Book Tour ~ A Round of Golf with Jesus by George Miller

 

Christian Inspirational / Devotional Nonfiction

Date Published: July 8th, 2026

Publisher: Acorn Publishing

Faith and golf have a way of humbling us. They both seem more complicated than they are and harder to master than we expect. PGA professional George Miller has discovered that each is meant to bring joy, peace, and grace rather than frustration.

In A Round of Golf with Jesus, Miller invites readers to walk nine holes beside him and Christ, exploring how simple shifts, on the course and in the heart, can lead to transformation. With gentle humor, Miller shares personal stories, devotional insights, and practical teachings to remind us we can find fulfillment when we let go of perfection.

If we trust God’s guidance and focus on being present, golf and life become far more rewarding.

Hello, Jesus. Thank you so much for joining me for nine holes of golf. Do you mind if I start by telling a joke that has you in it?

“No, I don’t mind at all, sounds like fun!”

A gentleman has died and gone to heaven. He is excited to see if there is golf in heaven, and he makes a tee time for the next day.

He tees off and a few holes into the round, he looks over to the hole next to him and sees a guy trying to hit an incredibly hard shot, 220-yard carry over water to a small green with sand traps. He asks his playing partner, “Who does that guy think he is—Jesus Christ?” The playing partner replies, “No, that is Jesus Christ. He thinks he’s Arnold Palmer.”

Before we head to the range to warm up, can I ask you what you thought of the introduction?

“Sure, let’s start driving in the car. You asked a wonderful question: Am I in heaven? and the question was directed to me.

“You sensed that I answered you, but not in your own voice. That’s often how I speak: not through volume but through knowing. A week or two later, it hit you—if you were answering your own question, you wouldn’t have said, ‘due to your lifelong faith in me.’ You would have said, ‘due to your lifelong faith in Jesus.’

“You felt pretty certain that the answer had come from me. This is a great example of how it works to listen and react to impressions that you receive from me!

“To reiterate to the readers of this book—when you and I are talking back and forth, you are feeling sensations, not hearing actual words.

“I liked your introduction very much. It will help the readers understand how you went from thinking of writing a book on golf to believing that you could write a book with me that might ‘bring life to families, blessings to the world, and joy to God’s heart.’

“So, George, before we go warm up, why would you want to have me walk with you on these nine holes of golf?”

I have read in my life, several times:

One Solitary Life

Attributed to Dr. James Allan Francis, 1926

He was born in an obscure village.

He worked in a carpenter shop

until he was thirty. He then became

an itinerate preacher.

He never held an office

He never had a family

or owned a house.

He didn’t go to college.

He had no credentials but himself . . .

Nineteen centuries have come and gone,

and today he is the central figure

of the human race.

All the armies that ever marched,

And all the navies that ever sailed,

All the parliaments that ever sat,

and all the kings that ever reigned

have not affected the life of man

on this earth as much as that . . .

One Solitary Life

 

Jesus, I am incredibly excited to have you walking nine holes of golf with me.

Thank you!

I love you!

I trust you!

“George, my Father and I love you and trust you! Let’s head to the range and get started!”

  

About the Author

George Miller is a PGA teaching professional and lifelong athlete with over thirty years of coaching and instructional experience. A Denver native, he played four years of collegiate golf at the University of Colorado Boulder before coaching both the boys' and girls' golf teams at Regis Jesuit High School. The girls’ teams earned three state championships under his guidance, and he received multiple Coach of the Year honors from The Denver Post. Known for his encouraging teaching style and deep love of the game, George has helped countless players connect with the joy and simplicity of golf. In his debut book, A Round of Golf with Jesus, he offers heartfelt reflections on sport, faith, and the quiet ways in which God meets us on the course and in life. Of all his golf partners, his favorite is his son, with whom he shares many of his most meaningful rounds.

 

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Teaser ~ ROGUE - Reckless Kings MC by Harley Wylde

 

(Reckless Kings MC 10)

MC Romance

Date Published: July 24, 2026

Publisher: Changeling Press

She ran from a monster. I became her shield -- and everyone else’s nightmare.

Lennox -- I was supposed to marry a man chosen by my family. Smile for the cameras. Say the vows. Do what I was told. The wedding wasn’t about love. It was a business deal, and I was the price being paid.

So I ran. Terrified. Still wearing my wedding dress. I didn’t have a plan. I didn’t have anywhere to go. Then a biker named Rogue stopped beside the road and changed everything.

Rogue -- I’ve spent years handling problems for the Reckless Kings MC. Quietly. Permanently. Picking up a runaway bride wasn’t part of the plan. Neither was getting married. One look at the bruises she tried to hide and the fear she couldn’t quite mask, and I knew one thing for certain. She wasn’t going back.

Now her wealthy family, powerful ex-fiancé, and anyone else stupid enough to come after her will have to deal with me first. The longer Lennox stays under my protection, the harder it becomes to remember this started as a way to keep her safe. She deserves freedom, a future, and the chance to choose her own path. What she doesn’t realize is that I’ve already made my choice. She’s mine. And nobody is taking her away.

 

Excerpt

Copyright ©2026 Harley Wylde

Rogue

The lot at Hadley’s sat empty -- one rusted Buick, a flickering sodium light, dead still except for the canopy buzz. I rolled the Harley under the canopy and killed the engine. The noise dropped away. The night pressed close.

I’d been on the road since nine, a pointless run Hawk sent me on to check a stretch of road south of Nashville. Two of our guys thought they’d picked up a tail last week. I’d seen nothing but dark asphalt. Now, twenty minutes from turning north for home, I was hungry, bone-tired, and needed gas. Hadley’s had it all.

I swung off the bike and stretched the road out of my shoulders. The canopy lights hummed. Inside the store, a kid in a Titans cap sat behind the counter with his face in his phone, and a country station played thin from a blown speaker mounted by the cigarette racks. I paid him cash for two gallons of regular, picked up a black coffee and a Slim Jim I wouldn’t eat, and walked back out under the buzzing light and its collected moths.

I was about to unlock the gas tank when I clocked the white.

It was a flicker, no more -- a piece of something pale catching the edge of the security light around the corner of the building, where the dumpsters sat behind a low cinder block wall the owner had built so the highway couldn’t see the trash. The Buick at the far pump still had no driver. The road was empty in both directions. The tree line beyond the lot was black. Tennessee woods in November swallowed light whole. I stayed at the pump.

I leaned against the pump, uncapped the coffee, and took a long, slow sip I didn’t want. Then I looked. The lot. The road. The tree line. I gave it two minutes. Nothing moved. The flicker of white stayed put.

I set the coffee on top of the pump and walked around the corner of the building.

She was crouched in the gravel between the cinder block wall and the back end of the second dumpster, knees up, the skirt of a dress that had cost somebody a year of salary bunched around her thighs and stained dark at the hem with whatever Hadley’s back lot had to offer. There was a veil in her hair. An actual veil. Pinned high and torn loose at the bottom edge where she’d caught it on something. Brown hair had freed itself from the pins on one side.

She was pressing her left wrist against her ribs.

The wrist was already swelling. Fresh. The skin had gone an angry red and was thinking about turning purple, the kind of mark left by a hand closing around it and yanking hard. It hadn’t happened long ago.

She heard me before she saw me.

Her head came up so fast I thought for a second, she was going to put it into the cinder block behind her. She got her feet under her in one motion. She looked around eighteen. Small. She moved with the twitchy speed of prey, getting her back against the wall, her hands flat to the block at her sides like she could push it down behind her and go through it if she had to.

I stopped several feet from her and put out my hands where she could see them. Palms open. Empty… except for the Slim Jim still in one of them, which was not the dignified detail I would have picked.

I didn’t say anything for a beat. I let her look at me. Let her clock the cut, the patches, the boots, the beard -- whatever she needed. She scanned fast, doing math on the distance between me and the road, where the gap was. She was a girl who had learned how to measure rooms.

The veil moved a little in the night air. She didn’t.

“You hurt?” I kept it short. I kept the road out of my voice -- the put-her-at-ease lilt I used on women at the bar who didn’t know me yet -- because she didn’t need a man being charming at her right now. She needed a man being quiet.

She lifted her chin.

“I’m fine.” The words came too even. Too rehearsed. “I just need a ride.”

Bruised jaw. Swollen wrist. Veil still pinned in her hair.

“Okay,” I said.

She narrowed her eyes half a degree. She’d been ready for the next question. People who looked the way she did were always ready for the next one, and the one after that, and the moment a man decided he’d earned an answer.

I tipped my head back toward the front of the building.

“Bike’s at the pump.”

I waited for the second it took her to understand that I wasn’t going to walk her to it. Then I turned and went back the way I’d come, around the corner of the building, into the buzz of the canopy lights. I topped off the tank, returned the nozzle to the pump, tightened the gas cap. I picked up the cup of coffee from the top of the pump and held it like I had reason to be standing there. I didn’t look back.

A few seconds passed. The night did its small noises. The fluorescent up by the air pump ticked through another bad cycle and gave up, then came back on.

Then I heard the gravel.

Two steps. A pause. Three more, slower, picking the path. I could hear the soft drag of a hem.

I took another sip of the now-cold coffee, and I waited.

She came up on my left, two feet of clearance between us, and stopped at the back end of the bike like she’d been told once, a long time ago, that you didn’t walk up on a man’s machine without permission and she’d never quite let go of the lesson. The dress dragged on the concrete behind her. There was gravel pressed into the white of it in a stripe across the hip. Up close, under the canopy lights, the bruise on her wrist had gone the dirty red of something the next hour was going to make worse.

I’d kept my attention on the road for the last forty seconds because something had started pulling at the inside of my chest before my thinking brain caught up, and a man in my line of work learned to pay attention to that pull or learned to bleed.

That was when the first set of headlights came up out of the dark to the south.

They came slow. Slow enough that I had time to set the coffee down on top of the pump. Slow enough that I had time to read the shape of the vehicle before I clocked the speed of it -- square, high, blacked-out, the kind of SUV nobody bought in this county to haul kids to school. It turned in off the county road without indicating, and the second one came in behind it without indicating either. They didn’t roll up to a pump. They rolled past the pumps. They stopped twenty yards from the front doors of the store, in the open part of the lot where they could see everything, and sat there with their engines running and their windows up.

I felt her go still beside me.

She didn’t make a sound or move. She froze with the instinct of someone who’d learned motion could get her hurt.

I unhooked the helmet from the handlebar.

I held it out to her without looking at her. Sideways, low, between our hips, where the bulk of my body was between it and the SUVs.

“Take it.”

She took it. Both hands. The bruised wrist came out from her ribs and caught the light, and she tightened her fingers around the foam at the helmet’s edge hard enough that the skin across her knuckles pulled flat and colorless.

The driver’s door of the front SUV opened.

A man stepped out. Dark jacket. No coat for the weather, which meant he didn’t plan to be outside long. He didn’t walk toward the store. He stood in the open door of his vehicle with one hand on the frame and the other hand down at his hip where I couldn’t see it, and he scanned the lot -- left to right, slow, taking inventory.

He took clocked the Buick, my bike, and even me.

I threw a leg over the bike.

“Get on.”

She followed the softly spoken command. She didn’t ask which side. She didn’t ask where to put her hands. She scrambled on, hiking the dress up with a clumsy heave. She swung a leg over the seat, her heel scraping against the pipe before her foot found the peg. The helmet bumped once against the back of my shoulder as she settled, grabbing for purchase.

Her fingers dug into my shirt as she held on.

It wasn’t the loose grip of a girl who’d been on the back of a bike before and remembered the etiquette. Both of her hands closed in the front of my jacket like the leather was a railing and she was a half-step from going over, and both fists pressed into my stomach through the cut.

The man in the dark jacket lifted his hand off the SUV’s frame.

I was already moving.

I twisted the throttle. The rear tire spat a plume of gravel, the back end sliding for a split second before it caught traction. We shot out from under the canopy, and I leaned hard into the turn onto the county road. She moved with me instead of fighting it. On a first ride, that was the only thing that kept you upright.

Behind us, a door slammed. Then a second door. The high beams of the second SUV swept across the front of the store, across the pumps and the spot we’d been parked in three seconds ago, and then they swung wide toward the road.

I opened the throttle the rest of the way.

The county highway south of Nashville at eleven-thirty on a weeknight was a black river with a yellow line down the middle of it, and the bike ate it. The tree line on either side blurred into something you couldn’t look at without your eyes watering. Cold came up off the asphalt, through my jeans, through the cuffs of my jacket, and somewhere behind us, in the mirror, the SUV headlights came around onto the road in a wide, scrambling arc and started after us.

They were big vehicles. They were fast on a straight. They were not fast through curves, and I knew every curve on this stretch of road between Hadley’s and the county line by the time I was twenty.

I took the first one without braking.

Her hands clamped tighter. I felt the second fistful of jacket bunch under my ribs. She made a small sound, not quite a word, swallowed almost before it started. She put her helmet against the back of my shoulder and pressed it there. That was all.

I checked the mirror.

The headlights clung to us through the first curves, too bright in my mirror. I knew a feeder road up ahead they wouldn’t expect. I took the turn hard, the tires screaming. I saw their brake lights flare red as they overshot the turn-in. They’d be back, but I’d bought us thirty seconds. It would have to be enough. I didn’t slow down.

The next exit north was a county road. From there, I could hit a web of back roads leading to the woods south of the compound. A man on a bike could get lost in those trees. The men in the SUVs would have to be born in them to follow. I pointed the bike at the exit.

About the Author

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

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

 

Author on Facebook, Instagram, & TikTok: @harleywylde

 

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

 

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Book Tour ~ Welcome to the Wonderful World of Not Giving A F*CK by Oliver Turner

 

Nonfiction / Self-Help

Publication Date: October 9, 2025

What happens when life strips away everything you thought defined you?

In Welcome to the Wonderful World of Not Giving A Fck*, Oliver Turner delivers a bold, brutally honest, and deeply motivational guide to self-love, spirituality, resilience, and personal empowerment. This Amazon Bestselling book is a fresh and unapologetic take on personal growth for readers who are tired of living for everyone else’s approval.

Blending humor, raw truth, and hard-earned wisdom, Oliver Turner shares the mindset shifts that helped him survive life-threatening health battles, devastating personal loss, emotional isolation, and years of rebuilding from the ground up. Faced with emergency surgery, homelessness, broken relationships, and severe physical injuries, Turner discovered one life-changing truth: sometimes the greatest freedom comes from letting go of fear, guilt, overthinking, and the need to please others.

This concise yet powerful read is packed with real-life insight, motivational encouragement, and practical perspective for anyone struggling with anxiety, burnout, self-doubt, toxic expectations, or feeling stuck in life. Through relatable storytelling and sharp, no-nonsense advice, readers are challenged to stop apologizing for wanting more and start creating a life rooted in confidence, peace, purpose, and financial independence.

Whether you are rebuilding after hardship, searching for personal freedom, or simply ready to stop caring about things that drain your energy, this book serves as a reminder that your life belongs to you — not to the opinions of others.

Perfect for fans of motivational self-help books, mindset transformation, spiritual growth, emotional healing, confidence building, and personal development, Welcome to the Wonderful World of Not Giving A Fck* is an empowering wake-up call for dreamers, overthinkers, creatives, entrepreneurs, and anyone ready to reclaim their voice.

If you are ready to stop surviving and start living boldly, this book is for you.

In This Inspirational Self-Help Book, You’ll Discover:

● How to let go of people-pleasing and fear of judgment

● Powerful lessons in resilience, healing, and self-trust

● A fresh perspective on confidence, spirituality, and personal freedom

● How to protect your peace and focus on what truly matters

● Motivation to rebuild your life after hardship or failure

● Encouragement to pursue purpose, joy, and financial independence

Start your journey toward self-love, empowerment, and unapologetic living today.

 

Power of the Mind

Our brain is the most powerful instrument and machine in existence. It is said by scientists to be the ultimate supercomputer, so powerful and yet so mysterious that doctors and scientists are completely baffled by the brain’s functions and capabilities, as they are still in the complete infancy stages of understanding even the very basic function of the human brain. Scientists are so baffled and astonished by the brain’s complexities and mysteries that they can explain the Milky Way and other galaxies and stars trillions of miles away, but are just beginning to learn the basic function and power of our brain. There are many wonders to explore in the brain and in our minds. Many wonders have yet to be explored, and someday soon, we will unlock the next phase of the evolution of the mind. Our mind is the most powerful instrument that we could use readily at our disposal. The way we think and the decisions we make will determine our destination. It doesn’t matter whether we have a positive or negative mindset; our thoughts and actions will dictate our future. If we have a negative mindset and live out a negative lifestyle, our world will continue to be filled with nothing but complete turmoil and chaos. With a negative outlook, we will attract nothing but negative people, which in turn, will keep us locked in negative situations, which will eventually end with our downfall and demise. The same applies if we have a positive mindset. We can and will attract positive people along with favorable situations that will quickly take place within our lives.

We shall receive any blessings that will come to us the moment we decide to change our mindset from a negative setting to a positive position of thoughts and actions.

 

 

 

 

About the Author

Oliver Turner is a writer, creative entrepreneur, motivational voice, and the Amazon Bestselling author of Welcome to the Wonderful World of Not Giving A Fck*, a bold and empowering book focused on self-love, spirituality, resilience, and personal growth. Known for his raw honesty, sharp humor, and unapologetic perspective on life, Oliver inspires readers to break free from fear, self-doubt, and the pressure of living according to other people’s expectations.

Drawing from real-life experiences filled with adversity, healing, and transformation, Oliver Turner’s work resonates with readers searching for confidence, emotional freedom, and a renewed sense of purpose. After surviving a life-threatening medical crisis, enduring homelessness, devastating personal loss, severe physical injuries, and years of emotional rebuilding, Oliver turned his pain into purpose by sharing the mindset and spiritual lessons that helped him keep moving forward.

His writing blends motivational storytelling, practical wisdom, spiritual insight, and modern self-empowerment strategies to encourage readers to stop overthinking, trust themselves, and live more authentically. Through his relatable voice and candid approach, Oliver challenges people to reclaim their energy, protect their peace, and pursue lives rooted in confidence, creativity, healing, and financial independence.

Beyond writing, Oliver Turner is involved in creative business ventures, digital platforms, and entertainment projects designed to inspire transformation and authentic living. His mission is simple: help people let go of fear, embrace who they truly are, and move boldly toward the life they deserve.

Whether speaking through his books, creative projects, or personal message of resilience, Oliver Turner continues to connect with audiences looking for motivation, healing, self-discovery, and the courage to finally put themselves first.

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Book Blitz ~ Field of Purple Bonnets - A Novel by Dave J. Brown

 

 

Speculative Fiction, Literary Fiction

Date Published: May 21, 2026

You've been standing in the field your whole life. You just couldn't see it yet.

 

If you've spent any time in Texas in spring, you know the bluebonnets. Now imagine a pair of glasses that shows you what you had been missing: every ultraviolet the flower had been wearing all along, a field suddenly purple, a world you had been standing inside without seeing.

That is love, for Richard Smith. That is Zin. Richard is the kind of man who learned early how to disappear. Quiet. Careful. Brilliant in ways he rarely lets anyone witness. He writes poetry in notebooks no one is allowed to open and gives his best hours to work that asks nothing of his heart.

Then Zin walks into his life—sharp, guarded, beautiful, and impossible to reduce—and does the thing he never prepared for.

 

She sees him.

All of him.

 

And instead of flinching, she stays. Together, they help bring a technology into the world that does for millions what Zin did for Richard: it lets people see what was always there.

 

Hidden color.

Hidden beauty.

Hidden power.

 

A cheap, wearable lens that reveals the spectrum just beyond ordinary sight. For a moment, it feels like freedom. But a world that profits from keeping people blind does not celebrate new sight.

 

It studies it.

Owns it.

Sells it.

Weaponizes it.

 

What began as wonder becomes surveillance.

What began as intimacy becomes empire.

And as the device they helped create starts tracking faces, movements, desires, and private lives, Richard and Zin are forced to confront the difference between being seen, being wanted, being protected, and being controlled.

The world Richard wanted to open is becoming a machine that watches everyone. And the woman who first opened him may be the only person brave enough to tear it down.

 

The Field of Purple Bonnets is a literary speculative love story about being seen versus being watched. About a man brave enough to be soft, a woman wise enough to know what that costs, and a country slowly forgetting the difference between freedom and possession.

 

 

About the Author

 

 Dave J. Brown writes fiction about love, technology, consciousness, and the strange systems people build to survive themselves. Field of Purple Bonnets is his most ambitious work to date.

He pays his bills helping organizations navigate enterprise technology rollouts, building small applications, and consulting on the kinds of complex implementations that make most people's eyes glaze over. The technical fluency shows up in his writing… not as exposition, but as texture. When Richard designs BeeVision, the engineering feels real because it comes from someone who thinks in systems.

He lives just south of Austin, not far from a field of bluebonnets that looks exactly the way you'd imagine.

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Book Blitz ~ The Great Inversion by Jordi Ter Woord

 

Social Science / Media Studies; Technology & Society; Philosophy / Ethics & Moral Philosophy; Popular Philosophy; Artificial Intelligence & Society; Cultural Theory; Attention Economy

Date Published: July 1, 2026

For ten thousand years, ideas needed human minds to copy themselves forward. That has ended.

The Great Inversion is a trade non-fiction book about the moment culture stops needing us as its bottleneck. From ancient stories and print culture to algorithmic feeds and generative AI, Jordi ter Woord traces how ideas learn to survive, why the mirror of the internet feels so personal, and what remains human when creation becomes cheap.

This is not a digital-detox book. It is a book about attention as the one act the machine cannot perform for us.

About the Author

 

 Jordi ter Woord is a Dutch writer, solution architect and IT lead with a background in philosophy and artificial intelligence. He has spent much of his working life close to the systems that move information through organisations, and much of his private life wondering what those systems do to the people who live inside them.

His non-fiction debut, The Great Inversion, is about the moment culture stops needing human beings as its bottleneck. From ancient memory and print culture to algorithmic feeds and generative AI, it asks what remains human when creation becomes cheap and attention becomes the expensive side of the transaction.

Jordi also writes Whimsical Weather, a children's weather-adventure series about Cloudy, storms, patience, migration and letting go. He lives in the Netherlands with his partner and daughter.

 

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Kickstarter Blitz ~ Immortality Island by Nikki Jefford

 

Immortality Island
Nikki Jefford
Publication date: July 21st 2026
Genres: Fantasy, New Adult, Paranormal, Romance

Survivor meets Fear Factor in this romantic fantasy filled with magic, vampires, and enemies-to-lovers adventure.

Hunting her was meant to be easy . . . until desire got in the way.

Twenty human spellcasters. One deadly island. Four cutthroat vampire masters. Only one caster can make it to the end . . . and win a place in a vampire clan for eternity.

After her doctor discovers a brain tumor and gives her months to live, Joni Mullins sees winning the show as her last chance at survival.

Sterling Alder is a vampire master with a personal vendetta and a mission: destroy her. But on Immortality Island, survival isn’t just about magic—it’s about temptation, betrayal, and falling for the one person he should never want.

Welcome to Immortality Island, where contestants are literally thrown to the sharks!

Goodreads / Amazon

Visit the KICKSTARTER here!

—

EXCERPT:

My pulse thunders, loud enough that I’m sure he can hear it.

“You have a terrible poker face,” Sterling says.

Only when it comes to him.

When I glare, he laughs—a low, warm sound that does infuriating things to my nerves.

“And you don’t know when to give up,” I say.

“There it is,” he says, clearly pleased. “No more playing pretend.”

I tap my wand against my hip, right where the rune tattoos hide beneath my jean shorts. It’s meant to remind him of my powers. What I’m capable of.

Instead, his gaze drops.

Sterling is fit in a way that looks effortless—long lines of muscle beneath his shirt, all restraint and coiled strength. The Bahamian sun has done irritating things to him. His skin, once pale, has picked up color. Not much—but enough that it warms his face and makes his gray eyes look brighter. Even his thick silver hair catches the light differently now, almost luminous against the blue of the sea.

I hate that I notice.

But it tracks. I have terrible taste in men. Not that I’m into Sterling Alder! He’s literally here to kill me.

When his gray eyes slide back up to mine, his fangs descend.

Hunger flashes across his face—raw, quick, and unmistakable.

My body reacts before my brain has a chance to step in. A traitorous heat curls low in my belly, and I clamp down on it hard.

Absolutely not.

I need to shut down this freak show before it goes any further. And I know just how.

Author Bio:

Nikki Jefford is a third-generation Alaskan nomad married to an amazing Frenchman. She loves fictional bad boys and heroines who kick butt! Books, travel, TV series, hiking, writing, and motorcycle riding are her favorite escapes. The dark side of human nature fascinates her, so long as it's balanced by humor and romance.

To get in on the fun and adventure, visit Nikki at her website for release alerts, updates, exclusive giveaways, and a free story when you subscribe to her newsletter: https://nikkijefford.com/newsletter/

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Immortality Island Blitz

—

Book Tour ~ The Beauty of Individual Things by K. Thomas Yoo

 

Historical Fiction / Jazz Age Romance

Date Published: 07-14-2026

Publisher: Mission Point Press

The Beauty of Individual Things follows Margot Andrews, a young American woman swept from New York high society into the dazzling yet fractured world of 1920s London. When the transactional demands of privilege collide with betrayal and violence, leaving her disillusioned and adrift, she escapes to the freshwater shoreline of lost childhood summers.

With her past unrecoverable and her future uncertain, Margot searches for a different life amid Detroit’s dynamic and monied Prohibition era—with its yacht races, rumrunners, and industrial might. Set against a city on the rise, she must navigate her family’s ruthless pursuit of social standing, the magnetic pull of charismatic boat racer Ellis James, and the relentless echoes of her past. The story explores the weight of loneliness and the personal cost of love and reinvention as Margot decides whether to remain a fragile ornament of her family’s design or forge an identity that is beautiful, imperfect, and entirely her own.

No one tells a young woman that things usually happen because of money, sex, or power. We learn it on our own. Polite girls go on to elegantly suppress the notion, but most know it, and I was nothing if not polite. It was different for Grace. She was a Maxwell. It wasn’t in their nature to suppress things. They blew them up.

An early lesson remains etched in my mind. It was a summer day in 1913. The Maxwells had secured a white clapboard weekly rental on the shores of Elk Lake, tucked among the rolling farmland and evergreen forests of northern Michigan.

The screen door slammed. I shaded my eyes as Uncle Fred crossed a narrow strip of beach, wearing a faded black-and-white-striped bathing costume.

“You’ll burn, Fred,” Aunt Lou clucked from her canvas sling chair under the shade of a lurid yellow umbrella.

Cousin Grace doubled over, shrieking with laughter. “You look like a ghost,” she sputtered. I suppressed my giggles by intently staring at a beached canoe.

Uncle Fred hadn’t brought any alcohol on that vacation.

“It’s called drying out,” Grace had whispered one night after we were tucked away in our shared bed. “The booze turns dusty and blows away … or something.”

I never saw the dust, but for two or three rocky days Uncle Fred kept to his room, scolding us through the door to lower our voices. Then one bright morning, the dust cleared. All breakfast table chatter quieted as he stood at the head of the table, bright-eyed and eager to lead us on bracing outdoor excursions involving tree identification—white pine versus red—campfires, and fish brought home on stringers. I felt sorry for the fish, but they were delicious.

Now, after nodding in acceptance of his daughter’s ribbing, Uncle Fred called to me, “Margot, I’ll see you at the end of the dock.”

I immediately stopped giggling. I had been forbidden from docks and floating canoes because I didn’t know how to swim. At ten years old, I was mortified by this humiliating precaution yet too frightened to do anything constructive about it.

Aunt Lou had dismissed all petulant objections. “The water doesn’t care, child. It’ll drown you all the same.”

 

 

I found Cook and requested wine to go with my dinner. She packed a half-bottle in a basket along with some chicken salad and strawberries. I complimented her on her shortbread recipe, and she tucked in six. I was swinging the basket and humming a little tune as I walked back to the gardener’s cottage, then stopped short. Ellis was tying his boat off at the dock. He had no reason this time, but there he was, like it was the most natural thing.

I waved, then set my boots on the porch and my hat on the chair. I looked from my stockinged feet to the cottage door, then to Ellis. He tipped his head at my confusion but didn’t move, and I suspected I had confused him too.

“Turn around,” I called, tracing a small circle in the air.

He turned and faced the water.

I rolled down my stockings and stuffed them into the boots, then picked up the basket. Resisting the urge to run, I walked barefoot to the end of the dock. “What a nice surprise. I have dinner,” I said, handing him the basket. “Where are we going?”

He offered his hand, “You haven’t asked me if I want to go.”

Asking that question would amount to asking someone if they would like ice cream without bothering to mention that it was laced with arsenic. I smiled instead, which felt vaguely wrong, too.

“I already know the answer,” I said, stepping into the gorgeous mahogany runabout.

I should have remained on that dock and watched his eyes grow shallow after I politely, yet firmly, sent him away—but I didn’t. He threw off the line and headed west, and it may have been the most dangerous thing I had ever done.

The swells on the lake were smooth and the evening sun warm. The wind whipped my hair as I attempted to appear nonchalant while watching the safety of the shoreline recede by the second. The engine was loud, and neither of us spoke until he pulled back the throttle as we approached Peche Island at the mouth of the river.

“Does anyone live there?” I asked.

“Not anymore,” he said. “We should be all right. No shoes required.”

Ellis tied off at a crooked dock, and we walked among the shadows of the trees and stepped over rocks along the bank until we reached a patch of grass with a view of the Windsor shoreline. He took off his Carhartt coat and smoothed it on the ground.

“Are you sure about that?” I asked.

“Won’t hurt it,” he said.

“Thank you,” I said, taking a seat.

He sat on the ground next to me. “Was it too fast for you?”

I leaned back on my hands. “I thought I was playing it so calm and collected.”

“Holding onto the side that tightly won’t help if something happens, only nothing is going to happen,” he said.

“I didn’t think anything bad was going to happen. It was just fast.”

“It wasn’t that fast.”

“It was fast enough.”

“I’ll go slower on the way home,” he said.

I looked to the water shining silver in the evening light. The earth felt cool under my palm, and I brushed my fingers along the soft spring grass. The edges of our hands briefly touched, then moved away. I shifted my gaze from the river to Ellis. He raced toward things like finish lines, and money, and possibility. I ran away from things. What is it like, I wondered, to feel your life with every heartbeat?

The corners of his mouth rose imperceptibly as he waited for my reply.

“No, don’t,” I said. “I’ll try to be less scared. I’m tired of it anyway.”

Tiny moments change lives, too.

 

 

About the Author

 

 Karen Thomas Yoo was born and raised in Grosse Pointe, Michigan. She graduated from the University of Michigan and received an MBA from Duke University. When she isn't writing, she can usually be found in her garden or on a paddleboard in Lake Michigan. A mother of three grown children, she lives in Grosse Pointe with her husband. This is her first novel.

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Book Blitz ~ Beyond Ever After - Wanderer of Pages: Book 9 by Chantal Gadoury

 

Beyond Ever After
Chantal Gadoury
Publication date: July 14th 2026
Genres: Adult, Fairy Tales, Fantasy, Romance, Young Adult

Return to the world of fairytales that readers first fell in love with in Until the Last Page in this magically charming sequel.

When Jo fell into a book of fairytales, she thought she would only have to save one prince. But now she has to save his brother, too.
In this new chapter, Jo finds herself lost once more in a world of magic, crowns, and impossible choices. The stories have changed, but the dangers haven’t—and neither has the loving a frog prince was never meant to be easy.

He thought one kiss would solve everything—but now, Prince Aneurin must stop a doomed royal wedding. With Josephine by his side, they tumble through twisting tales in search of a clever witch hiding behind a perfect disguise.

Between running from bearded kings, and avoiding unwanted betrothals, they navigate kingdoms and stories that refuse to stay neatly written. As adventures collide and hearts are tested, Jo and Aneurin soon discover that even in fairytales, the most dangerous magic of all is love.

Goodreads / Amazon / Barnes & Noble / Apple Books

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EXCERPT:

PROLOGUE: ANEURIN

I was certain I could not tolerate another insufferable evening in these damned confining clothes. Tugging at the collar of my tunic, I silently let out a curse into the cool night air. The music from the festivities below, a gentle, enchanting melody of the celebration, drifted up to where I stood on the balcony of my chamber. I’d done my best in avoiding the gossiping members of the court who still could not cease bringing up Josephine’s name around me.

This was a night of grand celebration. My brother was finally engaged, and there was once again a promise of stability – a guarantee of a prosperous future now that he was to be wed. My brother, the epitome of regal charm, and his beautiful future bride-to-be were at the center of everyone’s attention. I was grateful for the distraction from myself.

Sliding a hand through my hair, I let out a deep sigh. It had been apparent from the ballroom floor just how much of a stark contrast I was to the idyllic scene. The years I’d spent as a cursed amphibian had only isolated me from the kingdom, and worse, my family. Sitting at the dining table night after night, left me quiet and disconnected, while my family went on as I imagined they had for years without me. The courtiers had much to say about their theories of my previous life. I couldn’t stand to hear their remarks. Memories of the long nights, being confined in a body that had never truly been mine, feeling so far away from home…from my family. My manservant Henry had tried to tend to my every whim, except for the one I’d truly wanted the most—the freedom to be a man again. In the quiet evenings, when only the sounds of grasshoppers kept me company, I had imagined myself as I once had been, and it had filled me with a sadness I’d never known how to describe. I had dreamed of my return home, to the welcoming arms of my father and mother. But the reality of my return was not one of excitement, but uncertainty and fear.

I overheard the whispers about “the mysterious woman,” who had vanished as suddenly as she had appeared. Her presence had unwittingly brought danger by luring the very man who had cursed me into the heart of the palace. Despite it being me who had bargained with the man called Rumpelstiltskin again, Josephine’s disappearance had left unanswered questions and an uneasy tension that permeated the palace walls.

The festivities below were a cruel reminder of the life I could have had but had lost.

I slid my hands over the cool stone of the balcony railing and closed my eyes. For so long, my life had been consumed by one purpose—breaking the curse with a true love’s kiss. I had never allowed myself to imagine what came after. I supposed that I would slip back into the role I had left as a young man. I would be welcomed back with open arms and take my place beside my father as his heir – his true heir. However, as that path had changed, I was forced to forge a new one —a life in which I would stand beside my brother as a symbol of unity. It was my duty to assist him in his new role, and it was an honor to do so – or so I was told. Even as I stood beside him in the glowing ballroom, I saw the hope in his eyes as he looked at me, and the quiet joy as his gaze shifted to his bride-to-be. The way he held her hand to his lips, the love that passed between them – it was clear. Charming would be a noble and worthy king, and I would serve him with unwavering loyalty.

Loosening the necktie of my tunic, I tilted my chin up towards the sky, gazing over the sparkling stars above. “Josephine…” I whispered.

In all honesty, despite my impeccable ability to keep track of the hours of a day as a frog, I had lost track of how many weeks had slipped by since the last time I had seen her. Had it been a fortnight? Longer? Or perhaps even shorter?

The memory of our last night was etched vividly in my mind. The gentle touch of her hand in mine, the sparkle of mischief in her dark brown eyes, and the softness of her laughter as I held her in my arms while we danced. I had been a fool not to kiss her then. Maybe if I had, she would have been able to stay by my side. I had ignored the silent plea in her eyes, ignored the gnawing in my stomach. I’d been so determined to fulfil the foolish bargain I’d made with Rumpelstiltskin, and it had made me so willingly blind.

I had known Josephine had been the one for me ever since seeing her with that irritating woodland man—Arch, with his untamed beard and wise eyes. For as insufferable as I found Arch to be, I knew it was because he was her friend. I had yearned for the warmth of her friendship, to be on the receiving end of her charms, her smiles.

I had also been a fool to deny the truth for so long, until it was too late. It was maddening how deeply Josephine had worked her way into my heart—only to be torn away before I could fully grasp it.

After the defeat of Rumpelstiltskin, Josephine was returned to her world by a mysterious woman. As the clock in the grand hall began to strike twelve, she dissolved before my very eyes, her form fading like mist in the morning sun, leaving behind nothing but the pair of glass slippers my mother had lent her. Instantly, my heart had been filled with longing. I had remained alone on the dance floor for several minutes until my brother pulled me away. In my manic desperation, I pleaded with my parents to allow me to search for her¬¬¬¬—to search for ‘the mysterious woman.’ They inevitably gave in to the request. Hours bled into days, and there was no trace of Josephine, nor the woman. It was as though Josephine had never existed in my world. Perhaps she hadn’t.

Since that moment, I had been haunted by the memory of her disappearance, by the ache of her absence that grew with each passing day. I missed her with a depth of longing that threatened to consume me. A yearning that gnawed at my soul and left me restless in the quiet hours of the night.

I knew I would never find her again. She’d claimed to come from another world that existed outside of my own. Many days, I found myself longing to retreat to my chambers and escape the routine of long meetings with my brother and silent dinners with my parents. I preferred to sit in the quiet darkness and bury my sorrows in a decanter of mead by my bedside. I hoped that if I stayed there long enough, the world outside would fade away, and with it, the ache in my heart.

Maybe then, the enchantress—the cruel and cunning one who had spirited Josephine from me would decide to grace me with her presence again. Many nights, I pictured her slipping into the room, her voice as dangerous as a snake’s whisper. She would look upon my pitiful state and offer to curse me back into the amphibious form I once loathed but now yearned for.

I knew I couldn’t let myself remain lost in those thoughts forever. As much as I wanted to linger in the past, I had a role to fulfill, just as I always had. It was time to reintegrate myself into my family, to reclaim my place—it sounded more noble than it felt. I had to come to terms with my brother’s ascension to the throne, and by the night’s end, I wanted to offer my congratulations to him and his soon-to-be bride convincingly. After all, who wouldn’t want to celebrate the fact that my dear brother would someday be the ruler I’d been trained to become? Duty demanded I play my part, and so I arrived, prepared—armed with charm and wit to navigate a room teeming with courtiers, who were more interested in gossip than actual conversation. I preferred the company of the men in the forest that Josephine and I had encountered to the people of my family’s kingdom.

I danced with many of the eligible women, aware that my participation would help pacify their gossip-hungry mothers. I moved through circles of small talk, offering pleasant smiles and well-rehearsed banter. With every conversation, I maintained an air of composure, masking my lingering thoughts of Josephine. It took considerable effort to hide my discomfort behind a polished facade, to act as though her absence didn’t linger like a shadow at the edge of my mind. I had learned to hide so much when I’d only been a few inches tall.

Opening my eyes, I stared out into the darkness and released a slow breath, letting the night air wash over me. I’d been gone long enough and didn’t want to give anyone a moment to question why I’d been gone for so long. I only had an hour more, and then it would be midnight, and I’d be able to depart from the festivities for good. I peered back up at the night sky, gazing at the brightest star above me. I hoped that wherever Josephine was, she too could see this star and think of me.

Perhaps it wasn’t very reasonable to hold onto that hope…to entertain such wishes. “Find me then,” were her last words to me, and yet here I was, unable to do even that.

“A drink would do me good,” I muttered to myself. I just needed a goblet of mead before I returned to the festivities. As I turned on my heel, something stirred in the shadows beside the velvet-curtained door, barely visible from the corner of my eye. I froze, my body tensing as I waited, my breath catching in my throat.

A faint rustling reached my ears as I watched the curtain sway on its own.

“Gerrit?” I asked, calling out the name of my valet. But there was nothing but silence. “I’m in no mood for games,” I continued. “Show yourself.”

Taking a step forward, I reached for the curtain. Almost on cue, a shadowed figure slowly emerged from behind. To my surprise, the figure was much smaller than I had expected, barely reaching half my height. There was a pause before the figure stepped into the faint light, illuminated by the moonlight. What I saw took me by surprise—a fairy! Her delicate wings shimmered like iridescent pearls as they caught the faint glow from above. She hovered before me, her wide violet eyes reflecting determination as she drifted closer.

“Who are you?” I asked, taking a step back. In truth, despite all the stories I had heard as a young boy, stories about witches and enchantresses, mermaids and trolls, I had never quite believed in fairies. The woman’s gown, a deep blue that sparkled under the moonlight, glistened as if woven from the very stars. Her hair, short and white, was pinned back with tiny glass baubles that gleamed faintly in the night. She looked ethereal, otherworldly—like something pulled from a dream.

“Your Highness,” she said, her voice trembling slightly, “I must speak with you.” Her words hung in the air as she paused in front of me. The timing, her sudden appearance, couldn’t be a coincidence, could it? Did she come bearing news of Josephine? My thoughts raced between hope and dread.

“I am Lunelle,” she murmured. “A fairy of the stars.”

“The stars?” I echoed, disbelief mingling with curiosity. I had never imagined fairies could exist beyond the skies, let alone among the stars themselves. Was this how wishes were granted?

“My sisters and I observe from above,” Lunelle continued, her gaze centered on me. “We hear the wishes whispered from those down below. And we see everything.” Her eyes grew wide, and she gestured at the sky. “And I have seen something perilous, Your Highness. Something you must know.” Her final words fell to a whisper, delicate yet heavy with forewarning.

I forced my brow to remain calm, though frustration flared beneath my skin. “If you could elaborate,” I said dryly, my tone clipped but measured. Mystical proclamations were of little use without answers.

“Your brother, sire…” She continued. Her delicate features were etched with genuine concern. “Your brother is in grave danger.”

My heart skipped in my chest as I peered at her with wide eyes. My brother? I looked over my shoulder, listening to the soft melody of the ball taking place below. Nothing seemed out of the ordinary.

“If he’s in danger, I must go to him,” I said firmly, attempting to move past her. If there were something to be done, I wouldn’t waste a moment standing idle. But before I could take another step, Lunelle’s small hand darted out, her fingers clutching the sleeve of my white tunic. Her grip, impossibly firm for her slight frame, held me fast. I pulled against her, but my feet felt rooted to the stone, as if the ground itself had conspired to keep me still.

“It is far too dangerous,” she murmured. “Neither you nor your brother is safe—at least not yet.”

My patience waned under the weight of her cryptic warnings. “You’d best explain yourself,” I snapped, my voice sharp with frustration. I leaned closer, my eyes narrowing. “Now.”

Lunelle released a shaky breath before replying, “There is an evil witch who has set her sights on you and your brother. She seeks to undermine you both, to plant herself in a seat of irrefutable power.”

“A witch?” I repeated, incredulously.

“One of the most powerful in all the land,” she continued, ignoring my question. “Her magic is dark, ancient, and fueled by envy.”

I narrowed my eyes, determination flaring in my chest. “If you release me, I can go directly to my father. Surely, he can do something about this.”

A bitter smile twisted her lips, and for the first time, a flicker of something almost human crossed her delicate features. “If it were that simple,” she said quietly, “do you not think I would have already alerted him?”

I gritted my teeth, frustration mounting. “Is this not exactly the sort of thing you’re supposed to handle? Instead of trapping me here, shouldn’t you be doing something about this witch?” If an enchantress had the power to send Josephine away with just a flick of her fingers, surely this fairy could deal with a rogue witch.

“You honor me with your compliment, Your Highness—”

“It was no compliment,” I interjected, scowling.

“But even my magic has limits.”

I let out a slow, exasperated sigh, pinching the bridge of my nose. “Then what am I supposed to do?”

“There is…one person who can help you,” Lunelle said quietly, her voice barely above a whisper. “One person who can save your brother from making a grave mistake.”

“A mistake?” My mind reeled at her words. What in God’s teeth had Charming done now?

“It’s the woman he intends to marry,” she continued, her tone somber, her words deliberate. “She is not who she seems. The maiden he met a fortnight ago is no longer the one with whom he plans to exchange vows.”

I stared at her in disbelief. “What are you saying?”

“You must find the one who can break the witch’s hold.”

“God’s teeth, not this again,” I muttered, frustration boiling over. Another vague warning, another puzzle without a key.

“You must find her,” the fairy pressed, her tone sharp now, cutting through my doubts.

“Her?” I repeated the word hanging in the air like a storm cloud. “Who? Who am I supposed to find?”

Lunelle leaned closer, her luminous eyes locking onto mine as she pulled her wand free from the waistband of her gown. With a simple touch against the sleeve of my tunic, I watched as my white royal finery was transformed into a simple blue tunic with a leather satchel on my side.

“What is the meaning of this?” I asked, tugging on the simple fabric.

“Remember, Prince Aneurin,” she said, “The face you seek is not the face you see.”

“Speaking in riddles does nothing to aid this situation,” I retorted.

Before I could demand more answers from her, the fairy pulled out her wand. It gleamed in the moonlight as she pointed it toward me.

“Forgive me, Your Highness,” Lunelle said softly, almost regretfully. “But you will soon understand.”

In an instant, a blinding light erupted from the wand, enveloping me completely. I tried to shield my eyes, but the brightness was overwhelming. The ground vanished beneath me, and I felt weightless, as if flung through the air by an invisible force. The rush of wind roared in my ears, and my heart pounded in a frantic rhythm. When the light finally ebbed away, I gasped for air, disoriented and breathless. My feet landed unsteadily, and I stumbled, blinking rapidly as my surroundings came into focus.

The world around me had changed entirely.

Author Bio:

Chantal Gadoury is a best selling fairytale-retelling and romance author, living in the beautiful countryside of Muncy, Pennsylvania with her mom and family yorkie, Taran.

When Chantal isn't pursuing her next writing endeavor, she enjoys spending time with her loved ones, and taking long walks to the sounds of BTS. She is a TikTok enthusiast, loves all things Disney and loves a good, romantic K-Drama.

Chantal first started writing stories at the age of seven and continues that love of writing today. After graduating from Susquehanna University with a degree in Creative Writing, writing novels has become a dream come true.

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Book Blitz ~ Bound Beauty - A Wylder Tale by Jennifer Silverwood

 

Bound Beauty
Jennifer Silverwood
(A Wylder Tale, #3)
Publication date: July 14th 2026
Genres: Adult, Contemporary, Romance

Forgotten gods haunt her steps, and the cursed prince she left behind isn’t done fighting for her soul.

Vynasha is bound to the prince of Bitterhelm. Even if she were to die, her spirit will remain trapped with him in the castle forever. But she won’t give in to Grendel without a fight. With the aid of an oracle, a witchling, and the wolf that claims her heart, Vynasha plans to claim her power as the curse breaker.

Ceddrych guards their nephew secretly while fighting to keep the feral beasts roaming their borders at bay. But the monsters are closing in, and the madness he has struggled with drives him to one desperate, unforgivable act.

A war is about to begin between the forgotten people of Wylderland and the cruel might of Bitterhelm. Beings of prophecy and legend unite in the epic third chapter of the Wylder Tales Series, a romantic gothic re-telling of Beauty and the Beast.

WYLDER TALES is a series of romantic dark fairy tales, set in the past of the wider Borderlands Saga, and includes:
•slow burn romantasy
•forced proximity
•enemies to lovers
•found family
•magical bonds
•wicked witches
•burly beasts
•morally gray characters

Goodreads / Amazon

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EXCERPT:

IN A FORBIDEN DREAM IN WYLDERLAND…

The journey seemed to take far longer than she remembered, and part of her feared the passage of time here compared to the world her body remained behind. Ceddrych had told her countless tales of the dangers of magick, of what happened when one dwelled too long in enchanted dreams.

Here the palace looked less like a ruin wrought from rampage. Candles gave off an unnatural silver glow and the hovering lights that had been trailing Vynasha seemed to thicken and gather as she lifted a hand to push open the doors to the throne room. They cracked open before her hand could touch the intricately carved wood.

Snow filtered in through the broken ceiling and rose vines curled over every surface, crawling up the obsidian columns and steps to the throne. Surrounding the steps, the shadow-spirits of beasts of every size and shape lounged and paced. Their forms flickered about the edges, and their eyes glowed brightly, turning to fix upon Vynasha as she slowly entered the hall.

Upon the throne, the thorned vines had dug into a hunched over man. His blood gleamed luminous violet, the same shade as hers was now.

With every step she took, the full wreck of his downfall became increasingly apparent. The shadow beasts at her back pressed closer, urging her forward. Vynasha clenched her fists and refused to climb the steps to face him.

“Grendel.” Her voice echoed like a plucked lute string through the cavernous hall.

Grendel shuddered and then raised his head and looked at her with dead violet eyes. “Vynasha.” The crack in his voice echoed clearly to her ears. His eyes widened when she remained, and his vine-wrapped hands clawed at the arms of his throne. “You have come at last.”

Her feet began to move of their own accord. She barely caught herself in time. She could not, would not go to him, and certainly never pity him. “What happened here? Why are my roses taking over like this?”

“Can you not guess, Vynasha” Grendel leaned forward, ignoring the press of the rose crowning his dark hair. “Vynasha, you have no idea how your absence has undone me. It has been pure torture to sense you but never able to touch you.”

“Good.” Vynasha took a single involuntary step up the stairs leading to his throne. His violet eyes flared wide with apprehension as she growled, “You and your monsters have made our lives a living hell, Grendel. It’s only fair I repay your bloody kindness.”

Grendel’s lips parted and his gaze took in the full measure of her with all the subtlety of a starving man. “Yet you are here,” he said, a new clarity brightening his violet gaze. His hands flexed against the arms of his throne. “You are truly here, and that means the spell has been broken.”

Vynasha flinched at his sudden smile and found herself unable to take a step back. Her feet drove her forward once more, and this time she had no power over herself to stop. “What are you doing to me?”

Grendel’s hand twitched and then she was flung forward. He groaned as he caught her, the thorns digging deeper into his flesh. She cried out as the same thorns cut her palms as she braced herself against his chest. “I have you, at last, I have you,” he said, eyes bright with unshed tears.

He was mad. No, she was mad. For the instant her hands found his flesh, a roaring wave of need assaulted her. She could rage at him and claim this was his need she felt, not her own. But this compulsion was familiar, forbidden and something she had fought desperately to forget in the past three moons.

“Grendel, let me go” she pleaded as she leaned into him, the pain of his thorns forgotten as he pulled her into his lap and began to press his lips over every part of her he could reach.

“How could I give you up my beauty, my love, my queen?”

She couldn’t breathe. The scent of roses, of life and death, of him were overwhelming. A part of her was starving, had been starving for months, she realized wish sickening clarity. “I hate you,” she sobbed as she tilted her chin and gave him further access to her neck. “If you pull me back here again, I will find a way to kill you, I swear it.”

“You cannot kill me without killing yourself, love,” he said with a laugh.

“Then we both die.” She shook her head but could not help tracing her nose along his neck, to draw in more of his heady scent.

“Vynasha,” he cried as her lips pressed to his pulse. “Please, Vynasha!”

But he was no longer tangible beneath her hands, the thorns no longer piercing them both. The painful aching need to mold herself to him faded just as she did, her hands disappearing before her eyes.

“Vynasha!” He cried with an agony she felt as her spirit was ripped free from Grendel’s nightmare. And the world around her dimmed, consumed by a cloud of inky ashes.

Author Bio:

Jennifer Silverwood lives in the middle of an enchanted forest surrounded by cursed books, nosy spirits, and mischievous goblins she calls her children. After beginning several nonsensical degrees, she found her calling helping other authors bring their books to life. Jennifer is the author of two fairy tale fantasy series: the Borderlands Saga and Wylder Tales. Because she wasn't satisfied writing in one genre, she also invites you to explore uncharted space with the Heaven’s Edge Novellas—and dare to fall in love again with the standalone romance titles Stay and She Walks in Moonlight.

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