Into the Fire 8 Grind

GRIND (Into the Fire #8)

Novella (19,000 wds) ⋅ Historical ⋅ LGBTQ ⋅ Erotic

For twenty years, Wolf and Marc have worked to make the stronghold a home — for their friends, their son, and each other. But forces beyond their control are about to challenge that security.

When an ambitious king takes a sudden, aggressive interest in the stronghold and its strategic potential in his conquest of Gaul, Marc and Wolf must decide whether home is a place, or a more intangible thing built around those they love most.

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What Readers Are Saying…

“In the face of adversity and tough decisions the love Marc and Wolf have for each other doesn’t falter and the extended family they have created is a joy to catch up with, whatever the circumstances.” — Geri, Goodreads

“…a series I could not put down — one I read straight through in only a few days.” — Karen, Goodreads

“Characters and plot work beautifully together.” — Alp, Goodreads

“I’m so invested in these two men, in their lives and the lives of their small family. I can’t recommend this series enough. I’m a fan for life.” — Mary, Goodreads


The patter of rain on the shutter woke him.

Wolf stretched, groaned at the small aches his body greeted him with every day now, and then relaxed back into the mattress. Cool air seeped under the window covering. It smelled of autumn and the sea. The stronghold had brought in the last of the harvest the day before. They would celebrate it soon, once Philip and Tiro returned from their diplomatic trip to the Frankish court.

The man beside him stirred. Wolf smiled as Marc’s brow pinched at the same sorts of aches in his own waking body.

“Good morning, old man.”

Marc grunted.

Wolf drew him into his chest, where he pressed close. Marc’s hair, mostly silver now, still held a smoky hint of the previous evening’s story fire. With drowsy hands Wolf traced the muscle along Marc’s spine, then roamed the contours of his back from shoulders to hips.

He wasn’t quite as tightly stitched as he’d always been. In the four years since his surgery, Marc had softened somewhat. Not enough to cause him distress, but enough that Wolf enjoyed the extra suppleness that lay under Marc’s skin now. In a way, it made him feel like a younger man in his hands. Wolf dipped his head to nibble at his ear. “You remember the first morning we woke here?”

Marc chuckled against his neck. “I do. Someone so enjoyed sleeping on a mattress again he didn’t want to rise from it.”

“Oh, he wanted to rise.” He sucked on Marc’s earlobe.

“And he did,” Marc said, nudging his hips closer. “If memory serves.”

Wolf pulled back and smiled at him. “He did. The rain this morning reminded me. It was raining that day as well.”

“Mmm-hmm. Again, if I recall, that was the excuse given for lying in bed past the dawn, like lazy fools.”

Wolf smoothed his palm over Marc’s bare buttock, kneading the firm muscle under the little layer of fat. “Not so lazy.”

Marc grinned, and his broken tooth had the same effect on Wolf it always had: a jolt of excitement straight to his core, like the ring of a hammer strike up the arm.

“That was twenty years ago, that morning.”

Marc frowned, and then his brow cleared. “So it was. We must be ancient.”

“Not so ancient.” Wolf kissed him. “It’s raining. Perhaps the gods are trying to tell us something.”

“And what might that be?”

“That a dry bed on a damp morning should be appreciated.”

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