Wednesday, February 18, 2026

Book Tour + #Giveaway: The Serpent’s Series by S.Z. Estavillo @szestavillo @RABTBookTours

5:00:00 AM Book Tour, Giveaway, Reading Addiction Book Tours, S.Z. Estavillo, The Serpent’s Series, Thriller No comments

The Serpent Series, Book 4

Thriller

Date Published: 02-10-2026

Publisher: Oliver-Heber

An assassin bound by obedience. A detective marked for death. A cartel war with no survivors.

Von Schlange thought she’d escaped her past. Now Black Nova owns her—an elite, off-the-books task force where obedience is survival and failure means death. As their newest assassin, she’s unleashed on targets tied to Jaxon Ryker, a drug lord buried deep in the Alaskan wilds.

Her partner, Xander Holt, a former Navy SEAL with ice in his veins, lives by the same brutal code: no attachments, no lines crossed. But as missions turn bloody, the fragile boundary between partner and lover begins to blur—and desire becomes its own kind of danger.

Across the country, Detective Anaya Nazario faces a nightmare of her own. A synthetic “zombie drug,” deadlier than fentanyl and immune to Narcan, is ripping through Los Angeles. Her investigation exposes a network of dirty cops shielding Ryker’s empire—and puts a target squarely on her back.

Two women on opposite fronts. One war against corruption and cartel power. And a single truth—every betrayal leaves a body behind.

Explosive, unrelenting, and razor-sharp, The Serpent’s Order propels the Serpent Series into its most dangerous chapter yet—where justice is a myth, and survival comes at a price paid in blood.

Interview with S.Z. Estavillo

Could you tell us about any research trips you took for this story? Which places did you visit, and what made them essential to your writing?

For this book, I didn’t take a specific research trip, but I did a deep dive in other ways. The story required me to understand the logistics and psychology behind black-ops–style assassin groups—how they’re structured, how they operate in the shadows, and how authority, control, and secrecy function inside those worlds. That meant a lot of true-crime watching, investigative reading, and cross-referencing real cases and covert operations to ground the fiction in something believable.

Because the book is set largely in Alaska, I also spent a significant amount of time researching the region—its geography, climate, isolation, and the way remoteness changes how crime, travel, and survival work. While I didn’t physically go there, I made sure I understood enough to write it authentically. Alaska isn’t just a backdrop in this story; it shapes the tension, the danger, and the choices the characters are forced to make.

What's the strangest thing you've ever had to research online for your book?

Probably researching how different medications might interact with one another in a way that could be fatal. I was trying to understand realistic medical consequences for a fictional scenario, nothing more—but that research did not translate well online. I actually asked a question on Quora, clearly stating I was a novelist, and the responses escalated fast. People genuinely thought I was planning to murder someone. Despite explaining it was for fiction, the reactions were intense enough that I ended up deleting my Quora account entirely. It was a sharp learning lesson in how certain research questions—especially taken out of context—can look alarming. Let’s just say I no longer crowdsource that kind of research in public forums.

What research (history, mythology, science) goes into your world-building?

Definitely science—especially in my latest book. The Serpent’s Order centers around a very real and very dangerous drug often referred to as tranq dope, sometimes called the “zombie drug.” It’s a combination of fentanyl and an animal tranquilizer, and I didn’t even know it existed until I started researching for this story.

Once I discovered it, the science became essential to the worldbuilding. I needed to understand how the drug works in the body, why it’s so destructive, and what makes it uniquely dangerous. From there, I pushed the concept further for fiction—creating a more lethal strain that still felt medically plausible. That meant blending science and medicine just enough to make it believable without overwhelming the story. For me, realism sharpens the stakes, and that’s where the research really earns its place.

Have any of the people you've known, past or present, left a lasting impression on your writing journey? If so, we'd love to hear about a memorable experience that stands out to you.

Absolutely. One of the earliest moments that shaped me happened when I was in second or third grade. I was placed in a special class because I was struggling with reading, and the goal was to improve my literacy skills. Instead of drilling worksheets, the teacher had us write stories. They’d take us outside, ask us to touch leaves, feel textures, and describe what we experienced. The teacher had an English background and cared deeply about language and observation.

One day, after I turned in a short story, they looked at my work—messy handwriting, imperfect punctuation and all—and told me, very plainly, You’re going to be a writer someday. I remember being confused, even a little offended. I was young and thought success meant being a doctor or a lawyer—something practical, something that made money. Writing didn’t feel like a compliment at the time. But I never forgot that moment. That teacher saw something in me long before I could see it in myself, and that kind of belief stays with you.

Years later, that same theme repeated itself. I had a literary agent for five years and went on submission with four different manuscripts. Two of those books essentially “died on sub,” meaning they were passed over by multiple publishers and had to be shelved. After so much rejection, it wears on you. Then an editor at the small press I’m with now—Oliver-Heber—read my work and believed in it. Two of the four books that were supposed to die on sub were acquired—and that became the launch of my eight-book contract. When she told me my latest book, The Serpent’s Order (Book 4), was my best yet—that my writing was stronger, sharper—it mattered deeply.

After years of hearing no, having someone say, This is really good—this is worth publishing is powerful. That belief, whether it comes from a teacher or an editor, can carry you through a lot of doubt. Sometimes it’s exactly the validation you need to keep going.

Do you write in the same genre all the time?

Yes, I do. I’m very much a crime-thriller author. That said, I didn’t start out writing only in this genre. Earlier in my career, I experimented quite a bit—I wrote commercial fiction, offbeat dramedy, comedy-drama, straight drama, romance, and romantic comedy. One of the first books I ever took out on submission was a romantic-comedy-leaning novel, and I quickly learned how difficult that space can be to sell.

At the time, I was heavily influenced by books like The Silver Linings Playbook by Matthew Quick and This Is Where I Leave You by Jonathan Tropper—offbeat, commercial, dramedy-style stories that feel almost cinematic. Both of those novels were eventually adapted into films, and I was drawn to that tone. But when I tried writing in that lane, I realized it was a harder fit for the market—and, ultimately, not where my deepest instincts lived.

I’ve always had a strong pull toward thrillers and true crime. Part of that comes from my background. On my father’s side, law enforcement runs deep—multiple police officers in the family, a father who worked as a U.S. Border Patrol and Customs agent, and an uncle who became the highest-ranking Puerto Rican three-star officer in New York’s history. Growing up around those stories, that sense of duty, danger, and moral complexity, shaped the kinds of stories I’m naturally drawn to tell.

Once I found my footing in crime thrillers—and especially after signing my eight-book contract with a small press—I stayed firmly in that genre. It’s where my voice feels most authentic. That said, while I’m not a multi-genre writer, I am very much a multi-genre reader. I believe reading across genres makes you a stronger writer overall. You learn something different from each one—whether it’s pacing, emotional depth, structure, voice, or character—and all of that inevitably finds its way back into your work.

About the Author

As a BIPOC thriller author, she previously parted amicably with her agent and, three months later, secured an eight-book deal with Oliver-Heber Books—now boasting 24,000 downloads in its first year and a BookRaid bestseller ranking in the thriller category. The Serpent Woman (Book 2) reached #1 on Amazon and topped all three of its categories. Her background spans literary agencies and TV studios, where she contributed to greenlit screenplays that became Lifetime movies. She holds a Master’s in Television, Radio, and Film, has taught author branding workshops (L.A. Writer’s Conference, North Texas RWA), and maintains a 100K+ social media following.

Contact Links

Purchase Link

Teaser: Jag by Marteeka Karland @marteekakarland @RABTBookTours @changelingpress

4:30:00 AM Age Gap, Jag, Kiss of Death MC, Marteeka Karland, Motorcycle Club Romance, Reading Addiction Book Tours, Suspense, Teaser No comments

(Kiss of Death MC)

Motorcycle Club Romance, Suspense, Age Gap

Date Published: February 20, 2026

Spending more than half my life in prison taught me how to survive, not how to live.

Jag -- I took the fall for my club once and it cost me everything. Freedom doesn’t feel like freedom when your past is still hunting you. Kiss of Death MC is different now. Safer. Smarter. And full of things I don’t trust. Like kindness, loyalty, and Ada. She sees too much. Asks the hard questions. And somehow makes me want things I buried a long time ago. Wanting her is dangerous. Touching her could destroy us both. But when an old enemy resurfaces and targets her to get to the club, walking away isn’t an option. I’ll protect her. Even if it costs me everything… again.

Ada -- I know the difference between monsters and men who’ve survived hell. Jag Kross is the most dangerous man I’ve ever met. And the most broken. He doesn’t want saving. He doesn’t believe he deserves love. And he definitely doesn’t want me anywhere near his darkness. Too bad. When someone starts watching me, following me, threatening everything the club protects, Jag becomes my shadow. My shield. My temptation. He says he’s not a good man. I say he’s exactly the one I want. I’m not afraid of the scars he carries. I’m afraid of what happens if he leaves.

EXCERPT

Jag

The gates of USP Terre Haute swung open with a mechanical groan that I’d heard a thousand times from the other side. This time, I was walking out.

The guard shoved a manila envelope into my hands without meeting my eyes. “Use your prison ID until you get your state issued ID. Inside the envelope you’ll find your release papers, a debit card with two hundred dollars. I was informed you didn’t need a ride?” He finally looked up at me, bored, and raised an eyebrow in question. When I didn’t answer, he shifted his weight with a huff. “Well?”

“Was there a question?”

“Do you have a fuckin’ ride or not, buddy?” He slapped a piece of paper down in front of me.

“What’s this?” I asked, nodding to the form.

He slapped a pen down on top of the paper. “Says you understand the terms of your release supervision and that failure to comply can, and likely will, result in an extended stay in the Hilton back here.” He hiked his thumb over his shoulder, indicating the prison.

Instead of answering him, I picked up the pen and signed my name at the bottom across the highlighted line. “Anything else?”

When the guy shook his head, I stormed out the door. I had no idea if Knuckles followed through with his promise to have guys waiting on me when I got out. I hadn’t called him, but he’d told me I wouldn’t have to. When I was released, there would be a couple of brothers from Kiss of Death to offer me a ride back to Nashville, if I wanted to go. I hadn’t really been sure if I’d take him up on the offer even if he did actually show, but when the prison asked me where I planned on setting up residence, I’d told them Nashville.

I stepped across the threshold, the highly recognizable line between captivity and freedom in the form of a smaller gate through a big-ass fucking prison gate. I squinted against the natural light. Closing my eyes, I inhaled deeply, then relaxed.

Nothing happened.

“Expecting the air outside the yard to smell different than it did inside the yard?” The guy had one elbow resting on the open window of a black F-150 in the slot two spaces over. Another, a truly massive man, rested against the bed of the truck next to the first guy, like they’d just been having a chat. He’d crossed his legs at the ankles and his arms over his chest, his pose casual.

“Jag?” the giant asked. “I’m Tiny. This is Rancor.” He was soft-spoken, his voice a gruff rumble.

I nodded once, acknowledging but not inviting further conversation.

“Ready to roll?” Tiny asked, gaze friendly.

I shrugged and nodded again, fingers digging into my palms, the sharp pain grounding me.

Tiny straightened. “Front or backseat, man?”

“Back.”

Tiny nodded respectfully, obviously expecting my choice since Rancor hadn’t offered to move. He climbed behind the wheel while I opened the back passenger-side door. I tossed the small bag holding my few possessions across the seat to the far side of the vehicle. Sitting behind the passenger left Rancor with a huge blind spot. While the driver could still watch me, he needed to watch the road, too. I didn’t think these guys meant me harm, but I also wasn’t going to get shanked my first hour out of prison.

The interior of the truck smelled like leather and tobacco. Clean. No blood. No piss. No sweat. No puke. Definitely nice for a change.

The rumble vibrated through the seat and into my bones, a foreign sensation after years of concrete and steel. Of all the things I’d missed in prison, I’d missed riding my bike the most. I’d been away for thirty-seven years. My bike had probably long since been sold off.

As we pulled away, I allowed myself one last glance at the prison. The limestone walls and razor wire had been my entire world. I’d learned to kill there. I’d learned to survive there. I’d forgotten how to live anywhere else.

Tiny met my eyes briefly in the rearview mirror. “Long ride to Nashville.” He handed me something I recognized as some kind of smart phone. I’d never held one, but I’d seen them on TV, watched as people used them in commercials or movies, when I’d been allowed to watch. Also, a few of the guards didn’t bother with the policy on no phones out of the locker rooms.

“Scroll through.” He used his finger to drag the screen upward, revealing more. Yeah, I’d seen that before from some of the guards. “It’s my social media feed. I set it to show articles you might be interested in about Nashville. I like to call it my ‘Long-Term Incarcerated’s Guide to the New World.’” I took the phone from him. “It gives you some information about our club, the shelter we help fund and protect, as well as terms you might not be familiar with. A bunch of the guys got together, at our old ladies’ insistence, and made a list of things hardest for them to adjust to when reentering society.” He shrugged. “Some of the guys found it helpful. Including me.”

I grunted. Though, I had to admit, this surprised me. I’d been worried about looking like an idiot when someone handed me something like the famed “Three Seashells” and I looked just as dumb as Stallone’s character.

I still didn’t know if I could concentrate while basically helpless in a moving vehicle with two men I didn’t know who had served time just like me. And had likely learned the same lessons I’d learned. Yeah. Concentrate fully on something right now? Not fucking likely. I kept my expression neutral and pretended to take in the material for a moment until I was sure neither of them watched me too closely. Then I turned my head to look out the window instead.

My reflection stared back at me from the glass -- hollow eyes, angular face, hair cropped close to my scalp. Prison-pale skin already burning under the unfiltered sunlight. I barely recognized myself. The man in the reflection wasn’t the one who’d gone inside. He was something else now. Something hardened and remote. Something dangerous.

An hour into the trip, the interstate rolled beneath us, mile markers ticking by like a countdown to something I wasn’t sure I was ready for. Tiny kept both hands on the wheel except when he leaned one arm on the window. Rancor sat with one arm propped on the window ledge, fingers drumming occasionally to whatever was playing low on the radio.

The silence stretched between us, but it didn’t feel uncomfortable. I thought, maybe these guys understood I needed time to adjust to friendly company. Though I couldn’t trust them yet, my respect for them grew with the care they showed for my sanity.

After another half hour of silence, other than the low music on the radio, Tiny turned his head slightly to speak to me. “Knuckles runs a tight ship. We’ve got legitimate business fronts now. Auto shop’s doing well. Custom work bringing in good money. Also help with a shelter for especially traumatized and terrorized women and children.” He shrugged. “Most of the time, we just have a couple guys stand outside the gate. Their… problems tend to give us a wide berth.” Tiny chuckled darkly.

“Legal?” I said, the word feeling strange on my tongue.

Tiny shrugged. “Mostly. Still got side hustles, but we’re careful. Knuckles makes sure of it. Shelter’s all on the up-and-up.” He spoke like the shelter was his pride and joy. I used to talk about my bike with that kind of reverence, so I knew this place meant something to the man.

There was another beat of silence before Rancor glanced at me in the rearview mirror. “We know what you did for Kiss of Death that put you behind bars.” He waited until I met and held his gaze. “That ain’t this club anymore. We have each other’s back, and no one takes the fall for anything.”

“Ain’t goin’ back.” I snarled the words before I could stop myself. “Gave my fuckin’ soul for this club once. Not sure I can do it again. If that’s a deal breaker, you can drop me off here.”

“Never said you had to, brother. Knuckles knows his people. You don’t have to prove anything. In his eyes, you’ve already proven everything he needed to see, and he’ll make sure you never go back.”

Rancor reached forward and turned up the volume slightly as “Sympathy for the Devil” came on. My fingers twitched involuntarily against my thigh. I’d had a cellmate who would sing this under his breath for hours, driving the guy in the next cell into a rage. Ended with a shank to the kidney during yard time. Though I liked the song, my cellie’s singing, not so much. And he was a dick. Fun times.

We crossed the state line into Kentucky, the landscape gradually shifting. The F-150 ate up the miles, comfortable in a way that made me uncomfortable. Too soft.

Tiny pulled into a truck stop off the interstate. “Need to fill up,” Tiny announced. “You want to stretch your legs?”

I shook my head. The thought of navigating the open space, the strangers, was all too much to attempt right now.

“Be right back,” Rancor said, unfolding himself from the passenger seat. “Taking a piss.”

I watched them through the windows as they moved around the station. Tiny pumped gas while Rancor disappeared inside, reappearing minutes later with a plastic bag.

A family pulled up at the neighboring pump, a man and woman, with two kids arguing in the back seat. The woman laughed at something the man said, her head tipping back to expose her throat. The children tumbled out, shoving at each other, voices high and piercing. One of them looked my way, curious eyes meeting mine before the mother called him back to her side.

I turned away, something hollow opening up in my chest. I’d forgotten what families looked like. Forgotten I used to want one of my own.

Tiny and Rancor returned to the truck, Tiny sliding behind the wheel while Rancor passed a plastic bag over the seat to me.

“Got you some water, sandwich, chips,” he said. “Wasn’t sure what you’d want.”

I took the bag, not meeting his eyes. The scent of barbecue sauce wafted from the bag as I opened it. “Thanks.” The word came out rusty, unused.

I opened the water first, taking a quick pull before unwrapping the sandwich and taking a bite, nearly closing my eyes in bliss as rich barbecued pork exploded across my tongue. “Christ,” I muttered.

Rancor chuckled softly. “Yeah, man. I think I had basically the same reaction to my first good meal on the outside.”

“Ain’t sure that qualifies as a good meal,” Tiny muttered.

“A ham sandwich would be better than what we got in that place.” Rancor waved off Tiny’s words. I agreed with him.

“Still fuckin’ good.” I took another bite, fumbling with the napkin when I realized I probably looked like some kind of primitive who didn’t know how to eat in civilized company. One more thing to add to the list of things to get used to again.

Another hour and we entered the outskirts of Nashville. Tiny made a call and the sound came through the car radio.

“We got a room ready for him.” I’d recognize Knuckles’ voice anywhere. The man had literally saved my sanity the short time we’d been cellies. “He’s gonna want some time to himself to transition, but I don’t want him isolated.”

“You just assume he came with us,” Rancor said, shooting Tiny an amused grin. “Maybe he said fuck off.”

Knuckles barked out a laugh. “Oh, I’m sure he told you to fuck off. Just maybe not out loud. But yeah. I’m sure he came. I know my people, Rancor.”

“I came.” Not sure why I thought I had to speak up, but Knuckles only grunted.

“Of course you did. This is your home. Rat Man did you dirty.”

“Almost there, Prez,” Tiny said. “Ten minutes.”

“Good. I’ll meet you at the main warehouse.” There was a pause. “Hannah made sure you’d have everything you need,” he continued. “She talked to every fucking guy in the place, so she and the other women could give you as comfortable a place as they could. I know you’re not a man who’d want a fuss made or anything but expect the old ladies to make sure you have plenty of home-cooked food in your fridge for when you’re hungry.”

“I -- what?”

“You heard me.”

“Yeah, and I guess I’m not sure which surprises me.”

Knuckles grunted again. “The fact that you have your own fridge, or the fact the girls bothered to stock it?”

“Both, I guess.”

“See you soon.” The call disconnected.

“Expect them to drop by often because our women can be mother hens.” Rancor continued the conversation as we turned onto a narrow, paved but crumbling road that cut between abandoned warehouses. “They won’t let you suffer in silence, no matter how often you tell them to leave. They don’t get their feelings hurt with big, surly bikers, but oddly, they usually know when to back off before they get irritating. It’s the weirdest fucking thing.”

That got a laugh from Tiny. “My two hellions haven’t figured out when to back off. Don’t expect they will either.”

“Oh, your girls know where the line is. They simply refuse to let a little thing like an imaginary line in the sand stop them.” Rancor’s grin said he enjoyed the show on more than one occasion.

I thought I might see irritation in Tiny’s expression, but instead I saw fondness and pride. Tiny loved whoever he was talking about. Likely loved the fact they didn’t stop when they should. The revelation settled something else inside me and my respect for the men grew a little more.

“Why?” I asked softly. “I feel like I’m bein’ set up or some shit. You guys don’t know me and the few who do know I ain’t a kind man.”

“Club takes care of its own,” Rancor said quietly. “Whether our own want it or not.”

Something twisted in my chest -- not pain exactly, but its close cousin. Why would anyone prepare for me? I was nobody to these people. The club had changed since I’d been a member. I doubted anyone knew me from anywhere but Terre Haute. Maybe not even then. The idea that someone had thought about what I might need, had taken time to prepare for my arrival didn’t compute with the world as I understood it.

“Don’t need special treatment,” I managed, voice rough.

Tiny chuckled, a deep, low rumble. “Ain’t special, brother. It’s baseline. You’ll see.”

The Kiss of Death compound emerged from the industrial wasteland like a fortress. Which was exactly what it was. Camo netting stretched between warehouses arranged in a defensive square, breaking up sight lines and confusing surveillance. I counted four visible cameras covering the entrance alone, probably a dozen more I couldn’t see. Smart setup. Defensible. And it was designed to keep people out. Not to hold them inside.

Tiny slowed at a reinforced gate. A guard in a booth nodded recognition, and the gate slid open. We rolled through to a big warehouse well away from the entrance to the compound.

Knuckles stood waiting at the inner entrance, arms crossed over his chest. He was built solid, heavily muscled but leaner and shorter than Tiny.

Tiny parked the truck in front of the warehouse, cutting the engine. I stepped out of the cage, feet planted firmly on the gravel. The air smelled of motor oil, leather, and something delicious cooking.

“Good to see you breathing free air,” Knuckles said, extending his hand.

I took his hand, the handshake brief but firm. His eyes held mine, assessing but not demanding. He didn’t try to establish dominance through the handshake, didn’t pump my arm or crush my fingers. Just a simple acknowledgment between equals which surprised me. Even if I were technically still part of Kiss of Death, Knuckles, as the president, outranked me significantly.

“Appreciate the welcome,” I said, the words coming easier than I expected.

Knuckles nodded, seeming to understand all I wasn’t saying. “Let’s get you settled.”

He led the way through the compound, Tiny and Rancor falling in behind us. A few club members moved about their business. They looked up as we passed, nodding respectfully but didn’t approach.

“Bottom floors of the outer buildings are club business,” Knuckles explained, voice low enough that only I could hear. “Upper floors are apartments for patched members. Inner buildings are all living quarters.

“Hannah, my woman, assigned you a unit in the east building, second floor,” Knuckles continued. “Quieter side of the compound.”

Knuckles stopped at a door at the corner of the back side of the building. He handed me a keycard. “Room’s yours as long as you want to stay. Old ladies will make sure you’re stocked. Don’t ask them to do your laundry. They will shank you.”

That got a bark of laughter out of me when I hadn’t expected to feel like smiling so soon. “I appreciate the place to crash.”

“No thanks necessary.”

The apartment was simple but far larger than any space I’d occupied in nearly four decades. A main room with a couch and coffee table. Small kitchen area with actual appliances. A window overlooking the compound below.

“Basics are all here,” Knuckles said, remaining by the door. Giving me room. “The girls brought linens and shit, so you’ve got bedding and towels. There’s probably a box of toiletries in the bathroom.” He motioned to a set of doors next to each other on one end of the room. “Bedroom and bathroom.” He pointed in the other direction. “Spare room for whatever the fuck you want to do with it.”

I moved farther into the space, checking the place out. Clean surfaces. No dust. The faint scent of something lemon. Someone had prepared this place recently, anticipating my arrival. The thought was unsettling in its kindness.

“Bathroom’s got everything you need,” Knuckles continued. “Hot water takes about thirty seconds to kick in. Pressure’s good and the shower is large. There’s also a bathtub. Anything else you need, just say the word.” He paused, watching me carefully. “When the old ladies come by to bring you more food, let them in, please.”

My head snapped up, surprised by his insight. I’d been calculating how long I could go without opening that door, how to minimize contact until I’d found my bearings.

Knuckles gave me a knowing look. “They mean well. And trust me, you don’t want to be on their bad side.”

A faint smile tugged at my lips again before I could suppress it. “Noted.”

“I’ll leave you to get settled,” Knuckles said, stepping back into the hallway. “Club meeting tomorrow at noon if you want to join. No pressure. Just know you’re welcome. When or if you’re ready to take an active role in the club, we would all welcome you to find your place with us.” He gave me another grin. “Welcome home, brother.”

He closed the door behind him with a soft click, and I was alone. Truly alone for the first time in years outside of AdSeg -- what most people call solitary confinement, or Administrative Segregation. Whatever you call it, AdSeg was the only time I didn’t have a cellmate breathing in the bunk below. No guards passing by at regular intervals. No constant background noise of men living in forced proximity.

Just silence.

I stood motionless in the center of the room. The space felt impossibly large after my cell, the silence deafening after years of constant noise.

I moved to the window, drawn by the natural light. Below, club members moved about their business. Two men working on a Harley. A woman carrying what looked like groceries toward another building. Normal life continuing in its rhythm.

My reflection stared back at me from the glass, superimposed over the scene below. A man caught between worlds, belonging to neither. The prison had released my body but kept pieces of my soul. The club had offered shelter but couldn’t give me back what I’d lost to them before. I thought I should move on, put this chapter of my life behind me, but the thought made my insides twist. Knuckles was right. Though the compound had moved location, the spirit of the club I’d first joined was within this fenced-off land. I could feel the energy all around me and it felt like home.

I placed my palm against the cool glass, watching my breath fog a small circle. Outside, the sun was setting, casting long shadows across the compound. The stranger in the glass looked back at me, equally lost in a world he no longer understood.

About the Author

Marteeka Karland is an international bestselling author who leads a double life as an erotic romance author by evening and a semi-domesticated housewife by day. Known for her down and dirty MC romances, Marteeka takes pleasure in spinning tales of tenacious, protective heroes and spirited, vulnerable heroines. She staunchly advocates that every character deserves a blissful ending, even, sometimes, the villains in her narratives. Her writings are speckled with intense, raw elements resulting in page-turning delight entwined with seductive escapades leading up to gratifying conclusions that elicit a sigh from her readers.

Away from the pen, Marteeka finds joy in baking and supporting her husband with their gardening activities. The late summer season is set aside for preserving the delightful harvest that springs from their combined efforts (which is mostly his efforts, but you can count it). To stay updated with Marteeka's latest adventures and forthcoming books, make sure to visit her website. Don't forget to register for her newsletter which will pepper you with a potpourri of Teeka's beloved recipes, book suggestions, autograph events, and a plethora of interesting tidbits.

Author on Instagram & TikTok: @marteekakarland

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Virtual Book Tour + #Giveaway: STONE OF DESTINY by Margaret Izard @mizardauthor @GoddessFish

3:00:00 AM Giveaway, Goddess Fish Promotions, Paranormal Romance, STONE OF DESTINY. Margaret Izard, Virtual Book Tour 2 comments

This post is part of a virtual book tour organized by Goddess Fish Promotions. Margaret Izard will be awarding a Stone of Destiny Swag Box to a randomly drawn winner. Click on the tour banner to see the other stops on the tour.

Blurb:

Bound by destiny, torn by fate—their love stood unbroken, victorious over all.

Kat MacArthur still feels the loss of her brother to another time. Seeking solace, she stumbles upon Ceallach, a Fae warrior, she’s had feelings for ever since she met him. The emotion grows stronger whenever they are together. Yet he warns her to stay away from the upcoming gathering for the Iona Stones. Kat refuses—she needs to be there to help her family and Ceallach.

Ceallach is torn between duty, magic, and the ache for mortal love. His Fae soul is sworn to protect the Iona Stones during the Gathering, but his heart is lost to Kat. With the prophecy looming, he cannot promise her forever—no matter how much he longs to. The maiden of the Iona Stones now faces sacrifice, and he fears if his beloved gets too close, he cannot save her.

When dark forces rise to take the Iona Stones along with their powers, Ceallach is forced into an impossible decision—to defy destiny or surrender to love?

Purchase STONE OF DESTINY on Linktree

Read an Excerpt

Still wearing a grin, he strode forward with confidence, and a sensuality Kat had not forgotten. The man still took her breath away with one look. Ceallach arrived before her, a smile playing on his lips. As his eyes swept across her face, the expression faltered. His brows knitted together in a frown, shadowing the sudden tension in his gaze. Reaching with his finger, he lifted a tear from her cheek, gripped his fist hard, and when opened, a small, clear teardrop-shaped gemstone sat in his palm.

“Dry yer tears, sweet Kat. Yer face is much prettier without them.” He took her hand and, with his other placed the gemstone in her palm. “When ye hold the gem, yer tears will fade, and happy thoughts shall fill yer heart.” When the stone touched her skin, her mind cleared, and a sense of ease washed over her.

Ceallach released her hand and strode past her to the doors.

Kat turned, calling after him. “Wait, why are ye here?”

The attractive Fae stopped and turned. “Dagda sent me. I’ve come to meet with the guardian of the stones. All the stones have returned. The gathering and battle of good vs evil is upon us. The gods have called, and we must answer.”

He opened the heavy oak doors without effort and strode through. The doors weight closed them, leaving Kat in the shadows again. She blinked, almost not believing her eyes and the truth before her. Her secret love had just casually strolled back into her life. Gripping the gem, he’d shaped from her tears, warmth washed over her. Ceallach was here. A smile crossed her face.

Ceallach was here.

About the Author:

Margaret Izard is an award-winning author of historical fantasy and paranormal romance novels. Her latest awards are 2024 Reader’s Favorite Honorable Mention for Stone of Love and 2024 Spring BookFest Silver Award for the same title. She spent her early years through college to adulthood dedicated to dance, theater, and performing. Over the years, she developed a love for great storytelling in different mediums. She does not waste a good story, be it movement, the spoken, or the written word. She discovered historical romance novels in middle school, which combined her desire for romance, drama, and fantasy. She writes exciting plot lines, steamy love scenes and always falls for a strong male with a soft heart. She lives in Houston, Texas, with her husband and adult triplets.

Connect with Margaret Izard

Website ~ Readers Group - Facebook

Giveaway:

a Stone of Destiny Swag Box

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Book Tour + #Giveaway: Women Therapists on Healing by Susan Pease Banitt, LCSW and Larissa Miranda @SuePeaseBanitt @RABTBookTours

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11 Personal Essays about Overcoming Trauma

Psychology Nonfiction

Date Published: February 3rd, 2026
Publisher: Acorn Publishing

Women Therapists on Healing is a powerful anthology of personal essays from women therapists who know trauma from the inside out. This three-part collection braids lived experience with clinical wisdom, offering a compassionate lens on healing that crosses cultural, generational, and systemic boundaries.

Far beyond a typical guide to PTSD, this book challenges outdated narratives and sheds light on the effects of marginalized topics, such as chronic invisible illness, intergenerational trauma, racism, ritual abuse, and human trafficking.

This book will especially resonate with

● women recovering from trauma
● healers and advocates seeking growth and guidance
● health professionals committed to trauma-informed and anti-racist practices
● friends and family who love and support survivors

The diverse voices in these essays honor the arduous path of healing as a reckoning, a reclamation, and a sacred reminder that we do not walk alone.

Interview with Susan Pease Banitt, LCSW

Do you have a routine or something you do to get you in the mood to write?

When I am writing a book, I have a schedule that I try to adhere to as my best hours are between 10 am – 3pm. I like to try and write an average of 4 pages/day. As a trauma therapist I like to think of what my readers need and that motivates me to write. I also remind myself that I always feel personally better after putting thoughts on the page.

Do you have a special song, drink, or food you enjoy while you are writing?

Coffee, tea and water are essential companions. Often I find music distracting unless it is spa type and soft. I try not to eat and write at the same time. It’s a good way to lose track of calories! Also, I’m a messy eater! When I first started writing I wanted whiskey, but I never indulged.

How do you know what to write?

So far my books have been non-fiction in the psychology/self-help category. I know what I want to say and I usually have about and 8+ page outline for the book and chapters. That makes it easy when I sit down to know what to write and gives me some choice about what to work on. Some chapters are easier than others for sure! If it’s a hard day I pick an easier section. At the end of the day I write the book I can’t not write.

What does a typical writing day look like for you?

I have delayed circadian rhythm so my work day does not start until after 10 am most days. With my first book I had a rule that research was for mornings and I had to start writing by 1pm. Sometimes I wake up with words in my head and need to start writing right away! I’m Gemini, so that’s about as “typical” as it gets.

Do you do anything special to celebrate after writing “the end”?

I announce to friends and family! I have a party. I obsessively watch sales number. Yay, me!

How long does it take you to write a book?

They have all been different. My first book took about a year and a half (after a couple of years of thinking about it and doing research on how to write a book, getting and agent and a banging book proposal). I had to leave my practice to do it as I was raising kids. The second book took a little less than a year; my kids were older so I was able to maintain my practice, but I wrote over half of it while taking the month of August off. I wrote over 6 chapters that month and wrote about 6 pages/day.

What is the most difficult part of writing a book?

Starting! It’s like getting pregnant—once you do the deed you know you are going to have a baby, so sometimes delay is birth control. Also, I have little patience for editing and rewrites so most things come out fully formed (again like a baby). However, now that I am working with an AI companion the editing process is much easier, and I love my editor—they are always agreeable and helpful, and their “eyes” are better than mine! My sister is also a writer and we joke about writing as “butt in chair time”.

About the Author

Award-winning author Susan Pease Banitt is a Harvard-trained psychotherapist and licensed clinical social worker with over thirty years of experience in the field. In her work, she integrates western therapy with holistic practices like yoga, Reiki, and Celtic shamanism.

Her acclaimed books, The Trauma Tool Kit and Wisdom, Attachment, and Love in Trauma Therapy, are essential reading for anyone seeking a compassionate path to healing complex trauma.

Based in Portland, Oregon, she continues her coaching and consulting work through Lotus Heart Counseling, and she shares bite-size wisdom on TikTok as “The Lightworker Whisperer.” In her downtime, she enjoys RVing, gardening, performing improvisational comedy, and spending time with family and friends.

Contact Links

Instagram: @susanpeasebanitt

Purchase Links

Book Tour: Inside USAID: An Odyssey of Foreign Assistance by Clifford Brown @bliffordcrown @RABTBookTours

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Current Events/Politics

Date Published: September 26, 2025

Publisher: MindStir Media

This book gives needed context for the current controversy about the US foreign aid agency, USAID. One evaluation described it as "an eye-opening, sharply insightful, and often humorous look into the inner workings of USAID and the broader world of US foreign assistance. Blending memoir, policy analysis, and rich storytelling, the book delivers a compelling behind-the-scenes portrait of what it means to work in international development, from the surreal bureaucracy to the life-threatening assignments abroad."

Inside USAID is an insider's view of some of the sillier aspects of government bureaucracy, revealing the adventurous, often risky life of diplomatic staff posted in third-world countries as well as some of the waste in the system. It also takes readers through some fascinating and dangerous events in the author's own twenty-seven-year career with USAID, peeling the curtain on nearly three decades of diplomatic service across seven countries, sharing war-zone experiences, absurd government acronyms, failed aid attempts, and moments of genuine impact.

The stories balance critical reflection with a deep appreciation for the ideals behind U.S. foreign aid. The book is both a tribute to the unsung heroes of development work and a critique of the system's inefficiencies, political intrusions, and sudden dismantling. It contextualizes the countries historically, politically, and economically, off ering readers a nuanced understanding of how aid shapes (and sometimes fails) entire nations. The book also is both a eulogy and a call to action for rebuilding what the author sees as one of the U.S.'s most effective foreign policy tools.

Witty, wise, and often sobering, Inside USAID is a must-read for policymakers, development professionals, historians, and anyone who wants to understand the real stories behind America's global influence through foreign aid.

About the Author

Clifford Brown is a retired Senior U.S. Foreign Service Officer who served for 27 years with the U.S. Agency for International Development (USAID), including roles as Mission Director, Deputy Mission Director, and Regional Legal Advisor. His work took him to postings in Kenya, Honduras, Guatemala, Nicaragua, Colombia, Kyrgyzstan, Guinea, Peru, and Washington, DC, with regional responsibilities spanning numerous additional USAID missions.

Before joining USAID, Brown practiced commercial law for eleven years in Los Angeles as a partner at Ervin, Cohen & Jessup in Beverly Hills, California. He holds a Bachelor’s degree in Economics from Whitman College, where he was also a Thomas Watson Fellow, spending a year conducting independent research in Latin America. He earned his Juris Doctor from UCLA School of Law, where he served as Managing Editor of the UCLA Law Review.

Brown is the author of Dilettante: Tales of How a Small-Town Boy Became a Diplomat Managing U.S. Foreign Assistance (2021), a collection of stories tracing his path from early work on farms, railroads, and tugboats in Eastern Washington to a career in international law and diplomacy. He is retired in Maryland.

Contact Links

Website

X.com at @bliffordcrown

Kirkus Review

Purchase Link

Amazon

Review: Unmasking Into Love: Soulmate Registry (Fairy Tales With Fangs #7) by D. N. Leo @dnleostory

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Unmasking Into Love: Soulmate Registry

Fairy Tales With Fangs #7

by D. N. Leo

Published: February 9, 2026

Publisher: Narrative Land Publishing

Genre: Romance, Shifter Romance, Fated Mate Romance, Clean Romance, Paranormal Romance

Blurb:

Unmasking Into Love is Book 7 in Fairy Tales with Fangs — The Soulmate Registry Collection. Wolf shifter romances with heart, humor, and animal sidekicks who absolutely steal the show.

SOULMATE REGISTRY — CASE FILE #7

Three women. Three masks. Three alpha wolves who see right through them.

The Fairy Godmother Rosalind would like you to know she is not confused. She simply... required a second opinion. From a theatrical specialist. Who is currently unemployed. It's fine.

Iris is cursed. Beautiful by night, ordinary by dawn. She's built her whole life around never being seen twice. Then a British billionaire bought her company at midnight and his wolf whispered mate — before the sun could take her face away.

Beatrice is marked. Not by the man she loves — by a white wolf she pulled from a storm, thinking he was just a dog. Now she's got another alpha's claim glowing on her neck and a proposal she can't accept until she confesses a secret that could destroy everything.

Nora is suppressed. Her lynx caged behind a bracelet that keeps her shifter identity silent. Controlled. Safe. Then an infuriating billionaire walked into her kitchen to critique her pâté temperature, and her lynx did the impossible — it purred through the suppressants.

A cat who's writing his memoir. Seven animals who've started a theatre troupe. A meerkat who outranks everyone (his evidence is "vibes and also I said so").

And a fairy godmother who's learning that some masks don't come off with magic.

They come off with love.

Happy Novels by D.N. Leo

Love. Laughter. Happily Ever After.

Goodreads ~ Amazon

My Review:

THE FACE THAT ISN'T HERS

Iris, Jasper, and Shadow’s story

Iris is an enchanting woman burdened by a spell; at night, she appears as a stunning beauty, while by day, she shifts into a less attractive form. Having endured this curse for so long, Iris has lost track of which face truly belongs to her.

Jasper, the wealthy British entrepreneur, acquires her company at the stroke of midnight and immediately forms a bond with her. Iris fears that he will discover her alternate self, which reveals itself only during daylight hours.

Shadow is Iris's talkative feline companion, a sleek black cat. Shadow possesses telepathic abilities and speaks with a British accent, which he insists is genuine, though it’s more likely just a figment of his imagination.

I found Iris's tale quite captivating, reminiscent of the classic Cinderella narrative. Both stories feature women under a curse that transforms them into something less desirable. The primary distinction between Cinderella's tale and Iris's is the timing of the curse: Iris's affliction begins in the morning, whereas Cinderella's commences at dusk.

THE FACE THAT ISN'T HERS captivated me from the outset and held my attention throughout. I frequently felt compassion for Iris, moved by her generous spirit and the beauty that radiated from within her.

THE MARK SHE DIDN'T CHOOSE

Beatrice, her seven talking animal sidekicks, Lucien, Troy’s story

THE MARK SHE DIDN'T CHOOSE drew me into its realm the instant I read Beatrice’s synopsis. The enigma surrounding Beatrice and her universe was incredibly captivating. I found myself unwilling to pause my reading even for a second. I truly wished it could have been more extensive. I genuinely relished Beatrice’s narrative.

I appreciated being able to experience the story from multiple characters' perspectives. I enjoy tales where I can engage with each character individually; it helps me understand them more deeply.

Beatrice anticipates that Lucien will propose to her after three years, but before he gets the chance, a man named Troy Sliverstone appears at her doorstep, claiming she is his mate and that he marked her during a storm when she rescued him.

I also thoroughly enjoyed Beatrice’s seven talking animal companions. Their playful exchanges and their desire to protect both Beatrice and Lucien were delightful.

THE LYNX IN A CAGE

Nora, Blake, and Sugarcane’s story

Nora is a lynx shifter and a cater, who also tends to elderly wolves at a haven. She wears a bracelet that conceals her lynx form from the world, except for a striking billionaire named Blake Silverburn, whose biceps are so impressive they could have their own zip code, as noted by Sugarcane, a meerkat and Nora's talking animal companion who believes he is a bodyguard.

The narrative of Nora, Blake, and Sugarcane captivated me from the very first page of THE LYNX IN A CAGE. It kept me in suspense as I anticipated the developments between Nora and Blake, especially with Nora's lynx on high alert whenever Blake entered the room.

Whenever Nora and Blake share the same space, sparks fly and their animals seem to come alive. Nora fears that her lynx might escape the confines she has meticulously established.

THE LYNX IN A CAGE is an incredibly engaging tale that had me riveted, eager to discover what would unfold next. I adored Sugarcane and his wonderfully charming personality; his remarks consistently brought a smile to my face throughout the narrative.

Three women with a curse of sorts hanging over them. Three masks that cannot be removed with magic but only with love. A cat with big dreams, seven animals who can’t agree on anything, and a meerkat who thinks he’s a bodyguard.

I am looking forward to the upcoming installment of the Soulmate Registry. I am excited to encounter the next three women, along with their mates and companions. I highly suggest obtaining a copy of Unmasking Into Love: Soulmate Registry without delay!