Katlyn Bates is here to tell us about Nightflower on Comanche Mound, young adult mystery-suspense.
There's also a great giveaway.
____________________
Mystery, Suspense
Date Published: 06-17-2024
Publisher: Adventure & Quest, LLC
Her sixteenth birthday looming, Seattle urbanite Charley Kensey
recklessly invites herself to her Pap’s West Texas sheep ranch—a
man she’s never met, a man her mother has always distanced her from. If
her dad were still around, he could’ve stopped her. Her mom can’t.
Pap is a hard and difficult man, and the Llano Estacado—the Texas Staked
Plains—is every bit as hostile. Charley would turn right around and go
home except for the mysterious horse that shows up on the ranch. Things
quickly spiral out of control when Pap vows to shoot the blind animal she
believes came to the ranch to be hers. Now she can’t
leave—who’s going to stand in the way of Pap’s bullet?
Against his orders, Charley turns to local veterinarian Dr. Ben for
information about the horse, but his harmless reminiscing over her mom
dismantles everything Charley thought she knew of her family when he portrays
a mother she doesn’t even recognize, and innocently exposes the secret
that split her family apart. Charley is the only clueless party:
“Everybody in this little town of Quitaque knows your mother’s
business,” affirms veterinarian summer assistant, cowboy-crush Brett
Littleton. Except for Brett, the summer would be lost.
When Pap’s savage anger turns violent, Charley and her horse bolt for
the open plains and flee for the very place she’s been warned not to go.
Nightflower of Comanche Mound is a contemporary action-adventure thriller
steeped in conflict, tension, and family dysfunction between three
generations.
2025 Western Writers of America Spur Finalist – Young Adult Novel
2022 Writers League of Texas Manuscript Finalist – Young Adult
Action-Adventure Thriller
Excerpt
The plane touched down in Lubbock a little after three in the afternoon.
Jet engines shut down immediately so I felt the scorching afternoon heat
before I ever stepped onto the Staked Plains. The passengers had all filed
off, but I sat rigid in the upright seat, a cynical thought sweeping over me,
not for the first time: I’d made a colossal mistake.
The flight attendant was eye-balling me. I checked my hair in a mirror, dotted
on faint-pink lipstick Mom had warned me against bringing. Drawing a deep
breath, I held it in, thinking it would help settle my jitters. Time to get
this show on the road. Pap will be waiting. Or he won’t. Either way, I
had nobody to blame but myself.
* * *
I spotted him through the glass barrier, hands clasped casually over an ample
belly. We locked eyes as I rolled through the revolving door. Did he have a
picture of me? My grip tightened on the cheap ten-dollar flute Mom had given
me to practice; she was proud I took an interest in music, and wanted me to
keep my lips stuck to a version of flute that was less to lose. It suddenly
felt more a lifeline than a companion.
It’s not true that all people shrink when they get old. Pap stood
straight and tall under a light-colored, broad-brimmed hat that rested low on
his forehead just above white, bushy brows. Deep grooves ran around his mouth
and down a chin he hadn’t bothered to shave.
I didn’t exactly expect a warm snuggle from him—Mom had prepared
me for that. Still, deep down I couldn’t help thinking she might be
wrong. I had imagined I would run and throw my arms around him and all my
doubts would fly away when he pulled me into a tight squeeze.
Instead, we squared off and studied one another, eyes never wavering.
I stuck out my hand. “I’m Charley.”
Weight lifted from my shoulder as he took hold of my backpack. “Heck of
a name for a girl.” With a quick nod to the long cement aisle, he said,
“Go that way.”
I’d like to think he held out hope that he’d passed inspection, as
did I.
About the Author
Katlyn Bates writes contemporary fiction for young adults. Her debut
novel, Nightflower of Comanche Mound was named a 2025 Spur Finalist by Western
Writers of America (WWA) in the Juvenile-Young Adult Fiction category. The
recognition, along with multiple 5-Star book reviews from Readers’
Favorite, encouraged her to dust off old stuff she wrote just for fun, and
look at them with fresh eyes.
Drawn to action and adventure that is grounded in real life, Katlyn finds
inspiration in the wildness of the world around us. “Nature
doesn’t care what we think. It’s wild and ferocious and
unpredictable—a good reminder not to take ourselves too seriously. The
downright ridiculous seems to call for a twist of humor. What I can’t
see, I can imagine.”
Juggling family, work, and life, over the years Katlyn grasped whatever time
she had available for a writing class when she could—poetry, creative, a
bit of journalism. What she discovered was that stories come from deep within
us…a moment. A memory. An experience or impression or dream. Only when
they surface, can you add texture and color.
A late-bloomer by her own description, Katlyn’s writing kicked off when
she joined Society of Children’s Book Writers & Illustrators
(SCBWI), a community of like-minded people who selflessly share, uplift, and
guide, one meeting at a time. “There’s so much to learn, just for
the listening. Other writers energize me, challenge me to ‘say it
better’. Everyone has a natural style, and it always amazes me how many
ways there are to tell a story. From SCBWI to the Writers’ League of
Texas (WLT)—where Nightflower of Comanche Mound was a 2022
Thriller/Action-Adventure Finalist in the Manuscript Contest—on to
Western Writers of America and Women Writing the West (WWW), Katlyn has found
that it’s networks of writers that encourage her “No matter what
stage of writing skill, anyone, at any age, with a yearning to write should
seek out others who love what you love. Don’t wait.”
A native Texan, Katlyn Bates lives near Dallas, TX, outside a small town
that—like so many inter-connected communities, is quickly becoming
absorbed by the sprawl. “As for me, it’s open skies and nature and
landscape that frame a plot, and lend power to a story.”
Deborah J. Lightfoot is here to tell us about Adverse Reactions, dystopian paranormal suspense.
There's also a great giveaway.
_____________________________
When your mind makes you the enemy, either your mind must
die, or you will.
Unless yours is the mind they can’t break.
Adverse Reactions
by Deborah J. Lightfoot
Genre: Dystopian Paranormal Suspense
Purity demands a
bullet. Devin brings a reckoning.
Since she was six years old, Devin Perridin has been locked behind the walls of
the family home to keep her hidden from those who would kill her. But at
sixteen, she is exposed as a "Syke," one of an outlawed minority who
possess extraordinary powers of mind over matter. Snatched from hiding, she
escapes the firing squad, but only to be imprisoned in a house of horrors: the
Peaceful Hills Sanatorium and Rehabilitation Center for the Treatment of
Persistent Mental Disorders. After an unknown time of torture and
"behavior modification," brutally designed to destroy her
psychokinetic reflexes, she emerges from the asylum severely damaged in mind
and spirit. Her salvation may lie in the series of crimes triggered by her
release: first kidnapping, then attempted murder, and then a mustering of
forbidden forces to assault the remote pseudo-psychiatric facility where she
had been tortured into near-mindlessness.
Drawing upon a strength she had always known was hers but had never before been
able to consciously control, Devin defies the authoritarian society with its
unjust laws that demand her death. She pushes through pain, isolation, and
moral quandaries to seek justice for not only herself, but all members of a
maligned and cruelly persecuted minority. A post-apocalyptic, paranormal
allegory for the times in which we live.
When your mind makes you the enemy,
either your mind must die, or you will. Unless yours is the mind they can't
break.
“This novel is
immediately immersive, with an opening scene that sucks readers in with vivid
sensory detail and a great sense of suspense.” —The Black List
“What a story!
I was picked up from the first page and you never let me go thereafter. The
premise is original … compelling … convincing.” —ARC Reader
“A very
enjoyable read. Excellent pacing. Immersive language. Polished, effortless
writing. I’d love to see a prequel (or three)!” —ARC Reader
“Relevant to
the current situation in the world. Ostracizing others who are different out of
fear and ignorance. Cruelty and inhumanity.” —ARC Reader
“Believable and
relatable.” —The Black List
“Thematically
rich, as Devin faces constant self-doubt but eventually comes to find
empowerment in the unique abilities that have made her an outcast.” —The
Black List
VAPORS BILLOWED INTO the chamber in thick masses of orange. Devin choked
on the sickly sweet odor.
“Don’t
fight it, child,” came the voice—equally cloying—from the darkness beyond the
floodlit, glass-walled chamber. “Give yourself up to it.”
The gas
surged into Devin’s face, blinding, gagging her. She made it go away. By force
of will, a moment’s mental reflex, she flung it back.
Fresh
air flooded her nostrils and drove out the syrupy stink. She sucked in a cool,
clean breath.
“No!”
snapped the voice, crackling with amplified static. “You must not.”
The
therapist dropped her with two thousand volts. Devin collapsed to the chamber’s
floor, her body jerking, her nerves on fire. The pain was beyond enduring. A
pain this intense must be lethal. But she did not die. As she convulsed, her
muscles knotted in spasms, she could not scream. No part of her, not even her
voice, was under her voluntary control.
“Try it
again, child.” Smooth and saccharine once more, her unseen therapist spoke from
the concealing shadows as the shock ended and Devin’s pain faded. “Stand up,”
the torturer ordered. “And this time, do not fight it. Or your
punishment will be the same: swift, sure, and severe.”
Devin
struggled upright. She had to brace against the curved glass wall of the gas
chamber to keep on her feet. Her muscles had melted from knots into jelly.
An
orange cloud flooded the chamber and filled her nose with the stink of rotting
fruit.
“Breathe
it,” her therapist instructed. “You must.”
But
again, Devin reacted by instinct alone. No conscious thought interposed between
stimulus and response. The cloud approached; she pushed it away. Pure reflex,
action of mind: act of self-preservation. The gas held back, suspended in
midair, blocked by the power of her impulse.
On the
instant, thousands of volts knocked her to the floor. Pain engulfed Devin, such
a pain as must be lethal but wouldn’t do her the service of killing her. She
writhed, silent and barely conscious.
Her
therapist withdrew the punishment. Devin remained on the floor of the isolation
chamber, curled in the fetal position, her long brown hair covering her face.
Her body was hers to command once more, but her muscles had no strength to
obey.
“You
give new meaning to the word persistent, don’t you, girl?” muttered the
disembodied voice. Then, more forcefully: “The first step toward healing is to
admit you are diseased, Miss Perridin. You have an illness. A mental disorder.
I am offering you the cure—in a pleasant aerosol spray that you need only
breathe. Once inhaled, the drug acts quickly, and its effects are lasting. But
you must take the first step and acknowledge that you want to be cured.”
The
voice grew soft, sugary. “Child, for as long as you hold to the notion—the
mistaken notion—that your disorder is in some way a strength or a benefit to
you, you will continue to fail. And you will suffer the consequences of that
failure. We can’t have that, can we?”
Devin
gathered the remnants of her strength and rolled onto her back. To stand was
impossible; she could barely shape a word.
“No,”
she whispered.
She
wasn’t speaking to her tormentor.
But:
“That’s the spirit!” the therapist responded, sounding genuinely enthused. “Now
we try again. Take your medicine like a good girl.”
The
orange stink flowed in at the top of the chamber. Devin, lying face up, watched
through the curtain of her hair as the cloud descended. She had time to ward it
off, to make it go away. But in the soul of her being, nothing sparked. Her
reflexes, her instincts, failed to respond. What had been a spontaneous force
of mind over matter could offer no resistance.
Devin’s
mouth filled with the sickening taste of defeat. The orange cloud enveloped
her, a sticky weight, and she choked down lungfuls.
“Wonderful!”
her therapist exclaimed. “My dear, I couldn’t be more pleased. This is the
tipping point. Your recovery will be much easier from now on, I promise.”
Devin
breathed the sickly sweet drug and felt the core of her mind go dead.
Then came
the retching. Her body contorted in gut-shredding paroxysms as the drug made
her vomit—or attempt to vomit. Her keepers had starved her for so long, her
stomach had nothing to bring up. The dry heaves racked her with such violence
that she could not breathe. After long moments, unconsciousness brought relief.
Castles in the cornfield provided the setting for Deborah J.
Lightfoot’s earliest flights of fancy. On her father’s farm in Texas, she grew
up reading tales of adventure and reenacting them behind ramparts of
sun-drenched grain. She left the farm to earn a degree in journalism and write
award-winning books of history and biography. High on her bucket list was the
desire to try her hand at the genre she most admired. The result is Waterspell,
a multi-layered fantasy series about a girl and the wizard who suspects her of
being so dangerous to his world, he believes he’ll have to kill her … which
troubles him, since he’s fallen in love with her.
Leah Miles is here to tell us about Baby ConSEALed, Seal & Shelter Book 1, romantic suspense.
There's also a great giveaway.
_________________
The family he
didn't know he wanted might be the only thing worth dying for.
Baby ConSEALed
SEAL & Shelter Book 1
by Leah Miles
Genre: Romantic Suspense
Baby ConSEALed won
the 2024 Georgia Romance Writers' "Maggie Award"!
Rissa Parker struggles to support herself and her daughter
by working overnights as a home health nurse. After witnessing her employer's
murder, she has no choice but to grab her two-year-old and run toward the one
person strong enough to protect them, the Navy SEAL who fathered her child
during a one-night stand.
Navy SEAL Bernard "Burn" Cruz is a straight arrow,
approaching work and play in equal parts. He doesn't regret much in life,
except for one woman he's never forgotten. Nearly three years after their
initial encounter, she shows up in San Diego at the bar his team likes to
frequent, and he believes Forever might have knocked on his door. Until a child
cries, and all hell breaks loose.
As bullets fly and bodies drop, Rissa must outrun a killer
whose connection to her past threatens to destroy any chance at a future with
the father of her child, and Burn discovers the family he didn't know he wanted
might be the only thing worth dying for.
Baby ConSEALed, an award-winning contemporary
romantic suspense novel, is fast-paced, steamy and suspenseful. Pick up your
copy today!
“A tightly
plotted, fast-paced whirlwind of a ride fraught with secrets, danger, and an
emotional love story that focuses on family—the kind you choose.” —Lena Diaz,
Publishers Weekly best-selling author
“With a
to-die-for hero, sizzling tension, and edge-of-your-seat suspense, this romance
delivers all the feels in an unforgettable, heart-pounding read!” – Charlee Allden,
Goodreads Review
“A fast-paced,
slow-burn romantic suspense where danger, secrets, and second chances collide…. With
bullets flying and hearts on the line, Leah Miles delivers high stakes and
emotional impact in equal measure.” – Cam Torrens, Goodreads Review
Burn was admiring Jackson, the newest family member, when a
wide-eyed Rissa burst out of the kitchen and sprinted into his arms.
“Hey, beautiful.” He was glad he hadn’t demanded to hold his
nephew because now he had an armful of a warm, welcoming woman.
“I’m so glad you’re back,” Rissa said breathlessly.
He was gratified that she’d missed him. “I was only gone an
hour, but that’s a nice welcome.”
She pulled back, but not away. “Sorry … I …"
He cupped her cheek to catch her gaze. “Did you have a problem
while I was gone?”
“No, but I need this,” she said, winding her arms around his
neck and leaning on her toes to kiss him.
That was an invitation that he wasn’t going to turn down. He
pulled her closer and slid his hand into the hair at her nape to slant his
mouth more firmly over hers.
“Let’s keep this PG. The baby is watching,” said Clare, smirking
at him from where she stood with Jackson on her shoulder.
Burn chuckled and gently tucked Rissa against his side. “Give us
a break, Clare bear. We’ve been apart all afternoon.”
“More like an hour, Bernie Cruz,” Clare said, pointing a long
finger at him. Then she shifted her gaze to Rissa. “Don’t let him bully you.”
Rissa straightened. “Burn wouldn’t do that. He’s kind, and I’m
here because I want to be.”
He liked that his little Texan was ready to come to his defense.
“Easy, Tiger. My sister-in-law is an attorney and has strong opinions regarding
male testosterone.”
Clare arched a dark brow, “As long as everything is consensual
and safe, I have no problem with it.”
Burn chuckled. Their little PDA had probably already given Clare
plenty of ammunition for the next family dinner lecture, but damned if he
cared. “Rissa, this is my sister-in-law, Clare, and my nephew, Jackson. Clare,
this beautiful woman is my girlfriend, Rissa Parker,” He grinned at
Rissa when he said girlfriend, wondering how she would react.
She didn’t pull away or even look annoyed. Okay then.
Leah Miles writes romance and paranormal fiction from her
small-town in South Georgia, where she lives with her husband and cocker
spaniel while running an insurance agency and Airbnb business.
After a dozen
years in news production at CNN, Leah Miles now manages an insurance agency and
an Airbnb business in rural Georgia, while writing romantic suspense and
paranormal romance featuring take-charge heroes and fierce heroines.
Harley Wylde is here to tell us about Samson, a motorcycle club romance, featuring an age gap and suspense.
Read on for details...
_____________________
Motorcycle Club Romance, Age Gap, Suspense
Date Published: March 27. 2026
Some men protect with promises. I protect with possession.
Samson: I don’t chase power. I don’t wear rank. I don’t
claim women. Until I find her broken, on the edge of Reckless Kings’
territory -- and realize letting her go would sign her death warrant.
Inside the gates, there’s only one way she stays. So I claim her. No
waiting. No soft edges. She sleeps in my house, under my name, with my hand
always close enough to remind the world she’s not unprotected anymore.
The man hunting her thinks I’m just another biker without authority.
He’s about to learn commitment is far more dangerous than rank.
Callie: I ran because men like him don’t hear no. They twist it. Punish
it. Being claimed should feel like another trap -- but Samson doesn’t
cage me. He stands in front of me. Believes me. Touches me like I’m
something worth keeping, not something to break.
The danger follows me straight to the compound gates. This time, it meets a
man who doesn’t hesitate… and never lets go of what’s his.
A dark Motorcycle Club Romance where obsession is protection, love is
irrevocable, and justice is served in the most painful way possible.
Perfect for fans of Romantic Crime Thrillers and MC Romance.
WARNING: Adult themes and content including: intense emotional situations,
predatory behavior, motorcycle club -- related criminal activity, trauma
recovery and psychological distress may trigger some readers.
EXCERPT
Samson
The narrow backroad twisted through Tennessee pines, a black ribbon barely
visible in the late evening darkness. I leaned into the curve, my
Harley’s engine growling beneath me, the vibration familiar against my
thighs. The headlight carved a path through the night, insects dancing in the
beam as I pushed toward the compound. Another mile and I’d be on
Reckless Kings’ territory. My gaze locked on a crumpled shape at the
edge of my light, half-hidden where asphalt met gravel and dirt.
I eased off the throttle, the bike slowing as I approached. My mind ran
through possibilities -- discarded trash, dead animal, maybe a dumped duffle
bag. But something about the shape didn’t fit any of those. The
moonlight broke through the trees just enough to catch the paleness of skin
against dark earth.
“Shit,” I muttered, slowing to a crawl.
My boots hit the asphalt as I killed the engine. The night pressed in, but I
left the bike’s running lights on, giving me just enough visibility. My
hand went to my waistband, fingers brushing the grip of my pistol. Fifteen
years with the Kings had taught me caution.
I approached slowly, scanning the tree line for movement. Nothing but night
sounds -- crickets, the occasional rustle of nocturnal creatures. The shape
resolved into a woman as I drew closer, curled on her side facing away from
the road. Her clothes -- what looked like jeans and a thin jacket -- were torn
and filthy.
“Hey,” I called, keeping my voice low but firm. “You
okay?”
She flinched hard, curling tighter, a ragged breath escaping her.
I stopped ten feet away, making myself visible in the dim glow from my bike.
“Not going to hurt you. You need help?”
She rolled slightly, turning just enough to see me. Her face was a mess --
dirt streaked with tears or sweat, hair matted against her forehead, a nasty
cut at her temple with dried blood in a smear down her cheek. But her eyes --
wide with terror -- were what caught me. The look of someone hunted.
“Go away,” she rasped.
I stayed where I was, keeping my hands visible. “You’re hurt.
Middle of nowhere. Temperature’s dropping.” I kept my voice
matter-of-fact, neither pushing nor retreating. “I can help or I can
leave. Your call.”
Her breathing came fast and shallow, the rhythm of someone running on pure
adrenaline. I’d seen it before, in Prospects during their first real
violence, in civilians caught in club business. The body burning through its
reserves before the crash came.
And she was close to crashing.
“What’s your name?” I crouched down to appear less
threatening, still maintaining distance.
She didn’t answer, just watched me with those wary eyes. Up close, I
could see the exhaustion etched into her face. Early twenties, maybe, though
hard to tell through the dirt and fear. Her knuckles were scraped raw,
fingernails broken and caked with dirt. She’d fought something or
someone.
I glanced back at the empty road, then to the dense trees. The nearest house
was miles away. Club territory began just around the next bend, but this
stretch was no-man’s-land -- the kind of place bodies got dumped. The
kind of place women didn’t end up by accident.
“I’m Samson,” I offered, not using my real name. Nobody
outside the club knew Lyle Harker existed anymore. “I’m heading
home. But I’m not leaving you out here like this.”
Her chapped lips parted as if to speak, then pressed together in pain. The
jacket she wore had ridden up, revealing bruises on her side -- fingermarks,
dark against pale skin. Recent, but not fresh. Maybe a day old.
The road remained empty behind me, but something felt off. The birds had gone
quiet. I’d spent enough years riding these backroads to know when
something wasn’t right. The woman must have sensed it too -- her gaze
darted past me toward the trees across the road.
“How long you been running?” I asked, voice even lower.
Her gaze snapped back to me, surprise breaking through the fear for just a
second.
“Your shoes.” I nodded toward her feet. The sneakers were shredded
at the edges, the once-white fabric now brown with mud and blood. “Those
have seen some miles.”
She swallowed hard, her throat working painfully. When she spoke, her voice
cracked. “Since last night.”
I spotted the edge of a zip tie mark on her wrist, peeking from beneath her
sleeve. Not from police cuffs -- those left a different kind of bruise.
Someone had restrained her, and she’d torn herself free. The skin was
raw, inflamed.
The night seemed to press closer. Despite the warm evening, goose bumps rose
on my arms. Years in the Reckless Kings had honed my instincts. Right now,
they screamed we weren’t alone.
I straightened slowly, scanning the tree line again. Nothing moved, but the
feeling persisted. Whoever had marked this woman up might be watching.
Waiting. The compound was only two minutes away by bike, but even that could
feel like an eternity if someone made their move.
“Can you stand?” I asked, not taking my eyes off the darkness
beyond the road.
She tried to push herself up and failed, collapsing back against the ground
with a soft whimper. Dehydrated, exhausted, probably not eaten in at least a
day. The dried blood on her temple concerned me -- head wounds were tricky.
Could be nothing, could be a concussion.
I made my decision. The Kings had rules about bringing outsiders anywhere near
our territory but leaving her here wasn’t an option. Not with those
marks on her. Not with whoever gave them to her potentially closing in.
“Let me help you up.” I stepped closer. “Then we’ll
figure out what comes next.”
Her eyes fixed on the patch on my cut -- Reckless Kings in bold stitching. For
a moment, fresh fear washed over her face. I knew what she saw -- a
thirty-something biker, broad-shouldered and tattooed, offering help more
dangerous than whatever she was running from.
But then her gaze drifted back to the trees, and she made her choice.
I kept my hands visible, fingers spread, as I edged closer to her. Club life
had taught me how to move without threatening -- a skill useful whether
dealing with rival MCs or frightened women on backroads. Her gaze locked onto
my every movement, muscles tensed to flee despite her exhaustion. Behind the
fear in her eyes lurked something sharper -- calculation, survival instinct.
Whatever hell she’d escaped from had taught her to think even when
terrified.
“Water?” I asked, I retreated to grab the bottle in my saddlebag.
I unscrewed the cap and held it out, still maintaining distance. “Small
sips. Too much at once will make you sick.”
She stared at the bottle, conflict evident on her face -- desperate thirst
warring with ingrained caution. Thirst won. She reached out with trembling
fingers, taking the bottle and bringing it to her cracked lips. Water dribbled
down her chin as she drank greedily, ignoring my advice.
“Easy,” I warned. “Been without long?”
She lowered the bottle, gasping slightly. Half-empty already. “Since
yesterday morning.”
I crouched down to her level, still giving her space. The dried blood at her
temple formed a jagged path down to her jaw. Head wound, but not fresh --
maybe twenty-four hours old. No active bleeding, pupils equal size. Good
signs.
“Mind if I look at your head?” I asked.
She flinched back. “Don’t touch me.”
I nodded, respecting the boundary. “Fair enough. Can you tell me your
name?”
A pause. She took another drink. “Callie.”
“Callie,” I repeated, keeping my voice steady. “You got
somewhere safe to go, Callie?”
Her laugh came out hollow, more air than sound. “Nowhere’s
safe.”
“Someone after you?”
Her gaze darted back to the road. She didn’t answer, but she
didn’t need to. The zip tie marks, the bruises, her terror -- they told
enough of the story.
“How bad are you hurt? Besides what I can see.”
She shrugged one shoulder, wincing at the movement. “I’ll
live.”
“That’s a low bar.”
Her eyes met mine, surprising me with a flash of defiance. “Higher than
it was yesterday.”
I found myself respecting her -- the spark still burning beneath all the fear
and pain. The Kings valued resilience. This woman had it in spades.
“What happened to your head?” I asked, nodding toward the wound.
She touched it gingerly. “I’m not sure. Not the first time,
though. This one isn’t as bad as the first time I tried to run.”
The casual way she said it raised the hair on my neck, like getting hurt
counted as just another Tuesday. I’d seen that kind of detachment before
in people who normalized violence to survive.
“You need a hospital?” I asked, though I already knew the answer.
She shook her head vehemently. “No. They’ll look there.”
“They?”
Her mouth clamped shut, fear returning to her eyes.
“All right,” I said, backing off. “No hospitals.”
Wind rustled through the trees, carrying the scent of pine and something else
-- the metallic tang of coming rain. The temperature had dropped another few
degrees. Callie shivered, her thin jacket providing minimal protection against
the night air.
I glanced at my watch. Nearly midnight. The compound was close but bringing
her there would mean questions. Hard ones.
“Let me see your hands,” I said.
She hesitated, then extended them. She’d need medical care.
“You fight back,” I observed.
A small, grim smile. “Always.”
I respected that too.
“When’s the last time you ate?”
She shrugged again. “Not sure.”
“Can you stand?”
She tried, bracing against the ground. Her legs wobbled, threatening to
collapse. I reached out instinctively, stopping just short of touching her.
“May I?”
She nodded, reluctance clear in every line of her body. I slipped an arm
around her waist, supporting her weight as she found her footing. She felt too
light, bones sharp beneath skin meant to hold more weight. Malnourished, and
not just from two days without food.
“You’re not cops,” she said, nodding toward my cut.
“But you’re something.”
“Something,” I agreed, not elaborating. The less she knew about
the Kings, the better -- for her safety as much as ours.
She swayed on her feet, and I tightened my grip slightly to keep her upright.
She flinched at the pressure but didn’t pull away.
“I need to get you somewhere safe,” I said.
“Nowhere’s safe,” she repeated, but with less conviction.
“Safer than here.”
A distant sound pierced the night -- an engine, far off but approaching.
Callie’s entire body tensed, her breathing accelerating into near
hyperventilation.
“That them?” I asked.
She nodded, panic overriding caution.
Decision time. I knew taking her to the compound would have consequences. Was
I prepared to face them?
“I’ve got a place,” I said, making my choice. “People
who can help. But you need to trust me, just for tonight.”
“Why would you help me?” she asked, suspicion threading through
the fear. “You don’t know me.”
A fair question. One I’d asked myself.
“Because years ago, I was on the wrong side of some bad men,” I
said simply. “Someone helped me then. Sometimes that’s reason
enough.”
Not the whole truth, but enough of it. The Kings had saved me from a life
heading nowhere fast, given me purpose, family. Some debts you pay forward.
“I don’t have another option, do I?” she asked.
“You always have options,” I said. “Right now, they’re
just all bad ones. I’m offering the least bad one I can.”
She glanced toward the sound of the approaching engine, then back to me.
Weighing unknown dangers against the devil she knew.
About the Author
Harley Wylde is an accomplished author known for her captivating MC Romances.
With an unwavering commitment to sensual storytelling, Wylde immerses her
readers in an exciting world of fierce men and irresistible women. Her works
exude passion, danger, and gritty realism, while still managing to end on a
satisfying note each time.
When not crafting her tales, Wylde spends her time brainstorming new
plotlines, indulging in a hot cup of Starbucks, or delving into a good book.
She has a particular affinity for supernatural horror literature and movies.
Visit Wylde's website to learn more about her works and upcoming events, and
don't forget to sign up for her newsletter to receive exclusive discounts and
other exciting perks.
Author on Facebook, Instagram, & TikTok: @harleywylde
Publisher on Facebook, Instagram, Twitter, and TikTok: @changelingpress
Save 15% off any order at ChangelingPress.com with code RABT15
Angela Knight is here to tell us about Armored Hearts, an enemies-to-lovers sci-fi/suspense romance with BDSM and vampires.
Read on for details...
___________________
An Enemies to Lovers Sci-Fi BDSM Vampire Romance
Sci-Fi Romance / Suspense
Date Published: March 20, 2026
Publisher: Changeling Press
Captivity makes the heart grow kinkier...
When interstellar mercenary Captain Nick Rand rescues a beautiful enemy from
his own men, he thinks she's the answer to his vampire prayers. On the verge
of starvation thanks to the destruction of his hemosynther, he's in desperate
need of a female blood donor.
Lieutenant Zara Tahir needs Nick Rand as badly as he needs her. Without Nick's
blood, Zara's overactive immune system will kill her.
But Zara has no intention of embracing captivity. While she's willing to
exchange blood for blood, maybe even play a kinky game or two with the
handsome vampire dominant, he's still the enemy. She can't allow herself to
see him as anything more.
Then Rand's enemies make things a lot more complicated...
Hunger chewed Captain Nick Rand until he felt like a bone in a wolf's jaws. It
wasn't just a hunger of the body, though his gut felt hollow and his hands had
a tendency to shake. Didn't matter how much food he ate, how much water,
coffee, or whiskey he drank. None of it touched the craving that gnawed at his
brain, making it hard to think about anything but what he needed. Even now,
when the enemy might be drawing a bead on his skull, all he wanted was blood.
Hot, red and seductive as a siren -- a taste that reminded him of sex and the
cool touch of a woman's hands.
Rand fought to ignore that bottomless need. He didn't have time for it now, no
matter how hungry he was. Enemy temp shelters surrounded him, dome shapes
dappled with camouflage until they were indistinguishable from the forest
floor.
They made his shoulder blades itch.
Invisible, a silencer field muting the sound of his footfalls, he padded
between the shelters, beam rifle raised as he swept its muzzle from side to
side, scanning for potential attackers. His stomach growled so loudly he
wondered if the noise could be heard outside his silencer field. He ignored
his hunger, fighting to concentrate past the savage need. As he'd been
fighting for every endless hour of the previous nine days.
Instead, Rand focused on the familiar process of searching the enemy camp. He
could hear the rasp of his breathing in his helmet as he ducked into one empty
tent after another, though the silencer muted the sound past four or five
centimeters.
In his helmet com, he heard the murmur of his men reporting in as they
filtered through the camp, searching for the enemy. They had no more luck than
he'd had. The Falaran Coalition battalion had melted into the surrounding
forest, leaving behind smashed equipment, hastily abandoned meals and wrecked
temporary shelters. Apparently they'd been alerted to the approach of the
G.A.E. force at the last minute, dropped everything, and run like hell. Wise
of them, considering they were outgunned and outmanned. The colony was small,
without the economic resources Godsson's more established planetary population
could command. Their armor was certainly no match for the G.A.E.'s.
Still, they could have left someone behind. Maybe in camouflage armor like his
own, surrounded by a field of energy that bent light, rendering the sniper
invisible.
But you could bend all the light you wanted to, and it wouldn't stop Rand from
picking up your scent. Vampires had great noses. And great speed, great
endurance, and enough raw strength to take on a mech unit with no backup at
all.
Which was why he had been hired in the first place, despite the G.A.E.'s
disdain for mercenaries in general and vampires in particular. The generals
who led the Glorious Army of the Enlightened didn't know a damned thing about
war. Nick Rand, on the other hand, had spent the past two decades fighting in
a dozen wars on a dozen planets. His combat reflexes weren't just muscle
memory -- they were burned in all the way down to his DNA.
Which was why the G.A.E.'s brass had decided they could ignore his food
preferences.
He moved in a liquid glide into the next tent. Sweeping his rifle over the
whole space in a smooth arc, he ordered a sensor scan. The answer came back a
heartbeat later. Sensor scan completed. No enemy located, said the computer
implanted at the base of his brain. He breathed deep, scenting the air just to
be sure. And froze.
The tent belonged to a woman. Actually, more than one. Perfume lingered in the
air: lilacs and star roses and the natural scent of female bodies. Rand
inhaled, drinking in the lush aroma. His eyes closed for just a heartbeat as
he imagined the taste of blood and pussy.
Months. It had been months since he'd had a woman. Godsson taught females were
corrupting influences who'd blunt his soldiers' warrior instincts. He insisted
women belonged at home, teaching their children piety and submission to the
will of their Most Exalted -- i.e., Godsson himself.
Yeah, right. Why the female cultists tolerated this airlock blow, Rand had no
idea. It was no wonder the million or so Falarans had refused to join
Godsson's six million plus worshipers, badly outnumbered or not.
I should never have taken this fucking job. Never mind that he'd needed work.
Peace had broken out all over with its usual rotten timing. Absolutely no one
had been hiring. Had it not been for Godsson's decision to invade the
neighboring planet Falara, Rand would have been forced to find a security job,
and he hated bodyguard work with a passion.
But after a year with the G.A.E., the idea of keeping some arrogant prick
alive was starting to sound pretty damned good. For one thing, he wouldn't be
slowly starving to death among zealots who considered him a pervert.
He wished G.A.E. HQ would quit fucking around and send him a new hemosynther.
The last time he'd commed them, Supplies and Requisitions claimed the 'synther
was on order, scheduled to arrive from Earth next week in a shipment of
medical equipment. Rand had told the requisitionist it had better, or he was
coming to HQ to sink his teeth into something with a pulse.
The man had blanched. As if Rand would touch his sweaty neck with a nine meter
radiation probe. His blood would probably taste like burned coffee and stale
doughstries anyway.
Growling under his breath, Rand left the tent -- and heard the scream coming
from the other end of camp. A woman's voice, crying out in rage and pain.
He was running before the echo died.
* * *
If she hadn't been so sick, she could have made the G.A.E. bastards pay a
higher price when they found her in the middle of the camp. Unfortunately, it
had been more than a month since her vampire had died, and Lieutenant Zara
Tahir was deep in blood sickness.
They surrounded her, a yelling, laughing mob of massive shapes in helmets and
black armor emblazoned with Godsson's halo and planet logo. Those suits gave
them enough raw power to take on a blast tank and win.
Even so, Zara hadn't made it easy for them. Even in her lighter V.S.S. armor,
she had the advantage in speed and agility. Fighting ferociously, she
triggered a spontaneous nosebleed. Feeling the hot wetness rolling down her
upper lip as she spun and kicked, she snarled. It had been far too long since
she'd tasted vampire blood. Wouldn't be long before her own immune system
killed her.
Not that these fuckers would give it the chance. They were pissed, and they
planned to kill her. And worse.
About the Author
New York Times best-selling author Angela Knight has written and published
more than sixty novels, novellas, and ebooks, including the Mageverse and
Merlin’s Legacy series. With a career spanning more than two decades,
Romantic Times Bookclub Magazine has awarded her their Career Achievement
award in Paranormal Romance, as well as two Reviewers’ Choice awards for
Best Erotic Romance and Best Werewolf Romance.
Angela is currently a writer, editor, and cover artist for Changeling Press
LLC. She also teaches online writing courses. Besides her fiction work,
Angela’s writing career includes a decade as an award-winning South
Carolina newspaper reporter. She lives in South Carolina with her husband,
Michael, a thirty-year police veteran and detective with a local police
department.
