Salva Me by Autumn Montague #teaser #excerpt #mmromance #lgbtq #pnr #comingsoon #rabtbooktours @changelingpress @RABTBookTours

LGBTQ+ Regency Vampire Romance

Date Published: September 11, 2026

England, 1816. A nosferatu, a rogue vampire, hunts unchecked through Sussex. Jeremy Takeshi Colbourne is honor-bound by ancestral duty to find and destroy such madmen. Foremost among the vampires of England, he must find a way to ensure the safety of the English citizens and the vampires that live among them.

Then Jeremy and his blood-host Morgan Holland discover a brutally savaged girl. With this latest victim of the nosferatu, Jeremy realizes the time has come to make Morgan aware of the Colbourne responsibilities. But the situation could not have come at a worse time.

For years, Morgan has served as Jeremy's blood-host. Though Morgan adheres faithfully to his Contracted terms, he refuses to surrender to the sexual seduction that completes each feeding. He yields neither his body nor his heart, though Jeremy yearns for both.

As the nosferatu's atrocities grow, Jeremy must ask everything of Morgan to gain the strength needed to fight the ravening monster. Will Morgan relent and give up body and heart to help Jeremy defeat their enemy, or will the battle destroy them both?

EXCERPT

 

Jeremy cursed at the knock on the oaken door of his study. Morgan had attempted to corner him several times today. Pure cowardice had driven Jeremy to take refuge here, a place his loyal Host rarely intruded on, since it held the Buddhist shrine housing his mother’s mortuary tablet. He glanced at the portrait standing behind the black stone, wishing for a bit of Keiko Yamakawa’s legendary strength.

Evading Morgan had taken a toll on Jeremy. The Contracted day for his feeding had come and gone. Today marked two full weeks since Morgan had wrenched himself from Jeremy’s grasp, nearly bleeding to death before Jeremy could administer the requisite clotting agent. The sight of Morgan’s injuries had seared itself into Jeremy’s mind, rendering him unwilling to risk another such incident.

It almost made him wish to return to Japan, despite the difficulties involved. Obtaining the necessary dispensation from the Tokugawa Shogunate had been hard enough when he left. Lord Matsumae had done what he could, but it had taken his mother’s personal attendance on Emperor Kōkaku and an appropriate gift to Tokugawa Ikeharu to get it done. Going back would be far worse, despite his home’s exemption from the Sakoku Edict. Even so, he was tempted. If only to avoid what he now faced.

The knock came again, harder than before, followed immediately by the entrance of Morgan Holland. “Excuse me, Lord Colbourne. While I am always loath to disturb you in your sanctum, you cannot avoid me forever.” Exasperation filled Morgan’s voice, underscored by heavy concern.

Jeremy risked a glance at his Host, unwilling to see but drawn nonetheless. The wounds on Morgan’s neck had healed; his skin flushed a healthy hue. Unlike usual feedings, the last one had left two ragged scars, visible reminders of Jeremy’s lack of control. Even now, the remnants of Morgan’s refusal echoed in his mind, invading his dreams.

“I am not convinced you are well enough to support a feeding, Holland,” he hedged, though his Host showed no lingering signs of ill effects. “Your wounds have barely healed.”

Morgan sighed. “I understand your reluctance after the debacle last time, but you cannot risk your health or your sanity by some idiotic attempt at endurance. I am prepared to meet my Contracted terms without qualms.”

“So you say. Nonetheless, your refusal made quite an impression. I’d prefer not to endure that again so soon.”

Morgan’s cheeks heated with angry embarrassment. “Then break Contract, my lord, and find someone more willing to accommodate all of your needs. Or go back to Japan.”

The slap of the words felt like a further refusal. Jeremy straightened in his chair, denying the spike of pain, determined to retain his rationality. Fear was anathema to the Barons of Colbourne and to the Yamakawa family. Being afraid to feed on his Contracted Host shamed both houses. He stood, feeling the weakness of flesh from self-deprivation.

“After twelve years? I’d rather not, thank you. You’re all I need. Or want.” Jeremy considered the irony of his irrational thoughts mere moments before. “It is far harder to return than to leave,” he added. “While my home in Matsumae is exempt from the Sakoku Edict, only my status as a noble Chi no Kami allowed me to leave in the first place. I have no wish to reverse the process any time soon.”

Morgan considered for a moment and then gave him the ghost of a smile. “Then please stop delaying the inevitable. Despite what happened before, I refuse to watch you kill yourself, however noble your ancestors may have found the practice. It would render all my efforts worthless.”

“Such things are not reserved for my ancestors,” Jeremy growled. “If I chose seppuku, who would be my second? You’d still have to watch me die.”

“At least it would not be this slow death you’re attempting now.”

Trust Morgan to know him well enough to hit so close to the truth of the matter. Jeremy allowed silence to reign for a moment and then gave a grudging chuckle. “No quarter, I see. You win, Holland. Give me two hours, and I’ll meet you in the sanguis cubiculum.”

Two hours would give Jeremy sufficient time to contact William Carter. After this long, the sexual urges would be difficult to suppress, but he could not afford another mistake like the last time.

Morgan nodded to him. “Two hours, then, Lord Colbourne. I will be ready.”

* * *

At the appointed time, Morgan waited as instructed, nervous despite his earlier words to Colbourne. He touched the scars on his neck gingerly, wondering. For all his bravado and calm facade, the thought of facing Colbourne’s fangs disturbed him. That last bite had driven into his neck without preparation, the savage sting a hint of what mankind had faced in the early days of the nosferii. Yet beyond the pain, another sensation had lurked, one he was reluctant to recall.

Perhaps it was only the remnants of the lust that rose in him every time Colbourne fed, but the agony of the unprepared bite had seemed to turn into a hazy pleasure at the end, before he’d passed out. Perhaps the recollection was only some perverse blending of his memories.

Colbourne entered the sanguis cubiculum through the far door. Morgan caught a brief glimpse of another person before the closing door blocked his view.

So he arranged for his companion to be available immediately after he is finished with me.

In spite of the obvious benefits to the situation, the idea irritated Morgan for some reason. Though he refused to offer up his body for postfeed sex, he’d always steadfastly ignored Colbourne’s subsequent retreat to his rooms for several hours. To have that person here, in the antechambers of the sanguis cubiculum, the mere thought left a burning ache in Morgan’s gut. This was his domain, his sacred trust, no one else’s.

“Are you ready, Holland?”

The deeply sensuous voice rippled over Morgan’s skin, bringing him to a half-aroused state before the feeding started. He did his utmost to quash the reaction, trying vainly to focus on something other than Colbourne’s mouth.

A hand reached for his chin, gently turning his face away to expose the length of his neck.

“I’m sorry, Morgan,” Colbourne whispered.

Morgan felt the faintest tremble in his master’s hand. He turned his head the opposite direction, offering the undamaged side. “Here, Master,” he urged, “feed from here.”

Colbourne’s tongue touched him gently, tracing a line across his skin before stopping. “No, I think not,” he said, trailing his fingers past Morgan’s throat. “I’d rather feed from a different source today. Your neck is still healing.”

Morgan shivered as his master’s hand roamed down his front, then stroked along the inside of his thigh.

 

About the Author

Autumn grew up loving history, mythology, and all things Japanese, not necessarily in that order. This eclectic love affair has bled over into her writing, and her stories are always well spiced with the taste of Japan, strange mythological beasties, or the lords and ladies of the ton. Sometimes all three, leading to dark desires and forbidden loves.

And after all, dangerous passions should lead to uninhibited love.

 

Author’s Website

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Sunshine Boy by Nicky Silber #excerpt #teaser #comingsoon #lgbtq #romance #mmromance #rabtbooktours @changelingpress @RABTBookTours

LGBTQ Rockstar Romance

Date Published: September 4, 2026

What if they’re not just friends? It could be murder!

After Julian’s sister sets him up with a charming Frenchman, Rahul thinks he may be getting over Julian, especially since Julian is back with his ex, Michael. Their band is finally taking off and the future seems bright. Then Julian hints he may return Rahul’s feelings. But what might happen if they become more than friends?

 

WARNING: Violence, Drinking/Substance use, Mentions of murder, Trauma/PTSD.

 

EXCERPT

 

Julian’s flat was a disaster, but Mel couldn’t be sure if it was on account of Julian tearing the place apart in a fit of pique or if it was always like this. Based on what his room had been like when she and her big brother had lived at home, she didn’t really doubt this was just the way he lived.

Mel hadn’t been here since the day Julian had moved in three years ago. She saw enough of her brother at the place where they worked, the place where they drank, and the place where they performed. She hardly needed to come round his place to get even more time with the manic muppet.

Julian even did devastation manic. He was pacing around the living room, pulling at his hair, talking a mile a minute. Mel could hardly keep up with what he was saying, if he was saying anything at all and not just babbling incoherently.

“… just a jazzy giraffe freak clomping around my life with his big stupid hooves and not even looking for oncoming traffic or anything… wouldn’t even slow down at a zebra crossing, even if there was kids in it, or like countryside sheep or whatever… just plow right through ‘em -- WHAM -- ‘sorry, missus, was this your daughter sheep? Too bad, I’m after Julian, can’t slow down or I’ll lose him!’ Honestly, it’s like he isn’t…”

Mel grabbed a handful of Julian’s fake leather jacket as he came past and yanked him down onto the sofa beside her. He looked startled and disorientated, like a somnambulist being unceremoniously awoken. He blinked at Mel as though only just now noticing her.

“You’ll give yourself an aneurysm going on like that,” Mel said coolly, lighting up a cigarette.

Her words were the scissors that cut the strings of Julian’s loosely gathered sanity. He crumpled in on himself, burying his face in his hands. For one horrified moment, Mel thought he might be crying. But he just groaned, a long pitiful noise like that of a wounded animal.

“It’s all gone tits up, hasn’t it?” he mumbled into his palms.

It had in fact, in Mel’s opinion, gone tits up. Julian’s best friend, Rahul -- the “jazzy giraffe freak” -- had told Julian’s creepy blond boyfriend, Michael, that Rahul and Julian had slept together. Michael had ended things with Julian. Julian had clobbered Rahul (a very un-Julian-like thing to do). Rahul then confessed his undying love for Julian and Julian had… run off. Cowardly little prick.

Rahul wasn’t just Julian’s best friend, he was also the most musically talented member of their band -- a band Mel played bass in, mind. Without him, the band would dissolve into nothing and Julian would be left rudderless. He lived for their shite band. Hell, he lived for Rahul. The two of them needed each other like foxes needed bins. This melodramatic love-triangle nonsense was going to make all of their lives positively implode. Well, maybe not Mel’s life. She owned a record shop and she’d be fine. And maybe not Kwambe’s life either. He was too cool to be affected by anything. But definitely Julian and Rahul’s lives, and Mel had sworn, years ago when her and Julian’s mum had started drinking, that she would look out for her empty-headed brother and keep him safe. She’d been fixing his life ever since. She’d be damned if she wasn’t going to fix it this time.

“It ain’t so bad,” Mel told Julian. She nudged him until he peeked out between the fingers he held over his eyes. She extended a cigarette to him. He took it and let her light it for him. It was the most affectionate gesture she’d offered him in quite some time. “One of you could be dead. That’d really be something to cry about.”

He threw her a withering glare with his red-rimmed eyes.

“So, you shagging that Michael bloke, then?”

Julian choked slightly on the smoke in his throat. He’d never told her, in so many words, that he was dating Michael. Michael had just shown up one day, hanging around Julian, while Julian stared at him with the eyes of a boy looking at a bloody Christmas tree. Julian had also never told her he was a bit bent either, but Mel had worked that out on her own, too.

Julian fidgeted with the cigarette butt in his fingers. It was odd to see him… if not embarrassed, then apprehensive. He usually did things like he couldn’t give a shit what others thought, though Mel knew that was a load of horse shite. He acted like he didn’t care, but no one cared more what other people thought than Julian Collier. He’d been caring since they were kids, only he’d gotten better at pretending. The thing is, when you want people to think you’re really cool, you have to get them to think you don’t care what they think. Julian was also obsessed with people thinking he was a little daft. That much was lucky, because, as far as Mel was concerned, he was a little daft.

He nervously pushed his fringe off his forehead only for it to flop back down at an uneven angle. “Yeah. Or, well, I was.”

“He chucked you ‘cause you and Rahul shagged?”

“That sounds like we did it yesterday,” Julian whinged. “It was ages and ages ago. Back at uni. And we were both drunk as you like. It didn’t even count, if you ask me.” Despite himself, he was going quite red around the ears and getting splotchy red patches high on his cheeks. “I’d forgotten all about it. I can’t even believe Rahul remembered. And that he told Michael. Imagine that!”

It was all coming together now. She remembered the trip Julian had taken up North to visit Rahul, only to come back one day early, all jumpy and not wanting to talk about it. Afterward, he’d not seen Rahul for years. Then, when Rahul came back, they were all distant and weird around each other. They’d had a drunken fumble together, of course. For one of them it was just an awkward night that had compromised a friendship. For the other…

“He also told you that he loves you,” Mel reminded him around her cigarette butt.

Julian folded his arms and hunched his shoulders in that way he did when he was stopping himself from covering his ears like he would’ve as a little kid. “Whatever. He’s confused. I dunno. He can’t love me. That’s just mental. He’s my best mate -- he was my best mate. He just thinks he’s in love with me ‘cause he loves me, you know, like friends or whatever. And anyway, that’s the other reason Michael dumped me, you know? He could see Rahul’s all obsessed with me and he didn’t want to get himself in the middle of whatever it is we’ve got going on. He didn’t want to end up like Aisling did. Having rows all the time ‘cause Rahul’s put himself between us.”

Hearing the name of Julian’s ex-girlfriend gave Mel pause. “Were you shagging him when you were still with Aisling?”

Julian dropped his cigarette. He retrieved it before it could burn a hole in the carpet next to the constellation of cigarette burns already there. “No. ‘Course not,” he said defensively in the way he did when he was lying. “I’d never cheat on her, would I?”

“I don’t know,” Mel said. “Would you?”

“I mean -- all right, so I’d started seeing him a bit when we were still together,” Julian immediately capitulated. Mel beamed. So she could still wheedle the truth out of her brother after all. “But we didn’t sleep together or anything. It wasn’t cheating. Not really.” He was imploring as if Mel were the barrister presiding over his case. She was only a curious third party with no stake in the game. So she merely shrugged.

He ran an unhappy hand through his hair, which by now was standing up at all sorts of odd angles. “What am I gonna do?”

“What you’ve gotta do is get your shit together. Both of you. I got a business to run, you know? What am I supposed to do? Sack one of you and hire somebody neither of you ballbags have fucked? And we got a band, or have you forgotten that as well?”

“I thought you hated the band.”

“I do, but I’ve started counting on that extra gig dosh.” It felt good to pay for her grass with money that didn’t come directly from her dead nan’s business. “And you love the damned thing. Are you gonna find yourself a replacement keyboardist slash guitarist who shares your same crazy vision of a dystopian soundscape? Think it’s easy to find one of them? You gonna put an ad out in The Sun?”

“Why don’t you ask Rahul?” Julian cried. “He’s the one who’s gone and cocked everything up! It’s his fault for having feelings -- or thinking he’s got feelings. If he weren’t obsessed with me, he’d have never sabotaged my relationship. If he were following somebody else around like a bleeding puppy, then maybe me and Michael would still be together.”

“That’s it,” Mel said, snapping her fingers in the air.

“What is?” Julian asked dubiously.

“We need to set Rahul up with somebody. Get him to fall in love with somebody else. That way Michael won’t have anything to worry about and the two of you can make up. Then you and Rahul can get back to being mates, and Bob’s your uncle -- everything back to normal.”

Julian’s dubiosity had not dissipated. “You reckon? I dunno.” He made a face somewhere between a sneer and a wince that made it look like he was about to sneeze. “He’s been building his feelings up for me for years, said so himself. I don’t think we can come in with some, erm…”

“Bloke. He is gay, you know.”

“Right -- some bloke -- and think he’ll be all gone on him in two shakes and forget all about me. He thinks he loves me, you know? That’s massive, that is. When someone’s got gangrene, you don’t come in with a plaster and think that’s gonna make it all better.”

“Trust me. I know what I’m doing. You leave it all up to me. I’ll sort it. I always do.” And even though she was wearing her best smug expression, he still had the gall to look less than convinced.

 

About the Author

As a queer, nonbinary, person of color, Nicky Silber has made it their mission to bring diversity into all of their creative outlets. Born in New York, raised in Mexico, they studied fine art in San Francisco and have worked in the video game industry since 2012. They currently live in the wilds of North Carolina with their young son and too many pets. Their only two goals in life are to continue to tell queer love stories and, to a lesser extent, finally knit their own sweater.

 

Contact Links

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Horsfall by Jade Buchanan #teaser #excerpt #comingsoon #mm #lgbtq #paranormal #romance #rabtbooktours @ChangelingPress @RABTBookTours

Gay Paranormal Romance

Date Published: August 21, 2026

What started out as a regular job assignment quickly escalated into something more for Oliver Philip when he meets twin Shire horse shapeshifters Bayard and Marshall Stoddard.

 

Hired to perform a safety audit on Horsfall Ranch, Oliver never expected his life to be turned upside down, but he’s game for anything. Happily throwing himself into a relationship with both Bayard and Marshall, Oliver quickly discovers a world of intense pleasure, laughter and comfort.

Unfortunately, storm clouds are gathering on the horizon and Oliver must find the strength to fight for the two men he can’t live without.

 

EXCERPT

 

Excerpt from Tail of Two Brothers

Oliver Philip inhaled deeply, turning his head from side to side to capture as much of the scenery as he could. He couldn't imagine living out here. It was so crisp, so clean. And it was only about twenty minutes outside the city limits too. Hell, it took him longer than that to drive from one end of the city to the other.

He slowed his car, counting the kilometers as they clicked by. "Ten point five, ten point six, ten point seven, and there's the turn off. Exactly where he said it'd be."

Turning into the narrow paved lane, he left the gravel road behind. His client had given him exact directions to the ranch, directions Oliver had needed. It was a little too easy to get lost on the township roads out here. It didn't help that the damn signs were so small. He was used to driving out in the country, but still, this wasn't like trying to find some gas plant. It was kinda hard to miss those.

Horsfall Ranch might be close to the city, but it wasn't exactly easy to get to. Thick brush lined the lane he was practically crawling down, set at the base of tall trees that were obscuring his view to either side. At least the lane was in excellent condition, although he couldn't see anything in front of him but more trees.

He drove around a curve in the road, and suddenly the whole thing opened up. He had to stop the car just to take it all in.

Horsfall sat smack dab in front of him, down a slight incline. The rolling foothills were a picturesque backdrop, with the Rocky Mountains as a steady line marching across the back end in the distance. He could make out the white tops on the mountains; there were only a few wisps of cloud breaking up the blue sky. Great day to be out of the office.

"Damn, I love my job."

Pressing his foot down on the gas pedal, Oliver pulled up to the black wrought iron gate barring his path. Pressing the intercom beside his window, he waited, nervously tapping his fingers on the wheel.

"Hello?" a male voice responded.

"Hi. This is Oliver Philip. I'm here to meet with Bayard Stoddard."

"Sure thing. He's down at the main complex. I'll let him know you're here. Just keep on the road, and you can't miss him."

"Thanks."

The gate opened up slowly, and he made his way through. A small farmhouse sat to the left of the gate, with a big black dog lying on the front porch. He sleepily raised his head, watching Oliver drive past. Oliver chuckled, seriously tempted to stop the car and get out. He absolutely loved animals.

A second house sat back further from the road, a little bigger than the first. He wondered how many people actually lived here. Truth be told, he didn't know much about ranching life. He'd done a bit of research on the company before coming down here, like he always did before accepting a new job, but a website didn't give you much information about the day-to-day workings of a place. Besides, the Horsfall website talked more about their horses than anything else, and most of that information had gone right over his head.

Speaking of which, who knew there would be so many buildings? A large rectangular building stood in front of him, with several smaller ones set around. An empty paddock sat to the right, and he could make out an open barn with machinery just behind the main building. Several gas tanks stood beside the open barn. At least he knew what those were. He felt a little out of his element coming here.

A man stepped out of the large building in front of him. Spying the trucks parked to the right, Oliver pulled his little blue car between two dusty pickups. He opened the door, grabbing his briefcase from the passenger seat. The man had come around to meet him and was now standing at Oliver's back bumper.

Jesus, he'd like to have this man do more than just stand at his back bumper. He was tall, towering over Oliver by at least half a foot. Tanned and devastatingly handsome. Oliver just about swallowed his tongue looking at him. This was what Oliver fantasized about late at night when he was all alone. Fuck, the man was fulfilling almost every one of his dreams physically.

He had a black cowboy hat slanted low on his forehead, and his muscular frame was encased in dusty blue jeans and a worn blue plaid shirt. For a minute Oliver was certain the big man was going to pop the seams on that shirt. It strained across a colossal chest that just begged to be explored.

The cowboy held out one tanned hand. "Mr. Philip, I'm Bayard Stoddard. We spoke on the phone. Thanks for coming out here."

 

About the Author

Jade's writing is as eclectic as her reading tastes. She's also been known to accept writing challenges from friends and family just to see their reactions. She's a firm believer that love and romance are universal concepts, no matter a person's gender identity or sexual orientation.

 

Author’s Website

 

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Jazz Bang Boom by Will Okati #excerpt #mm #lgbtq #romance #comingsoon #rabtbooktours @ChangelingPress @RABTBookTours

Gay Cyberpunk Adventure Romance

Date Published: August 14, 2026

Riot’s attempt to teach his pretty lover to behave himself doesn’t… quite… go as planned.

Jazz loves pretty things and things that go BOOM. Tyger, AKA Riot, is a man on a mission, searching for the bits and pieces that’ll repair his damaged, bio-constructed DNA. It only makes sense for the happily mismatched lovers to turn airship pirates and sneak, snatch or con what they need, right?

Right. One problem. Occasionally Jazz gets a little too fond of explosives, and Tyger gets a tad too focused on his quest. When that happens, they need to vent a little steam. So to speak.

 

EXCERPT

T-minus sixty seconds. Really, it was bad manners to blow up a tea party, but some society dames were just asking for it. Jazz landed in the ornamental rose bushes outside his hostess's parlor window, gathered his heavy silk skirts around his knees, and ran like hell.

Not that he was worried. Jazz knew his explosives like he knew his way around the three-dimensional differential equations of a projected illusory field.

And wine. And perfume. What? Jazz prided himself on having layers.

He ticked off the seconds in his head, listening to an internal countdown. Right about now the aforementioned queens of "polite" society (and those who knew Jazz knew far better than to push a particular argument on behavior becoming to a lady and the mind-boggling double-standards that -- oh, anyway).

Jazz did enjoy traveling to different worlds and sampling the finest wines, velvets, songs and yes, incendiary devices from the thousands of cultures that flourished around the galaxies, but the next time his honey, Riot, wanted to spend time where good manners were forbidden in favor of good times? No thanks.

Where had he been? Oh, right. Crap! Cue the fine ladies screeching, coughing and sneezing, the last of a harmless fog floating out the window he'd helpfully, er, opened by jumping through, and they might have regained enough composure after the flash and bang that went with the smoke to have started complaining and oh, right.

Five, four, three, two --

Jazz managed to free himself of the pannier hoops just in time to dive under the cover of a cluster of almost-certainly-sacred ancient oak trees, before -- BOOM.

If a thing was worth doing, it was worth doing properly. "Proper." See what I did there?

This time, however, the dainty device of detonation had not been hidden in Jazz's decolletage (quite convincing cleavage, if he did say so himself). He'd set the charges long before smiling politely and pretending to enjoy a coin-sized cress sandwich in the ladies' salon.

BOOM.

There, that was the ticket! One for distraction, two to cause confusion to his enemies, e.g. the people in possession of A Thing Jazz Wanted, and a third to blow the ever-living fuck out of irritatingly secure locks that otherwise prevented his honey from wholesale liberation of a few deliciously prized goods.

POOF.

Oops. He'd forgotten the fourth bomb in the salon. Well, that one had been a bit spur of the moment. And a leetle more powerful. Enough to, say, jar loose some ripe pickings of his own, if he were lucky. All he needed to do was circle back around, and --

The discreet two-way comms device concealed in the cunning shape of a rosebud earring spoke to him. "Overkill, Jazz. Overkill."

"Spoilsport," Jazz said, and sneezed. "Let he who has never enjoyed the smell of C4 in the morning cast the first stone in a glass house."

"Excuse me?" The voice on the comms sounded amused. "You're high on adrenaline again, aren't you?"

"Pish, tosh, nonsense, and absolutely, yes. Perhaps that was overkill. Others could say I was in the wrong, but I can't blame me."

"You are a ridiculous man," the speaker said fondly.

"I know." Jazz preened. He sneezed again. "Tch. Plastique is one thing. Debris coated in dust is quite another. What about you, tick-tock man? Did you get what you came here for?"

"Stop calling me that," Riot said, quite clear -- even over the comms -- that he didn't mind in the least, and even had a soft spot in his heart for the nickname. "Yeah, I got what I needed. And then some. Wasn't easy to find and I had to pay a price, but it was worth it."

Jazz enjoyed a ripple's worth of goosebumps. He anticipated all sorts of good things once back on board the Sarah-Jessica-No-Parking. A triumphant Riot made for a feisty Riot with his blood running hot and his body all-systems-go. He employed the same affectionate tone when he replied, "Tell that to the watercress and unspiced kimchi I had to eat to make nice with my hostess."

"The one you just blew up?"

"Unspiced kimchi," Jazz repeated.

"The trials and tragedies you face, darlin'."

"Darn right. This piece of the puzzle you went after -- tell me about it," he coaxed.

"Later. For the moment --"

"Yes, yes. Run and keep running until you swoop in to save the day, and clear out of here before the smoke does?"

"You read my mind," Riot said, very dryly indeed but pleased. Almost purring.

Consider Jazz's curiosity piqued.

"I'm on my way." Such a tragedy, but the skirts had to go. Almost a full bolt of silk! Still, a man had to do what a man had to do, even when he'd tricked himself out in the finest of ladies' clothing.

Probably more so at such times. Hmm. He'd have to think about that more later. In the meantime, business. Beautiful, sparkly, gloriously shiny business! Jazz retrieved the pouches of more easily liftable and valuable trinketry from the panniers and pushed them into his reticule.

"Jazz? When I said run, that wasn't a suggestion."

Oh! Right. "And what'll you be doing while I skedaddle? How will I know if I'm being rescued by the right man?"

"I'll be the one dangling out of an airship with a rope and a half-cocked plan."

"Easily recognizable," Jazz said happily. Wait. "How long a rope? How high do the airships go?" Wouldn't exactly Be Done to whip off the 3-D fooler facade, and on this steampunk aficionado's wet dream of a world the airships he'd seen before had to go quite high indeed --"Riot? How high?"

"High enough I'll make it worth your while to man up and climb. And," Riot purred, "when I say 'worth your while' I mean, 'I plan to punish you, then fuck you three-quarters of the way through the nearest flat surface.'"

"I am so on my way now."

"Fast?"

"Darling, you have no idea." Jazz kicked off his heels. Not the shoes, mind, those gorgeous soft-supple open-calf boots of fawn-soft suede. Just the heels and pattens. "After all, who do you think you're talking to?"

Oh dear. Jazz heard a set of mastiffs on their way. Here I go again. Skirts, knees, running feet, check. Go time.

Fast.

 

About the Author

Willa Okati (AKA Will) is made of many things: imagination, coffee, stray cat hairs, daydreams, more coffee, kitchen experimentation, a passion for winter weather, a little more coffee, a whole lot of flowering plants and a lifelong love of storytelling. Will's definitely one of the quiet ones you have to watch out for, though he -- not she anymore -- is a lot less quiet these days.

 

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The Duke's Runaway Omega by Autumn Montague #teaser #excerpt #lgbtq #historical #mm #romance #rabtbooktours @ChangelingPress @RABTBookTours

 

LGBTQ+ Historical Romance, MPreg, Mystery & Suspense

Date Published: August 14, 2026

 

Phillip’s on the run, with not just one but two alphas on his trail.

 

Raised as an alpha, Phillip’s unexpected manifestation as an omega turns his life upside down. His father demands a handfasting, insisting Phillip be mated to whichever alpha wins the day with their pheromones. But when the triumphant alpha turns out to be his school friend Everett, Phillip realizes they are fated mates. However, as a diminished omega, his chances of bearing Ev’s children are slim. Heartbroken, Phillip flees to London.

Everett never expected to be Duke of Harriford. His title brings a slew of distasteful marriage and handfasting offers. The latest invitation for his old friend Phillip shocks Ev into accepting. Phillip is everything he remembers and more, and Ev soon finds himself responding to the potent scent of Phillip’s pheromones. When his mate runs, Ev questions whether their feelings are true, or merely the bond of alpha and omega. Despite his fears, he’s determined to find Phillip and bring him home.

As Ev searches London, Phillip questions the wisdom of his choices. His plans have begun to unravel rather spectacularly. To start with, he’s pregnant, the one thing he thought he’d never be. Worse, there’s an alpha hunting him -- and it’s not Ev.

 

EXCERPT

 

Yorkshire, 1811

Lord Phillip Tyerman stared through the barred windows of his tower room at the parade of men and women summoned by his father. All of them were well-heeled and every one of them was looking to make a prestigious match with the earl’s eldest son. The earl’s omega son, who was unable to inherit either lands or title. The earl’s useless son, who wasn’t even a full-fledged omega. Just a not-quite-beta whose first presentation had caused no scandal, lured no lusty alphas, and could have been passed off as little more than being in his second puberty. Not even the beta servants of the household had realized anything was amiss. Only his youngest sister had noticed. It had been Philomena, who was now heir to their father’s estate at fifteen, thanks to her unexpected and early manifestation as a dominant alpha. Lovely Phil, whose patrician nose had wrinkled as though a bad odor had just filled the air.

“What a dreadful stink! Have the oranges gone over?”

Phillip could hear it even now, a full year hence, and it still rankled to the point where he’d taken to wearing a strong sandalwood fragrance to avoid smelling like rotted fruit. His father’s shocked look had likewise never left his mind. The forbidding expression on the earl’s face had been bad enough, but Phillip’s subsequent banishment to the tower room from the heir-presumptive suite had cut even deeper. He had been nearly twenty-two at the time, grown tall and strong. He was the spitting image of his father. Everyone, even his omega mother, had assumed he’d manifest soon as an alpha, and his delicate sister as an omega.

The tall and strong young man had become the omega, and the petite, delicate, and winsome girl had become the alpha. God most certainly had a peculiar sense of humor, at least insofar as the Tyerman family was concerned.

With a snort of irritation at the memory, Phillip turned his attention back to the courtyard below, where the last equipage had rolled up to the front steps. The livery on the carriage door proclaimed the occupant to be a member of the Harrifords. Intrigued despite himself, Phillip opened the windowpanes and peered through the bars, hoping for a glimpse of whomever it was that had come from that prestigious family to gawk at the sale of the Tyermans’ awkward omega son. Of course, even if the occupant proved to be Ev Harriford, Phillip fully intended to be well away from this house long before arrangements could be made to pursue a match with any of these honored guests.

He sighed and turned away from the window, leaving it ajar to bring in fresh air to a room that was stuffy even in the dead of winter. He had no fear of his scent drawing unwelcome attention from all those alphas despite being near his heat. His pheromones were practically indiscernible, as even in heat they never carried much beyond his immediate person. The doors to the tower stair were securely locked, and only his mother and his beta valet carried the keys. He felt no qualms about allowing the room to air out while he dressed for this ridiculous charade.

Well, said charade would come to an abrupt and hopefully embarrassing end for his father. Phillip had a small bag packed with the most minimal necessities safely stowed in the bottom of the wardrobe. He’d return to his rooms to “refresh himself” when the alphas retired for brandy and banter, and he’d make his escape then, while his father negotiated with them for Phillip’s eventual marriage to the highest bidder.

The tiniest tremor ran along his spine. It seemed his estrus had chosen to come in a timely manner. At least he would not have to spend several days in isolation waiting for it to arrive so the festivities could begin in earnest. The mere thought of said festivities sent another shiver through him, this one of disgust.

A brisk tap sounded on the door, followed by the sound of keys in the lock and his mother’s quiet entrance. She gave him a mildly disapproving glance upon seeing him still in his ordinary daywear. “You should always lock the inner door, Phillip,” she chided him. “You ought to be in your tails by now. You have a scant half hour before dinner. Your father wishes you to meet the guests tonight prior to the formal ceremony on Saturday.”

“Ceremony!” Phillip winced as the word came out in shocked tones. “What ceremony?! I thought this was the usual idiotic dinner party series so he can twist the arms of his alpha friends and convince one of them to marry me to their offspring --”

“No, dear,” his mother interrupted with false serenity. She smiled at him, the attempt obviously meant to soothe, yet the smile did not reach her eyes. “The earl has decided to make this a formal handfasting ceremony, to ensure the chosen candidate does not hand you the mitten after. So only the most acceptable and honorable suitors were invited. If you don’t find anyone particularly to your liking, the earl will decide who wins the right to bond with you.”

The earl will decide. His mother’s use of his father’s title told Phillip that Lady Winifred Tyerman did not support this extraordinary decision. It also told Phillip that his father had chosen not to leave the critical matter of his awkward son to chance or romantic feelings. His thrice-damned sire would pick the person who would control Phillip for the rest of his life. Then the true significance of his mother’s words penetrated the fog engendered by the word “ceremony.”

“A handfasting? What on earth are you on about?” Phillip cursed himself for the shake in his voice.

Handfasting was an ancient custom, very much out of use, as it used a bonding bite to ensure the omega couldn’t flee with another alpha or beta. But to do so in this day? The handfasting ceremony included a public bite, binding the omega to the alpha forever, socially and physically, even if the alpha chose to marry someone else. While the ceremony wasn’t precisely outlawed, it was frowned upon as outré and generally reserved only for omegas of wealthy families perilously close to the end of their breeding years.

And this was to be his fate? He’d be damned first.

 

 

About the Author

Autumn grew up loving history, mythology, and all things Japanese, not necessarily in that order. This eclectic love affair has bled over into her writing, and her stories are always well spiced with the taste of Japan, strange mythological beasties, or the lords and ladies of the ton. Sometimes all three, leading to dark desires and forbidden loves.

And after all, dangerous passions should lead to uninhibited love.

 

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Zephyr by Mychael Black #teaser #excerpt #lgbtq #mmromance #fantasy #comingsoon #rabtbooktours @RABTBookTours @ChangelingPress

LGBTQ Romance, Romantasy

Date Published: July 3, 2026

A one-night stand changes Aaron and Zach’s lives forever.

 

Aaron Pryce has lived a reclusive life for centuries, content with his dogs and his cabin. A one-night stand, however, sends his comfortable existence into a whirlwind. He’s the best candidate to take over the former House Zalis, but nothing is ever easy. When he visits the compound, he gets the shock of his life.

Zach Cane couldn’t get the man he’d spent one night with out of his head. So imagine his surprise when they meet at Saridan Tower weeks later. As they work to navigate a new relationship, old secrets from Aaron’s past come to light… none of them good.

 

WARNING: Depictions of domestic violence, child abuse, violence, and strong language may be triggers for some readers. Reader discretion is advised.

EXCERPT

“There is no way in hell I am going to take over an entire house.”

The words -- my words -- still rang clear in my head. Two weeks had passed since that conversation with Raphael Santos. I had been very determined to nix the idea completely, but a tiny glimmer of “what-if” lingered. I also couldn’t fathom the work needed to run what was left of House Zalis now that its founding leader, Ivan Zalis, was dead.

Raph had been right, though. The house needed a magic user to run it. I wanted to kick myself for even thinking about it.

Swift on the heels of that came the reminder that it wasn’t just me and the pups now. Although we hadn’t talked about the future during the past couple of lunch dates we’d had since our unexpected meeting at Saridan Tower, there was no denying Zach Cane and I were mates. I had known that first night, when a few hours of insanely hot, quasi-anonymous sex had sealed my damn fate.

I didn’t know if Zach had any clue what we were. Surely, as an alpha, he did, but he hadn’t shown any indication that night or any time since. I certainly hadn’t told him either. I was still struggling with it myself. I’d spent my entire life torn between hoping for my fated mate and praying I never found him. I put the blame squarely at my parents’ feet, too. My alpha father, Stefan, had been a narcissistic asshole who’d used his magic to cause trouble for just about anyone he met, and my omega stepfather, Martin, had despised him for it. I’d been hidden away by him in hopes that my own magic would never be an issue. Hell, Martin had forced me to live as a laicas, a commoner. When he died, though, all bets were off. That’s when I began honing my skills as an Incantas. But watching my folks’ marriage deteriorate, magic or no, soured me on relationships.

Then Zach waltzed into my life.

Barking from inside the house snapped me back to the present. I realized I’d been sitting in the truck for longer than intended. I got out and grabbed the bags of dog food. As soon as I stepped into the house, all four pups swarmed me as if they’d been starving.

“It’s only been an hour, you idiots,” I said with a laugh.

I set the bags down and sat on the floor to get kisses and tail-smacks in the face. I never really intended to have this many pets. I’d started with one, then came another. Then I rescued two more. Now I couldn’t imagine life without my furbabies.

“Okay, okay,” I said as I stood. “Let’s get you nutcases fed.”

I picked up the bags and headed for the kitchen. The cabin wasn’t huge, but it suited me perfectly. I spent the majority of my life here after Martin whisked me away once they split up. Growing up, I hated the isolation, but, over time, I soon preferred it to the city and being around other people. I still had an apartment at Saridan Tower, but this was home. Just me and the pups.

My phone rang as I started filling the four food dishes. I answered it and put it on speaker.

“Hey.”

“Got a minute?” Deacon Saridan asked.

I glanced over at the phone and inwardly sighed. I had the feeling I knew what this was about. “Sure.”

“I’ve been in talks with Javier Torneau. We agree that, while the former House Lorthaen should be dissolved completely, what remains of House Zalis is simply too important, magic-wise. That said, they need a leader.”

“Fuck,” I grumbled. I sat down at the dining table and sighed. “Deacon…”

“I know it isn’t something you really want, but you’re the most obvious choice,” my half-brother said. “You’re one of the strongest Incantas in this area.”

“I don’t want to lead.”

“That’s precisely why you’re the best choice,” Deacon countered. “You’re not the type to let any sort of power go to your head.”

I grimaced. “That’s what Raph said. Have you two been talking?”

Deacon chuckled. “Perhaps, but we’re right.”

“You’re also an asshole,” I muttered. “Both of you.”

“So I’ll see you this afternoon then for a meeting? Say… two?”

“Ugh. Fine. Jackass.”

Deacon laughed. “See you then.”

We hung up, and I dropped my head to the tabletop, tempted to bang it a few times for good measure. Yes, I knew they were right. Ivan Zalis had been a Spiritori, but his death left a lot of good magic users in limbo without a leader. Magiens, Incantas, even a few Spiritori made up what had once been House Zalis. That much firepower, so to speak, couldn’t be unchecked and left to float around without direction and someone to watch them. An Incantas could also weed out the undesirables from the ones who just wanted to live without trouble. Much like myself.

When my phone pinged with a text, I half dreaded looking at it. I did, though, and couldn’t help but smile. Despite the mates issue lingering like an elephant between us, seeing Zach’s name pop on my screen made me ache with a hunger I hadn’t felt for anyone before meeting him.

Got any plans this evening?

 

About the Author

Mychael Black has been writing professionally since 2005. He writes gay romance and erotica, but also het romance as Carys Seraphine and queer fantasy as Katherine Cook.

He's an avid PC gamer with a love for RPGs, a horror fanatic, and a fantasy nut. He also has a weakness for anything relating to skulls, dogs, and Spongebob Squarepants.

Mychael lives on the Eastern Shore of the US with his family. He loves to hear from readers, be it via email or Facebook.

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Dona Nobis Pacem by Will Okati #excerpt #teaser #comingsoon #mmromance #lgbtq #romance #rabtbooktours @RABTBookTours @changelingpress

Historical Gay Romance

Date Published: May 29, 2026

Publisher: Changeling Press

 

Dona Nobis Pacem. God Grant Us Peace.

 

Voiceless Donnell and defrocked priest Nathan are outcasts and strangers at the turn of the century. Despite his handicap, Donnell has made a life for himself as a businessman and owner of a saloon. His heart goes out to those whom life has dealt an unhappy hand. When Nathan arrives in this former gold-rush town, horsewhipped and ill to the point of collapse, Donnell is the only one to offer help.

Barely ordained before being accused of unnatural desires, Nathan has been sent to travel a faux road to Damascus as penance. He did not expect to survive the trek, and longed for the peace he might find when his body gave up the fight.

He never expected to meet someone like Donnell. Despite his lack of voice, Donnell is the teacher Nathan has hungered for all his life, and the lover he never dared seek out. Triumphing over a lifetime's worth of threatened damnation will not be easy to overcome, but Donnell's not giving up. The passion they share is what both men have always craved, but never found. When they're discovered, standing together is the only thing that will save them both.

 

EXCERPT

 

In a fit of optimism, some enterprising settler twenty-odd years ago had named this patch of land "Shady Grove." The name hadn't stuck longer than the first summer, arid heat scorching the life out of anything the daft fellow had tried to plant, and carrying away his wife and children.

After that, or so the story went, the settler had cursed his homestead with the new name of "Hell."

When gold was found not far west in a puny stream, the name changed yet again to "El Dorado." Though that lasted no longer than the rush of miners who picked, panned and mined away most of the precious metal.

When the gold was mostly gone and civilization caught up with the roughneck men who'd blazed through in search of riches, there came bankers, lawyers and doctors, along with their pretty wives and dainty daughters. Amongst themselves, they'd formed a quaint city council, elected a mayor, nominated a marshal, and rechristened this hole in the ground as "Nazareth."

Those whose tongues weren't corseted by the niceties observed in polite society still called the former boomtown "Hell."

As for Donnell, he called it home, and had since the day he was born, a silent infant who'd opened his mouth to wail, but made almost no sound, not then and rarely ever afterward. The best he could manage was a sort of scale of breathing -- a whistle, a shush, a sigh. He'd never spoken a proper word. At least his hearing was top-notch.

Music was Donnell's voice instead, tickled out through the ivories of the old upright piano he'd paid a considerable sum in gold dust to have shipped from Chicago. Within the safe haven of Treighton's saloon, Donnell had placed that piano facing the street, where he'd have a fine view through the mosquito netting over the window when he played.

He could arrange Treighton's however he wanted, no questions asked. Owner's rules and that owner would be him.

Music wasn't his only skill. He was a favored son of Lady Luck, and the cards danced to his tune. Those who thought a mute man was simple, and an easy cheat at faro, often found themselves losing big.

He'd given up the game after winning Treighton's, though. No sense in pushing his luck too far.

A man who'd call himself satisfied with his lot in life, Donnell caressed the piano keys, a jingling tune flowing smooth and sweet as quality whiskey under his mastery of the music. He let the corner of his mouth quirk upward with dry humor. Many were they who'd claimed the son of a whore, muteness aside, would never make anything of his life. They'd been wrong, too.

Did they accept his good fortune with grace? Hell, no. The "proper" folks of Nazareth scorned him still, and always would. Too good for the likes of him and his saloon.

Thank God for sinners, eh?

* * *

A sudden clamor rose from the dusty, uneven street outside, usually quiet and deadly dull during the morning hours while laborers and leftover miners toiled, polite society occupied themselves with polite works, and gamblers slept off their night's fun. Attention captured, Donnell peered through the mosquito netting over his window.

Soon enough, the source of the commotion came into view. Donnell raised one eyebrow, intrigued. A tall, lean man, far too thin for his height. He was dressed in the tattered remnants of a once-respectable shirt, now missing its collar and cuffs, and formerly sturdy denim trousers, with no hat on his head nor shoes on his feet nor a coat on his back. Bleached-out hair stringy from lack of washing and long enough to be caught up in a queue hung over his face and tangled across his eyes.

Donnell leaned forward, instantly captivated. He'd never seen the equal of those eyes, their color distinct even at this distance. Aqua blue, the shade of summer skies, dulled by hunger and pain, but no less remarkable.

In point of fact, were he to be cleaned up and provided with a few good healthy meals, Donnell guessed this young man would easily steal anyone's heart away. Not least of all his.

Not that anyone knew about his preferences. It was safer that way. He came in for scant questioning about his lack of female companionship, as most thought if his tongue didn't work then neither would his cock.

Donnell abandoned those thoughts and focused on the beautiful -- yes, beautiful -- young man instead, a far more pleasant diversion. He'd no stubble on his cheeks or chin, both badly sunburned. Young, then. Tall and gangly enough that at a guess Donnell would have put him in his late teens, no more than twenty, not so far Donnell's junior.

A man could make quite a lot of himself in twenty years plus change. He could raise himself a fine establishment like Donnell's, or he could end up staggering filthy and starving down a dusty, badlands street with children and bad-tempered dogs jeering him every barefooted step of the way.

Donnell frowned when the young man staggered, swaying alarmingly before righting himself. That didn't seem to be clumsiness, but rather weariness. Perhaps illness?

"Drunk," Bettina sniffed, peering past Donnell. She might work in a saloon, but she had no patience with men who behaved badly when they'd had too much of the grape and grain. She didn't scold like the holy men, no, she tore strips off their hides and nailed them to the wall, and they loved her for it.

Barely hearing her, Donnell continued to track the man's progress. Seeming to ignore the rabble jeering at him, he came to a stop and stood up as straight as he could, attempting to brush dust, mud and worse off his clothes, smoothing them down. He dragged his hair out of his face with hands that shook minutely and gazed up the length of the street still to go.

The quiet despair in his eyes struck a chord in Donnell's heart, reverberating with a sense of hollow misery. Here was a man who'd fallen as far as he could go, with a trail of heartbreak behind him that stretched out for as many miles as he'd walked.

Donnell sat back and drummed his fingers on his knees. Poor bastard.

Enough kind souls had helped Donnell in his day. He owed this poor fellow no less.

 

About the Author

Willa Okati (AKA Will) is made of many things: imagination, coffee, stray cat hairs, daydreams, more coffee, kitchen experimentation, a passion for winter weather, a little more coffee, a whole lot of flowering plants and a lifelong love of storytelling. Will's definitely one of the quiet ones you have to watch out for, though he -- not she anymore -- is a lot less quiet these days.

 

Will on Facebook

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Will on Goodreads

 

Publisher on Facebook, Instagram, Twitter, and TikTok: @changelingpress

 

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Precog's Perception by Emily Carrington #teaser #excerpt #mmromance #lgbtq #shifterromance #rabtbooktours @CarringtonEmily @ChangelingPress @RABTBookTours

(Psychic Soulmates 1)

A SearchLight Paranormal Romance

LGBTQ+ Shifter Romance

Date Published: May 1, 2026

Publisher: Changeling Press

When the world doesn’t catch fire, Amaruq doubts his precognition. Can Nootaikok’s love heal him?

A stillborn pup, precognition unfulfilled, and raging guilt plague a trans werewolf. Amaruq’s suspicion that there’s something wrong with him, and that the death of his and Nootaikok’s child is his fault, colors all that he does. Traumatized, he denies himself pleasure.

Nootaikok will have none of that. He takes Amaruq on a “working vacation” back to the scene of Nootaikok’s greatest mistake. As both of them struggle with feelings of inadequacy and undeservingness, their bodies and souls still demand release.

Will their fears pull them apart or can passion lead back to love and forgiveness?

Excerpt

Copyright ©2026 Emily Carrington

They’d started their mentor/mentee relationship with letters. Amaruq didn’t know about Jeremy, but for him, the fear of being found out in this digital age inspired him to write physical correspondence. Amaruq had a feeling he should be sharing these concerns with his mate, but he couldn’t bear for Nootaikok to know how guilty he felt. So, he wrote to the Night Wanderer who had become his friend.

Dear Jeremy,

I hate what I have become. I’m a sneak who doesn’t know how to apologize to my lover for losing our child. I get it that a stillbirth isn’t exactly my fault. I did nothing to make it happen. The issue is that I don’t want to try again. Try for another baby. It wasn’t just losing our child, our pup, but the dysmorphia I endured being pregnant when I’ve worked so hard to be my authentic male werewolf self. I do not, no matter what, regret that Nootaikok and I were trying for a baby. I don’t. I just don’t want to try again. In spite of my precognitive vision. That future glimpse guarantees I’ll be pregnant again at some point, as I saw Nootaikok and I surrounded by werewolf pups of many ages. I just don’t want to be.

I also dread Nootaikok finding out.

Speaking of dread, I can easily believe Nootaikok is angry with me for making him leave his position in DC. I’m afraid of the argument we’ll eventually have. I just wanted to be near you, where I’ve always felt safe. That’s the wrong kind of emotion to have for someone who isn’t my mate. Please don’t misunderstand. I’m not sexually attracted to you in any way. It’s just that you rescued me from the hell of living under my parents’ roof and inspired me to become part of the Miscellaneous Magical Creatures Department. It’s just that, now that you’ve moved to DC, I want to return. I know Nootaikok wouldn’t get his job back, though, and I don’t want him to be humiliated by having to walk those same halls every day as just a tracker and not the head of the whole world’s Tracker Central.

He stopped his pen before he could disclose more about his fears. Surely this letter, which was basically a rambling jumble of all his terror, wouldn’t help anything.

He shredded the page and tossed it in the garbage can in the den. There would be no leaving it around for someone else to discover.

Today, Friday, was his last day of parental leave. On Monday, he’d be expected to resume his work at the MMCD. He needed to pull himself together.

With that in mind, Amaruq looked around the den and then down at himself. He still looked slightly pregnant. He’d been slowly exercising away the pounds he’d gained as he tried to make a hospitable home for their pup to grow. Since he was a werewolf, he wouldn’t look ready to deliver much longer. Maybe six weeks total, which would mean another week or two.

He headed for the doorway to the den, determined to go for a run and maybe, by doing so, make himself feel more grounded in his body and less like a spirit drifting over the earth, unattached to anything but pain.

* * *

They were arguing again. For crying out loud, Nootaikok thought, it’s like he’s my spouse instead of my tracker partner.

He glared at Luis, the psychic vampire with whom he’d been paired less than six months ago. Luis was, by all accounts, including his own, one of the best damn negotiators/spies/hunters/executioners in the United States. Luis’s prowess was matched only by the arrogance Nootaikok swore radiated off him in waves now. Funny, but the infernal psychic vampire hadn’t struck Nootaikok as full of himself when he’d accompanied Tilthos Charles to the international meeting of magical creatures that had happened over a year ago.

At first, when he and Luis initially began working together, Nootaikok had borne Luis’s grief and discontent. Luis’s former tracker partner had moved with his mate to the nation’s capital, and Luis had been understandably upset. He and his former partner had worked together for a decade or more, becoming one of the most formidable tracker teams in the world.

However, Nootaikok had been dealing with Luis’s grumpiness for close to half a year, and the frustration he felt was threatening to boil over.

He took in a breath, counting to five before releasing it soundlessly. “Luis,” he said, “I’m not injured. I heal as quickly as any werewolf, and I have earned the right to take the risks other trackers do. Please don’t hamper my working or your own. Going out without another tracker when I’m standing right here is foolish.” He paused, saw Luis was about to object, and added, “I don’t want to be the one to take your dead body back to Tilthos Charles.”

That last got through. Nootaikok could see it in the dropping of Luis’s shoulders and the way he pressed his lips together. Tilthos Charles, Charlie to those closest to him, was the alpha of their shared pack. He was also Luis’s mate and husband. Less than a year ago, Tilthos Charles had been the target of malicious intent from other werewolves and the former queen of the grand fae. He’d suffered what would have been called in humans of the 1900s a “nervous breakdown.” He’d been healed but, since it was less than twelve months since he’d recovered, Luis was understandably protective.

“Fine,” Luis muttered. “Are you ready to go?”

Nootaikok checked the gun in its holster at the small of his back. “Yes.”

“Come on then.” Luis strode out of his office, leading the way toward the back parking lot.

Nootaikok kept pace with him. “Tell me about this one.”

“Didn’t you read the briefing?” Luis demanded.

Sighing, Nootaikok answered, “She’s most likely a werewolf or half werewolf. It’s unlikely she’s from the United States as the humans she’s left alive say she spoke to them in a thick Russian accent. That doesn’t preclude her being from the US, though.”

“Or she’s been sent here.”

They settled into Luis’s car, which Nootaikok didn’t like, because it meant Luis got to drive. Luis was his alpha’s mate, and Nootaikok wasn’t a werewolf so dominance didn’t affect him as much. Still, he liked being in charge of his own transportation. Years of being the senior member of his own tracker team had spoiled him. Also, when he’d been the leader of Tracker Central in Washington, DC, he hadn’t been at anyone’s mercy.

“One of the sharpshooters managed to get a tag on her,” Luis said. “Let me check the GPS and see if she’s still where they left her.”

“She was in a village not too far from here,” Nootaikok said. He wanted to ask why the sharpshooter hadn’t taken her out since she’d been killing humans. Before he could formulate the question in a way that would possibly cause less offense, Luis cursed.

“She’s headed toward the pack house.”

Nootaikok pulled out his phone as Luis peeled out of the parking lot.

Luis commanded, “Call the house. Tell whoever’s there to get everyone inside.”

 

About the Author

Emily Carrington is a multipublished author of male/male and transgender women’s speculative fiction. Seeking a world made of equality, she created SearchLight to live out her dreams. But even SearchLight has its problems, and Emily is looking forward to working all of these out with a host of characters from dragons and genies to psychic vampires. And in the contemporary world she’s named “Sticks & Stones,” Emily has vowed to create small towns where prejudice is challenged by a passionate quest for equality. Find her on Facebook at Shapeshifter Central or on her website.

 

Author’s Website

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Claimed Without Mercy by Dulce Dennison #excerpt #comingsoon #mmromance #lgbtq #romance #rabtbooktours @changelingpress @RABTBookTours

 

Gay Enemies to Lovers Romance

Date Published: April 24, 2026

Publisher: Changeling Press

Captive. Claimed. Protected by the devil himself.

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

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

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

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

WARNING: Intended for readers 18+. Dark MM mafia romance. Possessive antihero. Captor/captive tension, dubious consent. High heat. Guaranteed HEA. No cheating.

Excerpt

Copyright ©2026 Dulce Dennison

Ian

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Really? Pull it out, then.”

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

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

“It’s nothing, I swear --”

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

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

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

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

“Please, Mr. Grant, I wasn’t --”

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

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

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

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

He nodded frantically, gasping for air.

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

“They… they die,” he choked out.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The study door stood ajar. I knocked anyway.

“Come in, Ian,” Tyson called.

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

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

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

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

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

“Is he breathing?”

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

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

“It’s not even ten.”

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

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

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

“Sleep’s overrated.”

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

“Just doing my job.”

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

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

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

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

The name hung in the air between us.

“What about him?” I asked.

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

“You want me to collect.”

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

My jaw clenched. “That’s a mistake.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“When?” I asked, closing the file.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

 

About the Author

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

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