Rex Symone is here to tell us about Good Men Say Please, erotica, romance.
There's also a great giveaway.
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Good Men Say Please
Rex Symone
Publication date: May 2nd 2026
Genres: Erotica, Romance
He’s a preacher’s son with everything to lose… and a temptress he can’t resist.
Donovan “Donny” Rafte has a problem.
At twenty-something and painfully inexperienced, he can’t get out of his own head long enough to lose his virginity. Being the son of his town’s beloved pastor doesn’t help. Every expectation, every judgment, every rule is stitched into his skin.
Then he meets Eve.
She’s bold. Confident. Unapologetically sensual.
Everything the women in his small, suffocating town are not.
And she has her eyes set on him.
What starts as curiosity quickly turns into something far more dangerous. Lines blur. Boundaries crack. And Donny finds himself standing on the edge of a choice that could shatter everything he’s ever known.
Ashlynn Monroe is here to tell us about Claimed, Claimed 3, an off world sci-fi action romance.
Read on for details...
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(Claimed 3)
An Off World Sci-Fi Action Romance
Date Published: May 8, 2026
Publisher: Changeling Press
Lexa never really knew what it meant to live until she was condemned to
die.
Framed for a crime she’d never even contemplated, Lexa Mercer’s
doing thirty days or death on the Intergalactic Broadcasting Channel’s
hit reality show Nariasma. She owes her life to one of the show’s
hottest contestants -- and a ghost of a man no one is supposed to know exists.
Roan of the Northlands is a man made famous by enduring his sentence on the
space station Nariasma. Lexa has seen the rugged hunk on television, but she
never imagined he’d be rescuing her from hunters who’ve paid to
kill criminals.
Roan’s strange companion Jenner is convinced Lexa is the key to their
freedom. Surviving and keeping her alive is just part of the challenge. Now
Roan has more to lose than his future. He’s made the mistake of falling
in love with Lexa, and that makes him the one thing he’s never been on
Nariasma -- vulnerable.
Roan and Jenner will give all they’ve got to protect Lexa.
Jenner’s convinced she’s the only one who can save them. But does
she have the strength to change their reality?
Lexa's mouth felt dry. She tasted a bitter metallic tang on her tongue. For a
few seconds she lay, hurting, with her eyes closed. Her head ached as she sat
up. She didn't remember much at first, but then the horror of Dom's death and
her sham of a trial came rushing back in a torrent.
She groaned and opened her eyes. The room was small. Bright light shone down
from a single fixture in the ceiling. She was dressed in a dark brown leather
corset and matching -- too tight -- leather pants. She ran her hands over her
backside. The horrible pants weren't ass-less, and she was glad of that, at
least. There was a black nylon utility vest over her shoulders. A row of
silver and gold sequins sparkled on the hem of the vest. The combination of
style and material was strange. Glam survivalist?
She closed her eyes and rubbed the bridge of her nose in an attempt to clear
her foggy mind. Her stomach rolled. Someone had seen her naked when she'd been
at her most vulnerable. Shivering, she forced herself to stop thinking about
how dirty having been stripped made her feel. Pushing herself up, using the
wall, she managed to get to her feet.
The door slid open with a whoosh. Whoever designed the room had hidden the
door so well she'd never even noticed it until it opened. A tall woman watched
her mutely.
Lexa flinched under the scrutiny. "Why are you here? What's happening to me?"
Lexa screamed the questions at the woman as her hysteria rose.
"You'll have a ten second head start. Go right to avoid the desert. Get to the
trees, and you'll have a better chance. Here is your pack. It's all any of the
contestants start out with. Inside you'll find a utility knife, canteen and
matches. Millions of fans will be watching you. Take solace in knowing you
won't die alone." The woman spoke without any hint of emotion or remorse.
"I don't plan to die at all," Lexa said. She hated how this woman had written
her off. She wasn't doomed. She wasn't going to give up. Just because wealthy
men had paid for a license to hunt her didn't mean she was automatically
condemned. "I'm going to serve my time and return home."
Sympathy flickered across the woman's features, but she quickly covered the
expression with a scowl. "Few have lived long enough to serve their time. No
woman has left this place alive. Many find it easier just to walk out and wait
for the end."
"I've never been good at taking the easy way out. I'll take my chances with
the woods. Why are you giving me advice?"
"It's been a long time since we've had a woman as young as you on the show.
I'd like to make the most of your time." The tall stranger's words held the
ring of truth.
Lexa shrugged. "I'll do my best to outlast my sentence. I'd hate it if
Interplanetary Broadcasting lost ratings due to my untimely demise. How bad
can a month be?" Lexa spoke as sarcastically as possible. She didn't know if
the cameras were already watching her, but she had a feeling they might be.
Hatred for the mindless people watching her injustice boiled in her core.
Until now, she'd been just like them.
The reality of how meaningless human life was hit her with shocking force.
The woman's eyes darkened. "May the enlightenment of justice guide your path."
Her sentence had begun. The cameras were watching. The woman's use of words
made that clear. "Um, thanks, I'll make my own light. I've had a taste of
justice, and it wasn't for me." Her new reality was a terrifying example of
how deep a lie could burrow to masquerade as truth. She glared at the woman.
No matter how afraid she felt she refused to let her fear show.
The emotionless expression taking over the woman's face made her shiver. "What
happens now?" Lexa asked.
"Now you survive, or not. Either way, it'll be good TV."
Lexa's eyes widened as the woman shoved her out the door.
She ended up on an elevator and not in a hallway as she'd expected. As her
brain kicked in, she realized it was now or never. With shaking hands, she
took the items from the pack and shoved them in the few pockets her thin vest
offered. She'd seen this show a few times -- enough to know the bright orange
backpack was a good way to die.
Now she wished she'd watched more often. Her mother hated the show and always
said it was low class and not what her daughter should watch.
Just as she put the last item into a secure place and dropped the bright bag,
the elevator stopped. Her heart raced. Her heavy breathing was the only sound
she could hear.
The doors opened and bright sunlight flooded the dark space to blind her. She
took a shaky step and saw trees in the distance. She took the woman's advice
and ran toward them.
In her mind, she started to count. One... two... three... The ten seconds
would be over long before she reached the trees. She didn't look back, afraid
of what she'd see. They'd be waiting. Men had paid for the privilege of
killing her for the entertainment of bored television viewers back home.
A breeze ruffled her hair. Everything felt so real here, but it wasn't a
planet. It was a space station. Terror hit her in the stomach so hard she
stumbled. Horrified, she watched the ground coming at her face as she fell
forward. She was giving her life to those bastards too easily. Her eager
executioners would be upon her in seconds.
Eight... nine... ouch. She landed as her ten seconds ended. Rolling to her
back, she sat up only to see three well-armed men wearing body armor aiming
old-fashioned high-powered automatic rifles at her.
Death. She wasn't ready. Hands grabbed her roughly. The brutality of their
grip caused her shock to turn into terror. She didn't scream or struggle. The
raw panic kept her still. She was standing because those large hands hand
pulled her to her feet.
"Run!"
She spun around and her breath hitched in her throat. He was glorious.
Roan of the Northlands, one of the sexiest men on TV, was rescuing her. He
grabbed her wrist and pulled her forward just as the first shot rang out. Dirt
erupted next to her foot. "Go!"
About the Author
Ashlynn Monroe is a busy working mom. She loves her kids and family. Her
greatest joy is creating stories to entertain others, and she hopes they bring
a little more romance into the world. She's been writing since her teens for
her own enjoyment but decided in her thirties to share her imagination with
readers. Ashlynn enjoys biking, camping, reading, video games, and filling her
home and life with love. If she's not working or chasing children, you can
find her daydreaming up her next tale of romance.
Years before, Nikki fell in love with Mitch and Connor, betraying them as only a high school girl could. Now, she’s back and needs their help.
Powerful and commanding, Mitch has never stopped craving Nikki. Connor hungers for her as badly, but isn’t ready to forgive. If she needs some fast cash by working at their gentlemen’s club, she’ll have to audition by stripping for them.
Gladly. Aroused by their shameless scrutiny, Nikki’s willing to do whatever it takes to be near them again…even being punished in the BDSM Room or starring in one of Connor’s erotic films. Mitch won’t have it, unless he and Connor are the ones mounting and enjoying her.
On a sultry weekend in a secluded island mansion, desire reignites on camera and off as Nikki surrenders to their lust, dominance, and exquisite discipline, reawakening their timeless bond and the beginning of forgiveness.
PRAISE FOR SINFULLY WICKED
FIVE STARS - AMAZON REVIEWS
“Two men as powerless in her presence as she was in theirs.” - Redrabbit Reviews
Old betrayal and new hopes! - Hope W
Great Story! -
Sexy Sirens & Cajun Heat Book Blogs
HOT! - TS
TEASERS
Excerpt:
Nikki Blaine smelled of magnolia and musk, the mingling of helpless female and seductive predator. A curious combination, but who said she couldn’t be both?
Hell, she was a freaking mess. Her palms clammy from anxiety, her nipples tight with expectation. The kind a woman experiences when she’s about to be spanked, then hopefully laid…long and hard.
Yeah, right.
She paced the spacious office like a caged animal, her high heels clicking on the shiny hardwood floor, the sounds keeping time with her pounding pulse. No matter how much she needed it—and by God, she did—soul-stirring sex, followed by aching tenderness, wasn’t going to be on the menu this afternoon. Going to the men she’d betrayed years ago, brothers she’d truly loved, didn’t count as the smartest thing to do, but she needed their help.
Stopped at the burgundy leather sofa, she clutched the arm for support. According to the secretary here, Mr. Wade would be with her in a few minutes.
Nikki hadn’t bothered to ask which Mr. Wade the young woman had been talking about. She would have bet this room belonged to Mitch. Scented by leather and something woodsy, it was darkly masculine with rich mahogany walls, copper accent lamps topped by bronze-colored shades, and classic cherry furniture. Solid and imposing.
The desk was nearly as long as a bed and wide enough for two people, maybe three.
Don’t go there. She had no right. It wasn’t as though she could waltz in here after nearly fifteen years and expect Mitch to give her a hug or a welcome home fuck…if he showed up at all.
Where is he? Nearly a half hour had passed since his secretary had led Nikki inside. She hoped after Mitch’s initial shock had worn off about her being here, he hadn’t decided against seeing her. If so, she couldn’t blame him. He probably figured she’d behave as cruelly now as when they’d been in high school.
She circled the sofa and paused at framed news articles of him and Connor published in well-respected business magazines. Those pieces were intimately familiar to her. She’d read them when she lived in New York prior to her ex-husband’s arrest. Through the years, she’d followed Mitch and Connor’s many successes, wanting only the best for them.
Smiling softly, she touched the first photo taken outside Wicked, their wildly popular gentlemen’s club. The reason she was here today.
They had to say yes to her proposal. At the very least, they had to show up. If neither did, Nikki wasn’t certain what she’d do.
The glass recorded Mitch’s reflection behind her.
Her heart stalled.
He stood in the doorway to his office, bathed in gauzy light pouring in from the arched window. Beyond it, Atlanta moved at a far more sluggish pace than Manhattan ever had, today’s oppressive humidity forcing everything to an exaggerated Southern crawl.
In here, everything unfolded in slo-mo, except for her walloping heart.
She faced him for the first time in too long, needing to get her fill.
Oh, Mitch.
At six-three, he made the sprawling room seem small, his build lean yet muscular, no longer the lanky teen. Ruggedly handsome, he wore his thirty years well. Laugh lines graced the corners of his beautiful hazel eyes. They looked golden behind his sooty lashes, complementing his olive complexion. Combed away from his forehead, his chestnut colored hair was longish in the back and on the sides.
Nikki reined in her urge to run her fingers through his thick, wavy locks, to touch and smell him, her face buried in the hollow of his neck, her body pressed close, lost in his heat and strength. Protected at last. Home.
A preposterous notion that made it difficult for her to join him, impossible for her to speak, but still she hoped.
His gaze wasn’t guarded or indifferent as she’d feared. Wonder flooded his features, no different from when they’d been in her parents’ garage after their first kiss. She was fifteen then. He’d been a year older and seemed so worldly. Life hadn’t been easy for him or Connor. She’d fallen in love with both brothers, but Mitch had made the initial move.
They’d been horsing around that afternoon, mercilessly teasing each other. Mitch finally settled the score by tickling her into submission. Before Nikki could catch her breath or slug him, he brushed his lips against hers. Their velvety warmth surprised. His bristly cheeks thrilled. She’d wanted him to hold her in his arms forever. Later the same week, Connor kissed her. Nikki never wanted to leave his side.
There was no guilt for what they’d done. Both brothers accepted the other’s claim on her just as she had, treating it as needed and natural. For the most part, their relationship remained innocent. They were her dearest friends, like none she’d ever known.
Their bliss lasted three months, ending when school started in the fall.
Shiloh Walker is here to tell us about I Choose the Bear, a bear shifter romance.
Read on for details...
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Paranormal Romance
Date Published: April 28, 2026
Ivy thought she'd found one of the good ones, a nice guy who respected
her wishes, the guy all of her friends liked...and then they head to his
family's lake house for a night to watch for an expected meteor shower. But
Neill had his own plans in mind and when Ivy said no, he didn't like it.
Enter the bear.
Jonah, on a hiking trip with his best friend, Liam, after the unexpected death
of the clan's Alpha, and Jonah's grandfather, is enjoying the last few hours
of freedom he'll know for some time. He's known for a long time he'll be
stepping into his grandfather's shoes and with the countdown ticking away, he
relishes the peace and quiet. But then it's shattered by the shouts of an
angry, frightened woman. Both Liam and Jonah take off running to investigate.
Just as they reach the edge of the property, the woman shouts, "You're the
reason why women choose the bear, Neill."
Now...Jonah abides by the laws governing supernaturals. He doesn't reveal
himself to be a shapeshifter. But walking out there in his bear skin isn't
really revealing himself. And predators deserve to be frightened, don't they?
And when he sees Ivy...his whole world is upended.
Now isn't the time for him to fall in love. He has a clan to care for,
challenges to hold off.
But love doesn't believe in being convenient and Jonah and Ivy on are a
collision course. Will she choose the bear...and will his bear choose her?
About the Author
Shiloh Walker has been writing since she was a kid... she fell in love
with vampires with the book Bunnicula and has worked her way up to the
more...ah... serious vampire stories. She loves reading and writing anything
paranormal, anything fantasy, but most all anything romantic. Once upon a
time, she worked as a nurse, but now she writes full time and lives with her
family in the Midwest. She also writes under the pen name J.C. Daniels.
Emily Carrington is here to tell us about Precog's Perception, Psychic Soulmates 1 - A Searchlight Paranormal Romance.
Read on for details...
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(Psychic Soulmates 1)
A SearchLight Paranormal Romance
LGBTQ+ Shifter Romance
Date Published: May 1, 2026
Publisher: Changeling Press
When the world doesn’t catch fire, Amaruq doubts his precognition.
Can Nootaikok’s love heal him?
A stillborn pup, precognition unfulfilled, and raging guilt plague a trans
werewolf. Amaruq’s suspicion that there’s something wrong with
him, and that the death of his and Nootaikok’s child is his fault,
colors all that he does. Traumatized, he denies himself pleasure.
Nootaikok will have none of that. He takes Amaruq on a “working
vacation” back to the scene of Nootaikok’s greatest mistake. As
both of them struggle with feelings of inadequacy and undeservingness, their
bodies and souls still demand release.
Will their fears pull them apart or can passion lead back to love and
forgiveness?
They’d started their mentor/mentee relationship with letters. Amaruq
didn’t know about Jeremy, but for him, the fear of being found out in
this digital age inspired him to write physical correspondence. Amaruq had a
feeling he should be sharing these concerns with his mate, but he
couldn’t bear for Nootaikok to know how guilty he felt. So, he wrote to
the Night Wanderer who had become his friend.
Dear Jeremy,
I hate what I have become. I’m a sneak who doesn’t know how to
apologize to my lover for losing our child. I get it that a stillbirth
isn’t exactly my fault. I did nothing to make it happen. The issue is
that I don’t want to try again. Try for another baby. It wasn’t
just losing our child, our pup, but the dysmorphia I endured being pregnant
when I’ve worked so hard to be my authentic male werewolf self. I do
not, no matter what, regret that Nootaikok and I were trying for a baby. I
don’t. I just don’t want to try again. In spite of my precognitive
vision. That future glimpse guarantees I’ll be pregnant again at some
point, as I saw Nootaikok and I surrounded by werewolf pups of many ages. I
just don’t want to be.
I also dread Nootaikok finding out.
Speaking of dread, I can easily believe Nootaikok is angry with me for making
him leave his position in DC. I’m afraid of the argument we’ll
eventually have. I just wanted to be near you, where I’ve always felt
safe. That’s the wrong kind of emotion to have for someone who
isn’t my mate. Please don’t misunderstand. I’m not sexually
attracted to you in any way. It’s just that you rescued me from the hell
of living under my parents’ roof and inspired me to become part of the
Miscellaneous Magical Creatures Department. It’s just that, now that
you’ve moved to DC, I want to return. I know Nootaikok wouldn’t
get his job back, though, and I don’t want him to be humiliated by
having to walk those same halls every day as just a tracker and not the head
of the whole world’s Tracker Central.
He stopped his pen before he could disclose more about his fears. Surely this
letter, which was basically a rambling jumble of all his terror,
wouldn’t help anything.
He shredded the page and tossed it in the garbage can in the den. There would
be no leaving it around for someone else to discover.
Today, Friday, was his last day of parental leave. On Monday, he’d be
expected to resume his work at the MMCD. He needed to pull himself together.
With that in mind, Amaruq looked around the den and then down at himself. He
still looked slightly pregnant. He’d been slowly exercising away the
pounds he’d gained as he tried to make a hospitable home for their pup
to grow. Since he was a werewolf, he wouldn’t look ready to deliver much
longer. Maybe six weeks total, which would mean another week or two.
He headed for the doorway to the den, determined to go for a run and maybe, by
doing so, make himself feel more grounded in his body and less like a spirit
drifting over the earth, unattached to anything but pain.
* * *
They were arguing again. For crying out loud, Nootaikok thought, it’s
like he’s my spouse instead of my tracker partner.
He glared at Luis, the psychic vampire with whom he’d been paired less
than six months ago. Luis was, by all accounts, including his own, one of the
best damn negotiators/spies/hunters/executioners in the United States.
Luis’s prowess was matched only by the arrogance Nootaikok swore
radiated off him in waves now. Funny, but the infernal psychic vampire
hadn’t struck Nootaikok as full of himself when he’d accompanied
Tilthos Charles to the international meeting of magical creatures that had
happened over a year ago.
At first, when he and Luis initially began working together, Nootaikok had
borne Luis’s grief and discontent. Luis’s former tracker partner
had moved with his mate to the nation’s capital, and Luis had been
understandably upset. He and his former partner had worked together for a
decade or more, becoming one of the most formidable tracker teams in the
world.
However, Nootaikok had been dealing with Luis’s grumpiness for close to
half a year, and the frustration he felt was threatening to boil over.
He took in a breath, counting to five before releasing it soundlessly.
“Luis,” he said, “I’m not injured. I heal as quickly
as any werewolf, and I have earned the right to take the risks other trackers
do. Please don’t hamper my working or your own. Going out without
another tracker when I’m standing right here is foolish.” He
paused, saw Luis was about to object, and added, “I don’t want to
be the one to take your dead body back to Tilthos Charles.”
That last got through. Nootaikok could see it in the dropping of Luis’s
shoulders and the way he pressed his lips together. Tilthos Charles, Charlie
to those closest to him, was the alpha of their shared pack. He was also
Luis’s mate and husband. Less than a year ago, Tilthos Charles had been
the target of malicious intent from other werewolves and the former queen of
the grand fae. He’d suffered what would have been called in humans of
the 1900s a “nervous breakdown.” He’d been healed but, since
it was less than twelve months since he’d recovered, Luis was
understandably protective.
“Fine,” Luis muttered. “Are you ready to go?”
Nootaikok checked the gun in its holster at the small of his back.
“Yes.”
“Come on then.” Luis strode out of his office, leading the way
toward the back parking lot.
Nootaikok kept pace with him. “Tell me about this one.”
“Didn’t you read the briefing?” Luis demanded.
Sighing, Nootaikok answered, “She’s most likely a werewolf or half
werewolf. It’s unlikely she’s from the United States as the humans
she’s left alive say she spoke to them in a thick Russian accent. That
doesn’t preclude her being from the US, though.”
“Or she’s been sent here.”
They settled into Luis’s car, which Nootaikok didn’t like, because
it meant Luis got to drive. Luis was his alpha’s mate, and Nootaikok
wasn’t a werewolf so dominance didn’t affect him as much. Still,
he liked being in charge of his own transportation. Years of being the senior
member of his own tracker team had spoiled him. Also, when he’d been the
leader of Tracker Central in Washington, DC, he hadn’t been at
anyone’s mercy.
“One of the sharpshooters managed to get a tag on her,” Luis said.
“Let me check the GPS and see if she’s still where they left
her.”
“She was in a village not too far from here,” Nootaikok said. He
wanted to ask why the sharpshooter hadn’t taken her out since
she’d been killing humans. Before he could formulate the question in a
way that would possibly cause less offense, Luis cursed.
“She’s headed toward the pack house.”
Nootaikok pulled out his phone as Luis peeled out of the parking lot.
Luis commanded, “Call the house. Tell whoever’s there to get
everyone inside.”
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.
Dulce Dennison is here to tell us about Claimed Without Mercy, a gay enemies-to-lovers romance.
Read on for details...
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Gay Enemies to Lovers Romance
Date Published: April 24, 2026
Publisher: Changeling Press
Captive. Claimed. Protected by the devil himself.
I’m Tyson Hughes’ right hand. Collector. Enforcer. Executioner.
When a low-level idiot tries to clear his debt by offering up his own nephew,
I expect a clean transaction. A body to move. A message to send. Business.
I don’t expect Kellen. Bruised. Beautiful. Untouched by this world in
ways that make my jaw lock. He looks at me like I’m either the devil
come to claim him… or the only thing standing between him and worse.
Taking him wasn’t part of the plan. Delivering him to Tyson
would’ve been easier. Smarter. Safer. Instead, I claim him.
Now he’s living under my roof, breathing my air, learning the rules of a
world I don’t sugarcoat. I’m not a hero. I don’t rescue
people. I own what’s mine. I protect it. And I destroy anyone stupid
enough to threaten it. But the deeper I pull Kellen into my life—into
the violence, the loyalty, the blood that binds us—the harder it is to
tell where captivity ends… and desire begins.
When the debt comes due, I’ll have to choose. Tyson’s empire. Or
the young man I claimed without mercy—and refuse to let go.
WARNING: Intended for readers 18+. Dark MM mafia romance. Possessive
antihero. Captor/captive tension, dubious consent. High heat. Guaranteed HEA.
No cheating.
I watched the men work, arms folded across my chest. The dim lights of the
warehouse cast long shadows as they moved product from one crate to another,
their movements precise and mechanical. Nobody spoke much -- they knew better.
When I oversaw an operation, I expected efficiency, not conversation. The
tattoos on my forearms seemed to pulse in the half-light, a reminder to
everyone present of who I was and what I was capable of. The man who made
problems disappear.
“Faster,” I said, my voice echoing against the concrete walls.
“We need this shit loaded before sunrise.”
The men picked up their pace, sweat beading on their foreheads. This shipment
was worth seven figures -- premium grade heroin straight from our overseas
connections. The kind of product that kept Tyson’s empire running and
our pockets lined.
I paced between the rows of crates, watching each man’s hands, each
movement. Trust wasn’t something I gave easily, especially not to the
low-level soldiers Tyson assigned to these jobs. Most were competent enough,
but all it took was one fuck-up, one greedy asshole, and we’d have cops
swarming the place or, worse, a war with another organization.
Something caught my eye. A slight hesitation from one of the newer guys --
skinny fuck with a neck tattoo that screamed prison ink. He glanced over his
shoulder when he thought I wasn’t looking, then slipped his hand into
his jacket pocket just a little too casually.
I moved behind a stack of crates, circling around until I was positioned where
he couldn’t see me. Three years of working as Tyson’s enforcer had
taught me to spot a rat before they even knew they were one.
“Something interesting in your pocket, Alvarez?” I asked,
appearing beside him like a shadow.
He jumped, nearly dropping the bag he was holding. “No, Mr. Grant. Just
checking the time.”
“Really? Pull it out, then.”
His eyes darted to the exit, calculating the distance. I knew that look.
I’d seen it dozens of times before on the faces of men who thought they
could outsmart me.
“Now,” I said, not raising my voice. I never had to.
“It’s nothing, I swear --”
I grabbed his wrist, twisting until he gasped in pain, then reached into his
pocket myself. My fingers closed around a small plastic bag containing about
twenty grams of our product. The weight of it told me everything I needed to
know.
“Everyone stop,” I commanded, and the warehouse fell silent.
“Gather round. Seems we need to have a little lesson in loyalty.”
The men formed a circle, their faces grim. They knew what was coming.
They’d seen it before, or at least heard the stories.
I held up the bag. “Alvarez here thinks he deserves a bonus. Isn’t
that right?”
“Please, Mr. Grant, I wasn’t --”
My fist connected with his jaw before he could finish the sentence. He
stumbled backward but didn’t fall. Good. I wanted him conscious for what
came next.
“Tyson Hughes pays you well,” I said, addressing everyone now.
“He provides for your families. Keeps the cops off your backs. And in
return, he asks for one thing.” I grabbed Alvarez by the throat.
“Loyalty.”
I slammed him against a crate, my hand still tight around his neck. His eyes
bulged, face turning red, then purple.
“You know what happens to thieves in this organization?” I asked,
loosening my grip just enough for him to breathe.
He nodded frantically, gasping for air.
“Tell them,” I demanded, nodding toward the other men.
“They… they die,” he choked out.
I smiled. “Usually. But tonight, I’m feeling generous.”
Relief flooded his face for a brief moment before I slammed my knee into his
groin. As he doubled over, I caught him with an uppercut that sent him
sprawling across the concrete floor.
The men watched in silence as I approached Alvarez, who was now curled into a
ball, blood trickling from his split lip. I knelt beside him, keeping my voice
low enough that only he could hear.
“I’m going to let you live, but not out of mercy.” I pulled
a switchblade from my pocket and flicked it open. “You’re going to
be a message.”
What happened next filled the warehouse with screams that the thick walls
swallowed whole. The men watched, faces impassive but eyes wide with fear as I
made my point in blood. When I was done, Alvarez lay sobbing on the floor,
clutching what remained of his left hand.
“Get him patched up,” I told two of the men. “Then drop him
at the emergency room across town. Make sure he understands that if he says a
word about where he was or who did this, the next visit won’t be so
pleasant.”
They nodded and dragged Alvarez away, leaving a smear of crimson across the
floor. I turned to the remaining men, wiping my blade clean on a handkerchief.
“Finish loading the shipment. I want everything out of here in thirty
minutes.”
They scattered like cockroaches under a light, moving twice as fast as before.
The metallic smell of blood hung in the air, mixing with the dust and chemical
odors of the warehouse. I checked my watch. Almost 3 AM.
My phone vibrated in my pocket. A text from Tyson:
Need you at the house. 9 AM sharp. Important matter to discuss.
I stared at the message, feeling a familiar mix of pride and anxiety. A direct
summons from Tyson usually meant one of two things: I’d fucked up, or he
had a special job that only I could handle. Given that I’d been running
operations smoothly for months, I was betting on the latter.
I supervised the rest of the loading in silence, watching as the men carefully
avoided the bloodstain on the floor. By 4:15 AM, the warehouse was empty
except for me and the lingering evidence of what happened to those who
betrayed Tyson Hughes.
I locked up and climbed into my black Audi, the leather seat cool against my
back. The night had turned cold, but I barely noticed. My mind was already on
the meeting with Tyson, wondering what assignment awaited me. Whatever it was,
I’d handle it. I always did. That’s why, despite everything, I was
still alive when so many others weren’t.
I pulled out of the warehouse district, leaving behind the night’s
violence and heading toward my apartment for a few hours of sleep before
meeting with the only man I’d ever truly respected. The only man
who’d ever given me a chance when everyone else saw nothing but gutter
trash. The man who’d made me what I was.
For Tyson Hughes, I’d do anything. And he knew it.
I pulled up to Tyson’s estate at 8:55 AM, early as always. The gates
opened automatically -- security knew my car. As I drove up the long, winding
driveway, I caught glimpses of the sprawling mansion through the trees. Tyson
had built all this from nothing, clawing his way up from the streets to become
the most powerful man in the city’s underworld. And he’d picked
me. Even after all these years, that fact still hit me in the chest sometimes,
a mixture of pride and the constant fear of disappointing him.
I parked next to Tyson’s collection of luxury cars and straightened my
tie in the rearview mirror. Despite only three hours of sleep, I looked
presentable. The dark circles under my eyes were practically permanent
fixtures anyway.
The front door opened before I could knock. Nick, Tyson’s longtime
second-in-command, greeted me with a curt nod.
“He’s in his study,” he said, stepping aside.
I walked through the marble-floored foyer, past priceless artwork and antiques
that Tyson collected not because he gave a shit about art, but because they
signified his rise from poverty. Everything in this house was a trophy, a
reminder of victories and conquered enemies.
The study door stood ajar. I knocked anyway.
“Come in, Ian,” Tyson called.
He sat behind a massive oak desk, silver hair immaculately styled, wearing
what I knew was a hand-tailored suit that probably cost more than most people
made in a month. At fifty-three, Tyson Hughes carried himself with the ease of
a man who knew his own power and had no need to flaunt it. When he killed, he
did it with a phone call, not his hands. Those days were behind him.
“Right on time,” he said, looking up from his computer and
removing his reading glasses. “How’d the shipment go last
night?”
“Clean and quick. One minor issue that’s been handled.”
I nodded. “Missing some fingers, but alive. I figured he’d be more
useful as a warning than a corpse.”
A smile touched the corners of Tyson’s mouth. “Smart. That’s
why I trust you with these things.” He gestured to the chair across from
him. “Sit. Drink?”
“It’s not even ten.”
“Since when has that ever stopped either of us?”
I smiled despite myself and took the seat. Tyson poured two glasses of scotch
from a crystal decanter, sliding one across the desk to me.
“You look like shit,” he said casually. “Not
sleeping?”
“Sleep’s overrated.”
“Not when I need you sharp.” He leaned back in his chair, studying
me with those penetrating gray eyes that saw everything. “You’ve
been pushing yourself too hard lately.”
“Just doing my job.”
“Your job is to follow orders and stay alive. Can’t do either if
you’re running on fumes.”
I took a sip of the scotch, letting the burn distract me from the fact that
Tyson was the only person on earth who could talk to me like this without
ending up in pieces.
“I’m fine,” I said. “What’s this important
matter you wanted to discuss?”
Tyson’s expression shifted, his eyes hardening. “Sean
Collins.”
The name hung in the air between us.
“What about him?” I asked.
“He owes us three hundred grand. Has for almost six months now.”
Tyson took a long swallow of his drink. “I’ve been patient. Sent
Nick to have a chat with him twice. Sent messages through mutual associates.
Nothing.”
“You want me to collect.”
“I want you to make an example of him.” Tyson’s voice
dropped, became colder. “Collins thinks because he’s got
connections with the Irish that he’s untouchable. He’s been
spreading word that I’ve gone soft in my old age.”
My jaw clenched. “That’s a mistake.”
“A fatal one.” Tyson stood up and walked to the window, looking
out over his manicured gardens. “Sean Collins is a particular kind of
vermin. Beats the girls who work for him, sometimes kills them if they try to
leave. Has a taste for the young ones too.”
“Want me to take care of him permanently?” I asked, already
knowing the answer.
Tyson turned, his expression softer now, almost paternal. “Not yet.
First, get my money. Make him understand who he’s dealing with.”
He returned to his desk and pulled out a file, sliding it across to me.
“Here’s everything you need to know. Addresses, hangouts, known
associates. His nephew lives with him -- kid named Kellen Lin. Collins had
custody since the boy’s mother died. He’s an adult now but
hasn’t moved out.”
I flipped through the file. Photos, financial records, property deeds. Tyson
was nothing if not thorough.
“The nephew -- he involved in Collins’ business?” I asked.
“Not as far as we know. Works at a coffee shop. Keeps to himself.”
Tyson refilled his glass. “Use your judgment there.”
He didn’t need to finish the sentence. Collateral damage was part of the
job.
“When?” I asked, closing the file.
“Yesterday would’ve been good. Today’s acceptable. By the
end of the week, non-negotiable.”
I nodded, downing the rest of my scotch in one swallow. “Consider it
done.”
“I always do when I give you an assignment.” Tyson smiled, the
kind of smile that had always made me feel like I belonged somewhere.
“That’s why I chose you, Ian. From the first day I pulled you out
of that shithole your father called a home, I knew you were different. You
understand loyalty.”
“You gave me a life,” I said simply. It wasn’t flattery. It
was fact. Before Tyson, I was nothing. A fifteen-year-old kid with a junkie
father and violence in my blood. Tyson had channeled that violence, given it
purpose and direction.
“And you’ve repaid that a thousand times over.” He walked
around the desk and put a hand on my shoulder. “Collins is just the
beginning. I’m getting older, Ian. Starting to think about the future of
this organization.”
My heart skipped a beat. We’d never discussed succession before, though
everyone in the hierarchy wondered who would take over when Tyson eventually
stepped aside. I’d always assumed it would be Nick, but at the same
time, Nick was also getting up there in years. Both men were close in age and
had worked side-by-side for as long as anyone could remember. But if I thought
about it, I was probably the next closest to Tyson, the most trusted after
Nick.
I left the study with the file tucked under my arm and a sense of purpose
burning in my chest. Tyson had called me “his boy.” It
wasn’t the first time, but it never failed to hit something deep inside
me -- that hungry, abandoned part that had never known a real father’s
approval.
For Tyson, I’d collect this debt and a thousand more. I’d tear
Sean Collins apart if necessary. Because when Tyson Hughes looked at me like
that -- with pride and expectation -- I felt like I was worth something. And
that feeling was more addictive than any drug I’d ever tried.
About the Author
Dulce Dennison is a pen name for gay and LGBTQA+ themed love stories from best
selling MC romance author Harley Wylde, AKA award-winning science
fiction/paranormal romance author Jessica Coulter Smith. From cowboys to
shapeshifters, Dulce/Harley/Jess believes in love in all shapes and sizes, and
that everyone deserves a happily-ever-after.
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