An Enemies to Lovers Sci-Fi BDSM Vampire Romance
Sci-Fi Romance / Suspense
Date Published: March 20, 2026
Publisher: Changeling Press
Captivity makes the heart grow kinkier...
When interstellar mercenary Captain Nick Rand rescues a beautiful enemy from
his own men, he thinks she's the answer to his vampire prayers. On the verge
of starvation thanks to the destruction of his hemosynther, he's in desperate
need of a female blood donor.
Lieutenant Zara Tahir needs Nick Rand as badly as he needs her. Without Nick's
blood, Zara's overactive immune system will kill her.
But Zara has no intention of embracing captivity. While she's willing to
exchange blood for blood, maybe even play a kinky game or two with the
handsome vampire dominant, he's still the enemy. She can't allow herself to
see him as anything more.
Then Rand's enemies make things a lot more complicated...
Excerpt
Copyright ©2026 Angela Knight
Hunger chewed Captain Nick Rand until he felt like a bone in a wolf's jaws. It
wasn't just a hunger of the body, though his gut felt hollow and his hands had
a tendency to shake. Didn't matter how much food he ate, how much water,
coffee, or whiskey he drank. None of it touched the craving that gnawed at his
brain, making it hard to think about anything but what he needed. Even now,
when the enemy might be drawing a bead on his skull, all he wanted was blood.
Hot, red and seductive as a siren -- a taste that reminded him of sex and the
cool touch of a woman's hands.
Rand fought to ignore that bottomless need. He didn't have time for it now, no
matter how hungry he was. Enemy temp shelters surrounded him, dome shapes
dappled with camouflage until they were indistinguishable from the forest
floor.
They made his shoulder blades itch.
Invisible, a silencer field muting the sound of his footfalls, he padded
between the shelters, beam rifle raised as he swept its muzzle from side to
side, scanning for potential attackers. His stomach growled so loudly he
wondered if the noise could be heard outside his silencer field. He ignored
his hunger, fighting to concentrate past the savage need. As he'd been
fighting for every endless hour of the previous nine days.
Instead, Rand focused on the familiar process of searching the enemy camp. He
could hear the rasp of his breathing in his helmet as he ducked into one empty
tent after another, though the silencer muted the sound past four or five
centimeters.
In his helmet com, he heard the murmur of his men reporting in as they
filtered through the camp, searching for the enemy. They had no more luck than
he'd had. The Falaran Coalition battalion had melted into the surrounding
forest, leaving behind smashed equipment, hastily abandoned meals and wrecked
temporary shelters. Apparently they'd been alerted to the approach of the
G.A.E. force at the last minute, dropped everything, and run like hell. Wise
of them, considering they were outgunned and outmanned. The colony was small,
without the economic resources Godsson's more established planetary population
could command. Their armor was certainly no match for the G.A.E.'s.
Still, they could have left someone behind. Maybe in camouflage armor like his
own, surrounded by a field of energy that bent light, rendering the sniper
invisible.
But you could bend all the light you wanted to, and it wouldn't stop Rand from
picking up your scent. Vampires had great noses. And great speed, great
endurance, and enough raw strength to take on a mech unit with no backup at
all.
Which was why he had been hired in the first place, despite the G.A.E.'s
disdain for mercenaries in general and vampires in particular. The generals
who led the Glorious Army of the Enlightened didn't know a damned thing about
war. Nick Rand, on the other hand, had spent the past two decades fighting in
a dozen wars on a dozen planets. His combat reflexes weren't just muscle
memory -- they were burned in all the way down to his DNA.
Which was why the G.A.E.'s brass had decided they could ignore his food
preferences.
He moved in a liquid glide into the next tent. Sweeping his rifle over the
whole space in a smooth arc, he ordered a sensor scan. The answer came back a
heartbeat later. Sensor scan completed. No enemy located, said the computer
implanted at the base of his brain. He breathed deep, scenting the air just to
be sure. And froze.
The tent belonged to a woman. Actually, more than one. Perfume lingered in the
air: lilacs and star roses and the natural scent of female bodies. Rand
inhaled, drinking in the lush aroma. His eyes closed for just a heartbeat as
he imagined the taste of blood and pussy.
Months. It had been months since he'd had a woman. Godsson taught females were
corrupting influences who'd blunt his soldiers' warrior instincts. He insisted
women belonged at home, teaching their children piety and submission to the
will of their Most Exalted -- i.e., Godsson himself.
Yeah, right. Why the female cultists tolerated this airlock blow, Rand had no
idea. It was no wonder the million or so Falarans had refused to join
Godsson's six million plus worshipers, badly outnumbered or not.
I should never have taken this fucking job. Never mind that he'd needed work.
Peace had broken out all over with its usual rotten timing. Absolutely no one
had been hiring. Had it not been for Godsson's decision to invade the
neighboring planet Falara, Rand would have been forced to find a security job,
and he hated bodyguard work with a passion.
But after a year with the G.A.E., the idea of keeping some arrogant prick
alive was starting to sound pretty damned good. For one thing, he wouldn't be
slowly starving to death among zealots who considered him a pervert.
He wished G.A.E. HQ would quit fucking around and send him a new hemosynther.
The last time he'd commed them, Supplies and Requisitions claimed the 'synther
was on order, scheduled to arrive from Earth next week in a shipment of
medical equipment. Rand had told the requisitionist it had better, or he was
coming to HQ to sink his teeth into something with a pulse.
The man had blanched. As if Rand would touch his sweaty neck with a nine meter
radiation probe. His blood would probably taste like burned coffee and stale
doughstries anyway.
Growling under his breath, Rand left the tent -- and heard the scream coming
from the other end of camp. A woman's voice, crying out in rage and pain.
He was running before the echo died.
* * *
If she hadn't been so sick, she could have made the G.A.E. bastards pay a
higher price when they found her in the middle of the camp. Unfortunately, it
had been more than a month since her vampire had died, and Lieutenant Zara
Tahir was deep in blood sickness.
They surrounded her, a yelling, laughing mob of massive shapes in helmets and
black armor emblazoned with Godsson's halo and planet logo. Those suits gave
them enough raw power to take on a blast tank and win.
Even so, Zara hadn't made it easy for them. Even in her lighter V.S.S. armor,
she had the advantage in speed and agility. Fighting ferociously, she
triggered a spontaneous nosebleed. Feeling the hot wetness rolling down her
upper lip as she spun and kicked, she snarled. It had been far too long since
she'd tasted vampire blood. Wouldn't be long before her own immune system
killed her.
Not that these fuckers would give it the chance. They were pissed, and they
planned to kill her. And worse.
About the Author
New York Times best-selling author Angela Knight has written and published
more than sixty novels, novellas, and ebooks, including the Mageverse and
Merlin’s Legacy series. With a career spanning more than two decades,
Romantic Times Bookclub Magazine has awarded her their Career Achievement
award in Paranormal Romance, as well as two Reviewers’ Choice awards for
Best Erotic Romance and Best Werewolf Romance.
Angela is currently a writer, editor, and cover artist for Changeling Press
LLC. She also teaches online writing courses. Besides her fiction work,
Angela’s writing career includes a decade as an award-winning South
Carolina newspaper reporter. She lives in South Carolina with her husband,
Michael, a thirty-year police veteran and detective with a local police
department.
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