Unexpected Paranormal Romance
COVID’s effects on the banking industry in India have become a black swan for the release of The Demon of Reginhart.
You see, our beloved editor lives in India. COVID has become a very disruptive force to physical operations, has impacted asset quality and liquidity, and demanded pressure on digital channels, all of which have imposed challenges to financial institutions in that region across key functions.
Ravi, our editor, recently sent us an urgent plea apologizing for a delay on his editing of our new release. The disruption of the banks and normal services has created a bit of panic for him and pulled his focus away from his everyday work.
That’s why we have had to push back our release date for The Demon of Reginhart from June 1 to June 15th!
We are hopeful to receive the manuscript back from Ravi by May 30 and begin the process of making corrections and/or cuts/additions, etc. This will put us on track for June 15th.
In the meantime, here is a small excerpt from Chapter 14 to give you more ideas about the book:
Platt coughed in fits.
“You should exchange your gown.” Marcus searched her from one end to the other looking for any clues to help her. “You and Asmara are similar in size. He doesn’t mind if you borrow something of his.”
Her coughing fits lessened, and Marcus lifted her to stand and started undoing the ties to her sleeve.
“I’m all right.” She grabbed his arm for support. Platt turned, and her cheeks grew bright red. “What are you doing?” She said through fits of choking.
“You’re wet, you’re cold, and this gown will chaff you in your sleep.” He wasn’t getting anywhere with the knots. His claws were getting in the way.
“You’re a male and naked.” Her eyes drifted to his chest. “That’s inappropriate.”
“Then sit by the fire to dry.”
She gazed at the first agreement along his defined pecks. Fingers traced the tattoo on his chest. Marcus caught his breath and enfolded his hand around hers. Removing the light touch didn’t stop the quickening of his blood, and the removal brought a sense of loss.
“What happened to you?” She was so close he could feel her breath.
“It’s an agreement,” he said hoarsely.
“What does it say?” She stared at the agreement, entranced.
“No killing Serenite.”
“Do you have one of these for each agreement?” Her voice cast alluring warmth around his body.
He managed to stutter out, “Yes.”
Marcus wasn’t used to answering questions so directly. But to keep her next to him, he’d tell her anything.
Resting the crown of her head against his swiftly beating heart, her white blonde hair tickled down to his knees. Her touch felt wonderful. He stroked the back of her neck absently. He didn’t care if she could see all his agreements.
She gasped in surprise and turned too abruptly to keep her balance. He caught her and pulled her in close before she fell.
“You have marks—everywhere.” Her body no longer pliable, she resisted.
He grunted and breathed in her vanilla scent. Holding her stirred his gut and sent fire down his legs.
“Let me go.” She squirmed. The light scent of her panic rose.
He moaned a pitiful sigh and swept her up into his arms.
“Please, no.” Her plea desperate. “Put me down.”
Marcus set her gently in a chair before the fire, but it was Asmara’s smile that pulled the corners of his lips and said through Marcus, “Getting a good look at all his front-side agreements?” Asmara chuckled. “I suspect you’ve seen the fourth one so aptly placed?” Marcus stroked the tattoo wrapped around his shaft. “That was made specific so don’t worry little one. None of us will force you.”
Platt turned her eyes to Marcus. “Asmara?”
The Mage smiled through Marcus. The Enforcer brought a finger to her lips. “Shhh… I ask you don’t reveal him.”
He stood and walked toward the armoire and opened the closet door.
Folded and stacked in the bottom drawer were his overcoat, shirt, pants, boots, and hat. After shoving his pants on he carefully folded his claws into his palm and pushed his arms through his shirt as to not rip the fabric. Modesty cured, he grabbed a quilt.
“Is there anything I can get you?” He wrapped the quilt around her.
Platt looked up at him in scorn. “Yes, I want my mother’s cooking.”
He didn’t wince, balk, or hesitate. “Then you shall have it.”
Platt’s surprised face was worth his stomach’s nervous rumblings at meeting Rehan. He’d seen Platt’s mother within her memories, and how she saw her mother frightened him. Not because Platt was afraid of her own mother, but because he was desperate to impress his Little Doe. Marcus hurried out of the room before consequence paralyzed him.
More to come!
Penn Scripter is the nom de plume for the writing team of S.N. and Carol McKibben. This mother-daughter combo writes unexpected paranormal romance. Separately, they each have a healthy list of novels.
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