Hayil had the advantage of
excellent night vision—super vision compared to other humans. Plus, she
possessed an almost uncanny ability to connect with most wild and domestic
animals. Hayil mentally grimaced. She could also thank her grandmother
for her long overdue ability to shift. What would it take to trigger her body
into the lupine version of herself? Was it like a growth spurt that hadn’t hit
her body yet? Or was Hayil destined to remain the one person in her pack who
wasn’t able to wolf out?

Once again, her mother’s
constant refrain came back to her: “You’re a late bloomer, like your
grandmother. She was older than you when she shifted. All in good time.
You’ll see.”

Sure, Mom.

Hayil knew her mother
wanted the best for her, but found her cheerfulness a bit forced. Beneath her
mother’s optimism, Hayil sensed an undercurrent of concern about her
thirty-year-old daughter’s ability to integrate into the red wolf clan. This
missing piece of Hayil’s identity called to her like a siren’s song, demanding
she complete herself. Would she ever be a true part of the pack? Or
would she forever be the unmated one? What then? She was an anomaly, something
the pack didn’t tolerate well. Tradition dictated that if a pack member didn’t
shift by the end of their third decade, they were banished.

A chilling thought struck
Hayil mid-stride.

If I don’t
shift this year, will they force me out of the pack?

They were the only family
she’d ever known. Her mother would fight for her to stay and would probably
win. But at what cost?

Hayil would be an outcast.
She’d never be invited to pack meetings, deliberations or celebrations. Those
were reserved for shifters. If she married a non-shifter, the pack would drive
her out, of that she was sure. What if her offspring were able to shift? Would
that make things better? Would the pack let her stay then? It wasn’t as if she
could go to a genetic counselor and ask for a DNA test for werewolves.

The thought of losing her
extended family through no fault of her own made her gulp back tears. Angry at
herself for allowing her thoughts to go down that dark rabbit hole, Hayil
reminded herself she was a scientist. Review the facts, not the fears.

Fact one: Grandma had been
in labor with Hayil’s mother when she’d shifted for the first time.

Fact two: The majority of
the pack members had shifted when they’d hit puberty.

Fact three: Hormones! It
had to be related to hormones! The rush of hormones at puberty and the flood of
pregnancy hormones had to be related somehow.

Hayil was long past puberty
and the associated mood swings and acne, thank you very much. She was not ready
to be pregnant. For starters, she would need a romantic partner in her life.
She’d had zero luck on that score so far.

“I still have time. It’s
not too late. I won’t give up hope.”

Shaking her head to clear
her mind, Hayil double-checked her wild animal deterrents. All in place.
Then she tugged her knit cap down over her ears and pulled her hands-free
headlamp into place. She zipped her fleece jacket against the breeze and
adjusted her twenty-five-pound backpack. With an altitude gain of almost
nineteen hundred feet, she planned to take her time, pacing herself for the
strenuous four-hour hike. She grasped her lightweight hiking poles and took a
last look up at the stars. Time to see that spectacular view at the top.

As promised by the trail
blog, the dirt path was well maintained. The morning air was cold and crisp,
layered with the woodsy scent of damp earth and pine needles. An owl hooted,
and Hayil spotted movement in the brush between the thick pines beside the trail.
Her headlamp reflected in the eyes of small critters, all of whom skittered
deeper into the woods.

For three hours, all she
heard was the crunch of her hiking boots on dirt and gravel, the rasp of her
own breaths, the glug of water when she drank and the jingle of her bear bells.
She looked at yet another incline on the trail and decided she needed a hiking
song for inspiration.

“Country roads, take me
home,” she sang, belting out “Mountain Mama”—and something crashed through the
bushes ahead on the trail. Something large.

She froze.

An enormous black bear
stood on its hind legs at the top of the hill.

Shit,
shit, shit. If only I could shift, shift, shift!

The animal had its back to
her, but if it got her scent, it could turn and charge at her in a flash.

Heart pounding like a
jackhammer, she placed her hand on the bear spray.

A breeze sprang up, making
her eyes water with its intensity. The good news was that it meant she was
downwind of the bear. The bad news was that the air smelled like a wet dog had
rolled in a dead animal. The worst news was that the bear turned and looked
right at her.

Omigod.
It’s not a bear. What the heck is it?

Sharon Buchbinder is an award-winning author who has been
writing stories since she could hold a pen. The paranormal romance genre is her
writing home, a place where the impossible is simply the beginning, where women
find their power in the most extraordinary circumstances, and where love is
always worth the danger of seeking it.

A Maryland-based author with a background in healthcare and
higher education that has informed her vivid, grounded storytelling, Sharon is
drawn to heroines who have been underestimated — women who carry something
extraordinary inside them and spend the whole book learning to trust it. Sharon
believes passionately that readers deserve stories where the heroine doesn’t
just survive — she transforms. When she’s not writing, Sharon can
usually be found unplugging in her garden, obsessing over cryptid mythology,
and convincing her pets they are not, in fact, supernatural.

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* Goodreads

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A Damned Dirty Thing

The Jake Bishop
Files Book 1

The explosion should have killed him . . .

Jake Bishop is back on the streets of Solomon City, ten
months after a mob bombing destroyed his office and murdered his partner and
secretary. But Bishop isn’t just any private detective—he’s a “ditch wizard”
able to step through shadow and bend reality to his will.

When the beautiful and mysterious Portia Vance answers his
ad for a new secretary, Bishop thinks his luck might finally be changing.
Together, they begin hunting Vito Morelli, the mob boss who ordered the hit
that nearly ended Bishop’s life.

Their investigation leads them through the city’s darkest
corners—from strip clubs to shadow banking operations, from corrupt cops to
magical wards. But in a world where bullets and spells are equally deadly, and
where everyone has secrets worth killing for, Bishop discovers that the line
between hunter and hunted is thinner than he thought.

Some cases require a gun. Others need magic. This one
demands both.

In the shadows of Solomon City, justice comes with a
price—and revenge wears a beautiful face.

A gritty noir fantasy that proves sometimes the most
dangerous magic is the human heart.

 

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Christopher “Doc” Blalock is a US Navy veteran Corpsman and retired
counselor. He is a prolific fine artist, illustrator, musician, sculptor and
writer, cursed with the itch to create. He draws inspiration from sources
ranging from JRR Tolkien to Tom Clancy. He additionally draws from his love of
classic black-and-white noir films, infusing their moody aesthetic and
storytelling into his writing. A helpless coffee addict, he lives in the
Atlanta suburbs with his childhood sweetheart and a dog of dubious moral
character.

 

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Enter the Justice, Or Something Like It Giveaway

“Hey, did
you have a good run?” Lizzy asks, looking me up and down like I’m a dessert she
can’t wait to eat. I love that she can’t hide how much she still wants me. 

Maybe this
will be easier than I thought. “It was… therapeutic.” She nods, knowing running
is how I clear my head. “I’m going to shower.” Smooth, dumbass. You have
better game than this. 

But Lizzy
has always made me into a babbling idiot stumbling over my words. My therapist
told me it’s because I actually give a shit about Lizzy and care what she
thinks. Halfway down the hallway, I stop, remembering I decided to change
things with Lizzy, beginning with a date. “Do you have plans tonight?”

She glares
at me and snarks, “What, do you have a hot date and want the apartment to
yourself?”

I shouldn’t
mess with her like this, but she’s asking for it by thinking I would look at,
let alone be with, anyone but her. “Weeellll, I’m not sure yet. It depends on
her.”

“Such a
fucking gentleman. I can stay with Dee. Actually, I probably should’ve moved
out by now. I’ll do that while you’re on your hot date.” Anger oozes from her
even though she’s trying to hide it, but I know her too well. After slapping
her laptop closed, she heads to the guestroom, but I stop her when she’s within
arm’s reach. 

Fuck. I’m
messing this up already. 

“I didn’t
ask if you had plans, so you’d leave. The last thing I want is for you to leave
tonight… or any night. I was hoping you would be my hot date.” I brush
my palm against her cheek and see her take a deep breath. I haven’t lost her
yet. I whisper, “I’m going to shower and get ready for this smokin’ hot blonde
who makes my heart race.”

“Makes your
heart race? Too bad it’s not enough for you to make a long-term commitment to
her.”

Wrapping my
arms around her, I breathe in her light scent and say in a gravelly voice, “If
I did, she’s the only one I would ever think about making any type of
commitment to.”

“If. I can’t
live in a world of ifs. I need—” 

I interrupt
her with my lips. At first, her lips are stiff, but in mere seconds, she melts
into me. Thank God. 

My body
relaxes into the kiss. Her lips soften and mold to mine, followed by her arms
gripping the bottom of my shirt, showing me she’s trying not to get lost in
this kiss—lost in us. She changes the kiss from soft and languid to desperate
and demanding as she slips her hand under my shirt, skimming her fingertips
along my abs. 

I break the
kiss only so I can feast on her beautiful neck. I need to taste her—remind
myself of everything about her. Those subtle sighs. Quiet moans. How she melts
in my arms. 

I should
stop us. Change our old patterns of falling into sex. But damn, I can’t think
straight when she touches me. I always cave to her.

After Lizzy
pushes my shirt up, I whip it off and she immediately runs her hands up my
chest, causing my dick to become a steel rod. My lips continue to attack her
neck and suck on that little spot right below her earlobe. Working my way down
to her cleavage, pulling her tank top down, she gives me access to her
beautiful tits that I need to cherish and ravish. I wrap my mouth around her
nipple to suck, kiss, and flick her desire from her. 

“I hate
you,” she moans, directing my head back to her mouth.

“I can tell
you hate me so damn much.”

“I hate how
sexy you look after a five-mile run.”

“Try
thirteen miles today since I couldn’t get this gorgeous woman off my mind.” I
groan and swirl my tongue around her nipple, causing her to give me a long
moan. 

Her fingers
dig into my hair, further turning me on. I love it when she marks me with her
nails, even when I used to get counseled and lectured for allowing my girl to
damage government property. Instead of telling her to stop or at least mark me
where my uniform covers, I rewarded her with more orgasms. I pray she does the
same tonight. 

Switching to
the other side with the same fervor, I wrap her legs around my waist and grind
myself to her warmth. I can feel how turned on she is through her tiny athletic
shorts. 

“I hate how
sweet you are to Cristian.”

“Let’s not
talk about our godson right now.” That kid has a knack for killing a boner.
He’s been a cockblock a few times when we were babysitting him. My dick is
trained for Cristian being a no-fly zone until he goes to sleep. 

“We
shouldn’t—” 

I interrupt
her with my lips, knowing she’s trying to talk herself out of being with me in
any capacity. If we stop, she won’t go to dinner with me either. She’ll shut me
out. I can’t do that again. I need this woman with every fiber of my being. 

As I’m about
to roll my hip into hers, she pushes my shorts down, releasing my hard cock.
Her lust-filled eyes tell me what she wants from me, and no way am I going to
deny her anything. I have her shorts off in a matter of seconds. I almost shoot
my load when she wraps her hands around my dick, strokes me a few times, and
rubs me along her wetness. Fucking teasing me. I smirk, pulling her right
nipple into my mouth and doing a combination of flicking and sucking, which I
know drives her wild. 

“I hate that
you know me so well.”

I thicken my
accent, knowing how much it turns her on. “Back at ya, darlin’.” 

She
continues rubbing my dick up and down her slit, but when she moves me down, I
slip into her completely, causing her nails to dig into my shoulders and down
my arms. I didn’t realize her hands moved until I felt them. Yeah, that’s
going to leave a mark. 

“I
hate—right there, sexy… God, yes—how you fuck me.”

“Obviously,”
I say, kissing her neck. I can feel her tightening around me, and I pray I can
hold out until she finishes. Jesus, she’s fucking heaven. 

“I hate—”

“I hate how
much you’re talking.”

“Then shut
me up.” She flashes me a challenging look. 

Don’t miss the
other Boys of Bragg!

Find them on Amazon

Randa Knight was born and raised in a small town on the
Ohio/Indiana border. Her love of reading began when her grandmother curled up
together with a new book every weekend. She studied Literature with a Creative
Writing minor at Indiana University (Go Hoosiers!) where she fell in love with
writing. The idea for the Boys of Bragg series began during a creative writing
course and has evolved over the years.

 

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