The first two books of The Hemlock Society were originally self-published and have been rereleased by Grand Central Publishing with this brand new installment hitting shelves on April 6th 2027.

Read on to discover the cover, synopsis, and an excerpt, and be sure to preorder your copy here!

Reverie Shaw hadn’t planned on becoming a criminal. But when her boss, Leo, steals from Boston’s most dangerous man and leaves her looking like the culprit, it
becomes her problem. Now she must return what Leo took or pay the forfeit—with her life.

With Leo vanished and the bounty with him, Reverie does the only reasonable thing she can to flush him out: kidnap his brother for leverage.

Lazlo Vega is a paramedic, a hypochondriac, and a man who finds a loaded gun at his chest the best time he’s had in months. What could be more entertaining than
allowing the beautiful, fumbling woman who’s zip-tied him to a warehouse chair to think she has the upper hand?

What Reverie doesn’t know is that Lazlo has a very particular skill set, and it has nothing to do with saving lives. He has no intention of leaving until she realizes she doesn’t want him to.

EXCERPT
Chapter 1

Lazlo

I’ve seen a lot of weird shit in my five years as a paramedic, but coming home to find a beautiful woman pointing a gun at me is a first.

And to make it worse, she looks like every fantasy I’ve ever had since I was old enough to dream.

Blond hair. Green eyes. Full mouth, full breasts, wide cheekbones. And her body, even buried under an oversized sweatshirt that swallows her, is doing things to my pulse rate that would concern me if I didn’t have a gun pointed at my sternum right now.

The sweatshirt hides most of her, but physics can’t be helped. It pulls across her chest when she adjusts her grip.

I want to tell that sweatshirt to go to hell.

The gun in her hands shakes.

Hmm. Classic adrenaline tremor. Sympathetic nervous system in overdrive. She’s not used to this.

I was two seconds away from face-planting on my couch and diagnosing myself with whatever Mr. Henderson in apartment 3C had. Pretty sure it was shingles. Or meningitis. Guess that isn’t happening.

“Don’t move.” Her voice hitches.

My hands drift up slowly, the keys in my hand jangling.

Thank God I’m paranoid.

Every criminal knows someone who’s had their place tossed during an investigation, so I keep nothing at home. No souvenirs, no trophies, no tools that can’t be explained as basic first aid.

She won’t find anything.

I put on a smile. “Okay. We’re doing this. Great. Quick question though, is it drafty in here, or am I developing the early stages of hypothermia? Because I’ve been cold all day and that’s a classic sign of—”

“Shut up.”

“Right. Shutting up.” I pause. “Although, for the record, the safety’s on.”

Her eyes drop to the gun and her face goes through confusion, realization, then something that looks like she wants to sink through my floor.

She fumbles with the safety and clicks it off. The gun steadies, but her jaw’s tight now and her cheeks flushed.

“Sit.” She jerks the gun toward my kitchen chair. “Hands behind your back.”

I move, making a show of compliance. My apartment’s small enough that it takes maybe four steps. I sink into the chair, lacing my fingers behind the backrest.

This is going to be fun.

She approaches me from behind, and there’s plastic rustling. She curses.

Something thin and hard presses against my wrist. She yanks it, and the plastic cuts into my skin before popping loose and falling.

“Fuck this,” she curses.

I glance back. Zip ties. The thin ones you use for organizing cables, not restraining a full-grown man.

“Those are pretty small,” I say. “The hardware store keeps the heavy-duty ones in aisle seven, right next to the—”

“Shut. Up.”

I close my mouth.

She tries another zip tie. This one gets around one of my wrists but won’t stretch far enough to catch the clasp. The plastic digs in, then snaps again.

“Need help?” I ask. “I mean, I’ve got bigger hands if you know what I mean,” I wink, “so maybe if you—”

“I said shut up!”

She moves around to face me. Her eyes are wide. Red-rimmed, bruised with exhaustion.

She’s a goddamn mess. And she’s magnificent.

“What do you want?” The tickle in my throat is a distant annoyance. “Money? Because I’ve got maybe forty bucks and some expired Vicodin from when I thought I had appendicitis. Turned out to be gas, but—”

“I don’t want your money.” She’s behind me again. More rustling. She’s trying to loop multiple zip ties together now, creating some kind of makeshift chain.

I could end this in a second. But this is better than the time Mrs. Breen thought she was having a heart attack but it was just that roasted chicken she ate.

Way better.

“Okay, so identity theft? I should warn you, my credit score’s shit.”

The plastic finally, finally catches my wrists. She yanks it tight. The circulation’s already getting fuzzy. She exhales like she just ran a marathon.

She comes back around to face me. The gun’s still up, but her other hand’s braced on her hip. She looks like she might throw up or pass out.

“There,” she says. “Don’t move.”

I test the restraints. They’re terrible. Uneven tension, wrong gauge, probably wouldn’t hold if I really tried. But I settle back against the chair and give her my best helpful smile.

“Wasn’t planning on it. But seriously, what do you want? Because I’ve got another shift in twelve hours and I really need to know if I should call in sick. I think I’m developing early-onset carpal tunnel from all the IV insertions today, and—”

“Call in sick.” She shifts her weight. “Text your boss. Tell them you need a few days.”

“A few days?” My voice goes up an octave. “A few days? Do you have any idea what happens when you call in for multiple shifts? The paperwork alone could kill me. Actually kill me. I’m talking stress-induced heart-attack. And Rodriguez already thinks I’m faking half the time because of that incident with the suspected Ebola exposure that turned out to be a regular mosquito bite.”

The gun doesn’t move.

“Do it.”

I stare at her. She stares back.

Christ on a contaminated crash cart.

“My phone’s in my pocket,” I say. “Which is kind of hard to reach with my hands zip-tied behind my back. Unless you want me to dislocate my shoulder, which, actually, now that I mention it, my left shoulder has been clicking lately and that’s a classic sign of rotator cuff.”

She moves closer, her fingers are quick, impersonal, fishing my phone out of my pocket. She comes back around and holds it up to my face. Face ID unlocks it.

Smart girl.

She navigates to my messages, finds my supervisor’s contact.

“Hey Chief, not feeling great. Gonna need a few days. Sorry for the short notice,” she reads out loud as she types. “Okay?”

I think about tomorrow’s shift. Tuesday, six a.m. Peter is going to lose his mind.

Her thumb hovers over the send button. She looks at me as if she’s expecting me to lunge or scream or object.

I just raise my eyebrows.

She hits send. The whoosh sound feels weirdly final.

She disappears into my bedroom. I hear drawers open and slam shut, then she returns with my leather jacket—the nice one I bought after that last kill went perfectly and I felt invincible for about forty-eight hours.

She tosses it at me.

It hits my chest and slides down to my lap because, you know, hands tied behind my back and shit.

We both stare at it.

“Right.” Her jaw tightens. She picks up the jacket, circles behind me, her fingers brush my shoulders as she drapes it over me, tugging it into place.

“Stand up.”

“Where are we going?”

“Somewhere else.” The gun presses against my spine. “Move.”

I stand. The zip ties bite into my wrists. “That’s not really an answer. I mean, ‘somewhere else’ could be the corner store. Could be Canada. A grave. Pretty big range there.”

She grabs my elbow, steering me toward the door. She has a strong grip. That’s nice.

“Walk.”

The hallway’s empty. Mrs. Miranda is probably already asleep, which is good because this would be hard to explain. The gun stays pressed against my lower back as we take the stairs. My legs feel weirdly loose. My blood sugar might be dropping. I should’ve eaten something before my shift. Hypoglycemia’s no joke.

Her car’s a beat-up Chevrolet that’s seen better decades. The driver’s door is dented. She pops the back door open with her hip.

“Get in. Lie down.”

I duck into the backseat. The upholstery’s rough against my cheek as I stretch out, and the jacket bunches up under my shoulder. She checks the zip ties.

“This seems excessive,” I say into the seat cushion. “I’m not going to jump out of a moving car. I value my femoral arteries too much.”

The door slams. She slides into the driver’s seat, and the engine wakes to life on the third try. The car lurches forward.

Street lights flash across the ceiling in constant intervals.

My shoulder’s already cramping from the angle, and that’s definitely early-onset rotator cuff syndrome. Or maybe thoracic outlet syndrome.

I flex my fingers. Still functional.

Twenty minutes feels like forty when you’re folded into a backseat with your hands tied behind your back. The street lights stop. The road gets rougher—potholes that jar my spine against the seat.

The car slows. Stops.

She kills the engine and exits.

The back door opens and cold air rushes in. I hadn’t realized how stuffy it was until now.

“Out.”

I twist, getting my legs under me. Sitting up with bound wrists is harder than it looks, but I manage. She’s already stepped back, gun up, giving herself space.

Outside, it’s all broken concrete and rust. Warehouse buildings hulk in the darkness, windows shattered or boarded over. This area’s been abandoned since the textile company went under five years ago.

I know because I brought a kill here once. Guy who ran a trafficking ring out of a youth shelter. He’d screamed for three hours before his vocal cords gave out. No one heard him.

She gestures with the gun. “Inside.”

The warehouse door’s already open, hanging crooked on its hinges. She follows close enough that I hear her breathing, quick and shallow.

One battery-powered lantern sits in the middle of the space. It casts harsh shadows up the concrete walls. There’s a metal folding chair next to it.

“Are you going to kill me?”

The post Exclusive Cover Reveal: To Have and to Hold (Captive) by K.N. Wilder appeared first on The Nerd Daily.

About The Best I Never Had: They staged a romance, faked a breakup, and this time around, anything can happen―even something real. Releases August 18th 2026.

I’ve always been interested in everyone’s favorite trope. I overanalyze each, attributing meaning like a half-baked personality test or poorly written horoscope. There’s no way I’m right (I don’t actually think enemies-to-lovers fans are living out their fantasy of fighting through the characters because they’re avoidant in real life), but I’ve always wondered what it says about me that I can’t seem to get enough of fake dating books.

For some important context, I’m the goodiest of goody two-shoes. The idea of lying makes me break out in hives. Maybe that’s why I love these books so much? It’s something so far outside of my comfort zone that I can explore through the characters. Come for the adrenaline rush, stay for the “Is this kiss real?” moment.

I devour these books, and in each story, one of two things happens. Of course, they fall in love (as one is destined to while fake dating), and either they (a) decide to come clean, or (b) get caught and it all blows up in the most delicious way. It got me wondering… what if neither of those things happened? What if they never acted on their attraction and weren’t forced to come clean by external forces?

That’s exactly what happens in my new book, The Best I Never Had. Owen pays Thea to pretend to be his girlfriend for a family wedding. Despite the tension between them, Owen chooses not to put the moves on someone he’s paying to pretend to like him (like me, he is the goodiest of two-shoes). They walk away from the weekend, unkissed and certain they’ve gotten away with it.

Flash to three years later, when Thea shows up at her sister’s whirlwind wedding to a man she’s never met and realizes that the groom is Owen’s little brother. The two panic, agreeing to keep up the lie that they dated and had a devastating break up so Owen’s intense mother doesn’t blow up the whole wedding. But it’s hard to keep straight what’s real and what an act when his huge meddling family keeps pushing the ‘soulmates’ back together, especially when those pesky feelings they so successfully ignored the first time get even more intense.

This book is a play on fake dating instead of the real thing, but it took its inspiration from all of the fake dating books I’ve read. Here are ten of my favorites:

The Wedding Crasher by Mia Sosa

Read if you want to laugh out loud on every page

Mia Sosa is one of my all-time favorite authors! In my eyes, she can do no wrong, and that’s certainly true with The Wedding Crasher. After ruining Dean’s modern-day marriage of convenience by objecting at the wedding, Solange agrees to pretend to be his girlfriend to help him claim the promotion he’s been chasing. What follows is banter-fueled perfection (Dean literally gives her a fake dating study guide!) that had me howling and squealing.

The Next Best Fling by Gabriella Gamez

Read if you quote Marie Kondo’s “I love mess” on the regular.

This is the messiest (complimentary) book on the list. We have an upcoming wedding, a hero and heroine who are in love with the bride and groom, respectively, and a fake dating scheme to cover up the fact that the hero was about to tell the bride to call off the wedding. It’s hilarious in just how chaotic it is, but it’s also so beautifully grounded in relatable characters you can’t help but cheer for. And most importantly, Theo is scrumptious.

Say You’ll be Mine by Naina Kumar

Read if no man will ever compete with Mr. Darcy

This one kicks fake dating up a notch. Instead of fake dating, they’re fake engaged. Karthik’s mother is relentless in her desire to see him settled, and Meghna’s just agreed to be the ‘best man’ for a man she’s secretly loved for years. They both need a buffer for the next few months, so what better way than to ‘agree’ to the arranged match their parents are pushing? I am obsessed with Karthik! He’s giving Darcy, all stern and judgmental, but once he falls, he falls hard.

Sunk in Love by Heather McBreen

Read if you like your laughter with a side of tears

I’ve read this book a half-dozen times, and I love it more with every read. Roslyn and Liam are in the middle of a secret divorce when they’re invited to an important family event. The two agree to pretend to still be together for the trip to avoid the drama and disappointment of announcing their split, pairing fake dating and marriage in trouble in the best way. McBreen expertly weaves together funny, spicy, and heavy moments as we learn what pulled them apart and cheer for them to get back together.

Lovelight Farms by BK Borison

Read if you’ve ever secretly been in love with your best friend

I’ll admit it. I’ve been that girl pining after her best friend. And while I’m very happily married now, there’s some sort of wish fulfillment watching two best friends who clearly refuse to act on their feelings being forced to snuggle up and kiss. Stella didn’t think things through when she mentioned a “boyfriend” on a contest application, but now she’s a finalist and needs someone fast. Enter her delicious best friend, Luka, who is more than happy to step in for the role. They’re so soft and perfect, and I come back to reread every Christmas!

Take a Hint, Dani Brown by Talia Hibbert

Read if you binge watch everything on BBC

I’ll read anything Talia Hibbert writes, but this one will always hold a special place in my heart. When Dani and Zaf go viral, he begs her to fake a relationship so he can bring more attention to his non-profit. The only problem… they can’t seem to keep it professional. Dani’s on board for the perfect friends-with-benefits situationship she’s been looking for, but Zaf’s determined to show her they could be so much more than a fake relationship with hook-ups on the side. Like all of Hibbert’s books, she pairs beautifully complex characters with the type of hilarious British humor that’s made me pay to stream way too many BBC shows.

Birding With Benefits by Sarah T Dubb

Read if you think older characters deserve to get their back blown out, too

Being quiet isn’t in my nature, so I could never be a successful birder, but I devoured this book. Celeste shows up at a birding competition thinking she’s there to pretend to be this stranger’s girlfriend. Meanwhile, John, who’s looking for a birding partner after his last partner—and girlfriend—dumped him, has no idea what’s happening when this chaos demon shows up. They decide to go with both, and their dynamic is addictive. Your hot not-boyfriend having to stand close behind and whisper in your ear to avoid scaring the birds? Yeah, I’ll take two.

Sunshine and Spice by Aurora Palit

Read if you love a good Bollywood movie

I remember watching ‘Jab We Met’ in college, and it rewrote my brain chemistry. This book hit all the same chaotic, perfect notes! Naomi, our sunshine heroine, needs to learn about Bengali culture—fast, and Dev, our grumpy hero, needs to avoid the matchmaker his mom hired against his will, so they strike a deal. He’ll teach her about the culture her mother never shared if she pretends to be his girlfriend to scare off potential matches. I was (and am) obsessed. I wanted to magically transport myself into the Garba scene and then melted at the scene right after (iykyk).

The Kiss Countdown by Etta Easton

Read if you haven’t been able to stop talking about Project Hail Mary

We all know astronauts are hot. No other career pairs a brilliant mind and competency with the body of a professional athlete. In this book, Amarie’s life is falling apart around her, and Vincent is preparing for a big mission. Both need to get the people in their lives off their backs, so they agree to fake a relationship until he leaves. The Kiss Countdown has it all. The wickedly hot astronaut, a temporary roommate situation to dial up the tension, a 3-month countdown to a literal blast off, and a New Year’s Eve kiss that will have your toes curling!

First Down by Grace Reilly

Read if you think there’s nothing hotter than a toxic man being put in his place

Look, I know hockey romance is all the rage (I’m with you! The number of times I’ve watched Heated Rivalry should be illegal), but this football romance deserves the spotlight, too. Who can resist a book that starts with her kissing a hot stranger to get away from her cheating ex? From there, Bex and James strike a deal. She’ll help him pass the class he needs to graduate if he pretends to be her boyfriend to get her ex to leave her alone. He’s so wonderfully protective of her, and the rest of the series (featuring a different sport for each sibling) is just as amazing.

The post Author Amy Buchanan’s Fake Dating Book Recs appeared first on The Nerd Daily.

Intrigued? Read on to discover the synopsis and an excerpt from How to Find a Romance in a Bookshop by Poppy Alexander, which releases on August 18th 2026.

Petra doesn’t like books anymore—not since her career as a literary agent imploded after a social media typo went viral. Now she is stuck for six months, babysitting a little bookshop by the sea—surrounded by books that just remind her of her failure.

Ross McCloud’s award-winning debut novel blew the minds of the world’s literati, but that was five years ago. Now Ross and his keenly awaited second work have vanished. Something has gone wrong—horribly wrong—and Ross doesn’t want to talk about it.

Marooned in Capelthorne’s Bookshop miles from London, Petra can’t stop thinking about all the ways she has let people down. Then she discovers Ross lurking, incognito, in the second-hand books section. Misery loves company it seems, and a kinship tentatively forms.

In the meantime, the magic of the bookshop slowly begins to enchant Petra. Soon, her book recommendations assume legendary status; she is chairing the newly formed Beach Reads Book Club; leading a weekly writing group and hosting a series of popular talks and signings by local authors. She is even starting to read again.

Petra is also finding time to help her new best friend Jess—owner of a local telephone box library—to launch the inaugural Portneath Literary Festival. What better opportunity to put the Festival on the map—says Ross—than for Petra to unveil his second novel to the world there, before re-launching her career representing him at the Frankfurt book fair? What a comeback! But can Petra find the courage to help the man she loves?

Their love of books may be re-ignited, but is that enough to save them both from their own worst enemy—themselves?

EXCERPT

“I meant ‘bibliophile,’ ” protested Petra desperately. “I meant to say he was the publishing world’s greatest ‘bibliophile.’”

“Ah,” said Petra’s boss, Alistair, looking sympathetically at her over the top of his glasses. “Predictive text can be a nightmare. You deleted it?”

“Of course, I deleted it,” said Petra. As soon as her phone’s “do not disturb” clicked off, the tsunami of notifications had woken her. Bleary-eyed, she was initially excited that her final, late-night task of the day—generating some social-media content—had gained traction at last. The huge number of cry-laughing and shocked reactions was puzzling, though. And then there had been the comments . . . And then the sickening re-reading of her post . . . So—yes— she had deleted it. And her account. Not, however, before her mistake had been screenshotted and shared thousands of times.

Petra swallowed, eyeing Alistair’s wastebasket queasily as she wondered, in horror, if she was going to be sick. But, on reflection, why even worry? Calling your best client a “bibulous pedophile” beat vomiting into your boss’s wastebasket hands down on the “most unthinkable things that might happen” scale. At least when the most unthinkable thing happened, you could stop worrying about the most unthinkable thing happening. There was that.

“I mean, I don’t think I actually know what ‘bibulous’ means,” Alistair went on. “It might even be a compliment.”

“It means ‘drunk,’ ” Petra informed him.

“I did not know that,” mused Alistair.

Yup. She had not only gratuitously called her most lucrative client a child molester, she had in fact called him a drunken child molester.

“Have you spoken to him?”

Petra nodded miserably. The telephone call had been distinctly one-sided. And shouty. The gist of the conversation, she explained to Alistair, was that she was extremely fired.

“Clients come and go,” sympathized Alistair. “And being a little bit infamous? That can be a good thing in our line of work.”

“Yeah . . . ?” said Petra, trying—and failing—to reflect his positivity. “At least I still have Isabella May,” she said. Isabella was her second-highest-earning client, although she was also a spoiled, demanding woman who took up a huge amount of Petra’s time and pretty much all of her patience. Actually, patience had been in short supply lately, she admitted to herself.

“Ah,” said Alistair again. “You haven’t read your emails then?” He screwed up his face into an exaggerated mask of sympathy.

“What? How so?” Petra exclaimed.

“I suspect Henry Atherstone might have gotten to her,” Alistair suggested. “He’s been hovering.”

“That’s illegal,” protested Petra. Unfortunately, as she knew full well, poaching each other’s clients wasn’t literally a criminal act, but it was seriously frowned upon. As was insulting your own authors online, unfortunately.

“What do I do now?” she asked, her question being directed not so much at Alistair but more at the universe—a universe that had just dumped on her from a great height like a passing seagull would.

“Lie low,” he said. “This too shall pass. And even before this happened, I’ve been thinking you need a change of scene. A fresh challenge.”

At this, Petra’s eyes filled with tears. She sniffed and gazed out of the window, hoping he hadn’t noticed. So now he wanted to get rid of her. Fair enough.

“I’m resigning, obviously,” she began.

“Whoa, easy, tiger,” he chuckled. “I’m not asking for your badge and gun. I’ve had an idea…  Did you ever come across a lovely young woman called Jules Capelthorne on your travels? Assistant editor at Farquarson and Trimble?”

Petra shook her head mutely. Publishing was full of lovely young women. They came and then—often—they went. It was a tough industry.

“Jules was one of the ones who got away,” Alistair went on. “Moved to Devon, started running a bookshop by the sea, just got married to the local Romeo . . .”

“Living the dream,” snarked Petra. And then she was ashamed. God, she was turning into a miserable person; she couldn’t even feel positive about the good fortune of a woman she had never met.

“So,” Alistair went on, undaunted, “apparently Jules and her new husband are off on a huge honeymoon trip, taking in all the great bookshops of the world, and they need someone to mind the shop for six months. I saw it on Facebook. You get your own little flat above the shop, a reasonable salary, and all the books you can eat. Devon’s a funny old place,” he mused. “Full of eccentrics . . . I think it would be perfect for you.”

Ouch, thought Petra. Rude.

“I’ll put in a call?” Alistair’s hand hovered over his phone, as he sought her permission.

Petra gave him a tiny nod of acquiescence. Fine. It wasn’t like she had any choice. Six months surrounded by books, which were now—she had decided—her personal nemesis. Great. And at the seaside too. With her luck, those incontinent seagulls were going to be forming an orderly queue.

Excerpted from the book HOW TO FIND A ROMANCE IN A BOOKSHOP, provided courtesy of Avon Books, an imprint of HarperCollins Publishers. Copyright © 2026 by Poppy Alexander. Reprinted by permission.

The post Read An Excerpt From ‘How to Find a Romance in a Bookshop’ by Poppy Alexander appeared first on The Nerd Daily.

Intrigued? Read on to discover the synopsis and an excerpt from Her Soul to Take by Harley Laroux, which releases on 22 October 2026.

Leon I earned my reputation among magicians for a reason: one wrong move and you’re dead. Killer, they called me, and killing is what I’m best at. Except her. The one I was supposed to take, the one I should have killed – I didn’t. The cult that once controlled me wants her, and I’m not about to lose my new toy to them.

Rae I’ve always believed in the supernatural. Hunting for ghosts is my passion, but summoning a demon was never part of the plan. Monsters are roaming the woods, and something ancient – something evil – is waking up and calling my name. I don’t know who I can trust, or how deep this darkness goes. All I know is my one shot at survival is the demon stalking me, and he doesn’t just want my body – he wants my soul.

EXCERPT

Leon

“Blood has been spilled in Its name. It is awake.”

I’d felt the stirring before he announced it. Damned mortals always stating the obvious, as if I couldn’t feel the ground trembling and the old roots tensing – tensing, like a body preparing to be hit. As if I couldn’t hear the whispers growing louder in the dark, tendrils of ancient, incomprehensible thought reaching out and prodding for vulnerabilities.

The concrete surrounding me – burying me alive – couldn’t hide the disturbance. I didn’t need Kent’s pompous ass strutting in here, making declarations as if I was supposed to grovel at the news. Seated cross-legged in my wretched binding circle, sharpening my nails against the concrete floor, I barely gave him more than a glance when he came into the room with his cronies in tow. At his declaration, I merely grunted, and that hardly seemed to satisfy him.

“Did you hear me, demon?” he snapped, and his fingers tightened upon the leather surface of his grimoire. That damned worn-out book was always in his grip, the hammer he had raised over my head. A non-magical man like Kent couldn’t control me without his little spell book.

“I heard you.” I sighed heavily, and leaned back so I could tap my nails upon the floor. “Pardon me for not jumping in joy, Kenny-boy. The fact that you’re here to gloat about your old God stretching Its limbs only tells me It hasn’t woken up enough to give you all that delicious power you seek.” His expression darkened dangerously, and I knew I was walking the edge of enticing him to hurt me.

Captivity was so endlessly boring that seeing how far I could push my master before pain resulted had become a real thrill.

I shrugged. “So, you’re here with a task. Here to send me off on some petty errand before locking me in the dark again. Thrilling.”

Kent’s knuckles had gone white. He had a certain aristocratic look about him; he would have been just as at home in Victorian London as he was mingling among Seattle’s business elite. Dark gray suit, a subtle pinstripe on his black tie, perfectly cut and combed gray hair. He was as muted as Washington’s cloudy skies, and about as unpredictable in his moods.

“I would save your strength for the work ahead, demon,” he said, his voice tight, rage barely restrained. “Rather than wasting it on that petty tongue of yours. Unless you’d like me to rip it out again?”

There was a snicker from one of the white-cloaked figures behind him, and I glowered but kept my mouth shut. Kent had them wear the cloaks and the stag skull masks, but I knew the two faceless beings that accompanied him down here were his adult spawns. Victoria, smelling of bitter artificial vanilla fragrance and all the chemicals in her makeup. And Jeremiah, reeking of cheap body spray and hair gel.

“Tonight, at midnight, you will go to Westchurch Cemetery. You will go silently and ensure no one detects you along the way. There, find the grave of Marcus Kynes. Dig up his body, and refill the grave. Then bring his body to White Pine. Is that understood?”

I rather liked my tongue in my mouth. Growing a new one was nasty business. “Understood.”

There was no clock in that wretched little room, but I could feel midnight arrive nonetheless. The world changed slightly, moving just a little closer to the boundary separating it from Heaven and Hell. Midnight always made me feel good, as did finally stretching my legs and leaving the binding circle.

Kent kept me in that circle so often he’d had it carved into the floor. Like his father, and his grandfather before him, Kent feared that if he released me from his service when he had no immediate need of me, I would somehow manage to escape from him forever. A lovely thought, but an unlikely outcome. Kent had the grimoire, the only remaining record of my name on the Earth. He alone could summon me because of it.

I suppose he also feared that, in my considerable amount of hatred for him, I’d bend the rules and seek vengeance by murdering him and his entire family after being dismissed from his service. Again, a lovely thought, and a far more likely outcome. I’d risk the wrath of my superiors in Hell if it meant being able to demolish this whole family.

But it had been over a century, and in all that time I’d been in service to the Hadleigh family. It was impressive, honestly — no one else had ever managed to keep me in captivity for so long without losing their lives. There was a good reason there was only one remaining record of my name. Summoners throughout the years had learned quickly that I wasn’t an easy one to command, and thought it best to discourage summoning me at all.

I’d left a trail of dead magicians in my wake, and was eager to add a few more.

The night was cold and foggy, the pines dripping with dew. Westchurch Cemetery was surrounded by trees, all but invisible from the quiet road that ran alongside it. Rows of headstones, some over a century old, lined the wide untrimmed lawn. It didn’t take me long to find Marcus. The plot of disturbed dirt gave him away, his grave freshly filled. A flat, simple headstone marked him.

Marcus Kynes. Twenty-one years old. The “spilled blood” that had awakened Hadleigh’s God. Odd that Marcus had been buried at all. A sacrifice was meant to be done in the cathedral, with the corpse offered up immediately – or offered alive, if possible, for God to toy with at Its leisure. The fact that Marcus had been buried seemed messy.

It didn’t take me long to dig down to him, using my bare hands and claws to wrench up the loose dirt. The coffin was a plain wooden box, utterly unadorned. The moment I tugged up the lid, the stench of formaldehyde rushed in my nose. Marcus had been buried in a cheap suit, his youthful face waxen with the amount of makeup that had been coated onto it.

“Wakey, wakey.” I hauled him over my shoulder and crawled up from the grave, dumping him beside the pile of dirt I’d just dug out. “Just give me a minute here, buddy. Can’t have your mother knowing her son’s grave has been desecrated.”

I quickly filled back in the grave, then, with the corpse over my shoulder, began to make my way toward White Pine. The area of forest, and the mine shaft that lay within it, was a quick enough run to make, but cumbersome with Marcus flopping over my back. Still, running through the trees with a corpse was preferable to my concrete prison.

The witching hour neared as I reached White Pine. A misting rain had begun to fall, and Marcus was smelling worse by the second. But beyond his stench and the aroma of wet earth, I could smell smoke. A bonfire somewhere in the woods.

Deep in the trees, and a little way up the hillside, I found Kent and his merry band awaiting me near the flames.

They’d all donned their white cloaks and stag masks. There were at least two dozen of them scattered among the trees, speaking softly beneath black umbrellas. It was no wonder this little town was booming with cryptid sightings. Thanks to Kent’s little cult, who called themselves Libiri, nearly the entirety of Abelaum’s population had some fantastical story about seeing a monster in the woods.

They weren’t exactly wrong. They were seeing monsters, but of the human variety.

The only one not in uniform was Everly, Kent Hadleigh’s bastard daughter. A few months older than her half-siblings, Victoria and Jeremiah, Everly was blonde, willow-y, and garbed in her usual black ensemble. The fledgling witch looked absolutely petrified to be there, and when her blue eyes fell on me and the corpse I came bearing, she looked as if she would vomit.

“Brothers, Sisters, the sacrifice comes,” Kent spoke in a bizarrely theatrical voice when he was in front of his band of zealots. Somewhere between a fire-and-brimstone Southern preacher and a Kindergarten teacher who had bodies buried in his garden. It grated on my nerves, that voice, as did the way he snapped his fingers at me and pointed to the ground at Everly’s feet. “Here. Put him down.”

I let Marcus flop down unceremoniously at the young witch’s feet, and a flicker of pain went across her face. Had she known him? A fellow student at the university perhaps? Or had her heart gone suddenly tender when all her father’s preaching about the beauty of death became a very ugly reality?

“Remove his clothes,” Kent said, and I promptly stripped the corpse down, ripping the cheap suit like paper. With his chest laid bare, I found the wounds that no amount of mortuary makeup could have covered: multiple stab wounds were gashed haphazardly across his chest, and scrawled among them were the lines and runes of the sacrificial offering.

Messy. Very messy. Unplanned, if I had to guess. Spontaneous even.

I tweaked an eyebrow at Kent, a silent question I knew he wouldn’t answer. He gave Everly a brisk nod, and the young witch, looking sickly pale, knelt and began to examine the marks across Marcus’s chest.

“They’ll work,” she said at last. She hurriedly got to her feet and averted her eyes from the body. “The marks are crude but efficient.” Her eyes flickered among the crowd in a brief moment of worry. She thought what she’d said might offend, and offense could bring consequences.

“Very good,” Kent said softly. Then, louder, all theatrics once more, “Long have we waited for this day, my children. Long has the Deep One waited for this, waited with utter patience and mercy. Today, the first of three go to Its depths. May two more follow.”

“May two more follow,” the crowd murmured, save for Everly, whose lips were pressed into a thin, hard line on her pretty face.

“Servant, bear the sacrifice up to the mine,” Kent said. Servant. Fucking hell. I wanted to gag him with his own tongue. “Jeremiah will accompany you. This sacrifice is his to offer.”

A figure stepped forward, reeking of body spray. Jeremiah, of course. This messy, unplanned, absolute botchery of a sacrifice was all thanks to Kent’s dear son. I rolled my eyes, but hauled naked Marcus up off the ground and, without a word to Jeremiah, stalked away into the trees, away from the fire’s light.

Jeremiah tried to make a point of walking ahead of me, but I kept my pace just fast enough that he couldn’t. The boy had even less patience than his father.

“Slow the fuck down, Leon,” he said. “Or I swear I’ll have Dad rip your balls off next time.”

“Temper, temper.” I shook my head, but slowed. I’d let the asshole lead, let him revel in his little power trip. Staring at the back of his head at least let me fantasize about cracking it open. “So, this one’s yours, eh? Have a little trouble with him?”

“Bastard tried to run,” he said, then laughed darkly. “He didn’t get far. Squealed like a pig. I think I understand why you enjoy killing so much, Leon. It’s a fucking rush.”

I grit my teeth. “Don’t think you understand death from one messy murder. Just wait until your God wakes up. It’ll teach you a thing or two about death.”

I’m sure he would have loved to snap back at me, but we’d arrived. There, in the shadows of the trees, was the White Pine mine shaft. Boarded up for nearly a century, the stained wood framing of the entrance had been covered with numerous runes: some carved, some painted, some branded. A metal sign dangled from the wood on a broken chain, reading, CAUTION: OPEN MINE. DO NOT ENTER. The ground was mossy, and numerous white-capped mushrooms grew in thick clusters around the shaft’s opening.

The ground itself was vibrating. The trees were restless. An odd smell, like deep water and rotting algae, permeated the air. Somewhere, deep in those flooded tunnels beneath our feet, an ancient God was stirring.

I didn’t spook easily, but I still got a chill.

“Well, here you go.” I shoved Marcus into Jeremiah’s arms, who leapt back with a yelp and let poor Marcus thump down into the mud.

“What the fuck is wrong with you?” His voice shot up in pitch. He wasn’t sounding so cocky anymore. “I don’t want to touch that!”

“It’s your sacrifice.” I shrugged. “You really want a demon to claim your offering to the Deep One by tossing him in?”

Jeremiah wavered, his eyes flickering between the corpse and the mine. His throat clenched as he gulped. I really didn’t give a fuck how the damn body got down there, but if I had the opportunity to make Jeremiah squirm, I’d take it.

Finally, with a groan of disgust, Jeremiah hauled Marcus up into his arms; no easy task, considering the dead man was nearly his same size. He trudged toward the mine, and stopped just outside the entrance, peering into the utter blackness beyond.

How much would I suffer if I just shoved him in? Two sacrifices for the price of one. Kent should consider it a real bargain.

But I resisted. Vengeance would come, someday.

Or the Deep One would wake and kill me first.

With a grunt, Jeremiah threw Marcus down into the darkness. His body hit the ground with a thud, there was a shuffle as he rolled, and then a splash as he hit the water in the flooded tunnel below. The smell of sea water intensified, and the wind picked up, rattling the pine needles above. My stomach lurched unpleasantly, and Jeremiah quickly stumbled back from the mine, wiping his hands on his cloak. He didn’t say a word to me, just marched back down the hill.

I stayed for a moment, staring into the darkness. My toes curled at the rumbling below, my skull vibrating with the force of it. The tides would be high tomorrow. These trees would begin the long, slow process of trying to pull their roots up from the dirt, as if they could walk away from the thing below that felt so wrong.

Then, from the darkness, there came a howl. Like the scream of a fox, but drawn out into such an agonized cry that it made the hairs on the back of my neck stand up.

It was time to leave. I didn’t feel like dealing with that now. Or ever.

The God wasn’t the only thing waking up.

The post Read An Excerpt From ‘Her Soul to Take’ by Harley Laroux appeared first on The Nerd Daily.

Intrigued? Read on to discover the synopsis and an excerpt from Want Me, Take Me, Haunt Me, Make Me by Isabel Crowley, which releases on August 11th 2026.

Hazel Lewis has a serious problem. The guy who hired her to conduct a seance before he died turned out to be a serial killer with a demonic contract, and the seance itself was a trap. Hazel escaped with her life, but not as she knew it: the bite of a demon is spreading through her body, letting the supernatural bleed into the world around her, and the now-dead serial killer is waiting to take over her body if she dies. 

Hoping to contain the damage, Hazel moves to a small house in a remote location. She figures she’ll stay on her own until she gets a handle on her new dark reality, but she soon finds out that she’s not alone. There’s the reporter demanding answers, the friendly neighbor with chemistry she doesn’t need and problems he can’t talk about…and the mysterious face she sees beyond her window, watching her every night with glowing red eyes.

Making her hunger.

Hazel knew a little bit about the world beyond the physical. Now she’s learning how much she doesn’t know, including who she can trust…and who she can become if she trusts herself enough to give in to the shadows stalking her dreams.

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Intrigued? Read on to discover the synopsis and an excerpt from Bonfire and Bliss Bookstore by Brittanée Nicole, which releases on August 11th 2026.

These old flames are ready to catch fire.

For Penny Darling, love is best enjoyed between the pages of a book. After a very public failed engagement, she’d rather cozy up by the fire with a book boyfriend than a real one any day. And as the owner of Bonfire & Bliss Bookstore, she has her pick.

Then Jake “Monty” Montgomery returns home. Her high school best friend, now a struggling author with inked forearms and wicked green eyes. And he needs her help.

His proposal is simple: She’ll teach him to write the perfect book boyfriend and he’ll pose as her real boyfriend, keeping Hope Harbor’s busybodies—and their obsession with Penny’s love life—at bay.

But when their lessons begin, the line between fiction and reality grows dangerously thin. As pretend kisses in the apple orchard turn into searing ones beneath the autumn moon, Penny begins to wonder if Monty could really love her, or if she’s destined for another broken heart.

EXCERPT

Chapter 1
Monty
September

The thing no one tells you about writing is that the smallest fact, especially when it eludes you, can become an obsession. And right now, I am a man obsessed.

Honey. Whiskey. The inner color of a flame where it hits the charred wood. Maybe the bark as it ignites?

Not quite. I click the top of the pen and run my tongue along the inside of my cheek.

Maple leaves beneath a warm October sun? No.

Rose gold?

I pull the black frames from my face and dig my fingers into my eye sockets. That’s not right, either.

Milk chocolate?

Frustrated, I slip my glasses back on and flop against my seat on the small plane I’m taking from New York to Hope Harbor. My restless hand clicks the end of the pen that’s yet to write a damn word.

It’s been months, but every time I settle in to write, this is what happens. If I could just figure out the damn color, I could move on.

“Sir, we’re about to land,” one of the air stewards says as she passes my seat. “Would you please put your tray table back into position?”

I offer her a perfunctory nod and do what she asks. It’s not like I’m going to write anything anyway.

That’s why I’m heading back home. Not because I want to see those eyes in person again. That would be ridiculous. Though I’m sure writers in my position have done crazier things to cure my current predicament.

I won’t say the actual word that some use to describe my inability to write—like most writers, I’m superstitious—but this certain blockage is causing me more stress than normal. I need this book to be the best I’ve ever written. I didn’t earn out my last advance, and even though I’ve pitched a completely different genre that excited my publisher in a way they haven’t been in a long time, if they don’t actually buy this book, I’m not sure anyone else is going to take a chance on me—not after the piss-poor numbers I’ve had. This is my last shot.

But that’s not even the worst of it. My roommate with the insane rent-controlled apartment in the West Village decided to propose to his girlfriend, which means she’s moved in and I need to find a new place to live. I can’t exactly afford New York prices on my bartending salary, and without a book to sell, I have no choice but to tuck my tail between my legs and move back home to New England. Back in with my father and my vovo.

Fuck, I need to sell this book. Which means I need to remember how to write again.

The wet rings around a whiskey barrel?

No. Her irises were definitely brighter than a whiskey barrel.

The plane lands and I head straight to baggage. Normally I travel with nothing more than a carry-on, but this trip is different; I’ve got everything I own with me. This time, I’m returning to Hope Harbor for the foreseeable future.

I grimace as I remember the moment my housemate told me about his impending nuptials. It was at that moment I realized that everything that had ever gone wrong in my life was because of love.

First, my parents’ divorce—they fell out of love.

Then there was the news that Penny was engaged—she was apparently in love.

And now I’m having to uproot my entire life in New York—all because of my roommate’s great love.

Love is the reason I’ve lost everything I ever wanted. Everything that’s truly ever mattered to me. I’m done with love. Or maybe love is done with me. Hopefully. I can’t risk losing anything else.

It therefore seems extremely ironic that, as I take the escalator down toward baggage, the first thing I hear is the deep timbre of a man’s voice singing Frank Sinatra’s classic “L.O.V.E.”

Seated at a black baby grand piano, an older gentleman with a white head of hair sways as he sings. His shoulders bounce and his eyes crinkle in delight as, one by one, people stop to listen. Couples sway along to the tune, and I watch as one woman glances up at the man who just arrived to pick her up. She presses a kiss to his jaw; it’s quick and thoughtless and the action makes my heart squeeze tight.

I hustle past the gathering crowd, searching for my flight number on the board so I can locate my bags.

I turn my phone off airplane mode and, as soon as I do, a slew of texts populate.

Penny: Did you know that Stephen King was rejected by thirty publishers before one picked up Carrie?

I huff out a laugh. Since my last book bombed I haven’t found a whole lot to laugh about, but Penny Darling has been the one bright light. My high school best friend who I lost touch with for far too long. I’m not sure how I lasted without her ridiculous commentary.

Penny: Also, your day has to be going better than mine was yesterday. Stop me if I already told you this story but Babs and Rayna actually tried to set me up with someone yesterday. And before you tell me, but Penny, maybe this is a good thing, let me tell you—he’s still in HIGH SCHOOL!

This time my laughter is loud. Shit, that’s bad.

Penny: When I reminded them of that fact they told me he’s eighteen and has a car. Beggars can’t be choosers! God, Monty, I wish you were there for that one. Then again, it was humiliating so maybe not.

Penny: I guess it’s better than Babs trying to set me up with her son–who’s married! I don’t care how stony his relationship is, that’s a no!

It takes me a second to puzzle together what she’s saying and then I chuckle at her wrong choice of words. Marriage on the rocks . . . She always screws up the easiest sayings. It’s just as endearing now as it was in high school.

Me: I would never tell you to take dating advice from Babs and Rayna, I promise.

I also would never tell her she should date. I just about did a backflip when she told me her engagement was over when we reconnected this past spring.

We were seated at the bar in the local brewery. The lighting wasn’t great, but I remember every detail. From her thick auburn hair pulled to the side in a braid, to the choppy bangs that framed her heart-shaped face. Her bright eyes had danced wildly as if she, too, was taking in every facet of this moment and her full lips were so wide her cheeks must have hurt. The last time I had spent any real time with Penny before that night, we were eighteen and both leaving for college. I’d wanted to kiss her so bad my tongue hurt from biting down on it. But we were kids, and I was scared I’d ruin our friendship if we crossed that line.

Would it be weird if I asked her to send me a selfie right now? Then I could settle this eye color thing once and for all.

Before I can muster the courage to do something so ridiculous, my phone trills with a ring.

“Hey, Mom.”

With a thick New York accent that two decades in Hope Harbor didn’t soften, she asks, “How was your flight?”

“Quick. Just at baggage now, waiting for Dad.” I wince as soon as I say it, and quickly cover up the mention of him. “I tried writing on the plane.”

My mother hums. “Don’t stress, I’m sure the words will come.”

Right. Because my mother knows about my—I swallow the dreaded term—inability to write. “Not soon enough to avoid moving here.”

“You know you were more than welcome to stay at my place, honey.”

“And what? Sleep on your couch?”

“We could have gotten a bigger place together.”

“I’m not moving in with my mother,” I huff, embarrassed. I’m twenty-eight. At one time I was a New York Times bestselling author. Okay, I still am, I guess. Though those few words above my name on the front of a book aren’t enough to pay my rent every month. No one tells you how quickly your success can be forgotten. How quickly you can be forgotten.

“But it’s okay to move in with your father?” I can hear the hurt in her tone, though she immediately takes the jibe back. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean that.”

My mother rarely talks about my father. It’s the oddest thing, because for the first eighteen years of my life I would have told you they were best friends before they were husband and wife. They had that kind of love people write about: they finished each other’s sentences, they danced together in the kitchen, they laughed over the same jokes, enjoyed the same television shows, read the same books. And then one day they sat me down and told me they were separating. It made absolutely no fucking sense. Honestly, it still doesn’t.

It was right after my grandfather’s death, which we all took hard since we lived with him and my vovo. At first, I thought my father was depressed, but his grief didn’t seem to end and then their marriage did. My mother moved back to New York when I went to college there, and we both stayed after I graduated.

The weight of my laptop bag digs into my shoulder, so I shift it to the ground and move the phone to my other ear.

“I’m only going back to Hope Harbor because I need a change of scenery to write and somewhere cheap to live. Dad’s offered me both.” It’s the least he could do after destroying our family. “You know if I could stay in the city, I would.”

“I know.” My mother sighs. “And maybe this will be good for you. You did some of your best writing on the back porch.”

That’s where I wrote my first novel: a love story and my mother’s favorite book of mine. It spilled out during high school and has never seen the light of day. Reading and writing about love felt too hard after everything that happened with my mom and dad.

“Maybe. Listen, the bags are starting to come out. I’ll give you a call later this week.”

“Okay, Jake, talk soon. Give my love to Vovo.”

I agree and tell her I love her before hanging up, realizing that will probably be the last time someone calls me Jake until we next speak. I was given the nickname Monty when growing up since we lived with my grandparents and I shared the same first name as my grandfather. When I got to college, I rebranded myself as Jake and never looked back. Guess I’ll have to get used to being called Monty again.

Ten minutes later, baggage in hand, I head outside to wait for my father. I wanted to take an Uber; I don’t want to owe him any more than I have to. But he insisted. Am I doing the right thing coming back here? Do I have a choice? I’ve visited my vovo over the years—I love that tiny woman—but I’ve rarely spent time with my father in the past decade. I haven’t known how to close the divide between us since he divorced my mom. And it’s only grown bigger over the ten years I’ve been in the city.

I blow out a breath as a woman walks past me, her luggage catching my eye as she does. It’s one of those iridescent suitcases that changes color as it rolls and the rose-gold prisms taunt me. I grit my teeth. Not the right color.

Nerves hit me at the sight of my father’s navy Volkswagen SUV rolling up to the curb; it’s rusted around the tires and likely in need of an oil change. The man behind the wheel smiles at me and I nod in return.

My dad has jet-black hair like me. His is peppered with silver streaks now, but still full. We also share the same green eyes, strong jaw, and cheekbones my mother used to wax poetic about, plus olive skin that he inherited from his Brazilian-born mother, my vovo.

Mine is now decorated with black ink, something my vovo smacks me about every time she sees me with a new tattoo. I suspect my father likes them. The ones on my arms are all nautical, and I did get my love of the sea from him.

He’s barely put the car in park when he jumps out and rounds the front, holding out his arms to me.

“It’s so good to see you, meu filhinho.”

Unlike my mother, there isn’t a hint of New York in his accent, though there is a brush of my vovo’s Brazilian Portuguese that hits the last words of almost all his sentences. Everything sounds like a question or a poem.

“Papai,” I murmur, awkwardly returning the hug. There are moments, like right now, when I wish I could forget all the years and miles that stand between us. Where, for a few seconds, I remember what a wonderful father he was for most of my life. Before he fell out of love with my mother.

I release him before he lets go of me. He recovers quickly from my coldness, grabbing my bags and talking animatedly as he heads to the trunk.

“Vovo is making tempero baiano for dinner and then I thought we could take the boat out for a sunset sail.” He’s still smiling as he looks back at me. “Oh, and I got those sodas you like!”

“That sounds great, thank you.”

And it does. My vovo’s cooking is one thing I could never get in New York, and her tempero baiano—seasoned chicken legs—is one of my favorite dishes.

He nods in response, and then gestures for me to climb into the passenger seat. By the time we hit the highway, my father has filled the silence by telling me everything that’s happened in Hope Harbor since I left, though he makes no mention of the one person I want to ask about most.

I bite back the urge to mention her name; I’ve managed to keep all thoughts of Penny—and our renewed friendship—to myself for the past few months.

As we pass the sign welcoming us to Hope Harbor, my heart rate speeds up. Scanning the once-familiar surroundings, I try to appreciate them in a new light, though all I see are the many shades of copper that don’t quite do her eyes justice. The bronzed letters on the side of a sailboat bobbing in the harbor, the sunburnt edges of the leaves on the trees as summer fades to fall, the reddish-brown brick that decorates downtown. My father continues to tell me about the town’s antics and I turn my head to face him just in time to avoid the dancing flames of fire on the sign of the local bookstore.

How the hell am I going to write my next bestseller when all I can think about is the girl who owns that shop, and the many shades of copper that danced in her eyes the last time she smiled at me?

The post Read The First Chapter From ‘Bonfire and Bliss Bookstore’ by Brittanée Nicole appeared first on The Nerd Daily.

Intrigued? Read on to discover the synopsis and an excerpt from Devil by Sierra Simone, which releases on August 11th 2026.

Birdie Cooper has nothing left.

Just one moment of weakness seven years ago—and she lost her job, her church, her only friend. Now she’s working nights at a gas station to scrape together a living and a way to care for her sister, completely alone and separated even from the art that gave her life meaning.

Ryan Bell has never forgotten his first obsession.

He’s been trying to find the tremblingly shy lecturer from his senior year of college after she abruptly disappeared after their first and only kiss. So when he comes upon a statue of Lucifer carved in Ryan’s own likeness, two things become starkly apparent.

One: he knows how to find her now. And two: he’s been haunting Birdie Cooper’s memory as much as she’s been haunting his.

Ryan can’t offer love—or even an apology—but he can offer her a bargain, one crafted first and foremost to free him from his punishing obsession with her. If Birdie agrees to be his in every way for a single year, then he’ll pay for her sister’s care for as long as she’s alive. And what does Birdie have left to lose anyway? The forbidden fruit is her only chance at salvation.

Unfortunately for Birdie, she might just be the only chance for his…

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Intrigued? Read on to discover the synopsis and an excerpt from My Best French Wedding by Amanda Sellet, which releases on August 11th 2026.

Once upon a time, Walter was Hildy’s favorite person—until he crushed her teenage dreams. A decade later, she has a new beloved: the magazine she built from the ground up. Unfortunately, getting rid of Walter isn’t as easy as shedding her romantic illusions. He’s always around, vying for the juiciest scoops on the elite wedding circuit and provoking her into public displays that don’t scream “mature and sophisticated media maven.”

When Hildy scores exclusive access to the wedding of the season—a week-long parade of luxury in southern France—it’s a chance for her magazine to finally make its mark. Except Walter isn’t sitting at home crying; he’s right there in France, trying to steal Hildy’s story. Again.

Now it’s a head-to-head battle to see whose coverage will make it to print. The problem? Between the champagne and the chateaux, it’s easy to lose sight of the prize. Hildy knows better than to believe in fairy tales, but Walter is doing his best to convince her they could have a part deux.

In this gender-flipped twist on His Girl Friday, Hildy has seven days to prove she is totally over it, living her best life, and definitely not hung up on the past . . . or Walter.

EXCERPT

As soon as Walter opened the door to her knock, Hildy slipped past him, noting very casually with her keen observational skills as a journalist that his hair was still damp from the shower, and he smelled like honey and thyme. That would be the body wash from the wedding guest welcome hamper, though she didn’t remember the scent being quite that mouthwatering straight from the bottle.

While Walter closed the door behind her, Hildy took the opportunity to snoop. His room wasn’t identical to hers in the soulless copycat fashion of an American hotel chain, but the décor had a similar weathered coziness: reading chair, thick rug, painted wardrobe, big fluffy bed. She took all of this in at a glance, because Walter was apparently the kind of neat freak who used actual hangers and drawers instead of scattering his personal items over every surface. A total bust on the espionage front, but then that wasn’t the main purpose of this visit.

“You have an idea,” Walter guessed, before she could launch into her preamble.

Hildy felt compelled to disagree, because it was rude to see through someone as though they were dressed in head-to-toe plastic wrap. “I wouldn’t call it an idea. This is more of an agenda. Or—a plan of attack.”

“I’m all ears.” He gestured for her to take the chair.

“We need to table this.” She circled a hand between them.

He copied the gesture, brows lifting in question. “This?”

“The fighting. Occasionally immature behavior. Our whole deal. Just until the wedding’s over,” she added, in case he thought this was a permanent ceasefire.

Walter didn’t answer right away. She would have given a lot to be able to unscrew a panel on the side of his head and spy on his thought processes.

“Do you really think that’s possible?” he finally asked.

“What I think is that it doesn’t look good for either of our brands to derail the wedding of the century.”

“Is that your main concern?”

Her heart beat a little faster, sensing danger. “As opposed to what?”

“Fiona and Robbie’s personal happiness.”

“What am I, Lady Macbeth? Of course I care about them. My plans have layers. It’s a hallmark of my style.”

“How do you see this playing out?” he asked, after another loaded silence.

“We declare a truce. Right now, tonight, just the two of us. Grab a pair of your tightie-whities and wave them around like a flag.”

“Nice try. I’m not showing you my underwear. Which are not white, by the way.”

“Have you tried OxyClean?”

“Why Hildy, don’t tell me you’ve started doing your own laundry?”

“There’s a lot you don’t know about me, Mr. Judgmental.”

“There’s a lot you don’t know about me.”

“Great,” she said through a strained smile. “Glad to hear it.”

“Do you need an antacid?”

She bit back a retort. One of them had to set an example. “We can’t just pretend not to hate each other. If we’re going to sell this, we have to take it to the next level.”

“Mild distaste?”

Hildy started to roll her eyes before catching herself. “We need to be—cordial. Pleasant.”

“Like maiden aunts? Should I also take up crochet?”

“Sure, Walter. Whatever floats your boat.” Hildy blew out a breath, hoping it would take the sarcasm with it. “We need to act like we like each other, and any friction people may have observed between us was just . . . the way people talk to each other when they’re—you know.”

“Friends?” he guessed.

She shrugged. Close enough. “No more egging each other on, okay?”

Walter held up a finger, like this was a press conference and he was waiting for her to call on him.

“Yes?” Hildy said, with what she felt to be remarkable forbearance.

“How much are we pretending to like each other?”

She gave a thoughtful hmm. “I figure if we have sex on one of the lounge chairs by the pool, preferably in broad daylight, that should cover it.”

He made a wheezing sound.

“Any more questions?” she asked sweetly.

“I’ll follow your lead.”

“You have plenty of experience at that.”

“It was a job, Hildy.”

“I’m sure hitmen tell themselves the same thing.” She started for the door, before changing her mind and strolling up to Walter, who was still hovering awkwardly in the middle of the carpet. “Corinne had a suggestion, but I’m not sure you’ll like it.”

At this distance, she didn’t have to raise her voice above a whisper.

He swallowed roughly. “What was it?”

“Have you heard of a sexorcism?”

“What?”

“Sounds fake, right? We should just shake on it. Like professionals.” She held out her hand.

Walter stared at it for several breaths before pressing his palm to hers. They stayed like that, watching each other. The shower gel smelled even better at close range.

“It’s not very French,” he said at last. “A handshake.”

Hildy shrugged as if it didn’t matter to her. “Go ahead. French it up.” She offered him her cheek.

He leaned in slowly, giving her plenty of time to change her mind before he pressed a kiss to the side of her face. It wasn’t too long or too wet, but it sure as hell wasn’t an air kiss. She started to turn, thinking to give him the other cheek, but Walter didn’t pull away. As her face moved against his, their lips brushed.

Hildy angled her head slightly, lips easing apart as they met Walter’s. It was barely a conscious decision.

Bad idea, her better self whispered. Shhh, her body replied. Let us have this.

From My Best French Wedding by Amanda Sellet. Copyright © 2026 by the author, and reprinted with permission of St. Martin’s Publishing Group.

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Intrigued? Read on to discover the synopsis and an excerpt from For the Love of the Quest by Alexandra Ammon Parthun, which releases on August 11th 2026.

Lady Edith Darling is supposed to live a quiet life in her family’s manor. She is not supposed to go unchaperoned on a quest to find Excalibur. But Edith won’t let that stand in her way, especially not when she’s on this mission to honor her beloved grandmother’s dying wish. Determined to prove her grandmother right, Edith packs her satchel with Arthurian legends, pastries, and her grandmother’s ashes and runs off to hire a mercenary. 

Thomasin Shaw leads the most feared gang in London. For years, she had the constabulary safely in her pocket, until a scandal involving the chief inspector’s wife was brought to light. Now he’s demanding an enormous sum of money—without which Thomasin will lose the protection of the police along with her criminal empire. But when the rich Lady Edith waltzes into her life seeking an escort for a treasure hunt, Thomasin sees a willing kidnapping victim and a massive ransom.

As Edith’s clues lead them to underground chambers booby-trapped with arrows, doors locked with arcane puzzles, and even Arthur’s fabled round table, Thomasin finds herself swept up in the quest—and in Edith herself. Edith is also drawn to Thomasin, despite the ruthless mask she wears. But the chief inspector won’t let Thomasin forget her crimes, and Edith’s father is intent on bringing her home. Every legendary quest has an ending, but finding Excalibur might not be enough to make this a happy one.

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Way back in 2015, Sierra Simone shocked readers (I mean that in the very best way!) with Priest, the first book in a seriously steamy series that is ripe with commentary on the Catholic church. First, Tyler Bell broke his vows as a priest. Then, his brother Sean encouraged an aspiring nun to break hers. Next, their brother Aiden’s commitment to the monastery was challenged. Now, over a decade later, it’s time for baby brother Ryan to have the spotlight.

A quick warning before diving in: Sierra Simone’s stories never have any shortage of explicit spicy scenes. They also often have darker themes. Add in the religious aspects of the Priest collection, and this may not be the book for everyone. Simone is careful to lay all the warnings out plainly at the start, so be sure to take a peek before deciding if you want to move forward.

Now, if you’re in, it’s time for the fun stuff …

In Devil, Ryan Bell is exactly that—he’s a devil hellbent on getting what he wants, no matter the cost. And what does he want? Birdie Cooper, a supremely talented—and extremely inexperienced, albeit older—sculpture artist. From the moment he sees Birdie, Ryan is obsessed. Literally. It doesn’t matter that she first meets him as a student in her college art class. He will stop at nothing to slake his thirst for her, even if it causes her to lose everything.

As you might expect, that’s exactly what happens. Ryan’s infatuation leads to a brief encounter that upends her life, then Birdie disappears from his.

Fast forward seven years. Neither Ryan nor Birdie have forgotten each other. They can’t. Although they might appear to be different creatures from the outside, Birdie harbors a darkness that is not entirely unlike Ryan’s. She craves the things she’s always been told are wrong, the impulses she has suppressed for so many years. So, when Ryan finally finds her, he knows exactly how to catch his little bird. He offers her a deal she can’t refuse: the money to care for her beloved sister in exchange for becoming his, in every way, for one year.

Birdie wants to fight her attraction, questioning how someone like Ryan could ever want someone like her—even if he is deeply flawed. Yet, try as she might, she just can’t say no to him either. And so their complicated relationship begins … but how will it end?

Here’s what I really love about this book—and all of Sierra Simone’s work, actually: She really goes there. In every imaginable way. There is no topic too taboo or off limits, no risk she is not willing to take. Dark romance, by nature, tends to be a collection of real-life red flags; yet when fictionalized, it can create an intoxicating story.

But don’t take my word for it, take a peek at Ryan’s red flags for yourself. He holds none of his darkness back with Birdie, even going so far as to tell her: “I want to be the only thing you’re scared of, the only thing that makes you tremble … I want all the suffering in your life to have one cause, one name. And I want you to love it so much that you smile when you so much as whisper my name.”

In a life that has been so painfully difficult already, this intensity doesn’t scare Birdie away the way you might expect. In fact, it’s quite the opposite. To Birdie the idea of being possessed is almost a relief, as she realizes “the thought is so comforting, so achingly lovely. Bell is the worst thing that will happen to me. All I have to do is let him be.”

As she digs deeper into this dynamic between the two, it’s obvious that Sierra Simone can really write. I mean that with the utmost respect … because sometimes we come to romance novels for the entertainment value, if you know what I mean. Simone, however, gives readers the best of both worlds. Devil is sure to be one of the hottest books you’ve ever read with an emotionally rich storyline.

I also urge you to stick around and read the afterword, if that’s something you don’t generally do. It provides a great deal of insight into Simone’s intentions when building these characters and fleshing out this story.  It’s a really enriching way to end the book, giving the reader a look at her thought process from a religious, political, and just plain human perspective.

If you’ve read the rest of the Priest collection, you are no doubt anxious to get your hands on Devil. And if you haven’t, no worries. Each book tells a standalone tale, so you can start anywhere. Sierra Simone sets the standard for well-written, explicit romance. I genuinely applaud her brave choices here—from the fragility of the topics covered (religion and mental health aren’t easy to tackle alone, much less together) to maintaining her signature spice level—and I think you will too.

Devil is available from Amazon, Barnes & Noble, Bookshop.org, and other good book retailers, like your local bookstore, as of August 11th 2026.

Will you be picking up Devil? Tell us in the comments below!

Synopsis

From USA Today bestselling author Sierra Simone comes an ALL-NEW standalone romance in the Priest universe.

Birdie Cooper has nothing left.

Just one moment of weakness seven years ago—and she lost her job, her church, her only friend. Now she’s working nights at a gas station to scrape together a living and a way to care for her sister, completely alone and separated even from the art that gave her life meaning.

Ryan Bell has never forgotten his first obsession.

He’s been trying to find the tremblingly shy lecturer from his senior year of college after she abruptly disappeared after their first and only kiss. So when he comes upon a statue of Lucifer carved in Ryan’s own likeness, two things become starkly apparent.

One: he knows how to find her now. And two: he’s been haunting Birdie Cooper’s memory as much as she’s been haunting his.

Ryan can’t offer love—or even an apology—but he can offer her a bargain, one crafted first and foremost to free him from his punishing obsession with her. If Birdie agrees to be his in every way for a single year, then he’ll pay for her sister’s care for as long as she’s alive. And what does Birdie have left to lose anyway? The forbidden fruit is her only chance at salvation.

Unfortunately for Birdie, she might just be the only chance for his…

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