Curiosity might get this cat killed.
Kit-Kat
Maw of Mayhem MC Book 3
by AK Nevermore
Genre: Paranormal MC Romance
Grimdarke James’ problems have gone from bad to worse. Ousted from his MC and on the run, all he wants is to keep Kit safe while he sets things right. But calling in a favor drops more than trouble into his lap.
As he tries to salvage what’s left of the Maw of Mayhem, forces close in on them and tensions rise. New allies are found and old loyalties are put to the test. So is Grim’s relationship with Kit when someone from his past tries to come between them.
Kit doesn’t share and the threat to her position as Grim’s mate raises her hackles. With her heat triggered, she’s running on instinct and battle lines are drawn. Can Grim win back his MC, and prove he’s the man for her, or will he lose it all?
Copyright Notification: All Changeling Press LLC publications and cover art are copyright and may not be used in any AI generated work. No AI content is included or allowed in any Changeling Press LLC publication or artwork.
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Darker
Maw of Mayhem MC Book 2
So much for sanctuary.
Kit Parson doesn’t feel any safer than she was before she first stepped into the Maw of Mayhem, and things are going from bad to worse. Something big is definitely going down in the paranormal community… and inside Kit. Now that her inner beast has awoken, all it wants is out. The only thing Kit wants is Grim, but he’s got issues of his own.
Fingered for a crime he didn’t commit and injured by the witch’s spell, his cat Darke has control of their form. He doesn’t play well with others, and tensions with the crew are at an all-time high.
With the witches’ elite assassins on their trail, can Darke and the crew put aside their differences to keep Kit safe and get back to the MC? And as the clock ticks toward the vote with Grim’s reputation in shambles, will there be an MC to go back to?
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Grimdarke
Maw of Mayhem MC Book 1
Out of options and on the run after her psychotic father’s released from prison, Kit Parson heads to the only place she might be safe from him, the Maw of Mayhem MC. The unexpected move buys her time, but also puts her at risk. Surrounded by shifters, her inner cat begs to be released, and after witnessing a brutal attack on her mother as a child, she refuses to let the monster out. Totally doable, provided no bodily fluids are ever exchanged.
That takes the MC’s hot-as-hell VP, Grimdarke James, officially off the table. Mourning the recent murder of the club’s alpha and struggling to control his inner cat, the tattooed Viking god is on thin ice. If he goes feral again, he’ll be put down. Which makes his cat’s insistence that Kit belongs to him problematic, upsetting the delicate balance of the MC’s internal politics, and the woman blackmailing Grim.
But when Kit’s father catches up with her, Grim has no choice but to trust his cat, and Kit can’t deny their chemistry. Can they hold on to each other when everything is trying to tear them apart? After a gruesome triple murder propels them deeper into the paranormal world, they find themselves with unlikely allies, even as their enemies threaten to destroy everything they hold dear.
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**FREEBIE ALERT!**
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Grim stalked out of the break room, riffling his hair. How
the fuck had everything gone to shit so fast? He blew the messy locks from his
face and frowned, glancing around the garage --
And did a double take at the trio of bikes by the bay door.
Brick and Wrench’s hogs, and Grim’s Bobber. How had that made it out of the
city? Holy -- He stumbled over to them, not quite believing his bike was really
there. One of the crew must’ve ridden it out of the garage before the club
blew, which meant Stitch had left his down there.
Christ, he’d abandoned his own bike to snag the Bobber? A
lump gummed up Grim’s throat. You only did that kind of shit for your alpha.
He swallowed, gritting his teeth and hating himself. How much
of this clusterfuck could he have avoided if he’d just sucked it the fuck up
and owned the position after Clay’s murder?
Guess he’d never know.
Grim blinked, his eyes hot. Fingers trailing down the leather
seat. Listening to the click and ping of the engine cooling. Avoiding the rest
of the crew packing up. He frowned, guilt eating at him, his stomach a fucking
mess. Staring at the bathroom door, willing it to open.
For Kit to come out on two legs.
Come on, baby… Hands down, she was his priority, but
Jesus fuck, the rest of the crew depended on him, too, and they all needed to
get gone. Clay’s refusal to take a mate abruptly made more sense than Grim
wanted it to. Some part of that equation was gonna get fucked, and he’d be
damned if it was gonna be Kit unless she was squarely on his dick.
Kat say anything else to you? he asked his cat.
-- no. fighting with Kit --
Grim grunted, the angst of having to choose between his mate
and his club landing a gut punch of shame. Christ, he knew what that was like.
Being at odds with your beast. The terror of feeling trapped inside yourself,
of sinking down so fucking deep you didn’t know if you could come back.
[CHAGRIN]
-- different --
Same, Grim snapped. Shit was close enough, less the
cuffs. He rubbed at the scars on his wrists, the lines of ink blurred and
broken. The memory of the snick of silver setting
his teeth on edge. That creeping, seeping burn infecting his veins with its
poison.
He wiped the sweat from his brow. Yeah, he knew how it felt,
and granted, he wasn’t keeping her there, but he’d sent Kit on that downward
spiral by pushing her to change. Jesus, he was a piece of shit. A sad laugh
slid from his lips.
But fuck, that’s what everyone thought anyway, wasn’t it? The
media, the rest of Mayhem… Mama Roe sure as hell did, and he was about to go
kiss her fucking --
Grim’s breath caught as the bathroom door swung open and Kit
strode out, looking classy as fuck and like the last person he should be with.
Triss dropped the crap she was packing into the cage’s trunk and ran over to
hug her.
Christ, he wanted to do the same… but, damn. Grim wet his
lips. Kit wasn’t… Damn. She was wearing that soft sweater he’d snagged from the
vamp queen’s trophy closet. Shit was fucking sinful the way it hung off her
shoulders and clung to her tits. The jeans she’d been so crazy about did the
same to her hips, a sliver of her flat stomach flashing as she raised her arms
to hug the girl back. And when Triss skipped away, and Kit turned toward the
cages?
Woman was a fucking goddess.
Grim bit back a groan at the way her long black hair dusted
her ass as she bent to put her bag in the trunk. She looked like a million
fucking bucks, which was easily nine hundred ninety-nine thousand and change
above his pay grade.
-- ours --
The pang in Grim’s chest echoed the truth of that statement.
Maybe he didn’t deserve her now, but he’d fucking bust his ass until he
did. If she still wants us. His throat bobbed at the
possibility she wouldn’t after what he’d done to her.
-- asked to shift --
Yeah, but the idea of being a shifter versus the reality of
it were two very different things, and Grim’d only known Kit for a hot fucking
minute. When they’d met, she’d been so damned adamant she didn’t want to
change.
-- Reaper decided for her --
Grim’s knuckles whitened. And he’s gonna die for
it. Darke chuffed in agreement.
A growl welled up in Grim’s throat, his eyes narrowing.
Asorav had ended his call and wrapped his hand around Kit’s
arm, pulling her off to the side. He spoke to her adamantly in hushed tones in
the next bay.
-- listen? --
Yeah. Grim stepped back into the shadows, his
hearing sharpening.
Kit was smiling up at the vamp like he’d caught her at
something. She was trying to play it off as he was talking. “…understand the
temptation to eavesdrop on one’s elders, but strongly suggest you resist the
urge.” Asorav looped her arm through his, and a muscle in Grim’s jaw twitched
at the asshole’s familiarity with her.
-- known her longer --
Don’t remind me, Grim muttered. He still couldn’t
believe Kit had been the Darkling’s dog walker.
“There are those that do not take kindly to such invasions of
privacy,” the vamp scolded.
Kit’s eyes widened, her pupils waffling --
Grim did a double take. Shit, did I really see
that? Aside from the mirror, he’d never seen anyone else’s flip
between theirs and their beast’s.
-- did. Kat’s scared. Won’t talk --
He bit back a growl. Was that fucking right?
“Which is why you’re only getting a warning.” The vamp patted
her hand like some kind of benevolent fucking uncle. Grim’s lip curled, knowing
that grift all too well. He was gonna beat the shit outta --
“Vampires really can read minds?” Kit squeaked. “I thought
--”
Wait, what? Grim froze.
“Yes and no,” Asorav said. “Your compatriots’ thoughts are
closed to me, but it seems you and I share an affinity.” The asshole chuckled.
“Yes, it surprised me as well. However, after Cecelia --”
“I want to know what you meant when you said she was
elsewhere.”
Asorav sighed, and Grim had to smirk at Kit’s indignation
over the MIA Pomeranian. “I don’t totally understand it,” the vamp said, “but I
believe she’s trapped somewhere between. It’s… the place one goes to get from
here to there. I’m afraid I can’t explain it any better than that. She wasn’t
strong enough to anchor my form at this end, and when I pulled, she was sucked
in.”
Well, that sounded like total bullshit, but Grim supposed the
prick couldn’t admit to killing the thing. In either case, Kit sounded like she
bought it.
“Because she was your heart. Aryanna told me you were a
day-walker.”
“Did she now.”
Grim scratched his stubble, wondering how much of an issue
that was gonna be. Vampires were enough of a pain in the ass at night. One
lurking around 24/7 didn’t exactly give him the warm fuzzies, but then again,
this conversation didn’t either.
“… mentioned you couldn’t be, um, de-animated, without your
heart.” Kit said, rubbing her arms like she was cold. “Don’t worry, she’s not
around anymore to note it in the queen’s memoir.”
Asorav laughed, and Grim wanted to smash his fist through the
vamp’s fangs. “How delightful. I never could understand how Aryanna abided that
vitriolic shrew. I’m only sorry I wasn’t there to see it, but suppose that’s
neither here nor there, and you, my dear, most certainly are. She told you,
then, of my Maker’s triumph?”
Kit nodded like she was humoring him. Grim rolled his eyes.
Fucking vamps had sticks shoved up their asses almost as far as the witches.
Christ, they were pretentious fucks.
“It’s a metaphor, you know,” Asorav said. “She wasn’t my
heart; she had my heart. The spell transformed the
physical organ and created a bridge, tying our life forces to those we held
dearest. It was genius, really. Love is such a fickle thing, and given a
vampire’s lifespan, in most cases, transfers quite organically before the
object of our affection dies… or is lost, in this case.”
He pulled a wide, platinum bracelet from his pocket, studded
with what Grim was positive were diamonds, and closed Kit’s fingers around it.
The fuck? “And it seems once again, my heart has been captured by another. I
assure you, I am aware this is most inconvenient, but, as I said, the heart
wants what the heart wants, now, doesn’t it?”
Grim bared his teeth, knuckles white as he clenched his
fists. Had that motherfucker just given Kit a fucking king’s ransom in jewelry
and told her he loved her?
-- no, his heart --
I don’t give a fuck, she’s MINE.
Shades of the past tore through the consciousness Darke
shared with his man, threatening to swallow Grim whole. He fought against their
poisoned bite, but the witch’s spell had weakened the big cat’s skin-brother
and freed the memories from their fetters. They lashed at Grim with inky black
tentacles of torment. His agonized screams rose within the crescendoing squall,
raging through their split psyche. A growl welled in Darke’s chest, ruff
bristling at their assault.
-- Mine! -- he snarled,
lunging into the fray. Sharp claws and teeth rent the shadowed memories of the
bad time from his man, scattering them back into the depths of their mind. Grim
was his. Him. A self separate, yet one. His skin-brother. Darke nuzzled him
close, tongue rasping over Grim’s flickering light.
-- heal --
Kit… his man whimpered, curling into a ball.
His light dimmed, giving up control of their form to the big cat.
-- ours -- Darke
rumbled, shifting their body and sending Grim what strength he could. Fur
sprouted, limbs cracking and reforming. Two legs became four, and a tawny gray
mountain lion lay sprawled on the bed where the others had lain his man to
recover.
Within, his skin-brother’s light strengthened, its low glow
holding steady.
Darke ran a paw over his face, licking at his pad. He sneezed
at the scent of old blood, the room thick with the patina of its tang and the
decaying musk of the undead. A low growl rumbled in his chest, his pupils
dilating to take in the room’s blend of muted color.
Heavy furniture dominated the space, its angles stark amidst
the gloom. Tendrils of scent threaded through the room, age and linseed seeping
from the wood to twine with the rest of the civilized rot assaulting his nose.
He pushed off the bed, padding across the thick carpet. His shadow grayed the
fingers of scant moonlight streaming in from long, amber-tinted windows.
Darke paused, his lip curling over his canines, disdainfully
eyeing the city spread out below him before turning his face to the bulbous
moon.
Had Grim’s female changed and released her animal?
Clay’s cat had promised Darke a mate. Teased him with her
scent, captured within the weft of the afghan on Grim’s bed. The desperate
longing it evoked proved the connection. The tip of Darke’s tail twitched. He’d
trusted it would be so. Waited for so long. Too long. Kit’s scent matched the
afghan’s. That meant the beast within her was his.
Darke chuffed his frustration. Sensing his mate without being
able to claim her was torture. He paced the breadth of the room, eyes narrowed
at the heavy oaken door leading out. Beyond it, faint voices pricked at his
ears. Part of his skin-brother’s pride was near. His crew. Darke growled at the
snippets of the MC’s inner cats’ near-unintelligible murmuring punctuating the
two-legged babble. That he could understand the crew’s stupid yapping better
than his own brethren’s yowls irked.
A pang of loneliness shot through Darke’s chest. He missed
Clay. When his father’s inner lion had spoken, his deep rumble was clarion. The
lynxes out there? Yowls and hissing. Darke could pick out maybe one hard-won
word in six, and they couldn’t understand him at all. It had been the same with
his littermates, Grapple and Shiv, leaving Darke to rely on instinct when
forced to interact.
It got him into trouble. Lynxes were shady and the
two-leggers lied. Said things they didn’t mean, then hurt you. Clay had been
different, but he was dead while his murderer walked free.
Reaper.
Darke shivered, ears flicking back, remembering the bad time.
The man who called himself their uncle needed to die, and Grapple and Shiv with
him.
Darke’s temper spiked, his tail swishing. Keenly feeling the
loss locked within his mind again, in this stinking place of undead. His
skin-brother shared his sorrow at their father’s murder, but not Darke’s
isolation.
And now Grim had left him, too.
Darke shouldered through another door into a smaller room
lined with tile. It smelled faintly of excrement and strongly of fabricated
pine, the water in the bowl stale and chemical-laced. Darke shook droplets from
his maw and chuffed his distaste, returning to the window.
Soft footfalls approached from the beyond the oaken door.
Darke slunk into the deep shadow of an armoire as the heavy
slab canted open, then closed. Kit limped to the center of the room, favoring a
leg. Her arm was splinted, the opposite hand bandaged in gauze. A ruddy stain
marred its whiteness. She wrapped her damaged limbs around herself with a low
sob, the scent of fresh blood perfuming the air as she moved. Darke’s nostrils
flared at that thread of wrongness twining within the delicate tendrils of
citrus, cinnamon, and female musk.
His mate was presenting as wounded prey.
Darke bit back the growl building in his chest, fury pounding
through his temples. His claws extended and retracted from the carpet’s thick
pile. Healthy, she’d be a tempting prize for any predator. Injured… He was
going to kill --
No. Darke’s ears flattened against his skull. His man would
think before spilling blood.
But Grim thought too much.
Kit scanned the room, then dashed a hand across her face,
stumbling to the bed. Her feet froze at its foot, head snapping toward the
bathroom, then away. Another low sob eked
from her throat, and Darke’s ruff stood on end. He would destroy them. Destroy
them all. Starting with those who had failed to protect --
-- Hey! Boy Vengeance! You really just
gonna let her think her think he’s gone? --
Darke jumped, fur bristling at the syrupy censure. He backed
deeper into the shadows, eyes wide and pulse pounding.
-- Aww. Here puss, puss, puss… I don’t
bite --
His lip curled over a canine, and a female’s mocking laughter
flitted through his mind as clearly as the gravelly chuckle of Clay’s beast
had. Darke’s heart leaped, his ears pricking forward, saliva pooling in his
maw.
He could understand her.
The beast inside Kit, his promised mate -- when she spoke,
her words were clear, and she wanted to play.
Shades of the past tore through the consciousness Darke
shared with his man, threatening to swallow Grim whole. He fought against their
poisoned bite, but the witch’s spell had weakened the big cat’s skin-brother
and freed the memories from their fetters. They lashed at Grim with inky black
tentacles of torment. His agonized screams rose within the crescendoing squall,
raging through their split psyche. A growl welled in Darke’s chest, ruff
bristling at their assault.
-- Mine! -- he snarled,
lunging into the fray. Sharp claws and teeth rent the shadowed memories of the
bad time from his man, scattering them back into the depths of their mind. Grim
was his. Him. A self separate, yet one. His skin-brother. Darke nuzzled him
close, tongue rasping over Grim’s flickering light.
-- heal --
Kit… his man whimpered, curling into a ball.
His light dimmed, giving up control of their form to the big cat.
-- ours -- Darke
rumbled, shifting their body and sending Grim what strength he could. Fur
sprouted, limbs cracking and reforming. Two legs became four, and a tawny gray
mountain lion lay sprawled on the bed where the others had lain his man to
recover.
Within, his skin-brother’s light strengthened, its low glow
holding steady.
Darke ran a paw over his face, licking at his pad. He sneezed
at the scent of old blood, the room thick with the patina of its tang and the
decaying musk of the undead. A low growl rumbled in his chest, his pupils
dilating to take in the room’s blend of muted color.
Heavy furniture dominated the space, its angles stark amidst
the gloom. Tendrils of scent threaded through the room, age and linseed seeping
from the wood to twine with the rest of the civilized rot assaulting his nose.
He pushed off the bed, padding across the thick carpet. His shadow grayed the
fingers of scant moonlight streaming in from long, amber-tinted windows.
Darke paused, his lip curling over his canines, disdainfully
eyeing the city spread out below him before turning his face to the bulbous
moon.
Had Grim’s female changed and released her animal?
Clay’s cat had promised Darke a mate. Teased him with her
scent, captured within the weft of the afghan on Grim’s bed. The desperate
longing it evoked proved the connection. The tip of Darke’s tail twitched. He’d
trusted it would be so. Waited for so long. Too long. Kit’s scent matched the
afghan’s. That meant the beast within her was his.
Darke chuffed his frustration. Sensing his mate without being
able to claim her was torture. He paced the breadth of the room, eyes narrowed
at the heavy oaken door leading out. Beyond it, faint voices pricked at his
ears. Part of his skin-brother’s pride was near. His crew. Darke growled at the
snippets of the MC’s inner cats’ near-unintelligible murmuring punctuating the
two-legged babble. That he could understand the crew’s stupid yapping better
than his own brethren’s yowls irked.
A pang of loneliness shot through Darke’s chest. He missed
Clay. When his father’s inner lion had spoken, his deep rumble was clarion. The
lynxes out there? Yowls and hissing. Darke could pick out maybe one hard-won
word in six, and they couldn’t understand him at all. It had been the same with
his littermates, Grapple and Shiv, leaving Darke to rely on instinct when
forced to interact.
It got him into trouble. Lynxes were shady and the
two-leggers lied. Said things they didn’t mean, then hurt you. Clay had been
different, but he was dead while his murderer walked free.
Reaper.
Darke shivered, ears flicking back, remembering the bad time.
The man who called himself their uncle needed to die, and Grapple and Shiv with
him.
Darke’s temper spiked, his tail swishing. Keenly feeling the
loss locked within his mind again, in this stinking place of undead. His
skin-brother shared his sorrow at their father’s murder, but not Darke’s
isolation.
And now Grim had left him, too.
Darke shouldered through another door into a smaller room
lined with tile. It smelled faintly of excrement and strongly of fabricated
pine, the water in the bowl stale and chemical-laced. Darke shook droplets from
his maw and chuffed his distaste, returning to the window.
Soft footfalls approached from the beyond the oaken door.
Darke slunk into the deep shadow of an armoire as the heavy
slab canted open, then closed. Kit limped to the center of the room, favoring a
leg. Her arm was splinted, the opposite hand bandaged in gauze. A ruddy stain
marred its whiteness. She wrapped her damaged limbs around herself with a low
sob, the scent of fresh blood perfuming the air as she moved. Darke’s nostrils
flared at that thread of wrongness twining within the delicate tendrils of
citrus, cinnamon, and female musk.
His mate was presenting as wounded prey.
Darke bit back the growl building in his chest, fury pounding
through his temples. His claws extended and retracted from the carpet’s thick
pile. Healthy, she’d be a tempting prize for any predator. Injured… He was
going to kill --
No. Darke’s ears flattened against his skull. His man would
think before spilling blood.
But Grim thought too much.
Kit scanned the room, then dashed a hand across her face,
stumbling to the bed. Her feet froze at its foot, head snapping toward the
bathroom, then away. Another low sob eked
from her throat, and Darke’s ruff stood on end. He would destroy them. Destroy
them all. Starting with those who had failed to protect --
-- Hey! Boy Vengeance! You really just
gonna let her think her think he’s gone? --
Darke jumped, fur bristling at the syrupy censure. He backed
deeper into the shadows, eyes wide and pulse pounding.
-- Aww. Here puss, puss, puss… I don’t
bite --
His lip curled over a canine, and a female’s mocking laughter
flitted through his mind as clearly as the gravelly chuckle of Clay’s beast
had. Darke’s heart leaped, his ears pricking forward, saliva pooling in his
maw.
He could understand her.
The beast inside Kit, his promised mate -- when she spoke,
her words were clear, and she wanted to play.
AK Nevermore enjoys operating heavy machinery, freebases coffee, and gives up sarcasm for Lent every year. A Jane-of-all-trades, she’s a certified chef, restores antiques, and dabbles in beekeeping when she’s not reading voraciously or running down the dream in her beat-up camo Chucks.
Unable to ignore the voices in her head, and unwilling to become medicated, she writes Science Fiction and Fantasy full time.
She pays the bills editing, wielding a wicked hot pink pen and writing a column on SFF. She also belongs to the Authors Guild, is a chapter treasurer for the RWA, teaches creative writing, and on the rare occasion, sleeps.
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