Tour Stop/Giveaway: As Long As You're Mine by Jenna Jaxon

This post is part of a virtual book tour organized by Goddess Fish Promotions. Jenna Jaxon will be awarding a $25 Amazon/BN gift card to a randomly drawn winner. Click on the tour banner to see the other stops on the tour.

Talking Jenna Jaxon:

What is your latest book about?

As Long As You’re Mine, a late Victorian historical romance, is about a young lady who; in trying to get herself compromised so she’ll have to marry the man she wants to marry, ends up getting compromised by the wrong man and has to marry him. She’s always feared she’ll marry a man who will break her heart (as her father broke her mother’s heart before her), and now she’s married to a man who she’s sure cannot ever love her as he was trapped into the marriage. The book chronicles the lady’s journey to try and find happiness despite the rocky beginning and the machinations of her jilted suitor.

Which of your books would you recommend for readers to choose first if they’re new to you and your books?

I always suggest that readers looking for that first time read buy my second romance novel, Only Scandal Will Do. It’s one of my favorites—the hero and heroine are probably my favorite couple and I loved writing their story so much they are featured heavily in the four books that come after their story as well. It’s an enemies to lovers trope, full of kidnappings, swordplay, as well as tender romance and passionate love scenes. So it really has something for everyone who loves a good historical.

Tell us something fun or interesting about you.

Although I’m not a singer, I did perform at the Washington Street Methodist Church’s production of The Messiah one Christmas when I was in college. I love The Messiah and the church put an ad in the local paper asking anyone interested to join them, so I did. And it was an absolutely wonderful experience. I doubt I added much to the performance, but I got so much out of it that it remains one of my fond memories.

What have you learned throughout your writing process?

The most valuable lesson I’ve learned through my journey as a writer came to me in the very beginning from my mentor, Judi McCoy. At the first writing workshop I attended, she wrote in huge letters on a pad of paper “You can fix crap; you can’t fix nothing.” This saying so impressed me I have it taped to the lamp on my writing desk so that whenever I’m stumped for the perfect word, or paused trying for the exact witty exchange of dialogue, or re-writing the same page over and over trying to get it right and ending up with a blank sheet of paper, I’ll see that yellow post it, take a breath, and write down whatever comes to mind. Because you can fix crap—you can’t fix nothing. Allow yourself to make mistakes. Revision costs you nothing but a little bit of time.

Do you have a specific writing process?

Yes, I absolutely do. I sort of fell into this process early on and it works for me rather well. I begin with the idea, the what if? What if a woman was trying to compromise herself by sneaking into the bed of her suitor and being discovered, only to find out she was in bed with the wrong guy? What would it be like for a virgin lady down on her luck to have her first customer in a brothel? How would six friends, widowed by Waterloo, meet gentlemen and “get frisky” with them during the Regency? From that idea I begin to write a detailed outline of the story, usually ending up about ten pages, chapter by chapter giving plot details in detail. Then, I simply sit down and begin to write it. I’m a plotter (as you might have guessed) and very linear—I cannot skip around the story. I have to drive that car straight down the road, chapter by chapter until it’s finished. If I come up with an alternative route along the way that looks more interesting, I’ll take it. The way isn’t written in stone. It’s a guide to get me to the destination: my H/h’s happy ever after.

Do you have a favorite author and/or favorite book?

In historical romance my favorite author is Jo Beverley. I love her Company of Rogues series and I adore the Malloren World series. My absolute favorite of her books is Devilish, where Lord Rothgar, the Dark Marquess, meets his match. In fact, I think I need to go back and re-read all the Malloren World books this summer. It’s like discovering a whole new world all over again each time I read them.

A scandalous mistake…or a wicked way to happiness?

Hoping to compromise herself, Lady Amantha Easton sneaks into the bedroom of her would-be suitor only to find a total stranger there—a totally handsome, charming stranger to be sure—but not at all the man she plans to marry. She leaves his room with her reputation intact—barely—only to fall victim to the gentleman’s charms in a public place. Now Amantha must face the fate she’s tried to avoid—marriage to a man who will never love her.

All Rafael Beauregard wanted was a warm bed and a good night’s sleep…but what he got was an unexpected romp with a beautiful vixen and a fiery kiss that left him wanting more. An excellent trade, except now he’s got to marry Lady Amantha, one of the most willful women he’s ever met. So Rafe’s challenge is to persuade her that marriage to him might be the best thing for them both…once he convinces himself.

Read an Excerpt

“Oh, Raif!” She could scarcely breathe now. “That…feels…so good.”

“I thought it might. You’re awful sweet.” His low, sleepy voice sounded odd under the covers. On the verge of asking if he was well, she lost the thought when he lifted his head from her breast and crushed his lips to hers.

All else forgotten, she wouldn’t have cared if the house burned down around them. His lips were hot, insistent. Then he plied the seam with his tongue, softly urged it to part for him. She had no desire to resist and soon he had buried his tongue deep in her mouth. A tentative stroke of her own brought a growl of encouragement, and she abandoned herself to explore his willing mouth. She did things she’d never dreamed she’d do, with Raif or anyone else. And she only wanted more. “Oh, Raif. I never thought it could be like this.”

He chuckled. “How soon you forget, Jenny.”

“Jenny?” Amantha froze, her blood turning to ice in her veins. “Who’s Jenny?” Sudden anger lit a fire in her, and she pushed him away. “How many women were you expecting in your bed tonight, Raif?”

“What?” The sleepiness had flown from his voice. “You’re not Jenny?”

“You expected me to be?” This was a nightmare. They weren’t even married and Raif was being unfaithful to her.

“I didn’t expect anyone in my bed.” He threw off the covers and fumbled at the bedside table.

“What do you mean you didn’t expect me? We had planned this, Raif.” What the devil was the man playing at?

“We?” A match flared as he lit the lamp, the sudden light after the darkness almost blinding her. She put her hand up to shield her eyes.

“What do you mean, we?” He sat up in the bed, rubbing his eyes. “Who are you, sweetheart?”

The voice, now unmuffled, certainly did not have the superior tone of Raiford Tolbert. Slowly Amantha lowered her hand to find a man with dark hair she’d never seen before peering at her.

Dear God, what had she done?

About the Author

Jenna Jaxon is a best-selling author of historical romance, writing in a variety of time periods because she believes that passion is timeless. She has been reading and writing historical romance since she was a teenager. A romantic herself, Jenna has always loved a dark side to the genre, a twist, suspense, a surprise. She tries to incorporate all these elements into her own stories.

She lives in Virginia with her family and a small menagerie of pets--including Olive, an almost silent cat, Earl Grey, a very curious bunny, and a Shar-pei mix dog named Frenchie.

Blog: http://www.jennajaxon.com/
Facebook: https://www.facebook.com/jenna.jaxon
Instagram: https://www.facebook.com/jenna.jaxon
Bluesky: https://bsky.app/profile/jennajaxon1.bsky.social
Threads: https://www.threads.net/@passionistimeless
TicTok: http://www.tiktok.com/@jennajaxon1
Bookbub: https://www.bookbub.com/authors/jenna-jaxon
Amazon: https://www.amazon.com/stores/Jenna-Jaxon/author/B005CHPBD2
Twitter/X: http://twitter.com/@1jennajaxon

Book Amazon Link: https://www.amazon.com/dp/B0GS54DPYB/ref=sr_1_2

Tour Stop: Wild Ride by Willa Okati & a Giveaway

Title: Wild Ride

Author: Will Okati

Cover Art: Marteeka Karland

Genres: Action Adventure, Box Sets, Dark Fantasy, Mystery /Suspense /Intrigue, New Releases, Paranormal, Romance, Wildest West

Themes: Capture Fantasy, Dark Romance, LGBTQ+ Gay, Magic /Sorcery /Witchcraft, Second Edition, Vampires

Book Length: Box Set

Page Count: 220

Add to Goodreads

Synopsis

Time traveler, highwayman, beast, and storyteller -- it's going to be a wild ride.

Wild Ride -- Strange dreams tell Nikos he's meant to be more than a Secret Keeper, tracking the predatory Nightlings. Alexei, a time traveler from the past, has come to find Nikos and take him back to the year 2007. It's going to be a wild ride...

Hell at One Dark Window -- It's the end of the world as we knew it. For most folk survival is all that matters, and the only justice to be found comes at the end of a pistol or the point of a stake. Barrett, a vampire and a highwayman, gets his kicks out of stealing from robber barons. He's going to take his human lover, Nathaniel, and getting the hell out of Dodge. So to speak. All he needs is to pull off one last big job...

Blood Red -- On the coldest night of the year, Ros is cast out of a village for the sin of lying with another man. He's meant to go to his death, but stumbles instead into the enchanted garden of a Beast... a vampire Beast. Will the Beast find the salvation he's sought for so long in the arms of a wise and willing story teller?

Sidetracked -- An escort-for-hire, Devon's just been humiliated and stiffed by his patron of the evening. When the subway taking him home switches tracks, Devon finds himself alone with a man in a white mask and gloves, a man who embodies every sexual fantasy Devon's ever had. Is this a dream, or has he found himself Phantom Night Rider?

Excerpt

Wild Ride (Box Set)
Will Okati
All rights reserved.
Copyright ©2026 Will Okati
Excerpt from Hell at One Dark Window

Look for me by moonlight;
Watch for me by moonlight;
I'll come to thee by moonlight,
Though hell should bar the way!

Alfred Noyes
"The Highwayman"

"You're quiet tonight, lover."

"Am I?"

"Not a word's passed your lips except 'harder,' 'more,' and 'oh, God...' and those I recall being spoken in the heat of passion. You've not made a peep since. Being the smart type myself, despite all appearances, this tells me you've got something going on in that busy mind of yours. You care to share?"

"I don't know yet."

"Well, that's fair." Cool, strong arms wrapped around Nathaniel's waist, pulling him backwards against his lover's body. "Of course, you know I don't plan to let up until you spill the whole pot of beans."

Nathaniel gave a soft laugh despite himself. "I know you won't."

"So? Save us a little trouble, and tell me what's on your mind right now."

"Not yet." Nathaniel raised his hand and placed it palm-down on the cold window glass, where he stood staring out into the night, down to the abandoned stretch of cracked pavement running past his apartment. "There aren't words, so far."

"Hmm. Never known you to be at a loss before." Nathaniel's lover jostled him gently, playfully. "Never did meet a man who liked so much to talk about anything and everything. Apples to anthills. That's why I took a shine to you in the first place -- well, aside from an ass you could bounce quarters off and your pretty face. Sing for me."

"O figlio perdito --"

Nathaniel's lover jostled him. "Smarty-pants."

"Yeah." Nathaniel leaned into his lover's firm, gentle hold, savoring the feel of being held strong and sure by someone who'd never let him fall. Life taught gay men an early lesson: don't trust anyone unless you know for a fact they won't turn on you, and that they mean it when they say they love you. His partner had it all, did it all, said it all, and meant it all.

Nathaniel should have been able to be open about what was worrying him. Yet somehow, he found that he couldn't put his thoughts into words. Not yet.

His lover seemed to accept that. One thing about him, he did know when not to push. He simply held Nathaniel and rocked them soft and easy against one another, sexy yet comforting. "It'll be all right," he murmured after a moment. "Whatever's got you fretting, it'll be just fine."

Nathaniel's lips curved in a smile. "I know."

He reached down to lay his hands over his lover's, feeling the same mild shock as he had the first time they touched, finding them to be cool and satin-slick despite a few calluses. They held still as if carved from marble. No human could ever hold such a pose without so much as twitching.

Nathaniel had learned that there were more things on heaven and earth, Horatio, and so forth, but even he'd had a hard time accepting that the gorgeous man, all tousled hazelnut hair, twinkling blue eyes, and ready wit, was, of all things, a vampire.

Honestly, weren't vampires supposed to at least give a nod to tradition? He'd seen enough wannabes in his time to know the accepted look was unrelieved black from hair to clothes to boots. This man -- vampire -- on the other hand, gloried in wearing a soft flannel shirt, molded-on and faded blue jeans, and clean but battered sneakers. No thick, chunky jewelry, save for a cross necklace.

Yeah, a cross.

When he'd leaned back against the bar counter in the sports watering hole where they'd met, arms crossed, grinning broadly, Nathaniel had cracked up and told the man he had a hell of an imagination.

The vampire had shrugged, and asked for one night to prove himself.

Nathaniel didn't usually go for one-night stands, but this man had the look, he had the wit, and you had to admire someone with balls big enough to tell such outrageous stories.

He'd taken the vampire up on his offer.

And back in his apartment, when sharp fangs that were in no way fake pierced the soft skin of his neck, where throat met shoulder, and the vampire drank deep of his blood, Nathaniel had realized this was no lie. He'd found an honest-to-Satan vampire, and brought him home to bed.

What a bedding it had been, too! Tangled, sweaty limbs, lips and tongues fighting for dominance in wet, devouring kisses, and hands everywhere, from pinching nipples to gently rolling balls to stripping heavy, swollen cocks. Cool fingers, slick with oil, slipping inside Nathaniel, stretching him open with more patience and tenderness than any mortal had ever shown. The feel of the vampire's cock splitting him open, making him ache for more even as it was given to him, and then the blissful burn of being totally filled... well, Nathaniel hadn't minded the blood loss by then.

To his surprise, it still hadn't bothered him when he came down from his orgasm, when he and the vampire lay tangled together in a mass of sweaty sheets, stained with one another's come, marked by new-forming bruises and love bites. He'd let the vampire rest atop him, not breathing but still quaking in every muscle from the force of his climax, and thought, So, this is a vampire. If this is a creature of the night, I'll take him over a human any day.

The vampire had chuckled, as if reading Nathaniel's thoughts. He'd raised his head and grinned. "Barrett," he'd said, stroking Nathaniel's cheek. "My name's Barrett. D'you believe me now?"

Barrett. Nathaniel let himself fall into the soothing, rocking rhythm. When Barrett began to hum, some old tune by Johnny Cash that just fit his raspy voice, Nathaniel almost closed his eyes and purred with the pleasure of it.

Yes, his lover was a killer. More, he was a thief, a gambler, and an all-around bad guy. But Barrett loved Nathaniel with all his un-beating heart, would do anything for him, and that was what mattered in the end.

Soft lips brushed Nathaniel's ear. "So," Barrett murmured, "you feel ready to talk yet?"

Nathaniel stared out the window, at the lonely stretch of highway beneath them. He took in a deep breath, and nodded. "Yes," he said. "Don't leave me tonight. Promise you won't leave me."

Purchase at Changeling Press

Meet the Author

Will Okati (formerly known as Willa) has lived through a few Interesting Times, but come out the other side a little grayer, a little wiser, and ready to get writing. Still as passionate about coffee, cats, and crafts as ever, but knowing that to your own self you must be true. Also still one of the quiet ones to watch out for, but life -- like storytelling -- is always a work in progress.

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New Release Spotlight Tour Stop/Giveaway: Andrew Grey's Shelter Of His Heart

Title: Shelter of his Heart

Author: Andrew Grey

Genre: M/M Contemporary Romance/Military

Release Date: April 21, 2026

Edition/Formats Available In: eBook & Print

Blurb/Synopsis:

College professor Jameson Kline has a good life, if a little quiet and maybe lonely. But all that changes when he encounters his high school crush, Todd, and Todd's young son, in the woods at the back of the local park. Not knowing what else to do, he takes them home and gives them dinner and a place to rest for a while.

Todd Morris is ashamed of his current situation, but unsure of how to come back from losing nearly everything, especially a home and safety for his son, Kenny. With Jameson’s help, Todd begins to piece their lives back together one step at a time. But being without a steady home has left a mark that’s hard to overcome, including not being able to rely on others for anything.

As Jameson helps Todd get his feet under him again one step at a time, Todd's heart opens to Jameson’s kindness and old feelings find new life. But Todd and Kenny’s old life refuses to go quietly, putting Kenny in danger. As they work together to rebuild and keep Kenny safe, Todd and Jameson’s simmering attraction grows more intense and possibilities open for both of them, if they can hold the threat at bay.

Discover Claimed Without Mercy by Dulce Dennison Today!

Title:  Claimed Without Mercy

Author: Dulce Dennison

Cover Artist: Marteeka Karland

Publisher: Changeling Press

Release Date: April 24, 2026

Genre: Action Adventure, Contemporary, Mystery /Suspense /Intrigue, New Releases, Romance

Themes: Capture Fantasy, Dark Romance, LGBTQ+ Gay, Mafia /Organized Crime

Book Length: Novel

Page Count: 150

Add to Goodreads

Synopsis

Captive. Claimed. Protected by the devil himself.

I’m Tyson Hughes’ right hand. Collector. Enforcer. Executioner. When a low-level idiot tries to clear his debt by offering up his own nephew, I expect a clean transaction. A body to move. A message to send. Business.

I don’t expect Kellen. Bruised. Beautiful. Untouched by this world in ways that make my jaw lock. He looks at me like I’m either the devil come to claim him… or the only thing standing between him and worse. Taking him wasn’t part of the plan. Delivering him to Tyson would’ve been easier. Smarter. Safer. Instead, I claim him.

Now he’s living under my roof, breathing my air, learning the rules of a world I don’t sugarcoat. I’m not a hero. I don’t rescue people. I own what’s mine. I protect it. And I destroy anyone stupid enough to threaten it. But the deeper I pull Kellen into my life—into the violence, the loyalty, the blood that binds us—the harder it is to tell where captivity ends… and desire begins.

When the debt comes due, I’ll have to choose. Tyson’s empire. Or the young man I claimed without mercy—and refuse to let go.

Excerpt

Claimed Without Mercy
Dulce Dennison
All rights reserved.
Copyright ©2026 Dulce Dennison

Ian

I watched the men work, arms folded across my chest. The dim lights of the warehouse cast long shadows as they moved product from one crate to another, their movements precise and mechanical. Nobody spoke much -- they knew better. When I oversaw an operation, I expected efficiency, not conversation. The tattoos on my forearms seemed to pulse in the half-light, a reminder to everyone present of who I was and what I was capable of. The man who made problems disappear.

“Faster,” I said, my voice echoing against the concrete walls. “We need this shit loaded before sunrise.”

The men picked up their pace, sweat beading on their foreheads. This shipment was worth seven figures -- premium grade heroin straight from our overseas connections. The kind of product that kept Tyson’s empire running and our pockets lined.

I paced between the rows of crates, watching each man’s hands, each movement. Trust wasn’t something I gave easily, especially not to the low-level soldiers Tyson assigned to these jobs. Most were competent enough, but all it took was one fuck-up, one greedy asshole, and we’d have cops swarming the place or, worse, a war with another organization.

Something caught my eye. A slight hesitation from one of the newer guys -- skinny fuck with a neck tattoo that screamed prison ink. He glanced over his shoulder when he thought I wasn’t looking, then slipped his hand into his jacket pocket just a little too casually.

I moved behind a stack of crates, circling around until I was positioned where he couldn’t see me. Three years of working as Tyson’s enforcer had taught me to spot a rat before they even knew they were one.

“Something interesting in your pocket, Alvarez?” I asked, appearing beside him like a shadow.

He jumped, nearly dropping the bag he was holding. “No, Mr. Grant. Just checking the time.”

“Really? Pull it out, then.”

His eyes darted to the exit, calculating the distance. I knew that look. I’d seen it dozens of times before on the faces of men who thought they could outsmart me.

“Now,” I said, not raising my voice. I never had to.

“It’s nothing, I swear --”

I grabbed his wrist, twisting until he gasped in pain, then reached into his pocket myself. My fingers closed around a small plastic bag containing about twenty grams of our product. The weight of it told me everything I needed to know.

“Everyone stop,” I commanded, and the warehouse fell silent. “Gather round. Seems we need to have a little lesson in loyalty.”

The men formed a circle, their faces grim. They knew what was coming. They’d seen it before, or at least heard the stories.

I held up the bag. “Alvarez here thinks he deserves a bonus. Isn’t that right?”

“Please, Mr. Grant, I wasn’t --”

My fist connected with his jaw before he could finish the sentence. He stumbled backward but didn’t fall. Good. I wanted him conscious for what came next.

“Tyson Hughes pays you well,” I said, addressing everyone now. “He provides for your families. Keeps the cops off your backs. And in return, he asks for one thing.” I grabbed Alvarez by the throat. “Loyalty.”

I slammed him against a crate, my hand still tight around his neck. His eyes bulged, face turning red, then purple.

“You know what happens to thieves in this organization?” I asked, loosening my grip just enough for him to breathe.

He nodded frantically, gasping for air.

“Tell them,” I demanded, nodding toward the other men.

“They… they die,” he choked out.

I smiled. “Usually. But tonight, I’m feeling generous.”

Relief flooded his face for a brief moment before I slammed my knee into his groin. As he doubled over, I caught him with an uppercut that sent him sprawling across the concrete floor.

The men watched in silence as I approached Alvarez, who was now curled into a ball, blood trickling from his split lip. I knelt beside him, keeping my voice low enough that only he could hear.

“I’m going to let you live, but not out of mercy.” I pulled a switchblade from my pocket and flicked it open. “You’re going to be a message.”

What happened next filled the warehouse with screams that the thick walls swallowed whole. The men watched, faces impassive but eyes wide with fear as I made my point in blood. When I was done, Alvarez lay sobbing on the floor, clutching what remained of his left hand.

“Get him patched up,” I told two of the men. “Then drop him at the emergency room across town. Make sure he understands that if he says a word about where he was or who did this, the next visit won’t be so pleasant.”

They nodded and dragged Alvarez away, leaving a smear of crimson across the floor. I turned to the remaining men, wiping my blade clean on a handkerchief.

“Finish loading the shipment. I want everything out of here in thirty minutes.”

They scattered like cockroaches under a light, moving twice as fast as before. The metallic smell of blood hung in the air, mixing with the dust and chemical odors of the warehouse. I checked my watch. Almost 3 AM.

My phone vibrated in my pocket. A text from Tyson:

Need you at the house. 9 AM sharp. Important matter to discuss.

I stared at the message, feeling a familiar mix of pride and anxiety. A direct summons from Tyson usually meant one of two things: I’d fucked up, or he had a special job that only I could handle. Given that I’d been running operations smoothly for months, I was betting on the latter.

I supervised the rest of the loading in silence, watching as the men carefully avoided the bloodstain on the floor. By 4:15 AM, the warehouse was empty except for me and the lingering evidence of what happened to those who betrayed Tyson Hughes.

I locked up and climbed into my black Audi, the leather seat cool against my back. The night had turned cold, but I barely noticed. My mind was already on the meeting with Tyson, wondering what assignment awaited me. Whatever it was, I’d handle it. I always did. That’s why, despite everything, I was still alive when so many others weren’t.

I pulled out of the warehouse district, leaving behind the night’s violence and heading toward my apartment for a few hours of sleep before meeting with the only man I’d ever truly respected. The only man who’d ever given me a chance when everyone else saw nothing but gutter trash. The man who’d made me what I was.

For Tyson Hughes, I’d do anything. And he knew it.

I pulled up to Tyson’s estate at 8:55 AM, early as always. The gates opened automatically -- security knew my car. As I drove up the long, winding driveway, I caught glimpses of the sprawling mansion through the trees. Tyson had built all this from nothing, clawing his way up from the streets to become the most powerful man in the city’s underworld. And he’d picked me. Even after all these years, that fact still hit me in the chest sometimes, a mixture of pride and the constant fear of disappointing him.

I parked next to Tyson’s collection of luxury cars and straightened my tie in the rearview mirror. Despite only three hours of sleep, I looked presentable. The dark circles under my eyes were practically permanent fixtures anyway.

The front door opened before I could knock. Nick, Tyson’s longtime second-in-command, greeted me with a curt nod.

“He’s in his study,” he said, stepping aside.

I walked through the marble-floored foyer, past priceless artwork and antiques that Tyson collected not because he gave a shit about art, but because they signified his rise from poverty. Everything in this house was a trophy, a reminder of victories and conquered enemies.

The study door stood ajar. I knocked anyway.

“Come in, Ian,” Tyson called.

He sat behind a massive oak desk, silver hair immaculately styled, wearing what I knew was a hand-tailored suit that probably cost more than most people made in a month. At fifty-three, Tyson Hughes carried himself with the ease of a man who knew his own power and had no need to flaunt it. When he killed, he did it with a phone call, not his hands. Those days were behind him.

“Right on time,” he said, looking up from his computer and removing his reading glasses. “How’d the shipment go last night?”

“Clean and quick. One minor issue that’s been handled.”

Tyson raised an eyebrow. “What kind of issue?”

“Alvarez tried skimming product. Won’t happen again.”

“Is he breathing?”

I nodded. “Missing some fingers, but alive. I figured he’d be more useful as a warning than a corpse.”

A smile touched the corners of Tyson’s mouth. “Smart. That’s why I trust you with these things.” He gestured to the chair across from him. “Sit. Drink?”

“It’s not even ten.”

“Since when has that ever stopped either of us?”

I smiled despite myself and took the seat. Tyson poured two glasses of scotch from a crystal decanter, sliding one across the desk to me.

“You look like shit,” he said casually. “Not sleeping?”

“Sleep’s overrated.”

“Not when I need you sharp.” He leaned back in his chair, studying me with those penetrating gray eyes that saw everything. “You’ve been pushing yourself too hard lately.”

“Just doing my job.”

“Your job is to follow orders and stay alive. Can’t do either if you’re running on fumes.”

I took a sip of the scotch, letting the burn distract me from the fact that Tyson was the only person on earth who could talk to me like this without ending up in pieces.

“I’m fine,” I said. “What’s this important matter you wanted to discuss?”

Tyson’s expression shifted, his eyes hardening. “Sean Collins.”

The name hung in the air between us.

“What about him?” I asked.

“He owes us three hundred grand. Has for almost six months now.” Tyson took a long swallow of his drink. “I’ve been patient. Sent Nick to have a chat with him twice. Sent messages through mutual associates. Nothing.”

“You want me to collect.”

“I want you to make an example of him.” Tyson’s voice dropped, became colder. “Collins thinks because he’s got connections with the Irish that he’s untouchable. He’s been spreading word that I’ve gone soft in my old age.”

My jaw clenched. “That’s a mistake.”

“A fatal one.” Tyson stood up and walked to the window, looking out over his manicured gardens. “Sean Collins is a particular kind of vermin. Beats the girls who work for him, sometimes kills them if they try to leave. Has a taste for the young ones too.”

“Want me to take care of him permanently?” I asked, already knowing the answer.

Tyson turned, his expression softer now, almost paternal. “Not yet. First, get my money. Make him understand who he’s dealing with.” He returned to his desk and pulled out a file, sliding it across to me. “Here’s everything you need to know. Addresses, hangouts, known associates. His nephew lives with him -- kid named Kellen Lin. Collins had custody since the boy’s mother died. He’s an adult now but hasn’t moved out.”

I flipped through the file. Photos, financial records, property deeds. Tyson was nothing if not thorough.

“The nephew -- he involved in Collins’ business?” I asked.

“Not as far as we know. Works at a coffee shop. Keeps to himself.” Tyson refilled his glass. “Use your judgment there.”

He didn’t need to finish the sentence. Collateral damage was part of the job.

“When?” I asked, closing the file.

“Yesterday would’ve been good. Today’s acceptable. By the end of the week, non-negotiable.”

I nodded, downing the rest of my scotch in one swallow. “Consider it done.”

“I always do when I give you an assignment.” Tyson smiled, the kind of smile that had always made me feel like I belonged somewhere. “That’s why I chose you, Ian. From the first day I pulled you out of that shithole your father called a home, I knew you were different. You understand loyalty.”

“You gave me a life,” I said simply. It wasn’t flattery. It was fact. Before Tyson, I was nothing. A fifteen-year-old kid with a junkie father and violence in my blood. Tyson had channeled that violence, given it purpose and direction.

“And you’ve repaid that a thousand times over.” He walked around the desk and put a hand on my shoulder. “Collins is just the beginning. I’m getting older, Ian. Starting to think about the future of this organization.”

My heart skipped a beat. We’d never discussed succession before, though everyone in the hierarchy wondered who would take over when Tyson eventually stepped aside. I’d always assumed it would be Nick, but at the same time, Nick was also getting up there in years. Both men were close in age and had worked side-by-side for as long as anyone could remember. But if I thought about it, I was probably the next closest to Tyson, the most trusted after Nick.

I left the study with the file tucked under my arm and a sense of purpose burning in my chest. Tyson had called me “his boy.” It wasn’t the first time, but it never failed to hit something deep inside me -- that hungry, abandoned part that had never known a real father’s approval.

For Tyson, I’d collect this debt and a thousand more. I’d tear Sean Collins apart if necessary. Because when Tyson Hughes looked at me like that -- with pride and expectation -- I felt like I was worth something. And that feeling was more addictive than any drug I’d ever tried.

Purchase at Changeling Press

Meet the Author

Dulce Dennison is a pen name for gay and LGBTQA+ themed love stories from best selling MC romance author Harley Wylde, AKA award-winning science fiction/paranormal romance author Jessica Coulter Smith. From cowboys to shapeshifters, Dulce/Harley/Jess believes in love in all shapes and sizes, and that everyone deserves a happily-ever-after.

Website | Facebook | Twitter

   

Tour Stop/Giveaway: Battle Beyond the Veil by Cassie Sanchez

 

Two worlds.

One forbidden relic.

A battle for survival or ruin.

Battle Beyond the Veil

by Cassie Sanchez

Genre: Urban Fantasy

The Celestial War shattered the Heavens; after millennia, the battle still rages.

On the most important day of Zahra’s career at the Gallery of Time Museum, everything unravels. A mysterious package arrives from her estranged father, and the Atar’zul, a relic that could secure her promotion goes missing. While betrayal festers within the museum, a long lost love returns, throwing Zahra’s world into chaos.

Kyden, a warrior angel and demon slayer, has guarded the spiritual realm for centuries. When a famous archaeologist and forbidden artifact vanish, Kyden is forced to protect a human, a job he vowed long ago to never do again.

Together, Zahra and Kyden must face rising demon threats and the cursed magic of the Atar’zul. As darkness closes in, they join forces to defend both realms and find that ending the battle beans trusting each other. Sacrifices must be made—the cost of which might be their very souls.

Welcome to the battle for humanity's future—a story of loyalty, temptation, and the fragile line between light and shadow.

 

**NEW RELEASE – GET IT NOW!**

Amazon * Bookbub * Goodreads

Cassie Sanchez is the award-winning author behind the Darkness trilogy—a whirlwind of fast-paced fantasy romance where danger dances with desire and magic always has a price. Based in the enchanting Southwest, she lives with her husband and two crazy labs named Bullet and Scout. When she’s not writing happily-ever-afters, she can be found wielding a Pickleball paddle or cuddling with her nogs for an afternoon nap.

 At the heart of Cassie’s stories are characters who stumble, fall, and rise again—wrestling with forgiveness and searching for redemption. Step into her world, where every story casts a spell and love conquers all, even the shadows.

 

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Follow the tour HERE for special content and a giveaway!

Enter the Battle Beyond the Veil Giveaway Here

Tour Stop: The Siren of Paris by David LeRoy

 

The Inspiration Behind ‘The Siren of Paris’

In 2010, I traveled to France on vacation and launched a search for a missing family member. By 2011, my search exposed buried accounts of the war. Ordinary people risked their lives to save others. The Luftwaffe bombed a traveling circus. Officials hid the sinking of ships from the public. These events shape my story of the Fall of France.

My research led me into Gestapo arrest files. A deeper darkness emerged. I uncovered accounts of lovers who betrayed men to the authorities. These betrayals appeared again and again. They formed a clear, calculated strategy the Nazis used in Paris to crush the Resistance.

The war reshaped my understanding of the Fall of France.

I chose a novel over a memoir. I created Marc Tolbert, a fictional protagonist who carries the story. I faced a steep learning curve, but coaching sharpened my craft and drove me to complete the manuscript. At the time, agents chased the next Fifty Shades of Grey. Marc stands as a codependent, passive man who falls for a narcissistic, dominant woman. Their volatile, abusive bond mirrors the war’s violence and moral collapse.

Magical realism had not yet gained wide traction. I wove dreams, nightmares, and visions of the dead into the narrative. Factual animal scenes expose the war’s ruthless destruction of innocence.

After repeated rejections, I self-published the novel. Agents dismissed its magical realism and condemned its anti-romantic arc. The market demanded heroic love stories. I’m glad I chose to self-publish the novel. Readers who discover The Siren of Paris often carry their own families’ unanswered war stories.

Joan Rodes’s heroism stunned her family. They contacted me after learning how she rescued men lost at sea. They had never known the scope of her actions. Had I followed New York’s demands, these lives and stories would have vanished.  

The Siren of Paris confronts a single question: can a soul claim peace after enduring a war that turns the world into hell? Marc faces love’s betrayal and the deaths it unleashes.

In the opening scene, he stands before the priest of time and judgment. The war dead rise and form a jury. A grave marked “Known unto God” bears his name, the mark of an unknown victim.

Chapters 2 through 47 replay the war as a relentless life review. Chapters 1 and 48 frame the story with stark, mystical visions of the assembly of the “Known unto God.” A priest, broken by betrayal from his own congregation at Buchenwald, summons this assembly.

Had we stood in France in 1939, we likely would have joined the war dead.

Title: The Siren of Paris

Author: David LeRoy

Publisher: Independent

Pages: 352

Genre: Historical Fiction/Magical Realism

Formats: Paperback, Kindle, Audiobook, FREE with Kindle Unlimited

The Siren of Paris is available at Amazon.

BLURB

Journey through the dark, violent, and haunting landscape of World War II in Paris and beyond – Take on a harrowing tour through the depths of human depravity, exploring themes of love, loss, guilt, and redemption in this gripping historical tale.

Marc Tolbert, a young French-born man from a prominent American family, takes off to Paris for a fresh start after a breakup in 1939. Pursuing his dreams of attending a prestigious Parisian art school, he soon makes friends with some of history's most notable figures, including Sylvia Beach and William Bullitt. Falling in love with an art model from one of his classes, he is blinded to the escalating violence around them as the war inches closer to the City of Lights.

What started as an adventure quickly becomes a nightmare as the war worsens, and Marc is faced with choices that will change his life forever.

When he finally faces the reality that he must leave Paris, fate deals him a cruel hand. Surviving the sinking of the RMS Lancastria, Marc is haunted by the deaths of his friends and the regret of not leaving sooner.

Returning to Paris, Marc is drawn into the resistance movement, risking everything to help those trapped behind enemy lines. But after being betrayed, he is captured and sent away to face the horrors of war and the guilt of his past mistakes.

The Siren of Paris is a powerful and emotional story that will keep you on the edge of your seat. With its compelling plot-driven narrative, vivid scenes, and intense action, this novel will transport you to the heart of war-torn Paris and leave you contemplating the weight of human choices and their impact on others. Whether you're a fan of historical fiction, war stories, or symbolic themes, this novel will captivate and intrigue you from start to finish.

BOOK EXCERPT

September, 1967—Saint-Nazaire, France

“May the Lord be with you,” the priest’s voice rang out to all gathered at Marc’s graveside. It was September 1967.

The cloaked man stood taller than all others gathered, self-luminous with the hood of his smock pulled over his head. In his right hand he held a staff with a round clock mounted on top.

Marc stood beyond the gathering, gazing back upon his grave. He saw his only sister, Elda, surrounded by all his other friends from France. The body of his soul beamed a reddish-golden light, as he anticipated the final moment he would leave in peace. He strained to see the face of the priest obscured from view under the hood.

“And also with you,” Marc whispered, looking toward the release from his life.

“Let us pray,” the priest said softly. With a rush, the first eleven souls appeared around him. They had come from the graveyards of Angoulins-sur-Mer, Les Fortes, Saint-Charles-de-Percy, Saint-Clément-des-Baleines, Saint-Palais-sur-Mer, Chatelaillon- Plage, Saint-Sever, Traize, Brest, Saint-Hilaire-de-Talmont and Saint Pancras. They wore drab olive-green uniforms, kit bags ready for war. They were soaked to the bone. Only a few had boots. The dial on the clock stopped as a moment of Marc’s life flashed before him.

“I no longer want to see you, Marc. It is finished.  It's over,” Veronica stood shivering outside his dorm room.  Winter, 1939. He dropped out of medical school after that. He decided to run. Marc’s soul turned a dark red. The pain came back, searing.

“O God, we pray you lead us to truth, deliver us all from violence, battle, and murder, and from dying suddenly and unprepared,” the priest said as he glanced up from under his hood, then down again before Marc could catch his face.

Twenty-two more souls gathered by the grave. They came from the graveyards of Bretignolles-sur-Mer, L’Aiguillon-sur-Mer, Port-Joinville, Les Sables-d’Olonne, Nantes Pont du Cens, Sainte Marie, Yves, Piriac-sur-Mer, Olonne-sur-Mer, Coulac and Charroux. Among the soldiers stood one woman dressed as a nurse, a Belgian boy and little girl, all with no name

Again, the clock stopped. Another memory surfaced.

“I can watch out for myself, you know. I am not small anymore. You should go,” Elda was only eight years old at the time. Marc could see she blamed herself. His soul constricted. The hands of the clock moved again. His light turned blue.

“O God, we pray for those who suffer in silence with guilt, and for those who suffer with shame, regret, and remorse.”

“I've seen enough,” Marc cried out to the priest. Thirty-three souls arrived from the graveyards of La Couarde-sur-Mer, La Turballe, Saint-Denis-D’oléron, Sainte-Marie-de-Ré, Olonnes, Bouin, Saint-Gilles-Croix-de-Vie, Aytré and Barbatre. The clock stopped.

“One-way ticket, first class, June 14, crossing on the Normandie, please.” Marc’s soul recoiled from this moment. He knew why he had left. The hands on the clock resumed. His light turned a dark purple.

“Please, let this go, it is just the past,” Marc called out to keeper of the clock. The staff remained steady.

“O God, our time is in your hands. Look upon us with favor as we, your servants, begin another year of life.”

Sixty-five souls appeared in a flash from the graveyards of Le Bois-Plage-en-Ré, Château-d’Olonne, Saint-Hilaire-de-Riez, Ile d’Yeu, Beauvoir-sur-Mer, Saint-Georges-D’oléron, Ars-en-Ré, La-Barre-de-Mont, Dolus, Saint-Trojan, L’Épine, La Plaine-sur-Mer, Noirmoutier-en-l’Ile, L’Herbaudiere, and Le Clion-sur-Mer. Again Marc felt the weight of time pulling him backward.

“Happy birthday, young man. Better get a move on it. You have a ship to catch today,” his mother handed him his hat the morning he left for France. The words pierced him. She drank herself to death from worry in the spring of ’42.

“Why must you show me this? Is this my judgment?” he cried again. His light turned dark green. The clock bearer looked up briefly from under his hood. The clock began to move.

“O God, whose glory fills the whole of creation: Preserve and protect those who travel from every danger and bring them in safety to their journeys’ end,” the priest intoned.

233 souls, men, women, children and soldiers from the graveyards of Saint-Nazaire-sur-Charentes, Les Moutiers-en-Retz, Prefailles and La Baule-Escoublac gathered around Marc. Time compressed. The clock slowed to a stop. Dread replaced fear.

“When you get to Paris, let Ambassador Bullitt know you are in town. He would be glad to see you. We were classmates back in college before the war.” His father pulled the car up to the French Line Pier. The image flickered before Marc in the fading light. His father never took art school seriously. The pain of these last words to him before a heart attack killed him in ’44 brought Marc to his knees. Two eyes peered from under the hood as Marc’s face twisted in anguish. The clock dial started to spin.

“O God, we pray for those who have died. May your love and light keep them eternally yours in peace and life without end.” Everyone who had gathered whispered a name. Marc swallowed hard. 370 souls gathered from the graveyards of La Bernerie-en-Retz and Pornic to join the other souls. The clock stopped.

“You should have left Paris, Marc, and never returned,” she said before the Gestapo officer read the charges. Marc groaned under the weight of this most painful moment, feeling regret and shame. His light turned dark as obsidian and the clock began to run.

“Make this stop. I have forgiven her,” he pleaded. The priest removed his hood and bared his face.  Marc recognized him instantly: the betrayed priest he had known during the war. Yves.

“O God, the Father of all, who commanded us to love our enemies: Lead us both from hatred and revenge and, in your good time, enable us all, who are known unto you to stand before you in eternal peace,” the priest looked directly at Marc. The words ripped through him in shock waves, fracturing him on his side three times, and once down the middle. The clock stopped spinning. Marc noticed that the second hand now moved steadily forward with temporal time.

An unknown number rose from the sea, the beaches, and ditches to join the 859. Marc, overwhelmed, stared in disbelief at the priest’s face before him. With all his strength, he strained to whisper, “Why?”

“Why, you ask?" the priest voice thundered through the sky in a quick response. "Your marker reads ‘Known unto God!’ That is why,” Yves voice reverberated back to Marc, his face staring back in shock.  “Those are souls who died without last rites, final confession, or do not even realize that they are dead, just waiting in limbo until they can be found,” Yves said, his voice booming and vibrating with a strange undulation as he raised his eyes towards the assembly that had gathered. 

“I am the soul collector of the lost and forgotten of this war.  This is my calling.  Behold the assembly of those ‘Known Unto God,’” Yves said, his voice clear, natural and crisp. His form glowed as he raised his arms towards the assembly that rose high into the sky, looking back upon Marc and the Priest.  He struck his staff once on the ground. 

“I will not treat you any differently than I have any one of them who now lie in wait until the time arrives to stand before the Lord,” Yves said as he stood in the center of a Dodecagon of souls of number unknown. He rapped his staff a second time on the ground.  Marc's eyes snapped into focus on the staff with a nausea of anticipation. 

“The life review is to examine your conscience for sin and prepare for your final confession,” Yves said with a stoic glare.  Marc glanced at the clock on the staff to read the time. Yves struck the staff a third time. A shockwave emerged from the clock traveling in all four directions. “The clock is now set," he said, "May the Lord Be with you.” 

The clock reached June 18, 1939, eight thirty at night. A fear greater than the judgment of hell filled Marc, as he realized he would now watch his life during the war all over again.

***

 June 18, 1939—East Bound Atlantic Ocean

The S.S. Normandie’s bow parted the sea as she carried her passengers toward France that Sunday. Marc dressed for dinner in his finest tuxedo. Before taking the last dinner at sea, he entered the chapel of the ship for his evening prayers.

“And may you, my Father in heaven, keep my family in your protection. I pray for my mother, Lynette, my father, Eldon, and my little sister, Elda. Amen,” Marc knelt alone in the chapel. He made the sign of the cross as he rose to leave for dinner.

– Excerpted from The Siren of Paris by David LeRoy, David Dribble Publishing, 2012. Reprinted with permission.

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

David LeRoy is an author and avid explorer of the intersection of philosophy, psychology, and art. His debut novel, The Siren of Paris, is a poignant work that emerged from personal family research he undertook in 2010 to locate missing persons of WWII.

LeRoy's fluency in French and two-year sojourn in France afforded him unique insights into the French culture he deftly weaves into his literary work. With a Bachelor of Arts in Philosophy and Religion, an MBA from California State University Sacramento, and an MSc. Applied Data Science from Paris, France, LeRoy is a polymath with diverse interests and an insatiable curiosity for knowledge.

He currently resides in California, where he continues to write and pursue his creative passions.

Connect with him on social media at:

Facebook: https://www.facebook.com/thesirenofparis

Goodreads: https://www.goodreads.com/book/show/14760740-the-siren-of-paris?ac=1&from_search=true&qid=v6UbhLIMmb&rank=1

 

Discover The Cardinal Code by Avery Sterling Today and Giveaway

The Cardinal Code: Absolution
Avery Sterling
(The Cardinal Code, #2)
Publication date: April 17th 2026
Genres: New Adult, Paranormal, Romance

The Cardinal Code: Absolution continues the dark, seductive saga of the Cardinales—an elite society of vampires whose influence shapes governments, history, and the hidden world beneath human civilization.

Paislee Sullivan never wanted power. She only wanted Michael. But loving a man born into a secret dynasty of blood and control means standing in the shadow of everything he represents.

When Michael Chamberlain is summoned to London, he’s pulled into a political struggle rooted in ancient bloodlines and forbidden truths. As old laws are challenged and long-buried secrets begin to surface, Paislee finds herself no longer at the edge of his world—but at its center.

The deeper she is drawn into Cardinales society, the more dangerous her presence becomes. To some, she is leverage. To others, a threat. To Michael, she is the only thing that has ever mattered.

Bound by love and hunted by forces determined to preserve the Order’s control, they must confront a truth the Dominium has spent centuries suppressing.

Because some bloodlines were never meant to merge.

And loving each other may cost them everything.

Goodreads / Amazon / Barnes & Noble / Kobo

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EXCERPT:

Paislee leaned her head on Michael’s shoulder.

“You didn’t look surprised by that envelope.”

“Because I wasn’t.”

“What is it?”

“An invitation,” he said, lacing his fingers through hers and brushing her knuckles with his lips.

Her head lifted. “An invitation for what?”

“To Etxe Bakarra.”

“What’s that?”

“A celebration they hold every year—but barely understand. It was hand-delivered. Required my signature. Which means I must attend or face consequences.”

She studied the envelope, running her fingers over its embossed seal. “It’s beautiful. What is Etxe Bakarra?”

“A celebration of unity. Of peace.”

“Are you required to attend every year?”

“No.”

“Then why now?”

“Because the harvest moon aligns with the autumn equinox. It’s incredibly rare.”

She blinked. “Harvest moon, autumn equinox . . . the Order sounds mystical.”

He chuckled. “It’s their favorite bedtime story.”

As the car hummed down the avenue, she turned the envelope over in her hands.

“You didn’t even open it.”

“I know what it says.”

“I’ll open it, then.”

Her eyes skimmed the elegant script inside. Then she paused. “Michael . . . why is my name on it?”

He went still.

“Right under yours. It says the invitation extends to ‘Michael Chamberlain and companion, Paislee Sullivan.’”

He reached over and took the invitation from her hands. His easy charm shuttered, replaced by something darker. Calculating.

Michael stared out the window for a long moment.

“They want to see you,” he said quietly.

Paislee frowned. “Why?”

“I don’t know.”

A pause hung between them.

She rested her head against his shoulder, listening to the steady thud of his heart beneath the fine weave of his jacket. He didn’t speak again, but he didn’t have to. She could feel it in the way he held her hand tighter than before—the silent promise tucked into his touch.

Whatever this celebration meant, whatever game the Order was playing, she was now a part of it.

Author Bio:

Avery Sterling's love for the romance genre began in her teen years when she picked up her first novel. She was captivated by the sweeping scale of emotions brought about by the words. The experience catapulted her towards learning the art of wielding a breathtaking adventure, with a love that felt authentic. Wanting to inspire people with her own thoughts and words, she finished her first novel at sixteen. It was a step towards understanding the essence of what she wished to create.

Most of her youth was spent traveling, searching out the romance and beauty in her everchanging world. From the waves that crashed against the rocky shores of Downeast, Maine, to the warm breezes of the Caribbean, she discovered that love was universal, apparent in its grandest and simplest of forms. Her goal is to write novels an audience can relate to, one that conveys the truth and nature of love… with all that steamy romance.

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The Cardinal Code: Absolution Blitz

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