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Tuesday, August 29, 2023

War of the Sea - Kickstarter Olympian Wars Book One Dana Claire

 


War of the Sea - Kickstarter
Olympian Wars
Book One
Dana Claire

Genre: Fantasy Romance
Publisher: Chamberlain Publishing House
ISBN: 9798987263563
ASIN: B0BLGH16G6
Number of pages: 270
Word Count: 80,000
Cover Artist: Brush Media Group

Tagline: A bargain. A brigand. A battle for the sea.

Book Description:

His powers could save the ocean. Her vendetta could sink a kingdom.

Captain Elouise Farrington, the youngest pirate on the Caviar Sea, seeks revenge on her father’s killer. But when her oddly hypnotic foe proposes a pact to kill the Siren Queen and end the War of the Sea’s bloodshed, she must make a choice. Put aside her long-brewing retribution or act the underhanded pirate and use the alliance to claim the life of the man who destroyed her family?

Captain Rylander Bordeaux, the revered royal navy captain of the Isle of Cava, has one mission—kill the Siren Queen and end the War of the Sea. The ocean is the only place Rylander calls home, but to bring peace to his beloved waves, he must defeat his past so he can reshape the future. His greatest hope is Captain Elouise, who calls to him like no siren song ever has. Too bad she’s almost as bloodthirsty as the fanged heart-eaters themselves. She promises to lend her all-female crew to his war on the sirens, but can he trust a brigand—especially one who wants him dead—to uphold her end of the bargain? Or will she be his undoing?

www.WaroftheSea.com

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 Excerpt:

Our mouths met once again, hungry and desperate, as I lifted her into my arms. Her chemise rose and bunched in between us. My palms cupped her exposed thighs, urging them to encircle my waist. I walked us backward to the bed, never breaking our kiss, and slowly lowered her down, careful to bear my weight against my forearm. I savored the softness of her lips, the warmth of her breath mingling with mine, as her fingers wove into my hair. Pleasure and pain radiated through my scalp as she pulled the ends with her iron grip, her moans urging me on. With my free hand, I explored her, tracing the lines of her neck, the softness of her breasts. Her body arched in response, a silent plea for more.

I continued my journey, my hand tracing the curve of her hip, slipping beneath her knee, and wrapping her leg around me once more. The connection between us grew stronger, an unspoken understanding that we were meant to be entwined, a meeting of souls. And then, with a surge of anticipation, I pressed into her, feeling her heat and the electric pulse of our bodies against one another.

She pulled back, her eyes locking onto mine, reflecting a hunger and longing that mirrored my own. A mischievous smile played upon her lips as her fingers toyed with the button on my trousers. But before she undid it, I heard a noise. Footsteps.

“It’s probably a good idea to tell you both I’m in the room.” Smitter’s voice sounded somewhere behind me, way too close to the bed, to us.

I jumped backward, lost my balance, and stumbled to the floor. My rear landed hard. Lou swathed herself in a wad of sheets.

“I had hoped you’d come up for air, but there’s really no good way to interrupt.” He waved in between us.

“I’m going to kill you,” I growled from the floor. Out of all the times my uncle had popped in and out of a room, this had to be the most invasive and humiliating.

“Why would you …? I can’t— Don’t you ever do that again,” Lou shouted, horrified. Her hands balled around the sheets. Flushed like a sunburned noble, she volleyed her gaze between me, half clothed on the floor, and Smitter. Her knotted hair stuck up on top of her head.

“Yes, I realize it’s not great timing, but the two of you need your rest. We drop anchor tomorrow on the perimeter of Anthemusa. The men have already been moved to the soundproof rooms. And we need to strategize how you’ll slay the Siren Queen, now that our first plan is no longer viable.” Smitter’s concerned brown eyes found mine. “Also, your aunt said this isn’t the right time for”—he swirled a finger in our general direction—“this.”

Lou’s brows contorted. “What? Who is your aunt?” She gaped at me.

I waved Lou off. Aunt Artemis, the goddess of childbirth, would know when Lou should abstain, but I wasn’t about to have that conversation. I bent my knees, resting my elbows on my thighs, and rubbed my temples. My family had truly outdone themselves. Not a single boundary nor a clue as to how their incessant involvement could be a nuisance.







About the Author:

DANA CLAIRE is an award-winning author whose stories explore identity, fate, and destiny in the crossroads of romance and adventure. 

Her love of romantic tension and the supernatural effortlessly translates into spine-tingling action and unforgettable characters. 

She lives in Los Angeles, CA with her adoring husband living her dreams: writing books, telling stories, and changing the world, one reader at a time. 














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Thursday, August 17, 2023

Outcast Artist in Bretagne WWII Heartbreak and Forbidden Love Diane Scott Lewis

 


Outcast Artist in Bretagne 
WWII Heartbreak and Forbidden Love
Diane Scott Lewis

Genre: Historical Romance 
Publisher: BWL publishing, inc.
Date of Publication: May 1, 2023
ISBN-10: ‎0228625505
ISBN-13: ‎978-0228625506
ASIN: B0C24NLLBK
Number of pages: 370
Word Count: 98,000
Cover Artist: Michelle Lee

Tagline:  Can a damaged Englishwoman find love with her worst enemy, or will the brutality of war rip them apart? Is she a spy? Will he retaliate against Hitler? A dangerous love affair.

Book Description:  

Unwed and pregnant, Norah Cooper flees England to hide with her cousin in Brittany just before Germany’s 1940 invasion of France. After her baby is stillborn, she's trapped under the Occupation as war expands across Europe. Norah grieves and consoles herself by sketching wildlife. When she’s caught too near the coast, she comes under scrutiny of the German commandant, Major August von Gottlieb.

August loathes what Hitler is doing to his country and France but is duty-bound to control the people in his jurisdiction. The lively young Englishwoman piques his interest. Is she a spy? He questions her and asks her to sketch his portrait so he might uncover the truth.

Soon, their relationship evolves into a passion neither of them can deny. She endures taunts from the villagers. His superiors warn him of not being harsh enough—he could be transferred or worse. He plans to sabotage a major war machine of the Reich, while she secretly helps the Resistance. Both acts are fraught with danger while kept secret from one another. Will their love ruin her and end in heartbreak? Or will they overcome the odds and survive the surging threats on all sides?

EXCERPT ONE

August’s offer of marriage sent a tremor through her. Could that ever be possible? Did they have a future? Or would the war destroy them?

So many problems to consider. Norah traced a finger over the slight cleft in his chin and his lower lip. The lips that had given her so much delight. The gaze she once thought arrogant now adored her, assuring her as best he could.

She smiled at his confidence. The memory of their union sent warmth throughout her body. She brimmed with love, though the danger lurked beneath the surface.

He sat up and smoothed down his hair. “Let’s dress and get off this floor.”

Sitting, she pulled her clothes on. August finished dressing, stood, and offered his hand.

Once on her feet, she picked up a cushion and so did he. They fitted them back in the chairs.

She ran her fingers through her hair, then retied the bow on her blouse. Another concern surged up. “When can you contemplate retirement from the army?”

“The earliest would be next year. I want my son graduated from school, then sent off to college.” He brushed off his trousers. His gaze met hers. “A college in Switzerland being preferable.”

“You want him safe.” Had August been making plans all along to keep his son out of Hitler’s claws? Norah wanted August out of the madman’s clutches, too.

“Yes, safe. But I have important business to take care of here before any thoughts of retirement.” He tucked in his shirt. “Something I’ve recently realized needs to be done.”

“What is it?” She rubbed low on her back.

“I’ll tell you when the reason for it is closer.” He tugged on his tunic, fastening his high collar where the Iron Cross hung.

She glanced away from the reminder of what he represented. “You can’t tell me anything? I want you to confide in me.”

He pulled her close and kissed her, thoroughly. “I’ll confide when I can. Don’t worry, you will approve.”

“Is it dangerous for you?” She gasped after the kiss and now grew apprehensive about this new information. The idea of the guarded port stuck in her mind for some reason.

He opened the door and peered out. “I’ll give you the details later, I promise.”

“Not too much later, please.” She cocked her head and clasped his arm. “I hope it’s something to slow this war. We must all make that effort.”

He pressed on her fingers, his smile sweet, then gestured for her to exit. “Goodbye for now, meine liebe. We’ll meet again as soon as it can be arranged. I’ll discreetly leave notes for you in the terracotta pot of geraniums in front of your cottage.”

“Yes, very soon. But that reminds me.” She pulled a paper from her pocket and handed it to him. “The words for my telegram.”

“I will take care of this tomorrow morning.” August slipped the paper into his tunic pocket. His smile now looked sad. “Don’t forget, I have limited power out here. There are constraints.”

“I understand. I’ll check the pot daily. Be careful in whatever you plan.” Stepping out into the warm air, her mind swirled with fear for him, herself, and the need for more of what they’d just shared.

“I love you,” they both whispered, gazes intense.

Norah’s step quickened away from the summerhouse. She’d turned into the worst of wanton women, a fraternizer. The English called it a Jerry-bag. But her love for him gripped her, staggering her as she hurried around bushes and under trees. The green scents washed away the sweat of lovemaking.

She chewed the inside of her cheek. How much time would they have if Hitler clamped down harder here, in Brittany—and across the channel? She could lose August, lose her country. 



About the Author:

Diane Parkinson (Diane Scott Lewis) grew up in the San Francisco Bay Area, joined the Navy at nineteen, married in Greece and raised two sons all over the world, including Puerto Rico and Guam. 

A member of the Historical Novel Society, she wrote book reviews for the Historical Novels Review. Diane worked from 2007 to 2010 as an on-line historical editor. Writing since the age of five, she had her debut novel published in 2010, a story that takes place during the French Revolution. She’s had several historical and historical-romance novels published between 2010 and 2021. 

Her newest novel, a WWII romantic suspense, released in May. A fan of graphic arts, she’s designed brochures and book covers. She also enjoys traveling and camping. Her extensive traveling inspired her love of history.
Diane lives with her husband and dachshund in western Pennsylvania.

For more on her books visit her blog: https://dianescottlewisauthor.blogspot.com/









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Tuesday, August 8, 2023

The Siphoning The Redemption Series Book One D.T. Stubblefield

 


The Siphoning 
The Redemption Series
Book One
D.T. Stubblefield

Genre: Fantasy 
Publisher: D.T. Stubblefield 
Date of Publication: September 4, 2023
ISBN: 8987848906 
ASIN: B0C9P3J5FM
Number of pages: 385
Word Count: approx. 106,000
Cover Artist: BeauteBook 

Tagline: Warring Worlds Align Against an Ancient Evil

Book Description: 

The Goddess is good. The Goddess is pure.

Assassin Drakon Deathmark has heard those mantras his entire life. It’s not until he comes face-to-face with her that he realizes she’s more demon than deity.

Drakon conceals his innate power while yearning for the magic derived from the goddess’s blessing, which is reserved for nobility.

When a treacherous mission goes awry, he uncovers a prophecy pitting him against an ancient evil intent on vengeance. Drakon and his allies must defeat a demon masquerading as a goddess, her growing Army, and unravel millennia of deceit before she lays waste to their world.

For Drakon, the path to survival means overcoming past trauma and possibly relinquishing the power he has worked so hard to acquire.

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Excerpt 

Drakon heaved himself through the open third-story window. His black cloak flowed about him, concealing him in shadow. His muscles quivered from the rapid ascent. Below, the clamp of boots and a muttered conversation passed beneath the window and then receded.

Another close call.

This made the fourth such encounter of the night. He lived by a rule: two close calls and he would abort a mission. Each time he ignored this simple rule, something untoward happened. His survival instincts screamed for him to turn back and return another night but time was short, and he was dangerously close to missing his deadline. The manor grounds were an ant colony of activity, and it took him longer than expected to make it this far. Seconds dripped by, increasing his chances of being discovered.

Discovery meant death.

Silently, he settled into the wooden floorboards. No groan of protest announced his entry. Crouching, Drakon pulled the cowl of his cloak lower and drifted wraith-like into the chamber. A breeze swept inward. The cool, crisp air did nothing to purify the overwhelming stench of incense hanging in the bedchamber.

A light orb floated overhead, casting the chamber in a warm yellow glow, elongating the shadows in which Drakon hid. Art canvases of all sizes hung on the stone walls, ornate furniture adorned every square inch, and a massive four-poster bed overflowing with furs stood at the chamber’s center.

Drakon curled his lip in disdain. The warden’s blatant show of wealth was in contrast to the poverty of the people he lorded over. Another warden charged with the well-being of commoners lining his pockets from the people’s labor. He hadn’t expected much humility from a noble, and even less from a mage such as the Jenna City Warden.

Drakon’s orders from the king were clear. The warden was to appear to have died of natural causes. Drakon wasn’t privy to the transgression the man committed to garner himself a spot on the king’s kill list. The reason was inconsequential. He didn’t care, nor did he mete out judgments. The Royal Council dealt with such things. He was but the gnarled hand of death employed to dole out the punishment. Drakon recalled the death and poverty he witnessed while traversing the Commoner District of the city and grimaced. He would enjoy killing this warden.
The bedchamber was empty, as Drakon knew it would be. He committed his mark’s routine to memory. The warden was middle-aged, but his habit of nightly drinking and debauchery was legendary throughout the Kingdom of Somorrah.

Drakon’s gaze searched the chamber for the warden’s favorite vice. There. A pitcher and glass sat on a table next to the bed; remnants of red wine stained the bottom of the glass. Drakon removed a vial from his cloak. A colorless, odorless liquid sloshed within its clear container. He would add one drop into the glass, and the deed would be done. He would send word of the mission’s completion to the king. Afterward, he might take an overdue leave of absence.

He moved toward the table. Laughter and shuffling footsteps from outside the closed door froze him halfway across the chamber. The doorknob turned, and the door banged open. Drakon threw himself into the shadows of a wardrobe. Sounds of merriment drifted into the room and then were muted as the door snicked shut.

The warden was early. Drakon hadn’t expected him until nearer to dawn. He cursed inwardly. He couldn’t wait in the shadows until the man passed out. The king made his instructions all too clear. The warden was to die before sunrise. Drakon gritted his teeth. He would have to improvise. He hated improvising. It reduced his chances of an undetected escape, but what other choice was there?

He pocketed the vial and pressed against the wardrobe. The warden, red-faced and inebriated, stumbled on unsteady legs toward the bed, hauling a struggling woman behind him. He was small and slender, manual labor having never sculpted the muscles of his body. Like all wardens, he was also a magical mage. The man’s diminutive physique was no indication of his power.

Alabaster skin inked with tattoos peeked from the warden’s robes, testaments of his magical aptitude. Only his face was unmarred. Each tattoo was a rune etched to guard the warden against the harmful effects of drawing the goddess’s power. Such power came with a price, and the wardens protected themselves with the tattoos.

The warden’s hair was a dirty blond, and his skin was pale but not an unearthly translucent. A mage’s hair, eyes, and skin lightened with their growth in magic. This mage wasn’t as strong as the others Drakon killed. His tongue prodded a void a molar once occupied as a reminder of past battles against magical enemies. Thank the goddess for small mercies.

A sob drew his attention to the woman the warden dragged in tow. She was waif-like. Oily black hair concealed her face, and her chestnut skin identified her as a commoner. Her threadbare dress was torn at the neck and thin enough to see through. She was probably a slave. He resigned himself to the possibility of collateral. From the look of her, death would be preferable to her current lot in life. He could give her that escape, at least.

The warden yanked the woman forward. She struggled all the more, whimpering and pleading for release. The warden cursed and slapped her hard enough to snap her head back. The blow whipped her face toward Drakon and freed it from its curtain of dirty hair.

Drakon’s eyes flared. A face smooth with youth was decorated with black and blue bruises and a split lip. Terror-filled eyes glistened with tears and, more disturbing, resignation. This was no woman as he initially believed. It was a young girl.

The warden slapped the girl again. The crack ricocheted off the walls, and she slumped dazed into the warden’s arms. Having subdued her struggles, the man dragged her to the bed and flung her across it. She curled into a tight ball and whimpered. The warden grabbed her thin ankle and yanked her toward the edge of the bed.

“Quit your yammering!” He climbed atop her, clasping her wrists in one hand. “You should be honored that I would bring a smut like you to my bed!”

Blood pounded in Drakon’s ears. Unbidden, dark memories rushed to the surface of his mind.

A slave child. Powerless. Drakon blinked and shook his head, trying to dislodge the memory.

Nausea rolled through him. His blood heated in his veins.

Hay scratching tender skin.

Powerless.

With effort, he forced the memories back, slamming the door on their mental prison. Yet, the rage left in their wake had Drakon darting silently from the shadows and toward the warden, who tore at the girl’s clothing, before he realized he was moving.

The warden stiffened with awareness, some part of his inebriated psyche realizing they were not alone.

Too late. Drakon’s blade slipped in the hollow at the base of the man’s skull. The body jerked. Drakon twisted, severing the spine, and yanked the dagger free. The body slumped forward.

Blood gushed from the wound, coating the bed and the startled girl beneath. He pushed the body aside and freed her.

Wide, oddly ancient eyes––much too knowing for a child—peered back at him from a tear-streaked face mottled with bruises. She sucked in a deep breath, a preamble to a scream. His hand clamped over her mouth.

“Do. Not. Scream. I won’t harm you, but you will remain silent.” He stared into her shining, unblinking eyes.

“Nod if you understand.”

She nodded slowly, and he peeled his hand away, ready to place it back. She didn’t scream but sat up and eyed him with caution. He grabbed an unsoiled coverlet from the bed and tossed it at her.

“Cover yourself and get out of here. Tell no one of what you’ve seen.”

Even as he uttered the command, he knew he was being a fool. The only way to ensure her silence was to kill her, but he couldn’t bring himself to kill an innocent. No doubt, her short life was filled with atrocities for which this night was but a culmination. Her petite frame trembled beneath the coverlet.

No. Drakon was not so far gone that he would kill a slave girl. His soul was black and withered, but he had not delivered it to the pits of Targarius. Not yet.

The girl’s throat worked. “Th–thank you.” Her voice was an unsteady whisper in the quiet chamber.

He cleared his throat. Her thanks unsettled him for reasons he didn’t want to acknowledge. He turned, focusing on the warden, and grimaced at the mess he had made. Blood soaked the bed beneath the corpse and pooled on the floor. A frozen mask of surprise rested on the man’s face. His pale-blue eyes locked on the nothingness of death. Already pale skin drained of its color as blood leaked from the body.

Drakon took in the tattooed runes on the warden’s skin. All that power and useless against a simple dagger. In the mage’s assurance in his magical superiority, he never suspected or spelled against nonmagical attacks. It was the way of nobles—arrogance above intellect.

Drakon sighed. The man’s death would never pass for natural causes. His moment of untethered emotion destroyed weeks of planning. The outburst he exhibited was out of character. His lapse of control annoyed him, but he couldn’t dwell on it. He had to plan his next steps, or they would be his last.

There was only one recourse left to him. He would remove himself from the city before the warden’s body was discovered. But before he fled, he would retrieve the other reason he was eager for this mission. He bent over the body, rummaging through the folds of the robes.

“Where is it?”

He rolled the corpse on its stomach and patted it down. He cursed. Nothing.

The warden always carried an object of power when he visited Sura City. Indeed, this mission excited Drakon for this reason. Desire to own such an object clouded his logic. In hindsight, it went to reason the warden would travel to court with additional protection. Nobles and commoners alike distrusted the king and the royal mage. The Jenna Warden would’ve been a fool not to travel with safeguards. However, the man wouldn’t carry such items in his dwelling.

He should have understood this sooner.

Drakon stood with a grunt of frustration, wiped his blade on his leathers, and returned it to its sheath. If the mission went according to plan, he would’ve had time to search the chamber. As it were, he would be leaving without his prize.

He spared a glance at the girl. Shock had yet to release her from its grasp. If the warden’s guards found her, they would sacrifice her in Drakon’s stead. He hoped she didn’t waste his gift of mercy. She would live or die by her action or inaction alone.

He sprinted to the window and glanced out. No sentries stood guard or moved across the grounds. That was good, and no one would enter the warden’s chamber until the maid arrived for the morning cleaning. Drakon would be long gone by then. As if summoned by the thought, a creak sounded from the door.

“Rainore? What the devil is taking so long? Finish with the—”

A slender man, clad in nothing more than skin and his mage tattoos, stopped mid-stride into the room. His pale-blue eyes locked on Drakon’s cloaked figure, widened, and then flicked to the body cradled in a crimson stain on the bed.

He screamed.


About the Author: 

D.T. Stubblefield was born and raised in a rural town in South Carolina. After reading Skeleton Crew by Stephen King, she was certain she would grow up to be an amazing writer. Those plans were placed on hold when she decided to study mass communications and not creative writing in college. After graduating, much to the disappointment of her seven-year-old self, D.T. did not become a writer or journalist, instead, she entered the world of the federal government as an editor and eventually became a manager.

Craving an outlet from the pressures of her job, D.T. did what she always did during stressful periods: she wrote. She wrote the beginnings of many novels (some of which were so bad they will never see the light of day!). She wrote during her lunch breaks, in the middle of the night, and on the weekends.

Until one day, D.T. wrote a story she fell in love with. A story that she couldn’t wait to share with the world. She wrote a story set in a kingdom trapped within a magical barrier, terrorized by monsters, and where an assassin was foretold to unite warring peoples and overthrow a demonic goddess. 

The premise of The Siphoning was born six years ago while D.T. sat in evening traffic on I-495, and now she is ready to share it with the world.








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August 15 through September 5

War of the Sea - Kickstarter Olympian Wars Book One Dana Claire

  War of the Sea - Kickstarter Olympian Wars Book One Dana Claire Genre: Fantasy Romance Publisher: Chamberlain Publishing House ISBN: 97989...