Spotlight: NightBorn by Theresa Cheung

Publisher: Collective Ink

Publication Date: October 7, 2025

Genre: Paranormal Thriller

What if the line between your waking life and your darkest dreams disappeared forever?

Alice Sinclair, a driven psychology professor, is about to find out. When thousands of people begin experiencing terrifying, vivid nightmares ... all centered around her, Alice’s quiet academic life is shattered. Haunted by the question of why she’s become the subject of these shared dreams, Alice embarks on a desperate search for answers, uncovering a chilling secret: someone - or something - hungry for global power has discovered a way to manipulate consciousness itself. The world is fast becoming a playground for those in control of the dreaming mind.  In a heart-stopping race against time, Alice must navigate a treacherous web of deception, where nothing - and no one - can be trusted, not even herself.

Excerpt

Florida, USA—Sometime soon

Alice saw the wave. It was a beast.

It rose slowly at first, the way a predator prepares to strike—silent, inevitable. It quickly gained speed, swelling into a towering monster, a force of nature, as if the ocean itself had decided to swallow her whole. The wave surged, easily 30 feet high, dark and roaring with a ferocity she could feel in her bones. It moved toward her with the relentlessness of fate.

She turned, panic seizing her as she raced up the beach, her bare feet slipping in the wet sand. The ocean was closing in—the world was closing in on her. Her breath came in jagged gasps, but the wave, too quick, slammed into her, yanking her under.

Her body twisted through the water, eyes stinging, lungs burning, desperate for air, clawing at the debris swirling around her—plastic, broken wood, seaweed, dead fish—but there was no solid ground to cling to. The current pulled her deeper, its grip tightening like cold fingers around her throat.

She gasped for air, choking on the water, the world a dark, crushing void. She couldn’t see. Every nerve in her body screamed for release, but the ocean kept pulling, tumbling her in every direction, turning her body like a puppet with broken strings. She was drowning. No—she was going to die.

Something in her snapped.

Her feet hit something solid. Hard. Stone? She couldn’t tell.

All she knew was that she had to rise. She shoved upward, throwing her weight toward the surface with every ounce of strength she had left. Her body screamed, but she pushed harder, until her head broke through to air. For one split second, she inhaled—but the water dragged her down again, relentless, hungry for her life. She fought the instinct to panic.

She couldn’t let it win. Not today.

Just breathe. Just breathe, Alice. Instinctively she let herself float, stilling her body, letting the sea carry her, accepting the weight of the water around her. She couldn’t fight it anymore—but maybe she didn’t have to.

Her feet found solid ground again. She shoved upward, defiant, gasping as she broke through. Sunlight blinded her.

Alice jerked awake, the sharp taste of salt lingering on her tongue, her body tangled in the sheets. The echo of the wave still thundered in her ears. The sunlight slanted through the bedroom window, blinding. Her pulse thrummed in her neck as if the sea still had its grip on her.

“You’re okay. You’re okay. It was a dream. Just a nightmare.”

What if it wasn’t just a nightmare?

Swinging her legs over the edge of the bed, Alice’s feet hit the cold floor. Had Swiss psychiatrist and dream analysis pioneer, Carl Jung ever felt this unsettled after one of his dreams? Had his own night visions ever made him question his grasp on reality?

Her eyes flickered to the bedside table and her Red Book: the dream journal she’d named after Jung’s own. Ever since she was young, she’d written down her dreams. But this one felt radically different from the rest.

It was too real, though it clearly wasn’t literal. She lived more than an hour from the nearest beach and had never been to it. Was the dream a symbolic glimpse into her own future? A warning? Or something darker, deeper?

It was just a dream. Maybe it was just all the energy she’d poured into teaching Jungian dream analysis spilling out cathartically in a nightmare.

The feeling of drowning clung to her.

She grabbed her journal and scribbled out every detail of the dream. The ocean. The wave. The suffocating terror. Jung had called the act of recording dreams an act of self-analysis—so why did this one feel more like a clear and present danger than an analysis? Was it the forbidden mystery Jung had hinted at in his Red Book—that thin line between genius and insanity where revelation could be found?

Was her obsession with dreams driving her mad?

It was her calling, her passion. Perhaps, as director of the new program in Jungian Studies at the University of Central Florida, she could teach her students what she had dreamt and encourage them to analyze it; maybe it would be cathartic for them and for her.

What if her students were the key to unlocking the deeper meanings of her own dream? She could see herself standing before the class, scrawling on the blackboard, her voice filled with energy as she taught them about using their dreams to peer into possible futures, even to shape reality. Inception—she would reference that for sure, the perfect movie fix to illustrate how the subconscious could manipulate perception and even reality.

What better way to introduce her students to the power of their own dreaming minds?

Alice pushed herself out of bed as the sinking feeling of the dream still clung tight. Blinking rapidly in front of her bedroom mirror, she forced herself to take deep breaths. Her long dark hair framing the mismatched eyes staring right back at her: one blue, one brown. She had always hated this difference. Always hidden it behind a pair of blue lenses.

A perfect illusion of normalcy, her blue lenses. They always worked—ever since she was 14, when her mother had taken her to the ophthalmologist to prevent the cruel teasing at school.

Alice slipped them on, as though the simple act could shield her from her nightmare.

The rhythm of her repeated blinking to help the lenses settle helped bring a semblance of calm.

Something was coming, though; she could feel it. Something was drawing her, pulling her into the unknown. Could she rise above and survive it?

Alice dressed the part for her day ahead and stepped out into the bright light of the day.

Was the drowning nightmare a message? A warning? And if so, a warning about what?

– Excerpted from NightBorn by Theresa Cheung, Collective Ink, 2025. Reprinted with permission.

Buy on Amazon Kindle | Paperback | Bookshop.org

About the Author

Theresa Cheung is an internationally bestselling author and public speaker. She has been writing about spirituality, dreams and the paranormal for the past 25 years, and was listed by Watkins Mind Body and Spirit magazine as one of the 100 most spiritually influential living people in 2023. She has a degree in Theology and English from Kings College, Cambridge University, frequently collaborating with leading scientists and neuroscientists researching consciousness.

Theresa is regularly featured in national newspapers and magazines, and she is a frequent radio, podcast and television guest and ITV: This Morning's regular dream decoding expert. She hosts her own popular spiritual podcast called White Shores and weekly live UK Health Radio Show: The Healing Power of Your Dreams.

You can visit her website at www.theresacheung.com or connect with her on X, Facebook, Instagram or Goodreads.

Spotlight: Elf on the Edge by Alina Jacobs

(The Wynter Brothers, #3)

Publication date: November 4th 2025

Genres: Adult, Comedy, Contemporary, Holiday, Romance

Hire a hitman to take out my cheating ex? It was an eggnog-fueled mistake, I swear!

On Christmas Eve, my perfect fiancé stands up at the altar to declare his pure undying love… for my evil stepsister.
Cue public humiliation, a ruined wedding, and me crawling back to my small hometown to work minimum wage at my granny’s Christmas café.
Just living the holiday dream.

But I refuse to show up sad and alone to my cheating ex and man-stealing stepsister’s engagement party.
I’ll be devoured by gossipy small-town vultures.
So I do what any rational woman would: empty her bank account, max out her credit cards, and hire a high-end escort with the Merry Christmas package.
Too bad I mess up the number and accidentally hire… a hitman.
Oops.
This is why I hate making phone calls.

I realize I’m screwed when Talbot Wynter crashes the party all combat boots, dirty jeans, and washboard abs.
He feels me up, drinks all the booze, flirts with my grandmother, then tries to off my cheating ex in his hotel room.
I scream and make him stop him because I may or may not still pathetically have feelings for my ex.

Talbot thinks I’m insane.
He might be right.
But his company has a strict no-refunds policy.
Now I’m stuck dragging this six-foot-five, potty-mouthed menace of an ex-Marine to Christmas tree cuttings, gingerbread baking, and holiday parties—
All while he tries to convince me to let him take out my ex so he can go snowboarding.

But what if my ex is moved by the holiday spirit and realizes he still loves me and comes home for Christmas?
Or, he would if I could just get this hitman out of my bedroom… and my panties.

Holiday hamster-wheel victims assemble! We’re dodging holiday drama, downing peppermint schnapps, and fending off meddling grandmothers with boundary issues and a death grip on our dating lives. This standalone holiday romantic comedy is packed with chaos, Christmas cookies, and a filthy-mouthed bad boy (and that’s not steel in his pants) guaranteed to leave you swooning under the mistletoe. Happily ever after and holiday cheer guaranteed!

Excerpt

“Wait, where are you going? I thought we were having sex,” I wail as he opens up the window and swings one leg out. 

“Excuse me?” He swivels back inside and pulls off the black mask. “Why in the hell would I have sex with you?” 

“Are you kidding me right now? Are you fucking—because you’re a fucking prostitute.” I’m sobbing now. “And I paid you a fuck-ton of money to pretend to be my boyfriend and to have sex with me.” 

His mouth drops open. 

It would be funny if all my money weren’t gone. 

“Gumdrop.” He jumps back into the room, the soft shoes silent on the carpet. “You did what?” 

“You’re a high-end escort, but you really don’t live up to the promise.” I sniffle.

I’m fishing for more mini bottles. Talbot slams the fridge door. 

“You really have drunk too much.” He cups my face. “Gumdrop. You paid me to assassinate your ex, Austen Langley. Remember?”

“Assassinate? Like kill, kill? Or just like, you’re going to glitter-bomb him?” I squeak.

“Yeah, ‘Grandma gets run over by a reindeer’ level of dead.” 

My knees collapse, and I plop down on the floor like Christmas cookie dough.

“I did a… you’re a… I hired an…”

“Assassin?” He unzips the black bag and pulls out the biggest gun. Like, comically large. Movie-villain large. Plus three knives and what might be a torture device along with zip ties and duct tape.

My stomach twists. 

“I prefer hitman,” he says, cheerful, like we’re chatting over wine and charcuterie. “Assassin sounds a little bougie. I just kill people and make it look like an accident.” 

“I’ve made a huge mistake,” I groan.

“For Austen,” he rambles, obviously pleased with himself, “it’s going to look like he partied too hard and paid the price.” 

“Then, but the—” I point to the gun, trying not to hyperventilate.

“This?” he gives it a kiss. “Just a little insurance policy in case things go south. But I have a pretty good plan in place. No one will think he’s been murdered. Everyone saw him downing drink after drink. All the women are off in the hot tub. All his NHL friends are super drunk.”

Talbot shows me his phone. There’s Brielle on the livestream doing a stripper dance, all for the eyes of my fake boyfriend. Shoot, my fake fake boyfriend, because…

Because a cold-blooded killer is standing in my suite, grinning like this is the most fun he’s had in weeks. I start scooching back on the carpet. 

Now that I see it, I can’t unsee it. The dead eyes, the total lack of empathy in his face, the glee as he describes how he’s going to kill Austen, my Austen, my one true love. 

Buy on Amazon Kindle | Paperback | Audible | Bookshop.org

About the Author

I write the kind of books I love—romantic comedies featuring snarly guys with hearts of gold, kick-ass heroines, and a swoon-worthy happily ever after! Also wine. And cupcakes.

When I’m not writing I can be found drinking tea, surrounded by my massive to-be-read pile! So many books...

You can connect with me on social media or find information on my books at my website.

Sign up for my newsletter so that you can get information about new releases, giveaways, and more!

http://alinajacobs.com/mailinglist.html

Connect:

http://alinajacobs.com/

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Elf on the Edge Blitz

Spotlight: The Champagne Crush by Caroline O’ Connell

(Les Femmes Series)

Publication date: September 16th 2025

Genres: Adult, Contemporary, Romance

Catherine Reynolds has enjoyed a life of luxury, but her diplomat parents have cut her off financially, leaving her flat broke. She is determined to turn things around and gain her independence—so, when an old family friend offers her a lifeline as a PR consultant for his sparkling wine company, she jumps at the chance. But working with Chris McDermott, the company’s sexy, stubborn president, is anything but easy.

A purist at heart, Chris clashes with Catherine’s glitzy marketing flair; still, the chemistry between them is undeniable. As they travel from New York to Napa, Paris, and the Champagne region of France, their partnership blossoms amid high-stakes industry rivalries and a launch that could make or break them.

When sabotage threatens to shatter their dreams, Catherine must dig deep to prove her worth. With the dazzling unveiling of their new sparkling wine in Bordeaux in jeopardy, will she and Chris overcome the challenges of the past and present to secure their future—and find love in the process?

Excerpt from THE CHAMPAGNE CRUSH: scene in the Champagne Region of France.

Catherine rode up front with Frédéric. The short drive from Trianon to Hautvillers, a picturesque “high village,” took them up a narrow, winding road barely changed for centuries. Along the route, they passed well-preserved ancient buildings, some displaying forged-iron signs from a different era. Frédéric pulled up to the Abbey of Hautvillers. The small historic church overlooked fields of vineyards in the valley below.

“For Champenois,” Frédéric said, “this is considered the birthplace of champagne. Other regions were experimenting with sparkling wine, but this was the place in France, in Champagne.”

He led them to a patio where an ice bucket and three flutes sat on a small table. “Let’s take a moment to savor a good French champagne, while I tell the story.” He pulled a bottle of Moët’s Dom Pérignon out of the ice bucket and opened it. “It’s appropriate to drink this champagne, since Moët & Chandon named their prestige blend after Dom Pérignon.” He filled the flutes. “Let’s toast.”

Frédéric began. In 1668, a young Benedictine monk, Pierre Pérignon, became  cellarmaster of the Abbey at Hautvillers. Dom was a title given to certain Benedictine monks, so he was called Dom Pérignon. At the time, the abbey was making still wine.

Hautvillers, in the Falaises de Champagne, has a cool northern climate. Pérignon noticed when the weather turned warm in spring some bottles of wine became effervescent. By accident, they had gone through a second fermentation, creating bubbly wine. Through trial and error, Pérignon determined that wine yeast went dormant in cold temperatures. In spring, the remaining leftover yeast initiated another fermentation, creating the bubbles.

“We’re talking about a lot of bubbles,” Frédéric said. He explained the bottles couldn’t withstand the additional pressure. Many bottles shattered or the wood plugs popped out, causing spillage. Eventually, Dom Pérignon came up with a cork plug to hermetically seal the bottles, trapping the bubbles in.

“There were still many broken bottles,” Frédéric laughed, “until they devised a way to make stronger bottles.” Future champagne producers learned how to create the millions of bubbles in each bottle by adding yeast to the blended still wine for the second fermentation.

“A sip to celebrate this monk and his gift to the world.” Frédéric lifted his flute. Chris thoroughly enjoyed Frédéric’s description. Catherine seemed mesmerized and made a few notes.

“Pérignon devoted his life to the abbey until he died in 1715,” Frédéric said. “And now, let’s pay our respects.” He led them into the small church to view Dom Pérignon’s tombstone.

They walked back to the car in contemplative silence. Frédéric checked his phone. “We have time to drive by the church in Reims, if you’d like to see it.”

“I’d love to,” Catherine said. “My parents were married at Notre-Dame de Paris, a similar Gothic cathedral.”

Traffic was light. They arrived in Reims, the capital of Champagne, thirty minutes later. Frédéric pulled up to the plaza in front of the cathedral. He gestured to the edifice. “This church has an important historical significance in France. Starting in the thirteenth century, it was chosen for the coronation of French kings”—he paused—“for six hundred years.”

“That’s a long time,” Chris said.

“One of the most famous coronations was the crowning of Charles the Seventh in 1429, attended by Joan of Arc. Jeanne d’Arc, in French,” he added. “Unfortunately, not long after, she was captured by the English and put to death for helping French fighters during the Hundred Years’ War.”

“Sad story,” Catherine said. She stepped out of the car and took a few photos of the facade.

When she got back in, Frédéric drove a few miles to their destination. It was clear the main business of Reims was champagne. Markers indicating numerous champagne houses, including Taittinger and Veuve Clicquot, popped up along the route. Right before the approach to Les Crayères, they passed a sign for Pommery Champagne.

Frédéric pulled into a parking spot. “We’re here.” He got out of the car to see them off.

“Thank you, Frédéric, for making us feel so welcome,” Chris said. “You’ve been a great host and guide.” Chris shook his hand, and Catherine and Frédéric shared air kisses on both cheeks.

“You’ll have to visit us in New York sometime,” Catherine said.

“It’s my dream to go to the US,” Frédéric said. “En tout cas, I will see you in Bordeaux in June.”

“Yes, in two months,” Chris said. 

As they walked up to the entrance, Chris stifled the urge to hold Catherine’s hand. She gave him his tie and pulled out a multicolored scarf that she wrapped around her neck.

Chris admired the breathtaking classic French château set in the midst of lush parkland. Yves texted he was running late, so they opted to wait in the bar. After perusing the carte of champagnes by the glass, Chris chose Pommery. Appropriate, since the château was built by that family. A brochure on the table relayed the history.

Les Crayères was built for Louise Pommery, the Duchess of Polignac, in 1904. Decades later, it became a twenty-room château for guests, boasting a gourmet restaurant and luxurious rooms overlooking manicured gardens. One reviewer called it “a Versailles in miniature . . . the stuff of honeymoons and weekend-away liaisons.”

Their flutes were served cold, the way he liked it. They tapped glasses before taking their first sips, very much in sync, like a couple. Chris was starting to sag after a busy day preceded by an early run, but Catherine seemed like the Energizer bunny; that is, if said rabbit wore a short slim dress showcasing killer legs, which he now knew could run like the wind.

Catherine set her glass down. “This is good champagne. Smart choice for the setting. The Pommerys built a lovely château.”

“This place is pretty spectacular,” he agreed, then couldn’t resist adding, “I know who I want to bring here for the two-night stay I won in the auction.”

Excerpt from The Champagne Crush by Caroline O’Connell, courtesy of SparkPress, an imprint of The Stable Book Group.  

Buy on Amazon Kindle | Paperback | Bookshop.org

About the Author

CAROLINE O’CONNELL has written five travel guides and numerous travel articles for magazines, newspapers, and websites. Her Romance In Paris guide has won widespread praise: “There is no better person to guide you through Paris than Caroline” — Peter Greenberg, the Travel Detective, radio host, and Travel Editor on CBS-TV. And Library Journal raved — “Reading this breezy but informative guide to Paris is like having a series of conversations with a well-traveled friend…”

Her debut novel, THE CHAMPAGNE CRUSH: A Romance Novel (Spark Press), is due out on September 16, 2025.

Connect:

https://carolinestraveltips.com/

https://x.com/ParisRomance

https://www.goodreads.com/author/show/55836180.Caroline_O_Connell

Spotlight: Dawn of the Firebird by Sarah Mughal Rana

For fans of The Poppy War, She Who Became the Sun, and The Will of the Many, a breathtaking fantasy novel about the daughter of an overthrown emperor from an exciting new voice.

Khamilla Zahr-zad’s life has been built on a foundation of violence and vengeance. Every home she’s known has been destroyed by war. As the daughter of an emperor’s clan, she spent her childhood training to maintain his throne. But when her clansmen are assassinated by another rival empire, plans change. With her heavenly magic of nur, Khamilla is a weapon even enemies would wield—especially those in the magical, scholarly city of Za’skar. Hiding her identity, Khamilla joins the enemy’s army school full of jinn, magic, and martial arts, risking it all to topple her adversaries, avenge her clan, and reclaim their throne.

To survive, she studies under cutthroat mystic monks and battles in a series of contests to outmaneuver her fellow soldiers. She must win at all costs, even if it means embracing the darkness lurking inside her. But the more she excels, the more she is faced with history that contradicts her father’s teachings. With a war brewing amongst the kingdoms and a new twisted magic overtaking the land, Khamilla is torn between two impossible choices: vengeance or salvation.

Excerpt

Before…

Year 495 after Nuh’s great flood,

Era of the heavenly birds

Tezmi’a Mountains, Azadniabad Empire

I would inherit the power of the Heavens, Uma had said so.

But my power was a curse, this she did not have to say. Like any great legend, my tale began with tragedy.

In the stories later recounted from my maternal uncle, my uma had a glad-tiding the night of my birth, as all mothers of gifted children did. It was near the winter solstice in the year 495, she dreamt of light emanating from my infant body, bathing her in a cool glow. She knew the Divine had shown the power I would come to inherit: nūr, cold Heavenly light, the same spiritual power that flows through the firebird.

But that night when I sprang free of Uma’s womb, our chieftains dreamt of a world of darkness. War and destruction. She is an omen, the tribe murmured, despite my uncle the khan reprimanding their frivolous superstitions. Her mother refuses to name her, nor does her father, the Great Emperor, accept her. With his many wives and heirs, this child is but one of many. But Uma knew in her heart that blessings came with a little suffering, that was the Divine’s way. My child is neither cursed nor omen. She has the affinity of light. Uma liked her secrets. This one she tucked close to her chest.

In the spring pastures of our valley Tezmi’a, that year brought a drought that starved the lands, killing portions of herd. Other peculiar happenings sowed fear in the tribe: more raids, more deaths. When Uma suckled me, wild birds would encircle the yurt before flapping into the felt tents, spilling dried meat, spoiling the yak milk and provoking our hunting birds.

‘The girl is cursed,’ my clansmen argued.

‘The girl is simply a girl. And we are God-fearing men,’ my uncle would reprimand. ‘We blame misfortune on no one but our own sins.’

‘But the birds,’ the tribe would insist, ‘they surround the babe. She is unnatural!’ It was true – wherever I was carried there was the sweep of wings above, and birdsong from the trees.

Swaddling me close, the khan’s most favoured wife spoke. Babshah Khatun. To her, not one dared argue. ‘Enough, you superstitious fools. She is a blessing who has brought forth more birds for hunting. She is unusual; but, unusual children bear the greatest gifts. However I hear your fear. The chief folkteller has the hearts of their kinsmen, for they carry the histories of our sorrows. As your folkteller, Divine as my witness, I will make this babe my apprentice. She will carry with her the tales of your greatest joys and fears until the end of her days.’

The stern lady, though young, never broke her oaths. In irony, her oath became my curse. 

In the winter quarters, the best pastures were south of the alpine lake. That year, the khan’s tribe erected their yurts and herded thousands of yaks, wild mares and lambs at the base of the harsh snow-capped mountains, amongst the rolling green alpine meadows, thin grass growing above cold dirt. From the lake, icy streams broke through the rocky grasslands of Tezmi’a.

It was my seventh Flood Festival, commemorating the day Nuh left the ark after the Great Flood. That morning, the children competed, to see whose prized hunting bird would find the keenest prey. Before long, the khan’s favoured wife interrupted and led the children up the pastures until they reached the end of the settlement of tents, toward the thick woodland. 

Some of the tribe’s warriors, who’d escorted goods and cattle across the mountain pass for the emperor’s merchants, rested against the boundary of trees, waxing their compound bows. Others sipped apricot tea to fling back the wet chill, nodding to us in greeting. The khan sat with them, my uma – his sister – beside him. When she spotted our group, Uma scowled and stalked toward us.

‘O, Babshah, what senseless idea do you have now?’

Babshah Khatun merely smiled in silence. Uma placed a hand against my back, staring at the hunting birds cowing upon my shoulder. She warned, ‘Do not go too south of the mountain pass. There are patrols from the enemy clans who snatch away children like her.’

Still Babshah Khatun continued deep into the womb of the valley, past protruding boulders, and clumps of elm, into the tall deep grasses that fattened the wild onagers. Trails where humans rarely ventured, and the jinn-folk still reigned. The wind whispered into the children’s hair. The entombed roots of wizened trees sprawled through the woodlands, and whizzing sprites, those mischievous little apprentices to the long-passed fae of these lands, showered seeds to pollinate the flora. A deceivingly drowsy day for the violence that it promised. A place where the old ways still mattered and the Divine-made boundary between jinn-folk and human blurred.

Determined, I tripped along next to Babshah, resisting the urge to clasp the long end of her yak leather tunic, lest she think me not brave. Even my hunting buzzards on my shoulders canted their heads, curious.

Babshah sat squat and brushed her pale hand across the dirt. Her black hair swung with the wind, a dozen thin braids clasped in silver beads and an array of hawk feathers, not dissimilar to my own. The only difference was a camel-skin cord around her temple with a blue wooden block indicating her status as a wife of the khan.

‘Today, we will do a new type of hunt,’ Babshah declared. ‘Hunting by folktelling.’

The children murmured amongst themselves, but Babshah did not elaborate. Instead, she latched on to my hand – ‘Prepare yourself, my apprentice’ – before continuing along the fir path.

When we stopped, and it came time for our hunting pairings, my milk-sibling Haj refused to take me as a partner. He was ten years old, only three years my senior, but the gap was large enough to fuel his arrogance. He took his complaints to Babshah.

‘My uma says to stay away from her, else she will curse my bird’s game! I train with a spotted sparrowhawk. The girl trains with a pair of sooty buzzards. Smaller and useless, just like her. With all the birds that follow her, she will scare away the prey.’

‘I may be Ayşenor’s only child, but I am not useless,’ I muttered, keeping my lip from trembling.

***

Excerpted from Dawn of the Firebird by Sarah Mughal Rana, Copyright © 2025 by Sarah Mughal rana. Published by Hanover Square Press.

Buy on Amazon Kindle | Hardcover | Audible | Bookshop.org

About the Author

SARAH MUGHAL RANA is a Muslim author and student who completed her bachelors with honours at the University of Toronto and is now at Oxford University, studying at the intersection of economics and policy. She is a BookTok personality and the co-host of On The Write Track Podcast where she enjoys spilling tea with her favourite authors about the book world. Her debut YA novel, Hope Ablaze, published in February 2024. Outside of school, she falls down history rabbit holes and trains in traditional martial arts.

Connect:

Author Website: https://www.sarahmughalrana.net/

Tik Tok: https://www.tiktok.com/@sarahmughal769 

Instagram: https://www.instagram.com/sarahmughal769 

Spotlight: Bad Crush on a Rockstar by Kitt Henley

(Soulmates, #3)

Publication date: November 25th 2025

Genres: Adult, Contemporary, Romance

A spicy brother’s-best-friend romance featuring a cinnamon roll rockstar hero haunted by his past, a plucky heroine with a childhood crush, slow seduction, hometown shows, and rapidly crumbling resolve.

She’s my best friend’s little sister, and she's got a bad crush. But I'm the one who can't stay away from her.

SEAN: When I first laid eyes on Brooke Halsey, she was just a sweet, freckle-faced kid with enormous glasses and an even bigger crush on me. 

But there's no denying she's all grown up now.

She's running the merch table while my rock band's home on tour, and even though we've never been more than good friends, I know she's game. I'd totally go for it too, if I didn't already know I'd break her heart, destroy my band, and lose Jonah—our drummer, my best friend, and her brother.

He’s made it clear he does not want me messing around with his little sister. He knows Brooke’s serious about finding love and playing for keeps. So a rock musician with no fallback plan and no permanent address is the last thing she needs. 

Which is why I'm in deep trouble right now…

Because last night…I kissed her.

---
The Soulmates Series: Two bands. Three shows. Four happily ever afters.
Bad Crush on a Rockstar is a complete romance with no cliffhanger. This story can be enjoyed as a stand-alone or read as the third book in the Soulmates interwoven rockstar romance series.

Excerpt

“Knock, knock,” Lexie croons through the curtain, her knuckles rapping at the edge of my bunk. “We’re just about there, if you need to pack up.”

“Thanks.” I slide the curtain to one side and sit up, swinging my legs over the edge as I rub my eyes. I peer through the large bay window at the Chicago skyline shimmering in the sun as we roll along the freeway.

Artie and our backup driver took shifts all night and all through the day to get us here. We usually sleep on the bus when we’re on tour, but since we’re here for several days, the label offered to put us up in a hotel. Anthony opted to stay at his family’s penthouse this week because it’s nearby and empty right now, but the rest of us were happy to accept. We all grew up here, so we could’ve crashed with family or friends, but using the hotel as a home base simplifies things. It gives us some space and privacy to decompress, and it also helps avoid some of the social demands of being back in town. I’m looking forward to having a little privacy and sleeping in a normal-size bed for a change.

I’m still organizing my bunk area as the bus turns down Michigan Avenue. I pick out some clothes for the week and stuff them into my large duffle bag.

We pull up in front of the hotel, and I sling my duffle over my shoulder.

“You kids have a good time, now, all right?” Artie calls back to us. “Be safe.”

“Will do. Thanks for the ride, Artie, and have a great rest of the week!” I lug my bag down the aisle and push open the side door.

A gust of cold air rushes inside, whipping the door panel from my grip and slamming it against the exterior of the bus.

“Whoa.” I step outside, holding an arm out to brace the door as the other two exit.

“Good old Chicago,” Lexie jokes.

I glance up toward the hotel. The Drake in downtown Chicago is a sight to behold. We’ve stayed here once before, but it still takes my breath away. This place is fancy. Sleek, clean lines of gleaming beige stone. This kind of extravagance is always a shock to my system.

The bellhop places our luggage on a cart, and the doorman holds the door for us, then we cross the smooth carpeted floor to the elegant front desk.

“Three reservations for Garrett Music Industries,” Jonah says to the man behind the counter, then he winks at Lexie.

I glance over to catch her reaction, but she’s staring straight ahead like nothing happened.

Something’s up with those two. But they’re always playing games and finding ways to compete with each other, so who knows what this is about.

My luggage shows up at the room just as I do, and I stretch out on the bed to relax for a minute before hopping in the shower.

The water’s hot and the pressure’s fantastic—about a thousand times better than on the bus. I let it run over my shoulders, easing the tension in my back. My mind is already shifting to Brooke. Seeing her tonight.

Because here’s the thing.

I love Brooke.

Not in a romantic way—at least, it’s never been that way between us. No, I love Brooke in an honest, good, and true kind of way. The way it feels when you realize you would do anything for a person. That you would always be there for them, no matter what.

Brooke’s done that for me too, right from the start. She noticed I was struggling with school and offered to help. When she found out I wanted to start playing bass, she came up with a plan for me to earn enough money doing odd jobs so I could buy one off a friend.

From that very first day my family moved into their house, she was finding thoughtful things to do and making lighthearted jokes to keep the mood up. And it helped. It didn’t feel so awkward being there, living in their home and taking up their space.

She had this sweet, round face full of freckles and thick glasses that made her brown eyes look enormous—almost big enough to match her outsized personality. She was adorable.

But then she grew up.

It was hard not to notice, because once she started to develop, it happened fast. I remember Jonah and I were walking through the halls on the first day of senior year, and I was looking around for any cute new faces on campus. I couldn’t believe my eyes when I spotted a girl with a pair of the most beautiful breasts I’d ever seen in my life.

I leaned toward Jonah, whispering, “Check it out, nine o’clock,” and angling a thumb at the hottie with the body that just wouldn’t quit.

“What the fuck, man?” Jonah scowled, his expression suddenly menacing. “Shut the fuck up!”

Imagine my horror when the hot little number turned to face me and I realized I was checking out Jonah’s little sister.

“Holy shit. I didn’t even recognize her with…uh…without her glasses on.”

It was too late. The damage was done.

Brooke was only fourteen, for God’s sake. I felt like a monster, but she smiled so big and came over to hug both of us. It was all I could do not to stare straight at those incredible breasts and wonder what the hell happened over the summer.

Jonah was chilly around me for days after, and I felt like a total ass. I’d never had a friend like Jonah, and I hated that I’d done something to damage our relationship. I had to apologize multiple times, but eventually he seemed to forgive me.

“Seriously, man. Hands off my sister,” he warned, and I nodded.

“For sure, man. I swear to God, I would never lay a hand on her.” I made him that promise, and I meant it.

But toward the middle of senior year, things got…complicated. Brooke and I had been spending a lot of time together at the library while she helped me study for midterms, and one afternoon she had on this short green dress that showed more of her cleavage than I was accustomed to dealing with. Still, I managed to keep my eyes off her chest and up toward her pretty face, for the most part.

She was reading me an excerpt from George Orwell’s Nineteen Eighty-Four, but I couldn’t concentrate. There was this shiny gloss she had on, and it made that bottom lip look so juicy and delicious that I couldn’t stop staring at it. Just watching her beautiful mouth as she read was sending this tingle up and down my spine. My jeans felt tight, and I realized she was giving me a serious hard-on.

I cut our study session short and tried to adjust myself without anyone noticing. I booked it out of there so fast she must have wondered what the hell happened. I kicked myself all the way home, because what the fuck was I doing having sexual feelings for Brooke? She was my best friend’s little sister. I felt like the universe was playing some kind of cruel joke on me, putting such a wonderful young person inside that smoking hot body.

And she Just. Kept. Getting. Hotter.

Of course, by the time she was old enough for me to act on my feelings—assuming I would even go there, given she’s a good friend and Jonah’s sister and all, which I wouldn’t—it was clear Brooke was destined for better things than a guy like me. While I was off working odd jobs in construction and trying to get a band started, Brooke was completing the Visual Design program at Carnegie Mellon University on a full merit scholarship.

I never should have responded to her seductive tease on the phone today. She’s always playing around like that, flirting with me, and normally I keep it in check. But I got caught up in the moment, and when she took that sultry tone with me, I went with it. I played along with her sexy little game, because—let’s face it—Brooke is hot as hell, and it feels good to be wanted by her.

It feels way too good.

Which is exactly why I cannot be flirting with her. I don’t ever want to ruin the close friendship we have. Plus, she’s had a crush on me since middle school, and she’s naïve about love. She doesn’t realize I’m the last fucking thing she needs, so I can’t be toying with her emotions like that—getting her hopes up that something might happen between us when I know damn well it would never work.

She dreams of having kids someday, the sooner the better. She’s looking for something serious. Long-term. But I don’t have the kind of career that can support a family, and there’s no way in hell I’m going to repeat my dad’s mistakes—bringing children into an unstable financial situation.

No, if I keep this flirting shit up she’s gonna end up getting hurt, and I’ll only have myself to blame.

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About the Author

Kitt Henley writes short, spicy contemporary romance with relatable characters, a touch of humor, and tons of heart. Never one to make it through a good romance (or cookie commercial) with dry eyes, Kitt's heartstrings are easy to pull on. When she played in rock bands and crunched numbers in the Seattle tech world, those waterworks weren't an asset, but after a friend suggested she try writing romance, everything clicked into place. From the moment she sat down to write her first novel, she knew she'd found her calling.

When she's not wrangling words in her tiny bedroom office, Kitt loves to spend time with her high school best friend (a.k.a. her rockstar husband) and their two ridiculously funny boys. She's still holding out hope for that family band someday, but in the meantime she'll happily settle for camping trips, board games, long walks with friends, and watching lots and lots of thrillers.

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https://kitthenley.com/

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https://www.bookbub.com/authors/kitt-henley

https://www.goodreads.com/author/show/57470312.Kitt_Henley

Bad Crush on a Rockstar Blitz

Spotlight: Watch Us Fall by Christina Kovac

Lucy Ambrose is living the postgrad life she’d hoped for, far away from the stifling small town in Georgia she couldn’t wait to get out of. She and her three best friends Estella, Penelope, and Addie share a Georgetown row house and call themselves The Sweeties. Their lives are dominated by early-career striving and the drama of young love. That is of course until Addie’s ex-boyfriend Josh suddenly goes missing. Josh Egan isn’t just any DC up-and-comer. He’s a star investigative broadcast journalist from a prominent political family with skeletons in the closet. As the Sweeties’ lives are upended by the search for Josh and the media’s speculation, Lucy becomes determined to get to the bottom of what happened. But the more questions she asks, the more the detectives suspect the roommates know more than they are letting on. And Lucy has a few long-buried secrets of her own she is desperate to protect…

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About the Author

Christina Kovac is the author of The Cutaway. She worked for seventeen years managing Washington, DC, newsrooms and producing crime and political stories in the District. Her career as a television journalist began with Fox Five’s Ten O’Clock News, and after that, the ABC affiliate in Washington and then at NBC news. She lives with her family outside of Washington, DC.