Para Schooled Teaser

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LGBTQ+ Shifter Romance

Date Published: March 27, 2026

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In every relationship, there’s always a choice. Choosing wrong may
cost these heroes everything.

 

 

Werewolf’s Choice (Para Schooled 1)
Werewolf society has little
tolerance for a lone wolf like Don, a man with a complicated past. It’s
hard for him to learn to trust, yet pack life calls to his wolf nature. When
two basilisks offer a chance at romance, Don refuses to accept anything more
than a physical relationship. Will his stubbornness get him and his new
partners killed?
Dark’s Lover (Para Schooled 2)
When Blagden, a Night
Wanderer-Singer, meets Caleb, he is drawn to the Grand Fae’s struggle to
accept his new life. Caleb’s son is blind and the Grand Fae have cast
out all disabled children. But Blagden has a terrible secret. He inadvertently
steals energy from those he loves. When SearchLight is attacked, Blagden must
choose between the Fae he loves and his resolve never to steal energy again.
Kaito’s Silence (Para Schooled 3)
Kaito has always been attracted
to werewolves of the opposite gender — until he meets his new sign language
tutor, a flamboyant wolf named Stefan. As Kaito struggles with his own
sexuality, Stefan starts to feel like an experiment. Can their love thrive or
will Kaito’s indecision push them apart?
Para Schooled tablet

 

EXCERPT

from Werewolf’s Choice

For Don Sanderson, disabled werewolf, life couldn’t have been
better.

He was three thousand miles from the pushy alpha werewolves of Washington, DC.
He was starting a new job. And life was just great in general. He’d
always wanted to travel and thought he’d never get the chance.

Mostly because of his wheelchair.

But here he was, rolling across the parking lot toward the carefully concealed
entrance to the SearchLight Academy campus in California. It was early March
and the whole of Death Valley was awash in wildflowers. The perfume in the air
was glorious and he’d never felt so glad to be alive.

Well, all right, that was laying it on a bit thick. He recognized his desire,
as a therapist, to be healthy and positive in his daily thoughts. This
wasn’t perfect because Timothy wasn’t with him. Timothy, damn him,
was gone.

Don paused to survey the flowers that crowded right up to the edge of the
parking lot. He smiled. Come May or June, there wouldn’t be any flowers.
The heat baking off the pavement could fry an egg. Or maybe even melt his
tires. But for now, he was content to park outside instead of in the garage.
He’d never thought to see Death Valley and get to celebrate its beauty.

Hell, he’d often thought he’d be under the flowers instead of
surveying them. Werewolf culture had little tolerance for a lone wolf, and yet
they didn’t want him to be part of a pack either. Disabled in more ways
than one, he wasn’t desirable. Yet, they couldn’t just leave him
be because “lone wolves are dangerous, ravenous beasts and separated
from society, they often go insane.”

He’d been raised on that truth, but he wasn’t insane. He had a
pack, of sorts. He had SearchLight. It wasn’t the same, and he knew it.
Being in a wolf pack, surrounded by your kind, was like being given a drink of
water after days of thirst. There was something that called to a wolf’s
soul when it came to pack living. But Don had been nicknamed. His full name
was Donald. Nicknaming was disrespectful, and he’d been ostracized. No
one wanted him.

Well, maybe dead, they wanted him. But only SearchLight could use his talents
as he was now: a therapist capable of helping others heal.

He entered the hidden passage, taking the gentle slope down toward the heart
of SearchLight’s new campus for students of all ages. There had
originally been only one SearchLight campus, in Washington, DC. Now there was
this second campus, in the Mojave Desert, shielded from humans and dangerous
magical creatures alike.

He traveled through the whispering silence and smiled when the almost creepy
stillness was broken by laughter. This place was so new everything practically
squeaked. There weren’t any security officers here, not until June, and
only some of the professors had reported. He was supplemental staff, and
technically he didn’t have to be here until April first, but he’d
been so very glad to get out of DC…

There was housing here, as there wasn’t in the nation’s capital.
Being all underground and far from usual human habitation, it was easier to
have apartments here than in the Panamint Mountains, which were relatively
nearby. Soon, Don would be hiding his car inside because he wouldn’t be
going anywhere. But today was his first day and he’d longed to be
outside with the fifty other cars.

They were hidden from standard human perception by leprechauns magic and other
concealment spells, but right now, the parking lot was simply another place
for anyone to leave their vehicle because the whole national park was open to
visitors. Hiding in plain sight was SearchLight’s favorite trick.

It was still early, barely eight o’clock. He wheeled his way down to the
cafeteria, following the signs, and thinking that he’d love to have
breakfast in his own apartment. Even well-prepared food, when it was
mass-produced, tasted nothing like home cooking.

When he was finally in the cafeteria, he balanced a tray on his lap and rolled
through the line. He was aware of people looking at him but that was okay. His
right leg ended just below his knee. It was normal for people to steal little
glances in his direction. He had two psychic senses even though most LGBTQ
werewolves only had one. He could always tell when he was being watched,
particularly with negative intent, and he was a telekinetic. He could have
rolled along with the tray floating an inch or two off his lap, but why show
off? He drew plenty of attention without that.

Reaching a table that was specially designed to allow a wheelchair to roll
underneath, he smiled. He was one of two wheelchair-bound staff, and there
might be students coming in with similar disabilities. Since Dr.
Sowerby’s decree, two years gone, that all SearchLight Academy buildings
must be ADA compliant, more and more disabled magical creatures had flocked to
the school designed for, and catering to, magical creatures.

“Do you mind if we join you?”

He glanced up as he set his tray on the table. It was a female who had spoken,
a female basilisk, and he rapidly searched through the list of names he kept
in his head. He didn’t know all of the faculty at the SearchLight
Academy back East, but he thought… “Ms. Vaughn?”

She blinked beautiful golden-brown eyes at him. “We’ve never met.
How do you know my name?”

“I’ve had students mention your classes.”

“That’s impossible,” she returned as she and the male
basilisk with her sat down. “I’m not a teacher yet. This fall will
be my first term.”

Confused, he ventured, “Aren’t you the languages expert, Ms. Susan
Vaughn?”

Her companion chuckled. “Now I understand,” he said. “No,
Susan is my sister. I’m Xavier Vaughn and this is my wife,
Cassidy.” He briefly touched a light chain around his neck when he
spoke.

Cassidy Vaughn smiled at her husband. Then she returned her attention to Don.
“And you are?”

He hesitated. Not because he didn’t want to share his name but because
he didn’t know how they would react to his nickname. He’d been
known as “Don, the psychic wolf.” He’d been called deformed,
not just because of his leg but because of his other disability and his status
as a bisexual wolf.

“You’re the therapist, I think,” Xavier said.
“I’ve seen you around the DC campus a couple of times.” He
seemed to want to give Don a little more time because he continued. “I
was filling in for Professor Boyle last fall when he took off time to write a
book.”

“You were teaching parapsychology?” Don frowned slightly.
“I’m sorry — if I should remember you, I don’t.”

Xavier chuckled. “I have a way of fading into the background. It’s
one of my psychic talents.”

Cassidy leaned forward and took a sip of her coffee. “What’s your
name?”

Oh, to hell with it. Damned be all the stereotypes that went with a werewolf
being given a nickname instead of his full born-with identifier.
“I’m Don Sanderson. You’re right, I’m the head
therapist here in Death Valley. I used to work off campus at the Healing House
where attack victims and bullies alike were sent to recover and change their
ways. I’ve only visited the campus twice…” Then he realized
where Xavier might have seen him. “I gave a lecture on bullying behavior
to all the professors and staff last fall.”

“That must be where I saw you.”

Something in Xavier’s reply made Don raise his eyebrows. But the male
basilisk didn’t respond to the questioning look.

Cassidy was toying with a little key on a bracelet. She had a pleased smile on
her face. Don turned his questioning look on her.

“Nothing,” she answered his glance. But she took Xavier’s
hand and smiled at her husband as if they had a secret.

A rush of jealousy rushed through Don in that moment. He wanted so badly to be
looked at in that way, where he held enigmas with a lover. He wished briefly
that these two beautiful people were looking for a third…

About the Author

Emily Carrington is a multipublished author of male/male and transgender
women’s speculative fiction. Seeking a world made of equality, she
created SearchLight to live out her dreams. But even SearchLight has its
problems, and Emily is looking forward to working all of these out with a host
of characters from dragons and genies to psychic vampires. And in the
contemporary world she’s named “Sticks & Stones,” Emily
has vowed to create small towns where prejudice is challenged by a passionate
quest for equality. Find her on Facebook at Shapeshifter Central or on her
website.

Author’s Website

Emily on Facebook

Emily on Twitter

Publisher on Facebook, Instagram, Twitter, and TikTok: @changelingpress

Save 15% off any order at ChangelingPress.com with code RABT15

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You Got This! Blitz

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Honest Lessons on Life, Love, and Leveling Up

 

Personal Development

 

Date Published: March 24, 2026

Publisher: Acorn Publishing

Your twenties and thirties are packed with big decisions, bigger
emotions, and the pressure to somehow have life all figured out. But what if
you didn’t have to learn every lesson the hard way?

In You Got This!, personal and professional development coach Lisa Bartley
shares candid advice and empowering mindset shifts—through sharp
honesty, laugh-out-loud moments, and the kind of wisdom that only comes with
experience. Bartley tackles what no one prepares you for—setting
boundaries, navigating relationships, rebounding from failure, and finding the
courage to go after what you really want.

This is not a guide to becoming perfect. It’s a guide to becoming
powerful on your terms.

If you’ve ever felt stuck or like everyone but you got the memo on
adulthood, this book is your reminder that growth is messy, clarity takes
time, and no, you’re not behind . . . you’re just getting started.


You Got This!
is a must-read for every woman standing at the threshold of the
rest of her life. It’s the permission slip, pep talk, and playbook every
woman needs while figuring it all out.

About the Author
Lisa Bartley

Lisa Bartley is an author and award-winning speaker who helps women break free
from their comfort zones and step into the strongest, truest versions of
themselves.


You Got This!
began as an attempt to record words of wisdom she wishes
she’d heard in her early adult years. Now, in its completion, it stands
as a legacy of lessons written for her daughter and for every young woman
finding her way.

Lisa lives in Southern California where she prefers her hikes coastal, her
wine bold, and her dinner parties unforgettable.

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The Truth Blitz

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A Journey to Discover the Divine Within

Spiritual, Inspirational

Date Published: January 8, 2026

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Where is the true self that we have all been seeking? The Truth not only
answers this question, but explains how to become it and find deep, spiritual
happiness, and love.

From an early age, the author sensed that the world, as it appeared, could not
offer the lasting happiness she sought. This inner knowledge led her on a
lifelong journey of self-inquiry, spiritual awakening, and profound
transformation. Through moments of clarity, struggle, surrender, and divine
connection, she began to uncover a deeper reality—one that exists beyond
thought, identity and the external world.

The Truth goes beyond the outer forms of faith and explores the inner,
spiritual meaning of life, which is universal to all. It gently guides the
reader toward awareness, self-honesty, and inner stillness. Through lived
experience, reflection, and spiritual insight, it explores themes such as
Iove, detachment, suffering, consciousness, prayer, and the rediscovery of the
True Self.

This book is for those who have questioned the nature of happiness, felt a
quiet longing for something more, or sensed that beneath the noise of the
world lies a deeper knowing waiting to be remembered.

About the Author

JABEEN JIWA

 

JABEEN JIWA is a spiritual writer and Transpersonal Integrative
Psychotherapist whose life has been shaped by a deep inner search for truth,
meaning, and awakening. From an early age, she felt drawn beyond the surface
of life toward a deeper understanding of consciousness, love, and the nature
of the self. Her journey unfolded through profound inner experience,
reflection, prayer, and spiritual awareness, leading to a lived understanding
that true peace and fulfilment arise not from the outer world, but from
within.

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Deconstructing America Blitz

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Political Nonfiction

Date Published: January 21, 2026

Publisher ‏: ‎ Seacoast Press

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In recent decades, most of us have witnessed increasing social and
political strife, tearing apart the very fabric of American society. This
polarization stems from decades of shifting ideologies, moving from a
foundational center-right perspective toward the left. Acknowledging the root
causes of this cultural shift and recognizing the depth of the problem is the
first step toward addressing it.

The divide we see today is largely driven by ideas that contradict the
founding principles of the United States. Deconstructing America explores
these forces through a series of interconnected, fact-based narratives,
revealing the key moments and influences that have contributed to America’s
decline.

About the Author
G. H. Spears
After a long career as an entrepreneur working in the cycling and
fitness industry managing, owning, and consulting for numerous retail
establishments, it became natural to study the people, cultures, and social
environments in and around my working life. Once retirement became imminent it
afforded me the time and vigor to completely immerse myself in the social
sciences, including anthropology, sociology, social psychology, and history in
furtherance of understanding and writing about the complex world issues that
humanity faces.

 

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Samson Teaser

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Motorcycle Club Romance, Age Gap, Suspense

Date Published: March 27. 2026

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Some men protect with promises. I protect with possession.

 

Samson: I don’t chase power. I don’t wear rank. I don’t
claim women. Until I find her broken, on the edge of Reckless Kings’
territory — and realize letting her go would sign her death warrant.

Inside the gates, there’s only one way she stays. So I claim her. No
waiting. No soft edges. She sleeps in my house, under my name, with my hand
always close enough to remind the world she’s not unprotected anymore.
The man hunting her thinks I’m just another biker without authority.
He’s about to learn commitment is far more dangerous than rank.

Callie: I ran because men like him don’t hear no. They twist it. Punish
it. Being claimed should feel like another trap — but Samson doesn’t
cage me. He stands in front of me. Believes me. Touches me like I’m
something worth keeping, not something to break.

The danger follows me straight to the compound gates. This time, it meets a
man who doesn’t hesitate… and never lets go of what’s his.
A dark Motorcycle Club Romance where obsession is protection, love is
irrevocable, and justice is served in the most painful way possible.

Perfect for fans of Romantic Crime Thrillers and MC Romance.


WARNING: Adult themes and content including: intense emotional situations,
predatory behavior, motorcycle club — related criminal activity, trauma
recovery and psychological distress may trigger some readers.

Samson paperback

 

EXCERPT

 

Samson

The narrow backroad twisted through Tennessee pines, a black ribbon barely
visible in the late evening darkness. I leaned into the curve, my
Harley’s engine growling beneath me, the vibration familiar against my
thighs. The headlight carved a path through the night, insects dancing in the
beam as I pushed toward the compound. Another mile and I’d be on
Reckless Kings’ territory. My gaze locked on a crumpled shape at the
edge of my light, half-hidden where asphalt met gravel and dirt.

I eased off the throttle, the bike slowing as I approached. My mind ran
through possibilities — discarded trash, dead animal, maybe a dumped duffle
bag. But something about the shape didn’t fit any of those. The
moonlight broke through the trees just enough to catch the paleness of skin
against dark earth.

“Shit,” I muttered, slowing to a crawl.

My boots hit the asphalt as I killed the engine. The night pressed in, but I
left the bike’s running lights on, giving me just enough visibility. My
hand went to my waistband, fingers brushing the grip of my pistol. Fifteen
years with the Kings had taught me caution.

I approached slowly, scanning the tree line for movement. Nothing but night
sounds — crickets, the occasional rustle of nocturnal creatures. The shape
resolved into a woman as I drew closer, curled on her side facing away from
the road. Her clothes — what looked like jeans and a thin jacket — were torn
and filthy.

“Hey,” I called, keeping my voice low but firm. “You
okay?”

She flinched hard, curling tighter, a ragged breath escaping her.

I stopped ten feet away, making myself visible in the dim glow from my bike.
“Not going to hurt you. You need help?”

She rolled slightly, turning just enough to see me. Her face was a mess —
dirt streaked with tears or sweat, hair matted against her forehead, a nasty
cut at her temple with dried blood in a smear down her cheek. But her eyes —
wide with terror — were what caught me. The look of someone hunted.

“Go away,” she rasped.

I stayed where I was, keeping my hands visible. “You’re hurt.
Middle of nowhere. Temperature’s dropping.” I kept my voice
matter-of-fact, neither pushing nor retreating. “I can help or I can
leave. Your call.”

Her breathing came fast and shallow, the rhythm of someone running on pure
adrenaline. I’d seen it before, in Prospects during their first real
violence, in civilians caught in club business. The body burning through its
reserves before the crash came.

And she was close to crashing.

“What’s your name?” I crouched down to appear less
threatening, still maintaining distance.

She didn’t answer, just watched me with those wary eyes. Up close, I
could see the exhaustion etched into her face. Early twenties, maybe, though
hard to tell through the dirt and fear. Her knuckles were scraped raw,
fingernails broken and caked with dirt. She’d fought something or
someone.

I glanced back at the empty road, then to the dense trees. The nearest house
was miles away. Club territory began just around the next bend, but this
stretch was no-man’s-land — the kind of place bodies got dumped. The
kind of place women didn’t end up by accident.

“I’m Samson,” I offered, not using my real name. Nobody
outside the club knew Lyle Harker existed anymore. “I’m heading
home. But I’m not leaving you out here like this.”

Her chapped lips parted as if to speak, then pressed together in pain. The
jacket she wore had ridden up, revealing bruises on her side — fingermarks,
dark against pale skin. Recent, but not fresh. Maybe a day old.

The road remained empty behind me, but something felt off. The birds had gone
quiet. I’d spent enough years riding these backroads to know when
something wasn’t right. The woman must have sensed it too — her gaze
darted past me toward the trees across the road.

“How long you been running?” I asked, voice even lower.

Her gaze snapped back to me, surprise breaking through the fear for just a
second.

“Your shoes.” I nodded toward her feet. The sneakers were shredded
at the edges, the once-white fabric now brown with mud and blood. “Those
have seen some miles.”

She swallowed hard, her throat working painfully. When she spoke, her voice
cracked. “Since last night.”

I spotted the edge of a zip tie mark on her wrist, peeking from beneath her
sleeve. Not from police cuffs — those left a different kind of bruise.
Someone had restrained her, and she’d torn herself free. The skin was
raw, inflamed.

The night seemed to press closer. Despite the warm evening, goose bumps rose
on my arms. Years in the Reckless Kings had honed my instincts. Right now,
they screamed we weren’t alone.

I straightened slowly, scanning the tree line again. Nothing moved, but the
feeling persisted. Whoever had marked this woman up might be watching.
Waiting. The compound was only two minutes away by bike, but even that could
feel like an eternity if someone made their move.

“Can you stand?” I asked, not taking my eyes off the darkness
beyond the road.

She tried to push herself up and failed, collapsing back against the ground
with a soft whimper. Dehydrated, exhausted, probably not eaten in at least a
day. The dried blood on her temple concerned me — head wounds were tricky.
Could be nothing, could be a concussion.

I made my decision. The Kings had rules about bringing outsiders anywhere near
our territory but leaving her here wasn’t an option. Not with those
marks on her. Not with whoever gave them to her potentially closing in.

“Let me help you up.” I stepped closer. “Then we’ll
figure out what comes next.”

Her eyes fixed on the patch on my cut — Reckless Kings in bold stitching. For
a moment, fresh fear washed over her face. I knew what she saw — a
thirty-something biker, broad-shouldered and tattooed, offering help more
dangerous than whatever she was running from.

But then her gaze drifted back to the trees, and she made her choice.

I kept my hands visible, fingers spread, as I edged closer to her. Club life
had taught me how to move without threatening — a skill useful whether
dealing with rival MCs or frightened women on backroads. Her gaze locked onto
my every movement, muscles tensed to flee despite her exhaustion. Behind the
fear in her eyes lurked something sharper — calculation, survival instinct.
Whatever hell she’d escaped from had taught her to think even when
terrified.

“Water?” I asked, I retreated to grab the bottle in my saddlebag.
I unscrewed the cap and held it out, still maintaining distance. “Small
sips. Too much at once will make you sick.”

She stared at the bottle, conflict evident on her face — desperate thirst
warring with ingrained caution. Thirst won. She reached out with trembling
fingers, taking the bottle and bringing it to her cracked lips. Water dribbled
down her chin as she drank greedily, ignoring my advice.

“Easy,” I warned. “Been without long?”

She lowered the bottle, gasping slightly. Half-empty already. “Since
yesterday morning.”

I crouched down to her level, still giving her space. The dried blood at her
temple formed a jagged path down to her jaw. Head wound, but not fresh —
maybe twenty-four hours old. No active bleeding, pupils equal size. Good
signs.

“Mind if I look at your head?” I asked.

She flinched back. “Don’t touch me.”

I nodded, respecting the boundary. “Fair enough. Can you tell me your
name?”

A pause. She took another drink. “Callie.”

“Callie,” I repeated, keeping my voice steady. “You got
somewhere safe to go, Callie?”

Her laugh came out hollow, more air than sound. “Nowhere’s
safe.”

“Someone after you?”

Her gaze darted back to the road. She didn’t answer, but she
didn’t need to. The zip tie marks, the bruises, her terror — they told
enough of the story.

“How bad are you hurt? Besides what I can see.”

She shrugged one shoulder, wincing at the movement. “I’ll
live.”

“That’s a low bar.”

Her eyes met mine, surprising me with a flash of defiance. “Higher than
it was yesterday.”

I found myself respecting her — the spark still burning beneath all the fear
and pain. The Kings valued resilience. This woman had it in spades.

“What happened to your head?” I asked, nodding toward the wound.

She touched it gingerly. “I’m not sure. Not the first time,
though. This one isn’t as bad as the first time I tried to run.”

The casual way she said it raised the hair on my neck, like getting hurt
counted as just another Tuesday. I’d seen that kind of detachment before
in people who normalized violence to survive.

“You need a hospital?” I asked, though I already knew the answer.

She shook her head vehemently. “No. They’ll look there.”

“They?”

Her mouth clamped shut, fear returning to her eyes.

“All right,” I said, backing off. “No hospitals.”

Wind rustled through the trees, carrying the scent of pine and something else
— the metallic tang of coming rain. The temperature had dropped another few
degrees. Callie shivered, her thin jacket providing minimal protection against
the night air.

I glanced at my watch. Nearly midnight. The compound was close but bringing
her there would mean questions. Hard ones.

“Let me see your hands,” I said.

She hesitated, then extended them. She’d need medical care.

“You fight back,” I observed.

A small, grim smile. “Always.”

I respected that too.

“When’s the last time you ate?”

She shrugged again. “Not sure.”

“Can you stand?”

She tried, bracing against the ground. Her legs wobbled, threatening to
collapse. I reached out instinctively, stopping just short of touching her.

“May I?”

She nodded, reluctance clear in every line of her body. I slipped an arm
around her waist, supporting her weight as she found her footing. She felt too
light, bones sharp beneath skin meant to hold more weight. Malnourished, and
not just from two days without food.

“You’re not cops,” she said, nodding toward my cut.
“But you’re something.”

“Something,” I agreed, not elaborating. The less she knew about
the Kings, the better — for her safety as much as ours.

She swayed on her feet, and I tightened my grip slightly to keep her upright.
She flinched at the pressure but didn’t pull away.

“I need to get you somewhere safe,” I said.

“Nowhere’s safe,” she repeated, but with less conviction.

“Safer than here.”

A distant sound pierced the night — an engine, far off but approaching.
Callie’s entire body tensed, her breathing accelerating into near
hyperventilation.

“That them?” I asked.

She nodded, panic overriding caution.

Decision time. I knew taking her to the compound would have consequences. Was
I prepared to face them?

“I’ve got a place,” I said, making my choice. “People
who can help. But you need to trust me, just for tonight.”

“Why would you help me?” she asked, suspicion threading through
the fear. “You don’t know me.”

A fair question. One I’d asked myself.

“Because years ago, I was on the wrong side of some bad men,” I
said simply. “Someone helped me then. Sometimes that’s reason
enough.”

Not the whole truth, but enough of it. The Kings had saved me from a life
heading nowhere fast, given me purpose, family. Some debts you pay forward.

“I don’t have another option, do I?” she asked.

“You always have options,” I said. “Right now, they’re
just all bad ones. I’m offering the least bad one I can.”

She glanced toward the sound of the approaching engine, then back to me.
Weighing unknown dangers against the devil she knew.

 

About the Author

Harley Wylde is an accomplished author known for her captivating MC Romances.
With an unwavering commitment to sensual storytelling, Wylde immerses her
readers in an exciting world of fierce men and irresistible women. Her works
exude passion, danger, and gritty realism, while still managing to end on a
satisfying note each time.

When not crafting her tales, Wylde spends her time brainstorming new
plotlines, indulging in a hot cup of Starbucks, or delving into a good book.
She has a particular affinity for supernatural horror literature and movies.
Visit Wylde’s website to learn more about her works and upcoming events, and
don’t forget to sign up for her newsletter to receive exclusive discounts and
other exciting perks.

Author on Facebook, Instagram, & TikTok: @harleywylde

Publisher on Facebook, Instagram, Twitter, and TikTok: @changelingpress

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