Intrigued? Read on to discover the synopsis and an excerpt from Hexy Beast by Avery Flynn, which releases on September 8th 2026.

As the eldest daughter of the magical Sherwood family, I’m supposed to have everything together. Well, joke’s on them—I, Effie Sherwood, am chaos incarnate, and you’ll never be able to guess my next move.

Like jumping on the back of Darius Aetos’ motorcycle. Not only is Darius grumpy, gruff, and hot, he’s also the head of the Aetos werewolf pack.

My spur of the moment decision has quickly become a much bigger commitment, because a pack elder is convinced this hunk of a man (or wolf, depending on the hour) is my fated mate.

Even though I’m a witch and he’s a werewolf, we’re stuck together until we can find our way out of the tricky pack politics. But under the light of the blue moon, it’s almost starting to feel like Darius doesn’t want to stay away from me. And I’m not sure if it’s my magic going haywire or the starlit skies, but I can’t imagine leaving his arms either.

EXCERPT

There is nothing worse than lusting for the guy who kidnapped you.

I mean, it doesn’t happen to me a lot. This is the first time I’ve been held for ransom, but I have to believe that full-throttle come-and-get-me-you-sexy-tatted-up-muscle-bound-werewolf isn’t the appropriate reaction to the moment. Shouldn’t I be saving all my oh-my-what-deliciously-big-thighs-you-have dirty thoughts for someone who isn’t holding me magically hostage? There is a certain sense of logic to that, don’t you think?

But then again, when do I ever do what’s expected? Pretty much never.

However, I’m getting ahead of myself, which is not a surprise to anyone who knows me or follows me on WitchyGram, where I post all my escapades (much to my family’s dismay about my wild behavior).

I’m Effie Sherwood, the oldest daughter of the magically badass Sherwood family, one of, if not the most powerful in all of Witchingdom. As the eldest Sherwood child, everyone expected me to inherit our family magic and become the head witch in charge of the Sherwoods, because that’s how the world works.

Every witchy family has their own stream of magic that flows through the head witch and out to all the other members like water in a river out to its tributaries. Magic binds everyone together and empowers them. Then, when the firstborn of the next generation hits their thirties, they move from being the heir to the family’s magic to the head of the family.

That’s the way everyone’s witchy family magic works in Witchingdom, going from firstborn to firstborn like clockwork—boring, never varying, watching-paint-dry clockwork.

Until I came along.

The story of my birth hit legendary status before I was even old enough to understand the whispers.

It was a dark and stormy night. Kidding! It was a bland and sunny Tuesday morning when I came into the world.

Sherwood magic, tangible as electricity in the air, filled the room in anticipation of my birth. My magical matriarch mom went through labor without a hair out of place while my shifter dad had fully morphed into a literal bear because of the stress.

I came out bald as a troll and screaming my lungs out—I never have liked being woken up before noon.

The family magic flew around the three of us, going from invisible force to a sparkling purple stream of pure power. It swirled around the room in a circle that tightened and tightened until it resembled a glittering wreath small enough to sit on a newborn’s head and thus bestow status as the family’s magical heir.

The thing is, with me, it didn’t.

Oh, it got close. If I would have had any of the thick, wavy, light auburn hair I have now, the magic would have touched it. But instead of coming to rest on my slightly pointy head, it poofed out of there, leaving behind a thick dusting of honeysuckle-scented sparkles that landed on my cheeks in the exact spots where today I have a bazillion freckles. A few sparkles ended up on the inside of my wrist, forming a weird splotch of a birthmark that looks like a constellation of stars if you squint and tilt your head just right.

And just like that, without saying a word, the Sherwood family magic had declared me not the chosen one.

That outcome was not expected—unless you’re me, because I don’t do what’s expected.

Not as a newborn.

Not as a grown-ass witch.

I’m a free spirit. The wild one of the family. The one who always tells her stories out of order and always eats dessert first. I’m the Sherwood who’s been voted most outrageous on WitchyGram five years running. I’m sure there’s a reason why I’m not the heir to our family’s magic nor am I destined to be the family matriarch.

I just wish I knew what it is.

The best reason I can come up with for the whole glitch in the oldest-child-becomes-the-heir thing is that I’m just not that witch. My sister Leona (the second-oldest Sherwood sister) is, and she’s fantastic at it, and that’s why when she was born, the wreath landed on her infant head without a second of hesitation. Yeah, it’s a little weird and can be kinda (read: so fucking very) awkward when people start giving me pitying looks and wondering aloud just what’s wrong with me that would result in what ninety-nine percent of Witchingdom sees as a demotion. But it is what it is.

It hardly ever bothers me.

And when it does? What do I do when some nosy nixie slides into my DMs to ask what it feels like to be passed over, or when a concern troll (not an actual troll; they’re really pretty cool, if bloodthirsty) wants to make sure I’m all right considering how my life didn’t turn out as (society) expected?

Well, that’s when I double down on bringing the shenanigans to Witchingdom, like when I hosted a Lucky Charms eating contest with the winner getting their body weight in cereal marshmallows. The catch? Participants had to do it while dressed in rainbow tutus and balancing on floating surfboards. That one totally got me trending on WitchyGram.

It’s not the life anyone expected of the firstborn Sherwood sister, but it’s mine, and I love it just how it is.

So I’m the family bon vivant, showing my four younger sisters how to live their best lives (and kicking the ass of anyone who tries to stop them). I’ve got a big mouth, a big attitude, and big thighs—all of which, for the record, I love about myself. The first two definitely get me into big trouble of the societal snubs kind, but the third gets me all the good kind of trouble I can handle—and believe me, I can handle a lot.

You may be asking: Does that mean things just seem to spin out of control when I get involved?

Fine.

Yes, it does.

But I roll with it. I embrace the chaos. What fun is life if there’s not any adventure?

And that’s why I wasn’t surprised to find myself on a Tuesday (why is it always a Tuesday?) being accidentally kidnapped by Darius Aetos, the alpha of the Aetos Werewolves and the man with the best ass in Witchingdom.

Don’t get distracted by that last factoid. Trust me.

Just look at his glorious gluteus maximus, appreciate the ten out of ten smackable-and-squeezable roundness of it, and then go on about your day, because his butt may be glorious, but it’s not enough to distract from his bossy personality.

Believe me, getting a peek at all six foot seven inches of muscular, tatted-up Darius can give you full-on fantasies about how he’d lift you up so high you could rest your legs on his shoulders as he went downtown, uptown, and all over town until you were wrung out, turned out, and possibly blacked out from pleasure. There’s a reason I can’t seem to stop myself from lusting after the big ol’ grump, so really, I do understand why you might have that reaction to him.

But again, do not become distracted by his hotness or begin to wonder if maybe the Fates have something in store for you with the thick-thighed, long-haired, grumped-up werewolf. The man has a personality disorder called head-up-the-ass-itis. It’s true! Darius Aetos is a tightly wound accountant inside the body of an MMA fighter.

Okay, so you’re probably wondering how I ended up being kidnapped by Sir Sexy and Surly. Well, it all started when I

*ahem* borrowed Darius’s motorcycle without his full written consent.

Fine.

I stole his motorcycle.

In my defense, though, at the time he was in the process of trying to steal the biggest, baddest, most coveted spell book in all of Witchingdom from my sister Leona and her secret husband, Erik.

There was no way I could let Darius get away with pulling a stunt like that.

Firstly, no one steals from the Sherwoods.

Secondly, no one takes something from one of my sisters without me getting all in their face about it.

Thirdly, I was sorta bored.

Therefore, I didn’t have any choice but to take dramatic action to retrieve The Liber Umbrarum from him. It’s only the most powerful spell book of ancient charms and hexes in Witchingdom, and if it falls into the wrong hands, it would be devastating. Yes, a pack of lawless werewolves who’d probably sell it to the highest bidder qualifies as wrong hands, but so does the Council.

Who’s the Council? Just an evil coven determined to drag Witchingdom back to the Middle Ages, lock everyone into rigid roles, and snuff out any flicker of fun, originality, or not being an awful, horrible, judgmental witch with a hard-on for fascism. They were the last people in the world who should possess The Liber Umbrarum, and they’d definitely be willing to pony up the most cash for a black market deal with the Aetos pack for the spell book.

Hence, when Darius the uptight alpha followed my sister and her secret husband to the edge of the pixies’ Killjoy Forest, I didn’t take time to think—I acted.

Why wouldn’t I?

I knew what needed to be done—the totally unexpectedly expected, an Effie Sherwood specialty.

One second Darius was about to get away with stealing the spell book, and then—abracadabra—I’m on his lap, ready, willing, and able to steal The Liber Umbrarum right back from him.

If only it had gone to plan (or as much of a chaotic, slapdash plan as someone like me can make)—but I’m getting ahead of myself again. Hey, don’t say I didn’t warn you about that.

Okay, let’s take a step back and start at the moment when I first spotted Darius on the edge of the Killjoy Forest and decided that no werewolf—not even one with the best ass in Witchingdom—was going to fuck with my sister.

The post Read An Excerpt From ‘Hexy Beast’ by Avery Flynn appeared first on The Nerd Daily.

Intrigued? Read on to discover the synopsis and an excerpt from The Wellness Retreat by Dawn Kurtagich, which releases on September 8th 2026.

Perfection comes at a cost.

Jaimie Vane used to measure her life in concert halls and standing ovations. Now she measures it in symptoms. The chronic illness that ended her career as a cellist doesn’t have a name or a cure—just a long list of things her body can’t do anymore.

When her wild child younger sister Sybil reinvents herself as a live-in staffer at an ultra-exclusive wellness retreat, Jaimie assumes it’s another phase.

Until her messages stop.
Until the voucher arrives.

Talamh Dhubh, a black-sand island in the middle of a wintery sea and home to Saoghal Spa, is a place for guests to be reborn. The founder, the enigmatic and glamorous Cyan Blache, promises restoration. Clarity. Transcendence. Whatever ails you, Saoghal will draw it from you. For guests willing to surrender completely, body and soul, the results are nothing short of miraculous.

Jaimie tells herself she’s only there to find Sybil. Not to drink organic detox smoothies or pour herself onto canvas in art therapy. Not to lie in the mineral baths and bask in the curiously soothing black mud. Not to believe the guests and staff who say Saoghal changed their lives.

But the longer she stays, the lighter her body feels. The quieter her pain becomes. The easier it is to forget what she was like before she got sick.

At Saoghal, healing is real.
And so is the cost.

Because the island doesn’t merely cure the visitors who revel in the embrace of its rich, black mud…it ensnares them. And the ones who arrive broken don’t always leave.

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Intrigued? Read on to discover the synopsis and an excerpt from The Dating Game by Ally Zetterberg, which releases on September 8th 2026.

The friendship game. The dating game. The end game. For board game designer Tilda Smith they’re all necessary steps on the path to finding happiness. And by structuring her life according to a set of rules, just like in the games that she loves to create at her job, Tilda can finally win.

The only problem? The other players don’t know they’re playing by Tilda’s rules. She’s fair. Very fair, in fact. But then one night her date pushes her too far and she gets just a bit carried away. Any player who disappoints must face consequences, right? But as Tilda finds herself transporting a body in a laundry bag, she has to question how to make the punishment fit the crime.

And now someone is watching Tilda and playing a game of their own. Will they turn the tables on her, or can she figure out a way to best them? The game is never really over until she says it is.

Game on.

EXCERPT

A letter is an unusual occurrence, and so I carry it with two hands, like you would a fragile baby chick, as I wait for the lift, alight, press the fifth floor with my elbow, and finally get out and open up the door to my quiet apartment. I regularly receive prototypes of board games from my publishers, yes. Games that are being sent out for play testing. I also receive boxes with an agreed-upon number of finished copies for me to keep, as part of the contract. I often get mail that are packages. But letters in brown envelopes that look like they contain words rather than items are not commonplace. I kick my sneakers off, not bothering to place them on the shelf. Who cares? I live alone and never have any guests. If I have a Zoom call, I can face the opposite direction of any mess.

The letter has been returned once and re-sent, and the brown en-velope is worn and thin when I squeeze it between my thumbs. My throat is dry after my walk, but I ignore its call for water and carefully peel the flap open with my naked nail.

Then the tears come. Or they would have, had I been able to cry like other people. Now the only hint I get that it’s sadness I’m experi-encing is the fiery burning behind my eyelids as my tear ducts try their best to release something, in vain. I rub at them, alleviating a burn similar to that of hay fever. Then I read.

Tilda,

I’m awfully sorry to unsettle you like this. I have had this forwarded in agreement with the firm handling my estate. I know how you hate being unsettled and for life to be stirred. Tilda, my girl, happy thirtieth birthday! I wish I could have been there to celebrate it with you. We would have had a Colin the Caterpillar cake, wouldn’t we? Like we always do. All those fancy cakes from bakeries can’t beat Colin. With some prosecco to wash it down. I hope you did something nice to celebrate yourself.

Now, if you have reached the point in your life where you’re happy, then do toss this letter in the paper bin, will you, and forget all about it. Off you go to enjoy your day. But if you are not happy, if you are still alone, still in the place you were when I left you, then continue reading.

Tilda—get yourself together. Life is more than work and board games. I always said one day you’d believe me, and I’d like you to make that day today. Life is more fun if you aren’t lonely. Now, this might come as a surprise to you. Considering we spent all our time with one another. I always wanted you close, didn’t I, my girl? Was quite happy with your predisposition and loyalty to me. I only wanted to protect you and steer you on the right path in life. Maybe that was wrong and maybe one day you’ll judge me for my selfishness. But you’re still young as I leave you, and can turn your life around. Please do that—turn your life around. Work less, see the sun more, swim in the ocean, and drink sweet cocktails even if they’re just empty calories. Because before you know it, you might be fifty years old and in a hospice saying goodbye to your only daughter.

Think of it as a game if that helps. Taskmaster, perhaps? I won’t design it for you because that’s your area. I’m simply your contractor telling you to design the game in which Tilda completes tasks and ends up less lonely and bitter than her poor old mum.

Promise me?

Bye, my girl. I trust that you’ve said your goodbyes and moved on from my untimely death by now. That you kept the promise to move somewhere sunnier than Bristol for me. Spain? Portugal?

Australia? I can only imagine the place you picked and the things you get to see. I hope you chose a therapist like I told you to. Someone to help you make sense of the world and control your emotions now that I’m gone. If you did, you’ll be ready. I’ll leave you with this list. It’s short but please take it seriously. This is what I’ve learned—if only too late—and I’d like you to try.

• Find a Everyone needs friends. Look for one in a place you normally wouldn’t look and approach someone you normally wouldn’t think is for you. Keep an open mind. When you find a friend, you need to do anything to keep them.
• Find love. There is someone out there for you. You just have to trawl through the woods and find him or A nice young man or woman who gets you and supports you being you. Do not settle.
• Finally, be That’s the endgame here. Just be happy.

Please try for me, darling.

If all this confuses you, then simply do this and the rest will follow:

Go make a difference in the world in your own special way.

Love always, Mum

I fold the letter up, more times than necessary, into a tiny little square, as if I’m attempting origami. I think I miss the voice the most. Her slow, calming tone. Dark and sweet, like wine. It’s like she’s here with me. I feel like I am important again. A daughter, a loved one, someone’s little girl. Not just a woman alone in a town where every-one knows someone except her.

Mum was right. I am still lonely. When I needed to burn some bad cells off my cervix a year ago I put a made-up name on my next of kin form and my own phone number below it. If they ever called it they’d end up in my voicemail. My thirtieth birthday was spent alone with a glass of prosecco, no Colin, because the English aisle at Carrefour doesn’t stock them—just tin after tin of Heinz baked beans, as if that’s what an expat really craves. The only wishes I received were from my publisher, Grant, on a work Zoom and from Asos telling me my gift was 25 percent off a full-priced item of my choice.

If Mum were still here I could explain to her that she was never selfish. She was my most beloved mother, and nothing gave me as much joy as staying close to her, in our own little world. Of course, I did fulfill her first wish—I moved abroad. I fulfilled her second wish, too—I found a therapist. If only I could explain that I’ve tried all the things she suggested and in the end I gave up because it just doesn’t work.

I let the instructions take space in my mind, turning them around until they look like games, just like Mum said. I like games; I always have. They are easy to understand, and you know exactly what to ex-pect. If the dice says three, you take three steps. Games are a haven in a world where people say one thing but think another and then end up doing something else completely.

Three games. Three missions. The Friendship Game, the Dating Game, and the End Game, where I will have the perfect, happy life. I’m not sure about it one bit, but then you should listen to your mum, shouldn’t you?

I’ll go and make a difference in the world in my own special way

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Intrigued? Read on to discover the synopsis and an excerpt from A Beautiful Lie by Tanya Grant, which releases on September 8th 2026.

Every one of my home organizing clients is a fabulous liar.

They tell themselves they need to keep clutter in their lives for rainy days or just-in-cases. They hold onto things too tightly. Most people don’t know how to cut to the heart of what’s important and purge everything that’s not.

That’s where I come in. I can look into my client’s lives and see exactly what’s weighing them down, and I get rid of it for them.

It sounds easy, but I’ll let you in on a secret: I have trouble letting go of things, too.

When Cap slides into my life with her neon signs and velvet hair bows and magnetic energy, I know I can’t just let her walk away. Because one of the first rules of home organizing is that like belongs with like. And Cap and me? We’re destined to be together.

She may not know it yet, but that’s okay. I’d be lying if I didn’t say the challenge is part of the thrill. And luckily for Cap, I’m not afraid of a little hard work.

This morning I let the work absorb me. Cap’s things are beautiful, even the industrial pieces, and they fall into neat boxes like they were made to go there, like they were just waiting to find their place to belong. Maybe we’re all like that. Humans and our things, not so different in the end.

With Cap, every cabinet and every drawer is a delight be-cause she’s showing me the inside of her. And it’s so, so pretty. She’s worthy of being loved and celebrated, even if her mother tries to make her think that what she’s doing doesn’t matter just because she misses Cap and wants her home.

Cap stops me for lunch, brings me a spread of sandwiches catered from a shop down the street. “I didn’t know what you’d like, so I got a little of everything,” she says, and there she goes again with her generous waste.

I would have liked whatever she got me, but the fact that she tried matters. She cares, even though on paper we are an em-ployee and a boss. Isn’t that how some of the best romances start anyway? Two people who can’t have each other, who overcome the odds. This is just a temporary state in our relationship. I’m pleased that she wants to please me.

We eat the sandwiches, Cap with her red-painted mouth, me hiding my too-eager smile, and then I shoo her away again. By the end of the day, when it’s time to show off what I’ve done, I know it will have been worth our while.

It’s hard to face that this might be the last day of us together like this, with me in Cap’s studio. It makes me want to prove myself to her. If I can do well here, maybe she’ll open the front door of her house to me too, although I’d hate if she got the wrong idea and thought she was just another job to me. She’s not. People show you their true selves when they let you into their homes, and that’s what I want—access to the rest of her.

I once learned that the average household has three hundred thousand or more items. Some of them as small as a bobby pin, some as big as a couch. Microwave-safe dishes and crumpled-up sticky notes and pencils and bedsheets and silver spoons. Those items are the collection of us. It’s not what we say or do but our things that make us.

Cap is made of neon and lingerie and red lipstick. She’s glass shards and fire starters and scraps of silk.

When I finish with the first two floors, I kick her out of the top floor and let my fingers dance over her photos while I sort them into neat piles. I work until my body aches, until my heart is full, and then I tie a silk scarf over her eyes to give her the grand reveal.

Leading her by the hand—her hand, the rough and the soft all at once, those shiny green nails and her sometimes-singed fingertips—I take her down into the workshop to show her the cleared worktables and the tools in their places. There’s an area for plotting papers, a new hook for her apron, and bins for the wires, all coiled like snakes.

Her gasp makes me think of wet, open mouths and eyes shut tight against pleasure. Her smile says that she feels seen.

“This is incredible,” she says, and I am incredible. We are. We can do anything together, and I know that she sees me too.

Upstairs in Cap’s wardrobe, everything is color-coded like a rainbow of my desire. Cream turning into gold turning into orange turning into red. She is a spectrum. Three hundred and sixty degrees.

The shape that holds the most volume is a sphere, and sometimes I imagine that we’re in a bubble together with all this room to grow.

Cap likes what I’ve done for her. Because she had me start earlier than planned today, and because I tried to impress her, I got everything done with time to spare.

Now that we’re facing the completion of this job, I find my-self sad that I worked myself out of more time with her. The crush I have on her has made me greedy—I want and I want and I want. But I know today isn’t the end.

“Thank you,” she says, pressing her hands to her chest. “This is exactly what I needed.” A shy smile. “I’m going to miss having you here.”

This is the part where I could tell her to have me back, that she doesn’t have to miss me. But I’ve been burned by crushes in the past. After Ellie, I learned not to come on too strong or be too obvious in my interest. I need to be the cool girl Cap thinks I am, so I leave it there.

“It’s goodbye for now, not forever,” I promise.

“Drinks soon.” She reaches for me, then lets her hand linger on mine. A hug and an air-kiss. The smell of her honeysuckle perfume.

There’s something special about that flower, the way if you pull everything apart to its core, you can finally get at its sweet-ness. I want her sweetness to coat my fingers, my life, even if it takes a while. Even if she gives it to me drop by drop.

The post Read An Excerpt From ‘A Beautiful Lie’ by Tanya Grant appeared first on The Nerd Daily.

Intrigued? Read on to discover the synopsis and an excerpt from Scandal by Kelly and Kristina Mancaruso, which releases on September 8th 2026.

They had the perfect marriage. Until she was found alive…

2020. During a friend’s birthday trip, Kaleigh Creedy’s life was torn apart when she and her two friends, Emma and Leila, were violently attacked in the middle of the night. Only Kaleigh managed to escape.

2025. Now married to a famous footballer and a rising star in her own right, the former beauty queen has tried to put the terror of that night behind her. But just when Kaleigh thinks she’s safe, the unthinkable happens…

Emma is found alive, and her version of events doesn’t match Kaleigh’s.

Her perfect life is unravelling, the tabloids are circling, but who will you believe?

From the authors of Rumoured comes another sensational thriller featuring a celebrity couple at the centre of a horrifying crime. Perfect for fans of A Flicker in the Dark, The Perfect Marriage and Luckiest Girl Alive.

Excerpt from Scandal by Kelly and Kristina Mancaruso

Charlie

Nottingham, UK

Friday 28 February 2025

The pub is heaving, as it usually is when the football is on. Everyone sipping beer, laughing, caught up in the excitement of the weekend’s first FA Cup qualifier. They’re too caught up it seems, to notice the girl who’s just stumbled through the swinging staff door, covered in blood.

Perhaps, like me, they assume she’s a hallucination. I haven’t screamed yet, haven’t dropped my pint. Although my jaw’s gone slack.

I blink, trying to convince myself the girl is a figment of my imagination. But she’s still there when I open my eyes. My gaze shifts to her hand, to the broken bottle. Red wine, not blood, I tell myself.

But the thick droplet that falls like syrup from the shard of green glass tells me otherwise.

The jovial atmosphere at Oak & Arrow starts to shift to one of confusion and panic as others notice her. Chatter dies down. Laughter is replaced by whispers and gasps of horror. Glass shatters to the floor.

I fixate on the girl, my analytical brain taking everything in more carefully this time, assessing her like one of my patients. I try to guess how old she is, but it’s difficult to tell. She could be fifteen, could be thirty. The feral, wild look in her eyes makes me wonder if she’s suffering some sort of psychotic break or is on a drug-induced rampage. But then I take in her cut-up feet. Her greasy hair. Her frail body. The way her hand trembles as she clutches the glass like a weapon. Defensively, not offensively.

She is a victim. This is a crime scene.

I exhale, ready to intervene. As a psychologist, I’m trained to deal with people under severe stress. But it’s usually in a safe place like my office or a hospital. Not at the scene of the crime, the epicentre of the trauma. I understand how crucial this moment is. How right now, the girl’s body and mind will be in overdrive, desperately trying to figure out how best to protect herself. It’s not as simple as fight or flight. It’s an incredibly complex system of electrical currents computing how to safeguard its host. It could be deleting files, rewiring itself, shutting down…

I approach slowly, hands up to let her know I’m not a threat.

“It’s alright,” I say softly.

The words seem to comfort her, but she’s still on edge. The tangy stench of copper and urine stings my nostrils as I inch towards her.

“It’s alright,” I repeat.

But before I can reach her, boisterous cheers erupt from the other side of the bar. The girl recoils in fear, stumbling backwards into a table. A hot fury courses through me at the oblivious men celebrating the goal, unable to avert their attention from the match for even a moment. I try to get the girl to focus on me again.

“It’s alright,” I say for the third time, desperate to keep her calm.

She opens her mouth as if to scream, or to say something, but then her eyes roll back and she collapses to the floor.

“Someone call an ambulance,” I shout, dropping down next to her. “Now!”

I press my cold fingers to her neck, then her wrist, both splattered with what I deduce is someone else’s warm blood. My eyes flit to the door behind her, dread pooling in my stomach wondering what horror lies behind it. But my uneasiness quickly turns into something much more disconcerting as I study the girl and notice the three small butterflies tattooed on her wrist.

It’s her.

The post Read An Excerpt From ‘Scandal’ by Kelly and Kristina Mancaruso appeared first on The Nerd Daily.

Intrigued? Read on to discover the synopsis and an excerpt from Writer in Residence by Rhonda McKnight, which releases on September 8th 2026.

Alexandra Chambers is a writer who has run out of words. Struggling with writer’s block and the pressure to secure a new book deal, she wins a week in a writer-friendly cabin through a drawing held at a Lowcountry literacy center.

What she finds is far more than she expected–a vibrant community brimming with inspiration, a past steeped in history and culture, and a man who both intrigues and unsettles her.

Gabe Scott, a bestselling author and the former writer-in-residence, is everything Alex feels she’s not–acclaimed, award-winning, and unshakably confident. When their paths cross at the center, his literary brilliance and dedication to helping struggling Gullah students stir feelings Alex isn’t ready to confront. Though undeniably attracted to him, Alex wrestles with the fear that her books pale beside his celebrated work.

When a surprising family connection unearths long-hidden truths about her past, Alex is forced to confront a lie that has shaped her life. Guided by the quiet wisdom of Ms. Kate, an elderly Gullah cleaning woman with losses of her own, Alex finds the strength to forgive truths long withheld, embrace her voice, and write the story only she can tell.

Writer in Residence is a rich and layered choice for book clubs eager to explore themes of identity, family secrets, creative reinvention, and the power of place. McKnight’s lush Lowcountry setting and unforgettable cast of characters spark meaningful conversation about Gullah Geechee culture, the stories we inherit, and the courage it takes to tell our own truth. An included discussion guide makes it easy for groups to dig deeper into Alex’s journey of rediscovery–and perhaps reflect on the hidden roots in their own lives.

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Intrigued? Read on to discover the synopsis and an excerpt from This Changes Everything by Danielle McKechnie, which releases on September 8th 2026.

Ellie McCain has always dreamed of a bigger life, so when she’s accepted into a prestigious acting school in New York City, she packs her bags—even if it means leaving her family, her friends, and Rory Campbell, the boy who held her heart for years, behind.

At first, life in New York is even better than she’d dreamed it would be—she loves her classes, she gets a position at a fancy production company, and she’s even falling in love with her classmate-turned-roommate-turned-best friend, Ben. But soon the shine starts to wear off: her boss has made it clear that the only role he’ll be casting her in is “Unpaid Intern #3”, and while she’s happy that Ben’s career is starting to take off, she’s struggling to stay afloat. And it doesn’t help that everyone around her seems to be passing her by—even her childhood sweetheart, Rory, is living out his dreams as a Professional Golfer. But when she runs into Rory for the first time in ten years, she starts to wonder what exactly it is she’s running from, where is she going, and who is running with her.

Told in alternating timelines of the past and present and moving between Vancouver, New York, and Los Angeles, This Changes Everything is the story of love—first love, one-that-got-away-love, and true love—and asks if maybe, just maybe, all of those loves can be one and the same.

PROLOGUE

Vancouver
20 years old

“Ellie, what did we do?” Rory’s head was on my shoulder. His face was buried in my collarbone. His loose dark curls plastered against my cheek, clinging to my skin in the same mindless, desperate hold that my limbs were clinging to him.

I stopped breathing, and my eyes flew open. I must have misheard him.

Rory’s hot breath steamed my neck. We were in the passenger seat of his musty, old black Jeep Cherokee, and it dawned on me that all my parents needed to do was look out my sister’s second-story bay window to find me and Rory Campbell, tangled up and naked, perfectly lit under the streetlight that loomed at the end of our driveway. The passenger seat was reclined all the way down, and I didn’t know how he wasn’t suffocating as he pushed his face even further into my neck. Our thrashing heartbeats bashed against each other in unison.

“What did you say?” I asked. He didn’t answer, so I repeated myself. “Rory, what did you say?” He didn’t move, but I felt his lips tremble against my skin, and I had to actively stop myself from filling his Jeep with vomit. Why wasn’t he talking to me?

“What’s going on?” Tears started materializing in my eyes. “Look at me,” I pleaded. I could hear my voice getting weaker the longer he hid his face.

When Rory eventually lifted his head, his pained expression burned through me. My eyes trailed over the faint freckles across the bridge of his nose and the tops of his cheeks. I called it his Summer Skin and had obsessed over his soft, subtle freckles, which multiplied under the summer sun, since we were twelve. In eight years, I could count on one hand how many times Rory Campbell and I had purposefully touched each other, and touching him so intimately now, with what we had just done, combined with that look on his face, felt like both a dream and a nightmare. He kept his eyes closed and lightly touched his nose to mine.

“Look at me. Please,” I begged.

He opened his sad, coffee-brown eyes, which I had memorized long ago, and then quickly squeezed them shut again as tears rolled down his cheeks. He kissed me softly. I assumed the kiss was to stop his bottom lip from quivering, but it didn’t work. When I heard him inhale a choppy breath, I asked more urgently, “What’s wrong?”

“This was a mistake.” He dropped his head as if he had lost all the muscles in his neck.

“What?” I blinked. There was no way he could possibly have said—

“This was a mistake,” he said again.

“What do you mean?” My heartbeat filled my head, clouding my hearing with its heavy thumping.

“We shouldn’t have done that . . .”

“You’re still inside me, Rory.” I swallowed, entirely unable to comprehend what was happening.

With a sudden surge of energy, Rory tore himself off me and quickly shuffled over to the driver’s seat. He leaned down and pulled on his underwear, then his pants, then his black T-shirt over his head. I tried to do the same, but my fingers stopped working, my hands, my legs, my brain, everything.

Rory wiped his tears with the back of his hand and looked out the window, facing away from me. He looked down the dark street I grew up on.

“What did I do?” I asked, staring blankly at my sleepy house.

“Nothing. You did nothing. That was . . .” He ran both hands through his floppy hair. “You did nothing.”

“What’s happening right now?”

“Please. Ellie.” He sucked in a shallow gasp. “Stop.”

“Rory, what did I do? What is going on right now?” I must have asked one too many times, because he then slammed his hands into the steering wheel.

“You’re leaving!” Rory practically shouted at me, rocking me back in my seat with his unexpected burst of fury, lighting a fire under my ass to get my clothes on. “Tomorrow. You’re moving away tomorrow, and I feel like I’m dying!”

“It’s only two years.” I fumbled with my shirt. I couldn’t look at him.

“It’s not. You’ve wanted to leave for as long as I’ve known you. I knew it would happen, it’s finally happening, and you’re not coming back.”

“I’m coming back,” I insisted.

“No, you’re not!” Rory yelled. He closed his eyes, trying to control himself.

“It’s just school. This is my home. I will come back.”

“We both know that’s not true. I know you, Ellie. You’re leaving, and I’m going to be left with nothing.”

I could feel my body recoil even though I didn’t move a muscle.

“I . . . I can’t do this,” he finished.

“But we’ve already done it . . .” My eyes were stinging. I swallowed the last of the air inside the Jeep, and my stomach fell to my feet. I could still feel him inside me. I could still feel his mouth, and tongue, and breath, and teeth all over me. I could still feel him digging into my skin and hair.

“So, what, then?” I choked. “Did you come here to finally fuck me, then send me on my way?”

“I can’t believe you just said that,” he answered quietly, sounding sickened, unable to meet my eyes. “Is that what you think?”

“How can I not?” I was in disbelief.

“I came tonight to say goodbye . . .”

A lost memory of Rory when we were fourteen surged through me. I had walked through the front door of the busy juniors’ lounge at Juniper Golf Club. He was sitting with his hands clamped behind his head, and he was leaning back comfortably. He had flipped his black hat backward, and his eyes widened, then darted away from mine the moment they connected. I watched his chest lift, and his breathing pick up. An empty seat sat next to him with his rain jacket hanging over the back, and I didn’t have to ask to know he was holding it for me. It was always for me.

The Jeep Cherokee was steaming up, so Rory turned on the engine and rolled down his window.

“I haven’t been able to think since you told me about New York. Whatever you and I have ever been, that’s when it all ended. It’s over, and it didn’t even start.” Rory could barely get the words out as he white-knuckled the steering wheel.

I stopped recognizing my own reality. I looked carefully at my house. Had my sister’s bedroom light been on this whole time?

“This is it, Rory. It’s us. We’re choosing each other. I choose you, and you choose me.”

“I can’t do this . . . I won’t. I’m not choosing this. I’m not choosing you.” He started hyperventilating, burying his face in his hands. “I can’t spend the rest of my life—” He inhaled sharply, having lost his words. “None of this is real, Ellie. You. Me. Us. None of it. We’ve never been anything real.” Rory heaved, and his voice sounded like it came straight out of his gut.

“Rory . . .”

“I can’t love you, Ellie! I’m not doing it!”

I sat back in my seat. Finally, totally, and entirely composed. I grabbed my shoes and opened the door. With my hands full, I stepped outside the Jeep. I looked up at my sister’s window, overlooking the driveway, and saw her blinds move.

“What was I thinking?” Rory said quietly to himself as I slammed the door.

I sobbed with my sister throughout the entire night. I finally stopped the next morning when the plane took off, the wheels were up, and I got the fuck out of Vancouver.

Excerpted from THIS CHANGES EVERYTHING by Danielle McKechnie. Copyright © 2026 by Danielle McKechnie. Reprinted here with permission from Harper Perennial, an imprint of HarperCollins Publishers.

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Intrigued? Well read on to discover the synopsis and an excerpt from The Lost Perfumes of Paris by Christine Wells, which releases on September 8th 2026.

Élodie Limeaux’s beloved mother, Aurore, was the most legendary perfumer in France before World War II, renowned for the exquisite fragrances she created for the family company, the House of Limeaux. Now in her twenties, Élodie longs to join the family business. Her father, however, has refused to let her follow in her late mother’s footsteps and Élodie has had to fight to become a mere lab assistant at Limeaux.

But Élodie plans to enter the Essence of Paris contest run by the French Perfume Institute, hoping that a win will secure investment from Swiss banker Monsieur Caspari, who is looking to launch a new scent for women—and possibly to buy the House of Limeaux.

Impressed with Élodie’s drive and talent, Caspari agrees to back her, provided that she collaborates with his son, Marcelo. Élodie is forced to agree, although Marcelo strikes her as a wealthy dilettante—albeit an extremely charming one.

When they join forces, though, Élodie is surprised to discover Marcelo’s passion for perfume is genuine, his obsession as deep as hers. With Marcelo by her side, Élodie battles family betrayals and corporate sabotage, searching for that elusive essence of Paris that will launch her career…and possibly the love of a lifetime.

Excerpted from The Lost Perfumes of Paris, by Christine Wells. William Morrow Paperbacks, 2026. Reprinted with permission.

Élodie felt like a caged tiger waiting for Marcelo to return to Paris. The other perfumers and assistants in the contest would be getting on with writing their briefs already. They might even have settled on their themes by now. By the time she saw Marcelo again, the others would have moved on to the first steps of creating their perfumes.

Who knew if she could rely on Marcelo to return to Paris when he’d promised, or at all? He might be delayed negotiating with Prince Rainier or get caught up in the social whirl in Monte Carlo. She pictured him wearing a dinner suit, playing baccarat with a beautiful woman dripping in jewels and smelling of Fracas by his side.

Fine. She’d simply begin without him, that was all. Élodie took her journal and pencil and her coffee and stepped out to the small balcony of her bedroom, which overlooked the garden.

She closed her eyes and sniffed deeply. The air was fresh from recent rain, and the oxidized bronze planters on either side of the door exuded a cold, metallic tang, the earth inside them moist and ripe. The pepper of red geraniums that spilled over their edges vied with the creamy scent of lilacs from her grandmother’s garden.

Her morning tisane was redolent of the warm spice of ginger and the sweetness of honey, and she sipped it appreciatively. Somewhere in the house, or perhaps in the garden below, her grandmother was smoking Sobranies—­Black Russians, if Élodie guessed right. As cigarettes were forbidden throughout her marriage due to Grandpère’s sensitive nose, Mimi had taken up the habit with a vengeance after he died. His punishment for leaving her alone.

As Élodie sat pondering, she tapped the end of her pencil against her lips. The biggest question about this perfume was, what raw materials did she want to build the fragrance around? How could she capture the spirit of Paris in one scent?

ABOUT THE AUTHOR:
CHRISTINE WELLS writes historical fiction featuring strong, fascinating women. From early childhood, she drank in her father’s tales about the real kings and queens behind popular nursery rhymes, and she has been a keen student of history ever since. She began her first novel while working as a corporate lawyer and has gone on to write about periods ranging from Georgian England to post World War II France. Christine is passionate about helping other writers learn the craft and business of writing fiction and enjoys mentoring and teaching workshops. She loves dogs, running, the beach, and fossicking for antiques, and lives with her family in Brisbane, Australia.

Visit Christine online at christine-wells.com, on Instagram @christinewells_, on X @ChristineWells0, and on Facebook at ChristineWellsAuthor.

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Intrigued? Read on to discover the synopsis and an excerpt from Lucky 22 by Ashley Eckstein and Samantha Chase, which releases on September 8th 2026.

Twenty-two was just a lucky number. Until it wasn’t.

Ella Rose Holt believes in magic. Not always the fairy-tale kind, but the quiet kind that shows up when you least expect it. On the brink of her golden birthday, chasing acting dreams in Los Angeles, Ella’s life feels full of possibility…and just a little unfinished.

Christian Lucas has built his world on discipline, dedication, and the game he loves. As a professional baseball player, his life is carefully scheduled, a bit guarded, and rarely spontaneous.

When a chance encounter, a lucky number, and a not-so-blind blind date bring them together, neither is prepared for the connection that follows.

What starts as an unexpected meeting quickly becomes something deeper—an easy friendship, a steady trust, and a romance that grows quietly but undeniably. As their worlds collide under bright stadium lights and red-carpet flashes, Ella and Christian must decide whether love has a place in lives already full of ambition, sacrifice, and dreams in motion.

Because sometimes, the most extraordinary love stories aren’t loud or dramatic.

They’re built on faith. On timing. On believing that when the moment comes, you’ll be brave enough to say yes. And a little bit of luck.

Excerpt

Prologue

The stadium roars with life around me—an electric, relentless hum of cheers and chants. It’s almost deafening, but you can’t help but get caught up in it. Bright lights bathe the diamond in a surreal glow, catching every glint of sweat, blade of grass, and nervous twitch of the players. In my head, I’m cheering just as loud as everyone else. It’s like I’m trying to telepathically say, “You’ve got this.”

But sitting in the stands, in a pocket of solitude amid the chaos, I am alone.

Literally.

My husband is mere seconds away from winning the World Series, and minutes ago, security came to get all the players’ friends and family to bring them down so they could run onto the field when the big moment arrived.

But I stayed behind.

I never should have looked at my phone.

Heck, it should have been turned off. But I’m in the middle of shooting a movie here in St. Louis, and I already know I need to be on set in the morning. The producers were kind enough to work around the World Series schedule, but I need to be aware of any schedule changes.

Hence, the phone being on.

My heart races, and my hands feel clammy as I clasp my cell to my ear. I’m watching what’s happening on the field, even as I listen to my agent presenting the biggest role of my career. This is what I’ve been working toward since I was a kid. If ever there was a dream part, this is it. Unfortunately, her timing couldn’t be worse. Everyone knows I’m here to support Christian.

This is his moment.

I wish she had considered that and waited until tomorrow to call.

A tiny voice in my head reminds me, “It’s Christian’s moment,” but this is important, too.

Not that anyone understands that.

My husband does. Truly. But the looks I got as the rest of the friends and family were ushered away—and the snarky comments from some of the players’ wives—told a different story. Words like selfish, self-involved, and rude were whispered.

I’m an actress, and things like that aren’t anything new. But this time, the words stung quite a bit more than they usually do.

I look down at my free hand—at my wedding ring sparkling in the stadium lighting. It represents the promise that Christian and I made to each other.

So many promises.

So many sacrifices.

I hear the exuberant announcement. “And the Archers have won the World Series!”

“Ella? Ella, are you listening to me? This is an incredible opportunity. They want an answer from you tonight.”

Everyone’s running onto the field, laughing, cheering, hugging their loved ones. I should be down there. But I’m not.

“I’m going to have to call you back,” I say. “I need to run.”

I hear a loud sigh on the other end. “Seriously? This is the chance of a lifetime. What is there to think about?”

“We’ll talk tomorrow, okay?”

“Jeez, Ella.” Another sigh. “Are you sure he’s worth it?”

* * *

Chapter One

Three years ago…

Today was supposed to be a great day.

Personally, I think every day offers an opportunity to make it great, but today was supposed to be a little extra dazzling because I’m flying back to Los Angeles for an audition. I had a great time visiting my family in Tennessee, and knowing I was heading back home for a potential role made leaving a little easier. I’ve been living on my own for a couple of years now, but I truly believe this is my time.

The year of Ella.

I giggle to myself because it’s kind of silly. But I have worked so hard to get where I am as an actress, and I’m ready for the next step.

“Ladies and gentlemen, we’re sorry for the delay,” our captain announces. “We are currently waiting on a couple of passengers on their way from their connections. They’re running to the gate as we speak. Once they arrive, we’ll be ready for takeoff. Thanks for your patience.”

Great.

Delays are totally normal, but I was psyched when it looked like everything would be on time. I’m a nervous flyer—always have been—and sitting here on the ground waiting just gives my anxiety more time to kick up a notch. My flight from Memphis to Dallas was completely uneventful, and I hoped my good luck would continue on through to LA.

Sighing, I give the empty seat beside me a cursory glance—another thing I was psyched about. The empty middle seat means I can stretch out a bit and relax. And believe me, if there’s ever been a time for me to relax, this is it.

Because my ex is sitting in the row directly in front of me.

With his new wife.

And their baby.

Luckily, they didn’t see me. I boarded first, and I’ve got on my favorite baseball hat pulled down low to hide my face a bit. But I saw them. I hear them cooing affectionately to their baby, and the whole thing makes me feel like an awkward voyeur.

So not my day…

With nothing to do and in desperate need of a distraction, I pull out my journal and decide that a bit of mindless doodling might work. I could watch a movie or play a game on my phone, but I feel like I need to be actively doing something. With my notebook open in my lap, I draw my favorite number.

Twenty-two.

That may seem juvenile to some people, but it’s very calming to me. The number twenty-two makes me happy and gives me hope whenever I see it. Call it my lucky number or just a positive sign from the universe, but the number seems to randomly find me wherever I go. You see, I was born on September 22 and am turning twenty-two in a few weeks. It will be my golden birthday—when the date of your birth coincides with your age. In fourth grade, my teacher explained that concept to me—well, to the entire class—and said that something special would happen on that day. And I’ve basically been waiting for thirteen years to find out if that’s actually true.

It is, I tell myself. It has to be.

Just thinking about it and all the possibilities makes me giddy.

* * *

Excerpted from Lucky 22 by Ashley Eckstein & Samantha Chase.

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Intrigued? Read on to discover the synopsis and an excerpt from Etched In Ink by Corinne Price, which releases on

Everything Sybil Wyntres believed is a lie. The rune etched into her body, the magic she can’t control, even the order she once trusted. None of it is what it seems. Forced back into the Bastion she barely escaped, Sybil is sent across the fractured lands of Crae Vost with an ancient enchanter whose motives are as obscured as the truth she seeks. As whispers of the Void spread and their horrors grow less containable, Sybil begins to uncover a terrifying possibility: the enemy may not be what she was taught to fear.

Far beneath the world above, Raekin has lost everything. Dragged back into the Alpstraum by the noose he thought he had loosened, he is once again bound to the wire that broke him. All because he chose her. Now, marked by failure and forced into obedience, Raekin is sent to hunt the one person who may be able to unleash the nightmare of the Void onto the continent.

As their paths pull them toward the same unraveling mystery, Sybil and Raekin race against each other and the forces that control them to uncover the truth behind the tome that tore them apart. But Etched in Ink is a world built on control and cruelty: knowledge is dangerous. And choosing the wrong side may cost them not just their lives, but the lives of those living on the surface.

EXCERPT

Everything hurt. The slightest twinge in his muscles, in his skin, and he felt his stomach twist, seizing against sharp pains. They had carved him all over again. He’d felt every blade, every flame, every claw. He wouldn’t know how ruinous the damage was until he got out of the Alpstraum.

If.

            The pulse through his veins throbbed in tandem with his bound wrists. Wrapped behind the post, the wire tight, still singing with the acrid tang of the magic wrought into the iron. The scars the wire had bitten into his skin so many years ago no doubt re-opened and raw. The smell of blood was more overpowering than the decay. It surrounded him like a thick miasma, invading every sense of his body.

Taunting him.

Because it was right there. Encompassing everything around him, covering him. And he couldn’t grab it. He could use it to break the wire. Could use it to tear apart the post. With it and the earth below him, he could crumble this cave down on his body, snuff out the breath from his lungs, and leave the pain behind. An easy out that had always lingered in the background, but one he chose to ignore, focusing instead on making those that hurt him pay.

If only he could get the barest grasp of his magic. Not with the runes engraved on the walls, not with the wire tight against his wrists, cutting all ties to his magic like a severed limb.

When the Void came to him, weapons and claws sharp and ready to cleave through his flesh, Raekin almost felt relief. A break in the monotony that endless isolation had created, his own mind trying to turn against him. Delusion and reality becoming one and the same.

Those whispered taunts and shadowed demons no longer fed on Raekin, their reach fading with time. No longer keeping him in a constant state of terror. They couldn’t remind him of the bloodshed derived from his own hands, nor needling him with the mistakes he had made. Because he already knew. Even their threats of became redundant and expected, falling on him like the drips of water from the ceiling. The nightmares tried so hard to haunt him, but everything in him felt too numb to raise a voice in return.

When all you have for company is the never-ending darkness, eventually the nothingness fades and nightmares start to parade through the empty chasm you are left with.

Regardless of his detachment, his body still shook. Still trembled under the waterlogged wrap around his eyes. The cold. The pain. The waiting. It built up over time. A separate voice that now screamed into the void, one that sounded terrifyingly like his own, but did not come from his throat.

The hard, cracked ground beneath him curved from years of Etched scrambling away from their tormentors. Remnants from the last visitor to his darkened cell amalgamating into a fetid puddle within the crevasse. The memory of it soaked into his brain much the same as the water slowly rotting his skin. A heavy, woolen rag had been draped over his face, head yanked back with such a force his neck cracked, water poured over the fabric while he choked. Drowning, but unable to die. Over and over and over and over—

            Stop. Please stop.

He shifted his body. He had to. The movement of his pain from one extremity to the next was the only thing to signify that time was still passing. There was no world to him anymore, just the darkness of the fabric around his eyes. He knew there were torches that surrounded him, just out of reach. He saw them when the fabric was torn from his face, the light burning his eyes when Naz’Tak returned to goad, or gloat. He never asked questions. His underlings did that when they—

Drowning drowning drowning drowning drowning

            —brought their bulky reptilian hide down this far. Always about Kreb. Always about her whereabouts. He stayed strong. He lied. Said he didn’t know. Didn’t know what had happened. Though his underlings were moronic, Naz’Tak certainly wasn’t. He’d seen what had happened. Seen the way Raekin had looked at Sybil. Raekin tried to shield her with his fury, mask it all behind a veil of anger and vengeance. But it hadn’t been enough. Naz’Tak had seen through it like a shoddy curtain.

Naz’Tak wouldn’t let that go so easily. But through all the torment, all the torture, Raekin was strong, defiant. Letting it wash over him as he held his tongue.

Until they cut it.

This excerpt is from Corinne Price’s new book “Etched In Ink.” Reprinted with permission from Corinne Price

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