Michael Mizov is here to tell us about The Last Heir of Bradbury Manor, gothic psychological horror.
There's also a great giveaway.
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This post is part of a virtual book tour organized by Goddess Fish Promotions. Michael Mizov will be awarding a $10 Amazon/BN gift card to a randomly drawn winner. Click on the tour banner to see the other stops on the tour.
The Last Heir of Bradbury Manor is an atmospheric gothic horror novel of haunted inheritance, family curses, and the terrifying secrets buried beneath a crumbling Yorkshire estate.
Lottie Bradbury has not set foot in Bradbury Manor for twelve years. Sent away as a child following her mother’s tragic death, she is summoned home in 1919 by the estranged father she barely knows. The once-great estate is failing, burdened by debt, decay, and generations of neglect. Her return comes with a price: an arranged marriage intended to save what remains of the Bradbury legacy.
But Bradbury Manor is not merely old.
At night, the house makes itself known. Strange sounds echo through the corridors. Rooms refuse to stay still. Moments slip out of place. The past refuses to remain buried.
As Lottie is drawn deeper into her family’s history, she uncovers a pattern stretching back centuries, one marked by unexplained deaths, buried betrayals, and a curse that never truly ends. It simply passes from one generation to the next. Everyone expects her to take her place. To continue what came before.
Caught between the expectations of her father, the promise of a future beyond the estate, and the growing realization that something is terribly wrong within Bradbury Manor, Lottie must decide how much of the truth she is willing to uncover and what it may cost her when she does. The closer she gets to the answers, the harder it becomes to tell whether she is exposing the darkness surrounding her family or being led deeper into it.
Perfect for readers of Mexican Gothic, The Silent Companions, and Rebecca, The Last Heir of Bradbury Manor blends haunted houses, family secrets, supernatural mystery, psychological tension, and the enduring power of the past.
Read an Excerpt
She didn’t remember falling asleep, only waking to the creak of floorboards outside her door.
For a strange moment, she felt as though she had surfaced from deep water, everything out of focus, too loud, the world arriving a heartbeat later than it should. The curtains were drawn. No moonlight. True dark.
The rumbling of her stomach reminded her that dinner was promised, but the footsteps continued down the hall. Her father, perhaps, finally going to bed.
The footsteps stopped. Turned. Marched back to her door. Was he coming to check on her?
She waited.
No knock. No motion. Stillness. She waited until waiting felt worse than opening the door. Creeping toward it, she listened.
Silence.
Lottie opened it.
No one. The hallway stretched empty in both directions.
“Father?” she called into the hallway, so softly she could barely hear herself.
No reply. But she was certain someone had been standing outside. She told herself it was the wind. Or the floor settling. But she didn’t believe it. The hairs on her neck rose. She slammed the door harder than she meant to.
Footsteps approached the moment it shut. Clapping a hand over her mouth, she stifled a scream.
The silence was worse than the steps. Something on the other side was listening too. Backing away from the door, she bumped into a serving cart she hadn’t seen. The silver lid of a covered dish fell to the floor with a crash. The tea beside it was still steaming.
Heart pounding, she turned on the light. The clock read half past one.
Morning was a long way off. She wasn’t sure what frightened her more: that the hallway had been empty, or that it hadn’t.
About the Author
Michael writes dark fiction that explores psychological breakdowns, fractured identity, and the strange absurdities of life. When not writing, he works in B2B marketing, renovates a possibly haunted Victorian house, and wrangles twin daughters with his wife in New Jersey.
Accolades:
2025 Top 100: Cheshire Novel Prize National Flash Fiction Day 2025: FlashFlood: Debut Flash: 'Nobody's Home' by Michael Mizov Festivals: Michael Mizov - Awards - IMDb
Julia Kent is here to tell us about her contemporary romantic comedy One Night Band Stand, Get What You Need #2.
There's also a great giveaway.
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One Night Band Stand
Julia Kent
(Get What You Need, #2)
Publication date: September 30th 2026
Genres: Adult, Comedy, Contemporary, Romance
Who accidentally has a one-night stand with her alumni band director?
Yep. Me.
I know what you’re thinking. Whoops! I slipped on some valve oil and accidentally landed on his baton during a rousing chorus of Stars and Stripes Forever.
That’s not quite how it went.
But the alumni band director is really, really skilled with that baton, if you know what I mean.
So what am I supposed to do now, as I walk into the morning’s rehearsal — three feet from the podium because of course I play piccolo — and find the guy I ghosted on this morning … right there, smiling at me like he remembers exactly what tempo I prefer?
He’s perfect. Too perfect.
He’s a widowed dad of two adorable little kids that — oh, by the way — he forgot to mention.
But I also haven’t mentioned the seventeen-year-old I live with, either. He’s not my boyfriend. I’m his guardian. He’s autistic and non-speaking, and he’s been my whole world since I was nineteen.
I want Mr. Band Director. He wants me. Nothing — not the secrecy, not the awkwardness, not the 500 miles between his life and mine — will make this chemistry stop.
Except for three pesky little things: the secrets we’re hiding from each other. Three very human secrets.
I’ve never felt so seen before. He gets me. I get him. But we’re buried in responsibilities and loyalties that get in the way. When I’m with him, I can play. Really play.
And not just music.
He can’t quit his job and move his kids to be close to me. I can’t uproot a fragile teen who needs round-the-clock care and is still mourning his parents. The odds are stacked against us.
There are naked boobies in my bed, and they are not my wife’s.
What have I done?
My body goes cold and hot, skin pulsing against the sheets, blood pooled in morning wood. Wood that rests against my not-wife’s thigh. My eyes widen. My beard itches around my lips, lips that feel raw, my tongue a bit overused at the tip, like I just had sex with –
I cheated on my wife.
I cheated on my wife.
My beautiful, amazing wife who tells me she loves me ten times a day. Who laughs at my stupid music jokes. Who smiles like she’s actually interested in my high school band stories. Who —
Told. Laughed. Smiled.
Past tense, Jared. Two years, two months, four days of past tense.
— is dead.
Stacey’s dead. Right. Damn it.
I close my eyes, jaw tight, inhaling slowly, my nose cold inside, the physicality of it breaking through panic. The unreality of her death still shatters my sleepy self every morning like a car alarm I can’t fully disable, one blissful second of not-knowing, then the loop of grief.
That sour taste. The shock. The anger. The pain, physical and emotional.
Stacey is dead.
Which means I’m not cheating. I’m just in a hotel room with a very naked, incredibly alluring woman who isn’t my wife.
So then who the hell is this in my arms?
She’s cute. Warm. Soft.
So soft.
The arm Ms. Not-Wife is sleeping on went numb in my sleep. I haven’t moved it one millimeter, shoulder locked, neck doing that isometric thing as her weight presses into my bicep. It should be uncomfortable. It isn’t, and somewhere in sleep my hand found her arm and started stroking it. I just realized it’s doing this. My hand likes her.
My cock sure does, too.
I really like the softness. Naked softness takes the liking up several notches.
Another clue this isn’t my wife: I’m on the bathroom side of the bed.
Ms. Not-Wife’s hair is blonde and straight, spread across my arm. Stacey’s was darker, curly, and Stacey had to pee constantly, especially after giving birth to our oldest, Molly. Every apartment, every house, every hotel, every guest room, every beach rental for nineteen years: Stacey got the bathroom side.
The woman in my bed is not Stacey.
The HVAC unit hums on an E-flat that’s four cents flat. Not concert E-flat. An E-flat that vibrates like it’s committing a felony against freon. It is the most passive-aggressive sound in Indiana, and that’s saying a lot, because have you ever gone to a church picnic in this state? Those ladies are lowkey brutal.
The print above the bed is a seashore painting, a Thomas Kincade knockoff, something a lifelong southern Indiana resident thought would evoke Cape Cod but instead makes me think Dungeons and Dragons on acid. It goes with the burnt-orange carpeting somehow. I half expect a Jello-O egg mold as part of the continental breakfast downstairs in the bar where I picked up… this woman.
I actually approached a woman at a hotel bar, and she chose to sleep with me.
Me.
Not-Wife’s hand is on my chest. She has short nails, no polish, the thumb hooked into the dip below my collarbone like she put it there on purpose. Her thumb knows what it’s doing, which is more than I can say for the rest of me. Her ribcage moves into my ribcage every four or five seconds and back out, long even breathing so constant I’ve started matching it without meaning to.
Waking her up means having to talk, and I don’t know what you say after you pick up a woman in a hotel bar and now you’re both naked under the sheets, vulnerable and freaking out a little, yet liking it.
A lot.
Not-Wife smells like vanilla and sex and the chemical-linen scent of every business hotel pillowcase put into circulation since 1994. The bar lighting was bad last night, so I’m seeing things this morning I couldn’t see then: a mole on her cheek. Long dark lashes against it. A dimple at the corner of her mouth that’s there even when she’s not smiling.
She’s gorgeous.
Morning-gorgeous, unadulterated. Her face was not-yet-defined last night, just a woman who was blonde and smiling under bad bar lighting. She has lips I kissed last night, a tongue that danced with mine and tasted so good, and her breasts are smashed against my side like little pets curled up, seeking warmth.
I have forgotten how nice this is.
A person breathing into your neck. A warm softness against your body. Your bare skin against theirs. I took this for granted for too many years, and once it was gone I felt the absence like a phantom limb.
Author Bio:
New York Times and USA Today bestselling author Julia Kent writes romantic comedy with an edge. Since 2013, she has sold more than 2.5 million books, with 5 New York Times bestsellers and more than 23 appearances on the USA Today bestseller list. Her books have been translated into French, German, Dutch, and Italian, with more titles releasing in the future.
From single dads to cinnamon roll heroes to new adult rock stars, Julia finds a sensual, goofy joy in every contemporary romance she writes. Unlike Shannon from Shopping for a Billionaire, she did not meet her husband after dropping her phone in a men's room toilet (and he isn't a billionaire she met in a romantic comedy).
She lives in New England with her husband, three children, and a Havanese dog named Walter. She is the only person in the household with the gene required to change empty toilet paper rolls (Walter gets a pass).
She loves to hear from her readers by email at julia@jkentauthor.com, on Twitter @jkentauthor, on Facebook at @jkentauthor, and on Instagram @jkentauthor. Visit her at http://jkentauthor.com
Megan Slayer is here to tell us about Taken by the Angel of Death, Taken 14, fantasy romance.
Read on for details...
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(Taken 14)
Fantasy Romance
Date Published: October 2, 2026
Publisher: ChangelingPress
One touch sends her victims to hell. But he’s already been there.
Would not recommend. 0 stars.
Loren knows her job. She’s an angel of death. When she allows herself to
be seen, there are no survivors. She drives too fast, has no filter, and bows
to no man. Then she sees a vampire crumpled on the ground. It’s not his
time. She can’t leave him to die, but she won’t get involved with
him. Too bad he’s cute.
Michel never wanted to be turned. Never wanted to offer his services. Terminal
illness? You’re going to perish anyway? Want to do it on your terms?
Then he can help. It’s part of his death wish. But he can’t die.
When he finds himself in the presence of the most beautiful, moodiest woman
he’s ever seen, he can’t forget her. But she won’t touch
him. He makes it his mission to get to know and melt her defenses so they can
both have their heart’s delight.
If nothing else, he’ll die trying.
She kills. He can’t die. They shouldn’t work, but what if they did
and the results are fire?
You are to report to Beelzebub immediately, a voice said in her head. Loren
scrubbed both hands over her face. She hated when he called her. He never
wanted anything good. Someone had to die. Always.
She rolled her shoulders, then waggled her head to stretch her neck before she
ambled into the fiery man’s office.
“You called, Bubsy Baby?” she asked. She never referred to him by
his preferred name. It just didn’t suit him. Or maybe it was to annoy
him that she wouldn’t use the name he preferred.
“You know my name,” he snapped.
“Look up the number?” She folded her arms and sighed.
“You’re not exactly menacing or scary behind that desk.
You’re like a red-tinged middle management clown.”
His eyes blazed and he snarled. Flames licked his horns. He drummed his
fingers on the desk. “Someone has to be in charge.”
“And you do it so well.” She sighed again. “What do you
want? You only call when you want something.”
“You have a job to do.” He pointed to the screen behind him.
“You have three, actually.”
“We’re still using screens? Isn’t that so last
century?” She read the information and filed it away in her mind. She
could be counted on to complete her mission without fail or issue.
“Why are you such a pain in my ass?” he asked. His glare deepened
and he gritted his teeth. “You can’t just go along.”
“No, I can’t.” She shifted her weight from her left foot to
her right. “I have to be your torture because you were a shit when you
still had your wings. I’m your punishment.” She didn’t care
that she gave him such grief.
“Just bring me the souls I deserve.”
“You don’t deserve anything,” she replied. “But
it’s my job.”
“If I could find someone else and give you a different one, I’d do
it.”
“You love me,” she snapped, knowing full well he didn’t care
for her at all. “I’ve got the orders.” She turned on her
heel and strode back out of his office. If he were removed from his post
tomorrow, she’d be just fine. Hell, she’d be happier.
“Don’t you dare leave this office until I give you
permission,” Beelzebub shouted. “Wait, I haven’t told you
where your targets are. You don’t even know where you’re
going.”
“I don’t?” she said over her shoulder. “Eerie, it
would appear.” She didn’t turn around but kept going. She
wasn’t stopping until she got out of his disgusting palace. No one
should have to look at so much death and suffering.
The display of bodies and souls in distress always churned her stomach. Sure,
the humans could be dicks to each other.
She flicked her hand and opened the portal to the roughest bar in Eerie. Few
beings were strong enough to withstand a night at Just One More. If there
wasn’t a fight in progress, there was one about to start. Bottles were
routinely thrown at anyone for just about any reason. There weren’t any
waitstaff. Just three vampires who tended the bar. They barely spoke but
expected high tips. She nodded to Stacy, the head vampire, then closed the
portal and headed out to the cooler air of the night.
The smattering of lights on the building flickered. The parking lot
hadn’t been paved in years and the potholes could prove dangerous for
anyone under the influence. Sweat practically poured from the interior and the
sound of laughter could be heard for a good mile from the place.
A hulking figure shielded her from the glare of the colored lights. “Hi,
Jack. Get out of my way.” She’d been involved with him for a whole
month and he thought he owned her. The fool. She barely let anyone get close
to her. Jack had been a decent roll in the sheets, but he wasn’t
relationship material.
“You’re here.” Jack Robideaux stood in her path. “Who
are you here to collect?”
“Not you.”
“Anyone here?” Jack asked.
“Nope.” She sidestepped him. She didn’t feel like having
this conversation. She kept going until she reached the parking lot where
she’d left her car, hoping no one had keyed it while she’d been
gone. The vehicle wasn’t anything to look at -- a worn ‘80 Mustang
with chipped paint, a woefully underpowered engine and nearly bald tires, but
the old girl got her where she needed to go. She unlocked the car and slid
behind the wheel.
A bottle flew over the hood and broke on the fence, sending shards of glass
through the air.
She growled, then flicked her fingers, directing the glass back to the guy
who’d tossed the object in the first place.
“Sorry, Loren,” he called. “Fuck, that hurt.”
“You had it coming,” she said, then drove out of the lot. Fucker
needed to watch where in the Hell he was throwing things. She sent rocks
flying as she pulled onto the main road.
According to her list, she was headed to the Trollville area of Eerie. The
trolls never bothered her, but if it was this one’s time to go, then she
couldn’t stop fate. Atropos wasn’t terribly flexible when the end
of the ribbon came. The being was expected to accept her determination.
But these were chosen by Bubsy. She snorted to herself. He had to know how
much it delighted her to see him squirm when she called him by that name. Call
it a perverse power play. She didn’t care. It gave her a minute to best
him and worked every time.
She stopped by the crossing and waited. According to the screen, this troll
was meant to pass while in the middle of the street. She hated this part. Why
did beings have to be so violent to each other? She fiddled with the black
diamond ring she always wore.
She noticed the male and female walking toward the road. The headlights of a
car shone in the distance. That had to be how he died. Loren remained in her
silent vehicle and waited. The man staggered and wobbled into the woman. She
laughed and sagged into him.
Loren rolled her eyes. They were going to cause an accident because they were
drunk. Cute. She could shout at them and get the pair out of the road, but
that’d only piss off Bubsy and string her job out. Atropos would be
pissed with her, too.
Not today.
The pair lazed out to the middle of the road. The woman dropped her purse.
When she bent to pick it up, the car seemed to come out of nowhere. The sound
of screeching tires, the scent of burnt rubber and the shriek of breaking
glass filled the air. The woman’s scream could probably be heard outside
of Eerie.
“Showtime,” Loren muttered. She left the car and made her way to
the pair. The woman, her face covered in blood and her hair matted against the
top of her head, reached for Loren.
“Help us,” the woman begged. “Call someone.”
“They’ve been called.” Loren shrugged, extending her black
wings. Her leather jacket crinkled and creaked, and her boots thudded on the
asphalt. “I should say I’m sorry.” But she wasn’t. She
touched the man, who’d stopped breathing not more than thirty seconds
after the car hit him.
“Go home,” Loren whispered. “Time for your ultimate
reward.” She left her index print on his head, sending his soul to the
depths of Hell. He dissipated into dust and his body was gone.
The woman screamed. “You killed him.” She swatted at Loren but
missed. “You destroyed him.”
“It was his time,” Loren said and stood. She flexed her wings
before tucking them away. “Now you’ll have to live with the guilt
and anger for what happened. You’ll have to accept that you’ve
done this. He’ll never come back.”
“Bring him back,” she said and lunged forward, grasping the front
of Loren’s jacket. “He wasn’t supposed to die. I was.
I’m the one who cheated. He was just along for the ride.”
Fuck. She hadn’t thought the drunken woman would’ve been so strong
or fast. She swatted her away, then stepped back. “Talk to the devil.
Your boyfriend is in his hands now.”
“Boyfriend?” She flopped backward onto her ass and her matted hair
fell in her eyes. “He was my john.”
“Now he’s your gone.” Loren straightened her jacket and left
the scene, almost as if nothing had happened.
One down, two to go…
Loren cleaned the blood from her hands once she settled behind the wheel of
her car. She didn’t bother to watch the woman or call for help. That
wasn’t her job. Besides, what would she say? The Angel of Death is
calling and would like an ambulance to be sent to the corner of Oak and Elm?
Yeah, that wouldn’t do much good. No one would believe her.
She drove away, leaving the scene. In the regular world, she’d be in
trouble for fleeing the site of an accident. But no one saw her, save for the
drunken woman and no one would believe her, either. They’d think Loren
was a figment of her sloshy mind.
Loren flexed her fingers on the steering wheel. She couldn’t remember
the last time she’d had a conversation with someone who wasn’t at
Just One More. Certainly not with someone who wanted to speak to her.
Not that she wanted to have deep discussions with anyone. Most people annoyed
her. She stopped at the traffic light and a thought occurred to her. If
I’m not careful and don’t rein in my sarcastic attitude,
I’ll turn into Bubsy.
She gagged.
No one is as insufferable as Bubsy.
She drove for two hours before reaching her next destination near Pittsburgh.
She spied a man crossing the dark street. He had his hands stuffed in his
pockets and his head down. His gait was quick, like he was hurrying away from
someone. She kept watching. This guy wasn’t on her list. Was he
perishing tonight? This wasn’t exactly a great area and people did die
here.
Another being rushed up to the man. Something glinted. A knife? She
wasn’t going to be a witness to this. Loren parked and surged from her
vehicle. She lunged between the men, pushing the first one out of the way.
When she’s not writing, Megan spends time with her husband and son as
well as three dogs and three cats. She enjoys art, music and racing, but
football is her sport of choice. She’s an active member of the Friends
of the Keystone-LaGrange Public library.
Nurse practitioner, Dana Kerrigan, finds her steady and comfortably predictable life suddenly turned upside down as the result of a family emergency. With no choice but to take a leave from work, she has to hustle to keep Silence’s favorite pub running and her parents looked after.When heartbreak brings with it an unexpected opportunity to realize a long-held dream, it presents a new set of problems.One that involves murder, and the man sent to investigate.
As a recent transplant to Silence, sheriff’s detective, Rick Althof, was aiming for less stress and more solitude. Instead, he finds himself frequently drawn to The Kerrigan, a popular pub in town, to enjoy a meal, a beer, and—if lucky—a friendly chat with the owner’s pretty daughter.Still bearing the invisible scars of past mistakes, he’s determined to keep things friendly, despite a growing attraction.However, his resolve is put to the test when she lands in the middle of an elaborate development scheme involving bribery, blackmail, and even murder.
USA Today bestselling author Freya Barker loves writing about ordinary people with extraordinary stories.
With forty-plus books already published, she continues to create characters who are perhaps less than perfect, each struggling to find their own slice of happy.
Recipient of the ReadFREE.ly 2019 Best Book We've Read All Year Award for "Covering Ollie, the 2015 RomCon “Reader’s Choice” Award for Best First Book, “Slim To None”, Finalist for the 2017 Kindle Book Award with “From Dust”, and Finalist for the 2020 Kindle Book Award with “When Hope Ends”, Freya spins story after story with an endless supply of bruised and dented characters, vying for attention!
No
one believes that under the tough attitude and schoolgirl fashion
sense, reformed demon Zoe burns for a man, love and sex. She keeps
those urges on ice and well hidden. She sold her soul for a guy once,
and all it got her was a one-way ticket to Hell.
Her
job, keeping supernatural creatures in line at From Crud to Stud, is
all work and no play. Until she’s saddled with a trio of new
enforcers who ooze so much sexual heat she’s afraid to be on the
same planet with them.
Stefin,
Anatol, and Taro try to contain their laughter as their adorable new
boss tries to lay down the law. Apparently, no one told her they
don’t take orders. They give them. And they’re determined to
smooth her rough edges and tame her beast with acts so wanton they’ll
make her scream—for more.
Talk
about all hell breaking loose. Surrender won’t come easily, but
given their devilish charm and her aching need, her journey to
submission is one done deal.
Warning:
Contains
an unholy trio of demons who don’t like to take turns. Break
room…snacking. After-hours…training sessions. In other words, a
sensual ride on the pleasure express. Features m/f/m/m sex in every
flavor except vanilla. Bring. It. On.
PRAISE FOR MASTERING THE BEAST
4.5 Stars
"These strong compelling characters seduce readers with their hot and sexy story while anticipation of Zoe's surrender builds throughout the well written, fast paced and smooth flowing plot."
Literary Addicts
_____
4.5 Stars
"Oh man! What a hot little number this is. Mastering the Beast is book three in the Taming the Beast series by Tina Donahue. This is Zoe's story and it's hot, hot, hot! "
The Jeep Diva
_____
4 Stars
"I have been really enjoying this series - and would recommend that you read them in order to fully appreciate the crazy! There is so much fun, madness, friendship and erotic action in these books that they are a breath of fresh (occasionally sulphurous) air. Thank you Ms. Donahue for another hit!"
The erotic romance when they leave the office will having you sighing. But will Zoe agree
the right guy just might be worth it? Has she finally found lasting love and if so with whom?
2 thumbs up for an funny erotic love story that will keep you turning the pages til the very
last one. I Highly Recommend the series.
- Barbara Barber, Amazon
TEASERS
Excerpt:
Footfalls
rang in the hall.
Three
guys strode into Becca’s office, their movements fluid and assured.
Each looked thirty or so, in mortal years, and had dressed in black,
their shirts silk, their boots and pants elegant, like bouncers wear
at an elite club.
No
one was dancing in here, especially Zoe.
A
faint sulfur scent emanated from the unholy trio. Flames flared
briefly in their eyes.
Demons.
The trouble she’d sensed earlier.
She
froze, too stunned to move or speak.
The
guy in the middle was easily six-three and nicely muscular, his blond
hair shoulder-length. His rough good looks, bronze complexion and
stubble put the va-va-voom in virile. Sin filled his light gray eyes,
his mood dangerous and predatory.
Her
belly fluttered.
He
winked.
Disquiet
and lust rolled through Zoe. Her legs went watery.
The
guy on the right proved equally tall and powerfully built. Beautiful,
he had rich-chocolate skin, dark eyes and long hair worn in
dreadlocks.
Those
babies would feel awesome gliding across her naked boobs and
thighs—until he screwed her over like every other male had done.
She
steeled herself against his allure.
He
smiled.
A
freaking dimple dented his right cheek, his grin an unusual
combination of boyish mischief and raw sensuality.
Her
pussy creamed.
Hot
didn’t begin to describe the last guy’s masculine features,
deep-blue eyes and thick auburn hair. Those wavy locks trailed past
his ears and curled on his neck. His stubble called to everything
female within Zoe, as did his height, big body and the assured way he
regarded her.
The
guys’ enticing sulfur odor enhanced their musky scents, making the
mixture wanton and unashamed. Their impressive cocks pushed against
their flies.
She
bet each of their rods jutted from blond, black or auburn curls.
The
room spun.
“Guys.”
Becca lifted her reddish eyebrows. “This is Zoe.”
The
introduction seemed to come from far away, Becca’s voice muted by
the ringing in Zoe’s ears. She tried to respond but only managed an
odd noise, part grunt, mostly a groan.
Becca
edged closer. “Zoe, this is Anatol.” She gestured to the black
hunk with the dimple. “Stefin.” The blond god in the middle
winked again. “And Taro.” The blue-eyed hottie regarded her
intensely. “They’re our new enforcers.”
Each
looked in charge already, their stances saying they wouldn’t budge
one damn inch for anyone, especially a female demon.
Becca
offered a nervous smile. “You’ll be working with them from now
on.”
Working
with or for, as in taking orders, yearning helplessly then losing out
as she had with the last man in her life?
