Labels

Wednesday, October 17, 2018

SeaJourney by Alex Paul


 photo SeaJourney_zpseytsk6yw.jpg


Arken Freeth and the Adventure of the Neanderthals, Book 1
Middle-Grade Fantasy Adventure

 photo add-to-goodreads-button_zpsc7b3c634.png

A young warrior stands at the precipice of war…

To succeed he must find his courage and survive a treacherous journey across the sea.

Arken Freeth has always wanted to prove himself worthy of his king's appointment by becoming an officer in the Lantish Sea Service. Now the only thing standing in his way is his apprenticeship SeaJourney. But a peaceful training mission soon turns into a deadly struggle for survival as Arken's fleet must come to the aid of a princess fleeing capture by Tookan pirates.

SeaJourney kicks off an epic and fantastical adventure that is a great read for all ages.



Other Books in the Arken Freeth and the Adventure of the Neanderthals series:



 photo Shipwrecked 2_zpsgnjjtzd9.jpg

Shipwrecked
Arken Freeth and the Adventure of the Neanderthals, Book 2
Publisher: AIS, Limited

As war looms like an evil shadow over the world…

Arken Freeth must save his crewmates’ lives as they traverse a deadly jungle filled with massive wolves and sabertooth cats.

In the age before the Great Flood, 13,000 years ago, a new alliance between the nations of Lanth and Tolaria is threatened by pyramid-building Amarrats out to conquer and enslave the world.

Fourteen-year-old Arken Freeth is swept up in the conflict when his Lantish Military Academy training ship is attacked by pirates and runs ashore. He and six classmates are the only survivors of the shipwreck, and they struggle to live in a jungle filled with saber-tooth cats, dire wolves, mammoths, and mastodons.

Arken has salvaged a necklace from the wreck--a necklace that bestows the gift of prophecy. If Arken can get it to the King of Lanth, he will turn the tide of war.




 photo The Toth Hunter 3_zpst5jzjasc.jpg

The Toth Hunter
Arken Freeth And The Adventure Of The Neanderthals, Book 3
Publisher: AIS, Limited

Arken learns more about the secrets of his heritage and discovers the strengths it offers will help him to earn a place of leadership among his grandmother’s people.

Arken Freeth and Asher, the future king of Tolaria, find themselves trapped in the Nanders’ Water Cave as they await the recovery of Arken’s love, Talya.

While living among the Nanders, Arken earns the respect of the tribe as he hunts the deadly jalag and massive toth with the tribe. But Arken, Asher, and Talya soon anger the wife and son of the tribe’s leader, Jen. If Arken does not accept Jen’s challenge to the death, all their lives will be in jeopardy.




 photo Tookan Attack_zps5vsuqcxx.jpg

Tookan Attack
Arken Freeth and the Adventure of the Neanderthals, Book 4
Publisher: AIS, Limited

A battle is looming between the Tookans and Arken Freeth’s band of Lantish, Tolarian, and Nander warriors. Who will survive?

The Pirate King Yolanta’s fleet has fled to Situn, a barbarian settlement on the northern coast of the Circle Sea. Once provisioned, Yolanta plans a return to the River Zash and a final battle that will secure the Necklace of Tol for the Amarrat King. Yet before Yolanta can return to crush the Nanders, he will face betrayal and death at the hands of the hostile residents of Situn, the treacherous walled city of the North.

A troubling vision has warned Arken Freeth that Yolanta and his men will soon storm the Nanders’ Water Cave. In order to save the Nander tribe and protect the Necklace of Tol, Arken, Talya, and Asher must forge weapons and train the Nanders in the art of modern warfare, an impossible task when the Nanders follow The Way and are so resistant to change.

Mar discovers that Arken is the Jalet-hoi, the one foretold to be the savior of the Nanders. But in order to fulfill this powerful prophecy, Arken must survive a duel with Jen, the tribal chief’s son, to save his friend Ord’s life. No one, not even his friends, believes Arken will win this fight with such a powerful warrior. Even if he does live, will their battle training be enough for them to build a Nander army skilled enough to survive the Tookan Attack?




 photo Arken Freeth and the Adventure of the Neanderthals 1-4_zpshzqpzopw.jpg

Arken Freeth and the Adventure of the Neanderthals Boxed Set
(The Boxed Set, Books 1-4)
Publisher: AIS, Limited

Part Neanderthal, but raised as a human, Arken Freeth finds that he doesn't fit in either world as he struggles to survive.

SEAJOURNEY, BOOK ONE

Arken Freeth has always wanted to prove himself worthy of his king's appointment by becoming an officer in the Lantish Sea Service. Now the only thing standing in his way is his apprenticeship SeaJourney. But a peaceful training mission soon turns into a deadly struggle for survival as Arken's fleet must come to the aid of a princess fleeing capture by Tookan pirates.

SHIPWRECKED, BOOK TWO

Arken Freeth’s Lantish Royal Military Academy training ship is attacked by pirates and runs ashore. He and six classmates are the only survivors of the shipwreck and they struggle to live in a jungle filled with saber-tooth cats, dire wolves, mammoths, and mastodons. Arken has salvaged a necklace from the shipwreck—a necklace that bestows the gift of prophecy. If Arken can escape the Tookan pirates intent on stealing the necklace for themselves and deliver it safely to the king of Lanth, he will turn the tide of war.

THE TOTH HUNTER, BOOK THREE

Arken and some of his friends are rescued by the Nanders, only to find that many of the Nanders want to put them to death for fear they will escape and send slavers back to the Water Cave. Join Arken as he comes to grips with his heritage and struggles to keep himself and his friends alive while learning to live and hunt in the wild like a Nander.

TOOKAN ATTACK, BOOK FOUR

The bloodthirsty Tookans return for the necklace, but a surprise awaits them when they step on shore, for Arken and his friends have armed and trained the Nanders. Though outnumbered, the Nanders are powerful warriors in their own forest. The outcome for the Tookans is anything but certain as Arken fights alongside the Nanders to defend their home.



Excerpt

Chapter 1: The Rock Test

Mother, I weep for you each night. Our enemy’s campfires

seem to number more than the stars in the sky. Their soldiers

drum and chant all night and torment our sleep. I fear the worst

for my people, for I cannot read the Necklace of Tol to see the

Time to Come.

—Diary of Princess Sharmane of Tolaria

Thirty boys surrounded Arken in a circle, waiting for him to

lift the rock and prove he was strong enough to graduate.

“No more delays, Arken,” Lar ordered. “Sunset will leave you

too old to test!” Lar’s olive skin and dark beard turned his

sunken eyes into two caves in a rock cliff. He was a lean, tall,

and wifeless instructor who lived alone in the academy officer’s

barracks.

Arken could never tell if Lar liked him, since Lar was

sometimes friendly to him, yet now made fun and appeared to

enjoy his classmates’ laughter.

The circle of boys, all taller than him, carried sparring

swords and wore bronze armor over their white, knee-length

tunics. Bronze helmets shielded faces from the blazing sun.

“Class, form a seated square around the post and stone,”

Lar ordered. The moving armor rang with the music of bronze

and they joked as they sat. It was easy for Arken’s classmates

to laugh; they had all passed the test. As the youngest, he was

the last to reach his fourteenth birthday and take the test

before SeaJourney, a one-moonth-long apprenticeship, now

only days away.

If Arken lifted the rock, he would graduate and join his class

at sea. Failing the rock test today left only one way of going on

SeaJourney. He would have to defeat Gart, the class salcon, in

a sparring match.

“He’s taken so long I’ve grown a beard,” Gart joked in a loud

voice. Everyone laughed at Gart’s jokes, even if they weren’t

funny, because he was a year older than the rest of the class,

bigger than all of them, and their salcon, their squad leader.

Gart had passed the rock test the previous year, then failed his

final exams.

Given an additional year to study and the leadership

position as class salcon, the academy expected him to succeed.

A wave of depression swept over Arken. If he failed to lift the

rock, he had no chance of beating Gart in a sparring match. He

was a head taller and stronger.

“Arken, lift the stone!” Lar’s tone turned angry. “Why are

you stalling?”

“Yes, sir.” Arken scanned the second-story classrooms a

hundred legs across the courtyard. Girls in the Queen’s

Trackers often visited the academy for training and, being

scouts, they had good eyes. He didn’t want them to see him

fail.

But no girls watched from the openings in the gray stone

walls. Even the tower guards weren’t looking, probably due to

midmeal and the mid-day heat leaving them sleepy.

Arken turned towards Tok, the name given the rock five

hundred years earlier when the test began. He’d never lifted a

stone this big in practice. Father would be so disappointed if he

failed; he’d worked so hard with him practicing swords to help

keep up with his classmates. He stepped next to the rock.

“Don’t forget the warrior’s creed,” Lar reminded him.

“Sir! Fear none in battle, nor death at sea, nor those who

wish to torment thee, with Kal in mind and sword held high,

fight until you win or die.”

“Good! Now win your fight with that rock,” Lar ordered.

Arken squatted and picked up red, courtyard clay, then

rubbed it in his palms to improve his grip. Waves of heat from

the mid-day sun shimmered off Tok. Years ago they had run

laps from their classroom across the courtyard to the rock and

back while singing war songs. He and his young classmates

would slap the hot stone for good luck and shout “Tok” on the

turn.

A lingering touch of the stone could leave the palms warm

from the heat. Today he had to be careful and lift the rock’s

cooler, shaded side because touching the warm side would

make him drop the stone.

Arken was the only commoner in his class. All the other

boys were sons of noble families. The king had granted a

request by Arken’s father, a commoner, to send Arken to the

academy. It was a reward for his father’s heroism in battle.

Arken had endured bad treatment and bullying at the hands

of the noblemen’s sons since the age of six because he wanted

to prove himself to his father and he yearned for a chance to

explore the world in the Sea Service.

Now all those years of abuse would only be worth it if he

lifted Tok and graduated.

A swordtooth’s scream split the air. The class turned as one

towards the sound coming from beyond the fort’s north wall.

The high-pitched tone dropped to a long, low rumble that made

Arken’s neck hairs stand up.

“Remain calm,” Lar ordered. “The swordtooth is far away. I

promise, if it draws close enough for the guards to kill, we’ll go

up on the wall and watch.”

The boys all talked at once about the swordtooth and

seemed to forget about Arken. He wiped sweat from his face

that had run down despite the gastag leather strap holding

back his long blonde hair. He felt grateful for the swordtooth

because it bought time to get his nerves under control.

The swordtooth cat was old and couldn’t hunt toth and ton,

so it had moved in close to the city walls to attack King’s

Harsemen when they patrolled outside the fort. Two dead

horses and riders made it essential that the swordtooth die. So

the guards had tethered a goat next to the south wall before

dawn to draw the cat within range.

The swordtooth screamed again, sending chills down

Arken’s spine. The cats grew to twenty feet long. Though

terrifying, they inspired him. They were proof of the vast,

dangerous world beyond the city walls awaiting his exploration.

“Begin, Arken,” Lar said.

“Fourteen … I’m old enough,” Arken whispered to himself.

He rubbed the loose clay from his hands and rose to extend a

hand from the top of the post to his chest, measuring the

height he’d have to lift Tok to his belly button. A slight

depression in the top center of the post would hold the rock,

but to lift and gently place it so as not to roll off was the

challenge.

“He’ll never lift it,” Gart whispered loud enough for all to

hear. “He’s too small.”

“Silence, Gart!” Lar entered the square and strode towards

Gart. “You’re a salcon! Friendly teasing is fine, but a class

leader should never undermine his men.” Lar jabbed his heavy

walking stick into the back of Gart’s calf where the armor didn’t

protect his legs, making the boy wince. A grimace crossed his

face. Crying out during punishment lengthened the beating so

Gart made no sound.

“Yes, sir! Sorry, sir!” Gart pulled his feet in tight under the

skirt of his white tunic to avoid another poke of Lar’s stick. His

lower lip quivered slightly despite his stony face and Arken

knew he’d been hurt by Lar’s blow and comment.

“Arken, lift that stone now!”

“Yes, sir.” Arken said, but the swordtooth screamed,

drowning out his reply.

“It’s getting closer!” Lar exclaimed. “Arken. Hurry and lift,

we want to see that swordtooth killed!”

“Yes, sir.” Arken felt grateful the big cat had diverted

attention for now he felt ready.

He squatted, put his chest on the stone, and reached

around with his arms so he could lock his fingers. He’d always

thought his barrel chest was an advantage; it gave him more

wind when he ran. But now his chest prevented his fingers

from touching. Arken turned his head to the left, brushing his

right cheek against the stone. The hot rock stung his flesh as

his straining fingers locked together. For once his too big hands

were an advantage and not an embarrassment.

He held his cheek off the hot rock as he pushed with his

legs. But the rock didn’t budge. It felt alive and its weight

fought him. He struggled to breathe, his chest restricted by the

rock’s pressure.

He tipped back on his heels and the rock popped off the

ground. A thrill ran through him. I’m going to do it! But when

he strained to rise, nothing happened. Impossible! So heavy!

He thought of quitting, but his fingers slipped and to his

surprise he fought to tighten his grip instead of letting go.

I can’t disappoint Father. Dear God Kal, grant me a birthday

wish, Arken prayed. Help me lift this rock.

He screamed and it startled some of the boys. He didn’t

care; the scream gave him strength and the rock edged higher.

His inner elbows burned from the strain of the weight. They felt

as if red-hot fire pokers were being thrust into them. His legs

trembled.

I am strong enough! He simply had to endure the pain.

“Almost there!” Lar had stooped over to see the post’s top.

Arken lurched forward with his right foot but the rock

thudded against the top of the post. He advanced his left leg,

then leaned back, trying to raise the rock the last little bit to

clear the post.

Pain shot across his low back. He recalled Lar’s stories

about boys injuring their spine by tipping backwards too far.

“One finger width higher!” Lar yelled.

The pain straightened his spine against his will.

“No, you’re going lower, lift it higher!” Lar waved his hands

as if he could somehow help Arken lift.

Arken strained his calf muscles, trying to lift his heels off

the ground and raise the rock that way. He rose to his tiptoes.

“You’re clear, push it forward, Arken!” Lar stepped closer.

A final push, he could feel it! He strained to go forward, but

suddenly, his calves gave way as if they belonged to someone

else, no longer willing to do his bidding. He felt his heels strike

the ground as the rock pushed them down.

“Too low.” Lar bent down. “Can’t you get it higher? You were

close.”

“I’ll try,” Arken grunted. He strained to raise himself back on

his toes, but nothing happened. He tried to pull with his arms,

but the rock lodged against his chest and wouldn’t budge.

Suddenly everything started to go dark. He focused his eyes on

some palm trees across the courtyard outside the fort’s main

gate.

The green palms swayed in the light breeze as they receded

down a long black tunnel. He blinked, but opened his eyes to

only a pinhole of light.

“Clear!” His intended yell came out a whisper. He felt the

stone slip from his grasp. A hand snatched him back by his

arm and the world left him.

“Are you alright?” Lar’s voice echoed as if he were in a cave.

“I think so.” Arken opened his eyes. A seagull hovered in the

blue sky high above Lar’s hollow-cheeked face and Arken

realized he was lying flat on his back.

“You’re sure?” Lar leaned in closer and blocked the gull’s

view.

“Yes.” Arken rose to his elbows. “What am I doing on the

ground?”

“You blacked out lifting the rock.” Lar said.

“I didn’t pass the test?” The memory came flooding back.

“You will next year.” Lar offered his hand. “You’re strong

enough, just not tall enough.”

“I know.” He felt proud he’d at least been strong enough to

lift it.

“Do you want to try your luck sparring with Gart today?”

“Yes, sir, I do.” Arken surprised himself with his answer as

he rose to his feet. He didn’t care if he lost, or even if he got

hurt sparring Gart. He wanted so badly to go on SeaJourney

this week. Life at sea called him.

“Good, I admire your spirit, Arken, though you’ll probably

lose.” Lar chuckled and shook his head.

“Maybe,” Arken rubbed his hands to knock off the clay, then

tried to brush the red clay from the back of his white tunic, but

with little success. Arlet, their Nander kitchen slave, would

scold him tonight for the dirty uniform.

The swordtooth screamed again, this time so loud it echoed

around the courtyard.

“It’s close to the wall!” Lar turned his gaze to the

guardhouse where soldiers were running for the chariot

mounted, giant crossbow. “Arken will fight you, Gart, after we

watch the guards kill the swordtooth. Lead your class to the

top of the wall.”

“Yes, sir, I accept Arken’s challenge. Cadets to me!” Gart

jogged for the wall.

The cadets saluted and were gone, like armored quails

busting out of grass in fear. Tanned legs carried lean bodies up

the stairs to the wall top in seconds.

Arken jogged two steps to Lar’s one despite Lar running with

his ceremonial robe gathered in his hands to prevent tripping

on it. Arken was grateful for some time to regain his strength

before sparring with Gart. It was his last chance to go to sea

this year. He had been so excited about beginning his officer’s

apprenticeship as a saldet, a junior officer. Only Gart stood in

his way.


About the Author


 photo SeaJourney Author Alex Paul_zpsz00ofdao.jpg


Alex Paul is the award-winning author of Arken Freeth and the Adventure of the Neanderthals books series, and co-author of They’re Mine and I’m Keeping Them.

Alex Paul lives with his wife Laura Ross-Paul (co-author of They’re Mine and I’m Keeping Them), and two faithful dogs, in Portland Oregon in the winter, and the Oregon Coast in the summer.

He trained as an Industrial Engineer at Oregon State University, working in a variety of fields before settling into a career as a real estate developer.

Alex Paul has been a life long outdoors enthusiast, having a wealth of knowledge and experience to draw on for his epic fantasy Arken Freeth series.



Contact Links


Purchase Links




RABT Book Tours & PR

Sin & Ink by Naima Simone



THE FIRST STANDALONE ROMANCE IN THE SWEETEST TABOO SERIES BY USA TODAY BESTSELLING AUTHOR NAIMA SIMONE.
There’s sin, and then there’s literally going-straight-to-hell sin…
Being in lust with my dead brother’s wife pretty much guarantees that one day I’ll be the devil’s bitch. But Eden Gordon works with me, so it’s getting harder and harder to stay away. I promised my family—and him—I would, though.
My days as an MMA champion are behind me. But whenever I see her, with those wicked curves and soft mouth created for dirty deeds, it’s a knock-down fight to just maintain my distance. “Hard Knox” becomes more than just the name of my tattoo shop. However, surrendering to the forbidden might be worth losing everything…



About the Book

Sin & Ink 
by Naima Simone
Series
Sweetest Taboo Book One
Genre
Adult
Contemporary Romance
Publisher
Entangled Scorched
Publication Date
October 15, 2018
Purchase Your Copy Today!
Amazon  |  Entangled Publishing  |  Barnes & Noble  |  Kobo  |  iBooks


Excerpt

Chapter One
Knox
Several sins could send a man to hell.
Blasphemy.
Murder.
Idolatry.
Lusting after your dead brother’s wife, especially when you were responsible for his death, might not top blasphemy, but it must be on the list.
Which means I have a one-way ticket to hell with my dick riding shotgun.
“It’s pretty. You did good,” my own living, breathing mortal sin praises over my shoulder. Eden Gordon, my sister-in-law—or former sister-in-law. Shit, I don’t know how that works—straightens, and thank God. I can breathe again. With her leaning over me, I drag her scent into my lungs. Like peaches left out under a summer sun—warm, sweet, sultry, and fucking edible.
I bend closer to the young woman in my chair and finish up the last of the color and shading on her shoulder. Not because I’ve suddenly developed a Mr. Magoo case of nearsightedness, but to insert even a little more distance between Eden and me. When it comes to her, distance is good.
Sitting up, I shut off the tattoo machine and spray the tat with tincture of green soap and water, washing off the excess ink and blood from her shoulder. Eden’s right. The butterfly is beautiful—3D turquoise, purple, and black art that appears to lift from the woman’s skin.
And if I have to ink one more goddamn butterfly on another coed, I’m going to junk-punch myself. There are tens of thousands of students enrolled in Chicago’s “Loop U,” and I swear, it seems as if every female student who enters Hard Knox Ink looking to get her tattoo virginity popped, wants a butterfly.
At least from her squeals and twisting and turning in the mirror, it appears this Loyola student likes it. There’s a warm satisfaction in seeing her pleasure—or any client’s joy in one of my tattoos—that’s incomparable to anything.
“I. Love. It.” She whirls around, wearing a huge grin.
“I’ll go ring her up,” Eden says, laying a hand on my back. Fuck. I briefly close my eyes, that simple, small touch like a blowtorch to my insides. There should be branded flesh under her palm because, I swear, the heat burrows past skin and muscle. And I want it. I hunger for the burn.
Nodding, I bend my head on the pretense of removing my gloves and dumping the extra caps of ink. My jaw is clenched so tight, I’m surprised something doesn’t snap.
Eden’s a toucher; she hugs everyone, sweeps gentle strokes over cheeks, hair, and arms. Affection—and showing it—comes easy to her. Her caring, friendly caresses are every championship win, orgasm, and Christmas morning wrapped into one shiny package. They’re also every hell.
And I crave each one, hoarding it like I need an intervention on one of those A&E TV shows.
A greedy, goddamn masochist. That’s me.
“Thank you. It’s just what I wanted,” the brunette continues to gush as she turns back to the mirror for another peek at her new ink.
With her long, shiny hair, jeans with rips that were obviously done at the hands of a manufacturer, and the necklace with its single diamond resting against her collarbone, she looks like one of those girls from the Gold Coast. Or from a North Shore suburb with its mansions, golf courses, and country clubs.
Do her parents even know she’s slumming it in a Ukrainian Village neighborhood tattoo shop owned by a former MMA fighter? Highly doubtful. If so, they’d probably be shitting bricks—gold bricks.
“Let me bandage it up for you.” I stow the bottles of ink and pull open the second drawer of my work station, removing the roll of gauze and tape.
“A couple of my friends came in a few weeks ago,” she says, crossing the room and giving me her back. “They told me you were the best.” She glances over her shoulder. Smiles a smile that has my inner Oh-shit-o-meter pinging like a ten-alarm fire. From her driver’s license, I know she’s twenty, but that curve of her mouth and the DTF gleam in her eyes tells me this girl has been around a few suburban blocks. “Now I know they weren’t lying. You’re great,” she damn near purrs.
“Thanks. I’m glad you like it.” I cut off a piece of gauze and carefully place it over her skin, taping it down on either side. “Leave that on for at least an hour.”
“I will,” she promises, turning around to face me. “Is it true you were an MMA fighter?”
I toss the gauze and tape back in the drawer. “Yeah.”
Most people would’ve taken the short, “drop it” tone for what it was and gotten the hell up out of the room, but not her. She trails her fingers over the tats on my forearm that are exposed by the pushed-up sleeve of my black Henley, tracing the trunk of the family tree inked there. Stroking the faded, brown leaf falling from the branch…
Controlling the urge to flinch, I deliberately move my arm, but she just shifts her hand to my stomach, flattening her palm against the muscle there. That hand slowly slides down, bumping over my belt, and lowering until it’s right over my cock. Her fingers curl around me through my jeans. And squeeze.
It’s not the first time a customer has come on to me, offered me pussy or head. Hell, it’s not even the first time one has grabbed my junk like it was their own personal joystick. And yet, a bolt of surprise still wings through me. A little flirtation, yeah, I’d kind of expected that. But I’d underestimated this girl.
“Another thing my friends weren’t lying about. You’re hot as hell,” she murmurs, lust darkening her blue eyes.
I know what she sees when she looks at me. A big, tatted motherfucker who could be either a fighter or an ex-con. Maybe both. She sees a man who would shut the door, push her up against the wall, and fuck her six ways to Sunday right next to the framed black and white photograph of a woman with my art on her back.
She’s not wrong. On either of those. In my twenty-nine years, I’ve been in the ring and on both sides of the law. And after a match, with the adrenaline still raging through my veins, I had no problem finding a woman at the club, bar, or even around the ring willing to let me pound out the rest of my energy in her body. Even now, I’m far from a saint or a monk. Sex is still an outlet—maybe even more than it used to be since I don’t have fighting anymore.
But too bad for her, I don’t fuck clients. Or employees. I never shit where I eat. That’s just begging for trouble.
Not that I’d take her up on the invitation in her stroking hand anyway. She’s too goddamned young.
She’s only a couple years younger than Eden.
Yeah, and Eden is even more off-limits than this coed.
Gripping her wrist in a gentle but firm hold, I pry her hand off my junk.
“Thanks,” I reply to her earlier compliment. “You can pay up front.”
I half expect her to storm out of here, hissing asshole or something, along with a dramatic exit. Instead, her lips curl into a wicked smile that probably has those frat boys at Loyola coming in their khakis.
Damn, I almost feel a flicker of sympathy for her parents. No doubt, they’re hosting fancy dinner parties up in their big-ass, gated home, blissfully ignorant, thinking their precious, beautiful daughter is at her school studying and doing sorority girl shit. When, little do they know, she’s at a tattoo shop, attempting to give a hand job to an ex-fighter in a neighborhood that would send them into heart palpitations.
This is just one of the reasons I don’t plan on having kids.
They never fail to break your fucking hearts.
I should know since I’ve cracked my parents’ hearts into so many fragments, they resemble jigsaw puzzles. With a few missing pieces.
The familiar, corrosive burn of guilt scalds my chest like acid, even more painful because it is familiar.
“I’ll see you out there,” she says, sauntering out the room, the fragrance of her floral perfume trailing behind her. Hell, it smells like it cost a bill. But it still can’t compete with the summer and peaches scent that I could identify in a damn perfume factory full of open bottles.
Shaking my head, I grab the bottle of disinfectant. For the next few minutes, I spray and clean the black leather seat and arm cushions on the massage chair I use for shoulder and back tattoos. Collapsing the equipment, I stow it along the wall and head out.
Stepping into the main part of the shop, the loud, grinding mix of metal, electronic, and classical music that is Igorrr’s hit song ieuD blasts out of the state-of-the-art sound system, one of the first things I had installed after I bought the shop three years ago. The drone of tattoo machines and the hum of voices buzz beneath the pounding heavy metal.
This is home. A home I created for me with the family of my choosing, if not birth.
Pride swells inside me, pressing against my chest wall, as it does whenever I walk in and stop to think how lucky I am to do something I love. The big storefront window still looks out on busy N. Western Avenue and its bars and cafes. Exposed brick still covers one wall, and cubicles dot the wide, open floor plan. Art decorates the walls, along with the hanging portfolios containing stencils, drawings, and pictures of past tattoos.
In front of the long desk stands a couple of glass cabinets stocked with Hard Knox Ink merchandise—shirts, hats, chains, jewelry. That had been Eden’s idea. After retiring from the Bellum Fighter Championship, or the BFC, I’d wanted to completely separate myself from that part of my life. Hell, I’d named the shop after my fighting name only at my brothers’ insistence. That had been as much as I’d been willing to concede.
But when I hired Eden a year ago as my receptionist and, later, office manager, she’d informed me I would be stupid not to capitalize on my career and reputation. After a lot of nagging, I caved. Honestly, I didn’t give a damn what brought people through the door. Every artist here, including me, can hold our own once we have the client in our chairs. Yeah, some people might walk through those doors to rubberneck and find out what happened to Hard Knox Gordon, former two-time BFC heavyweight champion. But most come because our tattoos are the best in Chicago.
“Hey, Knox. What the fuck is this, man?” Hakim Alston yells from his cubicle. The wheels of his stool roll over the tiled floor, and then he appears in the doorway, his long dreads held back from his face by a black bandana. “I mean, some of the shit your brother listens to I can tune out, but this? It’s weird even for him.”
“I’m sitting right here, asshole,” Jude calls from the space that adjoins Hakim’s. “And I’m just trying to expose you to different kinds of music, elevate your taste.”
“I got one thing that elevates, and I don’t need your help with that,” Hakim shoots back.
“Yeah.” My other artist, Heaven Travers—who refuses to answer to anything but V—chimes in as she walks past us. “He handles that all by himself. Emphasis on ‘hand.’”
“Now, that’s just wrong,” Hakim grumbles. Then, as Taylor Swift replaces Igorrr, he shakes his head as V, the resident Swiftie, cackles from her cubicle. “And that’s worse. Really, Knox?” he continues. “Isn’t it some kind of cruel and unusual punishment to work under these circumstances?”
I snort. “File a complaint.” I happen to like Taylor’s latest CD and work out to it. Not that I’ll admit it to Hakim, or anyone else, for that matter. That kinda shit you take to the grave.
Pausing a moment before continuing to the counter, I peek into his space, checking out the piece he’s working on. Daenerys Targaryen and her three dragons cover a wide back from shoulder to waist. Eden is a Game of Thronesfanatic, which is the only reason I recognize the characters. Hakim has been working on this guy’s back piece for weeks now, between the outline and adding color. And even though it’s only the fifth session and about halfway done, it’s stunning. Each of us specializes in a certain style, and Hakim’s is realism. The tattoo could’ve been ripped from the pages of any graphic art book and superimposed on this guy’s back. That’s how detailed it is, with color that pops off the skin.
“Damn. That’s coming along good,” I murmur.
“I know.” The tattoo machine buzzes to life in Hakim’s hand, and he grins at me. “It’s what I do.”
Shaking my head, I turn toward the counter. And I brace myself.
Back in my private room, I’d forced myself not to turn around and look at Eden. But now, I don’t have a choice. And with her profile to me—and those dark, chocolate eyes not fixed on me—I don’t hold back.
I drop my gaze, starting at her booted feet, moving up and over the dark denim encasing her toned, slender thighs. She’s petite, no more than five-feet-four, but the curves on this woman. I lock down the growl rumbling in my chest and rolling up the back of my throat. She owns a round, firm ass, perfect for filling a man’s hands. The dip of her waist only emphasizes the feminine flare of her hips and the fullness of her breasts, which are a shade too large for her small stature and delicate build. In other words, goddamn flawless.
Dragging my starving scrutiny from her tits and up her elegant neck, I linger on the graceful line of her jaw. The sexual invitation that’s her mouth. The straight nose and slightly wide nostrils. The spatter of cinnamon-colored freckles across her cheek, nose, the slash of her cheekbone, and her forehead. They were an inheritance from her Polynesian grandmother, along with her golden, hot-sand-on-a-beach skin.
Long, thick, black-brown hair flows over her shoulders and down her back. The color reminds me of the bark on the trees in San Jose’s Japanese Friendship Garden. Deep. Rich. When I trained at a mixed martial arts school and gym out there years ago, I would go to that garden to think, to rest. That’s what Eden does to me. Her presence calms me even as she turns my body into a marble statue—hard as fuck.
Even now, I struggle to fight back the lust that’s always right under the surface, simmering, just waiting to be let loose like an inferno…or wild beast. Because that’s how I feel around her. Like a caged, hungry animal just waiting for one slip, anticipating that one time when the lock on its prison is left open so it can break free and feast.
She brushes her hair over her shoulder, revealing more of her profile. And like the animal I am, I watch her lips curve into her signature sweet smile as she slides the receipt across the counter for the coed to sign. All the while, I’m imagining those lush, sensual lips offering me that same innocent smile just before they part, giving way for my cock. Her mouth has always been my obsession. I want to take it, bruise it, corrupt it with mine, and with my dick. I want to come in it, watch her swallow every fucking drop of me, and then drag her back to her feet and taste us on her tongue.
Yeah, I’m a dirty motherfucker.
And the absolute lowest piece of shit walking to fantasize about my dead brother’s wife that way. Especially when partial blame for his death weighs on me like the world on Atlas’s shoulders. Connor had been the genius in our family—entering college at seventeen, graduating at twenty. We’d all expected him to be the first of us to get a job using his head instead of his hands or fists. Instead, he’d followed me into MMA. And eventually to his death.
The crushing, smothering guilt wouldn’t strangle me so tightly if all I wanted was to fuck Eden. To bury myself balls deep inside her. If that’s all I lusted after, then maybe the taint on my soul wouldn’t be as black.
But it’s not all I hunger for. I want it all. Her body, her affection… I want her to gaze at me the way she used to look at Connor. With that soft, secret gleam in her eyes that said they shared something that was completely mysterious to everyone else but them.
I want her. I have from the first moment I saw her five years ago—even after she met, fell in love with, and then married my brother.
And that makes my sin unforgivable.
I can never have Eden; I can never touch Connor’s wife. Because yeah, he’s gone, but she will always be his wife. And I am not worthy to breathe the same air, much less touch her. I know it. God knows it… My own mother knows it.
Women who know what’s up, who are willing to fuck or blow me in bathroom stalls or in the back room of a bar or club, those chicks are my speed. All I deserve. Quick, emotionless, nameless screws.
Never her.
I made a promise to keep my hands off Eden. And after all the other things I’ve broken in my life and others’—hopes, dreams, hearts—this is a vow I refuse to break.
“Hey.” She glances at me, arching a dark eyebrow. “We’re just about done here.”
“Thanks.” Nodding, I grab the top sheet from a stack under the counter and hand it to my client. “Here’s your aftercare directions. Like I told you, remove the bandage in about an hour. Keep the tattoo moist. We have some ointment”—I dip my head in the direction of the merchandise cabinet—“but you can use any petroleum-based ointment or lotion. All the instructions are right there.” I tap the sheet. “You have any questions, you can call up here, but everything should be included on the list.”
The instructions roll easily off my tongue; I’ve said them hundreds of times over the years. Still, this is the other woman’s first tat. But she’s not listening. Instead, she snatches Eden’s pen off the counter, rips a corner off the paper, and scribbles on it. I don’t need a Magic 8-Ball or an all-seeing-third-eye to figure out what she’s writing.
“Thanks, Knox. Hope to see you soon.” She grins and pushes the scrap toward me. Both Eden and I watch her stride out of the shop.
“Let me guess,” Eden says, turning to me with a smirk. “She offered to give you more than a tip for your fantastic work.”
Shaking my head, I pick up the paper with the name and number scrawled on it and toss it in the garbage can. I’m not answering that one.
She snorts, opening the register and placing the credit card slip under the cash drawer. “Hey, can I talk to you?” she asks, dragging a hand over her hair, pulling the strands out of her face.
I narrow my eyes at her. Something’s up. Her tells are pathetically easy to catch. How she doesn’t quite meet your eyes, or pulls her shoulders back and thrusts her chest out as if daring you to call her on something. Or crosses one foot in front of the other and stands in an awkward ballet position. What is it? Third or fourth? My stepsister used to take ballet lessons, and Dan and Mom used to force all of us to go to her recitals. It was hell.
Right now, though, Eden’s giving me all three of those telltale gestures. Whatever she needs to speak with me about must be some serious shit.
“Yeah,” I agree. “Hey, Jude, watch the front for a few?”
My brother glances at me, his tattoo machine still buzzing as he hovers above his client. His eyes, the same green as mine—as our father’s—shift from me to Eden and back to me. Of my three brothers, Jude and I have always been the closest. Probably because we’re only two years apart. So, when I barely jerk my chin up, he gets it. Ask me later.
“Got it covered,” he says.
“Let’s go to the breakroom.” I head toward the back of the shop.
“Can we go to your space instead?” she asks from behind me, her fingers grazing my hip.
My gut clenches at the light touch, the muscles wrenching hard. What would she do if she guessed the extent of her effect on me? How would she react if she knew that every time I look at her, inhale her scent, hear her throaty, 1-800-Fuck-Me voice, I fight the urge to shove her against the nearest wall, bury myself inside her, and pound into her until her screams break around my ears and her nails leave dents in my skin?
Would she run from me? Glare at me with disgust? Make sure she was never alone with me?
Like she is now.
Yeah, if Eden had the faintest hint of how dirty I want to get with her, no way in hell would she be asking to see me behind a closed door, away from prying eyes.
But the truth is there’s no one she’s safer with than me. And not just because she’s Connor’s wife or I’m chained by a promise. It’s because Eden doesn’t want me. From the moment I laid eyes on her five years ago and craved her, she looked past me and only saw Connor.
Shaking my head against the memories and the old, acrid bitterness crawling into my chest, I enter my room and, crossing my arms, wait for her to close the door.
“What’s with all the secrecy?” I press, deliberately focusing on her face and each adorable freckle instead of the curves of her breasts beneath her form-fitting black sweater. Especially because she’s doing that shoulders-back, chest-out thing again. Sighing, I cock my head to the side. “What are you nervous about, Eden?”
She frowns as if I’ve offended her. I smother a snort. More like called her on her shit. “I’m not nervous,” she objects, moving farther into the room and closer to me. So close, I can easily catch her sunshine-and-fruit fragrance.
Would that scent be heavier, more saturated, like rain-soaked earth when she’s aroused? When she’s wet?
Fucking focus.
“What’s going on, then?” I demand, the warring need to get closer and need to escape roughening my voice. “Something has you wired.”
“Fine,” she grumbles and blows out a breath. “I checked your schedule, and you don’t have any appointments booked for the rest of the evening.”
“Okay.” Not surprising. It’s a Tuesday, and the beginning of the week is always slower. “So?”
“I—” She breaks off, drags her fingers through her hair, and looses a soft chuckle that slides over my skin like a silken caress. “I have no idea why this is so hard for me to say. I’m twenty-four, damn it, not four.” Her gaze locks with mine. “I want a tattoo.”
Surprise whips through me. Yeah, because I expected something more…I don’t know…cataclysmic, given her behavior. But also because Eden is a tattoo virgin. Even though she’s worked in my shop for the last year and has been surrounded by people who wear more ink than clothes, she hasn’t ever expressed a desire to change that status.
“And I want you to do it,” she adds. “Will you?”
Have my hands on her body? Skin to skin? Hell no. “Yeah.”
Relief crosses her face, and she nods. But there’s more; she’s not finished. I can tell by the ballet position. Unease curls inside me, squirming and coiling. I almost tell her “never mind.”
“I’m moving out of your parents’ house.”
Well, fuck.
I don’t know about cataclysmic, but shit’s definitely about to hit the fan.




Tour Wide Giveaway

To celebrate the release of SIN & INK by Naima Simone, we’re giving away for a $25 Amazon gift card!

GIVEAWAY TERMS & CONDITIONS:  Open internationally. One winner will be chosen to receive a $25 Amazon gift card. This giveaway is administered by Pure Textuality PR on behalf of Entangled Publishing.  Giveaway ends 10/19/2018 @ 11:59pm EST. Entangled Publishing will send one winning prize, Pure Textuality PR will deliver the other. Limit one entry per reader and mailing address. Duplicates will be deleted.  CLICK HERE TO ENTER!


About Naima Simone


USA Today Bestselling author NAIME SIMONE’s love of romance was first stirred by Johanna Lindsey, Sandra Brown and Linda Howard many years ago. Well not that many. She is only eighteen…ish. Though her first attempt at a romance novel starring Ralph Tresvant from New Edition never saw the light of day, her love of romance, reading and writing has endured. Published since 2009, she spends her days—and nights— writing sizzling romances with a touch of humor and snark.
She is wife to Superman, or his non-Kryptonian, less bullet proof equivalent, and mother to the most awesome kids ever. They all live in perfect, sometimes domestically-challenged bliss in the southern United States.
Newsletter  |  Website  |  Facebook  |  Twitter  |  Goodreads  |  Amazon




Vow of Honor by Emma Renshaw






Title: Vow of Honor
Author: Emma Renshaw
Genre: Contemporary Romance

Cover Design: Hang Le

Release Date: November 28, 2018





Blurb


I can’t stand Tatum
from the second she walks into the room. Everything about her puts me on
edge—from her small delicate curves to the smile that she refuses to
lose. 

There’s nothing she
loves more than to piss me off. She’s infused herself in every part of my life,
taking away the silence I crave. I’d walk away if I could. If I hadn’t been
shot. If I didn’t need physical therapy. If I could resist her.

I only kiss her to
shut her up. I didn’t expect it to turn into the hottest moment of my life with
our clothes scattered on the floor. The one-time thing turns into something
neither of us expect.

When my guard drops
and secrets are revealed, I’ll do anything to protect Tate. We have enemies
lurking around every corner.

Will my vow of honor
cost me the one thing I can’t live without?









Pre-order Links

AMAZON US / UK / CA / AU







Author Bio

Emma loves
to write, just don't ask her to write about herself. If she isn't writing,
you can find her lost in a book or trying to get her doggo to take a selfie
with her. He usually refuses. At the end of the day, you can find Emma at the
closest Mexican restaurant eating queso and sipping on a margarita. She lives
in Texas with her husband and dog.


Author Links