyway.

One more drink in peace and it'd be time to walk. He had a peaceful stretch of road home, nothing but the cicadas and bullfrogs and the yellow half-moon to guide him on his way. Nothing to hinder him.

Until the stranger slid onto the bar stool next to Darce and jostled him like they were old friends, bumping his shoulder. "I've got this one," he said. Sounded young. "One for me, too."

The bartender eyed Darce's new companion.

"I'll pay my own way," Darce said; that, and nothing more.

"Ouch. Not too friendly there, cowboy," the new arrival said. He swung around to give Darce a bold once-over.

Out of his peripheral vision, Darce got a good enough look at the new kid. Pretty. Fresh-faced and young, his jaw cut firm and his grin made for promising wicked deeds in the dark. He had a dusting of freckles on his nose and cheeks that nearly tempted Darce into a snort of humor because he'd seen a lot in his time but a vampire with a scattering of pale sepia freckles was a new one on even him.

"I'm Raven," the vamp said, offering his hand along with his unlikely name. Darce snorted quietly. Raven, Silvershadow, Witchlight, Darce had heard 'em all and believed none. This one would be newly made, then, not knowing of the rules by which their kind lived. Which were no rules at all, for the most part, except to watch your back in case someone was sneaking up to shove a silver knife in it, and most of all to keep to yourself.

"That a fact," Darce said, not asking it. He caught the shot glass as the bartender slid it his way, amber drops spilling over the backs of his fingers.

Raven waited, then laughed under his breath. "And you're not going to tell me your name. That's okay. I already know who you are."

Darce stilled. That was more than he cared to have bandied about. "You'd be wise to keep that to yourself. That and your own name. Names get you in trouble."

"Do they really," Raven murmured. He swallowed his drink like a man with nary a grimace nor a cough. Not new to that game, at least.

Darce shot him a sideways glare. He shook his hair back and slammed the tequila neat, no salt or lime around here. Damn hair; it'd been long, near to chin length when he'd come across, and no matter how he cut it back it'd grow out by the next new moon.

Freckles there had short hair, crisp-cut dark, some kind of gel keeping it stuck up in spikes that looked sharp enough to prick a finger on. So young he was damn near veal, and fresh meat for any who cared to take a bite. No wonder he'd been turned. Someone had wanted to keep him that young and pretty for good, was Darce's bet.

And he'd gotten away. Darce wondered how, for a second, then discarded the question. Not his business. He backslapped his empty shot glass across the bar and licked his lips to get the last of the burning-hot taste off them.

"Now there's a pretty sight," Raven said, his gaze hot where it glanced over Darce's face.

A vampire sometimes liked to pretend to breathe, to mix in all the better, and for the most part Darce did it well. He drew air in through his nose and let it out slow and smooth. "You want to watch that kind of talk around here," he said. "Matter of fact, you want to keep your mouth tighter shut overall if you don't want trouble."

Raven laughed loud enough to draw a few wary looks. No one who drank in that backwater Texas dive wanted to draw attention, except this young'un. "You honestly think you're fooling anyone?" He lazily drew his finger around the rim of his shot glass. "Look around you, old man. Pretty crowded in here tonight for a place like this. I count fifteen heads, yours and mine and Baldy's not included, and it's not a big bar. Yet there's an empty space three men deep all around you. No one wants to get too close. They all know, even if they don't say. Maybe they don't want to admit it's true, but somewhere inside them they all know what you are -- what I am -- and that's why they leave you be."

Darce ground his back teeth together. His fangs, folded up against the top of his mouth usually, rattlesnake-style, slid down and pricked his tongue as he clamped his jaw shut.

"Must be lonely." Raven pushed his luck, shifting closer. "How long's it been since you traded more than a handful of words with anyone else? How long have you been around, old man?"

Something cool and firm brushed the top of Darce's thigh, tantalizingly close to his groin. He inhaled sharp and quick, and cursed it as a giveaway that Raven pounced on as sly and quick as a fox.

"If you want," Raven said, thumbing half an inch away from Darce's stiffening cock -- it had been a long, long time, whether he'd admit it out loud or not, "I'll leave you be. All you have to do is say 'go,' and I'll be out the door."

"Like hell you would."

"I think we're gonna get along, you and me." Raven stroked higher up and closer. "You know me already."

"I know you're trouble walking on two legs," Darce said. He fought with the urge to rise into the teasing pressure. Damn, it'd been half of forever since someone, anyone, laid a hand on him not in anger or with an addict's mindless craving. "I know I want you on your way as fast as you think you can run."

"No, you don't." Raven's palm molded over Darce's cock, his touch firm and strong as any vampire's, and for half a moment Darce burned with curiosity over what this kid's story was, anyway. What'd shaped him this way? He forgot that in the next second when Raven moved fast in the way of their kind, faster than most, his lips brushing Darce's ear, and said, "I could leave, or I could take you around back and suck your dick." He pierced Darce's earlobe with one of his fangs, slim and needle-sharp. "Your choice."


About the Author

Will Okati (formerly known as Willa) has lived through a few Interesting Times, but come out the other side a little grayer, a little wiser, and ready to get writing. Still as passionate about coffee, cats, and crafts as ever, but knowing that to your own self you must be true. Also still one of the quiet ones to watch out for, but life -- like storytelling -- is always a work in progress.


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

 

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RABT Book Tours & PR

Thursday, January 30, 2025

Thunder Road #GayBookPromotions

BLOG TOUR

Book Title: Thunder Road: Badlands Book 7

Author: Morgan Brice

Publisher: Darkwind Press

Cover Artist: Natania Barron

Release Date: December 17, 2024

Tense/POV: third person, past tense, alternating POV

Genres: MM Urban Fantasy/Paranormal/Psychic romance, Historical/Steampunk

Tropes: Established and developing relationship, co-worker romance, forbidden romance in Victorian era

Themes: Newlyweds, trust, depending on each other

Heat Rating: 4 flames

Length:  61 000 words/204 pages

Thunder Road is part of a series but can be read as a standalone. 

It does not end on a cliffhanger.

Goodreads

Buy Links

Amazon US    |   Amazon UK 

Can Simon and Vic end the deaths and disappearances, or have they finally found a foe too powerful to stop?

Blurb 

Simon and Vic are home from their honeymoon, just in time for a brand new case!

Mysterious missing person reports, a cursed motorcycle club, and an ancient entity add up to trouble. A bad bargain to stop a long-ago gang war requires a yearly sacrifice from a tightly-knit group of riders, and even their coven of witches hasn’t been able to stop the deaths.

Then the granddaughter of a former lighthouse keeper comes to Simon for help. When the lighthouses were automated, they lost their live-in guardians, who worked protective spells to shield the coast from killer storms and a murderous creature. Those protections are fading, and an old evil has gained power, growing stronger with every life it claims.

Can Simon and Vic end the deaths and disappearances, or have they finally found a foe too powerful to stop?

Thunder Road is an action-packed MM paranormal romance chock full of old magic, protective guardians, found family, an ancient monster, brave motorcyclists, helpful ghosts, loyal friends, psychic visions, hurt/comfort, supernatural suspense, and an evolving, established romantic relationship with all the feels.

Excerpt 

“For the amount of time we spent naked, we sure have a lot of dirty laundry,” Simon observed, looking at the overflowing basket. “How did that happen?”

“It was too chilly to go out without clothing, and we didn’t want to get arrested.” Vic tossed another pair of socks into the pile.

“Have you heard from Ross? Did the department survive without you? No crime sprees?”

Vic rolled his eyes. “Myrtle Beach isn’t exactly known for its crime waves, but apparently, things stayed pretty quiet. Ross hasn’t given me a lot of details—said he’d fill me in when I went to the station. I think he’s doing his best to help me extend that honeymoon feeling as long as possible.”

“Yeah, Pete keeps telling me that nothing much happened with the store.” Simon closed his empty suitcase and zipped it shut. “I mostly believe him, and I appreciate that he handled everything well on his own. But I guess we had to return to the real world sooner or later.”

As much as Simon had relished the time away with Vic, he also liked running Grand Strand Ghost Tours and enjoyed helping people—living and dead—with his psychic abilities. He knew the value of being able to provide answers and closure, and his insights had brought killers to justice and solved long-cold murder cases.

“Of course, we’re getting back just in time for the craziness that happens in the fall.” Vic set his empty suitcase aside. “I’m not sure I’m ready for that, but it is what it is. Motorcycle season is starting. That’s always busy—for good reasons and bad.”

Myrtle Beach had been a favorite destination for motorcyclists and cycle clubs practically since the bikes were invented. Road rallies ended in town with celebrations on the Boardwalk. Cycle clubs held fall gatherings once the beaches weren’t quite as crowded and the temperatures more leather-friendly. Local cops cracked down on cars and cyclists cruising Ocean Boulevard, but people managed to make several passes before being shooed away and then returned.

Bikes and bikers were a subject of conversation. Businesses appreciated the influx of visitors in the shoulder season—the months when the weather was warm, but most of the tourists had gone home. It picked up some of the slack from the exodus of beachgoers. Locals grumbled about traffic and noise, and some held outdated impressions that raised questions about crime or violence.

As Vic frequently pointed out, thanks to how expensive good bikes had become, the average bike owner was forty-seven. Which was at odds with the perception of young toughs from fifties-era movies.

Not that carousing didn’t happen, but the average rider was also married and much more likely to be an accountant or a doctor than a drifter.

“It’s usually not the bikers causing the problems,” Vic said. “It’s the people who come to the bars to hang out and pretend. They’ve seen Roadhouse a few too many times and want to live the dream.” That usually meant they woke up hungover and needing bail.

About the Author  

Morgan Brice is the romance pen name of bestselling author Gail Z. Martin. Morgan writes urban fantasy MM paranormal romance, with plenty of action, adventure and supernatural thrills to go with the happily ever after. Gail writes epic and urban fantasy, with less romance, more explosions.

All of the modern-day Morgan Brice and Gail Z. Martin series crossover, so characters from one series appear in cameos and on page in important secondary roles in books from other series. Each book can be read as a standalone, but the more you read the more the expanded universe of friendships and connections becomes clear. 

Morgan and Gail believe that paranormal elements make any story even better, and her worlds are full of ghosts, psychics, shifters, creatures, vampires, monster hunters, and magic. 

She's also a huge fan of the TV show Supernatural. (Chibi art by Kamidiox)

Author Links

Website  |  Audible Profile  |  Amazon profile

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Wednesday, October 9, 2024

Trust is Fraught Pre-Order Blitz #rabtbooktours

 

LGBTQ, Dark Fantasy, Interracial Romance

Date Published: October 11, 2024


 

From insisting on a bed for their first time to protecting Amir from everything, Oliver is stepping all over Amir’s last nerve. It’s almost too bad the submissive wolf wants dominant Oliver in the worst way.

Amir’s frustration with Oliver doesn’t cancel out his attraction to the other wolf. As they fall deeper into the dangers of the psychic world in an effort to rescue their leader, their love may be the only thing keeping them sane.

As the leader of the werewolves sinks further into insanity, Amir and Oliver are pushed to their limits to find out what’s causing his decline. Once they discover the truth, it’s another struggle, this one against prejudice and time, to rescue the alpha above all alphas.

ALERT! THE FOLLOWING EXCERPT CONTAINS MATERIAL SUITABLE ONLY FOR READERS 18+. 


EXCERPT

 

It was full dark when Oliver jerked awake. He sat up, smelling his own sweat and the aftermath of sex.

He flashed back to the most traumatic time he’d woken to the stench of spent jizz. Geoffrey, the beta of the Kreisha pack, had been standing over him, cum dripping from his rapidly shrinking cock.

Oliver swung his legs over the side of the bed, fully expecting to find himself surrounded by the enemy. His eyes were adjusting to the darkness, and he picked out the shadowy form of a lampshade. He reached out, almost knocking the lamp over in his need to shed light on the situation. When the bulb glowed, he took a quick look around the room, feeling the urge to ensure he was alone and safe. He didn’t quite dare to rise to his feet because his legs felt like they’d turned to water.

He missed Kenneth Jeremiah in the worst way all of a sudden, and he was unable to hide from the truth, that he missed his lover not for Kenneth Jeremiah’s own sake but because his lover had kept the nightmares at bay. Ever since being attacked, which had been two months before Kenneth Jeremiah died, the nightmares had been threatening. But he hadn’t actually dreamed of what happened until after his beloved was dead. Kenneth Jeremiah had possessed a rare empathic gift, one that allowed him to soothe others’ minds.

Sort of like Amir, he thought, but his terror kept him dwelling on the past.

He was alone in the downstairs bedroom of the house he rented in Washington, D.C.’s Northwest quarter. Why the hell did it smell of sex? And why didn’t his ass hurt?

Oliver’s gorge rose. He swallowed against the need to throw up. Gradually, his stomach settled and new information came to his nose. Yes, it was his own jizz he smelled on the air, but it was mixed with another male’s. The aroma didn’t spark a flashback but seemed to wrap around him, comforting him.

Amir’s scent surrounded him.

He’d had sex, all right, except it had really been making love. There was no fear or rage clouding the healthy leavings of two werewolves who cared for each other. They hadn’t gone all the way. Oliver had refused to claim Amir’s virgin body while they were so spun up from the events of the last few days and when Oliver himself had been so desperate for sexual contact that he hadn’t been sure he could be as gentle as was needed. They’d had oral sex, and now that his head was clearing, he realized he could taste Amir’s salty spend on his tongue. He licked his lips, found a little more of the heavenly liquid at one corner, and closed his eyes to savor it.

His cock stirred, although only a little as he fully realized he was alone in the bedroom. Where had Amir gone? Had he woken as Oliver had, frightened, and escaped into the house at large, or to the world beyond these walls? What if Oliver’s nightmare had been prophetic rather than a misplaced response to his joy?

He tried to push himself to his feet, but his legs wouldn’t support him. He flopped back onto the bed. Cursing softly, he performed a quick self-analysis, looking for sore spots or other indicators he’d been drugged. He detected nothing. Likewise, he felt no alien presence in his mind. His psychic shields were up and strong.

Still, his legs trembled. Clutching his knees, he tried to get a handle on his fear.

It hadn’t been all that long since he’d dreamed of the gang rape Geoffrey Huntington had led. Maybe only three weeks. Still, he was shocked every time it recurred. Hadn’t going through it once been enough? Apparently not for his traumatized body. Oliver could have bested three out of the four werewolves who raped him during that long five hours, but he’d surrendered to their brutality to save Kenneth Jeremiah. When the attack had begun, he’d expected to find Travers and Cobb involved because they were closer to him in rank, both being lower gammas. But the three besides Geoffrey, who was the beta of the Kreisha pack, had been Carl, Matthias, and Scott, all very low-ranked wolves, although not quite submissive. He’d always thought their ranks were why they’d participated. Geoffrey might have forced them.

Thinking about that night, all alone in the midst of raving beasts, wasn’t going to steady his legs. He needed to get himself under control so he could go looking for Amir and ensure his new lover was safe.

He forced himself to lie down on the bed. He inhaled Amir’s scent rising from his pillow, an aroma made of sweat and excitement and just a touch of disinfectant because Amir was a physician. Oliver breathed in and out, counting the seconds for each inhale and exhale. He added three seconds of holding his breath between these two acts and slowly his heartbeat stopped racing out of control. Amir’s joy and release held a comfort that Oliver hadn’t found since before the gang rape.

He sat up before that thought could take hold. He focused on the bedroom door, which was ajar. He did another quick sweep of the room, this time with nose fully engaged. He didn’t detect any blood or stench of fear. Amir must have left the room of his own volition.

With this idea in his head, Oliver was finally able to rise. He tugged on the pants he’d been wearing and started for the hallway. Following Amir’s scent, he went into the bathroom across the way, where Amir had apparently washed up because the tang of citrus soap hung in the air. Had he come out here naked?

Needing to solve that mystery because Amir walking anywhere potentially public without his clothes didn’t seem like the doctor of magical creatures at all. Back in the bedroom, however, Oliver saw all of Amir’s articles of clothing were still there.

Concern reared its ugly head again and he trotted from the room. He stopped by the front door, but Amir hadn’t come this way. He trailed the scent of soap to the stairs, and that was where it changed. The addition of fur’s rich aroma told Oliver Amir had slipped from human guise to lupine seeming before he went up the staircase to the second floor.

His night vision had fully adjusted to the dimness, and he climbed the stairs silently, keeping his ears open for Amir or their mutual patient.

Maybe that was it, he thought as he put his foot on the third step. Their mutual patient, Tilthos Charles, the alpha above all alphas in the Americas and Canada, was ill. Amir had managed to rule out any poisons or physical cause for Tilthos Charles’s growing madness, leaving it to Oliver to figure out the psychic cause. Oliver hadn’t yet solved the mystery beyond the realization Tilthos Charles was being forced to share his mind with five or six other werewolves who meant him harm.

Maybe Tilthos Charles was the reason Amir had left the bedroom and not because he’d endured a terrible dream. Oliver purposely made a little noise on the stairs to warn those up on the second floor that he was coming. He couldn’t quite make himself call out or even whisper. His throat had tightened, now with nervousness. What had he been thinking, making love to Amir when they had a patient to look after?

He reached the landing between the first and second floors and paused. Above him, out of sight because of the construction of the house, he heard a very quiet growl.


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.

 

Contact Links

Author’s Website

Emily on Facebook

Emily on Twitter

 

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

 

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RABT Book Tours & PR

Saturday, September 28, 2024

Eternal New Release Blitz

Title: Eternal

Author: Mychael Black

Cover Art: Bryan Keller

Genres: Action Adventure, Dark Fantasy, New Releases, Paranormal, Romance, Suspense

Themes: Gay, Rock Star Romance, Vampires

Series: Fragile Web (#2)

Multiverse: Blood & Fire (#4)

Book Length: Novella

Page Count: 71

Description

Sam McIntosh knows he doesn’t need to be in the closet with his friends, but his family is another matter entirely. He keeps his sex life under wraps and never lets on to anyone that he enjoys any gender. So far, that’s worked just fine -- until his father hires a new guy to work on the family farm.

Cole England has far more secrets than the average man, the least of which is his vampiric nature. He’s on the run from hunters sent by his father, and they are closing in on him. The last thing he needs is to fall for the son of the humans who hired him on their farm.

Between Sam’s bigoted family and Cole’s hunters, it’ll be a miracle if they can manage to explore the blazing attraction neither of them can deny.

Excerpt

Eternal (Fragile Web 2)
Mychael Black
All rights reserved.
Copyright ©2024 Mychael Black

“Samuel!”

Sam shut his car door and forced himself to smile when his mother approached. “Hey, Mom.”

“I was beginning to wonder if you were going to show up,” she chattered as they headed for the house. “Your father hired a young man to help out for the next few months since you don’t come around as much anymore.”

Sam ignored the attempt to make him feel guilty. At this point, he was used to it. “Good. Guess I should meet him if he’s gonna be around.”

“His name is -- oh! There he is.”

Sam looked in the direction his mother waved. The closer their new farmhand got, the more Sam wanted to go the other direction before his interest became very apparent.

Tall. Tan. Long, golden blond hair. Dark blue eyes drew Sam in and wouldn’t let go.

“Morning, ma’am,” the hunk said. He met Sam’s gaze and held out his hand. “Cole England.”

Sam mentally kicked his brain into gear and shook the man’s hand. “Sam McIntosh. Nice to meet you.”

“Likewise.” Cole turned his attention to Sam’s mother, releasing Sam from the otherworldly spell. “Mr. McIntosh said you had an order for me to pick up at the co-op.”

“Oh, yes.” Sam’s mother tugged a piece of paper from her pocket and gave it to Cole. “Samuel, go with him. I’m sure he’ll need the help.”

Before Sam could argue, she hurried off to the house where his father stood at the door. Sam sighed and turned back to Cole.

“She always like that -- constantly on the move?”

“Worse, usually,” Sam said. “Guess we should head out.”

They went to the garage, and Sam grabbed the truck keys off a ring on the wall. He got in and waited until Cole buckled before backing out.

“She mentioned you but didn’t say much,” Cole said after a few minutes of silence. “You live in the city?”

“Yeah, my band plays all over Atlanta, so we figured it made sense to live in the area. Otherwise, I wouldn’t. Too damn crowded.”

“What kind of band?”

“Gothic metal,” Sam said. “My parents do not approve. What about you? You got family here?”

Cole started to answer, then stopped. He stared out the passenger window. “None to speak of,” he said finally. “I, uh, I’ve been traveling a good bit. Came into town a few days ago and found work with your folks.”

Sam nodded. “They aren’t giving you too much shit, are they? They can be… well, close-minded is putting it nicely.”

“Nah. I keep to myself.”

Sam wanted to ask how the hell Cole even got the job. His parents weren’t the types to just hire someone without all the proper vetting, references, and the like. He glanced over at Cole. The man still watched the land go by, as if he was lost in thought.

“Word of warning,” Sam said as he turned onto the road leading to the co-op. “My mom has a thing against redheads, so make sure any chicks you bring back aren’t reds.”

Cole chuckled but didn’t look at him. “Noted, but not an issue. I prefer my guys with dark hair.”

Sam nearly missed the turn into the parking lot. Shit.

Purchase at Changeling Press

Meet 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.

Website | Facebook

Giveaway

One lucky winner will receive a $10.00 Changeling Press Gift Code! 


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Wednesday, July 3, 2024

Taken By the Valkyrie Teaser #rabtbooktours



A Paranormal Women's Fiction Novella

 

Taken, Book 6

 

Paranormal Women's Fiction

Date Published: July 5, 2024


 

Kara is tired of her role as a Valkyrie, not that she has much choice. Being a Valkyrie is her identity. It’s in her blood. But she can only witness so much death and destruction. Her faith in humanity has waned. Until she meets Eric.

Eric, a retired Airman, is just as tired. He’s seen things he believes no one else would understand. Then he picks up Kara and his world is turned upside down. She’s the one he never saw coming and the one he can’t live without -- if only she can handle his past.

The past might not be more than they can overcome, but what if these two warriors are exactly what they each need?

 


EXCERPT

 

All rights reserved.

Copyright ©2024 Megan Slayer

 

“Don’t you dare get attached.”

Kara folded her arms and groaned. She’d heard that line so many times through the centuries. What did attachments have to do with her? She wasn’t about to hook up with anyone long-term again. She’d made that mistake once and nearly paid with her life.

Not again.

Brynhildr glared at her. “You’re not listening.”

Kara snorted and shifted her attention from her thoughts to the elder Valkyrie. “You’re right. I’m not.” She mentally repeated the rules -- Valkyries are duty-bound, not permitted to form attachments, should stay free and vigilant.

Fine. Except she didn’t want to be on duty any longer. The job had become too dangerous. She’d long tired of the blood, the gore, the anger. She’d retrieved so many warriors from the field of battle and delivered them to Valhalla, but she could only take the devastation for so long.

“I don’t like you getting into scuffles in bars.” Brynhildr shook her head and leaned her elbows on the high-top table. “You’re looking for trouble. What do you have? A death wish?”

“What if I do?” She picked at the peanut shell remaining in the bowl. The bartender needed to replenish the snacks. When the monster came back around, she’d say something.

“What do you mean?” Brynhildr asked. “You’re getting careless, like you’re inviting trouble. You do know there’s something big planned for you.”

“Is there?” At least she didn’t have to explain herself. She wasn’t about to tell the elder she wanted to rest for a long time -- like forever. She’d contemplated final solutions a few times, but the idea of actually dying scared her. Her ex had tried to kill her, but she’d been reincarnated. Helgi swore he’d never let her forget him.

She hadn’t.

But she also didn’t want to be with him any longer.

“There’s a plan for you, Kara. Don’t jeopardize it.” Brynhildr sighed and reached for Kara’s arm. “What’s got you so upset? Talk to me. You can’t bottle it inside or you’ll lose the battle.”

She knew that all too well. Brynhildr was right. They did need to talk. “I don’t want to retrieve any longer. I want a break. I can’t handle the death and gore anymore. I’m tired of seeing so much pain. My heart can’t take it. I don’t want to settle down, but I need time away. I’ve thought about just ending it all to make the pain go away.”

“Don’t do that.” Brynhildr squeezed Kara’s bicep. “You’re my dear friend. When you feel that way again, you tell me. I’ll sit with you as long as you need and even when you don’t.”

“I know you will.” She’d never doubted her friend and elder Valkyrie. “What’s this big thing planned for me?”

“Promise me you’ll call me when you get low.” Brynhildr held tight to Kara’s arm. “Promise.”

“I will.” She wouldn’t go back on that.

“But you asked about the something big,” Brynhildr said. “Not all warriors need to go to Valhalla. Some need care here first. It’s up to you if you’re interested in giving that care before they can go. It doesn’t mean they’re on the battlefield. In some cases, they’re still fighting even though they’re home.”

“Still?” she murmured. Someone else understood what she saw when she closed her eyes?

“You might even find yourself along the way.”

She hadn’t expected the elder to say that. She’d expected to stay lost and drift away. But if she could help someone, that would be good -- if she could even help. Most people were afraid of her. What if the person she was supposed to assist didn’t want her help? What if they didn’t like her?

“We have someone specific in mind for your first job. What if I could tell you what he looks like?” Brynhildr asked. “Could show you?”

“You could?” Now the elder had her full attention. “Show me.”

“Are you interested in taking a different route and helping him?”

She hesitated. She should say no and return to sulking. “I am.” The words spilled off her tongue. She didn’t hear the undercurrent of conversation in the bar, didn’t smell the cigarettes and stale beer in the air, or even notice the smoke swirling around her. Her senses hyper-focused on what Brynhildr said. “I want to see him.”

“Very well.” Brynhildr produced a mirror.

The image of a man formed in the glass. Brown hair, crinkles around his brown eyes, tension in his posture, too thin, but handsome. Kara narrowed her eyes. He was damn cute, but wasn’t he off-limits? “I can’t get attached to him?”

“You know the code.”

She did.

She also wasn’t entirely sure what he’d be like. He might be a jerk. Have the  personality of a brick. Or he could be damn sexy, enticing, and sweet. Just lost too. He could be the kind of man a woman wanted to chase, to wrap up in, and never let go. The kind she wanted to kiss, touch, and tease. To feel moving inside her.

Not the perfect man -- but damn close.

If he really existed.

He might not.

There wasn’t much point in getting her hopes up.

“Just don’t fall in love.” Brynhildr shook her head. “Remember how that worked out with Helgi? This one might be a better fit and not nearly so violent, but you’re a proud Valkyrie, and you should remain unattached.”

“I should.” She’d followed the rules during this life. Previous ones? Not so much. This time around, she wanted to be a good Valkyrie. A proud one. She didn’t have time for romance. No time to waste on something that wasn’t going to last.

What if it did? What if this wasn’t just a passing fancy? What if they fell in love?

She had to stop thinking like this. Just because falling in love was possible didn’t mean it’d happen. Falling on her head was just as possible. Gods, it was more believable. She wasn’t a kid and didn’t need love.

Right?

Everyone could live without love and affection.

What if she didn’t want to any longer? What if she wanted to be romanced?

What if he had the key to her happiness, and he held the key to her heart?

Only the power of the gods could show her that truth.

Where was a god when she needed one?

“He’s here in Eerie. I’ll bet you’ve seen him,” Brynhildr said. “Don’t spook him. I know you’re good at being blunt.”

 


About the Author

Megan Slayer, aka Wendi Zwaduk, is a multi-published, award-winning author of more than one-hundred short stories and novels. She’s been writing since 2008 and published since 2009. Her stories range from the contemporary and paranormal to LGBTQ and white hot themes. No matter what the length, her works are always hot, but with a lot of heart. She enjoys giving her characters a second chance at love, no matter what the form. She’s been nominated at the LRC for Best Author, Best Contemporary, Best Ménage, Best BDSM and Best Anthology. Her books have made it to the bestseller lists on various e-tailer sites.

When she’s not writing, Megan spends time with her husband and son as well as three dogs and three cats. She enjoys art, music and racing, but football is her sport of choice. She’s an active member of the Friends of the Keystone-LaGrange Public library.

 

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Monday, April 22, 2024

Beyond Stonebridge Release Blitz #rabtbooktours

 

Ghost Story Romance

Date Published: 04-22-2024

Publisher: The Wild Rose Press


 

In this sequel to Stonebridge, it is 1959, and Rynna Wyatt's abusive husband Jason has fallen to his death after a fight with his bookish, disabled cousin Ted Demeray. The police would like to know exactly what happened, but Ted and Rynna can't tell the whole truth. Jason's death doesn't end his relationship with them either. Rynna is pregnant with his child and traumatized by his abuse. She and Ted leave Stonebridge Manor to start a new life in Brenford, where Ted teaches geology at the university, but Jason's restless spirit follows them and continues to haunt Rynna's dreams. He wants her back. He wants revenge. And he wants his son. Can Ted and Rynna find a way to oppose his claims and finally put him to rest?

 

About the Author

I knew I wanted to be a "book maker" as soon as I learned to read, and I wrote my first story, "Judy and the Fairies," at the age of six. My passion for the printed word also led me to a career with the San Diego Public Library. I retired to spend more time on my writing and have had stories of every length from short shorts to novellas published in numerous literary journals. Beyond Stonebridge is my ninth book from the Wild Rose Press. In addition to the three R's--reading, writing, and research--I enjoy travel, movies, Scrabble, and visiting museums and art galleries.


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A Cure for Spring Fever Book Blast #GoddessFish



This post is part of a virtual book tour organized by Goddess Fish Promotions. The author will award a $25 Amazon/BN GC to a randomly drawn winner. Click on the tour banner to see the other stops on the tour.


For centuries, Gamekeepers have used their magical abilities to create a buffer between the creatures who dwell in the enchanted forest and the sleepy coastal town that sits in its shadow. When Gamekeeper Stan Ross’s magic begins to fail, he must find out what went wrong, then fix it before the two worlds collide. His hit or miss magic has already led to a few close calls so he journeys to the Sacred Isle searching for answers and advice. Finding a cure proves elusive—until Stan encounters a kitchen witch who captivates him body and soul. Lynnette Peters is healing from her own wounds, however, and it isn’t clear whether she’s ready to open herself to the possibility—or the peril—of love.



Read an Excerpt

“I’m not sick, sir” Stan answered, uncomfortable with where the conversation was heading. He swallowed, then cleared his throat. “I haven’t changed the way I cast a ward. My magic is elemental, so I rely on nature runes, overlaid with those representing broader concepts. I might choose an animal rune, or a rune representing a natural element. It depends on the creature I’m warding, and what its habits are. Once I have the base rune, I add on layers, and then finish it with something representing strength or luck. I guess I’m in a bit of a rut. My magic is feeling tired, lately. When it works, it doesn’t have the same staying power, and sometimes it just doesn’t work at all.”

Tapping his fingers on the desk, Covington regarded Stan with sympathy, then nodded. “You’re certainly not the first gamekeeper to hit a rut, and you won’t be the last. I think that a little bit of rest and relaxation is what’s needed here. I am going to suggest—no, I’m going to insist—that you take some time off and recharge your batteries. Meanwhile, I’ll give some thought to damage control."

Stan dipped his head in acknowledgment, but his posture was rigid as he exited the office. Finding his partner in the break room, Stan told him that Covington was taking him off the duty roster, and insisting he take some leave. “I don’t know, Owen” he said, picking dust off his sleeve and shaking his head. “I haven’t taken any vacation time in over a year, so maybe Covington has a point, but I feel like I’m more than just tired. I’m soul tired. I’m not sure that a week on my sofa with daytime TV and a tray of bonbons is going to fix anything.”

About the Author: Barbara Robinson is an author of contemporary and historical romance set against a backdrop of magical realism. She is a deep thinker and tea drinker who finds inspiration in myths and folktales, poems and ballads, and academic writing on a variety of subjects. Diagnosed with autism and giftedness as an adult, she enjoys exploring themes of neurodiversity and opposing character perspectives in her writing.

She is an avid gardener and lover of nature who works out plot lines and character sketches while nurturing her garden, walking in the woods, or sitting by the shoreline watching waves. She is known for world building that features rich and immersive detail, supported by meticulous research and careful observation.

Barbara lives in Nova Scotia, Canada, in the shadow of ancient mountains that lie along the Bay of Fundy coast. These rugged vistas shape her story settings, while providing the perfect backdrop for life with her husband, her hounds and her dragon (Pogona Vitticeps). She has a Bachelor of Arts from the University of King’s College and a Master of Arts at Dalhousie University, and she recently completed a Graduate Certificate in Creative Writing from the Humber School for Writers (Humber College, Toronto).

Website: https://www.barbararobinsonauthor.ca
Facebook: https://www.facebook.com/BarbaraRobinsonWrites/

Amazon: https://www.amazon.com/Spring-Fever-Jelly-Beans-Things-ebook/dp/B0CVHHR5ND/ref=sr_1_1

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Wednesday, March 13, 2024

Darker Teaser #rabtbooktours



Maw of Mayhem MC, Book 2


Paranormal, Motorcycle Club Romance

Date Published: March 15, 2024



So much for sanctuary. Kit Parson doesn’t feel any safer than she was before she first stepped into the Maw of Mayhem, and things are going from bad to worse. Something big is definitely going down in the paranormal community… and inside Kit. Now that her inner beast has awoken, all it wants is out. The only thing Kit wants is Grim, but he’s got issues of his own.

Fingered for a crime he didn’t commit and injured by the witch’s spell, his cat Darke has control of their form. He doesn’t play well with others, and tensions with the crew are at an all-time high.

With the witches’ elite assassins on their trail, can Darke and the crew put aside their differences to keep Kit safe and get back to the MC? And as the clock ticks toward the vote with Grim’s reputation in shambles, will there be an MC to go back to?



EXCERPT


Shades of the past tore through the consciousness Darke shared with his man, threatening to swallow Grim whole. He fought against their poisoned bite, but the witch’s spell had weakened the big cat’s skin-brother and freed the memories from their fetters. They lashed at Grim with inky black tentacles of torment. His agonized screams rose within the crescendoing squall, raging through their split psyche. A growl welled in Darke’s chest, ruff bristling at their assault.

-- Mine! -- he snarled, lunging into the fray. Sharp claws and teeth rent the shadowed memories of the bad time from his man, scattering them back into the depths of their mind. Grim was his. Him. A self separate, yet one. His skin-brother. Darke nuzzled him close, tongue rasping over Grim’s flickering light.

-- heal --

Kit… his man whimpered, curling into a ball. His light dimmed, giving up control of their form to the big cat.

-- ours -- Darke rumbled, shifting their body and sending Grim what strength he could. Fur sprouted, limbs cracking and reforming. Two legs became four, and a tawny gray mountain lion lay sprawled on the bed where the others had lain his man to recover.

Within, his skin-brother’s light strengthened, its low glow holding steady.

Darke ran a paw over his face, licking at his pad. He sneezed at the scent of old blood, the room thick with the patina of its tang and the decaying musk of the undead. A low growl rumbled in his chest, his pupils dilating to take in the room’s blend of muted color.

Heavy furniture dominated the space, its angles stark amidst the gloom. Tendrils of scent threaded through the room, age and linseed seeping from the wood to twine with the rest of the civilized rot assaulting his nose. He pushed off the bed, padding across the thick carpet. His shadow grayed the fingers of scant moonlight streaming in from long, amber-tinted windows.

Darke paused, his lip curling over his canines, disdainfully eyeing the city spread out below him before turning his face to the bulbous moon.

Had Grim’s female changed and released her animal?

Clay’s cat had promised Darke a mate. Teased him with her scent, captured within the weft of the afghan on Grim’s bed. The desperate longing it evoked proved the connection. The tip of Darke’s tail twitched. He’d trusted it would be so. Waited for so long. Too long. Kit’s scent matched the afghan’s. That meant the beast within her was his.

Darke chuffed his frustration. Sensing his mate without being able to claim her was torture. He paced the breadth of the room, eyes narrowed at the heavy oaken door leading out. Beyond it, faint voices pricked at his ears. Part of his skin-brother’s pride was near. His crew. Darke growled at the snippets of the MC’s inner cats’ near-unintelligible murmuring punctuating the two-legged babble. That he could understand the crew’s stupid yapping better than his own brethren’s yowls irked.

A pang of loneliness shot through Darke’s chest. He missed Clay. When his father’s inner lion had spoken, his deep rumble was clarion. The lynxes out there? Yowls and hissing. Darke could pick out maybe one hard-won word in six, and they couldn’t understand him at all. It had been the same with his littermates, Grapple and Shiv, leaving Darke to rely on instinct when forced to interact.

It got him into trouble. Lynxes were shady and the two-leggers lied. Said things they didn’t mean, then hurt you. Clay had been different, but he was dead while his murderer walked free.

Reaper.

Darke shivered, ears flicking back, remembering the bad time. The man who called himself their uncle needed to die, and Grapple and Shiv with him.

Darke’s temper spiked, his tail swishing. Keenly feeling the loss locked within his mind again, in this stinking place of undead. His skin-brother shared his sorrow at their father’s murder, but not Darke’s isolation.

And now Grim had left him, too.

Darke shouldered through another door into a smaller room lined with tile. It smelled faintly of excrement and strongly of fabricated pine, the water in the bowl stale and chemical-laced. Darke shook droplets from his maw and chuffed his distaste, returning to the window.

Soft footfalls approached from the beyond the oaken door.

Darke slunk into the deep shadow of an armoire as the heavy slab canted open, then closed. Kit limped to the center of the room, favoring a leg. Her arm was splinted, the opposite hand bandaged in gauze. A ruddy stain marred its whiteness. She wrapped her damaged limbs around herself with a low sob, the scent of fresh blood perfuming the air as she moved. Darke’s nostrils flared at that thread of wrongness twining within the delicate tendrils of citrus, cinnamon, and female musk.

His mate was presenting as wounded prey.

Darke bit back the growl building in his chest, fury pounding through his temples. His claws extended and retracted from the carpet’s thick pile. Healthy, she’d be a tempting prize for any predator. Injured… He was going to kill --

No. Darke’s ears flattened against his skull. His man would think before spilling blood.

But Grim thought too much.

Kit scanned the room, then dashed a hand across her face, stumbling to the bed. Her feet froze at its foot, head snapping toward the bathroom, then away. Another low sob eked from her throat, and Darke’s ruff stood on end. He would destroy them. Destroy them all. Starting with those who had failed to protect --

-- Hey! Boy Vengeance! You really just gonna let her think her think he’s gone? --

Darke jumped, fur bristling at the syrupy censure. He backed deeper into the shadows, eyes wide and pulse pounding.

-- Aww. Here puss, puss, puss… I don’t bite --

His lip curled over a canine, and a female’s mocking laughter flitted through his mind as clearly as the gravelly chuckle of Clay’s beast had. Darke’s heart leaped, his ears pricking forward, saliva pooling in his maw.

He could understand her.

The beast inside Kit, his promised mate -- when she spoke, her words were clear, and she wanted to play.

 


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. AK pays the bills writing a copious amount of copy, along with a column on SFF. She belongs to the Authors Guild, is an RWA chapter board member, volunteers for far too many committees, teaches creative writing, and on the rare occasion, sleeps.


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