Para Schooled - LGBTQ+ Shifter Romance #Romance #LGBTQ+Romance #ShifterRomance

Emily Carrington is here to tell us about Para Schooled, an LGBTQ+ shifter romance.

Read on for details...

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LGBTQ+ Shifter Romance

Date Published: March 27, 2026

In every relationship, there’s always a choice. Choosing wrong may cost these heroes everything.

 

Werewolf’s Choice (Para Schooled 1)

Werewolf society has little tolerance for a lone wolf like Don, a man with a complicated past. It’s hard for him to learn to trust, yet pack life calls to his wolf nature. When two basilisks offer a chance at romance, Don refuses to accept anything more than a physical relationship. Will his stubbornness get him and his new partners killed?

 

Dark’s Lover (Para Schooled 2)

When Blagden, a Night Wanderer-Singer, meets Caleb, he is drawn to the Grand Fae’s struggle to accept his new life. Caleb’s son is blind and the Grand Fae have cast out all disabled children. But Blagden has a terrible secret. He inadvertently steals energy from those he loves. When SearchLight is attacked, Blagden must choose between the Fae he loves and his resolve never to steal energy again.

 

Kaito’s Silence (Para Schooled 3)

Kaito has always been attracted to werewolves of the opposite gender -- until he meets his new sign language tutor, a flamboyant wolf named Stefan. As Kaito struggles with his own sexuality, Stefan starts to feel like an experiment. Can their love thrive or will Kaito’s indecision push them apart?

EXCERPT

from Werewolf's Choice

For Don Sanderson, disabled werewolf, life couldn’t have been better.

He was three thousand miles from the pushy alpha werewolves of Washington, DC. He was starting a new job. And life was just great in general. He’d always wanted to travel and thought he’d never get the chance.

Mostly because of his wheelchair.

But here he was, rolling across the parking lot toward the carefully concealed entrance to the SearchLight Academy campus in California. It was early March and the whole of Death Valley was awash in wildflowers. The perfume in the air was glorious and he’d never felt so glad to be alive.

Well, all right, that was laying it on a bit thick. He recognized his desire, as a therapist, to be healthy and positive in his daily thoughts. This wasn’t perfect because Timothy wasn’t with him. Timothy, damn him, was gone.

Don paused to survey the flowers that crowded right up to the edge of the parking lot. He smiled. Come May or June, there wouldn’t be any flowers. The heat baking off the pavement could fry an egg. Or maybe even melt his tires. But for now, he was content to park outside instead of in the garage. He’d never thought to see Death Valley and get to celebrate its beauty.

Hell, he’d often thought he’d be under the flowers instead of surveying them. Werewolf culture had little tolerance for a lone wolf, and yet they didn’t want him to be part of a pack either. Disabled in more ways than one, he wasn’t desirable. Yet, they couldn’t just leave him be because “lone wolves are dangerous, ravenous beasts and separated from society, they often go insane.”

He’d been raised on that truth, but he wasn’t insane. He had a pack, of sorts. He had SearchLight. It wasn’t the same, and he knew it. Being in a wolf pack, surrounded by your kind, was like being given a drink of water after days of thirst. There was something that called to a wolf’s soul when it came to pack living. But Don had been nicknamed. His full name was Donald. Nicknaming was disrespectful, and he’d been ostracized. No one wanted him.

Well, maybe dead, they wanted him. But only SearchLight could use his talents as he was now: a therapist capable of helping others heal.

He entered the hidden passage, taking the gentle slope down toward the heart of SearchLight’s new campus for students of all ages. There had originally been only one SearchLight campus, in Washington, DC. Now there was this second campus, in the Mojave Desert, shielded from humans and dangerous magical creatures alike.

He traveled through the whispering silence and smiled when the almost creepy stillness was broken by laughter. This place was so new everything practically squeaked. There weren’t any security officers here, not until June, and only some of the professors had reported. He was supplemental staff, and technically he didn’t have to be here until April first, but he’d been so very glad to get out of DC…

There was housing here, as there wasn’t in the nation’s capital. Being all underground and far from usual human habitation, it was easier to have apartments here than in the Panamint Mountains, which were relatively nearby. Soon, Don would be hiding his car inside because he wouldn’t be going anywhere. But today was his first day and he’d longed to be outside with the fifty other cars.

They were hidden from standard human perception by leprechauns magic and other concealment spells, but right now, the parking lot was simply another place for anyone to leave their vehicle because the whole national park was open to visitors. Hiding in plain sight was SearchLight’s favorite trick.

It was still early, barely eight o’clock. He wheeled his way down to the cafeteria, following the signs, and thinking that he’d love to have breakfast in his own apartment. Even well-prepared food, when it was mass-produced, tasted nothing like home cooking.

When he was finally in the cafeteria, he balanced a tray on his lap and rolled through the line. He was aware of people looking at him but that was okay. His right leg ended just below his knee. It was normal for people to steal little glances in his direction. He had two psychic senses even though most LGBTQ werewolves only had one. He could always tell when he was being watched, particularly with negative intent, and he was a telekinetic. He could have rolled along with the tray floating an inch or two off his lap, but why show off? He drew plenty of attention without that.

Reaching a table that was specially designed to allow a wheelchair to roll underneath, he smiled. He was one of two wheelchair-bound staff, and there might be students coming in with similar disabilities. Since Dr. Sowerby’s decree, two years gone, that all SearchLight Academy buildings must be ADA compliant, more and more disabled magical creatures had flocked to the school designed for, and catering to, magical creatures.

“Do you mind if we join you?”

He glanced up as he set his tray on the table. It was a female who had spoken, a female basilisk, and he rapidly searched through the list of names he kept in his head. He didn’t know all of the faculty at the SearchLight Academy back East, but he thought… “Ms. Vaughn?”

She blinked beautiful golden-brown eyes at him. “We’ve never met. How do you know my name?”

“I’ve had students mention your classes.”

“That’s impossible,” she returned as she and the male basilisk with her sat down. “I’m not a teacher yet. This fall will be my first term.”

Confused, he ventured, “Aren’t you the languages expert, Ms. Susan Vaughn?”

Her companion chuckled. “Now I understand,” he said. “No, Susan is my sister. I’m Xavier Vaughn and this is my wife, Cassidy.” He briefly touched a light chain around his neck when he spoke.

Cassidy Vaughn smiled at her husband. Then she returned her attention to Don. “And you are?”

He hesitated. Not because he didn’t want to share his name but because he didn’t know how they would react to his nickname. He’d been known as “Don, the psychic wolf.” He’d been called deformed, not just because of his leg but because of his other disability and his status as a bisexual wolf.

“You’re the therapist, I think,” Xavier said. “I’ve seen you around the DC campus a couple of times.” He seemed to want to give Don a little more time because he continued. “I was filling in for Professor Boyle last fall when he took off time to write a book.”

“You were teaching parapsychology?” Don frowned slightly. “I’m sorry -- if I should remember you, I don’t.”

Xavier chuckled. “I have a way of fading into the background. It’s one of my psychic talents.”

Cassidy leaned forward and took a sip of her coffee. “What’s your name?”

Oh, to hell with it. Damned be all the stereotypes that went with a werewolf being given a nickname instead of his full born-with identifier. “I’m Don Sanderson. You’re right, I’m the head therapist here in Death Valley. I used to work off campus at the Healing House where attack victims and bullies alike were sent to recover and change their ways. I’ve only visited the campus twice…” Then he realized where Xavier might have seen him. “I gave a lecture on bullying behavior to all the professors and staff last fall.”

“That must be where I saw you.”

Something in Xavier’s reply made Don raise his eyebrows. But the male basilisk didn’t respond to the questioning look.

Cassidy was toying with a little key on a bracelet. She had a pleased smile on her face. Don turned his questioning look on her.

“Nothing,” she answered his glance. But she took Xavier’s hand and smiled at her husband as if they had a secret.

A rush of jealousy rushed through Don in that moment. He wanted so badly to be looked at in that way, where he held enigmas with a lover. He wished briefly that these two beautiful people were looking for a third...

 

About 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.

 

Author’s Website

Emily on Facebook

Emily on Twitter

 

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

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Samson - Motorcycle Club Romance - Age Gap - Suspense #Romance #MotorcycleClubRomance #MCRomance #AgeGap #Suspense

Harley Wylde is here to tell us about Samson, a motorcycle club romance, featuring an age gap and suspense.

Read on for details...

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Motorcycle Club Romance, Age Gap, Suspense

Date Published: March 27. 2026

Some men protect with promises. I protect with possession.

 

Samson: I don’t chase power. I don’t wear rank. I don’t claim women. Until I find her broken, on the edge of Reckless Kings’ territory -- and realize letting her go would sign her death warrant.

Inside the gates, there’s only one way she stays. So I claim her. No waiting. No soft edges. She sleeps in my house, under my name, with my hand always close enough to remind the world she’s not unprotected anymore. The man hunting her thinks I’m just another biker without authority. He’s about to learn commitment is far more dangerous than rank.

Callie: I ran because men like him don’t hear no. They twist it. Punish it. Being claimed should feel like another trap -- but Samson doesn’t cage me. He stands in front of me. Believes me. Touches me like I’m something worth keeping, not something to break.

The danger follows me straight to the compound gates. This time, it meets a man who doesn’t hesitate… and never lets go of what’s his. A dark Motorcycle Club Romance where obsession is protection, love is irrevocable, and justice is served in the most painful way possible.

 

Perfect for fans of Romantic Crime Thrillers and MC Romance.

 

WARNING: Adult themes and content including: intense emotional situations, predatory behavior, motorcycle club -- related criminal activity, trauma recovery and psychological distress may trigger some readers.

EXCERPT

 

Samson

The narrow backroad twisted through Tennessee pines, a black ribbon barely visible in the late evening darkness. I leaned into the curve, my Harley’s engine growling beneath me, the vibration familiar against my thighs. The headlight carved a path through the night, insects dancing in the beam as I pushed toward the compound. Another mile and I’d be on Reckless Kings’ territory. My gaze locked on a crumpled shape at the edge of my light, half-hidden where asphalt met gravel and dirt.

I eased off the throttle, the bike slowing as I approached. My mind ran through possibilities -- discarded trash, dead animal, maybe a dumped duffle bag. But something about the shape didn’t fit any of those. The moonlight broke through the trees just enough to catch the paleness of skin against dark earth.

“Shit,” I muttered, slowing to a crawl.

My boots hit the asphalt as I killed the engine. The night pressed in, but I left the bike’s running lights on, giving me just enough visibility. My hand went to my waistband, fingers brushing the grip of my pistol. Fifteen years with the Kings had taught me caution.

I approached slowly, scanning the tree line for movement. Nothing but night sounds -- crickets, the occasional rustle of nocturnal creatures. The shape resolved into a woman as I drew closer, curled on her side facing away from the road. Her clothes -- what looked like jeans and a thin jacket -- were torn and filthy.

“Hey,” I called, keeping my voice low but firm. “You okay?”

She flinched hard, curling tighter, a ragged breath escaping her.

I stopped ten feet away, making myself visible in the dim glow from my bike. “Not going to hurt you. You need help?”

She rolled slightly, turning just enough to see me. Her face was a mess -- dirt streaked with tears or sweat, hair matted against her forehead, a nasty cut at her temple with dried blood in a smear down her cheek. But her eyes -- wide with terror -- were what caught me. The look of someone hunted.

“Go away,” she rasped.

I stayed where I was, keeping my hands visible. “You’re hurt. Middle of nowhere. Temperature’s dropping.” I kept my voice matter-of-fact, neither pushing nor retreating. “I can help or I can leave. Your call.”

Her breathing came fast and shallow, the rhythm of someone running on pure adrenaline. I’d seen it before, in Prospects during their first real violence, in civilians caught in club business. The body burning through its reserves before the crash came.

And she was close to crashing.

“What’s your name?” I crouched down to appear less threatening, still maintaining distance.

She didn’t answer, just watched me with those wary eyes. Up close, I could see the exhaustion etched into her face. Early twenties, maybe, though hard to tell through the dirt and fear. Her knuckles were scraped raw, fingernails broken and caked with dirt. She’d fought something or someone.

I glanced back at the empty road, then to the dense trees. The nearest house was miles away. Club territory began just around the next bend, but this stretch was no-man’s-land -- the kind of place bodies got dumped. The kind of place women didn’t end up by accident.

“I’m Samson,” I offered, not using my real name. Nobody outside the club knew Lyle Harker existed anymore. “I’m heading home. But I’m not leaving you out here like this.”

Her chapped lips parted as if to speak, then pressed together in pain. The jacket she wore had ridden up, revealing bruises on her side -- fingermarks, dark against pale skin. Recent, but not fresh. Maybe a day old.

The road remained empty behind me, but something felt off. The birds had gone quiet. I’d spent enough years riding these backroads to know when something wasn’t right. The woman must have sensed it too -- her gaze darted past me toward the trees across the road.

“How long you been running?” I asked, voice even lower.

Her gaze snapped back to me, surprise breaking through the fear for just a second.

“Your shoes.” I nodded toward her feet. The sneakers were shredded at the edges, the once-white fabric now brown with mud and blood. “Those have seen some miles.”

She swallowed hard, her throat working painfully. When she spoke, her voice cracked. “Since last night.”

I spotted the edge of a zip tie mark on her wrist, peeking from beneath her sleeve. Not from police cuffs -- those left a different kind of bruise. Someone had restrained her, and she’d torn herself free. The skin was raw, inflamed.

The night seemed to press closer. Despite the warm evening, goose bumps rose on my arms. Years in the Reckless Kings had honed my instincts. Right now, they screamed we weren’t alone.

I straightened slowly, scanning the tree line again. Nothing moved, but the feeling persisted. Whoever had marked this woman up might be watching. Waiting. The compound was only two minutes away by bike, but even that could feel like an eternity if someone made their move.

“Can you stand?” I asked, not taking my eyes off the darkness beyond the road.

She tried to push herself up and failed, collapsing back against the ground with a soft whimper. Dehydrated, exhausted, probably not eaten in at least a day. The dried blood on her temple concerned me -- head wounds were tricky. Could be nothing, could be a concussion.

I made my decision. The Kings had rules about bringing outsiders anywhere near our territory but leaving her here wasn’t an option. Not with those marks on her. Not with whoever gave them to her potentially closing in.

“Let me help you up.” I stepped closer. “Then we’ll figure out what comes next.”

Her eyes fixed on the patch on my cut -- Reckless Kings in bold stitching. For a moment, fresh fear washed over her face. I knew what she saw -- a thirty-something biker, broad-shouldered and tattooed, offering help more dangerous than whatever she was running from.

But then her gaze drifted back to the trees, and she made her choice.

I kept my hands visible, fingers spread, as I edged closer to her. Club life had taught me how to move without threatening -- a skill useful whether dealing with rival MCs or frightened women on backroads. Her gaze locked onto my every movement, muscles tensed to flee despite her exhaustion. Behind the fear in her eyes lurked something sharper -- calculation, survival instinct. Whatever hell she’d escaped from had taught her to think even when terrified.

“Water?” I asked, I retreated to grab the bottle in my saddlebag. I unscrewed the cap and held it out, still maintaining distance. “Small sips. Too much at once will make you sick.”

She stared at the bottle, conflict evident on her face -- desperate thirst warring with ingrained caution. Thirst won. She reached out with trembling fingers, taking the bottle and bringing it to her cracked lips. Water dribbled down her chin as she drank greedily, ignoring my advice.

“Easy,” I warned. “Been without long?”

She lowered the bottle, gasping slightly. Half-empty already. “Since yesterday morning.”

I crouched down to her level, still giving her space. The dried blood at her temple formed a jagged path down to her jaw. Head wound, but not fresh -- maybe twenty-four hours old. No active bleeding, pupils equal size. Good signs.

“Mind if I look at your head?” I asked.

She flinched back. “Don’t touch me.”

I nodded, respecting the boundary. “Fair enough. Can you tell me your name?”

A pause. She took another drink. “Callie.”

“Callie,” I repeated, keeping my voice steady. “You got somewhere safe to go, Callie?”

Her laugh came out hollow, more air than sound. “Nowhere’s safe.”

“Someone after you?”

Her gaze darted back to the road. She didn’t answer, but she didn’t need to. The zip tie marks, the bruises, her terror -- they told enough of the story.

“How bad are you hurt? Besides what I can see.”

She shrugged one shoulder, wincing at the movement. “I’ll live.”

“That’s a low bar.”

Her eyes met mine, surprising me with a flash of defiance. “Higher than it was yesterday.”

I found myself respecting her -- the spark still burning beneath all the fear and pain. The Kings valued resilience. This woman had it in spades.

“What happened to your head?” I asked, nodding toward the wound.

She touched it gingerly. “I’m not sure. Not the first time, though. This one isn’t as bad as the first time I tried to run.”

The casual way she said it raised the hair on my neck, like getting hurt counted as just another Tuesday. I’d seen that kind of detachment before in people who normalized violence to survive.

“You need a hospital?” I asked, though I already knew the answer.

She shook her head vehemently. “No. They’ll look there.”

“They?”

Her mouth clamped shut, fear returning to her eyes.

“All right,” I said, backing off. “No hospitals.”

Wind rustled through the trees, carrying the scent of pine and something else -- the metallic tang of coming rain. The temperature had dropped another few degrees. Callie shivered, her thin jacket providing minimal protection against the night air.

I glanced at my watch. Nearly midnight. The compound was close but bringing her there would mean questions. Hard ones.

“Let me see your hands,” I said.

She hesitated, then extended them. She’d need medical care.

“You fight back,” I observed.

A small, grim smile. “Always.”

I respected that too.

“When’s the last time you ate?”

She shrugged again. “Not sure.”

“Can you stand?”

She tried, bracing against the ground. Her legs wobbled, threatening to collapse. I reached out instinctively, stopping just short of touching her.

“May I?”

She nodded, reluctance clear in every line of her body. I slipped an arm around her waist, supporting her weight as she found her footing. She felt too light, bones sharp beneath skin meant to hold more weight. Malnourished, and not just from two days without food.

“You’re not cops,” she said, nodding toward my cut. “But you’re something.”

“Something,” I agreed, not elaborating. The less she knew about the Kings, the better -- for her safety as much as ours.

She swayed on her feet, and I tightened my grip slightly to keep her upright. She flinched at the pressure but didn’t pull away.

“I need to get you somewhere safe,” I said.

“Nowhere’s safe,” she repeated, but with less conviction.

“Safer than here.”

A distant sound pierced the night -- an engine, far off but approaching. Callie’s entire body tensed, her breathing accelerating into near hyperventilation.

“That them?” I asked.

She nodded, panic overriding caution.

Decision time. I knew taking her to the compound would have consequences. Was I prepared to face them?

“I’ve got a place,” I said, making my choice. “People who can help. But you need to trust me, just for tonight.”

“Why would you help me?” she asked, suspicion threading through the fear. “You don’t know me.”

A fair question. One I’d asked myself.

“Because years ago, I was on the wrong side of some bad men,” I said simply. “Someone helped me then. Sometimes that’s reason enough.”

Not the whole truth, but enough of it. The Kings had saved me from a life heading nowhere fast, given me purpose, family. Some debts you pay forward.

“I don’t have another option, do I?” she asked.

“You always have options,” I said. “Right now, they’re just all bad ones. I’m offering the least bad one I can.”

She glanced toward the sound of the approaching engine, then back to me. Weighing unknown dangers against the devil she knew.

 

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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Maiden Tomb - Twelve Cursed Maidens #1 - Fantasy - Fairy Tales - Historical Retelling - Romance - and a Giveaway #Romance #Fantasy #FairyTales #HistoricalRetelling #Giveaway

Cynthia Sally Haggard is here to tell us about Maiden Tomb, Twelve Cursed Maidens #1, romance, fantasy, fairy tales, and historical retelling.

There's also a great giveaway.

______________________________

Maiden Tomb

Cynthia Sally Haggard

(Twelve Cursed Maidens, #1)

Publication date: February 5th 2025

Genres: Adult, Fairy Tales, Fantasy, Historical, Retelling, Romance

Follow twelve princesses down a dark tunnel into a grove of jeweled trees to a too-placid lake, where a prince will row you across to a gleaming castle to dance the night away. This historical fantasy—a retelling of the Twelve Dancing Princesses folktale—drifts backwards in time from the Early Middle Ages of Sicily to the Bronze Age of the Trojan War. It is perfect for fans of Circe and Spinning Silver.

Sixteen-year-old Justice wants to release her sisters from the jaws of Father’s imprisonment. But what can she do? The easiest way would be to find suitors for them.

However, that is not so easy, for Justice’s elder sisters are strange. What with All-Gifted’s madness, Protectress’s hair writhing with snakes, Death-Bringer’s grief (not to mention her strange name), Shining’s scandalous doings, Maiden’s tart tongue, Shadow’s crippling shyness, no sensible man would want her sisters as wives. Which leaves Justice, the seventh daughter, the one who possesses a quiet authority.

Maiden Tomb, Book One of the Twelve Cursed Maidens series, is a clean enemies-to-lovers romance.

The original fairytale—about twelve young ladies dancing all night—sounds so jolly doesn’t it? But I don’t think Twelve Dancing Princesses is about dancing at all.

I think it is about death.

Why do I think that? Well there appear to be some elements to the tale that go back, way back, hundreds, no, thousands of years, back into the Ancient World.

First of all, being rowed across a body of water sounds like a thread of Greek Mythology found its way into this tale. It is very reminiscent of Charon the boatman rowing the souls of the newly dead across the River Styx.

Then there are those jeweled trees. Where do they come from? Several scholars believe that element of the story comes from the Tale of Gilgamesh, which may have been originally composed around 1800 BCE. It tells the story of Gilgamesh, a King of Uruk a city-state in Sumeria, who is grieving for the death of his best friend. According to scholars, Gilgamesh ruled the Kingdom of Uruk in around 2700 BCE.

Then there are the princesses themselves. Have you ever wondered why their are twelve princesses? Again, the answer points towards the ancient kingdom of Sumeria, which existed in what is now present day Iraq, beginning in around 6,000 BCE. The Sumerians were renowned astronomers who used a base-12 numerical system, unlike the base-10 or decimal system we use today.

And so, there you have it. When you dig below the surface, a charming story from Europe has roots in the Middle East and seems to be thousands of years old!

And so, when I came to write Maiden Tomb, a piece of women’s fiction that explores the all-too-often captivity of women, I put back all those elements. We have the Gilgamesh epic, and elements of Greek Mythology, complete with snakes, ancient gods, and powerful goddesses. And far from being a jolly novel about young people dancing, as the title suggests, I made it a book about death.

I hope you find this coming-of-age novella as enjoyable to read as I found it fascinating to write.

Goodreads / Amazon / Barnes & Noble / iBooks / Kobo

EXCERPT:

In the past week or so since we’ve arrived, life has taken on a predictable rhythm. I spend the mornings entertaining the ladies of the castle, with the lyre, my singing, playing knucklebones, and listening to their gossip. Truth to tell, nothing they say is particularly interesting as high-born ladies spend their time inside. When they are not diverting themselves with such pastimes as I provide, they are spinning, weaving, running the household, and caring for their children. They talk incessantly about their children. They know little of the outside world.

I escape after the midday meal, taking advantage of the ladies’ habit of resting as the sun’s chariot crests at the highest point of the day. While they sleep, I head out into the scorching countryside looking for Father.

We sit together in the shade, while Father does some task, usually repairing something, while I tell him everything I’ve learned the evening before. It is not that hard. Because I am small, and people are now familiar with my face, no one pays me any mind as I take my seat at the bench that runs along the side of the huge table where all the working folk of the castle eat their meals.

Father has told me never to be inquisitive, but I am dying to know more about the twelve mysterious ladies locked up in the castle tower, the ones people whisper about behind their hands when they think no-one is noticing.

As the light of the sun drains from the sky, as the king’s men sink lower onto wooden benches eating dish after dish, quail, pheasant, peacock, duck, eggs, bread, olive oil, wine, and olives, the noise of seven hundred men sharing jokes, laughing, and swilling wine reverberates around the hall.

Finally, I can take it no more.”Is it true what they say about the King’s daughters?”

The grizzled stranger on the bench next to me wipes the grease off his mouth with the back of a hand and spits out an olive pit.

“Where’ve you popped up from? You shouldn’t be here. You’re only a young lad.”

I am used to these remarks. After I left home I took a ship that was blown off course, taking me west to the land of the Italoi. I had to beg for money in the streets and in the taverns and it was not long before I heard news of Father, who was sailing to the west of this land.

And so I made my way across steep mountains before coming down to a lush plain. Playing my lyre to entertain strangers I followed their directions to the sea, to a wide bay within sight of a simmering, high, conical-shaped mountain.

And there, in a tavern, I met Father.

Now we are traveling home together. But Father is not here on the bench beside me, as he should be, but outside at a nearby farm pretending to be a stable hand.

This is one of Father’s clever strategies. He is a master at extracting information. He calls his strategy “divide and conquer” and it means that I have to use my lyre to find a berth for the night in some local chieftain’s house. This is not usually difficult, especially if there are ladies around because for some reason they always want to pet me.

Meanwhile, Father finds work on the outside as a shepherd, farmhand, or stable boy. By concealing his origins and pretending to be dumb, drunk, or both, Father is able to overhear a great many things. We have a plan to meet every day at noon, I escaping the blandishments of the ladies to visit the local farm for milk, cheese, eggs where I could happen upon the new stable boy, farmhand, or shepherd.

The only fly in the ointment is my age. I am only twelve years old and to my great annoyance, I look it. So Father made me memorize some phrases to offer when this issue arises.

“Father is here with me, but is suffering with an ache to his belly.”

One sentence is usually enough for most people. Father has instructed me never to offer explanations that are not asked for as it only makes people more curious.

But the fellow is staring at me, waiting for more.

I turn my eyes down. “Father told me to eat supper and then berth with him in the stable yard.”

“He’s the new stable hand, is he?”

I nod.

“Much good he’ll be with a bellyache.”

I look up. “Do you have a remedy for that good sir?”

Father always stresses the importance of asking for advice when a conversation turns sour, as it flatters the vanity.

The fellow hawks and spits, rising from his seat. “You’ll have to go to the kitchens for that, son.” He ambles off.

Author Bio:

Cynthia Sally Haggard was born and reared in Surrey, England. About 40 years ago, she surfaced in the United States, inhabiting the Mid-Atlantic region as she wound her way through four careers: violinist, cognitive scientist, medical writer, and novelist.

Her first novel, Thwarted Queen, a saga set in 1400s England with a Game of Thrones vibe, won the 2021 Gold Medal IPPY Award for Audiobook. Her second novel, Farewell My Life, a dark historical about a hidden murderer, won the 2021 Independent Press Award for Women’s Fiction and was the 2019 Distinguished Favorite for the New York City Big Book Award.

Cynthia graduated with an MFA in Creative Writing from Lesley University, Cambridge MA, in June 2015.

When she’s not annoying everyone by insisting her fictional characters are more real than they are, Cynthia likes to go for long walks, knit something glamorous, cook in her wonderful kitchen, and play the piano.

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Armored Hearts - An Enemies to Lovers Sci-Fi BDSM Vampire Romance #Romance #Sci-Fi #Suspense #BDSM #Vampires

Angela Knight is here to tell us about Armored Hearts, an enemies-to-lovers sci-fi/suspense romance with BDSM and vampires.

Read on for details...

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An Enemies to Lovers Sci-Fi BDSM Vampire Romance

Sci-Fi Romance / Suspense

Date Published: March 20, 2026

Publisher: Changeling Press

Captivity makes the heart grow kinkier...

When interstellar mercenary Captain Nick Rand rescues a beautiful enemy from his own men, he thinks she's the answer to his vampire prayers. On the verge of starvation thanks to the destruction of his hemosynther, he's in desperate need of a female blood donor.

Lieutenant Zara Tahir needs Nick Rand as badly as he needs her. Without Nick's blood, Zara's overactive immune system will kill her.

But Zara has no intention of embracing captivity. While she's willing to exchange blood for blood, maybe even play a kinky game or two with the handsome vampire dominant, he's still the enemy. She can't allow herself to see him as anything more.

Then Rand's enemies make things a lot more complicated...

 

Excerpt

Copyright ©2026 Angela Knight

Hunger chewed Captain Nick Rand until he felt like a bone in a wolf's jaws. It wasn't just a hunger of the body, though his gut felt hollow and his hands had a tendency to shake. Didn't matter how much food he ate, how much water, coffee, or whiskey he drank. None of it touched the craving that gnawed at his brain, making it hard to think about anything but what he needed. Even now, when the enemy might be drawing a bead on his skull, all he wanted was blood. Hot, red and seductive as a siren -- a taste that reminded him of sex and the cool touch of a woman's hands.

Rand fought to ignore that bottomless need. He didn't have time for it now, no matter how hungry he was. Enemy temp shelters surrounded him, dome shapes dappled with camouflage until they were indistinguishable from the forest floor.

They made his shoulder blades itch.

Invisible, a silencer field muting the sound of his footfalls, he padded between the shelters, beam rifle raised as he swept its muzzle from side to side, scanning for potential attackers. His stomach growled so loudly he wondered if the noise could be heard outside his silencer field. He ignored his hunger, fighting to concentrate past the savage need. As he'd been fighting for every endless hour of the previous nine days.

Instead, Rand focused on the familiar process of searching the enemy camp. He could hear the rasp of his breathing in his helmet as he ducked into one empty tent after another, though the silencer muted the sound past four or five centimeters.

In his helmet com, he heard the murmur of his men reporting in as they filtered through the camp, searching for the enemy. They had no more luck than he'd had. The Falaran Coalition battalion had melted into the surrounding forest, leaving behind smashed equipment, hastily abandoned meals and wrecked temporary shelters. Apparently they'd been alerted to the approach of the G.A.E. force at the last minute, dropped everything, and run like hell. Wise of them, considering they were outgunned and outmanned. The colony was small, without the economic resources Godsson's more established planetary population could command. Their armor was certainly no match for the G.A.E.'s.

Still, they could have left someone behind. Maybe in camouflage armor like his own, surrounded by a field of energy that bent light, rendering the sniper invisible.

But you could bend all the light you wanted to, and it wouldn't stop Rand from picking up your scent. Vampires had great noses. And great speed, great endurance, and enough raw strength to take on a mech unit with no backup at all.

Which was why he had been hired in the first place, despite the G.A.E.'s disdain for mercenaries in general and vampires in particular. The generals who led the Glorious Army of the Enlightened didn't know a damned thing about war. Nick Rand, on the other hand, had spent the past two decades fighting in a dozen wars on a dozen planets. His combat reflexes weren't just muscle memory -- they were burned in all the way down to his DNA.

Which was why the G.A.E.'s brass had decided they could ignore his food preferences.

He moved in a liquid glide into the next tent. Sweeping his rifle over the whole space in a smooth arc, he ordered a sensor scan. The answer came back a heartbeat later. Sensor scan completed. No enemy located, said the computer implanted at the base of his brain. He breathed deep, scenting the air just to be sure. And froze.

The tent belonged to a woman. Actually, more than one. Perfume lingered in the air: lilacs and star roses and the natural scent of female bodies. Rand inhaled, drinking in the lush aroma. His eyes closed for just a heartbeat as he imagined the taste of blood and pussy.

Months. It had been months since he'd had a woman. Godsson taught females were corrupting influences who'd blunt his soldiers' warrior instincts. He insisted women belonged at home, teaching their children piety and submission to the will of their Most Exalted -- i.e., Godsson himself.

Yeah, right. Why the female cultists tolerated this airlock blow, Rand had no idea. It was no wonder the million or so Falarans had refused to join Godsson's six million plus worshipers, badly outnumbered or not.

I should never have taken this fucking job. Never mind that he'd needed work. Peace had broken out all over with its usual rotten timing. Absolutely no one had been hiring. Had it not been for Godsson's decision to invade the neighboring planet Falara, Rand would have been forced to find a security job, and he hated bodyguard work with a passion.

But after a year with the G.A.E., the idea of keeping some arrogant prick alive was starting to sound pretty damned good. For one thing, he wouldn't be slowly starving to death among zealots who considered him a pervert.

He wished G.A.E. HQ would quit fucking around and send him a new hemosynther. The last time he'd commed them, Supplies and Requisitions claimed the 'synther was on order, scheduled to arrive from Earth next week in a shipment of medical equipment. Rand had told the requisitionist it had better, or he was coming to HQ to sink his teeth into something with a pulse.

The man had blanched. As if Rand would touch his sweaty neck with a nine meter radiation probe. His blood would probably taste like burned coffee and stale doughstries anyway.

Growling under his breath, Rand left the tent -- and heard the scream coming from the other end of camp. A woman's voice, crying out in rage and pain.

He was running before the echo died.

* * *

If she hadn't been so sick, she could have made the G.A.E. bastards pay a higher price when they found her in the middle of the camp. Unfortunately, it had been more than a month since her vampire had died, and Lieutenant Zara Tahir was deep in blood sickness.

They surrounded her, a yelling, laughing mob of massive shapes in helmets and black armor emblazoned with Godsson's halo and planet logo. Those suits gave them enough raw power to take on a blast tank and win.

Even so, Zara hadn't made it easy for them. Even in her lighter V.S.S. armor, she had the advantage in speed and agility. Fighting ferociously, she triggered a spontaneous nosebleed. Feeling the hot wetness rolling down her upper lip as she spun and kicked, she snarled. It had been far too long since she'd tasted vampire blood. Wouldn't be long before her own immune system killed her.

Not that these fuckers would give it the chance. They were pissed, and they planned to kill her. And worse.

 

About the Author

New York Times best-selling author Angela Knight has written and published more than sixty novels, novellas, and ebooks, including the Mageverse and Merlin’s Legacy series. With a career spanning more than two decades, Romantic Times Bookclub Magazine has awarded her their Career Achievement award in Paranormal Romance, as well as two Reviewers’ Choice awards for Best Erotic Romance and Best Werewolf Romance.

Angela is currently a writer, editor, and cover artist for Changeling Press LLC. She also teaches online writing courses. Besides her fiction work, Angela’s writing career includes a decade as an award-winning South Carolina newspaper reporter. She lives in South Carolina with her husband, Michael, a thirty-year police veteran and detective with a local police department.

 

Author Links

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

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The Broken Crown Saga - Epic Fantasies - and a Giveaway #Fantasies #EpicFantasies #Giveaway

Orlan Drake is here to tell us about The Broken Crown Saga, epic fantasies.

There's also a great giveaway.

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Where loyalty shatters, legends are forged.

The King’s Fall

The Broken Crown Saga Book One

by Orlan Drake

Genre: Epic Fantasy

A Gripping Tale of Royal Betrayal and Hidden Romance

When darkness falls on the kingdom of Ardanthia, readers will find themselves caught up in a story where nothing is what it seems. Princess Eloise faces impossible choices as murder and betrayal tear her world apart. Her secret love for the Prince of Caladorn adds another layer of danger to an already deadly situation. This isn't just another royal romance - it's a heart-pounding adventure where love and loyalty clash in the most dangerous ways possible. You'll feel every moment of tension as Eloise walks the razor's edge between duty and desire.

 

Mystery and Investigation That Keeps You Guessing

Sir Cedric Blackthorn brings detective skills that would make any crime solver jealous. His brilliant mind works to solve puzzles that could save or destroy an entire kingdom. As Ambassador Zafir arrives with hidden motives and Baron Gorgo schemes from the shadows, every character becomes a suspect. The investigation twists and turns through palace halls filled with secrets. You'll find yourself trying to solve the mystery alongside Cedric, picking up clues and second-guessing every revelation. The chase scenes will have you on the edge of your seat as our heroes race against time through a kingdom ready to explode into war.

 

Fantasy Adventure That Brings Legends to Life

The Broken Crown Saga starts with this incredible first book that mixes political drama with fantasy elements that feel fresh and exciting. Secret groups work behind the scenes, pulling strings that control the fate of nations. The world-building draws you in completely, making you believe in a place where magic and politics dance together in dangerous ways. This story proves that sometimes solving one crime can prevent an entire war - and that the most important battles happen in the shadows.

 

For readers of David Eddings and Terry Brooks, this sweeping tale of betrayal, magic, and destiny will leave you breathless.

 

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The King's Fall opens not in a throne room, but underground. A secret order — no names, no titles, only cloaks and the authority of old purpose — has gathered around a rune-carved table to debate an incident that should not have happened: a full diplomatic party has been wiped out on the road between two kingdoms, and neither king ordered it. Someone is pulling strings that no one can see. The council is about to do something dangerous. They are going to look.

 

There existed beneath the old earth a sanctum kept from all maps and memories, shielded by corridors that twisted into each other with a geometry of deliberate confusion. In the deepest of its halls, a chamber circular and primeval waited in perpetual shadow. The room's centrepiece, a stone table whose circumference rivalled a city well, had been carved from a single slab of basalt. Its rim and surface bore etched runes and ancient sigils, their purpose unclear to any but initiates of the silent order that convened there.

Around this table, shrouded figures gathered, their cloaks indistinguishable but for subtle variations in the weave — one a blue so dark it drank in the torchlight, another a coarse grey laced with fine metallic thread, a third in deep forest green that shed a dusting of spores with every movement. Even in the heart of stone, the air hung moist and cold, saturated with the scent of burnt tallow and the musk of old water. From sconces in the arched walls, torches spat and guttered, casting orange light that slithered across faces as pale and anonymous as death masks.

No titles were spoken here, only the functional necessity of names earned and worn like invisible crowns. The magister at the head of the table, tall, angular, motionless save for the slow folding of gloved hands, did not need to identify himself. When he spoke, the voice cut through the stillness as though it had been whetted on the stone itself.

"Our watchers are not in agreement." The words were uninflected, carefully measured.

A murmur passed around the circle, not of dissent but of discomfort. The second figure, smaller but with an evident coiled energy, leaned forward. Her hands were bare, fingers long and stained black along the creases, and she tapped the table where the runes formed a broken circle.

"It is a minor border skirmish, Sentinal," she said. "Bloodier than most, but hardly unprecedented. Let the kingdoms squabble among themselves — Ardanthia and Caladorn have always warred at the fringes." She sounded impatient, as though summoned for a lesser concern.

The magister in blue, whose hood cast his face into shadow, spoke with a slight tremor. "The killing was not so minor. An entire diplomatic train vanished — every courier, every retainer, every guard. The ambassador's body was not even left for ransom. That is new. That is calculated."

The Sentinal allowed the words to settle, scanning the circle with a gaze that seemed to fix on each magister, regardless of where his face was aimed. "Six months ago, an envoy of Ardanthia, Lord Marcus Blackbriar, journeyed south with full ceremonial escort. Their course was direct: Eldoria to Delrith, then through the corridor to Mirashar. Before reaching Delrith, they were set upon and destroyed. Only one man survived, and he staggered back to Eldoria."

"Coward's tale," said the woman with the ink-stained hands. "Most witnesses die of their wounds, the lucky ones first."

The Sentinal ignored the snipe. "Our watcher in Eldoria heard the testimony. The survivor told King Leofric himself that the attackers wore the livery of Caladorn. Our watcher in Caladorn, however, tells a different story: they found no evidence of a sanctioned operation. If anything, Caladorn's own patrols have increased since the incident. Their court desires peace. Their king is tired of war."

A rustling of fabrics, the weight of suspicion shifting around the table. The green-cloaked figure finally broke his silence, voice low and gravelly. "If both kings are ignorant, then who profits from the attack? It's no longer a border dispute. It's something else."

A pause, broken only by the hiss of a torch collapsing into itself. The Sentinal's next words fell heavier for the silence.

"Our order exists not to shape events, but to understand them. Yet this affair grows more opaque with every new witness. Either our watchers lie, or we are being lied to. That alone is reason to intervene."

"There's little evidence it threatens the Balance," the woman pressed. "What can it matter if kingdoms grind each other to salt? We have seen worse in the east. Nothing endures but the Pattern."

"Unless the Pattern itself is being rewritten," the blue-hooded man said.

At this, the Sentinal brought his palms flat on the runic table, producing a hollow note that echoed into the stone. "We are not theorists. To maintain the balance we need clarity, not further confusion. We will look. Tonight, we summon the memory of that day and see for ourselves."

The woman's upper lip curled. "The power to see through time is not borrowed lightly, Sentinal. It leaves marks on both the living and the dead."

"We risk more by not knowing," the Sentinal said. "If our council cannot agree on what is, how can we guide what must be?"

The blue-hooded man lifted a hand, uncertain. "If it is as you say, and both sides are being manipulated, then the ritual may be hazardous. Memory is often trapped by the will of those who shaped it."

Twilight’s Dominion

The Broken Crown Saga Book Two

The peace was always a lie. They just didn't know whose.

Queen Eloise of Ardanthia has done everything right. She negotiated the alliance with Caladorn, married the prince, held her court together through blight and borderland attacks and the whispered threat of an ancient secret order. Now, with villages vanishing overnight — crops blackened, livestock dead, people simply gone — she does what any good ruler would do. She sends her best.

Sir Cedric Blackthorn, the precise and principled knight-investigator. Captain Elira, a soldier who has survived too much to flinch at anything. Tomas, a scholar more at home with footnotes than fistfights. Ryn, a street thief from the Saltspire docks whose instincts are worth more than anyone's education. And Auralias — the Court Mage, brilliant and unsettling in equal measure — who brings knowledge of old magic that none of the others possess, and who may be the only thing standing between Ardanthia and the League of the Moon.

Together, they are hunting the League before the League can finish what it started.

What they find will change everything they think they know — about the attacks, the conspiracy, and the true scale of what is being assembled in the dark. There are artifacts, older than any living kingdom, whose power was thought lost to history. There are secrets buried so deep that uncovering them will cost more than anyone is prepared to pay. And there is a question, growing louder with every mile: who, exactly, is the enemy?

Twilight's Dominion is a story about loyalty tested to breaking, courts where every smile hides a calculation, and the particular horror of realising that the enemy has been in the room all along. It is about a queen learning that the peace she built was built for her — and a company of mismatched, battle-worn companions who keep fighting even after the ground gives way beneath them.

Set across mountain fortresses carved from living rock, fog-wrapped port cities, a besieged royal palace, and the treacherous corridors of two kingdoms in collision, this is epic fantasy for readers who like their politics sharp, their magic consequential, and their betrayals earned.

Perfect for readers who love:

*The political intrigue of A Song of Ice and Fire

*The ensemble loyalty of The Lies of Locke Lamora

*The world-building depth of Robin Hobb

*Characters who are competent, scarred, and worth caring about

"There's no certainty in what's ahead. But I'd rather die among friends than watch the world go to monsters."

The Broken Crown Saga:
Book One: The King's Fall
Book Two: Twilight's Dominion
Book Three: Echoes of Kings - coming soon

 

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Twilight's Dominion opens on two stories running in parallel. In the first, Lady Seraphina D'Argent — a diplomat travelling alone through the unforgiving Crownspine mountains — has just been surrounded by armed strangers on a mountain pass. She has been riding for ten weeks on orders she doesn't fully understand, heading toward coordinates her queen gave her without explanation. She is about to discover something that will change everything she thought she knew about the world she serves.

~820 words

 

The figures came on in absolute silence, fanning out across the trail with the efficiency of wolves. In a matter of seconds they had closed off her retreat and were sliding, almost bonelessly, down the talus to encircle her.

Their leader wore a helm that entirely concealed his face, its visor painted with a crude snarl of animal fangs. The others carried composite bows at the ready, arrows nocked, but pointed down — a gesture that managed to be both merciful and contemptuous at once. Seraphina drew Cassia to a halt and set her hands openly on the pommel, every muscle rigid with calculation.

"State your business," the leader growled, voice rendered inhuman by the tin of his visor.

Seraphina debated, for perhaps two breaths, whether to attempt bluff or bravado. The bows decided the matter. "I am Lady Seraphina D'Argent, of Armathor," she replied, "on a mission from Her Majesty Queen Evelina."

The leader turned, a lazy gesture that made mockery of her authority, and a snort went up among his lieutenants. "And your escort?"

"Was not permitted." Seraphina kept her gaze level, though the blood pounded furiously in her ears. "I am to meet with a representative of the Riders, if you are such."

The mention of the Riders produced a shift in the circle. The archers exchanged glances, some wary, some almost amused. The leader drew closer, boots crushing the shallow crust of snow.

"You speak too much for a courier," he observed. "But too little for a spy." He swept a gauntleted hand at her pack horse. "Open your satchel."

She untied the travel case from the gelding, working fingers gone numb in the cold, and fished out the scroll tube. It was heavy, made of dark wood and brass, the wax seal untouched. She held it up so they could all see the sigil of Caladorn: a pair of crossed sabres over a seven-pointed star. There was a stillness, then a slow, careful release of tension among the archers as the leader nodded, almost respectful.

"Walk forward. Slowly," he said.

They escorted her up the ridge, off the trail, through a section of scree so loose that even Cassia balked. For an hour, maybe more, they wound through impossible switchbacks and across narrow spines of rock, each step a new exercise in balance and terror. Finally, the leader raised his hand and the party halted at a narrow saddle between peaks.

Seraphina caught her breath, took a long swallow from her water skin, and paused as she noticed what lay beyond the saddle.

The city was carved into the living stone of the mountain's interior, hidden from the world by both geometry and design. Terraced galleries spiralled down the inside face of a gigantic crater, studded with windows and fire-gleaming vents that gave the place an eerie, hive-like vibrance. Slender bridges of bone-white stone spanned the void between rocky spurs, connecting to massive towers whose roofs gaped open to the sky. Far below, at the crater's deepest point, a plaza of blue granite caught the light of a hundred lanterns, transforming it into a pool of shimmering stars.

She had never seen such a thing. She had never heard of such a thing. And yet, as she stood there, wind plucking at her cloak, Seraphina understood instantly, with a sick clarity, that Queen Evelina had always known.

They did not take her down the public steps. Instead, the archers led her along a narrow spiral cut into the stone, half-tunnel, half-balcony, with just enough space for one person and a horse at a time. The air grew colder with every turn, and the hum of unseen machinery — bellows, pulleys, some kind of water-driven elevator — echoed from deep within the walls. At last they emerged onto a flagstoned platform where the leader, visor now up, gestured for her to dismount.

"Wait here," he said, less threatening now. "You will be summoned."

Seraphina did not ask how long. She untethered her gloves, flexed her hands, and tried not to shiver in the thin mountain air. The view from the platform was staggering; across the chasm, the terraces of the city glimmered with what looked like glass or ice, and tiny figures moved between the arcades.

A boy in a grey tunic arrived, bearing a tray of tea and something that looked like bread but tasted of cedar and salt. He smiled at her with a gentleness that belonged to another world. When she asked him his name, he merely gestured for her to drink.

Time stretched, then snapped back when the leader returned, flanked by two more guards in matching visors. "You will come," he said.

I am a new author writing under the pen name Orlan Drake, my real name is Chris Hills Farrow.  I've worked as a freelance writer for magazines in the past but have always wanted to write fiction, and after having more free time during the lockdowns, I have made some progress. I enjoy fantasy because it opens my mind to other worlds or ways of life that do not exist in real life, or have ever existed.

 

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