Blog Tour: No Ordinary Love by Myah Ariel

A PR partnership between a pop superstar and a pro-athlete bad boy turns into so much more in this swoony romance from the acclaimed author of When I Think of You.

About the Book

Ella Simone’s popstar life is what dreams are made of. Her eight year marriage to renowned music producer, Elliot Majors, has helped garner the hits, awards, and adoring fans to prove it. But when Ella tires of Elliot’s many infidelities, she decides to fight for her independence despite the ironclad prenup that threatens her career. 

To help her case, Ella is under strict orders to stick to The Plan: no headlines, no rumors, no rocking the boat. But this strategy is thrown a curveball after an awards show wardrobe snafu and quick rescue by Miles Westbrook, MLB’s most eligible player, sends the tabloids into a frenzy. Amid tricky divorce proceedings, Ella’s magnetic connection with the charismatic pitcher might just be her downfall.

Now the pressure is on to turn a scandal into an opportunity and give their teams what they want: a picture-perfect performance that will shore up both Ella and Miles’ reputations. But as the lines between reality and PR begin to blur, Ella will either stick to the choreographed life she knows so well, or surrender to a love that could set her free.

Excerpt

 

1

I don't necessarily want to be a "strong" person-I just keep going.

Tina TurnerI shouldn't have worn the wig. It was bad enough Sheryl wasn't available to help me install it properly. Now it's sitting about an eighth of an inch too high on my hairline and digging into the base of my neck. But since it's my signature look-long, dark chocolate, with a body wave-I'm pretty sure that blue-pinstripe-suit-wearing dude positioned at my four o'clock near the turnstile just spotted me.

And, yep, now he's got his cell phone camera trained in my direction primed to snap a photo. I cock my head to the side and marvel at the boldness. Most people have the decency to at least pretend they're on FaceTime or using a selfie cam to check for a seed in their teeth. That he should be ashamed to openly invade my privacy is a notion entirely lost on this man, and I have to say . . . I'm impressed by the audacity.

Grunting, I angle my body slightly to reposition my purse strap on my shoulder while willing the elevator to put some pep in its descent from the thirtieth floor. Thankfully, this corporate lawyer type turned amateur paparazzo is waiting near the elevators for the odd floors, which means soon, I'll be free of him.

I could kick myself, though. Because more than likely, by tonight his photos will have graced The Shade Room under a headline that reads something like Ella Simone: Spotted! at Divorce Attorney's Office! and my publicist, Lydia, will suffer a cardiac event. In her defense, my coming here alone was ill-advised. If she'd gotten her way, I'd have sent my manager, Angelo, who would have patched me in over Zoom. But if she'd truly gotten her way, there would be no reason for this visit at all. Because I'd be doing the "wise thing" for my career and staying attached to Elliot Majors.

But these days, I'm impervious to wise counsel. Ironic, given the reasons I've shown up here today.

"Excuse me, miss? I'm sorry but I'm such a huge fan." The words tumble down at me from about half a foot up and behind my left shoulder.

It looks like Blue Pinstripe Suit has gathered up the courage, or decency rather, to approach the subject of his impromptu photo essay. Behind my shades, I roll my eyes. Damn this slow-ass elevator! Suit Man probably just wants to confirm that I'm me before he shoots those grainy snaps off to the highest bidder. I turn and plaster on the trained smile I've adopted-it says I'm a nice person who's got both hot sauce and Mace in her bag.

Reluctantly, I extend my hand to shake his. "Hi, how are you?" I say politely, if a little restrained-a tactic meant to signal that this interaction will be brief.

He encases my hand with his damp palm, aggressively shaking it in return. "Wow. I can't believe it's you!" he exclaims, with beads of sweat dotting his brow. "Would you . . . would you mind?"

Assuming he's about to ask me to sign something, I reach in my purse for a pen. But before I can object, he's angled himself next to me and raised his phone with the camera flipped to selfie mode. At the last second, I noticed it's toggled to record. Imaginary sirens blare in my ears.

I open my mouth to protest, but he steamrolls ahead. "Can you sing a little bit of that one song . . . what was it?" he muses. My face pricks with heat from mortification and then . . . he proceeds to perform a boisterous and breathtakingly pitchy rendition of "Bitch Better Have My Money."

He bobs and weaves, making little swiping motions with his hands and these . . . dance moves? are so aggressively unpredictable I have to take a step back to avoid being headbutted or sideswiped when he shouts the lyric "I call the shots, shots, shots! Like bra, bra, bra!"

I am simultaneously frozen, in shock, and utterly awed by what I am witnessing. Then I deflate. Not out of disappointment that I've apparently been mistaken for Rihanna, or that in this post-"listening and learning" and "doing better" America we find ourselves in, some people still fail at individuating Black folks with markedly distinct physical characteristics. But all that previous pent-up fear and anxiety whooshes out of me like a popped balloon. He hasn't the faintest idea of who I am. That means my secret's safe. For now, at least.

The performance, which lasted for probably fifteen seconds but felt like an hour, is over now, and he's gesturing toward me like it's my turn to do a little ditty for him. The nerve. I may be an entertainer, but I'm not here, at this moment, for his entertainment. And before he can tap the record button with his thumb, I reach up and block his camera lens with my hand.

"This has been fun and all but actually, I'd prefer it if you didn't," I say. Then I crane my neck and train a panicked Help! glance at the well-dressed security guard who's been dutifully manning the turnstile.

Almost instantly, he clocks my distress and glides over to assist. "Excuse me, sir. But there's no filming allowed in the lobby."

Ding!

Like an answered prayer, the elevator opens depositing a handful of overly starched individuals with stern expressions on their faces. I step aside to let them exit, just as the security guard, whose name is Jamal according to his badge, gently nudges Rihanna's biggest fan farther away from me.

And before I step onto the waiting elevator, Jamal leans over and whispers in my ear. "Don't worry, Miss Simone. Promise I won't tell." He winks and I smile just as the doors close.


Her body language is like tea leaves.

As if on cue, with the flip of each page, she raises an impeccably laminated eyebrow and releases a tiny, strangled sound of distaste between her porcelain veneers.

It's hotter than I expected here on the thirty-seventh floor of 1901 Avenue of the Stars. But Janet Waterman is in her element, like they've programmed the thermostat with her DNA as the baseline. I'm seated in the main conference room of Waterman, Schuster & Milner trying not to sweat while the Ice Queen herself, as coined by the Daily Mail, appraises my fate. And by the looks of it, I'm fucked.

I've always wondered if that moniker had more to do with the chilly vibe she projects when strutting down Hill Street in red bottoms with cameras flashing and paps demanding statements on her high-profile clients, or with her reputation for protecting said clients' icy assets from being pillaged in the process of their acrimonious decouplings-now I'm thinking it's an even split.

I chart Janet Waterman's eyes as they descend past each cursed clause of the prenuptial agreement I entered into when I was just twenty years old. And even though hindsight has proven I was too young and too ignorant to comprehend the gravity of what I was signing away, perhaps more pathetic is the part where I was too in love and too drunk on the promise of a life with the Elliot Majors to care.

Finished reading now, she slides the crisp printout across the frosted glass conference table toward her paralegal and crosses two perfectly manicured hands. I notice a rose gold Patek Philippe encircling her left wrist, and I have to stifle a groan. Ten years ago, I'd have fainted in the mere presence of a forty-thousand-dollar watch. Now, I've got one to match sitting in a box somewhere in a penthouse I don't plan to return to.

Ironically, it was a gift from Elliot on our eighth wedding anniversary, which, with Janet's help, will have been our last.

"I'm sure you've anticipated what I'm about to say?" she asks, her voice clear and resonant as a bell. The kind of voice that cuts through the chatter of a crowded room. It sets me at ease in a way that's quite rare. Perhaps it comes with the territory of being a professional vocalist that I find myself instinctively appraising the timbre and tone of each new voice I encounter.

I shake my head, realizing my delay, and rush to answer her. "You're going to tell me I'm fucked?" I reply, startled by the thready, hollow sounds coming from my own throat.

"Ten minutes ago"-she shrugs-"before you walked in that door. I'd have said you were fucked." She leans back in her chair, using her forefingers to swipe narrow columns of pin-straight black hair behind each ear. "It's a shit situation . . . one of the most predatory I've seen. As it stands, you walk away from the marriage, you walk away from the music."

Instantly, a million tiny needles pierce through my flesh. She's done nothing but confirm what I already assumed. But somehow, quite foolishly, I thought retaining Janet might mean I'd secured some sort of fast pass toward a pain-free divorce. Never mind the fact that already, she had to petition a judge to compel Elliot's lawyers to provide me with the prenup documents since, after signing them ages ago, he never gave me a copy for my own records.

"But you knew this," she says. "When you decided to leave him. You knew what you could be leaving behind." Janet eyes me shrewdly. This look is far from the lusty, assessing way I'm used to enduring in boardrooms, not unlike this one, when I'm sitting across from suits that are more often than not filled out by much older, male-er forms. She's not even in a suit. She's wearing a sleeveless Alaïa shift that boasts a high neckline with tasteful cutouts-if there can be such a thing.

I nod, swallowing past a knot lodged in my throat. I've never felt more foolish than the day I fully reckoned with the rock-hard truth that marrying Elliot Majors might have possibly been the biggest mistake of my life. Now, I can only hope the Ice Queen might possess some alternative kind of magic. Because that's likely what it's going to take if I want to escape this marriage with my career intact-if I want to see a dime of revenue from the records Elliot produced on me, the songs that won us both Grammys and me millions of adoring fans.

Janet must sense my rising panic. "It's okay," she says. "When we say yes to marriage, divorce is the last thing on our minds. Especially at twenty."

Especially when the man you're saying yes to is the first man in your life whose love doesn't hurt . . . until it did.

"So, what are my options," I ask, squaring my shoulders and sniffling back the stinging threat of tears.

"Well, I like to start off by asking my clients to pick a 'D.' The answer will undoubtedly determine how we proceed," she says, smirking. "So, what's more important to you, handling the dissolution as quickly as possible? Or, are you more concerned about the distribution of your assets?" she asks. "Because if it's option A, we can wrap this up in California's standard six months. No fanfare or hand-wringing. We go by what you've already established to the letter. But as outlined in the prenup, everything reverts to Elliot."

At this, I flinch. But if she notices, she doesn't let on and continues. "It means you'd be free . . . in a sense. You'd retain your split on future earnings on all performances of the music produced by him. But he'd retain one hundred percent ownership of the masters. You'd be severing all ties and voiding your recording contract since you came in as his talent. In effect, you'd be starting fresh as an artist."

"That's not freedom," I say. "It's robbery."

"Okay." Now she leans forward, placing her elbows on the conference table and clasping her hands. "So let me ask you, then. What does freedom look like to you?"

I breathe in deeply and let it out slow and steady-summoning my vocal bravado. "Freedom looks like me walking away . . . with everything I have worked for."

"I was hoping you'd say that." She sits back and smiles. "Distribution it is."

And for the first time since I stepped off the elevator, I smile too. "So, what's that going to take?"


2

You mean to tell me that long-necked, narrow-assed peacock gets to flounce around Europe with Miss Thing, meanwhile you have to sit back like Susie Homemaker just so you don't end up strung out on the streets?"

"Tuh! It's the gall for me."

"Honey, it's the gall. The gumption. The unmitigated audacity. Tell me where I can find some. 'Cause clearly I missed the flash sale."

"All right, all right. How about a round of the quiet game?" I not so calmly suggest before my irritation bubbles over. We are a third of the way into my three-hour glam routine, and for all intents and purposes, I am trapped in what I've come to call The Chair.

Typically, this is my sacred, safe space-the place where I center myself before a live performance or a major appearance. Where I get to savor the final moments of being just me, Elladee Robinson, before I'm transformed into the well-crafted popstar persona of Ella Simone.

But at some point, we all lost the plot. It probably happened around the time the Waiting to Exhale soundtrack found its way onto my Bluetooth speaker, which shifted the mood in my Sunset Tower suite accordingly. Now, Mary J. Blige is belting about how she's "not gon' cry," and my glam team is spiraling over my impending divorce from the most prolific hitmaker of the last twenty years.

At my passive-aggressive request for silence, three stares pin me in place as if to say, Check us like that again, and we'll have you up on that Grammy stage looking a hot mess.

But then Rodney, my stylist and oldest friend, pauses from dutifully steaming the chiffon skirt of my evening gown. His eyes soften as they meet mine in the vanity, and he makes a sharp intake of breath, as if suddenly noticing the fine cracks in my otherwise buffed and primed exterior.

"Oh no! We've gone too far." His words are breathless and tinged with remorse, just above a whisper. Rodney's full lips droop into a pout as he turns to his cohorts. "Ladies," he snaps. "Maybe let's take it down a notch?"

"Miss me with the soft shit, Rodney!" Sheryl chirps as she swivels around to glare at him. Miraculously, she doesn't miss a beat as she deftly loops a long lock of my hair around her curl wand. "The one who needs to 'take it down a notch' is that triflin' ex of hers."

Excerpted from No Ordinary Love by Myah Ariel. Copyright © 2025 by Myah Ariel. All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.

Purchase Links

Penguin Random House*

About the Author

Berkley Romance (TR) 2024

Myah Ariel is the author of debut contemporary romance WHEN I THINK OF YOU (Berkley ’24). Her early love of movies led her from Arkansas to New York City where she earned a BA in cinema studies from NYU’s Tisch School of the Arts. She also holds an MA in specialized journalism for the arts from USC Annenberg. For several years Myah worked across multiple roles in the film and entertainment industry before pivoting to work in academia. As a medical mom and a hopeless romantic, Myah is passionate about inclusive love stories.

*Third party links to the publisher's website. May contain affiliate links.

Read-Along Mini-Review: Fate's Edge by Ilona Andrews

I am so excited to be taking part in Books of My Heart's annual Read-Along! 

This year, the blog picked The Edge and Innkeeper Chronicles series by Ilona Andrews!

Fate's Edge is the third book in The Edge series and is action-packed, exciting, and full of suspense!

I really enjoyed these books and I hope you do too!

About the Book

Audrey Callahan left behind her life in the Edge, and she’s determined to stay on the straight and narrow. But when her brother gets into hot water, the former thief takes on one last heist and finds herself matching wits with a jack of all trades…

Kaldar Mar-a gambler, lawyer, thief, and spy-expects his latest assignment tracking down a stolen item to be a piece of cake, until Audrey shows up. But when the item falls into the hands of a lethal criminal, Kaldar realizes that in order to finish the job, he’s going to need Audrey’s help…

Excerpt

 

Prologue

If she had only one word to describe Dominic Milano, it would be unflappable, Audrey Callahan reflected. Stocky, hard, balding—he looked like he had just walked out of Central Casting after successfully landing the role of “bulldog–jawed older detective.” He owned Milano Investigations, and under his supervision, the firm ran like clockwork. No emergency rattled Dominic. He never raised his voice. Nothing knocked him off his stride. Before moving to the Pacific Northwest, he’d retired from the Miami Police Department with over a thousand homicide cases under his belt. He’d been there and done that, so nothing surprised him.

That was why watching his furry eyebrows creep up on his forehead was so satisfying.

Dominic plucked the top photograph from the stack on his desk. On it, Spenser “Spense” Bailey jogged down the street. The next shot showed Spense bending over. The next one caught him in a classic baseball–pitch pose, right leg raised, leaning back, a tennis ball in his fingers. Which would be fine and dandy, except that according to his doctor, Spense suffered from a herniated disk in his spine. He was restocking a warehouse when a walk–behind forklift got away from him, and the accident caused him constant, excruciating pain. He could frequently be seen limping around the neighborhood with a cane or a walker. He needed help to get into a car, and he couldn’t drive because the injured disk pinched the nerve in his right leg.

Dominic glanced at Audrey. “These are great. We’ve been following this guy for weeks, and nothing. How did you get these?”

“A very short tennis skirt. He hobbles past a tennis court every Tuesday and Thursday on the way to his physical–therapy sessions.” The hardest part was hitting the ball so it would fly over the tall fence. A loud gasp and a run with an extra bounce in her step, and she had him. “Keep looking. It gets better.”

Dominic flipped through the stack. The next photo showed Spense with a goofy grin on his face carrying two cups of coffee, maneuvering between tables at Starbucks with the grace of a deer.

“You bought him coffee?” Dominic’s eyebrows crawled a little higher.

“Of course not. He bought me coffee. And a fruit salad.” Audrey grinned.

“You really enjoy doing this, don’t you?” Dominic reflected.

She nodded. “He’s a liar and a cheat, who’s been out of work for months on the company’s dime.” And he thought he was so smart. He was practically begging to be cut down to size, and she had just the right pruning shears. Chop–chop.

Dominic moved the coffee picture aside and stopped. “Is this what I think this is?”

The next image showed Spense grasping a man in a warm–up suit from behind and tossing him backward over his head onto a mat.

“That would be Spense demonstrating a German suplex for me.” Audrey gave him a bright smile. “Apparently he’s an amateur MMA fighter. He goes to do his physical therapy on the first floor, and, after the session is over, he walks up the stairs to spar.”

Dominic put his hands together and sighed.

Something was wrong. She leaned back. “Suddenly you don’t seem happy.”

Dominic grimaced. “I look at you, and I’m confused. People who do the best in our line of work are unremarkable. They look just like anyone else, and they’re easily forgettable, so suspects don’t pay attention to them. They have some law–enforcement experience, usually at least some college. You’re too pretty, your hair is too red, your eyes are too big, you laugh too loud, and, according to your transcripts, you barely graduated from high school.”

Warning sirens wailed in her head. Dominic required proof of high–school graduation before employment, so she brought him both her diploma and her senior–year transcript. For some reason, he had bothered to pull her file and review the contents. Her driver’s license was first–rate because it was real. Her birth certificate and her high–school record would pass a cursory inspection, but if he dug any deeper, he’d find smoke. And if he took her fingerprints, he would find criminal records in two states.

Audrey kept the smile firmly in place. “I can’t help having big eyes.”

Dominic sighed again. “Here’s the deal: I hire freelancers to save money. My full–time guys are experienced and educated, which means I have to pay them a decent wage for their time. Unless there is serious money involved, I can’t afford for them to sit on a tough suspect for months, waiting for him to slip up. They get four weeks to crack a case. After that, I have to outsource this kind of stuff to freelancers like you because I can pay you per job. An average freelancer might close one case every couple of months. It’s a good part–time gig for most people.”

He was telling her things she already knew. Nothing to do but nod.

“You’ve been freelancing for me for five months. You closed fourteen cases. That’s a case every two weeks. You made twenty grand.” Dominic fixed her with his unblinking stare. “I can’t afford to keep you on as a freelancer.”

What? “I made you money!”

He held up his hand. “You’re too expensive, Audrey. The only way this professional relationship is going to survive is if you come to work for me full–time.”

She blinked.

“I’ll start you off at thirty grand a year with benefits. Here’s the paperwork.” Dominic handed her a manila envelope. “If you decide to take me up on it, I’ll see you Monday.”

“I’ll think about it.”

“You do that.”

Audrey swiped the file. Her grifter instincts said, “Play it cool,” but then, she didn’t have to con people anymore. Not those who hired her, anyway. “Thank you. Thank you so much. This means the world to me.”

“Everybody needs a chance, Audrey. You earned yours. We’d be glad to have you.” Dominic extended his hand over the table. She shook it and left the office.

A real job. With benefits. Holy crap.

She took the stairs, jogging down the steps to burn off some excitement. A real job being one of the good guys. How about that?

If her parents ever found out, they would flip.

Audrey drove down Rough Ocean Road away from Olympia. Her blue Honda powered on through the gray drizzle that steadily soaked the west side of Cascades. A thick blanket of dense clouds smothered the sky, turning the early evening gloomy and dark. Trees flanked the road: majestic Douglas firs with long emerald needles; black cottonwoods, tall and lean, catching the rain with large branches; red alders with silver–gray bark that almost glowed in the dusk.

A mile and a half ahead, a lonely subdivision of identical houses waited, cradled in the fold of the hill; meanwhile, the road was empty. Nothing but the trees.

Audrey glanced at the clock. Thirty–two minutes so far, not counting the time it took her to stop at a convenience store to get some teriyaki jerky for Ling and the time she spent driving around to different pharmacies. Getting to work would mean an actual commute.

She loved the job with Milano’s investigative agency. She loved every moment of it, from quietly hiding in a car to watch a suspect to running a con on the conmen. They thought they were slick. They didn’t know what slick was.

To be fair, most of the suspects she ran across were conmen of opportunity. They got hurt on the job and liked the disability, or they got tangled in an affair and were too afraid or too arrogant to tell their spouses. They didn’t see what they were doing as a con. They viewed it as a little white lie, the easiest path out of a tough situation. Most of them went about their deceptions in amateur ways. Audrey had been running cons since she could talk. It wasn’t a fair fight, but then, in the world of grifters, “fair” had no meaning.

Ahead, the road forked. The main street rolled right, up the hill, toward the subdivision, while the smaller road branched left, ducking under the canopy of trees. Audrey checked the rearview mirror. The ribbon of pavement behind her stretched into the distance, deserted. The coast was clear.

She smoothly made the turn onto the smaller road and braced herself. Panic punched her in the stomach, right in the solar plexus. Audrey gasped. The world swirled in a dizzying rush, and she let go of the wheel for a second to keep from wrenching the vehicle off the pavement. Pain followed, sharp, prickling every inch of her skin with red–hot needles, and although Audrey had expected it, the ache still caught her by surprise. Pressure squeezed her, then, just like that, all discomfort vanished. She had passed through the boundary.

A warm feeling spread through Audrey, flowing from her chest all the way to her fingertips. She smiled and snapped her fingers. With a warm tingle, tendrils of green glow swirled around her hand. Magic. Also known as flash. She let it die and kept driving.

Back on the main road, in the city of Olympia, in the State of Washington, magic didn’t exist. People who lived there tried to pretend that it did. They flirted with the idea of psychics and street magicians, but they had never encountered the real thing. Most of them wouldn’t even see the side road she took. For them it simply wasn’t there—the woods continued uninterrupted. Every time Audrey crossed into their world, the boundary stripped her magic from her in a rush of pain. That’s why people like her called that place the Broken—when you passed into it, you gave up a part of yourself, and it left you feeling incomplete. Broken like a clock with a missing gear.

Far ahead, past mountains and miles of rough terrain, another world waited, a mirror to the Broken, full of magic but light on technology. Well, not exactly true, Audrey reflected. The Weird had plenty of complex technology, but it had evolved in a different direction. Most of it functioned with the aid of magic. In the Weird, the power of your magic and the color of your flash determined the course of your life. The brighter you flashed, the better. If you flashed white, you could rub elbows with bluebloods, the Weird’s aristocratic families.

The Weird, like the Broken, was a place of rules and laws. That’s why Audrey preferred to live here, in the no–man’s land between the two dimensions. The locals called it the Edge, and they were right. It was on the edge of both worlds, a place without countries or cops, where the castoffs like her washed ashore. Connecting the two dimensions like a secret overpass, the Edge took everyone. Swindlers, thieves, crazed separatists, clannish families, all were welcome, all were dirt–poor, and all kept to themselves. The Edgers gave no quarter and expected no sympathy.

The road turned to dirt. The trees had changed, too. Ancient spruces spread broad branches from massive buttressed trunks, their limbs dripping with long emerald green beards of tangled moss. Towering narrow hemlocks thrust into the sky, their roots cushioned in ferns. Blue haze clung to narrow spaces between the trunks, hiding otherworldly things with glowing eyes who prowled in search of prey.

As Audrey drove through, bright yellow blossoms of Edger primrose sensed the vibration of the car and snapped open with faint puffs of luminescent pollen. By day the flowers stayed closed and harmless. At night, it was a different story. Take a couple of puffs in your face, and pretty soon you’d forget where you were or why you were here. A couple of weeks ago, Rook, one of the local Edger idiots, got drunk and fell asleep near a patch of them. They found him two days later, sitting up on a tree stump butt naked and covered in ants. This was an old forest, nourished by magic. It didn’t suffer fools, gladly or otherwise.

She steered her Honda up the narrow road, past her driveway, forcing it to climb higher and higher up the mountain. A shadow loomed ahead, blocking the way. She flicked on her brights. An old pine had fallen across the road. She’d have to hoof it to Gnome’s house. The road was muddy with recent rain, and she had new shoes on. Oh well. Shoes could be cleaned.

Audrey parked, pulled the emergency brake as high as it would go, swiped the plastic bags off the seat, and climbed out. Mud squished under the soles of her shoes. She climbed over the tree and trudged up the narrow road, following it all the way up to the top of the mountain. By the time she made it to the clearing, the sky had grown dim. Gnome’s house, a large two–story jumble of weird rooms sticking out at random angles, was all but lost in the gloom.

“Gnome!”

No answer.

“Gnooome!”

Nothing.

He was inside. He had to be—his old beat–up Chevy sat on the left side of the house, and Gnome rarely left the top of the mountain anyway. Audrey walked up to the door and tried the handle. Locked. She put her hand to the keyhole and pushed. The magic slid from her fingers in translucent currents of pale green and wove together, sliding into the keyhole. That old ornery knucklehead would probably kill her for this. The lock clicked. Audrey eased the door open smoothly, making sure it didn’t creak, more out of habit than real need.

Flash was a pure expression of one’s magic. But most people born with it had a talent or two hidden up their sleeve. Some Edgers were cursers, some foretold the future. She opened doors.

Audrey passed through the narrow hallway into the main room, sectioned off by tall shelves filled with Gnome’s knickknacks and merchandise. Being a local fence, he had enough inventory to put Costco to shame. He also functioned as an emergency general store. If Edgers needed deodorant or soap in a hurry and didn’t want to drive all the way across the boundary, they stopped at Gnome’s. And ended up paying ten bucks for a tube of toothpaste.

A fit of wet, hoarse coughing came from deeper within the house. Audrey slipped between the shelves, like a silent shadow, and finally stepped out into the clear space in the middle of the room.

Gnome, a huge bear of a man, sat slumped over in his stuffed chair, an open book on a desk in front of him and a shotgun by his chair. Flushed skin, tangled hair, feverish eyes, all hunkered down in a blanket. He looked like a mess.

“There you are.”

He peered at her with watering, bloodshot eyes. “What the hell are you—” Another fit of coughing shook his large frame.

“That sounds awful.”

“What are you—” Gnome sneezed.

“I brought you goodies.” She pulled a box of decongestant pills out of the bag and put it on the desk. “Look, I’ve got canned chicken soup, Theraflu, and here are some cough drops, and here is a box of Puffs tissues with lotion, so you don’t scrub all of the skin off that big beak of yours.”

He stared at her, speechless. Now that was something. If she had a camera, she should take a picture.

“And this here, this is good stuff.” Audrey tapped the plastic cup of Magic Vaporizer. “I had to hunt it down—they don’t make it as much anymore, so I could only get a generic version. Look, you boil some water and put these drops in here and inhale—clears your nose right up. I’ll fix you one, then you can yell at me.”

Five minutes later, she presented him with a steaming vaporizer and made him breathe it in. One, two, three . . .

Gnome sucked in his first breath. “Christ.”

“Told you.” Audrey set a hot bowl of chicken soup on his desk. “Works wonders.”

“How did you know I was sick?”

“Patricia came down the mountain yesterday and we ran into each other at the main road. She said you had a cold and mentioned that you undercharged her for the lanterns by twenty bucks.”

“What?”

Audrey smiled. “That’s how I knew it was bad. Besides, I was tired of hearing you hack and cough all night. The sound rolls down the mountain, you know. You’re keeping Ling awake.”

“You can’t hear me all the way down there.”

“That’s what you think. Take this generic or Theraflu before bed. Either will knock you out. The red pills are daytime.”

Gnome gave her a suspicious look. “How much is all this gonna cost me?”

“Don’t worry about it.”

Gnome shrugged his heavy shoulders and put a spoonful of soup into his mouth. “This doesn’t mean you’re getting a discount.”

Audrey heaved a mock sigh. “Oh well. I guess I’ll have to ply you with sexual favors then.”

Gnome choked on the soup. “I’m old enough to be your grandfather!”

Audrey winked at him, gathering the empty bags. “But you’re not.”

“Get out of here, you and your craziness.”

“Okay, okay, I’m going.” He was fun to tease, and she was in such a good mood.

“What is with you anyway?” he asked. “Why are you grinning?”

“I’ve got a job. With benefits.”

“Legit?”

“Yes.”

“Well, congratulations,” Gnome said. “Now go on. I’m sick of looking at your face.”

“I’ll see you later.”

She left the house and slogged her way through the mud down to her car. Gnome was a gruff old bear, but he was kind in his own way. Besides, he was the only neighbor she had within two miles. Nobody was around to help them. Either they took care of each other, or they toughed it out on their own.

Backing the Honda down the mountain in the gloom turned out to be harder than Audrey thought. She finally steered the vehicle to the fork where the narrow road leading to her place split off and took the turn. Thick roots burrowed under the road, and her Honda rolled over the bulges, careening and swaying, until it finally popped out into the clearing. On the right, the ground dropped off sharply, plunging down the side of the mountain. On the left, a squat, pale building sat in the shadow of an old spruce. It was a simple structure—a huge stone block of a roof resting on sturdy stone columns that guarded the wooden walls of the house within like the bars of a stone cage. Each three–foot–wide column bore a carving: dragons and men caught in the heat of a battle. A wide bas–relief decorated the roof as well, showing a woman in a chariot pulled by birds with snake heads. The woman gazed down on the slaughter like a goddess from Heaven.

Nobody knew who had built the ruins or why. They dotted that part of the Edge, a tower here, a temple there, gutted by time and elements and covered with moss. The Edgers, being poor and thrifty, knew better than to let them go to waste. They built wooden walls inside the stone frameworks, put in indoor plumbing and electricity illegally siphoned from the neighboring city or provided by generators, and moved right in. If any archaic gods took offense, they had yet to do anything about it.

Audrey parked the car under an ancient scarred maple and turned off the engine. Home, sweet home.

A ball of gray fur dropped off the maple branch and landed on her hood.

Audrey jumped in her seat. Jesus.

The raccoon danced up and down on the hood, chittering in outrage, bright eyes glowing with orange like two bloody moons.

“Ling the Merciless! You get off my car this instant!”

The raccoon spun in place, her gray fur standing on end, put her hand–paws on the windshield, and tried to bite the glass.

“What is it with you?” Audrey popped the car door open.

Ling scurried off the car and leaped into her lap, squirming and coughing. Audrey glanced up. The curtains on her kitchen window were parted slightly. A hair–thin line of bright yellow light spilled through the gap.

Somebody was in her house.

Excerpted from Fate's Edge by Ilona Andrews. Copyright © 2011 by Ilona Andrews. All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.

My Review

I absolutely love these books!

Kaldar is such a cad! He's perfect for the skittish Audrey. 

The story is exciting, highly entertaining and I couldn't put it down! 

I love these multidimensional characters and this unique storyline.

The worldbuilding is incredible. 

Highly recommend! 

Purchase Links

Penguin Random House*

About the Author

Ilona Andrews is the pseudonym for a husband-and-wife writing team, Gordon and Ilona. They currently reside in Texas with their two children and numerous dogs and cats. The couple are the #1 New York Times and USA Today bestselling authors of the Kate Daniels and Kate Daniels World novels as well as The Edge and Hidden Legacy series. They also write the Innkeeper Chronicles series, which they post as a free weekly serial. For a complete list of their books, fun extras, and Innkeeper installments, please visit their website at www.ilona-andrews.com.

*Third party links to the publisher's website. May contain affiliate links.

Needing a Little Time for Me

 Hey all, I am so sorry for not posting in a while.

My son has been very sick for several weeks. He is finally feeling better but I've just been physically, mentally, and spiritually exhausted taking care of him and the extra cleaning and sanitizing and all the other junk I've had to do on top of everything else.

If I owe you a review or a blog post, I promise you are not forgotten.

I've just been so tired I haven't been able to do much else. 

I'm practicing some self care and rereading some favorite books to rest and reset myself

I'll get back on the horse soon and I hope to be business as usual in April.

Thank you so much for your support and for hanging with me.

Blog Blitz: Blood Beneath The Snow by Alexandra Kennington

A heart-pounding romantasy following a rebellious princess who must compete to the death against her siblings for the crown to ensure justice, while fighting her feelings for her country’s most powerful enemy by debut author Alexandra Kennington

About the Book

Revna is no stranger to struggle. As the only member of the royal family without a magical ability, she is seen as an embarrassing mistake by her kingdom and a blight on her bloodline. Luckily, Revna has found family in other outcasts in her kingdom. But when her two closest friends’ lives are put in danger, she is determined to save them by any means necessary, no matter the cost. The Bloodshed Trials—a competition where the last sibling in the royal family standing takes the throne—might just be the ultimate price.

Revna turns down her arranged marriage and commits to competing for the throne only to be kidnapped by the mysterious and terrifyingly powerful Hellbringer, the general of her country’s greatest enemy. He has the ability to rend souls with the flick of his wrist and is every inch as intimidating as the war stories say he is. But Revna wonders if there may be some humanity left in him—especially when he reveals there are other parties who want her on the throne for their own secret reasons.

Excerpt

 

1

I stood shivering beneath my cloak in the temple plaza and wondered what would happen if I spat in the face of a god.

The press of bodies against me on every side still wasn't enough to keep the chill at bay in the frigid early-morning temperatures. I glared up at the statue in front of me, one of the seven adorning the steps of the temple. The god of fire, Hjalmar, stared off into the distance, with stone flames dancing over his outstretched palms. It was fitting I'd end up in front of him, considering he'd blessed the worst of my brothers.

If I spat in his face, would gasps echo across the crowd? Would priests descend from the temple steps, scythes in hand, to haul me away? Would Hjalmar himself cause me to burst into flames where I stood until I was nothing more than a pile of ash?The gods of air, water, earth, sky, and body on either side of him were almost identical, the only differences lying in the depiction of their abilities carved in the stone. To the right of Hjalmar, directly in the center of the seven, was the only goddess: Aloisa, who gave gifts of the soul.

Seven deities. And every single one of them hated me.

My best friend nudged me, clearly sensing the emotions bubbling beneath my surface. "You good?" Freja muttered, quietly enough that only I could hear. Around us, the buzz of excited conversation hummed. The streets were packed to the brim, and we were surrounded on every side by the godtouched.

Freja and I blended in with those standing in the front of the crowd-today we looked like wealthy citizens and obedient worshipers. Our realities couldn't have been further from our disguises. The hoods of our cloaks were pulled tight around our faces, obscuring us from easy recognition in the dawn light. The last thing we wanted was anyone noticing two of the most infamous godforsaken hiding in plain sight at the front of the crowd on a ritual day.

As Freja waited for my answer, a single curl slipped across her forehead, unable to stay contained. I calmed the anger flaring in my chest and reached out to push the lock of hair behind her ear once more. Glancing down for what must have been the tenth time in five minutes to check that the bundle of decoy fabric was in Freja's arms, I nodded sharply. "Fine."

She shifted her weight from one foot to the other; whether from cold or nerves, I couldn't tell. This small act of rebellion felt heavier than the others we'd carried out before. Today was my last chance to make an impact before I was carted off to another country to become the wife of a man I'd never met.

When the godtouched whispered of our anarchy, they often used the word barbarous. But I doubted anything Freja, Halvar-our other partner in crime-and I concocted was as "barbarous" as using one's only daughter as a political pawn.

"You shouldn't have given me your breakfast," Freja said, crossing her arms. "You always get irritable when you haven't eaten."

I forced a smile. "I wanted to make sure you had a clear head for this. Don't begrudge me that."

With the war draining our supplies so quickly and this winter being so harsh, there was never enough food to go around. Of course, that meant Freja and the other godforsaken were rationing their food, while the godtouched still managed to eat three meals a day. I tried to offer a portion of my food to her or Arne-our other friend-every day, but they usually refused. If not for her trepidation about this morning's plan, I doubted she would have accepted my offering today.

The temple loomed in front of us. As was the case every time I observed it, I resisted the urge to roll my eyes. Once, in my grandparents' time, the building had been an homage to our country's roots-but after our neighboring country to the south, Kryllian, opened their borders to visitors, those same grandparents decided they appreciated the smoother lines and expensive stone of foreign architecture. The old temple was torn down and rebuilt into what it was today: a creation of white stone so pure, the falling flakes disappeared in its orbit. The roof pivoted into two sharp angles representing two hands reaching for the heavens, where the pantheon of gods we all worshiped remained.

I tapped my foot, growing impatient. The ritual and ceremony were supposed to start first thing in the morning, while the sun rose over the hills in the east. But here we all stood, blowing hot puffs of breath over our numbing hands, still waiting as the sun ascended in the sky.

The chatter of the crowd closed in around me and I fumed at how normal the godtouched sounded. They discussed what might still be available at the market despite the shortages, what parties they were attending later this week, whether their spouses and children were due back from the front lines in this round of military rotations. All the while, their expensive jewelry flashed in the dappled sunlight and they basked in the warmth of their fur-lined cloaks-as if they all weren't here to witness a murder.

I tried not to think about the godforsaken-my own people. The ones at the back of the crowd, dreading what the next hour would bring. Knowing they'd see blood of their own spilled on the altar of the gods and then be expected to go about their day as if nothing had happened. I wondered if any would lose toes or fingers from frostbite after enduring the frigid conditions of midwinter in their worn shoes and their thin cloaks, fraying at the edges. Whether their children's ribs were showing in the wake of a war they despised. Whether they'd go home and cry silently for a few moments, hugging their families tight as they wondered why it was worth living another day.

My thoughts were interrupted by the temple doors swinging open. The crowd fell silent immediately, every head bowing low. I stared at the priests for a moment too long before Freja elbowed me, and I directed my gaze to the ground as well.

The holy men still managed to make me shudder, even after having spent a lifetime in close contact with them. They dressed entirely in white, in robes stretching from their necks to their wrists and ankles. Veils covered their hair and faces so that they blended in perfectly with the snowy landscape-except for the eyes.

The fabric of their veils was pinned to the necklines of their robes, meaning not a single inch of skin was visible on any of the priests. Above each one's forehead was an eye embroidered with bloodred thread, eerie enough to make both the godtouched and the godforsaken feel the priest was peering directly into the depths of their soul.

I hated the priests almost as much as I hated the gods.

An endless stream of them flooded out the doors until they had filled the steps of the structure, the blades of their scythes winking in the sun. The last to exit brought with him a white cloth with another embroidered eye on it to drape over the altar. Fury ripped through me at the sight, but I forced myself to stay still. My fingernails bit half-moons into the flesh of my palms and I busied my mind with the reminder of what I was here to do.

"Every priest in the country must be here," Freja whispered as we surveyed them. "I've never seen this many in one place before. Do you think they traveled for the ritual?"

"Who knows," I murmured, feeling the telltale furrow of my brows appear. "I wasn't expecting them all to be here. This might be harder than we thought."

My friend nodded, readjusting the bundle of fabric in her arms. "Guess we'll see how fast we can run."

Another figure exited the temple. The queen. She'd once confided to me when I was a small child that the crown she wore today was her favorite: an arch that stretched from behind one ear to the other, hugging tightly to her hair, rays projecting out like a halo to frame her face. The gold of it glimmered in the morning sunlight, contrasting against her dark black hair. Her gown was a deep blood red, one of our national colors. It flowed like liquid, and I found myself wondering if she was freezing beneath the fabric. It certainly didn't look warm.

She stepped to the center of the dais and stood before the altar. My eyes found my feet and I clenched my jaw as if the tension would prevent her from seeing me, recognizing me. A priest came forward to stand next to her, facing the crowd. In one synchronized movement, the other priests pounded the wooden handles of their scythes on the temple's stone steps, sending a booming echo through the square. The ceremony had begun.

"Ready?" I asked Freja. My heart pounded with anticipation.

She nodded. "Let's hope this works."

The priest at the altar began speaking in a resounding voice. "Welcome to the Winter Ritual, beloved citizens of Bhorglid. Today marks the beginning of a new year, one filled with great hope for our country. Even now, we wage holy war against Kryllian, our armies drawing closer to taking over the southernmost country in the Fjordlands."

A cheer erupted around us, and I suppressed a sigh of irritation. The godtouched in the crowd, whose partners, parents, and children fought on the front lines, were ecstatic to hear it repeated: their loved ones weren't fighting in just any war. No, it was a holy war. Decreed by the gods.

The priest continued, "Generations ago, the Fjordlands were stolen from us. We, who communicate directly with the gods. Instead of harmony, discord was wrought and the Fjordlands were split into three. For thirteen generations, the gods have mourned with us as we have waited for their perfect timing. Now you are blessed to be part of the chosen few alive to see this miracle come to pass. Kryllian shall be rightfully ours. The gods have declared it."

I tried not to let my emotions show on my face. The speech had been the same every year since the war began, but it never failed to make me wince. Halvar had been the one to explain to me years ago how the priest's version of this story had been edited in Bhorglid's favor. Only those who passed on the original stories verbally still knew the truth. He'd been lucky enough to come from a family that didn't embrace the revisionist version of our history.

In actuality, the Fjordlands had been filled with wandering people, those with magical abilities and those without living in peace-until a pair with powers far beyond what was necessary for mortal man decided they could speak with the gods. And according to them, the gods said those with abilities had been blessed. Godtouched.

The rest of us were godforsaken. Forgotten by our holy pantheon, called unworthy from the moment we entered the world. While the godtouched enjoyed innate abilities that allowed them to manipulate elements of the world around them, the way the gods had once done as they walked the land millennia ago, the rest of us were normal. Shunted to the edge of a society where an invisible group of gods claimed we were lesser.

The speech grated against my nerves like the screech of a metal fork across a ceramic plate. Enduring the rest of this drivel was going to kill me. I was ready to move, ready to wreak havoc, ready to wrap my hands around the nearest priest's throat and rip their veil off. Only watching the light fade from their eyes would be enough to calm me.

Freja snatched my hand and squeezed. "No," she hissed. "We have to wait until they've brought out the child."

My hands shook with fury against hers. But she was right. The priests enabled the foul treatment of the godforsaken, but we weren't here to rid ourselves of them. Today was about saving a life, not taking it.

Even if I wished it were possible to do both.

The priest droned on, but I focused on Freja's words and nodded, forcing myself to breathe deeply. The godtouched around us were too intent on listening to the priests to notice me acting strangely.

The ritual speech continued despite my swirling thoughts. "As we perform the new year ritual, this unholy blood will be a tribute to the gods. In exchange for our sacrifice, they will grant us their power. We will gain a powerful advantage in this war; with the vanquishing of this life, we will be able to defeat the Hellbringer. The gods have declared it so."

Freja squeezed my hand again, barely in time to keep an indignant huff from escaping me. This part of the speech was new, the logic as incomprehensible as the rest. How would killing an infant grant us the power to stop the most powerful godtouched being to exist in any of our lifetimes and end the war? As Freja released my hand, the queen gestured to the side of the stage for several acolytes to bring someone forward. I glanced over but couldn't make out the woman's face; the figure was hunched at an odd angle and a low moan emanated from her mouth. There was a wriggling bundle clutched to her chest. My stomach sank, the way it did every year.

The priest took the infant out of the person's arms and began to move toward the altar.

The figure left in the shadows-undoubtedly the child's mother, a godforsaken woman-let out a haunting scream, her wail of anguish echoing through the square and silencing everyone, even the godtouched. I clenched my teeth. The screams were always the worst part. Worse than the blood. The mother collapsed to her knees and howling sobs cracked the silence.

Freja and I were the only ones who appeared affected. The priests' expressions were carefully hidden behind their face coverings and the godtouched on either side of us were reverently silent, waiting for spilled blood to spell their salvation. The queen curled her lip at the bundle in the priest's arms as he set it carefully on the altar.

As he laid it down, it wriggled, and a tiny hand emerged from the blankets.

Seeing the movement made my throat raw. The last child born to godforsaken parents each year was always culled-a horrifying euphemism-as a sacrifice to the gods. Only the youngest, freshest blood would do for this brutal tradition, repeated winter after winter.

"Now," I said to Freja as anger sparked in my stomach. "We go now."

Excerpted from Blood Beneath the Snow by Alexandra Kennington. Copyright © 2025 by Alexandra Kennington. All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.

Purchase Links

Penguin Random House*

About the Author

Photo: © Haili VanDerEems

Alexandra Kennington has been writing fantasy stories since she was young. Now, she’s living her dream as an author of fantasy and science fiction novels. When she’s not knee-deep in a world of her own creation, you’ll find her reading a book with the enemies-to-lovers trope or obsessing over Star Wars. She lives in Utah with her spouse and child. Learn more at www.alexandrakennington.com

*Third party links to the publisher's website. May contain affiliate links.

Release Day Spotlight: Blood Skye by Donna Grant

Return to Scotland and New York Times and USA Today bestselling author Donna Grant’s Skye Druids, where magic and danger intertwine and a tale of passion, revelations, and new beginnings unfolds.

About the Book

The only choice is surrender.

In my world, magic and danger go hand-in-hand. It has from my earliest memory. Magic was currency, and if you have it, you have power. I was shaped by some of the most influential Druids into a lethal weapon. Their weapon.

Until the night they betray me—and I wind up in the hands of my enemy.

He’s nothing but a job for me. To him, I’m the key to finding his father. Too bad I know nothing.

But right now, he’s the only thing keeping me alive, so I’ll do whatever it takes. Yet, if we’re going to survive, it means doing it together.

I’ve never allowed myself to care, to feel. To hope. He shows me a world that was always just out of reach, one I was never meant to be a part of—and a love that burns bright enough to scorch the earth.

Together, we will bring an empire to its knees. 

Purchase Links*

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About the Author

Donna is the New York Times and USA Today bestselling author of over a hundred novels. Her most popular series is the breathtaking Dragon King series featuring dragons, immortal Highlanders, and the Fae.

She has been dubbed as giving the “paranormal genre a burst of fresh air” by the San Francisco Book Review. Her work has been hailed as having “deft plotting and expert characterization” by Publishers Weekly and “sizzling” by RT Book Reviews. Learn more at donnagrant.com

*Third party links to the publisher's website. Buy links may contain affiliate links.

Blog Tour & Review: Dead Man's List by Karen Rose

Homicide Detective Kit McKittrick’s latest case exposes the dark side of San Diego’s high society in this nerve-shattering tale of romantic suspense from New York Times bestselling author Karen Rose.

About the Book

On a long-anticipated second date with police psychologist Dr. Sam Reeves—right as things are getting steamy—Kit stumbles across the mutilated body of a local San Diego politician. The man was loved by many of his constituents but is hated and reviled by many more. That the suspect list is long surprises no one, but exactly who ends up on it stuns Kit and her team.

As the SDPD reveal the victim’s sinister dealings, Kit and Sam are forced to navigate the closely guarded world of the city’s richest and most powerful citizens to find answers. But time is rapidly running out, with their sources of information dropping like flies as the killer methodically eliminates loose ends—and anyone else who stands in the way.

Excerpt

 

Chapter One

Anza-Borrego Desert State Park
Borrego Springs, California
Saturday, January 7, 12:30 p.m.

Be careful," Sam said, pointing to a shrub next to the trail. "That's a catclaw. Its thorns are sharp."

"Okay," Kit said, giving the bush a wide berth and tugging on Snickerdoodle's leash to make sure that she kept her distance as well.

Their hike so far had been filled with similar safety callouts from Sam and not much else. It was . . .

Awkward, Kit thought with a wince. This date was not bad but just so awkward, and she had no idea what to do about it. The desert itself was beautiful in a stark way, and Sam had chosen a less traveled trail. They'd had complete solitude, not having seen another hiker for miles. The weather, while unforgiving in the summer, was perfect during the winter. The skies were clear, the cool breeze refreshing.

But as pretty as the landscape was, this day had been uncomfortable as hell.

Sam had picked her and Snickerdoodle up that morning and right away Kit had known something was wrong. Usually sweet and calm, Sam was tense and overly polite.

It was like they were strangers.

I've messed things up already, and I don't even know what I did wrong, she thought sadly.

The drive to the park had been quiet, their minimal conversation stilted. Sam had asked her a few questions in a cautious tone, and she'd replied equally cautiously in sentences that never managed to be more than a few words.

They'd started their hike in a muted mood, with Sam pointing out landmarks and plants like he was a tour guide. Brisk, efficient, but impersonal.

I have to fix this. Because not only did Sam sound impersonal, he seemed sad, which she couldn't stand. Especially if she'd caused it. Abruptly she stopped on the trail, Snickerdoodle obediently sitting at her side.

Sam had taken a few steps forward before realizing she was no longer beside him on the trail. Carefully he turned so that he and Siggy faced her. Sam's expression was blank, and Kit's heart dropped to her stomach. "Kit? You okay?"

"No." Her voice shook and she drew a breath. "I'm sorry."

His shoulders sagged, disappointment unmistakable in his eyes. "I know."

Panic flared, and she realized just how much she'd wanted this date to go well. How much she'd wanted to see Sam happy. "I did something. Ruined something. You're not happy. We're here, in the desert, and you're supposed to be happy."

He frowned. "What are you talking about? I thought . . ."

She took a step closer. "What?"

His throat worked as he swallowed. "I thought that you were going to say that this date was a mistake."

Her mouth dropped open. "What?"

He studied her face. "You're not thinking this was a mistake?"

"No. Just . . ." She kept her gaze focused on his. "I was scared of today."

"I figured you would be. I thought for sure you'd find a reason to cancel on me."

"I almost did."

One side of his mouth lifted in an almost-smile. "Not a shock. Who talked you into coming?"

"Rita," she said dolefully. "And Pop. Called me out on my bullshit. Is that why you've been so distant all day? You thought I was about to call this a mistake?"

He nodded warily. "Were you?"

She did look away then, taking in the desert around them. It really was beautiful. "I don't think so. I wanted to come here. With you. Wanted you to show me the desert and why you love it. But it's been more than six weeks since I asked you on this date. Enough time to second-guess myself. And maybe to second-guess you. You could have anyone. Everyone tells me so. I still don't know why you seem to want to be with me."

And that was the honest truth.

"Kit." He waited until she met his eyes again. "My feelings haven't changed. I want to be with you, but I don't want to rush you into anything you're not ready for. I can wait. You're worth waiting for."

She took another step forward, now so close that she could see the thick dark lashes framing his green eyes behind his Clark Kent glasses. Could see the freckles sprinkled across his nose now that he'd gotten some sun.

She could see his sincerity, the very thing that had originally drawn her to him. And suddenly she wasn't afraid anymore, because this was Sam. Other than her father, Sam was the kindest, gentlest man she knew. He would respect her limitations. And he'd protect her heart.

She needed to protect his as well.

"I'm ready for this date." She reached out, gripped his jacket, tugging him closer. "I want to know you better."

His chest expanded with the breath he drew. "Thank God," he muttered, his hands coming up to cup her face, sending a shiver down her spine and over her skin. "I've tried to give you space."

"Don't," she said simply, releasing her hold on his jacket and sliding her hands around his neck. "I . . . I missed you," she admitted.

His smile was pure delight. "You did?"

"I did. It's been too long since we went on our fishing date." She rose on her toes. "Too long since you kissed me good night."

His swallow was audible. "Thought about that, did you?"

"I did. Did you?"

"Yeah. Every night. Every morning. And maybe a few times during the day."

"Same," she whispered, their lips now brushing. An almost-kiss. If she leaned up just a little, she could kiss him for real. She closed the distance between them and then his mouth was finally on hers. His kiss was sweet and undemanding, but his hands, still cupping her face, trembled.

He wanted more.

And so do I.

Dimly the sound of barking intruded. Two different barks. Two different dogs.

Dogs.

Snickerdoodle.

Kit no longer held her leash.

Shit.

They pulled away at the same time, each looking around for their dogs because Sam had dropped Siggy's leash, too.

"Siggy!" he called.

"Snickerdoodle!" Kit shouted, then huffed a relieved breath when Snick came trotting around a cluster of small boulders, her tail wagging. But she was alone. No sign of Siggy.

Sam left the trail, taking off at a jog. Kit grabbed Snickerdoodle's leash and followed him.

Then stopped dead in her tracks.

"Dead" being the operative word.

Siggy had a shoe in his mouth. A man's wingtip, size eleven or thereabouts. The shoe's mate was half buried in the sand on a man's foot.

A very dead man, lying faceup in the desert sand.

What was left of his face, anyway. The animals of the desert had been snacking.

So gross.

The body was positioned in a hollow beneath the boulders, sheltered from the wind. Still, the sand had swept over the body, covering the legs, one foot, and part of one arm.

Accident or murder? She took a few steps closer and had her answer. The man's neck was an open gash, now home to dozens of flies. His throat had clearly been slit, ear to ear.

Be careful what you wish for, she thought, remembering how she'd hoped for a murder the night before.

Kit glanced at Sam, whose gaze was fixed on the man's face, his eyes wide, his face slack with shock. "Sam? You okay?"

He cleared his throat roughly. "Well, shit."

She nodded once. "Shit indeed. I need to call this in."

"Wait." He edged closer, gaze still fixed on the victim. "Look at his face."

"I did. There isn't enough left for a clear ID. The ME will likely have to use dental records or DNA. He-"

"No, Kit. Look at him. I know him."

Startled, Kit crouched at the dead man's side. And then she recognized him, too. Or at least the tribal-style tattoo that wound up his neck, ending behind what had been his ear. "Well, shit."

Sam huffed a mirthless laugh. "Shit indeed. That's Councilman Brooks Munro."

Of the San Diego city council.

Kit scowled down at the body. "This is not gonna be fun."

"Our second-favorite local politician," Sam said, his tone dripping with disdain.

Kit looked up at him in surprise. She'd never heard him use that caustic tone before and wondered what his experience had been with the councilman, who had a reputation of being very charismatic and charming. At the same time, Kit had heard rumors of impropriety, but nothing had ever been proven.

"Who's the first?" she asked, although she thought she knew.

He met her gaze. "Drummond."

Drummond had resigned his seat after being charged with murder, but Kit took Sam's point. She still wondered why Sam hated this councilman. "Munro has been missing for a few days," she said.

"I know," he said flatly. "I saw it on the news."

"He was reported by his wife, who's been out of town. Two officers did a welfare check and found blood on his garage floor. Enough that they assumed that he'd been seriously injured."

Sam grimaced. "I'd say he was seriously injured. Oh shit. Kit. His hands . . ."

Kit sighed. The victim's fingers were missing, as were the toes on his exposed foot. "Could have been animals."

"God, I hope so. But you don't think so."

"No, I don't." Because now that she was closer, she could also see the stab wounds in the man's chest. She counted at least twenty at first glance. Someone had really wanted this man to suffer. "But the ME will tell us for sure. Let me call it in."

She pulled her phone from her pocket, but she had no signal. "Dammit."

"Wait." Sam dropped to one knee and began rifling through his backpack, piling its contents on the sand until he found what he'd been looking for. "Here." He held out a phone. "Sat phone. You'll get a signal with that."

"Do you always carry a sat phone?"

"Yep. It's a safety thing. Siggy and I hike in remote areas. Cell signals are never a given."

She glanced down at him while she searched her phone for her boss's contact information. "Are those . . . Sam, do you have night-vision goggles?"

He looked up, expression slightly embarrassed. "Christmas present from my parents. I promised I'd carry them with me, just in case. I also packed a picnic lunch, but I don't think I have any appetite anymore." He loaded everything into his pack and stood, his expression now pained as he turned his back on the body. "Please call Lieutenant Navarro, Kit. I want to get away from here as soon as we possibly can."

Kit hated to tell him that it would likely be hours before they could leave. So she merely dialed Navarro's number.

"Navarro. Who is this?" her boss answered brusquely.

"It's Kit. We've got a situation here."


San Diego PD, San Diego, California
Saturday, January 7, 5:30 p.m.

Connor Robinson stuck his head in Lieutenant Navarro's office. "So you two just happened to find the one missing body in nearly one thousand square miles of state park?"

Kit and Sam were in her boss's office, waiting on Navarro to debrief them. They'd dropped the dogs off with Harlan and Betsy, and Kit had picked up her own car, knowing that her day was far from over. Hopefully Navarro would let Sam go home as soon as they'd reviewed his statement, but Kit had the awful feeling that her boss would keep her far longer.

Don't assign me this case. Please.

"I'd bet a week's pay that it's not the only body hidden in the park," Kit told her partner.

Sam made a pained sound, and Kit patted his hand. "You okay?"

"No," Sam grumbled. "Day's ruined. Date's ruined. And I'm never going to get the sight of his face out of my mind."

Connor made a sympathetic face. "That sucks, man. Sorry your date was ruined."

Sam made another grumbling sound that was cuter than it should have been.

"We'll have another date," Kit promised. "A no-dead-body date. I promise."

"Okay." But he still frowned, and Kit felt bad for him.

Munro's body really had been a gruesome sight, and Sam had handled it better than a lot of people would have. She knew that he'd seen bodies before, but Munro's was . . . extreme.

Even for me.

"What are you doing here today anyway?" Kit asked Connor. "It's Saturday. Did we catch another case?"

"No. I heard about the body and that it was discovered by an SDPD cop. I knew you'd headed up that way so I wanted to find out if you were the ones who'd found it."

It was Kit's turn to frown. "How did you hear about the body?"

Connor grinned. "Baz called me. He'd heard it through the station's grapevine. I have to say I'm miffed that you didn't at least text me."

Kit rolled her eyes. "Baz has been surgically grafted to the grapevine, I think." Her former partner had retired after having a heart attack nine months before. She missed him terribly, but she and Connor had found their stride together. "And I didn't text you because you were supposed to be with CeCe today."

"Her mom twisted her knee and CeCe took her to the doctor." He shrugged. "So I came in. Oh, sorry, sir." He abruptly moved to one side of the doorway, making room for Navarro, who looked unhappy. "See you later."

"No," Navarro said. "You stay."

Connor winced, and Kit had to swallow a groan. If Connor was staying, it meant they'd be working Munro's murder investigation.

Which sucked, because this was going to be a bitch of a case. The suspect list was already a mile long. His constituents seemed to love him, but few people in law enforcement liked Brooks Munro. In fact, too many people hated his guts.

Navarro pointed to her and Sam. "You two. It's always you two."

Kit bristled. "Sir?"

Sam's mouth fell open. "I beg your pardon?"

"Trouble just seems to find you," Navarro muttered, sitting down at his desk. "And you can't even deny it."

Sam sighed. "No, I guess I can't, but it's not like we found the body on purpose. It spoiled our entire day. And my appetite for the next week."

Navarro's lips twitched. "It was pretty bad." He shifted his attention to his computer. "Good initial report, Kit. All the particulars are here. Brooks Munro, age fifty-one, city councilman. Was last seen alive on Wednesday by his office administrator. He didn't show up to work on Thursday, didn't return his wife's calls. Wife, who was out of town, requested a wellness check. Cops found blood on his garage floor. Car was missing." He looked up, brows lifted. "It wasn't just a car, Kit. It was a goddamned Ferrari. Do we have footage from his home security cameras?"

Excerpted from Dead Man's List by Karen Rose. Copyright © 2025 by Karen Rose. All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.

My Review

Ms. Rose thrills–and chills–in this next installment of her San Diego Case Files series!

Dead Man’s List involves an incredibly complex mystery to solve for Homicide Detective Kit McKittrick and her team. All hands are on deck when a local councilman turns up dead and the mayor wants the case solved yesterday.

Dr. Sam Reeves is a psychologist who assists in police cases and is vital to Kit’s team and the community with Dr. Sam’s work at a local homeless shelter for teens. Sam has been crushing hard on the beautiful detective but Kit’s got some major emotional baggage that has often stopped her from pursuing something solid with the good doctor. It’s not that Kit doesn’t want Sam, it’s that she wants him too much, but her fear of not being able to protect the ones she loves is a real fear that keeps many in her life at arm’s length. Can Sam finally break through Kit’s defensive walls, or will she push Sam to the friend’s zone for good? 

The mystery is so exciting and had me in a chokehold the entire story! The action-packed plot got my heart racing. The characters are entertaining and I wanted to know more about everyone. The subplot(s) of the story is/are just as thrilling and is/are vital to the main storyline. I was on the edge of my seat the last 15% of the book! Don’t peek! Be patient and read from start to finish. You just might miss a minute detail that will blow the case wide open! 

I admit, the first two books in this particular series made me a little angry because the author doesn’t provide an HEA at the end of each book like she does in her other Romantic Suspense series. While the cases to solve are exciting and engaging, the chemistry between Kit and Sam has been so sloooooooooowwww! But now that we are in the third book of the series, I see a method to Ms. Rose’s madness and it’s quite brilliant. 

Kit is a strong, stubborn FMC that is exceptional at her job. She’s loyal and fiercely protective over those she calls her own. Kit’s origin story begins in the foster care system where a very young Kit and her foster sister, Wren escape a home where all types of abuse goes on. While running away, Kit and Wren find a barn to hide in where they are discovered by a gentle giant of a man. He and his wife are foster parents and they take in Kit and Wren. They are in a good foster home, but can’t yet get comfortable or trust that they are safe. When Wren is murdered, Kit is inconsolable, especially when the police deem Wren’s murder a cold case and move on. Move on? No way, not for Kit. 

Kit becomes a cop and while she works diligently to make sure others like her and her sister can get justice for their loved ones. Kit still holds out hope that she can solve Wren’s case and make sure her killer is prosecuted to the fullest extent of the law. Kit was adopted by that nice couple and has many adopted brothers and sisters. She is loved, respected in her profession, and doesn’t have time, or the wherewithal to have a romantic relationship. But somehow, Dr. Sam Reeves has been slowly getting under Kit’s skin. It is difficult for Kit to trust, to let someone in, which is why the author is strategic in framing the series as she’s doing. I get it now. I hope readers will also give this series a chance, too.

Dead Man’s List is an exciting thriller full of action, suspense, and a damn good storyline. While it is part of a series, it can easily be read as a standalone. 

I highly recommend the book and every series by Karen Rose.

**Please check your trigger warnings. There are many adult themes with several types of abuse and trauma in this book that may make some readers uncomfortable. Read at your own discretion**

FTC Disclaimer: I voluntarily read a copy of the book generously provided by the publisher via Net Galley in exchange for an honest review. This in no way influences my thoughts or feelings about the book or the content of my review.

Purchase Links

Penguin Random House*

About the Author

Photo: © Michael Greene Photography

Karen Rose is the award-winning, #1 international bestselling author of over twenty-five novels, including the bestselling Baltimore and Cincinnati series. She has been translated into twenty-three languages and her books have placed on the New York Times, the Sunday Times (UK), and Germany’s der Spiegel bestseller lists. Learn more at www.karenrosebooks.com

*Third party links to the publisher's website. May contain affiliate links.

Blog Tour: Heart of the Shadow King by by Sylvia Mercedes

The viral TikTok fantasy romance, now in a special print edition with exclusive bonus material!

Oncoming darkness threatens to engulf a noble king and his powerful queen in this breathtaking, epic conclusion to the Bride of the Shadow King series.

About the Book

After nearly losing each other in a savage attack on the city, Vor and Faraine return to Mythanar fully committed to their marriage. But the situation in the Under Realm remains dire. With the world poised on the brink of collapse, Vor struggles to protect his kingdom. And though Faraine longs to support him as queen, she fights her body at every turn.

When war drags them apart, Vor and Faraine face the consequences of their choices. Torn between honor and desire, Vor must decide where his heart truly lies: with his kingdom or his queen.

Meanwhile, as Faraine explores the strange changes warping her gods-gift, she starts to believe the coming cataclysm may be prevented. But in doing so, she might unleash a darkness in herself far more disastrous…and lose Vor forever.

Goodreads | Buy Links

Excerpt

 

1

Faraine

Pain ripples through my body at odd intervals, like the aftershocks of a massive quake.I'm used to pain, of course. I've lived a great deal of my life striving to stave it off. And the agony of both my recent death and resurrection was certainly more terrible than these small tremors. But this is different. This is the extreme discomfort of a spirit which had escaped the confines of a mortal body only to find itself confined once more. Protesting against imprisonment, straining at every boundary, seeking escape.

I close my eyes, breathing deeply through yet another wave as it washes over me, body and soul. There's nothing to be done, no way to escape. I must simply endure. But at least I can lean my head back against the broad chest and shoulder behind me, steady myself against another's heartbeat. A heartbeat which now pulses in rhythm with my own.

Vor's arm holds me fast around my middle as he guides his morleth down through a gaping chasm of stone. He's not spoken since we left behind the secluded pool at the base of the mountain. His silence is sweet, however, and everything he'd said while holding me in his arms on the edge of that pool still echoes in my heart.

You are mine, Faraine. My queen. Sovereign Lady of Mythanar and the Under Realm, from this day forth and forevermore.

I breathe through another wave of pain. My head is light and dizzy as we descend through the winding caverns, back down into the vast dark spaces of the subterranean world. Regret pricks my heart as we leave behind the shining, distant stars. The sky holds real terror for this man who is my husband, but for me it was a relief not to feel the weight of stone overhead, at least for a little while.

The truth is, I don't belong in Vor's world. And yet, to claim the heart of the Shadow King is to claim his world as my own. Am I ready? Am I strong enough?

I gave my death in a wild attempt to save these people from destruction.

Do I have the courage to give my life as well?

My stomach tightens as Vor urges his morleth faster, and we plunge back into the Under Realm. Lorst crystals flash, piercing my closed eyelids with their ever-brightening glow. Lusterling, the trolde equivalent of day, is awakening. What will the light of a million shining crystals reveal of the city below? A city stricken by terror and savagery. A city poised on the brink of disaster.

Vor's arm tightens around me. I frown suddenly. Though I'm riding pressed so close against him, I cannot sense him. I feel the tension in his muscles, the quickness of his breath close to my ear, the rapid beat of his heart. But not his emotions. Where once his every feeling was so readily available to my perception, now there is simply absence. Surely this can't be right. I'm tired from my ordeal, distracted by the pain. That's all. Reaching out, I seek for that connection I've been able to find with most living souls since the day my gods-gift overwhelmed me, ripping me open to receive the feelings of others.

There's nothing there. No sense of him. No thrumming spirit, no silent pulse of sound, of essence. Nothing.

Almost unconsciously I release the handful of morleth mane I've been gripping and reach instead for my pendant. When my fingers find it, still hung from its delicate chain around my neck, it does not hum in response to my touch. I lift it up, twisting it to catch the flashing lorst lights. There's darkness in its center. I blink, look again, certain I must be imagining things. Perhaps the flickering lights are playing tricks on my eyes. But my spirit senses that darkness, that emptiness as well. That lack where there should be life.

Something has changed inside of me. Something essential. Something . . . I don't quite know what.

The morleth lets out a snort of sulfur as we emerge from the winding darkness into the huge cavern of Mythanar. I let out a gasp, dropping my crystal, and stare down at the sight below. I've not seen the city from this angle before. I had thought it great when traversing its streets or when flying on the back of a morleth over its peaked and glittering rooftops. But it was impossible then to fathom the sheer scale, the precipitous heights of its twisted towers, the plunging depths of its winding streets, the glittering crystals, the misting waterfalls, the soaring bridges and highways. All perched on the chasm's edge above a glowing river of lava. My heart quickens at the sight, at the wonder and the beauty spread before me. It's hard to imagine such an ancient, powerful city could ever be in danger of annihilation. What could possibly bring such majesty to ruin?

Dragon.

The word breathes in the back of my head, a whisper, a warning. I'm not altogether certain where I heard it, who spoke it. The idea is simply there, along with a sensation of heat and a deep, roiling wellspring of pure, celestial rage.

"Are you well, Faraine?"

Vor's voice warms my ear, sending a little shiver down my spine. I close my eyes, lean back into him, once more seeking the warmth of his emotions to enfold me. Once more finding nothing. But there must be an explanation. My gods-gift was so inundated by the recent and tremendous outpouring of my power. I just need a chance to recover. In the meanwhile, I should be glad for the reprieve. "I'm all right," I murmur, turning to tuck my head under Vor's chin. "I'm tired. That is all."

Does he hear the lie in my voice? Possibly. But he does not challenge it, merely kisses the top of my head and says, "Of course. You've had a terrible ordeal. I will take you directly to your room and send someone to attend you."

I don't want someone to attend me. I want him. Only him. I want to feel again the peace of his presence that once struck my gods-gifted senses so profoundly. If I cannot have that, then I would settle for the strength of his arms, the warmth of his voice, the beat of his heart.

But Vor is Mythanar's king. While he may have abandoned his city in a mad bid to save me, his people need him still.

So, I keep my mouth shut and my eyes closed, blocking out both the sight of that city and the absence of my gods-gift. The powerful beast beneath me flows through the air, down into the cavern, circling as it draws near to the palace towers. At last it alights on the balcony rail just outside my chamber. "We've arrived," Vor says gently.

Memory flashes through my mind's eye-recent memory of the last time we were here. When Vor carried me on a morleth back up from the city, intending to deliver me to my chambers. Intending never to see me again. But I'd convinced him to stay. Convinced him to give in to the burning desire which had built up such dangerous pressure between us, finally bursting free in an inferno of unrestrained passion.

Heat pools between my thighs even now at the thought. This man, who now holds me against his powerful chest, awakened such strange new sensations in me. His hands, his mouth, his teeth and tongue seemed to mold me, to make me new. I would very much like the chance to experience more such delights under his guidance and care.

Vor dismounts before reaching up to help me from the saddle. I cannot trust my legs to support me, so I cling to his neck, allowing him to cradle me close. The window to my chamber is wide open, and he carries me inside. All the furnishings are askew, the decorations and ornaments tumbled from their places. A few chunks of stalactite have fallen from the ceiling, one jagged piece crushing the small table that once held a silver ewer and cups. Evidence of the last stirring, which shook the city just before the cave devils attacked.

Still holding me close, Vor peers around the space, his eyes narrowed. Searching for signs of danger no doubt. "It's all right," I tell him. "The woggha never got in here."

"How can you be certain?"

I can't. If my gods-gift were awakened, I would be able to sense the presence of another living beast. As it is, there might be any number of cave devils hiding in my wardrobe, under my bed, up the chimney, and I would never know.

Vor sets me down on the bed, which is covered in debris. I brush dust and pebbles to the floor while he makes a quick but thorough search of the chamber. Satisfied at last, he returns to me. "How do you feel now?" he asks, kneeling before me so that his eyes are once more level with mine. He takes both my hands in his.

"Weak," I admit. I don't tell him about the jolts of pain rippling through me at odd intervals. He has worries enough on his mind.

He lifts one hand to stroke my cheek, brow puckering. "I suppose that's understandable, considering . . ."

"Considering I was dead not two hours ago."

A shadow falls across his face. He leans forward, presses his forehead against mine. The shuddering intake of his breath wrings my heart. "Don't ever leave me like that, Faraine," he whispers. "Never again. Don't go where I cannot follow."

I smile, a gentle tilt of my lips. "I'll never leave you willingly. Never by choice."

He takes another ragged breath. Then he angles his face, his lips hovering over mine, a mere fraction of infinitesimal space separating us. I hang there, suspended in that space, waiting, longing.

He closes the distance, his mouth warm and eager. At the instant of contact, something inside me thrums to life, a faint echo of my former gift. In that echo I feel, however distantly, both his hunger and his desperation. It flows through me, driving out all pain as my own hunger, my own desperation, rises to answer his. Though my arms are still weak, I wrap them around his neck, thread my fingers through his hair, and pull him closer, closer. He responds, bowing me over the bed. There's grit at my back, fallen debris sharp against my skin and the thin black robe wrapping my body. I scarcely notice. All I know is my need for him, my need to deepen this connection between us. My hands run over his shoulders, his neck, his torso, finding all the cuts and wounds from his recent battle. He came to find me straight from the horror of the cave devil attack, straight from fighting to preserve the lives of his people in the face of unimaginable savagery.

But he's here. With me now. His hands press into the bed on either side of my face, his huge body poised so as not to crush me even as his mouth covers mine. His kisses grow more adamant, demanding, as though he cannot believe I am real and requires proof. I'm still not certain myself and need his touch to anchor me to this world. I open my mouth, deepening both our kiss and our connection.

A bolt shoots straight to my heart. A burst of raw red light explodes in my head.

Fear.

Dread.

Guilt.

These are Vor's feelings. Wrapped in his love but no less real, no less dreadful. They fill my head until it seems like many small pins are trapped inside my skull, struggling to escape through my scalp. With a gasp, I pull away from him.

Vor peers down at me, propped up on his fists, his long silver hair falling in a gentle veil around us. "What is it?" he asks, panting. "What's wrong?"

I don't want to tell him. I don't want him to know that he is hurting me. I don't want to let him go. Instead, I grimace, gripping his shoulder with one hand while the other seeks my crystal pendant. I wrap my fingers around the faceted stone. It does not respond no matter how hard I squeeze.

"Faraine?" Vor's voice is confused, tinged with fear. "Faraine, my love. Have I hurt you?" He pulls back, breaking free of my weakened arms. He sits on the edge of the bed, head bowed, and runs his fingers through his hair. "I'm such a fool! Forgive me. I'm behaving like a lustful cad when you've just-"

"No, Vor." My voice is unsteady. But the moment contact is broken, numbness spreads through my body. The pain of his emotions is so thoroughly gone, I have to wonder if I somehow invented it. I open my eyes, still gripping my crystal, and meet his stricken gaze. "It's not you. I swear. The . . . the shock of everything . . ."

He leans forward, cups my face in his palm. I wince, expecting that touch to open a conduit between us. But there's nothing; numbness holds sway. I shiver and drop my gaze, uncertain how to feel. I'd almost prefer the pain of his guilt to this absence.

"You must rest," he says, his voice firm. "You must sleep, recover." He shakes his head, smiling ruefully. "I'm sorry, my love. I cannot help how badly I want to make up for all the time we've lost."

I touch the hand still cradling my cheek. "I want to experience everything with you, Vor. I want to fill whatever moments we have left." Then, taking his hand, I draw it down to my heart, pressing it there. "But your people need you now."

He leans forward, his eyes holding mine. "I don't want to leave you alone."

"In that case, send Hael. When you find her." I smile and tip my head a little to one side. "I'll be fine, Vor. I swear it. After everything that's happened, what could possibly frighten me now?"

His eyes search my face, seeking perhaps to pierce my façade of calm. Slowly, he shakes his head. "I fear the moment I leave your sight you'll slip away from me. A dream lost to the brutal realities of the waking world."

I lift his hand to my lips, kiss his knuckles. "I am no dream. And I will be here, awaiting your return." Pushing him from me, I finish in a firm voice: "Go. Be the king Mythanar needs."

He draws a long, steadying breath. Then, grasping me by the back of my head, he pulls me to him, capturing my lips once more. Immediately the connection between us opens wide, shattering the numbness as the intensity of his feelings radiates through me. There's still pain here: fear and anxiety and always that terrible pulse of guilt. But just now, just in this moment, all other feelings are drowned in a flood of pure love.

Excerpted from Heart of the Shadow King by Sylvia Mercedes. Copyright © 2025 by Sylvia Mercedes. All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.

About the Author

Photo: © Chelsea Ann Photography

Sylvia Mercedes makes her home in the idyllic North Carolina countryside with her handsome husband, numerous small children, and a menagerie of rescue cats and dogs. When she’s not writing she’s . . . okay, let’s be honest. When she’s not writing, she’s running around after her littles, cleaning up glitter, trying to plan healthy-ish meals, and wondering where she left her phone. In between, she reads a steady diet of fantasy novels.

But mostly she’s writing.

You can visit her online at www.sylviamercedesbooks.com and learn about her 20-plus bestselling romantasy novels.