Monday, March 28, 2016

Monday's Montage Mantlepiece: Sins of Spring


Summary:
The seven deadly sins: lust, wrath, greed, gluttony, envy, pride and sloth.

The Sins of Spring weaves a general thread of expectation loosely tying these tales together. Greed, Pride and Envy are exposed in these hot M/M tales involving action, explosive sex and paranormal experiences that will get you hot and wanting more...in no time!

Stories Included:
Takeover by D.J.Manly
DJ Manly looks at the sin of greed in Takeover.

Clive is sent to take over Frost Trucking...Seth intends to protect his grandfather from corporate greed...and desire has plans of its own.

Corporate greed is in abundance in today’s economy, and Seth Frost is about to come face to face with it in the person of Clive Roberts.

Clive Roberts comes to Port Credit as a representative of a large trucking corporation—there to take over Frost Trucking, a company on the verge of bankruptcy. Seth Frost had taken time off from his job in the city to visit his grandfather in the hospital. He resents the fact that Roberts is there in Port Credit like a circling piranha, watching his ailing grandfather...just biding his time till he’s able to take over a company his grandfather built from scratch.

But there’s more to Roberts than meets the eye. In spite of his reason for being there, Seth feels a little off balance when he looks into his eyes. Forced to work together to get the best deal for Seth’s grandfather, the attraction between the two men grows. Clive may well be there to take over the trucking company, but can Seth stop Clive from also taking over his heart?

The Kaupe by A.J.Llewellyn
A.J. Llewellyn tackles the sin of pride in The Kaupe.

Dino Perez is a super-hot Hollywood makeup artist who is used to dating the most gorgeous men in town. When he meets the dynamic and sexy—but not very handsome—art dealer Alek Briatore, pride stops him from accepting him as a suitor.

Alek, not one to be easily discouraged, pursues Dino, following him and his three friends on their vacation in Honolulu. Then, while on a hike in a remote, mountainous bamboo forest, Dina is seduced by a wicked-handsome suitor, leaving him feeling faintly slutty. Their scorching sexual encounter is one he can never forget.

He doesn't tell his friends what happened, particularly since Alek has become a well-liked part of their group. Obsessed with his mountain man, Dino sneaks back to the forest, hoping for another wild encounter. He gets it...in more ways than one. He discovers his lusty forest friend is a supernatural being —a kaupe—and soon learns that pride makes even the smartest man make extremely foolish choices...

Spring Discovery by Serena Yates
Serena Yates examines the sin of envy in Spring Discovery.

Shawn Adens is out for blood—an ex-tabloid journalist with a new mission to unveil the dark and illegal machinations of powerful bankers and businesspeople. His new career with the Philadelphia Herald depends on finding a scandal! When he discovers that the man who used to be his best friend still lives a life of privilege, envy fuels his determination to expose every sordid detail.

Gerald VanBrunt, CEO of one of his family’s companies, is delighted that Shawn is back in his life. They had lost contact when Shawn’s father risked and destroyed the Aden family fortune. For Gerald, none of that is important and he welcomes Shawn back into his life with open arms—quite literally.But the deception cannot last. Circumstances and a mysterious enemy reveal Shawn’s underhanded plot. What will Gerald do when he discovers their renewed relationship is only a ruse?


Takeover by D.J.Manly
The CEO of Simpson and Associates Inc. stood up in front of the podium and looked out at the members of the business community. Only the elite were present in the huge room at the downtown Hilton Hotel.

The president of the local Chamber of Commerce, as well as managers of several Toronto banking institutions, sat in the front row. They'd all come to applaud Trevor Simpson and Associates for gaining a near monopoly in the transport industry.

Clive Roberts sat at a table next to the VIP crowd. Several terminal managers and their wives sat at the table with him. He was the only one unaccompanied but that was all right. He had no time for romance and all the hassle that came along with it.

Mark had left him a year ago, and he'd done him a favour, really. When he'd lost his job, Clive had been stuck paying the bills for months. As soon as Mark had found another, he had written Clive a cheque for a few hundred dollars and packed his bags. Mark had accused him of being unable to share.

"What do you mean, unable to share?" Clive had protested. "I've been footing the bills for months."

"Yeah, and you've never let me forget it," Mark had countered. "You could never share your life with anyone. One day, you just may discover that there's more to life than money."

Okay, so Clive had to admit he had felt a little let down when Mark had left him. He had loved him in his own way. It wasn't his fault he had a hard time with this sharing business. It was the way he'd grown up. His mother had died when he was six, and his father couldn't seem to hold a job after that. He drank. Clive had done what he could to make sure his little sister and he had something to eat. As a result, he was a hoarder. He hoarded everything from food to money. And it was never enough. There was always this fear that he'd come up short.

He'd worked his way through college doing any job he could find, and, with a degree in computers and business, had landed the job with Simpson and Associates. Even today, with a big salary and an expense account, Clive felt insecure. At Mark's insistence, he'd tried counselling. It had worked for a while then he'd gone back to his old self again.

Luckily, Simpson and Associates had soon discovered that Clive had a talent for more than just solving computer problems. He was good at finding cost-saving solutions. Already, he'd saved the company millions of dollars.

Simpson and Associates had been going through a period of restructuring when he'd been hired on. They'd wanted to improve their efficiency, cut the fat, and increase their market share. Clive had offered them some ideas, and they'd told him to run with them.

Within three years, Clive had increased efficiency and made the company more competitive. Mass firings, undercutting the competition, and rerouting the trucks had saved the company a fortune. Turning a profit, amassing money, and swallowing up the smaller trucking companies was the bottom line, and Clive instinctively understood how to do that.

When Trevor Simpson began his presentation, a projection screen appeared behind the silver-haired man. Statistical charts and graphs explained the rationalisation and restructuring the company had undergone. The word 'profit' was mentioned often when he talked about undercutting the competition.

Clive noticed that when Simpson said, "We have almost won a total monopoly in the industry," he looked directly at Clive. Clive knew what he meant. Frost Trucking was the 'almost'—Clive's last mountain to climb. Clive had made it his mission to know everything about Frost. And they should have been easy to break, but, for some reason, they kept hanging on. What stumped Clive about Frost Trucking was that it was no more than a little Mom and Pop outfit with some sentimental hogwash philosophy about putting customers first. Sure, every company spouted stuff like that, but Frost meant it. That philosophy, along with the old man who adhered to it, had put the company in a very vulnerable position.

Frost was the thorn in his side. He was obsessed with it and he vowed that, before this year was through, Frost was going to be his.

"Ladies and gentlemen," Simpson called out suddenly, "let me introduce to you my top efficiency expert, Mr Clive Roberts."

Clive stood up and took a bow. There was applause, which was decidedly less animated coming from the terminal managers. They resented the power he had to point out their shortcomings and to terminate their jobs tomorrow if he decided the company could operate just fine without them.

The Kaupe by A.J.Llewellyn
"Aloha! Aloha!" Dino waved, blinking into the morning's bright glare as he spotted his friends standing in front of a row of tiny, fake grass shacks, with pristine thatched roofs. The shack with the emerald green signs marked National Car Rental, their designated meeting place. They'd all arrived!

He was madly pleased to see everybody had made it. He was already in tropical idyll mode thanks to the lei greeting he'd received at his arrival gate via his package deal through Pleasant Holidays. The fact that one now had to pay an extra twenty—five dollars for the traditional Hawaiian welcome didn't bother him too much.

What did bother him was that he hadn't spotted a single hot guy on the plane and now none of his friends seemed very happy or excited to see him. As he dragged his suitcase on wheels across the sweltering parking lot, nobody moved a muscle or returned his cheery greeting.

"Can you believe we were having drinks in Los Angeles last night and here we are two thousand miles away...together again at lunchtime?" he called out.

Nobody said a word. Dino Perez didn't think a thing like flying safely from one place to another was small potatoes this day and age. To him, it was nothing short of miraculous. This trip is meant to be!

His friends stood in a small semicircle, preoccupied with apparent mini—dramas, judging by their long faces. His heart sank.

"There's a line." Jay pointed. His tone suggested it was the end of the world.

Dino shrugged and dug into his laptop bag for his sunglasses. Man, it was hot. He couldn't remember Oahu ever being this humid. What the hell had happened to the island's gently wafting trade winds? It was spring. It was supposed to be perfect temperatures. Not stifling. He glanced around him. Construction going on everywhere. More and more cars were jammed into the gigantic multi-car rental agency lot at Honolulu Airport than he'd ever seen. More and more office buildings blocking out the wind...and the perennial palm trees.

The classic line from Joni Mitchell's Big Yellow Taxi reverberated in his mind...

They paved paradise and put up a parking lot...

Gone were the days when half-clad men and women rowed to visiting ships in small canoes, brandishing sweet—smelling leis and the promise of so much more.

Ah...those must have been fine, glorious times. Nowadays you clicked a link for the privilege of a factory-produced, scentless, cheerless greeting.

Stop it. You're here. Your heart's home.

Dino eyed his three friends as they all glowered in the stifling heat. FlΓ‘via, his forty—year—old friend who dreamt of being a cougar, was going to be his roommate. She wore jeans and a T—shirt, which surprised but delighted him. She always wore suits and heels back home. He hoped she'd left every last strand of pearls she owned with them. She was very cool towards him. Oh, great. This is a spiffing start to our holiday.

Jay and Colin, the fiftyish gay married couple who'd tagged along for the vacation, seemed to be arguing with each other over something stupid.

"Is there a problem?" he asked, wishing for the answer no.

"Colin pocketed the complimentary headphones from the flight. Who does that?" Jay griped. Dino privately agreed it was ludicrous but said nothing as Jay went on and on.

"You're so cheap and besides, they give us another pair on the way home!" Jay shouted at his husband. All of which was true.

Jay and Colin—who rarely left their home to buy groceries let alone fly two thousand miles to Honolulu—seemed more suitably attired for an Arctic expedition than an island getaway. Colin—who was, to be fair, a bit of a fuddy—duddy—wore corduroy pants, a flannel shirt and a thin tie. His only hint of relaxing his academic rules was a pair of brown leather sandals. Dino stared down at them.

"Why are you wearing socks with those?"

Colin gave him an incredulous look. "Because sand might get in my toes. I hate when that happens."

Oh, boy.

Spring Discovery by Serena Yates
"This is it. My life is officially over." Shawn Adens made sure his mouth didn't move and no sound louder than the softest whisper escaped his dry, cracked lips. The need to say the words out loud in the face of total despair was overwhelming. What he said, at least to himself, was the last remaining area of his life that he truly controlled.

"Get on with it, boy, you're holding everyone up." Uncle Bryson stood right behind him, breathing down his neck and far too close for comfort. His bony hand was suddenly on Shawn's shoulder, squeezing painfully. It was a reminder of who was in charge now.

Shawn tightened his grip on the small shovel the priest had handed him until his knuckles turned white. He scooped up the requisite amount of earth, took one last look at the casket containing the man who had ruined his life, and threw the dirt into the grave with enough force to make a hollow sound before the small clumps bounced back several times.

"Thanks for nothing, Dad." He spoke loud enough for his uncle to hear, not caring about the consequences.

"Shawn!" Uncle Bryson added more earth before turning his attention to Shawn. "Your father was a godless man, leading you astray into a sinful life of temporary wealth, but he still deserves your respect. Especially now that he's been punished for his numerous sins."

Shawn took one last look into the grave, shrugged and turned away. He didn't think of his father as godless or sinful, but their wealth sure had been temporary. Money made in the stock market was what had enabled his father to move to Philadelphia, taking Shawn with him right after his mother had vanished when he was only five. Working for a major investment firm had kept them wealthy and Shawn had gone to all the best schools, never looking back.

Now that his father had lost everything and killed himself in a fit of what Shawn assumed was shame, Uncle Bryson had marched back into his life and taken over. Being only sixteen and with living relatives who were happy to take care of him, or so they said, he had little choice in the matter. The authorities were glad he wasn't going to be their responsibility and had sanctioned Uncle Bryson's guardianship. His uncle had made it quite clear that Shawn was coming back to Franklin, Tennessee, to live with him and Aunt Jennifer and learn to atone for his presumed sins committed while in 'the big city'.

"Come on, time to take you home to Franklin." Uncle Bryson motioned toward the battered Ford he called his own. "No need to stick around."

Shawn followed quietly. There would be no wake, since there was no money left for Shawn or anyone else. The banks and debtors had taken what little was left, and his uncle had made it clear he wasn't willing to pay for even the smallest get-together. Shawn snorted as he got into the back of the car. Not that there was anyone here. A few reporters had attended, a couple of men he presumed to be ex-colleagues of his father, and two of their neighbours had shown their faces, but that had been it. For a man who'd been one of the most popular party throwers in the city, that was an extremely poor turnout.

But then, nobody wanted to be associated with failure.

And that was what his father would always be remembered as. Unfortunately, this label, by association, now also applied to Shawn. It was the only thing he'd inherited and the one attribute he could have done without. His previous plans of becoming a novelist were as obsolete and nonexistent as his country club membership. Uncle Bryson owned a farm and had told him he needed help, so that had become Shawn's future as well.

For now, there was nothing he could do.

He settled back into the uncomfortable seat, wiggling to find the spot where the least number of broken springs would poke him in the ass, and closed his eyes. They'd be on the road a while, and the best thing he could do was switch off his mind and rest. He suspected that was pretty much his lot for the next two years. Once he turned eighteen, though, the rules would change.

Nothing could keep him in Franklin then. He'd come back to Philly and build a life of his own, if it took him years to do it. Just because his father had been an idiot didn't mean he was going to suffer for the rest of his life.

No way!

Author Bios:
DJ Manley
D.J. Manly says, "I write not only for my own pleasure, but for the pleasure of my readers. I can’t remember a time in my life when I haven’t written and told stories. When I’m not writing, I’m dreaming about writing, doing something wild and adventurous, or trying to make the world a better and more open-minded place to live in. I adore beautiful men, and I know I’m not alone in this! Eroticism between consenting adults, in all its many forms, is the icing on the cake of life!"

AJ Llewellyn
A.J. Llewellyn lives in California, but dreams of living in Hawaii. Frequent trips to all the islands, bags of Kona coffee in the fridge and a healthy collection of Hawaiian records keep this writer refueled.

A.J. never lacks inspiration for male/male erotic romances and on the rare occasions this happens, pursues other passions such as collecting books on Hawaiiana, surfing and spending time with friends and animal companions.

A.J. Llewellyn believes that love is a song best sung out loud.

Serena Yates
I’m a night owl and start writing when everyone else in my time zone is asleep. I’ve loved reading all my life and spent most of my childhood with my nose buried in a book. Although I always wanted to be a writer, financial independence came first. Twenty-some years and a successful business career later I took some online writing classes and never looked back.

Living and working in seven countries has taught me that there is more than one way to get things done. It has instilled tremendous respect for the many different cultures, beliefs, attitudes and preferences that exist on our planet.

I like exploring those differences in my stories, most of which happen to be romances. My characters have a tendency to want to do their own thing, so I often have to rein them back in. The one thing we all agree on is the desire for a happy ending.

I currently live in the United Kingdom, sharing my house with a vast collection of books. I like reading, traveling, spending time with my nieces and listening to classical music. I have a passion for science and learning new languages.


DJ Manly
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AJ Lleweylln
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Serena Yates
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EMAIL: serena@serenayates.com



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Cover Reveal: Corralling Kenzie by Joanne Jaytanie

Title: Corralling Kenzie
Author: Joanne Jaytanie
Series: Winters Sisters #4
Genre: Romantic Suspense with paranormal elements

Summary:
Will Kenzie ever find peace and security inside the corrals of her ranch again?

Kenzie Vaughn is lucky to have a big-city, big-paycheck position. But her great job serves as nothing more than the path to her dream: a horse boarding and training ranch outside the big city. Kenzie is a horsewoman who loves Dobermans and peaceful country living. Now she’s found the perfect ranch, right next door to a lovely campus that houses the Winters Corporation. Her luck is holding, for the Corporation is run by the Winters’ sisters, wonderful women who could easily grow to become great friends.

One night her peace was shattered by a gunshot that wounded her horse, Boone. Good thing for Kenzie, Victory Winters is a veterinarian. Still the gunshot was no accident, and Kenzie’s past and the Winters’ present are dangerously intertwined. Kenzie is sucked into a vortex of rogue scientists who only want her for her DNA. Fortunately, the Winters Corporation can help. Even better, a Special Ops team member, Logan Mendoza, is assigned to watch her ranch. He isn’t interested in Kenzie’s DNA; he wants her for much more. Logan takes Kenzie’s personal security personally.

Will corralling Kenzie become Logan’s full-time mission?


As she spoke gently to him, she began inspecting his body. His blanket was securely strapped around him. She left the blanket in place as she ran one hand over him. At the same time, she searched the ranch with sweeping beams of the flashlight. As her hand worked its way down his flank, she felt something warm and wet. He snorted and his muscles rippled under her touch. There was a tear in his heavy, brown blanket. Surrounding the tear was a dinner-plate size spot. Carefully Kenzie loosened the strap closest to the tear and lifted the blanket. Underneath, she found a long, deep, gouge that oozed blood. She followed the blood path and discovered deep red spatters and a pool on the pristine white ground.

“Boone. Oh Boone, you’re hurt!”

She examined the snow and spotted two sets of large boot prints. The prints crisscrossed and headed to the backside of the paddock. She gasped as it dawned on her that someone else could be near.

Smearing blood everywhere, she patted herself down frantically, hoping her phone was still in a pocket. Yanking it out, she murmured, “come on, come on,” as she impatiently waited for the phone to come to life. She punched in the number she knew by heart. The phone call went directly to voice mail.

“The doctor had a family emergency and will be out of town until next week. If this is an emergency please contact—”

“That vet is ninety minutes away,” she said as she disconnected the call. By the time she loaded Boone up in the horse trailer and drove him out to the vet, he could bleed out. The same thing could happen if she waited for the vet to arrive. She had one other option, except she told herself she would never use it. She scrolled through the phone numbers until she found it. The phone rang and rang, but Kenzie refused to disconnect the call.

“Hello?” came a sleepy female voice.

“Hello, is this Victory Winters?”

“Yes, who’s this?”

“I’m terribly sorry to call you so late. Normally I would never do such a thing. I tried to reach my vet, but he’s out of town and this is an emergency. My name is Kenzie; I own the ranch south of your campus. Todd gave me your number. He told me to call you if I ever had a problem with my animals. He said you can work on all types of animals. My horse, Boone has been injured. He’s bleeding—can you please help me?”

“What?” Now Victory’s voice sounded alert and worried. “What did you say?”

“Boone. My horse. He’s been shot, and I just found boot prints in the snow. They came from the direction of your campus. Is there someone shooting there?”

“Kenzie, is it? I haven’t heard any gunshots. I will come out and help you. Try and keep Boone quiet. I’ll be there in ten minutes.”

“I’m going to stay with Boone. I’ll be in the barn when you get here, right past the house. Thank you, Victory.”



Author Bio:
Joanne was born and raised in Sherburne, New York, a quaint village surrounded by dairy farms and rolling hills. From the moment she could read she wanted to explore the world. During her college years she slowly crept across the country, stopping along the way in Oklahoma, California, and finally Washington State, which she now proudly calls home. She lives with her husband and Dobermans, in their home located on the Olympic Peninsula with a panoramic view of the Olympic Mountains.

Joanne writes romantic suspense, paranormal, and contemporary romance. She loves to submerge herself in the world of her characters, to live and breathe their lives and marvel at their decisions and predicaments. She enjoys a wide variety of books including paranormal, suspense, thriller, and of course romance.

Joanne is a member of Romance Writers of America, and past President of Peninsula Romance Writers, which was Debbie Macomber’s home chapter.


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Chasing Victory #1

Payton's Pursuit #2

Willow's Discovery #3

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Sunday, March 27, 2016

Sunday's Safe Word Shelf: Manse by Lynn Kelling


The Manse series focuses on the lives of men who play at Manse, a private club in rural Pennsylvania, catering to gay men. Billionaire David Davenport runs the club as he sees fit, and he’s used to getting his way. So when he decides he wants to fill the place with gorgeous men in masks for a night, that’s exactly what happens.

*Note from Author*
Learning from the Master takes place 5 years before Bound by Lies (and tells the story of how Jenner from Bound by Lies meets David & Shea). Loving the Master takes place 10 years before Bound by Lies & 5 years before Learning from the Master.

They were written in reverse order (and the prequels weren't planned), so after Bound by Lies (written 1st, #3 in the series in chronological order) I wrote Learning from the Master (written 2nd, #2 in the series in chronological order). Loving the Master (written 3rd & #1 in the series in chronological order) is meant to be enjoyable whether you've read the other 2 stories in the series or not. You can actually read them in whatever order appeals to you the most :)

Loving the Master #1
Summary:
Billionaire Dominant David Davenport needs a break from the loveless isolation imposed by wealth, responsibility, and the stress of running the Manse, his private gay club. While at lunch with an old friend, David finds himself enchanted by the charming and submissive nature of Shea Whittier, their young waiter. David offers to help the young man out with his personal troubles, never suspecting the danger he’s putting them both in.

Learning from the Master #2
Summary:
Most things in life come easily to eighteen-year-old Jenner Parrish, who’s on track to inherit the family business, and is popular, well-liked and good looking. He has everything he could want, except when it comes to love, and sex. Closeted, lonely and desperate, he acquires an invitation to an event at a nearby private gay club, Manse. Feeling out of his element and for the first time quite shy, Jenner is unable to play the wallflower when he captures the attention of the suave, seductive owner of Manse, David Davenport. David is used to getting what he wants, and what he wants is gorgeous young Jenner, who begins to realize every fantasy and wild desire could be his for the taking, if only he dares to ask and obediently serve. (M/M/M - For content labels and excerpt, see details on publisher's site.)

Note from the author: M/M BDSM Romance novella. It’s part of the Society of Masters and a prequel to Bound by Lies, though it can be read as a standalone story! It also introduces the characters David and Shea from my next novel release, Loving the Master, also coming very soon!

Bound By Lies #3
Summary:
Brayden Clare never wanted to return to small town life. Blond, athletic, and struggling with his sexual identity, a casual relationship on the beach in Florida suits him much better. When a family emergency calls him home, he is forced to trade his personal freedom for a job as a bartender in a town where everybody thinks they know who he is, and nobody has a clue—including Brayden.

Jenner Parrish is the owner and operator of Parrish Pub, the social hub of Robertsville, Pennsylvania. Jenner is charming, dominant, and popular since they were both in high school together. Brayden finds his new boss intimidating, and is daunted to find that turns him on. Jenner finds his new recruit intriguing but mustn’t dare to ask an employee to submit to him.

The two men find what they’re seeking at a masked BDSM ball in the next town over, and are startled to discover their desires rest much, much closer to home.


Loving the Master #1
Crouching beside Shea, David demanded, “Who did this to you?”

Shea’s face was swollen with a black eye, marbled in terrible colors ranging from yellow to crimson-black. His jaw was ringed on one side with a deep abrasion crusted with blood and dirt. He was holding his left arm against his body protectively enough that David had to assume it was also injured. Some of the light in his eyes had even been extinguished, replaced with a cringing look David had often seen in people who had been viciously mistreated.

At first, Shea just stared at him in utter confusion, looking lost. Inside Teresa’s, people seated by the glass windows were gawking at them and the minor scene David was making, not that he cared one bit. Pedestrians on the sidewalks and in the parking area had also paused to observe. But none of this seemed to touch Shea’s notice. He had eyes only for David and didn’t once divert his attention. David breathed in the subtle submission and crowded further into Shea’s space as if he had been invited.

“Oh my god, the hotter Stark and Brother Voodoo,” Shea said, sounding incredibly bewildered. David hoped he hadn’t suffered a concussion. “You’re David. You left me that crazy tip the other day. This is so weird. Why are you here?”

“Who did this?” David quietly but firmly insisted.

“I-I don’t know. I was mugged on my way home from here. It was actually the same day I met you. Never saw who did it. They took my stuff and beat me up, but when I got home, I…” Shea shook his head and seemed to draw further in on himself. “Never mind. I’m sorry if I’m upsetting you, sir. I’ll go sit somewhere else if I’m disturbing your meal.”

It was the way Shea sounded that was the final straw. There was much more going on here than a mugging, and if David was reading Shea correctly, the beating had damaged more than just skin. He looked like a broken doll, tumbled from his beloved’s grasp, left to rot in the gutters, forgotten.

Anger like David hadn’t felt in a long time suffused him. It didn’t get the better of him, but only intensified his focus and need to gain control of the situation. All he could see were those wounds, the absence of any bandages, and the fact that Shea was at work, not at a hospital or, at the very least, at home resting. And not only was he not actively working, he was sitting on the edge of the sidewalk, like they’d…

“Did they kick you out?” David jabbed a finger at the restaurant.

Shea bowed his head, bracing his forehead against a hand and trying to hide his injuries. “The manager told me to go clean myself up, and I thought they’d let me use the sink in the restroom here, but he doesn’t want me upsetting the customers, and I can’t go home. I don’t… I don’t have anywhere to go.”

Then, David did smile, with a murderous sort of wrath hidden in the hard sparkle of his eyes, as well as the glint of his teeth. He stood and Elet was right there, eyeing him and waiting patiently, knowing David well enough to back off respectfully.

“Okay, this is completely unacceptable.”

“What?” Shea laughed a little, and it sounded hollow, thin, exhausted. “I don’t know what to—”

“Come. Everything will be taken care of.” David extended a hand to Shea. Warily, Shea took it and let David pull him up, wincing with pain as he did, hinting at other bruising, other wounds.

“Come where?”

Learning from the Master #2
Reclaiming his hand, Jenner felt the skin almost tingling where David had touched it, like he had the ability to set the molecules in your skin vibrating and knocking around with excitement.

Jenner’s mind went blank. His tongue felt thick and clumsy in his mouth and he glanced down with embarrassment at his own less impressive shirt and slacks. If the other guys on his team could have seen him then, they would have laughed their asses off. He’d never felt so out of his element, but he knew he needed to catch up, fast.

“Back to my original question,” David said, his voice low, his tone making it feel like this was a private conversation, just between them. Somehow, he was paying even closer attention to Jenner, and the rest of the room, the rest of the entire mansion, faded back. All that mattered was keeping David’s attention, and doing anything that might impress him. If Jenner could impress David, he’d have it made. “What I’d meant to say was… what in particular brings you here tonight, Mr. Parrish? I make sure to know who my guests are. It’s only polite, don’t you think? But, with someone as… intriguing and attractive as you, I knew I had to come and introduce myself. I know more than your name, you know. I already know exactly what I want from you. What I don’t know is what it is you’re looking for. The reason you’ve sought us out.”

There were discreetly dressed security guys flanking both entrances to the room, keeping an eye on them and everyone else nearby. Jenner didn’t know how he hadn’t noticed them earlier. They must have arrived with David because they hadn’t been there before. The pressure mounted even higher, the thrill of what was happening even bigger but Jenner kept tripping over his attempts to reply, stammering, “I, uh… um…”

He couldn’t tell the truth, which was that he was hard up. It was too pathetic.

“Are you looking to meet someone?” David guessed. His voice was hushed but, other than the guards, no one else nearby was paying them much attention. “Looking for a boyfriend, maybe? Or just a blowjob? Something… dirtier?”

Jenner’s blood pressure shot through the roof, his heart pounding, his skin too tight. Suddenly overheated, he felt constricted by his clothes and too aware of each and every part of his body. It was like being thrown into a game where all of the rules had changed on him and he just had to scramble to figure things out play by play, move by move.

“I’m not sure. I don’t… Not a boyfriend, no. Just… company.”

More people were gathering in the room. Drawn to David, maybe? They kept their distance, but some of them began glancing their way. David raised his eyebrows at Jenner’s answer. “Conversation then? A game of pool or cards?”

“No,” Jenner laughed breathlessly, his skin too hot, his body too big and cumbersome. “Not exactly.”

“Then what exactly? Please. Tell me. It’s all right.” His lip caught between his teeth again, and Jenner stared at that, breathing a little harder. “I mean, I can’t help you get it if I don’t know what it is you’re after, can I?”

Bound By Lies #3
Gripping the bar’s edge, leaning forward against it, a switch gets flipped in Jenner. He goes into predatory mode as his target, his prey, comes steadily closer, their eyes locked. Everything in Jenner screams at him to take, to plunder, to fuck, and it does so with such force that he gets lightheaded with the strength of the need.

But as Brayden approaches, something strange happens to his expression. Briefly, upon seeing Jenner, heartache so profound and poignant crosses Brayden’s face, it makes Jenner feel like he must have just murdered Brayden’s dog or something. He can’t remember the last time he saw someone so distraught. It also makes Brayden look more like the boy he was in high school—forever grieving, tucked away in corners, trying to disappear.

Does he remember me? Did I do something to hurt him back then? Jenner frantically scans years of foggy memories, but can think of nothing specific linking him to Brayden.

With a sense of vertigo, Jenner witnesses Brayden replace the heartache with hope. The boy becomes the man. Sadness lingers behind green eyes, but it’s infused with wisdom and resolve.

It takes Jenner’s breath away.

“Hey, I know you,” Brayden says with a grin that changes his face even more, softening the rougher edges. Captivated by the beauty of that brave smile, Jenner is more drawn in by the stubborn remnant of pain. “Varsity football, right? You were quarterback, I think.”

Of all of the things to say in greeting, that it’s high school Brayden mentions first makes Jenner smile. It’s part reflex, part relief that he’s not the only one still thinking on those terms. “Oh wow. Yeah, I guess I was. That was decades ago. Or it seems like it anyway.”

Jenner can’t stop staring at the rich caramel hue of Brayden’s skin against the crisp, stark white of his button-down shirt, tucked neatly into dark jeans, adorned with a black leather belt. He tries to draw his gaze away from the exposed areas of skin at his guest’s neck and along his bared forearms where the shirt has been rolled up to the elbow. Jenner’s mouth waters at the idea of sealing his lips around the warm flesh, feeling the pulse beating under the skin.

Clearing his throat, Brayden raises and traps Jenner’s gaze. The sweetness of his green eyes draws Jenner in and holds him. “I’m sorry, I don’t remember your name.”

“Parrish,” Jenner blurts, offering a hand from over the bar. “Jenner Parrish. And you’re?”

Cry Baby Braydy.

Stop it.

The secretly-treasured mental image of Brayden in the locker room at the Y—and his bare ass—fills Jenner’s mind, uncalled for, sending a bolt of heat directly to Jenner’s cock. He forces it away. Hard.

“Brayden Clare. I was a year or two behind you in school. You probably have no idea who I am,” Brayden says, giving Jenner’s hand a firm shake.

Oh, you’d be surprised, Jenner’s inner voice provides. He tells himself, Keep playing dumb. Don’t lump yourself in with the assholes you’ve always hung out with. The best way to ruin your chances is to become the bad guy.

But it’s probably useless, you know. He remembers you. He knows you were on the football team. Those were the guys who gave him that nickname. Those were the guys doing most of the laughing.

You’re already the bad guy.

He resists, with effort, the urge to stroke the soft skin of the back of Brayden’s hand with his thumb before releasing him.

Author Bio:
Lynn Kelling began writing in order to tell stories that aren’t afraid of the dark, don’t hold anything back and always strive to be memorable, forging lasting attachments between character and reader. Her inspiration comes from taking a closer look at behaviors and ideas lurking at the fringes of life—basically anything that people may hesitate to speak of in mixed company, but everyone wonders about anyway. Her work is driven by the taboo in order to expose the humanity within it. Lynn is an artist, designer and lover of any form of creative self-expression that comes from a place of honesty and emotion, whether it's body art or opera. She has had multiple novels published, has written over fifty works of erotic fiction of varying lengths, and always has several novels in progress.


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EMAIL: lynn@lynnkelling.com



Loving the Master #1
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Learning from the Master #2
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Bound by Lies #3
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Cover Reveal/Pre-Order Blitz: Pink Shades of Words: Fifty Shades of Pink Anthology

Title: Pink Shades of Words
Authors: Ruth Clampett, Cambria Hebert, KA Hunter, Jade C Jamison
Liv Morris, Raine Miller, Emma Nichols, Melanie Shawn
Series: Fifty Shades of Pink 2016
Genre: Contemporary, New Adult, Erotica
Release Date: April 1, 2016
Master Organizer: Glorya Hidalgo
Cover Design: Regina Wamba
Formatter: Julie Prestsater

**All proceeds will benefit the Avon Walk for Breast Cancer through the Fifty Shades of Pink team. Last year, $3,500 was raised - Let's top that this year!**

Summary:
Pink Shades of Words is a collaboration of 8 never before seen short stories from 8 New York Times, USA Today, and International Bestselling Authors. These authors come together to bring you a collection of romance that is a must read for book lovers including New Adult, Contemporary, Erotica, and Dark Romance.

Titles Included:
Let's Pretend by Ruth Clampett
Mr. X by Cambria Hebert
Indemnity by K.A. Hunter
Escaping the Cocoon by Jade C. Jamison
Hard Luck by Liv Morris
Filthy Rich (Blackstone DYNASTY 1) by Raine Miller
The Decoy by Emma Nichols
Book Boyfriend by Melanie Shawn

***Pink Shades of Words will only be available for purchase from April 1, 2016 to May 31, 2016!***



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Saturday, March 26, 2016

Saturday's Series Spotlight: Captive Prince by CS Pacat


Captive Prince #1
Summary:
Damen is a warrior hero to his people, and the rightful heir to the throne of Akielos, but when his half brother seizes power, Damen is captured, stripped of his identity, and sent to serve the prince of an enemy nation as a pleasure slave.

Beautiful, manipulative and deadly, his new master Prince Laurent epitomizes the worst of the court at Vere. But in the lethal political web of the Veretian court, nothing is as it seems, and when Damen finds himself caught up in a play for the throne, he must work together with Laurent to survive and save his country.

For Damen, there is just one rule: never, ever reveal his true identity. Because the one man Damen needs is the one man who has more reason to hate him than anyone else . . .

Prince's Gambit #2
Summary:
The second novel in the critically acclaimed trilogy from global phenomenon C. S. Pacat—with an all-new chapter exclusive to the print edition.

With their countries on the brink of war, Damen and his new master, Prince Laurent, must exchange the intrigues of the palace for the sweeping might of the battlefield as they travel to the border to avert a lethal plot.

Forced to hide his identity, Damen finds himself increasingly drawn to the dangerous, charismatic Laurent. But as the fledgling trust between the two men deepens, the truth of secrets from both their pasts is poised to deal them the crowning death blow…


Kings Rising #3
Summary:
Damianos of Akielos has returned.

His identity now revealed, Damen must face his master Prince Laurent as Damianos of Akielos, the man Laurent has sworn to kill.

On the brink of a momentous battle, the future of both their countries hangs in the balance. In the south, Kastor’s forces are massing. In the north, the Regent’s armies are mobilising for war. Damen’s only hope of reclaiming his throne is to fight together with Laurent against their usurpers.

Forced into an uneasy alliance the two princes journey deep into Akielos, where they face their most dangerous opposition yet. But even if the fragile trust they have built survives the revelation of Damen’s identity – can it stand against the Regent’s final, deadly play for the throne?




Kings Rising #3
CHAPTER ONE
‘DAMIANOS.’

Damen stood at the base of the dais steps as his name spread in tones of shock and disbelief over the courtyard. Nikandros knelt before him, his army knelt before him. It was like coming home, until his name, rippling outwards over the ranks of the gathered Akielon soldiers, hit the Veretian commoners thronging the edges of the space, where it changed.

The shock was different, a doubled shock, a rippling impact now, of anger, of alarm. Damen heard the first voice in outcry, a swell of violence, a new word now in the mouths of the crowd.

‘Prince-killer.’

A hiss of a rock, thrown. Nikandros came up off his knees, drawing his sword. Damen flung out a hand in a motion for halt, stopping Nikandros instantly, his sword showing a half-foot of Akielon steel.

He could see the confusion on Nikandros’s face, as the courtyard around them began to disintegrate. ‘Damianos?’

‘Order your men to hold,’ said Damen, even as the sharp sound of steel closer by had him turning fast.

A Veretian soldier in a grey helmet had drawn his sword, and was staring at Damen as though he faced his worst nightmare. It was Huet; Damen recognised the white face under the helmet. Huet was holding his sword out before him the way Jord had held the knife: between two shaking hands.

‘Damianos?’ said Huet.

‘Hold!’ Damen ordered again, shouting to be heard over the crowd, over the new, hoarse cry in Akielon, ‘Treason!’ It was death to draw a blade on a member of the Akielon royal family.

He was still keeping Nikandros back with the gesture of his outflung hand, but he could feel every sinew in Nikandros strain in the effort to hold himself in place.

There were wild shouts now, the thin perimeter breaking down as the crowd swelled with the panicked urge to run. To stampede and get out of the way of the Akielon army. Or to swarm over it. He saw Guymar scan the courtyard, the tense fear in his eyes clear. Soldiers could see what a peasant mob could not: that the Akielon force inside the walls—inside the walls—outnumbered the skeletal Veretian garrison fifteen to one.

Another sword was drawn alongside Huet’s, a horrified Veretian soldier. Anger and disbelief showed in the faces of some of the Veretian guard; in others there was fear, looking to one another desperately for guidance.

And in the first spilling breach in the perimeter, the spiralling frenzy of the crowd, the Veretian guards no longer fully under his control—Damen saw how completely he had underestimated the effect of his identity on the men and women of this fort.

Damianos, prince-killer.

His mind, used to battlefield decisions, took in the sweep of the courtyard, and made the commander’s choice: to minimise losses, to limit bloodshed and chaos, and to secure Ravenel. The Veretian guards were beyond his orders, and the Veretian people . . . if these bitter, furious emotions could be soothed among the Veretian people, he was not the one to soothe them.

There was only one way to stop what was about to happen, and that was to contain it; to lock it down, to secure this place once and for all.

Damen said to Nikandros, ‘Take the fort.’

*   *   *

Damen swept along the passage, flanked by six Akielon guards. Akielon voices rang in the halls and red Akielon flags flew over Ravenel. Akielon soldiers on either side of the doorway drew their heels together as he passed.

Ravenel had now changed allegiance twice in as many days. This time it had happened swiftly; Damen knew exactly how to subdue this fort. The skeleton Veretian force had quickly buckled in the courtyard, and Damen had ordered their two senior soldiers, Guymar and Jord, brought to him, stripped of armour and under guard.

As Damen entered the small antechamber, the Akielon guards took hold of their two prisoners and thrust them roughly to the ground. ‘Kneel,’ the guard commanded in mangled Veretian. Jord sprawled.

‘No. Let them stand.’ Damen gave the order in Akielon.

Instant obedience.

It was Guymar who shrugged the treatment off and regained his feet first. Jord, who had known Damen for months, was more circumspect, rising slowly. Guymar met Damen’s eyes. He spoke in Veretian, giving no sign that he had understood Akielon.

‘So it’s true. You are Damianos of Akielos.’

‘It’s true.’

Guymar purposefully spat, and for his trouble was backhanded hard across the face with a mailed fist by the Akielon soldier.

Damen let it happen, aware of what would have happened if a man had spat on the ground in front of his father.

‘Are you here to put us to the sword?’

Guymar’s words were spoken as his eyes returned to Damen. Damen’s gaze passed over him, then over Jord. He saw the grime on their faces, their drawn, tight expressions. Jord had been the Captain of the Prince’s Guard. He knew Guymar less well: Guymar had been a commander in Touars’s army before he’d defected to Laurent’s side. But both men had been ranked officers. It was why he had ordered them brought here.

‘I want you to fight with me,’ said Damen. ‘Akielos is here to stand by your side.’

Guymar let out a shaky breath. ‘Fight with you? You will use our cooperation to take the fort.’

‘I already have the fort,’ said Damen. He said it calmly. ‘You know the manner of man we face in the Regent,’ said Damen. ‘Your men have a choice. They can remain prisoners at Ravenel, or they can ride with me to Charcy, and show the Regent we stand together.’

‘We don’t stand together,’ said Guymar. ‘You betrayed our Prince.’ And then, as though he almost couldn’t bear to say it, ‘You had him—’

‘Take him out,’ said Damen, cutting it off. He dismissed the Akielon guards, too, and they filed out until the antechamber was deserted, except for the one man he allowed to stay.

In Jord’s face was none of the mistrust or fear that had been stamped so clearly on the faces of the other Veretians, but a weary search for understanding.

Damen said, ‘I made him a promise.’

‘And when he learns who you are?’ said Jord. ‘When he learns that he is facing Damianos on the field?’

‘Then he and I meet each other for the first time,’ said Damen. ‘That was also a promise.’

*   *   *

When it was done, he found himself pausing, his hand on the doorframe to catch his breath. He thought of his name, spreading through Ravenel, across the province, to its target. He had a sense of holding on, as though if he just held the fort, held these men together long enough to reach Charcy, then what followed—

He couldn’t think about what followed, all he could do was keep to his promise. He pushed open the door and walked into the small hall.

Nikandros turned when Damen entered, and their eyes met. Before Damen could speak, Nikandros went to one knee; not spontaneously as he had done in the courtyard, but deliberately, bending his head.

‘The fort is yours,’ Nikandros said. ‘My King.’

King.

The ghost of his father seemed to prickle over his skin. It was his father’s title, but his father no longer sat on the throne at Ios. Looking at the bowed head of his friend, Damen realised it for the first time. He was no longer the young prince who had roamed the palace halls with Nikandros after a day spent wrestling together on the sawdust. There was no Prince Damianos. The self that he had been striving to return to was gone.

To gain everything and lose everything in the space of a moment. That is the fate of all princes destined for the throne. Laurent had said that.

Damen took in Nikandros’s familiar, classically Akielon features, his dark hair and brows, his olive face and straight Akielon nose. As children, they had run barefoot together through the palace. When he’d imagined a return to Akielos, he’d imagined greeting Nikandros, embracing him, heedless of the armour, like digging in his fingers and feeling in his fist the earth of his home.

Instead, Nikandros knelt in an enemy fort, his sparse Akielon armour incongruous in the Veretian setting, and Damen felt the gulf of distance that separated them.

‘Rise,’ said Damen. ‘Old friend.’

He wanted to say so much. He felt it welling up inside him, a hundred moments when he had forced back the doubt that he would ever see Akielos, the high cliffs, the opaline sea, and the faces, like this one, of those that he called friend.

‘I thought you dead,’ said Nikandros. ‘I have mourned your passing. I lit the ekthanos and made the long walk at dawn when I thought you gone.’ Nikandros spoke still partly in wonder as he rose. ‘Damianos, what happened to you?’

Damen thought of the soldiers bursting into his rooms, of being lashed down in the slave baths, of the dark, muffled journey by ship to Vere. He thought of being confined, his face painted, his body drugged and displayed. He thought of opening his eyes in the Veretian palace, and what had happened to him there.

‘You were right about Kastor,’ Damen said.

It was all he said.

‘I watched him crowned at the Kingsmeet,’ said Nikandros. His eyes were dark. ‘He stood on the Kingstone and said, “This twin tragedy has taught us that all things are possible.”’

It sounded like Kastor. It sounded like Jokaste. Damen thought of how it would have been in Akielos, the kyroi gathered among the ancient stones of the Kingsmeet, Kastor enthroned with Jokaste beside him, her hair immaculate and her swollen belly swathed, slaves fanning the air in the still heat.

He said to Nikandros, ‘Tell me.’

He heard it. He heard all of it. He heard of his own body, wrapped and taken in the processional through the acropolis, then interred beside his father. He heard Kastor’s claim that he had been killed by his own guard. He heard of his guard, killed in turn, like his childhood trainer Haemon, like his squires, like his slaves. Nikandros spoke of the confusion and slaughter throughout the palace, and in its wake, Kastor’s swordsmen taking control, claiming wherever they were challenged that they were containing the bloodshed, not causing it.

He remembered the sound of bells at dusk. Theomedes is dead. All hail Kastor.

Nikandros said, ‘There’s more.’

Nikandros hesitated for a moment, searching Damen’s face. Then he pulled a letter from his leather breastplate. It was battered, and by far the worse for its method of conveyance, but when Damen took it and unfolded it, he saw why Nikandros had kept it close.

To the Kyros of Delpha, Nikandros, from Laurent, Prince of Vere.

Damen felt the hairs rise over his body. The letter was old. The writing was old. Laurent must have sent the letter from Arles. Damen thought of him, alone, politically cornered, sitting at his desk to begin writing. He remembered Laurent’s limpid voice. Do you think I’d get on well with Nikandros of Delpha?

It made tactical sense, in a horrifying way, for Laurent to have made an alliance with Nikandros. Laurent had always been capable of a kind of ruthless pragmatism. He was able to put emotion aside and do what he had to do to win, with a perfect and nauseating ability to ignore all human feeling.

In return for aid from Nikandros, the letter said, Laurent would offer proof that Kastor had colluded with the Regent to kill King Theomedes of Akielos. It was the same information that Laurent had flung at him last night. You poor dumb brute. Kastor killed the King, then took the city with my uncle’s troops.

‘There were questions,’ said Nikandros, ‘but for every question Kastor had an answer. He was the King’s son. And you were dead. There was no one left to rally behind,’ Nikandros said. ‘Meniados of Sicyon was the first to swear his loyalty. And beyond that—’

Damen said, ‘The south belongs to Kastor.’

He knew what he faced. He had never supposed to hear that the story of his brother’s treachery was a mistake: to hear that Kastor was overjoyed by the news that he lived, and welcomed his return.

Nikandros said, ‘The north is loyal.’

‘And if I call on you to fight?’

‘Then we fight,’ said Nikandros. ‘Together.’

The straightforward ease of it left him without words. He had forgotten what home felt like. He had forgotten trust, loyalty, kinship. Friends.

Nikandros drew something from a fold in his clothing, and pressed it into Damen’s hand.

‘This is yours. I have kept it . . . A foolish token. I knew it was treason. I wanted to remember you by it.’ A crooked half-smile. ‘Your friend is a fool and courts treason for a keepsake.’

Damen opened his hand.

The curl of mane, the arc of a tail—Nikandros had given him the golden lion pin worn by the King. Theomedes had passed it on to Damen on his seventeenth birthday to mark him as heir. Damen remembered his father fixing it to his shoulder. Nikandros must have risked execution to find it, to take it and to carry it with him.

‘You are too quick to pledge yourself to me.’ He felt the hard, bright edges of the pin in his fist.

‘You are my King,’ said Nikandros.

He saw it reflected back at him in Nikandros’s eyes, as he had seen it in the eyes of the men. He felt it, in the different way Nikandros behaved towards him.

King.

The pin was his now, and soon the bannermen would come and pledge to him as King, and nothing would be the way it was before. To gain everything and lose everything in the space of a moment. That is the fate of all princes destined for the throne.

He clasped Nikandros’s shoulder, the wordless touch all he would allow himself.

‘You look like a wall tapestry.’ Nikandros plucked at Damen’s sleeve, amused by red velvet, fastenings of garnet, and small, exquisitely sewn rows of ruching. And then he went still.

‘Damen,’ said Nikandros, in a strange voice. Damen looked down. And saw.

His sleeve had slipped, revealing a cuff of heavy gold.

Nikandros tried to move back, as though burned or stung, but Damen clasped his arm, preventing the retreat. He could see it, splitting Nikandros’s brain, the unthinkable.

His heart pounding, he tried to stop it, to salvage it. ‘Yes,’ he said. ‘Kastor made me a slave. Laurent freed me. He gave me command of his fort and his troops, an act of trust for an Akielon he had no reason to elevate. He doesn’t know who I am.’

‘The Prince of Vere freed you,’ said Nikandros. ‘You have been his slave?’ His voice thickened with the words. ‘You have served the Prince of Vere as a slave?’

Another step back. There was a shocked sound from the doorway. Damen whirled towards it, releasing his grip on Nikandros.

Makedon stood in the doorway, a growing horror on his face, and behind him Straton, and two of Nikandros’s soldiers. Makedon was Nikandros’s general, his most powerful bannerman, and he had come to pledge to Damianos as the bannermen had pledged to Damen’s father. Damen stood, exposed, before them all.

He flushed, hard. A golden wrist cuff had only one meaning: use, and submission, of the most private kind.

He knew what they saw—a hundred images of slaves, submitting, bending at the hip, parting their thighs, the casual ease with which these men would have taken slaves in their own households. He remembered himself saying, Leave it on. His chest felt tight.

He forced himself to keep untying laces, pushing his sleeve up further. ‘Does it shock you? I was a personal gift to the Prince of Vere.’ He had bared his whole forearm.

Nikandros turned to Makedon, his voice harsh. ‘You will not speak of this. You will never speak of this outside this room—’

Damen said, ‘No. It can’t be hidden.’ He said it to Makedon.

A man of his father’s generation, Makedon was the commander of one of the largest of the provincial armies of the north. Behind him, Straton’s distaste looked like nausea. The two secondary officers had their eyes on the floor, too low-ranked to do anything else in the presence of the King, especially in the face of what they were seeing.

‘You were the Prince’s slave?’ Revulsion was stamped on Makedon’s face, whitening it.

‘Yes.’

‘You—’ Makedon’s words echoed the unspoken question in Nikandros’s eyes that no man would ever say aloud to his King.

Damen’s flush changed in quality. ‘You dare ask that.’

Makedon said, thickly, ‘You are our King. This is an insult to Akielos that cannot be borne.’

‘You will bear it,’ said Damen, holding Makedon’s gaze, ‘as I have borne it. Or do you think yourself above your King?’

Slave, said the resistance in Makedon’s eyes. Makedon certainly had slaves in his own household, and made use of them. What he imagined between Prince and slave stripped it of all the subtleties of surrender. Having been done to his King, it had in some sense been done to him, and his pride revolted at it.

‘If this becomes common knowledge, I can’t guarantee I will be able to control the actions of the men,’ said Nikandros.

‘It is common knowledge,’ said Damen. He watched the words impact on Nikandros, who could not quite swallow them.

‘What would you have us do?’ Nikandros pushed the words out.

‘Make your pledge,’ said Damen. ‘And if you are mine, gather the men to fight.’

*   *   *

The plan he had developed with Laurent was simple, and relied on timing. Charcy was not a field like Hellay, with a single, clear vantage. Charcy was a pocketed, hilly trap, half backed by forest, where a well-positioned force could quickly manufacture a surround on an approaching troop. It was the reason the Regent had chosen Charcy as the place where he would challenge his nephew. Inviting Laurent to a fair fight at Charcy was like smiling and inviting him to take a stroll across quicksand.

So they had split their forces. Laurent had ridden out two days ago to approach from the north and reverse the Regent’s surround by bringing up at the rear. Damen’s men were the bait.

He looked for a long time at the wrist cuff before he walked out onto the dais. It was bright gold, visible at some distance against the skin of his wrist.

He didn’t try to hide it. He had discarded his wrist gauntlets. He wore the Akielon breastplate, the short leather skirt, the high Akielon sandals strapped to his knee. His arms were bare, as were his legs from knee to mid-thigh. The short red cape was pinned to his shoulder by the golden lion.

Armoured and battle-ready, he stepped out onto the dais and looked out at the army that was gathered below, the immaculate lines and shining spears, all of it waiting for him.

He let them see the cuff on his wrist, as he let them see him. He knew by now the ever-present whisper: Damianos, risen from the dead. He watched the army fall silent before him.

He let the Prince he had been drop away, let himself feel the new role, the new self settle about him.

‘Men of Akielos,’ he said, his words echoing across the courtyard. He looked out at the rows of red cloaks, and it felt as it felt to take up a sword or fit a gauntlet to his hand. ‘I am Damianos, true son of Theomedes, and I have returned to fight for you as your King.’

A deafening roar of approval; spear-butts hammering into the ground in approbation. He saw arms raised, soldiers cheering, and caught a flash of the impassive, helmed face of Makedon.

Damen swung up into the saddle. He had taken the same horse he had ridden at Hellay, a big bay gelding that could take his weight. It struck its front hoof on the cobbles, as though seeking to overturn a stone, arching its neck, perhaps sensing, in the manner of all great beasts, that they were on the cusp of war.

The horns sounded. The standards went up.

There was a sudden clatter, like a handful of marbles cast down steps, and a small group of Veretians in battered blue rode into the courtyard on horseback.

Not Guymar. But Jord and Huet. Lazar. Scanning their faces, Damen saw who they were. These were the men of the Prince’s Guard, with whom Damen had travelled for months. And there was only one reason why they had been released from confinement. Damen held up a hand, and Jord was allowed through, so that for a moment their horses circled each other.

‘We’ve come to ride with you,’ said Jord.

Damen looked at the small clump of blue now gathered before the rows of red in the courtyard. There weren’t many of them, only twenty, and he saw at once that it was Jord who had convinced them, so that they were here, mounted and ready.

‘Then we ride,’ said Damen. ‘For Akielos, and for Vere.’

*   *   *

As they approached Charcy, long-range visibility was poor and they had to rely on outriders and scouts for information. The Regent was approaching from the north and the north-west; their own forces, acting as bait, were downslope and in an inferior position. Damen would never bring men into this kind of disadvantage without a counter plan. As it was, it would be a close fight.

Nikandros didn’t like it. The closer they came to Charcy, the more obvious it was to the Akielon generals how bad the ground was. If you wanted to kill your worst enemy you would lure him to a place like this.

Trust me, was the last thing Laurent had said.

He envisaged the plan as they had constructed it in Ravenel, the Regent overcommitting, and Laurent at the perfect moment sweeping down from the north. He wanted it, wanted a hard fight, wanted to seek out the Regent on the field, find him and take him down, to end his reign in a single fight. If he just did that, just kept to his promise, then after—

Damen gave the order to form up. There would be the danger of arrows soon. They would take their first volley from the north.

‘Hold,’ was his order. The uncertain terrain was a valley of doubt, fringed by trees and dangerous slopes. The air was laden with tense expectation, and the high-strung, raw mood that came before battle.

Distantly, the sound of horns. ‘Hold,’ Damen said again, as his horse fidgeted, fractious, beneath him. They must fully engage the Regent’s forces here on the flat before they counterattacked, draw them all here, in order to allow Laurent’s men to manufacture a surround.

Instead he saw the western flank begin to move, too soon, under the shouted order of Makedon. ‘Call them back into line,’ Damen said, putting his heels hard into his horse. He reined in around Makedon, a small, tight circle. Makedon looked back at him, dismissive as a general of a child.

‘We are moving to the west.’

‘My orders are to hold,’ said Damen. ‘We let the Regent commit first, to draw him out of position.’

‘If we do that, and your Veretian doesn’t arrive, we’ll all be killed.’

‘He’ll be here,’ said Damen.

From the north, the sound of horns.

The Regent was too close, too early, with no word yet from their scouts. Something was wrong.

Action exploded to his left, movement bursting from the trees. The attack came from the north, charging from the slope and the tree line. Ahead of it was a solitary rider, a scout, racing flat out over the grass. The Regent’s men were on them, and Laurent wasn’t within a hundred miles of the battle. Laurent had never planned to come.

That was what the scout was screaming, right before an arrow took him in the back.

‘This is your Veretian Prince exposed for what he is,’ said Makedon.

Damen had no time to think before the situation was on him. He shouted orders, trying to take hold of the initial chaos, as the first rain of arrows hit, his mind taking in the new situation, recalculating numbers and position.

He’ll be here, Damen had said, and he believed that, even as the first wave hit and the men around him began to die.

There was a dark logic to it. Have your slave convince the Akielons to fight. Let your enemies do your fighting for you, the casualties taken by the people you despise, the Regent defeated or weakened, and the armies of Nikandros wiped out.

It wasn’t until the second wave hit them from the north-west that he realised they were totally alone.

Damen found himself alongside Jord. ‘If you want to live, ride east.’

White-faced, Jord took one look at his expression and said, ‘He’s not coming.’

‘We’re outnumbered,’ said Damen, ‘but if you run, you might still make it out.’

‘If we’re outnumbered, what are you going to do?’

Damen drove his horse onward, ready to take up his own place on the front line.

He said, ‘Fight.’

CHAPTER TWO
LAURENT WOKE SLOWLY, in dim light, to the sensation of restriction, his hands tied behind his back. Throbbing at the base of his skull let him know he had been hit over the head. Something was also inconveniently and intrusively wrong with his shoulder. It was dislocated.

As his lashes fluttered and his body stirred, he became hazily aware of a stale odour, and a chilled temperature that suggested that he was underground. His intellect made increasing sense of this: there had been an ambush, he was underground, and since his body didn’t feel as if it had been transported for days, that meant—

He opened his eyes and met the flat-nosed stare of Govart.

‘Hello, Princess.’

Panic spiked his pulse, an involuntary reaction, his blood beating against the inside of his skin like it was trapped. Very carefully, he made himself do nothing.

The cell itself was about twelve feet square, and had an entrance of bars but no windows. Beyond the door there was a flickering stone passageway. The flickering came from a torch on that side of the bars, not from the fact that he had been hit over the head. There was nothing inside the cell except the chair he was tied to. The chair, made of heavy oak, appeared to have been dragged in for his benefit, which was civilised or sinister, depending on how one looked at it. The torchlight revealed the accumulated filth on the floor.

He was hit by the memory of what had happened to his men, and put that, with effort, out of his mind. He knew where he was. These were the prison cells of Fortaine.

He understood that he faced his death, before which would come a long, painful interval. A ludicrous boyish hope flared that someone would come to help him, and, carefully, he extinguished it. Since the age of thirteen, there had been no rescuer, for his brother was dead. He wondered if it was going to be possible to salvage some dignity in this situation, and cancelled that thought as soon as it came. This was not going to be dignified. He thought that if things got very bad, it was within his capabilities to precipitate the end. Govart would not be difficult to provoke into lethal violence. At all.

He thought that Auguste would not be afraid, being alone and vulnerable to a man who planned to kill him; it should not trouble his younger brother.

It was harder to let go of the battle, to leave his plans at their midway point, to accept that the deadline had come and gone, and that whatever now happened on the border, he would not be a part of it. The Akielon slave would (of course) assume treachery on the part of the Veretian forces, after which he would launch some sort of noble and suicidal attack at Charcy that he would probably win, against ridiculous odds.

He thought, if he merely ignored the fact that he was injured and tied up, it was one on one, which weren’t terrible odds of his own, except that he could feel in this, as he could always feel, the invisible guiding hand of his uncle.

One on one: he must think about what he could practically achieve. On his best day, he could not take on Govart in a wrestling match and win. And his shoulder was dislocated. Fighting free of his bonds at this moment would accomplish, precisely, nothing. He told himself that: once; then again, to quell a deep, basic urge to struggle.

‘We’re alone,’ Govart said. ‘Just you and me. Look around. Take a good look. There’s no way out. Not even I have a key. They come to open the cell when I’m done with you. What do you have to say to that?’

‘How’s your shoulder?’ said Laurent.

The blow rocked him back. When he lifted his head, he enjoyed the look he had provoked on Govart’s face, as he had enjoyed, for the same reason—if a bit masochistically—the blow. Because he couldn’t quite keep that from his eyes, Govart hit him again. He had to strap down the impulse of hysteria, or this was going to be over very quickly.

‘I always wondered what it was you had on him,’ Laurent said. He forced himself to keep his voice steady. ‘A bloody sheet and a signed confession?’

‘You think I’m stupid,’ said Govart.

‘I think you have one piece of leverage over a very powerful man. I think whatever it is you have on him, it’s not going to last forever.’

‘You want to think that,’ said Govart. His voice was heavy with satisfaction. ‘Want me to tell you why you’re here? Because I asked him for you. He gives me what I want. He gives me whatever I want. Even his untouchable nephew.’

‘Well, I’m an inconvenience to him,’ said Laurent. ‘You are too. It’s why he throws us together. At some point one of us will dispatch the other.’

He made himself speak without undue emotion, just a mild remark on the facts.

‘The trouble is, when my uncle is the King, no leverage in the world will stop him. If you kill me, whatever it is that you have on him isn’t going to matter. It will just be you and him, and he’ll be free to disappear you into a dark cell too.’

Govart smiled, slowly.

‘He said you’d say that.’

The first misstep, and it was his own. He could feel the distracting beat of his heart. ‘What else did my uncle tell you I’d say?’

‘He said you’d try to keep me talking. He said you had a mouth like a whore. He said you’d lie, wheedle, suck up to me.’ The slow smile widened. ‘He said, “The only way to make sure my nephew doesn’t talk his way free is to cut his tongue out.”’ As he spoke, Govart pulled out a knife.

The room around Laurent greyed; his whole attention narrowed, his thoughts attenuating.

‘Except that you want to hear it,’ said Laurent, because this was only beginning, and it was a long, winding, bloody road till the end. ‘You want to hear all of it. Every last broken syllable. It’s the one thing my uncle never understood about you.’

‘Yeah? What’s that?’

‘You always wanted to be on the other side of the door,’ said Laurent. ‘And now you are.’

*   *   *

By the end of the first hour (though it felt longer), he was in quite a lot of pain, and was losing touch with how much, if at all, he was delaying or controlling what was happening.

His shirt was now unlaced to the waist and hung open, and his right sleeve was red. His hair was a tangled mess ribboned with sweat. His tongue was intact, because the knife was in his shoulder. He had accounted that a victory, when it had happened.

You had to take pleasure in small victories. The hilt of the knife protruded at an odd angle. It was in his right shoulder, already dislocated, so that breathing was now painful. Victories. He had come this far, he had caused his uncle some small consternation, had checked him, once or twice, forced him to remake his plans. Had not made it easy.

Layers of thick stone stood between him and the outside world. It was impossible to hear anything. It was impossible to be heard. His only advantage was that he had managed to free his left hand from its bonds. He couldn’t let that be discovered, it would gain him nothing. It would gain him a broken arm. It was growing harder to stick to a course of action.

Because it was impossible to hear anything, he reasoned—or had reasoned, when more detached—that whoever had put him in here with Govart would return with a wheelbarrow and sack to take him out, and that this would happen at a prearranged time, since there was no way for Govart to signal. He therefore had a single goal, like moving towards a retreating mirage: to reach that point alive.

Footsteps, getting closer. The metallic scrape of an iron hinge.

Guion’s voice. ‘This is taking too long.’

‘Squeamish?’ said Govart. ‘We’re just getting started. You can stay and watch if you like.’

‘Does he know?’ Laurent said.

His voice was a little hoarser than it had been starting out; his response to pain had been conventional. Guion was frowning.

‘Know what?’

‘The secret. Your clever secret. What it is you have on my uncle.’

‘Shut up,’ said Govart.

‘What is he talking about?’

‘You never wondered,’ said Laurent, ‘why my uncle kept him alive? Why he kept him in wine and women all these years?’

‘I said shut your mouth.’ Closing his hand around the hilt of the knife, Govart turned it.

Blackness burst over him, so that he was only distantly aware of what followed. He heard Guion demanding, in a tinny voice far away, ‘What’s he saying? You have some private arrangement with the King?’

‘You keep out of it. This isn’t your business.’ Govart.

‘If you have some other arrangement, you will disclose it to me, now.’

He felt Govart let go of the knife. Lifting his own hand was the second hardest thing he had ever done, after raising his head. Govart was moving to face down Guion, blocking his path to Laurent.

Laurent closed his eyes, wrapped his unsteady left hand around the hilt, and pulled the knife out of his shoulder.

He couldn’t contain the low sound that escaped him. The two men turned as his fumbling hands cut his remaining bonds, and he staggered to stand behind the chair. Laurent held the knife in his left hand in as close to a correct defensive posture as he could presently manage. The room was wavering. The hilt of the knife was slippery. Govart smiled, amused and pleased, as a jaded voyeur at some unexpected minor final act of a play.

Guion said, with mild irritation but absolutely no urgency, ‘Get him back under control.’

They faced each other. Laurent had no illusions about his skill as a left-handed knife fighter. He knew how negligible a threat he presented to Govart, even on a day when he wasn’t swaying. At his best, he would land a single knife strike before Govart closed on him. It wouldn’t matter. Govart’s structural bulk of muscle was layered over with a secondary bulk of fat. Govart could weather a single knife cut from a weakened, weaker opponent, and keep fighting. The outcome of his brief excursion into freedom was inevitable. He knew it. Govart knew it.

Laurent made his single clumsy left-handed strike with the knife, and Govart countered it, brutally. And indeed, it was Laurent who cried out at the tearing pain beyond anything he had ever known.

As, with his ruined right arm, Laurent swung the chair.

The heavy oak hit Govart in the ear, with the sound of a mallet striking a wooden ball. Govart staggered and went down. Laurent half staggered, too, the weight of the swing taking him part way across the cell. Guion was moving desperately out of his way, pressing his back to the wall. Laurent focused all his remaining strength on the task of reaching the barred door and placing himself on the other side of it, dragging it closed behind him and turning the key that was still in the lock. Govart didn’t get up.

In the stillness that followed, Laurent found his way from the bars, to the open corridor, to the opposite wall, which he slid down, finding at the midway point that there was a wooden bench, which took his weight. He had expected the floor.

His eyes closed. He was dimly aware of Guion, tugging at the cell bars, which rattled and clanged and stayed irrefutably closed.

He did laugh then, a breathless sound, with the sweet, cool feel of the stone at his back. His head lolled.

‘—how dare you, you worthless traitor, you’re a stain on your family’s honour, you—’

‘Guion,’ said Laurent, without opening his eyes. ‘You had me tied up and locked in a room with Govart. Do you think name-calling will hurt my feelings?’

‘Let me out!’ The words ricocheted off the walls.

‘I tried that,’ said Laurent, calmly.

Guion said, ‘I’ll give you anything you want.’

‘I tried that too,’ said Laurent. ‘I don’t like to think of myself as predictable. But apparently I cycle through all the usual responses. Shall I tell you what you’re going to do when I stick the knife in for the first time?’

His eyes opened. Guion took a single, gratifying step back from the bars.

‘You know, I wanted a weapon,’ said Laurent. ‘I wasn’t expecting one to walk into my cell.’

‘You’re a dead man when you walk out of here. Your Akielon allies aren’t going to help you. You left them to die like rats in a trap at Charcy. They’ll hunt you down,’ said Guion, ‘and kill you.’

‘Yes, I’m aware that I have missed my rendezvous,’ said Laurent.

The passageway flickered. He reminded himself that this was just the torch. He heard the dreamy sound of his own voice.

‘There was a man I was supposed to meet. He’s got all these ideas about honour and fair play, and he tries to keep me from doing the wrong thing. But he’s not here right now. Unfortunately for you.’

Guion took another step back. ‘There’s nothing you can do to me.’

‘Isn’t there? I wonder how my uncle is going to react when he finds out that you killed Govart and helped me to escape.’ And then, in the same dreamy voice, ‘Do you think he’ll hurt your family?’

Guion’s hands were fists, like he still had them wrapped around bars. ‘I didn’t help you escape.’

‘Didn’t you? I don’t know how these rumours get started.’

Laurent regarded him through the bars. He was aware of the return of his critical faculties, in place of which up to now had been the tenacious adherence to a single idea.

‘Here’s what has become painfully clear. My uncle instructed that if you captured me, you were to let Govart have me, which was a tactical blunder, but my uncle had his hands tied, thanks to his private arrangement with Govart. Or maybe he just liked the idea. You agreed to do his bidding.

‘Torturing the heir to death wasn’t an act you wanted attached to your own name, however. I’m not certain why. I can only surmise, despite a truly staggering array of evidence to the contrary, that there is still some rationality left on the Council. I was put in an empty set of cells, and you came with the key yourself, because no one else knows I’m here.’

Pressing his left hand to his shoulder, he pushed away from the wall and came forward. Guion, inside the cell, was breathing shallowly.

‘No one knows I’m here. Which means no one knows you’re here. No one’s going to look, no one’s going to come, no one’s going to find you.’

His voice was steady as he held Guion’s gaze through the bars.

‘No one’s going to help your family when my uncle comes, all smiles.’

He could see Guion’s pinched expression, the tightness in his jaw and around his eyes. He waited. It came in a different voice, with a different expression, flatly.

‘What do you want?’ said Guion.

CHAPTER THREE
DAMEN LOOKED OUT at the sweep of the field. The Regent’s forces were rivers of darker red, driving inroads into their lines, mingling their armies together, like a stream of blood hitting water, then diffusing. The whole vista was one of destruction, an unending stream of enemies, so numerous they were like a swarm.

But he had seen at Marlas how one man could hold a front together, as if by will alone.

‘Prince-killer!’ screamed the Regent’s men. In the beginning, they had thrown themselves towards him, but when they saw what happened to the men who did that, they became a churning mass of hooves trying to fall back.

They didn’t get far. Damen’s sword hit armour, hit flesh; he sought out centres of power and broke them, stopping formations before they began. A Veretian commander challenged him, and he allowed one ringing engagement before his sword sheared through the commander’s neck.

Faces were impersonal flashes, half shielded by helms. He was more aware of horses and swords, the machinery of death. He killed, and it was simply that men got out of his way, or were dead. Everything narrowed to one purpose, determination sustaining power and concentration beyond human endurance, over hours, longer than one’s opponent, because the man who made a mistake was dead.

He lost half his men in the first wave. After that, he took the charges head on, killing as many as were necessary to stop the first wave, and the second, and the third.

Fresh reinforcements arriving at that moment would have been able to slaughter them all like week-old pups, but Damen had no reinforcements.

If he was aware of anything beyond the fight, it was of an absence, a lack that persisted. The flashes of brilliance, the insouciant sword work, the bright presence at his side was instead a gap, half filled by Nikandros’s steadier, more practical style. He had grown used to something that had been temporary, like the flash of exhilaration in a pair of blue eyes for a moment catching his own. All of that tangled together inside him, and tightened, through the killing, into a single hard knot.

‘If the Prince of Vere shows himself, I will kill him.’ Nikandros half spat the words.

The arrows by now were less, because Damen had broken enough lines that firing into the chaos was dangerous for both sides. The sounds were different too, no longer roars and screams, but grunts of pain, exhaustion, sobs of breath, the clang of swords heavier and less frequent.

Hours of death; the battle entered its final, brutal, exhausted stage. Lines broke and dissolved into mess, degraded geometry, heaving pits of straining flesh where it was hard to tell enemy from friend. Damen stayed on horseback, though bodies on the ground were so thick that the horses foundered. The ground was wet, his legs were mud-spattered above his knees—mud in dry summer, because the ground was blood. Thrashing wounded horses screamed louder than the screams of men. He held the men around him together, and killed, his body pushed beyond the physical, beyond thought.

On the far side of the field, he saw the flash of embroidered red.

That is how Akielons win wars, isn’t it? Why fight the whole army, when you can just—

Damen drove his spurs into his horse, and charged. The men between him and his object were a blur. He barely heard the ringing of his own sword, or noticed the red cloaks of the Veretian honour guard before he hewed them down. He simply killed them, one after another, until there was no one left between himself and the man he sought.

Damen’s sword sheared the air in its unstoppable arc and cleaved the man in the crowned helm in two. His body listed unnaturally, then hit the ground.

Damen dismounted and tore the helm off.

Author Bio:
C.S. Pacat is a Melbourne writer. Her first series the Captive Prince trilogy began its life as an original web serial. Self-published in 2013 to critical and commercial success and acclaim, the Captive Prince trilogy was acquired by Penguin, and will be published worldwide in 2015.


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