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Rosa just wants to be left alone to write her book, but when werewolves attempt to kidnap her, she realizes her neighbor Caleb is the only one who can protect her. But Caleb is hiding a secret of his own … fur and sparks fly in this hot paranormal romance from USA Today bestselling author Steffanie Holmes.
Book Description:
Sink your teeth into the hot new werewolf paranormal romance from USA Today bestselling author, Steffanie Holmes!
Rosa
I need to escape.
After those racist bastards destroyed my home, I can’t face the world again.
I’ve rented a cabin in the heart of the Crookshollow forest. I’m going to lock myself away and work on my book. I’m going to write my story.
And I absolutely, positively WILL NOT think about Caleb, the hunky labourer who’s fixing up my cabin.
No way.
I won’t think about the way his eyes melt my heart, and his smile melts my panties.
I’m too emotionally raw right now. I can’t handle a fling, especially not with a white guy.
Especially not a guy like him. A guy who shags and leaves. I can’t handle any more heartache.
Caleb
Rosa Parker – clever writer, black woman, total hottie.
The connection between us sizzles – there’s no denying it: this woman is my mate.
When I’m near her, all I want to do is claim her.
If only I wasn’t the biggest threat to her life right now.
With a rogue wolf pack after my hide, I can’t afford a distraction. Even a distraction as alluring as her.
I need to keep my wolfish instincts in check.
But I can’t help myself.
Rosa Parker has got under my skin.
And I won’t stop until I’ve made her mine.
Writing the Wolf is a standalone novel with an HEA. It’s the second book in the hot new paranormal romance series by USA Today bestselling author Steffanie Holmes. Read on if you love spunky heroines, pack politics, and a hero so hot he’ll have you howling for more.
Rosa stalked through the
forest ahead of me, deliberately averting her gaze from my naked body. I wanted
to make a joke about it, but judging by the set expression on her face, I knew
it wasn’t the best time.
When Rosa reached the cabin,
she stomped across the porch, unlocked the door, walked inside and slammed the
door shut behind her. I stopped myself before I slammed my face against the
glass panel.
“Hey,” I rapped against the
window beside the door. “I’m still out here.”
“I know that. Say what you
need to say to me through the door,” Rosa moved toward the kitchen, and started
slamming her groceries down on the bench. Her hands were still shaking. “I’m
not having you inside, not when you could turn into one of them.”
“Could you at least throw me
a towel or something? It’s a little nippy out here and I’m afraid I’m not
showing you my best angle.”
The corners of Rosa’s mouth
tugged upward a little, but she didn’t crack that gorgeous smile for me. She
balled up the red duvet she’d spread over the bed, and shoved it through the
door to me, slamming it shut behind her before I could get an arm through the
gap.
I wrapped the duvet around
my lower half, knotting the ends together. “Not quite the kilt I’m used to, but
it’s something.”
“Don’t try to be funny, Caleb.
This is serious. You’re a werewolf. I was just attacked by two other
werewolves. The werewolves that attacked me today – they’re your stepbrothers,
and they are after me to get to you for some reason that I’m sure to regret
learning.”
“That’s an astute summary of
the situation.”
“I’m going to need more,
Caleb. I’m going to need the full story.” She slammed the kettle down on the
stove, and turned on the gas.
“It’s a pretty long story.”
Rosa held up her cup and
waved it at me. She folded her arms and leaned against the bench, one hip
jutting out suggestively. “I’m listening.”
About the Author:
Steffanie Holmes is a USA Today bestselling author of dark and steamy paranormal romance. Her books feature clever, witty heroines, wild shifters, cunning witches and alpha males who get what they want.
Before becoming a writer, Steffanie worked as an archaeologist and museum curator. She loves to explore historical settings and ancient conceptions of love and possession. From Dark Age Europe to crumbling gothic estates, Steffanie is fascinated with how love can blossom between the most unlikely characters.
Steffanie lives in New Zealand with her husband and a horde of cantankerous cats. Learn more about Steffanie at her website: www.steffanieholmes.com. She also writes dark science fiction under the name S C Green.
Want to be informed when the next Steffanie Holmes paranormal romance story goes live?
Dr. Elizabeth Abbott Fitzgerald has spent the last ten years of her life running; from tragedy, from family, from love. But now her mother’s failing health calls her home to Windsor Falls, North Carolina; to the place where her past awaits. Sam Bishop can’t believe his eyes when the love of his life returns after ten long years. All he wants is to clear his conscience and get back the family he lost when Connor, his best friend and Elizabeth’s husband died tragically. Could it really be true that time heals all wounds?
"I believe you promised me a dip in the Jacuzzi." She released his hand and got up, heading across the patio. "I don’t suppose you have an extra suit, do you?" When he didn’t answer, she shrugged. "Oh well, it's not like it’s the first time you’ve seen me in my underwear." She kicked off her flip flops and pulled her t-shirt over her head, revealing a navy-blue bra. The discarded clothing was soon joined by her shorts. Clad only in a matching set of underwear, Elizabeth leaned over to adjust the controls. Sam's breath caught in his throat at the site of her perfect ass. His breathing grew more rapid as she dipped the toes of one foot into the tub. Sighing, Elizabeth slid down into the water. "Why are you still all the way over there?"
It took him less than a heartbeat to make his decision. Screw common sense. Where had that ever gotten him anyway? Sam quickly ripped his shirt over his head and kicked off his shoes. Taking a moment to undo his belt, he pulled off his khaki shorts. He was left with only his boxers. Seeing Elizabeth in only her scant underwear was enough to render him fully sober. He felt her eyes upon him as he stepped into the hot tub. Sam settled across from her with his arms stretched out along the rim of the tub.
Feigning indifference to the scantily clad woman across from him, Sam sighed aloud. "Ah! I knew there was a reason I had this installed." His long legs reached across to her side, brushing her thigh. He rested his feet on the ledge next to her. "Hope you don’t mind" he asked innocently. "All that driving today has made the muscles in my legs stiff."
Elizabeth was silent but watching Sam intently. He hoped that sliding his foot along the length of her smooth thigh would get her attention. He thought about his next move. This was a dangerous game he was playing. He had spent the day trying to ignore his attraction to her. Even though he had been dying to touch her. Everywhere.
He hesitated, and Elizabeth straightened up, bringing her breasts just above the water line. She stretched her arms over her head, arching her back. The night air, combined with her wet bra, brought her nipples to attention. Sam longed to put his hands, and then his mouth, on them.
Meet the Author
Kimberley O’Malley is a recent transplant to Charlotte, North Carolina from the frozen North. She is learning to say y’all but draws the line at sweet tea. Sarcasm is an art form in her world. When not writing, she is a full-time nurse and part-time soccer Mom, but not necessarily in that order. She shares her life with an amazing husband of more than twenty years, two teenagers, and one very sweet Shetland Sheepdog, Molly.
Date of Publication / Book Release Date: 8th March 2017
ISBN-10: 0646969188
ISBN-13: 978-0646969183
ASIN: B06XF7T8P1
Number of pages: 625 paperback
Word Count: 155190
Cover Artist: Milan Jovanovic
Tagline:
Morgan’s feminist books didn’t prepare her to deal with the dashing Gabriel and the land of Ahe’ey
Book Description:
"A thoughtful look at empowerment for women."
"A rollicking trip into a fantasy world complete with dragons, love and strength, and ideas that really get you thinking."
"Highly recommended for all ages."
Morgan is a dreamer, change maker and art lover. She is a feisty, slightly preachy, romantic feminist full of contradictions and insecurities. Morgan uncovers a world where women have the power, and where magic is no longer just a figment of her wild imagination. Sounds like a dream, but it may, in fact, turn into a nightmare.
The world of the Ahe'ey challenges and subverts her views about gender, genes, and nature versus nurture.
The strong and uninvited chemistry between her and the dashing Gabriel makes matters even more complicated. His stunning looks keep short-circuiting her rational mind.
"She
believed in magic—the magic of places, the magic of people, the magic of
coincidences, serendipity, and fortune. She enjoyed wandering through the world
with the open mind and curiosity of a four-year-old child. In her world the
mystical, mythical, and magical inhabited the same space and time as the
ordinary and the practical. At Bethesda Terrace, she always felt close to a
source of magic and creativity. It was as if she were tapping into the place
where dragons, angels, gods, sorceresses, and demons came to life."
"She killed
him instantly. The young woman plunged her hand into his wound and licked the
blood. Once again, she dipped her hand into the blood and used four fingers to
paint stripes on her face. Sky’s defiant eyes locked on Iblis."
"Debilitating
guilt crushed Gabriel every time he interacted with Morgan. The Ange’el’s
affection for the human was weakening his mandate to control her movements and
influence her decisions. His task was, once again, to deceive and manipulate.
He seemed destined to betray the confidence of those he held most dear."
“You know, it
would be much less trouble if you were willing to bat your magic eyelashes.”
"Young
Sathian was flirtatious, titillating, quick-witted, and brilliant. He left a
trail of broken hearts across the land as he teased and taunted his victims
with his beauty and charm. Both women and men succumbed to his joie de vivre
and panache as he was an untypical Ange’el that carried the sunshine in his
smile and in his eyes."
EDITORIAL REVIEWS:
"A bracing mix of emotionally and intellectually honest fantasy." - Kirkus Reviews
"This book is a thoughtful look at empowerment for women. At the same time, it’s a rollicking trip into a fantasy world complete with dragons, love and strength, and ideas that really get you thinking. This book is highly recommended for all ages." - HUGEOrange
"They're flawed, real, and honest characters that can be easily related to. Ahe'ey is the kind of novel society needs to read, to create inspiration and to make people think. Ahe'ey is daring, complex, and honest. A must-read novel that tackles heavy and real topics with a mix of serious and humorous, charm and tragedy." - Reader's Favorite - 5 Star Review
"Ahe’ey contains a richly imagined world that raises complicated and timely questions about our own.
Jamie Le Fay’s Ahe’ey is an action-packed love story that puts forth a nuanced vision of gender stereotypes, body politics, and the dark side of seeking perfection." - Foreword Clarion - 4 Star Review
About the Author:
Jamie is an accomplished writer and speaker that focuses mainly on topics related to girlhood, feminism, gender equality, and the misrepresentation of minorities in media and marketing.
The ground shook with each bomb that fell on London. The night sky lit up, and the sounds of gunfire overwhelmed the city as our brave men fought back. It took so many bombs to fall on this great city to make the Germans realize that England could not be defeated. It took just one bomb to make one woman realize her true destiny.
Sarah Ashdown's insurmountable guilt and remorse over the death of a young girl sets in motion one of the most unbelievable stories of World War II. An ordinary housewife who defied the odds to become one of the most wanted women in occupied Europe, her story of determination and courage will shock and inspire those who read it.
Simon Gandossi is a historical fiction author who was born and raised in Western Australia. From an early age, Simon discovered a passion for history and writing. Itis that passion combined with his desire to bring to light the different aspects of the past that makes him a unique writer. There are a lot of people who give upso much to follow their dreams, and Simon isno different. To become a professional writer is difficult, but his hard work and determination has seen him develop from an amateur to a full-time writer in just a few years. To learn more about Simon, please visit www.simongandossi.com.
"I want everyone to take a step back in time when they read my books. Every book should take the reader on a journey. With my dedication to preserving history, I know that each and every person will begin that journey from the very first word" - Simon Gandossi
A brush with death brings Leah closer to the ghosts she longs to find and throws her into the arms of the troubled scuba instructor who saves her.
Dale, an Operation Enduring Freedom Veteran, is haunted by his own restless spirits. He's on a hunt for forgiveness, and the Caribbean Sea is his hunting ground.
The peace they search for lies in the bond they never suspected they shared.
I exhale and watch bubbles float off into the churning blue above me. I draw another breath, except this time, there is no air. My lungs, in all their twenty-seven years of finding no resistance to their whims, of drawing in sweet gulps, huffs, and puffs, meet a wall of stainless steel. With the next try, that wall slams into my diaphragm.
My left hand grasps the air pressure gauge as it bobs and snakes down by my hip. The dial’s needle hovers at a thick black line highlighted in red. Zero pounds per square inch.
I’m seventy feet below the Caribbean Sea, and I’m out of air.
Heavy nausea grabs hold of my gut and throat. I almost spit out the regulator mouthpiece, but reason kicks in. I stop myself just in time.
Don’t panic. Stay calm.
But it’s so hard to follow my own instructions. The warm water cradling my body has no mercy for this tiny, helpless human, and it turns to ice around me, needling my skin with cold until I’m numb. I hold my final breath. Everything in me screams out the wrongness of this. The world on the other side of my mask fuzzes out. My mind will soon follow if I don’t do something. Now.
Remember the training. Just find another diver.
Thank God, one of the instructors is less than ten yards away. My finned feet power me to Dale’s side with five hard kicks. He’s tucking something into a waist bag, and when I thrust my air pressure gauge into his face, at first he jerks away from it. Then his eyes widen as realization hits.
I expect him to immediately reach for his spare regulator, the savior of rubber and metal, my sole hope if I want any fate other than drowning. Instead, he brings his large, strong hands to my face. The honey-gold flecks within his irises glint and flash in what filmy light breaches the yards of water between the surface and my airless lungs. There’s no warmth down here, and I’m out of time.
Dale is my only hope.
I let him capture my face between his palms and hold me with his anchor eyes. My heart beats a fluttery, jerky rhythm, and I count—One. Two-three. Four. Five-six-seven—and wait as though I’m not moments from my death.
As though I have all the time in the world.
But whatever he’s doing, it’s working. I’m calmer. For the first time since I found nothing behind my inhale, my heart beats steady and true. He gives me a firm nod, and I return the gesture.
It’s then, only then, that he unhooks the spare regulator from his dive vest. His other hand comes to the mouthpiece I still clench in my teeth. He brushes his fingers against my lips as he pulls the device free, and I give it up reluctantly even though it’s totally useless. A small, salty flow of water hits my tongue, and I swallow it down—the first of what could turn out to be a whole ocean’s worth if we mess up this maneuver.
They say write what you know, so Jessica Bayliss did. Her story, BREATHLESS, was inspired by her own experience running out of air on a scuba dive—except without all the steamy romance and eerie paranormal happenings. Alas, real life. Obviously, she survived. Her genre-bending fiction holds a little something for everyone. A lover of ghost tales and horror since her days scanning VHS rental shelves—admittedly with eyes half-averted from the gory covers—a touch of the mysterious always finds a home in Jessica’s work. Romance with a dash of supernatural. Horror with a bit of humor. You get the gist. Jessica also writes across age groups and is a firm believer in the motto: there is a new reader born every day, whether young or not-so-young.
Look for her upcoming releases: TEN PAST CLOSING, a YA contemporary thriller (Sky Pony Press, Spring 2018), and BROKEN CHORDS, a YA horror novella (Leap Books, October 2017). You can find her story “Care of the Undead Dog” in ZOMBIE CHUNKS, which came out earlier this year. Read about all of Jessica’s books and stories here.
Jimmie Putnam is an ordinary man by any measure. By day, he works as a law
clerk. At night, when he can't fight the cravings, he becomes a collector. He
takes great care of his human Things; buying them cherry lipstick and reading to
them from his journal. When they've been on their best behavior, he even takes
them out of his freezers...
Sometimes, the need is just too deep.
Florel Ross has been mostly invisible since the death of her twin, who died
twenty years ago at the hands of a serial killer. Obsessed with justice, Florel
is willing to risk anything for the answers she craves: What goes on in the mind
of a serial killer?
When the two yearnings collide, will it be justice or just
Things?
My name is James “Jimmie” William Putnam, Jr. I apologize. I’m actually a very polite man. I just don’t do well on so little sleep or when my mind is racing. I should have introduced myself in the beginning. It was very sloppy of me. I hope you will forgive me. I’m not a perfect man by any stretch. With that said, I have to be candid with you. This is, after all, my story. I refuse to censor myself. So if you can’t handle it, I suggest you stop reading now. My version of things won’t be like the stupid newspaper articles referring readers to another page for more information with the worlds “in lieu of.” I collect those too, anything I can find written about them or me, tiny reminders of my Things. I keep them in a scrapbook. Momma would be pleased.
I’m thirty-five years old. I work as a clerk at Ducharme, (he’s dead) Tweed, (he’s the dead guy’s son by marriage) Hadley & Roderick. These guys, all four of them, think they own me. Sorry, but I’ll never be anyone’s Thing. Pretentious pricks think their shit doesn’t stink, all because they have the word esquire behind their names. All because their parents had the cash to send them to fancy schools with fancy names. All of them think they are God. None of them respect me.
They make fun of me for wearing a wedding band all these years from a woman who left me with maxed out credit cards and an ugly cat. That’s fine. I’m a man of my word, in spite of Shelia. The cat’s long gone; out back. They don’t get that. Although I want to scream at them that they can’t commit, I say nothing. They tell me I need to get out more, that my dick’s going to fall off if I don’t start using it soon. If they only knew. I press my lips together and smile. I tell them I swore off women years ago. They look at me with pity, shrug, and pile more work on me. I tell them I don’t have time to date. More work. More pity. More slavery.
It’s fine. I use it to my advantage. I allow them to underestimate me. I’m actually a really smart guy. Just because I got most of my smarts on the streets and at a community college, not the Ivy League, doesn’t mean I couldn’t beat a single one of them in a game of paper-push bankruptcy style law. The truth is, I do all their work for them anyway. Don’t let the stutter fool you, I’m a fast learner.
I’ve been here at the firm since 2005, back when I was with blissfully hopeful with Shelia. In those days it was a refuge for me. I didn’t mind coming in early to get away from the landlady who sang the national anthem to her cats and told us to keep the music down. It was a relief to be away from Shelia’s loud-mouthed cackling and endless phone calls to her even louder mother. I spent early mornings filing cases in massive cabinets out back. I miss those cabinets; everything in order, in its place, like my Things in the freezer. These days we use hard drives. There’s nothing to smell, touch, or check on.
I don’t get the same peace I once did at the office. It might be because the landlady’s gone and I haven’t heard from Shelia or her mother in years. Living alone, you don’t really need a place to escape to. Now coming to the firm is more of a chore. I’d rather be home with my Things out in the barn.
They say that two out of three ain’t bad. I wonder what they say about three out of four. Only one of the partners in in today. Roderick isn’t a bad guy. I get his complex and why he thinks he’s a god. He’s been treated that way since he was a kid. He still takes his mother to lunch on Thursdays at noon. It’s the one appointment he’s never late for.
I don’t mind slow days like these. They give me time for thinking and planning. I have a lot of work to do in that area. Normally, I take my time. Lately, my urges have been too strong. I’ve never collected as quickly as I’m about to now, with another Thing, tonight.
Cravings are strange like that. You can never tell exactly when they will come on. For me, killing is like craving ice cream. It might be why I keep my Things in the freezer, besides the obvious reasons. Anyway, I’m not sure if it’s the odd numbers or the other obsessions that are getting harder to ignore. Maybe it’s just that the cravings never go away once you get a taste for it, like hot fudge on a banana split. Maybe it’s that the last few have been such fighters, challenging me to work harder and harder to obtain them. I’ve always been a hard worker, never one to turn down a dare or challenge.
Even as a kid, there wasn’t much I wouldn’t do. When I did play with other kids in the neighborhood, because Momma forced me to, I was the kid who would climb the highest tree or pick up the fattest salamander bare-handed. I was the kid who drove past Mr. Vitous’ ‘Beware of Dogs’ and ‘No Trespassing’ signs to peek at the old man passed out in his chair. It’s probably when I got my fascination with watching things. Also, being the kid who would do anything helped take attention away from my stutter.
I’ve always been wired a little bit different. It’s not enough that anyone would notice, aside from my speech. Because of it, I’ve focused—hyper focused—on everything. It was a matter of survival and a lesson my Things could have learned from me. Even on the playground, I made sure things went my way. I had a group of kids who did what I said simply because they knew I’d keep things interesting. At the same time, I wished they’d go away. I didn’t see value in their requests for play dates. I didn’t have much fun hanging out with them after school. It was merely something to do to shut my mother up. Secretly, I wanted to be in my room reading and studying the encyclopedia. I like learning. And I learn fast. I told you that. I hope you are listening. Never judge a person by the way they talk. I’m a living example of that.
People always thought I was dumb. In third grade, I was in the remedial reading class, something Momma insisted on so I could keep being on disability. The truth was, I could read full length novels in my head but when it was my turn to read aloud, something in my brain shut down and my words came out twisted, probably guilt and worry about not wanting to betray Momma. Betrayal is the worst, and I still struggle with it now. I stuttered through the shortest of sentences and turned blood red when teachers said things like, “It’s okay, not everyone’s a reader.”
Momma would argue, telling them that I liked to read for fun. She didn’t mean it. She laughed, telling me they were dumb when we got in the car. She’d spend the whole drive home telling me every single thing she loved about me. She counted them, like I count my Things. Then she’d go back and say the same thing, threatening lawsuits if they didn’t do something more – testing, anything. They didn’t listen. They thought she was crazy as a bat. Momma was misunderstood too, a fact she called “intentional” and proof of her intelligence. She’d repeat it over and over in her gravelly voice. When she said it, she’d look at me to be sure I understood.
It was strange, people said, that I didn’t have a dad or a brother or sister to play with. “Only children are odd,” they’d say. Maybe you live up to the things people say about you. Either way, Momma taught me not to worry so much what people thought of me. I tried, I really did. Sometimes it even worked. Other times, even now, it doesn’t work so well.
Frankly, I was glad I didn’t have a sibling, or even a dad. Momma said only children were smarter, more capable of getting their way. Momma mostly left me alone. She had her hands full with her pills, bottles, and three-pack-a-day habit. Momma spent nights sipping on vodka and talking on the phone to any man she could get to listen. Luckily, she never brought them home for more than a month in a row.
See, that’s the thing. People thought of Momma as a bad mother. Truth was, she was perfect for me. She left me alone and never tried to change me. She only wanted to improve me. She told me the system sucked and that she was going to teach me how to work it. She said it was the key to survival and she only wanted the best for me. I believed her. Momma was always loyal.
She was the opposite of Shelia, who was always nagging. Momma collected too. Not my kind of Things though. She collected little figurines of animals. Her favorite was an orange glass cat. I still feel bad that I broke it when I was ten and buried it under her shed. When she died, I tried to go back and dig it up. I never did find it. I feel bad about that.
Tonight I’m going to even the score. Sweet sixteen has me on my toes. I jump when the phone rings. The anticipation is one of my favorite parts. The killing, well, that’s okay. Really, it’s about the planning and the control. We’ll get to that later, if you care to join me. You can be the cherry on top. I like having an audience.
Trailer:
About the Author:
Erin Lee is a freelance writer and therapist chasing a crazy dream one reality
at a time. She is the author of Crazy Like Me, a novel published in 2015
by Savant Books and Publications, LLC, Wave to Papa, 2015, by Limitless
Publishing, LLC and Nine Lives (2016). She’s also author of Alters,
Host, and Merge of the “Lola, Party of Eight Series,” When I’m
Dead, Take Me As I Am, Greener, Something Blue, Once
Upon a Vow and 99 Bottles. She also penned Her Name Was Sam,
an LGBTQ awareness novella. She is author of Losing Faith, and co-author
of The Morning After with Black Rose Writing. These days, she spends her
free time working on the sequels to this novel, Jimmie’s Ice Cream and
Thing Fifteen.
Lee is a co-founder of the Escape From Reality Series. She, along with authors
Sara Schoen and Taylor Henderson, are working with twenty other authors to bring
the hopes, dreams, fears and terrors of a tiny fictional town alive. The town
and its setting is exactly the type of place a man like Jimmie might escape to
as the bodies thawed.
Lee holds a master’s degree in psychology and works with at-risk families and as
a court appointed special advocate. She cannot write horror with the lights off.
However, these days, she’s getting braver and dimming them. She’ll get there . .
.
