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Monday, August 31, 2015

Release Blitz : Transcending Darkness by Airicka Phoenix


Title: Transcending Darkness
Author: Airicka Phoenix
Genre: Contemporary Dark Romance
Hosted by: Lady Amber's Tours



Blurb:
One: Sign the contract.

Juliette Romero had a debt to pay, a debt that wasn’t even hers. But it was the only way to keep her family safe and all she had to do was sell her body and soul to the devil.

Killian McClary wasn’t called the Scarlet Wolf for nothing. He’d been the head of the McClary Organization since he was fifteen and had built a reputation for being a ruthless son of a bitch when it came to running the city’s underbelly, not to mention merciless when it came to punishing those who betray him. He didn’t believe in weaknesses. Only results. Juliette, with her shy smiles and hot little body was a weakness unlike any other and yet he was powerless to resist one more taste of her sweet flesh.

Two: Become his for a year.

When given the choice between her life or her body, what could Juliette possibly do, but submit to a man whose very name invoked fear in the hearts of others? She just never anticipated falling for his dark, hungry eyes and clever hands, or the way the beast in him made her feel oddly safe and cherished.

But what will happen when Killian’s dark past finally catches up to him and threatens the woman he can no longer imagine himself without? What will happen when both sides find themselves caught in a web of passion, lies and broken promises? Can Juliette tame the wolf or will her love for him devour them both?

Three: Don’t fall in love.

Boundaries will be crossed, loyalties will be tested and lives will be changed forever.

____________________________





Self-proclaimed romance addict, Airicka Phoenix lives in a world where unicorns, fairies and mermaids run amok through her home on a daily basis. When she's not chasing after pixies and rounding up imps, also known as her four children, she can be found conjuring imaginary friends to play with. 
Airicka is the prolific author of over eighteen novels for those who crave strong, female leads, sexy alpha heroes and out of control desires. She's a multi genre author who writes young adult, new adult and adult contemporary and paranormal romance. For more about Airicka and the realm she rules with an iron fist--and tons of chocolate--visit her at:



Author Links:
Twitter: http://goo.gl/yoVWYF (@AirickaPhoenix)





Friday, August 28, 2015

Release: The Lost by Cole McCade


The Lost by Cole McCade

Date of Publication: August 25, 2015



Blurb

She's known it her whole life. She knows it every time she spreads her legs. Every time she begs for the pain, the pleasure, the heat of a hard man driving deep inside. She's a slave to her own twisted lusts--and it's eating her alive. She loves it. She craves it. Sex is her drug, and she's always chasing her next fix. But nothing can satisfy her addiction, not even the nameless men she uses and tosses aside. No one's ever given her what she truly needs.
Until Gabriel Hart.
Cold. Controlled. Impenetrable. Ex-Marine Gabriel Hart isn't the kind of man to come running when Leigh crooks her pretty little finger. She loathes him. She hungers for him. He's the only one who understands how broken she is, and just what it takes to satisfy the emptiness inside. But Gabriel won't settle for just one night. He wants to claim her, keep her, make her forever his. Together they are the lost, the ruined, the darkness at the heart of Crow City.
But Leigh has a darkness of her own. A predator stalking through her past--one she'll do anything to escape.
Even if it means running from the one man who could love her...and leaving behind something more precious to her than life itself.

Available From


About Cole McCade



Corporate consultant by day, contemporary romance author by night.
Mid-thirties. Coffee addict. Cat lover. Bibliophile. Technophile. Definite sapiophile. Native Southerner. Runner. Country boy turned city suit. Shameless collector of guitar picks, vinyl records, and incense holders. Aficionado of late-night conversations over live music in seedy bars. Browncoat with a secret crush on Kaylee Frye.
Fascinated by human sociology, and particularly by the psychology of sex and gender – and their effect on relationship expectations, the culture of dating, and what it means to fall in love.
Non-smoker. The picture's just a stock photo. A rather broody, dark one for someone who isn't all that broody or dark, but sometimes forgets to smile even when he means to.

Find Cole McCade Online

Teaser

Note: This book contains material that may be triggering for some readers
PROLOGUE
"State your name."
Cold, clipped words, blending into the noise of the police station. Leigh lifted her head from a fixed study of her clenched fingers. Colors whirled around her in a lurid carnival nightmare, too bright, too blurry. On a bench on the far side of the room, a wasted and broken scarecrow woman picked at a scab on her wrist with a certain habitual listlessness, oozing diseased red-brown blood over liver spots. Her tendons were rails under her skin, and the dull gleam of cuffs chained her to the bench. She raised her head and stared at Leigh with yellowed eyes that captured her with a sort of empty, terrifying promise.
Across the desk a policewoman waited, with that compassionate impatience only a half-step from pity and shoulder-to-shoulder with disgust. Her flat blue eyes said she'd been trained to care, but couldn't be bothered anymore. Leigh swallowed and tugged her hoodie close against the tinny air-conditioned chill. Her mouth had dried to a tacky, sticky mess, gummy pills of lipstick beading on her lips, and her tongue was a bloated and useless organ, this swollen pink thing pushing pointlessly against her teeth.
"Leigh," she ground out. "Clarissa Leigh…" Her married name scratched sandpaper syllables against her throat. "…van Zandt."
"And Miss van Zandt, do you know why you're here?"
She nodded, her neck a creaking wooden puppet-hinge. "I do."
"Your family's been worried about you."
"I know."
She knew what she should do here. Bow her head in shame and contrition, maybe even sniffle. But she looked for the emotions and they weren't there; just scraps and tatters, clinging to the empty place where they belonged. She had no feeling left, hollowed out and lost and wondering how she'd ended up here. This didn't feel real. Instead it was a dream where everyone leered in fisheye close-up, their smiles all teeth and stretched red lips and manic glee. She wanted to run, but somehow she'd gone too numb to do anything but sit here surrounded by the stink of fear-sweat, stale beer, and that particular police-station smell of urine soaked into concrete for decades on end.
"What happened to you?" the officer asked. Leigh didn't answer, and the officer's pen tapped against the forms on her desk, rat-tat-tat, rat-tat-tat, Morse code for I'd rather be anywhere but here with this spoiled little runaway princess. "It's been four years. You were declared legally dead."
"That's all right." She closed her eyes with a laugh that ripped her guts up into her mouth, and buried her face in her hands. Dead. Dead.
Yeah, that was about right.
"Miss van Zandt?"
Stop calling me that.
"Miss van Zandt. I need you to focus on my voice."
Stop calling me that!
Leigh took a measured breath and opened her eyes. Her shoulders squared. The bolts on the back of the hard, ass-biting chair dug into her shoulder blades. "I am focused. I can hear you just fine."
"Eyes are dilated." The officer—her nametag read Maroni, could there be a more clich├ęd name for a Crow City cop—leaned across the desk, peering at her face. Then she beckoned to the aide hovering over them like a mannequin. "I've seen this too many times. Drugs and prostitution." She talked about Leigh like she wasn't even there. "We'll have to clean her up before her husband gets here."
"I'm not on drugs. I've never been on drugs."
Maroni's pen-clicking stopped. Her disbelief was a heavy thing, push-push-pushing until Leigh nearly laughed.
"You're not on drugs."
"No."
"Then what happened?"
There it was. The first hint of exasperation. Of frustration, stitched into knitted brows and the purse of lips in just the right shade of I can't be a woman, I'm a cop mauve. Because like anyone normal, anyone who wasn't fucking broken to pieces and liked being that way, Maroni needed to make sense of this. Needed to quantify it in a world where the rules worked as normal and everyone wanted to chase that dream of happiness that wasn't anything but desperation painted over of a frantic tally of things. Things of plastic, things with value created by people whose upper lips curled when they looked down at little girls like Leigh, and demanded she account for herself in sane, rational ways that made proper sense.
Sorry, Officer Maroni.
I'm not the kind of thing that makes much sense.
Maroni pushed a harsh sound through her teeth. "You had a job, a husband, a newborn son. You had a life other people would kill for, and we find you here on the streets. Were you pressured? Kidnapped?"
"No. None of that." Leigh shook her head.
"You'll have to explain, then."
"I left." She trailed off, lips parted; no words came for long seconds, until she managed, "I…I was afraid."
"Of what?" Maroni tried to catch her eye, but Leigh looked down at her hands, at her chipped pink fingernails dipped in the sparkles of shooting stars. "Miss van Zandt. If someone was hurting you, you need to tell us now so we can take appropriate steps to protect you."
"No. No one hurt me. Not like that."
"I'm afraid you'll need to be more clear. What were you afraid of?"
"Of…"
She struggled for an answer. Struggled for something this woman would accept, something that would make her sigh with sympathy and pity and relieved disdain that said there, but for the Grace of God…
But again, she found nothing. Nothing but the truth, and Leigh shrugged as she looked up at the policewoman and wondered if she had daughters who might one day be like Leigh, daughters who would cut stark red lines of fingernails in the walls of flesh that caged her in the shape of pop culture's perfect woman.
"Of the inevitable monotony of it all," she said.
And smiled.
Hosted by:

Book Blast: Ruined by Allana Kephart & Melissa Simmons


Ruined
The Dolan Prophecies Series #1.5 (Novella)
By- Allana Kephart & Melissa Simmons
Publication Date- August 27th, 2015
Genre- New Adult Dystopian/ Dark Faery Tales

Patrick and Maeve Dolan left the safety of their New York human settlement on a sultry summer night and never returned. Ambushed by the Winter Court guards during their search for information on how to free humanity from faery rule, they are now ensnared in the Winter King Landric’s web, and he has some questions of his own.
   
The Winter King is curious about the way the Dolans run their city. In a surprising turn of events, he’s determined to learn all about their 16-year-old son, Eirnin. Landric separates the couple, threatens and tortures to the best of his ability, but the Dolans won’t give up the information he’s after.
       
Murphy, one of King Landric’s guards has been a ward of the Winter Court for as long as he can remember. Trained from childhood to be as quiet and obedient as possible, he’s always been the perfect servant. At least, until Princess Lumi strolled into his life and made him question everything he believes in.
       
When the princess vanishes without a trace in the middle of the night, Landric is determined Patrick’s people had something to do with it. Without the only connection to kindness and humanity they had, Murphy and Patrick both find themselves falling into very different kinds of insanity.
       
Will Murphy follow his heart just this once, choose his own side and find Lumi? Will Patrick’s hope dwindle before he can escape and save his family? Or will their unyielding resistance be the death of them all?

   

Thursday, August 27, 2015

REVIEW TOUR: Aqua by M.A. George


Aqua
By- M.A. George
Genre- YA Paranormal
Publication Date- April 16th, 2014

Meet Layla McKelland:  
Novelist (unpublished, but cut her some slack…seventeen is a bit early to despair),
Slightly neurotic introvert (Alright, let’s be honest…there’s no “slightly” about it),
International Woman of Mystery, and…
Okay, just scratch the bio.

The only real “mystery” in Layla’s life is why her father has never been on the scene.  Or why her mother drags Layla to a new coastal home every year.

Nothing about the latest hometown seems too newsworthy…until a routine day at the beach leaves Layla questioning whether she’s read one too many paranormal fantasy novels.  The plot thickens when a random guy claims to know things about her father—a bizarre claim he backs up with an equally impossible stunt.  And Layla soon finds herself on the wrong side of a mysterious attempted drowning…on her own kitchen floor.

When all is done, Layla will attest that fact is far stranger than fiction.  And nothing in real life is ever as transparent as it seems…Not even water.

Especially not water.


EXCERPT:
“Layla…Can you hear me?  Try to open your eyes, Layla.”
I recognize that voice—echoing from some faraway land—yet I can’t quite place it.  I’m fairly certain that it usually isn’t marked by an anxious quiver, one it’s seemingly trying to suppress.  I know it’s not Mom or Cora.  For one, Mom wouldn’t be making any effort to hide her maternal hysterics.  And though Aunt Cora can be a tad on the masculine side sometimes, she doesn’t actually sound like a guy.
“Layla…Please try to open your eyes.”  Definitely a guy…and since I don’t really know many of those, that narrows the list down pretty quickly.
A garbled groan oozes from my throat, as my head rolls to one side to cough out a gurgling breath.  I hear the scatter of dusty grit puffing away in the gust from my lungs, and I wrench my lids open to a heap of washed-up seaweed on a bed of sand.  I roll onto my back again, squinting against the glaring daylight.  A head moves in to eclipse the sun, its backlit face obscured by shadow.  The halo of short curls dances and sways in the breeze, a pleasant greeting filtering through the air in that familiar voice.
“Hey there…You sure can give a guy a heart attack, you know that?”  I can only respond with another groan, pressing my palms into the sand in an attempt to sit up.  “Whoa, whoa, whoa…Take it easy there.  Get your bearings first.”  Tristan’s hand gently presses my shoulder back down, and I flop backward like a ragdoll upon the sandy dune.
“Wh-what happened?” I stammer, clenching my eyes closed again, as the vivid remembrance of suffocation charges like a bull through my brain.  “How’d you get me out of the water?”
“You took care of that yourself,” he puffs out a relieved chuckle.  “We found you washed up face-down on the sand.  You must’ve pulled yourself to shore before you passed out.  I should’ve warned you to watch out for rip currents.”
“Yeah,” I cough out a sarcastic snort with a mumble under my breath.  “Rip currents.”  My gut reaction is to tell him I know what the hell a rip current is…and they don’t have elbows or hairy heads.  But then my thoughts flash to the spinning whirlpool that sucked me under, and along to the insanity that’s been polluting my brain lately.  Maybe yet another screw has come loose from my unhinged mind.  Best I just keep my mouth shut.
But wait a minute…
“We?”  I fight against Tristan’s cautioning advice and rise up to sitting.  “What do you mean ‘we’ found you washed up on the beach?  Who’re we?”
“She’s not one for expressing gratitude, is she?”  A shiver of goose bumps crawls over my skin at the taint of madness in that high-pitched snicker.
Pyke.
“You just get the hell away from me.”  Suddenly I’m scrambling to my knees, scurrying around behind Tristan and practically jumping piggy-back onto him, my pruny fingers digging into his bare shoulders.  I said I’m no coward; but apparently, I stand corrected.  I fish for more words but come up empty.  All I’ve got is the icy glare I’m aiming past Tristan’s shoulder, squaring Pyke’s face in my sights.
A knowing smirk contorts his bearded lips, and it strikes me that his grungy hair is as dry as the day we met.  He’s once again stark-dry from head to toe; and logic would lead one to conclude he had no possible hand in my near-drowning.  Too bad logic has forsaken me, ever since Pyke came barging into my life.
“Get far, far, far away from me…and then take a few extra steps, just for good measure.”  My eyes narrow a bit further as I struggle to rally the hard-edged conviction in my voice.  “Start.  Walking.  Now.”
He just crosses his arms defiantly with a swaggering tilt to his head, as another bray of laughter shakes his chest.  He lists a little closer, a taunting leer shadowed beneath his dark brow.  “And here I thought you were starting to warm up to me.”  I hadn’t noticed from a distance just how deep purple those circles under his eyes are…perhaps because they weren’t there until I jammed my thumb into his eye sockets.
I fix him in my searing glare with a low snarl.  “I’d sooner warm up to Satan.”
“Well, of course…”  A wicked smile lights his eyes.  “He has Hellfire and whatnot at his disposal.”
“Enough, Pyke,” Tristan shuts him down with a sharp reprimand.  “She’s not exactly having the best day…Now’s not the time for games.”
I silently thank Tristan with a subtle squeeze of his shoulder, his sun-baked skin a stark contrast to my clammy hands.  All this talk about warming up to people, and in fact I’m chilled to the core.  There’s an unnerving quiet while Pyke debates how much my torment is worth to him.  I realize I’ve been holding my breath when he turns with a shrug to head for the water.  A shudder rolls through me as I draw in a lungful through chattering teeth.
“You’re shaking,” Tristan’s brow furrows as he turns to look over his shoulder.  “Are you cold?”
“No,” I absently shake my head, pulling my trembling fingers from his back.  “At least I don’t think so.”  The truth is, sheer terror and bone-chilling cold bring on a remarkably similar shiver.  Judging from the fact that it’s at least a hundred degrees out today, I’m fairly certain it’s mainly terror behind my quivering limbs.
“We should get you to the hospital,” he turns and puts his arm around my waist for support.  “Just to make sure you’re okay.”
“I’m fine,” I shake my head.  “I just want to go home.”
“Are you sure?”  He raises a questioning eyebrow, and I give an insistent nod.  “Well, you’re not driving,” he contends.  “We’ll go in my car.”  Funny how his voice really deepens when he’s being especially serious.
I reluctantly concede with a nod.  Truth be told, I’m far from fit for driving right now.  Physically, I’m pretty sure I’m coming around and will be fine.  My state of mind is another story.  And as if I haven’t had enough mental torment for the week, I make the mistake of looking back over my shoulder.  I can’t seem to stop myself from checking for Pyke.  Knowing he’s somewhere behind me just gives me that hair-raising feeling of being followed.  Only he’s definitely not tailing us…He’s wading out into the waves, glancing all around as though he’s searching for something.  He seems to catch sight of whatever it is he’s seeking; and he springs from the seabed, arching forward into a dive with arms in a point overhead.
But of course, nothing with Pyke can end that simply.
Just before he enters the water—his pointed hands not quite yet touching the surface—he becomes water, his tattooed arms liquefying to a transparent spray.  The transformation to a flowing crystal-clear stream spreads in a swift cascade from his head to his toes.  What was formerly his diving body is suddenly an arcing wave, splashing into the sea to join up with the ripples dancing across the surface.
By this point, I don’t think there’s any color left to drain out of my face.
I look to Tristan with saucer eyes, my arm still looped over his shoulder as he guides me back toward the parking area.  I only see the back of his turned head…He’s been looking back too.  As his face slowly rotates back toward me, I search for any signs of shock, dismay, or an impending freakout in his eyes.  But I find nothing of the sort.  He flashes a polished smile, that crooked tooth practically mocking me with its complete lack of alarm.  It’s no use asking if he saw anything strange…Whatever he saw, he clearly isn’t rattled by it (most likely because—like the rest of the sane world—he saw nothing out of the ordinary).
“You think you can make it the whole way?” His voice knocks me out of my stupor.  “Maybe I should run ahead and bring the car back this way.”  I come to the awkward realization that he’s practically lugging me like a sack of potatoes, with absolutely no help from the dangling pair of useless rubber bands I call my legs.
“I can make it,” I straighten up, willing the jelly in my bones to support my weight.  I’m not about to let him walk off and leave me here, with his psycho-murderer-slash-shapeshifter buddy still skulking somewhere out there in the waves.  I set my sights on the Jeep Cherokee in the distance, focusing on making one footprint in the sand after another.  Those prickly lights make an appearance in my fading peripheral vision again, my ears popping with a muffled hum beginning to drown out the seagulls.  I try to be as casual as possible, muttering a garbled suggestion, “Maybe I should go ahead and give you directions to my house now…Just in case I pass out again.”
At that, Tristan scoops me up off my feet, ignoring my grumbling objections.  I’m ashamed to say he was slowed down more by my pitiful attempt at walking than by the full weight of my body in his arms.  “If you pass out again, I won’t need any directions…I’m remarkably familiar with the route to the nearest emergency room.”
I’d believe his claim outright (there are only so many streets in this town to begin with), but I have the feeling he’s more familiar with the local emergency room than your average citizen.  I’d never really noticed the jagged scar trailing down the side of his scalp beneath the curls—curving behind his left ear and ending about halfway down the back of his neck—probably because I haven’t been quite this up-close-and-personal before.  It’s way too crooked to be a surgical scar, and it makes the one above his eyebrow look like a paper cut.  I imagine there’s probably a captivatingly grisly story to go with it; but frankly I couldn’t have less interest in asking about it right now.
I’ve had all the excitement I can handle for one day.