A Life Through Books

Date Published: July 24, 2026

Publisher: Changeling Press

Lennox -- I was supposed to marry a man chosen by my family. Smile for the cameras. Say the vows. Do what I was told. The wedding wasn’t about love. It was a business deal, and I was the price being paid.

So I ran. Terrified. Still wearing my wedding dress. I didn’t have a plan. I didn’t have anywhere to go. Then a biker named Rogue stopped beside the road and changed everything.

Rogue -- I’ve spent years handling problems for the Reckless Kings MC. Quietly. Permanently. Picking up a runaway bride wasn’t part of the plan. Neither was getting married. One look at the bruises she tried to hide and the fear she couldn’t quite mask, and I knew one thing for certain. She wasn’t going back.

Now her wealthy family, powerful ex-fiancé, and anyone else stupid enough to come after her will have to deal with me first. The longer Lennox stays under my protection, the harder it becomes to remember this started as a way to keep her safe. She deserves freedom, a future, and the chance to choose her own path. What she doesn’t realize is that I’ve already made my choice. She’s mine. And nobody is taking her away.

Rogue

The lot at Hadley’s sat empty -- one rusted Buick, a flickering sodium light, dead still except for the canopy buzz. I rolled the Harley under the canopy and killed the engine. The noise dropped away. The night pressed close.

I’d been on the road since nine, a pointless run Hawk sent me on to check a stretch of road south of Nashville. Two of our guys thought they’d picked up a tail last week. I’d seen nothing but dark asphalt. Now, twenty minutes from turning north for home, I was hungry, bone-tired, and needed gas. Hadley’s had it all.

I swung off the bike and stretched the road out of my shoulders. The canopy lights hummed. Inside the store, a kid in a Titans cap sat behind the counter with his face in his phone, and a country station played thin from a blown speaker mounted by the cigarette racks. I paid him cash for two gallons of regular, picked up a black coffee and a Slim Jim I wouldn’t eat, and walked back out under the buzzing light and its collected moths.

I was about to unlock the gas tank when I clocked the white.

It was a flicker, no more -- a piece of something pale catching the edge of the security light around the corner of the building, where the dumpsters sat behind a low cinder block wall the owner had built so the highway couldn’t see the trash. The Buick at the far pump still had no driver. The road was empty in both directions. The tree line beyond the lot was black. Tennessee woods in November swallowed light whole. I stayed at the pump.

I leaned against the pump, uncapped the coffee, and took a long, slow sip I didn’t want. Then I looked. The lot. The road. The tree line. I gave it two minutes. Nothing moved. The flicker of white stayed put.

I set the coffee on top of the pump and walked around the corner of the building.

She was crouched in the gravel between the cinder block wall and the back end of the second dumpster, knees up, the skirt of a dress that had cost somebody a year of salary bunched around her thighs and stained dark at the hem with whatever Hadley’s back lot had to offer. There was a veil in her hair. An actual veil. Pinned high and torn loose at the bottom edge where she’d caught it on something. Brown hair had freed itself from the pins on one side.

She was pressing her left wrist against her ribs.

The wrist was already swelling. Fresh. The skin had gone an angry red and was thinking about turning purple, the kind of mark left by a hand closing around it and yanking hard. It hadn’t happened long ago.

She heard me before she saw me.

Her head came up so fast I thought for a second, she was going to put it into the cinder block behind her. She got her feet under her in one motion. She looked around eighteen. Small. She moved with the twitchy speed of prey, getting her back against the wall, her hands flat to the block at her sides like she could push it down behind her and go through it if she had to.

I stopped several feet from her and put out my hands where she could see them. Palms open. Empty… except for the Slim Jim still in one of them, which was not the dignified detail I would have picked.

I didn’t say anything for a beat. I let her look at me. Let her clock the cut, the patches, the boots, the beard -- whatever she needed. She scanned fast, doing math on the distance between me and the road, where the gap was. She was a girl who had learned how to measure rooms.

The veil moved a little in the night air. She didn’t.

“You hurt?” I kept it short. I kept the road out of my voice -- the put-her-at-ease lilt I used on women at the bar who didn’t know me yet -- because she didn’t need a man being charming at her right now. She needed a man being quiet.

She lifted her chin.

“I’m fine.” The words came too even. Too rehearsed. “I just need a ride.”

Bruised jaw. Swollen wrist. Veil still pinned in her hair.

“Okay,” I said.

She narrowed her eyes half a degree. She’d been ready for the next question. People who looked the way she did were always ready for the next one, and the one after that, and the moment a man decided he’d earned an answer.

I tipped my head back toward the front of the building.

“Bike’s at the pump.”

I waited for the second it took her to understand that I wasn’t going to walk her to it. Then I turned and went back the way I’d come, around the corner of the building, into the buzz of the canopy lights. I topped off the tank, returned the nozzle to the pump, tightened the gas cap. I picked up the cup of coffee from the top of the pump and held it like I had reason to be standing there. I didn’t look back.

A few seconds passed. The night did its small noises. The fluorescent up by the air pump ticked through another bad cycle and gave up, then came back on.

Then I heard the gravel.

Two steps. A pause. Three more, slower, picking the path. I could hear the soft drag of a hem.

I took another sip of the now-cold coffee, and I waited.

She came up on my left, two feet of clearance between us, and stopped at the back end of the bike like she’d been told once, a long time ago, that you didn’t walk up on a man’s machine without permission and she’d never quite let go of the lesson. The dress dragged on the concrete behind her. There was gravel pressed into the white of it in a stripe across the hip. Up close, under the canopy lights, the bruise on her wrist had gone the dirty red of something the next hour was going to make worse.

I’d kept my attention on the road for the last forty seconds because something had started pulling at the inside of my chest before my thinking brain caught up, and a man in my line of work learned to pay attention to that pull or learned to bleed.

That was when the first set of headlights came up out of the dark to the south.

They came slow. Slow enough that I had time to set the coffee down on top of the pump. Slow enough that I had time to read the shape of the vehicle before I clocked the speed of it -- square, high, blacked-out, the kind of SUV nobody bought in this county to haul kids to school. It turned in off the county road without indicating, and the second one came in behind it without indicating either. They didn’t roll up to a pump. They rolled past the pumps. They stopped twenty yards from the front doors of the store, in the open part of the lot where they could see everything, and sat there with their engines running and their windows up.

I felt her go still beside me.

She didn’t make a sound or move. She froze with the instinct of someone who’d learned motion could get her hurt.

I unhooked the helmet from the handlebar.

I held it out to her without looking at her. Sideways, low, between our hips, where the bulk of my body was between it and the SUVs.

“Take it.”

She took it. Both hands. The bruised wrist came out from her ribs and caught the light, and she tightened her fingers around the foam at the helmet’s edge hard enough that the skin across her knuckles pulled flat and colorless.

The driver’s door of the front SUV opened.

A man stepped out. Dark jacket. No coat for the weather, which meant he didn’t plan to be outside long. He didn’t walk toward the store. He stood in the open door of his vehicle with one hand on the frame and the other hand down at his hip where I couldn’t see it, and he scanned the lot -- left to right, slow, taking inventory.

He took clocked the Buick, my bike, and even me.

I threw a leg over the bike.

“Get on.”

She followed the softly spoken command. She didn’t ask which side. She didn’t ask where to put her hands. She scrambled on, hiking the dress up with a clumsy heave. She swung a leg over the seat, her heel scraping against the pipe before her foot found the peg. The helmet bumped once against the back of my shoulder as she settled, grabbing for purchase.

Her fingers dug into my shirt as she held on.

It wasn’t the loose grip of a girl who’d been on the back of a bike before and remembered the etiquette. Both of her hands closed in the front of my jacket like the leather was a railing and she was a half-step from going over, and both fists pressed into my stomach through the cut.

The man in the dark jacket lifted his hand off the SUV’s frame.

I was already moving.

I twisted the throttle. The rear tire spat a plume of gravel, the back end sliding for a split second before it caught traction. We shot out from under the canopy, and I leaned hard into the turn onto the county road. She moved with me instead of fighting it. On a first ride, that was the only thing that kept you upright.

Behind us, a door slammed. Then a second door. The high beams of the second SUV swept across the front of the store, across the pumps and the spot we’d been parked in three seconds ago, and then they swung wide toward the road.

I opened the throttle the rest of the way.

The county highway south of Nashville at eleven-thirty on a weeknight was a black river with a yellow line down the middle of it, and the bike ate it. The tree line on either side blurred into something you couldn’t look at without your eyes watering. Cold came up off the asphalt, through my jeans, through the cuffs of my jacket, and somewhere behind us, in the mirror, the SUV headlights came around onto the road in a wide, scrambling arc and started after us.

They were big vehicles. They were fast on a straight. They were not fast through curves, and I knew every curve on this stretch of road between Hadley’s and the county line by the time I was twenty.

I took the first one without braking.

Her hands clamped tighter. I felt the second fistful of jacket bunch under my ribs. She made a small sound, not quite a word, swallowed almost before it started. She put her helmet against the back of my shoulder and pressed it there. That was all.

I checked the mirror.

The headlights clung to us through the first curves, too bright in my mirror. I knew a feeder road up ahead they wouldn’t expect. I took the turn hard, the tires screaming. I saw their brake lights flare red as they overshot the turn-in. They’d be back, but I’d bought us thirty seconds. It would have to be enough. I didn’t slow down.

The next exit north was a county road. From there, I could hit a web of back roads leading to the woods south of the compound. A man on a bike could get lost in those trees. The men in the SUVs would have to be born in them to follow. I pointed the bike at the exit.

Harley Wylde is an accomplished author known for her captivating MC Romances. With an unwavering commitment to sensual storytelling, Wylde immerses her readers in an exciting world of fierce men and irresistible women. Her works exude passion, danger, and gritty realism, while still managing to end on a satisfying note each time.

When not crafting her tales, Wylde spends her time brainstorming new plotlines, indulging in a hot cup of Starbucks, or delving into a good book. She has a particular affinity for supernatural horror literature and movies. Visit Wylde's website to learn more about her works and upcoming events, and don't forget to sign up for her newsletter to receive exclusive discounts and other exciting perks.

Author on Facebook, Instagram, & TikTok: @harleywylde

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

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Speculative Fiction, Literary Fiction

Date Published: May 21, 2026

If you've spent any time in Texas in spring, you know the bluebonnets. Now imagine a pair of glasses that shows you what you had been missing: every ultraviolet the flower had been wearing all along, a field suddenly purple, a world you had been standing inside without seeing.

That is love, for Richard Smith. That is Zin. Richard is the kind of man who learned early how to disappear. Quiet. Careful. Brilliant in ways he rarely lets anyone witness. He writes poetry in notebooks no one is allowed to open and gives his best hours to work that asks nothing of his heart.

Then Zin walks into his life—sharp, guarded, beautiful, and impossible to reduce—and does the thing he never prepared for.

She sees him.

All of him.

And instead of flinching, she stays. Together, they help bring a technology into the world that does for millions what Zin did for Richard: it lets people see what was always there.

Hidden color.

Hidden beauty.

Hidden power.

A cheap, wearable lens that reveals the spectrum just beyond ordinary sight. For a moment, it feels like freedom. But a world that profits from keeping people blind does not celebrate new sight.

It studies it.

Owns it.

Sells it.

Weaponizes it.

What began as wonder becomes surveillance.

What began as intimacy becomes empire.

And as the device they helped create starts tracking faces, movements, desires, and private lives, Richard and Zin are forced to confront the difference between being seen, being wanted, being protected, and being controlled.

The world Richard wanted to open is becoming a machine that watches everyone. And the woman who first opened him may be the only person brave enough to tear it down.

The Field of Purple Bonnets is a literary speculative love story about being seen versus being watched. About a man brave enough to be soft, a woman wise enough to know what that costs, and a country slowly forgetting the difference between freedom and possession.

 Dave J. Brown writes fiction about love, technology, consciousness, and the strange systems people build to survive themselves. Field of Purple Bonnets is his most ambitious work to date.

He pays his bills helping organizations navigate enterprise technology rollouts, building small applications, and consulting on the kinds of complex implementations that make most people's eyes glaze over. The technical fluency shows up in his writing… not as exposition, but as texture. When Richard designs BeeVision, the engineering feels real because it comes from someone who thinks in systems.

He lives just south of Austin, not far from a field of bluebonnets that looks exactly the way you'd imagine.

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Social Science / Media Studies; Technology & Society; Philosophy / Ethics & Moral Philosophy; Popular Philosophy; Artificial Intelligence & Society; Cultural Theory; Attention Economy

Date Published: July 1, 2026

The Great Inversion is a trade non-fiction book about the moment culture stops needing us as its bottleneck. From ancient stories and print culture to algorithmic feeds and generative AI, Jordi ter Woord traces how ideas learn to survive, why the mirror of the internet feels so personal, and what remains human when creation becomes cheap.

This is not a digital-detox book. It is a book about attention as the one act the machine cannot perform for us.

 Jordi ter Woord is a Dutch writer, solution architect and IT lead with a background in philosophy and artificial intelligence. He has spent much of his working life close to the systems that move information through organisations, and much of his private life wondering what those systems do to the people who live inside them.

His non-fiction debut, The Great Inversion, is about the moment culture stops needing human beings as its bottleneck. From ancient memory and print culture to algorithmic feeds and generative AI, it asks what remains human when creation becomes cheap and attention becomes the expensive side of the transaction.

Jordi also writes Whimsical Weather, a children's weather-adventure series about Cloudy, storms, patience, migration and letting go. He lives in the Netherlands with his partner and daughter.

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Espionage Thriller, Political Thriller, Literary Thriller

Date Published: July 1, 2026

Buried within the language of the peace are nineteen words that quietly abandon the people who believed the bombing meant deliverance.

In Washington, a small policy institute that has spent its life describing the world decides, for the first time, to act on it, and learns that the line between analysis and operation, once crossed, cannot be uncrossed.

In Tehran, an air-defense colonel runs the only arithmetic that has ever governed his life, weighing the family the regime holds against a door that may not be real. In a blacked-out city, a nurse keeps a count the state intends to erase, while an organizer discovers that the most dangerous thing a broken country can do is begin to hope.

As a sixty-day clock counts down to the vote that will make the peace permanent, three lives on opposite sides of a sealed border move toward a single decision and toward a question no government can answer for them: What is owed to the people you cannot save?

The Closing Window is a literary espionage thriller of statecraft, intelligence, political consequence, and moral responsibility. A novel about power, responsibility, and the narrowing distance between describing a catastrophe and becoming part of it.

About the Author

Gregg Roman is a Middle East policy and security analyst who has spent more than a decade at the center of American debates over Iran, counterterrorism, and the politics of the region. He serves as Executive Director of the Middle East Forum, has testified before Congress, and writes and comments widely on national security and foreign policy. He divides his time between the United States and Israel. The Closing Window is his first novel.

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Literary Western Fiction

Date Published: 06-13-2026

Publisher: Steinmetz Press

Meanwhile, her father champions Mark Atkins, a local editor who offers Ellar financial security and a white-picket homestead. But beneath Mark’s polished facade lies a dark, volatile past. When a stormy night with Joe leaves Ellar facing a potential pregnancy, the stakes turn deadly. Knowing a mixed-race child means social ruin for her and a hangman’s noose for Joe, she sacrifices her happiness and accepts Mark’s marriage proposal to save the man she loves.

Yet, safety is an illusion. Facing financial ruin and discovering Ellar's betrayal, Mark unleashes a brutal act of vengeance. When Ellar is fatally shot down a long hotel corridor, Joe is immediately accused of the crime. Orchestrating a ruthless brand of Wild West justice, Joe is burned alive in his jail cell by a lawless vigilante mob.

"The Notorious Murder of Ellar Day is an untold story that is as compelling as it is timely and impactful.

~Penny Haw, author of The Invincible Miss Cust and The Woman and Her Stars.

"There is no easy or clear path for Ellar. Doing the right thing feels wrong and doing what feels right is forbidden." 

~Kimberly Burns, author of The Mrs. Tabor and The Redemption of Mattie Silks

"The political and social backdrop of a bustling Colorado mining town gives authentic historical flavor to this captivating debut novel." 

~Sherry Skye Stuart, author of Forgotten Female Felons Book One.

"Five stars for Marcy S. Wood's stunning debut! This beautiful reimagining of history portrays the delicate intersection of romantic tragedy and racial injustice with the reverence it deserves."

 ~Jennifer Wyrick, former owner of the Beaumont Hotel.

Excerpt

I sped down the stairs and out the door. The hag’s vicious laugh haunted my ears. Across the street stood Joe, speaking with the men with whom he played cards. They joked and smoked cigarettes. Surely they knew and were laughing at me. They fell silent as I dashed past. I tossed my mask.

“Missus Woodcock?” he said.

I ran on, too confused to orient myself.

“Excuse me,” I heard him say. To me? To his friends? I continued, hell-bent on escaping my dreadful embarrassment. I saw Mr. Begole’s store was closed up tight with the kerosene streetlights reflected in its windows, and the black night everywhere else. Kicking mud behind me, I rushed toward the company housing.

When I got to my tent, I hurled Chas’s clothes from the top drawer. I stomped them into the muck and mire of my life. It dawned on me that my wicked husband spent my money on whores and sodomites. I spat rancid bile from my mouth, and it landed just shy of Joseph W. Dixon’s feet.

“You all right?” He held my mask, now tarnished with mud.

I stared at him, wishing to scream. Instead, I kept my voice low and even. I gnashed my teeth.

“What does the W stand for?” I asked.

“What?”

“The W stands for What?”

“What are you asking me?”

“Your middle name?” He looked confused. “The W in your middle name. You’re Joseph W. Dixon, right? Oh, never mind. Were you aware of my husband—of his, all of this—when you met me today?” I was angry and addled, but my run through the chilly night had cleared my senses.

“I don’t find it my place to judge a man’s proclivities.”

About the Author

Marcy S. Wood, MA in Creative Professional Writing, lives in the mountains of Ouray, CO. She writes at the end of her family’s dining table with a pup at her feet and a cat on her lap.

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Paranormal Sea Adventure Romance

Date Published: July 17, 2026

First Mate Cade Talbot disobeyed a direct order, sacrificing himself to save his best friend. Since then, Captain Grant Rowen rules his ship with an iron fist, demanding strict compliance from all aboard.

Coffers are low, and when a lone woman requests passage to St. Thomas, Captain Rowen accepts her payment. But the stormy sea crossing holds more than just nature's surprises.

Aurora Journade reveals that she not only speaks to spirits, she makes love to them --and she doesn't follow orders. With Aurora's help, Cade has one last chance to reach out to his captain. Not even death can keep them from seeking passion's redemption.

"Yes... no... Oh God, how you touch me, my love. But what if someone should see us? We shouldn't do this here." The female voice coming from the dark alley quivered, ripe with passion.

Grant couldn't hear her companion's murmured reply, but from her enthusiastic cries it must have been to her liking.

He continued toward the tavern, almost late for a meeting. The repairs to his ship had taken longer than he'd anticipated. Noise and smoke rolled out into the street as Grant pushed open the scarred wooden door, spreading over him in a wave of stinking humanity. Squinting through the smoke and dim light, he made his way to the busy barkeep.

"I'm looking for a merchant named Crofton. Know him?"

The slight man behind the bar pointed toward the corner where most of the noise was coming from. "Aye, Linch is over there."

Grant squared his shoulders and strode toward the merchant. "Crofton? Captain Rowen of the Venture. Amory Talbot said to find you the next time I was in port."

The older, ruddy-faced man fixed his gaze on Grant. "Yes, my cousin has good things to say about you, Rowen. It's a pity about his son, though. The boy was your first mate, wasn't he? Sit down and we'll have a drink before we talk business." He motioned to the barmaid for another round.

"Thank you, sir. Yes, Cade was my first mate." Grant took a long pull on the foaming brew the barmaid set before him. "I'm told you're looking for a ship to do some regular cargo runs. The Venture is a fine vessel and I have an experienced crew. She's in port now if you'd like to look her over." He took another drink and choked back bittersweet memories. He hadn't visited Cade's home port since just after his death, but it had been the closest for needed repairs.

* * *

Breathing in the fresh night air, Grant closed the tavern door behind him. The promise of a full cargo hold and a regular run starting at the end of the week lifted his lagging spirits. He walked down the street, dust kicking up under his boots as he hummed a familiar tune, one that his best friend Cade had often whistled.

A flash of red silk coming out of the alley was the only warning he received before he was knocked on his ass by a voluptuous female body. He wrapped his arms around her instinctively, her bountiful breasts flattening on his chest. The heady scent of aroused woman rose from her and his cock stiffened instantly.

"Oh, I beg your pardon, sir! I wasn't looking where I was going." She scrambled up and rushed off, leaving him with an aching cock and the impression of long, dark passion-rustled hair, haunting gypsy eyes, and a body made for love.

"My pleasure, miss." He readjusted his erection and stared after the little minx. He hadn't had a woman in a while, but the insistent desire pulsing in his cock from the unexpected tousle rekindled his interest. As he boarded his ship and took over the watch, he decided it might be time to see if the brothel in the next port was still in business.

* * *

"Please, I must speak with the captain." Grant spied the woman rushing up the wooden gangplank past one of his crewmen, almost tripping in her haste. Though dressed well, she had no bags and no servants.

"I'm Captain Rowen, miss." He extended a hand to help her onto the deck and a thrill of awareness ran through him at the touch of her hand. It was the woman who had run him over last night. Her beautiful black hair was confined in an intricate knot, now, and the lush figure that had intrigued him was caged behind a corseted gown. He much preferred the unrestrained seductress of the night before.

She glanced up and her eyes widened with recognition and interest. Grant smiled, sensing sexual adventure in the wind. As any good sailor, he listened to the wind when it spoke to him.

"I am Miss Journade. I need immediate passage to St. Thomas, captain." She fidgeted nervously but didn't let go of his hand or drop her gaze.

"I'm afraid most of my crew is ashore on leave, miss. You'll have to wait until they return before we can set sail."

"It is important that I depart this afternoon, Captain Rowen. I can pay you well. I am meeting a... a friend and his time is very limited. Please, sir, I will give you whatever you want." She stepped forward and laid her hand on his chest, her fingers curling against the cloth. Could she feel his heart pounding with desire?

Grant weighed his options, measuring his empty coffers and skeleton crew against the delicious temptation of the woman and her money. Normally he would have refused, as would most captains. Women on ships were considered bad luck, and a woman without an escort could be nothing but trouble.

Still, the passage to St. Thomas was generally an easy one and they needed gold after the recent repairs. He'd risk the journey and try to find an acceptable chaperone in town while he rounded up as much of his crew as he could find.

"Welcome aboard the Venture, Miss Journade." He motioned toward a young boy standing in the shadows. "Remy, please show Miss Journade to the passenger's quarters. I'll be in town rounding up the crew. We set sail on my return."

About the Author

Cassidy lives in the beautiful state of Washington and is surrounded by mysterious rain forests, tempestuous oceans and enough gorgeous scenery to inspire stories for at least another two hundred years.

She's been reading romances since she was thirteen, and writing them since she was fifteen. However, the serious writing bug didn't bite until much later in life, inspired by her talented husband (who is also a writer!).

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

Motorcycle Club Romance, Suspense, Age Gap

Date Published: July 17, 2026

Griffin -- Veda Garrison should have run from me. Instead, she aimed a gun at my chest and dared me to betray her. Big mistake, sweetheart. Now she’s mine to protect, mine to crave, and mine to keep alive. Her evidence could destroy a trafficking ring, ignite a war with the Steel Serpents, and expose men powerful enough to own the law. They want Veda? They’ll have to come through me.

Warning: Adult themes including kidnapping, sex trafficking, and political corruption, which may trigger some readers. Protective ex-con hero, HEA, and, as always, no cheating, no cliffhangers.

EXCERPT

Veda

Four months of work fit inside a hollowed-out pen pressed against my sternum. Ten minutes ago, I decided this was the last night I would ever set foot inside Enclave Éclipse. The back office held its usual smells. Lemon furniture polish from the cleaning crew that came through Tuesdays and Fridays, the dry-paper musk of ledgers stacked four deep on the metal shelving, and underneath all of it the faint sour note of Carl Pruitt’s cologne, which he reapplied every afternoon at three like a man trying to mask his lover’s perfume before he went home to his beautiful wife.

Carl’s desk sat in the middle of the room, the dominant feature. Oversized, mahogany veneer, the leather chair behind it big enough for a man twice his size. The bottom drawer was the one I had photographed last, the one where the master ledger lived under a false bottom that any auditor with a ruler would have found in nine seconds. Carl was not bright. He’d been skimming his bosses for a year and change, and that, I suspected, was about to matter to Carl in a very huge, very permanent way.

I crouched behind the second shelving unit with my knees pressed together, trying to keep my breathing slow and shallow when I heard the front buzzer go. Then the hallway door. Then the murmur of voices that did not belong to Carl.

I froze when the office door opened and four men walked in. Carl came first, walking on his own but not by choice. His collar was already dark with sweat and his hair stuck to his forehead. Behind him came two men I had never laid eyes on. But the man who entered last almost made me whimper in fear.

I’d seen Iron twice before, both times here at the club and only from a distance. He was broader up close. The tattoos that climbed up the side of his neck disappeared into his short beard and over his shaved head. His gaze swept the room and stopped at the desk. He noticed the open ledger on top of it that I hadn’t had time to put away. He noticed the chair. He didn’t notice me, because I sat very still and I had picked my hiding place in week two for a reason. Thank God I had a small, wiry frame.

“Sit,” Iron said.

Carl sat. The leather chair sighed under him.

Iron walked to the desk. He looked down at the open ledger. He looked at Carl. He did not raise his voice. In fact, he used all the inflection he might if he ordered a cup of coffee. “Someone’s been going through the books,” Iron said, still not raising his voice. He tapped a thick finger on the open ledger. “These numbers are wrong.”

Carl’s Adam’s apple bobbed. “I don’t know what you’re talking about. I keep everything --”

“You’ve been skimming, Carl. That’s fine.” Iron smiled, a bare flash of teeth. “Everyone’s got their hand in the cookie jar. But someone else has been keeping their own set of numbers. And that’s not fine.”

“I don’t -- I swear to God, I wouldn’t --” Carl’s voice cracked.

Iron snatched Carl by the hair and slammed his face into the desk with a wet crack. Carl’s nose sprayed blood across the ledger pages. Iron hauled him up by the hair, Carl’s feet barely touching the floor, and slammed him down again. This time the sound was different, duller, and Carl’s legs kicked once and then stopped moving entirely. Iron let go. Carl slumped sideways in the chair, his head lolling, one hand flopping limply against the desk edge before he slid to the floor.

I pressed my hand flat over my mouth and watched Carl’s hand from my hiding place. I kind of felt bad but Carl was a swine and he deserved everything about to happen to him.

Iron turned to one of the other men. “Clear the hallway.”

The man nodded and left the room. Seconds later, I heard the thud of something heavy hitting the wall, a muffled shout cut short, then the scrape of something being dragged. The door opened again, and the man returned with two of the hallway workers, a young man with a sleeve of tats and a woman with her dark hair in a tight bun. Both had their hands bound behind them with zip ties, both looked like they’d been smacked around. Terrified didn’t begin to describe the pair.

“Against the wall,” Iron said.

The two men pushed the workers to the far wall. The woman tried to speak, her words slurred through what was probably a broken jaw. “Please -- we didn’t --”

The shots came before she could finish. I couldn’t be sure because I didn’t have a direct line of sight, but I thought they’d both been shot in the head. Blood spread across the laminate wood flooring in a dark pool.

Iron’s men began pulling files from the cabinets, sliding hard drives into a duffel bag one of them had brought in. They worked methodically, opening each drawer in turn, checking the contents before removing them. One of them moved to Carl’s desk, opened the bottom drawer, and pulled out the master ledger. He handed it to Iron, who fanned the pages with his thumb, then nodded and set it aside.

My pen camera had gotten it all. Every page, every column of numbers, every name. Four months of surveillance distilled down to what would fit on a micro SD card.

Iron turned in a slow circle. Again, I couldn’t see everything but I imagined he gave the room a final once over. Then, without changing his tone, he said, “They’re still here.” The other men stopped what they were doing.

“Someone was in this room tonight,” Iron continued. “They were going through these books when we arrived. They’re still in the building.” He looked at the two men. “Find them.”

I held my breath. My fingers pressed harder against my lips. One of the men spoke up. “You want us to check the whole place?”

“I want you to find them,” Iron snarled. “Start with the offices and work out.”

The men nodded and left the room, moving into the hallway. Iron remained behind, standing over Carl’s body with his arms crossed. I could see him now. He looked down at the ledger on the desk. There was no way to miss Carl’s blood smeared over the cover. He turned his gaze back to the door, then at the window on the far wall.

One of the men returned. “Garage is clear. Kitchen’s clear.”

“Keep looking,” Iron said.

The man left again. Iron pulled out his phone, sent a text, then put it away. He paced the length of the room once, then again, his boots leaving prints in the blood on the floor.

I needed to get out. I needed to move. But Iron was still in the room, and the two men were searching the building, and if I stepped out from behind this shelving unit I would be exactly as dead as Carl.

The second man came back. “Rest of the building’s clear. You want us to check the roof?”

Iron shook his head. “They’re still here.” He looked at the door. “They’re good at hiding, but they made a mistake. They left this ledger open when they heard us coming in. They didn’t have time to put it away.” He tapped his finger on the desk. “They’re still in this room.”

My heart stopped for a full second, then kicked back into double-time. This was it. In mere seconds I’d be dead. Or worse.

The men looked around, confused. “There’s nowhere to hide in here except --”

“Under the desk,” Iron said. “Check under the desk.”

The first man dropped to his knees and shined a flashlight under Carl’s massive desk. The beam swept in a wide arc, illuminating the empty knee well. I was still behind the shelving unit, pressed flat against the wall, my knees pulled tight to my chest.

“Nothing,” the man said.

Iron’s jaw tightened. “Check again.”

The man ducked his head lower, shining the light into every corner of the space under the desk. “I’m telling you, there’s nobody there.”

Iron nodded, finally satisfied. “Get the rest of the files. Then we burn the place.”

The two men returned to the filing cabinets. They worked quickly now, pulling out folders and stacks of paper, dumping them into the duffel bag. One of them returned to the hallway and came back with a plastic jug. He unscrewed the cap and began pouring a clear liquid across the floor. The sharp chemical reek cut through the air. Smelled like gasoline or something similar.

My eyes started to water. I pressed my sleeve against my nose.

Iron watched his men work, then checked his watch. “Two minutes,” he said. “Then we’re gone.”

They finished packing the duffel and stepped into the hallway. Iron paused at the door, took one last look at the office, then pulled it closed behind him.

I waited silently, not daring to move or even breathe too much in case I coughed on the fumes. I heard the front door of the building open and close. I heard the rumble of engines starting outside. Then the fire started with a hollow whomp. Smoke began to push under the office door in a gray curl.

I couldn’t stay behind the shelving unit. Smoke was already thickening along the ceiling, and the acrid smell burned my nostrils. I needed to get to the window on the far wall. Surely to God the men had all left before the building was completely engulfed.

The smoke got thicker, pushing through the office doorway in billowing gray clouds. Flames licked at the door facing, eating through the wood with hungry crackles.

I crawled, keeping low beneath the smoke. The heat pressed against my skin. My eyes stung. I ripped off my jacket and wrapped it around my right forearm, creating a makeshift pad to protect myself. The window on the far wall was my only way out. A narrow rectangle set high in the exterior wall, just wide enough for my shoulders if I turned sideways.

I hurried to the window. Grabbing an ornate wooden paperweight, I hurled it at the glass. The window shattered with a musical crash. I cleared the jagged edges as best I could, then hoisted myself up.

Bits of glass from the window frame bit into my palms. I got my upper body through, then twisted to bring my legs after me. The drop was about ten feet to asphalt of the alley below. I went through feet first, pushing off from the window frame with my hands.

The fall seemed to last forever. My stomach lurched. The ground rushed up to meet me. I hit the pavement, stumbling forward. Pain shot up my legs and I fell forward, rolling until I hit the brick wall of the building on the other side of the alley.

Above me, flames licked at the edges of the broken window. The fire had taken hold of the building’s interior. Smoke filled the alley as more of the building caught fire and hot wind swirled around me, the fire creating its own down draft. My eyes watered and stung, and I coughed with every intake of breath. In minutes, the entire structure would be engulfed and I needed to be far away from here.

I scrambled to my feet and backed against the wall, putting distance between myself and the burning building. Embers now swirled in the air like orange snow. Somewhere in the distance, a siren wailed.

I hurried to the side of the building where I’d stashed a .38 revolver I’d purchased at a gun show a few months back. I’d always known there was a good possibility I’d get caught and had protected myself the only way I could think of. Didn’t do me a lot of good outside the building, but they had metal detectors we had to pass through before entering. I’d stashed the weapon out here knowing that window would be my best way out in a bad situation. Thankfully, the weapon hadn’t been noticed by anyone. I pulled it from my hiding place and clutched the weapon to me like a lifeline.

The alley stretched about fifty yards in either direction. To my right, it dead-ended at a brick wall. To my left, it opened onto the street that ran past the front of the Enclave Éclipse. Going that way meant risking being seen by whoever responded to the fire and I didn’t know if I could see a threat coming with my eyes burning and stinging.

The sirens grew louder. I couldn’t be here when they arrived. I had no doubt Iron had killed everyone in the building. If anyone other than me escaped, they’d be getting as scarce as I wanted to. Everyone who worked there knew shady shit got done inside that building. Most of them kept their heads down, collected their cash, and ignored everything else. No one wanted to get caught up in this mess. On either side of the law.

Halfway to the street, I heard the distinctive rumble of a motorcycle engine, cutting through the wail of sirens. The sound grew louder. I froze, pressing myself against the alley wall again. The smoke still hampered my vision and I couldn’t be certain I headed away from danger rather than straight into it.

I huddled against the alley wall, gun at the ready, though I doubted the way I trembled would encourage the guy to keep his distance if he confronted me. Half blinded by the smoke, I doubt I could have hit anything from any distance. The pen camera was still tucked into my bra, the micro SD card secure inside it. I absolutely could not lose that drive.

I took a breath and closed my eyes briefly. Sweat trickled from my hairline, mixing with the ash and soot on my skin to drip into my eyes. I raised my hand to swipe at the drops. I saw the blood before I touched my face. My palm must have caught the edge of the window as I climbed out because a gash split the meaty part of my palm. I didn’t think it was too deep, but I definitely needed to clean and bandage it.

I had no car. I’d taken the bus here, like I did every night. I couldn’t go to the police because two of the names on my list were Williamson County deputies, and I had no way of knowing how many were dirty. I couldn’t go home because Iron knew someone had been in that building, and he would start pulling threads until he found me.

The sirens in the distance weren’t coming for me. They were coming for the fire, and eventually for the bodies inside. By the time the first responders arrived, I needed to be gone and the guy on the motorcycle made that seriously difficult.

I’d gotten myself into this situation because of my sister. Tessa Garrison. Twenty-one years old. My only family after Mom checked out. She worked at the Enclave Éclipse for six weeks as a cocktail waitress and then disappeared. The police finally let me file a missing persons report a month after she vanished, only to close it two weeks later with a professional shrug. With no leads and no evidence of foul play, the officer working her case decided maybe she didn’t want to be found.

So I took matters into my own hands. I got a job as a bookkeeper at a tax preparation office three blocks from the Éclipse. I made a lifted key when the night manager left his key ring on the bar during his smoke break. The guy had two keys for the club on the same ring and, thankfully, hadn’t noticed one being gone in the bundle of keys he kept. I bought a hollowed-out pen camera from a guy who sold spy gear out of his van behind the flea market. I took photos of every ledger, every receipt, every name that passed through Carl Pruitt’s sweaty fingers I could manage to get my hands on.

Finally, I found what I searched so hard for. The one transaction that shouldn’t have been there. Five thousand dollars, cash, entered the same night Tessa disappeared. I never found Tessa’s phone and her body never turned up. But I found enough to know she’d likely been taken. And the people who took her were the same people who owned the Enclave Éclipse, who paid off deputies to look the other way, who thought they could make problems disappear with cash and threats. People like Iron.

The fire was fully involved now, visible flames from the window I’d originally jumped from licked up the wall in an orange glow. I needed to get out of here. Fast.

Taking a breath, I hurried down the alley, the driving certainty that danger hunted me nearly throwing me into a panic. As I stumbled out of the alley onto the sidewalk I collided with a large, solid body. Strong hands gripped my shoulders, steadying me, or I’d have fallen on my ass.

“Easy there.” I shied back, backing up several steps to stand against the building. I couldn’t see the guy clearly. His form resembled a blurry blob, with the occasional glimpse of a person‑shaped blob. “Hey, I’m not gonna hurt you. Are you OK? Were you in the building?”

The guy’s question made me grip my gun all the harder. Iron knew someone was inside the room, or, at least, the building. If this guy was one of Iron’s men, I’d have no hope of fighting him off. I raised my gun, tightening my grip. I still didn’t know if I could actually pull the trigger. I mean, I could, but hesitating would be just as bad as not shooting. Either way, I’d be dead.

The figure took a step forward, then another, his movements careful and measured. I raised the gun, pointing at the center of what I hoped was his chest. My finger settled alongside the trigger. I didn’t trust myself not to shoot accidentally and hurt someone innocent.

“Don’t come any closer,” I called, my voice steady despite the fear crawling up my throat. My hand trembled wildly as I held the heavy firearm. My other hand burned, but I had to bring it up to hold the gun relatively steady.

The figure stopped. For a long moment, we faced each other in the alley. The fire cast jumping shadows across the pavement. The sirens wailed, almost on top of us now.

“You’re bleeding.” He spoke in a calm voice. “And the cops are thirty seconds out. You want to explain why you’re standing outside a burning building with a gun, or do you want a ride somewhere that isn’t here?”

Marteeka Karland is an international bestselling author who leads a double life as an erotic romance author by evening and a semi-domesticated housewife by day. Known for her down and dirty MC romances, Marteeka takes pleasure in spinning tales of tenacious, protective heroes and spirited, vulnerable heroines. She staunchly advocates that every character deserves a blissful ending, even, sometimes, the villains in her narratives. Her writings are speckled with intense, raw elements resulting in page-turning delight entwined with seductive escapades leading up to gratifying conclusions that elicit a sigh from her readers.

Away from the pen, Marteeka finds joy in baking and supporting her husband with their gardening activities. The late summer season is set aside for preserving the delightful harvest that springs from their combined efforts (which is mostly his efforts, but you can count it). To stay updated with Marteeka's latest adventures and forthcoming books, make sure to visit her website. Don't forget to register for her newsletter which will pepper you with a potpourri of Teeka's beloved recipes, book suggestions, autograph events, and a plethora of interesting tidbits.

Author on Instagram & TikTok: @marteekakarland

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The Tale of Ol' Split Toe

Date Published: 03-31-2026

Narrator: Dan Ellens

Run Time: 10 hours 6 minutes

Split Toe witnesses two hundred years of conflict building between modern humans -- who fight to control the natural world -- and Mother Nature, who repeatedly reaches for balance. He wonders whether human ways will ultimately overpower Mother Nature, until he meets a boy who changes everything.

 Dan Ellens is an outdoor enthusiast who is passionate about connecting people with nature. 

 He spends nearly half of each year off-grid in an isolated, hand-built, electricity-free treehouse nestled within Winterfield Pines Nature Sanctuary with woodstove heat, handpump water, and oil lamp lighting.

 Dan was born in Grand Rapids, Michigan, and grew up in southeast Michigan. He has a Mechanical Engineering degree from Calvin University and an MBA from Michigan State University. Dan is retired from a full career in industry and international business. 

During 1996, 1997, and 1998, his family lived as expatriates in Bangalore, India, the inspiration for “A Time for India”, Dan’s second book, now in its second edition. 

 When Dan’s children were small – 10 years old - he took them each on an outward-bound, father-child adventure. The journal of those four trips became Dan’s first book, “Turning Ten: Great Adventures in the Great Lakes”, now in its second edition. 

 Dan is an accomplished woodworker and carpenter. His lifelong love for old-school carpentry inspired “Building the Bunkee: A Photo Anthology of Custom Log Cabin Construction and One Man’s Retirement Dream”. Dan is a hobby artist who is passionate about rescuing, restoring, and finding new homes for fine art. In the wilds, he sees cooking and baking without modern conveniences as their own adventure and creative expression. “Treehouse Letters: The Unabridged Michigan Forest Life Journal” includes entries about his art and his back-woods cooking … and many other things that one might think about while in a tree. 

 “Forest Legend: The Tale of Ol’ Split Toe”, Dan’s upcoming novel – his debut fiction piece written while sitting in his treehouse nest - brings experience from decades of life in the forest together with a rich understanding of mid-Michigan’s pioneer history and changing landscape. In this sweeping adventure, Dan explores the resilience of nature through the eyes of a majestic, time-traveling deer.

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