In a moving story of love and loss, a corporate consultant leaves her life behind to care for her dying friend’s children—and finds hope with the small-town coach who steps up to the plate with her.
From the author of The Art of Starting Over comes a heartfelt portrait of what it means to build a family, as a young woman navigates grief, guardianship, and the bittersweet gift of falling in love.
The only thing that could pull Antonia Bernardi away from her high-powered career is her lifelong best friend. And with two children and a cruel prognosis, Miriam Vaughn needs her now more than ever.
Antonia drops everything—her job, her relationship—to be there for the Vaughns. Playing mom to Miriam’s teenage son and seven-year-old daughter is a tall order made heavier by grief. But the kids need her, and she needs them.
Then there’s the boy’s coach and mentor, former MLB star Weston Schmidt. He’s a pillar of support, a safe space for Antonia to rest. But there’s too much going on to even think about romance … or maybe that’s exactly why they should.
Adjusting to life without her best friend, Antonia leans into her new role as guardian, doing work she loves and repairing the old farmhouse Miriam cherished. Nothing can stop the world from spinning—but Antonia has every reason to keep on going.
Heidi McLaughlin is a New York Times, Wall Street Journal, and USA Today Bestselling author of The Beaumont Series, The Boys of Summer, and The Archers.
Originally, from the Pacific Northwest, she now lives in picturesque Vermont, with her husband, two daughters, and their three dogs.
In 2012, Heidi turned her passion for reading into a full-fledged literary career, writing over twenty novels, including the acclaimed Forever My Girl.
Heidi's first novel, Forever My Girl, has been adapted into a motion picture with LD Entertainment and Roadside Attractions, starring Alex Roe and Jessica Rothe, and opened in theaters on January 19, 2018, and is now available on DVD & Digital.
Leah Miles is here to tell us about Baby ConSEALed, Seal & Shelter Book 1, romantic suspense.
There's also a great giveaway.
_________________
The family he
didn't know he wanted might be the only thing worth dying for.
Baby ConSEALed
SEAL & Shelter Book 1
by Leah Miles
Genre: Romantic Suspense
Baby ConSEALed won
the 2024 Georgia Romance Writers' "Maggie Award"!
Rissa Parker struggles to support herself and her daughter
by working overnights as a home health nurse. After witnessing her employer's
murder, she has no choice but to grab her two-year-old and run toward the one
person strong enough to protect them, the Navy SEAL who fathered her child
during a one-night stand.
Navy SEAL Bernard "Burn" Cruz is a straight arrow,
approaching work and play in equal parts. He doesn't regret much in life,
except for one woman he's never forgotten. Nearly three years after their
initial encounter, she shows up in San Diego at the bar his team likes to
frequent, and he believes Forever might have knocked on his door. Until a child
cries, and all hell breaks loose.
As bullets fly and bodies drop, Rissa must outrun a killer
whose connection to her past threatens to destroy any chance at a future with
the father of her child, and Burn discovers the family he didn't know he wanted
might be the only thing worth dying for.
Baby ConSEALed, an award-winning contemporary
romantic suspense novel, is fast-paced, steamy and suspenseful. Pick up your
copy today!
“A tightly
plotted, fast-paced whirlwind of a ride fraught with secrets, danger, and an
emotional love story that focuses on family—the kind you choose.” —Lena Diaz,
Publishers Weekly best-selling author
“With a
to-die-for hero, sizzling tension, and edge-of-your-seat suspense, this romance
delivers all the feels in an unforgettable, heart-pounding read!” – Charlee Allden,
Goodreads Review
“A fast-paced,
slow-burn romantic suspense where danger, secrets, and second chances collide…. With
bullets flying and hearts on the line, Leah Miles delivers high stakes and
emotional impact in equal measure.” – Cam Torrens, Goodreads Review
Burn was admiring Jackson, the newest family member, when a
wide-eyed Rissa burst out of the kitchen and sprinted into his arms.
“Hey, beautiful.” He was glad he hadn’t demanded to hold his
nephew because now he had an armful of a warm, welcoming woman.
“I’m so glad you’re back,” Rissa said breathlessly.
He was gratified that she’d missed him. “I was only gone an
hour, but that’s a nice welcome.”
She pulled back, but not away. “Sorry … I …"
He cupped her cheek to catch her gaze. “Did you have a problem
while I was gone?”
“No, but I need this,” she said, winding her arms around his
neck and leaning on her toes to kiss him.
That was an invitation that he wasn’t going to turn down. He
pulled her closer and slid his hand into the hair at her nape to slant his
mouth more firmly over hers.
“Let’s keep this PG. The baby is watching,” said Clare, smirking
at him from where she stood with Jackson on her shoulder.
Burn chuckled and gently tucked Rissa against his side. “Give us
a break, Clare bear. We’ve been apart all afternoon.”
“More like an hour, Bernie Cruz,” Clare said, pointing a long
finger at him. Then she shifted her gaze to Rissa. “Don’t let him bully you.”
Rissa straightened. “Burn wouldn’t do that. He’s kind, and I’m
here because I want to be.”
He liked that his little Texan was ready to come to his defense.
“Easy, Tiger. My sister-in-law is an attorney and has strong opinions regarding
male testosterone.”
Clare arched a dark brow, “As long as everything is consensual
and safe, I have no problem with it.”
Burn chuckled. Their little PDA had probably already given Clare
plenty of ammunition for the next family dinner lecture, but damned if he
cared. “Rissa, this is my sister-in-law, Clare, and my nephew, Jackson. Clare,
this beautiful woman is my girlfriend, Rissa Parker,” He grinned at
Rissa when he said girlfriend, wondering how she would react.
She didn’t pull away or even look annoyed. Okay then.
Leah Miles writes romance and paranormal fiction from her
small-town in South Georgia, where she lives with her husband and cocker
spaniel while running an insurance agency and Airbnb business.
After a dozen
years in news production at CNN, Leah Miles now manages an insurance agency and
an Airbnb business in rural Georgia, while writing romantic suspense and
paranormal romance featuring take-charge heroes and fierce heroines.
Emily Carrington is here to tell us about Para Schooled, an LGBTQ+ shifter romance.
Read on for details...
_________________________
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.
Harley Wylde is here to tell us about Samson, a motorcycle club romance, featuring an age gap and suspense.
Read on for details...
_____________________
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
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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.
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.
