Here it is — the cover for my next release, A Taste of Rhythm and Courage. This little story has been sitting in my heart for months, and I’m so excited to finally share it with you. It’s short, sharp, and bittersweet (because of course it is — you know me by now).

A Taste of Rhythm and Courage is my second Twilight of Blood short story. It’s releasing on 7th October and available for preorder now.

The cover is done by Getcovers. First draft, done and dusted. I didn’t even need to ask for any revisions. It was just perfect. All I had to do was pick a stock photo, send them the cover of A Taste of Blade and Roar (also made by Getcovers), and told them I want something similar. They’re super easy to work with.

And here’s the description

He was bred to fight. She was born to defy. Together, they risk everything for a taste of freedom.

Lion, the king’s undefeated gladiator, has only ever known the rhythm of violence.

Saradra, a defiant freeborn slave, dares to teach him another rhythm — and together they step into a forbidden romance that risks discovery, punishment, and death.

In their stolen steps lies rebellion, intimacy, and a taste of freedom he was never meant to have.

A Taste of Rhythm and Courage is a short story set in the Twilight of Blood universe. A fast, one-hour read of forbidden passion, forced proximity, and defiance. Perfect as a standalone or a companion read to Lion of Zarall.

One click now and witness this stolen moment of peace between two unforgettable lovers.

And enjoy a brief excerpt:

“Why are you moving like that?” Saradra asked again, her voice carrying that peculiar mix of curiosity and challenge that had marked every conversation since her arrival. Lion’s eyes darted to the door, then back to his footwork. He pushed his blond, wild hair out of his face and moved. Each day the welts hurt less. The irony wasn’t lost on him — he’d spent his entire life avoiding pain, and now he desperately wanted these wounds to remain. He would gladly bear the pain, if it meant buying him more time. Saradra crossed her arms, head still tilted in a way that reminded him of a bird studying prey. She pursed her lips, considering. “You look like you’re dancing.” Lion glanced at her, keeping his face neutral despite the slight offense that prickled at him. “I’m not a flame.” He refocused on his footwork, counting, when something smacked him hard across the face. Lion rubbed his stinging cheek where the slipper had struck before bouncing off and landing on the stone floor with a soft thud. He blinked, meeting Saradra’s thunderous expression as she remained cross-legged on the bed, one foot now conspicuously bare. The force behind the throw had been impressive — her aim even more so. “You know,” she said casually, though with an undertone that raised the hairs on his neck, “for someone born and raised as a slave, you’re as judgmental as a candle chiding the sun for being too dim.” Lion couldn’t speak. He had no idea what she was talking about. The comparison made no sense to him — a candle and the sun? He stood frozen, rubbing his aching cheek while his mind fumbled for sense. Words had never been his strength; they twisted and turned in ways that confounded him, unlike the straightforward honesty of combat. She must have read the confusion on his face, because her irritation deepened. She tilted her head to the other side, causing the dark lines of her flame tattoo to peek from beneath copper strands at her neck. The simple design marked her as a freeborn pleasure slave. A flame.“I’m not a flame?” she mimicked, dropping her voice to match his gruff tone, her face contorting into an exaggerated scowl. “What’s that supposed to mean?” Lion pointed at his neck, where his slave tattoo — more intricate than her simpler one — marked him as a purebred beast. The black ink had been etched into his skin when he was barely old enough to understand what it meant. When her expression remained hard as stone, he felt compelled to elaborate. “I am not trained to dance for people.” “Right. You’re trained to kill people.” Lion nodded, still mystified by her anger. It was a simple fact, like admitting the sky was blue. He pointed at his tattoo again. “I am a beast.” “Careful, you almost sound like you believe beasts are above others.” Her voice was dangerously soft, carrying a warning he couldn’t quite decipher. “Purebred beasts fetch the highest bids at auctions,” Lion said, stating it as plainly as if remarking on the weather. “They are above others.” Anyone could learn to dance and give pleasure within months. But becoming proficient in every fighting style, mastering weapons — that required years of brutal training that many didn’t survive. Saradra should have known that hierarchy. But she had only recently been enslaved. Clearly, there were things she still didn’t understand. “A beast has to master many fight styles, weapons, footwork,” he explained with what he thought was patience. “Build muscle strength, speed, and endurance. A flame… A flame just spread their legs—” He caught the second slipper right before it smacked his face. It was lucky he did, keeping the slipper from falling and making noise. Because a moment later, they heard Badimar’s footsteps in the corridor outside their room…