Writing is as easy as bleeding on a page, they say.

I would generally agree, only adding that it is as easy as bleeding on a page after you’ve donated five gallons of blood, was drained by a vampire, and have found yourself in an alternate reality where beaten tree pulp is nothing but a myth of long-gone days of barbarism.

And yet we write. And we suffer. And we love it.

Or so we tell ourselves, insistently, over the umpteenth cup of coffee.

The inspiration for “Saving Artemis” came out of this writerly frustration, in fact. Having emerged out of a tough decade with some wear-and-tear that could be expertly concealed behind a smile and a larger-than-life persona, I wanted to get back into writing. To my utter horror, I realized there was nothing stopping me. I was free, as it were, to pursue my lifelong dream. There was just a teensy-weensy little problem.

How the hell do I do that?

Follow the white rabbit, obviously. Or in this case, the marvelous Ms. Delilah Devlin. Thankfully, the gods of Facebook tossed the Call for Submissions upon my path, and I instantly dove into it. I’ve already been playing with the idea of a fateful book, a burglary, and one very pissed-off Alpha. All I needed to do was add a cup (or twelve) of coffee, a pinch of my own demons, and some sizzling heat to all the right places.

And the outcome? Well, you’ll be the judge of that. 

Excerpt from “Saving Artemis”

Defying her alpha’s direct orders, a young warrior braves
a pack of hunting werewolves to finally claim her Mate

My current predicament was all Gavin’s fucking fault.

He and I had a special relationship. A working relationship. Other pack members disagreed, on account of the weekly shouting matches that swept through the compound like tornadoes. Sooner or later, we always ended up at each other’s throats.

Why? Because he never listened and always treated me like an aggressive child. Admittedly, he also allowed me to work out my aggressions.
Once Halftooth had given his consent, I’d joined the other teams in training. Combat was my only life-source. My only outlet. When fighting, being imprinted didn’t matter, because you expected to feel pain when two-hundred pounds of werewolf tried to beat you bloody. Since every touch hurt, I took some pleasure in causing pain in return.

By then, I was an outsider to the pack and had to fight tooth and claw for my ranking. But apparently, the old hermit had trained me a little too well. I topped my teammates, and then everyone in my age-group.

A greater challenge had to be found. Gavin volunteered, and I soon discovered that beating my teammates up was not nearly as satisfying as beating him. I found it exhilarating to go up against the strongest wolf on the western coast and hold my own. I got a perverse gratification out of seeing our unflappable alpha riled, bare-chested, glistening with sweat, and breathing hard. Holding so much of his attention, so much of his intent, was addictive.

I never knew his eyes could blaze so fiercely, or that my whole being could answer so readily. My skin would flush, my heart would break into a gallop, and I’d become almost savage. I would feel this… anticipation, this burning cluster of something unspeakable in my chest. When he charged, my wolf answered the challenge.

When we fought, he couldn’t tell me I was in any way less than him.

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