Releasing: January 11th

Lookin’ for love?

Finding love is never easy, but when these men go on their journey to find Mr. Right, we find out just how right it is. From funny and sweet to steamy and unexpected, these are sixteen stories you won’t want to miss.

Look for love in all the right places.

Lookin’ For Mr. Right is a limited edition charity anthology and all proceeds from this set will be donated to The Trevor Project.

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Excerpt From Mr. Mystery by Lana Kole

Jason swallowed back his curse and waited as patiently as one could while color floated around him as everyone retrieved their shots and fresh drinks. It seemed like ages, and a ton of empty congratulations from faceless people, before he reached the bar.

He ended up beside a flashy guy in a maroon suit. It cupped his ass nicely, and Jason gave him a second glance. A martini glass sat in front of him, and the man tilted his head back with his shot. The bartender eyed Jason once, saw the direction of his gaze, and skedaddled to the end of the bar.

When Red sat the shot glass back down, his head turned left and right before he paused in the direction of the bartender. His shoulders slumped, and Jason sidled up to him.

“L, guess you’re right. You are the one getting lucky tonight. Hope he’s Mr. Right,” he growled just loud enough for Jason to hear him as the song changed.

“Who’s Mr. Right?” he asked, leaning down.

A sparkling black mask turned in his direction. Behind the dripping effect that curved over his cheeks and nose, a pair of bright blue eyes peered at him.

“No one. That’s the problem,” he answered without missing a beat.

Jason chuckled. “A pessimist. A man after my own heart.”

“Give me a few more drinks and I’ll be as optimistic as anyone,” Red muttered.

As he tilted the martini glass back with lithe fingers, Jason got a look at the front of his suit. Or more specifically, the collar that wrapped around his throat and dipped beneath his black shirt.

Jason swallowed.

Holy hell. He’d never seen someone wear a harness like that so openly. So naturally.

He wanted to slide his index finger beneath the leather and his skin and feel his Adam’s apple bob as he swallowed.

Maybe even around his cock.

Jason cleared his throat and motioned for the bartender. He needed a drink, quick. Jason wasn’t one to hook up, not usually. It was too risky and usually resulted in more trouble than it was worth.

But Red here? With that spicy little collar just begging to be played with?

He’d take a chance on it.

The Trevor Project

Founded in 1998 by the creators of the Academy Award®-winning short film TREVOR, The Trevor Project is the leading national organization providing crisis intervention and suicide prevention services to lesbian, gay, bisexual, transgender, queer & questioning (LGBTQ) young people under 25.

The Authors Involved include:

J.J. Riley & Suki Gale A.J. Macey Tiegan Clyne Joanne Ganci Kinkaid Knight Logan Grey Bee Murray & CJ Vincent Helena Novak Charlotte Brice Aspen Black Sariah Skye Maya Nicole & Bitt Andrews Adora Crooks

Along with Inked Imagination Publishing

An unwanted alpha and omega long-presumed dead... fate has a way of righting old wrongs.

West Coast Wolves, 2

Stolen from his mother’s arms and reported stillborn at birth, “Thirteen” has spent nearly twenty-one years in structured captivity with other stolen omegas. His brothers. A few have disappeared over the years, but twelve remain. An even dozen omegas, each with a secret superpower.

Working together under the light of the full moon, their combined gifts help Thirteen escape—he’s their only hope of finding outside help to rescue them all. Except Thirteen is injured and nearly dies as he flees into the night. Collapsing on the side of a desert highway with the sound of a rumbling motorcycle in his ears, Thirteen is sure all hope is lost.

Until it’s not…

Found by his true mate, Thirteen is saved—and mated—before the full moon begins to wane.

Buckle in for a heart-filled adventure. Omegas are rescued, babies are made, a pack finds its heart, and a birth family is reunited with the one miracle they never could’ve dared imagine possible.

The West Coast Wolves is an mpreg series about five alphas. A small pack of bikers who spent years riding the highways and helping those in need until fate gave them each a pack to lead. The second in series, this 50k full-length novel is Lucian’s story. Prepare yourself for a few tissue moments, lots of laughter, and a birth scene you won’t soon forget. But then again, this is a Susi Hawke book so what else can you expect? Possible trigger for child abduction, betrayal from a medical provider, and off-page mention of stillbirth.

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The closer I got to home, the more the hair on the back of my neck stood up, and my stomach clenched. Whatever was about to happen in my life, it was close. My eyes automatically started scanning the road, my shifter-enhanced vision helping me see more of the dark ground off to the sides than a human ever could.

I eased off the throttle and slowed as I came around the first curve taking me higher into the mountain. If I hadn't, I might have missed the brown dog lying half out of the ditch. At this speed, I was able to stop in plenty of time to check it out.

The poor thing looked dead. Hopefully not, though, since I was feeling strangely drawn toward it. Had someone's dog been hit by a car? Or even worse, had an animal been abandoned and left to die? While sickening, such cruelty wasn't unheard of, especially on high traffic roads like this. No matter. I’d always wanted a dog. If this one could be saved, I’d give it a home with all the love its heart could handle, since I knew a thing or two about being tossed aside.

Parking my bike as close to the side as possible with the attached sidecar, I hit my flashers and crossed my fingers no one would come hurtling around the corner and crash into my ride. My headlight lit up the area, letting me see the unprotected stomach and balls of a medium-sized, toffee-colored wolf. Huh. Seeing such sensitive areas on display told me the wolf was either dead or knocked out.

Before I took a step away from the bike, my wolf howled and tried to jump forward. He slammed against my chest, pushing to take over. Fighting him back took more strength than it ever had in my life, and within three more steps, the wind shifted, and my human nose understood what my wolf had already discerned.

This wasn’t a wild wolf, and he wasn’t dead. This was my mate.

I took off at a run, rushing to his side and frantically checking for a pulse. Between the thick fur and my own nerves, finding the fluttering proof of his heartbeat took longer than it should have.

Even as I breathed out in relief, I felt almost foolish. On some level, I’d known he was alive since he didn’t smell like death. No, he smelled like candied ginger and some soft herb I couldn’t quite name at the moment. And more importantly, he smelled like… home. Like my home. The one place where I would always belong.

His weak heartbeat concerned me, as did the dried blood covering his paws and the ridiculous amount of burrs and nettles matted into his fur. He clearly needed a healer. Sliding a hand under his head, I gently lifted it and brushed my fingers over his muzzle while I considered my next steps.

A human doctor was out of the question, but the one thing lacking in my new pack was anyone with medical skills. The sole epsilon I knew of was an hour away, give or take, in Lucerne Valley.

Shit. Of course I should've thought of Matt's pack immediately. Not only did they have an epsilon, they were better set up to help protect and defend my omega mate than my newly trained deltas. The men in my pack had fighting skills, but they weren't soldiers. Matt sent a couple of his Delta captains over to help with my newly formed squadron, but it was a work in progress. Not until this week had we finally been able to start zeroing in on possible captain candidates to take over when Matt’s men left.

Carefully lifting him, I cradled my mate against my chest, shielding his body from further injury. A semi rumbled by, throwing a blast of heated air our way. Seeing the truck reminded me of our vulnerable position, further hammered home as several cars roared past.

Moving carefully, I hustled as much as I dared, carrying him to my bike, where I settled him on the sidecar's floorboard. I snagged a blanket from one of the compartments, tucking it around him as best I could to help protect his smaller body from the wind. I wasn't sure if it would hit him down there, but better safe than sorry.

Once I had my helmet on, I fired up the beast and merged with traffic while I tapped the button for my Bluetooth. As soon as Raul came on the line, I explained the situation and asked him to oversee the pack run tonight. Raul had already proven himself to be efficient and the perfect beta for me, so I wasn’t surprised at his easy acceptance.

"No problemo, Lucian. I've got things here. Your mate comes first. We'll be here waiting to meet him when he's well. I'll let Mamá know—she'll want to light a candle. Be safe. Don't drive like a demon tonight. Remember, getting in an accident will only prolong getting him to a healer." Considering the way he drove, I grinned at his warning, but appreciated the concern.

"Thanks, Raul. I'll be in touch." After I ended the call, I pushed aside all worries about my pack. For the rest of the drive, I focused on two things—the road and keeping one eye on my mate for any sign of further distress.

West Coast Wolves

The Reluctant Alpha, The Defiant Alpha


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the author

I'm a happily married mom of one snarky teenage boy, and three grown "kids of my heart." As a reader and big romance fan myself, I love sharing the stories of the different people who live in my imagination. My stories are filled with humor, a few tears, and the underlying message to not give up hope, even in the darkest of times, because life can change on a dime when you least expect it. This theme comes from a lifetime of lessons learned on my own hard journey through the pains of poverty, the loss of more loved ones than I'd care to count, and the struggles of living through chronic illnesses. Life can be hard, but it can also be good! Through it all I've found that love, laughter, and family can make all the difference, and that's what I try to bring to every tale I tell.

Connect with Susi:

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Now on audio

The Reluctant Alpha

Narrated by Nick J Russo

“As much as I felt bad for this Elisha person—God, my heart was breaking for the young man and all he'd been through—I was also angry. I'd left that pack in my rearview ten years ago for a good reason.”

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After a bad breakup, Rasheed is determined to spend his last year of high school focused on his course work and to finish it with as little drama as possible. But when disaster strikes and his grandma ends up in the hospital, the threads holding his life together start to slowly unravel. Now, Rasheed has to deal with the return of his absent mother and sharing a home with her despite their strained relationship.

With old hurts surfacing and family dynamics shifting, Rasheed finds comfort and humor from his best friends, the Herman twins he’s tutoring, and his crush, Adam Herman, who’s not as unavailable as Rasheed had once thought. With more time spent together, Rasheed finds his feelings for Adam may never have gone away. And the feelings may not be as one-sided. Except, Rasheed has to confront old mistakes and come to terms with his own issues first, and a relationship may just complicate everything.

Publisher: NineStar Press

Release Date: 01/11/2021

Heat Level: 2 - Fade to Black Sex

Pairing: Male/Female

Length: 55300

Genre: Contemporary YA, LGBTQIA+, contemporary, YA, gay, bisexual, Kenyan expats living in the States, East African culture, Swahili, teen pining and angst, unrequited feelings, family drama, drug use


Purchase Links

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“Please tell me it’s mahamri,” I said enthusiastically when I saw Granma kneading dough that would hopefully be rolled, cut into little squares, dipped into deep frying oil, and covered in whipped cream to create a slice of heaven. Paired with hot chai, it opened the door to another dimension.

Granma pounded the dough, one-two, and flipped it over. “It is.”

“Should I start on the tea?”

“You should start by taking the trash out.” She straightened, wiped the thin film of sweat from her forehead, and pointed to the overflowing trashcan. I could have emptied it last night, but I had an assignment due and each second counted; the four minutes it would have taken had seemed like a lifetime.

“Okay.” I stepped farther into the kitchen and pinched some of the dough. Granma smacked my hand with her flour-covered one. I should have seen it coming; it was a dance we’d been doing since I was five­­—I’d pinch the dough, she’d slap my hand, and warn me about worms making my stomach swell.

Sure enough she said, “Tumbo lako litafura.”

I refrained from rolling my eyes. The way she used to tell it, when I was a kid my stomach would get as large as a balloon before it burst, spraying worms everywhere.

I tossed the dough in my mouth, grabbed a pot, filled it with water, and put it to boil for tea. One thing Granma and I liked was tea—tea in the morning, tea in the afternoon, tea before bed—and coming to America hadn’t changed that. As soon as she was done with the mahamri, she’d set herself up on her favorite floral armchair in front of the TV with her cup of steaming hot tea and catch up on some daytime soaps. Sometimes I joined her—TV dramas had some really cute guys.

“They finally gave up the dog,” Granma announced.


“Mrs. Kyle and that dog. The pepo chafu will not be terrorizing us again.”

Mrs. Kyle lived on the other side of the street, one house down from us. Her bulldog, Teddy—a name that maybe shouldn’t be handed out so easily to slobbering dogs—had the bad habit of chasing and attacking people, and she refused to put it on a leash. Granma did not like her. The whole neighborhood didn’t like her.

“Paul was right,” she continued, “Soon as someone threw in the word ‘sue,’ she became more accommodating.”

There’d been a lot of that lately—Paul this and Paul that. It would have slipped my mind if I hadn’t noticed her FaceTiming him two weeks before, and then a day ago. Paul only lived a fifteen-minute drive away, so why not text? Anyway, what was so important that she needed to video call?

“I’m guessing some are for Paul?”


“That’s nice.”

She pulled a drawer open and retrieved a rolling pin. “Why are you saying it like that?”

“How am I saying it?”

“Like you mean to say something else.”

“It’s nothing— Okay, you and Paul are…friendly,” I teased.

“I don’t have many friends; another one never hurts.”

“True, but I don’t know many people who go around fixing other people’s houses out of the kindness of their heart.”

Granma fixed her eyes on the dough and started to roll it. “It’s called kindness. Looks like you’ve forgotten the meaning of the word.”

“I remember,” I said quickly before it turned into a speech about undugu. Yes, yes, love thy neighbor, unless it was Mrs. Kyle, of course. Lines had to be drawn somewhere.

I added a cinnamon stick and some ginger into the pot and turned to head back to my room. Granma pointed to the trashcan. “Usitume nikwambie mara ya pili.”

Right, the trash. I sighed.

Her eyes bored into me as I bent to pick it up, which usually made me more self-aware. Like, had I brushed my teeth or cleaned my room? “I don’t know where your mind is nowadays.”

I paused. “Just tired.” Second week of school, Granma!

I was still trying to shake off summer vibes and find my back-to-school rhythm. It wasn’t going great. On top of the mound of piling homework and the early waking hours that turned me into a zombie—sometimes even with growling, and on really bad days, I could bite someone’s head off—I was trying to dodge Scott, my ex-boyfriend. Whenever he weaved his way into my thoughts, my chest would burn with shame, and my body would turn into a bundle of nerves. That chai and mahamri better come quick. I needed a pick-me-up.

“You put your shirt on backward on Tuesday and didn’t notice.”

“My mind was elsewhere.”

Her eyes narrowed. “And you’re not on drugs?”

I refrained from sighing. “No, I am not on drugs.”

“What is it, then?”

“Not enough sleep.”

“Why? What do you have to stress about?”

I slumped. Things were off, and I couldn’t shake the oddness. Before I could get that out, Granma shuddered, exhaled loudly, and reached for the counter, clutching it tightly.

I moved toward her. “You okay?” But she waved me off.

Her mouth opened, closed, opened again, but nothing came out. I frowned in confusion. Finally, after a few seconds, she said, “Trash.”

“Okay, okay.”

“And check for your keys.”

“Ha ha.” Again, I was tired that day.

I shifted my eyes to her hands, still gripping the counter and repeated, “You okay?”

“I…haven’t pounded dough in forever.”

Her words were labored and breathy. She had been pounding away like an MFA fighter. Maybe that was it. Now I knew what I’d get her for Christmas—a stand mixer. Maybe that would encourage her to make mahamri more often and not break a sweat while doing it. I could do it, but I’d never gotten them right—soft and sweet but with a tinge of lemon and overwhelming taste of coconut. Mine usually came out too hard.

I lifted the bag and headed outside.

“And water my herbs for me.”

I huffed. I ought to have known going to the kitchen when Granma was there meant a one hundred percent chance I’d come out with a chore.

“Am I hearing you grumble?”


“Good because that would be disrespectful to your elders.”

I held back the eye roll and made my way to the garbage bins. I dumped the trash and went to water her plants.

Granma had raised-bed planters for her herbs that Paul had made for her. The day he did it, Granma had prioritized keeping him company to watching her TV dramas even though she was religious about not missing episodes. Then there was that time Natalie had been over for their book club—they were the only two in the club, and they read one book a year, spent five minutes talking about how they didn’t get a chance to read it, and gossiped the rest of the time—and I overhead Granma describe Paul as a fine, fine man. Sure, there had been some wine involved, but still.

I winced when the scent of mint made me think of Scott. He loved mint-flavored ice cream and chewing mint-flavored bubblegum. I’d made it another week successfully avoiding him—thank you crowded hallways and different schedules. It was exhausting. I was constantly in flight mode. There had to be another way.

Apologize, a voice echoed in my mind. Apologize? As in, like, say sorry and stuff? Hmm.

Not that I hadn’t thought of it before, but how did people do that? The idea sounded foreign. Save for when I stepped on someone’s foot or bumped into them by accident; that was easy because they were accidents. Honest mistakes. What I had done had not been an honest mistake. So how did someone apologize for dumbness?

It was easier to stay clear of him, avoid any more drama, and focus on school.

If I ignored it maybe it would have no option but to magically—

“Eedy!” I paused, spooked by how she sounded—like a rusted engine trying and failing to come to life. As I put the watering can down, there was the sound of a body hitting the floor with a soft thud.

My heart leaped into my throat, and my stomach twisted with dread.

I rushed back to the house and found Granma lying on the floor—flat on her stomach and still as a rock. The world tilted and blurred together.

“Granma?” I said in a shaky whisper. I fell to my knees and with weak arms managed to turn her over. My breath caught at the sight of her. Her dark eyes were wide open, unfocused, and unblinking. A chill snaked down my back. I leaned down and felt her warm breath on my face. Oh, thank fuck.

I grabbed her hand and recoiled at its limpness. “Granma, are you okay?” Of course, she wasn’t okay.

She groaned.

“Tafadhali amka!” Please get up. I tried to pull her up and failed. Granma wasn’t small, and despite my size, I couldn’t get her to move. My pulse started to race and a heavy weight pressed down on my chest; breathing became difficult. I gasped for breath.

No. No. It would be alright.

“Musa?” she whispered roughly.

The hope I’d been holding on to sank somewhere to my toes. “No, Rasheed. Eedy.”

Musa was my babu’s name—my grandfather—a man we’d silently agreed to never speak of, ever. To Granma, saying his name was equal to calling on the devil, which wasn’t that far off from the truth.

I needed to call for help. She lay on the floor, immobile, her empty stare on me. I did not want to leave her. My eyes blurred. I stood on shaky feet and rushed to get my phone still buried under books from last night’s homework rush. My palms were sweaty enough it took a few swipes before I hit dial on the emergency contact. The person on the other end promised the ambulance would be coming soon.

I returned to crouch next to Granma and took her hand. She slurred something unintelligible that I failed to understand. “They’re coming.” I squeezed her hand.

She grumbled. It sounded like a mangled animal. I blinked to keep the tears from falling, but that only made them fall harder.

“Itsfine,” she slurred. Her hand twitched in mine.

It didn’t seem fine.

Last time she had ended up in hospital, it hadn’t been fine. Three weeks after I turned eight, and the world had turned upside down. I fought off the gnawing helplessness and tried to cling to positive thoughts. It would be alright.

Granma would be alright.

She didn’t really have a choice. She had her dramas waiting for her, Christmas was a few months away—Granma loved Christmas, all those sales and store decorations hyped her up—and I was going to graduate from high school.


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the author

Aduma is an economics major at the University of Nairobi in Kenya, and the type of person who feels incomplete without a book in hand. When not reading or writing, Aduma can be found lost in spreadsheets and graphs with music for company. Follow A. on Twitter.

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