Summer Hunter is here to tell us about Always Believed in You, Pink Hotel Book Three, romantic suspense.
Read on for details...
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Pink Hotel, Book Three
Romantic Suspense
Date Published: January 20, 2026
Toby
I should’ve stayed away from Tate Moon.
Sunshine like hers shouldn’t touch a man carved out of violence,
Shadows, and the kind of past that doesn’t just haunt – it hunts.
When I buy the Pink Hotel, Laketown calls me danger.
They’re right. They have no idea how right.
I came here to repay a debt – not hunger for the woman I’ve
already fallen for twice.
But Tate walks back into my life, all soft curves, wildfire eyes, and a pull
I’m too weak to resist.
One accidental touch, one breath against my throat, and every line I swore
I’d never cross ignites.
But the men coming for me won’t pause because I want her.
And when her secret – who her father is – drops us straight into
the crosshairs, I do the only thing guaranteed to break us both:
I walk away before the blood on my hands becomes hers.
Tate
Toby thinks disappearing will protect me.
He forgets exactly who he’s dealing with.
When he vanishes, leaving danger snapping at our heels, I refuse to let fear
or fate take him.
With my pistol–wielding mama, my chaos-loving grandpa, and half the town
ready to scorch the earth, I’ll tear through every thread determined to
claim him.
Because Toby Russo believes he’s poison – but I know better.
His darkness steadies mine, his touch anchors me, and I’ve believed in
him long before he believed in himself.
The Pink Hotel has secrets buried in every cracked tile and blood-soaked
memory.
This time, we’re the ones ripping them open – and we’ll burn
down anything that tries to swallow us whole.
About the Author
Summer Hunter writes romantic suspense with bite—where love
sizzles, danger lurks, and someone always ends up shirtless.
She calls Hawaii home, which means she’s fueled by sunshine, strong
coffee, and the occasional plot twist that shows up between bites of fried
noodles. Her characters are bold, her banter is sharp, and her
happily-ever-afters always come with a little chaos and a lot of heat.
When she’s not plotting her next twisty love story, she’s probably
side-eyeing tourists from behind her sunglasses and pretending it’s all
“research.”
Marteeka Karland is here to tell us about Rancor, Kiss of Death MC, motorcycle club romance, suspense, and age gap.
Read on for details...
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(Kiss of Death MC)
Motorcycle Club Romance, Suspense, Age Gap
Date Published: January 16, 2026
A broken man, a wary woman, and a past that wants blood -- love has
never been more dangerous.
Cora -- Survival is my full-time job. Delivering groceries to the Kiss of
Death MC should’ve been just another stop… until Rancor stepped
out of the shadows and looked at me like he already knew my secrets. His quiet
strength is wrapped in scars and heat. He’s the kind of man who could
break the world but touches me like I’m the only soft thing he’s
got left. I should run. Instead, I keep driving through those gates, craving
the one man who makes me feel safe in ways I don’t dare say out loud.
Rancor -- I buried my heart years ago. Grief, violence, and prison killed
anything left inside me, and I was glad. It meant I didn’t have to feel
anything. Then Cora walked into the compound and cracked me open with a single
glance. She’s brave without meaning to be, a storm in a small frame, and
the first woman to make me feel anything since the night my life ended. One
touch, and I knew I’d protect her with my last breath. One kiss and I
knew I’d kill for her. I’ve already lost too much to lose her,
too. Especially not to the same family who already ruined my life.
EXCERPT
Cora
The gates of the Kiss of Death MC compound loomed ahead, iron and rust and
threat. I knew the place was called Kiss of Death because there was a big-ass
sign on the gate. I tightened my grip on the steering wheel of my beat-up
sedan. No one wanted to deliver here, and for good reason. My second delivery
here felt even worse.
The first time I could blame ignorance, on not knowing better. This time I
drove through those gates with full knowledge of what waited inside. At least,
I hoped I did. The people inside these gates had been nothing but kind to me.
Tipped well, too. I still found it hard to let my guard down in a place
literally named Kiss of Death.
The sedan’s engine coughed as I pressed the accelerator. The sound
seemed too loud, even in a place that could get noisy. The rumble of a bike
starting up had me jumping. As the guy caught sight of me, he froze and shut
down the bike. Next thing I knew he was rolling backward, pushing the bike
with his feet until he returned to the inside of the garage. I rolled forward,
past the gates.
Camo netting stretched between the buildings, creating shadows in the
afternoon light. The warehouses formed a perfect square like some kind of
military precision in architecture. If I didn’t need the money, I
definitely wouldn’t be here.
The main building rose ahead. I’d been directed there last time, so I
aimed for the same spot. I thought about the envelope from my first delivery.
Cash, all of it, with a tip that equaled half the order total. That money had
bought groceries for a week, gas for two. It had been the difference between
making rent on time and asking my landlord for another extension I
wouldn’t get.
The parking area materialized ahead. I pulled in next to a row of motorcycles,
their chrome catching the filtered light through the netting. My sedan looked
all kinds of wrong among them.
I shifted into park and killed the engine. The silence felt worse than the
noise. Now I could hear everything. Distant music from somewhere inside the
compound. Male voices, laughing. It all sounded so normal I wanted to laugh at
myself. Obviously they’d been grateful to get someone to deliver here
and had treated me well. The phone app tracked my movements, kind of like a
safeguard, so I really had little to worry about. I hoped.
My fingers fumbled with the door handle. Metal, cold against my palm. I pushed
it open and the hinges squeaked, announcing my presence to anyone within
earshot. The air outside tasted different than in my car. Heavier. It carried
scents I couldn’t identify; motor oil and something sharp underneath,
something that made my lizard brain want to run.
Movement from the clubhouse caught my eye. Hannah bounded out waving as she
hurried to me. She’d been the one to meet me last time.
She hurried toward me with an easy confidence and a bright, genuine smile I
envied. Her dark hair caught the filtered light, pulled back from her face in
a way that revealed high cheekbones and those striking hazel eyes. She wore
jeans and a simple T-shirt, and a black leather vest. I’d noticed last
time the vest was similar to her husband’s, though the back proclaimed
her as “Property of Knuckles” where his simply said “Kiss of
Death MC” and “Nashville, TN”. It sounded barbaric, but this
woman didn’t seem oppressed in any way. In fact, when I met her the last
time, her husband had dropped a kiss on top of her head as he’d passed
her and hadn’t let Hannah carry anything from the car.
I raised a hand in an awkward wave, immediately feeling stupid for the
gesture. But Hannah’s expression softened further, and she picked up her
pace. I moved to the back of my car and lifted the trunk lid, ready to help
her unload.
“You came back.” Hannah’s voice held a warm welcome that
seemed impossible in this place. She stopped a few feet from my car, close
enough to be friendly but far enough to respect boundaries. “I
wasn’t sure you would.”
“The order came through.” I tried to keep my voice steady,
professional. “Same as last time.”
“And you accepted it.” Something shifted in her expression, a
subtle approval that made me stand a little straighter. “Most drivers
reject anything with our address. The guys haven’t done anything, but
this many ex-cons in one place makes people nervous, I guess.” She
frowned. “People tend to overlook the good they do. Not every person
guilty of bad things are bad people.”
I tilted my head to the side. “You know, I never thought about it that
way. But you’re right. I shouldn’t judge people unless they give
me reason to.” I looked away, suddenly ashamed of myself.
“I’d be in a world of hurt if people judged me by what they saw on
the surface.”
“Hey.” Hannah moved closer, reaching out to touch my shoulder
gently. “I wasn’t trying to make you feel bad. We truly are
grateful someone is willing to give us all a chance.” She smiled,
squeezing my shoulder gently before dropping her hand.
“Um, can I ask a question?” I didn’t know why I asked her,
but once I had, I intended to follow through.
“Of course.” She looked pleasantly curious.
“I saw a guy when I first came in today. He came out of that
building,” I pointed back the way I’d come. “But he turned
off his bike and rolled back into the shadows.” I swallowed hard. If
I’d gotten too nosy I might well have crossed a line I shouldn’t
have. But it was odd! Also, I might be feeling a little paranoid. But to my
surprise, Hannah only smiled.
“The guys know this place isn’t everyone’s cup of tea. They
also know that some people are scared of the noise, to say nothing of the men
themselves. There’s not one of them who doesn’t look scary as
hell.” She grinned. “But every single one of them sat through and
energetically participated in the Christmas party they had for the women and
children in the shelter they help protect. The kids adore them all.”
Before I could respond, movement behind her drew my attention. Another figure
emerged from the clubhouse, moving with a deliberate slowness that made every
step feel intentional.
My breath caught. He was big. Tall and broad-shouldered, and big in the way
that suggested power held in careful check. His shoulders stretched a gray
T-shirt to its limits.
His head was shaved clean, and somehow, the man was more intimidating for its
starkness. But it was his face that made my fingers tighten on the grocery bag
I still held. Weathered. Lined with stress that had carved deep grooves around
his mouth and between his eyebrows. He looked like a man who’d forgotten
how to relax, if he’d ever known.
He approached with that same measured pace, each footfall deliberate. The way
he moved reminded me of documentaries I’d seen about predators. Not
rushing. Never rushing. Because predators didn’t need to hurry when they
knew their prey couldn’t escape. My heart, which had just started to
calm, kicked back into overdrive.
“Cora, this is Rancor.” Hannah gestured between us, casually as if
introducing neighbors at a barbecue. Thank God she didn’t notice my
discomfort because how embarrassing would that be? “He’s going to
help with the groceries.”
His gaze met mine, and I forced myself not to look away even though every
instinct screamed at me to drop my gaze. His eyes were dark, nearly black in
the shadow of the camo netting, and he studied me with an intensity that made
my skin prickle.
“Ma’am.” His voice was quiet and rough, as if he
didn’t use it much.
“Hi.” The syllable came out higher than I wanted. I cleared my
throat. “There are a lot of bags.” Brilliant conversational
skills, Cora. Truly impressive.
But Rancor just nodded, a single dip of his head, and moved past me to the
trunk. He smelled like soap and motor oil, the combination oddly intriguing.
I stepped back, giving him room.
He reached into the trunk and pulled out several bags at once, hoisting them
like they weighed nothing. His forearms flexed, muscles shifting under skin
decorated with what looked like a burn scar. Then he turned and walked toward
the clubhouse, that same deliberate pace.
“So.” Hannah’s voice pulled my attention back to her.
She’d moved closer, filling the space Rancor had vacated. “You
deliver every day?”
“Most days.” I watched Rancor’s back as he walked away, the
way his T-shirt stretched across his shoulders. “Depends on the
orders.”
“That’s a lot of driving.” Hannah leaned against my car,
comfortable in a way I envied. “You like it?”
Did I like it? I liked eating. I liked having electricity. I liked not being
homeless. My job met those ends.
“It’s fine,” I said. “Flexible schedule.”
Hannah’s smile widened. Not mocking. Understanding. “Money
talks?”
“Sometimes, I guess.” No point in pretending otherwise. My car was
clean, inside and out, and I took care with my appearance. I didn’t have
anything fancy, nor did I know how to do makeup or anything, but I kept myself
clean, my clothes washed and pressed. Obviously, I didn’t have much, but
I had pride.
Rancor emerged from the clubhouse, empty-handed now, heading back toward us.
My pulse quickened at his proximity. Stupid. His presence made my pulse jump
and my body betray me. I’d seen good-looking men before, both nice guys
and dipshits. For some reason, though, this guy just did it for me when he
shouldn’t. Story of my life. Wanting things I had no business dreaming
about.
He reached the trunk and grabbed another few bags. This time when he lifted
them, his eyes cut to mine briefly. Just a flicker of contact, there and gone,
but it jolted through me like touching a live wire. I looked away first.
Examined my shoes as if they held the secrets of the universe.
“Where are you from?” Hannah asked, still making conversation like
this was normal, like we were normal people in a normal place.
“Here. Nashville.” I shifted my weight. “Well, just outside
the city.”
“You grow up here?”
“No.” The word came out clipped. I didn’t elaborate. Hannah
didn’t push. She seemed to have a way of paying attention to my body
language and feeling me out.
Hannah glanced toward Rancor, who was emerging from the clubhouse again. When
she looked back at me, something knowing glinted in her hazel eyes.
“I’m glad you came back. Hopefully I can make a friend because you
did.”
Rancor collected the last of the bags. His fingers brushed the trunk’s
edge near where mine rested. We weren’t touching, but we were close
enough that I felt the heat of his skin.
He straightened with the final bags and paused. Looked at me full-on, not just
a glance but actual eye contact that held for three long heartbeats. Then he
walked away, and I remembered how to breathe.
When I finally brought my attention back to Hannah, I found her watching me
with that same knowing expression, approval written in the curve of her mouth.
I felt exposed in a way that had nothing to do with danger and everything to
do with desire I had no business feeling.
Rancor must have set his load down somewhere because he now stood near the
clubhouse door, hands loose at his sides, watching us. Watching me. The weight
of his gaze pressed against my skin like humidity before a storm.
Hannah shifted closer, close enough that her voice dropped to something almost
conspiratorial. “You know,” she said, quiet enough that Rancor
probably couldn’t hear her. “You couldn’t pick a better
protector than any of the men from Kiss of Death.”
The words hit me wrong. Too direct. Too knowing. Like she’d reached
inside my head and pulled out thoughts I hadn’t fully formed yet.
“I’m just delivering groceries.” I kept my voice light,
aiming for casual and probably missing by miles. “I don’t need
protection.”
But even as I said the words, I felt the lie in them. I was one bad
day’s work away from being homeless. I lived in a really shitty part of
town because I couldn’t afford anything better.
Hannah’s smile suggested she heard everything I didn’t say.
“Of course.” I didn’t know what to do with the implication
hanging between us. That I needed protecting. That I might want protecting.
Or, more aptly, that the men here, Rancor specifically, could provide the
safety I longed for.
The idea should have offended me. I’d spent years learning to protect
myself, to need no one, to be self-sufficient in every way that mattered.
I’d always been stubborn. At least, I had been after I left my
parents’ sphere of influence.
About the Author
Marteeka Karland is an international bestselling author who leads a double
life as an erotic romance author by evening and a semi-domesticated housewife
by day. Known for her down and dirty MC romances, Marteeka takes pleasure in
spinning tales of tenacious, protective heroes and spirited, vulnerable
heroines. She staunchly advocates that every character deserves a blissful
ending, even, sometimes, the villains in her narratives. Her writings are
speckled with intense, raw elements resulting in page-turning delight entwined
with seductive escapades leading up to gratifying conclusions that elicit a
sigh from her readers.
Away from the pen, Marteeka finds joy in baking and supporting her husband
with their gardening activities. The late summer season is set aside for
preserving the delightful harvest that springs from their combined efforts
(which is mostly his efforts, but you can count it). To stay updated with
Marteeka's latest adventures and forthcoming books, make sure to visit her
website. Don't forget to register for her newsletter which will pepper you
with a potpourri of Teeka's beloved recipes, book suggestions, autograph
events, and a plethora of interesting tidbits.
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
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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
Kimberly Quinn is here to tell us about Lovely Torment, Savage Hearts Syndicate #2, dark romance - suspense.
There's also a great giveaway.
_______________________
Lovely Torment
Kimberly Quinn
(Savage Hearts Syndicate, #2)
Publication date: November 18th 2025
Genres: Adult, Dark Romance, Romance, Suspense
He’s cold, calculating, and lethal. A killer.
He’s also my hero.
Finn Decker rescued me from a life in captivity, but not out of mercy. I’m his key to destroying the Bratva leader who shattered both our lives. A pawn in his ruthless game of vengeance.
I should be afraid. I should run.
Instead, I’m drawn to the darkness in his eyes, the craving he ignites, and the promise of retribution he offers. And I realize—I want him to use me in ways that have nothing to do with revenge.
Only, it’s hard to tell if I’m his leverage, his weakness, or something far more dangerous.
His.
Because in a war this savage, there’s no room for mistakes.
It was sharp and vivid, and suddenly, I was drowning in him. In his heat, in his scent, in the way his body caged mine like he was the only thing keeping me upright.
“Don’t lie,” he growled. “You can be pissed at me. You can be scared. You can feel whatever the fuck you want. But don’t pretend you don’t want something more from me. You’ve been clinging to me since the day I took you out of Rykov’s house.”
“Well, I wasn’t angry before.” I lifted my chin and let all my irritation flow into the glare I gave at him. “But now? Yeah. Now, I am.”
“Good. Get angry for a change. Stand up for yourself. Prove you’re not just a victim looking for a goddamn savior.”
“You think that’s what I want from you? That I’m so weak and desperate I can’t stand on my own?” The words tumbled out, fueled by a courage I didn’t recognize. A fire I’d never dared stoke before.
“No, Lena,” he growled. “I think you’re a thousand times stronger than you know. And I think if you knew me at all, you’d understand why friendship isn’t something I can give you.”
“But you’re friends with Robin.”
“I don’t want to fuck Robin.” His voice was rough. Like the words had clawed their way up his throat.
And they stunned me.
My mouth opened, but nothing came out. Was I even still breathing?
He twisted my arm higher up my back—the dull pinch of it, reminding me I was at his mercy. “I can’t be your friend. Because every time you get close, it gets harder to hold back. Harder to pretend I’m not about to lose my fucking mind.”
His hold loosened, just slightly, like he was about to let me go. But before I could process it, his fingers flexed, and in a swift, merciless motion, he’d wrenched my other arm behind my back, pinning both wrists in one unyielding hand.
“You want something safe. Someone stable. But that’s not who I am.” His free hand slid up to wrap around my throat, his fingers pressing into the side of my neck. “This is the kind of man I am.”
And God, despite the edge of fear, despite the voice in my head telling me to run, my panties were soaked.
He leaned in, his mouth hovering at my ear and breath rough against my skin. “What I want is to tie you up and then take you apart. Slowly. Thoroughly. Until you forget every man who ever came before me. I want to ruin you for anyone that isn’t me. Then build you back up from the wreckage. Stronger. Fiercer. Like the queen I already see when I look at you.”
He paused, his breath hitching. “And then do it again. And again. And a-fucking-gain.”
Author Bio:
Kimberly is a contemporary romance author, born procrastinator, and lover of morally gray heroes. She enjoys lively conversations, usually with imaginary people, and can often be found daydreaming at work.
She writes gritty, messy, dangerous romances, featuring beautifully flawed characters, pursuing love at all costs. It's romance with rough edges.
When she’s not busy writing, you can find her with a coffee in hand, dog at her side, and exploring the wilds of her hometown in Ontario, Canada… Or on her couch, getting lost in a good story.
Building an impossible tea farm in the Cheshire countryside was Sofia’s second chance. A way to prove herself. A fresh start. She knew it would be graft. She anticipated a degree of isolation. But with Christmas imminent and the farm failing, her thoughts have grown darker. She’s searching for something — an ineffable force to make this year the magical wonderland she always craves and never finds.
Yet with the farm failing there’s no time to fix her ailing social life. Sofia resigns herself to another lonely holiday.
Enter Matt.
Delaware Grange’s twenty-one-year-old assistant gamekeeper. Nice enough, a bit dopey.
As she hunkers down for winter, Sofia thinks she’s prepared for everything. Nothing could prepare her for Matt. For the abrupt awareness of him. For the way he’s far more capable than he seems. Thoughtful. Considerate. Quietly intelligent.
Way sexier than he appears.
Suddenly impossible to ignore.
But Matt isn’t what he seems. A darkness runs beneath Delaware Grange — insidious, creeping, buried deep.
Sofia was little more than a challenge, a box for Matt to check, an assignment to complete. Until he fell.
Hard.
Now all he sees is her. All he wants is her. And all he knows is she has no idea who he truly is. While Sofia fights her feelings in the face of forbidden fruit, and Matt wrestles with the reality of his true purpose on the estate, the pair fall into an intoxicating, passionate, volatile romance.
As winter deepens and Christmas closes in, two lonely souls struggle to find peace in each other, and trust becomes the most dangerous choice on the estate.
Falling for Matt threatens everything Sofia has worked so hard to build. Falling for Sofia might just be the making of Matt.
That Boy is a high-heat, secret-identity romance where desire, deception, and devotion collide in a snowy small-town Christmas.
While not required, it is highly suggested to read Nightshade before That Boy.
Author’s Note: Each novel in The Cheshire Set can be read as a standalone, but the following order avoids spoiling the reading experience of earlier books.
Recommended Reading Order for The Cheshire Set:
Bane
Nightshade
That Boy
Eve Was Framed, a prequel novella to Bane, isn’t strictly part of The Cheshire Set but is available for free download on the author’s website.
A quiet, introspective moment between Matt and Sofia after a near-disaster. As they talk about “The Gloaming”—that melancholy space between Halloween and Christmas—their chemistry deepens and the novel’s central themes of loneliness, yearning, and rediscovery of light emerge.
“What’s the Gloaming?”
“Oh. Right.” I shifted, trying to find a way to lean that didn’t hurt my shoulder. It was useless. Until someone could pop it back in, I was doomed to dull agony. “It’s that feeling that threatens to drown you…” I paused, swallowing hard and staring out the window.
The world nearly drowned me tonight.
“This time every year.” I finally managed. “You know?”
Keep talking. Stay conscious. Don’t toss your cookies into his lap.
“That…overwhelming urge to…cover everything in cheer. But…” I took a little more water. “…the more you try, the less cheerful you feel. So you just keep…adding more.”
He chuckled.
“Hoping the cheer finds you before you’re…” Another tiny sip of water. “…crushed by baubles and fake fir garlands.”
He stared at me.
Great. Now he thinks I’m a total weirdo.
“I get it.” A slow smile spread across his face. “You’re staring at all the decorations. Watching the snow fall. And somewhere inside you’re sure you love Christmas. But you never quite seem to feel it.”
“Yes!” I sat up, and momentarily thought I’d blackout from the effort.
He eased me back into the sofa.
“Nailed it.” I swallowed. Talking was so much effort. Thinking was weirdly worse. “It’s a coping mechanism, I guess.”
He nodded, but when I didn’t continue, he made a winding motion with his hands.
“Every year this…fog descends. When Halloween’s over. This looming sense of…dread.”
“And it’s right when everyone else is getting excited.”
I nodded. “Exactly. Not me.” The wind howled savagely by, rattling the window and making us both jump. I turned my face away from the glass, not wanting to think about the carnage outside. “I’m sat there like a…miserly Scrooge.”
“Scrooge was never that pretty.”
I shook my head. “Don’t flirt with me.”
“Keep talking then.”
I didn’t want to. I just wanted to sleep.
My eyes drifted, and he nudged my knee with his. “Sof?”
With gargantuan effort, I rallied. “Welcome to Gloamas!” I wheezed. “Not quite Christmas. Not quite apathy. Some…twisted netherworld.”
He permitted me another tiny sip of water for my effort.
I swallowed it and continued, “You’re stuck for weeks. Longing to be…joyful and merry. But…that ineffable light is…absent.”
Matt pursed his lips. “So…it’s not gloomy, it’s gloamy. You’re in the twilight. Daylight’s gone. You know it will be back at some point, but in the interim, you’re left with a hollow echo—”
“How you…loved Christmas…as a kid,” I managed. “Desperately wish to…feel it all.”
He grinned. “But for now, the light’s faded. Until the sun rises, you’re left wisting after a feeling.”
I stared at him. “And someone to share it with.”
Matty shifted a little closer. He was still soaking wet from the rain. Must have been freezing. Yet he hadn’t complained. Hadn’t even seemed to notice. I leant into him and shivered. More at the thought of how cold he must be than anything else. But he stripped off my blankets (now soaked) and wrapped me in two new dry ones.
The phone rang, and he shot up to grab it.
“She’s okay, I think. Conscious, talking, the bleeding’s stopped. Her shoulder’s bad, but—”
A pause as whoever was on the other end of the line spoke.
“Are you sure it’s safe?” He peered out of the window. “The rain’s still coming down hard.”
Another pause.
“Okay. We’ll be here.”
He hung up. “Sounds like the storm’s passing. It’s lightening up at the house, and the rain’s almost stopped down there. They’re on their way up. By the time they get here, it should have cleared.”
“The track will be murder.” I tried to sit up.
He moved and blocked me, forcing me to stay still. “Easy.”
“Give me the phone.”
“They’ve already left, Sof.”
I struggled some more.
“Stop!”
Calm. But firm. Commanding.
I’ve never heard him speak like that before.
“Stop.”
Softer. Eyes searching mine.
My heart fluttered.
“We’d all gladly risk a bit of fucking mud to get you safe. You must know that?”
My breath caught. My chest constricted painfully. His jaw was locked. The look in his eyes was…feral.
And so fucking hot.
There’s really something wrong with me.
Satisfied I wasn’t about to bolt for the door, he sat back down. Glanced around.
“Is that why all your decorations are so…weirdly depressing?”
“They’re not.” I sniffed.
“They really are, Sof. Like…they’re full of the festive spirit but don’t quite hit the mark.”
He glanced at my forlorn little tree. Which, in fairness, was at least standing vertically now. I’d come in one day to find him scrambling around on the floor, fiddling with the screws on the base to get it standing straight.
He was right. The baubles were desolate.
I loved them.
“I like them.” Matt wrapped the blankets tighter around me. “They’re comfortingly depressing. How Christmas should be. It always just…kind of reminds you of all you’re missing in life.”
Author Bio:
Briar has been a professional copywriter for many years (far more than she cares to admit). She began her career working for large companies and agencies before realising she could do it all for herself. Now, she happily writes for businesses and entrepreneurs she’s passionate about and dreams of the day her fiction becomes popular enough for her to retreat into fictional worlds full-time. Growing up in Cheshire and falling in love with its countryside, small towns, and villages, she’s enjoyed creating a fictional world that reflects her own.
