Kimberly Frost's Blog

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Chapter 1

JESSE

When people wish for a fairy-tale life, I don’t think they know what they’re asking for. 

There’s fae magic in my genes, and it causes me nothing but trouble. I’ve been on the run since I turned sixteen, and now, I’ve got a bounty on my head.

That’s how at twenty-one, I’m as far north as I’ve ever been, chugging a witch’s tonic to disguise my supernatural side as I prepare to go into an enemy’s house. To rob it. This definitely isn’t my first choice of how to spend a Saturday night, but right now choices are as rare as black opals. 

I’m driving a borrowed vintage Mustang, which I hope won’t attract too much attention. A sliver of the beautiful blue Atlantic Ocean is stretched alongside me. Here it’s called the Rhode Island Sound. 

I head into a neighborhood that’s about as old as they get in America. My right hand swivels the wheel while my left, which is in a splint, rests against my thigh. Sidling up to the tree line, I glance at the big wrought iron gates that stand between the stone pillars of Stonemere, a historic mansion. It belongs to Nik Adamik, who’s apparently the head of a group of East Coast dragons with black scales. I’ve never seen an onyx dragon, and hope I never do. If I’m lucky, I’ll be in and out of his house before he ever knows I was there.

With the bounty on my head, my last chance to save myself and my little sister is to go into this dragon shifter’s lair to recover a priceless weapon. It’s a dangerous plan on a lot of levels. Dragons do not like having their treasures stolen.

In the online images of Adamik, he’s got black hair and eyes almost dark enough to match. He’s so good-looking, it’s like he’s been through four or five Instagram filters, but I doubt that accounts for it. He’s probably like my little sister Sadie and other fae descendants who are born unnaturally beautiful. I wasn’t born that way, though I guess I’m sort of unconventionally pretty.

My natural hair color, which I often disguise by dying it, is a kind of dirty wheat color. My hair’s definitely nothing special, especially the dull brown color I’m currently sporting, but I do have big cornflower blue eyes that people always comment on. I think my eyes border on being too big for my face. When I dyed my hair pinkish gold, I looked like a Manga character. Men hit on me all the time in that disguise, which makes me wonder about them. Human traffickers also tried to snatch me, but that may have been because I’m fae-descended. Rumor has it that girls with fae blood are abducted at a higher rate because magic attracts humans. It’s why the original fae were such good seducers. From the look of him, Nik Adamik probably inherited fae magnetism. That makes him especially dangerous for me to be around because I’m a potential mate for dragon shifters.

And even if Nik Adamik doesn’t feel the pull of my potential mate status—which I go to lengths to mask—robbing a guy like Adamik is extremely dangerous. Dragons guard their treasure as ferociously as the fairy tales claim, so if Adamik catches me trying to steal a priceless artifact, his first instinct will probably be to kill me. And if it isn’t, well, that’ll be even worse. Someone like me is almost as valuable to a dragon shifter as the weapon I’m planning to steal. It’s the whole reason I’m in this mess.

My phone buzzes. I need to turn it off, but I’m hoping to talk to Sadie before I go inside. If something goes wrong in Adamik’s mansion, this could be my last chance.

Picking up the phone from the passenger seat, I can see the text isn’t from her. It’s from Zaz, the glossy-haired fae who brokered the deal for the weapon. 

I open Zaz’s text.

Zaz: Abort mission. The beast is back. Drive on to Midwest. I’ll attempt to negotiate a different deal.

I already know Adamik’s back from his ski trip. It sucks that he returned early. His absence was going to give me a decent chance to get in and out of his place undetected. But I don’t have the luxury of waiting for a better time. I need to make tonight work.The clock’s ticking. With every day that passes, the vicious biker dragons from my hometown get closer to finding me.

Adamik’s hosting an event for his jewelry company, Winter Rock, which means heavy foot traffic. That’s definitely better than him being home alone without distractions. I remove the splint from my wrist and move my hand experimentally. No pain now. Leaning back against the leather seat, I close my eyes for a second. I haven’t slept much in days.  Not since having to jump out of a moving car. I wince at the memory that threatens to replay in my head.

Concentrating on the present, I shake my head. No time to relive that nightmare.

I shove the door open and climb out. A car with well-dressed people in it passes and turns up the drive. I wonder if they know the truth about their gorgeous host. Probably not. 

Most humans don’t know that the fairy tales author Llewellyn Faye wrote from 1733 to 1744 are true. Most probably haven’t even heard of them. They’re not famous like Grimm’s, and it’s hard to find copies. You’d think more people would know though since they’re true. Another realm, the Amberverse, exists, and once upon a time, its creatures broke into our world. Apparently when they got here, they seduced humans and took whatever they needed from us. Trapped, enslaved, bled or bred, that’s how we end up if we attract their attention.

I circle the car, which belongs to my friend Sage. I think she got it in trade for a witch’s brew. If this night goes as planned, I’ll be able to pay her back in spades for borrowing her car and for all the other help she and her coven have given me over the years. 

A car like this is perfect for this trip because it’s got no GPS. Powering off my phone, I wait for the screen to go black. Then I open the trunk and drop the phone into my duffle. 

I smooth down my black skirt and the white Oxford shirt that’s got a logo that’s a pretty close approximation of the catering company’s. I press a hand against my thigh where I’ve got a small flask strapped. To cloak that I’m a potential dragon mate, I drink a special witch’s brew. I’ve already had some of the potion, but I may need more. Lately, the brew hasn’t worked as well as it once did. All the more reason that my plan to steal the Amberverse dagger needs to work.

Walking up the road, I pass under Stonemere’s granite archway and between its iron gates. My body trembles from adrenaline. Here I go again, trespassing into dragon territory.

You’ve managed tougher, I remind myself, drawing in a slow breath and blowing it out. 

I won’t enter the house through the front since my plan is to blend in with the catering staff. Heading around back, I spot the event planner’s van. 

As I slip inside the mansion, I’m instantly hit by waves of heat that ripple over me. It’s got nothing to do with central heating; this is what it feels like when I’m near a dragon shifter. 

I look around sharply. How close is he?

Through an open doorway, I catch a glimpse of a tall, black-haired man and shudder, my nipples tightening in my silky demi-cup bra. Two things. One, I didn’t drink enough of the potion, and two, I should’ve worn a chastity belt. Cursing the fae magic that’s always trying to claim me, I move to a corner of the kitchen, pretending to arrange a tray. Waiting for the dragon shifter host to get the hell away from the doorway is essential before I try to use it.

I finally lift the tray and head out. In the hall, when I’m sure I’m alone, I set the tray down on the nearest console table. As I duck down a quiet hall, my ears strain at every sound. My stomach’s in knots, but I ignore it, pushing myself to keep going even while my nerves scream at me to get out of the onyx dragon’s house. 

I wish I could leave. Jumping in a car and taking off for parts unknown is what’s kept me alive and free so far. These days though, nowhere in North America will be far enough. Are there witch covens in Siberia or the Arctic Circle? Maybe I should have found out. Too late. Leaving before I rob Nik Adamik isn’t an option. Sadie’s just a teenager. I’m not abandoning her, and I’m not going to set her up for a life like the one I’ve been living since I was her age. Instead, I’m going to use the reclaimed dagger from this mansion to secure our freedom. That’s the deal I made with Zaz. I get him the dagger, and the vampire royals pay me and stop the Bronze dragons from ever coming after us again.

As the hum on my skin intensifies, one thought pounds my brain. Wow, Adamik’s powerful. The attraction’s never been this bad before. I need more of the witch’s brew, so my true nature stays buried. With every step, my body wants to turn and head in Nik Adamik’s direction. He’ll be as gorgeous as a crackling fire, all smoky and dark, and probably capable of triggering a burning lust inside me that’s almost irresistible.

Keep moving! Do NOT stop. If he senses you, it’s game over.

As I war with myself, my vision blurs. Yeah, I’m in trouble. I fist my hands as the silkscreens on the walls become dancing colors. Shoving a door open, I nearly fall inside. Closing the door quickly, I lean against it. My eyes focus slowly. I realize I’m in a media room with a wet bar, and the room’s empty. Thank God…or whatever power’s responsible for my finding a safe spot.

The witch’s brew goes down easier if I dilute it with liquor, so I cross the fancy rug to the bar and lift a heavy cut crystal tumbler. Reaching under my skirt, I grab the flask and yank it free.

My hand shakes as I pour the gray liquid in the glass. There’s maybe a teaspoon. It’s all I’ve got with me. It better be enough. Once upon a time, all I’d needed was a bespelled amulet to keep myself hidden from Amberverse creatures. Over time though, nature had taken its course. 

I grab a bottle of fancy bourbon. His booze looks top-shelf, which makes sense since he’s a billionaire dragon. His knickknacks probably cost more than the restored ’69 Mustang. The label on the bourbon bottle is Pappy Van Winkle, which sounds like hillbilly hooch to me. Shouldn’t that be the drink of choice for dragons who live in the Smoky Mountains? Namely Bronze dragons, like the ones in my Tennessee hometown?

I pour three fingers of bourbon over the witch’s brew to cover the taste and oily texture. Swirling the now amber liquid in the glass, the word amber sears my brain. Amberverse, the mysterious world where these freakish sky serpents came from.

I lift the glass to my mouth and tip my head back, sucking down every drop. Swallowing the bitter flavor makes me thank fate for the bourbon. I exhale through my nose slowly, pressing my lips together. My stomach churns and burns from the potion, but that’s good. I need it to work its strong magic on me, so I’ll seem normal.

Standing still, I wait as my body absorbs the serum. Yes, good. I think my awareness of Adamik is fading. My heart slows its hammering beat, and a burning buzz from the bourbon hits my lips, making them tingle. I feel better. 

There are voices in the hall.

Damn it. Now what?

I rush over to a closet and yank the door open. It’s full of electronic equipment, but I manage to wedge myself inside and close the door.

Through a narrow opening between the slats, I watch a pair of men stroll in and know instantly neither is human.

Freaking hell. What happened to my good luck?

The guys are drop dead gorgeous, which isn’t a surprise. Just once, I want a dragon shifter’s looks to hint at the monster within.

The taller of the two, who I recognize as Nik Adamik, is over six feet. He’s sporting a short black beard and a “come with me to a fundraiser, and let me screw you in the elevator” vibe. The other, who’s slightly shorter, appears even more muscular. His hair’s buzzed, making him look like a prize fighter with billion-dollar-endorsement potential.

“So, I made another call about the drones we saw when we were kite-skiing,” Adamik says. “The vampire royals claim they don’t know anything about it.”

“Yeah, right,” the man in the black trousers, crisp white shirt, and sport coat says skeptically.

“They say they’ll look into it.”

“Again, yeah, right.” Adjusting his shirt cuffs, he adds, “I’m looking into it too. Wanna place a bet on who brings you answers first?”

Adamik pours some of the wicked strong bourbon into a glass and hands it to his friend. 

Startled, I realize the glass I used is still sitting on the bar, out of position and coated with expensive bourbon and more.

“Before Canada, I went to Miami,” Adamik says.

“I heard.”

“Did you hear why I went?”

“No, but I can guess. There aren’t too many things you’d make a trip that far south for.”

Adamik reaches to the back and raises a bottle with a jewel-encrusted dragon head on it. He removes the head and pours clear liquor into a glass. Vodka? Gin? I’d bet my cell phone it’s not rum because that’s a liquor made for lazy beach days in paradise, which is not how these guys roll. 

Adamik doesn’t add anything to his glass. He just takes a swig of straight-up bejeweled dragon’s head liquor. “I heard there might be a potential mate at a jewelry expo down there.”

My heart almost stops. He was looking for a girl like me? I hold my breath, not even daring to breathe too hard.

“You went to a jewelry expo? How’d that work out? Come out with a pocket full of black diamonds?”

Adamik smirks. “I didn’t go into the main event. The woman was supposed to be a vendor. I waited where she’d have to pass me.”

“No kick in the gut, huh? So, if there was no potential mate there, why are we talking about it?”

“You’re not curious? It’s priority one, Cole.”

“If you thought the intel was good, you’d still be down there.”

Adamik nods. “Yeah, I’d still be there. And I’d have called you down to help me look. I wasn’t planning to scoop her up for myself with no contest. I’m not a Bronze.”

“Bronzes are winning the mating game, so maybe we shouldn’t brag too fucking hard about how we conduct ourselves.”

Do these guys behave differently than their Bronze enemies? Good for them if they do.

Adamik’s fingertip circles the rim of his glass. “Why are they winning?”

“I don’t know, man.” Cole exhales a frustrated sigh. “Some say luck.”

“I don’t buy it.”

“Mase has a theory. He thinks it could be the climate. Maybe more of the fated like hot weather, and over time, the families migrated south.”

“If that were true, we’d be extinct by now.” Adamik pauses, thinking, and then shakes his head. “This has been on my mind all week. There were more winter fae who came through into this world. Look at how many vampires Caldwell has.”

I stiffen. I know Colin Caldwell. He’s a vampire prince and the buyer I’ve got lined up for the dagger. This conversation is hitting way too close to home in so many ways.

“Caldwell lives in the South,” Cole points out.

“Yeah, because vampires are cold-blooded. But our mates don’t need hot weather. They need us. We bring as much heat as a human can stand. If anything, they should want to live north of Philly like we do. So that once they’re mated, the weather would be more hospitable.”

 Cole sips the bourbon, then says, “They don’t know they’re looking for us.”

“I’m not talking about the ones where the traits are dormant for years and then surface. I’m talking about families where the lore has been passed down. It doesn’t make sense for them to go south to Bronze territory. We’re better for humans in every way. We’ve got better control, more resources, and a better community.” Adamik’s hand tightens, clinking a heavy ring against the crystal in exasperation.

“I agree it’s effed up. Run some Facebook ads, brother, or whatever you do for Winter Rock. Get us some girls. I’ll kick in a hundred grand a month to the marketing budget, no questions asked.”

“And say what in the ads? Ladies, fairy tales are real. If you think you’ve got princess potential, we want to meet you.”

Cole’s silent, but he smirks.

“Well?”

“No. I don’t know. That’s not my area, man.” Cole finishes his bourbon.

“We shouldn’t need to work so hard to find them. They’re in the North, too. They must be. Fate, not Facebook, should bring them to us.” 

“All right, they’re in the North, too. And hunting people down is my specialty. If you tell me where to start looking, I’ll find our girls.”

“If I knew I’d already have sent you. What I want is for us to think about it from another angle. We’ve got more of every other kind of treasure. We should have more of the women who matter too.”

“Yeah,” Cole says slowly. “Bronzes have gotten all the potentials in the past what? Five years?”

“Longer.”

“Something’s off.”

“There’s something else I should’ve mentioned earlier. When I went to Miami, someone tripped the alarm here. Mase’s sister Kirsten was house-sitting, using the library. When the alarm went off, she turned on the outdoor lights and saw a couple men run from the property. We assumed humans, but what if the Miami information was bogus and was meant to lure me away so the house would be unprotected?”

Cole’s brows rise. “It would take serious balls to steal from one of us. A human wouldn’t know better, but a ‘verse creature would. Robbing us is a path to ash.”

“Right, but thieves don’t plan to get caught, do they?”

“No, but if they took something the dragon considers valuable, there’d be no way to get away clean with it.”

Someone else tried to break in? Am I not the first person the vampire royals sent in to get the dagger? Or could someone other than royals be trying to steal it?

“Zever doesn’t consider the library his treasure. I’ve got a collection with some valuable volumes. Maybe someone was after those.”

“Books?” Cole shakes his head.

“You know the saying. ‘Knowledge is power.’”

“Nah, power is power. Fire is power. Two-foot claws? Yeah, power. But books…?” Cole shrugs.

“Just a thought. More likely it was humans looking to steal jewels. What resources do you need to investigate why so many more mates are being found in the South?”

“I’ll let you know.” Cole pushes his empty glass next to the other two. “Mase isn’t here tonight. Who’s been drinking the Pappy besides me?”

“Someone from the catering staff must’ve taken a nip.”

Cole glances around. “Want me to sort that out?”

I crouch down, trying to make myself as small as possible.

“No, I’ll deal with it.”

“You sure? That’s some expensive booze, right? A few grand a bottle. What’s your dragon say? Treasure or no?”

“No reaction from Zever. Besides, if I see an ant, I don’t go straight for Napalm.”

Cole shrugs his broad shoulders. “I don’t have to bring my Napalm game. For ants, I’ve got the bottom of my boot, don’t I?”

Adamik smiles. “It’s all right. I’ll handle it.”

“Cool. Is there going to be dinner tonight?”

“No, just what’s out now. It’s a cocktail reception to show some new sketches to company management.”

“All right, I’m out.”

I wait for them to leave so I can finally take a full breath again. Stumbling from the closet, I grip the wall and chew on my lower lip. Wouldn’t Nik Adamik and his friend Cole like to know that some Bronzes have an advantage because they practically home-grow their mates? What would that information be worth to a billionaire dragon? Probably plenty. Enough for me to buy my family’s freedom? The only thing I’ve ever wanted?

If you told him that, there would be two groups of dragons set on keeping you and Sadie prisoner. No thanks. The dagger’s your best shot. Go find it.

Yeah, that’s the thing to do.

Normally, I would never dream of stealing from a dragon. As Cole said, that’s something no one can get away with long term. But, the dagger’s not going to be my problem for long. I’m turning it over to others who seem to think it’s not the rightful property of these dragons anyway. Apparently, the Amberverse lands are broken into two parts. One part has sections where the weather is perpetually spring, summer, and fall. That larger part of the Amberverse belongs to the summer-side fae. The second part is a land of ice and snow and is therefore called the Winterverse. It belongs to fae who are in exile. According to my sources, the dagger in Adamik’s mansion is gold and bronze and should never have fallen into the claws of a Winterverse dragon.Whether that’s true or not, I’m sure Adamik will be furious when he finds it’s missing.

I leave the media room and find my way down the back hall. It’s nice that he’s living in an old place that was designed with the Upstairs-Downstairs class war in place. I can take the deserted servants’ stairwell, and no one will ever know.

At the top of the stairs, there’s a sign on a chain hanging across the landing. No entry. It’s like being in a museum. I roll my eyes. Pretentious much? What else has he got up here? First edition Llewellyn Faye books? Those are super valuable to certain collectors.

The first couple of rooms are bedrooms. The master suite has a California king bed with a tufted headboard and platinum-colored everything. Above it, there’s a black crystal chandelier.

“It’s good to be king,” I murmur, glancing at the embellished wardrobe with its antique mirrors. 

Moving down the hall, I peek into a guest room, which is equally opulent. Crystal, silver, mirrors, and a stunning, hammered-aluminum mosaic wall. The fluffy white bedspread is slightly creepy because it reminds me of rabbit fur, but I also want to lie down on it. The bourbon and witch’s tonic are hitting me really hard for some reason. 

“Thank God,” I whisper when I spot my quarry within the next room. I hurry into the upstairs study and close the door behind me. 

Staring at the display case, I realize that the stunning weapon isn’t really a dagger. It’s a sword. Dragons are thirty feet tall. I guess it’s dagger-sized to them. 

The beautiful gold and bronze artifact has jewels inlaid in the crossbar of the hilt. Citrines and rubies and peridots and emeralds—the colors of sunshine and blooming plants. The colors of summer. 

So, it’s true what the Serpent Sons claimed. The East Coast onyx dragons have a dagger that doesn’t belong to the Winterverse. Of course, that doesn’t matter to me. I’m definitely not turning it over to my biker dragon enemies, even if it did belong to their kind centuries ago. 

I lick my lips and grab the bottom of the display box. When I try to lift it off the hook, it doesn’t budge. 

“No, no, no, no, no,” I whisper, trying to look behind it. The back of the display box is metal, and it’s bolted to the wall.

Oh man. Now what?

It’s a rare and priceless Amberverse sword. Did you think a dragon would make it easy to walk off with his treasure? Come on, girl. 

My best option is to break the glass, but how loud would that be? There’s music on downstairs and a lot of people talking and laughing. Could I do a “smash and grab” without being overheard? What if I use something to muffle the sound? And what would I use to break the glass?

Too much bourbon. Not enough plan.

Remembering the fireplace poker I saw in the guest room, I race down the hall. I grab the poker and snag a towel from the bathroom as well.

Back in the study, I examine the dagger again and decide I need a better angle than I’ve got standing on the floor. I only want to do this once, so I might as well give myself the best possible chance to succeed. Kicking off my shoes and coiling the towel around the poker, I consider things. Then I drag a chair just off to the left of the dagger case and climb on it.

Taking a practice half-swing and lining up my aim with the poker, my only thought is, yeah, perfect. 

Settling in, I shake my hips like I see all those pro baseball players do and shimmy my feet more solidly into the chair’s cushioned seat. Then I swing, jerking the poker back behind my right shoulder.

Just as I switch momentum, arcing the metal rod forward, a voice behind me says, “I wouldn’t.”

Chapter 2

JESSE

It’s too late; I can’t check the swing. The poker slams against the glass, which cracks but doesn’t shatter, and the impact and the shock of hearing a voice sends me flying backward off the chair. 

I hit my head on the way down, and sharp pain and white halos of light explode before my eyes. I don’t slam onto the floor, but I don’t realize that at first. My eyes are closed, and the throbbing in the back of my head intensifies, making my stomach churn. I may be sick. I smell blood, but it’s bitter and mossy. I remember that scent wafting up from a cast iron pot over a campfire in the witch’s colony. I’m smelling the brew spiking my blood.

Someone’s caught me and is still holding me. The owner of the voice. I need to look, but I also need a minute. The room spins. I don’t know whether it’s the bourbon or the head injury. Both, I guess. I need to lie down, but first, I need to get out of the big black dragon’s house.

“I don’t feel good,” I say, holding my head to keep my brain from vibrating in my skull. My eyes open to slits. Hovering above me is the big-time dragon himself, Nik Adamik. Up close, his dark eyes are glossy obsidian, and having him look at me is like being dipped in warm maple syrup, all sweet and delicious.

No, no is what I should be thinking. Yes, yes is what registers. 

He’s beautiful, even with the scowl and the narrowed eyes.

Damp seeps down my neck. Not sweat, though the heat from him is intense. Blood? I reach back to touch the aching spot, but he catches my wrist and shakes his head.

“Don’t touch,” he says, rolling me onto my side away from him. 

He separates my hair to inspect the damage. His finger hits a tender spot, and I wince and jerk my head forward.

“You’re hurt. Stay still,” Adamik orders.

Then I’m being lifted. Oh Jesus. I’m cradled against him. He smells like smoke and pepper, honey and molasses.

I should lick him.

No, you should not lick him!

What is happening?

My skull is like a beehive, buzzing way more intensely than any kick from a couple shots of bourbon has ever been. 

He pauses. The fabric of his suit jacket is silky against my cheek. Do they dip the fabric in freshly churned butter or what?

“It’s a nice suit. Designer of course, and worth a mint.” I don’t realize I’m speaking out loud until he responds.

“It was,” he says.

“Was?”

“Before you bled on it.”

“Yeah, my head. Is it still bleeding?”

“A little, but I’ll fix it.”

“You’ll fix it, jewelry maker? With what? A soldering iron?”

He flashes a smile, and it’s devastating. I want to bite my lip. And his.

I need to get out of his mansion before he realizes what I am. And before the witch’s brew completely fails like the mission did.

“I think an emergency department is what I need.” I’ll be able to slip out of an ER with no problem. Millions of exits. Lots of chaos. Perfect place for disappearing into the night, which I know from experience.

“I’ll take a look first.”

“I think I need stitches.”

“Maybe you do. Let’s see, Miss—?”

Misguided. Misfortune’s fool? “The world is really, really spinning,” I say, closing my eyes. I’m not telling him my name or anything about myself. I can give him a made-up name, but I’m already anticipating him standing over me as I try to register in an emergency department, and the person at the desk saying my name doesn’t match the social security number I’ve given.

I need a tactic. How can I get away from him?

Feeling myself being lowered, I open my eyes a crack. Of course, his giant tub rivals a swimming pool with jet engines. I grab the side, trying to stand the second he sets me down.

“Hang on,” he says, holding my shoulder with one powerful hand and turning the tap with the other. 

Water gushes from the main tap and side jets, and I slide to the back of the tub. “What the hell are you doing?” I say as the water courses up to drench the back of my skirt.

He shoves a washcloth under the tap and then squeezes it over the back of my head. 

“Turn off the water!”

“I’ve got a better idea. Turn around and put your head under the tap.”

“No way,” I say, pulling my knees to my chest. 

His hand on my shoulder is making it impossible to stand, but I’m not cooperating. 

“Get off,” I say, trying to shove the hand away. Inspiration hits me like a lightning crack. “What are you trying to do to me now? Drown me? Stop it!”

He pauses, scrutinizing me with a dangerous expression. His irises are so dark I can’t tell, but I’m betting his pupils are going elliptical.

I shiver, fear mixing with my lust and desperation. I need to get the hell out of his house.

“Screaming isn’t a great strategy,” he says.

“Just let go,” I say, trying to peel his fingers off. When he touches me, the sensations shoot to my belly and lower. He’s so gorgeous and magnetic it’s hard to handle.

“Why should I let go?” he asks.

“So I can get up!”

“Why?”

I stare at him like he’s insane. If I were standing, the rising water I’m sitting in would be ankle-deep.

“Because! Let go of me, so I can get up and leave.”

“Leave?”

“Yes. I don’t know what you think you’re doing, but in about ten seconds, I’m going to start screaming.”

A black brow rises. “You don’t know what I’m doing?” He steps back, folding his arms across his broad chest. He’s imposing, especially while I’m sitting in his tub with a head wound and my skirt soaked through.

“I’ll just leave,” I say, holding the side of the tub as I stand. My head still feels fuzzy. And my attraction to him is still overwhelming. I’m a wreck of emotional contradictions.

Nik shifts position so he’s blocking the doorway. Not good.

I step out of the tub, and puddles of water form under my feet. I lost my shoes, but I don’t even care. One glance at his black trousers makes me want to sink to my knees in front of him. Jesus. My belly clenches, and so does my sex. This is really bad. It was never like this around the Serpent Sons.

“If you’re set on the emergency department, I’ll call the police to meet us there.”

“The police?” I say, truly surprised as I take a towel from the rack and dry my legs before I drop it on the floor and step onto it. Although attempted robbery does warrant police involvement, the Serpent Sons would never call the police for anything. They deal with betrayal by burning it to ash.

“Or I can take care of your injury, and we can sort things out ourselves,” he offers.

Ah, he’s trying to use the threat of law enforcement as leverage. I’ve faced enraged dragon shifters; cops don’t scare me. Almost no human can. My tactic stays the same…deny, deny, deny. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Hmm.”

“Look, I can’t—I’m not accusing you of anything. I just want to go.”

“You’re not accusing me?” His tone is icy despite the blistering heat radiating from his body. He shrugs off his suit coat and hangs it from a hook on the wall. There’s a smudge of blood on his white sleeve where my head was resting. Why does that look almost erotic? Like smeared lipstick. I’m losing it.

Trying to toughen my voice, I say, “Can you move? I want to go.”

“No, I’m not moving.”

A desperate plan hits me. I’ll go farther with pretending the concussion has me dazed and confused. He seems to want to calmly reason with me, so it might throw him off his game. “Look, I don’t know what happened. I—I can’t remember. All I know is that I’m hurt and you’re acting strange, so I want to go.”

“You can’t remember? You don’t remember swinging a fireplace poker and smashing the display case of a priceless antique?”

“No! And what about my head?”

“You hit it when you fell. You must remember that?”

I shake my head. Cue the amnesia con. “Everything’s fuzzy. Even my name.”

“Your name? You’re saying you don’t remember who you are?” The skepticism is as thick as lava.

“Yes, and I’m sure I wouldn’t have been destroying things for no reason. Was I swinging at you? Why? What were you trying to do to me?” I demand.

He sighs and shakes his head. “You have such a volatile temper.”

I freeze, confused. “What do you mean?”

“Come on, sweetheart, let me wash the blood out of your hair.”

Sweetheart? A shiver of dread courses through me. I don’t move. I don’t breathe. “I don’t understand—”

“It’s all right. The amnesia’s just temporary.”

What? “I want to go.”

“Where would you go if you have amnesia?”

“The hospital.”

“No, we’re done going there. You were adamant after the last time.”

I stare at him. What the hell?

“It’s all right. I’ll bandage the wound, and you can lie down. By morning you’ll remember who you are. When this happens, it never lasts more than a day or two, Iris.”

Iris?! Jesus Christ…is he…what is he doing? Is he trying to turn the tables on me? “My name’s Iris?”

He nods.

“And who are you to me?”

“Your significant other.”

Holy hell. Checkmate.

Some people have noticed that I'm publishing my dragon shifter paranormal romances under the name "Kim Frost" rather than "Kimberly Frost." It was a tough decision to do so, but I went ahead with the switch for 3 reasons. 

First, I wanted readers to be aware that there would be something different about these books than my main established series. The tone of the Winterverse Dragon books is not comedic (though my usual wit does play a role. After all, I have the kick-ass main character of Hunted Dragon Mate faking amnesia in the early scenes.) In addition, the love/sex scenes in the story are more detailed and have stronger language than I've used before. That's just a reflection of the current trend in romance. 

And finally, I wanted to target a slightly different readership than I'd targeted before. With the Southern Witch series, my readers were urban fantasy and humorous mystery readers in addition to paranormal romance readers. The Winterverse dragon books are paranormal romantic suspense, and I want to be sure to focus on paranormal romance readers.

HIGHLIGHTS:

Southern Witch = light, laugh-out-loud funny, absurd, contains a mystery

Winterverse Dragons = not absurd, witty but not comedic, very sexy/steamy with the language to match

* Both series are action-packed and have roots in fae folklore 

* Both series have kick-butt heroines. (Jesse, of Hunted Dragon Mate could easily be cast in an urban fantasy.)

 

 

To get the book for free: https://www.frostfiction.com/newsletter

This is a sexy Fated Mates Paranormal Romance written under the pen name Kim Frost. 

WARNING: The story contains language and scenes that intended for audiences that are over 18. 

Fate is powerful. Seductive. And dangerous.

TANNER

I’m on a road trip when fate hits me, drawing me to the rarest dragon treasure there is—a fated mate. She’s so sexy and compelling I want to claim her in every way there is. But I’ve got two problems. First, one of the shady original fae is trying to take my treasure away from me. And second, my stunning potential mate has no idea magic is real.

Things get complicated. Fast. She’s determined to pump the breaks on us, but that’s not how things work. She’s mine, and she’s in danger. That means we need to stay together—indefinitely. 

ANYA

My attraction to this beautiful stranger is epic. The cocktail of a savage six-pack and skin that smells like spices and smoke is intoxicating. But I know better than anyone not to let my guard down. Unfortunately, I can’t seem to control my reaction to him—even when visions hijack my mind and make me feel like I’m going crazy.

Dangerous creatures are pursuing me, and it could be tied to a tragedy from years ago. I need answers, but first I need to regain control. That’s not easy though, because with every passing moment, my intense connection to this gorgeous dragon shifter gets stronger.

I need to escape, but fate—and an ancient dragon—won’t be denied. Not even when the magic threatens to destroy me.

 

WANT TO LISTEN TO ME NARRATE THIS ESSAY...
CLICK HERE to listen to or download the Kimberly Frost MP3

Mother Nature has it in for someone in Houston. I don’t think it’s me personally, but that may change since I’m about to call her out.

A little background, I grew up in the land of frozen windshields and lock de-icers in a beautiful but frequently frigid state named Michigan. For awhile, I’ve secretly suspected that the reason MI is shaped like a mitten is because it doesn’t want to lose any fingers to frostbite. 

For those outside the North, let me describe the scope of the problem. In 1995, we had to turn on the heat in September and didn’t get to turn it off until May, which in case you’re too lazy to do math—and let’s face it who isn’t most of the time—that’s 3/4 of the year. I was personally affronted by winter’s selfish monopoly of the calendar. And yeah, I held a grudge about it.

From childhood, I’ve never felt at home in the cold. Looking back, I guess with my imagination I  really shoulda considered whether I might be like a changeling from the summer fae. But barring a faery switch, it could also have been a human thing. 3 of my 4 grandparents are from warm climates, two were Tennessee natives and one was a Mediterranean islander. Did this heritage lead to a love of swimming and suntans and a disdain for snow shovels? Perhaps. Because each year, the warning “Winter is Coming” filled me with as much dread as a Game of Thrones character.

Fast forward to my adult life when I began looking for jobs after residency. Remembering my longstanding frustration with deep freezes and fresh off a pair of bad winters, I only looked for positions in the South. I believed Texas, as far down as I could get and still be in the United States, would be far enough to avoid snowstorms. People warned me that it would be too hot. Better than a windchill of 7 any day, I thought. I’m going.

Houston lived up to its sultry reputation, with 3 solid months a year with temperatures in the mid-90s. June through August, it’s 95, 94, 96 pretty much every day. Houstonians know what to expect. If I’m being honest, when I walk outside in August it leaves me feeling like I’m scaling Mount Doom like a hobbit with a ring to get rid of. So in summer, I’m not ambitious enough to take quests. If it’s noon, I’m driving my car to the mailbox, not walking. I also use the scorching heat as a good excuse to drink iced anything, including frozen margaritas. 

After my move to Texas, I soon learned that just as MI could have three-quarters of the year requiring heat, Texas could require air conditioning 3/4 of the year. Eighty degrees in November is not uncommon, and I’ve been like… okay, I’m here for this. AC or bust. Yes, ma’am, Mother Nature, go on with your blistering sunshine, I’m putting on SPF 30 right now.

Mother Nature, as you may have noticed, is not here to make friends. She’s not. Nobody on the planet gets an uninterrupted Happy Hour with calypso music playing in the background. So soon after arriving in Houston, the Gulf Coast acquainted me with tropical storms and hurricanes. There was legit flooding where people perished and others—the Make Lemonade types—kayaked down the freeway the morning after. It was insane, but so are ten-inch snow drifts, so I’m like, ok, here to stay. 

Over the years, I soldiered through rounds of power outages and bizarre flooding, and I refused to break down into any hurricane hysteria. Like a native, I’ve developed a hurricane prep routine, which involves filling my gas tank, filling my bath tub, and stocking up on Pop Tarts and canned food, bottled water, and margarita mix. After the “500-year flood” I considered myself a tropical storm veteran, not to be rattled by the occasional chaos of a Category 5.

As if to test my resolve, Hurricane Harvey brought the kind of epic flooding that made me wonder if Mother Nature was taking up mermaid pilates. Because I think we can all agree that 27 trillion gallons of rain is a bit much unless you’re God trying clear the planet for Noah and some animals. (By the way, I didn’t exaggerate when I said 27 trillion gallons. That’s the actual amount of rainfall during Harvey. Look it up.) Even so, I doubled down on my thinking: nope, not moving; I signed up for tropical weather, and, apparently, you don’t get palm trees without the occasional downpour of biblical proportions. Gotta deal with it. Maybe gonna need to add inflatable raft to my hurricane prep though. Hashtag, Harvey, the 1000-year flood, schooled me.

Then Mother Nature, perhaps seeing my defiant acceptance of freakish floods, decided to try a different strategy. In February 2021, while still in the midst of a pandemic and only 3 years post-Harvey, Houston experienced several days of overnight temperatures in the teens. Temps in the TEENS, people, in Texas. Wait, what? 

Texas is not prepared for an ice storm of any duration, let alone multiple days of it. It became an Icepocalypse of burst pipes and crashing power grids. There were widespread waterless faucets and people burned old furniture to stay warm, getting carbon monoxide poisoning in the process. Jeeze. Cue the Armageddon opening credits, for real.

I was not only shocked. I felt betrayed. This was a clear violation of the agreement Houston and I forged years ago when I agreed to move here expressly to avoid snow and ice. Breach of contract, H Town. Full stop.

I’m not trying to say I had the worst time. I actually consider myself lucky. #1, I did not die. #2, in my house, the temperature only fell to 45 degrees, deflating my exercise ball like a balloon and forcing me to use citronella candles to warm my hands—a purpose for which a citronella candle was never intended—but otherwise I was all good. Still, on the scale of bewildered outrage, I was about an 8 most days. Houston is built on a swamp; mosquitos and West Nile virus are expected scourges. Indoor icicles are not.

Unlike friends who had pipes burst indoors, I had only one outdoor gushing water incident when a sprinkler spigot cracked and spewed water into a corner of my yard. After I took care of that, I decided to protect my exposed pipes, adopting a Zombie Apocalypse philosophy…Help is not coming. The plumbers are overwhelmed. Danger is coming, because we're about to have another night below 30 amidst rolling power and water outages. So I insulated my own pipes with a combination of old t-shirts, trash bags, and duct tape. Here’s what I can tell you about that…with enough duct tape, you can MacGyver through a lot of craziness. Keep a good supply of duct tape, people, no matter where you live. 

As I type this, it’s 79 degrees, which is “March in Texas” behaving like March in Texas. So that’s awesome. But I’ll tell you one thing…I better not hear a peep out of my city during hurricane season this year. When you are brought to your knees by an ice disaster, you forfeit your right to call yourself a tropical climate that’s entitled to major hurricanes. And, as for you, Mother Nature…same, girl, same. You’ve had your meltdown for the year. Come fall, Drama Mama, walk on with your storm surges. Walk on.

 

Chapter 1Callie Melville was wanted by the law, but to put it that way made things sound worse than they were. She hoped. The rumors she’d heard about the new police chief didn’t make her look forward to their meeting.Callie stood in the shadow of the Granger Falls police department with her auburn hair blowing and lamented the way her day was going. The trouble had started even before she’d woken up, but she wasn’t going to think about the premonition right now. She had a bigger issue at the moment. A seventy-five-pound-dog issue.Rufus had never cared for police stations, which Callie felt was irrational. Despite some reckless choices on Rufus’s part, he wasn’t the one the police had summoned. In fact, the only time the police had looked for him in the past, it had been to give him a medal usually reserved for police dogs.Callie stood with an arm resting on top of the open car door and looked down at him. It was impossible to tell what unholy mongrel mix of breeds he was. In addition to really unattractive features, his troubled puppyhood had left him with several starbursts of scar tissue and only half of his left ear. Even as a pup he’d caused young children, who usually adored puppies, to pause and take a step back. The vet suspected he was part bull terrier, possibly mixed with mastiff and something else. He had a huge skull and a wide, flat face, making his head a two-tone bowling ball of dirty white and muddy gray. It was safe to say that Purina commercials weren’t in his future, but Rufus had other qualities. “Seriously, Ruf, if I close this door and go in alone, you’d better not change your mind and go nuclear on this car.” Rufus liked riding in the car, provided it was moving. He didn’t, however, care to be left in it when it was parked. Callie suspected it made him feel imprisoned, which Rufus had no patience for. He had been known to tear seat covers and puncture the dashboard as many as forty times in the span of fifteen minutes. He also didn’t care for collars, leashes, or fences. Rufus stared past her at the police station, making no move to escape the car. “Ok, I’ll be right back.” She took the bone from the dash and set it at his feet on the seat. “Be cool.”She closed the door, popped the trunk open and took out the large shopping bag. She’d met Chief Pell once before at the retirement party for his predecessor. Physically, the new chief was a mechanical pencil of a man, tall, thin, rigidly straight and precise. His painfully thin frame was probably due to a high metabolism and was definitely none of Callie’s business, but she couldn’t resist bringing her wares to the meeting. She carried a large handle bag filled with her honey-glazed ham and goat cheese turnovers, honey-toasted vegetable popovers, and honey hazelnut fudge.Inside the station, she set the largest box on the police chief’s desk before handing the bag filled with four smaller ones to a grateful deputy who hustled out.“No need to bring food, Miss Melville,” Chief Pell said, setting the box to the side without a second glance. “I know that you were friendly with the former police chief, but I plan to run things my way. We won’t be needing any help from supposedly psychic beekeepers.”“That’s not up to you,” she said calmly, channeling her cousin Lotus, who was rarely offended when someone insulted her. Lotus didn’t rattle because she just didn’t give a damn what anyone thought of her. Callie admired that talent, especially today.“It certainly is up to me. I’m the chief of police,” he snapped.She blinked, thinking it was a good thing that Rufus had stayed in car. Unlike Lotus, Rufus was easily offended. Raised voices directed at Callie were high on the list of things Rufus did not tolerate.“Listen, Chief Rudy was a great old guy in a lot of ways, but I know he was a little too free with his praise. He thought it added to the region’s charm to share some wild stories about the Mystical Melville cousins, as he called us. The truth is that I’ve never sought recognition. None of us has. So if that’s your concern, please understand that no one has to know that I’m providing information—”“You’re right. There will never be another story about Honeycakes Melville and her faithful hound helping the law find missing children. This isn’t a cartoon.”“He’s not a hound. As least not as far as the vet can tell. And my business is called—”“Whatever! We don’t need your so-called information. We’ll collect our own information from verifiable sources. That’s called investigating, and it’s what we’re trained to do as policemen. No need for Ouija boards or crystals.”She rolled her eyes. “Listen—”“No, you listen,” he said, raising his voice again. “Unless you witness a crime in person or are the victim of a crime, I don’t expect to see you in this office again.”“Fine with me,” she said, swiveling and striding out.“Hang on,” he said, pursuing her. “You also won’t be showing up for any search parties or at any crime scenes.”She shoved the door open and walked outside. She didn’t think he could legally block her from joining a volunteer search party, but she had no intention of arguing about it. She didn’t take orders from the police chief or anyone else. There was only one power that she had to answer to. The one that sent the visions. “Did you hear me, Miss Melville?” Chief Pell demanded.Rufus jumped to attention, his paws on the passenger window glass as he growled and bared his teeth.“Don’t yell. My dog doesn’t like it.”“Good God, that’s an ugly dog. What kind of dog is that?” he asked, momentarily stunned, as most people were, at the sight of Rufus.“Loyal,” she said. “As the day is long. And accomplished. He’s found two missing kids. That’s two more than you, right? So the best, that’s the kind of dog he is.”“And violent. You’d better keep him under control.”“He’s not violent.”“Didn’t he bite Larry McIntry’s dog?”“Self-defense,” she said flatly.“Bull! And doesn’t he tree every cat within a twelve-block radius?”“When provoked.”“Provoked? Exactly what do these cats do to provoke him?”“Cat things,” she said with a shrug.“I don’t care that you and your dog got lucky and discovered a couple of lost kids that I’m sure would’ve been found by other searchers eventually. The days of your dog running wild are over.”Rufus barked madly and butted his head against the glass like he’d come through it any second.The chief made a show of unsnapping his holster and glaring back at Rufus.Callie stepped in front of the passenger door to block their line of sight. “To shoot Rufus, you’d have to go through me, and gunning down an unarmed beekeeper might be hard to explain your first week on the job.” Callie reached back and rapped her knuckles on the glass, saying over her shoulder, “Rufus, relax. I’m fine.”The dog growled, but the wild barking ceased.“See you around, Chief.”He glowered, but eventually, when she did nothing but wait, he turned and walked away. Only when he was safely back in the station and out of sight did Callie walk around the car and get in the driver’s seat.Rufus sat back, but his gaze stayed fixed on the building.“That went great, Ruf.” she said, starting the car. “I think we charmed him as no other citizens have in a long time.” Callie pulled away from the curb, shaking her head. It had been the former chief’s idea that she come to him immediately whenever a new recurring dream began. He’d wanted to brief his men on the details and alert them to be vigilant. Chief Rudy thought it might uncover evidence that could prevent or at least lead to rapid resolutions of impending crimes. It had almost worked. The police had mobilized and been within a mile of where she and Rufus had ultimately found the lost two-year-old child eight months ago. The little boy had wandered out in the dead of night. He was already hypothermic when she found him. If she hadn’t woken from the dream and known to start a search, it would’ve ended in tragedy. Tommy Walker had been the one she’d seen face down in the creek. He’d only been six feet from the water when Rufus had caught up to him. They’d barely made it in time.Her dog had blocked the little boy’s progress and then bumped him down to the ground, lying over him to keep him warm until she’d gotten there. The exhausted little guy hadn’t even screamed about the smelly dog’s heavy bulk on top of him.“Rufus, you beautiful beast,” she’d exclaimed, hugging her dog before dragging him off the disheveled bundle. “It’s steak all week for you,” she’d said, so relieved she’d been teary-eyed. They’d saved a toddler from drowning.The new police chief was a jerk, but Callie doubted there’d be a way to avoid him. The universe had things to say, and the Melvilles knew to listen. Each of them that had a gift had learned the hard way that to ignore or abuse a mystical gift led to terrible consequences.Most days, Callie was a beekeeper and casual organic farmer. She spent her Friday nights baking honey cakes and making fudge or roasting vegetables for a variety of flavored popovers and pot pies. Saturdays and Sundays, she ran booths at farmers’ markets. Her booth was popular, and she loved seeing her regular customers and meeting new ones. Callie chatted, drank coffee, took suggestions for new recipes, and sold every bit of whatever she made. It was a great way to spend a weekend, and she never missed setting up her booth. Unless, that is, a dream became reality. When a premonition event happened, she wasn’t a beekeeper or organic food artisan. She was a Melville who’d survived a storm. When called, storm survivors had to stop everything and answer the universe’s dark message.She’d been dream-free for eight months. Then the night sent her a new vision. And this one didn’t have a lost toddler who’d pushed open an unlatched door and wandered away from home. This dream featured a hulking man and a teen girl. Callie hadn’t seen enough yet to know what would happen, but she knew the possibilities left her in a cold sweat. The timing of Chief Rudy’s retirement was the worst. If ever Callie could’ve used the police’s help, it was now. Instead, all she had were visions, a newly purchased stun gun, and a rough, ugly dog named Rufus.
THE BLURB: A beekeeping psychic versus a muscle-bound Marine?
Callie Melville doesn't know the first thing about solving crimes. Especially one that hasn't happened yet. But Callie has a mystical power, and a premonition has led her to the prime suspect in the upcoming abduction of a pretty teenager. At first the sizzling chemistry between Callie and the attractive ex-Marine makes investigating him easier, but the more personal things get, the higher the stakes become. 
Add in a massive mutt with bad manners, a nasty new police chief who’s gunning for her, and an irrepressible octogenarian, and life becomes pretty complicated. Will she rescue the teen girl in time? Or will Callie become a casualty of the vision herself?
No one ever said being Mystical Melville was easy.

BUY FROM: Amazon or Barnes & Noble (More buying options coming soon)

Some years ago on Xmas Eve, I tried to recreate a dessert from a cookbook called Death by Chocolate: The Last Word on a Consuming Passion. 

The recipes are crazy complicated and, as a complete novice in the beginning, I had some problems. Over the years, I've learned a few tricks and have definitely gotten better. But even now, I sometimes run out of time and end up with ganache that hasn't set and melts down the side of a cake to pool at the base. Not the best look, but still delicious!

My experience with taking on recipes that are too much for an amateur is probably what makes the hilarious Netflix show Nailed It! such a sweet treat for me.



They've got a hilarious judges plus amateur bakers who are given complex artistic confections to create within impossible time constraints. I don't even think professional pasty chefs could get the challenges done in time, let alone the motley group of contestants they've got.

Check it out! I think you'll love it.

The holidays are just around the corner, which means it's time for Chick Lit Chat HQ's annual Holly Jolly Chick Lit Hop and this year it's bigger and better than ever! 63 bestselling and award-winning authors in the Chick Lit and Romantic Comedy genres are participating in this fun-filled event and each one is doing a fantastic giveaway. Books, author swag, gift cards, and other assorted holiday treats are all up for grabs.

But wait! There's much, much more. On the hop's Facebook group page, you can enter to win our Grand Prize—a large holiday gift box filled to the brim with a fabulous variety of holiday and winter-themed goodies (the darling, KitschNStyle gingerbread house apron, Snoozies! sherpa socks, Calvin Klein cashmere pom-pom beanie in petal pink, Too Faced sugar cookie eye shadow purse palette, Sally Snowflakes mug by Bella Pilar, Well Read Women: A Reader's Journal, and handmade chocolate soaps shown in the graphic below are just a few of the items included in the box!).


We'll also be handing out four Runner-Up Prizes. Each one is a pair of Fitz & Floyd holiday mugs that will be accompanied by a canister of Williams-Sonoma classic hot chocolate as well as a tin of The Republic of Tea's Hallmark Channel Countdown to Christmas Tea. So, you'll have delicious, warm beverages to keep you cozy all winter long!


The celebration runs from Monday, Dec. 3rd through Sunday, Dec. 9th, so head on over to the Holly Jolly Chick Lit Hop Facebook group for some lively conversation with both authors and readers, incredible prizes, and lots of holiday fun! You'll find each day's featured authors, along with the links to their pages/giveaways, in the pinned post at the top of the group. We look forward to seeing you there!



*The Grand Prize giveaway is open to US residents only. However, all of the individual author giveaways and the Runner-Up Prize giveaway are open internationally.

My new book, Kissing the Suspect, is in production. I'll be revealing the cover on 12/1/18, and there will be more details to follow quickly. 
I can't wait to share it with you!
Happy Holidays!