Wicked Warrior Blog Hop ends tomorrow! Many ending soon! Stop by for many ways to win!

SO MANY HOPS AND CONTESTS – SO MANY WAYS TO WIN!!!!!

WICKED WARRIOR HOP ENDS TOMORROW!!!!!

Felicity Heaton’s Hot Halloween Heroes starts today!!!!!!!!!!!!

GOING ON NOW –  Pumpkin Spice Contest!!!!!! OCT 1 – 31st

Starting October first and running through the end of the month, post your favorite pumpkiny goodness (photos, recipes, etc.) on https://www.facebook.com/ReneaMasonAuthor and click the Giveaway button to enter to win an e-copy of the Coffee Talk Writer’s book of your choice!

You can enter the contest daily, so roll up your sleeves and hit the pumpkin patch.

Ten winners will win the Coffee Talk e-book of their choice.  (some only available in Amazon.com format)  Winners will be announced November 1st!

Winners will chose one title featured on the Coffee Talk logo below.

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#bookreviews, #bookreadsandreviews, #symphonyoflightandWinter, #reneamason, #erotic, #eroticromance, #paranormalromance, #paranormal, #romance, #Cyril, #Linden, #Overton, #what’shot!,#Mariannewillis, #killertemptation, #Savemesinfully, #thewildrosepress, #caitjarrod, #leabronsen, #sophiajones, #valerietwombly, #coffeetalkwriters

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Check out Symphony of Light and Winter – Paranormal Erotic Romance

 

 

One woman. Seven men. All bound by one man’s undying devotion.

 

Fundraiser Linden Hill has a knack for reading people. She always knows which conversations will put a prospect at ease, which drink will loosen a patron’s lips—or his wallet, and how cleavage will make a donor sweeten the deal. She’s even foreseen her dateless weekends four hundred and sixty-four times in a row.

 

But ten years after watching life drain from her former mentor’s and first love’s eyes, her skills for divining the predictable are lost. When Cyril returns, he’s still gorgeous, but this time he’s beyond human, far less dead, and pissed. His lack of memory drives him to desperate acts, and his turbulent re-acquaintance with Linden pulls her into his war with a creature hell-bent on his destruction. His group of six supernatural men share a tantalizing secret, but despite the hunger, it’s love that leads her to sacrifice everything to save him…

 

Prizes include

 

  • e-copy Symphony of Light and Winter by Renea Mason
  • $10 Amazon.com GC

 

a Rafflecopter giveaway

 

Grandprize -enter below:

 

$100 amazon or b and N choice!!
second place: $50 amazon or b and n card
3rd place: $25 amazon or b and n card

 

a Rafflecopter giveaway

 

Click the blue frog to go to the next blog!

 

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AK Resize final

For a wicker warrior check of Cyril from Symphony of Light and Winter – Paranormal Erotic Romance.

One woman. Seven men. All bound by one man’s undying devotion.

Fundraiser Linden Hill has a knack for reading people. She always knows which conversations will put a prospect at ease, which drink will loosen a patron’s lips—or his wallet, and how cleavage will make a donor sweeten the deal. She’s even foreseen her dateless weekends four hundred and sixty-four times in a row.

But ten years after watching life drain from her former mentor’s and first love’s eyes, her skills for divining the predictable are lost. When Cyril returns, he’s still gorgeous, but this time he’s beyond human, far less dead, and pissed. His lack of memory drives him to desperate acts, and his turbulent re-acquaintance with Linden pulls her into his war with a creature hell-bent on his destruction. His group of six supernatural men share a tantalizing secret, but despite the hunger, it’s love that leads her to sacrifice everything to save him…

Giveaway #1 – My prize – e-copy Symphony of Light and Winter by Renea Mason

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Giveaway #2 – GrandPrize –  1 Kindle Paperwhite and 5 autographed copies of Unbound…so there will be 6 winners!!

a Rafflecopter giveaway

Click the blue frog to go to the next blog!

http://btsemag.com/contests/wicked-warriors-halloween-hop/

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Halloween

Bats, a Cemetery and a Sexy Alpha Male – Happy Halloween

A scene from Chapter Eight of Symphony of Light and Winter

My aunt Eva stood at the kitchen sink, cleaning an onion.

“Linden, would you mind stopping for milk on your way home?”

“Sure.” My answer came reluctantly. I wasn’t in control, but at the same time I lived it. So strange.

“Oh, and tell Mr. Fitz, if you see him, that those things were back last night. He should keep his windows closed.”

“You mean the bats?”

“You know very well they are not bats. Those little bastards will suck out your soul.”

“OK…I’ll tell him if I see him.” I had no plans to do so. “Later, Aunt Eva.”

I found it best not to fight it. The older I became, the more certain I felt something was not quite right. Eva and I never had a loving relationship. She was always distant. Never keeping the same man for long, she had no children of her own. So easy to understand her resentment of being forced to raise me, and coupled with her fragile mental state, it was impossible to get close to her. Many of her issues stemmed from the fantastical stories she recited with the most convincing delivery. My favorite—how demons killed my parents and cut me from my mother’s womb, giving me to Eva to raise.

Our town, a small, old coal-mining establishment, was situated twenty-five miles east of Pittsburgh. My plans did not include sticking around after I turned eighteen, but I’ve heard life is what happens while you’re making other plans. My aunt’s illness caused me to turn down the full scholarship in lieu of picking up a few courses at a local university so I could live here and care for her.

My aunt’s decline was hard to watch and the local cemetery served as a getaway. I had always been drawn to the peaceful place that sat on the highest hill, overlooking the breathtaking Laurel Mountain Ridge. I used that time to journal, write songs, and think. Since high school no longer consumed my day,

I spent more time among the stones avoiding my aunt’s episodes.

That day I had my journal with me and a plan to work out my feelings for Matt Williams. He was in my freshman calculus class and since we were finally settling into a routine, I decided it might be a good time to introduce myself. He had worn a Marilyn Manson T-shirt the Friday before, and I found it odd. He was usually clean-cut and preppy. Gathering my courage, I had walked up to his desk and taken a chance.

“Interesting shirt, why are you wearing it?” Mortification ran through me at how accusatory it sounded, but when he grinned my tension eased.

He paused for a moment. “Because he does what he wants, when he wants, how he wants, and I like that.”

Before I could stop myself, I retorted, “Well, I do what I want, when I want, and how I want, but I don’t see you wearing a shirt with me on it.”

He laughed with a flirtatious edge. “Make me one and I’ll wear it.”

“Fine, I will.” I glanced over my shoulder and shot him a mischievous grin as I walked away. The exchange was fresh in my mind, and I

wanted to work through my feelings on paper. I found my favorite spot at the top of the cemetery by the headstone of Clement Burleighes, a mason and local lawyer who died in 1810. That part of the cemetery was old and, the spot I chose, hard to see from the road. I had often wondered if the mysterious

connection I felt was to Mr. Burleighes himself, or to his resting place.

It was early fall in Pennsylvania and the leaves hadn’t started to change, but the air was crisp. Taking out my pen and paper, I thought of Matt. Thinking of how to phrase my first sentence, I looked up to see the most unforgettable sight.

I didn’t recognize the man in my cemetery. He walked a few steps, stopped, and closed his eyes while mumbling to himself. His shoulder-length black hair was tucked behind his ear; his skin, a beautiful alabaster. His features were angular and bold, his size intimidating. He wore a black business suit and couldn’t seem more out of his element. His lips continued to form soundless words as he paused every few feet. He open then closed his eyes again, inhaled, looked around, and then walked off in another direction. I sat against Clement’s stone, trying not to make a noise. I tucked my legs under me, set my journal on the ground, and leaned from side to side, trying not to lose sight of the impressive stranger. His movements were bizarre, and for the life of me I couldn’t figure out what he was doing. With another inhalation, his eyes opened and searched again.

He turned and made eye contact with me. I picked up my journal and put my head down to hide the fact I was ogling him. As I sat there, pretending to be fixated on my journal, I felt the absence of sunlight from his shadow as he moved to stand before me.

Lifting my head to meet his eyes, we locked gazes and I swallowed hard. He was intimidating from afar, but from a seated position on the ground, he was godlike—so tall and broad shouldered with unmatched good looks. He cleared his throat.

“What is a beautiful young lady, such as you, doing in a solemn place like this?” His voice was laced with charm and sophistication. His accent seemed a mix of something unfamiliar and British.

He lowered himself to one knee and rested his arm across it. Even at eye level, he was massive and I could feel the heat from his body. I swallowed hard again and pushed down my nervousness.

“It’s not solemn at all. This is the place where I can be the bright spot, that one spark of light. It’s the absence of life that allows the flame to grow brighter; it makes me feel more alive.” I smiled.

I wasn’t quite sure where that came from. Having written many passages in my journal speculating about why I found so much peace here, I was shocked it came out in the form of those words, especially to him.

“That’s a very interesting observation, Miss…?” He waited for my response.

I paused. Telling him my first name couldn’t hurt. “Linden, my name is Linden.”

“That’s a beautiful name.” He looked at the trees surrounding him and arched a brow.

I knew what he was thinking, and the nervousness rushing through me caused me to babble. “It is my real name. But, yes, I was named

after the trees. There are several in my backyard. My aunt believes they are a ward against evil. She named me Linden, so I would be protected. Ah, sorry, it’s a stupid story.”

“No, not at all. It’s a wonderful story. Linden, it’s a pleasure to make your acquaintance.” He extended his hand.

Hesitant at first, I accepted it. When his fingers closed around mine, it was electric. I stared at our hands as I felt his eyes concentrating on me. Lifting my gaze, our eyes met; the contact completed the circuit. His face held a sign of bewilderment. My mouth gaped and I wanted to ask his name but couldn’t break the connection. What surged through me was something more than lust. Desire was fleeting. This was soul altering.

Somewhere in my mind I knew I would never be the same. The experience could only be surpassed by gazing upon God himself. A knot formed in my chest, and he saved me from a consumption of unknown means by releasing my hand.

As though he could read my mind, he said softly, in a deep seductive voice, “You may call me Cyril.”

I paused far too long. “It’s very nice to meet you.”

“I must be going. All my best to you, my Light.” He inclined his head, rose from his kneeling position, and walked away.

Ten minutes later, I still hadn’t moved. The man was beyond words. Move over Matt Williams.

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hothalloweenheroeshop

I have a weakness for hot, badass, alpha males.  Cyril Arisitin is just that.  Here’s a sample of Symphony of Light and Winter.

Hot breath and a deep whisper on my ear sent shivers through me, even though I was held against a hard, heated body. “Don’t you dare scream. I’m not going to hurt you, but if you do something stupid, I will punish you.”

Cyril. If his voice hadn’t given him away, his scent would have. Electricity pulsed through me, even though given the circumstances, I should have been overridden by fear.

The arm coiled around me released, and he moved from behind, steadying as he sat me on the ground. “Stay here and do not move. If you are ever going to listen to me, this is the time to do it.” He ducked down and stared into my eyes as if to say see, it’s me, don’t worry.

He stood, and his attire caused my breath to hitch. His pants were black leather with laces in place of a zipper. The lacing drew my focus to his already attention-worthy anatomy. The black shirt fit tight over his well-defined chest, accented by the leather bandolier holding at least a dozen small knives. His black leather boots rested high on his calves.

He turned to face the threat, his back to me, his body obstructing my view, his size daunting. The planes of his back and buttocks tautened with layer after layer of muscle, each one rippling as he walked toward the blond man.

His silhouette outlined against the black night while he unsheathed a sword from a scabbard he had slung over his back. As he pulled forth the blade, it caught the light and gleamed at the pinnacle of the arch, then finally rested at his side, pointed toward the ground. He stood, turning his head from side to side.

I had forgotten how out of his element he was in custom suits. This was what he was made for. The entire scene seemed surreal, like watching a movie unfold.

His speech was accented. Slow and menacing, he called out to what seemed to be no one. “You are crossing a line you’d be wise not to.”

The air stilled, my breathing the only sound. The other man started toward Cyril. He was not as large, but still a force to be reckoned with. I caught the gleam of the intruder’s sword.

Cyril spoke again. “Nothing here concerns you.”

“Really?” The man’s voice sounded familiar but oddly accented. It had a similar cadence to Cyril’s, but different somehow. “I think it concerns me plenty. I know what you are hiding and you have no right to hide her. What are you up to, Maker? You can’t keep her from us.”

Maker?

The man waved his free hand, and out of the darkness walked four other men with weapons drawn.

Cyril widened his stance. “Is this what it must always come to? Your childish games are tiresome. Just leave and take your minions with you. You will never get what you came for.”

I panicked. Who were they talking about? No way Cyril could defeat five men, especially given the size of their leader. Cyril might look like the baddest thing this side of hell, but I knew he had been taken out of commission at least once before. My life depended on his survival, and I didn’t like the odds. Thinking of my best strategic position, I crept toward the group. Watching him die again was not an option.

What if he didn’t come back this time?
A spiky-haired man assumed a battle stance. What

happened next was the most horrible yet amazing thing I ever witnessed. Like performing a dance in one continuous movement, Cyril raised his sword and impaled the spiky-haired man with effortless grace. He twisted at his waist, and with the force he used to withdraw the sword from the spiky-haired man’s torso, he followed through and severed the second man’s head. The blood from the end of the sword flew in my direction, peppering my face with spray. I froze, fighting back nausea.

The carnage, only fifteen or so feet away, felt less real than watching a slasher film. Cyril, in his magnificence, made the brutality a riveting art form. Perhaps the darkness played a role in dampening the grotesque scene; if so, I was thankful. Cyril’s majesty held my focus, not allowing me to process anything else. Somehow I managed to remain conscious, but stood mesmerized by the horror.

Cyril ducked to avoid the third man’s blow while kicking the fourth man in the chest, sending him stumbling backward. He brought the sword forth, turned the point toward his own body, and thrust backward and up between his arm and torso, into the third man’s heart. After pulling the sword free in one long, arching swing, he dispatched the fourth man by severing him in half, a testament to his superhuman strength.

Cyril turned to the leader, who never moved during the combat. “Are we done playing now? She is mine, no negotiation.”

“Really? I have more of a right to her than you ever will.” The leader gestured toward me.

Wait. I knew that voice.
Cyril laughed. “You wish to claim her? You can’t.”
“Care to fight me for her?” The leader readied his sword, but

only as a distraction. Before I could register his movement, the man appeared behind me, clutching me to him, a blade at my throat. “What’s the matter, Maker? Afraid I’ll hurt her? As much as I want her, it might be worth killing her to see you suffer. You will never be able to make up for what you did, but the look on your face as she lies dying would be truly satisfying.” The man cupped my breast. “Better yet…” He laughed. The aroma of strong spices, familiar and reminiscent of anise, filled my nostrils.

My heart pounded. Sweat poured off my face, and I implored Cyril with my eyes. Please.

Cyril stood silent. Stoic.

The man ran his nose up the side of my neck and inhaled deeply. “You know, in all these years, my friend, I don’t think I’ve seen you look this worried. You wear it well. You know I’ll be back, you can’t get rid of me, and one day when your guard is down, I will either take her as mine or kill her to keep her from you.”

“Myghal, Myghal, Myghal…why antagonize me? You know I can end you. Why do you keep trying to anger me? I gave you a pass, but my patience is wearing thin.”

“I have a little insurance now, don’t I? You’re not stupid enough to destroy me. You see where killing Ruarc got you. Do it again and you might kill us all.”

His tongue, hot and wet, licked my neck. Disgust made me queasy. I shrank from the unwelcome sensation, but could not escape his hold. Remembering Cyril’s fangs, I panicked. What if they were all some kind of vampires? God, the nightmare just kept getting worse. The man pulled away from my skin. Cyril’s eyes met mine for only a second, and a whizzing sound like a large flying insect passed my ear.

The man behind me groaned and a warm liquid hit my neck. His hold on me released. Thankful for Cyril’s impeccable aim, I slumped, the man’s crushing weight fixing me to the ground.

Cyril ran to me, pushed the man off, and gathered me in his arms, which in itself was unexpected.

“Are you OK?” He nestled my head under his chin as he positioned me on the ledge of the fountain, stepped between my legs, and ran his hands over my throat and down my back, inspecting me for injury.

I began to shiver, my teeth chattering. Tremors broke out in my limbs. Usually I was able to fight back a panic attack, but I was a bit distracted and, well…hell…this one was justified. Shock set in. All the adrenaline my body had released took hold.

Cyril was covered in blood and something else. In the process of checking for wounds, he transferred the thick red liquid and clear mucus onto my clothes.

He grabbed my hands and squeezed them. “I’ll only be a moment. I need to tidy up a bit. Stay right here,” he said with the concern of someone who might say, “Excuse me for a moment, I left some water boiling. Be right back.”

How could he be so calm? I tried to wipe the thick, clear substance from my hands. As it started to harden, it flaked in slivers like transparent mica, making it difficult to remove from my skin. Strange but somehow familiar. Where did it come from? What in the hell was it? Wiping my hands on my coat proved fruitless, so I wrapped my arms around my stomach, trying to steady the tremors.

He stood and shot me a stern look. “I mean it this time.”

He could have said anything. Almost catatonic, my brain couldn’t process what it witnessed. What the hell kind of supernatural killer was he? Humans simply didn’t move like that, and didn’t rise from the dead either.

As though I needed confirmation, I watched Cyril draw swirling, branch-like patterns resembling the ones on his wrists onto the stones of the garden floor with what looked like a piece of coal or black stone he pulled from a pocket. His sword lay on the ground as he chanted something and reached inside the pocket again, retrieving some type of white substance, and sprinkled it on the bodies. Salt, maybe?

He waved his hand in rhythmic motions, almost like conducting an orchestra. His chant grew louder and the bodies burst into flame. A gust of wind from the rivers blew the ashes into the air and away from us. Cyril only incinerated four of the five men, leaving the one he called Myghal intact. He picked up his sword and blood dripped from the tip onto the ground. He wiped it on his shirt, and then resheathed the weapon and moved the scabbard to one shoulder.

Tears streamed down my face. Cyril knelt in front of me as the muscles under the surface of my skin trembled in a rapid succession. My heart raced in time with my hyperventilating breaths. His face, so close, at first I thought he might be sweating, but then noticed how thick the liquid that ran down his face looked.

The surreal haze masking everything for the past fifteen minutes vanished. Wetness on my neck and in my hair fell in languid drops. Surrounded by death my whole life, I had at least never witnessed a killing blow. The man’s final gurgle reminded me of my wedding night.

Cyril cupped my cheek. Through the horror, his eyes were soft. “I am so sorry. I never intended for you to witness that.”

I shook with unproductive breathing as a light-headed feeling set in.

Cyril’s eyes searched my face. “If you believe for one moment I will tolerate this type of insolence, you are gravely mistaken. We need to clarify a few points if we are going to continue this way.”

He was going to lecture me now?

My brain buzzed from shock. Focus was impossible while immobilized by the trauma of the past fifteen minutes, so I became his captive audience.

With blood dripping from his hair, his words grew fierce. “I’ll never let anyone hurt you. Never! But you will obey me from now on. You will respect that I have more experience, and you will follow my orders. I told you to stay put. You could have been killed and I don’t know if I can bring you back. Do you have any idea what that would do to me? Your reckless behavior must stop. It’s not an option for either of us.”

My stomach churned. My head spun; I tried to register his words. Most of it beyond “you didn’t listen to me blah blah blah” didn’t make sense. Still hyperventilating, the nausea built.

“Do you understand me?”

He searched my eyes for a response, but the one I gave him wasn’t what he expected. I tried to push him away, my element of surprise allowing me to shove him just far enough to duck my head before I vomited directly on his black leather boots.

He let out a low, disgusted groan. “No! Not my…ah…bloody hell! I should kill you myself.”

Wiping my arm across my mouth, I sat up, stared at him, and tried to apologize with my eyes.

He glared at me and kicked his boot against the ledge in an effort to clean them. His eyes narrowed with serious irritation and his brow furrowed. “Come on, you beautiful, disgusting creature.”

Enter my Giveaway!!!!!!!  

Prizes include

  • e-copy Symphony of Light and Winter by Renea Mason
  • $10 Amazon.com Gift Card

a Rafflecopter giveaway

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2 thoughts on “Wicked Warrior Blog Hop ends tomorrow! Many ending soon! Stop by for many ways to win!

  1. Hi, again! You know I’m entering to grab a free book! A true reading obsession can get very expensive. Plus, your work sounds awesome!

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