Title: Only Love is Deathless

Author: Sita Bethel

Publisher: NineStar Press

Release Date: June 8, 2020

Heat Level: 3 - Some Sex

Pairing: Male/Male

Length: 78900

Genre: Fantasy, LGBTQIA+, royalty, witches, mares, wizards, demons, magic/magic users, weddings

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Synopsis

Sreka’s younger brother, Dobrina, is in love. The only problem is that the law forbids him from courting until Sreka is married. Sreka hires the local adventurer, Košmar, to marry him so Dobrina can wed his love. Even if he has to sleep on the couch, instead of with the crown prince on their farce wedding bed, Košmar will get to live like a king for a year. And once Dobrina is married, Sreka will quietly divorce him and send him on his way with gold for his services. Nothing says destined romance like a battle with a dragon, so Sreka and Košmar stage their first public encounter to fool the royal court. However, as fate would have it, the dragon that was supposed to be as fake as their love is real.

Excerpt

Only Love is Deathless Sita Bethel © 2020 All Rights Reserved Košmar slammed the lager to the back of his throat and sighed. The pub was alive with Shrovetide festivities. Music and playful shrieks echoed from one end of the tavern to the other while mead and vodka flowed from bottles to cups to mouths faster than hands could pour it. He glanced at the dancers, thinking maybe he had drunk enough to give dancing a try. The music changed and a cheer rang from the crowds. Everyone clapped in unison as they formed a circle on the dance floor. They wore linen garments dyed green and purple. Crowns of corn poppies, baby’s breath, and sweet basil topped the heads of both the women and the men. Košmar himself wore faded riding leathers and a felted wool cloak which had once been deep sable but now was the gray of watered-down ink. Before he could stand and sneak closer to the crowd, a lad in an ugly woolen slouch cap sat across from him. Košmar blinked, examining his cornflower-blue eyes. The lad set a key on the table between them, stood, and vanished into the crowd. Košmar picked up the key, noticing the flash of a gold coin below it. Košmar’s jaw dropped. A flaming falcon was stamped into the coin and on the other side a crown. He slipped the gold into his vest pocket and rushed to the third room in the back. The man in the woolen cap sat cross-legged in a chair near the hearth of the room. His eyes flicked upward as he gazed at Košmar. “Sit.” “Remove your cap.” Košmar dropped to the edge of the bed, crossing his arms over his chest. “The coin wasn’t enough?” “Most nobles have gold coins.” Košmar shrugged. “Very well.” The stranger stood. He tugged the cap away from his scalp and shook his head. Long strands of pure citrine glittered as they fell to his waist. The princes of Zetva were rumored to have magical hair the color of citrines or yellow sapphires. The man in front of Košmar could only be one of those two princes. “Satisfied?” “To what do I owe the pleasure, my liege?” Košmar bowed forward from his position on the bed. The prince dropped into his chair. “They say you’ll do any task for the right price.” “Most any.” Košmar chose his words. “I’m not an assassin. I’m more of an adventurer.” “I do not need an assassin. I need a husband.” “Don’t we all, but I’m sure your father, the king, would be more qualified at arranging a marriage than me.” Košmar laughed. “Everyone in the royal court is a weasel, and the neighboring kingdoms are full of ambitious vipers looking to strengthen their own positions of power. No, Košmar Marelock, I do not want you to find a husband for me—I want you to wed me.” Košmar laughed until he choked. He fell onto the mattress, coughing into his fist. The prince peered over him, long, jeweled hair hanging from his face and flashing in the hearthlight. “Not forever. I need a farce wedding and a sham spouse, and after a year or so, we’ll divorce in private, I’ll pay you for your troubles, and you can run back to your adventures.” “Farce wedding?” Košmar sucked in a breath, recovering from his outburst. “Gotta admit, I’m fascinated. Why would a prince need to fake his own wedding?” “Will you take the job or not?” “You haven’t given me enough information to decide.” “I’m the oldest.” The prince shrugged. “So you’re…” Košmar wracked his memory for what he’d heard of politics. “Prince…Dobrina?” “My little brother is Dobrina. I’m Prince Sreka.” “Pleasure to meet you.” Košmar held out his hand. Sreka hesitated before extending his hand. Košmar took it and used Sreka’s grip to pull himself to his feet before shaking their clasped hands. After the friendly greeting, he brought Sreka’s hand to his lips and kissed the prince’s knuckles. “My liege, my name is Košmar.” “I know. I sought you out, remember?” “Need to have a proper introduction if we’re going to be business partners. So you’re the oldest, but your father is in good health. Surely you have more time to find a spouse?” “Dobrina is in love. The law demands I marry first, but I have no interest in the suitors who plague me night and day. So, to rid myself of their presence and give my brother the happiness he deserves, I need a surrogate to play the role of my affectionate husband.” “Lemme get this straight. You bring me home to Dad; we hold hands and take lingering walks in the gardens at night to convince everyone we’re in love, and after we’re married, all I have to do is stick around stuffing my face and sleeping on top of a goose-down mattress? And after a year of this you’re going to pay me for the trouble?” “You’ll be sleeping on the couch within my private chambers. I have no intention of sharing my bed with a man I do not love.” “Here. Do you see this? Do you feel this?” Košmar pounded the old, sagging mattress beneath him with his closed fist. “And don’t even get close enough to smell it. I spend most my nights in a tent in the woods or on rented beds.” “My…condolences.” Sreka wrinkled his face. “Is your couch more comfortable than this?” “By far. The fibers are woven from silk imported from—” “Say no more. I’m your man.” Košmar jumped to his feet. “Let’s see, we’ll need a public introduction. How do we want to play this?” “The simpler the better,” Sreka said. “No, no. We need a story to tell. Something for the scullery maids to whisper about as they scrub pots. You should rescue me—from a dragon.” “Why? It sounds like the plot to a romance novel.” Sreka rubbed the bridge of his nose. “And shouldn’t you save me from the dragon? I’m the one you should be wooing.” “I rescue people from dragons all the time, but when do I ever get to sit back and swoon for a hero? Never. If we’re going to play the lovers, let’s have fun with it.” “But—” “Or is palace life too exciting for you already?” Sreka paused midcomplaint. He stared at Košmar for a long time. Košmar smirked. “I’m right, aren’t I? You’re bored out of your skull in that castle. You’d love to play the hero for a day and scoop a handsome, swarthy stranger into your arms before carrying him off to your palace.” “You shouldn’t assume I find you handsome.” “Doesn’t matter, everyone else will. You can pretend if you don’t fancy my looks.” Košmar winked. “There’s one problem with your plan. We don’t have a dragon who will play along with our scam.” “Watch this.” Košmar walked to the fire, holding his hands to it. He gestured with his fingers and pulled a section of the flames toward him. The fire resembled freshly pulled sugar in the candy-maker’s shop. It flowered and twirled with color, and Košmar molded it into the shape of a dragon the size of a hunting hound. The flames cooled, hardening to bright, poisonous green scales. The creature roared and lunged for Sreka’s shins. When Košmar snapped his fingers, the dragon dissolved into smoke that spread between them in a gray haze. “Magic?” “Yes, an illusion. Are you familiar with the northern road leading through the Czerwony Woods and into the mountains?” “No one goes there because of bandits.” “But there is a royal hunting ground near there, yes?” “There is.” Sreka nodded. “Plan a hunting trip one week from today. Arrive at dawn, and make sure you’re near where the northern road enters the forest an hour into your hunt.” “How will I find you?” “The roars and screams should be a good indication.” Košmar grinned. Sreka mirrored him. “I confess, I’m looking forward to our official meeting.” “Until fate brings us together, my love.” Košmar dropped to one knee, kissing Sreka’s hand. “No need for theatrics when we’re alone.” Sreka averted his eyes. “Best to get into character now.” Košmar plopped onto the worn mattress beside him. “You already paid for the room?” “Yes?” Sreka twisted his jeweled hair into a rope and tucked it back into his woolen cap. “No use letting a bed go to waste. I’ll see you in a week.” Košmar rolled up in the threadbare woolen blanket and shut his eyes. “Sweet dreams, Košmar.” Košmar snorted after he heard the door shut. “Pretty funny for a prince to tell a nightmare to have sweet dreams.” Košmar kept the fire burning in the hearth but blew out the lantern on each side of the bed. The darkness hugged him close as he slept.

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Meet the Author

Hey there, readers. It’s me, ya boi, Sita Bethel. And this is a biography where I tell you all the boring facts about my life- like how I have a degree in writing, and how my two cats, Odin and Anpu, will one day rule this land as your feline overlords. Enough of that same old, same old. Here’s the real dirt. Sita Bethel likes to wrap up like a burrito with a weighted blanket. They host coloring parties as a personal eff-you to anxiety, and read everything from trash British sensationalist novels like The Moonstone by Wilkie Collins to literary masterpieces like The Color Purple by Alice Walker. Had enough of Sita Bethel yet? If not, check out @sita_bethel on Twitter, or sitabethelfiction on Facebook, or even www.sitabethel.com.

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Title: Cutting Cords

Series: Cutting Cords Series, Book One

Author: Mickie B. Ashling

Publisher: Self-Published

Release Date: 6/2/20

Heat Level: 4 - Lots of Sex

Pairing: Male/Male

Length: 63,525

Genre: Romance, Contemporary, bisexual, hurt-comfort, coming out, disability, cutting

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Synopsis

Sloan Driscoll is a talented graphic artist but compared to his father and younger brother—all star athletes—he’s never measured up. A lifetime of insecurity leads him down dark paths. His childhood friend, Cole Fujiwara, a former major league pitcher, embodies all of Sloan’s hidden aspirations. Cole is physically fit, attractive, intelligent, and successful. Seemingly perfect. When Sloan shows up on Cole’s NYC doorstep needing a place to stay, their reunion is anything but simple. Sloan has always been drawn to Cole, but now, even though there’s a girlfriend on the periphery, the attraction seems mutual. One night, inhibitions slip away. But both men are hiding a multitude of secrets. Salvation could be found within each other’s arms. But only if they let it. Cutting Cords is the first book in the Cutting Cords Series previously published by Dreamspinner Press. This series must be read in order and all four titles will be available by September 2020. HEA guaranteed at series end. Content Warning: contains body image issues, drug use, cutting, and some BDSM elements.

Excerpt

Cutting Cords Mickie B. Ashling © 2020 All Rights Reserved The doors of the plane were shut; the engines revved and ready to go. I leaned back and plugged in my earphones, increasing the volume so I could hear nothing but Queen blaring out Bohemian Rhapsody. I loved their music, stage presence, and style. One summer, I even made the attempt to dress and talk like Freddie Mercury. It wasn’t hard, since we had the same body type, not one ounce of fat anywhere. My little game was met with disapproval, so my outrageous persona went back into a compartment in my brain, along with all the other shocking thoughts that resided there. The plane finally took off, almost in sync with Freddie’s falsetto blaring in my ears. I removed my earplugs and unfastened the seat belt when the captain turned off the sign. It was time to go to the restroom and take care of business. The light in the tiny bathroom cast a yellowish shade on my normally pale face. I stared at the mirror, trying to see if I looked any different since my haircut and my father’s attempts to make me look respectable. Everything appeared the same; my hair was still a boring brown, my eyes an unremarkable shade of gray. My mouth was a bit too full and girly for Dad’s taste, but there wasn’t a damn thing he could do about it. I wondered how long it would take for my hair to grow out again. I hated the feel of cold air against my neck, although my tattoo was now clearly visible, the Queen logo, a testament to my devotion. I started to strip, undoing the belt buckle and pushing down my jeans, past the ugly web of scars on my thighs. They were a constant reminder of my inner turmoil, a grim display in varying shades of hair-raising red. I stepped out of my pants and boxers simultaneously, leaving them bunched at my feet. Next off were the tight white briefs that had served its purpose—holding the sandwich bag with my stash in its hiding place near my crotch. I dumped the briefs into the wastebasket and pulled my jeans and boxers back on. I opened the plastic baggy and inhaled the pungent aroma of the high-grade weed, wishing I had the guts to light up, but I knew my impulse would activate the smoke alarms and they’d be pounding on the door within minutes. So I popped a Xanax instead, a poor substitute, but certainly better than nothing. I spent the rest of the flight in a hazy fog. Thanks to my age and the money in my pocket, I was able to buy a few drinks to add to my drug-induced high. I passed on the food, shaking my head at the flight attendant, but asked for more peanuts instead. I could almost hear my father’s voice telling me to eat and not skip meals or I’d never gain weight, but I wasn’t buying into his plan anymore. No amount of sustenance had ever worked to give me the kind of body I craved, so any time I was on my own, I ate whatever I wanted. I knew I wasn’t in California anymore as soon as the cabbie pulled up to the curb and looked me over suspiciously. “Need a ride?” He was a brightly turbaned Indian who spoke passable English but seemed to have left his manners on another continent. I wasn’t sure if it was the late hour or his job, but good cheer was in short supply right then. I was expected to haul my gear into the cab on my own. Cussing under my breath, I hefted the duffel with all my worldly possessions onto the seat beside me. “Can I smoke in here?” I asked as soon as we got going. “Sure thing, buddy.” Pleasantly surprised, I pulled out the joint I’d rolled in the airport restroom and lit up, inhaling deeply, letting the smoke fill my lungs. The cabbie lifted an eyebrow as soon as he smelled the weed. In an instant, his demeanor changed, and he respectfully asked, “Would you be willing to share?” I smirked and passed the joint through the opening in the glass. He took a huge hit, bobbing his head in appreciation. “Good stuff, buddy.” “It better be for what it cost.” “Where are we headed?” the cabbie asked. “Chelsea.” “Okay.” It was almost eleven by the time we stopped in front of Cole’s apartment building, and after I handed over my money, I waited to see if the driver would help me with my bag since I’d shared my dope. Stupid thought. He sat there and checked his log sheet. Fucking asshole. I didn’t tip him. I dragged my shit out of the cab and waited for the doorman to let me in. Apparently he’d gotten word of my arrival, and he actually helped me place my bag in the elevator and told me the apartment was on the tenth floor. When I arrived at my destination, I stabbed at the doorbell for several minutes before the door was yanked open by a guy who appeared ready to strangle me. “Will you ease off the fucking bell already?” “Hey, I didn’t know if you were asleep or what.” “Well, I’m wide awake now.” “Sorry. I’m looking for Cole Fujiwara.” “You found him,” he replied warily. “Sloan?” “The one and only.” “Wow. You’ve grown. When’d you get so tall?” And when the fuck did you get so hot? “Probably when you lost all the weight,” I replied out loud, taking a really good look at him. He was nothing like I remembered. The chubby kid with thick glasses who teased me and told me I threw like a girl was gone. In his place was a young Johnny Depp look-alike with cut-glass cheekbones and bone-straight black hair sliding over his forehead. The specs were gone as well, probably replaced by contacts, but those indigo eyes were exactly the same, courtesy of his Irish mother, and I was rooted to the spot. “Are we going to stand here all night?” I snapped out of my trance even as the blood rushed to my cheeks. Caught in the act of staring again, I was flustered and behaving like a total dweeb. Any hope of making a good first impression was shattered by my momentary lapse in judgment. “Sorry.”

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Meet the Author

MICKIE B. ASHLING is the pseudonym of a multi-published author who resides in a suburb outside Chicago. She is a product of her upbringing in various cultures, having lived in Japan, the Philippines, Spain, and the Middle East. Fluent in three languages, she’s a citizen of the world and an interesting mixture of East and West. Since 2009, Mickie has written several dozen novels in the LGBTQ+ genre—which have been translated into French, Italian, Spanish, and German. Lately, her muse has been nudging her in a different direction, and she’s learned through past experience to pay attention to creative sparks that show up unexpectedly. Her pen name is a part of her now, and will travel along on this exciting new journey, wherever it might lead.

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