Lenaleia

Nicole d'Armand never expected to walk into her apartment and find her fiancé *bleep*-deep in another woman's lady bits. What's a girl to do?

Well, after obliterating an 18th-century Meissen vase, delivering a punch that would make a heavyweight boxer proud, and embarking on a night of raucous drinking, Nicole figures she might as well embrace the chaos.

But when alcohol and pheromones collide, her wild night spins into something unexpected... Like a ride on the Logan Everett express.

Which, naturally, leads to a whirlwind of its own: She's his fated mate. Because of course she is.

And he rejects her. Because of course he does.

Now embroiled in a mystery bigger than her post-breakup hangover, Nicole finds herself the prime suspect in a murder she didn't commit—no matter how tempting the thought might have been. And the only person who believes her innocence? The same guy who shot down the idea of being her fated mate. 

Great. Just what she needed: her love life is a crime scene, and the man stupid enough to let her go is holding her freedom in his hands.

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UPDATED NOTICE, JANUARY 12, 2025
Regular updates returning before the end of the month! At this current time, the author is aiming for releases 3-4x a week. Details about this can be found on her discord server. Hoping for daily updates once author hand has graduated rehabilitation after being broken. Your patience is appreciated!

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This is a fated/rejected mates urban fantasy romance.

Content warning for: Nudity, more nudity, swear words, inappropriate humor, dead people, undead people, incomprehensible amounts of magic, werewolves and all the fetishes that come with them, did I mention the nudity?, and a questionable level of sanity at times.

Pheromonal: One Night With the Alpha

It's probably saying something about my personality that the first word I can say after being extubated is a straight denial, but to be fair, the situation I'm in warrants it.

The nurse's pink scrubs mock me with their cheerfulness as she approaches my bed, brandishing those three empty vials like weapons. My throat burns from the tube removal, but I manage to croak out another firm "No" when she reaches for my arm.

"Ms. d'Armand, we need to monitor your recovery." Her smile doesn't reach her eyes. She's frustrated by my sudden obstinance, I'm sure. "Just a few small samples."

Critical Mass