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Razor Teaser Tuesday

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Hounds of Hell MC (#6)

MC Romance

Date Published: 2/7/2025

Publisher: Changeling Press

 

 

She’s a spark I never saw coming, in a fight I can’t afford to
lose.

 

Deva — No Mercy Ink is my sanctuary, the shop I built with my brother
Jackson. But after a string of attacks leaves him in the hospital, I’m
left to defend everything we’ve worked for. That’s when Razor
storms into my life — intimidating, loyal, and maddeningly protective.
He’s everything I’ve avoided in a man, yet I can’t deny
the pull between us. But as danger closes in, it’s clear Victor
Grayson and his crew will stop at nothing to destroy us. Razor swears
he’ll keep me safe, but how can I trust him with my heart when my
survival demands I protect myself?

Razor — Leading the Hounds of Hell means protecting my family at any cost.
When Deva’s world collides with mine, she’s more than just a
mission — she’s a fire I can’t extinguish. Fierce, stubborn,
and utterly captivating, she’s determined to fight for her shop, even
if it puts her in Grayson’s crosshairs. But this isn’t just
about the club or Mercy anymore — it’s about her. The deeper I fall,
the higher the stakes. To win this war, I’ll have to face my past,
defend my future, and prove to Deva that she’s not just worth fighting
for — she’s worth everything.

 

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Excerpt

Copyright ©2025 Jamie Targaet

 

Deva

Zipping the front of her coat against the bitter cold wind of January, Deva
Crane climbed out of her SUV. After slinging her backpack over one shoulder,
she walked from where she parked behind the building. She and her brother
Jackson had been lucky to have rented a space in the strip mall when they
did. Theirs was a corner shop in a gritty, historic part of Mercy. Dark,
graffiti-style art covered the outer wall of the building, perfect for their
vibe. Decades of imagery and symbols decorated that wall conveying
rebellion, strength, and transformation.

Deva and her brother, called Outcast by his biker brothers, had opened the
shop three years ago. She was damned proud of what they’d built. The
shop’s bold neon sign read “No Mercy Ink” in fiery red and
cool white. She liked the way the sign caught people’s eyes on gray,
rainy days, and the ominous light cast on the street outside at night. It
had been her brother’s idea to tint the windows, and it was a good
one. The lighting made the intricate tattoo designs they displayed there
stand out, giving passersby a taste of the artistry within while maintaining
privacy. A small wrought-iron bench sat out front under the old metal awning
with a bucket that served as an ashtray, finishing the exterior — an
invitation to rest, get lost in thought, smoke a cigarette…

Deva unlocked the shop to get started with her day. As she flipped on the
light, she smiled. Inside the shop was a weird mix of her style and her
brother’s, like an odd cross between an art gallery and an old biker
bar. The walls were painted in dark, muted tones of indigo and slate gray.
There were metal accents and hints of exposed brick lending an authentically
rough vibe to their studio. Framed tattoo flash, custom designs, and photos
of some of their best works hung on the walls.

The waiting area in the front had metal stools and a weathered leather sofa
bought from thrift stores. She placed their high-end aftercare products and
branded merch in a glass display case there. No Mercy Ink was stamped on
everything from leather jackets to T-shirts and trucker hats.

Their tattoo stations were further in, separated by worn steel dividers,
offering their clients a little more privacy. There were three stations. One
was hers, one was Jackson’s, and a third that she hoped to fill one
day with another hired artist. They just needed to get their profit margin a
little higher to finally pull that off. Each station had a tattoo chair, a
tool cabinet, and an adjustable lighting rig. The workstations were well
organized with tattoo machines, bottles of ink, and sterilized needles. The
presentation was important to her because it showed their pride in their
craft. Jackson usually kept his area bare bones, all except for a photo of a
phoenix tattoo that he kept there. It was odd because she was pretty sure it
wasn’t his work. Her station had warmer lighting and a few plants,
reflecting her creative style.

Her goal had been to work on paying bills this morning, since she had no
appointments scheduled today. Business off the street didn’t pick up
until lunchtime or after. But suddenly the door sensor triggered the low
rumbling sound of a chopper engine that Jackson assured her would be so
cool. At first, she’d begrudgingly tolerated it. Over time, she came
to love the rumble of the sensor. Still, Deva had to wonder who was
there.

It was a familiar-looking young woman Deva couldn’t quite place, with
long, red curls and big eyes who stood in the waiting area, looking more
unnerved than excited. Her dark winter coat reached her knees and had a faux
fur-lined hood that she eased back. A tattoo virgin? Deva smiled when the
woman’s gaze found her.

“Hi, there,” Deva said. “Can I help you?”

A flush of color brightened the young woman’s face — no one blushed
quite like a natural redhead — and she nodded. “Yes, I was hoping to
make an appointment to speak with Deva.”

“That’s me. And I’ve got a few minutes. We just opened.
Come on back.” Deva motioned for the woman to follow her, heading for
her own station. Motioning to the tattoo chair, she said, “Have a
seat.”

The woman’s green-eyed gaze took in everything before she sat down,
perching on the edge of the chair. The visitor’s emotions were
palpable, her posture hesitant. Deva waited patiently, giving her the time
and space to speak when she was ready. Whatever it was the young woman was
dealing with, it was obviously still haunting her.

“My boyfriend recommended you,” she explained.
“Axel?”

That got Deva’s attention. Axel was one of the twin enforcers of
Mercy’s chapter of the Hounds of Hell. The same MC her brother
belonged to.

“I know him,” Deva said. “My brother is Outcast. We
co-own this shop and we’re both artists here.”

A little of the tension in her pretty face eased at that. “Outcast
is… very nice.”

Deva laughed. “No, he’s not. He’s a quiet, broody
asshole, but I love him.”

The redhead smiled. “He is quiet and…” Shaking her head,
she held out a hand. “I’m Sadie Downing.”

“Sadie. Well, I’m honored that Axel sent you to me,” Deva
said. “What can I help you with?”

“I’d like to get a tattoo. To, um, cover something up.
It’s…” Sadie paused, drawing in a deep breath, then rose
from the chair instead, her movements deliberate. Shrugging off her heavy
coat, she draped it over the divider and swept her long red curls over her
left shoulder. With hesitant hands, she tugged her shirt off one shoulder,
revealing just enough for Deva to glimpse the markings. What little she
could see was enough to make her stomach twist.

With Sadie glancing over her shoulder, Deva asked, “May
I?”

At Sadie’s nod, Deva gently shifted the shirt and bra strap to reveal
the full extent of the damage. The words “Bobby’s Bitch”
were crudely carved into her skin, a brutal mark of ownership. The sight
infuriated Deva. The jagged, uneven lines spoke volumes — rage,
entitlement, and pain. It was a violation, both physical and emotional,
leaving scars that went far deeper than the skin. Just the thought of the
agony Sadie must have endured made Deva’s stomach churn.

Deva adjusted Sadie’s strap and blouse back into place with care.
Sinking into the chair, Sadie swiped at the tears spilling down her cheeks.
Deva reached for the box of tissues on the counter, handing her one. It took
every ounce of control Deva had not to cry alongside her.

“I’m… sorry,” Sadie said, her voice trembling as
she dabbed at her eyes with the tissue. “Axel thought maybe there was
a way to cover it up. It’s not that he’s bothered by it —
he’s actually been so kind. It’s just…” Her voice
trailed off, unable to finish, the weight of her pain and vulnerability
hanging heavy in the air.

“You want to reclaim that part of you,” Deva said simply.

“Yes.” Sadie nodded. “I’m sure that’s so bad
that there’s probably not a lot you can do but…”

“There’s plenty we can do to cover that,” Deva assured
her. “I get a lot of requests to cover old wounds and scars these
days. It’s a specialty of mine.”

Sadie’s eyes widened, flashing hope. “You can?”

Deva nodded and reached beneath the counter to retrieve a photo album. She
flipped it open to a specific section, her fingers brushing over the pages
with care. Positioning the album on her lap, she turned it so Sadie could
see the images through the protective clear plastic sheets.

“Most of these are cover-ups for cutting scars.” Deva gestured
to the first two pages, which showcased intricately tattooed inner forearms.
The designs were bold yet delicate, turning painful memories into something
personal, meaningful. “But not all,” Deva added, flipping
through the rest of the pages. The other photos featured stunning tattoos
covering hips, thighs, and backs — art meant to reclaim and
transform.

 

About the Author

Jamie Targaet is the author of the Hounds of Hell MC. She’s anxious to
introduce you to this club of gorgeous, dominant men and the lucky women who
surrender to them. The ride is going to get wild at times, not going to lie.
But there’s thrilling action, scorching hot sex scenes, and all the
feels. 

Jamie writes erotic romance for Changeling Press, a little fanfiction on
the side, and she’s an aspiring horror writer in another life. She enjoys
time with her family (including the fur babies). She likes good horror
movies and shows, emo metal and classic rock, and time spent in other worlds
writing and reading. She loves hearing from readers and is looking forward
to hearing from you.

Author Contact Links

Author on Facebook

Author on Amazon

Author’s Website

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

Pre-Order Today

 

 

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Heart of a Lion Teaser Tuesday

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Gay Dark Fantasy Romance

Date Published: January 31, 2025

 

 

It takes a guardsman with the heart of a lion to love the hunt master and
survive the wrath of the duke.

 

A chance encounter lands young Curran a coveted position as Duke
Luthias’s personal guard, but his seeming good fortune soon sours as
the evil and deception woven into the castle walls takes its toll.

Tanis, the lover the duke makes Curran surrender as part of his oath of
loyalty, is the only man he can trust to help him stop the duke’s
ill-fated campaign to punish the northern marauders. But Tanis has secrets
of his own, and as much as he loves Curran, they could lose much more than
their lives if he gets involved now.

When the raiders retaliate for the duke’s acts of war by laying siege
to his castle, all three men are forced to take refuge within the fortified
walls. Who lives and who dies will depend on one man having the heart of a
lion.

Heart of a Lion tablet

EXCERPT

England 1446

The Foot of the Chevoit Hills

 

“This was a fine idea,” Curran Aurick announced to the world at
large. He arched his back until the rest of his naked body floated to the
surface of the steamy water. The natural hot spring formed a bathtub big
enough for ten large men, but this night Curran had it all to himself. Of
course, if one of the castle functionaries ever caught him here, his good
fortune would take a sharp turn for the worse.

“A member of the guard must not befoul the healing waters into which
His Grace’s lily-white bottom descends,” he mocked in the nasal
tone of the keep’s chatelaine. Like Luthias’ arse shat
daisies.

Not that he had any personal knowledge of the arse belonging to Luthias,
the Fourth Duke of Otterburn. Yet. Duke Luthias hadn’t been home since
Curran took the post of guardsman. That in no way diminished the respect and
love which blossomed in Curran’s heart as he listened to the epic
tales spun about His Grace’s battle prowess, kind heart, and lusty
cock.

The great nobleman had beaten back the northern marauders time and time
again. His campaigns on the border separating his beautiful duchy from the
Scottish rocks prevented the butchering heathens from spilling stout English
blood throughout the peaceful countryside.

As his large family lived in one of the duke’s protected villages, it
was a cause Curran wholeheartedly supported. It was also one of the biggest
reasons he’d left home. Curran planned to spend his life chasing
adventure so his younger siblings back home never needed to run in fear from
the barbarians. What better way to accomplish that than by joining the
duke’s army and learning the art of making war from the man who did it
best?

Unfortunately, as a member of the duke’s home guard, Curran had no
opportunity to take an active role in the duchy’s defense. The only
time he’d had to draw his weapon was to fend off a playful attack by a
quartet of maids.

Thank you, ladies, but no thank you. It took something stouter than a
virgin’s plump breasts to make his cock sit up and take notice. Given
the dearth of male lovers in the area, every so often Curran became tempted
to take a bite of the sweet meat the ladies offered him. The notion never
lasted long, for he need only look at their powdered and perfumed bodies to
have his manhood bow down in defeat.

No, his body and soul belonged to men with a warrior’s heart. The
heart of a lion. Rare men like Luthias.

True, the duke was aging, but far from infirm if the stories told about him
contained a grain of truth. His corded thighs were laced with battle scars.
His hands were calloused from a strong grip on the hilt of his sword. No
doubt the man’s cock would stand as tall and proud as the duke
himself.

Curran longed to know what would please so great and worthy a man in the
privacy of his bedchamber. Yet, bedding the duke was a dream destined to
remain unfulfilled. His first three wives were fragile creatures, dying in
childbirth or soon thereafter according to common servant gossip. The fact
that he kept replacing those he’d lost even after procuring a male
heir spoke to his preference for feminine charms.

Did the duke require his wife to pleasure him with her mouth first? Or was
it her warm, wet channel that His Grace preferred? Would there be anything
Curran could do to entice the man to sample what pleasures could be found in
the arms — and snug arsehole — of another man?

Curran let his thoughts linger on the arousing topic, generating an
internal heat equal to the temperature of the mineral-laden water
surrounding him. His engorged cock bobbed against his flat stomach as he
imagined being impaled by the duke’s cock. Soon his cock swelled with
the need for release, even if it had to come from his own hand.

Under the water, his feet sought solid ground upon which to rest. The
irregularly shaped wall of the pool provided an alcove which cupped his body
perfectly. His fist encompassed his cock, stroking the hard cock in a steady
rhythm. He didn’t have much room to widen his stance, but he did what
he could with his other hand to bring his balls equal pleasure.

“More, faster,” he moaned encouragingly to the duke of his
erotic dreams.

His imaginary lover complied, taking care to rub a thumb over the head of
his cock on the upstroke, just as Curran preferred.

Sharp edges of the natural formation had been chipped away to provide a
surface that might abrade but not slice through tender flesh. Curran
relished the sensation of the rough texture against his skin as he flexed
his hips.

In and out, his cock thrust through his tight fist. No, not his, the
duke’s.
And what was it Luthias was saying? Oh, yes. That Curran was a
brave and honorable man. A man who pleased the duke in so many
ways…

“Yes, yes. Take me fully into your mouth, sire,” Curran said
aloud. It was the last coherent phrase he could utter, for the power of his
release overtook his muscles and he cried out to the full moon in one long,
shuddering breath.

And in the brief silence that followed, Curran heard a shrill, avian cry
that chilled him to the bone.

 

About the Author

Kira Stone has been around the block…the writer’s block, that
is.

From vamps and witches to historical heroes, from futuristic scientists to
paranormal corporate executives, from Canadian werewolves to off-world
shifters, Kira has written about them all. Manlove has sparked hot and heavy
in many of her plots, but Kira also finds a lucky lady to keep the sexy
heroes company from time to time. While Scotland remains her favorite place
in the world, Kira is constantly in search of new adventures to add to the
creative primordial ooze where her best stories are born.

Author Links

Author on Facebook

Author on Goodreads

Author’s Website

 

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

 

Pre-Order Today

 

 

 

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Breaker Teaser Tuesday

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Motorcycle Club Romance, Age Gap, Suspense

Date Published: January 24, 2025

 

 

In the shadows of a world where danger lurks around every corner and
loyalty and love can be the deadliest weapons of all, two souls are drawn
together by fate.

Juniper — I was only fifteen when I ran away from home. Or rather, the
nightmare I’d ended up in, after my parents died. I’d known
living on the streets wouldn’t be easy, but I also hadn’t
planned to nearly freeze to death in an alley five years later. The biker
who found me, nursed me back to health, and promised to keep me safe was
unlike anyone I’d ever met before. When we found out my uncle would be
paroled, there was no doubt he’d try to find me. After all, he’d
think I was the one who turned him in. But somewhere along the way, I
started to fall in love with Breaker. Now I’ll do anything for
him.

Breaker — I’ve been with the Hades Abyss since I was a teenager.
Back then I went by Teller Reed, until I earned my patch. These people are
my family. I never thought I’d be willing to break all the rules and
defy the club president. Then I found Juniper nearly dead in an alley.
I’ve always believed in Fate, and I have no doubt I was led to her for
a reason. Now she’s mine, and I’ll do whatever it takes to hold
onto her… even if it means getting my hands dirty. If her uncle
thinks he can come and take her from me, he’d better
reconsider… because if he even tries, I’m putting him six feet
under.

As nights grow darker and stakes escalate, will their bond be enough to
withstand the ultimate test?

Breaker tablet

EXCERPT

Juniper

I trudged through the dimly lit alley, my feet dragging with each exhausted
step. Frigid air filled my lungs, the biting cold seeping deep with every
exhale. Clouds of breath formed before me, dissipating into the night like
my fading strength.

Violent shivers wracked my slender frame as I struggled onward. The thin,
tattered coat offered little protection against winter’s onslaught. My
head throbbed with a dull, persistent ache, the fever’s unrelenting
grip making the world seem distant and hazy.

Vision blurring, I blinked hard, trying to will away the encroaching
darkness at the edges of my sight. Each step required immense effort, as if
lead weights pulled at my aching legs. I had to keep going. Stopping meant
surrendering to the cold, to sickness, to despair.

Flashes of memory cut through the fevered confusion — Mama’s kind
eyes, the warmth of our tiny apartment, the scent of fresh baked bread.
Before the accident stole everything. Before Uncle’s leering face and
harsh blows became my waking nightmare.

“J-just… a little… f-farther,” I whispered
through chattering teeth.

Safety. Warmth. I needed… somewhere… to rest.

Squinting, I scanned the dank alleyway, willing a spot to manifest. There
— a small alcove tucked between two brick buildings. It wasn’t much,
but the worn wooden crate and scattered rubbish offered a modicum of shelter
against the biting wind.

Dragging myself the final few steps, I practically fell into the corner,
knees buckling. The rough brick scraped my back through my clothes as I slid
down the wall. Warring sensations of burning fever and clawing chills
besieged me. I drew my knees to my chest, trying to conserve any whisper of
body heat.

Snowflakes drifted in the dim lamplight at the alley’s mouth, the
first to fall this season. Once, a lifetime ago, I danced between swirling
flurries, Papa’s rich laughter ringing out as he twirled Mama. Now the
snow felt like a frozen shroud, settling over me with gentle finality. Had I
escaped the horror of living with my uncle only to die in this alley?

Exhaustion tugged at my eyelids, the effort of keeping them open suddenly
monumental. Thoughts scattered like windblown leaves. Perhaps if I rested,
just for a moment, the weariness would lessen. The pounding in my skull
might abate.

I huddled against the wall, arms wrapped around myself in a vain attempt at
comfort, and let my head drop to my chest.

The cold embrace of brick and stone welcomed me as awareness slipped away,
a final dark mercy. In the recesses of my mind, a tiny flame still
flickered, stubborn and desperate. A yearning for the warmth of a gentle
touch, the safety of a loving hand.

But as I spiraled into oblivion, even that spark guttered out, lost to
fever dreams and the remorseless bite of winter’s chill.

* * *

I fought to open my eyes, the weight of exhaustion pressing down like a
physical force. The alley swam into focus, all harsh edges and deep shadows.
I blinked slowly, trying to orient myself. How long had I been drifting in
the liminal space between wakefulness and oblivion?

A violent shiver wracked my body, the movement sending a fresh wave of pain
through my aching muscles. I gritted my teeth against the discomfort, my
breath escaping in a hiss. The cold had seeped into my very bones, a chill
no amount of rubbing could dispel. I had to get up and move. If I
didn’t, not only could I potentially freeze to death, but bad things
happened when you lingered in one spot for too long. I would be easy prey
for those who liked to take advantage of those weaker than them.

I braced my hand against the rough brick, my fingers scraping against the
weathered surface as I struggled to push myself upright. The world tilted
alarmingly, and I squeezed my eyes shut, willing the dizziness to pass. When
I opened them again, the alley had settled, but the edges of my vision
remained blurred, the colors muted and indistinct.

“Come on, Juniper,” I whispered, my voice rasping in my dry
throat. “You can’t stay here.”

But where could I go? The question haunted me as I staggered forward, my
hand skimming the wall for support. Each step was a battle, my legs
trembling beneath me like a newborn foal’s. The future stretched out
before me, a yawning void of uncertainty and despair.

Hot tears pricked at the corners of my eyes, but I blinked furiously.
Crying would solve nothing, and the moisture would only freeze on my cheeks,
another layer of discomfort to contend with. I had to keep moving, had to
find shelter, had to… had to…

My train of thought derailed, scattering into fragments. The fever was
playing tricks on my mind, making it difficult to focus on anything beyond
the next step, the next breath. A cough bubbled up from my lungs, tearing at
my throat like shards of glass. I pressed my free hand to my mouth, trying
to stifle the sound, but it only seemed to echo louder in the stillness of
the alley.

Desperation clawed at my chest, a wild thing scrabbling for escape. What if
I couldn’t find a safe place to rest? What if the sickness worsened,
leaving me helpless and alone? The specter of my uncle loomed in my mind,
his malevolent presence a constant shadow at the edges of my
consciousness.

I shook my head, trying to dislodge the dark thoughts. I had to stay
focused on the present, on survival. One foot in front of the other. One
breath at a time. It was a mantra I clung to, a fragile lifeline in a sea of
hopelessness.

But even as I repeated the words silently, I could feel the last vestiges
of my strength ebbing away. The brick wall was the only thing keeping me
upright, and I knew that soon, even that support wouldn’t be
enough.

Fear and despair twined around my heart, constricting tighter with each
labored step. The future I had once dreamed of, a life of safety and warmth,
love and laughter, seemed as distant as the stars, forever out of reach. All
that remained was the cold, the pain, and the certainty that I was utterly,
inescapably alone.

Hunger gnawed at my stomach, a relentless ache that consumed my every
thought. I couldn’t remember the last time I’d had a proper
meal, the kind that filled you up and chased away the cold. The memory of my
last meager rations, scrounged from a dumpster behind a restaurant, only
served to intensify the emptiness inside me.

I pressed a hand to my belly, feeling the hollow space beneath my ribs. The
hunger was a constant companion, a cruel reminder of how far I’d
fallen. It sapped my strength, making each step more difficult than the
last. I longed for the days when food was plentiful, when I didn’t
have to worry about where my next meal would come from.

Unbidden, memories of my family flooded my mind, bringing with them a fresh
wave of pain. I remembered the warmth of our kitchen, the scent of my
mother’s cooking filling the air. She always made sure I had enough to
eat, pressing second helpings onto my plate with a loving smile.

“You’re a growing girl, Juniper,” she’d say, her
eyes crinkling at the corners. “You need your strength.”

My father would laugh, reaching over to ruffle my hair. “Listen to
your mother, little one. She knows best.”

The love and affection in their voices, the safety of their presence,
seemed like a distant dream now. I ached for the comfort of their arms, the
reassurance that everything would be all right. But they were gone, taken
from me too soon, and all that remained was the bitter cold and the
unrelenting loneliness.

Tears stung my eyes, blurring my vision. I blinked them away, unwilling to
let them fall. Crying would only waste precious energy, energy I
couldn’t afford to squander. But the memories continued to assail me,
each one a bittersweet reminder of all I had lost.

I remembered the laughter-filled evenings spent playing board games, the
lazy Sunday mornings snuggled together on the couch. I remembered the pride
in my parents’ eyes when I brought home a good report card, the gentle
encouragement when I struggled with a difficult subject.

Those memories were a double-edged sword, bringing both comfort and agony.
They reminded me of the love I had once known, the family I had cherished
above all else. But they also underscored the stark reality of my current
situation, the yawning chasm between the life I had lived and the one I now
endured.

The longing for my parents’ presence, for the warmth and safety of
our home, was a physical ache in my chest. It mingled with the hunger, the
cold, and the fear, creating a cocktail of misery that threatened to drag me
under.

I shook my head, trying to dispel the memories. Dwelling on the past would
do me no good, not when the present demanded every ounce of my focus and
strength. I had to keep moving, had to find a way to survive, no matter how
bleak the future seemed.

But even as I pushed myself forward, the hunger and the loneliness
remained. They were a constant reminder of all I had lost, and all I stood
to lose if I couldn’t find a way out of this nightmare.

As I trudged onward, my mind drifted to the dark shadow that had haunted me
for years: my uncle. The mere thought of him sent a shudder down my spine, a
visceral reaction to the memories of his cruelty. His sinister presence
loomed large in my mind. It served to remind me of the danger I had fled and
the safety I so desperately yearned for.

I could still feel his hands on me, the bruising grip that left marks on my
skin and scars on my soul. His words echoed in my ears, the vicious insults
and threats that had eroded my sense of self-worth. Even now, miles away and
years later, his influence lingered, a poison that seeped into every aspect
of my life.

The weight of my past trauma pressed down on me, a suffocating force making
each step feel like a Herculean effort. I wanted to scream, to rage against
the injustice of it all, but I had learned long ago silence was my only
defense. To draw attention to myself was to invite more pain, more
suffering.

So I kept moving, my eyes scanning the alley for any sign of shelter. The
wind whipped through the narrow passage, its icy fingers clawing at my
exposed skin. I needed to find a place to rest again, to escape the
relentless cold that sapped my strength and clouded my mind. I didn’t
think I’d be lucky enough to find a warm space, but I could close my
eyes another short while before I needed to move again.

There, tucked away in a small alcove, I spotted a glimmer of hope. The
space was partially shielded from the wind, a tiny oasis in the midst of the
unforgiving city. I made my way toward it with faltering steps, my body
trembling with exhaustion and illness.

As I drew closer, I could see that the alcove was little more than a
shallow indentation in the wall, barely large enough to accommodate my small
frame. But it was better than nothing, a chance to catch my breath and
gather my strength before facing the long night ahead.

I lowered myself to the ground, my legs giving out beneath me. The concrete
was hard and unyielding, but I hardly noticed as I curled into myself,
trying to conserve what little warmth I had left. My eyelids grew heavy, the
temptation to surrender to the darkness nearly overwhelming.

But I couldn’t give in, not yet. I had to keep fighting, had to find
a way to survive. For all the pain and trauma of my past, I clung to the
hope that someday, somehow, I would find the safety and love I so
desperately craved. It was a fragile hope, a flickering candle in the
darkness, but it was all I had left.

So I huddled in the alcove, my breath coming in shallow gasps as I willed
myself to stay awake. The night stretched out before me, a vast expanse of
uncertainty and fear, but I knew I had no choice but to face it head-on. For
better or worse, this was my life now, and I would do whatever it took to
survive.

About the Author

Harley Wylde is an accomplished author known for her captivating MC
Romances. With an unwavering commitment to sensual storytelling, Wylde
immerses her readers in an exciting world of fierce men and irresistible
women. Her works exude passion, danger, and gritty realism, while still
managing to end on a satisfying note each time.

When not crafting her tales, Wylde spends her time brainstorming new
plotlines, indulging in a hot cup of Starbucks, or delving into a good book.
She has a particular affinity for supernatural horror literature and movies.
Visit Wylde’s website to learn more about her works and upcoming events, and
don’t forget to sign up for her newsletter to receive exclusive discounts
and other exciting perks.

 

Author on Facebook, Instagram, & TikTok: @harleywylde

 

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

 

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Maddog Teaser Tuesday

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Maddog cover

Black Reign MC (#10)

Motorcycle Club Romance

Date Published: 1/17/25

 

 

Who knew we’d get ambushed by the cartel on our way to a village deep
in the Amazon jungle?

 

Holly: I was sick as a kid. Leukemia. Felt like someone always had to drop
everything to take care of me. Hate being dependent on people now, so I try
to do everything myself. When my best friend takes up with a creep and
won’t believe me when I tell her something’s not right with the
man, I decide it’s safer (for her) if I go with her on a trip to
Columbia he’s organizing. Bad news: I’m right. Fortunately the
most annoying man I’ve ever come to count on thinks it’s his job
to rescue me. This time, I might just let him. And that’s where the
trouble starts…

Jax: I’ve known Holly nearly all her life. I’ve been her
protector and the person she wants most when things go horribly wrong, which
they do, more often than not. To say we have a contentious relationship is
an understatement. I put a claim on Holly she never accepted, but it’s
time to force the issue. Not because she doesn’t love me. Because
she’s afraid history is doomed to repeat itself. She’s wrong.
I’ll always come for her when she needs me. Like it or not,
Holly’s more than my responsibility. No matter the cost, she’s
mine.

Excerpt

Copyright ©2025 Marteeka Karland

 

Jax

“Let me get this straight.” I pinched the bridge of my nose,
trying to stave off the headache threatening to split my skull open. Funny
how that worked when I talked to Holly. “You’re voluntarily
going to a country with a level four travel advisory. Unarmed. With a bunch
of college students. With no security to speak of. Have I got that
right?” I tried to keep my voice low and even, to fight my way through
the rage that she’d be so cavalier with her life.

“Sweet God, could you be a bigger buzzkill.” Holly, ever the
little ray of sarcastic sunshine, sounded like she was exasperated with me.
Or, quite possibly, like she thought I was being unreasonable.

“Answer the question, Holly.” If I let her distract me,
she’d talk her way around my directness and hang up before I could
forbid her from going. Not that it was going to help. Holly always did what
she wanted. Usually, only her mother was able to talk sense into her.

“You do realize you’re not the boss of me. Right?”

“I realize that, when you’re considering putting your life in
danger for no good fuckin’ reason, someone has to rein you in.
I’m surprised Wrath even considered letting you go, much less given
his blessing.” The silence on the other end was deafening. “You
didn’t tell him.” It wasn’t a question.

“Again, not your business, Jax. This is my life and I’m living
it. If I get into trouble, I’ll accept the consequences.”

“Even if it cost you your life?” I tried to go for a
matter-of-fact tone, but my words came out a low growl.

“Even if it cost me my life.”

Neither of us spoke for long moments, the silence so long I was afraid the
call had dropped. Then she sighed.

“Look, Jax. I’ve got a sat phone. Even if there’s no cell
coverage where we’re at, Shotgun will be able to see where I am. He
and Esther are great with that shit. If we get into trouble, I can call him.
They can either send someone to come get me, or let me work it out myself.
I’m only agreeing to any of this so my mom doesn’t
worry.”

“Did you at least tell Celeste? Because I don’t see your mother
letting you do something like this at all.”

“No one lets me do anything, Jax.” Her tone was hard and firm.
She was barely out of her teens yet I’d never met anyone more firmly
in control of her life. Which was to say she lived in utter chaos most of
the time and that was exactly the way she liked it. “But yes. I told
her what I was doing. She’s not happy about it, but she knows she
can’t talk me out of it.”

“Did you ever stop to think how your mother and father would feel if
you got hurt or killed? I realize it could happen anywhere, but by going to
Columbia increases those chances exponentially over anywhere in the U.S. She
almost lost you once and gave everything she had to keep you alive.
Don’t you think you’re being incredibly selfish?” I
winced. Yeah, this wasn’t my finest moment. Had I been trying to push
her away I couldn’t have done a better job.

“Go fuck yourself, Jax.” She disconnected the call.

“Motherfuck!” I hissed the expletive under my breath. I knew
better. I fucking knew better. The best way to get Holly to do anything
other than what you wanted her to do, was to tell her she had to do it.
Pushing her into doing what you wanted was even worse. Trying to lay a guilt
trip on her? Yeah. I’d just guaranteed Holly was heading straight to
Columbia on a humanitarian aid expedition.

I pressed her contact and waited for her to answer the Facetime call. She
let it go to voicemail once so I tried again. She picked up this time
and… yeah. She hated me right now.

“Got nothin’ else to say to you, asshole.” I recognized
that mulish look on her face. She thought I was going to try to talk her out
of going again, but I knew better than that.

“Can you give me two days, Holly? Two days and I’ll go with
you. You can still do what you do with your college friends, but I can make
sure you’re safe.”

“We’ve got plenty of security. There’s no need for
that.”

“Holly. Two days.”

She shrugged one delicate shoulder, a look of indifference and disinterest
on her face. “Sorry, Jax. I don’t make the schedule. Plane
leaves tomorrow morning at six.”

I wanted to throttle the younger woman. She was constantly bucking me,
doing exactly the opposite of what I wanted her to do. To be fair, I was
twelve years older than she was and had decided she’d be mine long
before I should have. I’d been sixteen when she came to the compound
with Wrath and Celeste. She’d been a precocious but sickly child of
four. She’d survived leukemia like a champ, never letting anything get
to her. No matter how sick I’d seen her get from the chemo, the girl
had no quit in her. I knew because I’d been with her for the last few
treatments. Which she’d not appreciated. I’d insisted because
she’d been so mad at me she hadn’t focused on all the needles
and unpleasantness. I’d been happy to take her wrath then, even if
what remained of the kid in me had been slightly hurt that she hadn’t
accepted me as her protector.

Even when she was so young, I’d been drawn to her. She was this
little pixie who’d absolutely cut you if you displeased her but needed
someone looking after her. I’d taken that task on my own, growing into
a man protecting the girl until she’d started becoming a woman. The
plain truth was, it scared me the first time I caught sight of her in a
bikini at the pool. Freaked me the absolute fuck out. Once I’d come to
terms with my feelings for Holly, I’d inserted myself into her life
but kept playing the part of mean and annoying older brother. Why? Because I
knew if she learned to stand up to me, she always would. And if she could
stand up to me, she could stand up to anyone.

“Holly, I’m half the fuckin’ world away right now. All
I’m asking for is two fuckin’ days. It’s the right thing
to do and you know it. I may be a bastard, but I would never let anything
happen to you.”

Her expression didn’t change. “I don’t need your
protection, Jax. Shotgun and Esther have my back. I’ll be fine.
Besides, the father of one of the students going is a senator. They always
have security.”

“And their priority will be the senator’s kid. They won’t
give two shits about you or the others.”

“And if you were with me, you’d give a shit about the
others?” Oh, the sarcasm was strong with this one…

“Of course not. But I’d care about you. I’d be the one
protecting you and I’d do it with my life.”

She snorted, scowling at me over the video. “Dramatic
much?”

“Holly –”

“No. You listen to me! Nothing’s going to happen. And if it
does, I’ll deal. I don’t want or need your help,
Jax.”

“You’re wrong there, baby. You need all my help you can get.
But I’m telling you right now, if you don’t wait for me, when I
find you, I will turn you over my knee and blister your bare ass until you
don’t sit for a fuckin’ week.”

Oh, that got her attention.

 

About the Author

Marteeka Karland is an international bestselling author who leads a double
life as an erotic romance author by evening and a semi-domesticated
housewife by day. Known for her down and dirty MC romances, Marteeka takes
pleasure in spinning tales of tenacious, protective heroes and spirited,
vulnerable heroines. She staunchly advocates that every character deserves a
blissful ending, even, sometimes, the villains in her narratives. Her
writings are speckled with intense, raw elements resulting in page-turning
delight entwined with seductive escapades leading up to gratifying
conclusions that elicit a sigh from her readers.

Away from the pen, Marteeka finds joy in baking and supporting her husband
with their gardening activities. The late summer season is set aside for
preserving the delightful harvest that springs from their combined efforts
(which is mostly his efforts, but you can count it). To stay updated with
Marteeka’s latest adventures and forthcoming books, make sure to visit her
website. Don’t forget to register for her newsletter which will pepper you
with a potpourri of Teeka’s beloved recipes, book suggestions, autograph
events, and a plethora of interesting tidbits.

 

Contact Links

Author on Instagram & TikTok: @marteekakarland

Author on Facebook

 

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

 

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Taken by the Faerie Teaser Tuesday

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Taken by the Faerie cover

Paranormal Women’s Fiction, Urban Fantasy

Date Published: January 10, 2025

 

 

Thaddeus Maguire is a vampire. He can’t remember the last time he
felt young, vibrant and alive. He’s made choices he regrets, but when
one of those mistakes comes back to haunt him, he’s forced to face his
past. The only place a hungry, beaten vampire can heal and recharge is the
best sanctuary for anyone paranormal. Eerie.

When he forces himself through a portal to his hometown, he lands at the
feet of the most beautiful flame-red haired Faerie he’s ever seen. The
moment he looks up at Tasia, he’s in love. But who could love a broken
vampire?

Tasia isn’t afraid of the damaged vampire, and she’s determined
to make him see he’s more than his mistakes.

Can they outrun his past and find a future before his biggest mistake
destroys them? Love is possible when you’ve been taken by the
Faerie.

 

 

EXCERPT

 

“You’re dangerous.”

“I know.” Clayton’s eyes flashed. “I also know
you’re sending them to Eerie. I can’t touch them there, but I
can touch you here. Send another and I’ll fuck you up.”

“You will?” He had no doubt. Clayton didn’t care who he
hurt as long as he got what he wanted. “Why is that?”

“Because I made them for food. I made them so I can use them. I made
them because I want a fucking army.” Clayton stepped into
Thaddeus’s personal space. “I made them so they’ll fight
vermin like you.”

“Like me? Come now. That’s so harsh.” He shouldn’t
bait Clayton, but he didn’t care. He’d allowed Clayton and his
band of marauders to screw with his life for years. No more. “What are
you going to do about it? Are you going to kick my ass again? You’ve
done it so much that it’s lost the threat.”

“Oh?” Clayton punched hard into Thaddeus’s stomach. The
impact threw Thaddeus backward and would’ve knocked the wind out of
him — if he’d have had breath in his body. Not for years.

Thaddeus winced and gritted his teeth, but grinned. “Is that all you
have?”

“No.” Clayton withdrew a butterfly knife from his pocket and
slashed it through the air. He hacked into Thaddeus’s chest, leaving
trails of gray blood in his wake. He sliced down Thaddeus’s arm, then
across his belly. He shoved the knife into Thaddeus’s abdomen.
“Had enough?”

“I’m good. Wear yourself out.” He didn’t want
another slashing, but he wasn’t about to show that. The less Clayton
knew he was in pain, the better.

“You can’t protect all of them. Can’t save them or even
be the good guy. You’ll never redeem yourself,” Clayton said. He
twisted the knife. “You went down that road years ago and you
can’t undo it, so don’t try. Accept you’re a fucking loser
and will never be anything but.” He yanked the knife out and shook the
blood onto the asphalt as if the blood were water on his sleeve. He walked
away, then glanced over his shoulder and pointed to his eyes.

Of course, he was being watched. That’s how these beings worked. No
one ever got away free.

Thaddeus held his belly and managed to form a portal. Fucker. Clayton had
done a number on him this time. It’d take a few days to recover. He
would — vampires didn’t die without involving silver or crucifixes,
and Clayton was smart enough not to use either.

He couldn’t protect the human world forever. The regular
world’s vastness was more than one being could handle. He’d need
help.

Then again, he couldn’t be the only protector.

Jesus H. Christ. Where were the others? Asleep at the wheel?
Probably.

He shook his head and stepped through the portal into Eerie and quickly
closed the opening behind him. The faster he sealed the opening, the better
the chances he could get away from Clayton, even if only for now.

He sank to the ground and bowed his head. He needed to recharge. Fuck, he
should find a nice corner and hide. His skin would eventually seal over and
the damage within him would go away, but a good meal would help. Being in
Eerie didn’t mean he’d find one quickly.

He’d fought off Clayton for years, but he couldn’t keep going.
Not like this. Besides, why in the name of hell did Clayton need to destroy
so much?

He lifted his head and drank in his surroundings. He’d forgotten how
bright the town could be. After a moment, he realized he’d stepped
into the Faerie block. God love those Faeries; they lived for their
audacious colors.

Then there he was — he hated anything that wasn’t black. Blend in
and don’t be seen.

He looked around and his stomach churned. Not from the lack of blood, but
the sickeningly sweet location. There had to be at least three cupcake shops
on the block. Who needed so much sugar?

Not him.

“Excuse me. Do you need help?” A red haired Faerie, dressed in
a pale green dress, touched his shoulder. When he met her gaze, electricity
shot through him. His skin tingled from her touch. When she smiled, she
warmed him throughout. The odd look in her eyes confused him, though. Was
that interest or fear?

“You do need help. Are you… you’re cut. Oh, Hera, please
let me help you.” She grasped him under his arms and hoisted him to
his feet. “What happened to you? No, I get it. I see, and I’m
not letting you languish out here.”

“What are you talking about?” He didn’t understand how
she’d figured out he had a problem, other than the slashes and blood.
The way she talked, it was like she knew what was going on. Had she seen
other vampires coming to Eerie after being assaulted? How many more of them
were there? “How do you seem to know what I’m thinking?
What’s in my gut?”

“We should talk.” She nodded to a bench, then paused. “We
could stop here by the street, but you’re safer if you come with me to
the Hall. We’ll go to my work.”

“You’re a cop.” He dug in his heels as best he could.
“I’m not going to the cops.” He’d done that plenty
of other times and usually landed in jail for twenty-four hours for what was
claimed to be his own protection. Har. More like the protection of the
community.

If he’d gone mad or gone rogue, then everyone was in danger, but he
hadn’t on either account. He was just fine. Hurt, but fine. Beyond
that, the cops tended to have mages and necromancers on their staff who
could read his mind. They’d see way more than he wanted to
share.

 

 

About the Author

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

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

 

Author Links

Author on Facebook

Author on Twitter

Author on Instagram

 

 

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

 

 

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