Romance Feature: Rogue (Reckless Kings MC) by Harley Wylde #excerpt #comingsoon #preorder #mcromance #motorcycleclubromance #rabtbooktours @ChangelingPress @RABTBookTours

(Reckless Kings MC 10)

MC Romance

Date Published: July 24, 2026

Publisher: Changeling Press

She ran from a monster. I became her shield -- and everyone else’s nightmare.

Lennox -- I was supposed to marry a man chosen by my family. Smile for the cameras. Say the vows. Do what I was told. The wedding wasn’t about love. It was a business deal, and I was the price being paid.

So I ran. Terrified. Still wearing my wedding dress. I didn’t have a plan. I didn’t have anywhere to go. Then a biker named Rogue stopped beside the road and changed everything.

Rogue -- I’ve spent years handling problems for the Reckless Kings MC. Quietly. Permanently. Picking up a runaway bride wasn’t part of the plan. Neither was getting married. One look at the bruises she tried to hide and the fear she couldn’t quite mask, and I knew one thing for certain. She wasn’t going back.

Now her wealthy family, powerful ex-fiancé, and anyone else stupid enough to come after her will have to deal with me first. The longer Lennox stays under my protection, the harder it becomes to remember this started as a way to keep her safe. She deserves freedom, a future, and the chance to choose her own path. What she doesn’t realize is that I’ve already made my choice. She’s mine. And nobody is taking her away.

 

Excerpt

Copyright ©2026 Harley Wylde

Rogue

The lot at Hadley’s sat empty -- one rusted Buick, a flickering sodium light, dead still except for the canopy buzz. I rolled the Harley under the canopy and killed the engine. The noise dropped away. The night pressed close.

I’d been on the road since nine, a pointless run Hawk sent me on to check a stretch of road south of Nashville. Two of our guys thought they’d picked up a tail last week. I’d seen nothing but dark asphalt. Now, twenty minutes from turning north for home, I was hungry, bone-tired, and needed gas. Hadley’s had it all.

I swung off the bike and stretched the road out of my shoulders. The canopy lights hummed. Inside the store, a kid in a Titans cap sat behind the counter with his face in his phone, and a country station played thin from a blown speaker mounted by the cigarette racks. I paid him cash for two gallons of regular, picked up a black coffee and a Slim Jim I wouldn’t eat, and walked back out under the buzzing light and its collected moths.

I was about to unlock the gas tank when I clocked the white.

It was a flicker, no more -- a piece of something pale catching the edge of the security light around the corner of the building, where the dumpsters sat behind a low cinder block wall the owner had built so the highway couldn’t see the trash. The Buick at the far pump still had no driver. The road was empty in both directions. The tree line beyond the lot was black. Tennessee woods in November swallowed light whole. I stayed at the pump.

I leaned against the pump, uncapped the coffee, and took a long, slow sip I didn’t want. Then I looked. The lot. The road. The tree line. I gave it two minutes. Nothing moved. The flicker of white stayed put.

I set the coffee on top of the pump and walked around the corner of the building.

She was crouched in the gravel between the cinder block wall and the back end of the second dumpster, knees up, the skirt of a dress that had cost somebody a year of salary bunched around her thighs and stained dark at the hem with whatever Hadley’s back lot had to offer. There was a veil in her hair. An actual veil. Pinned high and torn loose at the bottom edge where she’d caught it on something. Brown hair had freed itself from the pins on one side.

She was pressing her left wrist against her ribs.

The wrist was already swelling. Fresh. The skin had gone an angry red and was thinking about turning purple, the kind of mark left by a hand closing around it and yanking hard. It hadn’t happened long ago.

She heard me before she saw me.

Her head came up so fast I thought for a second, she was going to put it into the cinder block behind her. She got her feet under her in one motion. She looked around eighteen. Small. She moved with the twitchy speed of prey, getting her back against the wall, her hands flat to the block at her sides like she could push it down behind her and go through it if she had to.

I stopped several feet from her and put out my hands where she could see them. Palms open. Empty… except for the Slim Jim still in one of them, which was not the dignified detail I would have picked.

I didn’t say anything for a beat. I let her look at me. Let her clock the cut, the patches, the boots, the beard -- whatever she needed. She scanned fast, doing math on the distance between me and the road, where the gap was. She was a girl who had learned how to measure rooms.

The veil moved a little in the night air. She didn’t.

“You hurt?” I kept it short. I kept the road out of my voice -- the put-her-at-ease lilt I used on women at the bar who didn’t know me yet -- because she didn’t need a man being charming at her right now. She needed a man being quiet.

She lifted her chin.

“I’m fine.” The words came too even. Too rehearsed. “I just need a ride.”

Bruised jaw. Swollen wrist. Veil still pinned in her hair.

“Okay,” I said.

She narrowed her eyes half a degree. She’d been ready for the next question. People who looked the way she did were always ready for the next one, and the one after that, and the moment a man decided he’d earned an answer.

I tipped my head back toward the front of the building.

“Bike’s at the pump.”

I waited for the second it took her to understand that I wasn’t going to walk her to it. Then I turned and went back the way I’d come, around the corner of the building, into the buzz of the canopy lights. I topped off the tank, returned the nozzle to the pump, tightened the gas cap. I picked up the cup of coffee from the top of the pump and held it like I had reason to be standing there. I didn’t look back.

A few seconds passed. The night did its small noises. The fluorescent up by the air pump ticked through another bad cycle and gave up, then came back on.

Then I heard the gravel.

Two steps. A pause. Three more, slower, picking the path. I could hear the soft drag of a hem.

I took another sip of the now-cold coffee, and I waited.

She came up on my left, two feet of clearance between us, and stopped at the back end of the bike like she’d been told once, a long time ago, that you didn’t walk up on a man’s machine without permission and she’d never quite let go of the lesson. The dress dragged on the concrete behind her. There was gravel pressed into the white of it in a stripe across the hip. Up close, under the canopy lights, the bruise on her wrist had gone the dirty red of something the next hour was going to make worse.

I’d kept my attention on the road for the last forty seconds because something had started pulling at the inside of my chest before my thinking brain caught up, and a man in my line of work learned to pay attention to that pull or learned to bleed.

That was when the first set of headlights came up out of the dark to the south.

They came slow. Slow enough that I had time to set the coffee down on top of the pump. Slow enough that I had time to read the shape of the vehicle before I clocked the speed of it -- square, high, blacked-out, the kind of SUV nobody bought in this county to haul kids to school. It turned in off the county road without indicating, and the second one came in behind it without indicating either. They didn’t roll up to a pump. They rolled past the pumps. They stopped twenty yards from the front doors of the store, in the open part of the lot where they could see everything, and sat there with their engines running and their windows up.

I felt her go still beside me.

She didn’t make a sound or move. She froze with the instinct of someone who’d learned motion could get her hurt.

I unhooked the helmet from the handlebar.

I held it out to her without looking at her. Sideways, low, between our hips, where the bulk of my body was between it and the SUVs.

“Take it.”

She took it. Both hands. The bruised wrist came out from her ribs and caught the light, and she tightened her fingers around the foam at the helmet’s edge hard enough that the skin across her knuckles pulled flat and colorless.

The driver’s door of the front SUV opened.

A man stepped out. Dark jacket. No coat for the weather, which meant he didn’t plan to be outside long. He didn’t walk toward the store. He stood in the open door of his vehicle with one hand on the frame and the other hand down at his hip where I couldn’t see it, and he scanned the lot -- left to right, slow, taking inventory.

He took clocked the Buick, my bike, and even me.

I threw a leg over the bike.

“Get on.”

She followed the softly spoken command. She didn’t ask which side. She didn’t ask where to put her hands. She scrambled on, hiking the dress up with a clumsy heave. She swung a leg over the seat, her heel scraping against the pipe before her foot found the peg. The helmet bumped once against the back of my shoulder as she settled, grabbing for purchase.

Her fingers dug into my shirt as she held on.

It wasn’t the loose grip of a girl who’d been on the back of a bike before and remembered the etiquette. Both of her hands closed in the front of my jacket like the leather was a railing and she was a half-step from going over, and both fists pressed into my stomach through the cut.

The man in the dark jacket lifted his hand off the SUV’s frame.

I was already moving.

I twisted the throttle. The rear tire spat a plume of gravel, the back end sliding for a split second before it caught traction. We shot out from under the canopy, and I leaned hard into the turn onto the county road. She moved with me instead of fighting it. On a first ride, that was the only thing that kept you upright.

Behind us, a door slammed. Then a second door. The high beams of the second SUV swept across the front of the store, across the pumps and the spot we’d been parked in three seconds ago, and then they swung wide toward the road.

I opened the throttle the rest of the way.

The county highway south of Nashville at eleven-thirty on a weeknight was a black river with a yellow line down the middle of it, and the bike ate it. The tree line on either side blurred into something you couldn’t look at without your eyes watering. Cold came up off the asphalt, through my jeans, through the cuffs of my jacket, and somewhere behind us, in the mirror, the SUV headlights came around onto the road in a wide, scrambling arc and started after us.

They were big vehicles. They were fast on a straight. They were not fast through curves, and I knew every curve on this stretch of road between Hadley’s and the county line by the time I was twenty.

I took the first one without braking.

Her hands clamped tighter. I felt the second fistful of jacket bunch under my ribs. She made a small sound, not quite a word, swallowed almost before it started. She put her helmet against the back of my shoulder and pressed it there. That was all.

I checked the mirror.

The headlights clung to us through the first curves, too bright in my mirror. I knew a feeder road up ahead they wouldn’t expect. I took the turn hard, the tires screaming. I saw their brake lights flare red as they overshot the turn-in. They’d be back, but I’d bought us thirty seconds. It would have to be enough. I didn’t slow down.

The next exit north was a county road. From there, I could hit a web of back roads leading to the woods south of the compound. A man on a bike could get lost in those trees. The men in the SUVs would have to be born in them to follow. I pointed the bike at the exit.

About the Author

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

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

 

Author on Facebook, Instagram, & TikTok: @harleywylde

 

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

 

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MC Romance Feature: Cash by Marteeka Karland #mcromance #motorcycleclubromance #romanticsuspense #excerpt #comingsoon #rabtbooktours @changelingpress

Mc Romance 

Date Published: June 19, 2026

Publisher: Changeling Press

I’m losing the fight to protect my daughter from invisible monsters. Cash may be our only hope.

Eliza – My daughter Lily’s plagued with mysterious injuries. We’ve spent far too much time in the ER. Doctors push me away when I ask for answers. Insurance denies our claims. Then Child Services decides I’m the monster. I’m out of options -- until Cash steps between us and the people trying to tear us apart. He’s dangerous – a biker and an ex-con. He’s also the first person who believes me. And that might be the most dangerous thing of all.

Cash -- Prison taught me to keep my head down, not get attached. Then court-ordered community service puts me in a pediatric ward, where a terrified little girl with a pink cast asks me to sing her to sleep. Lily isn’t mine. Her mother, Eliza, isn’t my problem. Except the second I see the system closing in on them, I know better. Eliza isn’t hurting her daughter. She’s fighting for Lily with everything she has. But when no one else listens, I bring in Kiss of Death, Haven, and every weapon we have that doesn’t require blood on the floor. Yet the more I try to protect them, the harder it is to pretend I don’t want them both.

 

 

Excerpt

All rights reserved.

Copyright ©2026 Marteeka Karland

Cash

I returned to the pediatric ward two nights later, my mind still lingering on the small girl with the pink cast. The mop bucket rattled ahead of me as I pushed it down the corridor, the wheels squeaking against the polished floor. I had finished my assigned section early, giving me a few minutes to check on Lily. I told myself it was just curiosity, nothing more, but the memory of her tears had stuck with me through my shift at the bar last night and the following restless sleep. As I approached her room, I heard raised voices from inside, the sharp tone of an adult argument cutting through the usual hospital quiet.

I slowed my steps, not wanting to intrude on whatever was happening. The hospital had strict rules about patient privacy, and I was already walking a thin line by visiting a patient outside my cleaning duties. But when I recognized Lily’s small voice rising between the adult voices, I found myself moving forward again.

The door to room 416 stood partially open. I paused just outside, my hand resting on the door frame. Inside, two women faced off across Lily’s bed. One was clearly Lily’s mother, small and slight with the same delicate features as her daughter, though hers were drawn tight with exhaustion. Dark circles shadowed her eyes, and her brown hair was pulled back in a messy knot looking like it had been hastily arranged. Despite her obvious fatigue, her stance was defiant, her chin raised as she glared at the other woman.

The second woman wore a crisp pantsuit and carried a tablet she occasionally tapped. Her hair was styled in a severe bob, framing her face. She wore a lanyard with an ID badge reading “Department of Child Services” and “Mrs. Janet Winters.” My stomach dropped at the sight. I had seen enough of them at Haven to know the conversation couldn’t be good.

“I have told Dr. Samson repeatedly. Lily bruises easily,” the mother was saying, her voice tight with controlled frustration. “I’ve been begging for more tests for over a year. But insurance keeps denying the claims, and Dr. Samson says the symptoms aren’t severe enough to warrant specialist referrals.”

“Ms. Jans,” the social worker replied, her voice clinical and detached, “this is Lily’s fourth hospital visit in eight months. The pattern of injuries is concerning. These bruises” -- she gestured toward Lily with her pen --”are consistent with grab marks.”

“Because I have to grab her when she falls,” Lily’s mother -- Ms. Jans -- said, her voice cracking slightly. “She falls constantly. She trips over nothing. Her legs just give out sometimes. If I don’t grab her and she hits something, she could get hurt worse.” She rubbed a hand across her face. “I work two jobs. I can’t afford the tests Dr. Samson won’t order. I’ve researched online, I think she might have --”

“Self-diagnosis from Internet searches is hardly reliable,” the social worker cut in, writing something on her clipboard. “The fact remains Lily presents with multiple unexplained injuries.”

“They’re not unexplained,” Ms. Jans insisted, her small hands clenching into fists at her sides. “I’ve explained them every single time.”

I shifted my weight, drawing the attention of both women. My gaze moved past them to Lily, who lay quietly watching the adults argue over her. Her thin arm was still encased in the bright pink cast, but now I could see more clearly the pattern of bruises dotting her pale skin. They did look like fingerprints in places, but something about the way they clustered didn’t feel right to me. I’d seen plenty of abuse in my time, both as a kid and later when women showed up at Haven. This felt different.

When Lily spotted me, her whole face transformed. The wariness vanished, replaced by a smile that lit up her tired features. “Cash,” she said, her voice rising with excitement. “You came back. Will you sing to me again?”

The social worker’s head snapped toward me, her eyes narrowing as she took in my appearance. Her gaze lingered on my MC cut, the Kiss of Death patch prominently displayed on the leather. Her lips pressed into a thin line as she looked me up and down, taking in the tattoos visible on my neck and hands.

“Sing?” Ms. Jans asked, looking between her daughter and me with confusion.

“He has pictures all over his skin,” Lily informed her mother. “And he sang me to sleep when you had to go talk to the doctors. He has a pretty voice.”

The social worker’s stylus moved rapidly across her tablet, and I didn’t need to see what she was writing to know it wasn’t good.

“Ma’am,” I said, addressing the social worker and keeping my voice respectfully low, “I’m just the janitor. Part of the community service program.” I gestured to my volunteer badge. “The kid was crying alone in her room a couple nights back, so I sang her a lullaby until a nurse could come.”

Ms. Jans looked at me with a mix of gratitude and new wariness. The circles under her eyes looked even darker up close, and I noticed her hands were rough and reddened, the nails clipped short.

“Thank you,” she said quietly. “I had to speak with the doctor about her new medications. The nurses said they’d check on her, but --”

“Budget cuts mean they’re always short-staffed,” I finished for her, understanding all too well how systems failed the people who needed them most. “Probably thought she’d sleep through you being gone.” I glanced at the social worker. “Sounds like you got set up to fail. They make you leave your child to go talk to the doc then fail to stay with her.” I had no idea if I was right, but judging by the way the social worker flushed, I was pretty close.

“And you are?” she asked, her gaze flicking meaningfully to my cut again.

“Johnny Kingston,” I answered, deciding against offering my hand. “Everyone calls me Cash.”

“Mr. Kingston,” she said, emphasizing each syllable as she wrote my name down, “are you regularly alone with pediatric patients as part of your community service?”

The implication in her tone made my jaw clench, but I kept my expression neutral. Getting angry would only make things worse for Lily and her mother.

“No, ma’am,” I replied evenly. “I mop floors and restock supplies. The door was open, and hospital security monitors the entrance to all the pediatric rooms.” I pointed to where the camera angled across the hall to be able to see the entry of this room and the room next to it. “I stayed where the camera could see me at all times. Besides, I just couldn’t leave a crying kid alone. Not without making sure she hadn’t fallen or hurt herself in some way.”

Ms. Winters made another note, then turned back to Ms. Jans. “I’ll be submitting my report to the department today. Given the circumstances, we’ll be opening a full investigation. In the meantime, Lily will remain here under hospital supervision until we determine the next steps.”

The color drained from Ms. Jans’ face. “You can’t keep me away. She needs me here. She gets scared in hospitals.”

“Whether or when you can stay with the child will depend on the findings of our investigation,” Ms. Winters replied coolly. “If you have nothing to hide, you should welcome a thorough examination of the situation.”

I watched as Ms. Jans seemed to shrink before my eyes, the fight visibly draining from her small frame. I recognized the look too well. She knew her guilt had already been decided. Likely because investigating deeper took effort from an overworked system.

“Mommy?” Lily’s voice trembled slightly. “Are we going home soon?”

“Yes, baby,” Ms. Jans said, but the tremor in her voice betrayed her uncertainty. “As soon as the doctors say it’s OK.”

Ms. Winters tucked her tablet under her arm and moved toward the door where I still stood. As she passed, she paused and lowered her voice.

“Mr. Kingston, I suggest you stick to your assigned duties. Your association” -- her eyes flicked to my cut again --”could complicate matters for everyone involved.”

With her parting shot, Ms. Winters brushed past me into the corridor, leaving the room several degrees colder in her wake.

Ms. Winters left the door open. The tension in the room thickened as Ms. Jans turned toward me with the wariness of a cornered animal. She shifted to place herself more firmly between me and her daughter. Her eyes, the same shade of blue as Lily’s but hardened by worry, assessed me from head to toe. The woman at Haven often gave men in the club they met for the first time the same look.

“I should go,” I said, taking a step back toward the door. The last thing this woman needed was another perceived threat in her life.

“No, stay,” Lily called out, her small voice surprisingly authoritative for someone so tiny. “I want to show Mommy how you sing.”

Ms. Jans’ gaze flickered between her daughter and me, her posture rigid, hands still clenched at her sides. The protective instinct radiating from her was almost tangible, a force field surrounding her child.

“Lily, Mr. Kingston probably needs to get back to work,” she said carefully, her tone gentle with her daughter but her eyes still fixed warily on me.

“Cash,” I corrected automatically. “Everyone calls me Cash.”

“He made me feel better when you were gone, Mommy,” Lily continued, ignoring her mother’s attempt to dismiss me. “I was crying because I missed you, and he sang to me like you do. He has a pretty voice, like the radio. He’s my new friend.”

Ms. Jans looked at her daughter, then back at me, reassessing. She nodded slowly, some of the tension easing from her shoulders. “Thank you,” she said quietly. “For being kind to Lily.”

I shuffled my feet, uncomfortable with the gratitude. “Anyone would have done the same.”

“No,” she said with surprising firmness. “They wouldn’t have. Most people don’t want to get involved.” She ducked her head. “Or just don’t care.”

Before I could respond, Ms. Winters stepped back into the room, her tablet still clutched to her chest like a shield. Her eyes darted between Ms. Jans and me, clearly surprised to find me still there.

 

About the Author

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

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

 

Author on Instagram & TikTok: @marteekakarland

Author on Facebook

 

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

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LGBTQ Fantasy Romance Feature: Silver Spider by Lena Austin #fantasy #lgbtq #romance #excerpt #comingsoon #rabtbooktours @ChangelingPress @RABTBookTours

A Paranormal Murder Mystery Romance

Fantasy / Romance / LGBTQ+

Date Published: June 5, 2026

Publisher: Changeling Press

 

The secretive Duke of Aberystwyth has invited Madge Majesty to a murder mystery party, but he's the first victim!

Madge is a harpy, mystery writer, and amateur sleuth with a nose for murder. At her side is her faithful chauffeur, Hayden, who is a telekinetic ex-thief -- and a confirmed bachelor.

Now it's up to Madge to solve the whodunit. Her suspects are a motley assortment of inverts and very nervous heterosexuals, all of whom have more than just their sexual foibles to hide. Is it the cross-dressing vampire, the packless werewolf, the voyeuristic doctor, the gargoyle majordomo, or the promiscuous man who seems bent on getting everyone into his bed, including Hayden?

Excerpt

All rights reserved.

Copyright ©2026 Lena Austin

"Madame?"

Madge Majesty looked up from her study of the papers spread on her lap and across the seat of her beloved 1912 Rolls Royce Silver Ghost Limousine. "Yes, Hayden?"

"Madame, Dunraven Castle is but perhaps half an hour away. You requested a warning." Hayden had lasted years longer than any of her other drivers, so he knew he was liked, but wasn't fool enough to take advantage of that knowledge. Harpies were not creatures to take lightly.

"Hmm. So I did." She gathered up her papers and stuffed them into her leather case. Wearily, she pulled on the gloves she'd laid to the side and put on the ridiculously large hat with an immense array of feathers decorating it. "There. I'm properly adorned." She huffed out an unladylike breath, as much as her corset would allow. "I'd give a great deal to be back in Greece where the fashions were sensible."

Hayden quirked a smile at her. "But not warm, Madame. Wales in winter is considerably chillier." As if to emphasize his point, the wind rattled the Rolls with no respect for the craftsmanship that went into it.

"I'm very sorry I agreed to be the Duke's hostess for this mystery party. Why didn't I refuse and stay in our lovely townhouse in London, where I could enjoy a party or write as I pleased?" Madge rubbed her chin thoughtfully. "Ah, well, what's done is done. We'll make the best of the weekend and be toasting our toes in front of the home fires soon enough."

"I've never been to a mystery party, Madame. How does one throw a party for a mystery?"

"Very simple. It's all in this box." Madge patted the locked strongbox beside her. "There are clue cards and the basic plot for me to follow. This one is perfect for a winter game, called The Santa Clause. Who wouldn't love to murder a solicitor or two now and again?" She shrugged. "I certainly would, upon occasion."

Hayden retreated into silence and returned his attention to maneuvering her precious new car through the few treacherous roads that Wales bothered to have at all. The ex-thief was not fond of anyone who had anything to do with the law. He was officially rehabilitated, but a mere ten years of service as her driver didn't negate a lifetime of running from authority. An extremely careful and quiet man by nature, he was -- in Madge's opinion -- the perfect companion, much better than a twittering peahen of a lady's maid.

The car lurched and slid to one side on a patch of icy mud, throwing Madge against the door. She bore it in stoic silence. Hayden wouldn't understand how much they needed the money provided by this weekend of enforced merriment. Everyone was writing books in this day and age, and she wouldn't say the money she earned was paltry, but it certainly didn't allow for a lavish lifestyle. In fact, if the truth were known, Hayden was the only employee she could afford. Thus, while on their jaunts -- often paid by those who wished for a bit of fame and glamour to rub off on them -- Hayden served as chef, chauffeur, lady's maid, and man of all work.

Since it suited her to be knowledgeable about subjects many men hadn't even the stomach for, Madge pulled out of her case one of the few books where the great Sigmund Freud appeared to change his mind on the subject of anxiety and inhibitions. Madge grinned to herself. She did love humor, especially when humans meant to be serious. "Of course we all have inhibitions, moronic little man."

Her mumble caught Hayden's attention. "Why do you bother with that mumbo-jumbo, Madame? He thinks everything has to do with sexual congress!"

"Hmm, yes, well, he does have certain prejudices, doesn't he? I'm not aberrant because I enjoy sex, and I seriously doubt the way your mother changed your nappies has anything to do with your homosexuality. Do be forgiving, dear. He's hopelessly addicted to cocaine, and trapped in a repressed society."

Sadly, everything she said was true. "You'd know more about repressed societies than I, Madame. I'm only a poor human, after all." Hayden gave her one of his infamous Mona Lisa smiles -- a smile that showed no teeth but implied much more than mischief while keeping well into propriety. Bless him, he never stepped a toe out of line publicly, unless called upon to do so.

Madge, on the other hand, had no compunctions about showing her fangs, even when she covered her retractable dagger-like talons with silk gloves. The pointed ears peeking out of dark curls and her Grecian looks marked her as a foreigner in a land notable for its snobbery, but Madge saw no need to bother hiding herself. Well, all right, she hid the wings. Blasted things got in the way if she didn't, but that was for her convenience and not propriety. She was what she was -- an expatriate harpy who told a good story and occasionally found cause to use her bloodthirsty nature to solve a mystery.

The irony was, no one ever thought to accuse her of the murders because harpies weren't known for subtlety when it came to killing. Madge acknowledged the legend with twisted lips, and didn't bother to remind anyone that she was free and no longer the slave of the Furies.

Framed by snow clouds the color of a pigeon's breast, Dunraven Castle hove up from the surrounding hills like a fairytale. Beautifully situated and scrupulously maintained by a trust none of the Duke's wastrel ancestors could touch, it was a welcoming sight in the gathering gloom of dusk. Thanks to the road conditions, if you dared call the deeply rutted mud tracks by the same noble word the Romans used for their craftsmanship, they were hours late. They'd missed tea in their haste to make up time, and now her stomach rumbled audibly. "Have we time for a biscuit, Hayden?"

"Was that your stomach, Madame? Surely I thought we were about to have a storm." Hayden pretended to study the sky very seriously. At the same time, his hand reached back imploringly. "I'd love a bikky, thank you. No doubt I've missed the servant's dinner, and I've no mind to make do with a bit of cold chicken and some bread until morning."

Chuckling wickedly because he knew she always insisted he sit with her at table, forestalling any foolish matchmaking attempts, Madge handed him a large shortbread biscuit from her hamper, and they munched companionably. Finally, the car traversed the bridge atop the dry moat and passed through the portcullis into the courtyard of Dunraven.

"Just do me one small favor, Madame?" Hayden did not move from the seat to open her door.

"So serious! Very well, what is it?" She thought she knew, but made him ask.

"Let's try not to let this weekend become a real murder mystery?" His hands gripped the steering wheel tightly, and she imagined under the proper driving gloves of his profession, his knuckles were white. Poor thing, he really had suffered at the last mysterious weekend, and had ended up incarcerated for three days until Madge had proven to everyone's satisfaction that another had committed the deed. For poor Hayden, it had been a truly miserable occasion.

Madge patted his shoulder. "Buck up, Hayden. I'm planning nothing more than a game all weekend. After all, what could happen in the Duke's presence?"

 

About the Author

Someone cursed Lena Austin with "may you have a life so full you'll have many tales to tell your grandchildren." Lena's a "fallen" society wench with a checkered past. She's been a licensed minister, hairdresser, Realtor, radio DJ, exotic dancer, telephone service tech, live-steel medievalist swordswoman, BDSM Mistress, and investment property manager. Not necessarily in that order. She never finished that degree in marine archaeology, but did learn to scuba -- she's got a lifetime of "Research material!"

Hey, why waste these stories on kids who won't listen anyway? Writing them down is a nice way to spend her retirement. What? You expected an ex-BDSM Mistress to take up crocheting or something?

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Motorcycle Club Romance Feature: Shadow (Riptide MC, Book 6) by Anne Kane #excerpt #comingsoon #mcromance #motorcycleclubromance #rabtbooktours @annekane @ChangelingPress @RABTBookTours

 

 

Riptide MC, Books 6

MC Romance

Date Published: June 6, 2026

Publisher: ChangelingPress

In my world, loyalty is everything and Wynter is mine. Mess with her, you answer to me.

Wynter -- Scary Guy lived up to his name, threatening to rape me and sell me as a whore. Not happening. I reached for the hidden blade at my ankle just as a tattooed biker wearing a Riptide MC cut stepped in to save me. The dude knew how to handle an asshole like Scary Guy without breaking a sweat. Gorgeous as he is, this biker isn’t just eye candy. I find myself kissing him in the middle of a crowd of nerds and superheroes. I have a thing for tough guys with tattoos. My head tells me to run, but I want more. I want him.

Shadow -- I noticed her the second she slipped in front of us, alert and watchful like she expected trouble just for existing. When some ape starts pawing her, I step in. Nobody manhandles a woman in front of me. I pretend she belongs to me, and she plays right along. I’m willing to do more than just talk tough if the bastard won’t back off. When he proves how stupid he is, attacking her in the parking lot, I’ve got the excuse I needed to beat some sense into him. Wynter’s mine, whether she knows it or not. Trouble’s not finished with her, and neither am I.

Excerpt

Copyright ©2026 Anne Kane

Wynter

I glanced over my shoulder. He was still there.

I’d dubbed him Scary Guy.

I tried to convince myself I was just being paranoid and the guy just happened to be headed in the same direction as me. I’d never seen him before; I was sure of that. You didn’t forget a face like his with a jagged scar down the side of his cheek and a spider web with a skull in the center tattooed on his neck. There was no reason for him to be fixated on me.

I certainly wasn’t the kind of woman men liked to fantasize over. I was short, wiry, and dressed as a Browncoat, one of the characters out of my favorite sci-fi series. I didn’t have a spectacular rack or an hourglass figure and my hair hung in a single braid down my back, the only way I’d found to keep it from exploding into a messy tangle.

I assessed him out of the corner of my eye. He was big and solid, although at this distance it was hard to tell if that bulk was muscles or a beer belly. He had on some kind of dark costume with a black cape that fell to mid-thigh. This was a comic book convention, so his outfit wasn’t all that strange. I had no idea who he thought he looked like. I swear ninety percent of the people here wore capes of some type. It could be anybody or nobody.

He looked dangerous, though, the kind of guy you avoid being caught alone with. Unfortunately, I was well acquainted with the type. I grew up in the projects, daughter of a junkie too deep into her addictions to care about me. Self-preservation meant I’d developed a sixth sense when it came to creeps like this a long time ago.

I gave my head a mental shake. This may not be Dragon Con in Atlanta, but there were still several thousand people here. He couldn’t just drag me off to a dark room, even if he wanted to, so why did his stare send shivers of apprehension down my spine?

As if he could sense my attention, the asshole grinned at me and licked his lips. Yikes! If I had any doubt that he was focused on me, it fled right then and there.

“Excuse me.” I shouldered my way between a young woman dressed as Batwoman and a couple dressed as Shrek and his bride. Zigzagging back and forth, I headed for the doorway. Maybe I could lose the creep in the crowd.

“Hey, watch it!” A Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtle glared up at me when I accidentally stood on her foot. This section of the event was crowded, waiting for some promised celebrities to appear. I mumbled an apology and continued to wade my way through the crowd, trying to recall the map they’d handed me when I got here. The place was a warren of smaller rooms radiating off a central hall. I should be able to find a spot to hide.

A quick glance behind me showed Scary Guy was following me. My heart rate increased as adrenaline flooded my system. I had too much at stake right now to be caught in an altercation with anyone.

The crowd parted in front of the jerk with no effort from him. I got it. One glare from that face and no one wanted the kind of trouble it promised. I still didn’t understand why he’d singled me out. Just my bad luck? I felt like a rabbit being stalked by a coyote, looking for a hole to vanish into. I just needed to get out of his line of sight long enough to dart into one of those smaller side rooms and disappear.

It seemed like forever before I finally reached the doorway and plunged out into the main hall. The crowds were thinner here, and I took advantage of the opportunity to dash across to the far side and slide into the Marvel Comics section.

Not surprisingly, the room was crowded, people packed in shoulder to shoulder. For once my lack of height played to my advantage. Anyone scanning the area from the entranceway would have a hard time seeing me when most of the gathering towered over top of me. Making my way to the center of the room, I turned to scan the area behind me.

Nothing.

Scary Guy was nowhere in sight. I let out a ragged breath and put a hand up to my chest. I could feel my heart racing beneath my fingertips. So much for being a brave member of the Resistance. All it took was one creepy guy to send me scurrying for cover. He hadn’t even been that close to me, let alone within touching distance.

I inhaled deeply, trying to remember the meditation class I’d once attended. I needed to calm down. It’s not like this was the first time I found myself running from the hint of danger. As a kid, my life had been chaotic at best. My mother might have been a junkie who cared more about her next fix than me, but in order to stay out of the foster care system, I’d had to make sure she stayed alive.

Sometimes that meant doing things that could get me thrown into juvie, like pick-pocketing for rent money. It was more luck than skill that I never got caught. I became an expert at shoplifting and begging long before I hit double digits. I had a plan, and I clung to it like a drowning man clinging to a life raft. All I had to do was make it to sixteen without drawing the attention of Child Protective Services, and I could split. Free from the threat of foster care, I could do anything I wanted.

A simple plan, but a workable one.

Then my mom got pregnant again.

I have no idea who Star’s father is, and I doubt Mom did either. She was at that point in her addiction where she would sleep with anyone for a fix so there were lots of candidates to choose from, and none of them had names.

My little sister was born on a hot July day, in the back of a dealer’s van, and I was instantly smitten. Somehow Child Protective Services didn’t get wind of the birth, or they were too overworked to care about one more kid who wouldn’t amount to much. Mom brought the baby home, and I took over, making sure Star was fed and clothed and stayed alive.

I already knew how her life would go if I didn’t stick around, so it’s not like I had a choice. Star blinked up at me with those big blue eyes, and my heart melted. I promised myself then and there that I’d look after her.

Star wasn’t exactly a normal name, but then neither was Wynter. Mom had a thing for weird names. Maybe it came from having such a boring name herself, or maybe she thought naming my little sister Star would give her a chance in life. In her own way, when the need for a fix wasn’t consuming her, I liked to think Mom cared about us.

My attention snapped back to the present. Something was happening in the front of the room. A buzz of excitement swept through the crowd. I stretched up on tiptoe to see, but there were three big guys in front of me blocking my view. They laughed and joked with one another, oblivious to me or anyone else in the crowd.

Gritting my teeth, I squeezed between them.

No wonder the crowd was so excited. From a partially hidden door up front, four of the Marvel Avengers stalked into the room. Iron Man, Captain America, and the Hulk all took their seats at the signing table while the Black Widow stood up and swept the room with a piercing gaze. With a theatrical flourish, she picked up the microphone from the table in front of her. Laughter and excitement rippled through the crowd as she introduced herself and her companions as if everyone present wasn’t very aware of who they were. Showing off her agility with an impressive back flip, she landed in her seat and indicated the signing was now open.

The crowd surged forward, carrying me along with it. I had no intention of paying to have someone sign a comic for me, no matter how famous or agile they were, but the crowd’s excitement was contagious. It didn’t cost anything to watch, and if I got close enough, I might even be able to get a picture of one of the fabled Avengers on my phone. Star would love that. She was eight and loved comic books the way I loved to draw. I fished my phone out of my pocket and let out a sigh of relief when I saw I’d actually remembered to fully charge it the night before. Now I just needed to get close enough to that table to snap a picture or two.

The hair on the back of my neck prickled, and I glanced behind me, expecting to see Scary Guy. Instead, my gaze landed on the three big guys I’d seen earlier, still laughing and joking with each other. I’d noticed that they all wore leather cuts with some kind of logo on the back, and I’d spent enough time on the streets to know what that meant.

It showed their motorcycle club affiliation, and not the granddaddy going for a Sunday ride kind of club. That alone should have twigged my survival instinct, but for some reason it didn’t. They certainly looked the part of outlaw gang members. Tough, tattooed, leather-clad guys with muscles to spare, they had that aura about them that spelled danger. Not a bunch you’d want to mess with, especially if you were trying to convince the courts you were a responsible, law-abiding citizen.

The biker in the center looked directly at me, and a slow grin spread across his face. He lifted one brow as if questioning my attention. Damn, he was mouthwatering, although maybe that wasn’t quite the word. Appealing? Sexy? Tempting? Definitely not hard on the eyes. I could picture myself licking my way down his…

I blushed, but I didn’t look away. He looked like the kind of guy who wouldn’t be shocked by my home life or my mom’s abdication of her parental responsibilities. Maybe a carnal distraction might help settle my nerves before the court date.

A commotion erupted in the entranceway, pulling me out of my daydream. Scary Guy and his buddies were pushing their way into the room, knocking other attendees out of their way like might made right or some other stupid macho shit. Abandoning my silent exchange with Sexy Biker, I pivoted to face the front of the room. Hopefully Scary Guy wouldn’t be able to pick me out of the crowd if he couldn’t see my face. Not like we were old buddies or anything.

The Marvel characters were hamming it up, signing, and occasionally posing for photos. A couple of conference workers dressed in shirts with the Marvel logo on them were collecting money from the fans as they handed over comics to sign or the fee for having their picture taken with one of the celebrities. When the characters stood to pose with the fans, I managed to snap some shots with my phone, although I wasn’t close enough for details. I could tweak the pictures when I got back home, editing out the fans. With any luck, I’d have a few usable pictures for Star to gush over.

I jumped as an enormous hand clamped down painfully on my shoulder. “Thought you could get away, did you?”

Shit.

Scary Guy.

I couldn’t afford to just knee the asshole in the balls, tempting as that was. The courts would definitely frown on that. Plastering a calm expression on my face, I twisted around and drew my brows down in a puzzled frown. “I’m sorry. Do I know you?”

His grin was pure evil. “Not yet, but I plan to fix that. You’re coming with me to a place where we can get to know each other real well.” Keeping his hand on my shoulder, he swept my body with a glance that left me feeling dirty. “Real, real well.”

I shook my head, trying to resist the temptation to pull my knife out of its hidden ankle sheath. “Sorry, but I don’t think my boyfriend would like that.” I tried to shrug his hand off my shoulder. “He’s a bit old-fashioned when it comes to things like that.”

Scary Guy dismissed my imaginary boyfriend with a flick of his hand. “Where is he? My boys can take care of him.”

I narrowed my eyes. “I’m flattered you think I’m worth that much trouble, but I’m going to pass. I have things to do today.” I shrugged out from under his hand and took a step toward the back of the room. The people around us were too wrapped up in the excitement of the Avengers to pay any attention to my discomfort and shifted to let me through.

Scary Guy reached out to stop me, hooking one meaty hand into the belt at my waist. I twisted in his grip, and anger mottled his expression. “I don’t think you understand, bitch. I’m not asking you, I’m telling you.”

So much for playing the model citizen.

I reached for my knife.

* * *

 

About the Author

Anne Kane lives in the beautiful Okanagan Valley with a bouncy little rescue dog whose breed defies description, a cantankerous Himalayan cat, and too many fish to count. She spent many years trying to fit in and act normal, but finally gave up the effort. She started writing romance in 2008, and her fate was sealed when she won a publishing contract with Red Sage Publishing and just a month later Changeling Press accepted her first submission. Since then she has published more than thirty stories in a variety of sub-genres, all with a happily ever after.

She has two handsome sons and six adorable grandchildren and enjoys spending time with them whenever she can. Her hobbies, when she’s not playing with the characters in her head, include kayaking, hiking, swimming, playing guitar, singing and of course, reading.

 

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Juvenile Fiction Feature: The Tales of Sidney and Jojo - Adventures in Thailand by Lauren Isaacson #comingsoon #preorder #excerpt #juvenilefiction #rabtbooktours @RABTBookTours

Adventures in Thailand

Juvenile Fiction / Multicultural / Animals

Date Published: 06-23-2026

Publisher: Mission Point Press

Illustrated by: Megan Heller

Sidney and JoJo are off to Thailand, where Mama lives.

Join them on an adventure to faraway lands-by crate, van, car, conveyor belt, and airplane-as they discover the sights and sounds of a tropical new world. Along the way, they meet friendly Thai people, encounter a wise dog, and gaze in wonder at the golden Buddhas and temple cats standing guard. With a few bumps in the road-marked by meows, tail twitches, and new surprises-they journey onward until, at last, they arrive at their new home.

 

About the Author

Lauren Isaacson is an educator, business owner, and is excited to add children’s book author to her repetoire. Inspired by the real-life journey of her two adventurous cats during a move abroad, Lauren wrote this story to share with her students and families around the world. She is the founder of The Tutoring Hub: Tutoring & Advocacy, LLC, where she supports students, families, and educators. As her students learned about her two cats and their adventures, a desire grew to give them a story they could take home. Lauren is excited to continue the adventures of The Tales of Sidney and JoJo. You can contact Luaren at ljisaacson491@gmail.com.

Megan Heller is a Michigan-based contemporary artist who earned her BFA in illustration from the College for Creative Studies. Her work blends intricate detail with rich symbolism. Working primarily in mixed media, such as watercolors and colored pencils, with just a dash of digital magic, her pieces have been shown at Black Box Gallery’s Fantasy Exhibition in Dearborn, the Midland Center for the Arts, as well as galleries and exhibitions throughout Detroit and her hometown of Saginaw. This is her first foray into children’s book illustration.

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Coming Soon: Death and the Social Climber by Winnie Simpson #comingsoon #preorder #mystery #cozymystery #rabtbooktours

Ann Audrey Mystery, Book 2

Cozy Mystery / Mystery & Detective

Date Published: 06-30-2026

Publisher: Mission Point Press

Murder Is the Ultimate Power Move

When a beautiful Atlanta woman is widowed twice under suspicious circumstances, Ann Audrey Pickering finds herself drawn—once again—into someone else’s trouble.

A former lawyer who once helped the FBI convict her own husband for fraud, Ann Audrey has settled into a reclusive life, until her longtime friend Flynn Reynolds asks for help. His elderly aunts are convinced that another nephew was murdered by his wife, Kathryn, whose second husband is now also dead. Ann Audrey is skeptical. Still, she owes Flynn, and there are some odd questions. Complicating matters is Kathryn’s latest mother-in-law, a woman who rose from an impoverished background into Atlanta’s upper circles and recognizes a kindred spirit in her dead son’s ambitious widow. She doesn’t believe Kathryn is a murderer—but she has heard rumors, and she wants them stopped.

Set in Atlanta in January 2000, as the city buzzes with anticipation for the upcoming Super Bowl, Ann Audrey searches for the black widow through the city’s frenetic bar scene, private clubs, high-rise offices, and beloved local institutions like Mary Mac’s Tea Room and The Varsity. With help from Flynn and her friend Theo, along with the return of sexy detective Mike Bristol, she pieces together a twisting story of social climbing, carefully managed appearances, marriage, and murder. As the Super Bowl kickoff draws near, the case reaches a climax when an ice storm shuts down Atlanta’s roads and power, leaving secrets and murderers with nowhere to hide.

 

About the Author

 

 Following her mother’s lead, Mississippi native Winnie Simpson was an avid murder mystery reader beginning in the third grade, starting with Nancy Drew and moving through the classics of British, American, and international crime. Winnie studied music at Duke University, later receiving an MFA in Music at SUNY Buffalo, where she worked as an arts administrator before throwing it all over in order to make a decent living. After finishing law school at Emory University, she became a partner in a large firm in Atlanta where her practice focused mainly on securities litigation. Retiring early, Winnie relocated to Northern Michigan where she lives in a renovated nineteenth-century building that served as a former Michigan state asylum. For more than a decade, she has taken writing classes and participated in writing groups. She is fond of opera, hiking, cycling, and Duke basketball, most seasons.

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Gay Historical Romance Feature: Dona Nobis Pacem by Will Okati #excerpt #teaser #comingsoon #mmromance #lgbtq #romance #rabtbooktours @RABTBookTours @changelingpress

Historical Gay Romance

Date Published: May 29, 2026

Publisher: Changeling Press

 

Dona Nobis Pacem. God Grant Us Peace.

 

Voiceless Donnell and defrocked priest Nathan are outcasts and strangers at the turn of the century. Despite his handicap, Donnell has made a life for himself as a businessman and owner of a saloon. His heart goes out to those whom life has dealt an unhappy hand. When Nathan arrives in this former gold-rush town, horsewhipped and ill to the point of collapse, Donnell is the only one to offer help.

Barely ordained before being accused of unnatural desires, Nathan has been sent to travel a faux road to Damascus as penance. He did not expect to survive the trek, and longed for the peace he might find when his body gave up the fight.

He never expected to meet someone like Donnell. Despite his lack of voice, Donnell is the teacher Nathan has hungered for all his life, and the lover he never dared seek out. Triumphing over a lifetime's worth of threatened damnation will not be easy to overcome, but Donnell's not giving up. The passion they share is what both men have always craved, but never found. When they're discovered, standing together is the only thing that will save them both.

 

EXCERPT

 

In a fit of optimism, some enterprising settler twenty-odd years ago had named this patch of land "Shady Grove." The name hadn't stuck longer than the first summer, arid heat scorching the life out of anything the daft fellow had tried to plant, and carrying away his wife and children.

After that, or so the story went, the settler had cursed his homestead with the new name of "Hell."

When gold was found not far west in a puny stream, the name changed yet again to "El Dorado." Though that lasted no longer than the rush of miners who picked, panned and mined away most of the precious metal.

When the gold was mostly gone and civilization caught up with the roughneck men who'd blazed through in search of riches, there came bankers, lawyers and doctors, along with their pretty wives and dainty daughters. Amongst themselves, they'd formed a quaint city council, elected a mayor, nominated a marshal, and rechristened this hole in the ground as "Nazareth."

Those whose tongues weren't corseted by the niceties observed in polite society still called the former boomtown "Hell."

As for Donnell, he called it home, and had since the day he was born, a silent infant who'd opened his mouth to wail, but made almost no sound, not then and rarely ever afterward. The best he could manage was a sort of scale of breathing -- a whistle, a shush, a sigh. He'd never spoken a proper word. At least his hearing was top-notch.

Music was Donnell's voice instead, tickled out through the ivories of the old upright piano he'd paid a considerable sum in gold dust to have shipped from Chicago. Within the safe haven of Treighton's saloon, Donnell had placed that piano facing the street, where he'd have a fine view through the mosquito netting over the window when he played.

He could arrange Treighton's however he wanted, no questions asked. Owner's rules and that owner would be him.

Music wasn't his only skill. He was a favored son of Lady Luck, and the cards danced to his tune. Those who thought a mute man was simple, and an easy cheat at faro, often found themselves losing big.

He'd given up the game after winning Treighton's, though. No sense in pushing his luck too far.

A man who'd call himself satisfied with his lot in life, Donnell caressed the piano keys, a jingling tune flowing smooth and sweet as quality whiskey under his mastery of the music. He let the corner of his mouth quirk upward with dry humor. Many were they who'd claimed the son of a whore, muteness aside, would never make anything of his life. They'd been wrong, too.

Did they accept his good fortune with grace? Hell, no. The "proper" folks of Nazareth scorned him still, and always would. Too good for the likes of him and his saloon.

Thank God for sinners, eh?

* * *

A sudden clamor rose from the dusty, uneven street outside, usually quiet and deadly dull during the morning hours while laborers and leftover miners toiled, polite society occupied themselves with polite works, and gamblers slept off their night's fun. Attention captured, Donnell peered through the mosquito netting over his window.

Soon enough, the source of the commotion came into view. Donnell raised one eyebrow, intrigued. A tall, lean man, far too thin for his height. He was dressed in the tattered remnants of a once-respectable shirt, now missing its collar and cuffs, and formerly sturdy denim trousers, with no hat on his head nor shoes on his feet nor a coat on his back. Bleached-out hair stringy from lack of washing and long enough to be caught up in a queue hung over his face and tangled across his eyes.

Donnell leaned forward, instantly captivated. He'd never seen the equal of those eyes, their color distinct even at this distance. Aqua blue, the shade of summer skies, dulled by hunger and pain, but no less remarkable.

In point of fact, were he to be cleaned up and provided with a few good healthy meals, Donnell guessed this young man would easily steal anyone's heart away. Not least of all his.

Not that anyone knew about his preferences. It was safer that way. He came in for scant questioning about his lack of female companionship, as most thought if his tongue didn't work then neither would his cock.

Donnell abandoned those thoughts and focused on the beautiful -- yes, beautiful -- young man instead, a far more pleasant diversion. He'd no stubble on his cheeks or chin, both badly sunburned. Young, then. Tall and gangly enough that at a guess Donnell would have put him in his late teens, no more than twenty, not so far Donnell's junior.

A man could make quite a lot of himself in twenty years plus change. He could raise himself a fine establishment like Donnell's, or he could end up staggering filthy and starving down a dusty, badlands street with children and bad-tempered dogs jeering him every barefooted step of the way.

Donnell frowned when the young man staggered, swaying alarmingly before righting himself. That didn't seem to be clumsiness, but rather weariness. Perhaps illness?

"Drunk," Bettina sniffed, peering past Donnell. She might work in a saloon, but she had no patience with men who behaved badly when they'd had too much of the grape and grain. She didn't scold like the holy men, no, she tore strips off their hides and nailed them to the wall, and they loved her for it.

Barely hearing her, Donnell continued to track the man's progress. Seeming to ignore the rabble jeering at him, he came to a stop and stood up as straight as he could, attempting to brush dust, mud and worse off his clothes, smoothing them down. He dragged his hair out of his face with hands that shook minutely and gazed up the length of the street still to go.

The quiet despair in his eyes struck a chord in Donnell's heart, reverberating with a sense of hollow misery. Here was a man who'd fallen as far as he could go, with a trail of heartbreak behind him that stretched out for as many miles as he'd walked.

Donnell sat back and drummed his fingers on his knees. Poor bastard.

Enough kind souls had helped Donnell in his day. He owed this poor fellow no less.

 

About the Author

Willa Okati (AKA Will) is made of many things: imagination, coffee, stray cat hairs, daydreams, more coffee, kitchen experimentation, a passion for winter weather, a little more coffee, a whole lot of flowering plants and a lifelong love of storytelling. Will's definitely one of the quiet ones you have to watch out for, though he -- not she anymore -- is a lot less quiet these days.

 

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Fantasy Romance Feature: Rowan's Lovers by Mikala Ash #teaser #exerpt #fantasy #romance #comingsoon #rabtbooktours @ChangelingPress @RABTBookTours

 

Action Adventure Romance, Capture Fantasy

Date Published: May 29, 2026

Publisher: Changeling Press

Rowan has a bounty on her head. Will her lovers get to her before a bounty hunter can collect the reward?

 

Rebellious slave Rowan is heading for the walled city of Iseky to find her lovers Ky and Chin Lau. She also need to discover who wiped her memories and why. Soldier of fortune Kepel Dev is forced to hunt her by any means necessary.

When Ky rushes to Iseky to try to find Rowan, he meets the flirtatious Hetta along the way. Meanwhile Chin Lau has escaped the Skolls and their new leader, Tamin Gutra, but on his way to find Rowan he falls into the hands of cannibals.

Little do they know slave master Ganwe din Kopese holds the key to all their futures.

 

EXCERPT

 

Ganwe din Kopese, known variously as Gan or Kop or Din the Slave Master, surfaced from a pleasant dream soon after sunrise. He’d been led into the desert by a troupe of naked slaves to an idyllic oasis where they frolicked in the sparkling water, the sun gleaming off their flawless skin. Under a swaying palm, strenuous digging uncovered a huge wooden chest of great antiquity. They’d opened it, lifting the creaking lid to expose a veritable king’s ransom. Excitedly they scooped up the glistening gems -- diamonds, rubies, sapphires -- and gaily tossed them into the air so they fell upon his head like the gentlest of summer rain.

Ganwe din Kopese awoke not only with a contented smile, but also a mighty erection. He surveyed the prominent tent in the silk sheet and grunted in self-admiration. “Seesee!” he bellowed.

A moment later his wife, third and youngest bearer of that majestic title, ran full tilt into his room, the folds of her transparent nightdress flowing about her petite body like a desert whirlwind.

“See to that, will you,” he said casually.

Seesee eagerly lifted the sheet, exposing his firm muscular body, and dove in. For a few moments he luxuriated in her warm, wet mouth. “Litu,” he then shouted. “I’m starving!”

From somewhere below -- the kitchen he hoped -- came an unintelligible reply from the second bearer of that esteemed title of wife. Gan imagined she was instructing the slaves in the preparation of some delicacy or other. Litu, he knew, kept a diligent eye on the latest culinary fashions shed like confetti by their betters up north. In the adjoining room a baby wailed, and was soon comforted by Didoy, the first bearer of the revered title of wife, who hummed a soothing rhyme from her childhood.

The house of Kopese had awakened.

Gan lay back, enjoying Seesee’s skills, noting that her technique had improved since Didoy’s lesson in the Quad: the art of pleasing a man with lips, tongue, throat, and fingers. She had finally mastered the timing of the twist of the shaft as she withdrew her mouth from his swollen organ before plunging downward so that her dainty nose was bent against his hard, muscular stomach. She held there for a count of five before slowly withdrawing. As she drew her mouth away, she wrapped her dainty fingers around his shaft to apply the screwing action that gave him an inordinate amount of pleasure. He sighed with satisfaction as the dream of buried jewels faded like a summer mist.

Litu, wearing a flimsy robe shaded in jade, entered with a tray. The smell of freshly baked bread, melting ocyx butter, strips of seasoned meat, and her sweet perfume caressed his nostrils. Balancing the tray expertly on one hand, she used the other to put an extra pillow under Gan’s raised head and shoulders. Then she swept off the sheet, positioned the tray on his flat belly. Seesee adjusted her position so she could tongue his ball sac while Litu knelt beside him to take on the shaft and head duties while he ate.

Gan watched appreciatively as his second wife opened her small, bow-shaped mouth as wide as she could to take in the thick head of his cock. He thought of it as the dome of a massive mushroom, and was secretly pleased that it posed a constant challenge to Litu, who eagerly strove to fit it all in. He took a generous bite of his bread, sending ocyx butter dribbling from the corner of his mouth. He almost bit his tongue when Seesee suddenly sucked one of his balls deep into her mouth.

“Easy, Seesee. Easy.”

“My apologies, husband,” she slurred after popping the delicate egg from between her generous lips. A shiny thread of saliva hung between her mouth and his tight scrotum, and with a giggle she slurped it up as she resumed her wifely duty.

Gan smiled contentedly. What a perfect household I have built, he thought. Three perfect gems, for that was how he often thought of his wives, to cater to my every urge.

He finished his breakfast with a cup of warm wine flavoured with huj, an expensive spice he imported from the Northern Reach. The slaves from that region carried the bales of the crushed seeds on their heads as they trudged their way to the Auction House.

That reminded him of this day’s tasks: the bidding for docile but intelligent slaves who could be taught. The House of Kopese was known across the world for the quality of his bedroom and household slaves. “Only the best from Kopese,” was his watchword, and all the prestigious houses of the city came to him. He excelled in teaching the art of pleasing men and women of refinement, and his slaves were keenly sought after, garnering top prices.

“Enough, Seesee, Litu. Enough, I say. I need all my stamina today.” He laughed at his unintended rhyme.

His two wives, however, pouted. Though they knew the demands of his day and evening, they didn’t like being denied their morning coupling.

“Don’t look at me like that. It’s not the end of the world.”

“It is,” Seesee said. “It’s been a whole week.”

“Has it?”

“You know it has. My cunny is aching. It’s wet all the time.” She screwed up her face. “You don’t love me as much as Litu.”

“Now, don’t be like that. I love you all the same. Didoy, Litu, and Seesee. All the same.”

“But you’ve had Litu three times in the last four nights.”

“I wish you wouldn’t keep count,” Litu said. “It’s not my fault --”

“Litu. Stop it!” Gan snapped. “Just this minute I was congratulating myself on such a harmonious household, and you go and spoil it by bickering.”

“I’m sorry, husband.”

“Now, Seesee. Remind me when I come home that it is your turn. Happy?” She smiled at Litu triumphantly. Shaking his head good-naturedly he chucked his pretty wife under her chin. “Now, is my bath ready?”

“I’d just ordered the heating of the water when you called,” Seesee said.

“Then go. See that it is ready for me.”

She stuck out her tongue at Litu and launched herself off the bed. After she’d skipped from the room, Gan took Litu’s hand and drew her to him for a kiss. She licked the ocyx butter from his chin.

“How old is she? Remind me.”

“Twenty.”

“And how old are you?”

“Two and twenty.”

“Then don’t goad her. Act your age.”

She pouted again.

“Has it really been three times in four nights?”

She nodded, and a sly smile escaped her contrite expression.

“There must be a reason for that,” he said in a questioning voice. “I wonder what the reason could be.”

“Because…”

He silenced her with a kiss. “I love you all the same. Remember that.”

“Yes, husband.”

“Now take this tray to the kitchen, and then go help Didoy with the children.”

“Yes, husband.”

“First, find my robe. It’s a bit chilly this morning. And my slippers. Where are my slippers?”

An hour later, bathed, perfumed, and dressed in his finest, Gan was farewelled by Didoy, who handed him his ebony staff as she did every day.

He kissed her, then stood back in silent admiration of her beauty, and his luck.

“You do this every morning,” she chided.

Her face was colouring in a blush fit for a maiden, not of a wife of ten years with three children and a household to manage. “I stop to thank the gods for the blessing they have bestowed on me. Is that so grievous a crime?”

“Being late will be a very great one if you miss bidding on the best prospects. The High Warden put in an order for six, no less: four cocks and two cunts.”

“Where would I be without you, I wonder.” He kissed her again. “Six, you say? What in the world does he do with them?”

 

About the Author

Aussie Mikala Ash used to be a mild-mannered training & development consultant by day, and a wild sci-fi and paranormal adventure writer by night. Now she is a brazen full-time writer and nature photographer who is concentrating on having among other things, “… bags, and bags of fun!” Mikala can be found on Facebook and on Twitter.

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