Killing Johnny Miracle by JK Franko Book Tour!

October 16 - November 10, 2023 Virtual Book Tour

 

Johnny Miracle thinks he’s got it all… and he’s in love, just not with his wife, Mary. He wants a divorce and he’s got leverage. Johnny knows her deepest, darkest secret. He’s going to use that to take everything: her vineyard, her money, and her priceless family heirloom. He’ll do whatever it takes to get it all.

But, as Grandma Nellie used to say, “No man, no matter how smart or strong, can compete with a motivated woman.” Mary is a motivated woman, she’s got her own agenda, and it doesn’t include losing. She’s going to kill Johnny. To get away with it, she needs a plan and an alibi. And she thinks she has both.

Book Details:

Genre: Crime Thriller
Published by: Rum House Publishing
Publication Date: May 2023
Number of Pages: 350
Book Links: Amazon | Goodreads

Read an excerpt:

Nobody ever said it was going to be anything better
than a round of poker on the raft of Medusa.
It’s not who wins the game that counts.
Nobody wins. It’s who gets out least lost.
From Memo, by Todd Hearon

PART ONE

MARY’S WORLD FALLS APART

CHAPTER ONE

Mary Miracle would always recall with clarity the moment she decided to kill her husband. It wasn’t a decision she’d come to suddenly. She had loved him at one point, with all her heart. But over the course of their marriage, there’d been an accumulation of things he’d done that—little by little, like a blowtorch burning paint off steel—scorched away chunks of her love.

Usually, once love is gone, only indifference remains. In which case, the logical thing for Mary to do would have been to get a divorce, not kill him. But in Mary’s case, there was one final thing Johnny did to her that obliterated not just the love, but even indifference. And from the charred remains of everything she had once felt for him grew a revulsion so deep that she refused to live in a world where he existed.

After Mary decided that Johnny had to die, she spent the rest of the week working out the best way to do it, the ‘best’ way meaning how to kill him in the manner that was least likely to end with her in prison or—as they lived in Texas—on death row.

As his wife, I’ll be the prime suspect. The fact that we’re in the middle of a divorce makes that even worse. Lord knows, I’ve got plenty of motives.

It needs to look like an accident. Poison? A hit and run? Maybe a burglary gone wrong?

And I’m gonna need an iron-clad alibi.

It took Mary a few days to figure out the accident part. The more difficult piece was the alibi. She came up with lots of ideas. But in the end, she concluded that to pull off a foolproof alibi she needed help: an accomplice. There was only one person in the world she could trust with something like this. Abby Winehouse. They’d grown up together, shared secrets. They knew each other like sisters.

Abby also had the skills to help Mary put the finishing touches on her plan. The only downside was that she’d probably try to talk her out of killing him; Mary was almost sure of that.

She arranged to meet Abby at her place that Friday for some wine and cheese. The house was just west of downtown Austin and had been in Abby’s family since the late 1800s. The two friends sat, as usual, on the wooden back deck in lawn chairs overlooking the small yard. Its perimeter was marked by a hurricane fence. The lawn was thick Saint Augustine grass. There was a small rock garden in one corner, in the center of which sat a broken bird bath; the bath part was dry and dusty. A couple of beat-up cornhole boards leaned against the fence by the gate to the alley. It was just past seven. A cool fall evening.

Abby was sharing some of the highlights of her week. She was on a bit of a rant. “And so, I told him, ‘Don’t be mansplainin’ to me about what a rollin’ stop is. You may have a badge, but I was runnin’ stop signs while you were still on training wheels!’”

Mary nodded and smiled as her friend spoke, but she wasn’t listening. She was rhythmically clinking her fingertip against the stem of her wineglass to disguise the slight tremor in her hands. Nerves. She had rehearsed what she wanted to say. And how to say it. Still, her neck felt tight. Could Abby tell that she was distracted? Abby was never one to pry. She had always been the type to chat, entertain, all while waiting for Mary to open up.

“So fiiiiinally,” Abby dragged out the word, “he agreed to let me off with a warnin’.” She shook her head. “But I had’ta get all pissed off and tell him I’m a lawyer to get ‘im to back down.” She scoffed. “Imagine how they treat regular folk . . . ” She stopped to pour herself some more rosé.

Mary decided to capitalize on the lull. The sound of cars rushing down Mopac highway nearby provided white noise that she felt protected their conversation from prying ears. But she reached out and turned the music on the Bluetooth speaker up a bit, just to be safe. A song by The Dixie Chicks was playing, the one about Earl. It was a song she knew well, but she was so focused on what she wanted to say that the irony was lost on her.

“I need to tell you something, Abby,” she said. “Ask a favor, really . . .”

Abby finished refilling her glass. She turned to look at her friend, and her face fell. “Oh, shit! What’s wrong? No. Don’t you cry, girl,” she reacted instinctively, then backtracked. “Or go on and let it all out if ya need to . . .”

Mary hadn’t realized her eyes were watering. Tears were not on her agenda. She inhaled, seeking to extract confidence from the air around her. She wiped her eyes with the back of her hand.

“What is it, Mare?”

“I’m gonna need your help with something,” Mary said. The tension in her neck eased slightly as she spoke.

Abby cocked an eyebrow, and Mary watched her eyes dart back and forth as if scanning through a spectrum of possibilities. Despite all her rehearsing, Mary couldn’t help beating around the bush just a little. “It’s a big one,” she added, her eyes turning hard and her chin tilting up slightly.

The air around the two women suddenly felt almost electric. Mary saw that her friend felt it too; the hair on Abby’s arms stood on end.

She leaned towards Mary, placing a hand on her knee. “You know you can count on me, hon.” She unconsciously lowered her voice to a whisper. “What can I do?”

“I . . . It’s about . . . him.”

Abby inhaled deeply and sat up straighter. Her lips pursed, then she took a swallow from her wineglass. “Well, what’s he gone and done now?” Abby’s head tilted; her mouth set in a hard line. “It’s high time you divorced that sumbitch. I know it’s been a mess. But of course, you can count on me—”

“Oh, no. It’s not about the divorce.” She sat back, more confident now that she had gotten the topic on the table. “I mean, thank God, I found out because of the divorce. But . . .”

Mary had read somewhere that when the police deliver news of a family member's death, they use simple, direct language to avoid confusion. In the shock of the moment, brutal clarity works best. Mary had decided to follow that approach. That’s what she had rehearsed.

She took a sip of wine, her gaze locked on Abby's. She breathed in, then exhaled slowly and, for the first time, said out loud what she’d been thinking, planning, what she knew she had to do.

“I’m going to kill Johnny.”

Her tone made it clear that this was not a figure of speech.

Abby sat for a good while studying her friend. She was searching, hoping for some indication that she was misreading the moment—that Mary wasn’t actually declaring her intent to commit murder.

When it became clear that Mary had nothing further to add, Abby started to speak several times. Mary watched as her mouth would form the tip of a word, before aborting the effort as new scenarios percolated out of her keen mind. Finally, Mary saw that look in her friend’s eyes; her best friend was still there, but the lawyer in her was sharing control. Abby clasped her hands together, resting them softly on her knee, then spoke the best open-ended reply of them all.

“Why?”

***

Excerpt from Killing Johnny Miracle by JK Franko. Copyright 2023 by JK Franko. Reproduced with permission from JK Franko. All rights reserved.

J.K. Franko was born in Texas and spent his childhood in Corpus Christi where he attended St. Patrick’s Elementary and Incarnate Word Academy. He was educated by Irish nuns who thought his conduct poor and academic effort lacking. Franko admittedly spent too much time at the video arcade, playing hacky sack, and later hanging out with friends drinking beer and listening to eighties music (this was in the eighties) at Swantner Park.

He would not change any of that (if he could).

Franko got his act together in college, during what he calls his Tour of Texas: Del Mar College, Baylor University, University of Dallas, University of the Incarnate Word (BA Philosophy, cum laude), St. Mary’s Law School (Juris Doctor, summa cum laude), and UT Austin’s McCombs School of Business (MBA, Kozmetsky Scholar).

He worked for ten years as a trial lawyer in Texas, then went on to work as an executive in the Fortune 100 in Europe and Asia.

Franko has written a number of non-fiction books and articles. But storytelling has always been his passion.

Publication of Franko’s first three novels—the Eye for Eye trilogy—was complete in 2020, with international publication in translation beginning in 2021.

He will be publishing two books in 2023: Killing Johnny Miracle and The Black Book.

Catch Up With JK Franko:
JKFranko.com
Goodreads
BookBub - @jk137
Instagram - @jkfranko.author
Twitter - @jk_franko
Facebook - @jkfranko.author

Tour Participants:

Visit these other great hosts on this tour for more great reviews, interviews, guest posts, and opportunities to WIN in the giveaway!

JOIN IN ON THE GIVEAWAY:

This is a giveaway hosted by Partners in Crime Tours for JK Franko. See the widget for entry terms and conditions. Void where prohibited.

Get More Great Reads at Partners In Crime Tours

 

The Cruel Dark by @beanorthwick Book Blitz! #beanorthwick #TheCruelDark #XpressoTours⁣⁣⁣

 #BookLove #BookStack #GoodReads #BookShark #BookCommunity #ReadersOfInstagram #BookBabe #Reading #BookAesthetic #BookishPost

The Cruel Dark
Bea Northwick

Publication date: October 31st 2023
Genres: Adult, Gothic, Romance

Millicent Foxboro is haunted.

Not by ghosts, but by the anguish of her past and the uncertainty of her future. After all, even in the progressive year of 1928, most people would balk at hiring a woman who’d spent two months in a mental ward for traumatic amnesia. So when an uncommon assistantship to a reclusive Professor of mythology falls into her lap with an ungodly salary attached, her desperation for stability overrides her cautious nature.

To Millie’s dismay, the widowed Professor Callum Hughes and his estate, Willowfield, are more than she bargained for. The once magnificent home, known for its sprawling gardens and dazzling parties, is falling to pieces after the death of the professor’s fragile wife. What’s more, the staff has been reduced to the only three people not frightened away by rumors of ghosts, leaving the halls empty and languishing in bitter memories.

The professor himself is a grim, intense man with unclear expectations, unpredictable moods, and hungry eyes that ignite Millie’s own dormant passions. The closer she finds herself drawn to Professor Hughes and his strange world of flowers and folklore, the more the house closes in, threatening to reveal her secrets. But the professor is keeping secrets of his own, and the most dangerous of all is hers to discover.

Goodreads / Amazon

I’d never questioned the presence of my wits more than the moment I stood in the frigid morning air and watched the hired car arrive. The vehicle, sleek and ostentatious, was said to be capable of going fifty miles an hour, and I pretended it was the prospect of that speed making my stomach do somersaults.

The car pulled to a smooth stop, and a tall, ruddy driver unfolded himself from the front seat, introduced himself briefly as Joseph Dempsey, and went to collect my bags. It was short work; I had only one. I wasn’t a woman of means. As the gentleman loaded my valise into the trunk, I ran my bare fingers along the smooth deep sea blue of the wheel hull. This was, undoubtedly, the worst decision I’d ever made, but there were few options, and this was by far the least evil of them.

I glanced over my shoulder to the doorway of the little bookshop I’d come to know as home, where the stooped owner, Mr. Helm, had appeared, his blue eyes uncharacteristically red-rimmed. I’d never seen him on the verge of tears, and my heart constricted painfully. I rushed to him, pulling a thin cotton handkerchief from my pocket. It wasn’t in his character to embrace, so he enveloped both of my hands in his. They were large hands, covered in the ink stains of his trade as an antique book restorer, a business he had been teaching me for the past year despite his once firmly held belief that restoration was not for women.

Mr. Helm had been a tall man in his youth, but the war and many years hunched over a workman’s table had scuttled his stature. I didn’t need to lift my chin to look at his face, which was working to arrange itself into something less aggrieved. I was glad for his trying, because I would call off everything if even one tear rolled down his cheek.

Bea Northwick is a lover of magical, spooky, and romantic things. She owns too much perfume, can’t pick an aesthetic, and loves 80s movies. She lives with her husband, children, dogs, and a black cat in the sunny American South where she dreams daily of Irish cottages and rain swept Scottish castles.

The Cruel Dark is her debut novel.

Goodreads / Facebook / Instagram / Bookbub

GIVEAWAY!

Signed copy of The Cruel Dark

a Rafflecopter giveaway

—

Christmas Memories at Waterside Cottage by K.T.Dady Blog Tour!

 

Christmas Memories at Waterside Cottage

Welcome to Pepper Bay, where you’ll find love, drama, and a happily ever after.

Snuggle down with this cosy, feel-good, comfort read that whisks you away to a beautiful bay on the Isle of Wight – Perfect for fans of Christie Barlow, Alison Sherlock, Rachael Lucas, and Holly Martin.

The Pepper Bay books are standalone stories that intertwine with recurring characters. Best enjoyed when read in order.

Christmas Memories at Waterside Cottage: Charlie and Grace have been together for four years, but when Grace wakes up in hospital after an accident, she doesn’t remember her husband at all. With Christmas just around the corner, and it being their favourite time of year, Charlie pulls out all the festive stops, hoping his wife will remember their relationship or at least fall in love with him all over again, because there is no way he can lose her.

Purchase Links

https://www.amazon.co.uk/Christmas-Memories-Waterside-Cottage-Pepper-ebook/dp/B0BMQS2VD4

https://www.amazon.com/Christmas-Memories-Waterside-Cottage-Pepper-ebook/dp/B0BMQS2VD4

Hello, I’m K.T. Dady. I’m the bestselling author of the Pepper Bay series. I’m also a chocolate lover, mum to a grown-up daughter, and a huge fan of a HEA. I was born and raised in the East End of London, and I’ve been happily writing stories since I was a little girl. When I’m not writing, I’m reading, baking cakes, or pottering around in my little garden in Essex, trying not to kill the flowers.

Social Media Links –

https://ktdady.com

https://www.instagram.com/kt_dady

https://twitter.com/kt_dady

https://www.facebook.com/ktdady

WHO SHE LEFT BEHIND Victoria Atamian Waterman Blog Tour! @cathiedunn @victoriawatermanauthor @cathiedunn. bsky.social

 

#HistoricalFiction #ArmenianFiction #WomensFiction #WhoSheLeftBehind #BlogTour #TheCoffeePotBookClub

 

Book Title:   Who She Left Behind

Author: Victoria Atamian Waterman

Publication Date: October 17, 202

Publisher: Historium Press

Page Length: 230 Pages

Genre: Historical Fiction

WHO SHE LEFT BEHIND

Victoria Atamian Waterman

“Who She Left Behind” is a captivating historical fiction novel that spans generations and delves into the emotional lives of its characters. Set in various time periods, from the declining days of the Ottoman Empire in Turkey in 1915 to the Armenian neighborhoods of Rhode Island and Massachusetts in the 1990s, the novel completely immerses its reader in a lesser-known era and the untold stories of the brave and resilient women who became the pillars of reconstructed communities after the Armenian Genocide.

It is a story of survival, motherhood, love, and redemption based on the recounted stories from the author’s own family history. The narrative is framed by a mysterious discovery made almost six decades later of a pair of Armenian dolls left at a gravesite.  

Universal links: 

Hardcover:

Ebook:

Other links: 

Amazon UK

Amazon US

Amazon CA

Amazon AU

Barnes and Noble

Kobo

Historium Press

Victoria Atamian Waterman is an Armenian American storyteller and speaker who draws inspiration from the quirky multigenerational, multilingual home in which she was raised with her grandparents, survivors of the Armenian Genocide.

Her empowerment of today’s women and girls makes her voice ideal for telling the little-known stories of yesterday’s women leaders. Her TED Talk, “Today’s Girls are Tomorrow’s Leaders” has been seen by thousands of viewers. When she is not writing and speaking, she is reading, puzzle-making and volunteering.

Victoria lives in Rhode Island and is enjoying this next chapter of life with her husband, children, and grandchildren. “Who She Left Behind” is her first novel.  

Website

Facebook

Facebook Author Page

LinkedIn

LinkedIn Author Page

Instagram

“Where?” Her whisper struck the silence like gunfire; Victoria winced, searching the ground near the tree for a good spot. 

“Shush. There.” 

Neither girl had experience digging holes in hard-packed, root addled soil. The morning’s soft rain hadn’t softened the soil much. For what seemed like hours, they traded the spade until the hole was nearly big enough for their bundle. 

Victoria’s stomach clenched when she pushed the bundle into the misshapen hole. The dolls didn’t know what was happening, but she couldn’t bear to think of their unseeing eyes, like dead girls in a grave. Yegsabet’s eyes were huge and wet with unshed tears. 

Victoria took the spade. “Tell Nuri to be a good girl, and we’ll be back when she wakes up.” 

The mound of disturbed soil was obvious when they were done. 

“Let’s find some rocks and cover it up.” 

The rocks didn’t make a lot of difference; the disturbed ground was obvious, but they were out of time. The light was shifting. 

Sweating and chilled, they slipped through the house, stashing their dirty clothes under the bed and washing hastily. Mayrig would be furious with them for sneaking out if she found out.  

Tour Schedule Page: 

The Endless Sea Between Us by Lucy Mason New Release Blitz!

 

Title:  The Endless Sea Between Us

Author: Lucy Moon

Publisher:  NineStar Press

Release Date: 10/31/2023

Heat Level: 1 - No Sex

Pairing: Female/Female

Length: 66600

Genre: Fantasy, Romance, fantasy, family-drama, witch, mermaid, magic, prince, quest, body swap

Add to Goodreads

Five years ago, Faeryn Moss lost her family and home to a plague that swept her village. As the sole survivor, she was rumored to be a witch—a rumor she never denied because it was the truth. Ostracized and cast out in fear, she now lives a quiet life in a cave on the beach, alone with her magic and the only thing that never let her down, the only thing she loves: the sea. But when she sings up a storm borne from her grief in order to collect a net full of the sea’s treasure, she gets more than she bargained for. There’s a mermaid tangled within it.

Zale, washed into the net by the storm, is full of questions about humanity. Banished from her society for rescuing a drowning human, all she wants is a chance on land to start over. Seeing an opportunity for both of them to get what they want, Faeryn creates a transmutation rune—but as they go from reluctant allies to something else and Zale thaws Faeryn’s frosty heart, they struggle with what’s more important...their chance at a new beginning or their budding romance.

Everything changes when the kingdom’s witch-hunting prince decides to take Zale as a member of the royal court and the potential future queen against her will. Faeryn must follow her across the sea so their transmutation rune can be completed by the next full moon or risk losing her love and her life to the very magic she cherishes.

The Endless Sea Between Us

Lucy Mason © 2023

All Rights Reserved

Faeryn

The seaside village of Acantha was convinced the only way a girl could be the sole survivor in a house struck down by plague was if she was either a witch or was cursed. Little did they know, the village stopped thriving not because I had survived but because my mother hadn’t. Not all witches wove spells of bad intention; she blessed the town all her life, ensuring good fortune, plentiful crops, and favorable weather. She spent my first thirteen years murmuring words of protection, resilience, and well-being over me before kissing my forehead and telling me good night. It was the only thing that saved me—I had no proof, but I knew it as sure as I knew her blood, witch’s blood, ran in my veins.

The village had burned my house—and several others—to the ground to keep the plague from spreading, though I had saved and hidden my mother’s references and spell books. Where she had closely guarded her secret, I never denied their assertions about my magic, even as the threat of witch-hunts spread outward from the capital like a deadly ripple. I had been encouraged to move along to another town. I had not-so-respectfully declined and went about my business, because if Acantha was going to hate and fear me, I was going to give them a reason to do so. If they wanted a villain, a pariah, I’d give them one.

I rebuilt my life in a cave off the beach, only venturing to town for Wednesday market to buy goods I couldn’t procure myself and sell the gifts the sea brought me. I hoarded my blessings and spells; I used them to keep myself dry and warm, to carve runes in the stone to conceal the entrance and entice fish to swim into the small pool that filled every time the tide rose and trapped them when it fell.

I occasionally used magic for less scrupulous things—but only when I had to. The sea gladly turned over its riches to me, and I didn’t care to take advantage of it, but sometimes money was a necessity. So, on the afternoon of my eighteenth birthday, I whispered words of dryness and care, dipping my fingertips into the small dish of ground seashells and the ash of burned driftwood and running them over the fabric of my dress and up and down the leather of my boots. I marched down to the beach clutching my net, a giant thing I’d made myself, hours and hours spent weaving golden thread—bounty, vitality, security—into the hundreds of knots holding the ropes together.

I waded into the water, to my knees, then my hips, then my chest. The waves washed in and out, and I felt the current—but remained dry. I swam out and tied the net to a buoy I had anchored there, then attached the other end to a buoy farther down the beach. I ducked under, my eyes stinging, and traced a symbol like a bow, for closure, capture, finality. It glowed briefly then faded, pulsing very dimly in the murky depths. There wasn’t much I could do below the surface; runes were always more effective when they were imbued with the intention of spoken words.

My waterproofing charm was wearing off—drips of water collected in my boots and my skirts clung to my legs, not wet yet but just faintly damp. The first five or six times I’d done this, I had come out looking like a drowned sailor, my hair in dripping snarls and my boots so heavy with water I could hardly walk. Practice, time, and patience had improved me—I stood on the beach and lifted my arms and whispered. The little droplets of water clinging to me and dampening my dress evaporated.

If I was the heedless nightmare they feared, I would do the next step without warning the villagers. Instead, I made the quarter hour’s walk into town. Well, I say town—it was really nothing more than a small cluster of houses, a blacksmith, a tavern, a butcher, and a cobblestone square for the market to set up in while vendors passed through. The children, towheaded and wide-eyed, dared each other to get close to me. They huddled together and whispered, “It’s the sea witch! She’ll turn you into an eel!” as I walked past them. I kept my eyes straight ahead on my way to the blacksmith’s shop, barely able to resist the urge to lunge and hiss and make them scream in terror. My mother would be disappointed to know I had done it before; my father would have been delighted. I’d inherited my temperament and inability to suffer superstitious fools from him.

Someone had started the rumor that if children misbehaved, I’d drag them down to my seaside cave and turn them into a fish—or worse, eat them. It was meant to make little ones behave, to come inside when their mothers called them, but I had never exactly refuted the outrageous claim. Sometimes fear was a powerful tool. It was the only thing keeping them from attacking me—the only thing keeping them quiet.

The tall, gawky apprentice at the blacksmith’s was bent over the forge, his dark hair stuck to his forehead, damp with sweat. He was one of the few who didn’t find me frightening; he facilitated most of my communication with Acantha at large. His family had been my family’s neighbors until the sickness took my mother and father, when they had retreated to the far end of Acantha to escape contamination. We had played together as children. He still had the friendly, cheerful manner and sweet disposition of a boy who hadn’t lost everything, though, and the loss of my parents hung like a veil between us. A veil he couldn’t see or feel, but one I was always painfully aware of.

“Owen.”

He didn’t startle or turn to look at me, a gentle clink from the fire as he withdrew a piece of metal glowing cherry red. Once he quenched it in a barrel of water, clouds of steam billowing around us, he coughed, clearing the air with his hand. Through the haze I could see his hopeful grin.

“Faeryn! What can I do for you today?”

“There’ll be a squall tonight.”

His face fell, the crinkles at the corners of his eyes fading with his smile. “Oh. Okay. Natural, or…?”

“Unnatural. Only rain will touch the town. I can keep the winds confined to the beach. Spread the word. Don’t let anyone wander down there, and don’t let any boats near the water.”

Owen tossed his thick, sturdy gloves onto his workbench. “Thank you for the warning. I’ll let everyone know. You don’t have to go just yet. Would you like some tea?”

His master wouldn’t be wild about the idea of a witch in his workshop. Eckhart disliked me as much, if not more, than most other villagers. Owen was his at-will employee; catching him in my company could be the end of his promising career. So I shook my head, because it was a lonely life, but I wouldn’t let him take the fall. The village had turned its back on me when I’d been orphaned, and if I’d made it this long on my own, I wouldn’t let a boy pity me for it.

“If you change your mind, I always have a pot brewing.”

“I’m afraid Eckhart wouldn’t be terribly pleased to find me here…or that you’d shared his tea with me. The answer is still no.” Every time he asked, and every time I refused. The days of playing together were long gone; too much grief had gone under the bridge since then.

He frowned, a little wrinkle appearing between his eyebrows. “Someday I’ll be a proper blacksmith, not just an apprentice, and you can come in whenever you like. Eckhart doesn’t have any say in what I do after work, though. Tea later?”

I backed away, exasperated. “I said no. Good day, Owen.”

“Goodbye, Faeryn! I’ll see you later!” he called after me, and I ran for the beach, away from him and the people who had turned their backs on me and my family, my boots kicking up small clouds of dust on the path. It was easier to cling to the bitterness that kept me afloat than drown in the sorrow.

Purchase

NineStar Press | Books2Read

Meet the Author

Lucy lives in rural southern Illinois with a frankly ridiculous amount of yarn and books. During the day she works in adult education and by night she’s a writer and dabbler in yarncrafts. She knits, loves video games and podcasts, and cries over fictional characters regularly.

Website | Twitter

Giveaway

One lucky winner will receive a $50.00 NineStar Press Gift Code! 

  a Rafflecopter giveaway

Infala: The Alien’s Bond is book 1 in the Mark of the Infala series by @kiraquinnbooks Book Blitz! #kiraquinn #Infala #MarkoftheInfala #XpressoTours⁣⁣⁣⁣

 #Booksy #BookNerd #BookLove #BookStack #GoodReads #BookShark #BookCommunity #ReadersOfInstagram #BookBabe #Reading #BookAesthetic

Infala: The Alien’s Bond
Tamara Grantham

(Mark of the Infala, #1)
Publication date: October 31st 2023
Genres: Adult, Romance, Science Fiction

As if alien abduction wasn’t bad enough, it seemed Darla’s captors didn’t want her for something as simple as breeding or even experimentation. The Raxxians were nasty pieces of work, and they had other plans in mind. Namely, they wanted to eat her, and not in the fun way. But the universe, it seemed, had other plans.

Spared a gruesome fate when the Raxxian ship crashed on a distant world, Darla found herself suddenly free. Free but on an alien planet with only the company of another former prisoner.
An alien.

A tall, muscular, impossibly alluring alien.

One who didn’t seem thrilled about taking the little human woman under his protection, at least not at first. Little did either of them know just how hot their time together on this new world would become, and in a way that had nothing to do with the planet’s blazing sun.

Goodreads / Amazon

Strangely, Darla found herself a bit torn as they trekked out of the village. Sure, Zepharos had a bit of a reputation. Okay, a lot of a reputation, but who didn’t? And who was she to judge without having all of the details firsthand? And it was nice having someone show such interest in her.

Then again, she had also been given that warning from someone who had nothing whatsoever to gain from it. Rohanna was just doing her a solid, as far as she could tell. But damn, he was one sexy son of a bitch. And unlike Heydar, Zepharos was actually available. Available and interested.

Ugh. This is all just so messed up.

She adjusted the small pack she had been given as she walked, the pressure of the straps annoying her tender shoulders. Heydar had taken care to ensure it was not overloaded, taking all the heavier items in his own backpack, sparing her newly inked skin from the inevitable abrasions and sweat it would otherwise cause.

Even so, she felt her skin drying out as the pigment set in. And boy was it itching.

A lot.

“Do not scratch,” Heydar said as she finally gave in to the urge. “You must let the pigment bond uninterrupted for it to properly take hold.”

“Yeah, I know, but it’s annoying.”

“As is complaining,” he shot back.

Darla flashed an angry glare his way, and amazingly, it seemed to land. Heydar hesitated, stopping in his tracks. “Very well. Drop your pack and come here.”

She did so, more because the straps were itchy as hell than from a desire to do as he asked. In any case, that one action alone provided a modicum of relief. Heydar’s own pack remained on his broad shoulders, riding there as easily as if it was weightless to the massive alien. He stepped to her and took her arms one at a time, surveying the condition of her newly inked skin.

He nodded, satisfied, then unceremoniously lifted her top, surveying his work, tracing his fingers over the rapidly healing designs. He followed one of them up her flank, curving along the side of her breast where it rose to her collarbone.

Darla’s nipples had gone hard the second he had lifted her top, the skin straining and tight in the open air. Heydar didn’t seem to notice, but as his fingers followed the line higher, his thick wrist grazed the erect nub, sending a wild, electric buzz directly to her clit.

Darla forced down a gasp, clenching her teeth and flexing her legs and abs hard to remain in control. This was something new. She’d always had sensitive breasts, and she’d loved nipple play as long as she could remember, but this? This was a whole new level. It was like walking around resonating like a goddamn tuning fork.

Is it always going to be like this now? ‘Cause I don’t know if I’ll ever get anything done if it is.

She let out her breath, willing her pulse to slow. Heydar looked at her curiously.

“Are you ill? You look as though you may faint. Do you need to sit?”

Darla blushed. “I’m fine. Can we just get on with it?”

“In a moment,” he replied, turning her to study the ink on her back and hips. “Your pigment is settling in much faster than normal. How very unusual.”

“Good unusual, though, right? Not something bad.”

“It is not bad. Just something I have not encountered in my years. The pigment is not only binding to your flesh, it is thriving, starting to move on its own.”

“What does that mean?”

“I told you the pigment is a living reservoir of power. It becomes a symbiotic part of your body in time, even shifting to form new runes, allowing you to tap into the galaxy’s power.”

“Okay, you already mentioned that before.”

“I did. But this process normally takes time. And you, my unusual human, are already showing progress most do not see for months if not years. It is no wonder your flesh itches as it does.” He slid the pack off his shoulders and dug inside. A moment later he produced a small tin with a painted lid. He popped it open revealing a thick salve of some sort. A musky-sweet aroma wafted from the container.

“What is it?”

“Gorram extract,” he said, scooping out a dollop with his long fingers. “Hold still, this will not take long.”

“What won’t?”

He ignored the question and began applying the substance to her tattoos, first the tender lines on her hips, tracing his way up her flanks and in along her interwoven back designs. The relief was almost instant and the Gorram extract was greedily absorbed by her healing skin.

“Interesting,” he muttered.

“What?”

“You are taking it in much faster than I have ever seen. Normally, this merely sooths the itch, providing a healing, moisturizing coating to the decorated flesh. But in your case, it is almost instantly drawn in.”

“What does that mean?”

“It is nothing to cause concern. Gorram is used by the pigment as an alternate food and energy source while it is completing its bonding with your own body. Part of that process is what you feel in your skin.”

“The moving feeling?”

“Yes.”

“That bit’s weird, I have to admit.”

“The shifting of the pigment to form and reinforce the runes that are most in tune with your own physiology is unique to every individual. Normally, it moves very slowly. In your case, however, the pigment is quite active. You are already forming power runes in your designs, and not just the weak trace beginnings.”

“So, that’s good, right?”

“Yes. It just normally takes much longer.”

“I’ve always been a fast learner.”

“Apparently so. It is no wonder your skin is sensitive,” he said, applying more of the Gorram extract, tracing the lines with his fingertips.

Whether or not he knew just what his touch was doing to her she couldn’t tell, his face was neutral even as he gently rubbed the substance into her skin. He finished with her back, switching to her flanks and frontal hip bones, then working up, following the different colored lines and designs as they traced her musculature, curving under her breasts and up to her collars and shoulders again.

Darla’s body felt absolutely electrically charged and for just a moment she wanted nothing more than for his hands to grab her breasts and pull her close, giving her nipples a delicious squeeze as her bliss crested like a tidal wave.

Heydar, however, merely continued the process, tracing back down between her breasts, over her breastbone and finally stopping just below her bellybutton.

“Your body is exceptional,” he said.

“Why, thank you,” she replied, a fine sweat on her brow. “I guess you could say—”

“Or a freak of nature,” he cut her off. “Time will tell.” He sealed the tin and placed it in her hand. “I will leave the application on your legs to you when we stop next. The sensation will lessen as your pigment settles, but for the time being it will continue to itch. Use the Gorram sparingly though. That is a normal supply for the entire healing process, but it appears your pigment would take it all in one sitting if given the opportunity.”

Darla was still tingling with arousal, and apparently the Gorram was fueling it further. But it was also reducing the itch, so it was an acceptable trade off, even if the gorgeous man in front of her was ignorant to her primed body.

“Thanks. I’ll be okay for now,” she said.

“I am pleased to hear it. Now, let it heal, and do not scratch.”

“I’ve got it.”

“Very well,” he said, shouldering his pack once more.

Darla picked up hers as well, the straps far less uncomfortable now. She felt his stare and turned to meet his curious gaze. He held it for a long moment, and she could have sworn there was maybe at least a hint of interest there. But with an alien, who could tell? In any case, a moment later he turned and continued their trek.

What is up with this guy? Darla wondered, falling in behind him. And what’s going to happen to me?

A longtime fan of both sci-fi and fantasy books, Kira has also enjoyed her fair share of steamy novels along the way. As is the case with so many indie authors, working a day job slowed her roll considerably, but with a lot of early morning and late night writing sessions she finally managed to chip away at the dream of becoming a published author, sharing the stories that have been churning in her head all these years with the world.

Website / Goodreads / Facebook / Instagram

GIVEAWAY!

Print copies of Mark of the Infala books 1-3 (ebook if int)

a Rafflecopter giveaway

—