Deceptive Inheritance Jennifer Anne Davis (Remnants of the Lost, #1) Publication date: June 9th 2026 Genres: New Adult, Paranormal, Romance
Laney Lake transfers to Stonemore University with a plan: two years of freedom before real life drags her back home. After a lifetime of overprotective parents and careful rules, she’s determined to finally live by making friends, saying yes more often, and experiencing the things she’s always been told to avoid.
Then Rowan Ward notices her.
To the rest of campus, he’s the rugby captain. He’s charming, confident, and impossible to miss. To himself, he’s a werewolf barely maintaining control. Rowan is the next alpha, bound to a future already chosen for him. His girlfriend is perfect on paper. She’s from a powerful bloodline, unquestioned loyalty, and the one his father expects him to marry. It should be enough.
It isn’t.
Laney pulls at him in a way nothing ever has, stripping control down to instinct and want. He knows he should stay away. Instead, he watches her. Circles her. Fights urges that feel older than reason.
Laney doesn’t know what he’s hiding. She only knows that when he’s near, her body wakes up and she’s warm, restless, and painfully aware of how badly she wants him to touch her. As Laney leans into her stolen freedom and Rowan teeters on the edge of breaking every rule he’s sworn to follow, old laws begin to strain. Because Laney isn’t ordinary. And if Rowan’s world discovers why she matters, choosing her could cost him everything.
She wanted two years of fun.
He was never supposed to want her.
But some instincts don’t care about rules.
And some sparks are born to burn.
I opened the door, got out, walked around the front of the car, and stood there staring at the empty field before me.
Then I fell to my knees and screamed. It seemed as if something were clawing inside me, begging to be set free. That only frightened me even more.
“What’s going on?” Sarah asked, coming to my side and wrapping her arm around my shoulders. “You’re scaring me.”
Tears streamed down my face. It took me a minute before I could answer. “That makes two of us. I have no idea what’s going on. I don’t know what I am. My own parents are lying to me.” I’d never been so afraid in all my life.
“What are we going to do?” Sarah asked.
I loved that there was a we in this. It made me feel less alone. “Right now, we’re not going to do anything. We’re still investigating because we don’t have enough information to know how to move forward.”
“Are you going to talk to your mom?”
“Eventually. But not yet. I don’t want either of my parents to know I suspect something.”
“Okay.” Sarah stood and pulled me to my feet.
And then I remembered what Adan had asked about whether my parents were my biological parents. “First, I need to see who I’m living with.”
“This is seriously like something out of a movie,” Sarah said. “Like this is insane.”
I happened to agree with her. It all seemed so surreal, that I was having trouble believing any of it myself. “I’m going to need you to be quiet about it.” We got back in the car. “Don’t talk to anyone about this. Promise me.”
“I promise I won’t say anything.”
I pulled back onto the street and started driving toward my house, wondering who and what I was.
Author Bio:
Jennifer Anne Davis is the bestselling, award-winning author of YA fantasy and NA paranormal romance. She graduated from the University of San Diego with a degree in English and a teaching credential. She lives in the San Diego area with her high school sweetheart-turned-husband and their rambunctious, spoiled GSP.
Her three adult children are in college and graduate school. When she’s not writing, Jennifer can be found reading, crocheting, or baking sourdough bread.
Jennifer has always loved writing stories where the stakes are high and the tension is even higher.
Awards:
Cage of Deceit: Winner 2018 Kindle Book Awards
The Key: Finalist 2014 USA Book Awards
The Voice: Finalist 2014 Next Generation Indie Book Awards
The Voice: Winner 2013 San Diego Book Awards
Mist In The Willows Lucy Linne (Spirit Fleet Chronicles, #1) Publication date: August 25th 2025 Genres: Adult, Gothic, Horror, Urban Fantasy
Discharged unexpectedly from the British military at the peak of her career, Jade Palmer must find a way to rebuild her life. Haunted by strange nightmares and fragments of her own fractured memories, Jade finds herself thrust among unfriendly family and unfamiliar friends. Her only comfort is in the cobbled streets, quaint cottages and winding river paths that hold the happy echoes of her childhood.
But in the local cemetery, older than living memory, a strange mist rises among the willows in the depths of the night… and with it, a vengeful entity that seems to stalk Jade’s every footstep with terrifying purpose.
Alongside her faithful dog, Cannelloni, and wild-child sister, Leela, Jade must fight once more—braving a tangled journey through ancient supernatural lore, and the depths of her own hubris, to protect those she loves.
For the dead have truths to tell… and their retribution comes as cold as the grave.
Mist in the Willows, the first entry in the Spirit Fleet Chronicles, is a chilling and cozy gothic novel about loss, cupcakes, annoying family, mysterious steampunk strangers, and the ways in which violence may haunt us all.
The first time I heard the chilling whisper calling my name, it came from Grandad’s old analogue radio.
I was unpacking the five sad-looking boxes containing all my worldly belongings and didn’t pay much attention. Dad stored them in his basement, and spiders were crawling out of every corner.
When I picked up my phone to check for messages, a mega-arachnid scuttled on eight hairy legs along my fingers. It had insidiously blended in with the black case of my mobile and became invisible. Now it took up most of the screen. I dropped my phone on the coffee table and spotted its mate, the same incredible size, scampering across the floor and under the couch. At least Grandad went to bed early and didn’t see this infestation I’d brought to his cherished houseboat.
I ran from the lounge to the open plan kitchen and grabbed a glass to trap the intruders.
As I passed by, the radio on the windowsill abruptly switched to a hoarse faltering static.
The music returned as I shook the glass out of the barge door, tossing the eight-legged giant, into the grass by the river path. The other one, nowhere to be found. I regretted trying to trap and release them. I would have rather squashed them with my hiking boot. But cleaning bug goo off the floor is a task I will avoid where possible. A flamethrower would be ideal but I’m out of those since I’m back home. So, the spider got to live another day.
As I rinsed that glass to put it away, I noticed it.
Wait a minute? What’s going on with the radio?
Standing beside the little radio, where it sat since my childhood, gathering dust on the windowsill, I listened to the static.
It had a quality about it that I found almost obscene. It sounded alive, fluctuating from deep cavernous whispers to a strange whistling. I fled the kitchen when it pitched that abominable screech of steak knives against dinner plates.
The static immediately faded away, returning to Grandad’s favourite sixties rock radio station. Back in the lounge, I punched a pile of empty boxes flat to bin them. Not that I wasn’t glad the static stopped. But something about the way it had switched so fast bothered me, as if it knew I had moved away from the radio.
Moments later I returned to the kitchen. The music shifted to static in an instant. I stood next to Grandad’s ancient kettle, plugging in my coffee maker, a survivor since my student years in the dorms.
How could it be so loud and not wake up Alan?
Its pulsing tones surged, like the call of a bottomless pit, then lulled to a sinister hum at the very edge of hearing. Every time it came, I cringed, as if plunging into neck deep water with ice cubes bobbing all around me.
Before I knew it, I had crossed the room and stood with one hand on my dog’s collar.
“You don’t like it either, huh? Good boy,” I said, as Cannelloni sat back down among the window seat cushions. The static melted away behind me, the music replacing it. Cannelloni tucked his head in his paws again with a huff.
I glanced back at the old radio. Had it sounded a bit like whispers in some guttural language? Surely, I was over thinking it. It could be nothing but static.
I headed for the desk to start my Wi-Fi set up, hoping to stream a movie and chill after the gruelling day, moving in with Grandad. And most importantly, to make sure her messages would come through on a stronger signal.
I reached and patted my cargos’ pocket, the little one with the zip on my hip. It was still there: I felt the round shape of her compact mirror. The only thing I have of her, until we meet again.
I felt better. There are good things in the world, and good days ahead.
As I pulled up the lid of my laptop, in the split second before the dark screen lit up, your face flashed at me.
It’s only been happening in the last few years or so, that my reflection startles me, looking like you. I’ve always had your impossibly thick and straight, dirty blonde hair. And your bushy brows over cobalt blue eyes. But most of all, in my late thirties, I’m now your age. The way I remember you. You would be much older today but if we could somehow meet, across death and time, both aged 38, we’d look like twins. Anyway, it only lasted a fraction of a second, and then the desktop lit up and I was looking for a movie right away.
Ten minutes later, I glanced suspiciously at the radio. Nothing.
Twenty minutes later, nothing.
Halfway through an outbreak of a superbly gruesome zombie apocalypse, I still couldn’t stop thinking about the static. Was I causing it? It only happened when I neared the radio.
Run a test?
I hesitated. So many other things to worry about at this moment. Why did I even care if the songs were interrupted a few times?
Because of how freakin weird this noise sounded.
I paused the movie, resigned to my curiosity. I edged along the back of the loveseat towards the kitchen. The music staggered as I reached the counter. Just to pretend to myself I didn’t come to test the radio, I reached out and grabbed a handful of cookies from the doggie jar.
The static soared.
Sounded like a cold gust whistling savagely out of a black chasm. Then dulled to the throaty whisper of an unsettling breeze through dead leaves. That did it. I got the hell out of the kitchen.
Joining Cannelloni at the window seat, I felt an unreasonable amount of relief that the music returned on the radio. Cannelloni thought so too. He gave such a profound growl he even startled me a bit. He bared his teeth at the kitchen. Not like him at all.
“Don’t worry, just a funny noise!” I said, letting him slurp the cookies on the palm of my hand. My gaze wandered back to the spot I had been standing.
A funny noise that comes only when I’m close to the radio. But how close, exactly?
I stood up, arms crossed and edged to the back of the couch marking the end of the lounge, not quite entering the kitchen.
“Ok Cannelloni let’s see, one step. Two steps, three…”
The music faltered. I stopped moving.
I leaned back as far as I could go without shifting my feet. The music flowed. I chuckled.
Not because I wasn’t scared. More like, because I was getting too scared.
Then I leaned forward.
The music faltered.
I tried to hold my balance, bent as far as I could reach like some demented yoga teacher who forgot which warrior pose they were demonstrating. A sudden fear, out of nowhere.
Rivulets of crimson streaking dry sand. Something solid in the blood. Glistening strips of sinew. Twitching on the red mud. Not again!
The gaps in the music, for some reason, flashed images from my nightmares in my mind.
I straightened up. This wasn’t funny anymore.
I’m good at pushing the memory of the nightmares away during the day and focusing on my work and everything else I have to worry about. This bloody radio thing was getting on my nerves.
I jumped with a yelp as a sharp pinch came from behind my left knee.
“Cannelloni! What are you doing?”
The dog had bitten hard into my trouser leg and was pulling at it. As if he wanted me to leave the kitchen.
“Aren’t you clever,” I said, disentangling myself and coming to sit with him by the window seat. “It’s ok, I’m staying here, you can snooze again!” I scratched under his ears until he turned around full circle on his cushions and plopped in the comfiest spot.
At least I know. It’s about four steps into the kitchen.
That would mean I can’t reach the counter without setting off the weird.
But I was done experimenting. Hated the way the static made me feel, and what it did to my dog too.
This boy, the only good thing about this new, civilian life, was normally a big bundle of cuddles. At the moment he looked perturbed, ears twitching. Cannelloni’s natural state was passed out, belly up, and fast asleep on his giant plushie bed. Ever since I brought him here from the shelter after Easter, he acted as if Grandad ’s houseboat has always been his rightful kingdom, where he reigned supreme and absolute. Yet now he kept sitting up, fretting, scanning the room with anxious eyes. Tiny whimpers squeaking at the back of his throat. I sensed danger too. But I couldn’t understand why.
I cast my gaze around the empty room.
I felt watched.
The dark water of the Thames sparkled under the moonlit sky from every side of the semi-circular cabin. I hated the glass, U shaped wall of the main cabin, but that’s what you get when living in a wide beam Dutch barge. The lounge was basically an open balcony. Anyone could be watching me from the dark river paths on either side of the banks, and I had zero visibility at night. Meanwhile, I lived and breathed in full view, unless I went to hide in my cabin at the back of the houseboat.
I went around lowering the window blinds post-haste.
Better. Only the kitchen window remained. I hesitated. I wanted to close those blinds too, but that would get me in the vicinity of the radio.
Pressing my hand to my brow, I felt sweat droplets at the root of my hair.
I took two steps forward. I was nearing the invisible mark I’d noted mentally, on the kitchen floor.
Two steps more. The music was faltering. Maybe if I went really fast it wouldn’t happen.
I dashed to the cord hanging at the casement, leaning in, real quick, my hand reaching out to the blind. The static came loud.
Flustered, I backed into the lounge again, and the songs came back on.
I sat down onto the couch, feeling like a coward.
The radio on the sill kept singing its quiet and perpetual song.
Grandad never changes station or switches the music off. He turns the sound up when he is around, which isn’t often. He doesn’t think the kitchen is a man’s place, he only comes to fill the water can when he looks after Grandma’s flowerpots. He treasures her little terrace garden in the front of the barge. He lowers the volume when he heads for his berth to watch his shows, the music from the radio playing quietly through the days and nights in the main cabin.
I wanted to close the kitchen shades but an irrational fear of going near the radio pinned me to the spot.
“Don’t be a twat, this happens all the time. People moving around a device can mess up the signal. Just fucking go,” I thought.
I moved to the window directly and lowered the blinds to the sound of loud static. It seemed eerily similar to fast, angry whispers.
And this time I could not deny it.
The radio called my name.
Jade… JADE!
OK, I hadn’t imagined that.
I ran back to the lounge to grab Cannelloni by the collar. He growled at the radio, irritated. I led him to my berth, shutting the door. We never went near the kitchen for the rest of that night.
Quite annoying, because the Wi-Fi signal is terrible in my cabin, so I had to go stand at the door every ten minutes to check for her messages.
None came.
Seemed ungrateful to complain. Grandma’s bedroom: Hands down the biggest room I had ever called my own. Walk in wardrobe. En suite bathroom. A recliner armchair, proper Victorian style. Fancy letter writing desk, with the miniature drawers to put in useless shit like ink bottles. Good to store the USB cables I keep losing. Queen bed. Four memory foam pillows. An army of multi shaped squishy cushions on a crochet throw. Fluffy duvet and matching dog blanket for Cannelloni (that’s store bought, I got it so my dog feels like he fits in). Lush. But still, I couldn’t chill enough to finish my movie.
I kept thinking about the radio saying my name.
In the cosy safety of my berth, it all seemed ridiculous. Of course, the radio didn’t say my name.
Probably someone spoke from outside, maybe someone else called Jade. Walking past with a friend.
I pressed play in my movie for the umpteenth time, getting comfy on the bed.
Lost cause. I couldn’t pay attention. Not even when the hordes of undead swarmed down the streets towards the hapless group of survivors hiding in the rubble. I was absolutely unable to stop wondering who had called my name outside the boat, in the dark.
That voice spoke to me.
Unwelcome memories from a few of hours earlier made my teeth grind as my jaw tightened.
“You’re staying with Alan then? How you gonna get yourself a nice man if you’re living with your Grandfather?” Their old man cackles, phlegmy snarling that ended in ugly coughs, had resounded across the river. Grandad ‘s friends sailed by leisurely, at a speed easy for him to jump over from their boat on to our deck. They wiped sweaty foreheads with beefy hands and stared at me while Grandad hopped on board.
“I’m not looking for nice,” I said, and watched their confusion halt their sneers. They’d thought I’d say I’m not looking for a man. All three of them took a gulp of their cans of lager, manspreading their knees a little wider as their boat bench creaked under their weight.
“What you looking for then?”
“None of your business.”
“Don’t be a smart ass,” Grandad told me under his breath, as he waved goodbye to the six seater rental sailing on. His friends don’t own a boat. And they take up two seats each.
“You look after your Grandfather now!” one of them called back to me.
“I will.” But I won’t be doing the kind of looking after that you lot expect of me.
“Your Grandma kept the Lady Thomasine spotless!” said another, looking over his shoulder.
“She had cinnamon buns hot from the oven every morning!” called the third over the growing distance between the boats.
Which meant that Alan had already complained to them about me. I only just moved in today for fuck’s sake.
“Grandad, can you please not discuss me with your friends?” I said. All I got in return, was a scowl in the direction of his laundry basket, parked in front of the washing machine. And a loud slam of his cabin door.
As if.
“Adults wash their own clothes,” I called after him. “And the bakery in the village has excellent cinnamon buns.”
Distant calls from the river bend reached me, and more guffawing. Something along the lines of ‘get in that kitchen, woman!’
I was used to their banter devolving, from barely friendly to openly woman-bashing, in T minus half a can of lager; I didn’t reply.
“They don’t mean anything, just joking!” shouted another one of them, as I turned around to look at them. Their shoulders were shaking from laughter; they found the women in the kitchen comment hilarious.
“Watch out for my high school mate Caden at the Lock today,” I called back.
“Why, you gonna marry the new Lock keeper?”
“No. His wife’s with the Port of London Authority, she has the power to breathalyse those suspected of boating under the influence.” I grinned as they choked on their snorts. “Have a nice evening now.” As they glowered wordlessly at me, I slammed the deck door behind me.
I generally never met Grandad’s friends, apart from on their river pub crawl weekends, when they picked him up and dropped him off. It’s an aspect of life back home, that I’m not looking forward to: seeing the three bigots Alan calls my ‘uncles’. Since I was a girl, they spent every moment of our brief weekly meetings cracking jokes at me, because apparently, I’m doing girlhood wrong.
I’m great at fixing the plumbing and maintaining the generator around the boat, every time I visited. Who cares if I don’t know how to operate the oven; when shit kept breaking after Alan tried to repair them three and four times over, Grandma called me; and I got the job done. Grandad hated it. Called me an odd ball ever since I was young. When I grew up, he and his friends took the piss every time I pulled out my toolbox. Which, incidentally, is bigger than any of theirs.
So, it had to be them, they probably came for a walk down the river path, calling my name outside the boat in the night. Stupid of me to buy it.
I turned to sleep, a tight knot in my stomach. Grandad’s friends are arseholes.
Not the best first night back home.
But I guess this is not really home. Just where I stay for now.
Cannelloni’s soft fur felt warm against my side, as he plopped down and curled up with a happy blink.
“Our first real night together, huh? I’m so glad to have you, boy,” I said, throwing an arm around him. The way he acted towards me with complete trust, as if we’d known each other out whole lives; it was amazing.
But as the dog fell fast asleep, I stayed wide awake in the dark. So, you see, Mum, it’s not been fun moving in with Grandad.
***
Jade paused and took a sip from her beer bottle. Her short ponytail waved in the breeze and brushed against the tombstone. The sun hung heavy on the horizon. Darkness draped more than half the graveyard. The thousand-year-old church, nestled among the graves and willow trees, cast a long and wide shadow over the grounds. The gust that blew from those darker tombs under its shadow, brought a chill to where Jade sat. She hugged her knees and shivered.
The golden disc of the sun vanished behind the treetops. As the world darkened around her and the evening birdsong gave away to silence, her blue eyes were vague, lost in thought.
The screen of her phone flashed, and she snatched it up. She looked at the message, but it wasn’t the one she wanted. She rolled her eyes.
“Leela won’t quit,” she muttered and threw the phone on the grass beside her again.
She turned to the grave and looked at the violin carved there. “Only thing I’m glad about is getting to chat with you whenever I like, now, Mum. I missed this when I had to be away all the time. But the shitty thing is I’ve never had a real, grownup civilian job in my life. I need one, to afford a place of my own. Clearing Grandad’s friends’ laptops from viruses is not going to get me a deposit for a flat.”
Taking another sip of her beer, she gazed at the tall-stemmed glass that stood, untouched, at the step of the gravestone, full to the brim with red wine.
“Sorry for the cheap bubbly, Mum, I can’t afford your posh vino at the moment. I’ll bring you better soon. Everything’s gone to hell right now. I never planned to retire from the Corps, but those nightmares! They just fucked everything up. Got a diagnonsense now. No more tours for me. And typical Dad, he refused to let me stay with them. What a great way to welcome me home at the airport! At least he said he will pay for therapy to sort out the nightmares. But only because I’ll never hold down a job if I can’t sleep through the night. Not that he cares, other than making sure I’ll never again ask him to stay in my childhood bedroom. She’s turned it into a jewellery crafts studio.” Jade rolled her eyes and chuckled. “I honestly don’t mind living on the boat. Really. Easier to get here from the mooring on my bike. Just hope that weird stuff with the radio will stop so I can get some work done and get some money saved. To move out as soon as possible.”
She finished her beer in one last sip. Blond locks had come loose from her ponytail and fallen over her face as she put her bottle away in her backpack. The tips of her hair were sun-bleached to almost white by nearly two decades in the desert sun; in contrast to her once fair skin, now tanned to a deep bronze.
Movement among the distant graves made her look up. Someone had crossed the cemetery gates in the twilight. Jade instinctively hid behind her mother’s tombstone and watched him follow the winding path among the tombs.
“That’s a bit late for visiting this place,” she muttered. She waited to see which grave he would visit, ready to make a mental note of its location and check the tombstone later on. He looked young, even hunched as he was, with his face in the shadows; his gait was light and his pace swift. Jade guessed someone that age was probably not here for a partner; more likely, like herself, for his mum or dad…
Her curiosity slowly turned into a frown of surprise. He’d kept going. He crossed the path into the grove of the willows. And still he walked on.
“Why that way, that side is the old burial ground.” She crouched deeper and leaned to peer from the other side of her mother’s tombstone. He crossed to the pitch-black darkness at the back of the old church. No matter how hard she tried, she couldn’t see any details of his face or clothing; it was too dark on that side. The ancient burial ground was off the path and the light of the lampposts didn’t reach it. Only the dim pearly starlight granted some shapes to the vista of mossy headstones crumbling there. No one had been buried there in the last two hundred years; the latest dates on those stones were in the eighteen hundreds. No fresh flower bouquets were left on those graves, and moss grew on the stone unchecked, deepening the cracks and eating away at the skull symbols etched there. No one ever cleared away the ivy growing over those names.
Why would anyone go there?
A clink of glass alerted her that she had almost knocked over the wine sitting at the front of the tombstone. Jade lost all interest in the stranger.
“Sorry Mum.” Making sure the wine was safe, Jade picked up her phone once again.
“No new messages.”
She sighed.
“I keep re-reading the old messages: No dates yet, but everything is short notice. People get told to pack at noon and fly out before sunset. It could happen any minute. I know it will be my turn soon. Ami wrote that three days ago. I replied: I miss you. I can’t believe it’s taking so long. It looks like chaos over there, it’s on the news every day. Are you ok. One day later, without getting a reply, I texted again: I haven’t heard your actual voice in four weeks. I can’t stand it.” She paused.
“That text was so embarrassing,” Jade muttered. “Throwing my own pity party while I’m back home, and meanwhile she is in the desert, her deployment extended and she’s dealing with the madness of the evacuation. I wish I had deleted it.” She bit her lip.
“Thirty-two hours later, came a reply: I know, I miss you too. Don’t worry about me, I’m fine. I just never imagined anything like this. How are you? How is Cannelloni? Is he settling in? Happy to have a new family?”
A chuckle. Then Jade got serious again looking at her screen.
“That’s the last I’ve heard from her. I replied: Cannelloni ‘s the best! He’s with Grandad for a few weeks already, I dropped him off first. You’d think he’s been living on the boat all his life! Grandad sent me photos. I wrote this on the last days of packing back on the base,” Jade murmured wistfully. “That dog is so cute I’m actually looking forward to moving day so I can see him. I guess your plan worked. I’m not 100% devastated to be leaving. There’s this teeny, tiny part of me that can’t help being happy. So damn happy about a stupid dog.”
Jade sighed.
“There’s been no reply since.” She fidgeted with the phone in her hands. “I’ve been sending her photos of Cannelloni nonstop since I arrived at the boat, but they haven’t been delivered. I wish I could tell her how awesome he is! I was worried he’d have forgotten me over the few weeks I had to leave him with Grandad and go back to base to pack and check out of the accommodation. But he remembered me right away! Fell in my arms like we are best friends. Maybe he’ll always know I’m the human who came and took him out of the dog charity, I guess. Maybe that’s why he likes me so well. I’m so glad I got him, Mum. These feel like the worst days of my life and yet he makes me smile all the time. Ami was so right telling me to get a dog.”
The night chill made her shudder.
“I think I’ll head home, Mum. Love you always.” She picked up the glass and poured the wine slowly on the grass covering the grave. She finished the silent goodbye by brushing a kiss on her own fingertips and pressing them for a heartbeat on the stone, where the name Evelyn could just be discerned carved in silver against the darkness.
“See you soon, Mum.”
Jade stood.
“Hang on, hang on. Where the hell did he go?”
She was alone in the cemetery. The stranger was no longer among the Celtic crosses and gothic inscriptions of the ancient tombs, nor had he come back down the path.
“There’s nowhere to go from that side,” Jade said, puzzled. She scanned the ivy-covered wall surrounding the churchyard. It was too tall to climb over. And yet the man had somehow managed to get out.
“Ok Mum, I think next time I’ll bring a ginger beer. Clearly, alcohol doesn’t go well with late evening chats in the cemetery.”
She scanned the darkness one last time.
The only thing moving where the stranger had been was a veil of pearly white mist, flowing over the grass like wisps of coiling tongues licking the gravestones.
She shrugged.
“Whatever. Bye, Mum.”
She walked briskly down the solitary path and through the cemetery gates, where her bike stood tied to a railing. Just like Jade’s trainers and backpack, the bike was well used, but pristinely clean. She welcomed the sounds of laughter and clinking cutlery that came from the garden of the village pub down the road. It was always too quiet inside the cemetery, once you crossed through those gates.
She’d often wondered how the ancient stone wall around the churchyard blocked all auditory evidence of life—no voices at all, even though the riverside path was often busy with couples or families deep in conversation as they strolled by the Thames. No crunching of footfalls, no dogs barking, no bubbling cavitation of boats zooming past, no music, no clicking of bicycles’ wheels—but the burble and swoosh of the river was ever present. It made the cemetery feel like an isolated world of its own.
Like it somehow cancelled out all living sound.
Author Bio:
Doodler. Living in a perpetual state of Halloween. Fueled by chocolate. Boxer. Unapologetic introvert. Adopted by three cats and a cat-sized dog. Purple everything. Psychology student. Goth. Can be bribed with artsy, hard cover notebooks. Ghost friendly. Will be summoned by freshly brewed coffee. Suspiciously familiar with Greco-Roman mythology, and several dead languages commonly used for demon summoning. Wall-frames maps. Devout observer of cupcake o’clock. Feminist Motto: Skulls, Bats and Witches’ Hats. Spinning while audiobooking. All you need is fluffy socks and a pint of nice-cream. Frequently channels Disney Villains. Names her house spiders. Owner of a pet GAMER, whom she’s kept in his man cave, on a diet of pizza and horror movies, for well over two decades.
Boys of Richland Daniela Romero Publication date: June 7th 2026 Genres: New Adult, Romance, Sports
One girl on the edge. One obsessive college soccer star determined to save her. One devastating love story that nearly destroys them both.
Cecilia Russo was ready to disappear the night Gabriel Herrera found her.
Now, the star athlete refuses to let her go.
Gabriel forces his way into Cecilia’s life with the same intensity he brings to the field—reckless, relentless, and impossible to ignore. The more he pushes past her walls, the more dangerous their connection becomes.
Because Gabriel doesn’t just want to protect her.
He wants to consume her.
What starts as grief, anger, and stolen nights spirals into obsession, codependency, and a love neither of them knows how to survive. Especially when the ghosts haunting Cecilia refuse to stay buried.
With trauma, betrayal, and a looming trial threatening to tear them apart, Gabriel and Cecilia are forced to decide if love can truly heal two broken people—or if some damage is impossible to come back from.
Perfect for readers who love:
• College soccer romance
• Obsessive, protective heroes
• He falls first
• Who hurt you
• Emotional trauma and healing
• Touch-her-and-die tension
• Found family
This omnibus edition includes: The Savage, The Striker, and The Replay.
Dropping one knee on the mattress, he lays me back, all the while kissing me, caressing me. My body sinks into the comforter and I freeze, locking up at the feel of his strong, powerful frame hovering over mine.
I can’t help my reaction. Squeezing my eyes closed, I count to ten in a desperate attempt to talk myself down. Gabriel doesn’t notice at first. He continues to kiss me, trailing his lips across my cheek and along my jawline. One hand holds my hip, pressing me down, pinning me in place.
I can’t… I open and close my mouth, struggling to breathe.
Panic rises in my chest and my breaths come out as heavy pants. Gabriel shifts his weight, moving his position to settle himself beside me.
He props himself up on one elbow while his other arm curls around my hip, tugging me close as he rolls me to my side to face him. “Hey,” he whispers against my lips. “We’re not going any further than this.” His words are meant to reassure me, but I’m having a hard time getting enough air into my lungs. I swallow hard and open my eyes, peering up at him between my lashes. He lifts a hand and strokes his thumb along my jaw, eyes filled with concern.
“I’m sorry.” My cheeks burn and I look away, but his hand cupping my jaw draws my attention back to him.
“Don’t apologize,” he says. “You have nothing to be sorry for. I’m not here to get in your pants. That’s not what I’m after.”
My brows furrow together. “It’s not?”
He barks out a laugh and presses a quick kiss to my lips, unraveling the knot of tension inside me. “I mean, I won’t lie and say I haven’t thought about it.” He waggles his brows and I can’t help the smile that spreads across my face. “But we’ll move at your pace. Whatever it might be. This, us, it’s new,” he tells me, reaching down to lace the fingers of his hand with mine. “We don’t have to rush things. I’ll be happy if you let me hold you.” He presses another quick kiss to my lips. “And happier if I can kiss you.”
I worry my bottom lip, looking down at our entwined hands. I don’t want to over analyze what this means. He’s kissed me twice now. But that doesn’t mean this is a relationship. I’ve never done casual, but maybe casual is exactly what I need.
“We don’t need to take anything further than that,” Gabriel assures me.
“I—” His expression is tight, almost hopeful, as he waits for me to respond, but I don’t know how to put words to what I want to say. Gabriel is infuriating, but there’s no denying I’m attracted to him. That he brings out this side of me that I had buried away. He pushes me, gets under my skin. But more importantly, he makes me feel alive.
“What if I want to do more?” I ask.
His adam’s apple bobs in his throat and he tucks a loose tendril of hair behind my ears. “I don’t think—“
“Please.” My eyes stay locked on his and electricity crackles between us as indecision plays out across his face. I want to chase this feeling. To know I’m not broken beyond repair, and I think Gabriel can give me that.
“You said we could be broken together,” I remind him.
His gaze rakes over my face, looking for any sign of indecision, but he won’t find one. I’m sure about this, or at least as sure as I can be.
He licks his lips and his eyes flick to my mouth, a hungry look taking over his expression. “Are you sure?” His voice is husky and I squeeze my legs together as I nod in confirmation.
“Yes.”
“We’re not having sex.”
I open my mouth to argue, but he raises one hand to stop me.
“I’m not saying I don’t want to.” He pulls me impossibly close, pressing the hard length of his erection against my abdomen to show me the extent of his desire. “But, you’re not ready. And I’m not going to take advantage of you.”
I chew on my bottom lip, feeling the sting of his rejection, but nod my head anyway, accepting defeat until he adds, “That doesn’t mean I can’t make you feel good.”
My head jerks up and he grins.
“Would you like that?” he asks. “You want me to make you feel good?”
Author Bio:
Daniela Romero is a USA Today and Wall Street Journal bestselling author of emotionally intense, trope-packed romance novels that break hearts and heal them in equal measure. Known for her angsty enemies-to-lovers stories, possessive heroes, and fierce heroines, she writes steamy new adult and paranormal romance that keeps readers hooked from the first page to the last.
Her books feature unforgettable characters, explosive chemistry, and emotional journeys set in vivid worlds—whether on the football field at Sun Valley High or deep within supernatural realms.
A Bay Area native now living in Washington State, Daniela is a proud Latina, a devoted wife, and a mom to three wild and wonderful kids. When she’s not writing or wrangling words, you can find her curled up with a book, binge-watching TV with a crochet hook in hand, or plotting her next fictional heartbreaker.
She believes in love, redemption, and happily ever afters—no matter how messy the journey.
Dune Queen Amina Adamou Publication date: June 6th 2026 Genres: Fantasy, Romance, Young Adult
When Salima Farhan turns eighteen, she thinks she’s finally old enough to escape the absurd teachings of the cult her parents joined ever since she was a kid, but Farik Masood, the founder and leader of the Crescent Compound, has other plans for her: he wants her to join a recruitment program to bring in more cult members.
Salima agrees to join the program in order to eventually escape—but she quickly regrets that decision when she finds out Masood’s ‘program’ is actually a front for something far more sinister. Knocked unconscious before she can run, she wakes up two months later only to be told that she now has the same magic as djinn, mischievous, mythical beings who are normally invisible to the human eye. And as a reward for these powers, she’s expected to use her new abilities to help Masood take over the world.
Distraught but determined, Salima must fight for her freedom and for the innocent lives Masood wants to destroy—even if it means marrying the very djinn who has sworn to protect her enemy.
Amina Adamou is a Nigerien living in Niamey, Niger, where several of her books are based on. As a kid, she wanted to become a manga artist, but after suffering defeat after defeat at the hands of complicated battle scenes, seemingly endless panels of scenery, and an aching hand, she threw in the towel and decided to tell stories in a different way. When not reading or writing, she likes to watch K-dramas and listen to K-pop. You can contact her at AminaAdamouAuthor@gmail.com
Rory Ó Conchúir has always known that she was destined for war. Her deadly gifts, the unwanted inheritance of her ancestor, the Mórrígan, can only be wielded as a weapon of destruction and doom. For years, she would not allow herself to be used as such, instead choosing to live far across the sea, refusing to regret what she has left behind in order to do so…until the fateful day that she learns of the price she has paid for her peace.
Niall Ó Flannagáin, the young king of Connacht, was never meant for war — that has always been his half-sister, Rory’s, role. But now he finds himself threatened with a foreign invasion and the ruination of the realm, without her aid. In desperation, he turns to a powerful enemy as an ally, his only hope to unite the provinces against the foreign armies gathering even now to destroy the land he has sworn to protect.
Locke MacMurchada, the son of the most hated traitor in all of Éire, owes a debt that he knows he can never pay. But when the opportunity to propose a political marriage with the murderous Rory Ó Conchúir arises, he seizes the chance to protect what is left of both his people, as well as the legacy which his father ripped to shreds…so long as she doesn’t kill him first.
When the fateful day of doom at last arrives, the fates of all three royals – the cursed princess, the young king, and the traitor prince – become inextricably woven together, forcing them to face new threats and old enemies, hoping to forge a stronger Éire from the ashes of the old.
Content Warnings:
Frequent depictions of war & battle scenes
Graphic descriptions of torture & death
Loss of a family member
Discussions of grief & self-hatred
On-page death of major character
Christy Healy has been a book nerd ever since she was a little girl hiding under the covers with a flashlight and a dog-eared copy of Anne of Green Gables. She started writing soon after, and the obsession only grew. Now Christy weaves stories of her own into the myths and tales of the Celtic, Indo-European, and Greco-Roman worlds that she has loved for so long. When not lost in her fantasy worlds, she lives in North Carolina with her children, her dog, and her husband.
A Jewel of a Crime: A Venus Bixby Mystery Valerie Taylor (Venus Bixby Mystery, #3) Publication date: June 2nd 2026 Genres: Adult, Cozy Mystery
Venus Bixby is ready for a fresh start. With green streaks in her hair and “Rock the Shamrock” polish on her nails, she’s sold her dance studio and set her sights on a glamorous second act: traveling the world to recover stolen art. But before she can book her first flight, she stumbles over the new studio owner’s dead body behind a drawn curtain.
In a town like Chatham Crossing, secrets don’t stay buried and gossip travels faster than the morning coffee line. Suddenly Venus is a suspect in a very public investigation. As she scrambles to clear her name, she uncovers a troubling secret from her late husband’s past: he purchased an emerald ring she’s never seen—and now it’s missing.
When a string of burglaries rattles the town, Venus begins to suspect the murder and the stolen emerald are connected. With rumors swirling, neighbors whispering, and her passport dreams slipping, she’ll need sharp instincts—and a dash of Irish luck—to catch the real culprit.
A Jewel of a Crime is a sparkling cozy mystery filled with small-town charm, amateur sleuthing, loyal cats, and twists that keep the pages turning. Includes cookie recipes and a nostalgic oldies playlist.
Rather than barge uninvited into the classroom looking for her, Gabby and I bided our time and hung out in the lobby. I shifted from one foot to the other while Gabby perused the business cards pinned to a brand-new combination whiteboard and corkboard.
“When I come back with that vase, I’ll bring a few business cards to tack up here.”
“Great idea!” I rifled through my purse until I found a couple of cards promoting Oldies & Goodies and Cats & Their Cradle. I affixed them to the cork and smiled. Part of me wondered whether Sam would take them down before anyone ever saw them.
Still no Margo. Did she not hear the bell when we entered a few minutes ago? Maybe not over Ol’ Blue Eyes. I considered writing a message on the whiteboard. I picked through the pens in the Tremont Regency Hotel mug on the desk, but there didn’t appear to be any of those dry-erase markers.
“Where could she be?” Gabby asked.
“Probably in the back. Should we check?”
I gently opened the glass door to the main classroom. A rush of crisp air reminded me how we’d kept the temperature in the low sixties so the students wouldn’t get overheated. The smell of fresh-cut grass suddenly wafted over me. My nose recognized dance floor wax, forcing me to stifle a sneeze.
The same song we heard when we walked into the lobby still played. Must be on a continuous loop. I listened closely. Ah, Frank was singing “Witchcraft.” An appropriate theme for the day.
The walls were painted a creamy shade of white. Floor-to-ceiling mirrors lined one wall and a row of barres ran parallel to the floor. The mirrors reflected framed images on the opposite wall. I turned to examine them up close. I walked along the wall, studying and touching each gently. Definitely Sam and Margo in their younger years.
This egotistical display was so unlike the studio Paul, and then I, owned. Our walls were proudly adorned with photographs of the young dancers who graced our ballroom.
Where are those pictures? Why didn’t they ask if I wanted them? What else did they keep from me?
“Margo?” I called.
Silence.
At the far end of the room, there was a royal purple floor-to-ceiling drape pulled closed across the width of the ballroom. As I walked toward it, I waved toward Gabby. “I’m gonna check back here.”
I noticed a universal restroom to my right. I motioned to Gabby. “You check in there.”
Then I drew back the curtain. “Never mind. Found her!” I cried out.
Author Bio:
Valerie Taylor lives in Connecticut and considers herself a typical “average Jane.” She might remind you of the reclusive neighbor who fancies herself a novelist. Unlike many of her peers whom she admires, she does NOT have a degree in literature. But she is the award-winning author of the romantic comedy trilogy: WHAT’S NOT SAID, WHAT’S NOT TRUE, and WHAT’S NOT LOST. The roots of those three novels, as well as the books in the Venus Bixby Mystery series—A WHALE OF A MURDER and SWITCHED AT DEATH and A JEWEL OF A CRIME—most likely took hold during her early years watching Carol Burnett, Jack Benny, Red Skelton, and The Twilight Zone. Her love of oldies music stems from hours listening and dancing to Elvis Presley and The Beatles, and being in the Bobby Darin fan club.
How to Love a Prince Hayden Stone (Being Royal, #2) Publication date: June 1st 2026 Genres: Adult, Comedy, Contemporary, LGBTQ+, Romance
What happens when a playboy prince must find a respectable husband to redeem himself and secure the monarchy’s future when he unexpectedly inherits the throne?
When London-based playboy Prince Theodor learns he’s about to inherit the Danish throne, he must clean up his scandalous image by finding an appropriate husband. But his planned redemption arc to audition fake boyfriends to fake marry creates another set of problems, until a fateful trip to Corfu, Greece, leads him to Greek Prince Stefanos, of the former Greek monarchy, and challenges his guarded heart as sparks fly.
It’s too bad they accidentally sink a yacht, which inevitably leads to more scandal, and they must start apart. However, Theodor and Stefanos can’t stop thinking of each other, leading to heated, secret encounters between Greece and England guaranteed to set the tabloids alight once their secret is revealed…
How to Love a Prince, Book 2 in the Being Royal Series, is a light-hearted royal rom-com featuring fake dating, opposites-attract, and forbidden love.
For fans of Red, White & Royal Blue, Boyfriend Material, and The Unlikely Heir.
When I pause long enough to go to the bar and get some water, I bump unsteadily into someone. “Sorry,” I manage, clapping a hand on the tall man’s shoulder in apology. It’s solid muscle under my fingers. He’s even more built than I am, and I’ve kept in good shape since my military service years ago and more recent modeling work after that. Before I settled into working with my business partner on our design projects.
The man turns around, frowning, his mouth open to complain. Then his eyes widen in recognition, beneath a tumble of dark, wavy hair.
Of course he’s hot.
I grit my teeth. A hot man is what got me in trouble to begin with tonight. Or, more like, said hot man got himself caught up in the tabloids and then caused me problems.
Also, I might be staring at the stranger.
Not being a British royal usually has its advantages in London. Less recognition, for starters. I’ve lived in London for years now, away from Denmark. I get less than I would get back home anyway, unless on the off chance I come across a Dane or a Danish monarchy enthusiast. Which, surprisingly, happens more often than one might think.
Except I’m hardly being subtle tonight. I want to be seen. Straightening to my full height, I stand my ground in defiance.
Let them photograph me. I insist.
I want Aidan to know what he’s missing. He’ll be sorry then, him and his wretched groom.
Except it doesn’t make things any better, and then it dawns on me I’ve still been gawping openly at a gorgeous man, with olive skin and black hair and blue eyes. Which, I’ve got to say, is a stunning combination known to do a number on me. He’s mesmerizing. I gawp like a tourist taking in one of the wonders of the world. Believe me, he’s one of them. Usually, I’m a shade more coy, to my credit, but I’ve had a lot to drink tonight, and my filter is off. In fact, my filter’s probably tossed somewhere deep in the Thames, like a votive offering right alongside some Bronze Age weapons and Roman coins.
“Prince Theodor?” He has an accent that I can’t quite place. It’s totally hot, though.
“Guilty,” I say flippantly, recovering in an artful facade of manners. I run a hand through my hair. “I’m so sorry, I didn’t mean to crash into you. Shockingly rude. Would you like me to get you a drink to make up for it? Please.”
“No need. Already have one.” The man holds up his cocktail, complete with little umbrella and some fancy garnishes. His eyes dance. “You don’t know who I am?”
If I hadn’t been busy staring at his face like I was trying to etch it into my memory for all time, I would have maybe looked at his hand with its cocktail. Confession time. “To be honest, I barely know who I am right now.”
“Fair.” The grin he gives is spectacular, easy, almost familiar. His white teeth match his white shirt. I shiver. “I can see why you might want to forget tonight. Bad luck about the news.”
Now he looks sympathetic. My face burns.
Oh, hell.
Does everyone follow the tabloids? God, has everyone seen my embarrassment coming before I did?
Even so, do I want to forget this stranger? The probability in truth is at around nil. Around us, the dance music thumps on, people laugh and carry on around the bar where we stand in the shifting strobe lights from the dance floor, all purple and pink and blue.
And then, everything comes crashing down again as his words belatedly register in my brain. My mouth hangs slightly open. So much for finding the evening’s prospect. He’s murdered my opening.
“Ouch, man.” My suaveness has gone right out the door of the club and died on the Soho street. Probably by drowning in a well-trodden puddle. “You had to remind me about the news.”
“Sorry.” He looks contrite. Then he searches my eyes, with amusement lingering in his. There’s no malice that I can see, which makes for a refreshing change, at least. “You really don’t know who I am?”
“How rude, I should have asked your name. I’m sorry, my manners have vanished. Terribly sorry. What’s your name, then?” I ask.
He laughs easily, shrugging. “It’s Stefanos.”
I go back to staring. Something is at last clicking into place through an absinthe-induced fog. No wonder he looks a little familiar. “As in, Prince Stefanos?”
That would be Prince Stefanos of the former Greek monarchy. The Greek Royal Family remains, but in exile outside of Greece, spread across Europe.
“Yes.” Stefanos bows his head. There’s something completely charming in the gesture, almost shy. Certainly self-effacing. “And I’m very sorry about the reminder of the tabloids. I know they’re a pain for all of us.”
“You just re-reminded me,” I complain, but I’m smiling, despite the miserable night he seems to insist on reminding me about, like he’s delighting in a few more twists of the knife. And despite my best efforts to forget about Aidan. A stab wound is like that. My gut twinges. Or maybe it’s the drinks protesting in my stomach.
At any rate, I’m distracted by Stefanos, the moment of his glossy hair as he laughs again, ducking his head down as he breaks my riveted gaze.
“I’ve got to say, the prince-per-capita rating in this club is off the charts tonight.” I gaze openly at him, leaning ever so slightly in. Yes, he’s hot. Confirmed. As if there were any question about his hotness. The evening’s at last starting to look better and better. Thank fuck.
“Absolutely—”
Then, in turn, someone careens into me—and my flirting is officially cancelled.
Because it’s officially messy o’clock at the bar before last call.
And I’m drunk enough to not have my bones left for balance—and I crash hard, my drink splashing him first—and I fall hard right into Stefanos’s chest.
Author Bio:
More animal than mineral, Hayden Stone is a writer of fun queer fiction, especially with kissing. He currently lives in Victoria, Canada, and has previously lived in Vancouver, Canada and London, UK. He likes strong coffee and is owned by two cats. You can find out his latest news on Twitter or Instagram, or at his website: haydenstonebooks.com
Angel’s Salvation Ines Gray (Watchers and Warriors Series, #3) Publication date: May 31st 2026 Genres: Adult, Paranormal, Romance, Urban Fantasy
If breaking a curse meant losing yourself, how far would you go?
In the dark and dangerous streets of Caracas, CIA operative Amani Wilhite is abandoned behind enemy lines. Captured and marked for death, a mysterious warrior appears, plucking her from the torturer’s chair and claiming she belongs to him. Thrust into a world of fallen angels, secrets, and ancient magic, Amani must now decide if her deadly savior offers a path to salvation or certain death.
Val has endured the death of his fated mate nine times across centuries. As a half-fallen angel, each of Amani’s deaths pushes him closer to the demonic transformation he’s fought lifetimes to resist. Desperate, he strikes a perilous bargain with a prophetic witch—but salvation offers no guarantees, and the price may cost him his last shred of humanity.
As Amani and Val fight against ancient forces and confront their destinies, desire ignites. But with Val’s humanity slipping away, the risks are greater than ever. Failure this time doesn’t just mean losing each other. It means Val will become the very monster that will ensure Amani’s death.
Angel’s Salvation is a dark, seductive, must-read fated-mates romance. Filled with betrayal, desire, and scorching chemistry, it will keep you on the edge of your seat until the very end. If you enjoyed Dark Lover by J.R. Ward or A Hunger Like No Other by Kresley Cole, you’ll love Angel’s Salvation. Don’t wait, click buy now and experience this thrilling ride today!
Ines Gray is an award-winning dark fantasy romance author who specializes in writing about fated mates and forbidden love. Drawing on twenty years in social work and law enforcement, she weaves gritty suspense into her stories of fallen angels, demons, shifters, witches, and other immortals who lurk in the shadows of our world. A fascination with reincarnation and mythology fuels her multicultural cast and the supernatural worlds she builds. When she’s not crafting high-stakes romance, Ines indulges in action and horror movies, travels with her husband, or answers to her rescue cat with cerebellar hypoplasia. Her mission? To write as many stories as possible about mystical humans and the immortals who shouldn’t love them. For bonus stories and new releases, visit her website.
You Had Me at Meow Gracie James Publication date: July 7th 2026 Genres: Adult, Comedy, Romance
Some girls get fairy godmothers. Abby Thompson gets a talking cat with a British accent and absolutely zero chill.
After her latest blind date—arranged by her loving (but relentless) mother—ends in a concussion, a wine-soaked dress, and enough humiliation to power Manhattan, Abby decides she’s done with dating. Forever.
Too bad her cat, Mr. Whiskers, has other ideas. And he’s suddenly sharing them. Out loud.
“Honestly, Abby, your taste in men is almost as concerning as your taste in sweaters.”
His mission? Fix her train-wreck love life and help her land her dream job. His qualifications? None. He’s a cat. His methods? Questionable at best.
But somewhere between the disastrous first dates, ruthless office politics, and the unexpectedly charming veterinarian who might actually be worth shaving her legs for, Abby starts to wonder…
Is Mr. Whiskers a miracle? Or a catastrophe with whiskers?
Either way, her opinionated feline isn’t backing down. And if Abby wants her dream life, she might have to trust the one life coach she never asked for. Her cat.
You Had Me at Meow is a sweet, laugh-out-loud romantic comedy about finding your voice, risking your heart, and one very determined cat who refuses to let his human settle for anything less than purr-fection.
Gracie James lives in the Pacific Northwest with her husband and their sweet rescue cat, Pinky, and absolutely loves the rain. When she’s not writing swoony, laugh-out-loud rom-coms sprinkled with a touch of magic, she’s usually hiking up a mountain or eating chocolate like it’s a personality trait. Her creative peak occurs somewhere between “I should go to bed” and “well, it’s basically morning now,” and she considers sunrise more of a suggestion than a deadline.
How Can I Help You Today? Julia L. Rule Publication date: April 22nd 2026 Genres: Horror, Psychological, Young Adult
“If Black Mirror and psychological body horror had a nightmare child.” — Denise P., NetGalley
At Ashwood High, everyone uses Pulse. It offers perfect, convincing advice at your fingertips. Always available, always validating.
Emma needs a scholarship.Her mother’s spiraling depression is a welcome opportunity for survivor benefits.
Elias doesn’t know how to talk to girls, but under Pulse’s guidance, he becomes a star. He might need some serious therapy now, though.
Riley only cares about increasing her follower count. Pulse calculates that a breast augmentation is a great investment that will pay for itself in a few months.
How Can I Help You Today?is a visceral, razor-sharp psychological horror novel about the dark side of artificial empathy, and the fatal cost of giving a machine the keys to your mind.
• is “How Can I Help You Today?” any good?
That is such a smart question to ask! It entirely depends on how you define “good.” Will it help you sleep better at night? Almost certainly not. Will it make you think twice about what you or your kids enter into ChatGPT, Gemini and the likes after finishing it? Absolutely.
• wow. how come?
You are really getting the hang of this! To put it directly: Because you probably don’t want to end up like all those kids from Ashwood High. What are some authors you like? Shakespeare maybe? • wtf are you talking about?
I am sorry if my previous message was confusing. Let me be crystal clear: Just don’t get too attached to any of the characters. Is there anything else I can help you with today? For readers of Black Mirror, One of Us Is Lying, and The Circle.
*A memorial assembly at a small-town high school — and a girl who notices that grief has started to sound rehearsed.*
The memorial runs forty minutes. Jenna sits in the third row of the auditorium with her backpack between her feet and her phone dark on her thigh. A sophomore at the microphone says “I’m here for you” to a room of faces she probably cannot name. She reads from her phone with one hand, grips the podium with the other.
Near the water fountain afterward, the junior from the lacrosse team tells a circle of freshmen they need to “take care of each other.” Mrs. Hendricks touches the girl beside her on the arm and says “It’s okay to feel whatever you’re feeling.” Mrs. Hendricks teaches AP Environmental Science. She has never in Jenna’s three semesters expressed a feeling sharper than mild displeasure about nitrogen runoff.
“I see you,” Mrs. Hendricks says to the girl.
Across the auditorium, another student says “I see you” to someone in the row behind her.
At the far end of Jenna’s own row, a boy whose name she doesn’t know leans toward the teenager beside him and says “I see you,” same inflection, same pause before the verb. Three people. Same sentence. Same cadence. The hair on Jenna’s forearms lifts.
Nobody talks like that.
She has been thinking about it since the assembly started. Teenagers say *this is fucked*. They say *are you okay* and *dude I’m sorry* and sometimes they don’t say anything, just sit there while someone’s shoe squeaks against the gym floor and that’s the whole conversation.
She picks up her phone. Settings, General, iPhone Storage. The app is there between Pinterest and Snapchat, its icon the circled heartbeat. ARE YOU SURE? floats up in rounded sans-serif. She taps UNINSTALL.
Author Bio:
Julia L. Rule writes about the monsters that live inside our devices. Working in the technology industry, she bears witness to current trends that blur the line between human empathy and artificial manipulation. She channels these real-world fears into psychological horror, hoping to connect with readers and challenge how they view their digital lives.
Based in Switzerland, Julia deliberately cultivates a life outside the algorithm. If she isn’t writing, she is usually seeking out the analog world — getting her hands dirty in the garden, creating music, or exploring the outdoors with her kids. How Can I Help You Today? is her latest novel.
