Camilla Vargas, gifted violinist unwilling to ever play again.
When I said I wanted to start over somewhere new, being pulled into a world of monsters and magic is not what I had in mind. Caught in the grips of a faulty spell, my only hope of getting home is picking up a violin and completing a goddess’ quest. Add to that a handsome but less-than-willing, divinely appointed bodyguard, and this whole fiasco runs the risk of ruining my new life plan.
But maybe that’s not so bad.
Valmong, prodigy cleric ignoring the voice of his patron god.
When Tenebrin’s voice rings in my mind, I’m usually better at tuning him out. But he’s persistent, and as a cry rings out through the trees, I can’t ignore the order to help. Camilla is odd — for a bard — refusing the violin that’s clearly hers and unfamiliar with the magic she can wield. Her quest for Claritas’ Insight will probably get me killed, but the longer I’m with her, the less I care.
I just want to keep her safe — even if it means I’ll never see her again.
Valmong slides one hand into my hair beneath the hood as the other settles on my lower back. My heart thunders in my chest, adrenaline spiking my anxiety a few more notches. His fingers graze my neck, a spot near my jugular where I’ve always been ticklish, and I gasp. He deepens the kiss, the embrace turning intimate as I shift in his arms, my hand sliding along the scar on his jaw. Something wraps around my waist, and it takes me a second to realize it must be his tail.
If not for the fear, I could almost forget it’s an act. His lips are soft, his touch gentle. I could get lost in this kiss, if I let myself.
Valmong’s grip loosens, the pressure of his lips growing lighter, until he’s pulled away enough to speak. “He’s gone.”
The air inside the room is lighter than it was, and the crowd has gone back to the generally jovial atmosphere from before. As the band’s music picks up again, I let myself sigh a breath of manic relief. I’m suddenly glad for the mask, knowing how flushed my cheeks must be. And I’m still in his lap, his tail anchoring me in place.
I don’t react right away, too distracted by his proximity, by the way the tavern’s light plays with the gold flecks in his eyes. We both realize we’re staring at the same time, and embarrassment flashes across his face. His tail falls away, and I scramble to my feet.
“I-”
“We shouldn’t linger.” He runs a hand through his hair, eyes darting to the door. “If we’re heading back to the temple, we need to go now.” Valmong tosses a few coins on the table and makes his way through the crowd. I struggle to keep up. As soon as we’re through the door, though, he notices my slower pace and takes my hand. “Stay close. They’ll still be looking.”
The sky has grown orange and pink, the night probably an hour or so away. Around us the crowd continues to party, oblivious to the anxiety and adrenaline pumping through me. Mingling among the revelers are clerics, easily identified by the now familiar robes. A few in black have joined the festival, but it’s impossible to recognize them. They all have their hoods up, and like everyone else, their faces are covered with masks. Their voices carry over the crowd in a steady chant that rises above the music.
“What are they saying?”
Valmong doesn’t need to look to know what I’m asking about. “It’s a prayer, initiating Tenebrin’s portion of the festival.” I want to keep watching, but Valmong pulls me through the crowd as the chanting gets louder. “Hurry — the temple will close soon.”
Katheryn is a software engineer in the Philadelphia area, writing fantasy and paranormal stories when she’s not fighting technology. In 2013, she graduated from King’s College in Pennsylvania with degrees in Computer Science and Professional Writing — so she’s always writing, be it software or fiction. She lives with her husband, Eric, and their furbaby, Ada.
In the 1930s, Stalin’s activists marched through the Soviet Union, espousing the greatness of collective farming. It was the first step in creating a man-made famine that, in Ukraine, stole almost 4 million lives. Inspired by the history the world forgot, and the Russian government denies, Erin Litteken reimagines their story. In 1929, Katya is 16 years old, surrounded by family and in love with the boy next door. When Stalin’s activists arrive in her village, it’s just a few, a little pressure to join the collective. But soon neighbors disappear, those who speak out are never seen again and every new day is uncertain.
Resistance has a price, and as desperate hunger grips the countryside, survival seems more a dream than a possibility. But, even in the darkest times, love beckons.
Seventy years later, a young widow discovers her grandmother’s journal, one that will reveal the long-buried secrets of her family’s haunted past.
This is a story of the resilience of the human spirit, the love that sees us through our darkest hours and the true horror of what happened during the Holodomor.
“I never imagined the release of my novel on a past oppression of the Ukrainian people would coincide with such a parallel tragedy.” Erin Litteken
May we never forget, lest history repeat itself.
A share of proceeds will be donated to DEC’s Ukraine Humanitarian Appeal.
A sharp click echoed in the room, and everyone froze. The Russian’s cocked pistol pointed at Tato. “Are you resisting orders? If you are, we will have to label you an enemy of the people. We all know what happens to enemies of the people. I could shoot you right now, and nobody would care.”
Katya’s head buzzed. All the anger she’d felt morphed into sheer terror as she stared at her Tato. His beet-red face glistened with sweat and his hands curled slowly into fists, the anger crackling off him like a hungry fire seeking fuel. If someone didn’t intercede, he would be shot for attempting to murder Prokyp with his bare hands.
Mama, too, saw his inner struggle, for she stepped in front of Tato and spoke calmly. “I apologize for my husband’s behavior. He’s overprotective of his daughters. He didn’t mean what he said. We’ll cooperate, I swear it.”
The Russian smirked and lowered his gun. Dropping Alina’s hand, Katya pulled her father into a hug and spoke in his ear. “Please, Tato, there is no harm done, but we can’t lose you. Please.” She felt the tension lessen from his body, but vibrations of anger still throbbed like the veins on his neck.
Prokyp watched the scene with amusement, then sauntered back over to his cohorts, smiling. The Russian turned to him and asked with complete sincerity, “Have you been offended by this man? What would you like to do, Comrade?”
Prokyp glanced at Tato and then at Alina, who was white as a sheet, but holding her head high as Mama had taught them to. Katya’s legs wobbled, so she locked her knees and held her breath as they waited for this fool to decide the fate of their family.
“I suppose I can overlook it this once, as long as he and his family promise to cooperate fully in the future.” His gaze lingered on Alina. “But we shall have to check back here often to make sure they are behaving.”
Another activist pushed into the house with a large sack of wheat balanced on his shoulder. “I found this, and another just like it, hidden in the barn loft.”
Katya’s heart sank. She’d worried the wheat in the barn wasn’t hidden well enough, but Tato thought it safe out of sight beneath the hay.
“You can’t take that!” Tato shouted. “It’s my seed for planting this fall!”
“This will pay your quota. For now.” The Russian Soviet waved a hand dismissively, as if suddenly bored by them. “Come, we must move to the next house.”
The woman cast an apologetic look toward Mama and hurried behind the men as they left. The door swung wildly in their wake, and none of them moved until Tato strode forward and slammed it shut, though not before Katya saw the activists’ cart stacked high with sacks of grain, just like the ones they’d taken from the barn.
Erin Litteken is a debut novelist with a degree in history and a passion for research. At a young age, she was enthralled by stories of her family’s harrowing experiences in Ukraine before, during and after World War II. She lives in Illinois, USA with her husband and children.
A generations-old family feud might ruin a couple’s last chance at love…and tear apart the oldest whiskey distillery in Tennessee in the process.
Danica: I need a win. My scumbag ex-boss is trying to drag my reputation through the mud. If I can land my first client, I might be able to get my marketing business off the ground. But when I show up for my first meeting with the owners of a distillery, the gorgeous guy at the end of the table looks an awful lot like the one-night stand I ghosted. So I do what any hot mess in heels would do… pretend like we’ve never met.
Cole: The Hatfields and McCoys have nothing on the feud my family’s got going. We’ve been fighting with the Stewarts longer than anyone in Beaver Bluff can remember. Which sucks since we happen to co-own the largest whiskey distillery in Tennessee. Now they’ve brought in a marketing consultant to switch things up. If I can’t fight my attraction to the woman with curves like a back mountain road, she could ruin me.
Lose yourself in the richly crafted world of Beaver Bluff, Tennessee where the whiskey flows freely and love is only ever a few pages away.
Cole caught me around the waist and propped me up, his mouth wringing the last bits of pleasure from me until I whimpered against him. I was empty, wrung out in the most incredible way. How had he taken my offering and turned it around to satisfy me?
While I laid there, still spinning out of control, he lowered himself, kissing a path from my thighs, over my ass, and up the small of my back. His lips tickled, but I didn’t have the strength to offer any kind of response.
“You weren’t supposed to do that,” I finally managed.
He paused between kisses. “I wasn’t supposed to make you feel good?”
“No. I mean…yes…but I wanted you to feel good.” My mouth pressed against the quilt, making my voice come out in a slurred, punch drunk way.
“Making you feel good is what makes me feel good.” He ran his finger along my side, stopping when he reached the curve of my breast.
“You’re like a unicorn.”
“A what?” His laugh rumbled along my skin.
“A unicorn. A man who lives to satisfy his partner in bed? I can’t believe I found you. I didn’t think men like you existed.”
“I thought you were calling me a unicorn because of my big, long—”
“No, that makes you a well-endowed unicorn.” I somehow got my knees underneath me and lifted myself onto all fours.
USA Today bestselling author Dylann Crush writes contemporary romance with sizzle, sass, heart and humor. A true romantic, she loves her heroines spunky and her heroes super sexy. When she’s not dreaming up steamy storylines, she can be found sipping a margarita and searching for the best Tex-Mex food in the Upper Midwest.
Dylann co-hosts Romance Happy Hour (https://www.romancehappyhour.com/) with live episodes every 2nd and 4th Thursday of each month and is a founding member of the Romance Chicks group where authors and romance readers can connect.
Although she grew up in Texas, she currently lives in a suburb of Minneapolis/St. Paul with her unflappable husband, three energetic kids, a clumsy Great Dane, a lovable rescue mutt, and a very chill cat. She loves to connect with readers, other authors and fans of tequila. You can find her at www.dylanncrush.com.
