Oct 06

New Release Blitz: The Hearts Retreat by Shannon Blair

Title: The Heart’s Retreat

Series: Hearts’ Domain, Book One

Author: Shannon Blair

Publisher:  NineStar Press

Release Date: 10/06/2026

Heat Level: 3 – Some Sex

Pairing: Male/Male

Length: 395

Genre: Fantasy, voyeurism, fantasy, elves, gods, werewolves, wolves, menage, polyamory, reconciliation, trans, pansexual, demisexual, neurodivergent, romantasy, magic

Add to Goodreads

Description

Centuries ago, Aspen, the woodlands’ divine Heart Tree, disappeared, twisting His lands into a corrupted shadow of their former glory and sending rage-filled werewolves to hunt His elven children. Now His punishment has passed beyond the woodlands’ borders. If its spread cannot be stopped, all the world will suffer.

Gar has served his native swamplands as a soldier for almost half his life. Chosen to lead one last attempt to locate Aspen, he fears the dangers lurking in the woodlands’ corrupted depths will claim his life—and those of the soldiers under his command. But abandoning the mission means watching an entire forest burn. Bolstered by his faith in the swamplands’ divine Heart, Cypress, his conscience demands he carry on.

Sage, a magically gifted healer charged with holding Aspen’s corruption at bay from his village, is no stranger to the horrors of his Heart. Neither is his estranged husband, Thorn. A seasoned hunter with the uncanny ability to sense werewolves before they attack, Thorn puts his skills to the test and his life on the line to support the search for Aspen. Sage, choosing love over loyalty to his village, lends his strength as a latecomer to the expedition, lighting the way when hope seems lost. Reunited after a separation stemming from the loss of their stillborn daughter, their shared journey to save their homeland just might lead to reconciliation—if death doesn’t part them first.

As they traverse the corrupted forest’s treacherous terrain, Sage and Thorn forge a bond with Gar that transcends simple friendship. Seeking solace from their troubled pasts and uncertain futures, their boundaries break down and the dividing lines between them blur. But with bloodthirsty werewolves watching every move, their budding romance threatens to become a fatal distraction.

Excerpt

The Heart’s Retreat
Shannon Blair © 2026
All Rights Reserved

Commander Gar stood on the barge’s deck, leaning against the railing as they sailed into the river port of Taproot, capital city of Cypress’s Domain. If he had to guess, he’d put the hour well past midnight, but the docks and their neighboring fish market bustled with activity. Weathered lantern posts standing along the dock’s edge illuminated the port and its workers. Dockhands—mostly his fellow swamp elves, with thick, water-repellent hair in shades of bright teal to dark green and skin tones ranging from light bronze to burnt umber—rushed back and forth, overseeing the departures and arrivals of fishing boats, trading vessels, and now one very delayed passenger barge.

The barge had gotten stuck on a sandbar somewhere upstream and only fallen further behind schedule with each passing stop. The early morning embarkation Gar and his unit had planned had been pushed back to late afternoon—frustrating for everyone involved, but at least they hadn’t been stuck aboard as long as some of the other passengers. Under normal circumstances, the delay would’ve been a minor inconvenience, but a soldier under Gar’s command had gotten their leg crushed in the jaws of a magically mutated alligator and needed specialized healing soon, or they risked losing the limb.

Gar leaned farther over the railing as the barge pulled into its berth, dockhands and crew working in tandem to make the landing as gentle as possible. Despite the late hour, a small crowd had begun to gather on the dock—friends and family waiting to greet their loved ones. He scanned the faces and clothes of those gathered, searching for someone with medical or military training among the civilians. Normally, no one waited for Gar, but he’d sent a messenger bird ahead at the first sign of delay—technically an unauthorized use of military funds, but he’d foot the bill himself if his superiors objected—so someone should be there to meet him.

Beside him, his second-in-command, Bluegill, sighed. “We better not have beaten the fucking bird here.” Nearly a head shorter than Gar, she stood at her full height to survey the crowd, turquoise eyes narrowed in an appraising squint. “Mallow’s waited long enough. If we’re expected to carry them all the way through the city—”

“Give it time, Blue. Gangway’s not even down yet.” Gar straightened and stretched, fighting back a yawn. Just because it wasn’t obvious at a glance didn’t mean no one was there for them. And worst-case scenario, he and his unit could carry Mallow. It would simply be awkward and uncomfortable.

Bluegill let out a discontented hum, impatiently running her umber fingers through her chin-length teal hair. But she didn’t argue. Under the complaints and sharp remarks, she cared for the rest of Gar’s unit as deeply as he did. Even non-lethal casualties hit her hard. He could let her have this one.

As the gangway dropped into place, a masculine elf wearing the crisp, white linens of a temple acolyte—not a priest, his eyes and hands were elven—pushed his way to the front of the crowd. Before the barge’s passengers could begin to disembark, he crossed onto the deck, offering a polite but disinterested nod to those he passed. His distracted gaze sharpened when it landed on Gar and Bluegill. Gar wondered why they’d caught his attention. They stood out among the other passengers in their long-sleeved field uniforms and boiled leather armor, but that couldn’t be the only reason.

“Commander Gar?” The acolyte called out, eyes flickering between Gar and Bluegill.

Gar raised a hand. “Over here.” He understood the acolyte’s confusion. Cypress’s Domain was a matriarchy; outside the military, it was rare to see a man in a position of authority. In any other career, Gar would be Bluegill’s subordinate.

The acolyte responded with a grateful nod and continued weaving through the crowd toward Gar.

While he waited, Gar exchanged a confused glance with Bluegill, trying to figure out why a temple acolyte, of all people, had come here looking for him. The messenger bird must have arrived ahead of the barge, or no one would’ve known to expect him, but he didn’t understand how military correspondence could’ve ended up at a temple. Maybe someone had misread his message and thought he needed funeral services instead of a healer?

The acolyte came to an abrupt stop a few paces away from Gar, the corners of his mouth slowly turning downward as he looked Gar over. “Hardly presentable, but it’ll have to do,” he muttered.

“I’m sorry, but what will I ‘have to do’ for?” Gar and his unit were fresh from a monster-hunting expedition, and he hadn’t bathed in days. He wasn’t going to impress anyone in this condition, but he didn’t know why he’d need to.

“High Priest Azalea has need of you. You are to meet her in her sanctum beneath Mother Cypress.”

Gar blinked at him, certain he’d heard wrong. “The high priest…needs me?”

“Yes.” The acolyte’s expression softened. “I realize how strange this must seem, but there are…extenuating circumstances.”

“When’s the meeting?”

“Hours ago, ideally. But now will have to suffice. She’s been waiting for you.”

Gar tried not to gape. High priests didn’t wait for anyone, especially a field commander like him. If she’d planned to meet with Gar without even knowing when to expect him, something earth-shaking must have happened, but no one on the docks seemed any the wiser. He guessed he’d find out more when he got there.

“Then I’ll go now,” Gar replied. “But I have an injured soldier belowdecks. Their leg’s hurt bad, and they need—”

Bluegill cut him off with a bump of her elbow. “I’ll take it from here, Commander. Just get to the Heart.”

The acolyte nodded and turned his attention to Bluegill. “Whatever you require, I’m happy to assist.”

Gar left them to it, heart racing as he jostled through the crowd of passengers making their way off the barge.

Purchase

NineStar Press | Books2Read

Meet the Author

Shannon Blair (they/he) is a fantasy author with a fondness for elves, goblins, and general otherworldly goodness. Their love of fiction and storytelling inspired them to pursue an MFA in Creative Writing, which they are now putting to very productive use, writing romance novels. When they aren’t writing books about queer elves or engaged in workday shenanigans at their day job, Shannon can be found baking, crocheting, and persisting, despite the horrors. They live on the outskirts of the Denver metroplex with their partner and two spoiled-rotten cats.

Facebook | Twitter | Instagram

Blog Button 2

Sep 29

New Release Blitz: Dangerous Times by Ishmael Winter (Excerpt & Giveaway)

Title: Dangerous Times

Series: Augment, Book One

Author: Ishmael Winter

Publisher:  NineStar Press

Release Date: 09/29/2026

Heat Level: 3 – Some Sex

Pairing: NB/NB

Length: 265

Genre: Science Fiction, Romance, sci-fi, action, other-world, nonbinary, alien species, war, capture, mind control

Add to Goodreads

Description

Reviled for their parasitic nature, the Augment are a cybernetic species that require organic tissues to process food into usable fuel. Now, their Empire tears itself apart in civil war as the cruel King Taen attempts to put down the rebellion of Lord Mavren, who seeks to end the brutal inequality of the Empire’s social stratification.

Young and ambitious Nact moves swiftly up the ranks of Mavren’s rebel army to the coveted post of General. To cement nir position and prove once and for all the lower castes are just as capable as the highest nobility, ne has one task left to accomplish: capture Lord General Aiomonni, the brilliant, lethal head of King Taen’s military…and Mavren’s defected lover.

When the disastrous aftermath of a battle flings Nact and Aiomonni beyond the charted galaxy to land on a hostile planet, their only hope of survival lies in each other. But no matter how compelling Nact finds the beautiful, intelligent Aiomonni, it’s hard to trust someone known not only for nir brilliance, but for nir treachery…

Excerpt

Dangerous Times
Ishmael Winter © 2026
All Rights Reserved

Ne lay panting under a hedge with the ragged bite of a blaster wound spilling nir guts into dirt, the razor edges of nir own metals tearing the delicate organic tissues. Ne was going to die, and ne knew it. Ne was too hurt to be worthwhile to repair, even if a friend were to find nem. And what might Mavren’s rebels do to one who had killed their kind? The fluids of a Catalyst soldier were thick on nir claws. Nir blaster, now trodden into the muck of the battlefield and damaged past repair, had claimed still more lives. Ne had been lucky, right up until nir dying opponent caught nem in the gut with a viciously clawed foot. Now, if ne was found, ne was dead. Ne was damaged beyond repair. Nir commanders wouldn’t bother with the transport of a wounded creature, the careful stitching and welds at the hand of a surgeon. Not for mere infantry. The enemy would want revenge for their dead.

I should have left. I should have at least died fighting for something of my choosing. But ne hadn’t had the courage, and the thought gnawed at nem, a mental agony to go with the physical. Ne’d had enough courage to think defiance at nir masters, but little more. Now, that inaction seemed unbearable.

Ne flinched at the sound of feet outside nir hedge. Ne was unarmed, but perhaps ne could claw them. Then die pitifully. Ne hissed softly. Ne wanted no pity, but there was nothing ne could do.

The leaves of nir hiding place were lifted away, and another face peered down at nem, marked in Mavren’s dark pewters, dotted with white. A surgeon.

Ne stared back. Ne did not want to claw a surgeon, who was small and unarmed. It was wrong. Surgeons were to be protected. They were more valuable, worth dozens of Soldiercaste shells each. Even an enemy surgeon froze nem in place. Ne knew the creature was an enemy, here to humiliate or torture nem. But ne could not move; ne had been too completely trained to respect that speckle of white.

“Stay still,” said the surgeon, something ne most certainly did not need to be prompted to do. “I’m going to do something for the pain, after I get your gut back in.”

“Then what?” ne rasped. Ne didn’t understand. What use might a Catalyst surgeon have for nem? Ne shivered, nir armor flaring and settling, because all the things ne could imagine meant pain, fear. Ne remembered the rumors. Not a single creature taken by the Catalysts returned. Ne and nir comrades had speculated why. Medical experiments were most likely, they’d agreed. Why else would they take and keep Soldiercaste?

The surgeon pushed nir shoulders and arms into the space ne’d made in the hedge. Leaves rained down on both of them. “It’s a messy wound. I can’t clean it here, can’t do anything more than stabilize you.”

Ne tried to move, but pain slapped nem back down. “Then what?”

“Not my concern.”

Ne looked up at the surgeon with terror. Ne didn’t want to die here, in the dirt, but a thousand worse possibilities crowded nir mind: degradation, imprisonment, torture. Medical experiments. No one would care what happened to a damaged Soldiercaste.

The surgeon must have sensed nir panic. Ne finished the dressing of the wound and patted nir hand. “It will be up to you,” ne said. “But you won’t be hurt. Hold still.”

The tip of an applicator pressed against one of nir spiracles. A hiss. A few moments, and the pain began to recede.

How nir mind clung to the offer of reassurance! It was foolish; ne didn’t know whether to trust the surgeon. Ne was still trying to decide as the world slid away.

*****

Ne took a name when ne woke. A political clerk, nir paint brown and pewter, going up and down the lines of cots with a book of common names, offered it to nem. It wasn’t glowsheet but paper pressed between layers of plastic. Ne’d never seen real paper before, and here was this little clerk, offering nem the badly bound volume—its pages held together with loops of metal threaded through holes on one side—as if it were disposable, not strange and wonderful and archaic. Ne poked at the names, expecting them to interact, to flash when ne selected them, and saw the claw marks from others who had done the same. Ne curled nir claws into nir palms, embarrassed. The little clerk shook nir head and reached out to pat the nearest of nir hands.

“Touching is acceptable,” the clerk said. “This is meant to be touched.”

Ne looked around shyly. “But I’ll look a fool.”

“Even the nobles touch paper, to keep their place. There is no shame. Go on. Name yourself.”

So ne took the book and found a name—a simple name, a peasant’s name. Nact. Ne liked the way it felt in nir mouth. The clerk entered it in the glowsheet ne carried and added a character. Ne wasn’t the first to have selected that name, the clerk explained, but ne was the first in nir group of rescued Soldiercaste, so that this planet would now serve as nir House name. Nact of Quen. Nact tried that aloud and liked it better still.

“But what will happen to us?” Nact asked again, and the clerk tucked the book of names and the official glowsheet under an elbow and smiled.

“You can remain loyal,” ne said. “To Taen King, who has denied you a name, denied you a House, denied you everything that makes you a person. Then we will imprison you but treat you otherwise as well as our people. Or you can be neutral, and we will give you land to farm, to be your own. Your name will be yours to keep. Or you may join us and fight with us.”

It was no choice. Who would pass up a farm for more fighting? Even if nir inaction might gall nem, it was madness to return to the life of a Soldiercaste, however righteous the cause. But the little clerk was not done. Nact saw the smile in nir eyes, the tightening of metal around gleaming lenses.

“And if you fight with us, you are equal to us, and if you fight well, you may yet earn your way up your ranks. General Grea was a peasant on our king’s lands. Many of nir sub-generals were commoners. Mavren dislikes caste. If you fight well, you might one day stand with them.”

Nact had seen pictures of General Aiomonni, nir former master when Nact fought for King Taen, but only pictures. Aiomonni commanded hundreds of thousands of Soldiercaste, officers, all the Empire’s military; nir power only second to that of Taen King nemself. In the pictures, ne was grand and heavily painted in the colors of nir House, flame orange and night blue, standing alongside Taen King. Nact tried to imagine nemself like that, but in pewters and blacks. Ne looked down at nir arms, the layered plates of metal, nir heavy claws, and imagined them in colors. Nact looked up into the face of the clerk.

“Take all the time you need to think,” said the clerk.

Nact shook nir head. “No,” ne said, and felt nir crest rise from clamped flat against nir head. “No, I don’t need time. When may I give—” and ne hesitated, the words were so odd to nem “—our king, Mavren King, my loyalty?”

Purchase

NineStar Press | Books2Read

Meet the Author

When not writing, Ishmael Winter (formerly Isobelle Winter) is a specialist in the obscure points of medical history. Originally from California, they’ve since attempted life in a number of other locales and have concluded that snow is garbage and road salt makes their shoes look bad. They and their spouse share their home with three cats, who are largely notable for their criminal genius. When not writing, researching, or thwarting feline supervillainy, they enjoy kayaking and woodworking.

Website | Blue Sky

 

Blog Button 2

Sep 22

New Release Blitz: Cupids' Flight by Mell Eight (Excerpt & Giveaway)

Title: Cupids’ Flight

Series: Wings, Book Two

Author: Mell Eight

Publisher:  NineStar Press

Release Date: 09/22/2026

Heat Level: 3 – Some Sex

Pairing: Male/Male

Length: 18800

Genre: Paranormal, MM Romance, Halloween, Samhain, anthropomorphic, interspecies, magic/magic-users, Japanese mythology and folklore

Add to Goodreads

Description

Betrayed by love in the worst possible way, Leo spends his days alone. He works alone, lives alone, and that’s the way he prefers it until he rescues a strange creature named Hei from the goblins, and Hei refuses to let Leo be. During Samhain, a time of transition, falling into Hei’s embrace is all too easy. However, Hei’s wish to stay with the cupids requires they embark on a quest to fulfill love, a quest that might prove unsolvable as Hei’s past comes calling with a vengeance.

Excerpt

Cupids’ Flight
Mell Eight © 2026
All Rights Reserved

The quarter moon overhead glowed, but the streetlights glowed brighter. In fact, every house in the suburban neighborhood Leo was walking through was bright and welcoming with pole and porch lights, and every other outside light on and illuminating the yards and driveways. Fake cobwebs, blow-up spiders, and plastic graveyards dotted lawns everywhere Leo looked, and throngs of kids walked the sidewalks in elaborate costumes. Leo estimated only some of the costumed people were actually still children. That said, no matter their age, everyone seemed equally happy to hold out open bags already full of candy to get more sweets at every door.

Halloween. Leo honestly didn’t mind this particular human holiday. Normally when he traveled to Earth from his home in the clouds with the rest of the cupids, he was forced to conceal his wings. He hated feeling so restricted, as if someone had tied a band around his chest and squeezed. To do his job properly the wings had to be hidden, so he endured the discomfort. The one exception was on Halloween.

“Dude! Your animatronics are sick!”

One of the boys, whom Leo really thought ought to have grown out of costumes and candy, jogged over with his group of friends following. He wore a green mask representing some sort of Earth superhero, jeans, and a black shirt. His friends also only wore the bare minimum of a mask as their nod to the holiday, but they all wore something different so at least there was some effort.

“Do they move?” green mask asked.

“They do,” Leo replied. He stuck a hand in his jeans pocket, trying to act like he thought the movement was covert, which ensured they all saw him and thought he was palming a remote, before straightening out his wings. He flapped slowly twice before folding them along his back again.

“I have got to get me one of those!” another member of the superhero group said, sounding awed.

“They’re expensive,” Leo warned, although he honestly had no idea what animatronics actually cost.

“A worthy goal!” green mask declared.

Before anyone could say anything else, another superhero ran up to the group.

“You’ve got to hurry!” he said. “The Artogos are giving out full-sized candy bars, but I think they’re starting to run out!”

With a parting wave, the group ran off, heading to yet another brightly lit house. Leo continued on his way, dodging sugar-hyped, overstimulated kids and their suffering adult chaperones until he reached the only house on the block that was completely dark. Only a dim light through a crack in a window shade indicated anyone was home. Leo headed up the driveway, then ducked around the side of the house where he found a nine-foot privacy fence separating the front yard from the back. None of the bright light from the neighboring houses reached the fence. Hidden within those shadows, Leo jumped and flapped his wings just enough to get him over the fence and into the backyard.

The shades had not been pulled closed over the French doors separating the back deck from the dining room inside, letting light spill out into the overgrown yard. In the kitchen, a woman leaned heavily against the counter, a mixing bowl full of something in front of her, although she wasn’t stirring. She looked thin and wan, bone-tired, and generally not well.

To the left of the dining room, Leo found a living room. The TV flickered on commercials, shedding their glow over an easy chair where a man lay, snoring. The table in front of him was full of empty, half-crushed beer cans.

Leo’s mission tonight was simple: help the woman find the courage to leave her drunken fool of a husband.

His power as a cupid was the best way to help her. Two types of cupids lived up in the clouds that Leo called home. Love cupids helped couples find each other, and encouraged people to take the next step in building a beautiful relationship together. Leo couldn’t stand them. The only thought filling love cupids’ heads was how to make people happy, but they never bothered to dig deeper to see where true happiness lay. Actually… Leo shook his head. That thought was wrong. He had recently met love cupids who weren’t that foppish. His nephew, Sable, was married to one, and since Sable seemed happy, Leo tried hard not to judge all love cupids the same. He found it extremely difficult though. After nearly three thousand years of fixing love cupids’ mistakes—where they thought they had brought about true love and instead caused pain—finding a handful of love cupids who were actually capable wasn’t nearly enough to fully change his mind.

For Sable’s sake, Leo was trying, but he definitely wasn’t finding it easy.

Leo was the opposite of a love cupid; he was a loss cupid. Where love cupids brought people together, loss cupids like Leo helped to separate them. When a relationship needed to end, a loss cupid was able to help convince people it was time to move on. In a perfect world, Leo would then deliver the newly separated couple to a love cupid to help them find a new love. That was why Sable and his husband Wynn worked so well together. Love and loss cupids were working together more often these days, but Leo worked alone for a reason. Most of the cases assigned to him just weren’t suitable for a love cupid.

The couple he was looking at separating right now was a perfect example of when the influence of a love cupid would only cause harm. Most of the woman’s bruises were emotional, but abuse was abuse. Words were far more painful than fists, but far less visible. What she needed was the courage to free herself and then take the time to heal. A damned love cupid wouldn’t give her that time, instead attempting to match her with her true love before her heart was repaired enough to be ready to try again.

His simple recurve bow appeared in his hand, and an arrow appeared in his other hand. Leo nocked the arrow and lined up his shot, waiting a moment to be certain the woman wasn’t going to suddenly move, then let the arrow fly.

The glass doors were no impediment to his arrow, which slid through as if they weren’t even there. The arrow landed with a solid thud in the left side of her chest, right in her heart. She didn’t move, as if she didn’t notice, or care enough to notice. The arrow shimmered for a moment and then faded away, leaving behind a completely unblemished shirt and no sign of blood.

The woman suddenly shook her head and pressed one hand to her forehead, but then her jaw firmed and she stood up straight. She briefly glanced over at her snoring husband, and a sneer tilted her lips as she strode away from the kitchen, vanishing from Leo’s view. When she returned a few minutes later, she carried a large suitcase. She vanished from view again, and a moment later a light came on in an upstairs window.

She would pack what she could carry and likely go to stay with her sister. Within a week, divorce papers would be served. Leo’s work here was clearly done.

He hopped the fence again and melded back into the crowd. Fewer very small children were out and about now, and more of the older ones who should have grown out of the holiday had appeared. Leo wended his way through them, trying to return to the secluded park at the end of the street where he could call on a portal to take him back up to the clouds. He would report his success and then head to his house. The first Samhain celebrations back home had no doubt already begun. Sable had invited Leo to the party his husband Wynn was throwing, but Leo had politely declined. After tonight’s mission, what he really needed was some time to relax in the peace and quiet of his own home. Maybe tomorrow he could stop by the main square in town to see the decorations, although going alone to see the intricately carved pumpkins and turnips lining the square had lost its shine a long time ago. The last time Leo had any fun at a solstice event was when Sable was still a child and Leo could bring him along. These days, Leo found it better to just stay home.

“Purple, it’s been a long time,” a voice said from Leo’s left.

Leo looked over, but he already knew who he would see. Only one bastard called him “Purple” after the color of his wings.

“Giblets. It’s been five hundred years, I believe?”

Leo tried not to remember what event had occurred five hundred years ago that had resulted in him being somewhat friendly with a goblin, but when your ex-lover had tried to destroy cupid society and killed your brother in the process, it was hard to forget. Leo had thought his ex was a gentle soul, but Elder Ortho was only using Leo to further his plans to become king of the cupids. Never mind that cupids didn’t have kings and lived in a fairly socialist society, Ortho believed he could unravel their societal structure and place himself on top. Giblets was one of the goblins who had helped the cupid elders bring Ortho’s reign of terror to an end.

“I hope you’re not out shopping for dinner right now,” Leo continued. “Even though it’s Halloween, I suspect the people running around will be missed.”

Giblets snorted. “You know we only eat the flesh of evil souls, and kids might be evil-hearted at times, but not properly evil enough to make a good meal. Only one truly evil person lives around here,” he added, throwing a thumb in the direction of the only dark house. “But now that you’ve been by, we’re happy to let the meat stew a little longer while he gets some comeuppance. He’ll be very tender soon.” His grin showed off all his pointed teeth, flashing bright in the streetlights. “No, I’m here for another reason, Purple. We raided an underground nest of nasty demon worshipers last night for some good eating and found something. Or someone. We’re not really sure what he is, just that he’s got wings. Since you’ve got wings too, maybe you can talk to him and figure out how to get him home again?”

“Lead the way,” Leo replied, his answer immediate.

Purchase

NineStar Press | Books2Read

Meet the Author

When Mell Eight was in high school, she discovered dragons. Beautiful, wondrous creatures that took her on epic adventures both to faraway lands and on journeys of the heart. Mell wanted to create dragons of her own, so she put pen to paper. Mell Eight is now known for her own soaring dragons, as well as for other wonderful characters dancing across the pages of her books. While she mostly writes paranormal or fantasy stories, she has been seen exploring the real world once or twice.

Website | Facebook | Twitter

 

Blog Button 2

Sep 22

New Release Blitz: Dalriada by Harry Rey (Excerpt & Giveaway)

Title: Dalriada

Author: Harry Rey

Publisher:  NineStar Press

Release Date: 09/22/2026

Heat Level: 2 – Fade to Black Sex

Pairing: Male/Male

Length: 333

Genre: Historical Fantasy, MM romance, historical, fantasy, action/adventure, barbarians, Celts, Gaels, Roman soldiers, screenplay writers, folklore, goddess, illness, interracial/intercultural, road trip, reunited, tattoos, time travel

Add to Goodreads

Description

TV writer Alex is having a bad day. Dumped by his soap star ex and on the verge of being fired for being too American to write for a British period drama, London has never felt more isolating for a Black, gay history graduate from Chicago’s South Side.

When his Scottish flatmate drags him to her home on the Isle of Mull, Alex expects a distraction. Instead, after a whisky-soaked night, he meets Fergus, a flame-haired fisherman who speaks only ancient Gaelic. After a stormy night of passion, Alex wakes in ancient Dalriada, a kingdom that has not yet found its missing king.

War is coming to fifth-century Scotland. The Roman general Valerius is closing in, and Fergus may be the leader Dalriada needs to survive. Alex has a different problem. Without his HIV medication, time itself is killing him. To have any chance of getting home, Alex must face a vengeful Celtic goddess and choose between the man he is falling for, and the future of a kingdom.

Excerpt

Dalriada
Harry F. Rey © 2026
All Rights Reserved

The Last King of Scotland

King James I of England and VI of Scotland stroked his lover’s beard, twisting the pointed edge beneath his chin, the whiskers not yet fully formed on the young man’s flushed face.

“Your Majesty,” George said with a whimper. “I am but your lowly cupbearer.” The dogs barked in the castle grounds. Beyond the window, the men of court readied their bows for the day’s hunt.

“Pray silence,” said James, grabbing George’s perfectly cushioned buttocks encased in cream riding tights. “From henceforth, you will be Sir George Villiers. No longer a commoner, but my faithful servant. A Gentleman of the Bedchamber, no less.”

“My king,” George whispered, “the chance to spend one more night with you is a blessed—”

“My only sweet and dear child, I am the one who is blessed.” Their noses touched, breath intermingling in the scent of English roses scattered around the king’s own room, fresh morning air drifting in from the Buckinghamshire hillsides. James stroked young George’s cheek with his bejewelled hand. “That I may have sweet bedchamber boys to play with me. God so love me, as I desire only to live in this world for your sake—”

“This is not going on TV!” Clarissa yelled, scrunching up the script outline I’d just handed her and chucking it into the straw-lined stable. An annoyed horse neighed, as if he were also personally offended by my writing. She sipped from a lipstick-stained foam cup, wild hair an angry mess, made worse from the biting wind sweeping in from the moors. The air whipped with fury through the set, rattling outdoor lighting fixtures and playing havoc with Anne of Denmark’s precisely blow-dried hair petals. “Why does it always smell like shit out here?”

Clarissa turned on the heel of her boot; I didn’t mention she’d stepped in horse shit. She marched towards the stately home, anorak flapping in the wind. This grand Buckinghamshire mansion was an open sore of a mobile television set with a staff of dozens. I was distracted by Anne of Denmark sparking a cigarette while copious amounts of hairspray surrounded her like noxious gas. Clarissa marched straight inside, and I ran from the explosion waiting to happen.

“If I could have one moment, Clarissa.” She openly shuddered. I knew my American accent grated on her Northern English nerves because she’d told me as much the first day I’d joined the writing staff. On a freelance basis, just in case an American writer (in other words, Black) wouldn’t be a good cultural fit for a British historical epic. “But those are King James’s exact words. He wrote them to George—”

“Enough!” The yell was so loud even the rig handlers in the next room glanced through the gilded window frames. The set ground to a halt to watch Clarissa claim her next victim. The make-up artists with cases strapped to their necks like popcorn sellers, the costume designers rolling sixteenth-century dresses down the corridor, even the painted eyes of royal portraits gazing down watched us in voyeuristic delight. “For the last time, I am not going to give the first king of Great Britain a gay love scene on national television. Maybe in your HBOs this sort of thing will fly.” Clarissa patted her pockets, looking for the paper she’d already chucked into the stable. So instead, she gestured with her coffee cup. “But this production is a historically accurate—”

“But it is accurate!” I started stronger than I finished. “James and George were lovers.” The assembled staff waiting for us to clear out of the corridor so they could get back to work took a collective gasp. I was arguing back with Clarissa. No one argued back with Clarissa. Not even when she contradicted herself. One just figured out how to put King James on a horse while also not having to send him back to hair and make-up for an hour. (The answer to that conundrum was mounted hair dryer operatives.) She could yell about my writing. She could scream that my accent gave her a migraine. She could even drop her smuggled menthol cigarettes into my salad. But she could not, would not, question the accuracy of my research. I was a medieval history major for fuck’s sake. With a minor in Latin.

“It…it’s all true.” I gulped but steeled myself. The day of my reckoning had come. “They were lovers,” I said, sucking a breath through gritted teeth. “It’s undeniable.”

The coffee cup whistled an inch from my ear and splattered against the ornate wall.

“Jesus fucking Christ. I don’t give a flying fuck if there’s a statue of those two buggering outside Marble Arch. This is Sunday night fucking television.”

“But—”

“But you can see me in my office first thing in the morning. I’ve had enough with this bloody gay agenda turning everything queer.” She turned and marched off, muttering furiously but spurring the set back into life like scene transitions in a Muppet movie. Something was dripping down the back of my neck. Not sweat but coffee. Splashback.

“You better clean that up, mate,” came the gruff voice of a passing cleaner. He kicked the coffee cup as I suddenly gasped at the stain dripping down ancient mahogany. I covered it with my body and a sheepish grin, trying to wipe off the no doubt thousands of pounds in damage Clarissa had just caused. Of course, the hoodie I’d chosen to wear today was beige, leaving a coffee-and-mahogany stain on my sleeve.

Now I was stuck on the moors in East Wherever-shire, barely an hour into an endless day, knowing perfectly well I was going to be fired tomorrow. How come in England there’s two pubs on every corner, three in every one-horse village, but never a drink to be found when you need one?

*****

As TV writers, we spend all our time trying to get onto a set, but I’d never been more relieved to get off one. I spent the rest of the day avoiding Clarissa and took the first ride I could back to London and suffered through the oh-so-fun Thursday night Tube back to Croydon, where my flatmate, Siobhan, was dressing for a night out.

“Won’t you be cold?” I asked like the concerned friend of two years I certainly was. “I mean, I know it’s June, but it can’t be more than fifty degrees—”

“Celsius please, Alec.” She always sounded several octaves more Scottish after pre-gaming, adding a c to the end of my name. I helped myself to the dregs of vodka left in the bottle on the kitchen table and added some flat, electric-orange Scottish soda Siobhan was addicted to, but that tasted nothing like orange soda. She finished her mascara in the reflection on the microwave.

“If ah didnae hauv a jaeket wi me Hogmanay in Edinburgh in the hail an’ sleet, ahm certainly no gonnae hauv wan the noo.”

“But it’s freezing outside!”

“Auch, May’s done wi.”

“What’s that got to do with anything? It’s nine point four degrees centigrade outside—” So my quick conversion app said. “And probably going to rain.”

“Ye can cast a clout once May’s oot, Alec.”

“What does that mean?”

She popped her mascara brush away and tottered toward the table on spectacular heels. There was one everlasting truth about Siobhan, she looked phenomenal in a strapless dress. When public relations-type girls dress for battle, they go all in. Whether it was a limited-edition luxury car or an armoured personnel carrier at an arms show in Dubai, Siobhan could climb on top and sell the hell out of it. As long as they didn’t ask her to open her mouth. Then it was like when the girl from Brave has a sleepover with all the other Disney princesses.

“Go and hauv yerself a nice wee bath. And don’t forget, we’ve got those West End tickets tomorrow night. Cannae wait to see that Aladdin.”

“I remember. And I’ll be around. I’m getting fired tomorrow.”

“Oh, dinnae be daft.” She grabbed her tiny purse from the hall table and headed for the door. “Yer a braw writer. Now away and calm the fuck doon.” The door slammed shut.

“Wait,” I called out. “Is braw good or bad?” But Siobhan was gone, and I was alone.

Purchase

NineStar Press | Books2Read

Meet the Author

Harry F. Rey is an author and lover of gay themed stories with a powerful punch with influences ranging from Alan Hollinghurst to Isaac Asimov to George R.R. Martin. He loves all things sci-fi and supernatural, and always with a gay twist. Harry is originally from the UK but lives in Jerusalem, Israel with his husband.

Website | Twitter

 

Blog Button 2

Sep 18

New Release Blitz & Excerpt: Gravedancer by Mychael Black

 

Title: Gravedancer

Author: Mychael Black

Cover Art: Angela Knight

Genres: Action Adventure, Dark Fantasy, Mystery /Suspense /Intrigue, New Releases, Paranormal, Romance, Urban Fantasy

Themes: Dark Romance, LGBTQ+ Gay, LGBTQ+ Sex & Gender Shifters, MPreg, Vampires

Series: Broken Houses (#1)

Book Length: Novella

Page Count: 81

Description

For Malik and Dorian, the death of one of House Severn’s leaders just turned personal.

House Severn is in turmoil with the mysterious death of its leader’s omega mate. No one knows how he died, and it falls on Malik Devries, the House’s resident Spiritori priest, to find answers. His search leads him to someone he never expected to find — Dorian Morrow, his fated mate.

Dorian was only fifteen when his family fled House Severn. He always thought his dads wanted to get away and live life free of any House ties. He’d been wrong — so very, very wrong. What he isn’t wrong about, however, is the almost magnetic pull he feels to House Severn’s Spiritori, Malik Devries.

Excerpt

Gravedancer (Broken Houses 1)
Mychael Black
All rights reserved.
Copyright ©2026 Mychael Black

Wails echoed down the hall, anguished and utterly heartbreaking.

I leaned against the wall halfway down and closed my eyes. This whole nightmare had come out of nowhere, and no one had answers. Not even me.

A few days ago, Cesar, our leader’s mate, had been healthy, laughing and smiling with the rest of us. Then everything changed almost overnight. Darrien had rushed to my chambers and begged me to come with him, which I had. Cesar had been so pale, I’d feared he was already gone. He hung onto life for another couple of days before succumbing to whatever ailed him.

As I listened to one of my best friends mourn his partner’s death, I couldn’t help but curse the gods themselves. Darrien and Cesar ruled House Severn with kindness, and to hear such gut-wrenching sorrow was surreal in this place.

A door farther down opened, and I looked toward it. Darrien’s advisor, Christian Morelock, stepped into the hall. He headed my way, his expression as torn as I figured mine to be. He sighed and leaned against the wall opposite me, hands shoved into his pockets. He closed his eyes, and neither of us said a word for a moment while we listened to Darrien’s cries.

“Send any petitioners or issues to me for the time being.”

“Understood.”

“Don’t suppose you have any clue what happened, do you?”

I wished I could’ve said I had all the answers, but I had none. “No. Doc is just as stumped. Once Cesar is delivered to the chapel, I’ll see what I can divine.”

Christian studied me for a few seconds before replying. “You think it’s magic, don’t you?”

“I do,” I admitted. “Beyond the fact that we are less susceptible to illness than humans, my gut tells me this isn’t something so easily explained away.”

He nodded. “My question is: who is behind it? Who the fuck would target Cesar? That man never harmed a fly.”

That was the crux of this situation. Darrien and Cesar honestly had no true enemies. It just didn’t make a damn bit of sense.

“Anyway,” Christian said, dragging my attention back to him, “I need to go downstairs and call a meeting. Darrien will be out of commission for a while.”

This was one reason why I avoided relationships. Beyond being a Spiritori and dealing with the issues it came with, the thought of finding love, only to possibly lose it, was more than I really wanted to face.

Christian pushed off from the wall and put a hand on my shoulder. “I’ll make sure Cesar’s body gets to you as soon as possible.”

“Don’t rush anything,” I said. “Give Darrien time. I’ll be here.”

Nodding, Christian continued down the hall toward the bank of elevators. He stepped into one, and the doors slid shut, leaving me alone in the hallway again.

Darrien had quieted, but I could feel the soul-deep heartbreak with uneasy clarity. This was personal. We had been friends for centuries. Cesar’s death hit us all with devastating precision.

Like it had been planned.

That thought took root in my mind, and I couldn’t shake it. I hurried to the elevators and headed down. My apartment was on the same floor as Christian’s, but I worked in the basement. I enjoyed the solitude and quiet more than the usual bustle of the rest of the complex.

As soon as the doors opened, I stepped out, only to find Seth Gates, the head of security and the fifth member of our close-knit friendship circle, waiting for me. I nodded in greeting and unlocked the door, gesturing for him to join me. The moment we were alone, I turned to him.

“You’re thinking the same damn thing.”

“I am,” Seth said. “For several reasons.”

“Talk to me,” I replied as we walked through the entryway and toward my workspace. I pressed my hand to the sensor on the wall, and the door’s lock clicked. Confident Seth followed, I headed to my lab, turning on lights as I went. Once we were alone again, Seth sat on one of the nearby stools while I booted up my computer.

“I don’t think Cesar was the actual target.”

One eyebrow raised, I glanced over at him. “Okay…”

Seth shrugged. “I think we all were.”

I sat down and signed into the network. “Explain?”

“He was the only omega in Darrien’s inner circle. At least the only one anyone knew about,” he added. “He’d be the ideal target for magic, too, since he was a laicas.”

“True.” I turned to him. “Do you recall a trouble-making asshole named Jules Morrow?”

Seth scowled. “Bastard was a fucking pain in my ass. Why?”

“He and his laicas mate, Roman, struck out on their own about seven years ago. Before they left, Jules had been in touch with someone outside House Severn, asking about delayed magic.”

“How the hell did you find that out, and what the fuck is ‘delayed’ magic?”

“Let’s just say I do have contacts throughout the area,” I replied. “I can’t elaborate for their safety.”

Seth rolled his eyes. “You know you can trust me, but I get it. Now what’s ‘delayed’ magic? I thought spells hit when cast.”

“Most do, but those that are labeled as ‘delayed’ act much differently. They attach themselves to their targets and only activate when a certain event occurs or when a certain amount of time has passed. Essentially, a Magien can cast a spell on someone to activate, say, when that person hits a particular age or what have you. Follow me?”

“Sort of,” Seth muttered, though his expression said otherwise. He was a Venari, and, like laicas vamps, they tended to steer very clear of magic in general.

“Anyway, and this is a very loose hypothesis, what if Jules Morrow did something along those lines to Cesar? If your idea of all of us being the actual targets is true, then it would definitely be plausible.”

“I recall Jules being a rather jealous, vindictive shit,” Seth said. “Wouldn’t surprise me.”

“Jealous being the keyword here,” I pointed out. “Cesar was an omega in a strong position of power. Jules was an omega with nothing but a cheating, worthless alpha.”

Seth sighed and raked a hand through his short, spiky black hair. “So what do we do?”

“I need to see if I can track down one of them.”

“That’s like searching for a needle in a haystack, Malik. How –”

“They have a son.”

Purchase at Changeling Press

Meet the Author

Mychael Black has been writing professionally since 2005. He writes gay romance and erotica, but also het romance as Carys Seraphine and queer fantasy as Katherine Cook.

He’s an avid PC gamer with a love for RPGs, a horror fanatic, and a fantasy nut. He also has a weakness for anything relating to skulls, dogs, and Spongebob Squarepants.

Mychael lives on the Eastern Shore of the US with his family. He loves to hear from readers, be it via email or Facebook.

Website | Facebook

 

Blog Button 2

Sep 15

New Release Blitz: Two for Roughing by S.B. Barnes (Excerpt & Giveaway)

Title: Two for Roughing

Series: Minor Penalties #4

Author: S.B. Barnes

Publisher:  NineStar Press

Release Date: 09/15/2026

Heat Level: 3 – Some Sex

Pairing: Male/Male

Length: 297

Genre: Contemporary, sports/ice hockey, athletes, coming-of-age, in the closet, coming out, inferiority complex, intercultural, religious bigotry/intolerance, D/s feminization kink, impact play/spanking (during sex only)

Add to Goodreads

Description

If there’s one thing missing in Kilian Howard’s life, it’s dignity. Talent, good looks, and social skills wouldn’t go amiss either, but more than anything, he longs to be taken seriously. With everyone on his team treating him like a child, including the second hockey coach in two years threatening to bench him for not being good enough, is it any wonder Kilian turns to a virtual stranger in the form of Damir Denisov to explore some very adult needs?

Damir is more than willing to engage with Kilian’s clumsy attempts at seduction. Kilian might be a menace on the ice, but he’s sweet in bed. As a gay, Muslim Russian, Damir’s life has been a long sequence of rejection for one or the other part of his identity, and the pressure is getting to him. Kilian is at first a welcome distraction and then one of the only people to understand Damir’s situation.

When Kilian is traded to Damir’s team, what worked as a long-distance situationship becomes much more complicated than either of them anticipated. With Damir’s support, can Kilian overcome his self-doubt and find a place in the world of hockey? Or will Kilian’s desire to become the queer role model he never had force Damir to abandon their budding relationship to protect himself?

Excerpt

Two for Roughing
S.B. Barnes © 2026
All Rights Reserved

Prologue

Travis Collins: “…and here we can see it in the replays. Howard leans in to say something before the faceoff, and Denisov absolutely whiffs it. What are we thinking, Bill?”

Bill Zito: “Well, Travis, I think we just witnessed a classic Howard. Get in close, get under the other guy’s skin, steal the puck.”

Travis Collins: “Classic Howard—what are you talking about? It’s the kid’s first season.”

Bill Zito: “Yeah, but if you’ve seen his game tape from the WHL, he’s a textbook pest. Denisov’s got the advantage on size and, let’s be real, skating skills. But Howard’s one of those guys who gets to you like sand in your shoes. Can’t shake him.”

(From “Live commentary, San Francisco Sea Lions v. Chicago Firecrackers @ San Francisco,” by Bill Zito and Travis Collins, 12/03/2024)

“Ohmygod please please please, fuck, please!”

“Hmm…I’ll think about it.” Damir pulled back incrementally and remained still long enough for the man under him to start begging again. Then he slammed in hard and listened to Howard wail.

It was incredibly satisfying.

Not just because everything about Howard screamed “pushy brat who wants to be put in his place”—although giving him what he so obviously wanted was a nice bonus—but because he had stopped talking. All Howard did was talk, talk, talk, running his mouth at the faceoff circle with his mouthguard dangling out of the corner of his lips, emphasizing how red and puffy they were.

With his cock deep inside Howard, Damir paused again. “Are you sorry now?”

Howard took great heaving breaths as though the mere presence of Damir’s cock in his hole was enough to render him unable to pull enough air into his lungs.

Damir was a big man with a proportional dick, but not so much that he’d call it medically unusual. Howard’s carrying on gratified him. Not as much as a proper apology would have, which Damir had expected when Howard turned up outside of his hotel room, but close enough.

He circled his hips, grinding in deep. “Well, are you?”

Howard drew in a breath and said, “Nuh-uh. ’S true, isn’t it?”

He was ridiculous. He was pathetic, whimpering on Damir’s cock like an animal in heat. A far cry from the overconfident asshole who’d skated up to the faceoff circle and told Damir he was sure the women of Chicago were thankful Damir kept his mouth off them.

Howard had been making a reference to a very stupid online interaction Damir’d had with a teammate last week. Ketchup had posted a drunk selfie on Instagram and captioned it with something about looking for girls who wanted their “marpet cunched.” He’d shown it to Damir, sniggering. Damir had responded with “what is ‘marpet cunched?’ u are so drunk bro.” Since then, he’d learned Ketchup had chosen a childish slang term for oral sex. In Damir’s estimation, the linguistic choice made begging women for sex on the internet that much more embarrassing, but sadly, the internet disagreed.

Damir had also learned to stop posting things on the internet.

It wasn’t his fault he wasn’t a native English speaker, nor was it his fault Ketchup had used the most juvenile term for cunnilingus he could. Damir spoke English fairly fluently—especially in comparison to other Russian players who stayed in Russia until they became eligible for the NHL draft—since he’d done Major Juniors in the States. But even years of experience could not prepare him for “marpet cunched.”

Of course, every idiot hockey fan on the internet took this as evidence that Damir was a selfish lover. He deleted the comment the next morning, and Ketchup deleted the post inciting it when he emerged from his hangover stupor six hours later, but the damage had been done.

Looking at Kilian Howard—rookie third-line center and unstoppable pest for the San Francisco Sea Lions—spread out underneath him and begging for his cock, Damir was pleased to prove the allegations wrong. He thrust in at full force a few times, reveling in the tight heat surrounding him. Howard moaned like it was the best thing he’d ever felt and bucked back into Damir.

Damir clenched his hands tight around Howard’s hips to keep him still. Fuck, it might be the best thing he’d ever felt.

“Oh!” Howard called out. Did he know he was doing it? Or worse, did he want Damir’s entire team to hear him? “Oh, fuck, Denisov—”

Damir stopped again.

A long, high whine left Howard’s throat.

“Were you close?” Damir teased. “Did you want to come? Too bad. You only get to come if you don’t tell lies.”

“’S not a lie,” Howard said mulishly. “You’re not putting your mouth on any girls, are you?”

Damir bit into the back of his neck, hard.

Howard whimpered.

“I think I just put my mouth on a pretty”—he punctuated the word with a single hard thrust—“little girl, didn’t I?”

He expected it to piss Howard off even more, get his whole body to flush as dark red as his hair.

He didn’t expect Howard to go vise-tight, shooting off all over the bedspread without a hand on his cock.

Damir swore.

Howard’s whole body pulsed rhythmically around him.

Damir let himself take what he’d been wanting since he’d first sunk inside of Howard’s incredible body, pushing into the clenching heat harder and faster until he notched in as deep as he could go. When he came, his hips kept rolling. Howard whimpered under him, each new movement making him cringe, but he could take it. Damir was too wrapped up in the pleasure to stop. Every thrust sent sparks down his spine and through his balls, and he shot so hard he was afraid the condom might burst with it.

When he pulled out afterward, Howard collapsed in a heap on the bed.

Rude.

“So,” Damir said, striving for a pleasant tone. He winced as he got off his knees and to his feet. A long fuck after a full game of hockey was a lot for the joints, even at the ripe old age of twenty-five. “Are you going to apologize?”

The lump on top of the bed groaned.

Damir went to the bathroom and splashed some cold water on his face. He used one of the hotel hand towels to wash the sweat from under his arms and his groin. After some consideration, he dipped the other towel under water as well and took it out with him.

Howard remained exactly where Damir had left him, face down on the good side of the bed. Had he passed out?

Damir poked him in the side.

Howard rolled over with a groan.

When he saw the wet towel, he grabbed for it, then wiped at the sticky, already-drying trails of come covering his belly.

There went Damir’s plan to dab the worst of the mess off the sheets. He added a zero to the tip he’d planned on leaving for housekeeping.

“Thanks,” Howard muttered, dropping the towel by the side of the bed.

“So you do have manners.” Damir picked the towel up pointedly and tossed it in the direction of the bathroom.

“Whatever,” Howard said. “You enjoyed that.”

Damir would have to be blind, deaf, and also dead not to enjoy fucking someone as responsive and (apparently) kinky as Howard. “Nonetheless, you owe me an apology.”

Howard rolled his eyes like the teenager he was, which made Damir feel less good about the sex they’d just had. He might be of legal age, but nineteen was quite young.

“Sorry I called you out on a stupid Insta post, man,” Howard said, finally, “but you’re the one who punched me.”

A bruise had formed right over one of Howard’s high, delicate cheekbones, still red but likely to turn dark and ugly soon. It matched the fingerprint-shaped smudges at his hips. A part of Damir he wasn’t proud of salivated at the sight of his marks on Howard’s skin.

He took a breath to steady himself. “I apologize. The way you said it was…worrying.”

Howard’s exact words on the ice, right before Damir lost the faceoff and punched him, were, “The women of Chicago can count themselves lucky you’re not into their pussies.” Vulgar enough for standard hockey chirping, but it also sounded as if Howard knew something.

Howard snorted. “Yeah, I didn’t realize how you would take it until I had your fist in my face. Maybe play it cooler next time.”

“I sincerely hope,” Damir said through gritted teeth, “there will not be a next time.” A moment later, the full impact of Howard’s words caught up with him. “Wait, you mean you turned up here because my reaction to your terrible chirp made you think I might be open to—”

“Fucking me blind? Yeah, pretty much.”

“That was incredibly risky.” Damir could have been like most other hockey players, in which case he would have probably punched Howard in a few other unsavory places.

“Paid off, didn’t it?” Howard made for the edge of the bed, wincing a little.

A tiny part of Damir felt bad for going so hard on him. A much larger part purred with pride.

“I could use a drink,” Howard said. He blinked up at Damir with big, blue eyes, clearly ready to move past the unbelievable hubris of chirping a man about a dumb cunnilingus-related Instagram comment, getting punched in response, and then turning up at the same man’s hotel room begging to get fucked on the off-chance he was interested in other men. How had he gotten Damir’s room number in the first place?

He crossed his arms. “I don’t drink.”

Howard rolled his eyes and began pulling on his clothes. “One of those guys, huh? Bet you eat nothing but boiled chicken and steamed broccoli during the season too?”

Damir’s nose wrinkled involuntarily. He’d tried one of the meal plan services his rookie year, thinking it would save him some time and effort cooking, only to learn that Americans thought “healthy” meant “overcooked and devoid of spices.”

“I’m Muslim,” he said. It wasn’t the primary reason he didn’t drink, but it was the easiest to explain.

Howard examined him blankly. “I thought you were Russian.”

“You are Canadian and annoying. People can be two things.”

Howard’s face fell. “Okay, jeez, I get it.” He headed toward the door. “I had fun. See you around?”

He slipped out, closing the door behind him with a decisive click, and Damir didn’t feel guilty for being so harsh.

He didn’t.

Howard would be fine.

Damir sat on the bed, shuddering at the state of the sheets. He lifted them gingerly and slipped in on the clean side. Then he lay on his side and turned off the bedside lamp.

His water bottle was still on the table.

He got to his feet again and walked across the dark room to drink a few sips, and since he’d already gotten up, he might as well check.

The well-lit corridor blinded him momentarily as he stepped from the darkness of his room. Once he’d gotten his bearings, Damir found the hallway empty.

Of course it was.

Howard would be fine.

Damir turned on his heel, went back to bed, and banished all thoughts of the Sea Lions’ rookie from his mind.

He rolled over, reached for his phone, and input Howard’s name into the search bar before he had even made the decision to look him up. Damir flicked past article after article about his stats and his on-ice presence, not finding what he was looking for until he followed the link to Howard’s Instagram profile.

The first picture showed him slouched on a couch beside the Sea Lions’ massive defenseman Chris Calabrese, grinning with a video game controller in hand.

He would be fine. He didn’t need Damir to take care of him.

Not that Damir could if he wanted to.

Which he didn’t.

Howard would be fine.

Purchase

NineStar Press | Books2Read

Meet the Author

S. B. Barnes attended college in the Hudson Valley, studying English Language and Literature and Anthropology (although unlike her characters, her time there was not interrupted by crime-solving). She grew up split between the USA and Germany, attending university in both countries before eventually settling in Germany. Today, she works as a teacher and lives with her husband and two cats in an apartment with too little shelf space. Fiction has always been one of her greatest loves, as a reader, as a teacher, and as a writer. While S.B. has been writing for most of her life, this is her first foray into publishing her work.

X | Instagram | Tumblr

 

Blog Button 2

Sep 11

New Release Blitz & Excerpt: Salva Me by Autumn Montague

Title: Salva Me

Author: Autumn Montague

Cover Art: Bryan Keller

Genres: Action Adventure, Mystery /Suspense /Intrigue, New Releases, Paranormal, Romance

Themes: Capture Fantasy, Dark Romance, Historical (Dark Ages, Regency, Victorian/Gaslamp & Edwardian), LGBTQ+ Gay, Vampires

Series: Blood Sworn (#1)

Book Length: Novel

Page Count: 196

Add to Goodreads

Synopsis

England, 1816. A nosferatu, a rogue vampire, hunts unchecked through Sussex. Jeremy Takeshi Colbourne is honor-bound by ancestral duty to find and destroy such madmen. Foremost among the vampires of England, he must find a way to ensure the safety of the English citizens and the vampires that live among them.

Then Jeremy and his blood-host Morgan Holland discover a brutally savaged girl. With this latest victim of the nosferatu, Jeremy realizes the time has come to make Morgan aware of the Colbourne responsibilities. But the situation could not have come at a worse time.

For years, Morgan has served as Jeremy’s blood-host. Though Morgan adheres faithfully to his Contracted terms, he refuses to surrender to the sexual seduction that completes each feeding. He yields neither his body nor his heart, though Jeremy yearns for both.

As the nosferatu’s atrocities grow, Jeremy must ask everything of Morgan to gain the strength needed to fight the ravening monster. Will Morgan relent and give up body and heart to help Jeremy defeat their enemy, or will the battle destroy them both?

Excerpt

Salva Me (Blood Sworn 1)
Autumn Montague
All rights reserved.
Copyright ©2026 Autumn Montague

Jeremy cursed at the knock on the oaken door of his study. Morgan had attempted to corner him several times today. Pure cowardice had driven Jeremy to take refuge here, a place his loyal Host rarely intruded on, since it held the Buddhist shrine housing his mother’s mortuary tablet. He glanced at the portrait standing behind the black stone, wishing for a bit of Keiko Yamakawa’s legendary strength.

Evading Morgan had taken a toll on Jeremy. The Contracted day for his feeding had come and gone. Today marked two full weeks since Morgan had wrenched himself from Jeremy’s grasp, nearly bleeding to death before Jeremy could administer the requisite clotting agent. The sight of Morgan’s injuries had seared itself into Jeremy’s mind, rendering him unwilling to risk another such incident.

It almost made him wish to return to Japan, despite the difficulties involved. Obtaining the necessary dispensation from the Tokugawa Shogunate had been hard enough when he left. Lord Matsumae had done what he could, but it had taken his mother’s personal attendance on Emperor Kōkaku and an appropriate gift to Tokugawa Ikeharu to get it done. Going back would be far worse, despite his home’s exemption from the Sakoku Edict. Even so, he was tempted. If only to avoid what he now faced.

The knock came again, harder than before, followed immediately by the entrance of Morgan Holland. “Excuse me, Lord Colbourne. While I am always loath to disturb you in your sanctum, you cannot avoid me forever.” Exasperation filled Morgan’s voice, underscored by heavy concern.

Jeremy risked a glance at his Host, unwilling to see but drawn nonetheless. The wounds on Morgan’s neck had healed; his skin flushed a healthy hue. Unlike usual feedings, the last one had left two ragged scars, visible reminders of Jeremy’s lack of control. Even now, the remnants of Morgan’s refusal echoed in his mind, invading his dreams.

“I am not convinced you are well enough to support a feeding, Holland,” he hedged, though his Host showed no lingering signs of ill effects. “Your wounds have barely healed.”

Morgan sighed. “I understand your reluctance after the debacle last time, but you cannot risk your health or your sanity by some idiotic attempt at endurance. I am prepared to meet my Contracted terms without qualms.”

“So you say. Nonetheless, your refusal made quite an impression. I’d prefer not to endure that again so soon.”

Morgan’s cheeks heated with angry embarrassment. “Then break Contract, my lord, and find someone more willing to accommodate all of your needs. Or go back to Japan.”

The slap of the words felt like a further refusal. Jeremy straightened in his chair, denying the spike of pain, determined to retain his rationality. Fear was anathema to the Barons of Colbourne and to the Yamakawa family. Being afraid to feed on his Contracted Host shamed both houses. He stood, feeling the weakness of flesh from self-deprivation.

“After twelve years? I’d rather not, thank you. You’re all I need. Or want.” Jeremy considered the irony of his irrational thoughts mere moments before. “It is far harder to return than to leave,” he added. “While my home in Matsumae is exempt from the Sakoku Edict, only my status as a noble Chi no Kami allowed me to leave in the first place. I have no wish to reverse the process any time soon.”

Morgan considered for a moment and then gave him the ghost of a smile. “Then please stop delaying the inevitable. Despite what happened before, I refuse to watch you kill yourself, however noble your ancestors may have found the practice. It would render all my efforts worthless.”

“Such things are not reserved for my ancestors,” Jeremy growled. “If I chose seppuku, who would be my second? You’d still have to watch me die.”

“At least it would not be this slow death you’re attempting now.”

Trust Morgan to know him well enough to hit so close to the truth of the matter. Jeremy allowed silence to reign for a moment and then gave a grudging chuckle. “No quarter, I see. You win, Holland. Give me two hours, and I’ll meet you in the sanguis cubiculum.”

Two hours would give Jeremy sufficient time to contact William Carter. After this long, the sexual urges would be difficult to suppress, but he could not afford another mistake like the last time.

Morgan nodded to him. “Two hours, then, Lord Colbourne. I will be ready.”

Purchase at Changeling Press

Meet the Author

Autumn grew up loving history, mythology, and all things Japanese, not necessarily in that order. This eclectic love affair has bled over into her writing, and her stories are always well spiced with the taste of Japan, strange mythological beasties, or the lords and ladies of the ton. Sometimes all three, leading to dark desires and forbidden loves.

And after all, dangerous passions should lead to uninhibited love.

Website | Facebook | X | Blog

Blog Button 2

Sep 08

New Release Blitz: At the Border of Destiny by C. Quince

Title: At the Border of Destiny

Author: C. Quince

Publisher:  NineStar Press

Release Date: 09/08/2026

Heat Level: 2 – Fade to Black Sex

Pairing: Male/Male

Length: 360

Genre: Historical Fantasy, Heroic Fantasy, Sword & Sorcery, Folk Horror, Low Fantasy, Folklore, Epic Battles, non-explicit romance, fifteenth century, medieval England, magic, witchcraft, ghosts, royalty, Christians, Pagans, knights, interracial/intercultural, political intrigue, uprising, HEA

Add to Goodreads

Description

Murad is an Imperial Messenger, and he has a secret… He’s a witch.

On a visit to the foreign court of Mercia in Britain, he has a vision of the crown prince, Aaron, in serious trouble.

In his desire to save Aaron’s life, Murad becomes entangled in Mercia’s political strife, border disputes, and rising Paganism.

At the heart of the conspiracy, Murad encounters a powerful blood witch who has plans to sow division in the land.

Her magic is too strong for Murad on his own, so he seeks out new allies in two very different witches: a green witch, and a Viking seer.

As lines are drawn in the sand, both at court and on the battlefield, Murad stands with Aaron, bolstered by their allies. Together, they can unite Mercia for good.

Excerpt

At the Border of Destiny
C. Quince © 2026
All Rights Reserved

Late February — London, the Kingdom of Wessex

The busy port of London straddled the River Thames on the border between two kingdoms, Wessex and Mercia. Trading vessels of all shapes and sizes sailed in from the North Sea entrance on the eastern side and unloaded their goods onto the crowded docks: salt from East Anglia, wool from northern Mercia, more wool from the southern kingdom of Wessex, fine cloth, metalwork and glassware, and fresh and dried produce from the continent. Apples all year round.

Sailors and dock workers sang as they unloaded the ships:

“Heave-ho! Heave to!

“Ship to shore, here we go!

“I got a piece o’ silver in my pocket and a barrel o’ ale on my docket!”

The men called back and forth in unison as they swung heavy crates down in rope nets, rolled the barrels, or carried the smaller boxes. Some of these goods would be distributed in London’s markets, and some would be loaded onto larger vessels for trade elsewhere.

Murad had come in on a Venetian ship with plenty of extra room on board because trade with Britain had been strictly limited. He and his party disembarked and split off at the docks. They each had their tasks to complete before they could regroup and leave London.

Murad’s task was coin exchange.

He made his way toward the bustling town, past the pungent fish market and the waterfront stores with merchants calling out loud enough to startle him more than once. He dodged past a herd of huge oxen on their way to the livestock market, using his small size to nimbly slip through the crowds in good time.

Everywhere around him, traders and merchants called out short rhymes and dirty limericks at ear-splitting volume to catch the attention of passers-by. Murad ignored the noise and distractions as best he could, focused on his destination.

When he arrived at the coin exchange house, there was a queue to get in. Not unusual for this time of day, but armed guards stood at the door. More than Murad had counted on his last visit to London.

That didn’t bode well.

He caught his breath from his dash across town as he waited, trying not to make eye contact with anyone else in the queue.

People glanced at him, but locals were used to seeing all kinds of people come through their port. Their stares weren’t more than a passing interest.

The guards sized him up. Murad watched them quietly confer amongst themselves for a moment, but when it came to his turn, they didn’t stop him from entering, nor search him for the weapons hidden under his patchwork cloak.

Murad entered the dingy, damp-smelling foyer of the coin exchange.

“Next!” called the clerk, a stout, pale man with a greying beard. He sat behind a small, barred window, safe within the reinforced cell. Candles burned near him for light within the gloom.

Murad stepped up to the window, producing two pouches from his belt. “Local coin for Wessex, the other for Mercia,” he said, sliding both under the narrow gap.

The man quickly scooped up the pouches, tipping out the contents one by one to weigh them on his scales. The contents were gold talents, bearing the official treasury mark of the United Empires. While relations between the kingdoms of Britain and the United Empires were somewhat prickly, gold was welcomed warmly in any kingdom.

The talents were accepted, and the man barked out currency orders to more clerks hidden from Murad’s line of sight.

“Collect them over there,” he told Murad, gesturing to the side wall.

Murad knew that already, but he merely nodded.

“’Ere,” the man said, leaning closer to the bars to stare at Murad. “You one of them messengers?” Before Murad could answer, the man continued, “When are they gonna reopen trade routes? There ain’t been any nutmeg on the market for months, and the price of a pinch of pepper these days is through the bleedin’ roof!”

Murad didn’t have an answer for him. Trade sanctions were for rulers and councils to agree upon, not him.

“I am only a messenger,” he answered.

“Coins for Wessex and Mercia!” came a muffled shout, followed by the plink of couch purses landing in the chute.

Murad had to collect his coins and leave to let the next customer in.

On his way back, he got distracted by two young children in threadbare clothes trying to steal a fish from a market stall. They weren’t very good at it.

He paused to assess the scene, eyes going to the fishmonger who was currently occupied with another customer.

If those children hurried, they could take a fish. Murad was silently rooting for them, but the children had a mishap. The little boy who was giving the little girl a leg up slipped, and they both fell over in the dirt with a wet fish landing on top of them.

The fishmonger noticed.

“Oi!” he shouted, barrelling over to them. “You thieving li’l beggars!”

Murad swiftly stepped in. “I will pay,” he said firmly, producing a silver coin of Mercia. “How many fish does this buy?”

The fishmonger eyed the coin. “You can ’ave four big or six small for that.”

Murad glanced down at the children, who were staring back at him in surprise. They were small themselves.

“Small,” he said, handing over the coin.

When the exchange was done, the two children grinned at Murad before hurtling off, cradling their wrapped fish tightly in thin arms.

Murad watched until they disappeared into the crowd, wondering who they were running home to, or if they even had a home.

They reminded him of himself at that age.

The fishmonger shook his head at Murad. “You’re a fool, you know. Those beggars are here every morning, trying to steal.”

Murad couldn’t help a smile. “How does the saying go?” he replied. “Foolishness is a lesser evil.”

This at least got a laugh out of the man.

Then Murad was on his way. Time to meet his fellows, procure horses, and draw lots for which kingdom to enter.

They had important messages to deliver.

He found Kai first, spotting his brightly coloured uniform of red and blue silk robes, the same uniform Murad wore under his cloak. Kai was huddled in a private conversation with a London local Murad recognised: Yorgos the Greek. The man those in the know went to if they needed anything from the infamous black market.

It seemed Murad had happened upon Kai during a clandestine transaction, as the two large men exchanged small pouches in practised sleight of hand movements. Kai’s spices for Yorgos’s unmarked silver was Murad’s guess.

Yorgos left with a grin, and when Kai turned around, he was also grinning…until he noticed Murad and realised he was caught red-handed.

Murad raised his eyebrows minutely to let Kai know that he had not been so slick.

Kai responded by raising his finger to his lips, a gesture Murad had seen him do often whenever he was caught doing something he shouldn’t have been.

Murad fought a smile. He wouldn’t tell on Kai; the older man was his dear friend, his mentor. But if Kai started lecturing him about side trades in the future, Murad now had ammunition to hit back with.

“Did you collect the currency?” Kai asked.

Murad nodded. And, because he couldn’t help himself, he added, “Collected some of your own, I see.”

Kai patted his belt where no doubt the silver had gone. He chortled, and his long, thin black moustache swayed with the movement. “The price of basic seasoning is very high. What a fortunate time to come!”

“Yes, they already complained about that in the exchange,” Murad told him. “Asking when sanctions will be lifted.”

“Well, just tell them it’s nothing to do with us,” Kai replied. “After all, we’re only the messengers.”

Purchase

NineStar Press | Books2Read

Meet the Author

Quince is a MENA-British author who lives in England, enjoys sci-fi and fantasy, history, and Halloween.

Website | Facebook | Instagram | Threads

 

Blog Button 2

Sep 04

New Release Blitz & Excerpt: Sunshine Boy by Nicky Silber

 

Title: Sunshine Boy

Author: Nicky Silber

Cover Art: Nicky Silber

Genres: Action Adventure, Mystery /Suspense /Intrigue, New Releases, Romance, Romantic Comedy

Themes: 20th Century, Dark Romance, LGBTQ+ Bisexual /Nonbinary /Transgender, LGBTQ+ Gay, Multicultural & Interracial, Rock Star Romance

Series: Electric Blue (#2)

Multiverse: Punks of London (#1)

Book Length: Novel

Page Count: 187

Description

What if they’re not just friends? It could be murder!

After Julian’s sister sets him up with a charming Frenchman, Rahul thinks he may be getting over Julian, especially since Julian is back with his ex, Michael. Their band is finally taking off and the future seems bright. Then Julian hints he may return Rahul’s feelings.  But what might happen if they become more than friends?

WARNING: Violence, Drinking/Substance use, Mentions of murder, Trauma/PTSD.

Excerpt

Sunshine Boy (Electric Blue 2)
Nicky Silber
All rights reserved.
Copyright ©2026 Nicky Silber

Julian’s flat was a disaster, but Mel couldn’t be sure if it was on account of Julian tearing the place apart in a fit of pique or if it was always like this. Based on what his room had been like when she and her big brother had lived at home, she didn’t really doubt this was just the way he lived.

Mel hadn’t been here since the day Julian had moved in three years ago. She saw enough of her brother at the place where they worked, the place where they drank, and the place where they performed. She hardly needed to come round his place to get even more time with the manic muppet.

Julian even did devastation manic. He was pacing around the living room, pulling at his hair, talking a mile a minute. Mel could hardly keep up with what he was saying, if he was saying anything at all and not just babbling incoherently.

“… just a jazzy giraffe freak clomping around my life with his big stupid hooves and not even looking for oncoming traffic or anything… wouldn’t even slow down at a zebra crossing, even if there was kids in it, or like countryside sheep or whatever… just plow right through ‘em — WHAM — ‘sorry, missus, was this your daughter sheep? Too bad, I’m after Julian, can’t slow down or I’ll lose him!’ Honestly, it’s like he isn’t…”

Mel grabbed a handful of Julian’s fake leather jacket as he came past and yanked him down onto the sofa beside her. He looked startled and disorientated, like a somnambulist being unceremoniously awoken. He blinked at Mel as though only just now noticing her.

“You’ll give yourself an aneurysm going on like that,” Mel said coolly, lighting up a cigarette.

Her words were the scissors that cut the strings of Julian’s loosely gathered sanity. He crumpled in on himself, burying his face in his hands. For one horrified moment, Mel thought he might be crying. But he just groaned, a long pitiful noise like that of a wounded animal.

“It’s all gone tits up, hasn’t it?” he mumbled into his palms.

It had in fact, in Mel’s opinion, gone tits up. Julian’s best friend, Rahul — the “jazzy giraffe freak” — had told Julian’s creepy blond boyfriend, Michael, that Rahul and Julian had slept together. Michael had ended things with Julian. Julian had clobbered Rahul (a very un-Julian-like thing to do). Rahul then confessed his undying love for Julian and Julian had… run off. Cowardly little prick.

Rahul wasn’t just Julian’s best friend, he was also the most musically talented member of their band — a band Mel played bass in, mind. Without him, the band would dissolve into nothing and Julian would be left rudderless. He lived for their shite band. Hell, he lived for Rahul. The two of them needed each other like foxes needed bins. This melodramatic love-triangle nonsense was going to make all of their lives positively implode. Well, maybe not Mel’s life. She owned a record shop and she’d be fine. And maybe not Kwambe’s life either. He was too cool to be affected by anything. But definitely Julian and Rahul’s lives, and Mel had sworn, years ago when her and Julian’s mum had started drinking, that she would look out for her empty-headed brother and keep him safe. She’d been fixing his life ever since. She’d be damned if she wasn’t going to fix it this time.

“It ain’t so bad,” Mel told Julian. She nudged him until he peeked out between the fingers he held over his eyes. She extended a cigarette to him. He took it and let her light it for him. It was the most affectionate gesture she’d offered him in quite some time. “One of you could be dead. That’d really be something to cry about.”

He threw her a withering glare with his red-rimmed eyes.

“So, you shagging that Michael bloke, then?”

Julian choked slightly on the smoke in his throat. He’d never told her, in so many words, that he was dating Michael. Michael had just shown up one day, hanging around Julian, while Julian stared at him with the eyes of a boy looking at a bloody Christmas tree. Julian had also never told her he was a bit bent either, but Mel had worked that out on her own, too.

Julian fidgeted with the cigarette butt in his fingers. It was odd to see him… if not embarrassed, then apprehensive. He usually did things like he couldn’t give a shit what others thought, though Mel knew that was a load of horse shite. He acted like he didn’t care, but no one cared more what other people thought than Julian Collier. He’d been caring since they were kids, only he’d gotten better at pretending. The thing is, when you want people to think you’re really cool, you have to get them to think you don’t care what they think. Julian was also obsessed with people thinking he was a little daft. That much was lucky, because, as far as Mel was concerned, he was a little daft.

He nervously pushed his fringe off his forehead only for it to flop back down at an uneven angle. “Yeah. Or, well, I was.”

“He chucked you ‘cause you and Rahul shagged?”

“That sounds like we did it yesterday,” Julian whinged. “It was ages and ages ago. Back at uni. And we were both drunk as you like. It didn’t even count, if you ask me.” Despite himself, he was going quite red around the ears and getting splotchy red patches high on his cheeks. “I’d forgotten all about it. I can’t even believe Rahul remembered. And that he told Michael. Imagine that!”

It was all coming together now. She remembered the trip Julian had taken up North to visit Rahul, only to come back one day early, all jumpy and not wanting to talk about it. Afterward, he’d not seen Rahul for years. Then, when Rahul came back, they were all distant and weird around each other. They’d had a drunken fumble together, of course. For one of them it was just an awkward night that had compromised a friendship. For the other…

“He also told you that he loves you,” Mel reminded him around her cigarette butt.

Julian folded his arms and hunched his shoulders in that way he did when he was stopping himself from covering his ears like he would’ve as a little kid. “Whatever. He’s confused. I dunno. He can’t love me. That’s just mental. He’s my best mate — he was my best mate. He just thinks he’s in love with me ‘cause he loves me, you know, like friends or whatever. And anyway, that’s the other reason Michael dumped me, you know? He could see Rahul’s all obsessed with me and he didn’t want to get himself in the middle of whatever it is we’ve got going on. He didn’t want to end up like Aisling did. Having rows all the time ‘cause Rahul’s put himself between us.”

Hearing the name of Julian’s ex-girlfriend gave Mel pause. “Were you shagging him when you were still with Aisling?”

Julian dropped his cigarette. He retrieved it before it could burn a hole in the carpet next to the constellation of cigarette burns already there. “No. ‘Course not,” he said defensively in the way he did when he was lying. “I’d never cheat on her, would I?”

“I don’t know,” Mel said. “Would you?”

“I mean — all right, so I’d started seeing him a bit when we were still together,” Julian immediately capitulated. Mel beamed. So she could still wheedle the truth out of her brother after all. “But we didn’t sleep together or anything. It wasn’t cheating. Not really.” He was imploring as if Mel were the barrister presiding over his case. She was only a curious third party with no stake in the game. So she merely shrugged.

He ran an unhappy hand through his hair, which by now was standing up at all sorts of odd angles. “What am I gonna do?”

“What you’ve gotta do is get your shit together. Both of you. I got a business to run, you know? What am I supposed to do? Sack one of you and hire somebody neither of you ballbags have fucked? And we got a band, or have you forgotten that as well?”

“I thought you hated the band.”

“I do, but I’ve started counting on that extra gig dosh.” It felt good to pay for her grass with money that didn’t come directly from her dead nan’s business. “And you love the damned thing. Are you gonna find yourself a replacement keyboardist slash guitarist who shares your same crazy vision of a dystopian soundscape? Think it’s easy to find one of them? You gonna put an ad out in The Sun?”

“Why don’t you ask Rahul?” Julian cried. “He’s the one who’s gone and cocked everything up! It’s his fault for having feelings — or thinking he’s got feelings. If he weren’t obsessed with me, he’d have never sabotaged my relationship. If he were following somebody else around like a bleeding puppy, then maybe me and Michael would still be together.”

“That’s it,” Mel said, snapping her fingers in the air.

“What is?” Julian asked dubiously.

“We need to set Rahul up with somebody. Get him to fall in love with somebody else. That way Michael won’t have anything to worry about and the two of you can make up. Then you and Rahul can get back to being mates, and Bob’s your uncle — everything back to normal.”

Julian’s dubiosity had not dissipated. “You reckon? I dunno.” He made a face somewhere between a sneer and a wince that made it look like he was about to sneeze. “He’s been building his feelings up for me for years, said so himself. I don’t think we can come in with some, erm…”

“Bloke. He is gay, you know.”

“Right — some bloke — and think he’ll be all gone on him in two shakes and forget all about me. He thinks he loves me, you know? That’s massive, that is. When someone’s got gangrene, you don’t come in with a plaster and think that’s gonna make it all better.”

“Trust me. I know what I’m doing. You leave it all up to me. I’ll sort it. I always do.” And even though she was wearing her best smug expression, he still had the gall to look less than convinced.

Purchase at Changeling Press

Meet the Author

As a queer, nonbinary, person of color, Nicky Silber has made it their mission to bring diversity into all of their creative outlets. Born in New York, raised in Mexico, they studied fine art in San Francisco and have worked in the video game industry since 2012. They currently live in the wilds of North Carolina with their young son and too many pets. Their only two goals in life are to continue to tell queer love stories and, to a lesser extent, finally knit their own sweater.

Website | Instagram | Threads | TikTok

 

Blog Button 2

Sep 01

New Release Blitz: To Save a Scoundrel’s Soul by Fearne Hill

Title: To Save a Scoundrel’s Soul

Series: Regency Rossingley, Book Four

Author: Fearne Hill

Publisher:  NineStar Press

Release Date: 09/01/2026

Heat Level: 3 – Some Sex

Pairing: Male/Male

Length: 308

Genre: Historical, historical romance/British Regency, gay, tall-dark-and-sexy Frenchman, thief, caper, murder mystery, family heirloom, family drama, courtroom drama, gentleman’s club, ballrooms, blackmail, the Ashington Eight (think Ocean’s Eleven), humorous

Add to Goodreads

Description

London 1825. When a young American heiress arrives at a Society ball draped in long-lost sapphires and diamonds belonging to the late Duchess of Ashington, jaws drop and tempers rise.

Thirty years earlier, those jewels vanished after a deadly shooting party. Now, they’ve resurfaced around the neck of the odious Marquess of Talybridge’s beautiful betrothed.

The current Duke of Ashington wants them back where they belong, and his close friends are only too happy to plot a daring heist on his behalf. But he’s not the only man with his eyes on the prize. A mysterious French viscount, new to London and shrouded in scandal, wants them too.

Enter Mickey Maurice, gambling hell owner Tommy Squire’s right-hand man. Loyal and discreet, Mickey glides through Society largely unobserved. Under the duke’s instruction, he’s tasked with seducing the truth out of the foreigner.

But when secrets, schemes, and seductions collide, the real thief might just be a matter of the heart. And for young Mickey, love might be the riskiest heist of all.

This fourth book in the Rossingley Regency romance series features friends old and new, a jewel heist, and lashings of falling in love. It can be read as a standalone.

Excerpt

To Save a Scoundrel’s Soul
Fearne Hill © 2026
All Rights Reserved

London, Winter, 1825

Most of Squire’s well-heeled patrons were unaware of the private room tucked away from the clamour of the main floor. The air held a comforting blend of cologne and aged leather, and a fire smouldered lazily in the hearth, sending shadows dancing across the rich mahogany wall panels. A thick Persian rug, worn smooth by years of use, stretched across the floor.

Only a very select handful of gentlemen were privy to this space. That Tommy Squire, his older cousin and boss, admitted him to this rarefied group was a privilege Mickey Maurice felt he’d waited for half his life. He had no intention of squandering it.

Two wingback armchairs framed the hearth, both boasting tasselled cushions and a whiff of superiority. Tommy’s darkly handsome lover occupied one—Benedict Fitzsimmons, Fourteenth Duke of Ashington. Tommy’s innocent lordling, all grown up.

The eleventh Earl of Rossingley sat opposite, of fairer, slighter frame, yet no less imposing. His own lover, Kit Angel, stood before a window draped in velvet curtains the colour of midnight, looking out onto a rainy St James. He sipped from a brandy balloon, the leaded crystal catching the flickering firelight as if he cradled a cup of glittering diamonds in his palm. On the deep, inviting settee sprawled the duke’s brother, Lord Lyndon Fitzsimmons, a scapegrace whose fearsome reputation was in grave peril if he didn’t stop making doe eyes at the Honourable Rollo Duchamps-Avery, a blond wisp of a young man curled up next to him.

Tommy sauntered to the drinks trolley and poured himself a generous snifter of brandy. Mickey envied him his poise in amongst all these toffs; he wasn’t sure he’d ever be accustomed to it. He hovered close to the door, feeling like an imposter and slightly ill at ease in his evening attire. Though thoroughly accepted into the group since Tommy had spruced him up, taught him some ton manners, and then insisted he mingle with society, Mickey still half expected one of the gentlemen demand he bring them a fresh decanter or call for a carriage.

“We’re unduly popular this evening, given the poor weather,” Tommy remarked to no one in particular. “Have been all week.”

“That’s because all the chaps are blackballing White’s,” piped up Rollo Duchamps-Avery from his cosy seat. Both his lover, Fitzsimmons, and Rollo’s father, Rossingley, regarded him fondly. “Willoughby thinks they should call in the runners to sort out the thefts before things get out of hand.”

Rossingley smiled indulgently. “It sounds as if Willoughby needs a reminder of the first rule of a gentleman’s club.”

“Yes, yes, one doesn’t talk about the doings of a gentlemen’s club,” Rollo chorused. “Which is all rather cloak-and-dagger and everything, Papa, but someone is stealing trinkets worth several hundreds of pounds! This isn’t a spot of card sharping to liven up a dull wintry evening, you know. It’s grand larceny!”

Fitzsimmons nudged him. “And the second rule?”

Rollo gave his lover an adoring, if exasperated look. “Yes, all right, all right. One still doesn’t talk about the doings of a gentlemen’s club.”

“And even more so when the culprit is purported to be a gentleman himself,” Fitzsimmons added, frowning.

“How many thefts have there been now?” This was from his brother—the duke—his deep brown gaze keen.

“The pilfering of Bannister’s pocket watch brings the total up to five,” Kit clarified from over by the window. “Three further items were reported to be taken from ladies’ reticules at Mrs Bowman’s gala dinner.” A small smile crept across his face. “And before anyone says it, no, I wasn’t present on any of the occasions.”

“Yet, no thefts reported here at Squire’s,” Tommy pondered. “If the pilfering at Mrs Bowman’s exonerates White’s household”—he shot Mickey a meaningful look—“then there is only one conclusion to draw.”

“A gentleman thief is at large,” agreed Fitzsimmons on behalf of them all.

“Yes. And, so far, he’s keeping his mitts to himself when he visits here,” said Tommy. “Unless, of course, he’s not a member.”

“If they had their wits,” Ashington commented, “White’s would ask for a gander at your members list to see if any newcomers have recently joined their establishment, but not Squire’s.”

He smiled faintly; he knew his lover well. Mickey guessed how Tommy would respond to a request like that too. A members list such as Tommy’s falling into the wrong grubby paws could turn the tide of empires. Far more than an inventory of gentlemen’s names and subscriptions, if there were a mote of dirt, gossip, or murk to be found, then it would be recorded on the list and locked up tight in Tommy’s office upstairs.

“Which I’d decline to produce.” Tommy nodded thoughtfully. “Though snooping at theirs would be interesting, just in case the bounder tries his luck here.”

“I…um…may have already looked into it,” Mickey offered, and his neck heated. He tended to stay quiet unless addressed directly, a habit Tommy patiently tried to eradicate. Along with Sidney—Tommy’s muscle—Mickey had spent most of the morning bribing, cajoling, intimidating, and charming one of White’s less loyal and far too naïve secretaries.

As all heads turned in his direction, Mickey flushed even harder. Even Rossingley, who so far had stayed quiet, seemed impressed. Tommy, on the other hand, tensed.

“Tell me you came to no harm, that no one threatened you.”

Mickey rolled his eyes. Anticipating Tommy’s needs was literally his job. “Sidney accompanied me. The poor fellow we spoke to is probably still cowering in a darkened room somewhere.”

“That’s my boy,” praised Tommy. “Out with it, then.”

Mickey gritted his teeth. He wasn’t Tommy’s boy any longer; he was one and twenty! Nonetheless, he tried not to preen. If lumbering, granite-hewn Sidney was Tommy Squire’s shield, then Mickey Maurice prided himself on being his sword. He was his older cousin’s fixer, his eyes and ears, and Tommy’s most ardent admirer, excepting the duke. Tommy Squire had dragged himself up from the gutter by his bootstraps, then returned five years ago to fetch Mickey. Starting as a lackey, then a footman, he was now Tommy’s right-hand man and, as such, rubbing shoulders with the ton. God knew when he’d get used to it. Or be allowed out and about to do his job without Sidney in tow.

Purchase

NineStar Press | Books2Read

Meet the Author

Fearne Hill is a British writer of queer romance and the winner of the 2025 Lambda Literary Award for LGBTQ Romance. When she’s not crafting characters who fall hard and kiss slowly, she works as an anaesthesiologist. She lives in the deepest Dorset countryside with her beloved spaniels.

Website | Facebook | X | Instagram

 

Blog Button 2

Load more