Summary:
Monsters Hollow #2
Welcome to Monsters Hollow, where love knows no bounds—even in a town full of monsters!
A quirky romance writer in hiding. A sexy gargoyle lover turned bodyguard. And a stalker that just won’t quit...
Ryder Thomas (aka Ryder St. James)
I assumed writing swoony romance novels about humans and Otherkind might attract some unsavory attention. But I never imagined I’d have an obsessive fan stalking me. Fortunately, my BFF Max has an in with a town he assures me can keep me safe.
As a former foster kid, I’m pretty resilient, but this situation is messing with my sleep and I’m on deadline for my next book!
About the only thing that can help at times like this is some regular mind-blowing… release. Trust me, solo methods just aren’t enough and hooking up with randos isn't my style. I need someone safe who can reliably rock my world in the bedroom and maybe help me with my research as a bonus!
Enter the hunky Scottish gargoyle who’s been flirting with me ever since I arrived to hide out in Mystic Hollow. We come up with an ideal no-strings and no-feelings arrangement until I leave town for my next book tour.
After all, romance is just a fantasy I write about in my books--right?
Vash DarkWing
From the moment I met Ryder, I wanted to know more about the bonnie, brave man who speaks his mind. With no filter.
When he proposes a few weeks of mutually beneficial shagging before his book tour starts, I immediately jump on the chance to, well, jump him. Just a bit of fun and maybe friendship.
Hell’s bells, but Ryder slips past all my defenses and wins my affections without even trying! Now, I’ll do whatever it takes to keep the man I love safe. Even if it means putting my heart as well as my life on the line.
The Gargoyle and the Romance Writer is a 106k novel that features an inappropriately curious novelist, a sexy Scottish gargoyle, a specialty harness for aerial…shenanigans, a creepy stalker, and true love for the win. This is the second book in the Monsters Hollow series and can be read as a standalone.
Maple Sugar Mix-Up by Kallie Frost
Summary:
Bake Sale Bachelors Season Three #5
An alpha no omega would want…
Jace has no desire to date; after all, what good is an alpha who can barely afford to take care of himself, let alone a mate? Maybe someday – when he gets his finances under control – he’ll find that special omega.
Despite his money troubles, Jace wants to give back to the hospital, but all he can do is supply something for the bake sale auction. In order to avoid an awkward cheap date with an omega, he agrees to make his popular maple sugar candy, but only under the condition that his friend bids for the item. Jace helps and doesn’t have to go on a date; problem solved. But he never expected someone to outbid his friend…
An omega who can do it alone…
Omega Ashton is thrilled to donate to the hospital that saved him and his daughter. When he sees the maple sugar candy – just like his grandmother used to make – he has to have it, luckily, money is no object; the only downside is the unwanted date that comes with it.
Ashton is so over alphaholes who date him for his money but also feel threatened by it. Worse than the ones who break his heart are the ones he trusts enough to introduce to his daughter, only to have them leave too. No more. Ashton is finished with dating.
Once on the date, however, Ashton and Jace can’t deny the chemistry between them. But will Jace’s insecurity over his financial situation be an all too familiar red flag for Ashton? Throw in some unexpected ice and a broken ankle and you have a recipe for a love story sweeter than candy.
Maple Sugar Mix-Up is an M/M mpreg romance in the Bake Sale Bachelors series. Each one can be read as a standalone. In this book you’ll find an alpha learning he’s worth more than what’s in his bank account, an omega doing his best as a single dad, and the surprise baby who brings them together. If you love books that are sweet with heat and full of characters who you’ll laugh and love with, get Maple Sugar Mix-Up today.
Original Review February 2024:
I'm still fairly new to the omegaverse so my experience is limited for comparisons but I've loved everything so far and Maple Sugar Mix-Up is no different. Perhaps a bit different as Kallie Frost is also a new-to-me author so in a way Maple is doubly fresh and exciting.
One thing that was completely new to me(and again limited experience here😉) was the role reversal of financial and status structure in this novella. Completely polar opposites of what one tends to think of when dealing with alpha/omega pairings. I can understand Ashton and Jace's hesitancies due to the whole station-in-life labeling. The emotions behind Ashton and Jace's scenario adds a lovely hint of realism to an already entertaining and delicious blend of fiction and fantasy.
Maple Sugar Mix-Up is a delightful novella that warms the heart, soothes your soul, and put a giggle or two on your face.
**Blogger Note: Unfortunately I only had time to read this entry but it lead me to place the entire season on my #TBRList.**
Summary:
Fortune Favors the Fae #14
Mismatched Mates
Out of money and down on his luck in a city that promised him a run of both, Tony turns to the one asset he knows he can sell: his honed, toned, dangerous alpha body, which looks surprisingly good covered in glitter.
Well, not sell, exactly—that’s a line Tony won’t cross. Display? Gyrate? Flex? Whatever. It pays his bills, and that’s all that matters.
But one payment comes due sooner than expected, and when a slim, unearthly fae customer who can’t seem to take his gleaming eyes off of Tony’s…assets…presents him with the timely opportunity to make a little extra? Tony finds that he’s willing to cross that line after all.
The golden coin Raven offers is enough to settle Tony’s debts. And the way Raven takes what Tony gives him in return is enough for Tony to wish he’d offered himself for free.
But when the sun rises, Raven’s gone—along with the coin.
And Tony isn’t the kind of guy to let things go. Especially not when they belong to him…
This book takes place in the same universe as the Mismatched Mates series. Cameos may occur, but no previous reading is required. There is referenced domestic abuse, but it takes place off page and is not between the main characters. HEA guaranteed!
Lucky or Knot is a part of the multi-author series, Fortune Favors the Fae. From spicy to sweet, zany romps to epic adventures, there’s something for everyone in this mystical series. Discover destiny and true love and follow the coin on its fickle journey to the next world and a new magical adventure.
Summary:
To Kill a King #3
In my life, I have loved a boy, a prince, a king, and a madman. Now, I must let him go.
King Dmitri was once a prince of flowers, but when his father was murdered in a treasonous plot by his own family, all of Dima’s hope and innocence shattered. At his lowest point, he took the crown and bonded the land, and in the process, he lost himself.
Now, the boy I once loved is brutal and cruel, and the best I can do for his kingdom is to put us both out of our misery before he destroys it all.
Join our valiant knight as he fights to thaw the icy heart of a mad king in this MM high fantasy romance, featuring: endless pining, so much trauma, a griffin-rider with a heart of gold, a wilting flower prince, more than a little fire, and the end of a kingdom.
Haunted Souls #8
Ghost detective Jude Byrne is having the time of his life as a new husband and father. Lost in the shuffle of dirty diapers and late-night feedings is Cope’s birthday. Struggling to find a present for his husband, Jude is drawn to an antique, manual typewriter.
Unbeknownst to Jude, psychic Copeland Forbes has been planning to write his memoir. Eager to get started, Cope writes until he falls asleep. He’s woken by the click of the keys and a page full of song lyrics Cope knows he didn’t type.
When the typewriter continues to write, even with no one sitting at the keys, Cope realizes there must be a ghost in the machine. One who only uses hymn lyrics to communicate. Over time, the shy spirit begins to reveal clues to a powerful enemy lurking in Salem.
Will Jude and Cope solve the mystery of the ghost writer or will the evil consume them?
The Gargoyle and the Romance Writer by Chloe Archer
“I think we should give each other hand jobs,” I proclaim.
Vash chokes on the last of his milkshake and stares at me with wide blue eyes.
I raise my hands to clarify. “Sorry. Not here, of course. I was thinking we could do that back in my room at the B&B.”
Vash wipes his mouth with his napkin and clears his throat while looking around the diner.
I follow his gaze and realize that most of the patrons are now openly staring at us.
Oh, dear. It seems I may have made my sexual suggestion to Vash a little too loudly.
I stand up and give everyone an awkward wave. “Apologies, folks. Don’t worry. We’ll keep it PG until we get back to my place. No hand jobs under the table, I promise.”
There are several whistles and Flo laughs at me as I sit back down and give Vash my attention again.
“Well, I can definitely say that every time we meet, it’s highly… memorable.” His lips twitch with amusement.
“I’ve been called many things before, but memorable isn’t one of them.” I grin. “Seems long overdue.”
Vash chuckles and gets to his feet, laying some cash on the table. “Dinner’s on me tonight.”
I try to protest but he cuts me off. “You can pay next time.”
I grudgingly agree. “Fine.” He’ll soon realize I intend to hold him to that.
“We can discuss your, uh, proposal while I walk you home,” he offers in a quiet voice as we head toward the exit.
I see the sense in his plan and give a rueful grin. “That might be for the best.”
As the bell on the door tinkles on our way out, Flo hollers after us. “Have a good night and please come again!”
Raucous laughter from other diners follows us out the door and even Vash chuckles as we make our way back onto the street. “Like I said, memorable. Although you still haven’t topped our first meeting.” He winks at me and it makes it hard to breathe for a second.
But then his expression turns serious. “You told me about your vision issues when we first met. Would you prefer I walk on your left side where you can see me better or your right if that makes you feel more protected?”
I blink up at him while a funny, tight feeling in my chest starts to spread throughout my body, making me oddly hot and flustered for some reason. “Oh. Uh, thanks for asking. Since you’ve assured me multiple times that I’m safe here in Mystic Hollow, I don’t think my right side needs protection. Walk where I can see you. Please.”
He nods and moves to my left side as we head back to the bed and breakfast.
I’m a little surprised by how enjoyable this business-date-turned-sexual-arrangement negotiation has been. Educational friendship-dates and plenty of boinking? This could be even better than what I initially imagined.
Maple Sugar Mix-Up by Kallie Frost
Chapter One
Jace
The flyer caught my eye and I stopped to study it. A bake sale auction to benefit the children's wing of the hospital! Well, that sounded like a great cause.
While I was reading it my friend and co-worker – if you could consider our very different jobs as co-working – walked by.
“Hey Jace,” he said. “Gonna make something?”
“I think so, Paul,” I said, glancing at the flyer again.
“What are you going to do for the date?”
I double-checked the date of the auction. “It’s on February 14th,” I said.
Paul chucked. “No, the date.”
I looked at him in confusion.
“Read the fine print,” he suggested.
I turned back to the flyer. Sure enough, there was something I had missed; the auction wasn't just for baked goods, it was for a date with the baker.
“Oh,” I said in disappointment. Count me out of this one. “Nevermind.”
I readjusted the way I was carrying my armload of medical files and stepped away from the bulletin board. It was a shame. I didn't have any spare change lying around to give to the hospital, but they were doing great things in the children's wing and I would have loved to be able to support them somehow. Baking would have been a good way to contribute.
“You’re single, aren’t you?” asked Paul.
“By choice,” I said.
“It’s just a date,” he laughed. “Not a commitment.”
“I know…” I took one more look at the flyer.
Sure, it wasn’t a commitment, but as the alpha hosting the date I’d be expected to pay and I sure as hell didn’t have that kind of money. Even if I did have enough to scrape together for a date, there weren’t a lot of omegas who would be very happy with an alpha who could barely afford a night out. It was an alpha’s duty to care for his omega, not to mention their future family.
I hated to admit it, but I could hardly take care of myself. There were days where I ate all three meals in the hospital cafeteria because I couldn’t afford groceries. What omega would want a guy like me?
“You know I can’t afford a fancy date,” I muttered.
Paul may have known, but I was still embarrassed, especially since he had a sweet scholarship that paid for his med school tuition and I knew what he was making now as a doctor.
“It doesn’t say it has to be fancy,” Paul pointed out. “Do something cheap.”
I looked at him skeptically. “Did you see where it’s being held? It’s like the fanciest place in town. Any omega there bidding on a date is not going to be impressed with something cheap. They’re all way out of my league.”
“You're so old fashioned,” Paul snorted. “There are plenty of omegas out there who earn more than their alphas.”
“That’s easy for you to say,” I grumbled, shaking my stack of medical files in his direction. “You’re already happily married to a stay-at-home-omega.”
“I didn’t go traditional by choice; we fell in love and that’s just how it worked out,” said Paul. “Believe me, Jace, when you meet the right omega, he isn’t going to care how much money you have.”
He was right; I knew that, I really did. But my parents had been strictly traditional when it came to alpha and omega roles. The idea that I would be the one providing for my omega had been drummed into me since I was old enough to know what an omega was.
My parents would have been absolutely mortified if I even considered being with an omega who was financially above my station. Then again, they would also have been mortified by my current living conditions, which were well below the standards they would have set for an alpha. On the bright side, they weren't around anymore to know.
And on the other side of that, their untimely deaths had come with a lot of unforeseen financial complications that left me scrambling to make ends meet before they were even in the ground.
“I should get back to work,” I said, adjusting my pile one more time.
“I’ll bid on you,” Paul said just as I started off.
“What?” I asked, turning back in confusion.
Paul laughed and pointed to the flyer. “I was going to donate anyway. Allie isn’t big on baking and I think she’d be pretty jealous if I tried to set up a date with an omega for myself… so, you bake something, put it on the auction table, and I’ll bid on it. Then we both get to contribute and you don’t have to go on a date.”
“You don’t have to do that to make me feel better.”
“I guarantee I'll spend more bidding on whatever you make than I would just flat out donate. Hell, I’ll keep a number in mind and if I end up bidding less, I’ll donate the remainder anyway. And if it costs me more, everyone wins.”
I did want to do my part and help out. And there weren’t many other ways I could contribute, short of kicking ass as a receptionist.
“Tell you what,” I said, not quite believing I was agreeing. “You promise to place the winning bid and I’ll do it.”
“Deal,” said Paul. I heard a beep and he pulled out his phone and checked it. “Gotta run.”
“Later, Doc.”
~~~***~~~
Before I knew it, the day of the auction arrived and I headed over with my chosen treat: maple candy.
As soon as I saw some of the fancy selections, I knew I had made the right choice. My maple candy was plain and boring; exactly what I needed to avoid people bidding on it. The only decoration, if you could call it that, was the ivy leaf shape mold I used. My grandmother had spend years wasting time with a maple leaf mold that only made six at a time. When she found an eighteen-piece mold, she was so excited she didn’t realize it was ivy and not maple leaves. Her baking partner, and best friend, had loved them, so they turned it into their own little inside joke and kept using them. The pan had been passed down to me and I was happy to keep using it.
I smiled fondly at the memory of standing over the stove with Grandma Sophia; eager to lick the spoon when she was done. She always brought a jug of fresh maple syrup when she came to visit and we made the maple candy together.
“And this is?” asked the woman checking me in.
“Maple candy,” I said.
She arched an eyebrow at me, then wrote it down. I wondered if everything else had a fancy name. Good, one less thing to attract an omega.
“What’s your designation?”
“Alpha.”
“And the date?” she asked.
“Um… It’s February…” I started to pull out my phone to check.
“No,” she said, stifling a laugh. “The date for the auction.” She jabbed her pen toward one of the cards on a fancy basket.
I leaned over to read it.
Roasted Almond Toffee Chocolates. Dinner at the Opera House.
Crap. I racked my brains, trying to think of a date that would be that would be unappealing. Not to mention cheap. If, for some reason, Paul couldn’t bid or something I needed a date I’d have to actually be able to follow through with.
I thought immediately of my favorite coffee shop. It had free refills, as long as you were drinking black, and tons of used books to peruse. They were rarely crowded and almost never kicked you out before closing to make room. Better yet, when I knew the barista – and I usually did – they’d refill my coffee even if I had something a little fancier and a free unsold baked good or two before closing.
“Coffee and sandwiches at the Mill Street Coffee Shop,” I said. “Tomorrow night.”
Short notice was good too, to minimize bidding.
“The Mill Street Coffee Shop…” she echoed. “And… then?”
“That’s it,” I said, forcing my smile to stay fixed.
“Okay…”
“When they call yours, you go up on stage for the bidding,” she started to say.
“I’m not staying,” I said quickly. “I uh… have to work.”
“Right,” she muttered. “And I need your contact information so the omega can contact you for the date details.”
I sighed and gave her the information, then pushed out through the well-dressed crowd. With any luck Paul would place a decent bid and make this all worth it; I’d contribute to the Children’s Hospital and I had an excuse to make Grandma’s maple candy.
I headed back to my crummy apartment and, with nothing better to do, decided to read some old favorite, comfort books. Since I was thinking of my grandmother, I grabbed a mystery novel by Victoria Peppers. Although I had never been fortunate enough to meet her, she had been my grandmother’s best friend – the same one she baked maple candy with, in fact. They were so close that Victoria had even given her some of her manuscripts, long before she was published.
Grandma Sophia used to read them to me and passed her love of mystery books on. Not only did I devour them, but I also tried my hand at writing them. Of course, none of my crappy stories would ever see the light of day, especially the ones that borrowed Victoria Peppers’ sleuths and settings. Okay, so maybe I didn’t write books, so much as fanfiction.
Nevertheless, I still read every Victoria Peppers mystery as it came out, even though she had passed some years ago and her daughter had taken over writing them. In my opinion, they were just as good as the originals.
Tonight, however, I chose one of the old classics Victoria had written by herself; one my grandmother had loved.
Once I was settled in and reading, with some extra maple candy to snack on, I almost forgot about the auction.
Then my phone rang.
It was an unfamiliar number, but I answered anyway in case it was the hospital; it wasn’t uncommon to get called in to help with busy shifts. With all of the ice and snow we had been seeing an increase in patients.
“Hello?”
“Hi, is this Jace Wagner?”
“Yes,” I said.
“I’m Ashton Basque. I won your maple candy and was calling to uh…”
My stomach dropped out from under me. “I’m sorry, what?” I said.
“I bid on your maple candy at the auction. For the children’s hospital? I won and was told to contact you to arrange the date.”
I clenched the phone and sucked in a sharp breath. No, no, no. This wasn’t supposed to happen!
“It’s tomorrow night. Um, at eight. At the Mill Street Coffee Shop. It’s in the—”
“I know where it is.”
“I’ll see you tomorrow then,” I said reluctantly.
“See you then.” There was something flat and wholly unenthusiastic about his voice.
I hung up and nearly chucked my phone across my small apartment. “Are you kidding me?!” I spat instead.
I quickly dial Paul's number.
“Dr. Sullyfield.”
“Paul, what the hell?!” I demanded.
“Sorry?”
“An omega just called me! He said he won my maple candy and wanted to set up the date.”
“Oh,” Paul groaned. “I was gonna call you, I guess he's on the ball.”
“On the ball?” I snorted. “What happened?!”
“He outbid me.”
“You promised!”
“I know,” Paul groaned. “It was just…”
“Tell me this wasn’t some complicated scheme to rope me into a date,” I growled.
“No, no. He was a former patient and he really wanted the maple candy and… Look, I’m sorry, really. It’s just one date. He’s sweet.”
“Thanks a lot,” I muttered.
“One date. It won’t be the end of the world.”
“Yeah, yeah. See you at work.”
I hung up with a groan. Who was this omega? I had the plainest candy and the cheapest, most boring date, and he bid on it anyway?
Not to say an evening in a quiet coffee shop wasn’t an ideal date in my opinion, but I didn't think it would have been that appealing to most people. This was going to be nothing short of embarrassing.
With a sign, I sagged down onto my couch, trying to avoid the spots where the uncomfortable springs poked up. I tried to remind myself that Paul was right; it was just one date. One night and then done. With that in mind, I sought out the last couple pieces of maple candy and munched on them to make myself feel better.
Lucky or Knot by Eliot Grayson
Chapter 1
“It’s the glitter, that’s why I make more tips,” I explained, for the thousandth freaking time, and I couldn’t quite keep the snap out of my voice. On another night, the solid stack of cash in my hand would’ve had me in an unshakeable state of Zen. But not today. “Girls love shiny things,” I went on, trying to keep it light. It was that or start snarling. “They’re like corvids.”
“Cor—what the fuck?” Dominic glared up at me from where he lounged on the old leather couch in the corner.
Gross. Even in my current state of financial panic, I wouldn’t have sat on that thing bare-assed in only Dominic’s silver lamé jock strap for twice the money in my hand. I might be a stripper myself, and currently liberally dusted with iridescent sparkles that transferred to every surface in the most annoying way, but I knew what some of the guys did on that couch—like rubbing their sweaty naked asses on it, just to start with—and I had some standards, thanks.
We’d retreated to the locker room for a few minutes, both done with our first sets for the night. I’d wanted to stash my take so far, and Dominic had declared that he needed a break from entertaining the clientele on the floor, because it wasn’t worth his time. While he was being more of a dick about it than necessary, it had actually been a pretty slow evening. We’d had one super enthusiastic bachelorette party, the source of my pile of tips, but they’d moved on to other venues. Besides that, none of our regulars had come in, and on a Tuesday in mid-January there weren’t many conventions or tourists in town.
Nothing to write home about, in short.
If I’d been inclined to write home about my job at all. But my parents had a short list of occupations they considered respectable enough for a member of our family, and coating myself in body glitter to get groped by screaming drunk girls didn’t qualify. As far as they knew, I’d moved to Vegas to work in the accounting department of the Morrigan casino.
Of course, they also thought, in no particular order, that I’d finished the bachelor’s degree in economics that would’ve qualified me for such a job, that I’d paid off the wasted college loans they’d cosigned for with money earned from gainful employment and not borrowed from a loan shark, and that I would never in a million years have taken out a high-interest credit card so that my now-ex-girlfriend could get a boob job.
I mean, fuck, I didn’t even particularly like huge breasts.
If my mom found out the truth…it’d start with her tail twitching, something she could somehow pull off even in her human form. Her green eyes would get that feral gleam. A hint of fang—and then the storm would break, and she’d bite my head off. Not literally, if I was lucky, but then my dad would start in on what was left of me.
No, I had to avoid that at all costs. Being a fully grown thirty-one-year-old man and an alpha gave me no edge at all in that scenario. Neither of my parents had alpha magic, and they’d still kick my ass. Worse, they’d be so disappointed, and it’d break my heart. Even worse than worse, they didn’t have any assets except their house…
“What’s a cor-thing?” Dominic went on, startling me into blinking back to reality, the glare of the ceiling lights and the crumpled texture of the damp bills I held, the bass pumping through the walls and vibrating the floor. They had it cranked up to a level that seemed exciting for humans who’d been pounding shots, which meant more than loud enough for alpha shifter ears to be ringing.
But that was what I’d signed up for. What I had to do to pay my ever-mounting debts in a way that waiting tables and construction work and a brief stint as a delivery driver hadn’t accomplished. I ignored him and started to count again, the music and my edginess making it hard to focus.
He didn’t take the hint. “Tony? Hey, Earth to Tony! Is that slang for like, a drunk bridesmaid?”
Okay, what? That was enough to have me looking up after all. Over three hundred so far, and he’d made me fucking lose count again.
“Slang for a drunk bridesmaid? Corvid? Does that sound like—why would I say ‘girls are like drunk bridesmaids,’ Dominic? Drunk bridesmaids are girls. It’s a whatchamacallit, there’s a logical fallacy in there somewhere.”
He glared at me, eyes glowing faintly golden, but it didn’t impress me much. See above: the silver lamé jock strap that had one of his perfectly shaven balls sort of sliding out the side in a goofy-looking way, not to mention how he was sprawled across that disgusting body-oil-and-spunk-tainted couch in a smelly locker room.
Plus, Dominic was only a werewolf. An alpha werewolf, sure, but anyone who said shifters didn’t have an interspecies hierarchy was trying to make our culture sound a whole lot more egalitarian than it really was. They should try walking into a werewolf bar and saying, Hi, I’m an alpha gerbil, see how that worked out.
Aside from the jock strap, Dominic might’ve been more intimidating than your average, or even above-average, gerbil.
But nah.
“We’re all alphas here, that’s kind of the point,” I gritted out. My claws itched at my fingertips, but I kept it under control. A year and change of working at Lucky or Knot had kind of burned out my other alphas need to be put in their place instincts. “Don’t waste your time.”
Dominic made a sound somewhere between a grunt and a scoff and then pointedly held eye contact with me while he pushed his errant testicle back into its shiny hammock.
I couldn’t help it; despite everything, I started to laugh. Dominic’s face went red and his eyes glowed brighter, and I gave up on getting a few minutes of relative peace and quiet. Back to the floor it was, where at least the bachelorettes wouldn’t stick their hands in their underwear while they stared at me in a pathetic attempt at displaying dominance—and would get kicked out if they did.
Anyway, I needed to make some bank this week, or that nightmare of my parents finding out about my situation would come true. Louie had called me earlier in the day, threatening to start calling them and harassing them for the money if I didn’t start paying up. He knew damn well that breaking my kneecaps wouldn’t accomplish anything, because I’d heal quickly enough to chase down his goons and beat the shit out of them before they could even get back in the car.
But if he got my family involved…
They’d sell the house to pay my debts. They’d feel like they had to. Which meant Louie had me by the balls.
Stashing the money in my magically secured locker only took a few seconds, and then I adjusted myself in my own faux-leather pants and headed out, ignoring Dominic grumbling behind me.
I had to brace myself before I opened the door from the back hallway to the main floor, and even so, the wall of sound that smacked into me nearly knocked the pleasant smile I’d plastered onto my face right back off of it.
In my absence, a few more patrons had trickled in. Like most all-male clubs, we kept the main floor female-only except when we had a pre-booked male group to fill it up, but the upper level had a few more men sitting there than before. One previously empty table held a wide-eyed, clean-cut trio in polo shirts, none of whom looked old enough to drink. But they must’ve been, because they’d gotten in, and our bouncers were good about checking ID.
Fuck, I really didn’t want to go flex my muscles and leer at kids. No matter how much I desperately needed the money, I’d feel dirtier than that couch. But the other guys besides me and Dominic who were on the floor were already pouring champagne and strutting their stuff and flirting. No one was performing on the smaller stage upstairs at the moment, either, so the guys up there only had their more distant view of Cassidy on the main stage to keep them entertained.
As I hesitated by the hallway door, trying to work up the willpower to go up the stairs and do my job, Dominic pushed past me and took the steps two at a time, muttering something about easy money and how he’d show me.
Jesus Christ, what a douchebag. The bouncer stationed on the landing pulled a face at me as Dominic passed him, and I shook my head in answer.
As I watched Dominic saunter over to their table, the three young guys went from wide-eyed to bug-eyed. Fair enough. Dominic might be nothing like my type, but I could see the objective appeal, at least before he opened his mouth and started talking: he was over six feet of tanned alpha muscle, and the silver really stood out against his skin. I tended to stick to darker colors, myself. My natural tone glowed in the dark, unless you counted the freckles, and the one time I’d tried the fake tanning thing…well, red hair, golden-orange eyes, and orangey-bronze skin didn’t go together.
To say the least.
When I’d come into the club the day after the spray tan, the bartender had screamed like a little girl when he saw me. That seemed like a hint to take the week off and buy some exfoliant.
The song playing ended with a final flurry of drumbeats, quickly drowned out by hooting and applause. I glanced over at the stage. Cassidy had been performing, and he grinned and bowed and scooped up money and the discarded bits of his firefighter costume, his bare buttocks glistening.
Dammit. We’d told him so many freaking times not to use that much oil on the stage. The next guy was going to slip and fall down on his own shiny ass one of these days. Since we were all alpha shifters, none of us would get seriously hurt, but no one wanted to look like a fucking idiot in the middle of a dance.
A bit of motion in my peripheral vision caught my eye: Scott beckoning me over to his DJ booth against the wall. I headed his way, pausing only to flex my arm muscles and smile flirtatiously at a couple of women at a nearby table. One of the other guys was already hanging out, but hey, two of them, two of us, maybe? And they had a bottle of the expensive bubbly in an ice bucket. They might be good tippers.
Louie’s remembered laughter rang in my ears. Fucker enjoyed twisting the knife, maybe even more than he enjoyed getting his money back with interest.
I should’ve gone upstairs and milked it with those pretty little probably-college boys, damn it all. They were probably going to get sucked in by Dominic’s smarmy charm and lured back to a VIP room.
Hopefully no one would get sucked off in the process, but I wouldn’t put it past him. Dominic claimed to prefer women, but he had a few regulars who sucked his cock and paid generously for the privilege, and he was always open for new opportunities.
And while I liked blowjobs—in both directions, in fact—as much as the next sexually omnivorous alpha, and had been told more than once that the raspy texture of my tongue could send a sensitive recipient into the stratosphere, I never got that physical with customers. Just not a line I was willing to cross.
Whatever. Dominic wasn’t my problem, thank every deity above and below, because I had enough of my own—and I wouldn’t have wanted to be responsible for him even if I was bored.
The booth didn’t have a ton of space in it, but I managed to wedge myself inside and push the door closed behind me, shutting out a lot of the noise with it.
Scott looked up from adjusting some kind of switch on the board in front of him, and a club favorite with a catchy beat started playing out on the floor. He had his headphones on one ear and off the other, and his sweaty black hair stood up in spiky tufts. One of the only humans in the place, and he looked more like a hedgehog than anything else.
“I know you just got off stage less than an hour ago,” he said, “but Morgan’s supposed to go on, and he’s in the back. Actually, peek into room three if you walk by. Kind of an odd couple. Married, I think? I’m not sure which one of them wanted to come here, they both seemed weird about it. Whatever, they were tipping a lot.”
Scott’s gossip washed over me, but I nodded, actually kind of relieved. Going around and making nice with people at tables, or trying to get them to do a private session, sounded exhausting. Dominic’s irritating conversation had been the cherry on top of my stressed-out sundae.
“I don’t mind dancing again,” I said. “I’ll be ready in like two minutes.”
“You gonna change?” he asked, looking me up and down. In addition to the pleather pants, which still showed the thick bulge between my legs just fine, I had heavy boots, and also a sparkly black G-string under the pants, although he couldn’t see that. My chest was bare, except for the glitter. “Or you want to just do Closer?”
My usual persona was a lot goofier and more fun than that, and people loved it. My Nicki Minaj routine got a lot of cheers, especially the getting on the floor—and sometimes I even got everyone to do the hands up to touch the sky part, if I really worked the crowd. Once they waved their money in the air, they felt stupid not tossing it on the stage afterward.
But yeah. Tonight, Closer would fit my mood a lot better. Besides, I really didn’t feel like getting dressed up in anything fun. For this song, I could rip the pants off during the song’s first chorus, right on “closer to God”—they had Velcro down the inseams, because I liked the quick, hard reveal—and then use my boots, G-string, and my very own claws, fangs, and glowing eyes for the rest of the “costume.” After all, that was why people came to Lucky or Knot in the first place. We were the only all-alpha strip club in the world, as far as I knew. And people went pretty nuts for it. When Vegas wasn’t in a slump like it was now, we always packed the house.
Declan MacKenna, who owned the Morrigan casino on the Strip and this place and who knew what else, was a fucking visionary. If I had half his intellect and acumen, I wouldn’t have been about to lose my parents’ house because of a college loan I’d wasted by not graduating and a 28 percent APR on a pair of fake tits for a girl who’d cheated on me.
Fuck. Deep breaths.
“Tony? You okay?” Scott said, and I shook my head to clear it a bit and forced another smile. “I can have Dom go on if you’re not. It’s cool, dude. You look out of it.”
“I’m good. No, really.” I punched him on the shoulder—lightly, because human. “Seriously. Thank you. Closer’s perfect. Give me a minute, okay?”
I slipped out of the booth before he could keep questioning me and headed for the same door I’d come out of a few minutes ago, on my way to the locker room and then backstage.
It only took me the promised minute to get myself ready: a little more glitter, silver and black this time to fit the song’s darker fantasy, and some leather armbands, because why the fuck not.
Scott announced me as I jogged up the short flight of backstage stairs, and then I was under the lights and center stage, the distinctive staticky opening beat of the song accompanying me.
Fluid movements, getting them enticed, prowling…I’d started stripping simply because it paid the best out of the jobs that depended mostly on my having muscles for days.
But when the audience stopped their conversations mid-sentence, their drinks held poised in the air as they forgot to take a sip, their eyes fixed on me with complete focus…well, that gave me a certain amount of satisfaction. Not an erotic type of satisfaction—luckily, because Nevada law wouldn’t let me take everything off on the stage in a club that served alcohol, and some genius in a bureaucratic hellhole somewhere had decided that erections, even clothed, counted as nudity.
So since attention didn’t really turn me on, it didn’t take me too much effort to keep my cock under control, and honestly, not to brag or anything, but even totally flaccid it made itself known under any type of fabric.
But the crowd’s reaction did give me a bit of a frisson, a charge of energy that fed my alpha shifter magic. My eyes started to glow, and my claws were a millimeter from sliding out. My gums tingled where my fangs wanted to drop.
My hips gyrated, Trent Reznor rasped his way through those X-rated lyrics, and I reached down, groping my groin, really massaging my balls, getting more than a few gasps and little screams from the audience. Someone right up front had already thrown a handful of fives, fucking sweet.
And even sweeter, those guys up above were hanging over the railing with their mouths wide open, a scowling and ignored Dominic standing behind them with his hands on his hips. Ha! I resisted the urge to blow him a kiss.
I turned my back to the audience right as the first chorus started and spread my legs wider, ready for the reveal, getting my fingers in position to yank off the pants…
…And then, as if Scott had flipped one of his switches, Trent’s voice faded into a meaningless hum, the noise of the crowd became a murmur, and the lights on me seemed to dim. My body froze, fingers rigidly digging into my thigh.
Jesus fucking Christ, that was…
The scent of love, of home, of desire and want. It washed over me, teasing me, wrapping around all my alpha senses: wild, fresh, tantalizing, a sweet-tart aroma, lemon blossoms and honeysuckle and oxalis flowers, like my parents had in their garden.
It stirred a hopeless craving in a part of me that I usually suppressed in order to get along in society: my instinct to hunt and capture and claim and possess, to have something that was mine. Someone, actually. Someone as beautiful and alluring and sweet as that scent…
All the hair on the back of my neck stood up, and my cock was trying to get hard, pushing insistently against the G-string, throbbing as if in response to a physical touch. My claws pushed out, my fangs dropping. My heart pounded.
Fuck. This wasn’t natural or normal.
It had to be magic. Literally. Someone was using magic on me. But fucking why? I didn’t have any enemies that I knew of. Or stalkers, either.
A prank? Had Dominic hired a warlock or someone to hide out in the audience and screw with me and ruin my dance, or worse, make me flip out and get fired? Or even arrested?
No. Hell no. Damn it, I’d been doing this and doing it well for three years, and I could do it now, no matter how tantalizing that scent might be.
I forced my brain and body to reboot almost instantly, barely missing a beat of the song, quickly enough that no one probably even noticed. But as the music blared into full volume again, and the lights flashed in my eyes, and I tore my pants off in one go to a shrieking wave of applause—seriously, fuck you, Dominic—and spun around to show off the front of my G-string and its alpha bulge, the combo of being angry, off-kilter, and drenched in that magical scent slammed into me all at once.
More critically, my foot found the body oil residue on the floor at the same instant.
My leg flew out from underneath me as I flung my pants aside, and I went straight down and landed on my alpha ass with a thud that shook the whole stage.
A tiger. Tripping on his own feet and falling over.
I’d never live this down.
The hate that it brings, Trent wailed.
Truer words. I was going to stuff Cassidy’s body oil bottle down his throat, or maybe up his ass, and then I’d fucking kill him.
Right after I got up off my own ass and figured out who’d brought that incredibly distracting magic into the club, and fucking killed them.
Damn it.
Dragon's Descent by Sam Burns & WM Fawkes
Chapter 1
Arkadii
Chaos fell around us when the dragon descended, but over me came a serene calm. This was it. I could and would draw my sword to defend my king. I would step between him and the dragon’s jaws.
But no mere man could defeat a dragon with a sword. So I would die. And so would Dima.
And finally, Voronezh might know peace once again.
The dragon didn’t simply burn us where we stood on the stage, though, apparently so corrupted that it didn’t go for the simplest way to end an enemy. It lunged at us instead, jaws snapping. Perhaps its rider wanted the dramatic effect of the king being eaten, right in front of the royal family, the council, and a whole crowd of terrified townspeople. I couldn’t deny that it would be memorable.
Still, it gave me a job to do. Be the first man eaten? I tried not to laugh at the notion. If I let my hysteria slip out, everyone would know me for the madman I had become. No, I could die with dignity, and try to let Dima do the same.
The dragon snapped again, and suddenly, the king’s cousin was at my side. Not that he was more likely to kill a dragon than I, but—
“Maraht is on his way,” Prince Mikhail shouted to me. “We just have to hold the beast off till he gets here.”
Of course his dragon was on its way. I’d have summoned my Alina, but she was not a creature of battle. She was a dancer, a feather on the wind, a spirit of beauty. Some men trained their griffins for war. I never had.
I had been the personal guard of the flower prince.
I’d never been meant to fight as a warrior in epic battles. Only the most skilled swordsman possible, to hold off attackers in close combat.
The dragon lunged in again, its head sliding between Misha and me. I turned into it, aiming for the eye but missing by a few inches. Still, I was in possession of one of the finest swords in the land, so it cut a bloody gouge in the monster’s cheek as it reared back, roaring.
“What dragon is this?” I shouted at Misha. The only one I knew on sight was Danik, and he was a great black monster of a thing, not a bony green like this one. It reminded me of Kostya’s Kirian, but Kirian was at the moment a squishy pink human. Also, I’d never known Kirian to be anything but nervous and skittish. I’d certainly never seen him lunge at anyone or roar.
That was the moment when he proved me wrong.
I recognized Kirian as he came rushing out of the crowd of people, his human body growing and twisting, ripping its way out of his clothes as he turned into a dragon right there in front of everyone. The roar he loosed was almost deafening, and my ears rang with the silence for a second when he stopped.
The strange dragon turned from us, toward this new target, and so began the most terrifying spectacle I would ever see. They took to the air for a moment, broad wings snapping overhead as screaming people raced toward safety. They swooped toward each other and then away, tearing at each other with their claws and teeth. Plummeting toward the crowd—
I turned away, unable to watch them land in the middle of a crowd of innocent people. The damage a dragon could do without intending harm was immense, and these two were very much trying to kill each other. I met Misha’s eye. “We have to try to get the crowd to disperse.”
He glanced back at Dima and then met my eye, nodding. “I’ll do that. You get the king to safety.” He turned toward the stairs, no hesitation to march right into the middle of the danger.
Get the king to safety.
It was an order, and permission, and damnation all wrapped up in one.
Dima and I would live to see another day.
As I was trying to rearrange my world view once again, I heard the zing of a sword unsheathed nearby, and I reacted before thinking, parrying a blow that would have hit Dima right in the gut, offering a slow, agonizing death. Dima didn’t even seem to notice it. He wasn’t looking at the dragons fighting, or his cousin risking his life to save us all.
He was staring into the empty night sky, looking like a lost child, hurt and confused.
I didn’t have time to deal with that, though—not that I would ever be able to. No one handled Dima anymore. His hurts were too great, his fear too profound, for us to reach him.
I turned toward the threat, balancing my stance and falling naturally into guard position.
To find myself facing Georgiy Vasiliev.
It was like a cruel joke.
His smile was sharp and aware; he understood the irony of the moment.
That Dima had been betrayed by yet another uncle.
“This would have been simpler if he’d just gone ahead and killed himself, you know,” Georgiy told me, his tone personable, like we were sitting down to supper, not about to kill each other. “He lost his mind well enough, but the boy just damned well refused to die.”
He was the first man to speak the words in my presence. I didn’t know if everyone knew, but at the very least, none had been willing to voice it before.
That Dima was mad.
That the sweet prince I’d been assigned to guard so many years ago was gone, and in his place was a man as likely to scream as speak. As likely to jump off a bridge as cross it.
That a madman was bound to the land by blood, and Voronezh was dying because of it.
But still, I stood between Georgiy and my king, sword at the ready. “If you force me to kill you, I will.”
He snorted and motioned to the dragons, still fighting. “Oh please, boy. I’ll just wait for my dragon to finish his whelp. There’s no need for me to kill you.”
Was that supposed to be a kindness? Or did he intend to have his dragon kill me as well?
Wait, whelp?
I glanced once more at the dragons. Both were green dragons with bony armor. So similar. Whelp.
I turned back to stare at him. “You’re forcing your dragon to kill his own child?”
Georgiy gave a careless shrug, waving his sword toward them. “Whelp shouldn’t have gotten involved. Too bad, really, but not important. I suppose at least this way I don’t have to kill Kostya myself. Boy was always my favorite. Not a hothead like his brother or a prissy bitch like Dima.”
Kostya, spring bless him, took the matter out of my hands in that moment. “I’m afraid that isn’t a choice you can make after all, Uncle.”
The sound of steel unsheathing made Georgiy round away from me. Over his shoulder, Kostya met my eye, then looked to Dima, and tossed his head toward the palace. Again, I was being ordered to take my king to safety.
Both of his cousins, two of the men he’d most wronged in all of Voronezh, had put their lives in danger to save his that night. Dima, if and when he came back to himself—or whatever it was he had to come back to now—was going to be livid.
I sheathed my sword as Kostya engaged his own uncle, and turned to Dima. Putting an arm around his waist, I tugged, trying to turn him around while he continued to stare up at the sky.
“Danik?” he whispered, and I finally understood. At least, I understood what he was staring at, if not the answer he wanted.
His dragon. His companion since just after birth, the creature who could read him like no other, not even me, was simply not there. Dima’s life was in danger, and his dragon had not come to protect him.
It was just another blow in a long line of them, and I couldn’t help but wonder if this would be the one to knock him down for good. Any other day, he’d have been in a rage by now. Swinging a sword, or ordering me to, shouting his anger at yet another betrayal from yet another Vasiliev.
But this time there was no rage. No shouting.
No, Dima was pale and shaking, looking more like a lost child than he had in the moments after his father’s death. He tried to turn back as I led him down the steps off the dais, toward the palace, muttering his dragon’s name as though the word alone would summon him, or answer the question of where he was.
Not a month previous, he’d yelled at Kostya about losing a dragon, and here he was, clearly unaware of where his own was.
There would be blood to answer this disaster, I expected. Georgiy’s, certainly, but who knew how many others as well. Perhaps anyone who’d ever so much as loaned the man money, when this lost child left and Dima the raging madman returned.
I wasn’t sure if that would be better than if this miserable sick creature in my arms remained. Neither resembled my Dima. My flower prince.
The sweet young man I’d been assigned to when I myself had been little more than a child, thirteen years earlier.
The only man I had ever, would ever, love.
Ghost Writer by Pandora Pine
PROLOGUE
Jamie
1991…
Click. Click. Click. Ping! Click. Click. Click.
The sound of keys striking thick paper filled the room. Jamie couldn’t think of a sound he liked more than that of his words flowing onto the page.
The typewriter was a beast. Coming off the assembly line prior to World War II, it weighed as much as a Sherman Tank. As a matter of fact, it was one of the last machines assembled before the factory was converted to an ammunition plant to help support the British war effort. Two months later, the ammunition would be used by American soldiers.
When he bought the ancient wordsmith, this was the provenance the antique dealer gave. Jamie wasn’t sure it was the truth, but it would make one hell of a backstory to this great American novel. An amusing anecdote to tell David Letterman and Johnny Carson when the time came.
If the novel ever got written.
Click. Click. Click. Ping!
Jamie had been pounding the keys since sunup. His grumbling stomach had been reminding him for the last hour that his breakfast had only consisted of a boiled egg and a cup of black coffee. Arguably, the worst part of his day was pushing back from his massive oak desk, a family heirloom itself dating back to the World War II era.
It was only natural for Jamie to write this novel, a love story with the upcoming D-Day invasion setting the scene, with a typewriter and a desk from the same time period. The chair, which didn’t come close to matching the finish of the oak, was a cheap knockoff. No one in the family could remember the story behind the mismatched piece of furniture. It was wooden, had wheels, and creaked more than a staircase in a haunted house.
The idea for the novel had come to Jamie, thanks in part, to his third wife leaving him. He would never harm a hair on her cheating, gold digging head, but that didn’t mean he wasn’t going to take a little bit of literary revenge out on her. Usually, these kinds of love stories ended with the hero dying a meaningful death on the battlefield. His book would take a different tack. The heroine would die in a senseless act of violence of her own making and stupidity. The bitch would die well.
Jamie wondered if Katerina would be smart enough to notice the similarities between herself and Molly, his doomed British character. He had absolutely no doubt his ex-wife would read it. He’d made especially sure not to make one note or type even one letter of this novel until the divorce papers had been signed, and she was officially moved out of the Salem mansion his family had occupied for nearly eighty years.
Pushing back from the desk, the chair creaked under his weight. After the divorce, he’d managed to drop thirty pounds, but the chair, being the piece of shit it was, creaked anyway.
He was halfway across the room, thinking about making a sandwich and salad, when his ear caught a truly unexpected sound.
Click. Click. Click.
Jamie would swear his heart stopped beating in his chest. He lived in this house alone. He didn’t have pets and there were no vermin, to the best of his knowledge. Yet here he stood, five feet from his desk and the old Remington, with someone or something pecking away at the keys.
Click. Click. Click. Ping!
The sound of the striker keys pelting the page was frightening enough, but the bell warning he’d reached the edge of the margin quickly followed by the sound of the carriage return, terrified him. If he turned around, what would he see?
Would there be a ghost sitting in his chair adding its own thoughts and opinions to his novel? That would be scary enough. What if he turned around and there was no one in his chair? Jamie had a suspicion that sight could very well drive him mad.
Wiping his sweaty palms against the leg of his corduroys, he took a deep breath and whirled around. His eyes were slammed shut and he could feel every beat of his pounding heart behind his eyes.
“You’re being absolutely absurd,” he said to himself, in a vain effort to bolster his flagging self-confidence. “Just open your eyes and get it over with.” Steeling himself with one final deep breath, Jamie obeyed his own command. His blue eyes popped open and there was no one sitting at his desk. In fact, his chair was exactly where he’d left it, turned to the side parallel to the desk, rather than pushed under it.
He let out a shaky laugh. Over the course of the six months it had taken him to write this book, Jamie had a lot of sleepless nights. Ideas were flowing so fast and furious the words wouldn’t allow him a moment’s rest. Jamie was positive what he’d heard, or thought he’d heard, was just a figment of his already active imagination in overdrive.
The only way to confirm his theory was to walk back to the desk and look at the page. If a phantom had truly been typing, the words would be displayed in black and white. It was an easy enough thing to verify, but even so, Jamie’s feet felt like they were cemented to the floor.
“Oh, for Pete’s sake.” Forcing his unwilling legs to move, Jamie strode back to his desk and ripped the page from the typewriter carriage. What he saw nearly stopped his heart.
His words were there on the page, the very words he’d been typing moments before his stomach had started its aria. It wasn’t his brilliantly penned prose which made him feel as if he were about to faint. It was the line of type just below his last sentence.
Holy, holy, holy! Lord God Almighty! Holy, holy, holy! Merciful and mighty!
Jamie had most certainly not typed those words, but that didn’t mean he didn’t recognize them. Not a particularly religious man himself, he’d done his duty by his mother and attended church services while she’d been alive. The last time he’d stepped foot in a church was the day of her funeral ten years ago.
He might not have cared for the overly judgmental sermons, but he’d always been a fan of the music. There was something about a group of Catholics, huddled together in their finest winter coats, joining their voices as one. Holy, Holy, Holy had been one of his favorite hymns. Be that as it may, he hadn’t typed those lyrics, nor did they belong in the climactic scene where Molly was about to get exactly what was coming to her, courtesy of a German air raid.
Salem, Massachusetts was one of the most haunted cities in the United States. Jamie supposed places like Savannah and New Orleans could also claim a haunted legacy, but not one nearly quite so old. Everyone who grew up in Salem knew about the infamous witch trials of 1692. Some of the older families in town claimed relations who were either put to death, accused, or were among the dozens making the accusations. There was a certain twisted status that came with the documented affiliation to Salem’s darkest days.
Just because Salem was infamously haunted, didn’t mean these words were the product of a spirit. Did it?
Standing here, the library bright with the midafternoon sun, Jamie wondered if maybe he had typed these words. He was hungry, sleep deprived, and craving his first gin and tonic of the day. Maybe he had typed these words. It was possible he’d been caught in a daydream, while his fingers brought a treasured memory to life. He couldn’t recall the last time he’d thought about his mother.
Returning the ruined page to his desk, Jamie started for the library door. After he’d had lunch, and a good stiff drink, he would have to re-type what he’d already written before the ghost writer had taken charge of the machine.
Jamie chuckled to himself, the sound echoing off the library’s high ceiling.
His hand was on the doorknob, turning it, when he heard a click, followed by a second, followed by a third. Slowly turning, Jamie’s eyes were riveted to the keys, which were moving, seemingly of their own accord. There was no paper in the carriage. The keys were striking the bare roller bar.
Shrieking in fright, Jamie yanked the library door open and hurried into the hallway. The ominous sound followed him as he ran.
Click. Click. Click.
Chloe Archer currently calls the arctic wilds of Minnesota home but has spent much of her life abroad in places like Montreal, Edinburgh, and Tokyo. One day she hopes to live somewhere sunny and warm. She loves to travel, eat spicy food, and geek out about her fandoms. In her spare time (Ha! What’s that?) she’s an avid reader with far too many books and not enough bookcases, a wannabe tea and coffee connoisseur, and a karaoke fanatic. When she’s not making herself laugh out loud while writing adorkable gay rom-coms, she can be found walking her two Yorkies (Teddy and Jasper,) trying to finish that blanket she’s been knitting for five years or spending time with friends and family.
Kallie is the pseudonym of a USA Today Bestselling Author who normally writes young adult fantasy and dabbles in paranormal romance. She loves animals of all kinds, so she loves reading and writing books with shifter themes. Her favorite time to write is late at night when her husband and kids are asleep and everything is quiet. During the day she can be found chasing her boys, baking, and talking to herself.
Steamy books with delicious tension, heart-wrenching pining, and a hefty dose of action and adventure have always been Eliot’s jam as a reader and author.
Find out more about Eliot’s books or sign up for an occasional newsletter on her website, or come follow along on Instagram. Happy reading!
Sam lives in the Midwest with husband and cat, which is even less exciting than it sounds, so she's not sure why you're still reading this.
She specializes in LGBTQIA+ fiction, usually with a romantic element. There's sometimes intrigue and violence, usually a little sex, and almost always some swearing in her work. Her writing is light and happy, though, so if you're looking for a dark gritty reality, you've come to the wrong author.
W.M. Fawkes is an author of LGBTQ+ urban fantasy and paranormal romance. With coauthor Sam Burns, she writes feisty Greek gods, men, and monsters in the Lords of the Underworld series. She lives with her partner in a house owned by three halloween-hued felines that dabble regularly in shadow walking.
Sick of the slogging rat-race of her 9-5 job, Pandora Pine put pen to paper (literally!) to make her ambition of becoming a romance novelist a reality. She cut her teeth in the dog-eat-dog world of fan fiction, still dreaming of the day when she would be a published author.
In her spare time, Pandora fancies herself an amateur nature photographer. She enjoys mucking around in swamps, hiking through the woods and crawling around on her hands and knees in her backyard seeking out the perfect shot. Pandora is a fan of roadside seafood shacks and always thinks Mexican food is a good idea at the time.
Some of Pandora's favorite things are chocolate, writing longhand with purple pens, and handsome men falling in love with each other.
Chloe Archer
Kallie Frost
Eliot Grayson
EMAIL: smokingteacupbooks@gmail.com
Sam Burns
EMAIL: sam@burnswrites.com
The Gargoyle and the Romance Writer by Chloe Archer
Maple Sugar Mix-Up by Kallie Frost
Lucky or Knot by Eliot Grayson
Dragon's Descent by Sam Burns & WM Fawkes
Ghost Writer by Pandora Pine
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