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Thursday, April 30, 2026

PROMO: Cain's Chameleon

 




Historical Fiction Mystery Thriller

Date Published: 01-26-2026

Publisher: Bearss Lair Books



If the newspaper reported your death and no one questioned it, would you correct the mistake… or take the lifeline?

Dan Driscoll is consumed by gambling debt, cornered by bookies and loan sharks, forced to bet on one last scheme. When things turn violent and two people are shot, his best friend, Stan Neumann, swallows what he suspects. He can’t risk divulging a closely-held family secret.

Then a body washes up on the Lake Michigan shoreline, and the lake gives Dan what the bookies never would: a way out. Authorities call it an accident and list him as the drowning victim. For Dan, it’s an escape route delivered in black ink.

He becomes a ghost, an imposter, a chameleon. But lies don’t stay buried.

As America is pulled into World War II, Stan enlists, choosing duty on his terms before the draft can rewrite his life. In Pearl Harbor, one chance encounter dredges up a name he thought was long buried.

War changes everything, but it doesn’t erase unfinished business. And when the truth demands to be heard, how long can a stolen life stay buried before the past comes to collect?


Excerpt

Lucy wasn’t smiling like she used to when she folded her letter, slipped it into the envelope, sealed it with a kiss, and applied the three-cent stamp. Even the spring in her step lacked the zeal she typically exhibited during her walk to the post office. The words on the paper were true to her commitment. They spoke of the news from the home front, stories that helped Stan’s morale, and made sure her underlying message was being proud, supportive, and encouraging. The words wandering around in Lucy’s thoughts, however, were in stark contrast to this messaging.

Ever since Stan was assigned to the navy radar training school, Lucy had become more and more unsure in her belief that things would be okay. His work as an Aviation Machinists Mate stateside meant he was safe. And Minneapolis was relatively close to home. Being trained as a radarman for shipboard duties meant it was more likely he would be sent overseas into a combat zone. This caused a higher level of worry. Like everything else this war has put in short supply, her ration of optimism was slowly being depleted, and the resources for replenishing that reservoir were becoming scarce.

Her quandary was not letting Stan know about this foreboding, even though he was normally her most trusted sounding board. She tried to talk about this with her sister Millie. But Millie’s approach to these heartfelt struggles was to fix them, make them go away, or advise Lucy, “Try not to think about it.” This was not the type of support Lucy needed.

During her alone time, sitting staring out the window, the overwhelming emotion that prevailed over all others was that she really missed her husband. She now knew what being heartbroken felt like.

 

 


 While author Mark Bearss was setting the stage for his retirement, concerned co-workers would ask, “What are you going to do when you’re not working?” He found this question rather curious. It should have been posed, “What are you going to do first?” Mark knew that if travel was involved, he had had enough of commercial flights after 28 years of teaching for the medical device industry. Mark yearned for road trips – to visit those places he only saw from 38,000 feet. Little did he know that wish journeyed down an unexpected fork in the road. He would become an author.

While conducting genealogy research, Mark discovered archived de-classified military documents that revealed the name of a U.S. Navy destroyer his father served aboard during WWII. The reason this was a poignant discovery was because, while growing up in Grand Rapids, Michigan, his father made no mention of this. Apart from being a U.S. Naval Reserve flight instructor, he knew his father served aboard the carrier USS ESSEX. But in what capacity? That, too, was not revealed. More discoveries materialized the further he dug. In fact, there was a lot more his father didn’t mention. This wasn’t unusual. Many WWII veterans didn’t talk about what happened back then.

Because of the pandemic, the National Archives in St. Louis was closed and rendered Lt. Bearss’ military records unavailable. Thus began a project that challenged Mark’s research endeavors for over two years and about 5,000 miles on the road. The biographical sketch was sorted from creative Internet search strings, history books, navy publications, and networking with journalists, librarians, archivists, bloggers, aviation enthusiasts, museum and historical society curators, navy veterans, relatives, and more. One online resource that was instrumental in tracking his father’s journey was the weekly newspaper published in the county where his parents grew up: The Oceana Herald. It included a Local News section where family members and organizations could submit a short blurb about a relative’s visit, a social gathering, or – where a son or husband was currently stationed.

This project culminated in 2022 with Mark’s first publication titled, Undisclosed Stories Discovered: Honoring the World War II Military Journey of Lt. Joseph Ward Bearss, USNR. When asked what was one of the highlights surrounding this story, he described the road trips to seek out and discover places where his father lived, trained and was stationed during the war. What prompted him to write this as a biography took place during a meeting with the curator of the World War II Home Front Museum on St. Simons Island, Georgia. St. Simons Naval Air Station was the site for the U.S. Naval Radar Training Station, where Lt. Bearss was trained in shipboard radar operations, enemy interception, and Fighter Direction. While the museum had ample archived materials about the facility, it had very little documented about the servicemembers who trained there.

Only 250 copies were printed. Mark went back on the road in his Class-B motorhome and personally donated those copies to family members, friends and relatives, the librarians, archivists, researchers, museums, curators, historical societies, newspapers, The American Heritage Center, VFW Posts, airport FBOs, and other assorted WWII enthusiasts in 12 states who helped in his endeavors. It was a two-fold reward. Not only did his father’s story finally become told, Mark experienced the pleasure of meeting all these wonderful people who were his resources, advisors, collaborators, and consultants. Up until that point, they were only names in an email contact list.

You’re probably asking, “How is all this relevant to Mark’s new novel, Cain’s Chameleon?” It was the research from The Oceana Herald that planted the seed for this story. While perusing its issues, Mark stumbled on two articles that piqued his curiosity. The first reported an attempted murder in a home close to his family’s summer cottage on Lake Michigan. The second reported a drowning victim that washed up on the beach right where Mark and his friends used to play. Just two more stories never divulged while growing up. He wondered, Were these two events related? Then Mark decided — he would make them related.


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Wednesday, April 29, 2026

PROMO: The Yellow Hair

 




A Nick Drake Novel, Book 10


Mystery, Contemporary Western, Native American Literature

Date Published: 04-30-2026

Publisher: Jackdaw Press




New Badge. Old Blood.

Nick Drake traded his past for the Sheriff’s star, but Harney County doesn’t do election honeymoons. His tenure kicks off with a double homicide staged as a murder-suicide—a lie Nick isn't buying. As he digs into the crime’s rotting core, the rookie Sheriff finds himself fighting a war on two fronts: a lethal learning curve with unproven deputies and a political recall designed to bury him. In the high lonesome where secrets kill, Nick must strike first and strike hard. Because in this office, the only thing shorter than his term is his life expectancy.


 

About the Author


Dwight Holing is the award-winning author of twenty books, including the bestselling Nick Drake Mysteries and the popular Jack McCoul Capers. He is a member of Mystery Writers of America, Sisters in Crime, and Western Writers of America. He lives beside a coastal river in California with his wife and two dogs who’d rather swim than walk.


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PROMO: You're Not the Problem

 



Personal Development / Self-Help

Somatic Healing / Mind-Body Wellness

Trauma-Informed Personal Growth

Date Published: April 25, 2026



If you’ve tried to plan, push, or hustle your way out of stress and anxiety and found yourself back in the same exhausting cycles, this book is your invitation to stop blaming yourself and start understanding yourself.

In You’re Not the Problem: You’re the Possibility, you’ll learn:

  1. Why feeling stuck is not a failure, but an intelligent adaptation
  2. How your nervous system has been running the show, and how to begin creating safety and more room inside to respond
  3. How to relate to yourself in real time: see yourself, meet yourself, talk to yourself, understand yourself, and support yourself so your inner world becomes steady and trustworthy
  4. Simple, practical steps to restore your energy and reconnect with your true self


This book is your companion for the first phase of the Freedom Formula. It is the roadmap to guide you out of survival mode and into the clarity and resilience you need to create lasting change.

 

About the Author

 


 My work centers around a simple but powerful idea: many of the patterns people struggle with are not evidence that something is wrong with them. They are adaptations created by a nervous system that has been trying to help them survive stress, pressure, and difficult experiences.

I am a somatic healing practitioner and the creator of the Freedom Formula, a framework that helps people move out of survival mode and into a life that reflects who they are. My work blends nervous system science, somatic practices, emotional processing, and mindset work to help people understand why they feel stuck and what it truly takes to create lasting change.

Before stepping into this work, I earned my law degree from Harvard Law School and spent years in high-performing environments where discipline and achievement were highly valued. From the outside, my life looked successful. Inside, I was quietly struggling with many of the same patterns my clients now describe: chronic stress, emotional eating, anxiety, and the exhausting habit of showing up for everyone else while ignoring my own needs.

Understanding the role of the nervous system changed the way I approached those patterns. Instead of seeing them as failures, I began to see them as intelligent adaptations. That realization not only transformed my own life, it became the foundation of the work I now share with others.

For more than sixteen years I have helped people understand their patterns with compassion, reconnect with their inner guidance, and build lives that feel meaningful, aligned, and sustainable. My book, You’re Not the Problem, grew out of that work and out of a deep desire to help more people experience the relief that comes from realizing they are not broken.


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Tuesday, April 28, 2026

PROMO: Precog's Perception

 



(Psychic Soulmates 1)

A SearchLight Paranormal Romance


LGBTQ+ Shifter Romance

Date Published: May 1, 2026

Publisher: Changeling Press



When the world doesn’t catch fire, Amaruq doubts his precognition. Can Nootaikok’s love heal him?

A stillborn pup, precognition unfulfilled, and raging guilt plague a trans werewolf. Amaruq’s suspicion that there’s something wrong with him, and that the death of his and Nootaikok’s child is his fault, colors all that he does. Traumatized, he denies himself pleasure.

Nootaikok will have none of that. He takes Amaruq on a “working vacation” back to the scene of Nootaikok’s greatest mistake. As both of them struggle with feelings of inadequacy and undeservingness, their bodies and souls still demand release.

Will their fears pull them apart or can passion lead back to love and forgiveness?


Excerpt
Copyright ©2026 Emily Carrington

They’d started their mentor/mentee relationship with letters. Amaruq didn’t know about Jeremy, but for him, the fear of being found out in this digital age inspired him to write physical correspondence. Amaruq had a feeling he should be sharing these concerns with his mate, but he couldn’t bear for Nootaikok to know how guilty he felt. So, he wrote to the Night Wanderer who had become his friend.

Dear Jeremy,

I hate what I have become. I’m a sneak who doesn’t know how to apologize to my lover for losing our child. I get it that a stillbirth isn’t exactly my fault. I did nothing to make it happen. The issue is that I don’t want to try again. Try for another baby. It wasn’t just losing our child, our pup, but the dysmorphia I endured being pregnant when I’ve worked so hard to be my authentic male werewolf self. I do not, no matter what, regret that Nootaikok and I were trying for a baby. I don’t. I just don’t want to try again. In spite of my precognitive vision. That future glimpse guarantees I’ll be pregnant again at some point, as I saw Nootaikok and I surrounded by werewolf pups of many ages. I just don’t want to be.

I also dread Nootaikok finding out.

Speaking of dread, I can easily believe Nootaikok is angry with me for making him leave his position in DC. I’m afraid of the argument we’ll eventually have. I just wanted to be near you, where I’ve always felt safe. That’s the wrong kind of emotion to have for someone who isn’t my mate. Please don’t misunderstand. I’m not sexually attracted to you in any way. It’s just that you rescued me from the hell of living under my parents’ roof and inspired me to become part of the Miscellaneous Magical Creatures Department. It’s just that, now that you’ve moved to DC, I want to return. I know Nootaikok wouldn’t get his job back, though, and I don’t want him to be humiliated by having to walk those same halls every day as just a tracker and not the head of the whole world’s Tracker Central.

He stopped his pen before he could disclose more about his fears. Surely this letter, which was basically a rambling jumble of all his terror, wouldn’t help anything.

He shredded the page and tossed it in the garbage can in the den. There would be no leaving it around for someone else to discover.

Today, Friday, was his last day of parental leave. On Monday, he’d be expected to resume his work at the MMCD. He needed to pull himself together.

With that in mind, Amaruq looked around the den and then down at himself. He still looked slightly pregnant. He’d been slowly exercising away the pounds he’d gained as he tried to make a hospitable home for their pup to grow. Since he was a werewolf, he wouldn’t look ready to deliver much longer. Maybe six weeks total, which would mean another week or two.

He headed for the doorway to the den, determined to go for a run and maybe, by doing so, make himself feel more grounded in his body and less like a spirit drifting over the earth, unattached to anything but pain.

* * *

They were arguing again. For crying out loud, Nootaikok thought, it’s like he’s my spouse instead of my tracker partner.

He glared at Luis, the psychic vampire with whom he’d been paired less than six months ago. Luis was, by all accounts, including his own, one of the best damn negotiators/spies/hunters/executioners in the United States. Luis’s prowess was matched only by the arrogance Nootaikok swore radiated off him in waves now. Funny, but the infernal psychic vampire hadn’t struck Nootaikok as full of himself when he’d accompanied Tilthos Charles to the international meeting of magical creatures that had happened over a year ago.

At first, when he and Luis initially began working together, Nootaikok had borne Luis’s grief and discontent. Luis’s former tracker partner had moved with his mate to the nation’s capital, and Luis had been understandably upset. He and his former partner had worked together for a decade or more, becoming one of the most formidable tracker teams in the world.

However, Nootaikok had been dealing with Luis’s grumpiness for close to half a year, and the frustration he felt was threatening to boil over.

He took in a breath, counting to five before releasing it soundlessly. “Luis,” he said, “I’m not injured. I heal as quickly as any werewolf, and I have earned the right to take the risks other trackers do. Please don’t hamper my working or your own. Going out without another tracker when I’m standing right here is foolish.” He paused, saw Luis was about to object, and added, “I don’t want to be the one to take your dead body back to Tilthos Charles.”

That last got through. Nootaikok could see it in the dropping of Luis’s shoulders and the way he pressed his lips together. Tilthos Charles, Charlie to those closest to him, was the alpha of their shared pack. He was also Luis’s mate and husband. Less than a year ago, Tilthos Charles had been the target of malicious intent from other werewolves and the former queen of the grand fae. He’d suffered what would have been called in humans of the 1900s a “nervous breakdown.” He’d been healed but, since it was less than twelve months since he’d recovered, Luis was understandably protective.

“Fine,” Luis muttered. “Are you ready to go?”

Nootaikok checked the gun in its holster at the small of his back. “Yes.”

“Come on then.” Luis strode out of his office, leading the way toward the back parking lot.

Nootaikok kept pace with him. “Tell me about this one.”

“Didn’t you read the briefing?” Luis demanded.

Sighing, Nootaikok answered, “She’s most likely a werewolf or half werewolf. It’s unlikely she’s from the United States as the humans she’s left alive say she spoke to them in a thick Russian accent. That doesn’t preclude her being from the US, though.”

“Or she’s been sent here.”

They settled into Luis’s car, which Nootaikok didn’t like, because it meant Luis got to drive. Luis was his alpha’s mate, and Nootaikok wasn’t a werewolf so dominance didn’t affect him as much. Still, he liked being in charge of his own transportation. Years of being the senior member of his own tracker team had spoiled him. Also, when he’d been the leader of Tracker Central in Washington, DC, he hadn’t been at anyone’s mercy.

“One of the sharpshooters managed to get a tag on her,” Luis said. “Let me check the GPS and see if she’s still where they left her.”

“She was in a village not too far from here,” Nootaikok said. He wanted to ask why the sharpshooter hadn’t taken her out since she’d been killing humans. Before he could formulate the question in a way that would possibly cause less offense, Luis cursed.

“She’s headed toward the pack house.”

Nootaikok pulled out his phone as Luis peeled out of the parking lot.

Luis commanded, “Call the house. Tell whoever’s there to get everyone inside.”

 


About the Author

Emily Carrington is a multipublished author of male/male and transgender women’s speculative fiction. Seeking a world made of equality, she created SearchLight to live out her dreams. But even SearchLight has its problems, and Emily is looking forward to working all of these out with a host of characters from dragons and genies to psychic vampires. And in the contemporary world she’s named “Sticks & Stones,” Emily has vowed to create small towns where prejudice is challenged by a passionate quest for equality. Find her on Facebook at Shapeshifter Central or on her website.

 

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Save 15% off any order at ChangelingPress.com with code RABT15

 

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Blog Tour: Who Will Name the Bees?

 




Memoir

Date Published: April 22nd

Publisher: Acorn Publishing


When memory fades, what remains?

 

Sarah Vosburgh has often felt misunderstood by her mother, a woman who lived a quintessential suburban life. But when her mother is diagnosed with Alzheimer’s, Sarah’s world unravels, and she must confront a disease that will only worsen. As roles reverse between mother and daughter, Sarah faces the guilt of making decisions she hopes are the right ones while also carrying the grief of losing her mom bit by bit everyday. She navigates a labyrinth of health services amid the heartbreaking, and at times darkly humorous, realities of caregiving.

There are the white lies and midnight phone calls, the misbuttoned blouses, and the second slice of chocolate pie that tastes just as good as it did the first time. And then there’s the quiet awe at the persistence of connection even when language falters and names are forgotten.


Told in finely wrought prose and lyrical fragments of memory, Who Will Name the Bees? is a daughter's unflinching love letter to the flawed, fierce, and unforgettable woman who raised her.

 


Excerpt

“We have a date today, Ma.”

“We do?”

She greeted me with an uncharacteristic hug that morning. I hugged gently back; she seemed so small and frail. “I’ve learned to hug; I guess people don’t know you care unless you do” was what she had told me growing up, while withholding hugs from me but sharing them with others when she thought it socially advantageous. No worry, her hugs were awkward, stiff, a bit too long, and a bit too tight. Her hug this day was my cue to tell the lie I had prepared that in retrospect I probably didn’t need, but I still saw her as capable of so much. I told it with equal measures of angst and self-loathing.

“We’re headed to Countryside Care today, remember? You need to get your blood pressure under control, and they need a florist to teach flower arranging.”

“You’re coming too?”

“Yes, I’m gonna stay for a bit, but then you’ll have work to do.”

“But you’ll come back to get me?”

“I will be back.”

Looking into the confused, fearful face of my mother, whose eyes nevertheless held hope, I had never felt more unlovable and less trustworthy. It had taken weeks of planning—and many white lies—to lead to this mockingly beautiful day with a sky the color of my dad’s silk screen inks labeled “cerulean.” Vivid crimsons, yellows, and oranges, of a New England autumn completed the scene, which hadn’t a care for our drama or the protective necessity of closing off my heart so I could survive the blackness playing out in my mother’s life. There was no hope now. No turn toward the future where there might be even a suggestion of hope for improvement or a twinkle of joy in recognition. We’d entered a one-way dark, spikey cave where the entryway behind sealed us into darkness with no exit light beckoning ahead.

We were on our way to the memory support facility—misnomer that it is—and I had told the first of many sets of lies to get my mother in the door. The one-way door which she would enter and never return from. After this she would never again cuddle at night with her kitty, or make herself a cup of coffee and forget where she’d put it, or curl up in the reading chair in her library with the newspaper, or spend an afternoon in her gardens, or soak in a tub full of lavender bath salts to relax and wash away her cares, or shuffle down the hall to her bedroom closet to find her favorite sweater against a chill that wasn’t there, or answer the door delighted to see the faces of her granddaughters—taller than she, whose names she could not remember—with her bra on over two sweatshirts.

This particular morning came after weeks of paperwork and an interview held at a local restaurant, else she’d not have gone. They’d called me after the interview, which had included the creep.

“Hello?”

“Hi, this is Countryside Care memory care unit calling. We interviewed your mother today, and we have some concerns.”

“That you can’t take her in memory care?”

“No, we think she’s a perfect fit, but we don’t think we should wait until next month. We’d like to skip her up on the waiting list and have her move in next week.”

“Next week?”

“Yes. When she was interviewed today, we noticed her husband talked with his hands quite a bit, and every time he raised them your mother leaned away and cowered in her seat. The social worker noticed bruises, too, that we think are suspicious. We think he may be abusing her.”2

 


About the Author

It was never in Sarah Vosburgh’s plan to be an author or to write a memoir. As a busy mom, wife, and psychologist, she always saw her life as full (sometimes overfull). But in the dark of night, memories knocked on her brain, compelling her to commit them first to paper, then to bits and bytes.
Sarah is a member of the International Memoir Writers Association and San Diego Writers, Ink. Her work has been published in A Year in Ink and numerous volumes of Shaking the Tree: brazen. short. memoir. A native New Englander, she now lives in San Diego with her husband, her daughter, her granddog, and a most extraordinary feline.

 

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Monday, April 27, 2026

PROMO: I Choose the Bear

 

 


Paranormal Romance

Date Published: April 28, 2026


Ivy thought she'd found one of the good ones, a nice guy who respected her wishes, the guy all of her friends liked...and then they head to his family's lake house for a night to watch for an expected meteor shower. But Neill had his own plans in mind and when Ivy said no, he didn't like it.

Enter the bear.

Jonah, on a hiking trip with his best friend, Liam, after the unexpected death of the clan's Alpha, and Jonah's grandfather, is enjoying the last few hours of freedom he'll know for some time. He's known for a long time he'll be stepping into his grandfather's shoes and with the countdown ticking away, he relishes the peace and quiet. But then it's shattered by the shouts of an angry, frightened woman. Both Liam and Jonah take off running to investigate.

Just as they reach the edge of the property, the woman shouts, "You're the reason why women choose the bear, Neill."

Now...Jonah abides by the laws governing supernaturals. He doesn't reveal himself to be a shapeshifter. But walking out there in his bear skin isn't really revealing himself. And predators deserve to be frightened, don't they?

And when he sees Ivy...his whole world is upended.

Now isn't the time for him to fall in love. He has a clan to care for, challenges to hold off.

But love doesn't believe in being convenient and Jonah and Ivy on are a collision course. Will she choose the bear...and will his bear choose her?



About the Author


Shiloh Walker has been writing since she was a kid... she fell in love with vampires with the book Bunnicula and has worked her way up to the more...ah... serious vampire stories. She loves reading and writing anything paranormal, anything fantasy, but most all anything romantic. Once upon a time, she worked as a nurse, but now she writes full time and lives with her family in the Midwest. She also writes under the pen name J.C. Daniels.

Visit http://www.shilohwalker.com/website/newsletter-author-shiloh-walker/ to sign up for her newsletter and check out links to her FB page as well.


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PROMO: Shade

 



(Cottonmouth MC 2)

A Hounds of Hell MC Romance


MC Romance

Date Published: May 1, 2026

Publisher: Changeling Press



The moment I see Jazz, I know I can’t let her walk away.

Jazz: My sister Claire disappeared three weeks ago. The police are calling the case a runaway, but I know better. Rumor has it the Cottonmouths and Sinister Skin are behind the girls going missing in Oak Grove -- the reason no one asks too many questions. So I go looking for her myself.

I never expected to find the answers waiting behind the doors of a biker compound -- or in the green eyes of the quiet enforcer who looks at me like I already belong to him. Shade says he will find Claire. But men like him don’t do favors. They make promises. And the way he says mine sounds an awful lot like forever.

Shade: Oak Grove is supposed to belong to the Cottonmouths again. We bled to take it back. But the men we drove out didn’t disappear. They just got smarter, quieter, and more dangerous. Then Jazz walks into my life. And I know I can’t let her go.

I know the men who took Claire are tied to the same rot we just carved out of this town. And they’ve made one fatal mistake. They turned this into my fight. I won’t stop until the threat is buried. The Cottonmouths protect their own. The war they started is about to end in blood.

Warning: Adult content, violence, strong language, and dark themes including human trafficking. There’s no cheating, no cliffhanger, and a guaranteed HEA.


Excerpt
Copyright ©2026 Jamie Targaet

Shade

The compound was quiet, and the yard was littered with toolboxes, paint cans, and various other supplies we were using to patch everything up after the club’s civil war a few weeks ago.

Our place had been torn to hell in the shootout that took place when we took Eli and his slimy inner circle down, getting them the fuck out of our chapter and compound. Vendetta, the man who’d once been Tank but who had survived the hanging meant to kill him, had led us back to reclaim the Oak Grove chapter for the loyal Cottonmouths. We’d won with a little help from the Hounds of Hell in Mercy. After the celebration, our compound was left with bullet holes, splintered frames, and busted glass. It had been a hell of a mess to clean up, and we weren’t done yet.

I was out back, replacing the siding on the last barrack that needed outside repairs. I had a hammer in one hand, and a headache that had been riding me since dawn. Still, I couldn’t shake the thought that we just might be wasting our damn time. We’d fix this place up, sure, but for how long? Yeah, Eli was dead and some of his crew were gone with him. But not all of them. Creep had been shot but he’d somehow survived that night. That fucker could still be running around. A few others loyal to Eli had made it out too.

Sinister Skin wasn’t going anywhere. Of that I was sure. And until we flushed out the rest of that rot, the repairs we made almost felt like a Band-Aid over a bullet wound.

“Guess it’s time to start on indoor repairs,” Ripper muttered, strolling out with a cold beer and no shame.

Vendetta followed him out, looking a little rougher than he usually did. But that was our friend’s new normal these days. The patch on his chest said president, and he wore it like it had its claws dug into him. Dylan had finally got him to sleep a full night last week. Ripper and I damn near threw a party. Vendetta was a good man but he’s a grouchy asshole on no rest.

“Got word from Mercy this morning,” Vendetta said, cracking his neck. “Snow says there’s no sign of the cartel left over there. At least not so far. Guess threatening Player’s girl wasn’t the brilliant move El Cuervo thought it was.”

Ripper snorted. “You mean right before she pulled a gun on him? Shit, I’ll never forget the look on Player’s face. Like he was about to pass out and propose all at the same time.”

Vendetta smirked. “Yeah, the cartel folded faster than I thought they would, honestly. If I had to guess, the Hounds haven’t seen the last of them.”

“If they come back, are we helping out?” Ripper said.

Vendetta nodded. “Most likely. Locked and loaded.”

I didn’t disagree, but I didn’t join in either. Cartel trouble made for good stories now that the business was done. But we were still knee-deep in our own brand of hell here in Oak Grove dealing with the remnants of Sinister Skin. The Hounds in Mercy had booted them out of their territory. It looked like we still needed to do the same.

“I’m glad we helped them out.” Shaking his head, Vendetta said, “It’s the least we could do. We couldn’t have taken this place back with just half the club. They helped us pull it through.”

Before any of us could say more, I heard footsteps coming closer. Two of our prospects, Cowboy and JJ, came running in like their asses were on fire. Both were out of breath, wide-eyed, and wired.

“Boss,” Cowboy gasped. “You’re gonna want to hear this.”

Vendetta straightened up instantly. I set down the drywall knife and wiped dust from my hands.

“We just saw Creep,” JJ said. “He ain’t dead.”

Silence fell like a goddamn hammer. I fucking knew it. Creep. That scrawny piece of shit had a face I wish I could forget and a scar down the middle of his chest that I’d personally gifted him. The bastard was supposed to be out of Oak Grove. Gone and smart enough to stay gone. I’d known he wasn’t dead.

Vendetta’s voice dropped low. “Where?”

JJ swallowed hard. “Here, on the edge of our own fucking property.”

My head snapped up. “You’re kidding me. He came here?”

“And he wasn’t alone,” JJ said. “Eagle was with him.”

I had to laugh at that. “Eagle? That prick’s still walking?”

JJ nodded. “And get this. They had a couple of guys with them we didn’t recognize. They weren’t from around here, but they looked like muscle.”

“They approach you?” Vendetta asked.

Cowboy shook his head. “Nah. They saw us coming and bolted. Didn’t say a damn word.”

“Vehicle?” Vendetta asked.

“Black SUV. Nice one,” Cowboy answered. “Tinted windows. Couldn’t see plates.”

Of course, it was a nice SUV. Sinister Skin loved riding on money they didn’t earn.

Vendetta stepped in closer. “Where exactly did you see them?”

“At the old south gate,” Cowboy replied. “Right where the fence line dips.”

I shook my head. Fifty acres of land surrounded the compound, most of it wild and untouched. The woods were thick enough that a man could ghost through them without ever being spotted. We had cameras and sensors up at the main gates, but out there? A couple of wrong turns and someone could camp out on us for days before we ever knew.

Vendetta must’ve been thinking the same thing, because his eyes narrowed in that calculating way of his.

Vendetta’s gaze met mine. “You thinking what I’m thinking?”

I already was.

“If I had to guess, they’re trying to rebuild,” I said. “Trying to keep Sinister Skin’s shit alive under a new flag.”

“Or a temporary one,” Ripper added.

Vendetta gave the two younger Cottonmouths a nod. “Good work. Now I want you two to stay on the perimeter today. Keep eyes on it. No contact, no hero shit. Just eyes.”

JJ’s spine straightened like he’d just won an award. “Yes, sir.”

“You see anyone besides Creep and Eagle, you let us know right away,” Vendetta added.

The prospects headed back the way they came. As soon as they were out of earshot, Vendetta turned toward me.

Creep. Eagle. Unknown muscle. Icons of every problem we hadn’t finished burning out of Oak Ridge.

“They’re scouting us,” Vendetta muttered.

“Yeah,” I said, rolling my shoulders, muscles humming for a fight. “And they’re stupid enough to do it on our land.”

Ripper shook his head. “The fuckers are still here and still working with Sinister Skin. Jesus.”

“I’d bet on it,” I muttered. It was already leaving a bad taste in my mouth. “Sinister Skin doesn’t give a shit who the club president is. They made a deal with Eli, not the patch. They’re still going to expect the Cottonmouths to hold up our end of the bargain.”

Vendetta nodded grimly. “Not these Cottonmouths. We didn’t agree to any of it, and I’ll go to war over that. That’s Creep and Eagle’s problem now. That group will expect business to keep moving. And if it doesn’t --”

“They’re dead,” I finished for him.

All three of us stood there letting that sink in. We weren’t just talking about traitors. We were talking about assholes left from Eli’s regime, caught in a trap of their own making. Hell, we could still be implicated because of Eli and his bunch before it was all over with.

Vendetta exhaled frustration, the half-empty beer bottle in his hand forgotten. “All right. Let’s lock it down.”

Now we’re talking. I was already keyed up.

“I want double coverage on both gates,” Vendetta went on, his voice cool and clipped in that way that always meant shit was about to get serious. “No one gets in or out without us knowing.”

Ripper tossed his empty bottle into the trash. “You think they’re close?”

“They’re testing the fence,” Vendetta muttered. “Probably trying to figure out where we’re soft.” He turned to Ripper. “Go call Snow. See if he can hook us up with a surveillance system around the south gate. Sounds like we need it.”

Ripper nodded, already moving. Snow, the Hounds’ VP, ran an electronic security system in Mercy, which was handy right now. But I knew he really wanted Ripper out of earshot to talk to me in private.

Vendetta looked at me. “Shade --”

“I’m going,” I cut in, letting him know there was no way I wasn’t.

He studied me for a second. “I need eyes, not a body count.”

I didn’t say anything. Vendetta had been watching me ever since that night when we took back the club, since I put a bullet in Eli without blinking. No hesitation. No second thoughts. Just the right thing done fast.

Vendetta respected restraint. Hell, I respected him that night. Dylan’s uncle or not, Vendetta held the line and kept his cool, even when Eli spat on everything this club ever stood for.

But me? I didn’t have that kind of patience. Eli had tried to take down the entire chapter. He was a stain on the Cottonmouth name. He’d had it coming, and somebody needed to do what everyone else was too damn careful to do.

And Vendetta knew it. At times, he watched me like he was waiting to see which version of me he’s going to get: the one who listens, or the one who pulls the trigger and deals with the consequences later.

Either way, I decided maybe I’d be going.

I gave a sharp nod. “You’ll get what you need.”

 


About the Author

Jamie Targaet is the author of the Hounds of Hell MC. She's anxious to introduce you to this club of gorgeous, dominant men and the lucky women who surrender to them. The ride is going to get wild at times, not going to lie. But there's thrilling action, scorching hot sex scenes, and all the feels.

Jamie writes erotic romance for Changeling Press, a little fanfiction on the side, and she's an aspiring horror writer in another life. She enjoys time with her family (including the fur babies). She likes good horror movies and shows, emo metal and classic rock, and time spent in other worlds writing and reading. She loves hearing from readers and is looking forward to hearing from you.


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