Chapter Reveal: Walk the Edge by Katie McGarry

About the Book

One moment of recklessness will change their worlds 

Smart. Responsible. That's seventeen-year-old Breanna's role in her large family, and heaven forbid she put a toe out of line. Until one night of shockingly un-Breanna-like behavior puts her into a vicious cyberbully's line of fire—and brings fellow senior Thomas "Razor" Turner into her life. 

Razor lives for the Reign of Terror motorcycle club, and good girls like Breanna just don't belong. But when he learns she's being blackmailed over a compromising picture of the two of them—a picture that turns one unexpected and beautiful moment into ugliness—he knows it's time to step outside the rules. 

And so they make a pact: he'll help her track down her blackmailer, and in return she'll help him seek answers to the mystery that's haunted him—one that not even his club brothers have been willing to discuss. But the more time they spend together, the more their feelings grow. And suddenly they're both walking the edge of discovering who they really are, what they want, and where they're going from here.

WALK THE EDGE Chapter One

THERE ARE LIES in life we accept. Whether it’s for the sake of ignorance, bliss or, in my case, survival, we all make our choices.
I choose to belong to the Reign of Terror Motorcycle Club. I choose to work for the security company associated with them. I also choose to do this while still in high school.

All of this boils down to one choice in particular—whether or not to believe my father’s version of a lie or the town’s. I chose my father’s lie. I chose the brotherhood of the club.

What I haven’t chosen? Being harassed by the man invad­ing my front porch. He’s decked out in a pair of pressed kha­kis and a button-down straight from a mall window. The real question—is he here by choice or did he draw the short stick?

“As I said, son,” he continues, “I’m not here to talk to your dad. I’m here to see you.”

A hot August wind blows in from the thick woods sur­rounding our house, and sweat forms on the guy’s skin. He’s too cocky to be nervous, so that dumps the blame of his shiny forehead on the 110-degree heat index.

“You and I,” he adds, “we need to talk.”

My eyes flash to the detective badge hanging on the guy’s hip and then to his dark blue unmarked Chevy Caprice parked in front of my motorcycle in the gravel drive. Twenty bucks he thinks he blocked me in. Guess he underestimated I’ll ride on the grass to escape.

This guy doesn’t belong to our police force. His plates suggest he’s from Jefferson County. That’s in the northern part of Ken­tucky. I live in a small town where even the street hustlers and police know each other by name. This man—he’s an outsider.

I flip through my memory for anything that would jus­tify his presence. Yeah, I stumbled into some brawls over the summer. A few punches thrown at guys who didn’t keep their mouths sealed or keep their inflated egos on a leash, but noth­ing that warrants this visit.

A bead of water drips from my wet hair onto the worn gray wood of the deck and his eyes track it. I’m fresh from a shower. Jeans on. Black boots on my feet. No shirt. Hair on my head barely pushed around by a towel.

The guy checks out the tats on my chest and arms. Most of it is club designs, and it’s good for him to know who he’s dealing with. As of last spring, I officially became a mem­ber of the Reign of Terror. If he messes with one of us, he messes with us all.

“Are you going to invite me in?” he asks.

I thought the banging on the door was one of my friends showing to ride along with me to senior orientation, not a damned suit with a badge.

“You’re not in trouble,” he says, and I’m impressed he doesn’t shuff le his feet like most people do when they arrive on my doorstep. “As I said, I want to talk.”

I maintain eye contact longer than most men can manage.

Silence doesn’t bother me. There’s a ton you can learn about a person from how they deal with the absence of sound. Most can’t handle uncomfortable battles for dominance, but this guy stands strong.

Without saying a word, I walk into the house and permit the screen door to slam in his face. I cross the room, grab my cut off the table, then snatch a black Reign of Terror T-shirt off the couch. I shrug into the shirt as I step onto the porch and shut the storm door behind me.

The guy watches me intently as I slip on the black leather cut that contains the three-piece patch of the club I belong to. Because of the way

I’m angled, he can get a good look at our emblem on the back: a white half skull with fire raging out of the eyes and drops of fire raining down around it. The words Reign of Terror are mounted across the top. The town’s name, Snowflake, is spelled on the bottom rocker.

He focuses on the patch that informs him I’m packing a weapon. His hand edges to the gun holstered on his belt. He’s weighing whether I’m carrying now or if I’m gun free.

I cock a hip against the railing and hitch my thumbs in the pockets of my jeans. If he’s going to talk, it would be now. He glances at the closed door, then back at me. “This is where we’re doing this?”

“I’ve got somewhere to be.” And I’m running late. “Didn’t see a warrant on you.” So by law, he can’t enter.

A grim lift of his mouth tells me he understands I won’t make any of this easy. He’s around Dad’s age, mid to late forties. He gave his name when I opened the door, but I’ll admit to not listening.

He scans the property and he has that expression like he’s trying to understand why someone would live in a house so small. The place is a vinyl box. Two bedrooms. One bath.

A living room–kitchen combo. Possibly more windows than square footage.

Dad said this was Mom’s dream. A house just big enough for us to live in. She never desired large, but she craved land. When I was younger, she used to hug me tight and explain it was more important to be free than to be rich. I sure as hell hope Mom feels free now.

An ache ripples through me, and I readjust my footing. I pray every damn day she found some peace.

“I drove a long way to see you,” he says.

Don’t care. “Could have called.”

“I did. No one answered.”

I hike one shoulder in a “you’ve got shit luck.” Dad and I aren’t the type to answer calls from strangers. Especially ones with numbers labeled Police. There are some law enforcement officers who are cool, but most of them are like everyone else— they judge a man with a cut on his back as a psychotic felon.

I don’t have time for stupidity.

“I’m here about your mother.” The asshole knows he has me when my eyes snap to his.

“She’s dead.” Like the other times I say the words, a part of me dies along with her.

This guy has green eyes and they soften like he’s apolo­getic. “I know. I’m sorry. I’ve received some new evidence that may help us discover what caused her death.”

Anger curls within my muscles and my jaw twitches. This overwhelming sense of insanity is what I fight daily. For years, I’ve heard the whispers from the gossips in town, felt the stares of the kids in class, and I’ve sensed the pity of the men in the Reign of Terror I claim as brothers. It’s all accu­mulated to a black, hissing doubt in my soul.

Suicide.

It’s what everyone in town says happened. It’s in every hushed conversation people have the moment I turn my back. It’s not just from the people I couldn’t give two shits about, but the people who I consider family.

I shove away those thoughts and focus on what my father and the club have told me—what I have chosen to believe. “My mother’s death was an accident.”

He’s shaking his head and I’m fresh out of patience. I’m not doing this. Not with him. Not with anyone. “I’m not interested.”

I push off the railing and dig out the keys to my motor­cycle as I bound down the steps. The detective’s behind me. He has a slow, steady stride and it irritates me that he fol­lows across the yard and doesn’t stop coming as I swing my leg over my bike.

“What if I told you I don’t think it was an accident,” he says.

Odds are it wasn’t. Odds are every whispered taunt in my direction is true. That my father and the club drove Mom crazy, and I wasn’t enough of a reason for her to choose life.

To drown him out, I start the engine. This guy must be as suicidal as people say Mom was, because he eases in front of my bike, assuming I won’t run him down.

“Thomas,” he says.

I twist the handle to rev the engine in warning. He raises his chin like he’s finally pissed and his eyes narrow on me. “Razor.”

I let the bike idle. If he’s going to respect me by using my road name, I’ll respect him for a few seconds. “Leave me the fuck alone.”

Damn if the man doesn’t possess balls the size of Montana. He steps closer to me and drops a bomb. “I have reason to believe your mom was murdered.”

About Katie McGarry

Katie McGarry was a teenager during the age of grunge and boy bands and remembers those years as the best and worst of her life. She is a lover of music, happy endings, reality television, and is a secret University of Kentucky basketball fan.

Katie is the author of full length YA novels, PUSHING THE LIMITS, DARE YOU TO, CRASH INTO YOU, TAKE ME ON,  BREAKING THE RULES, and NOWHERE BUT HERE and the e-novellas, CROSSING THE LINE and RED AT NIGHT. Her debut YA novel, PUSHING THE LIMITS was a 2012 Goodreads Choice Finalist for YA Fiction, a RT Magazine's 2012 Reviewer's Choice Awards Nominee for Young Adult Contemporary Novel, a double Rita Finalist, and a 2013 YALSA Top Ten Teen Pick. DARE YOU TO was also a Goodreads Choice Finalist for YA Fiction and won RT Magazine’s Reviewer’s Choice Best Book Award for Young Adult Contemporary fiction in 2013.

Connect with Katie: Website | Facebook | Goodreads | Pinterest | Tumbler | Instagram | Twitter: @katiemcgarry​

Read an excerpt from Because of Lucy by Lisa Swallow

About Because of Lucy (Butterfly Days #1)

"In life, there are some people you have to lose in order to find yourself."

Ness’s parents have planned her life but Ness is determined to control her own future. She leaves home and moves to Leeds with childhood friend, Abby, and shocks her parents by turning down a place at medical school to take a job in a call-centre. 

Ness meets Evan, a student friend of Abby’s, and isn’t impressed. He’s drunk, arrogant and rarely spends the night without a girl in his bed. But unlike most guys she meets Evan quotes poetry and can hold a conversation, forcing Ness to change her opinion.

Evan is struggling to escape too and throws himself into the student lifestyle to hide from the past following him. In Ness, Evan finds somebody who shares the need to walk away from what people expect him to be. 

But Evan can’t hide from his past forever and when Lucy appears she threatens his new relationship with Ness. Ness is unsure she can deal with the effect Lucy has on Evan, and makes a new decision about her future.

When everything falls apart and their new lives and relationship don't go as planned, Ness and Evan are both faced with difficult choices. All because of Lucy. 

Excerpt

Chapter One

AUTUMN

NESS

There’s a stranger lying in my bed. The streetlight casts an orange glow through the open curtains and across the tell-tale mound, and underneath my brand new and expensive bedding is a snoring figure. A male, judging by the size, and by the decibels. When I left for work this evening, the bed was definitely vacant.

I drop my bag on my carpeted bedroom floor and swear loudly. He doesn’t hear. I’m not surprised; the noise of voices and music downstairs would drown out the sound of my murderous intent towards this moron. I’m exhausted after an eight-hour shift and this is not what I need.

Slamming the door behind me, I head for the stairs. The tatty furniture of the lounge room is covered with people, although littered is the term I’d use. Half a dozen inebriated, scruffy students are draped over the brown sofa or propped against each other on the threadbare carpet. A couple gaze at me absently. My housemate, Abby, squints and pulls herself unsteadily to her feet. She staggers towards me, her drink sloshing from the cup onto the dirty floor.

“Ness!” she cries, trying to hug me. “You’re home!”

I step back. “I’ve been home for half an hour.”

She blinks. “Have you?”

Her long brown hair escaped the straightening tongs this evening and sticks up on one side. Abby’s smeared lipstick and her boyfriend, Matt, nearby indicate why she didn’t notice me coming home.

“Who is in my bed?”

Abby gives me a look; one I’ve learned to identify over the years. She’s beyond any chance of reasonable conversation. “No idea.”

“Abby, I’ve been working all night. I’m knackered. I want to go to bed and there’s one of your guests occupying it.”

Abby giggles.

“Not funny!” I snap. “You can’t do this every night; weekends only for parties. Please.”

We agreed to share a house, her as a student, me working full-time. What a huge mistake.

“It’s not my fault…”

“What? You mean we were invaded? They just let themselves into the house?”

The people in the room are becoming familiar, the same set of friends arranged in their favourite places around the room. Drinking and smoking, discussing politics and listening to Lou Reed. So hip, so retro. So clichéd.

“No, but…” She puts a hand over her mouth, making a noise somewhere between a hiccup and a burp. No, but… she’s the only first year student in the group who lives in her own house. When the pubs and clubs shut, the friends can’t fit everyone into one of their dorm rooms, and I have the pleasure of their company most nights. I want to shout at Abby, tell her how selfish she’s being, but there’s no point. Her goldfish memory is worse when she’s drunk, and she won’t remember a thing I say in the morning.

“So where do I sleep?” As if I’m going to get any sleep in party central anyway.

Again, Abby looks at me blankly.

“For god’s sake, Abby!”

This is pointless. I pick my way through the bohemian bodies on the floor and into the kitchen. Empty bottles and dinner plates vie for a place on the cluttered kitchen counter. There’re two glasses left in the white cupboards and I fill one with water.

Why did I join student Abby in Leeds when I’d rejected a place at the university myself? I’m rubbing my parents’ faces in it while I lower myself into the life of a call centre drone. Pride of the family, Vanessa, was always going to be a doctor, like Daddy. Or she was until I said ‘screw that’. I’m not their precious Vanessa who they can mould into what they decide I should be. I’m Ness, and I’m doing what I want with my life.

As I regard the state of the so-called elite, studying class around me, I’m doubly glad I’m not one of them.

“’Scuse me.”

I sidestep the sink and turn to the voice. A tall guy leans against the doorframe, trying to appear nonchalant, but his slackened stance indicates he’s attempting to keep himself upright. His brown hair is longer at the front and spills into his face; unfocused brown eyes look in my direction. This person is one of the regulars. I don’t pay a lot of attention to Abby’s friends, but he’s a good-looking guy; and however hard I tried not to, I’ve noticed him, but not only because of his looks.

Some nights as I eat a late dinner after work at the table in the corner, I watch the group from my seat with a mixture of despair and amusement, and this guy intrigues me. Girls gravitate to him, and he turns on his smile and soaks up their attention, but something I can’t put my finger on hovers around the confident persona. This guy has his place as the joker who ensures he’s at the centre of the group, but some nights he’s quiet and focuses more on drinking and less on girls. Like tonight.

“Yes?” I snap, not in the mood.

He sweeps a gaze along the length of me, eyes lingering on where my work shirt stretches across my breasts. Unbelievable... I straighten my sleeves and look at him with an eyebrow raised.

“Are you Abby’s housemate?” he asks.

“Who are you?”

“Evan.” He rubs his nose. “You’re not a student.”

“Correct, I am the one not lying in a drunken haze on the floor contemplating my navel.”

Evan takes a step forward, steadying himself on the counter with one hand, as my witty repartee sails over his head. “Why?”

“Why am I not on the floor drunk?”

“Why aren’t you a student?”

“Because I work instead.”

“Hmm.” He grasps onto the sink, searching for a glass. I pass him the spare one. “Did you fail?”

“Fail what?”

Evan fills the glass. “Or are you just not smart enough for uni? What is it you do?” He gulps the water in three mouthfuls then wipes his mouth with his hand.

The arrogant bloody…

Evan leans against the sink, his tall frame dominating the small kitchen. “Fair enough.”

Oh my god, he believes me. How drunk is he exactly? “So, you think anyone who doesn’t go to university is inferior to you?”

I’ve seen Abby’s friends looking down their noses at me. To make things worse, the locals band together and hate students, and the students do the same and clash with the locals. I’m neither. I can’t win.

We’re close now and Evan smells of alcohol and pot, with a faint hint of a clean scent lingering on his clothes. His plain blue T-shirt rides up as he leans against the sink; that’s a serious set of abs he has. Okay, I can’t help myself, I check him out. Beneath his fringe, Evan has deep brown eyes. Incoherent eyes. I hate to admit, but something about him is seriously sexy.

Even if he is a dick.

“Well, if you’ll excuse me,” I say.

He sniggers.

“What’s funny?”

“You sound like the Queen.”

Not this again. I get enough crap at work; I moved from Surrey to Yorkshire and suddenly I’m ‘stuck up Home Counties girl’.

I don’t dignify Evan’s comment with an answer, turn away, and walk out of the kitchen.

“Want me to get the guy out of your bed?” Evan calls after me.

I stop and look round. “You know him?”

“I could replace him.”

My mouth drops open at his arrogance. An attempt at a flirtatious smile plays around his lips, but the unfocused eyes kill the effect he’s trying to achieve. He’s serious. Evan has his ready supply of eager girls; I guess it doesn’t matter to them how conceited he is. Some girls go for his type. Not me.

I step towards him. “Evan, I am not one of those drunk girls in there. I have no interest in you getting into my bed. Good night.”

Feeling happy with my retort, I weave back through the lounge in the direction of the stairs. Behind me, Evan impersonates my words with an exaggerated posh accent.

It’s a good thing I’m sober; otherwise, I’d go back and slap him.

About the Author

Lisa is an Amazon bestselling author of contemporary and paranormal romance. She is originally from the UK and moved to Australia in 2001. She now lives in Perth, Western Australia with her husband, three children, and Weimaraner, Tilly, who often makes appearances on Lisa’s social media.

Lisa’s first publication was a moving poem about the rain, followed by a suspenseful story about shoes. Following these successes at nine years old there was a long gap in her writing career, until she published her first book in 2013.

In the past, Lisa worked as an English teacher in France, as an advertising copywriter in England, and ran her own business in Australia. Now she spends her days with imaginary rock stars.

She lived in Europe as a child and also travelled when she left university. This has given Lisa stories which would sound far-fetched if she wrote them down, and maybe one day she will. These days, Lisa is happy in her writing cave, under Tilly’s supervision.

Connect with Lisa: Website | Facebook | Twitter

Spotlight: America's First Daughter by Laura Kaye and Stephanie Dray

About America's First Daughter

In a compelling, richly researched novel that draws from thousands of letters and original sources, bestselling authors Stephanie Dray and Laura Kamoie tell the fascinating, untold story of Thomas Jefferson’s eldest daughter, Martha “Patsy” Jefferson Randolph—a woman who kept the secrets of our most enigmatic founding father and shaped an American legacy.

From her earliest days, Patsy Jefferson knows that though her father loves his family dearly, his devotion to his country runs deeper still. As Thomas Jefferson’s oldest daughter, she becomes his helpmate, protector, and constant companion in the wake of her mother’s death, traveling with him when he becomes American minister to France.

It is in Paris, at the glittering court and among the first tumultuous days of revolution, that fifteen-year-old Patsy learns about her father’s troubling liaison with Sally Hemings, a slave girl her own age. Meanwhile, Patsy has fallen in love—with her father’s protégé William Short, a staunch abolitionist and ambitious diplomat. Torn between love, principles, and the bonds of family, Patsy questions whether she can choose a life as William’s wife and still be a devoted daughter.

Her choice will follow her in the years to come, to Virginia farmland, Monticello, and even the White House. And as scandal, tragedy, and poverty threaten her family, Patsy must decide how much she will sacrifice to protect her father's reputation, in the process defining not just his political legacy, but that of the nation he founded.

Excerpt

It was my haste that made me stumble halfway down the stairs. Only a wild, wrenching grasp at the carved wooden rail saved me from a broken neck. Alas, the heavy fall of my feet echoed up the staircase and drew my father from his rooms.

“Patsy?” he called, peering over the bannister.

I froze, breathless, my belly roiling with shock and anger and revulsion. I ought to have pretended that I didn’t hear him say my name. I ought to have hurried on, leaving him with only the sight of my back. I ought never to have looked up at him over my shoulder.

But I did look up.

There on the landing my father loomed tall, a tendril of his ginger hair having come loose from its ribbon, his shirt worn without its neck cloth, the stark white linen setting off more vividly the red flush that crept up his throat. Was it shame for his behavior with Sally or . . . ardor?

On the heels of giving witness to his behavior, the thought was so excruciatingly horrifying that heat swept over me, leaving me to wish I’d burn away to dust.

“Are you hurt?” Papa asked, hoarsely.

I couldn’t reply, my mouth too filled with the bitter taste of bile. Finally, I forced a shake of my head.

He glanced back to the door, then back at me, his hand half-covering his mouth. “Were—were you at my door just now?”

“No,” I whispered, as much as I could manage under my suffocating breathlessness. And how dare he ask if I’d been at his door when neither of us could bear the honest answer? Even if Papa didn’t know what I’d seen, he knew what he’d done.

He ought to have been downstairs with us, reacquainting himself with the little daughter who still didn’t remember him. He ought to have been sipping cider with the young man who fancied me, giving his permission to court. He ought to have been doing a hundred other things. Instead, he was preying upon my dead mother’s enslaved half-sister—and the wrongness of it filled my voice with a defiant rage.

“No, I wasn’t at your door.” I held his gaze, letting him see what he would.

My father paused on the precipice, clearing his throat, absently smearing the corner of his lips with one thumb. “Well—well. . .did you need something?” As if my needs were at the forefront of his thoughts.

My fingers curled into fists as a lie came to me suddenly, and sullenly. “I was coming up to fetch my prayer book.” Surely he knew it was a lie, but I didn’t care. If he challenged me, I’d lie again, without even the decency of dropping my eyes. I’d lie because between a father and a daughter, what I’d witnessed was unspeakable. And I’d learned from the man who responded with silence to my letters about politics or adultery or the liberation of slaves. . . .

Papa never spoke on any subject he didn’t want to.

Neither would I.

“Are you certain you weren’t hurt,” Papa finally murmured, “ . . . on the stairs?”

Rage burned inside me so hotly I thought it possible that my handprint might be seared upon the railing. I bobbed my head, grasped my skirt, and took two steps down before my father called to me again.

“Patsy?”

I couldn’t face him, so I merely stopped, my chest heaving with the effort to restrain myself from taking flight. “What?”

A heavy silence descended. One filled with pregnant emotion. I feared he might be so unwise as to attempt to explain himself, to justify or confess his villainous lapse in judgment, but when he finally spoke, it was only to ask, “What of your prayer book?”

Swallowing hard, I forced words out despite the pain. “I’ve reconsidered my need of it. I’m not as apt as some people to forget what it says.”

Advanced Praise for America’s First Daughter

“America’s First Daughter brings a turbulent era to vivid life. All the conflicts and complexities of the Early Republic are mirrored in Patsy’s story. It’s breathlessly exciting and heartbreaking by turns-a personal and political page-turner.” (Donna Thorland, author of The Turncoat)

“Painstakingly researched, beautifully hewn, compulsively readable -- this enlightening literary journey takes us from Monticello to revolutionary Paris to the Jefferson White House, revealing remarkable historical details, dark family secrets, and bringing to life the colorful cast of characters who conceived of our new nation. A must read.” (Allison Pataki, New York Times bestselling author of The Accidental Empress)

About Stephanie Dray

STEPHANIE DRAY is an award-winning, bestselling and two-time RITA award nominated author of historical women’s fiction. Her critically acclaimed series about Cleopatra’s daughter has been translated into eight different languages and won NJRW's Golden Leaf. As Stephanie Draven, she is a national bestselling author of genre fiction and American-set historical women's fiction. She is a frequent panelist and presenter at national writing conventions and lives near the nation's capital. Before she became a novelist, she was a lawyer, a game designer, and a teacher. Now she uses the stories of women in history to inspire the young women of today.

Website | Newsletter | Facebook |Twitter | AMERICA’S FIRST DAUGHTER Website

About Laura Kamoie

Laura Kamoie has always been fascinated by the people, stories, and physical presence of the past, which led her to a lifetime of historical and archaeological study and training. She holds a doctoral degree in early American history from The College of William and Mary, published two non-fiction books on early America, and most recently held the position of Associate Professor of History at the U.S. Naval Academy before transitioning to a full-time career writing genre fiction as the New York Times bestselling author of over twenty books, Laura Kaye. Her debut historical novel, America's First Daughter, co-authored with Stephanie Dray, allowed her the exciting opportunity to combine her love of history with her passion for storytelling. Laura lives among the colonial charm of Annapolis, Maryland with her husband and two daughters.

Website | Newsletter | Facebook |Twitter | AMERICA’S FIRST DAUGHTER Website

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#Bingeread the Steel & Stone series by Annette Marie

Visit the World of the Steel & Stone Series by Annette Marie in the Highly Anticipated Finale, UNLEASH THE STORM

Piper started out as a magic-less apprentice only to become the wielder of the most powerful weapon in existence, but the cost of that power has been blood and pain.  As she and Ash retreat into the Underworld to escape the coming daemon war, he’s all she has left – but if she can’t find her strength, she’ll soon lose him to dangers in his world that even he can’t fight. Read the exhilarating conclusion to the Amazon best-selling YA urban fantasy series in UNLEASH THE STORM by Annette Marie…

People are raving about the Steel & Stone series!

I could not put it down! It had everything I want to read in a UF – action, great characters, awesome world building, diverse species, secrets and lies, twists and turns and a smidge of romance…. Now I want more! – Book Passion For Life

Synopsis

Piper thought she could handle the Sahar, the most powerful magical weapon in existence. She thought she could protect her loved ones and stop a war. She thought she could make a difference.

Piper thought she could handle the Sahar, the most powerful magical weapon in existence. She thought she could protect her loved ones and stop a war. She thought she could make a difference.

She was wrong, and her mistakes were paid for in blood.

Leaving her world—and her failures—behind, she retreats to the Underworld with Ash and the other draconians. They forge deep into long abandoned mountains, the first draconians to fly the valleys and passes in centuries—or so they thought. Until now, Ash’s mysterious heritage has been nothing but a name, but his presence does not go unnoticed. A new danger stalks him, one that may be even greater than what they escaped.

Cut off from the power she’d come to rely on and lost in a world where she doesn’t belong, Piper has never felt so hopeless. But she must find her strength, and find it quickly, before she loses Ash to an ancient power he can’t fight, before her home is devastated by the daemon war, and before her mind, body, and soul are consumed by the Sahar’s insidious magic.

Excerpt from Unleash the Storm

A thirteenth griffin dropped through the opening in the ceiling to land in the center of the aisle. Golden hair brushed across his face, most of it captured in a thick braid that hung down to his waist. Topaz jewels on fine white gold chains had been woven through the plait, making it glitter. His clothing was a mixture of rich red silks and light armor, as beautiful as it was functional. He held a long sword in one hand.

His eyes, normally a bright yellow-green, were black as pitch as they locked on her like a lion stalking an injured gazelle.

“Miysis.” She couldn’t help the cautious note in her voice.

He lifted his blade out to one side of his body, a casual but attack-ready position.

“Piper. Draw your sword.” The words were an icy croon in his impossibly melodic voice, almost as beautiful as Lyre’s incubus harmonics.

Oh shit. It was pretty safe to say he knew exactly who had killed his sister, and he intended to kill Piper for it in a formal execution of justice.

“Miysis—” she began.

He gave the tip of his sword a little flick—some kind of signal. His soldiers surged into motion, moving blindingly fast. In seconds, they had surrounded her and Miysis, creating a circle around them. Miysis glided a few steps closer to her, his black eyes not shifting from her face. His golden-brown wings were folded behind his back and his tail swished slowly behind him, the end flaring in a fan of feathers.

“Miysis, can we—” she tried again.

“Draw your sword.” He lifted his, light sliding across the shining steel, and she knew that was her last warning.

CHASE THE DARK (Steel & Stone Book 1)

Check out this highlight from CHASE THE DARK (Steel & Stone Book 1)

Every gun was pointed at her. This time she knew they meant business. The prefects she hadn’t permanently downed took a few steps back, getting out of the potential crossfire.

“Hit one more of my men and we’ll open fire,” the man at the back called. “Lie on the floor with your hands on the back of your head. Now!”

Before she could obey and get arrested, or disobey and get shot, the air rippled. Electricity filled the atmosphere, crackling like lightning about to strike. She heard a weird rushing sound, then there was harsh breathing right behind her; someone stood at her back.

“Are you going to shoot me?” The voice that asked the question was deep and guttural, sepulchral and alien in a way that froze everyone in the vicinity.

Every gun was now aimed at a point just over Piper’s right shoulder. She tried to keep her breathing steady as fear tightened every prefect’s face. Men who had faced the ten-foot minotaur without batting an eyelid, trained and seasoned fighters, were staring over her shoulder with shaking hands and pale faces.

She slowly licked her lips. “Ash?” she whispered.

He shifted closer until he brushed against her back. “Do you have what we need?” he breathed. The heat of his body made her shiver.

“Yes,” she breathed back.

He huffed in relief, sounding almost normal for a second. Then he slid one arm around her waist, delicately as though he were afraid of accidentally crushing her.

“Don’t move or we’ll shoot,” the prefect leader yelled.

“That,”‌ Ash said as he extended one hand in front of Piper, ‌“would only make me angry.”

Piper stared at his hand, too shocked to move or to think. His outspread fingers were black with a dull gleam like leather, the tips smoothly forming long claws. Large black scales covered the back of his hand and ran up the top of his arm like an armguard. The scales gave way to human skin, leaving the underside of his arm disconcertingly normal. Somehow, that was even freakier.

The air grew hot around them. It sizzled. The lead prefect jerked like he was about to yell the word that would riddle Piper and Ash with bullets, then light flashed in Ash’s palm and everything exploded for a second time.

BIND THE SOUL (Steel & Stone Book 2)

Check out this highlight from BIND THE SOUL (Steel & Stone Book 2)

“Piper!” he roared.

She bolted, arms flailing for balance as she ran for the waiting car. The back door opened. She caught a glimpse of Miysis before he moved back to make room for her.

“Piper, get back in here right now!”

She dove into the darkness of the car. Miysis reached across her and pulled the door closed as the car began moving. Piper glanced out the window in time to see Quinn running across the lawn after her, fear stamped across his face. Her insides squirmed with guilt. He couldn’t know who owned the black car and he couldn’t have seen Miysis in the shadowy interior. All he’d seen was his daughter, wearing a dress for the first time in years, sneaking out to a mysterious car with unknown occupants one night after he’d found out she was possibly participating in illegal activities. She hoped he didn’t think she’d just been picked up by a pimp.

Miysis eased back into his seat as the car sped up. She pulled her skirt down to where it belonged and gave him a quick once over. Her heart sank. He looked like a million bucks in a smoky gray tux with a silvery vest and a fancy-collared shirt. His honey blond hair was tousled in a perfect mix of messy and deliberate and his golden-green eyes almost glowed in the dark interior of the car.

Sitting next to him, she looked ridiculously cheap and underdressed. His gaze flicked over her stupid little dress. He opened his mouth to speak.

“I didn’t have anything to wear,” she wailed before he could complain. “I didn’t have anything.”

“I know,” he said with a hint of a smile. “That’s why I brought you something.”

He pointed to a long garment bag hanging beside him.

She blinked. “You bought me a dress?”

He smiled, by all appearances totally serene. “You didn’t think I would let my date go in rags, did you?”

“Your—your date?” She gaped at him. “I’m going as your date? I—I thought you were making me one of your attendants or something.”

Daemon royalty always had a gaggle of advisors, attendants, and bodyguards following them around.

“Really, Piper. How would I explain the daughter of the Head Consul waiting on me? You should be glad I didn’t have a date already.”

“But—but—” She goggled.

Miysis was one of the top-ranking Overworld daemons. Going as his date was like going to a coronation with a member of a royal family. She’d never imagined he would go out on a limb like that for her. The entire political community would be gossiping about it for months. She might be the Head Consul’s daughter, but compared to Miysis, she was a dirt-poor commoner.

“But aren’t you worried what people will think?” she asked.

“I’m looking forward to seeing the looks on their faces,” he said with satisfaction. “The confusion and alarm will be priceless. They won’t know what to make of it.”

She thought about it then shrugged. “I guess if you don’t mind …”

He canted one eye toward her. “Do you?”

YIELD THE NIGHT (Sttel & Stone Book 3)

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“Kindra, no—”

The daemon rose to her feet, shedding her glamour in the same movement. Her wild red hair drifted outward, suddenly immune to gravity. Her ears were now pointed, cheeks hollow beneath dramatically sharp cheekbones. Her eyes were huge and black as coal. Her body, more willowy and lightweight than ever, coiled in readiness. Narrow red things—scales? feathers?—rose in lines on her arms like a cat’s hair standing on end.

Before Piper could even finish her protest, Kindra sprang out of the trees. With impossible speed, she flashed across the expanse of lawn. Piper swore under her breath and ran out after her, keeping low.

Kindra was on the first man before he could turn. Piper didn’t see what Kindra did but the man screamed as he fell. The others spun toward the daemon. She dashed away, almost too fast for the eye to follow, then reappeared, making a grab for a second one. The third got his gun up and fired but Kindra abandoned her target and flashed away, a dark blur. His gun flipped up, hitting him in the face, struck by an invisible blow from the daemon. He staggered, brandishing his rifle and wildly looking around for Kindra.

Between the darkness, the haze of rain, and the lethal daemon, none of them noticed Piper coming.

FEED THE FLAMES (Steel & Stone Book 3.5)

In this short story addition to the Steel & Stone series, discover the fate of Seiya and Lyre following the conclusion of YIELD THE NIGHT (Steel & Stone #3).

Check out this highlight from the short story FEED THE FLAMES (Steel & Stone Book 3.5)

“So your spell will disable the collar for . . . how long?”

“Maybe five minutes.”

She masked her shock. Most daemons performed magic through on-the-spot spell-casting. Magic could also be woven into materials such as metals and gemstones, but that was far more complex. Creating weavings that could interact with other weavings was high-level magic. She couldn’t do anything like that, and neither could Ash. Sure, they’d learned how to set a spell in a piece of stone or metal, but they weren’t inventing intricate, interactive weavings.

Developing new magic was the life’s work of the most gifted daemon minds. The only daemons she knew with that kind of talent worked at Chrysalis, Samael’s most sinister business. They’d developed some of the most complex magic she’d ever heard of, like the collar that had nearly killed Ash.

She studied Lyre, swallowing the touch of suspicion trying to creep into her voice. Spell weaving wasn’t something a daemon picked up on the fly.

“Where did you learn to make stuff like that?”

He rolled his eyes. “You’re right. This is the perfect time to share my life’s story.”

REAP THE SHADOWS (Steel & Stone Book 4)

Check out this highlight from REAP THE SHADOWS (Steel & Stone Book 4)

An animal snarl ripped through the silence as the beast dove for them like a half-ton missile. She threw her hands up and cast a shield. Black fire exploded outward when the creature slammed into her spell. The dragon rebounded into the air, great wings beating as it roared.

Piper spun to see that all the apprentices were on the ground, having thrown themselves down when the monster had charged them.

“Get up and run!” she yelled.

Lexa yanked Lee up by his arm. “Go!”

The apprentices scrambled to their feet and bolted down the alley. Lexa ran after them, but Piper’s eyes were locked on the second shadow. It held still, standing on the rooftop with partially spread wings. She could feel the burn of the draconian’s gaze on her. He was here for her.

With a frantic glance toward the fleeing apprentices, she turned and ran between two buildings. Just before her line of sight was cut off, she saw the dragon swoop over the heads of its prey, letting out a terrifying roar even as it deliberately missed them by several feet. It must be herding them away.

Fighting for calm, Piper sprinted down the narrow passageway between buildings—too narrow for a draconian’s wingspan. Darkness enclosed her but she didn’t dare create any light. She ran on, stumbling over cracks and garbage. She could feel the press of the draconian’s stare and knew he was following her, not the others.

Ahead of her, the passageway opened up into a wide street faintly illuminated by a single streetlamp. She skidded to a stop just short of the sidewalk, lifted her gun, and waited.

About the Author

Annette Marie is the author of the Amazon best-selling YA urban fantasy series

Annette lives in the frozen winter wasteland of northern Alberta, Canada (okay, it’s not quite that bad). She shares her life with her remarkably patient, comparatively sensible husband and their furry minion of darkness—sorry, cat—Caesar. When not writing, she can be found elbow-deep in one art project or another while blissfully ignoring all adult responsibilities.  

Find Annette Marie: Website | Facebook | Twitter | Amazon | Goodreads

Spotlight: I Kissed a Rogue by Shana Galen

About I Kissed a Rogue

Once she spurned the man…

When the Duke of Lennox hires Sir Brook Derring, England’s best investigator, to find his daughter, Brook intends only to rescue the lady and return to his solitary life. He deals with London’s roughest criminals every day of the week; surely he should be able to endure seeing his first love again—the perfect girl who broke his heart...

Now her life depends on him

Lady Lillian-Anne Lennox has always done her best to live up to her father’s standards of perfection—at the cost of following her heart. When she’s kidnapped and her perfect life is shattered, Lila has another chance. Together, Lila and Brook navigate not only the dark and deadly side of London, but the chasm of pride and prejudice that divides them.

Excerpt

She had to escape. She couldn’t die down here, in the rank dark, alone. She might deserve such a death, but she’d fight it with every last ounce of strength. She’d almost freed her hands by twisting and working the rope against her chafed wrists until it slackened. Her captors hadn’t tied it very tightly, but that was the only mistake they’d made.

Lila had no idea how long she’d been in the dank, cold cellar, but she knew the moment her life went completely astray. The carriage had raced along the dark streets of London, the familiar clip-clop of the horses’ hooves almost like music in her ears. She’d pulled her thick pelisse more tightly around her bare shoulders and rested her dancing slippers on the warm brick at her feet.

All she’d wanted was her cozy bed and a cup of tea. She hadn’t even cared that by leaving her cousin Rose’s betrothal ball early, she risked her father’s wrath in the morning. She’d attended the betrothal tea, the betrothal dinner, and now the betrothal ball. Would that Rose marry and be done with it. It was during that uncharitable line of thinking that she heard John Coachman call out and the carriage slowed.

Lila had parted the curtains in an effort to see what was the matter, but all she’d seen was the swirl of London fog and the amorphous shapes of the outriders moving to stand protectively in front of the carriage door. She’d sighed with impatient annoyance.

“Now wh—?” She’d clamped her mouth shut at the sound of a thump and an unfamiliar man’s voice. The carriage rocked as the horses danced with fear. She waited for John Coachman’s reassuring words and heard only a muffled shout and the pop of what sounded like her father’s rifle.

Her heart pounding in fear, she’d slid one lock into place and was reaching for the other when and a tall, lanky man yanked the door open.

He’d smiled, his thin lips and cheeks stretching over his facial bones. “Hello, Lady Lillian-Anne.”

From there, everything was a blur. She’d been dragged from the carriage, hooded, and pushed against the conveyance, her hands roughly bound. Lila had been so shocked at her mistreatment, she hadn’t even screamed, and then she’d been lifted and tossed over a man’s shoulders. She hadn’t been carried far before she’d heard the squeak and squeal of a door being pried open and the echo of boots on slatted wood floors. Another door and then another and her captor had carried her down a flight of stairs and dropped her on her bottom.

She’d screamed then and scurried backward, only to run up against a pair of hard boots. A voice, much like the one who’d greeted her, hissed in her ear. “Shut yer potato hole. Keep quiet or I stuff my drawers down yer throat. You hear me, Duchess?”

She’d nodded and closed her mouth. She’d pulled her legs in and hunched her shoulders, making herself small, waiting for what seemed an eternity for what was to happen next. Would they rob her? Rape her?

She was not a duchess, only the daughter of one. She had the wild thought that perhaps the men wanted her stepmother, the Duchess of Lennox. But, no. They’d called her Lady Lillian-Anne. They knew who she was. They’d planned the abduction and whatever was to come next.

Lila had shivered, her body shaking uncontrollably with fear and cold. Finally, the man moved away. At his word, the others followed, and she heard their boots on the stairs and then the thud as the door closed.

She’d sat on the hard floor, the small pebbles and rocks digging into her skin through her silk ballgown and the pelisse. She jumped at the creaks and pops of the building settling, fearing each minute sound was the men returning for her. Gradually, she grew accustomed to the sounds but not the smell, never the smell. Something had died down here—many somethings—and with the hood over her face, she could only imagine. Lila envisioned rat corpses responsible for the sharp, sickly fragrance that burned her nostrils. When she began to imagine human bodies, she bit her lip hard to stop the rising panic.

Strange that in the middle of London, all was silent but for her teeth chattering.

They’d stopped chattering now—after too many hours to count. Lila was too numb to feel the cold any longer. The rope around her wrists was all she cared about. She twisted and pulled until finally she managed to squeeze one hand free. She bit her raw lip against the pain of the rough rope sliding against her bare skin. The gloves she’d painstakingly inched off might have protected her bare skin, but they were one more layer between her and freedom.

With a wince, her wrists slid apart, and she exhaled softly, hugging her arms around her chest. Her shoulders throbbed, and the simple act of rotating them in the opposite direction was sheer bliss. She felt for the opening of the hood she wore and quickly tore it off. Charcoal gray replaced the blackness. If the cellar had openings of any kind, she couldn’t spot them in the dark of night. She prayed it was still night and that morning would show her some sort of escape.

And not a stack of rotting bodies.

She had to find a way out. By now her father must have realized she’d been abducted. He would be frantic with worry. Had her captors sent a ransom note? Was that what this was about? Colin would make the duke pay it. Colin and Lila had grown closer since their mother’s death. He wouldn’t allow their father to ignore a ransom note.

If there was a ransom note.

What if the Duchess of Lennox was behind this? Lila’s stepmother hated her, but even she would not stoop to hiring mercenaries to abduct her stepdaughter.

Lady Selina would. She and Lila had hated each other since their first Seasons, when Lord Hugh had asked Lila to dance before Selina. From then on, it had been war.

Selina was married now and certainly too busy to plan attacks on Lila. But Madeleine Stratham, her cousin Rose’s friend, was not too busy, and she had intentionally stepped on Lila’s gown at the ball tonight, hissing, “Watch out!”

Had that been a warning?

Lila’s head spun. If she tried to count all of her enemies, it would take hours. And who knew what her abductors would do to her when they returned. She pressed her hands against the cold, dirt floor beneath her, moving her fingers until she found her gloves. She pulled them on again, for warmth as much as protection, and moved cautiously forward, hands outstretched. Her knees trembled and wobbled.

“Please no bodies. Please no bodies,” she chanted under her breath.

The cellar was blissfully empty. She discovered a wall and followed it around to the base of the stairwell. Her hands traveled over that rough wood until she found the opening. The stairwell had no railing, so she carefully lifted her skirts and moved slowly and silently upward. Her fingertips touched the wood of the door at the top, and she stood listening.

She heard nothing but silence and the strains of music farther away. Perhaps a tavern or gin house was nearby. She couldn’t be certain a guard wasn’t on the other side of the door, but she tried the handle anyway. The handle moved, but the door did not budge when she pushed on it.

Some sort of lock to keep it closed and secure.

Lila waited, again listening for movement or an indication her efforts to escape had been noted. When she heard nothing, she rattled the door. The wood was flimsy and old. One serious push against it, and she could compromise the lock.

She took a jagged breath and said a quick prayer. She’d never prayed so much—no, she’d been her own god for too many years. Lila stepped back, careful not to go too far and tumble down the stairs, then rammed the door with her shoulder.

About Shana Galen

Shana Galen is the national bestselling author of fast-paced adventurous Regency historicals, including the RT Reviewers’ Choice The Making of a Gentleman. Her books have been sold in Brazil, Russia, and the Netherlands and featured in the Rhapsody and Doubleday Book Clubs. A former English teacher in Houston’s inner city, Shana now writes full time. She is a happily married wife and mother of a daughter and a spoiled cat and lives in Houston, Texas.

Connect with Shana: Website | Facebook | Twitter

Spotlight: One Texas Cowboy Too Many by Carolyn Brown

Carolyn Brown’s New York Times and USA Today bestselling cowboys prove that love is bigger in Burnt Boot, Texas  

She’s got too many cowboys on her hands

Leah Brennan has always been the good girl of the Brennan family, groomed to become the matriarch of the clan. When a dark-eyed, tattooed, ponytailed bad boy saunters into her life, Leah knows he’s off-limits—but his mesmerizing gaze makes her forget everything she used to think was important. As town-wide tension rises, Leah wonders if love really can conquer all…

And the whole town’s taking sides

When Rhett O’Donnell roars into Burnt Boot on a hot July evening, the first thing he sees is a beautiful blonde. She puts a little extra giddy-up in his heartbeat, but when Rhett’s desire throws him into the middle of a love triangle and a hundred-year-old feud, he realizes that winning his cowgirl’s heart will be a lot more complicated than he thought.

Excerpt

The Burnt Boot Bar and Grill was not exactly what Rhett expected. The parking lot was gravel, or at least it had been at one time. Now it was thinly distributed gravel on top of dirt with only one streetlamp to illuminate the whole place. The building was weathered wood that didn’t look as if it had ever seen a drop of paint applied. Hell, it might have even been petrified, as old as that sign swinging above the entrance. The roof was rusty sheet metal, and the only window in the place was the one in the door.

“Not what you thought it would be?” Sawyer asked when Rhett got out of his truck.

“Looks more like a barn than a bar,” he said.

“The inside is better—air-conditioning, jukebox, and even paint on the walls.” Jill laughed.

“I like the air-conditioned part best of all.” Rhett followed them inside.

The bar itself was only eight stools long and had a small area for grilling burgers and making fries behind it. There were no pool tables, which surprised Rhett. But not as much as the shelves holding loaves of bread, hot dog and hamburger buns, and a small assortment of prepackaged pastries, or the refrigerated section beside that, with milk, beer, wine, and soda pop behind sliding glass doors. The other end of the long, rectangular room sported a jukebox, a few mismatched tables with chairs around them, and a small area for dancing.

“After the store closes in the evening, folks can get milk and bread or beer in here,” Sawyer answered the unasked question.

“And I thought Comfort was a small town. I’m not sure this qualifies as a town.” Rhett chuckled.

Sawyer clamped a hand on his shoulder. “You’ll get used to it. Besides, you know what Grandpa says. To be a town, the place has to have a church and a place to buy beer or get a shot of whiskey. So by the O’Donnell qualifications, Burnt Boot passes the test.”

At nine o’clock, he’d filled a few pitchers of beer for folks who’d drifted in and out, and Sawyer had shown him the process of making burger baskets. Sparks danced around Jill and Sawyer every time they brushed against each other. It damn sure didn’t take a rocket scientist to know that their honeymoon wasn’t over.

Two lonesome, old cowboys sat in a back corner drinking beer and telling tall tales. The jukebox had gone quiet and Rhett had wiped down the bar so often that it was shiny clean. If every night was like that, he’d have to bring some rope to make a bridle or something to keep himself from dying of complete boredom.

“Why don’t y’all go on home? I can handle it for the next couple of hours,” Rhett said.

“If you’re sure, we won’t argue.” Jill removed her apron and hung it on a nail.

Sawyer didn’t waste a bit of time hanging his apron right beside hers. “We damn sure won’t. Can’t remember the last time we got to go home before midnight. Sweep up and put the chairs on the tables. We don’t do mopping unless there’s major spills. Here’s the keys. Be sure to turn off the grill and the lights.”

“Will do.” Rhett rolled the sleeves of his white T-shirt and wiped down the bar one more time.

Jill and Sawyer were gone less than five minutes when the door flew open and suddenly the bar was crowded to capacity. Someone plugged money into the jukebox, and in seconds it was going full blast, playing “Boys ’Round Here” by Blake Shelton. Folks wasted no time getting out onto the dance floor and making a long line to do a line dance. The noise level went from zero to one hundred so quick that it took a while for Rhett’s ears to adjust.

“Hey, Rhett, we need three pitchers of beer and about six red cups,” Kinsey yelled from the end of the bar.

He quickly filled the pitchers, set them on the bar, and stacked up six plastic cups. Kinsey handed him a bill and he made change.

“And when you finish that, I need two longneck bottles of Coors,” Betsy said from the other end of the bar.

It kept him hopping, keeping the beer orders filled, the money straight, and making a few pitchers of margaritas. Then there was a lull, and there she was, sitting on a bar stool, her light green eyes watching him. His heart threw in an extra beat and his chest tightened.

“Well, hello, did you just fall from heaven?” he asked.

“I’ll have a double shot of Jack on the rocks, so the answer is no. I don’t think angels drink whiskey, but it is a fine line,” she answered.

“So you are a Tennessee whiskey lady?” he asked.

“Tonight I am,” she said.

About the Author

NY Times and USA Today Bestselling author and RITA Finalist, Carolyn Brown, has published more than seventy books. She has written historical single title, historical series, contemporary series and single titles, cowboy romance and women’s fiction. These days she is concentrating on her two loves: romantic women’s fiction and cowboy romance. She and her husband, a retired English teacher, make their home in southern Oklahoma. They have three grown children and enough grandchildren to keep them young. When she’s not writing she likes to spend time in her back yard with her two cats, Boots Randolph Terminator Outlaw and Chester Fat Boy, and watch them protect the yard from vicious critters like field mice, crickets and spiders.

Connect with Carolyn: Website | Facebook