Review: Barbarian's Hope by Ruby Dixon

The next novel in the Ice Planet Barbarians series, an international publishing phenomenon—now in a special print edition with bonus material!

About the Book

Asha and Hemalo’s relationship has never been easy, for there is just as much hurt between them as there is love. Will they find their way back to each other, or will they let tragedy keep them separated for good?

Seasons ago, I resonated to the quietest of tribesmates, a male content to love me from afar while I was the center of attention. We could have been happy. Despite our differences, I loved him and he loved me.

But then a terrible thing happened…and my world was never the same again.

Now resonance is giving us a second chance, but…I’m afraid. What if our bond is too broken to be fixed? What if there’s no hope left for us at all?

Excerpt

 

Chapter One

Asha

When I agreed to let Farli be my cave mate, I did not think things through.I roll over in my furs, rubbing my face. It's early. My breath fogs in the darkness, and the fire is nothing but embers. The howse is dark, and I'm not sure what woke me up.

Then something noses at my mane.

I shriek and sit up in bed, swatting at my mane.

My head bangs into that of the dvisti, and it bleats, scurrying away, its hooves clacking on the stones.

"What? What is it?" Farli asks sleepily.

"Your pet was trying to eat my braid again," I bite out, running my hands over my hair. For some reason, Chahm-pee finds my hair tasty and this is the third time in the last handful of days he has attempted to nibble on it.

She chuckles, which does not help my mood. "He thinks it's one of the braids of straw I've made for him." She gets up and I see her face in the shadows as she heads over to the storage bins. She pulls out a thick braid of straw and offers it to the dvisti. "He's just hungry, aren't you, little one?"

"He smells," I say with a scowl. "And he relieves himself on the floor."

"It's ready-made fuel," Farli tells me, unruffled by my anger. "No gathering needed." She gives her pet a hug, then wanders back to her bed. "He's harmless. Just hide your braid."

I snort and pull the covers back over my head, but I can't go back to sleep. The dvisti is chewing noisily, his large teeth grinding. It sounds overloud in the small howse and makes me toss and turn. I might as well get up. Somewhere out in the vee-lage, a kit cries.

My skin prickles with awareness and I think of my own little Hashala. Her cries were so weak, not the strong, healthy wails of the kits in the vee-lage now. I remember holding her in my arms, no bigger than my hand, and wishing my own strength into her small body. Anything to save her.

It did not work. Nothing ever worked. She died before a khui could even light her eyes.

I reach under my pillow and pull out her small tunic. It has lost her scent, but I still like to close my eyes and hold it close, imagining that it is her. Imagining that she lives yet again and my mate smiles at me and my kit nurses from my teats and we are a family. We are whole.

The kit cries again in the distance, and I sit up, putting on my tunic. I cannot sleep, and the sound of the crying tells me that there is another mother somewhere in the vee-lage that cannot sleep, either. Perhaps she will need help. Lately the only thing to rouse me from my bed is the thought of holding one of the many kits that fill our tribe with such hope and joy.

Seeing so many young ones in the tribe is both the most wonderful thing . . . and the most difficult.

I slip on my boots as Farli rolls over in her furs, going back to sleep. The dvisti just chews placidly and watches me as I walk past. Sometimes I think it would be better if I had a howse of my own, but it would be very lonely. I do not think I want that.

I emerge from my small howse and head toward the center of the vee-lage. It is brisk today, a bit of snow falling. The sky is dark with storms, yet not much falls down below in our protected valley. The wind howls loudly above, which means that the hunters will be staying in this day. This also means that because their mates are home, many of the women will not be gathering by the main fire to exchange stories and let others hold their kits. They will be snuggled in their furs with their mates.

I am envious of the image this forms in my mind. There is nothing I would like more than a little family to fuss over at my own fire. Kits to hold close and spoil. A mate whose smiles promise wonderful things.

This is not for me, though. I have no living kits, nor do I think I will ever have one again. My mate has abandoned me. Everything I have ever wanted is out of my reach.

But life must go on, and it seems that this morning I cannot spend my time in my furs, sleeping. Not with that horrid dvisti trying to snack on my mane. I smooth a hand over one of my braids as if to double-check it, and make my way toward the center of the vee-lage, toward the big building the others are calling the long-howse. In it is the central fire and the bathing pool. If others are about today, they will be there.

As I walk down the main path, I see people climbing onto the walls of one of the small howses, straightening one of the hide covers. A teepee top, the humans call it. Since the howses have no lids, great hide covers have been constructed and vaulted over the tops of each of them to allow smoke from fires to vent out and for the light snows that fall into the gorge to trickle harmlessly down the sloping sides. Each howse requires a very large hide to cover it, which means several are stitched together and fitted over the frame. It is a task that requires many hands working together.

I should not be surprised to see my once-mate there, but I am.

Hemalo has his back to me, his tail flicking as he smooths hide over one of the long bones that props up the frame. I recognize his body instantly, the graceful motion of his shoulders as he reaches over and points at the far end of the structure. "Tighten your corner, Kashrem. We need to pull taut."

I pause to watch them work. Kashrem and Hemalo are the tribe's most experienced leatherworkers, so it is natural that they should take charge of roofing each of the howses. He is in his element, confidence and knowledge in his stance, and enthusiasm in his smooth, rolling voice, which still sends ripples right down to my tail when he speaks.

I should loathe him. I should despise him for abandoning me. For giving up on me as I work through my grief. But I do not hate him. Instead, all I feel is a bone-deep ache that seems to devour from within.

He is happy, my once-mate. Hemalo has always loved to feel needed, and that is something I have not been able to give him. This move to the new vee-lage, the chance to work his skills and be important to the tribe-all of it is wonderful for him. For once, it is Hemalo that is needed and in demand, and Asha who is unimportant.

I cross my arms over my chest, curious at how uneasy that makes me feel. In my mind, I am very different from the Asha I used to be. The one that flirted with all the males of the tribe and who went from pleasure mate to pleasure mate, just because she could. Just because I was one of two young females in the tribe and all the strong hunters craved my smiles. Then, all I wanted was to be the center of attention.

Now, the thought makes me tired.

"Grab the cords," Hemalo instructs, and I watch as Taushen and Ereven move around the far side of the howse, and the roof pitches even higher. "Just like that," Hemalo tells them. "Good job."

"Ho, Asha," Taushen calls out. "Do you come here to help?"

All of the workers stop, but my gaze is on Hemalo. He stiffens, his tail flicking, and he turns slowly to look at me. There is sorrow and apology in his eyes. It makes me angry.

"No," I say, keeping my voice tart. "I was looking to see who was making so much noise that they would rouse good people from their sleep." Not that I was asleep, but they do not need to know that. "It is early."

"Ah, but if we wait until you are awake and out of the furs, we could be waiting a very long time," Ereven calls out.

I ignore his jibe.

Hemalo shoots Ereven a look. "My apologies," my once-mate says in his low, thrumming voice. "We will be quieter."

"Do as you like." I shrug as if it does not matter to me. It feels strange to stand apart from him as if we are merely tribesmates and not once-mates. I cannot be easy around him, and judging by the tense set of his shoulders, he feels the same about me.

Nothing is simple between us. I hate that, even though I know it is my fault as much as his.

The males continue to watch me, as if waiting for something. I shrug and move on, as if I am unaffected. The truth is, being this near Hemalo bothers me, like an itch I cannot scratch. Things are wrong between us, and I can feel the hot eyes of the others as they watch us both, waiting for one of us to blow up at the other. Waiting for us to fight and snarl like we always have in the past.

I am not interested in that, though. I am just . . . tired. I want to move on.

I head toward the long-howse, and as I get closer, I smell something cooking over the fire. Someone is there, at least. I hurry in to get out of the wind-one of the things I am not quite used to despite several moons of living in the vee-lage. It still feels very open to me, very exposed. Perhaps it always will. The humans love it, though. They say it feels more like home to them.

I step into the long-howse, and warmth hits me. This room is drowsy-warm and humid, thanks to the heated pool at the center. The lid of the long-howse consists of multiple skins that are cleverly rigged so they can be dragged closed or pulled open, depending on the weather. Most days it is left open because the walls keep the worst of the wind out, and everyone likes the sunlight. It is so warm here that Tee-fah-nee has potted several fruit plants and keeps them in the direct sunlight, hoping they will grow. In one corner, there are drying racks of roots and herbs, and another of meat.

Stay-see is by the fire, and No-rah is with her, both of her kits' baskets at her feet. I feel my spirits lift at the sight of them-No-rah always needs help with her twins, and I am glad to hold them. "Good morning."

"Hi, Asha. We were just sitting down to have some eggs." No-rah beams a bright smile at me. "You hungry?"

"I will eat." I sit down next to No-rah while Stay-see pushes a lumpy yellow paste around in her skillet over the fire. I personally do not like the taste-or the thought-of the eggs. The humans love them, but the sa-khui are revolted by the taste and texture and the fact that they are uncooked young. We revere the act of life, so it seems horrible to me to eat dirtbeaks before they hatch from the shell . . . but it is food, and the stores are lean. So I will eat eggs and smile through gritted teeth as I do so.

One of the twins starts to snuffle and cry, and I look over at No-rah. "May I?"

"Please do." She gives me a tired smile. "They were up all night fussing." No-rah stifles a yawn.

I pick up one of the twins-Ah-nah. I can tell her apart from her sister because of the way her bright yellow mane sticks up. Her "cow-lick," as the humans call it, makes her tufts stick up toward her brow, whereas El-sah has a smooth mane. If I have to be particular, Ah-nah is my favorite of the two. She is a little fussier than her calm twin, a little less settled. I can relate to that.

I hold her close, inhaling her sweet kit scent. She cries a bit but quiets when I tuck her against my neck and I stroke her small head. My kit would have been like this. Not with the yellow mane or the pale, pale blue skin, but my Hashala would have filled out like Ah-nah if given time. Her little fingers would curl around my larger one, and she would gurgle and make happy noises and tug on my braid when she got excited, like Ah-nah is right now. My heart squeezes painfully.

Sometimes I pretend that No-rah is tired of two kits and will give me one. It is a foolish hope, but one that lives in my head anyhow. Why should one female have two when I have none? But that is not how life works, and my arms must be empty while No-rah's overflow.

Stay-see serves up the eggs, and she and No-rah tuck into the food with enthusiasm. I choke down a few bites but spend most of my time cuddling the kit as the two humans chatter about the weather, their mates, and Stay-see's ever-increasing stash of frozen eggs.

As the humans talk, Claire wanders over. "I smell eggs. Are there any left?" She rubs her lightly rounded stomach, the kit she is carrying now starting to show even though it will not be born until well after the brutal season is over.

"I can make more," Stay-see tells her. "Not sleeping in today?"

Claire shakes her head and sits down by the fire, smiling a greeting at me. "Sleep? Not with the men shouting instructions at each other while I'm in my furs. But at least the leak in the roof will be fixed. Hemalo knew exactly what the problem was. Something about how the leather was treated, so they removed the piece that was dripping meltwater and are replacing it.

"The humans glance over at me, as if expecting me to say something since my once-mate was brought up. I remain silent, content to hold Ah-nah. I do not want to leave and return to my howse. Not when there are kits here by the fire and I have nothing waiting for me at home.

Stay-see cracks another egg over her skillet and then begins to stir. "So, did you talk to Georgie?" she asks Claire.

Excerpted from Barbarian's Hope by Ruby Dixon. Copyright © 2025 by Ruby Dixon. All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.

My Review

This is such a heartbreakingly bittersweet story that has all the feels. It’s beautifully fragile in tragedy, yet strong in heart, determination, and love.

Asha is one of a handful of full-blooded Sa-khui women that survived a khui sickness that spread throughout the tribe many seasons ago, killing much of the Sa-khui tribespeople and most of the females. Asha, being the only unmated female Sa-khui, reveled in the fact that she could have any hunter she pleased in her furs, and did. 

When Asha resonates, she does so to a quiet Sa-khui tanner (leather worker) named Hemalo. He is a hard worker, quiet yet purposeful and has secretly been in love with Asha. It’s not an ideal match for Asha but the khuis have spoken. 

After resonance was fulfilled, Asha was so happy. She had her mate whom she’d grown to love and now they are expecting a kit (baby). Unfortunately, Asha’s kit came early, too early. She lived only a handful of hours and was not strong enough for her body to accept a khui. Asha and Hemalo were devastated. 

Things got worse for Asha when a ship crash landed on the planet with several human women. This was an answered prayer for the tribe because there is a severe shortage of females and now many of the hunters will be able to find mates. Asha hated the human women because they are competition. And when the humans started resonating with their hunter mates, it continued to make Asha bitter and resentful. These weird humans have their babies and Asha’s had to die? It’s not fair!

Asha’s loss fundamentally changed her and left a trail of tears, resentment, heartache, detachment, absence, loneliness, and ended with her mate leaving her bedside to go bunk down with the unmated hunters. 

Asha silently battles a foe she cannot see but feels deep within her soul. Time has not healed, it’s only made things worse. 

Asha and Hemalo’s story is full of heartache and hope. Their struggles to grieve the promise of their kit is tough to watch, but necessary for healing. 

I freakin’ love this series so much! It’s fun, funny, and super spicy! I always thought Asha was a mean, vengeful female, but after reading (and grieving) her story, it all makes sense. 

Barbarian’s Hope is everything I wished it to be and so much more. I highly recommend the entire series.

Glossary

• Sa-khui - name of the tribe of blue alien barbarians native to the ice planet.
• Khui - a lifesaving organism that allows beings to survive in the ice planet’s climate. The being and the organism have a symbiotic relationship. One cannot live without the other
• Resonance - When a person’s khui sings (vibrates/purrs) in the presence of another person’s khui. When this happens, the khuis have determined that this is the person that will give the host the best chance to procreate. This also means that those who resonate are mates for life.  When resonance is fulfilled  (lots of sexual healing), pregnancy is achieved.

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

Ruby Dixon is an author of all things science fiction and fantasy romance. She is a Sagittarius and a Reylo shipper, and loves farming sims (but not actual housework). She lives in the South with her husband and a couple of goofy cats, and can’t think of anything else to put in her biography. Truly, she is boring. Learn more at rubydixon.com

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

Blog Tour: The Wind Weaver by Julie Johnson

Magic and adventure swirl through this spellbinding romantasy where a young woman reignites the embers of an ancient prophecy, unleashing a storm that could save her realm or doom them all.

About the Book

Fear of maegic plagues war-torn Anwyvn. Halflings like Rhya Fleetwood are killed on sight. But Rhya’s execution is interrupted by an unexpected savior—one far more terrifying than her would-be killers. The mysterious and mercenary Commander Scythe. In the clutches of this new enemy, Rhya finds herself fighting for her life in the barren reaches of the Northlands. Yet the farther she gets from home, the more she learns that nothing is as it seems—not her fearsome captor, not the blight that ravages her dying realm, not even herself.

For Rhya is no ordinary halfling. The strange birthmark on her chest and the wind she instinctively calls forth means she is a Remnant, one of four souls scattered across Anwyvn, fated to restore the balance of maegic…or die trying.

But mastering the power inside her is only the beginning. Desire for the Commander—a man she can never trust, a man with plans of his own—burns just as fiercely as the tempests beating against her rib cage for release. Rhya must choose: smother the flames…or let them consume her.

Excerpt

 

Chapter
ONE

The noose chafes, a necklace of death.

I feel my pulse-steady, staccato-thudding away beneath the fragile skin at my throat. There's no fear. Not anymore. That came earlier, with the bruising hands and snarling hounds that tracked me through the wild marshland. And it fled with the sun, slipping over the horizon into crushing darkness.What is it Eli always said?

Fear only means you have something left to lose.

I have nothing left now. Nothing but my life, and that isn't worth much of anything to anyone.

Certainly not to my captors.

"Wily little bitch, isn't she?" A gruff voice barks out a laugh somewhere to my left. "Took half our unit to track her down. A dozen men. Three days we spent in that damned bog with wasps and snakes and spiders. Knee-deep in mud and moss and all manner of shit. She nearly slipped our net when we lost the light yesterday." A gob of spit lands on my cheek. "Faery scum."

Another voice answers-this one younger, and slightly wavering. A new recruit, perhaps, not yet worn-out by this endless, bloody game of war the mortal men seem intent on playing. "She's just-she's so young."

"Don't let your eyes fool you, boy. Faery trickery, that is. They mask their true nature with pretty faces and sweet smiles, same as a poisonous flower. In the olden days, they say some of them cast such a glamour, could make you see anything they wanted. March you straight off a cliff, thinking you were skipping through a field of daisies."

The younger soldier sucks in an audible breath. His terror is palpable even through my blindfold.

"Don't worry, son. Maegic like that hasn't been seen in these parts in nigh on two centuries." The gruff voice chuckles. "The ones we hunt down, like this runt here, are halflings mostly. Leftovers from before the Cull, back when bloodline mixing wasn't outlawed. They're no more enchanted than you or me."

There's a marked pause. A cave of silence yawning wide between the two men.

"'Course, that don't make 'em helpless," the older soldier tacks on, almost defensively. "She'd gut us in our sleep given half the chance. Never doubt that."

"How did you finally catch her?"

"Ran her to ground by the Red Chasm. The ore in those rocks is enough to confuse 'em. Clouds their sense of direction, muddies their minds." He exhales a sharp breath. "No foe is invincible-not even a damned point."

I tense at the slur, binds going tight across my chest despite my attempts to keep still. Point. The soldiers who've taken me prisoner use the insult often, hissing it at me under their breath when they change watches, tossing it around in casual campfire conversation. As if reducing an entire race to our most notable physical trait-the pointed tip of an ear-somehow makes their barbarity easier to stomach. Every time I hear it, something within me snarls in silent rage. A broken beast, itching for retribution that will never be mine.

Gods above, grant me vengeance in my next life.

"Ain't so hard to kill 'em, actually. Just a matter of finding the right weapon," the older soldier boasts, brimming with sage wisdom. "Iron's best, of course. But, gods' truth, stick 'em with anything sharp and the job's done. Points bleed, same as any other beast in the forest. Didn't your pa take you hunting, son? Haven't you ever gutted a doe?"

"No . . . I . . . We . . ." The young soldier shifts from foot to foot, boots crunching dead leaves. "We're crofters, sir."

"Crofters?"

"Yes, sir. We tithe a tract by the coast. Iceberries, mostly."

The older soldier scoffs. "Well, you'll need ice in your berries for this deployment, I'll tell you that. Cold as all fuck, this close to the Cimmerians."

Behind my blindfold, I imagine the scene. An encampment of soldiers, weather beaten from weeks on the road. A crackling fire to ward off the chill-and the wolves. A simple dinner cooking over the coals.

The smell of meat carries to me on the wind, and my stomach rumbles a contemptuous response. Hare, most likely, or a steer. Maybe a wild boar, if one of them is skilled enough with a bow. For surely there are hunters among their number. Men capable of tracking down some prey besides me and my kind. Though if we were edible, they might eat us, too.

It's been an unforgiving winter.

I wonder to which kingdom they belong, to which of the warring kings they've pledged their fealty. Perhaps the very one who sent his armies into Seahaven and set the Starlight Wood aflame-and the only home I've ever known along with it.

A hand tugs at the shackles around my raw wrists. I hear the hiss an instant before the pain bolts through me. The smell of charred skin hits my nostrils.

My own flesh, burning.

It takes all my self-possession not to cry out-but I will not give these soldiers the satisfaction. Breathing deeply, I press my spine harder against the bark of the tree to which I'm lashed, trying not to lose consciousness.

Gods above, it hurts.

"See how she blisters?" the older soldier asks. "You'd think I'd taken a blazing log to her!"

"Y-yes," the youth stammers. "I see."

The irons stir a ceaseless tide of agony that never recedes-even now, after my wrists are scorched nearly to bone and sinew. Each shift of my chains sets off a fresh flow of anguish.

"When . . ." The young recruit clears his throat. "When will they . . ."

"String her up? Won't be long now. Commander Scythe will be here by midnight. Captain says we can't touch her till he signs off."

"Why?"

"Likes to be sure they're really dead, I suppose. Kick around the ashes a bit, make certain nothing stirs. Seems overboard to me, but it's on order of King Eld, so I do as I'm told. Hang 'em up, burn 'em down." There's the sound of a cork being unstoppered. A throat working to swallow the contents of a flask. A steadying breath. "Folks tend to get a touch superstitious when it comes to faery executions. You'll see, lad."

"Right . . ." The young man sounds unconvinced. "When I enlisted, I didn't think we'd be hunting halflings. I didn't know there were any left."

"Not many, these days. 'Specially this far up in the Midlands. The Southlanders have some . . . different practices. You should thank the skies you aren't stationed at the border to the Reaches. Hard to stomach, from what I've heard. And I ain't heard much."

My heart lurches. I've not been spared the rumors of what happens to halflings in the Southlands. Not in full. Eli gave me the briefest of glimpses at that darkness one night over a stiff dram of whiskey.

They might not kill you right away, Rhya, but the things they'll do to you will make you wish they had . . .

I force my thoughts from that dark path. It leads nowhere good.

"Son, just keep your head down, your hands steady, and your questions to yourself. You'll be fine. It's a job like any other-no matter what the rabble around here tells you." The older man's voice drops lower. "Swear, some men's breeches get stiff watching faeries squirm on the end of a rope. Different sort of bloodlust, you understand?"

"That's foul!"

"Aye. Don't make it any less true." He takes another deep pull from his flask. "Long while back, when I was no more than a young buck like you, points were a bit more common in these parts. My unit stumbled across a whole family one day, hidden away in the caves beneath a waterfall. Greenish skin and hair like river grass . . ."

Greenish skin?

Hair like river grass?

Wherever do they think up these ridiculous stories? From children's bedtime tales? Besides our ears, halflings are nearly indistinguishable from humankind. But then . . . I suppose it's easier to justify killing a mythological monster than a living being. Something, not someone.

The soldier's voice drops almost to a whisper. "We'd lost so many in the Avian Strait. Bloodiest battle in a hundred years. And Soren's men just kept coming. Driving us back, over and over and over. Morale was low. Our army-we needed a win. So when those faeries fell into our path . . ."

A chill of foreboding sweeps through me despite the burning agony at my wrists. I close my eyes behind the blindfold, wishing I could shut my ears as easily. I don't want to hear about the slaughter of an innocent family. I can't bear the details of a mother, a father, and their children torn apart by battle-addled soldiers. Not with my own imminent death pressing so hard against my windpipe.

A boot scuffs against the earth, and the man coughs. "Safe to say, the things I saw that day . . . well, it's the kind of scene you don't forget. Even after ten years."

There's another beat of quiet. The younger man says nothing, perhaps shocked silent by the gruesome picture his companion has painted. I'm not foolish enough to think his reticence is born of sympathy for me. More likely, he's merely doing as he's been tasked-keeping his opinions to himself.

He'll make a good soldier.

The quiet is broken by the thud of a hand slapping against a shoulder. "You're pale as a ghost, son. Go get yourself a bit of venison before it's all gone. And bring me back some, will you? I'll keep watch over the prisoner."

There's the sound of retreating footsteps, then the sigh of a body settling against a tree. In the distance, the murmur of conversation-other soldiers, wolfing down their dinner around the fire. After a moment, I pick out the faint flick of a knife against a block of wood. I allow myself to wonder what my remaining guard is carving.

A sigil for whichever god he worships? A token for the wife left behind in the land he calls home? A toy for his small daughter to play with when he finally returns from conquest?

Ten years, he said. Ten years of battles. Ten years of soldiering. Ten years of bleeding and fighting and killing.

Surely there is a life outside all this. Surely this man has a family waiting for him somewhere. Will he tell them of the faery girl he slaughtered to keep them safe? Regale them with details of the monster's mottled face and sagging tongue as she swung from the bough, a grotesque mask illuminated by torchlight?

The gallant hero who slew the beast.

Huzzah!

After the way he spoke to his young companion, I think not. He'll take no joy in his task-but he will complete it all the same, carrying out his captain's orders without question.

The branches creak overhead, a death knell.

I'm glad they plan to kill me at night, under the stars. It would somehow be worse to die with the sun shining down and a light breeze stirring the grass at my feet. Shadows paint a more fitting final scene for the snapping of my neck.

The last breath of Rhya Fleetwood.

Ward of the renowned Eli Fleetwood.

Orphan.

Faery.

Halfling.

Fugitive.

Point.

In some ways, it will be a relief. To finally rest after all these months on the run. Since they executed Eli, since they burned the Starlight Wood to ash along with our cottage, there is no refuge left for me on this earth. No strong, protective arms to rush toward when my hair snags on the brambles or my ankle twists on a rock in the riverbed. No warm bed to crawl into at the end of a crisp autumn day.

I have no idea where I am. Before they hunted me down, I'd been lost for weeks, wandering in search of solace that no longer exists, surviving on rubbery mushrooms dug from the packed earth and cold trout fished from icy streams. When I came across a village five days ago, the smell of fresh bread sitting on a stone windowsill proved too tempting to ignore.

I could curse my own stupidity. I know what Eli would say if he were here. The heart makes you soft. The stomach makes you weak. Ignore their fleeting impulses. It is your mind you must mind.

But in a moment of weakness, I abandoned his teachings. Gnawing hunger made me careless, dulled the sharpness of my senses beyond reason. I'm quick by nature, but that day I was not quick enough. As I darted from the tree line to the dilapidated house at the edge of the wood, I did not hear the click of a bootheel on the stone floor inside, nor the nocking of an arrow in the bow, until it whizzed a whisper above my head. And by then, it was too late.

Far too late.

From that moment on, life was headlong flight. Running until the breath was gone from my lungs, until the strength was stripped from my bones, until my bare feet left a trail of bloody footprints on rocks and riverbanks alike. They tracked me-first the villagers themselves, later the soldiers they had summoned. Through a forest, across a field, and finally into a boggy marshland. I nearly lost them there in that hissing, burping mire, where the air was thick as syrup and swarms of insects blacked out the midday sun.

Nearly.

I had no way of knowing I was being herded toward a deep ravine. The Red Chasm, the soldiers call it, so named for the rusty color of its plunging depths. For there, the stone runs thick with iron deposits. Thick enough to drain me on a good day-and a good day this was not.

I felt the ore sapping my strength with each step as the men closed in. My legs buckled, threatening to give out beneath me. Even if they hadn't, there was nowhere left to run once I reached the cliff side. Not unless I fancied hurling myself over the edge, plummeting to my death in the void.

In hindsight, tied to a tree with the fiery grip of iron shackling my wrists, a thick noose looped around my neck, and a pyre in my immediate future . . . I might prefer that sharp fall. At least then, my death would be at my own hands. My own choice.

My last choice.

Gods, I'm tired. The noose is so heavy I can no longer hold my head upright. I sag limply against my bindings, glad Eli is not here to see me. He raised me to fight. To be fierce. Steady of will, strong of mind, sound of heart.

Excerpted from The Wind Weaver by Julie Johnson. Copyright © 2025 by Julie Johnson. 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: © Author

Julie Johnson is a New England native and internationally bestselling author. When she's not writing, Julie can most often be found adding stamps to her passport, drinking too much coffee, and avoiding reality by disappearing between the pages of a book. She published her debut novel on a lark, just before her senior year of college, and she's never looked back. Since, she has published twenty other novels, which have been translated into more than a dozen different languages and appeared on bestseller lists all over the world, including Der Spiegel, AdWeek, Publishers Weekly, USA Today, and more. Learn more at www.juliejohnsonbooks.com

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

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.