They came for her in the night. When she wakes, she’s in a cell. She has no idea if it will help, but it is the only option she has: She tells them she belongs to the Savage Disciples MC.
A Disciple will fight like a savage when it counts.
Years ago, he lost everything. Now, the club is the only thing Jager allows himself to care about. Nothing matters but his Savage Disciple brothers. At least, until she arrives and he has a decision to make.
This biker has no idea what choosing to engage could mean to a Disciple’s daughter.
Jager
“Hi,” I heard from beside me and saw the older Davies woman sidle up. “Hey,” I replied to Ash. “So,” she went right on, “where’s Ember?” “How should I know?” She looked innocent, but it wasn’t some showy, wide-eyed, porn-acting look. It was just her keeping her expression clear. She shrugged. “You two seem…close.” There were a lot of ways to define close. Ember and I might have been a fuck of a lot of one of them, but we weren’t any of the rest. “No.” “Huh.” I didn’t know whether Ash was playing a game or just using this as a way to continue her mission to get close to me. She’d been at it for a while, always seeking me out when the opportunity arose, like right then when the club was hosting a party. Those opportunities weren’t exactly few and far between, and she always took them. “She seems really sweet,” Ash went on. “It makes it even more horrible, what she went through.” She wasn’t wrong. That shit was always fucked, knowing it happened to Ember made me fucking homicidal. In a softer, deeper voice, Ash said, “I don’t think she’s dealing with it.” She saw the breakdown that afternoon in the clubhouse plain as I did. She saw Ember around with the brothers acting like everything was normal. She hadn’t seen Ember wake from a nightmare, something I knew was a common occurrence from the way she reacted. It was clear she didn’t need to to suspect the truth. I was pretty fucking certain Ember wasn’t dealing with any of it. I expected the next thing out of Ash’s mouth to be a suggestion that I try to help Ember, like I’d helped her, but that was not going to fucking happen. I’d laid that shit out for Ash—as much as I ever had, anyway—because I wasn’t sure anyone else was going to be able to help her. Not to mention, Ash had already been very spoken for. I could have unloaded all that shit, given her every fucking part of my messed up past and dropped to my knees to beg her to be mine, and it wouldn’t have mattered. Ember’s situation was different, and there were a fuckload of people around ready to do what they could. To add to that, our situation was different. I kept on fucking her and burdened her with all that shit, she’d get ideas she had no business getting. I wasn’t in the market for an old lady. Not now, not ever. Ash didn’t preach to me about helping her. No, the next thing from her mouth was, “Oh, wow.” My eyes followed her line of sight. Fuck. Good fucking God, Ember was trying to fucking kill me. First with her excitement over that goddamn car of hers. I’d never cared for the bimbos they put in bike and car magazines, sprawled out half-naked and oiled up on whatever vehicle they were spotlighting. If I wanted that kind of thing, I’d get porn. It had always been about looking past them to whatever actually had my interest. Watching Ember, not even done up a bit compared to those women, leaning all around that hotrod of hers to give it a look, I found I really fucking understood. Ember and that beauty were the shit teenage wet dreams were made of. I thought the hard on she gave me right then would never fucking deflate. I wasn’t even going to start in on that tight ass dress she wore to the fight. With both those and the images burned in my brain of her tied up and creaming for me, I thought I’d gotten a good sense of how crazy the woman could make me. I hadn’t even scratched the surface. It seemed, being stuck with just the Hoffman mall to get herself stocked, she’d had to settle. Now, with the guys getting Ember’s shit from Seattle, she was able to give it all. And that all was a fuck of a lot more. She strutted into the yard on a pair of red heels I was damn sure she’d be wearing with nothing else. I’d work her until her skin was as bright as the fucking things before I fucked her in them. That was how fucking hot she looked. I was ready to lose it over the fucking shoes alone. The rest of her…there were no words. She looked like the hottest fucking pin-up ever. If they’d been able to photograph her and stick her on the postcards they sent to the boys during the world wars, morale would have been at an all-time high. Fuck, you put her on postcards now, you’d have guys enlisting just to get a copy. She had on a pair of short shorts that went up to her waist. I couldn’t see her ass, but the way they fit her like a glove everywhere else told me that view would be spectacular. On top, she had a red and white striped halter shirt. It looked like a sailor get up, and if I had to get on a fucking boat to get it off her, I would. Her blonde hair was all pinned up away from her neck, her bangs rolled, and she had a red bandana tied around her head. Even from across the yard, I could see her lips were painted red to match the rest. I loved red lips. Red lips made a fucking mess and they looked great with a black ball gag. I was getting way too worked up for the situation. There was maybe a millimeter of restraint keeping me from marching across the yard, pushing her down to her knees, and getting a look at how much of that lipstick would rub off on my cock. Did she come in that car of hers? Jesus. Her in that outfit, climbing out of that hot rod, bending over the hood…fuck, I was making a fucking porno of her in my head. I finally looked away from her when Emmy ran across the yard again, this time toward Ember, yelling, “You look pretty!” Kid didn’t know the half of it.
Drew Elyse spends her days trying to convince the world that she is, in fact, a Disney Princess, and her nights writing tear-jerking and smutty romance novels. Her debut novel, Dissonance, released in August of 2014.
When she isn’t writing, she can usually be found over-analyzing every line of a book, binge watching a series on Netflix, doing strange vocal warm ups before singing a variety of music styles, or screaming at the TV during a Chicago Blackhawks game.
A graduate of Loyola University Chicago with a BA in English, she still lives in Chicago, IL where she was born and raised with her boyfriend and her prima donna pet rabbit, Lola.
Two New York Times bestselling author styles come together for Dark Paranormal Romance + Urban Fantasy = a yummy Bigger Bites novella.
Murphy’s been turned by his hybrid human vampire co-worker. Together, they fight brutal criminals as bounty hunters of the near future.
Unfortunately, turning this British dude into a vampire is not all that fellow bounty enforcer Narah Adrienne did.
While Narah remains on maternity leave, Murphy picks up the slack in her wake, and finds himself sensing human women who need turning.
Especially one.
Can Murphy find her before the Hunters do; can he resist the call of his blood?
Vampire is app.80 pages/20,000 words, and is the seventh episodic volume in the ALPHA CLAIM serial.Final Enforcement is a spin-off novella based on the VAC, 1-6 serial, and can be enjoyed as a standalone serial.
Tamara Rose Blodgett: happily married mother of four sons. Dark fiction writer. Reader. Gardner. Dreamer. Home restoration slave. Coffee addict. Tie dye zealot. Digs music.
She is also the New York Times Bestselling author of A TERRIBLE LOVE, written under the pen name, Marata Eros, and over eighty-seven other titles, to include the #1 international bestselling erotic Interracial/African-American TOKEN serial and her #1 bestselling Amazon Dark Fantasy novel, DEATH WHISPERS. Tamara writes a variety of dark fiction in the genres of erotica, fantasy, horror, romance, sci-fi and suspense. She lives in the midwest with her family and three, disrespectful dogs.
Marata Eros is the author of over eighty-seven titles, including her NEW YORK TIMES bestselling novel, A TERRIBLE LOVE, and the #1 international bestselling erotic Interracial and African-American TOKEN serial. Marata writes a variety of dark fiction in the genres of erotica, fantasy, horror, romance, suspense and sci-fi. She and her husband live in the midwest with their four sons and three disrespectful dogs. Marata’s #1 hobby is reading; she loves interacting with her readers.
Kristen:From the moment I laid eyes on professional boxer Sean Savarese, I knew my life would never be the same. From his crystal clear blue eyes, to his strong muscular arms, to the dark wisps of curls that framed his beautiful face, I knew I was his for the taking. But he had secrets. Secrets I would later discover could shatter my world and break my heart.
Sean:Kristen. She was everywhere. All around me. At the gym where I trained. In my thoughts. In my dreams. And she was proving to be a distraction. A beautiful, sexy, complicated distraction. Despite my past, despite knowing I wasn’t good for her, despite my inner conscious urging me to let her go, I couldn’t walk away. So I didn’t. But would she still want me when she learns the truth about who I really am?
Secrets ruin lives, and lies protect those secrets…
Wanting to escape her life in New York City before starting medical school in the fall, Anna Dillon convinces her best friend Dante to travel with her to Thailand on a medical mission. While volunteering in a coastal village recently ravaged by a tsunami, Anna meets Jude Grayson. They share an instant attraction that leads to a brief, passionate affair. When she has to rush home for a family emergency, he promises to stay in touch.
But Jude never calls, and Anna tries desperately to forget him.
Five years pass, and Anna finally moves on with Dante after giving up hope that Jude will ever return—until they come face to face again in a chance encounter. Reeling, Anna discovers the life-altering secret of why Jude never contacted her—and why they can’t be together. But the passion that ignited between them on an exotic beach years ago never died, making it impossible to stay away from each other.
And Dante? Anna discovers that the friend she grew to love—and trust—has a secret of his own.
Christine Brae is a full time career woman who thought she could write a book about her life and then run away as far as possible from it. She never imagined that her words would touch the hearts of so many women with the same story to tell. That’s what happened with her first book, The Light in the Wound, published in July, 2013. Her second book, His Wounded Light was released in December, 2013.
Christine’s third book, Insipid, is a standalone that was released in June, 2014. Christine’s fourth book, In This Life was released in January, 2016 and has been optioned for film and TV rights by Adrian Bellani.
When not listening to the voices in her head or spending late nights at the office, Christine can be seen shopping for shoes and purses, running a half marathon or spending time with her husband and three children in Chicago.
“This book owned me as I turned page after page, wanting to both savor every beautifully written word and race to the end. Black Swan Affair is easily one of my top reads of the year.” – USA Today Bestselling Author, Meghan March
The gangly boy with big brown eyes and unruly hair who grew up into an intoxicating man. He wears scruff like he invented it and ambles with a swagger that makes panties drop.
Killian Shepard.
Shep.
We grew up together. We played Ghost in the Graveyard. Had our own rock band. It didn’t matter that he was five years older than me. It didn’t matter that he looked at me as a kid sister even as I grew into a woman. It didn’t even matter when he left me behind to go to college and start his adult life.
He’d be back.
He was always meant to be mine.
He came back, all right. But instead of smelling of promises, he stunk of betrayal. And he destroyed me—us—the day he married my sister instead of me.
So I did the only thing a girl like me in my position could do.
“OMG what did I just read? This book… WOW!! It’s been years since I read a book straight through. Yes, seven hours I was glued to the pages of this book. A yo-yo of emotions that left me breathless with every scene. Black Swan Affair is a must read!!” – NYT and USA Today Bestselling Author Nashoda Rose
“Black Swan Affair is intense, mesmerizing, a gripping page-turner that had me guessing until the very end! A top 2016 read!”
– Anne Mercier, Bestselling Author
“Simply Amazing. KL had me from page one and I had to pry my fingers off my Kindle when it was over.” – Winter Travers, Amazon Bestselling Author of The Devil’s Knights Series and The Skid Row Kings Series
What a read!
With “Black Swan Affair ” by K.L. Kreig you get it all : a beautiful emotionally stor including awesomely developed characters that create a chemistry pushing you over the edge with every page you turn . It’s touching , surprising , emotional , heart wrenching , and and and …
It’s one of these books that is deep without overloading you . I enjoyed reading this book from the very first page !
I never read a book written by this author yet but am truely amazed how she wrapped this story into not just perfectly chosen words but also a really intense writing style that left me gasping for air . The way she handles flipping from past to present is another plus as there are barely any other authors that are able to do so .
An amazing read that is definetly worth its 5 stars !
About the Author:
I’m just a regular ol’ Midwest girl who likes Game of Thrones and am obsessed with Modern Family and The Goldbergs. I run, I eat, I run, I eat. It’s a vicous cycle. I love carbs, but there’s love-hate relationship with my ass and thighs. Mostly hate. I like a good cocktail (oh hell…who
am I kidding? I love any cocktail). I’m a huge creature of habit, but I’ll tell you I’m flexible. I read every single day and if I don’t get a chance…watch the hell out, I’m a raving bitch. My iPad and me: BFFs. I’m direct and I make no apologies for it. I swear too much. I love alternative music and in my next life I want to be a bad-ass female rocker. I hate, hate, hate spiders, telemarketers, liver, acne, winter and loose hairs that fall down my shirt (don’t ask, it’s a thing).
Ophelia Lang needs money, and she needs it bad. Her parent’s restaurant is going under, and ever since she lost her job teaching third grade elementary, scraping enough cash together to pay the bills has proven almost impossible. Her parents are on the brink of losing their home. The vultures are circling overhead. So when Ophelia is offered an interview for a well-paid private tutoring gig in New York, how can she possibly say no?
Ronan Fletcher is far from the overweight, balding businessman Ophelia expected him to be. He’s young, handsome, and wealthy beyond all reason. He’s also perhaps the coldest, rudest person she’s ever met, and has a mean streak in him a mile and a half wide. A hundred grand is a lot of money, however, and if tolerating his frosty temperament, his erratic mood swings and whatever else he throws at her means she’ll get paid, then that is what Ophelia will do.
Her new boss is keeping secrets, though. Awful, terrible secrets.
The ghosts of Ronan Fletcher’s past are about to turn Ophelia’s future upside down, and she can’t even see it coming.
Note: Between Here and The Horizon is a brand new standalone contemporary romance novel from USA Today bestselling author, Callie Hart. Between Here and the Horizon does contain some scenes of violence and sexual content, and so is directed at audience 18+.
CHAPTER ONE
AFGHANISTAN
2009
“Get back, Fletcher! Get back! The tank’s gonna blow!”
I was running. Behind me, seven miles of desert stretched out toward Kabul city, glowing in places where burned out military trucks were being devoured by fire. Twisted metal rained down from the sky, on fire and sharper than a razor’s edge, impacting in the dirt. Thud. Thud, thud. Thud. Shrapnel whistled through the air, striking the ground a few feet away from me as I weaved my way through the wreckage. Smoke was biting at my lungs, acrid and burning, making it hard to breath.
“Fletcher! What the fuck, man!”
Behind me, Specialist Crowe was losing his mind. Alternating between shouting into his radio and shouting at me, he couldn’t seem to decide which course of action to take. I’d ordered him to follow, but I could understand why he hadn’t. The situation was more than unsafe; charging headlong into the fire and destruction was a suicide mission, and I knew it. I also knew that my men were trapped inside the upturned vehicle still a hundred feet ahead of me, however, and I knew the truck was going to blow any second. They were going to burn to death if I didn’t help them. I wasn’t going to abandon them to that fate.
“Captain! God, man, stop!”
My heart was surging, my veins overflowing with adrenalin. My boots hit the dirt, left, right, left, right, left, right, my fists pumping back and forth as I sprinted toward the truck that was laying on its roof up ahead. Through the fractured windshield, I could see Hellaman and Wicks still strapped into the front seats of the vehicle, upside down and unmoving. They were either unconscious or dead. Hopefully they were just out for the count, but there was a lot of blood splattered on the inside of the glass. A lot of blood.
Black smoke curled upward from the underside of the truck, and I could already hear the hissing sound of fuel burning and sizzling somewhere. Groaning. I could hear groaning, too.
I reached the truck just as something inside the engine caught fire, and Hellaman came to. His eyes were wide with pain and fear as I dropped down onto my belly next to the driver’s side window, which was smashed out, small cubes of safety glass scattered into the dirt.
“Captain? Captain Fletcher. Shit, I can’t breathe. I can’t…breathe.” His face was deathly pale, and his hands shook violently as he tried to claw at the seatbelt that was digging into his chest.
“It’s okay. It’s okay, Private. We’re gonna get you out of there, okay? Just hold on a moment.” My bowie knife was in my hand. I took it and made quick work of slashing through the webbing holding Hellaman in place. There was nothing I could do to cushion his fall. Slamming into the roof of the truck, Hellaman groaned weakly, and then passed out again, either from pain or from the shock, I didn’t know. I stowed my blade and grabbed him by the shoulders, then wrestled him free through the window. His face was cut; his arms were striped with blood and running rivers of crimson out onto the ground. No time to be gentle, though. No time to be safe. I hooked my hands under his arms and I quickly jogged backwards, dragging him away from the wreckage. Twenty feet was enough.
I ran back to the truck. Flames were visibly licking at the underside of the vehicle now, snaking upward toward the night sky. Wick was still out cold. I ran around to the back of the truck and tried to force the loading doors open, but they were jammed closed, bent and warped, refusing to budge.
“Shit.”
Clang.
Clang.
Clang.
There was someone alive inside. Running out of time. Almost no time left. I positioned myself by the truck’s rear right window, thanking god the thing was already splintered. The bulletproof windows on military trucks were no joke. You could take a semi automatic to them and it would take longer than I had to smash them. The impact of rolling three times had obviously been enough to compromise the glass, though.
“Shield your faces,” I hollered. “Glass, glass, glass!” Bracing, I spun around and smashed the sole of my boot against the window as hard as I possibly could. The glass groaned, fracturing some more, but it didn’t shatter. I kicked again, and again, and again. Finally, the window exploded in a shower of bright shards, giving in under the force of my boot.
“Captain, there’s fuel in here,” someone inside yelled. “Get back!”
I ducked down and lay flat on my stomach again, crawling in through the now empty window frame. Inside the truck, gasoline hung heavy in the air, burning my nostrils and my eyes. Next to me, Roberts was dead, his head twisted at an odd angle, eyes staring, unseeing into the abyss.
On the other side of the truck Private Coleridge, Sam, a nineteen-year-old kid from Houston, was lying on his back on the roof, holding his rifle in both hands, his body convulsing wildly. His eyes swivelled to look at me, but his head remained locked in position, his teeth grinding together.
“What…what happened, Capt’n?” he asked. “We were drivin’ along, and then…everything was…spinning.”
“IED,” I told him. “Desert’s full of them. Come on, let’s get you out of here.”
“I can’t…move. I can’t feel…anything.”
He wasn’t paralyzed. If he were, he wouldn’t be shaking the way he was right now. He was just in shock. A sharp slap to the face would probably go a long way to getting him moving, but there simply wasn’t time for that kind of motivation. Grabbing him by the webbing stitched onto the strap of his pack, which was still on his back, I hauled him to me and then backed out through the window as quickly as I could. The fire was raging now. I dragged Sam back to where I’d left Hellaman and was about to run back to the truck when a loud metallic crack split the air apart, and then a ball of fire rocked the truck, a wall of heat and pressure slamming into my body, sending me reeling back into the dirt.
“Oscar!” Sam yelled. “Oscar’s still alive in there!”
“Fuck.” I was up on my feet and running. The heat was intense—so intense that I had to shield my face as I grew closer to the wreck. The fire had consumed the underside of the truck, the tires blazing, the gas roaring as the fuel line was engulfed. And I could hear screaming. The kind of blood curdling, awful screaming of a man being burned alive.
My radio headset crackled with static, and then Colonel Whitlock’s voice barked out through the speaker. “Fletcher, do not go back inside that vehicle. Do you hear me? Do not go back inside that vehicle.”
Disobeying a direct order from a colonel was an offence worthy of court marshal. I ripped my headset from my ears and threw it to the ground, ignoring it. Ignoring the consequences. Another blood curdling scream reached me, and that was it. I was on my stomach, crawling into the mouth of hell.
My side pressed up against the frame of the window, and pain tore at me, sinking its teeth into my skin. Heat. The heat was overwhelming, so fierce and violent that there was no oxygen inside the truck. Only smoke and confusion. Only death.
“Oscar!” I called out, reaching with both hands, trying to find him. “Where are you, man?” The truck was only a six-guy transport, but the billowing, rolling clouds of black smoke hid everything. I went by touch until I heard him cry out again, weaker this time, voice riddled with agony. He was at the very rear of the truck. A few seconds was all I had. Any longer and I would either suffocate or burn up myself. My head was pounding, my lungs begging for clean air, and I could feel myself start to drift.
The journey to the back of the truck took an eternity. One hand over the other, I pulled myself around an upturned transport box, and jammed my body in between the narrow gap at the right hand side of the vehicle, reaching out, groping, searching, until I found what I was looking for. A leg. A foot, to be precise. I grabbed hold of it and pulled. An agonised yell filled the truck.
“Ahh, my leg. My leg. It’s fucked!”
“I know. I’m sorry, man. I can’t get you any other way.” I gritted my teeth, and I pulled. In any other situation it would have been a crime that I was handling an injured man this way. The clock was running down, though, and if causing more pain, causing even more damage meant the difference between one of my guys being injured or being dead, then I was going to do what I had to do.
I somehow managed to maneuverer myself so that I was over Oscar—I couldn’t even see his face, the smoke was so thick—and then I started shoving. Six hard pushes and I managed to drive him through the gap in the window frame, out onto the desert floor. His body was ripped away, pulled free by someone else, and then he was gone. I was almost too tired to heave myself free, but I scrounged up my last scrap of energy and I crawled forward, determined to make it out before the entire vehicle was enveloped. Halfway out, my fingers clawing in the dirt, my body lit up with pain. Indescribable. Unbearable. A pain so sharp and breathtaking that I couldn’t even cry out. It felt like something was ripping my body in two. I spun around and looked up to see a burning line of fuel pouring down on me, hitting my side, burning into me. I was on fire.
I kicked and jerked myself out of the truck, ripping at my jacket. Tearing at the material, trying to get it off. The fabric seemed to come away in my hands, and then I was shirtless in the cold, cold desert, rolling on the ground, trying to put the flames out.
The world went black. Someone threw something over me, and then hands were beating at my body, slapping and trying to roll me. A strangled gasp worked its way out of my mouth, but that’s all I could manage. The flames were out. The thick, heavy material that had been thrown over me was pulled back, and Crowe stood over me, face covered in soot and grease, eyes the size of dollar coins. I could barely see him properly. Barely hear the words coming out of his mouth.
Colonel Whitlock appeared next to him, and then the sky was filled with the beating thump of helicopter blades. They spoke for a second, and the thundering drum of the helo overhead dipped long enough for me to make out what Crowe said to Whitlock.
“He didn’t stop, sir. He didn’t stop until they were all out.”
Whitlock scowled. “I can see that, Specialist. He disobeyed a direct order in doing so, too.”
“He’ll be reprimanded?” Crowe asked. He was speaking as if I was no longer present; both of them were.
“No,” Whitlock said sternly. “Ironically, I think Captain Fletcher’s more likely to be honored than punished in this particular instance. Now get him on the chopper before I change my mind. The crazy bastard’s bleeding everywhere.”
It has been some time since my last “Dear Author” review – but yeah here it comes :
Dear Ms. Hart,
Already
since some time your books are on my reading list but as the days
always seem to have to little reading time when you are a Blogger always
something came up.
But
now finally I came across your latest book, the time was right and here
I am just after finishing “Between Here and the Horizon” I think you ow
me some chocolate or similar for the shock you gave me or something
stronger containing alcohol would even be better.
YOU
know pretty well the moment I mean I am sure, but just to point out – I
am talking about the “event” around the 20% mark my kindle said.
My
jaw was actually hitting the floor and my head was shaking in a “No ..
no .. NO … you can not be serious… you have to be f.. kidding me” way.
Shortly followed with tears in my eyes … and I can still not fully comprehend that moment or what it did with me.
Well I am not able to say much about the actual story here –due to (for the non reader not so obvious) plotline reasons.
But
I can assure the readers that you did your best to create a really
surprising plot, because nothing would have prepared me for what
happened here, you really muted me down to a “at the kindle pages
staring” something.
I have a comparing book title ready to give the readers a hint but I will not use it as it would be to obvious.
Only
saying that I was like .. “yeah sure when I turn the page all of this
will go away because there has been a misunderstanding” …but it did NOT
go away – then a second later there was me checking the book blurb for
any mention of this being a paranormal novel as that would have helped
my cause in that second, but sorry – no such luck.
The facts were a given and then you really created a spin out of this I would not have expected.
Some things were obvious others were surprising.
The
story you wrote unfolded beautiful (while beautiful is a horrible word
under the given circumstances) and I would like to congratulate you on a
really great storyline with great characters.
So thank you for the entertaining hours you allowed me to have with your book.
Now
my thoughts are definitely in the “how do I place some of your other
books on my basically totally full reading schedule” area.
Meet Callie Hart
Callie has experienced many changes throughout her life, and gone through many ups and downs that have all worked towards shaping and moulding her into the person she is today: fun loving, active, social, and hard working. The only thing that has remained a constant throughout her life is writing. Creating characters who will tear your conscience in two is a favorite pastime of Callie’s. There are few real saints and sinners in her books; more often, the denizens of her stories are all very human. Broken, flawed, and always with the potential for redemption.
Despite the subject matter being markedly hot and heavy in comparison to the stories she wrote in elementary school, there will always be an element of fairytale to her work.
Callie Hart is the author of the Blood & Roses Series. Zeth & Sloane’s story is now complete, but there are a number of stories still to be released under the Blood & Roses banner. 2015 will see Cade, Michael and Rebel’s stories being released, as well as a number of brand new stories, all of which will be Dark Romance novels.
If you would like to contact Callie, you can do so here.
If you would like to sign up to Callie’s newsletter for info on upcoming releases, exclusive teasers, excerpts and competitions, you can do so here.
It has been some time since my last “Dear Author” review – but yeah here it comes :
Dear Ms. Hart,
Already since some time your books are on my reading list but as the days always seem to have to little reading time when you are a Blogger always something came up.
But now finally I came across your latest book, the time was right and here I am just after finishing “Between Here and the Horizon” I think you ow me some chocolate or similar for the shock you gave me or something stronger containing alcohol would even be better.
YOU know pretty well the moment I mean I am sure, but just to point out – I am talking about the “event” around the 20% mark my kindle said.
My jaw was actually hitting the floor and my head was shaking in a “No .. no .. NO … you can not be serious… you have to be f.. kidding me” way.
Shortly followed with tears in my eyes … and I can still not fully comprehend that moment or what it did with me.
Well I am not able to say much about the actual story here –due to (for the non reader not so obvious) plotline reasons.
But I can assure the readers that you did your best to create a really surprising plot, because nothing would have prepared me for what happened here, you really muted me down to a “at the kindle pages staring” something.
I have a comparing book title ready to give the readers a hint but I will not use it as it would be to obvious.
Only saying that I was like .. “yeah sure when I turn the page all of this will go away because there has been a misunderstanding” …but it did NOT go away – then a second later there was me checking the book blurb for any mention of this being a paranormal novel as that would have helped my cause in that second, but sorry – no such luck.
The facts were a given and then you really created a spin out of this I would not have expected.
Some things were obvious others were surprising.
The story you wrote unfolded beautiful (while beautiful is a horrible word under the given circumstances) and I would like to congratulate you on a really great storyline with great characters.
So thank you for the entertaining hours you allowed me to have with your book.
Now my thoughts are definitely in the “how do I place some of your other books on my basically totally full reading schedule” area.
by A. Wilding Wells Genre: Contemporary Romance — SYNOPSIS — Happy
Trapped in a cage…
I was running against time and desperate to conquer my fears with my “don’t forget to be awesome” plan.
One night, I was sulking over my uglier-than-homemade-sin life and reeling from another painful loss. As I thought about my new life, a handsome gent named Hunt Hardick sat next to me. He looked like a good start and was likely a hell of a finish. Suddenly, my plan took on a life of its own.
Hunt
After a long day as one of San Francisco’s most prominent ob/gyns, I stopped at a bar for a bourbon and a mental break from my ex, who I couldn’t seem to bleach from my system. One glance at Happy’s tearstained angelic face and I was done. I’d never been a guy to turn down a stunning woman who also looked like a beautiful project.
Hunt was a key in my locked cage that once opened meant I might fly away.
An emotionally charged, rich with feeling story about survival, triumph, and a girl named Happy Go Lucky who had a plan. A plan that didn’t include the ruggedly sexy gynecologist who inserted himself in her life.
Incapable of resisting a peek for another second, I twist my head to check out Mr. Goodtime. What sort of man has a voice that sounds more decadent than a breakfast of chocolate truffles at midnight?
He leans over the bar, his elbows on the edge, and massages his temples. My god, those hands. I can only imagine the forearms attached to them.
When he angles his head, our eyes meet in a stare. Scrumptious with a side of rough and tumble. Groaning into one palm, I rotate away and lift my glass to my lips, the charred-caramel scent of my drink drifting through my senses. What do I care if Mr. Goodtime can likely tell by my tear-tracked face that my day’s been uglier than homemade sin?
“Hey, you okay?” he asks.
I watch him through wet lashes. “A little blue is all. Thanks.”
“You look like you want someone to talk to.” He searches my face, his tender eyes pools of emerald and concern. Oh, those eyes. Maybe they’re more hazel than emerald-fuck-me-yummy. Whatever, they’re appetizing.
The bartender slides the guy’s bourbon in front of him. And, for the few seconds he’s sipping his drink, I study him after popping a boozy cherry in my mouth. He looks like a take-all-your-worries-away type of gent. Also known as a beautiful distraction. I’m guessing he’s in his early thirties by the gentle smile lines around his eyes. On the bar in front of him is a newspaper with a partially worked crossword puzzle and a fountain pen. And what the hell is he wearing? Threadbare orange jeans and a pea green leather jacket that looks like it was dragged down a bumpy road behind a pickup. A pocket watch and a vest too? What on earth. He’s not steam punk, and he’s not eighty. What is he? Sexy.
And damn, does his wavy golden-brown hair and perfect scruffy stubble make him a possible entry in my journal. He looks like a good start. And I’ll bet he’s a hell of a finish.
He skates his glass along the bar.
I glance down when it clinks mine. After clearing the web in my throat, I mutter, “I’m not much for company tonight.”
“I’m not company. I’m just a guy. You look like you need to tell someone something.” He slides my bobby pin out of my hair and studies the bluebird on it for a few seconds, and a smile forms on one side of his wide lips. He places the bobby pin between his teeth, at the corner of his mouth, and shoves wayward strands of hair behind my ear. Then, after gliding the pin back in place, he says, “There. You’re fixed.”
I choke on a sip of my drink. If only it were that simple. “Yeah. Fixed.”
“You get your heart broken, little bluebird? I can’t imagine anyone doing that to such a gorgeous girl.”
A smirk sits on my pout.
“See there? She smiles.” He nudges my elbow.
I shake my head, and my smirk grows.
“Oh, hell yeah. She shines.” His grin is boyish, but he’s as man as the gender gets.
“You got me, Mr. Goodtime.” I chuckle. “Seriously though, I’m here for booze hugs.”
He leans toward my ear while he digs in his back pocket and pulls a handkerchief out. “Does it love hard and understand you?” he asks softly. “Spill it, shmoop.”
Shmoop? I’ll bet he makes pancakes from scratch and knits slippers for his girlfriend while he’s naked. My stomach flutters when he tucks the cloth in my fisted hand.
“Guys still carry these?” I fondle the soft square. “Do you have superpowers too?”
“Probability manipulation,” he deadpans. “I can cause unlikely things to happen.”
We both laugh, my double snort catching him off guard. He flashes a smirk my way.
After dabbing my eyes, I chase ice around in my glass with one of my markers. “Like making me smile?”
“Captain Compassion,” he says, throwing his arm over the back of my chair as though we know each other.
And it feels like we do. Guess my guard is down. Deception and death can do that to a girl. It can also build your guard sky-scraper tall.
“So, is it a guy?” His tone is gentle and soothing. Tender. He strokes my back, and I surprisingly let him. “Nothing hard liquor can’t solve, huh?”
“Are you going to tell me you’re a hard licker? Now that would be a pick-up line I’ve never heard.”
— ABOUT THE AUTHOR: A. WILDING WELLS —
I’m a mother of four sons, a country dweller, a foodie, an animal and nature lover and an entrepreneur. I started my first company when I was twenty-three with my husband and partner, the lovely man I am still married to and work with twenty-four years later. Together we’ve always created. I’ve written several books in other genres under a different name. My first novel is A Mess of Reason and what released in July 2015. My second book, How To Tame Beasts And Other Wild Things, was published in April 2016. A Field Guide To Catching Crickets was published June 7, 2016.
ABOUT MY WRITING
I live with my characters day and night. Most of the time I feel like a voyeur in their lives, which magically seem to unfold right in front of me. They’re in my dreams and on my brain non-stop. I’ll spend weeks editing and revising one book with the next plot swimming through my head and being scribbled onto endless reams of paper. When I write I feel everything – and I do mean EVERYTHING – about them. I’m turned on by them. I laugh at and with them. I get pissed at them. I bitch at them. I cry if something awful is happening to them. My heart speeds up when they fight. I get goose bumps because of them.
I’ll admit it sometimes feels a little like I’m playing God when I write (either that or a puppeteer). I love writing about strong characters that have flaws and imperfections to deal with, work on or resolve. I adore twists, turns and funky plot oddities that make life the crazy thing that it really is. I love putting my characters in awkward situations that allow for interesting, heated and often sexy dialogue to play out.
Persephone Fields is just an average girl: beloved daughter and loyal friend. One night decides her Fate, when the prince of The Underworld becomes her savior and her kidnapper.
Hades has lived centuries in darkness and sin. When he decides to save the blonde goddess, he doesn’t consider the ramifications of his decision to bring her into his realm.
Two worlds divided struggle to find friendship in a history of family discord beyond their control. When attraction blurs the line, questions result in choices of love or loyalty.
A modern twist of the classic myth: Hades and Persephone, this version incorporates the sensual tension of opposites divided by contemporary humanity and mythical underworlds. Also reminiscent of Romeo and Juliet, this is a love story ripe with desire.
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Author’s note: This book contains scenes of sexual intimacy.
Welcome to the alter ego world of L.B. Dunbar.
Was this a dream?
What was this strange beast we rode?
Who was this strange man behind me?
Could this be happening? Was I destined for a fate worse than the creep at the river?
The only thing keeping me from full-blown panic was when I recalled he had saved me, and the fact that his fingers were woven through my hair, as if trying to protect me from the rain. Suddenly bone tired, my eyes drifted shut in despair. My hands ached. My feet cut. My heart raced while the bike below me vibrated between my thighs. My stomach dipped as the bike catapulted toward the river. The front wheeled up and my captor yelled: “MORPH!” Metal tore apart as the head of the stallion reappeared. We hit the riverbed with a hardly thump, pitching us both forward as the rear of the horse returned. The result rose us up several feet. I lurched forward then sprang upward like a bobblehead toy. My head knocked his shoulder and an arm encircled my waist to steady my body. I was pressed back against a firm chest.
“Where in hell are we going?” I yelled over the splashing hooves and thudding rain.
“Exactly,” he shouted next to my ear.
“What?”
“Hell,” he barked. My neck twisted and it caught his nose. He sniffed my hair above my ear. I spun further, my brows pinching, my eyes questioning. Those cobalt gems remained forward, focused. His face was a mask, stone-looking and bluish. Glancing down at the hand flat against my stomach, his nails were black and pointed, almost like talons or claws. Sensing my appraisal, he clenched his fingers into a fist, but it caught my thin tank and scratched against my belly. I cried out. Instantly, his hand removed from me and I noted the now shredded appearance of my shirt. I quivered again in fear, convinced death awaited me. My shoulders hunched forward in reaction to the sharp scrape.
“My apologies.” His formality sounded ancient and strange. My first glance would have placed him roughly the age of Tripper, but the cadence of his voice sounded years older. Thoughts of Tripper shifted to Swanson and Veva.
“My friends are waiting for me.” The statement seemed weak. “They’ll call the police, but I won’t tell anyone what happened, if you just take me back. No one would believe all this anyway.” Doubt for my own sanity crept through my brain.
“I cannot.” This man was clearly on a mission, and it was taking me in the opposite direction of home. While he’d been my savior in one instance, I suddenly realized he was a captor in another.
Ready to protest, or plea for my life, my voice faltered as a large building loomed before us. The entire structure stood black, metallic and foreboding. Not a single light shown from its glassy windows. The rain subsiding, water trickled down its sleek sides, like snakes writhing in escape. We headed for a tunnel ahead arched in limestone block. What should have been white brick was dark and dank looking, wet from the sudden storm and encased in crushed mud. We slipped under the arch, my captor ducking his head. Chilly air surrounded us. His breath brushed over my cool skin, enhancing the sudden cold. It was as if he’d eaten ice cream, his mouth frozen and exhaling to tease me. His grim face and clenched jaw proved he wasn’t kidding. Our faces were so close we nearly rubbed cheeks. If he turned his head, he’d kiss my jaw. My mouth watered at the disturbing thought.
The horse slowed, prancing wildly as his nostrils flared and his flanks spread from the excursion of a hard run.
“Whoa, Killer,” my captor soothed. “Home, boy.” Home? “What is he?” I asked instead, staring down at the mane of the creature that evidently was more than a horse.
“Up,” The horse’s master called out, ignoring my question. The gate rose, methodically slow, into the heavy stone above it. Sharp points on the ends accentuated the frightening structure that screamed stay away, danger lives behind here. I gripped the horse’s mane harder in my fists, finding no comfort in the coarse hair as I typically would in my own horse, Greece.
What was this place? One moment I faced a modern skyscraper, but in this tunnel a heavy gate stood guard like you’d see as the barrier to a castle dungeon or a hidden lair. My eyes scanned the moist cement walls, dripping with condensation. Gate barely risen, we ducked under the iron structure. It fell instantly with a clanking thud behind us. Echoing off the stone corridor, the sound solidified my imprisonment. I was trapped. Once the noise settled, a new one arose. We cantered up an incline, exiting the river enough that only a thin layer of water trickled over the stone flooring. A second sound echoed down the walls: a moan, a whimper, a sharp cry. What was that noise? I tilted my head as if I could distinguish it better. Its intensity grew as we pressed forward.
A moan, a whimper, a sharp cry.
“What is that?” I questioned. My voice, barely a whisper, trailed off. The sounds increased.
A moan, a whimper, a sharp cry. Then a wail.
I spun into the rider behind me and ducked my head. Pressing my cheek firmly against my savior-captor, my fists rose and clenched his open hoodie, soaked through like me.
A moan, a whimper, a sharp cry, a deepening wail.
My eyes pinched shut and I pressed harder into his chest. The hand that had scraped me released the reins, then rubbed hesitantly up my back. I peeked up at him as his tender touch surprised me. His hair was swept back in our haste through the rain. His face illuminated in the darkness of this cavernous space, that bluish tint reflected from intermittent torches. A scar curled from his forehead to his jaw near his hairline. Another scar crossed his strangely dark blue lips: a perfect line from nose to chin cut both curves. His jaw clenched in concentration. The moan, whimper, and sharp cry murmured throughout the cavern, calling and responding from all sections in a dull volley, and pulled me away from my observation. The elongated sound of each vibrated almost sensually throughout the tunnel. A sharp cry caught my breath as we drew near the end of the tunnel. I sat up straighter and inhaled. The stench was a mix of saltwater, fish, and rot. The irony—this was Nebraska. I shifted to question my fellow rider and without a word escaping my lips, he answered.
The Devil is like a shadow.
It follows.
It waits.
Gabriel Nicholas Santos. Born with a name belonging to saints, yet evil to the core. When he smiled, people would die. When he lost control, hell would open up its fiery gates. He was nothing more than a malevolent puppet to his elusive uncle.
Together they were LOS SANTOS cartel, rulers of South America’s most feared and powerful drug empire. The price on their heads was high. The price of becoming one of them? Even higher.
Both were my targets who knew the game well. While one kept me close, the other became a myth. But I would wait. I would watch. I would become just like them in order to finish them both.
But it was never going to be that easy. Not now. Not with… her.
Gabriel had his sights fixed on FBI Agent Nina Cross. Strong. Beautiful. And none-the-wiser of those who shadowed her every move. She held the answers he had killed so many for. She was the one thing stopping LOS SANTOS from taking full control.
And I had one job. To both save and destroy Nina Cross. But that was only the beginning.
Only when you cover your enemies with dirt are they truly gone.
Lover of dark, fast-paced stories with a dash of romance, Melissa Jane’s books are a ruthless combination of dangerous cartel Kingpins and beautiful strong heroines. No one is safe within the pages she writes and the underdog is always favored to win… most times.
When not writing, Melissa loves relaxing with her family and a good glass of wine.
V.F.Mason always loved reading books and had quite a few fights with her mama over the genre she liked (romance, duh!) She studied filmmaking and thought that would feed her desire for stories, but that didn’t happen.
Finally, when she was tired of all those voices in her head, she sat down and wrote a book. It was a huge decision to make and she thanks her friends and family for supporting her in it.
When she is not writing, she can be found with her friends doing all sorts of crazy things or reading recent romance books that were written by her favorite authors.