Mychael Black is here to tell us about Essence, Splintered Bloodlines 3, LGBTQ, MM, fantasy.
Read on for details...
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(Splintered Bloodlines 3)
LGBTQ / M/M / Fantasy
Date Published: November 28, 2025
Bobby’s always had a thing for silver foxes. Still has. Just never
expected to find the ultimate one is his fated mate.
Bobby Kirkland leads a simple life -- mostly simple, considering his budding
romance with the esteemed Deacon Saridan, head vamp of House Saridan.
Amid the romance and Bobby's exploration of the BDSM lifestyle with his new
mate, a string of murders leads Deacon to believe that a familiar, though
certainly not kind, face has shown itself in the lands of House
Saridan… and this threat proves to be an even bigger challenge than
first thought.
WARNING: Adult language and situations, including BDSM
The dock foreman, Toryn, leaned against the frame of the plate-glass window we
stood at as we watched the workers in the shipping area below. “Seems to
be. He gets along with the guys pretty well.”
I glanced at him, one eyebrow raised. “But…”
He sighed. “He struggles to stay on task sometimes, and he tends to
daydream a good bit. Not a bad thing inherently, but not great when working
around forklifts and eighteen-wheelers.”
I couldn’t help but chuckle. The young man who’d captured my
attention weeks ago was indeed a bit flighty at times. According to Cam, Bobby
Kirkland had always been that way, and a diagnosis of ADHD as a pre-teen had
answered a lot of questions. He needed structure and routine, in my opinion.
I’d hoped working here would give him that, but he still seemed to have
trouble staying focused on occasion.
The bell signaling the end of the workday rang out in the warehouse. I spotted
Bobby going toward the door that led into the large breakroom where the
lockers were. Beside me, Toryn snickered softly.
“I’m surprised you haven’t claimed him yet.”
I turned away from the window. “Soon.”
I followed him out of my office and downstairs. Most of the workers were
already heading home, but a few -- including Bobby -- remained in the
breakroom. Toryn patted my shoulder and went to his own locker. The others
glanced over at me, and a couple of them shot Bobby teasing smirks. Even from
the doorway, I saw him blush. There wasn’t any hint of jealousy with
this group, thankfully. When Bobby met my gaze, I discreetly gestured for him
to join me upstairs. He nodded, and I headed back up. Once I claimed him,
we’d be able to speak telepathically and not worry about coworker
issues. Then again, he also wouldn’t be working either, but that was a
discussion for another day.
A few minutes after I sat down on the small couch in my office, the door
opened. Bobby smiled, though there was a good bit of nervousness behind it. He
shut the door and sat a couple of feet beside me at my urging. I twisted a
little to face him and got comfortable.
“How was work?”
“Good,” he said, fidgeting a bit with his hands, like he
didn’t know what to do with them. One leg bounced a little.
“Have you had any problems with your coworkers?”
Bobby didn’t answer right away, which told me everything I needed to
know. I reached over and put my hand on his knee, stilling the movement almost
immediately. His eyes widened for a moment, making him seem far younger than
thirty-one. Of course, at my age, he was young.
“What is it? You can tell me anything, Bobby.”
He swallowed and tore his gaze from mine. I waited while he thought about
whatever he wanted to say. Finally, he spoke. “Just a couple of guys who
seem to think I’m an idiot.” He looked back up at me.
“I’m not. I just get… distracted sometimes, hyper focused
at others.”
“No, you’re definitely not an idiot. You wouldn’t be working
here if so,” I said. “Have they done or said anything directly to
you?”
“No, but I’ve caught a few whispers here and there,” he
replied. “Not to mention the weird glances.” He shrugged and
sighed. “I feel like I’m back in fucking high school, to be
honest. It’s ridiculous.”
I chuckled softly and gave his knee a gentle squeeze. “I have a
potential solution then, but I think we need to have a good, long talk before
we go any further.”
Bobby nodded and stared down at my hand. “I honestly started to worry
that this was a one-sided thing,” he muttered.
Unable to resist, I lifted my hand to cup his chin, tilting his head until I
was looking into those soulful brown eyes. I stroked my thumb across his lower
lip, and he let out a soft gasp. “I assure you, this is very much
mutual. That said, there are details we must go over first.”
“Those details have anything to do with your necklace?”
I smiled and lifted the thin chain from under my shirt. Light reflected off
the tiny handcuff pendant accented with garnets. “Indeed. How about we
have dinner, and we can chat?”
“Sounds good to me. I need to let Dad and Cam know where I’ll be.
I don’t have to, but it’s an old habit.”
“Absolutely, and a good one to have. Do you have any food preferences or
sensitivities I need to know about?”
“I’m lactose intolerant, but that’s it.”
“Understood. Let Beau and Cam know what’s going on and then meet
me in my chambers upstairs. Normally, I’d take you out, but the things
we need to discuss are not for anyone else’s ears.”
His gaze shifted a bit, and I couldn’t ignore the urge any longer.
Fingers gripping his chin, I tipped his head and leaned close. Bobby’s
soft moan the moment our lips touched sent almost overwhelming need rushing
through me. His scent -- a decadent mix of soap, shampoo, and something woodsy
yet sweet -- filled every part of my psyche. The urge to bite flitted through
my mind, but I shoved it away for now. I knew he was mine; I didn’t need
to taste his blood to confirm it.
Bobby opened for me, pliant, eager, and so insanely delicious. I released his
chin and cupped the back of his head, pushing the kiss into hungrier territory
for both of us. Before I could lose control and take him right here, though, I
made myself pull back. He grumbled, and I nipped his lower lip before soothing
it with my tongue.
“Dinner,” I murmured. “I need to taste every inch of you but
not before we talk.”
About the Author
Mychael Black has been writing professionally since 2005. He writes gay
romance and erotica, but also het romance as Carys Seraphine and queer fantasy
as Katherine Cook.
He's an avid PC gamer with a love for RPGs, a horror fanatic, and a fantasy
nut. He also has a weakness for anything relating to skulls, dogs, and
Spongebob Squarepants.
Mychael lives on the Eastern Shore of the US with his family. He loves to hear
from readers, be it via email or Facebook.
K.M. Gruchelska is here to tell us about The Tahra Files: Merry Christmas Tahra Mamoun, a paranormal thriller.
Read on for details...
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Thriller/Paranormal
Date Published: Expected 3rd December 2025
A strange boy. A shortwave radio broadcasting numbers. A kidnapping
plot.
Tahra Mamoun uses her power of remote viewing to escape the monotony of
London, only to find herself trapped in the frozen tensions of East Berlin.
There, she witnesses a spy drama unfolding around teenage Heinrich and his
illegal shortwave radio: a device receiving messages from a clandestine
numbers station.
Is it connected to his missing father? And will the Stasi kidnap the boy as an
asset designed to serve the secret police?
Thrust into the heart of a Cold War conspiracy, Tahra must rely on her friend
Edward to warn his mother. But how can one girl's mind save his family?
Harley Wylde is here to tell us about The Enforcer's Possession, Ruthless Alliances #1, Mafia romance featuring age gap and suspense.
Read on for details...
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(Ruthless Alliances #1)
Mafia Romance, Age Gap, Suspense
Date Published: November 28, 2025
A contract of power. A marriage of enemies. A love written in blood,
bound by desire.
Caterina: My father thinks he owns me. A spoiled mafia princess, good for one
thing -- marriage to strengthen his empire. But I refuse to be sold to a cruel
man. If he wants an alliance, I’ll give him one -- on my terms. So I go
to Dante De Luca, the De Luca family’s most dangerous enforcer. Cold.
Controlled. Lethal. Our contract marriage is supposed to be business, not
desire. Then he touches me, and everything I thought I knew about power and
control shatters.
Dante: Caterina Lombardi doesn’t know what she’s started. She
wants protection. I want her. She thinks she can use me to defy her father,
but once she’s mine, she stays mine. She’s fire wrapped in silk --
reckless, beautiful, and born to test every rule I’ve ever followed. But
in our world, rebellion comes with blood, and enemies are closing in.
I’ll burn everything to protect her… even if it means becoming
the monster she fears.
A dark mafia romance filled with obsession, betrayal, and dangerous passion.
For readers who love possessive alpha heroes, spoiled princess heroines,
enemies-to-lovers heat, and contracts written in blood.
WARNING: Intended for readers 18+ The Enforcer’s Possession includes
dark and possessive elements, emotional intensity, and morally gray behavior.
EXCERPT
Caterina
I sprawled across the velvet chaise near my bedroom windows, one leg dangling
over the armrest, my phone pressed to my ear while Adriana went on about some
party at the Castellano estate. I wasn’t really listening. Instead, I
picked at the silk blouse I’d tossed aside an hour ago -- Valentino,
bought last week, already boring -- and let my gaze drift across the disaster
zone my room had become.
Designer clothes lay scattered across the marble floors like expensive
casualties. A Gucci dress hung half-off my bed frame. Three pairs of
Louboutins created a hazardous path to my bathroom. My jewelry cases sat open
on every available surface, catching the afternoon light and throwing rainbow
refractions across the walls.
“Cat? Are you even listening to me?”
“Hmm?” I shifted, letting the blouse fall to the floor.
“Sorry, what?”
“I said Marco asked about you. Again.” Adriana’s voice held
that knowing tone that made me want to reach through the phone and smack her.
“He wants to know if you’ll be at --”
“Tell Marco to go fuck himself.” I sat up, reaching for my
discarded iced coffee on the side table. Watered down. Disgusting. I set it
back without drinking. “I’m not interested in whatever trust fund
baby wants to play gangster this week.”
“He’s not that bad.”
“He wore a fedora to Lucia’s birthday party. A fedora, Adi.”
She laughed, and I felt myself smile despite my mood. That was the thing about
Adriana -- she got it. She understood what it was like to live in this world,
to be decorative and controlled and expected to smile through it all.
“Fair point,” she said. “So what’s got you in such a
charming mood today? And don’t say nothing, because I can hear it in
your voice.”
I stood, pacing toward my walk-in closet. The motion felt good, gave me
something to do with the restless energy crawling under my skin. “My
father. What else?”
“What did Giuseppe do now?”
“He’s acting like I’m some prized mare to be traded off to
the highest bidder.” I stepped into the closet, running my hand along
the row of couture gowns that lined one wall. Versace, Dolce & Gabbana,
Armani -- thousands of dollars of fabric I was expected to wear while playing
the dutiful daughter. “Apparently, he’s been having meetings.
About my future.”
“Meetings.” Adriana’s voice went flat. She knew what that
meant. We all did.
“With families. Old families. Traditional families who think women
should be seen and not heard.” I grabbed a dress at random -- something
in emerald green I’d worn once to a charity gala -- and pulled it off
its hanger. Held it up. Put it back. Wrong. All wrong. “He actually told
me yesterday that it was time I started thinking about settling down. Settling
down. I’m twenty-one, not forty.”
“What did you say?”
“I told him I’d rather die.”
Adriana sucked in a breath. “Cat. You didn’t.”
“I did.” I moved to my vanity table, surveying the collection of
high-end makeup and perfumes arranged across its surface. My reflection stared
back at me from the mirror -- dark hair falling in waves past my shoulders,
green eyes sharp with anger I couldn’t quite bank. I looked like my
mother had at my age, according to the photos. Before Papa had worn her down
into the perfect Mafia wife. “He didn’t appreciate it.”
“I’m shocked.”
“The thing is, he doesn’t even see it. Doesn’t see how
fucking archaic it all is.” I picked up a lipstick, twisted it open,
then put on a little across my lips. “We all know he’s doing this
for himself or the family, but I’m sure part of him also thinks
he’s protecting me. Providing for me. Making sure I’m taken care
of.”
“By selling you off to some capo’s son?”
“Basically.” I walked back to the windows, looking out over the
Lombardi estate gardens. Perfectly manicured hedges, marble fountains, rose
bushes that cost more to maintain than most people made in a year. Beautiful.
Like a gilded cage. “He keeps talking about duty and family and legacy.
As if I’m just another asset to be leveraged. At the same time, I know
he feels women are inferior. I’m sure he doesn’t believe I could
ever take care of myself.”
“You are, though. To him.” Adriana’s voice was gentle, which
somehow made it worse. “In his world, that’s what daughters are
for.”
I pressed my forehead against the cool glass. “I know. That’s what
makes it so Goddamn frustrating. He genuinely believes he’s doing right
by me. That finding me a wealthy, connected husband is the best thing he can
offer.”
“What about what you want?”
“What I want doesn’t factor into the equation.” I turned
away from the window, surveying my room again. The luxury that surrounded me
suddenly felt suffocating rather than comfortable. “I’m a
Lombardi. I’m supposed to want what’s best for the family.”
“And what do you want?”
The question hung in the air. I didn’t have a good answer. I wanted
freedom, but freedom to do what? I’d never had to think about it before.
My life had always been mapped out -- private schools, designer clothes,
carefully curated social events, and eventually a marriage that would
strengthen family alliances.
“I want to choose,” I said finally. “I want to choose who I
fuck, who I marry if I marry, what I do with my life. Is that too much to
ask?”
“For Giuseppe? Probably.”
I laughed, but it came out bitter. Moving back to the chaise, I dropped onto
it dramatically, throwing one arm over my eyes. “He’s been worse
lately. More controlling. Like he knows something I don’t.”
“Maybe he does.”
“That’s what I’m afraid of.” I let my arm fall,
staring at the ceiling. The fresco up there -- some Renaissance reproduction
that had cost a fortune -- suddenly seemed ridiculous. Everything in this room
was ridiculous. Beautiful and expensive and utterly meaningless. “I can
feel it, Adi. Something’s coming. Some decision he’s already made
that’s going to change everything.”
“Have you tried talking to him? Actually talking, not just
fighting?”
“You can’t talk to Papa. You can plead your case and then watch
him do whatever he was going to do anyway.” I sat up, running my fingers
through my hair. My diamond bracelet caught on a strand and I yanked it free
with more force than necessary. “He pretends to listen, nods in all the
right places, and then completely ignores everything you’ve said.”
“What about Sofia?”
“Mama?” I snorted. “She’s worse. At least Papa is
honest about being a controlling bastard. Mama just smiles and suggests I try
being more accommodating. More understanding of the family’s
needs.”
“Ouch.”
“Yeah.” I stood again, unable to stay still. The restless energy
was back, stronger now. I moved to one of my jewelry cases, running my fingers
over the pieces inside. Tiffany, Cartier, Bulgari -- gifts from my father,
purchased with blood money and given with the expectation of gratitude.
“She’s been doing this so long she doesn’t even see it
anymore. The way she swallows her opinions, plays the perfect hostess,
pretends not to notice when Papa comes home with blood on his cuffs.”
“Is that what you’re afraid of? Turning into her?”
The question hit too close to home. I closed the jewelry case with a sharp
snap. “I’d rather die,” I said again, and this time I meant
it with everything in me.
“Well, don’t do that. Your funeral would be boring and I’d
have to wear black, which washes me out.”
Despite everything, I smiled. “You’re the worst.”
“I’m the best and you know it.” I could hear her moving
around on her end, probably getting ready for whatever evening plans she had.
“Look, I know you don’t want advice --”
“Then don’t give it.”
“-- but maybe pick your battles. Giuseppe’s old school.
You’re not going to change his mind by going head-to-head with him every
time.”
“So what, I should just roll over and accept whatever he decides?”
“No. I’m saying be smart about it. You’re clever, Cat.
Probably the smartest person I know, even if you are a spoiled brat.”
“Fuck you.”
“Love you too. My point is, if you’re going to fight him, make it
count. Don’t waste your energy on every little thing.”
I wanted to argue, but she wasn’t wrong. Papa responded to strength, to
strategy. Throwing tantrums -- no matter how justified -- just made him
dismiss me as a child. “Fine. I’ll be strategic.”
“Liar. You’re going to do something dramatic and probably get
yourself grounded, aren’t you?”
“Probably.” I glanced at my closet, an idea already forming.
“There’s a family dinner tonight. Something important, based on
how tense everyone’s been.”
“Oh no.”
“Oh yes.”
“Caterina Lombardi, whatever you’re planning --”
“Gotta go, my warden’s here.” I’d heard the footsteps
in the hall, recognized my mother’s measured pace. “I’ll
call you later.”
“Don’t do anything I wouldn’t do.”
“That leaves me a lot of options.” I ended the call, dropping my
phone onto the chaise just as my bedroom door opened.
Mama swept into my room like she was entering a ballroom, her posture so
perfect it made my spine hurt just looking at her. She wore a cream-colored
Chanel suit that probably cost more than a compact car, paired with pearls
that had been in the family for three generations. Every dark hair sat exactly
where it was supposed to. Not a wrinkle in sight. She looked like the poster
child for “Mafia wife perfection,” and it made me want to scream.
Her gaze traveled across the disaster of my room -- the scattered clothes, the
open jewelry cases, the general chaos -- but her expression remained serene.
That was Sofia Lombardi’s superpower. Nothing ruffled her. Ever.
“Caterina.” She said my name like it was a complete sentence, with
just enough weight to convey disappointment without actually expressing it.
“Mama.” I stayed where I was on the chaise, not bothering to sit
up straighter or pretend I was doing anything productive. Let her see the
mess. Let her judge it. I didn’t care.
That was a lie. I cared. But I’d rather die than admit it.
“I wanted to remind you about tonight’s dinner.” She stepped
farther into the room, her heels clicking precisely against the marble. Even
her footsteps were measured. “Your father expects everyone to be present
and properly dressed by seven.”
“Properly dressed.” I let the words hang in the air between us,
loaded with all the implications they carried. “You mean demure and
obedient? Quiet and decorative?”
“I mean appropriate for a family gathering.” Her tone remained
gentle, but I caught the steel underneath. Mama had spent twenty-some years
perfecting the art of being firm while sounding pleasant. “We have
important guests coming.”
“Of course we do.” I sat up, swinging my legs off the chaise with
deliberate carelessness. One of my discarded shoes clattered across the floor.
“Let me guess. Someone essential. Someone whose opinion matters. Someone
Papa wants to impress.”
Mama’s lips pressed together for just a moment -- the only crack in her
composure. “This is vital to your father.”
“Everything is a key component to Papa. His reputation, his alliances,
his legacy.” I stood, moving to my vanity and picking up a bottle of
perfume just to have something to do with my hands. “His ability to
control every aspect of his daughter’s life.”
“Caterina.” This time my name came with a sigh, and when I glanced
at her reflection in the mirror, I saw something that might have been
weariness in her eyes. “Must you make everything a battle?”
“Must he treat me like property?” I set the perfume down harder
than necessary. The glass bottle made a sharp sound against the marble vanity
top. “I’m not a business asset, Mama. I’m a person.”
“No one said you weren’t.”
“They don’t have to say it. They just act like it.” I turned
to face her directly, crossing my arms. “Do you know what he told me
last week? That it was time I started considering my options. My options. Like
I’m shopping for a new car instead of thinking about my future.”
Mama moved to my bed, perching on the edge with practiced grace. Even sitting
casually, she looked like she was posing for a portrait. “Your father
wants what’s best for you.”
“What’s best for the family, you mean.”
“Sometimes those things align.”
“And when they don’t?” I challenged. “What happens
when what’s best for the family means sacrificing what I want? What I
need?”
She looked at me then, really looked at me, and for a moment I saw something
genuine beneath the polished exterior. Regret, maybe. Or recognition.
“We all make sacrifices, Caterina. That’s what it means to be part
of something larger than ourselves.”
“I didn’t ask to be part of this.” My voice came out sharper
than I intended. “I didn’t choose the Lombardi name. I
didn’t choose this life.”
“None of us do.” She stood, smoothing her skirt even though it
didn’t need smoothing. “But it’s the life we have. The
question is what we do with it.”
I wanted to argue more, to push until that perfect composure cracked and she
admitted how much she’d given up, how much she’d swallowed to be
Giuseppe Lombardi’s wife. But I also knew it was pointless. Mama had
made her peace with her choices a long time ago. She’d decided that
compliance was easier than resistance, that playing the role was safer than
fighting the script.
I’d never be able to do the same.
“Seven o’clock,” she said again, moving toward the door.
“Please don’t be late. And, Caterina?” She paused, her hand
on the doorknob. “Wear something appropriate.”
I drummed my manicured nails against the vanity top, the sharp
click-click-click filling the silence. It was a nervous habit I’d never
been able to break, and one that drove my father crazy. Mama’s gaze
flicked to my hand, but she said nothing. Just waited.
“I’ll be there,” I said finally. “Properly dressed and
everything.”
Something in my tone must have warned her, because her eyes narrowed slightly.
Not angry, just… knowing. She’d raised me, after all. She knew
when I was planning something.
“Caterina --”
“I said I’ll be there.” I gave her my sweetest smile, the
one I used when I was about to do something that would make Papa’s blood
pressure spike. “You can count on me.”
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
Save 15% off any order at ChangelingPress.com with code RABT15
Maggie Blackbird is here to tell us about Born Like This, Maizemerized book 2, historical paranormal, time-travel romance.
There's also a great giveaway.
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She went back in time to rescue him.
She never counted on falling in love…
Born Like This
Maizemerized Book 2
by Maggie Blackbird
Genre: Historical Paranormal Time-Travel Romance
She went back in time to rescue him. She never
counted on falling in love…
Alma Whitecrow prefers hunting and fishing with men, not
romancing them. But hearing about the roguishly handsome coureur de
bois, who saved her sister from the Dakota, haunts her thoughts and dreams.
Well-versed in surviving the wilds, Alma resolves to travel to the
mid-eighteenth century, as her sister once did, to save the man from impending
death.
Charlot Baudelaire thumbs his nose at society’s
expectations, content living as a loner, trading with people he calls the Saulters.
If he needs a woman for the night, there is always a willing maiden. What he
doesn’t expect is a spunky and stubborn female warrior to challenge him.
Charlot is not the man Alma dreamed about, and Alma is not
the kind of woman Charlot pursues. But the longer they are together, the more
drawn to each other they become, until Alma faces the biggest decision of her
life. Stay with a man who may never reciprocate her love, or return to her
Ojibway home and bland existence.
Alma had expected to step into a battle. Reality set in. The only
killing she’d done was animals when hunting with Grandpa. But if she didn’t
shoot, she risked her own life and Theodore’s as she faced six Dakota sporting
arrows.
Theodore growled, waiting for her command.
The Dakota didn’t fire at her, though. They seemed to fire
everywhere else, hollering in a language she couldn’t comprehend. The fear in
their eyes indicated she’d terrified them.
Maybe they assumed she was a ghost when she’d emerged through the
flickering flames.
As the Dakota scattered, she tracked their moccasin footprints, but
one set stood out. Grandpa had told her about the spread of the toes, and these
toes weren’t spread. They came from a person who walked in shoes or boots.
Someone who later in life had switched to the footwear of the Indigenous
people.
She followed the footprints with Theodore beside her, sniffing. She
used the end of her rifle to move aside the thick brush, which was why her
homeland was called the bush at her reserve. There was nothing to call a
forest or woods about Northwestern Ontario.
The thick underbrush kept trying to snag her clothing. Clothing she
longed to remove. When she left home, she’d donned an outfit for a cold
Halloween night. But summer bloomed here. She could remove her jacket since she
had a sweater underneath, and beneath that a tank top.
A groan came about ten feet from her, and she aimed her rifle in the
direction of the sound. She moved through the many twigs and branches but
didn’t spot a blood trail. Whatever lay beneath the berry bush had been hit
there.
Another groan.
Whoever was hurt wasn’t an animal. That was the sound of a human
being. Maybe one of the Dakota?
She edged in closer until she caught the moccasins sticking out,
along with breeches. This wasn’t a Dakota or warrior from the village under
attack.
Her heart held its beat.
Had she found Charlot?
Born For This
Maizemerized Book 1
She’s always been obsessed with her ancestors, and now he’s
offering her a chance to live with them... forever.
Second-year university student Edie Whitecrow gobbles up
each course on Indigenous studies. If only she could experience the lives of
her Anishinaabe ancestors instead of reading about them. On
her way to a Halloween party decked out as a historical Ojibway maiden, she
spies a corn maze in a spot known to be barren.
A scarecrow figure beckons Edie to enter with the enticing
offer of making her biggest wish come true. She jumps at the chance and finds
herself in the past, face to face with the man who haunts her dreams—the
handsome brave Thunder Bear. He claims he’s spent twelve years waiting
for Gitche Manidoo to send her to him.
Life in the eighteenth century isn’t what Edie romanticized
about, though. When her conscience is tested, she must choose between the
modern day or the world of her descendants—where the man she was born for
resides.
What readers
are saying:
“This novel is true to history while still spinning a
lovely tale of love. I highly recommend it to anyone who loves historical and
time travel romances.” –Goodreads Reviewer
“The story had me glued to the pages from start to finish. Loved and recommend
this book.” –B&N Reviewer
“Based on prior reading from the author, I knew this would be a great book. I
had no idea just how much I’d love it.” –BookBub Reviewer
“Once I started reading, I was not putting this book down.” –Goodreads Reviewer
This is one of the best romance novels I’ve ever read in
my entire life. This book will pull you in full force and make you feel so many
different emotions.” –Goodreads Reviewer
Thunder Bear nodded. “Fire Woman. Is it not an appropriate name? The
flames did not burn you. Fire is your friend. Your spirit guide.”
“I want to be honest.” She wet her plush mouth with the color riper
than raspberries. “I have been educated in the ways of the white men. Where I
come from, we live like white men.”
“I know you do. It is in your speech, your movement, your behavior.”
He reached out and touched her bare arm that possessed delicate strength
beneath the smooth flesh he palmed. “You are here to become what you are meant
to truly be. We will teach you, if you are willing.”
“I am more than willing. In the white man’s world, I am learning
everything about the People. I have studied the People ever since I was a
little girl.”
“I know you have. It is why you came.” He could not resist letting
his palm move along her arm. Beneath the skin he stroked, her slight muscle
flexed.
She wet her lips.
The urge to claim her mouth was a test of his restraint. They’d only
met this morning, and he must go slow. To slide his mouth over hers after just
meeting was not how a warrior conducted himself. Yet, the way she’d drew her
tongue along her lower lip was caressing and licking him beneath his
breechclout. Her innocent gesture might as well have been her nails raking his
backside, her hands boldly exploring his arms, and her breasts melting against
his chest.
She was aptly named, because a fire danced in her sparkling dark
eyes. A fire of desire. A fire of need. A fire flickering with mesmerization in
her gaze touching his face.
He stifled the groan aching to leave his throat.
She seemed to drag her gaze to the dark water. If where they stood
was better lit, he’d probably witness redness on her cheeks.
“What is it?”
Again, she wet her lips. “I… Maybe I should go back?”
A punch seemed to knock his gut. “Return? Now?”
“No.” She shook her head. “I mean the wigwam. Not the…the…”
“The dancing flames?”
She nodded.
Relief loosened the knots of his shoulder muscles. He didn’t believe
in restraining any maiden, but if she had dared to run for where she had come
from, he probably would have tossed her over his shoulder and carted her back
to the camp. Now that he had found what he’d waited twelve years to capture, he
wasn’t letting her go.
Somehow, he had to help her find her courage to survive with them.
She was destined to be here.
An Ojibway from Northwestern Ontario, Maggie
resides in the country with her husband and their fur babies, two beautiful
Alaskan Malamutes. When she’s not writing, she can be found pulling weeds
in the flower beds, mowing the huge lawn, walking the Mals deep in the bush,
teeing up a ball at the golf course, fishing in the boat for walleye, or
sitting on the deck at her sister’s house, making more wonderful memories with
the people she loves most.
Aging actor, Geoffrey Harrison, is struggling to resuscitate his flagging
romcom movie career—turns out romantic heroes are only getting younger.
So, when his agent cooks up a social media contest, Geoffrey agrees to a
romantic dinner with the winner . . . the unexpectedly attractive Eleanor.
When the publicity stunt blows up the internet, Geoffrey talks Eleanor into a
ten-day fake romance, complete with handholding, candlelight dinners, and, of
course, kissing. It’s like something straight out of one of his movies.
And just like in the movies, it isn’t long before their fake romance is
anything but. However, before Eleanor can admit her feelings for Geoffrey, her
fragile trust is shattered.
Can Geoffrey script a Hollywood ending and win Eleanor back? Or will she deny
herself a second chance at her own happily-ever-after?
About the Author
I've dreamed of writing romantic fiction since I was fifteen and my older
sister sneaked a copy of Kathleen Woodiwiss' Shanna to me and told me to read
it. Now I write women's fiction and contemporary romance under the name
Rebecca Heflin.
In case you're wondering, Rebecca Heflin is an abbreviated version of my
great-great grandmother's name: Sarah Anne Rebecca Heflin Apple Smith. Whew!
And you wondered why I shortened it.
I'm a member of Romance Writers of America (RWA), Florida Romance Writers, RWA
Contemporary Romance, RWA Aged to Perfection Seasoned Romance Writers, and
Florida Writers Association. My mountain-climbing husband and I recently
located to central Virginia.
