The Dhampir by Angela Knight #DarkFantasy #Romance

A Destined Mates Vampire Romance Novella

Dark Fantasy Romance

Date Published: January 2, 2026

Publisher: Changeling Press

An ancient vampire, Hunter can command any woman he wants -- except the one woman he needs. His mate.

Genevieve Drake is a Dhampir -- half vampire, half mortal, born and bred to be the perfect complement to her vampire mate, like those of her family for sixteen generations. Instead, she chose to become a cop. Three months ago she survived a vicious attack by a psychotic ex that left her with psychic scars and a desperate need for a new line of work. Time to rethink her future.

Hunter is tall, dark and handsome -- and very, very powerful. He’s also been waiting for Genevieve. She was just eighteen when he had a vision that they’d one day become lovers. He’s been biding his time ever since. But Genevieve’s experiences have left her unable to trust any man, even Hunter.

If he wants them to have a future, the vampire will have to find a way to banish her ghosts…

Excerpt

Copyright ©2026 Angela Knight

The vampire's bodyguard was sloppy when he searched Genevieve Drake. He missed at least three places where she could have stashed weapons. Would have stashed weapons, if she hadn't been going to an interview for a job she desperately needed. To add insult to injury, he smirked up at her when he crouched at her feet to pat her down, hands lingering on her thighs and calves.

Genevieve gave serious thought to kneeing him in the jaw.

Finally, after a last knowing leer, the guard ushered her into Hunter's sprawling office, then closed the heavy double doors and left them alone.

"Ms. Drake." Tall, radiating a power that made her Dhampir senses vibrate like harp strings, the vampire stepped around his big rosewood desk to shake Genevieve's hand, his grip careful and warm. His touch sent a flush of magic radiating up her arm. Her mouth went dry, and she felt her nipples peak. "It's a pleasure."

Her body's intense response surprised her. She'd felt dead from the neck down for months. "Please call me Genevieve, Mr. Hunter." Not Genny. Never Genny. Smiling up at him, she used all her years undercover to keep her expression no more than pleasantly professional.

"It's just Hunter," the vampire said in a black velvet purr of a voice. He gave her a slow, white smile, his eyes the sharp and startling blue of an arctic wolf. His features were starkly masculine, with a long swoop of a nose and a broad, square chin. His hair was thick and black, just long enough to touch his collar.

He gestured her away from his desk toward two armchairs that sat facing each other. Just beyond the chairs, a plate glass window ran the length of the room. Sixty stories below, the glittering glory of Atlanta spread across the night.

As Hunter ushered her to the chairs, Genevieve studied him. If anything, the vampire was more impressive than she remembered. Easily six-foot-two, he had a powerful build that made him look like a warrior even camouflaged in black Armani. His tie was a splash of crimson against his white shirt, while cufflinks of onyx and gold adorned his French cuffs.

"It's good to see you again," Hunter said as they sat. The chairs were positioned so close, their knees almost touched. It was not exactly the arrangement she'd have expected for a job interview -- but then, this was not a typical job interview. "You were what -- fifteen? -- when last I saw you."

"Sixteen," Genevieve corrected. And madly infatuated with you. But that was something she had no intention of sharing. And anyway, it had been fourteen years ago.

Before Gary. Before she'd been left bleeding in a dirty alley with the last of her illusions in shreds.

Hunter probably knew about her painfully intense crush. Probably knew about Gary, too, for that matter. As her father always said, you can't hide anything from a vampire, so don't even try. "It was good of you to grant me this interview."

"Not at all. I need an assistant, and you have excellent qualifications." He watched her settle back into the chair's soft wine red leather. His gaze sharpened. "Something concerns you."

Genevieve hesitated, caught between her desire not to offend and her sense of duty. She needed the job, but her family had been Dhampir for sixteen generations.

Duty won. "Your bodyguard was more interested in feeling me up than in making sure I wasn't armed. I could have knocked him cold at least twice. In my opinion, he constitutes a security risk."

Hunter lifted a cool black brow. "He's a former Navy SEAL."

"And a current idiot."

"You are blunt, bordering on rude." Hunter smiled, satisfaction in his eyes. "And every bit as fearless as I would have expected of Tommy Drake's daughter."

She relaxed back into her chair. "Well, that's a relief."

"That I took the criticism well?" His arctic eyes heated to burning blue as he watched her cross her legs. Her knee inadvertently brushed his, and the contact sent magic flaring up her thigh. Straight into her sex.

She tried to ignore the pulse of erotic heat that flared low in her belly. "No, I'm relieved you ordered your man to play the fool to test my honesty. I'd hate to think you'd hire someone that sloppy."

The vampire laughed, a deep, masculine rumble, seductive and warm. "No, I have not survived three hundred and forty years by surrounding myself with sloppy bodyguards. And there've been times even careful ones..." Hunter stopped and rolled his powerful shoulders as if shrugging off a painful memory.

"Sometimes it doesn't matter how careful or well-trained you are." Genevieve's voice dropped to a whisper. "Especially if you're betrayed."

He studied her, going still as a predator. Seeing too much. "The scars from betrayal go to the soul. And they never quite fade, do they?"

"Not so far." Genevieve forced a smile and deliberately sought to turn the conversation back to business. "What are you looking for in a personal assistant?"

You, Hunter thought.

 

About the Author

New York Times best-selling author Angela Knight has written and published more than sixty novels, novellas, and ebooks, including the Mageverse and Merlin’s Legacy series. With a career spanning more than two decades, Romantic Times Bookclub Magazine has awarded her their Career Achievement award in Paranormal Romance, as well as two Reviewers’ Choice awards for Best Erotic Romance and Best Werewolf Romance.

Angela is currently a writer, editor, and cover artist for Changeling Press LLC. She also teaches online writing courses. Besides her fiction work, Angela’s writing career includes a decade as an award-winning South Carolina newspaper reporter. She lives in South Carolina with her husband, Michael, a thirty-year police veteran and detective with a local police department.

 

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Spirit Bear Conspiracy by Anne Kane #MCromance

Brotherhood of the Wild 1

A Riptide MC Romance

MC Romance

Date Published: January 2, 2026

Publisher: Changeling Press

My mission: Save my woman, guard the secret of the rare spirit bear, and take down the poachers.

Ryland -- I was tailing a gang of poachers, certain they’d lead me straight to their kingpin, when a stray arrow from a crossbow slammed into me. Pain lanced through me and everything faded to black. In that blur of unconsciousness, I could have sworn a pure white bear stood over me, calm as can be. When I opened my eyes again, a woman -- curvy and impossibly beautiful -- was watching me with the cutest look of mixed concern and distrust on her face.

Kimberly -- I thought I was alone on a tiny island off the coast of British Columbia until an arrow from a crossbow barely missed skewering me. With my dog Diego at my heels, I ran to hide in a maze of caves, my heart pounding. Crouched down in the dark, I listened in terror as voices and footsteps floated to me from outside. I prayed the shooters wouldn’t find the spirit bear that inhabited this place. When I finally crept back out into the daylight, I found I wasn’t the only target -- but the unconscious man lying in a pool of his own blood wasn’t talking. Victim or one of them?

Excerpt

Copyright ©2026 Anne Kane

Ryland

A sudden squawk of alarm sounded directly in front of me. The quiet morning exploded into sound as a covey of startled pheasants took flight.

Damn! I was hiding in the thick brush off the side of the path, out of sight of my quarry, but right behind the fucking birds. One of the poachers turned, aiming a crossbow straight at the panicked birds. Straight at me.

Double damn.

I ducked low to the ground, hoping to avoid detection. My handgun was nestled in its shoulder holster, and a couple of my favorite throwing knives were strapped to my thighs but there were six poachers and one of me. Not sure why they were using crossbows instead of firearms. Maybe they wanted to avoid making any noise that might bring attention to their presence, but I couldn’t imagine who they thought might hear them on this deserted piece of dirt off the coast of British Columbia.

Even without guns, though, the odds were against me. I braced myself as the arrow arced its way toward me.

Moving to avoid the projectile wasn’t an option. I couldn’t afford to let the poachers detect my presence. My mission depended on them not knowing they’d been made.

The shooter had already turned back to catch up with the rest of the group when the sharp tip of the projectile sliced through the meaty outer part of my upper arm. I gritted my teeth as blood spurted from the wound.

Son of a bitch, that hurt.

Still, it was a lucky shot -- a flesh wound, even if a painful one. I’d had worse. Just one foot to the left and it would have gone straight through my heart. A broadhead arrow could prove fatal under the right circumstances.

The flapping of the pheasants’ wings made so much racket that it drowned out any noise I made as I lowered myself to the ground, grimacing at the red stain spreading on my sleeve. I needed to staunch the bleeding. Like it or not, the chase was over for today.

I glanced down at my watch. I was cutting it close. I needed to get back to my boat and report in. If William didn’t hear from me on schedule, he’d send the troops storming in to find me and that would blow any chance we had of learning what these guys were up to.

I leaned back against a moss-covered tree stump in the center of the bushes. The sound of the poachers joking amongst themselves as they retreated let me know my presence hadn’t been detected.

Well, at least that was a positive.

I’d been tailing these jerks for almost a week now, ever since an anonymous tip-off to the Operations Center had clued William in on their activity in this neck of the woods. When they’d landed on this island though, I was baffled. What could there possibly be here that would interest an international ring of poachers? If they’d been farther north or on the mainland, I would have assumed they were going after bears for their saleable parts, a lucrative business these days. Bear gall was in high demand in the traditional Chinese medicine markets for its supposed healing properties. Bears were territorial creatures, though. On an island this small, the chances of finding more than one were slim, assuming you even found one. Hardly worth the effort of getting here.

Wincing, I shifted my weight slightly to take the pressure off my injured arm. I didn’t dare leave my hiding spot, not yet. I needed to be sure the poachers didn’t circle back. They were a nasty bunch, not above killing someone if they thought they could get away with it.

I closed my eyes, gritting my teeth against the pain lancing through my arm. The slow drip of water hitting the rocks beside me had a mesmerizing effect. Or was it the blood from the wound?

I pivoted my head to look at my injured arm. Despite the copious amounts of blood staining my shirt and the ground beneath me, the wound didn’t appear serious. The flow of the blood would have cleaned out any foreign debris, and the arrow had missed hitting the artery.

Yup, I’d definitely had worse.

Using my good arm, I pulled a knife out of the sheath strapped to my thigh and sliced a large swath of fabric from the front of my shirt to use as a makeshift bandage. A tight compress would staunch the bleeding long enough for me to make my way back to the mainland and get it taken care of properly.

I struggled to remove my belt, the worn leather creaking and groaning in protest as I pulled it loose.

It should not have taken that much effort. Maybe I’d lost more blood than I thought. Didn’t matter. I wasn’t dying, and the mission took precedence over a little discomfort.

The reason we had decided to investigate this group was the anomalies. This was one loaded group of badass poachers. Normally poachers were a solitary bunch, untrusting and cynical in the extreme. Finding two or three teamed together to go after larger prey wasn’t uncommon but teaming up like these guys were doing was totally out of character.

I’d been following them since they’d arrived from Hong Kong and met up with a local guide of questionable repute. It was evident that the meeting had been scheduled ahead of time. Prior to heading north, the five stayed at the Vancouver Airport Hotel for the night. That meant they had money behind them. They’d rented a Jeep and driven to their staging area, where they parked the Jeep in a forestry site lot on the coast. A fully stocked boat, complete with captain, was waiting for them, and they motored straight to this little island.

That was a considerable amount of effort just to reach this deserted piece of land in the Pacific Ocean. If not for the bug I’d managed to plant on one of the poachers at the airport, I would have lost contact with them. It was impossible to track a boat on the open ocean without visual sightings, so stealth required electronic solutions.

It would take someone with local knowledge to even find the island. It certainly didn’t show on international maps, and as far as I knew it wasn’t big enough to have a formal name, just a number on the navigation grid. That still didn’t explain what the attraction was, though. Given the people involved, there had to be some tie-in to the illegal poaching running rampant in this part of Canada. I just needed to figure out what it was.

I’d heard rumors one of the protected spirit bears inhabiting one of the small islands in this area. I knew they were extremely rare, but no one had been able to verify the story, and I put it down to a myth the locals used to lure tourists to the area. A quick Google search confirmed that the small population of spirit bears in this part of the world lived farther north, around Haida Gwaii.

Surely a group of international thieves would know better than to get taken in by such a blatant tourist-trapping lie? The parts from such a creature would be worth a devil’s ransom, but it would be difficult to harvest salable items from a myth. More likely, they were after something else, something valuable. But what?

I folded the soft strip of flannel from my shirt and placed it over the wound on my arm. The bleeding had slowed, a good sign. Gritting my teeth, I wrapped the belt around the makeshift bandage and pulled it tight.

A searing bolt of pain sliced through the raw wound, and colored dots danced before my eyes. I concentrated on my breathing as I waited for the throbbing to subside.

Looked like the wound was worse than I’d thought.

I’d left my medi-kit on the boat, but I’d seen a birch tree a few lengths back. My grandfather had been a bit of a survivalist and had shown me how to make a traditional wound dressing from birch bark. That would serve to dull the pain until I retrieved the medi-kit and the heavy-duty painkillers in it. I’d outgrown that macho, I-can-take-the-pain stage a long time ago.

I got to my feet, using the massive tree stump to steady myself. For a moment, the world swam in front of my eyes. Great, just what I needed.

I closed them, waiting for the forest to stop moving. When it did, I pushed off from the stump, trekking slowly in the direction of the beachhead where I’d left my boat.

One foot in front of the other. Easy as that. I could do this.

My arm throbbed, and I glanced down. No fresh blood. Good.

I stopped by the birch tree, dropping to one knee. Using a sharp-bladed hunting knife to slice off a few lengths of bark, I shredded it into fibers and formed them into a compress. Sucking in a deep breath, I gently placed the birch bark poultice over the raw flesh and reapplied the dressing, securing it with the belt.

Resting for a bit to let the pain ease up, I rose to my feet and continued in the direction of the boat.

Seconds later, I stumbled over a surface root, thudding heavily to my knees. The loss of blood must have weakened me more than I’d realized, and it took a long moment before I managed to get back up. I picked up a broken tree limb, leaning on it for balance.

My focus narrowed. I needed to get to the boat. Keeping my hold on the makeshift walking stick, I took a step. Better, much better.

The birch bark compress supplied some relief from the pain in my arm. I’d had worse injuries back in my military days. I could do this.

Concentrate. The boat.

Need to get to boat.

Need to report back in.

Whatever these guys were after, the Brotherhood of the Wild would put a stop to it. We had the advantage of operating internationally, bypassing local bureaucracy. And we had money. Money could open doors and make officials look the other way.

Boat. Need to get to the boat.

I stumbled again, pausing to lean on a tree until my vision cleared.

Clenching my jaw, I pushed myself upright and took one step. Then another.

Leaning heavily on the walking stick, I steadied myself. The notion of balance seemed to have deserted my brain entirely, and I compromised with a slow shuffling gait that kept me on my feet and heading in the right direction. That was really all I needed.

I felt myself start to fall again and reached out for the closest tree. Had I even made it twenty feet since the last time I’d had to reach for a tree? Maybe. But not much farther.

I took a deep breath and tried to clear my head. Nope. Wasn’t going to work this time. Never mind. I just needed to keep moving in the direction of the boat. That was all.

Just keep moving.

About the Author

Anne Kane lives in the beautiful Okanagan Valley with a bouncy little rescue dog whose breed defies description, a cantankerous Himalayan cat, and too many fish to count. She spent many years trying to fit in and act normal, but finally gave up the effort. She started writing romance in 2008, and her fate was sealed when she won a publishing contract with Red Sage Publishing and just a month later Changeling Press accepted her first submission. Since then she has published more than thirty stories in a variety of sub-genres, all with a happily ever after.

She has two handsome sons and six adorable grandchildren and enjoys spending time with them whenever she can. Her hobbies, when she’s not playing with the characters in her head, include kayaking, hiking, swimming, playing guitar, singing and of course, reading.

 

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Cole for Christmas by Treva Harte #Christmas #Romance

A Friends to Lovers BDSM Ménage

Christmas / Romance / Comedy

Date Published: December 23, 2025

Publisher: Changeling Press

Sarah has a secret -- she wants her best friend Cole. Cole wants Jeff. And Jeff? Surprise! He wants them both.

Cole is wild, funny, impulsive, and Sarah’s best friend. She doesn’t understand what he gets out of submission, but she’s not going to let Cole get hurt the way he has in the past. So when she discovers his new dom is Jeff, the jerk who helped kick her out of her undergraduate program, she knows she has to intervene.

But when she sees Jeff again, she’s confused. He says he wants Sarah to be Cole’s Christmas present, and she’s stunned. She and Cole are just friends, aren't they? Amazingly, Cole seems to want her as much as she secretly has wanted him. The even bigger surprise? She realizes she wants Jeff too.

Even if she could have them both, this is supposed to be temporary. It’s too bad she’s only allowed to have Cole for Christmas.

Excerpt

Copyright ©2025 Treva Harte

“What’s wrong with you, Cole?” Sarah stared at her friend over the flimsy coffee container. “You have to go pee pee? You’ve been twitchy ever since we got here.”

Cole laughed and gave her the finger. He opened his mouth as if to give a smart-ass answer but then bent over his latte instead. Not looking at her, he carefully blew on it and took a sip.

Sarah settled back. Cole was obviously dying to tell her something, and she knew from experience all she needed to do was sit. If he waited more than ten minutes before spilling everything, he’d probably keel over from the strain.

The clatter of students milling around the student union coffee shop made the silence less noticeable. They continued drinking.

Two minutes of just downing caffeine. Impressive. Cole was hanging tough.

He shifted again in his seat and shut his eyes, grimacing. Sarah frowned, suddenly a little concerned. Cole was a genius -- a real, measured-by-testing genius -- but that didn’t mean his emotional IQ always matched his intelligence. She was sure it was a challenge to be five to ten years younger than his academic peers, and Cole didn’t always meet that challenge. In fact, Cole could be kind of a pain in the ass. Right now he was acting like he had a literal pain there.

Oh. Ohhhh, boy. He might actually have one. Please God, no. She might have to venture into TMI territory to find out.

Cole had been more than forthcoming about his sex life in the two years they’d been in grad school together. That was a problem for him. Younger and smarter in some things had made him vulnerable in others, especially since he was open about his sexual preferences and desires. Gay at the university was one thing; gay and dedicated to BDSM was another.

“Has someone hurt you?” She hoped that question would get the job done. Sarah could be more direct, if need be, but she also probably didn’t want to know all the particulars.

“No.” His prompt answer was a relief. Of course, he had to add, “Not any more than I want to be.”

“Ooookay.” Sarah set down her cup. Sometimes a friend had a duty to ask more even if she’d so much rather not. “Have you met some new dom?”

“You know I have. I told you about him.” Cole didn’t look up from his latte, but he didn’t sound reluctant to answer.

“You mentioned you’d met someone new at a club a few weeks ago, but you didn’t say anything more.” That wasn’t like her Cole at all now that she thought about it. “Is that the guy?”

“Fuck yeah. I was incredibly lucky that night. He hardly ever goes to clubs. Says they’re too fake for his tastes.” Cole squirmed again. “He isn’t into scenes. Not public ones.”

“So you’ve been -- um -- doing things outside of clubs?” Sarah wasn’t sure which sounded more dangerous. Cole wouldn’t know danger if it bit him on the butt. Especially if it bit him on the butt.

“At his place. Sarah, it’s… intense. And really sexy.” Cole grinned at her. “That’s all I’ll say unless you want me to go on. I know how you get.”

“And I know how you get, so thanks for shutting up.” She grinned back at him, and Cole shifted his weight again. Sarah sighed. “All right, Cole. Why are you acting this way? Something is going on.”

Cole leaned over, then glanced around to make sure no one was listening. Oh God. He felt the need to keep something private. This was going to be a doozy.

“Because I have a butt plug in me. A big one. It’s driving me crazy. Especially because it’s pressing on my fucking prostate.”

Sarah made a faint protesting noise and covered her eyes. “I don’t want to know.”

“When I see Jeff after work, he’s going to take it out and replace it with --”

“Don’t want to know, don’t want to know. Don’t. Wanna. Know.” Sarah covered her ears instead.

Cole pushed down one of her hands and whispered, “Unless you want to pull it out for me. Jeff might get mad, but it would be worth it if your dainty, lily-white fingers would take care of things for me right now. It might even be fun.”

Sarah clenched her dainty, lily-white fingers and smacked him on the shoulder with her plastic spoon.

Cole leaned over and kissed her on the forehead. Stunned, Sarah dropped the spoon on the table. For such a demonstrative guy, Cole pretty much kept his hands and lips to himself. Well, at least around women. She’d seen guys pass him around like an appetizer at parties. Obviously that kind of touching was different for him.

Oh, shit. After remembering some of those party images, she felt a sudden pang of lust. She took a deep breath. Now she could see herself testing that butt plug, imagine what Cole’s tight ass looked like holding it. His gasp when it moved. Damn it, she didn’t need to have that thought in her head. Talk about waste of time! Cole was completely off-limits. He’d never be her appetizer. Friends. They were friends. She’d gotten over her stupid crush long ago. That didn’t mean she couldn’t admit to herself he was sexy. In an off-limits way. She didn’t need to start thinking he was available after working so hard to forget he was hot.

“I knew I’d make you do that, but you did ask.” Cole sounded a little too smug.

Sarah looked up. Oh Lord, how could he know about her completely inappropriate thoughts?

Cole rubbed his shoulder, grimacing as if she’d really hurt him. Then he stopped and winked.

Oh. Right. Very funny. She’d hit him. They had a standing joke about his smart mouth and his need for punishment.

“Actually, what I really wanted to ask was what you had planned for Christmas.” She didn’t care if it was an obvious change of subject. Cole could go on pushing her buttons for hours. Besides, she did want to ask.

Last year Cole went with her to see her parents. Cole had way too many experiences with judgmental families like his own, and he’d been apprehensive about the whole thing, especially meeting her officer father. But Dad had been Dad, and Cole had been Cole, and everyone had a great time, just the way Sarah’d expected. This year Mom and Dad had shipped out to Japan, so neither she nor Cole would be seeing their families. She’d hoped they could hang out together for the two weeks while the grad dorms closed during winter break.

“I’ve been wanting to tell you! I’m planning on a trip to a ski lodge in Wyoming all during break.”

“You don’t ski.” Sarah skied but couldn’t afford a weekend, much less weeks at a resort. Life was so unfair.

“I like skiers. And cowboys. Jeff owns a place there.” Cole crumpled his cup and tossed it into the garbage.

“Oh. Jackson Hole?” Sarah snickered. “I could see you headed there just for the name.”

So now she knew this Jeff had money, was a skier, and maybe was a little pretentious. Two out of three wasn’t bad. Especially if he had a ski lodge.

“Grand Targhee. Jeff says it’s even better than Jackson Hole, although not as many people have heard of it.”

So unfair. Sarah had heard of it, and everything she’d heard agreed with what Cole -- who was obviously clueless -- had said. The place wasn’t even that pretentious. If Cole’s new man turned out to be perfect, she’d have to be happy Cole was going away with him on the kind of holiday break she’d want.

And that was so unfair double time. It also meant she had no one to share Christmas with. She didn’t need another reminder that she’d worked too hard, frozen too many people out, had no life. Cole, who bubbled over with curiosity and energy, always made even the bleakest times fun. She’d been counting on him to carry her through this first really big holiday without her parents.

Well, she’d have to get over it. A military brat got used to being around strangers. Maybe she could scrounge up enough money to take a little road trip by herself or get a fancier hotel than she’d planned. It didn’t sound like fun now, but she would work on it.

“You wanna come along?”

 

About the Author

Treva Harte has always been an overachiever. She also collects things. First it was degrees. First a B.A. in English, then she decided to go back for a Master's degree. Not content with that, she added a J.D. Since then she's added a husband, also an attorney, and two children to her collection. She's continuing her ways as an overachiever, writing her wonderfully offbeat tales of passion and possibilities -- in her spare time.

Visit her website at www.trevaharte.com.

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Son of the Moon Book One ~ Serendipity by Janelle Cressida #MM #Romance

Son of the Moon, Book One

MM Romance / Contemporary Fantasy

Date Published: June 13, 2025

"Don't come crying to me if he somehow manages to actually kill you!"

Twenty-one-year-old Jesse leads a pretty ordinary life until he encounters Jamie, who, covered in soot and ash, can't even remember where the blood on his hands came from.

Aware of the risk, Jesse offers him a place for the night, and what starts as simple act of kindness quickly deepens into a profound connection. Jamie explores the world anew, curious and with an endearing innocence, but things change rapidly when their first intimate moment nearly ends in tragedy. Even worse, Jamie begins to experience vivid nightmares; and discovering mysterious powers inside of him, the question of who he really is becomes all the more pressing. What did he do before he met Jesse? Is Jamie truly the harmless person he seems to be?

Son of the Moon Serendipity is the first in a series of seven books, where MM Romance collides with Contemporary Fantasy in a gripping tale for everyone who loves Hurt/Comfort and Found Family.

About the Author

Janelle Cressida loves to take her readers on highly emotional rollercoasters where every victory, however small, has its own price.

 

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All I Want For Christmas by Will Okati #Gay #ChristmasRomance

Gay Christmas Romance, 2nd Chances

Date Published: December 19, 2025

 

All James wants for Christmas is his roommate Cillian. And he might just be getting lucky this year.

 

Who doesn’t love the holidays? Sleigh bells racing down winding country roads. Chestnuts, open fires, Yule logs. Homemade fruitcake that’s soaked up a full bottle of brandy. James adores it all, but his long-concealed desire for his roommate Cillian runs deeper than a river of holiday booze and burns hotter than any crackling Christmas hearth. But since he’d rather not risk losing a dear friend by making any unwanted moves, he’s kept that to himself for years.

Until now. When a flight plan goes FUBAR and James doesn’t have a way home for the holidays, Cillian suggests they keep Christmas in their own way. Tree, lights, feasting, the works.

It’s tempting. Almost as tempting as Cillian himself. And when James starts to get a clue that his interest might just be reciprocated… well. That changes the entire game. Time to bring out the holly and the jolly and maybe he’ll get his man under the tree this year.

EXCERPT

 

James bowed his head and thumped it gently against the windowpane. At first, he thought the quiet rattle and bang was from the shitty, landlord special, glass rattling in its frame. The much louder swearing, first frustrated and then triumphant, told him Cillian was home.

His heart rate, already nice and high, spiked a jolt or two skyward.

Cillian. His roommate. Platonic, not permanently attached, but in high demand, with a new pretty boy or big bear on his arm at least twice a month. He rattled all the windows when he had company, and James had learned to take it with a grain of salt, a snorted chuckle, and a really good pair of noise-canceling headphones -- because honestly, Cillian was one of those guys you couldn’t help but love. Some men had a gift for that. Half Irish and leaning into it, using the accent he’d gotten from his Galway mother to its full advantage. Full head of wild red curls and a day or so’s worth of stubble. Surprisingly broad shoulders, built like a Viking bard, with a cute little pillow belly when he sat down.

“Your call is very important to us. Please hold…”

James missed the rest of the robot spiel, too busy watching Cillian wander into their living room, tossing his keys in the general direction of their coffee table and his own knitted cap toward the back of the couch. No company tonight, James noticed.

Cillian grinned broadly, his teeth white and even, and mimed “phone call?” before putting his finger to his lips and plunking cheerfully down onto their couch. Yep. There was the belly. During dry spells, which happened far more often than James would like, he itched to drop down beside Cillian and rest his head on that nice little cushion to see if it was as comfortable as it looked.

“Won’t say a word,” Cillian mouthed to James. Then almost immediately, out loud: “Problems? Weren’t you supposed to be on a plane tonight?”

“Supposed to be, sure.” James gestured at his phone. “Airline says otherwise.”

“You bought your ticket weeks ago.”

“Again, airline’s website says otherwise. Trying to get an actual human on the line to convince them of that.”

Cillian winced in kind sympathy and idly rested his hand on his stomach where his Aran sweater had ridden up an inch or two. “Sucks, my friend. Wish you good luck.”

James’ fingers twitched. Their windows didn’t keep all the cold out, but Cillian ran warm. He’d be toasty as a fireplace to cuddle up with. James could rest his head or roll over to face him while they talked about a little of everything and a lot of nothing. And while he was there, possibly nose into the warm skin. Press a light kiss to Cillian’s navel. Or flip completely onto his stomach, braced on his arms, all the better to take care of the zipper on Cillian’s jeans and --

Okay, so he didn’t think about that kind of goings-on only during dry spells. More like all the time, actually.

All I want for Christmas is youuuuuu…

Click. “Your call has been disconnected. Please hang up and try again.”

James clapped a hand to his forehead and growled through gritted teeth, wondering if Androids could actually accordion up and break across the middle if you squeezed them hard enough. Either way, he was about to find out, either from travel-induced rage or sexual frustration.

“Ah, now. I know that look.”

James had closed his eyes, but he heard Cillian lever himself off the couch and clatter over before thumping a companionable hand to his back. “It’s a few days till Christmas still. You’re not going to get a human on the line during rush hour.”

“True so far.” James opened his eyes. “Suggestions?”

“Sure, easy. Call back tomorrow morning and yell at them then. Or not, because they’re humans and they’re probably at least twice as pissed at the system as you are, so be a kind fellow and go easy on the poor bastards. Figure it all out with a cool head then.”

Cillian grinned at him from inches away. He smelled of bayberries and fir and wool. “And in the meantime, I happen to know the perfect cure for a raging temper fit.”

Despite himself, a matching smile tugged at James’ lips. Cillian was just magic that way. “Don’t say drinks.”

“Drinks!” Cillian thumped him harder, then tossed an arm around James’ shoulders. “Best idea I’ve heard today. Let’s go.”

With a choice between that and listening to bubblegum caroling for another hour -- well, it wasn’t really a choice at all.

All I want for Christmas is you. He tapped Cillian’s fist with his own. “You’re on. Let’s go.”

 

About the Author

Willa Okati (AKA Will) is made of many things: imagination, coffee, stray cat hairs, daydreams, more coffee, kitchen experimentation, a passion for winter weather, a little more coffee, a whole lot of flowering plants and a lifelong love of storytelling. Will's definitely one of the quiet ones you have to watch out for, though he -- not she anymore -- is a lot less quiet these days.

 

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