When Bryce entered the hall in his best shirt and his hair combed, he found the small gathering waiting by the hearth. Other than two servants there were no other women with their group. For a moment his chest relaxed. Perhaps his bride had abandoned him. He’d be glad to be spared this duty. It would save them both a lot of misery. Lach might be able to force him to marry for an alliance, but the laird couldn’t force Bryce to live with her or get a bairn on her. It would be a marriage contract in name only. A binding to gain access to a seaport from the McCurdys and nothing more. Lach, Cam, and the priest were frowning when he arrived. “What’s the matter. Did the lass flee?” Bryce couldn’t help a slight smile. “Nay. She’s there with her maid.” Bryce glanced over at the woman young enough to be Dorie McCurdy. A tall stick of a girl who looked as if she hadn’t eaten a good meal in ages. Her midnight hair longed for a comb, and her blue eyes darted around as if ready for an attack. He’d noticed her as he’d approached, but thought…

Damon Louis couldn’t quite believe Rian Falwell had just thrown a f*cking balled-up paper towel at his head, like they were in grade school trading spitballs. But then he couldn’t believe Falwell was staring at him like he’d happily gut Damon, too, his imperious little pale mouth twisted in a knot and his previously bone-white cheeks flushed with anger that reflected in glittering hazel eyes. People didn’t glare at Damon. They didn’t even make eye contact. But Falwell didn’t have the slightest qualms about glaring at him, standing there like the lord of his five by five domain, slender presence bristling fit to fill the tiny cubicle he’d commandeered as his… Damon didn’t even know what to call it. Studio. Workroom. Junk closet. Dumpster. Especially when Falwell had cluttered it wall to wall with kitsch, this kind of…whirlwind of clay and paint and pictures and deli­cate bits of papercraft that fit together in a bizarre aesthetic chaos, where it all coalesced in an esoteric pattern like some strange art installation in and of itself. While Rian himself was part of it, lit in white and amber by the single naked bulb hanging from the ceiling and the golden sunlight falling…

“I’ve never known why he did it,” Sharine said, and right then, she was magnificent in her cold anger. “If I ever see him again, I will ask him—if I can stop myself from first stabbing out his eyes.” Titus approved of her bloodthirsty need for vengeance. “I think at times, that I should release the anger,” she said, “that my vengeance should be to erase him from my thoughts.” “You can erase his face and his eyes instead,” Titus muttered. “And release your anger in his flesh.” It would still not be enough. An unexpected burst of that astonishing laughter that was sunshine falling in a rain over him. He clenched his gut against the glory of it. If he’d thought her beautiful before. . . well, if the Hummingbird was beautiful, Sharine with her blade of a tongue and golden laughter was extraordinary. Fighting the urge to touch her, this being beyond his reach, he said, “Am I to take it that you have no more feelings for the blue-green donkey?” He had to break the moment, break his entrancement. “If you are pining for him, admit it now so that I can smite you for bad taste.” “Smite me?”…

From Chapter Six of E. Elizabeth Watson’s Twelfth Knight’s Bride “Would it make any difference to ye now to ken that the mare ye ride is light of foot and won me a race in the Inverness games four seasons ago?” he diverted. She glanced at him. “She is quite spry for her age. What does that have to do with clan rivalries?” His semi-smile broadened, and he leaned down to her, lowering his voice as he wrapped his hands around his reins in preparation. “Absolutely nothing. I’m saying my horse could use a good jaunt, and since yer palfrey bears the record she does, how would ye like a wee competition? Up to the wood’s edge where it’s dense of trees and sparse of people?” Her eyes brightened, and a smile of her own danced upon her lips as she looked ahead of them to get bearings on the mark. Just as he suspected. The lass, bold of tongue, was also competitive. “I do believe I’m being challenged to a race by the enemy. More rivalry is what we need, then?”“Only a gentle bird frightened of losing would refuse,” he taunted, sitting upright again and staring down his nose…

“You like it. My testosterone. You’d like to be poisoned by it, admit it.” “There’s that sense of unearned self-confidence,” she said, her heart hammering steadily against her chest. “Right on time.” “It’s not unearned. I watch you. When we fight. Your face gets all flushed.” “That’s called anger.” “Why? What is it about me that makes you so damned angry?” “You… You are just…a useless, base ape.” “Base?” He asked the question with a dangerous sort of softness to his voice, and it made her trem­ble. “That’s what you think? That I’m like an animal who can’t control himself?” “Yes,” she spat. “I know all about you and your reputation. You get drunk at the bar, you pick up women every night of the week.” “I don’t get drunk,” he said. “That’s not me.” “Maybe that’s how you see yourself, but it’s not what I hear. I hear that you’re just a big, dumb, blunt instrument. You might go on and on about how you pulled yourself up by your bootstraps, but your daddy made all this happen. You might wear a cowboy hat, but there’s a silver spoon in your mouth the same as mine. So don’t you…

Isa startled awake, nearly jumping out of both her skin and the unfamiliar bed. With her heart in her throat, it took a few moments for her to collect her bearings, the events of the last twenty-four hours slowly easing their way back: being stalked, being tossed in the back of a moving van, and then being whisked away to a secret underground bunker beneath a distillery just off the Potomac River. Somehow her mundane, unchanging routine had been knocked on its side and flipped around, and even though she couldn’t directly pin it on Roman Steele, he served as a good target. Isa reluctantly slipped out of bed, thankful to Zoey for the extra set of clothes, and padded barefoot into the hall. With no one around to guide her toward coffee, she used her questionable sense of direction to find the kitchen and once again was taken in by the industrial homeliness of the Steele Ops common area. Polished cement floors and red brick walls complemented the warm tans and leather-accented furnishings, and colorful abstract artwork gave the sprawling underground space pops of color. It was the perfect blend of rustic home and modern industrial…and then you looked…

“I did not call you a sex robot.” The woman behind the counter flushed almost the exact same color as the pink polo top displaying a cutesy lip-print logo. She was gorgeous. Tumbling blond hair swept up into a bouncy ponytail, wide green eyes staring at him unflinchingly, and full lips all competed for his attention. There was something arresting about her, something strong and willful and so electric it grabbed Ronan Walsh by the balls. Add to all that a full figure with the kind of curves that could make a grown man weep, and he was momentarily robbed of his resolve to not to even think about women for the next twelve months. “She totally called him a sex robot.” One of the younger women at a nearby table snickered and ducked her head behind a coffee cup big enough to caffeinate an entire college faculty. “How embarrassing.” “Can I help you with a drink?” The woman asked, trying to act like she wasn’t ruffled. As she came closer, Ronan caught the name Audrey printed neatly on a white badge. “Maybe a croissant or a bagel?” “A coffee, black, in whatever is your biggest cup.” He tore his…

Flambé rose slowly, but without hesitation, although she seemed a little wobbly, and crossed to his side. He slid his arm around her, pulling her beneath his shoulder so she could fit snugly into the window frame with him. He could have easily moved over to give her room, but he wanted to see her reaction to his proprietary claim on her. She seemed to accept him, just the way her leopard accepted his close proximity. The man coming toward the house was still a distance away and was striding boldly up the walkway, two men on either side of him. He acted as if he owned the property, and no one would ever think to oppose him. “He has more men with him. They’re hidden from view in the shrubbery on either side of the house. I’ve counted at least six, but most likely there are more.” Sevastyan was matter-of-fact. Calm. He kept his arm around her. A little shudder went through her body and she took an involuntary step back as if to get away from the window. At the same time, she tried to tug on his waist to take him with her. Her little leopard pushed…

“Bébé, what are you doing?” I called from the bed as I looked at Yin fussing around in our little kitchen on the other side of our studio apartment. I bit back a smile when he whipped around toting two mugs in a candy cane motif. “I was trying to bring you some coffee with peppermint creamer, Mr. Sleepy Head.” The attempt at sounding stern was thwarted by the grin on his face. He closed the space between us in a few steps and handed me the steaming mug. I reached out for the drink knowing it would probably be too sweet. And that I would drink it anyway, because how could I not, when it was made for me with such love? It was still hard to believe sometimes that I had this life. I patted the spot on the bed next to me, as Yin blew on his own cup. “Come sit with me.” He held up a finger and looked down at his drink. “Let me wait until this cools down, because you know me, I’ll probably spill this all over the bed and then we’ll spend Christmas at the ER.” I had to bite back a…

Ethan was staring at the moon. He sat up, gasping and choking. He rolled off the padding and clawed at the raw planks of the floor. Then he heard the water. A soft summer breeze blew up tiny waves. They splashed like cymbals against the pilings that rose to either side of where he lay. He gripped the nearest strut and forced himself to his feet. The night was utterly dark. He was dressed in a pair of raggedy cutoffs and a T-shirt. On his feet were leather sandals curled and cracked by salt and hard days. He was completely alone. Ethan cried out, a choking sound wrenched from the terror and confusion that filled him. He knew where he was. What was more, he knew when. The summer before his final year at the university, when he and his best friend had wrangled jobs at the Holiday Marina. The long pier ran back to the shore, every plank in place, the pilings straight as arrows. The marina’s unmistakable form was silhouetted by yellow streetlights. Four A-frames housed the sailing classes, the repair shop, the store, and the stockrooms. An old canvas inflatable raft lay on the pier, with a…