★★★COVER REVEAL★★★ It's another stunner! Loyal Subjects by Eva Charles releases June 14th.

AND THE COVER IS GORGEOUS!

Cover Design: Sarah Hansen @ OkayCreations.

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BLURB:

Allegiance, faithfulness, honor... Loyalty goes by many names. Emmie Landon is off-limits. She has a young son, works with my brother Jake, and lugs around enough baggage to fill an entire football stadium. But I can't resist her long, shapely legs and thick, soft curls, begging to be wrapped around my hands. Mark Harrington is too-everything. Too good looking, too funny, too charming, too brutally honest, too impulsive. He's accustomed to getting his way, and never afraid to throw down the gauntlet. So what if I can't stop thinking about his devilish blue eyes and his lip-smacking happy trail? He needs someone to love. She needs someone to love her. Two seemingly incompatible lives... Two hearts capable of total devotion. **Despite being volume five in The New American Royals Series, Loyal Subjects may be read and enjoyed as a standalone contemporary romance.**

$25 GIFT CARD GIVEAWAY! To celebrate the cover reveal, Eva's giving away a $25 Amazon Gift Card to one lucky person.

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About Eva

After being a confirmed city-girl for more than thirty-five years, Eva moved to beautiful Western Massachusetts in 2014. There, she found herself living in the woods with no job, no friends (unless you count the turkey, deer, and coyote roaming the backyard), and no children underfoot, wondering what on earth she’d been thinking. But as it turned out, it was the perfect setting to take all those yarns spinning in her head and weave them into romantic tales. When she’s not writing, trying to squeeze information out of her tight-lipped sons, or playing with the two cutest dogs you’ve ever seen, Eva’s creating chapters in her own love story.

Find Eva Online! Amazon: http://amzn.to/2q6oyfy Bookbub: http://bit.ly/2tLuRU9 Facebook: https://www.facebook.com/evacharlesauthor Goodreads: http://bit.ly/2pp37ab Twitter: https://twitter.com/evacharles37 Website: http://www.evacharles.com

Today we are sharing the cover reveal of DILF DIARIES: OH BABY by Stephanie St. Klaire! This book kicks off a brand new series that you cannot miss! It is available for pre-order for just .99 cents and will release on July 12th! Enter the giveaway below to win a surprise book box, including a Kindle!

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DILF DIARIES: OH BABY by Stephanie St. Klaire

Coming July 12

Synopsis:

He likes to find them hot, and leave them wet…

Women are setting their lawns on fire and sticking cats in trees all so they can dial 911 and get a glimpse of Jack Decker’s…hose. When a firefighter looks like he does, it’s no wonder panties are melting, and hearts are ablaze all over the city because he is H-O-T…hot! Jack might put out fires like a regular hero, but it doesn’t stop him from heating up the sheets and letting them smolder.

In a burning twist of fate, Jack finds himself up all night long for an entirely new reason, a reason that’s anything but smoldering. That is until the feisty firecracker next door threatens to ignite a fire he doesn’t know how to battle…Oh Baby!

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AUTHOR INFORMATION:

  Stephanie St. Klaire debuted in 2016, launching her writing career with Rescued, the first book in the widely popular, five book series known as McKenzie Ridge. Stephanie is a Pacific Northwest native currently living in Oregon with her husband, five children, and two ferocious lap dogs. As a writer, Stephanie brings realistic circumstances to the pages, and fills them with real emotion, reactions, and outcomes. Her characters are passionate, have bold personalities, and full of life. She writes happily ever after’s, with plenty of twists, turns, drama, and of course, steamy romance. Stephanie has always been a story teller, with the gift of “gab”, and a life-long goal to be a writer. Unfortunate circumstances with her health, finally afforded her the time to do so. Irony at its best, she began writing her first novel at an adverse time, to escape her circumstance and explore the stories in her imagination for relief. She is happy to share those stories with her readers, and bring a little fun, entertainment, and of course smexy characters to the pages. Follow Stephanie St. Klaire on Social media to learn more about her, and to keep up with her work.

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Cromwell
Brighton, England
The club pulsed as the beat I was pouring into the crowd took over their bodies. Arms in the air, hips swaying, eyes wide and glazed as my music slammed into their ears, the rhythmic beats controlling their every move. The air was thick and sticky, clothes slick to people’s skins as they crammed into the full club to hear me.
I watched them light up with color. Watched them get lost to the sound. Watched them shed whoever they’d been that day—an office worker, a student, a copper, a call-center worker—what the hell ever. Right now, in this club, most probably high off their faces, they were slaves to my tunes. Right here, in this moment, my music was their life. It was all that mattered as their heads flew back and they chased the high, the near nirvana I gave them from my place on the podium.
I, however, felt nothing. Nothing but the numbness the booze beside me was gifting me.
Two arms slipped around my waist. Hot breath blew past my ear as full lips kissed my neck. Spinning my final beat, I grabbed the Jack Daniels beside me and took a shot straight from the bottle. I slammed the bottle down and moved back to my laptop to mix in the next tune. Hands with sharp fingernails ran through my hair, pulling on the black strands. I tapped on the keys, bringing the music down low, slowing the beat.
My breaths lengthened as the crowd waited, lungs frozen as I brought them to a slow sway, readying for the crescendo. The epic surge of beats and drums, the insanity of the mix that I would deliver. I looked up from my laptop and scanned the crowd, smirking at seeing them on the precipice, waiting . . . waiting . . . just waiting . . .
Now.
I slammed my hand down, holding my headphones to my left ear. A surge, a thundercloud of electronic dance music plowed into the crowd. Bursts of neon colors filled the air. Greens and blues and reds filled my eyes as they clung to each person like neon shields.
The hands around my waist tightened, but I ignored them, instead listening to the bottle of Jack as it called my name. I took another shot, my muscles starting to loosen. My hands danced over the laptop’s keys, over my mix boards.
I looked up, the crowd still in the palm of my hand.
They always were.
A girl in the center of the club drew my attention. Long brown hair pulled back off her face. Purple dress, high necked—she was dressed nothing like everyone else. The color surrounding her was different to the other clubbers—pale pink and lavender. Calmer. More serene. My eyebrows pulled down as I watched her. Her eyes were closed, but she wasn’t moving. She was still, and she looked to be completely alone as people crashed and pushed around her. Her head was tipped up, a look of concentration on her face.
I built up the pace, pushing the rhythm and the crowd as far as they could go. But the girl didn’t move. That wasn’t normal for me. I always had these clubbers wrapped around my finger. I controlled them, in every place I spun. In this arena, I was the puppet master. They were the dolls.
Another shot of Jack burned down my throat. And through another five songs, she stayed there, on the spot, just drinking in the beats like water. But her face never changed. No smile. No euphoric high. Just . . . eyes closed, that damn pinched look on her face.
And that pink and lavender still surrounding her like a shield.
“Cromwell,” the blonde who was all over me like a rash said into my ear. Her fingers lifted up my shirt and tucked into the waistband of my jeans. Her long nails dipped low. But I refused to tear my eyes away from the girl in the purple dress.
Her brown hair was starting to curl, sweat from being sandwiched by clubbers taking its effect. The blonde who was one step from wanking me off in full view of the club snapped my fly. I keyed in my next mix, then grabbed her hand and threw it away from me, snapping my fly closed. I groaned when her hands slid back into my hair. I looked at my mate who had spun before me. “Nick!” I pointed to my decks. “Watch this. And don’t mess it up.”
Nick frowned in confusion, then saw the girl behind me and smiled. He took my headphones from me and moved to make sure the playlist I’d set up played on cue. Steve, the club’s owner, always let a few girls backstage. I never asked for it, but I never turned them down either. Why would I refuse a hot bird who was up for anything?
I swiped my Jack off my podium as the blonde smashed her lips to mine, pulling me back by my sleeveless Creamfields shirt. I wrenched my mouth from hers, replacing it with the Jack bottle. The blonde dragged me into a dark spot backstage. She dropped to her knees and started again on my fly. I closed my eyes as she went to work.
I sucked on the Jack as my head hit the wall behind me. I forced myself to feel something. I glanced down, watching blond hair bounce below me. But the numbness I lived with every damn day made me feel virtually nothing inside. Pressure built at the base of my spine. My thighs tightened, and then it was over.
The blonde got up. I could see the stars in her eyes as she looked at me. “Your eyes.” She reached out a finger to trace around my eye. “The strangest color. Such dark blue.”
They were. Coupled with my black hair, they always drew attention. That and the fact that I was one of the hottest new DJs in Europe, of course. Okay, maybe it was less to do with my eyes and more to do with my name, Cromwell Dean, gracing the headline spot on most of the biggest music festivals and clubs this summer.
I zipped up my fly and turned to see Nick spinning my next mix. I cringed when he failed to transition the beats like I would have. Navy blue was the backdrop to the smoke on the dancefloor.
I never hit navy blue.
I brushed past the girl with a “Thanks, love,” ignoring her hiss of “Prick” in response. I took my headphones off Nick’s head and put them on my own. A few taps of the keyboard later, the crowd was back in the palm of my hand.
Without conscious thought, my eyes found their way to the spot where the girl in the purple dress had stood.
But she’d gone. So had the pale pink and lavender.
I threw back another shot of Jack. Mixed another tune. Then zoned the fuck out.
*****
The sand was cold under my feet. It may well have been the start of summer here in the UK, but that didn’t mean the night wind didn’t freeze your balls off the minute you stepped outside. Clutching my bottle of booze and my cigarettes, I dropped down to the sand. I lit up and stared at the dark sky. My phone buzzed in my pocket . . . again. It’d been going off all night.
Pissed off that I actually had to move my arm, I pulled out my mobile. I had three missed calls from Professor Lewis. Two from my mum, and finally, a couple of texts.
Mum: Professor Lewis has been trying to get hold of you again. What are you going to do? Please just call me. I know you’re upset, but this is your future. You have a gift, son. Maybe it’s time for a fresh start this year. Don’t waste it because you’re angry at me.
Red-hot fury shot through me. I wanted to throw my phone in the damn sea and watch it sink to the bottom along with all this messed-up shit in my head, but I saw Professor Lewis had texted too.
Lewis: The offer still stands but I need an answer by next week. I have all I need for the transfer except your answer. You have an exceptional talent, Cromwell. Don’t waste it. I can help.
This time I did drop my phone beside me and sank back into the sand. I let the rush of nicotine fill my lungs and closed my eyes. As my eyelids shut, I heard quiet music playing somewhere nearby. Classical. Mozart.
My drunken mind immediately drifted off to when I was a little kid . . .
“What do you hear, Cromwell?” my father asked.
I closed my eyes and listened to the piece of music. Colors danced before my eyes. “Piano. Violins. Cellos . . .” I took a deep breath. “I can hear reds and greens and pinks.”
I opened my eyes and looked up at my father as he sat on my bed. He was staring down at me. There was a funny expression on his face. “You hear colors?” he said. But he didn’t sound surprised. My face set on fire. I ducked my head under my duvet. My father pulled it down from my eyes. He stroked my hair. “That’s good,” he said, his voice kind of deep. “That’s very good . . .”
My eyes snapped open. My hand started to ache. I looked at the bottle in my hand; my fingers were white as they gripped the neck. I sat up, my head spinning from the mass of whiskey in my body. My temples throbbed. I realized it wasn’t from the Jack, but from the music coming from further down the beach. I pushed my hair back from my face then looked to my right.
Someone was only a few feet away. I squinted into the lightening night, summer’s early rising sun making it possible to make out the features of whoever the hell it was. It was a girl. A girl wrapped in a blanket. Her phone sat beside her, a Mozart piano concerto drifting quietly from the speaker.
She must have felt me looking at her, because she turned her head. I frowned, wondering why I knew her face, but then--
“You’re the DJ,” she said.
Recognition dawned. It was the girl in the purple dress.
She clutched her blanket closer around her as I replayed her accent in my head. American. Bible Belt was my guess, by her thick twang.
She sounded like my mum.
A smile tugged at her lips as I stayed mute. I wasn’t much of a talker. Especially when my gut was full of Jack and I had zero interest in making small talk with some girl I didn’t know at four in the morning on a cold beach in Brighton.
“I’d heard of you,” she said. I stared back out over the sea. Ships sailed in the distance, their lights like tiny fireflies, bobbing up and down. I huffed a humorless laugh. Great. Another girl who wanted to screw the DJ.
“Good for you,” I muttered and took a drink of my Jack, feeling the addictive burn slide down my throat. I hoped she’d piss off, or at least stop trying to talk to me. My head couldn’t take any more noise.
“Not really,” she shot back. I looked over at her, eyebrows pulled down in confusion. She was looking out over the sea, her chin resting on her folded arms that lay over her bent knees. The blanket had fallen off her shoulders, revealing the purple dress I’d noticed from the podium. She turned to face me, cheek now on her arms. Heat zipped through me. She was pretty. “I’ve heard of you, Cromwell Dean.” She shrugged. “Decided to get a ticket to see you before I left for home tomorrow.”
I lit up another cigarette. Her nose wrinkled. She clearly didn’t like the smell.
Tough luck. She could move. Last time I checked, England was a free country. She went quiet.
I caught her looking at me. Her brown eyes were narrowed, like she was scrutinizing me. Reading something in me that I didn’t want anyone to see.
No one ever looked at me closely. I never gave them the chance. I thrived on the podium at clubs because it kept everyone far away, down on the dancefloor where no one ever saw the real me. The way she was looking at me now made nervous shivers break out over my skin.
I didn’t need this kind of crap.
“Already had my dick sucked tonight, love. Not looking for a second round.”
She blinked, and even in the rising sun, I could see her cheeks redden.
“Your music has no soul,” she blurted. My cigarette paused halfway to my mouth. Something managed to stab through my stomach at her words. I shoved it back down until I felt my usual sensation of numbness.
I sucked on my cigarette. “Yeah? Well, them’s the breaks.”
“I’d heard you were some messiah or something on that podium. But all your music comprised was synthetic beats and forced repetitive bursts of unoriginal tempo.”
I laughed and shook my head. The girl met my eyes head-on. “It’s called electronic dance music. Not a fifty-piece orchestra.” I held out my arms. “You’ve heard of me. Said so yourself. You know what tunes I spin. What were you expecting? Mozart?” I glared at her phone, which was still playing that damn concerto.
I sat back, surprised at myself. I hadn’t talked that much to anyone in . . . I didn’t know how long. I took in a drag, breathing out the smoke that was trapped in my chest. “And turn that thing off, will you? Who the hell goes to hear a dance DJ spin, then comes to a beach to listen to classical music?”
The girl frowned but turned off the music. I lay back on the cold sand, closing my eyes. I heard the soft waves lapping the shore. My head filled with pale green. I heard the girl moving. I prayed she was leaving. But I felt her drop beside me. My world darkened as the whiskey and the usual lack of sleep started to pull me under.
“What do you feel when you mix your music?” she asked. How the hell she thought her little interview was a good idea right now was beyond me.
Yet, surprisingly, I found myself answering her question. “I don’t feel.” I cracked one eye open when she didn’t say anything. She was looking down at me. She had the biggest brown eyes I’d ever seen. Dark hair pulled off her face in a ponytail. Full lips and smooth skin.
“Then that’s the problem.” She smiled, but the smile looked nothing but sad. Pitying. “The best music must be felt. By the creator. By the listener. Every part of it from creation to ear must be wrapped in nothing but feelings.” Some weird expression crossed over her face, but hell if I knew what it meant.
Her words were a blade to my chest. I hadn’t expected her harsh comment. And I hadn’t expected the blunt trauma that she seemed to deliver right to my heart. Like she’d taken a butcher’s knife and sliced her way through my soul.
My body itched to get up and run. To pluck out her assessment of my music from my memory. But instead I forced a laugh, and spat, “Go back home, little Dorothy. Back to where music means something. Where it’s felt.”
“Dorothy was from Kansas.” She glanced away. “I’m not.”
“Then go back to wherever the hell you’re from,” I snapped. Crossing my arms over my chest, I hunkered down into the sand and shut my eyes, trying to block out the cold wind that was picking up and slapping my skin, and her words that were still stabbing at my heart.
I never let anything get to me like this. Not anymore. I just needed some sleep. I didn’t want to go back to my mum’s house here in Brighton, and my flat in London was too far away. So hopefully the cops wouldn’t find me here and kick me off the beach.
With my eyes closed, I said, “Thanks for the midnight critique, but as the fastest-rising DJ in Europe, with the best clubs in the world begging for me to spin at their decks—all at nineteen—I think I’ll ignore your extensive notes and just keep on living my sweet as fuck life.”
The girl sighed, but she didn’t say anything else.
The next thing I knew, the sun was burning its light into my eyes. I flinched when I opened them. The screech of swarming seagulls slammed into my head. I sat up, seeing an empty beach and the sun high in the sky. I ran my hands down my face and groaned at the hangover that was kicking in. My stomach growled, desperate for a full English breakfast with copious cups of black tea.
As I stood, something fell from my lap. A blanket lay on the sand at my feet. The blanket I’d seen beside the American girl in the purple dress.
The one she’d been wrapped in last night.
I picked it up, a light fragrance drifted into my nose. Sweet. Addictive. I glanced around me. The girl was gone.
She’d left her blanket. No. She’d covered me with it. “Your music has no soul.” A hard clenching feeling pulled in my stomach at the memory of her words. So I chased it away like I did anything that made me feel. Caging it deep inside.
Then I took my arse home.

Designer: CT Cover Creations

Photographer: Wander Aguiar

Model: Colton Benson

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Powerful vampire, Quintus Tullius, returns to New Orleans after a demon attacks. Elusive and lethal, he conceals his true powers from all others, wielding his strength over the centuries as he sees fit. When he's healed by an attractive stranger, he quickly realizes her altruistic actions are driven by more than kindness, and she is not who she appears to be. Unsure if he can trust the dangerous beauty, he swears to protect her, captivated by the one creature he’d never expected to flame his desire.   Gabriella Savoie has been on the run since she was thirteen years old. Determined to survive, she practices a unique blend of magick to hide from the coven who seeks her death. Desperate, she leads a treacherous existence in underground clubs, selling her mystical blood to vampires to survive. Drawn to the one person who can save her, she spirals into an erotic journey, exploring her hidden fantasies within the arms of the seductive vampire.   From Louisiana to New York, their sensual and perilous adventure leads them to discover ancient secrets, searching for the artifact that will set her beast free. As Gabriella accepts her fate, will she sacrifice her magick to be with the vampire who is her true mate? Will Quintus trust her and reveal his powers, acknowledging the unexpected bond to a woman who isn’t human? And will he be able to save her, thwarting the impending evil that descends on Big Easy?

⚜IMMORTALS OF NEW ORLEANS⚜

*Kade’s Dark Embrace (Immortals of New Orleans, Book 1) - FREE in EBOOK

*Luca’s Magic Embrace (Immortals of New Orleans, Book 2)

*Tristan’s Lyceum Wolves (Immortals of New Orleans, Book 3)

*Logan’s Acadian Wolves (Immortals of New Orleans, Book 4)

*Leopold’s Wicked Embrace Dimitri (Immortals of New Orleans, Book 5)

*Dimitri (Immortals of New Orleans, Book 6)

*Lost Embrace (Immortals of New Orleans, Book 6.5)

*Jax (Immortals of New Orleans, Book 7)

*Jake (Immortals of New Orleans, Book 8)

*Quintus (Coming soon)

(All books can be read as a standalone but better experienced when read in order)

Kym Grosso is the New York Times and USA Today bestselling author of the erotic paranormal series, The Immortals of New Orleans, and the contemporary erotic suspense series, Club Altura. In addition to romance novels, Kym has written and published several articles about autism, and is passionate about autism advocacy. She is also a contributing essay author in Chicken Soup for the Soul: Raising Kids on the Spectrum. She holds a bachelor’s degree from West Chester University and a MBA from Widener University. In a previous life, she was employed as a speech therapist, a health care consultant, and a product manager for a software company. In 2012, Kym published her first novel and today, is a full time indie romance author. She recently moved to southern California where she can write while listening to the roar of the ocean.

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Take Hold of Me

by Arell Rivers Publication Date: June 7, 2018 Genres: Adult, Contemporary, Romance

Preorder: Amazon

She has a body that needs guarding. He has the muscle to do it ... but he’s moved on and refuses to look back. A Woman Fighting to Stay on Top After a decade as a supermodel, a younger version of me is scooping up my contracts. To regain my status in the industry, my agency devises a strategy—which so happens to require a bodyguard. And I know the perfect guy for the job: Wills Sumner, the man who saw beneath my veneer. Who currently is evading my texts like a Parisian taxi driver in the rain. A Man Surrendering Hope I need to start over. Watching my partners die on the job cemented my belief that I'm toxic. So, with the money from that fateful gig, I buy my sister’s gym. At least I can honor her in death—considering I failed to step up when she was alive. Now, if only the French beauty Emilie Dubois would lose my number. Emilie is fixated on having me at her side. I'm resigned to doing one final turn and escaping with my heart intact. But neither of us expected to be stripped bare … In the end, she may be the only one who can Take Hold of Me. ***WARNING: Due to strong language and sexual situations, this book is intended for mature audiences. It is the first standalone novel in A Hold Series Spin-off.

About Arell Rivers

For as long as Arell Rivers remembers, she has been lost in a book. During her senior year in college, she picked up a Danielle Steel novel … and instantly was hooked on romance. She started writing her first novel, No One to Hold, because the characters were screaming at her to do so. The story started coming out in Arell’s dreams and attacking her in the shower, so she took to the computer to shut them up. But they kept talking. Born and raised in New Jersey, Arell has what some may call a “checkered past.” Prior to discovering her passion for writing romance, she practiced law, was a wedding and event planner and even dabbled in marketing. Arell lives with a very supportive husband who doesn’t care that the bed isn’t made or dinner isn’t on the table. When not in her writing cave, Arell is found making dinner in the crock pot, working out with Shaun T or hitting the beach. She hopes you enjoy her stories about strong men, driven women and the passions that ignite!

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          Ari Daniels didn’t count on her whole world tumbling down around her in a mess of shredded promises, broken love, and unbelievable heartbreak. Alone and stricken with grief, she shouldered the blame and eventually closed her heart off, refusing to open it for another. After all, anytime she tried, guilt and regret were waiting in the wings to remind her how painful it was. A bet and one steamy night with a stranger force Ari to confront all she’s been hiding behind. She tries to move on, but he refuses to stand down, wanting what she is terrified to give—herself. This man may very well destroy her in the end, especially when it’s clear he has his own demons. What happens when two broken souls come together, finally allowing themselves to believe in the beauty of love … only to have to fight harder than ever to keep it.      

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Harper is a NEW YORK TIMES, WALL STREET JOURNAL and USA TODAY bestselling author residing in Georgia with her husband and three daughters. She has a borderline unhealthy obsession with books, hibachi, tattoos and Game of Thrones. When she isn't writing you can almost always find her with a book in hand. Facebook | Website | Twitter | Instagram | Pinterest | Goodreads | Amazon Author Page

C O V E R R E V E A L A N D G I V E A W A Y!!!

The Sinister Silhouette by Alex Grayson releases May 25th!

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Cover Design: Cover Me Darling Image: JW Photography Model: Amanda Renee

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BLURB:

“Luca….”

She whispers my name at night, filling my dreams with her haunting beauty.

Her tormented amber eyes beg me for something I don’t understand, and her agonizing pain becomes my own.

For years, she’s come to me, calling my name.

For years, I’ve never known who she was.

Until now….

  CHECK OUT THIS EXCERPT FROM THE SINISTER SILHOUETTE!!! “LUCA….” The willowy feminine voice comes from behind me. I slowly turn my head first, then the rest of my body and look for the source. Blackness. Pure and absolute. That’s all I see. Except for the tiny twinkling lights. There’s a shit ton of them. It reminds me of the times I would spend the summers with my aunt and uncle out in the country. As a kid, I would always sneak out at night and lie on the roof when the sky was clear and the moon wasn’t visible. It was my favorite time of the month, because everything was so dark, except for the stars. I’d lie out there for hours and just watch them twinkle, every so often catching one that soared across the black sky. These aren’t stars, it isn’t a moonless sky, and I don’t fucking like this. These tiny sparks of light float right in front of me, all around me, almost like glowing specks of dust. “Lucccaaaa….” Warm air whispers across my ear, and I spin, expecting to find someone behind me, and still see nothing but those damn flecks of light. Squinting, I try to look past them and the darkness to see something. Any fucking thing. Frustration grows in my stomach when nothing appears. “Who in the hell are you?” I yell, anger deepening my voice into a growl. My ears strain as I listen closely. All I hear is my own breathing and the slight pounding in my ears from my heartbeat. The beat only gets louder with my mounting aggravation. “Luca.” This time, the voice sounds rushed. It’s still whispered softly, but not the slow calling of the other two times. It’s urgent. There’s an echo too. It comes from behind me, but the echo drifts around me from every direction. I tip my head back and snarl to the… ceiling? The sky? I have no fucking clue. “What in the hell do you want from me?” Not expecting an answer, because I didn’t get one to my previous question, I’m surprised when the voice comes again. It’s close. So close, it almost seems like the words aren’t spoken out loud, but are just somehow in my head. “I need you.” My brows slash down into a frown. There’s pain in the softly spoken words, and for some reason I don’t like the emotion coming from the voice. Something sharp pierces my chest, like a dull blade slowly being sunk into my sternum, taking my breath away. I rub the spot, not understanding why the pain is there, but knowing it’s caused by the agony in the woman’s voice. “Where are you?” My tone is gruff from the stinging ache. “Here,” she whispers. I whip around and still see nothing but the twinkling lights. I reach out, hoping that even if I can’t see anything, I can feel something. It’s so dark I can’t even see my hand in front of me, only the tiny lights floating by in a rush at my hurried movement. One catches my eye off in the distance about fifteen feet from me, and I hone in on it. It’s slightly bigger than the rest. I take a step forward, then stop when it begins to grow. It doesn’t get brighter; the luminosity stays the same. It’s just the size that changes. Actually, it looks like the light is dimming the bigger it gets. Like it’s no longer a light, but a fog-like substance. It stretches longways, getting greater and greater. I start moving toward it, but no matter how many steps I take, the same distance stays between it and me. Something starts to form in the white haze. I squint, not really sure what it is, because it’s almost transparent now. It’s still growing, but the bigger it gets, the more it loses its solidness. A face. I can barely make it out through the white haze, but it’s a woman. Her features become clearer, but the more the face forms, the more it fades as well. I take a couple of steps forward, then jerk to a halt when I remember it does me no good. “Fuck,” I mutter. What in the hell is this shit? “Lucaaaa….” The voice whispers again, and I know it’s from the translucent vision, but the lips don’t move. The face becomes a face and shoulders, then face, shoulders, arms, and torso. Her hair flows around her, moving slowly, like it’s floating in water. She looks at me, and the stark pain in her eyes almost has me staggering back with the force of it. I really don’t fucking like that look. And I really don’t fucking know why. I’ve never seen the woman before. She doesn’t even look vaguely familiar. Why in the hell would her pain be my pain? “Who are you?” I demand. Again, her lips don’t move, but I still hear the voice inside my head. “Come to me, Luca. I need you.” Before I have the chance to react to her words, something happens. I tense as swarms of the nearby glowing dust infuse the white mist of the woman. Her crystalline appearance starts to solidify. Her face and the upper half of her body become more visible. Her hair, which up until that point was colorless, is a deep, rich brown. It’s long, flowing to the middle of her back. Her eyes are light brown, but not an ordinary brown. They’re an unusual golden amber. I’m not sure if it’s because of her noncorporeal appearance or if that’s their natural color, but they seem to glow. More specks of dust penetrate the woman’s form, and the more that rushes in, the brighter she gets. She lifts her arm, as if reaching out to me, and before it registers what I’m doing, I reach out to her. When I take a step closer, the light surrounding her shimmers brighter. This time I’m able to shorten the gap between us. I take another step, and it seems to glisten even more. I’m tall, so when I take my next step, there’s only a few feet separating us. But the brightness is now almost too much to bear. I have to squint from the sheer brilliance of it. There’s only inches between the tips of her fingers and mine now. The pain resting in my chest intensifies the closer I get, but it’s as if there’s a force that’s pushing me toward her. Like if I don’t, the pain would be a thousand times worse. I don’t know why, but something inside me says I must go to her. I hold my breath as the tip of my middle finger touches the glowing tip of hers. Several things happen at once. A low growl resonates deep in the back of my throat, my fingers curl into a fist and my arm drops to my side, and the fierce pain I was experiencing in my chest turns so excruciating I’d swear my heart is spilling out onto the floor at my feet. The trifecta of feelings happens because the instant my fingertips touch the woman, her form disintegrates. The thousands of pieces of dust that make up her form fall away into space, leaving me once again in complete blackness. I tip my head back and an angry, pain-filled roar leaves my lips at the loss of something so important.

About Alex

Alex Grayson is the bestselling author of heart pounding, emotionally gripping contemporary romance including The Jaded Series, The Consumed Series, and two standalone novels. Her passion for books was reignited by a gift from her sister-in-law intended to distract Alex and help her pass the time while her husband was away for work. After spending several years as a devoted reader and blogger, Alex decided to write and independently publish her first novel in 2014 (an endeavor that took a little longer than expected). The rest, as they say, is history. Originally a southern girl, Alex now lives in Ohio with her husband, two children, two cats and dog. She loves the color blue, homemade lasagna, casually browsing real estate, and interacting with her readers. Visit her website, www.alexgraysonbooks.com, or find her on social media!

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