Nov 18

New Release Blitz: Lemniscate by Sean Ian O’Meidhir and Connal Braginsky (Excerpt & Giveaway)

Title: Lemniscate

Series: Darklight, Book Four

Author: Sean Ian O’Meidhir and Connal Braginsky

Publisher:  NineStar Press

Release Date: 11/18/2025

Heat Level: 3 – Some Sex

Pairing: Male/Male

Length: 326

Genre: Paranormal, MM romance, explicit, fae, witches, mages, spider shifters, vampires, war, telepathy, psychic ability, psychologist, autism, problem-solving

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Description

Weaving the threads of eternity with Lemniscate, Nathen, a neurodiverse vampire, grapples with the intersection of special interests versus responsibility. At the same time, Cameron, a telepath, faces the shadow of his long-lost mother and the weight of what it means to truly protect the people he loves. Along with their elder vampire ally, August, they’re drawn into a volatile conflict between the spider fae and land fae. Together with a group of mages, they must uncover the key to ending the cycle of bloodshed, all while dodging betrayal, espionage, and secrets that threaten their bond.

From intricate fae politics to the camaraderie and chaos of their team, this final installment promises a tapestry of thrilling battles, poignant alliances, and profound personal growth.

Excerpt

Lemniscate
Sean Ian O’Meidhir and Connal Braginsky © 2025
All Rights Reserved

August

My Dearest Paige,

I cannot express in mere words the guilt, the anguish. Dara assures me your death need not be on my conscience as the future is foretold: That your energy is part of us all. Your blood forever part of me as you were my maker.

August choked, lifting the quill from parchment. He closed his eyes tight, a wave of grief washing over him. Flashes of Paige after she had been struck down flickered through his memories. I should have protected you… He gulped, a stilted breath pushed out. He learned long ago that while he did not need to breathe, not doing so made mortals around him uncomfortable. Therefore, he had mastered the subtleties of a masquerade so he could walk among them without suspicion—now second nature. Dipping the nib in the inkwell, he began again.

The only illusion that exists is one of separation as we are all bound together and will meet over and over again. But you and I— We stood outside of time, in this stasis of existence. We are the ones to watch the world change. And for centuries, we did. I chose to carry the burden of my grief for Margaret. I believe her memory allowed me to hold fast to the humanity you had disdain for. The trials helped me to realize I needed to release the hurt. It no longer serves a purpose. I know the anguish I currently carry for your loss will fuel so very much in the weeks to come—

He set the quill aside when a rush of calm chased away his demons. Dara.

“I am interrupting.” Her earthy scent encompassed him as she wrapped her arms around his shoulders. “But you were in distress.”

August leaned back, his head nestled against her, relishing the touch of her flowing green hair with wisps of auburn and gold as it swept across his chest. He patted her arms.

“I was saying goodbye to Paige. For centuries I would write to Margaret, and it brought some comfort. It kept her memory alive and assuaged my guilt for the new existence I had to embrace.” Realization made him pause for a moment. “The pattern repeats…”

“Over and over in the cycles,” Dara responded.

Unsure if she understood his epiphany, he turned to face her, rewarded when she slid around and into his lap. “The pattern of losing a woman I’ve loved to tragedy, of writing to her to gain perspective, of…holding on,” he mused.

Forest green eyes met his, the wisdom and calm of the oak comforting. “The battle to come will benefit from wherever you find strength.”

August hummed, burying his face in Dara’s chest, gaining strength there. Ever evolving. His cheek grazed a nipple that tented the gossamer cloth. The first time they were intimate, while she had the overall form of a human female, details such as feminine hair and nipples had been missing. Of course he would have never complained, assuming it natural. But subtle things had changed each time they met. He opted not to comment on them, grateful if she purposefully changed for him but also discreet enough not to call attention to it if she did not.

The simple act of forcing air into lungs that did not need it, only to let it out slowly in a sigh, helped to center him, to tie him to his human appearance. “The battle… I’m glad you won’t be there. I’m not sure what I would do if anything happened to you. I don’t think I’m strong enough to lose another,” he confessed.

“I am with you till eternities end,” she responded simply, the weight of her words ringing true in his ear.

The sounds of the rest of the coven, now disbanded, having felt Paige’s passing, filtered up to him. The truth of their feelings about Paige had become clear when he returned, and while they all mourned her loss, each experienced it differently. Indeed, one had professed his hatred for Paige and had taken his leave the moment August had confirmed the details. The others bickered over who would stay in the house, who would keep the artifacts, who would… It didn’t matter. His place was with Dara. So, he packed his belongings and passed them through the dream road for Dara to store for him. All that remained were his old writing desk and the writing instruments. But this project he could not hurry. Besides, saving it guaranteed his success, did it not? For how could he perish when he had yet to say farewell to his maker?

*

Cameron

“Jacks…” Cameron growled under his breath, pacing the bedroom where his mother slept peacefully. He shot a resentful look at Nathen who sat on the floor, his laptop open, staring blankly. No doubt talking with his new love—SpArk. And August! Off with Dara.

Cameron replayed memories. August had empathized, having been shown what Jacks was capable of but for some reason seemed to take it all in stride. “There are so many monsters out there. Better to have them on our side, wouldn’t you think?” Cameron tried to explain Jacks was the farthest from “on their side” than could be imagined, but August in his infuriatingly calm and collected way greeted and welcomed the man. August had gracefully led the entire interaction. While Cameron and Nathen were reeling, August displayed respectful charm. He introduced himself, ushered Cameron and Nathen into the other room with directions for them to check on Maria, and then returned to have a pleasant conversation with Jacks. He professionally and succinctly brought Jacks up to speed and, to his credit, Jacks shifted from arrogant jackass into all-business mode asking strategic questions. The two planned to rendezvous the following day after nightfall in order to regroup and Jacks had been…manipulated into coordinating travel?

“I am wondering how to go about arranging travel for the whole group. There’s Cameron, Nathen, you, and me, but also potentially four others. I could start looking into airlines for the seven of us and—”

Jacks cut August off. “I’ll have our company’s plane ready on the runway. We will rendezvous here at 18:00 as sunset is shortly after. We can discuss strategy on the plane. From here to New York is a three-hour flight, which will give us plenty of time. Once there, I will have a car scheduled to take us to one of the company’s strongholds.” At that, Jacks stood and shook August’s hand.

Cameron marveled at the memory. August had so masterfully manipulated Jacks no one would have guessed. The realization shook Cameron from his grousing. His attention turned to Nathen, who spun in an autistic overload. As he focused on Nathen’s mind, sparks of thought bombarded him: the ramifications—Jacks alive—reconstituted—nanites—the explosion—Cameron dying—what he had done to save him—Jacks’s atrocities—Jacks alive—nanites—Paradigm—Impetus—fae—the explosion—HR in the boardroom—HR on the phone—HR in New Orleans—nanites—the ritual to rid them of nanites—

Cameron sighed and knelt beside Nathen. His kiss or a touch wouldn’t soothe Nathen, so he sent a wave of calm across him. Nathen slumped some, but he needed time to process so stared on. He’d snap out of it.

Cameron came to rest on the floor, lost in his own thoughts, grateful Maria and Julia were okay. Julia had left to find food but would be returning shortly. Serge and Alfonso had left to investigate what had become of their home but had promised to check in later. The battle—the arachnoid monsters—the fire that had engulfed the house and destroyed Paige—all played out in his mind, and he found himself drifting off as exhaustion overcame him.

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NineStar Press | Books2Read

Meet the Author

Sean Ian O’Meidhir is a psychologist who lives in San Francisco, California. Sean is a hedonist who believes in living for today, living every day to the fullest, and enjoying as much as possible. Sean has been gaming since adolescence and has written about and played hundreds of lives, reveling in the chance to take on new personalities, dramas, even disorders.

Connal Braginsky is a software engineer who lives in San Diego, California. Diagnosed with high functioning autism, Connal sometimes struggles in social situations, but has an inner world that is always incredibly rich. With an insatiable thirst for knowledge about many esoteric things, Connal brings a lot of personal philosophies and interests to writing.

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Nov 11

New Release Blitz: To Beguile a Banished Lord by Fearne Hill (Excerpt & Giveaway)

Title: To Beguile a Banished Lord

Series: Regency Rossingley, Book Three

Author: Fearne Hill

Cover Artist: Mandy Porto

Publisher:  NineStar Press

Release Date: 11/11/2025

Heat Level: 3 – Some Sex

Pairing: Male/Male

Length: 294

Genre: Historical, historical romance/British Regency, gay, bisexual, age-gap, humorous, sunny/grumpy, hurt-comfort, humorous

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Description

Rollo Duchamps-Avery, the high-spirited second son of the eleventh Earl of Rossingley, is not in his father’s best books. After one misdemeanour too many, the earl ruins Rollo’s idyllic summer by packing him off to the wilds of rural Norfolk, arranging for him to stay with the Duke of Ashington’s loathsome brother.

Lord Lyndon Fitzsimmons has an aversion to houseguests. Shunned by polite society for crimes far wickeder than anything Rollo could dream up, all Fitzsimmons wants is to drink himself into a stupor, tend his beloved hydrangeas, and take potshots at tin soldiers.

If only his inquisitive young visitor, with his pretty little head of wispy blond hair, his stupidly coltish legs, and his knack of always being where Fitzsimmons would rather him not, would leave him in peace.

This third book in the Rossingley Regency romance series features the fourteenth Earl of Rossingley’s lively second son, Rollo, and the Duke of Ashington’s disgraced brother, Lord Lyndon Fitzsimmons. This book can be read as a standalone.

Excerpt

To Beguile a Banished Lord
Fearne Hill © 2025
All Rights Reserved

Chapter One
Rossingley Estate, Summer, 1825

I must not swive the stable boy (again).

I must not swive the stable boy (again).

I must not swive the stable boy (again).

I must not…

“Crocodile tears won’t save you this time, Master Rollo.”

Pritchard’s lisping note of triumph was unmistakeable. “No matter how prettily you shed them, you’ve pushed your papa too far. He is provoked beyond measure.”

“He’d be his usual fine and dandy self if you hadn’t gone running to inform him.”

“My primary role in the Rossingley household is to serve the earl,” answered Pritchard, as prissy and prim as ever. “Not his licentious offspring.”

Rollo harboured an ugly notion that his father’s valet had been waiting a long time for this moment, possibly since when Rollo, at age four, had sprinkled rich, resinous lily pollen amongst Papa’s meticulously folded white linens. It had been the opening salvo of a rather jolly dislike of each other.

“You’re relishing this, aren’t you, Pritchard?”

“Tremendously,” Pritchard confirmed.

Escape flitted across Rollo’s mind, but only for a second. One step ahead, and perhaps recalling the time Rollo had feinted past him and sprinted away across the lawns, Pritchard had brought along reinforcements in the form of two burly footmen stationed on either side of the library door. The window, alas, was closed.

Rollo shot a pleading look towards Kit Angel—Papa’s divine and terribly understanding paramour—currently decorating the settee, who shook his head. Everybody was loyal to Papa to a fault, and it was damned annoying.

“Sorry, old chap.” At least Kit sounded genuine. “For what it’s worth, I tried to talk your father out of it. Some of us enjoy having you around.”

What did he mean by having you around? Rollo wasn’t planning on going anywhere, unless swallow diving headfirst out of the nearest window and running for the hills until Papa had calmed down counted. And talk him out of what?

Before Rollo could further parse Kit’s words, Papa himself swept into the library, dressed in his favourite chartreuse silk banyan and pearls. Rollo coveted both immensely. As always, the eleventh earl was impeccably turned out, though this morning, his flamboyant attire sat at odds with the discomfiting, frigid set of his mouth. Rollo barely dared meet his pale eyes; when his mouth looked as grim as that, his gaze could freeze a lake.

“Rollo, my darling.”

Rollo winced. Only a fool would mistake the endearment for anything other than an affectation.

“Yes, Papa.”

The ice-chip eyes glittered. “You know why you’re here, I assume?”

“Yes, Papa.”

Experience taught Rollo that short answers tended to be met more favourably. Unfortunately, his smart mouth had a lamentable tendency to act independently of his mind. “Writing out I must not swive the stable boy one hundred times was a significant clue. The lack of hot water in my room this morning more subtle. But no less vexing.”

The faintest ghost of a smile twitched his father’s lips, gone in an instant. Even in the midst of a scolding, Rollo still appreciated he had the best of fathers. Most would have introduced his arse to the switch long ago.

“Do you have anything to say for yourself, Rollo?”

Rollo straightened his shoulders. Might as well be hanged for a sheep as a lamb and all that. The importance of standing up for himself had been instilled in him from a young age; Papa could hardly complain now he was reaping what he’d sown.

“Yes, Papa. Several things, actually.”

Papa sighed. “I’d expect nothing less.”

“Firstly, my wrist aches.” Rollo waggled it to demonstrate. “I have indelible green ink stains on my second-favourite blush waistcoat, and I’m still frightfully chilly. And, for the record, Ellis was an able, willing, practiced, and—dare I say—extremely encouraging participant.”

“Naturally, he was; you paid him two pounds!”

“And it was very well deserved.”

“And then a further crown, on account, for future favours!”

Goodness, Pritchard had been busy. Rollo shot him an evil look, though in having his financial transactions laid out so bluntly, his bravura hung by a thread.

“At risk of repeating myself,” Rollo ploughed on, “I considered it money well spent. Ellis has several strings to his bow.”

“Evidently.”

His father’s fine blond brows knit together. The line between standing up for himself and cheeking Papa was a fine one; Rollo had a sneaking suspicion he might have tiptoed across it.

“Darling Rollo,” began his father, a layer of frost coating each syllable. “For all I care, our stable boy could have the whole string section of London’s prestigious Philharmonic Society tucked behind the fall of his breeches. And you could have twanged every single instrument.”

Rollo had been on his knees attempting exactly that until he’d been discovered by the second groom, who’d blabbed to the head groom, who’d gone tittle-tattling to Pritchard.

“Nevertheless, as you are well aware, there is nothing I detest more than fortunate, well-heeled members of society taking advantage of those in their employ.” With an irritable flick of his hand, Papa waved away Rollo’s attempt to defend his actions. “That Ellis was willing is an irrelevance. You placed the man in a devilishly awkward position, and I simply will not tolerate it. Have I made myself crystal clear?”

“Yes, Papa,” he replied meekly. “Sorry, Papa.”

“And so you should be.”

Yet to be mollified, his father folded his arms and began pacing in front of the fireplace. “The simple truth remains. Our loyal servants are out of bounds. I distinctly recall this being made perfectly clear to you when you returned from Eton last year. Did I not?”

Rollo hung his head. “Yes, Papa.”

“If it had been your first demeanour and you had been totally in the dark, then, of course, I would instruct you on how a Duchamps-Avery should behave. It would be remiss of me not to. But, as it is, the fact that you stand here, arguing the point after all I’ve…”

Ahhh, to begin the day with one of Papa’s sweet lectures. Rollo didn’t need to tune in for the rest. He knew how things ran. Their disputes were well rehearsed operatic duets, composed of increasing exasperation on Papa’s part, Rollo feigning abject apology, a discourse on how a Duchamps-Avery should conduct themselves, ending with a loving embrace and a promise to do better. As usual, Pritchard and Kit had been making a fuss over nothing. Rollo would bow his head a few times, continue to appear suitably repentant, and ride this one out.

Content in the sure knowledge he was loved, Rollo’s thoughts drifted. In a few moments, Papa would fizzle out and decree his penance. Idly, Rollo wondered what it might be. Papa was nothing if not creative. Over the years, Rollo’s punishments had ranged from counting all the earwigs in the orangery (aged five, he was discovered hiding in the coal cellar after two hours of searching) to scrubbing the scullery steps with a toothbrush (for convincing his twin brother, Willoughby, that eating crushed pinecones would allow him to see better in the dark). Willoughby casting up his accounts the next morning during the church sermon aside, some of Rollo’s so-called punishments had turned into rather good fun. Like the time he was consigned to digging over the vegetable patch and unearthed an adder, which had slithered over Pritchard’s foot.

“To that end, Rollo, it is high time you had a firmer hand. My own father, rest his soul, oft quoted that a rose bush must be heavily pruned in order to produce the best blooms. And, on this occasion, I believe he was speaking with the weight of wisdom. Don’t you agree?”

Papa’s lecture appeared to have taken a horticultural detour. “Er…yes?”

“Excellent.” His father clapped his hands. “Therefore, Dobson will accompany you when you depart for your trip to Norfolk this afternoon, see you safely settled in, and return to collect you in three months’ time.”

“D-Dobson will…what?” Rollo’s happy flights of reminiscence screeched to a halt. Did…did he…did…? “Sorry, Papa, I must have misheard. Did you just say Dobson’s accompanying me to Norfolk?”

“Got it in one, darling. You are clever. To Goule Hall, to be precise. On the edge of the Broads, between some hellish backwater named Stokesby and another provincial bog going by the name of Wroxham, I believe. A delightful, if not a tad isolated, property belonging to the Ashington estate. The duke’s twin brother, Lord Lyndon Fitzsimmons, remains in residence after spending an enforced period of seclusion there a couple of years ago, whilst he…ah…reflected on several episodes of…ah…poor behaviour in and around the ton. I shall spare you the details. Suffice to say that in comparison, dear boy, your antics are those of a rank amateur.”

This Lord Lyndon Fitz-something-or-other could have kidnapped the moon from under the noses of the sun and the stars for all that Rollo cared. “And this…this Goule Hall is in Norfolk?” he clarified, aghast. Perhaps, somehow, his father was confusing Norfolk with Mayfair.

Alas, no.

“Unless the hall has been excavated and deposited elsewhere since the duke and I corresponded less than a week ago, then yes.”

“And Willoughby is coming too,” Rollo decreed, praying if he said it with enough confidence, that would somehow make it true.

His father shook his head. “On the contrary. Willoughby will be travelling to London with me. I plan to use the time you are apart to begin schooling your brother in the rudiments of my business affairs.” He flashed Rollo an evil little smile very much like Rollo’s own, displaying all of his sharp pointed teeth. “And perhaps take the opportunity to do some shopping, pay a visit to my tailor, and so forth.”

Ugh. That was a low blow. Rollo didn’t give two hoots for learning about business. Willoughby would inherit the title and all that nonsense, anyhow. But how he adored their family shopping expeditions! Much more than Willoughby ever did.

Pritchard made an odd noise, quickly covering his mouth with his hand. Knowing the blasted valet, the whole thing had been his bloody idea. He’d always enjoyed having the earl to himself. Rollo would have said so, too, if every ounce of his not inconsiderable intelligence wasn’t fixated on desperately seeking a way out of the barren wasteland now known as his immediate future. Because, from where he was sitting, Norfolk already seemed horribly like a fait accompli. Three months. Three summer months. Stuck with a dull, ancient lord, in a draughty old hall in the middle of effing nowhere. They might as well just shoot him with a musket ball now and be done with it.

He tried one last time. “Ha ha, very funny. But…really, Papa? Norfolk? Cold, flat, windy Norfolk? Even Bonaparte wasn’t exiled to Norfolk!”

“No.” The earl tilted his white-blond head, so like Rollo’s own, in gentle acknowledgement. “But then, my dear, Napoleon Bonaparte wasn’t a spoiled second son of an earl, caught swiving one of my stable boys when he’d been given explicit instructions not to manhandle the servants. Pritchard? Ring for Dobson, if you would be so kind. I do believe Rollo’s valises are already packed.”

Purchase

NineStar Press | Books2Read

Meet the Author

Fearne Hill is a British writer of queer romance and the winner of the 2025 Lambda Literary Award for LGBTQ Romance. When she’s not crafting characters who fall hard and kiss slowly, she works as an anaesthesiologist. She lives in the deepest Dorset countryside with her beloved spaniels.

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Nov 04

New Release Blitz: Swallows of Mostar by Neira Fazlovic (Excerpt & Giveaway)

Title:  Swallows of Mostar

Author: Neira Fazlovic

Publisher:  NineStar Press

Release Date: 11/04/2025

Heat Level: 2 – Fade to Black Sex

Pairing: Female/Female

Length: 216

Genre: Contemporary, YA/NA, sports, LGBT, sapphic, Sports romance, cliff diving, summer read, college, contemporary, Bosnia, Herzegovina

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Description

Two years after she moved to Mostar, a historic small town in Bosnia and Herzegovina, eighteen-year-old Franka Garcia still struggles with loneliness, language barriers, and terrible grades. After she accidentally falls off the famous Old Bridge, Franka is rescued by Mirna, a wickedly intelligent, but exasperated teenager obsessed with cliff diving.

Despite training all her life and frequently besting her peers, being a girl means Mirna can never participate in the centuries-old tradition of diving off the Old Bridge. But stubborn and determined Mirna won’t give up so easily.

After Franka’s near-perfect accidental dive, Mirna reluctantly takes on the challenge of teaching her all she knows about cliff diving. If Franka and Mirna want to compete, they must enact their unorthodox plan to take down the patriarchal system forbidding them from diving. Falling in love was never part of the plan.

Excerpt

Swallows of Mostar
Neira Fazlovic © 2025
All Rights Reserved

Čudna jada od Mosta grada

The morning sun was warm against Franka’s skin, and the pleasant summer wind ruffled her hair. Her lungs eagerly took in the first wisps of fresh air after weeks of being stuck inside with nothing but textbooks and math equations to keep her company. She leaned against the cold, stone wall of the ancient street that led to the Old Bridge, as the sweet and nutty taste of her ice cream caused her brain to produce some much-needed serotonin. With the River Neretva carrying away her worries, Franka looked up at the bright sun and smiled for the first time in weeks.

The scene in front of her was a common sight in this part of Mostar. The lanky guide was probably barely out of high school, with a subtle Slavic accent in his English and a vocabulary that could use a bit more work. Still, his flock of tourists (Canadian retirees, if Franka was correct) seemed interested in what he had to say about the city of Mostar, the often overlooked jewel of Southern Europe, as he called it, even if they probably could have read most of his speech on Wikipedia. Today, Franka didn’t mind because, only moments ago, a miracle happened: after two years of living in this city, she finally effortlessly understood a single sentence of the language.

The sentence was uttered, or to be more precise, yelled, through a thick accent by a tall young woman in a traditional Bosnian costume who sold trinkets to the tourists at the store closest to the Old Bridge. To be perfectly honest, the sentence wasn’t overly complex, but it was more than a hello or a plea to buy some souvenirs Franka would have recognized even before she was so cruelly punished by the gods and forced to live in Mostar. It wasn’t even directed to Franka or any other tourist, but to Ado, a short young man (at least, short for the land of giants that was Bosnia and Herzegovina) who was now running past Franka in only his bikini bathing suit, sporting a very smug grin on his youthful face. The sentence was simple, but it might as well have been poetry to Franka. “Ado, idiote, ne naginji se na ogradu, neki kreten ju je jučer razvalio!”

Some jerk busted the fence yesterday, and Ado was a fool for leaning against it. What a lovely statement!

Croatian was needlessly complicated, in Franka’s humble American opinion. So was Bosnian. And Serbian. Mostly because they were the same language with a few subtle differences, no matter what the native speakers would like to argue. Declinations, verb changes, and grammar cases, not to mention genders were all entirely unnecessary. Who decided “river” was female and “bridge” was male, and can their descendants pay for making Franka’s life in the city of Mostar somehow even more miserable?

But on this sunny summer morning, as she made her way to the Old Bridge, Franka at least got this one sentence correct. Maybe Mom was right. She really needed to leave the house.

*

“Franka, I just heard from a reputable source that it is summer outside. Can you believe it?” Mom had announced last night. She had walked into Franka’s, what could in the most generous terms be called “room,” without knocking and skipped over a pile of textbooks on the floor.

Franka sat behind her desk, a few days away from being completely taken over by the chaos that spread far and wide. Math, chemistry, and physics textbooks covered most of the available surfaces, other than the bed with messy covers that were probably supposed to be changed a few weeks ago. The seemingly endless quantity of mugs and bowls of cereal that kept appearing, but never disappearing, were very close to developing their own civilizations in this hot and moist environment. Franka didn’t have time to care. She had more important things to worry about.

She had finished studying chemistry for today (the urea cycle) and turned to math practice, littering her desk with scraps of paper filled with math formulas she understood perfectly. In English. Croatian was a different story.

“Really?” she asked, not even looking up at her mom, checking her result in the back of the textbook instead. It was correct, as was every single result she’d gotten for days had been. “I haven’t noticed,” she added in Croatian when she remembered this was her “no English summer.”

“Go out, please,” Mom said, switching back to English. “I beg of you. You have been in this house for a month! You will pass your exam.”

“I thought so last time, but here we are now!” Franka said. She was so lucky Bosnian colleges worked differently than the American ones, giving her an opportunity to retake her entrance exam in September and actually get in. The whole schooling system was unlike the one she was used to, where specialized colleges for pharmacology (as well as anything else) allowed her to skip undergrad studies and become a pharmacologist in just five short years. That was, if she could pass her exam.

“You have been stuck in this filth since June! That’s not healthy,” Mom continued, looking around as Franka suddenly became aware of the mess, the faint smell of stale air, and the boxes of stuff she should have unpacked two years ago. Still, she shook her head “no” and picked another math problem to focus on instead.

“Neither is not getting into college,” she said and tried to get back to her linear systems with two variables. Every list of questions from previous entrance exams for the Faculty of Pharmacy at the University of Mostar had at least one of those. If she wanted in, she had to be proficient, so god help her! “Very bad for the thyroid gland.”

“So, you want to cram two years’ worth of studying that you didn’t do into two months?” Mom asked, perfectly aware Franka might pull it off by any means necessary.

“That’s the plan,” Franka said and turned back to her math problem, but Mom wasn’t quitting.

“Go out. Please,” she begged again, but Franka wasn’t listening. “One hour?” she asked. “Can’t you spare one hour, so I don’t think you are losing your mind with all that science? One hour and you can get me off your back for at least a week.”

Franka paused for a moment. She was wasting time arguing right now, as she did for the past few days. It probably added up to an hour or so in total. Maybe this was the solution.

“You are in one of the most popular travel destinations in Eastern Europe. Enjoy it for an hour,” Mom continued. “Pretend to be a tourist. Grab some ice cream. Please. Mostar is a beautiful city. I promise you.”

“Very overrated,” Franka scoffed. When she was a kid, Franka had loved coming to Mostar for a few weeks every few years. Then she would go back home to Atlanta and tell her friends she went all the way to Europe and to this small country called Bosnia and Herzegovina in the Balkan Peninsula where her mom was born. Now that she was stuck here, it was hell. The city didn’t change, but everything else did. Mostar was a picturesque town, filled with history, world-famous for the sixteenth century Old Bridge that connected both sides over the gorgeous River Neretva that divided them. It was also too hot, too touristy, and too small (both in its size and the mentality of its people).

“Because our suburban hellhole in Atlanta was so much more fun,” Mom said, making Franka frown. If nothing else, Mostar was a living, breathing, organic city, even if half of the buildings were destroyed in the War and never fixed.

“I have to study. I don’t have time to mess around,” she continued. Tomorrow was the time to tackle the Krebs cycle again. Last time she lost at least ten points on that question. She knew it in English, but when she tried to explain it in Croatian, panic took the wheel of her brain and drove them both straight into a ditch.

“You want to practice the language? Go out, talk to an actual Herzegovinian other than me! It will do you wonders,” Mom continued, closing the textbook right in front of her.

That was the second argument that had given Franka pause. Coming to Mostar with barely any knowledge of the language despite her mom being born and raised here and then going to a school that was in English for two years really didn’t make any of this easier. Every time she thought she had the hang of it, someone would drop a new slang word or speak too fast and she would get lost again, so it was easier not to try at all.

“And you know, Isabella would love a selfie from the bridge. You know she loves bridges,” Mom added in her sweetest voice because she knew bringing up Aunt Bella would work.

And it did.

Purchase

NineStar Press | Books2Read

Meet the Author

Neira Fazlovic is a writer of books about lesbians, ghosts and science. Veterinarian by trade (and soon to be a PhD), she has been writing since she was thirteen. She is a great fan of cats, typos and Bosnia and Herzegovina.

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Oct 28

New Release Blitz: Two for Holding by S.B. Barnes (Excerpt & Giveaway)

Title:  Two for Holding

Series: Minor Penalties, Book One

Author: S.B. Barnes

Cover Artist: Tuisku Hiltunen

Publisher:  NineStar Press

Release Date: 10/28/2025

Heat Level: 3 – Some Sex

Pairing: Male/Male

Length: 280

Genre: Contemporary, gay, athletes, coming out, enemies/rivals to lovers, in the closet, slow burn/UST, San Francisco, sports/ice hockey, self-esteem issues, “practice with me” trope, anxiety attacks

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Description

Tom Crowler has been captain of the San Francisco Sea Lions for a decade of failures. With no cups or trophies to show for his time in the NHL, Tom retreated into himself a long time ago, and that’s exactly where he intends to stay until he retires. But when he catches the new team superstar, Jaxon Grant, in a compromising position, Tom finds it impossible to continue hiding his deepest secret behind a bland, pleasant mask.

Jax is everything Tom isn’t: loud, flashy, the winner of multiple NHL Awards, and—oh, yeah—gay enough to get traded to San Francisco because of a potential PR scandal with his old team. At first, he thinks Tom catching him means the next trade, the next rejection for being just a little too much for other people to take. When it turns out the two of them have more in common than talent on the ice, though, Jax finds himself drawn in by pulling Tom out.

As animosity gives way to a partnership neither of them saw coming, Tom and Jax are left facing new challenges. Will Jax’s impulsive nature put Tom’s deeply valued privacy at risk? Or will Tom’s reticence force Jax into pretending to be someone he isn’t? And if they can’t even figure each other out, how can they save a struggling NHL team from bad coaching and internal division?

Excerpt

Two for Holding
S.B. Barnes © 2025
All Rights Reserved

Prologue

Kayleigh: Hi everyone, I’m Kayleigh, your San Francisco Sea Lions media gal, and I’m here in the Sea Lions’ home base, Cyberian Arena, with the team’s newest addition, Jaxon Grant! Jax, how does it feel to be on the West Coast?

Jaxon: Um, good, yeah. Different. Less humid than in Philly.

Kayleigh: [leans in toward the camera] So, Jax—I can call you Jax, right?

Jaxon: Yeah, of course.

Kayleigh: Your trade came as a bit of a surprise, and so close to preseason. Can you tell us what brought you here?

Jaxon: [laughs] Uh. Good question. Honestly, if I could answer it, I might not be here.

Top comments:

sealions4lyfe: I know we had an offensive gap but…this guy? Really? He’s good, but does that make up for his personality?

Jefferson Howard: In my day, hockey players played hockey instead of dyeing their hair and buying designer watches.

(Video posted in The Rookery, the direct-to-consumer streaming service of the San Francisco Sea Lions and all associated teams, on 09/18/2024)

*

Joining a new team was always nerve-wracking.

The last time Jax had to do it, he’d been drafted third overall by the Philadelphia Magpies and had already gone through development and rookie camps. He’d earned his place. At the time, he was also eighteen and making more money playing hockey than his parents’ house had cost. He might have been slightly overconfident.

Now, Jax knew he was exactly the right amount of confident. He had six years in the NHL under his belt as well as the Calder his rookie year and an Art Ross two years ago. Any team would be lucky to have him.

As he walked into the San Francisco Sea Lions’ locker room for the first time at the tail end of training camp, he kept his shoulders back and his chin up, projecting all the confidence he could muster. No one had seen his trade coming, least of all Jax, and he’d missed all the team bonding events to start the season, but he was used to coming in as the underdog. He could make this work for him. He would make this work for him.

With that in mind, he strolled up to Tom Crowler, team captain, absolute beast on the ice and averaging comfortably over a point per game for the last decade. “Hi. Nice to meet you. Tom, right? I’m Jax, I’ll be—”

“I know who you are,” Crowler said.

“Um. Okay. So—”

“They’re probably going to give you an A. Phil can tell you what you need to know about your responsibilities.” Crowler waved vaguely in the direction of Phil “East” Easton, the only other person who’d been on the team as long as him.

Then, Crowler got up and walked out of the locker room.

Jax stared at his retreating back. Had he said something wrong? Accidentally worn a Magpies jersey out of habit? He looked down at himself. No, there was the stupid Sea Lions logo, a stylized swirl of lines only vaguely reminiscent of a real animal.

“Don’t worry about it.” A man roughly twice as broad as most humans came up to Jax and slapped him on the back, hard enough he had to brace for impact. “Captain’s always like that.”

“Seriously?”

“I’d been on the team for a month before he talked to me. I wasn’t even sure he knew my name.” The man smiled toothily. “Chris, by the way. Chris Calabrese. But everyone calls me Breezy.”

Right, a junior defenseman who’d gotten more and more minutes toward the end of last season and a lot of buzz in the press.

“Nice to meet you,” Jax said.

“You too, man. Excited to have you. We need some more young guys around here, you know? It’s just me and the rookies.” Breezy nodded over at two other guys in his corner of the locker room, both staring down at their phones.

Did no one in this locker room talk to one another? Chat?

“Sounds awesome,” Jax said weakly. Then he rallied. He’d make it work here. He would make himself integral to the team so he wouldn’t have the rug pulled out from under him with another goddamn trade. “What do y’all do for fun?”

Breezy made an odd face as if no one had ever spoken the word “fun” in the locker room before. “We don’t really do much as a team. But, hey, we should totally change it up!”

They absolutely should. They would be spending the next seven to ten months sharing a locker room and a charter plane and a team bus. What did they do, sit quietly next to one another, not talking? Jax wouldn’t survive for ten minutes, let alone eighty-two hockey games.

Breezy could definitely see his trepidation. “Here, come meet East. He’ll tell you everything you need to know.”

Twice now, someone had referred him to Easton for guidance, though he wasn’t the captain of this team. As Breezy led him across the locker room, Jax peeked out through the door. On the fresh, empty ice, Crowler drew circles around and around, all by himself, skating faster and faster as he went.

He was so good. Why was he so alone?

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NineStar Press | Books2Read

Meet the Author

S. B. Barnes attended college in the Hudson Valley, studying English Language and Literature and Anthropology (although unlike her characters, her time there was not interrupted by crime-solving). She grew up split between the USA and Germany, attending university in both countries before eventually settling in Germany. Today, she works as a teacher and lives with her husband and two cats in an apartment with too little shelf space. Fiction has always been one of her greatest loves, as a reader, as a teacher, and as a writer. While S.B. has been writing for most of her life, this is her first foray into publishing her work.

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Oct 21

New Release Blitz: The Devil’s Garden by Jack Bumgardner (Excerpt & Giveaway)

Title: The Devil’s Garden

Author: Jack Bumgardner

Publisher: NineStar Press

Cover Artist: Mandy Porto

Release Date: 10/21/2025

Heat Level: 2 – Fade to Black Sex

Pairing: NB/NB

Length: 366

Genre: Contemporary, Crime, enemies to lovers, hurt/comfort, poetry, small town, law enforcement, mental illness, prison, fugitives, road trip

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Description

Otho Linker is a gay man living in a small Southern town. Long abandoned by his family, he refused to leave the area and subsequently became a police officer. His neighbor, Wheeler Yost, is an older gay man who has watched over Otho for years, serving as a father figure and mentor. To Otho, Wheeler is the family he always needed, and he loves him unconditionally.

When an abandoned house in the woods suddenly explodes, Otho is called in to assist the two detectives on the force. This appears to be just another meth-head disaster until a body is found incinerated inside. As Otho investigates the case, he quickly identifies at least one suspect who could have been involved.

As he learns more about the suspect, Russell Snell, he also realizes he has feelings for the man. Then, in the midst of the ongoing chaos of the investigation, Wheeler passes away, leaving Otho totally alone. With nothing to lose, he decides to go on the lam with Russell, despite the doubts he still harbors about Russell’s involvement in the child’s death. Will he find love, or will he find heartache? Only time will tell.

Excerpt

The Devil’s Garden
Jack Bumgardner © 2025
All Rights Reserved

The car dusted the dirt road and hit the macadam just as Sherrill’s distinctive nasal drawl squawked through the radio. Otho quickly grabbed the speaker. “Linker.”

“Hey, hon, house fire at 2954 County Road Six.”

“House fire? Is the Volunteer Fire Department there?”

Sherrill laughed. “Well, hon, they got there as fast as they could from Wahnell County. Anyway, it looks like a head-house burn. Could hear the explosion all the way up here. Jim’s already at the scene, but he needs backup.”

“Roger. On my way,” he said, speeding down the road. He knew the address well, having busted a couple of rings of meth heads there in the past few years. The unfortunate layout of the town consisted of acres and acres of forest lands dotted with abandoned houses built by millworkers who valued the parcel of land they built on more than their homes, as evidenced by choosing to bury them in woods.

Then, as the families moved or died off, their houses became magnets for anyone looking to mix the chemicals that burned through their brains at lightning speed, turning high school heroes into hulks of toothless addicts and school beauties into scab-faced streetwalkers.

Otho traveled down County Road Six, ignoring the stretches of nothingness and wondering if the culprits were familiar, any faces he’d known as a kid. It had happened once or twice, but the meth heads he knew were too tweaked out of their minds to recognize him.

And, in a way, he was glad to remain anonymous to the people of his past.

Yet the fifteen-year-old in him sometimes wanted them to realize who was behind the badge and see his choice.

Tremendous plumes of gray smoke curled up above the tree line, and Otho grabbed the face mask on the passenger seat just as he pulled in behind Jim Lumsden’s patrol car. When he jumped out, he pulled the mask on, but it didn’t stop his eyes and nose from running as the chemicals from the explosion poisoned the air.

Jim turned around and greeted Otho with a half wave. His face and eyes were covered with the new plastic personal protection gear he had just ordered, making Otho wonder why he hadn’t received his yet. Responding to head-house explosions had become as routine to him as they had to his captain, yet rank was ingrained in the Temperly Police Department, just as it was everywhere else.

Jim waved him away from the scene, and they trudged down the skinny driveway until they were almost at the road. Then he pulled his mask off, coughed and said, “Sherill tell you what was going on?”

“Looks like just another head-house burn,” Otho said.

Jim nodded and looked back toward the fire. Orange walls of flames viciously devoured the plain little clapboard house as the firemen hosed it down, doing their usual miraculous job of keeping the flames from spreading to the tinderbox of pine trees that surrounded the structure. The Wahnell County Fire Inspector’s car roared past them.

“Glad Grace Twofeather’s here,” Jim said. “When this starts to cool down, she can tell us where the flashpoint was. Anyway, son, I’m glad you came. With all the horseshit budget cuts we’ve had lately, it’s hard to find backup for anything.”

“No problem, sir. But I’m wondering why you responded? Weren’t Brady or Cruickshank around?”

Jim shook his head and twisted his mouth as if he was trying to keep certain words from flying free. He looked around as if he was searching for spies in the trees, and he shrugged his round shoulders a few times. His stocky build and shiny pate cast him as a stereotypical Good Ole Boy, but his eyes shone with a deep intelligence. So he knew which officers were worth sending to troublesome calls. And he also knew which ones to send to monitor the Dairy-Rite ice cream stand, one of the few booming businesses left in town.

“Anyway, believe it or not, we’ve got some info on this place, unlike the other houses. Old Lady Snell lives in the area,” Jim said, nodding up the road.

The heat and smell were getting to Otho, so he pulled his wet shirt away from his chest and shuffled his feet. When he realized Jim was lost in thought, he said, “Sorry, sir, but what has Mrs. Snell got to do with this explosion?”

Jim looked at him. “Someone was seen running to her house by Bonnie Ingram as she drove past the fire.” He paused. “I know Mrs. Snell has a boy. Named Russell, I think. We’ve busted him on minor pot stuff.”

“Russell Snell?” Otho said.

Jim coughed more gunk out of his lungs. “Yep. I’m sure you’ve run into him whenever you cleaned out this shithole before. Haven’t you?”

The odd thing was that he hadn’t. But the name picked at his memory.

“No, sir,” he said. “But I’ll get on over to Mrs. Snell’s house.”

Jim nodded and began to walk down the driveway toward his car. Suddenly he stopped and turned to Otho. The smoke from the house fire was drafting down like a dark hand reaching to grab him but Jim just walked through it, wiping his eyes. “Listen, son. I could be mistaken. Bonnie Ingram’s been a little excitable lately, especially since Joe left her. But at least we got a name. Okay?”

“No problem, sir.” Otho got back into his car, jerked the mask off and strained to find Mrs. Snell’s house. He hated questioning the older residents of town since most of them met him with a government-resenting sneer or a squinty-eyed quizzical look. But the name Snell was still intriguing to him, so he took off down the road. Rolling down his window, he greedily gasped for fresh air, the last thing his hometown had in abundance, and he hoped her son was paying her an overdue visit today.

Within minutes Otho was in front of her house. He decided he would park on the narrow shoulder of County Road Six and walk up to the structure. That way Russell Snell wouldn’t hear the motor and shoot out the back door. And Otho wouldn’t be trapped in her slender driveway.

The house was a duplicate of the one that had just morphed into ash and smoke nearby. Except Mrs. Snell’s house was newer with a more recent veneer of aluminum siding and freshly painted green shutters. It stood as an anomaly to the other clapboard homes in the area, and Otho took note of its condition as he approached the front porch and punched the black dot of a doorbell.

He waited to hear someone amble toward the door or even a dusty shuffle but there was only silence. VFD clatter and shouting reached him from the fire next door as he noticed the houses were closer than he had first realized. That fact troubled him, but he didn’t have time to dwell on it as another explosion travelled through the air, and he found himself instinctively ducking on the porch.

Once he realized that the fire department was getting everything under control and heard the hiss as their hoses sprayed the flames, Otho stood up and pressed the doorbell again. This time he put his ear to the door to try to discern any voices or footsteps. Nothing.

“Temperly Police, ma’am!” he hollered, now tapping on the wooden door, its ancient grain surfacing through the tired paint. A quick glance through the tattered sheers on the windows showed a dark house with only the outline of furniture and a large rug on the floor.

Russell Snell. Why don’t I know that name? He walked off the porch and inspected all around the shoebox house. He couldn’t find anything amiss—no windows busted, no back door flung open. Not even any footprints in the backyard. Otho reached his car and took one more look. Just another poor widow’s house.

But no. The place and its possible inhabitants held an answer to something and not just a possible sloppy meth head arsonist or his poor mother. If the house next door was just ending its life, this one had something to do with it.

Its stubborn existence, standing pristine beside the rubble of its twin, held a sort of malice. A remorseless killing.

Otho got into his car and notified Sherill that he was on his way back to the station. She told him to hurry since it was potluck day in the snack room, then disconnected before he could ask her about the house on County Road Six or the woman who owned it. Or the man whose name was echoing in the memories he had shut down years ago. He took a breath and cursed, though he wasn’t sure why.

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NineStar Press | Books2Read

Meet the Author

Jack Bumgardner is a Southerner by birth and a Westerner by choice. Born and raised in Charlotte, North Carolina, he graduated from Stetson University in Florida.

He is the author of the novella Underneath It All and has had several short stories published in literary magazines. He also co-scripted a radio drama, “The Fire Talker.”

He now calls Denver, Colorado his home.

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Oct 17

New Release Blitz: Kuro by Ana Raine (Excerpt & Giveaway)

Title:  Kuro

Author: Ana Raine

Publisher: Changeling Press LLC

Cover Art: Renee’ George

Genres: Action Adventure, Dark Fantasy, Hot Flash, Mystery & Suspense, New Releases, Paranormal, Romance

Themes: Dark Romance, Halloween, Holiday Themes, LGBTQ+ /Gay, Magic, Sorcery, and Witchcraft, Second Edition, Shapeshifters

Series: Jack-O-Lanterns (#7)

Book Length: Hot Flash

Page Count: 29

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Synopsis

When Preston saves a black cat everything he knows about life and demons is going to be questioned.

While shopping for candy for his friend’s Halloween party, Preston saves a strange black cat from a group of teenage boys. Overcome with a desire entirely new to him, Preston takes the black cat home and discovers things are not always what they seem, especially on Halloween.

The cat, a demon named Caleb, has been searching for his mate for months and can’t help but be fascinated with sweet Preston. He’s determined to drag Preston down to his home in the underwater demon world.

Now Preston must choose between his mortal life, or one full of demons — and love.

Excerpt

Kuro (Jack-O-Lanterns)
Second Edition
Ana Raine
All rights reserved.
Copyright ©2025 Ana Raine

“Will you bring some candy for tomorrow?” Jackie’s voice was desperate. Before Preston could answer, there was the sound of crashing glass on the other end of the phone.

“Are you all right?” Preston asked his oldest friend. He somehow managed to balance a plate of leftover salad with a cup of almond milk while keeping a good grip on his cell. “What are you doing?”

“Getting ready for the party tomorrow. Or trying to.”

“And that involves breaking glass?” Preston smiled. Although Jackie and he had both majored in dance in college, Jackie was anything but graceful.

“No, dummy, it involves me trying to get these crystal dishes I got from my mom to all fit on the table.”

“Crystal? Sounds… extravagant. For a Halloween party.”

“Look, this is like the fourth Halloween I’ve been alone. Time to step it up.”

Preston sighed. “Okay.” He slipped out of his dance pants and pulled a pair of jeans over dark briefs. “What do you need me to bring?”

“Candy. Whatever kind you want. But not cheap shit — that makes me sick.”

“I’m on it.”

The wind was colder than Preston had expected. His windbreaker was thin and cheap, more of a decoration than an actual coat. It didn’t do much to keep him warm but this was the perfect opportunity to save money on gas. He was between productions, so he needed to save money any way he could. Leaving the car parked in front of his apartment, he walked down the street.

Jackie’s request was going to be hard to fill. There were only yellow sale signs where piles of candy should have been. Luckily there was one large bag of chocolate bars, which he grabbed. Narrowly avoiding a collision with a young couple, he felt his cock twitch, sending shivers of anticipation down his spine, almost as if he had a tall, handsome man to go home to… He’d watched too many vampire movies with dark-haired, blue-eyed heroes. Why else would he be getting so hot in the grocery store?

There were hardly any cars in the parking lot.

“Get it,” a voice shrieked so loud the plastic bag Preston had been holding fell to the ground when he flinched.

Toward the end of the parking lot, besides a clustering of trees, he saw a group of teenage boys. Preston could make out three of them, all tall and gangly, but a fourth stepped back as Preston neared the group. “What are you…”

“Get out of here, man,” the one who had just stepped back ordered. He had dark, pinched eyes and a glance that made Preston’s blood boil.

Although Preston wasn’t one for fighting, the urge to find out what the teenagers were doing was stronger than any emotion he’d felt in a while. “I asked what you’re doing.”

“Just havin’ fun,” one of the other teenagers jumped in defensively.

Two of the four teenagers were quiet, quickly dropping large sticks onto the pavement.

“Isn’t there a curfew tonight, guys?” the young man nearest to the woods asked, moving away from Preston.

The tallest of the teenagers took a step back, revealing a large black cat, sitting on its back legs but with an apparent twist in its front leg.

“How could you do this?” Preston asked, brushing past the young men. “This is just wrong.”

“Whatevs.”

Preston scooped the cat into his arms. The cat was so heavy he had a harder time straightening up again. “Gosh, you’re big. And black.” The cat reminded him of an anime cat — bigger and blacker than anything he’d ever seen before. “I think I’ll call you Kuro.”

The cat swished its head from side to side, glancing back at the retreating backs of his tormenters. Purple eyes, outlined in a deep black that was different from the shade of his silky black coat, stared at Preston. The gaze was penetrating and unearthly. Preston’s knees began to tremble. Even his arms were shaking as Preston held the cat close to his chest. He fumbled to pick up the plastic bag, missing the handle because the cat’s gaze was so consuming.

Sexuality was running rampant through his veins. He felt like he’d eaten drug-laced candy and was swimming through a current, trying to make sense of reality again. Get a grip, Preston chastised himself.

Maybe that hadn’t been enough, which could explain his sudden feeling of fatigue. But there was stunning need to find release. His legs prickled and because his eyes flickered so quickly, there were dark patches clouding his vision.

The cat meowed in his arms, but didn’t try to escape. Once Preston entered the glow of his brightly lit street, he was sure that the cat was safer, but the thought of releasing the dark fur pushed a feeling of tremendous pain through his chest.

“I’m not allowed to have pets,” Preston said softly, snaking a hand around the bag of chocolate so he could pet the top of the cat’s head. The cat had his eyes trained on him. “We should get you to the vet to fix that leg. Although I think we’ll have to wait until tomorrow.” The cat’s purple eyes were unnerving, but he couldn’t chase away the intrigue…

Purchase at Changeling Press

Meet the Author

Ana is still figuring out what she wants to do with her life, although social work seems to be the most likely. Her best friends are a box of chocolate and her kitten who always sit beside her while she writes. When Ana was in high school, she often wrote about the LGBT community, but now her work is less…innocent. Ana enjoys writing anything and everything, including BDSM, dragons, shifters, magic, and more.

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Oct 14

New Release Blitz: Death and Coffee by Lisa Acerbo (Excerpt & Giveaway)

Title: Death and Coffee

Author: Lisa Acerbo

Publisher:  NineStar Press

Release Date: 10/14/2025

Heat Level: 3 – Some Sex

Pairing: Female/Female

Length: 362

Genre: Fantasy, Romance, paranormal, historical, urban fantasy, bisexual, lesbian, Death, reaper, witches, Salem

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Description

The end is a new beginning for Prudence. After witnessing her mother’s wrongful conviction as a witch in 1661 and wishing for death, she gets just what she asks for when recruited. In her new job as a reaper, Prudence must learn to navigate the delicate balance between the living and the soon-to-be-deceased. However, her duties as a harbinger of souls are only the beginning of her trials as she makes her way as an immortal through the centuries. With nothing else to care about, Prudence excels on the job, even with an ill-tempered horse demon to keep fed and jealous coworkers vying for her downfall.

Love arrives for this reaper with one of her soon-to-be-dead clients. Prudence is instantly smitten with hospital doctor Daxone, defies Death to save the woman, and pursues her desires. Unfortunately, immortals shouldn’t love humans. Worse, revealing Death’s secrets gets the couple banished to purgatory. Prudence settles in only to be yanked away to Salem, Massachusetts. Once there, she is forced to deal with another of Death’s deadly problems. Thrust into a world of witches and dark magic, Prudence must harness her innate powers and confront a coven plotting to overthrow Death. With the world’s fate and her lover’s life hanging in the balance, she must find her magic and understand her past to keep the love of her life and the entire planet alive.

Excerpt

Death and Coffee
Lisa Acerbo © 2025
All Rights Reserved

Hartford, Connecticut, 1661

A frigid wind slashed the outside of the building but the chill inside the dimly lit wooden church had little to do with the temperature. In the thick press of bodies, the smell of fear and anger assaulted my nose.

“Pray, pardon me.” I wormed my way deeper inside. Not a single compassionate glance or “Good morrow” came my way. The people who sat sermon with me and greeted me on the pathway a few days ago averted their gaze, tone hushed.

My father, coward, refused to attend the trial. Earlier in the morning, I’d asked him to bear witness to this day, but he claimed to be too ashamed of his family, meeting my gaze purposefully with his own.

When most attendees had seated themselves, jammed together on benches like barnacles, the minister glowered and declared, “It’s time.” He pointed. “Repent your wicked and reviling acts for your soul’s salvation.”

My mother hunched in the gloom, halfway hidden behind a burly guard. The man’s hand crushed her slight shoulder before she slid to the ground like a rag doll, exhaustion and pain creeping over her face and frail body. The audience gasped but for reasons other than the jailer’s brutality. They believed her collapse proved the devil.

The preacher hammered my mother with his words. “There is light in the darkness, Martha. Be repentant for the sins of your life. Ask forgiveness from God. Admit the devil afflicted you and commanded you to unleash wickedness on our community, and your soul can be free in death.”

“I’ve done nothing.” Mother’s gaze found mine in the last pew. Her once beautiful auburn hair, which rarely strayed from its cap, fell lank and greasy around her face.

“You have been a practitioner of poisoning in hand and deed, but in God’s house, no devil has power.” The minister’s voice boomed; his chin raised to the heavens. “It is the only way to possible salvation.”

Blinking back the tears forming, I knotted my hands. “Please stop this. I promise my soul, my life, anything demanded of me.” No one heard my whisper of pain. “If you exist, show yourself and give this horrible congregation something to fear.”

Those prayers elicited no response from the heavens. The two small, low-set windows failed to remove the shadows and darkness extending beyond the rafters and into the congregation.

“God will cast the wicked into Hell. He can most easily do so, and you will be next unless you tell the truth before all your brethren in attendance.”

His words were drowned in a cacophony of outrage from the spectators who packed the pews for this horrible show.

I stepped forward.

An almost imperceptible shake of my mother’s head slowed my feet.

Last week, on the only occasion Father allowed me to visit Mother in jail, she’d begged me to avoid her, fearing for my life. Heart empty, I had questioned if there was life waiting for me with her gone—she, the only person who loved me in this world. Her tormented sobs made me regret those words.

Clamoring voices thickened the air as her trial dragged. Someone in town had to stand up for her. Instead, the crowd grew louder and angrier. Few still loved and wished to protect her. And, no doubt, my former friends would happily turn me over to the minister if I said or did anything here.

Rumors about my mother started in the late summer. After church one day, our neighbor Bridget complained of stomach pains. My mother had sent me to her house with tea, but the herbs meant to help had only made it worse.

In Hartford, Connecticut, when a problem occurred, everyone prayed, but prayers often didn’t reach heaven, and divine intervention seldom arrived. My mother and her knowledge of natural remedies had been a quiet aid to the community for years. No one had said a word against it.

Even my father had allowed it.

However, Bridget’s condition worsened, and a fever struck her the day after she drank the tea. Not a week later, she died, arms and legs flailing without consent, screams of pain echoing from her house for all to hear. My mother had been restricted to our home first, then jailed until her trial.

Bridget’s death brought rumors of witchcraft to my door, and now, not even six months later, shouts of anger and fear assaulted the walls and my ears.

“You deserve to be cast into hell.” The words heaved from my neighbors like boulders. “Witch. Devil’s spawn.”

My mother’s desperate glance revealed the true horror of the ordeal; a stark contrast to the minister next to her and the pudgy magistrate who sat high on a bench, shrouded in black robes and stern expressions.

Bridget’s friends and family stood and faced the crowd as they recounted her illness and the supposed potion my mother provided that led the girl first to the devil and then to death.

It had only been dandelion tea. I’d helped prepare the draught, but fear of the community and that I’d be next to my mother in jail clamped my lips shut.

The flickering candlelight turned the magistrate, perched on his bench by the altar, into a demon. This man had been a guest in our home not only to share the word of God but to ask my mother for a cure for his headaches.

“You’re accused of witchcraft,” he said. “How do you plead?”

“I’m innocent. I never practiced witchcraft. I swear it on my soul.” My mother turned to Bridget’s parents when the room had quieted. “I’m no witch. I swear by all that is Godly. I’m innocent of all you proclaim.”

Charity, a friend of Bridget’s, spoke. “She bewitched Bridget and made her suffer. All should have witnessed the horror of her last moments. Her lips fumbled to make a sound, teeth gnashing and mouth foaming. Her body trembled and shook before her limbs flailed, unable as she was to control them.”

“Do you deny the accusations of witchcraft against you?” the magistrate asked.

“I’m a God-fearing woman, and I’ve harmed no one.”

My push forward parted air thickened with tension and sweat.

“The evidence against you is abundant,” the magistrate said. “You’re wicked. A consort with the devil. All to spell innocent people. Your potions and teas are well known in town. You deserve to be cast thither. Under the law of a righteous God, your eternal soul shall be condemned to hell.”

“I have done nothing wrong other than use what God has provided in nature. I’m innocent. This I swear in His name.”

The crowd reared like the head of a snake, the hiss loud and damning.

I bit my thumbnail to hold back a scream, and an iron tang met my tongue.

“Do not profane his name.” The magistrate called the minister over, and their conversation lasted less than a minute, but it felt like an eternity.

“You’ve been found guilty of witchcraft. The sentence of the court is death by hanging. Let this be a warning to all. The devil stands ready to seize our souls as his own.”

“I’ll die guiltless.” My mother yelped when the guard squeezed her arm to silence her.

The crowd held me back. Their slurs stalled me as much as their bodies. As they herded me out of the church, I reached out to touch my mother but stumbled as those gathered pressed back to the jail. My cry filled the air, unable as I was to offer support.

The sting of my last chance at a goodbye nettled.

Purchase

NineStar Press | Books2Read

Meet the Author

Lisa Acerbo is the Director of General Education and Liberal Arts at Post University. Her short stories and poetry appear in Scarlet, Sagebrush Review, Moonstone Arts, Poor Yorick Literary Journal, Ripples in Space, Universe in a Bottle by Flying Ketchup Press, Whatever Happened to Hansel and Gretel? by Fathom Publishing (a finalist in the 2024 Best Books Awards in the category of Fiction: Anthology), and Birds of Vermont Museum. When not writing, you can find her walking in the woods with her rescue dogs.

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Oct 10

New Release Blitz: Medically Necessary by Emily Carrington (Excerpt & Giveaway)

Title: Medically Necessary

Author: Emily Carrington

Publisher: Changeling Press

Cover Art: Angela Knight

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

Themes: LGBTQ+ /Gay, Medical Romance, Multicultural & Interracial, Werewolves & Wolf Shifters

Series: Medically Necessary (#4)

Multiverse: SearchLight Academy (#12)

Book Length: Box Set

Page Count: 300

Synopsis

Trust is Earned (Medically Necessary 1): Amir is a General Practitioner for magical creatures, particularly werewolves. When the leader of all werewolves comes to him with a problem that presents like psychosis, Amir needs help. Oliver’s nursing a grieving heart and a chip on his shoulder. Still, when Amir asks for his help, he jumps at the chance. The submissive wolf is beautiful.

Trust is Fraught (Medically Necessary 2): As the leader of the werewolves sinks further into insanity, Amir and Oliver fight prejudice and time to rescue their alpha. As Oliver and Amir are pulled deeper into the dangers of the psychic world, their love may be the only thing keeping them sane.

Trust is Sacred (Medically Necessary 3): Oliver’s terrible secret is eating him alive. Amir thinks purging and confession are medically necessary for spiritual and physical well-being, but Oliver will stop at almost nothing to hide his scars.

Can either of them learn to trust?

Excerpt

Medically Neccesary
Emily Carrington
All rights reserved.
Copyright ©2025 Emily Carrington
Excerpt from Trust is Earned

He had tended to different members of the Tilthos and Merle werewolf packs over the years. Being positioned in southern Erie County, located in Upstate New York, had been the best thing he could do for his medical practice. Once he’d finally convinced Nicholas Black of the Merle pack in Buffalo, New York, to work with him as the werewolf equivalent of a midwife, his office was often full to bursting with pregnant female werewolves.

And it didn’t matter one bit that he spoke Werewelsh, the native language of most werewolves, with an accent or as only his fourth language. For Dr. Amir Othman, the prejudice he might have encountered because of his unusual parentage and his even more unique upbringing was all overshadowed by one truth. He was good at his job.

That didn’t make him less nervous to meet the alpha above all alphas. Tilthos Charles, alpha of his own pack and leader of the wolves of North and South America, was supposedly intimidating. All of which pointed to this truth: while Amir had healed every magical creature from djinns to kelpies, and even two dragons, he still worried about doing or saying the wrong thing in Tilthos Charles’s presence.

What bothered him even more was that he almost qualified as a lone wolf. A “packless loner,” in werewolf-speak, and that was not a compliment. He had a technical pack, run by Kreisha Alexander. When that particular alpha threw his weight around, everyone obeyed. Thankfully, that pack was in Washington, DC, nearly two hundred miles away. So, unless Alpha Alexander gave him an edict directly over the phone, as opposed to in an email or via snail mail, Amir could basically do as he chose.

Except, now the alpha above all alphas was coming to his office and would surely demand to know why he hadn’t switched his allegiance to a pack up here in New York. “It doesn’t have to be mine,” the most powerful werewolf on the planet would say, “but it can’t be you operating under your own aegis.”

So, when his assistant, Carly, sent him a message that Tilthos Charles was here, Amir’s pulse picked up. He responded to her message, saying he’d be in Exam Room Three in under five minutes. Then he did a deep breathing exercise, using the five senses trick he’d learned as a young wolf when he first realized he wanted to become a doctor and would be around blood and anxious magical creatures.

Five things he could see. His fidgety hands. By crossing his eyes, he could see his nose. His computer screen, which held everything his clinic had on the alpha above all alphas. Trying to look farther away in an attempt to slow his racing heart, he looked at the carpet in front of his desk. It was a boring brown that didn’t hold his attention. Finally, he looked at the door where he’d hung a poster of a Great Pyrenees, which was the closest breed to his family’s wolf forms, which were usually white.

Four things he could hear… The thudding of his heart. The rush of blood in his veins, which meant he was really keyed up still because even though he was a werewolf with acute hearing, he didn’t usually pay attention to the sounds of his own or others’ bodies. He struggled hard to refocus and heard the buzzing of the fluorescent light in the ceiling. He needed one more thing, so he made his chair creak. Oddly, the sound of something he could completely control helped him breathe a little easier.

Three things he could touch… The pen in his hand, which he’d been nervously twirling. He set it down. The feel of the chair under him, with his suit coat slung over the back. He could also feel his toes in his shoes. He breathed in more deeply than he’d managed so far and felt still a bit better.

Two things he could smell… He could no longer smell adrenaline. That was a good thing. He lifted his hand to his nose and smelled the soap he’d washed with maybe ten minutes ago.

And one thing he could taste, which was his cold lavender matcha latte.

Glancing at the clock icon on his computer, he saw it had been almost three minutes. Well, it was now or never. He doubted he’d be calmer if he sat here longer. So, he stood, straightened his white medical coat, and left the office. He listened to people talking quietly in the waiting room as he passed. He smiled at Carly, who mouthed, “Good luck.” Then he knocked on the door of Exam Room Three.

“Please come in.”

The voice that had responded was lightly accented, and he wondered why no one had ever told him Tilthos Charles was Hispanic. Then he was in the room, and he saw there were two people inside. The werewolf was certainly Tilthos Charles and the psychic vampire… Oh, yes. Tilthos Charles’s mate was a psychic vampire.

The alpha wolf sat on the exam table and his mate stood at his side. It was actually the psychic vampire who moved first, holding out his hand. “Dr. Othman, I’m Luis McLaughlin.”

Amir shook with him and then offered his hand to the burly werewolf. He saw the wolf’s eyes flicker quickly down to his hand and then away. Then his hand was taken and Tilthos Charles said, “Please to meet you, Dr. Othman.”

He sounded it too, but there was something bothering him. Well, and didn’t that make sense? Folks who were completely healthy rarely came to the doctor’s office.

“The pleasure is mine,” Amir returned, smiling at both of them. Then he retreated until he could sit on his stool. He watched Tilthos Charles’s eyes try to focus on him. “Forgive me, but while I have some information about your general health, I know very little about your visual impairment.”

He saw his guess had been right, that the alpha above all alphas indeed had something wrong with his vision.

“I told you he’d know,” said Luis as his mate brought out a folded white cane from behind his back.

“Forgive me the test, Dr. Othman,” said Charles, “but I’ve been seen by too many doctors who miss the obvious until I point it out to them.” He settled the cane on his leg, keeping one hand on it so it wouldn’t fall. “We’re here today, not because of my visual impairment, which has been unchanged since I was born, but because Luis is convinced there’s something…” He hesitated.

Luis said, “He’s distracted and agitated.”

Amir watched Charles’s nostrils flare and his pupils dilate. “I’m on edge because Agent Sowerby’s… Shit. I must be off-balance somehow if I’m about to spill state secrets.” He smiled ruefully at Amir. “Forgive me. Luis is right. I just can’t figure out how you’ll help me or if there is any help for the mess we’re about to be in.”

“May I examine you?”

Charles nodded.

Amir went through all the basics, including sending the alpha werewolf out to give him a urine sample. When the door closed, he turned to Luis. “How long has he been on edge?” He could smell the wolf’s almost panic.

“About three weeks. “

“Did anything precipitate his anxiety?”

Luis sighed. “I’m not sure what’s really private. I assume you’re bound by medical confidentiality?”

“I am.” He could see the psychic vampire hesitating. “Please tell me everything you can. I cannot be effective while only possessing half the facts.”

“My mate holds the belief that the head of SearchLight is going to expose all magical creatures.”

Amir’s mouth went dry. “I know Tilthos Charles probably has the ear of SearchLight. Is he correct?”

“Absolutely not, but I can’t convince him of that.”

“Has he talked to…” He couldn’t remember the name of the new head of SearchLight, only that Agent Weinberg had stepped down.

“I’ve tried getting Jack Sowerby to talk to him. No dice. Not that Agent Sowerby wouldn’t, but Charlie didn’t believe him.”

Amir held up his hand. The bathroom door had creaked open. He turned his head toward the exam room’s entrance for good measure.

Tilthos Charles entered. “Your assistant took my sample.”

Amir said soothingly, “Please, Alpha, sit down.”

He saw his words had the opposite effect to what he’d intended. Instead of resting on the table again, Tilthos Charles drew himself up. He was taller than Amir by half a foot and intimidating as hell.

Sitting on his stool, making himself as nonthreatening as possible, Amir put his hands palms up on his thighs. “I mean you no harm.”

Purchase at Changeling Press

Meet the Author

Emily Carrington is a multipublished author of male/male and transgender women’s speculative fiction. Seeking a world made of equality, she created SearchLight to live out her dreams. But even SearchLight has its problems, and Emily is looking forward to working all of these out with a host of characters from dragons and genies to psychic vampires. And in the contemporary world she’s named “Sticks & Stones,” Emily has vowed to create small towns where prejudice is challenged by a passionate quest for equality. Find her on Facebook at Shapeshifter Central or on her website.

Website | Facebook | Twitter | Goodreads | Shapeshifter Central

 

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Oct 07

New Release Blitz: Husky and Heartfelt by Jole Cannon (Excerpt & Giveaway)

Title:  Husky and Heartfelt

Series: Big Boys of Gilroy, Book Two

Author: Jole Cannon

Publisher:  NineStar Press

Release Date: 10/07/2025

Heat Level: 3 – Some Sex

Pairing: Male/Male

Length: 75100

Genre: Contemporary, Romance, family-drama, gay, bear, teacher, second chance, coming out

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Description

Loneliness has taken its toll on Sean’s life. He once loved Hugo but let him go after college. After twelve years, he misses what they had, but dating a man could end his career as a high school gym teacher and varsity football coach. Staying in the closet has become a shield for him, one that is cracking.

Openly gay music teacher, Hugo, puts on a happy persona to his students and colleagues. He’s tried dating, but they always want what he isn’t: a masculine, well-toned man. Outside, everyone he knows says he’ll find the right guy, and he needs to be patient with himself. Inside, there is a hole in his heart no one can fill except for Sean.

When Sean finally talks to Hugo after avoiding him for years out of fear of being outed, a friendship sparks. Can this spark be enough to reignite the passion they had in college before Sean broke Hugo’s heart, or will it dwindle into nothing?

Excerpt

Husky and Heartfelt
Jole Cannon © 2025
All Rights Reserved

Chapter One
Sean

Friday, January 8th, 1999

Sean locked his car and walked toward the school building. Two dozen cars filled the school’s parking lot. Staff who worked year-round and a few teachers, who like him, came in on the Friday before school started. Everyone would be here on Monday for the mandatory meeting and workday.

Sean entered the front office. One woman sat behind the desk, rifling through papers and checking her computer. Her long blonde hair was tied in a bun on the back of her head.

“Good morning, Helen,” he said.

“Good morning, Sean. Ready for another semester?” She smiled.

“I’m looking forward to it. I’m going to scout a few of the Sophomores on the JV team for my team next year. I need to get them ready and in shape.”

“Sounds like you’re looking to win the state championship again.”

“It’s been too long. We have to take it back.”

“Best of luck.”

“Thank you.”

Sean walked to the back office and collected his stack of papers from his box.

He headed to the break room and grabbed a cup from the cupboard. The aroma of the coffee in the pot tantalized his nose. It was store-bought basic coffee, but Helen made sure it was strong. That was what he needed today.

He dropped a quarter into the donation tin and poured a cup. The first taste of the rich black liquid seeped down his throat, awakening his senses.

He sat at one of the small tables and started flipping through the stack of papers until he found his spring roster. Two classes of Sophomore PE, third period prep, and they’d capped him at twenty-five students this semester. He’d complained that trying to wrangle thirty kids while also coaching and training the football team was too draining. A minor threat to quit as head coach next year altered their decision. He enjoyed having some say in his class sizes. His roster this year was tight. He was going to fight for players on his varsity team. He’d watched a few freshmen who could be second string on his team, but the JV coaches would fight to keep them. It was going to be fun this semester building a team.

“Good morning, Sean.” A familiar voice hit his ears. The pleasant and positive tones of Hugo.

“Good morning, Hugo. How are you this morning?” Sean said.

“I’m doing great. How are you?”

How can someone be so lively this early in the morning?

“I’m doing good. I just need coffee to get my engine started.”

“I hear ya,” Hugo said. He placed some change in the bucket and poured himself a cup of coffee. He added powdered creamer and sugar.

Sean watched Hugo. Even in the morning, he appeared very well-dressed. No students, and he still wore his tan slacks, light blue button-up shirt with a gray bow tie, and matching sweater vest his belly pushed against. Hugo’s short blond hair and trimmed goatee rounded out his look. His smile reached his baby-blue eyes, magnified by his round glasses.

Still as handsome as he was in college. I want to run my fingers through that hair again. I wouldn’t mind rubbing my hands over his chest and belly again, either.

Over a decade had passed since Sean broke the man’s heart, and he still remembered what he looked and felt like.

“Would you like to join me for a cup of coffee?” Sean asked. He’d avoided Hugo for six years. He couldn’t do it anymore. It killed him to distance himself from Hugo.

“Oh, yes. Thank you.” Hugo sat down and took a sip of his coffee. Sean read his face. The invitation surprised him. Sean didn’t blame him.

“What’s your schedule for the day?” Hugo asked.

“I’m going to plan the activities for the semester. Usual things. Basketball, some dodgeball, baseball if the weather holds up. What about you?”

“I’m going to choose the music for the semester. I want my advanced band and choir to perform together at the end-of-year rally. They work so hard, and I never get to put them together for a performance. I haven’t selected a song yet, but something will come to me. I talked to the advisor of the rally, and she said she would be happy to give me ten minutes at the rally.”

“That sounds exciting. I’m so happy for you.”

He was honest. He wanted to see Hugo succeed. The man had done so much for the music department, and Sean wanted to support him.

“It’s going to be a great semester,” Hugo said.

“I agree.”

“I’m sorry the team didn’t make it to state this year. I’m sure you’ll get there next year.”

“Thanks. They struggled at the beginning. A lot going on, but I’m sure we’ll do great next season,” Sean said. “I know your band and choir will be spectacular. I can’t wait to hear them.”

“Thank you,” Hugo said. “Do you have plans for the weekend?”

“Not really. Most of my weekends are me lounging around my house. Until baseball season starts.”

“Do you still see that guy I ran into you with at the game?”

“Bernard? Yeah. He’s a friend of mine. He’s a nice guy,” Sean said.

“That’s great.”

“What about you?”

“I’ll play my guitar, clean the house, and maybe watch a musical.”

“Sounds relaxing.”

“Anyway, I better go. I’ll see you around.” Hugo stood to go. “Oh, I forgot to ask. Did Kirkpatrick talk to you yet?”

Matthew Kirkpatrick was the school principal. He was one reason Sean hadn’t come out. Kirkpatrick and some of the administrators, along with the school superintendent, disapproved of same-sex relationships. They weren’t openly hostile—that would violate the union agreements—but everyone knew their position.

“What would he need to talk to me about?” Sean stiffened.

He’d been careful. Bernard was the last man to visit him, and that was over a year ago. He stayed away from places that could incriminate his sexuality, and no one came to his house.

“He mentioned sending some of us to the conference in Austin next month. I couldn’t find details, but it’s a weekend like usual. You and I were the only ones on the list from our district.”

Sean eased up. He didn’t love attending conferences, but there were worse things the district could ask him to do. He’d be able to spend time with Hugo. Maybe take Bernard’s advice and let him know how he felt.

“Thanks for the heads up,” Sean said. “I’ll see you later.”

“See you later.”

Sean sat in thought. He’d need to broach the subject of being gay first.

How can I tell Hugo I’m gay? I convinced him I wasn’t. What will he think if I tell him now?

Sean walked down the path to the gym. The school stood on a large plot of land. Beautiful patches of grass separated the buildings. This gave the campus an open feeling. Sean did his student teaching in a one-building school and agreed he’d never do that again. He enjoyed the spaciousness of Gilroy High.

Sean unlocked the boys’ locker room and made his way to the office.

The office held three desks, one for each male gym teacher, a cabinet with the first aid kit, extra gym equipment, and odds and ends they’d collected over the years.

Sean sat at his desk and powered up his computer. He sipped his coffee and rummaged through papers.

He pulled out the JV roster and started highlighting the players he thought had potential for the varsity team. He was losing more than half his team this year when they graduated. His current juniors needed a lot of help, but he had a plan. Threaten to replace them with the new juniors next year and that would light a fire under them.

A few names popped out. Beau Thompson, Clive Martin, and Stephen Miller. Those boys were fantastic. All three freshmen, and all three could play varsity as sophomores for him next year, if their parents signed off. They would form a powerful defensive line.

He was finishing up the first string of players when there was a knock at the door and Matthew Kirkpatrick walked in.

The principal was tall, over six feet, and glared down at people. This was his fourth year at Gilroy High, but Sean had never got to know him outside of staff meetings. He never visited the teachers, he never had meetings with parents or guardians, he did nothing but deal with paperwork and discipline students. Most of the staff disliked him, and he scared the students. It was fine for students to respect you and behave as a result, but he scared them in a way that upset Sean. He’d raised his voice at students and yelled at his team, but they knew why. Matthew yelled to dominate, not to garner students’ attention when they were being rambunctious. He’d heard Kirkpatrick through the walls of his office shouting at a kid who spit gum on the floor.

“Hello, Matthew. How are you this morning?”

Sean had learned not to call him Matt. The man didn’t appreciate the familiarity of first names and wanted them to use surnames. He gave up the fight when everyone called him, and one another, by their first names, but still refused to let his own name be shortened.

“I am doing well.” His voice echoed through the small office. “Mr. Janssen said you were on campus today. I wanted to talk to you about the conference in Austin. I think you would be a good fit as someone to represent our school. Would you like to attend? I will send you and Mr. Janssen.” Kilpatrick never used contractions. If Sean didn’t know better, he’d say the man was allergic to them.

“I think this would be an excellent opportunity for us. When is it?”

“It will be the last weekend of February. You will fly out on the twenty-fifth and return on the twenty-eighth.”

“I’d be happy to go. It’ll be a great opportunity.”

“Good. I will have the paperwork ready by next Friday so we can get clearance for you both to attend.”

“Is there anything else I need to know?”

“No, that is all.”

“Thank you for visiting. I’ll talk to you later.”

“One more thing,” Kilpatrick said. “We could only acquire one room, so I am going to have you share with Mr. Janssen. I am sorry that we could not get you into your own room. If it becomes an issue rooming with Mr. Janssen, please let me know and we will talk about getting you alternative accommodation.”

An issue? Because he’s gay, right? You can’t say that out loud though, you bigoted asshole.

“I’m sure it’ll be fine.”

“Okay, I will see you at the staff meeting on Monday morning.”

Matthew held out his hand. Sean shook hands.

“Goodbye, Mr. Patterson.”

“Bastard,” Sean said after he was sure Matthew was out of earshot. He picked up his phone and punched in a series of numbers. “Pick up, pick up. Please be there.”

Purchase

NineStar Press | Books2Read

Meet the Author

Jole Cannon is a high school math and math programming teacher. When he’s not shaping the mathematical minds of tomorrow, he’s playing video games with his partner, watching television, doing math for fun, and working on his master’s in history.

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Oct 03

(No title)

 

Author: Mychael Black

Cover Art: Angela Knight

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

Themes: Dark Romance, LGBTQ+ /Gay, LGBTQ+ /Sex/Gender Shifters & MPreg, Murder Mystery, Vampires

Series: Splintered Bloodlines (#2)

Book Length: Novella

Page Count: 74

Description

A ritual decades ago leads Beau to the one person he never expected to meet: his fated mate.

Detective Beau Kirkland has to work directly with the local vampire house to find a murderer, but that’s the easy part. The difficult part? His attraction to Garrett Dawson’s, one of House Saridan’s top hunters.

Garrett Dawson’s methods are brutal but very effective, even for a vampire. When a mortal detective begins working with House Saridan, Garrett finds himself unable to ignore the attraction between them.

Excerpt

Spellbound (Splintered Bloodlines 2)
Mychael Black
All rights reserved.
Copyright ©2025 Mychael Black

Garrett

There were few things I truly loved in this world, and one was currently in my hand as I took the elevator up to the fifteenth floor of Saridan Tower. No one else shared my addiction to the most amazingly sweet coffee concoction currently sending copious amounts of caffeine through my system. I stepped off the elevator on the top floor and headed down the hall to the usual conference room. I didn’t get any farther than the doorway, though. I simply froze, body alternating between hot and cold.

Normally, these meetings were just the three of us lead Venari and Deacon.

Not today, apparently.

Beau Kirkland looked up at me, eyes wide for a moment. No one said a word — not even Deacon. Somehow, I got my feet to move and sat opposite the omega cop. It took more effort than I really had this morning to focus on work and not the stupidly hot human across from me.

I didn’t go for twinks like the others. I liked my men older, more experienced. Beau fit that requirement with ease. His short brown hair bore a little bit of gray here and there, and his dark chocolate-colored eyes studied me whenever I glanced at his face. He was a few inches shorter than my own six-three, and unlike most omegas, he was a bit muscular due to his job. Dressed in his dark navy uniform, he presented the most fucking delectable package on the planet. I cursed silently and tore my gaze from his when all blood began rushing south.

Deacon cleared his throat and looked at each of us. “I’m sure you all know one another, but for protocol’s sake, I’d like to introduce Officer Beau Kirkland. He’s our liaison within the police department. He’s also the one handling this latest case on their end. Officer Kirkland, these are my head Venari: Nikolai Hart, Victor Pace, and Garrett Dawson.”

Beau nodded. “Good morning, gentlemen.”

We exchanged the usual pleasantries before Deacon continued. “I’m stepping back for now,” he said, glancing at me briefly, “but I’m here if needed. To that end, the table’s yours, Officer Kirkland.”

“Thank you,” Beau said. He handed each of us several folders. “Eight victims so far, all completely drained. Eyewitnesses have seen the perp in passing, but no one can agree on a description.”

“Could be a Lupyn,” Vic said as he flipped through the contents of one of the folders.

“That was my assumption, but you all know far better than we do if that’s the case.”

I went through the first folder in front of me. Crime scene photos, pics of the victims post-mortem, notes, and statements. I scanned over everything and couldn’t disagree with the shapeshifter idea. It would make sense.

“What do you need from us?” Nik asked Beau. “We’re more than happy to work with you and your folks.”

I’m not sure I would’ve gone that far, but we did need to get this monster off the streets. I might not have been particularly nuts about humans, but that didn’t mean I wished them dead. My methods were saved for my own kind.

Beau passed out papers to us. “These are the last few places he was sighted. He’s a vampire, so we humans are outgunned here. We can help corner him, but capture is a different story altogether.”

Nik nodded. “Agreed. Well, we’re here and ready to go hunting.”

I didn’t miss the slight grimace on Beau’s face before he managed to school it into something more neutral. Apparently, neither did Deacon, but the man just remained silent.

“Thank you,” Beau said. “Please keep me updated on everything. In the meantime, I’ll be at the station downtown, trying to narrow our possible location leads.”

“Thank you for coming to us,” Deacon said. “I guarantee we will be in touch. These guys are my best hunters, and I have no doubt they’ll find this son of a bitch.”

Despite the situation, Beau smiled. “Thank you very much.”

The others left the room, though Beau shot me a cryptic look before stepping out the door. I stayed seated, knowing Deacon had something to say. Sure enough, as soon as we were alone, he leaned back in his chair, arms crossed.

“Is this going to be an issue?”

I could’ve played dumb, but he already knew everything. There wasn’t any point. “No. I’m fully capable of working with him.”

Deacon raised one eyebrow. “Really? Because pheromones say otherwise.”

I managed to avoid scowling at him. Lupyns were more sensitive to things like that than Venari. “Unlike Nik, I’m perfectly capable of keeping my dick in my pants, Deacon.”

He didn’t say anything for a few seconds. He was far older than us, and being under his scrutiny made even me feel like a scolded kid sometimes. “Don’t let it get the best of you, Garrett. His job involves danger, and you can’t protect him from that unless you’re mated and bonded completely.”

“Who said I was –” I snapped my mouth shut at his glare.

“I’m old, not an idiot.” Deacon leaned forward and put his arms on the table. “Either fight this until the perp is in custody or fucking claim Beau. I can’t have you out there distracted. Understood?”

“Yes,” I replied, biting back a growl.

“Good. Dismissed.”

I stood abruptly, grabbed the folders and paper, and left the conference room. I made it halfway down the hall before Nik and Vic both cornered me. Fuck.

“That didn’t go well, did it?” Vic asked.

“No,” I snarled.

I continued walking, and they followed me to the elevator. I stabbed the DOWN button and had to unclench my fist before I gave into the urge to hit something. In the door’s reflection, I saw Nik and Vic exchange cautious glances.

We all stepped into the elevator and took it to the lobby. Without another word said, it was a given where we’d wind up. Colby’s was the city’s best diner with the most amazing coffee blends. Maybe the combination of carbs, sugar, and caffeine would calm me down because just the thought of claiming Beau sure as fuck wasn’t doing it.

Quite the opposite, actually.

I was hard as a fucking rock.

Purchase at Changeling Press

Meet the Author

Mychael Black has been writing professionally since 2005. He writes gay romance and erotica, but also het romance as Carys Seraphine and queer fantasy as Katherine Cook.

He’s an avid PC gamer with a love for RPGs, a horror fanatic, and a fantasy nut. He also has a weakness for anything relating to skulls, dogs, and Spongebob Squarepants.

Mychael lives on the Eastern Shore of the US with his family. He loves to hear from readers, be it via email or Facebook.

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