Publisher: Changeling Press
with one of the coolest ideas ever. Bedtime Stories Publishing…
Shelby Morgen — Troll’s Blog: Perfect skin, dusted a light powder blue.
Bright burgundy Mohawk. 6’4”. Dark blue uniform. Big shiny gun.
Yeah. I’m the Troll under the bridge. But if you’re reading my
blog, you know that. That’s why I call it Troll’s Blog. Duh. But I
digress. This story isn’t about me. Not exactly. It’s about my
blog. And Sam. And another one of Sam’s great ideas. You’re gonna
love it. Really.
Lena Austin — Ugly Duckling: Jean-Paul, incubus editor for Bedtime Stories
Press has been assigned a new author. Dominick may be a fantastic author, but
when he gets aroused, the situation gets ugly. Literally. Jean-Paul is sure he
can handle Dom. Maybe…
Anne Kane — Pixie’s Playmates: “While the story had an engaging
quality, I feel that the flavor of the sex was too vanilla for Bedtime Stories
Press.” When Bedtime Stories Press review coordinator Pixie calls the
reviewer into the office she finds out “B.J. Smith” is really two
very drool-worthy males who want to demonstrate their toys. What’s a
pixie to do?
Marteeka Karland — Shut Up! As official kitty of the Bar and Grille for the
Bedtime Stories readers and authors, Callie has the last say in everything she
does and with everyone in her vicinity. Then Troll makes a proclamation that
could very well get someone killed. Anyone who can get the last word in on
Callie gets to have his way with her in bed. It’s a proposition Eli
can’t refuse. Callie’s about to get all the loving from Eli she
can stand. If she can just shut up.
Note: Bedtime Stories in no way represents any actual publishing company. Any
resemblance to the staff and authors of Changeling Press is purely
coincidental.
That’s our story and we’re sticking to it.
Copyright ©2026
I was so wrapped up watching the ’50s vintage Harley coming toward me I didn’t
even notice he wasn’t registering on my screen. As in 1950s. Well over a
hundred years old, and still on the road. That machine was really flying.
Well, no. Not really flying. That’s an old euphemism for moving. Speeding.
God knows what he’d put in the tank. Probably running on moonshine.
Nothing legal’d have it cranking like that. The sound of that motor purring
down the road toward me had my blood heating up. I closed my eyes for a
moment, ready to breathe in the scent of ancient exhaust.
Then it hit me. Sigh. No. Not literally hit me. My brain engaged —
enough to see the century-old motorcycle was not registering on my vid panel.
Nothing. Flying completely under the radar. And he wasn’t slowing down. In
fact, the closer he got, the farther he laid himself out along that tank.
Rider and cycle shot past me in one long black blur that had my mouth watering
— and my hand on my gun. He might be sexy as hell, all black leather
stretched out long and lean over that tank, but nobody — and I mean nobody —
runs the gate on my watch.
Alarms and sirens went off, and lights flashed down the next mile of
bi-way, warning the felon that he’d best slow down and pull over before the
Toll Collector caught up with him.
Not that he slowed in the least. In fact, I’d have bet a month’s salary
he gunned it about then.
Fine. If that’s the way he wanted to play it, the chase was on.
Damn, but that view looked even better from behind.
I shook my head as I jumped into my patrol pod, a three-wheeled Flitter
that was airborne at a safe hover of a half-meter or so by the time I got my
Mohawk crammed into the cockpit and the door slammed shut. What the fuck was
he thinking, trying to outrun a Toll Collector?
The bridge itself is a long, straight shot of highway with equally long
approaches, spanning just under two kilometers of unquiet waters. This isn’t
just any bridge they’ve entrusted to me. No. It’s the Golden Gate, linking Old
San Francisco to Marin Co., California. One of the longest bridges in the
world. One of the few still in constant operation. Sure, a lot of people use
Flitters these days, rather than ground vehicles, but Flitters aren’t exactly
safe hovering over rough water, and the bay’s never calm. So unless you’ve got
a full pilot’s license, and something jet propelled, if you’re going south,
you’ve got to pass over my bridge.
And pay my toll. Which this asshole had elected not to do.
I’m not exactly an inexperienced pilot. I know my bridge like she was my
baby. She’s 2.7 kilometers, from abutment to abutment, laid out straight and
true as an arrow shot from a master’s bow. We crossed her in just under one
minute, and if I hadn’t been so pissed off, I’d have been scared shitless.
Yeah, even a Troll can experience fear. Doesn’t happen often, I’ll
admit, but chasing that leather-clad backside across that bridge through
sheering winds high above some of the roughest, coldest water this side of
hell at 200 KPH is more of a thrill than even a Troll is used to.
I could tell, too, from the way he hugged that tank, that he was really
getting off on the chase. Every time the wind hit him he’d roll his shoulders,
leaning back into it like he was riding a lover. He glanced back at me once,
facemask lifted enough for me to see him grin. I’d bet my pension he had a
boner the size of his ego. When I caught this idiot of a Human he was going to
get a piece of a little more than my mind. I might even resort to police
brutality — before I friggin’ killed him.
No Human scares a Troll and gets away with it.
Anne Kane: Anne Kane lives in the beautiful Okanagan Valley with a bouncy
little rescue dog whose breed defies description and an Aussie Shepherd
who’s too smart for her own good. Anne likes to write spicy stories with
sassy heroines and protective, sexy male heroes who love those women. Her
stories all have one thing in common: a happily ever after ending.
Lena Austin: Someone cursed Lena Austin with “may you have a life so full
you’ll have many tales to tell your grandchildren.” Lena’s a “fallen” society
wench with a checkered past. She’s been a licensed minister, hairdresser,
Realtor, radio DJ, exotic dancer, telephone service tech, live-steel
medievalist swordswoman, BDSM Mistress, and investment property manager. Not
necessarily in that order. She never finished that degree in marine
archaeology, but did learn to scuba — she’s got a lifetime of “Research
material!”
Marteeka Karland: International bestselling author Marteeka Karland leads a
double life as an action romance writer by evening and a semi-domesticated
housewife by day. Known for her down and dirty MC romances, Marteeka takes
pleasure in spinning tales of tenacious, protective heroes and spirited
heroines. She staunchly advocates that every character deserves a blissful
ending.
Shelby Morgen: Shelby Morgen loves writing offbeat tales that defy as many
rules as possible.
She likes chocolate with her peanut butter, suspense with her romance, and
kink with her sex, and she’s always had a hard time keeping murder,
motorcycles, science fiction, fantasy and paranormal from mixing with her
kink.
Publisher on Facebook, Instagram, Twitter, and TikTok: @changelingpress
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