Ignited: a reverse harem bully romance (Kings of Miskatonic Prep Book 4)

by Steffanie Holmes

  After everything that Miskatonic Prep had stolen from these people, here they all were – well, most of them – to hand over the keys of power to a new generation, one that would hopefully not make the same mistakes. The blood spilled for their freedom would not be in vain.

  I held my hand to my stomach. Trey kissed my forehead.

  “Our child will be King of this school one day,” he said.

  “What if it’s a girl?” I teased.

  “Queen, then. Or gender nonbinary ruler.”

  “Our child will be whatever they want to be,” Ayaz asserted.

  “As long as they’re as hot as I am,” Quinn added.

  I gathered my Kings in my arms. We faced off against a cosmic deity, parents who tried to sacrifice them, and broken a cycle of horror and violence. Compared to that, parenting would be a snap.

  Bring it on, little fire-baby.

  Bring it the fuck on.

  THE END

  Need more dark, gothic, and delicious bully romance in your life? Find out what secrets lurk beyond the walls of the prestigious Manderley Academy in a brand new series by USA Today bestselling author Steffanie Holmes. Read book 1, Ghosted, in KU now.

  From the Author

  I first read HP Lovecraft’s stories when I was 15 years old. I’d recently discovered heavy metal music in that obnoxious way all teenagers uncover things and feel as though they alone understand them on a deep and profound level. When I learned my favourite song was inspired by the short story The Call of Cthulhu, I had to know more. What was this word, Cthulhu? What was this mystery I had to unravel?

  What I found was a world of cosmic horror that was both beguiling and terrifying. No one can write horror quite like Lovecraft. Usually, in a horror story, the fear is of the unknown – as soon as the monster is uncovered and unmasked, it ceases to be scary. It can be defeated. In Lovecraft, the uncovering is the most terrifying part.

  (The stories are not without their problems. They can be clunky in places, weighed down by the numerous adjectives Lovecraft adored so much. And let’s not get started on the racism…)

  Numerous writers over the years have contributed to and expanded Lovecraft’s Cthulhu Mythos, and it’s been an utter joy to add my own voice to that body of work. To Mr. Lovecraft, I hope my work captures the spirit of yours, even if it might be a bit modern and sentimental for your tastes.

  Hazy’s story has been a dream of mine for decades, and because of you, dear reader, I got to make it happen. So thank you for coming along for the ride with me.

  This series would not have been possible without the awesome people in my life. To the cantankerous drummer husband, for making me rewrite this manuscript until it was perfect and for being my lighthouse.

  To Kit, Bri, Elaina, Katya, Emma, and Jamie, for all the writerly encouragement and advice. To Meg, for the epically helpful editing job, and to Amenda for the stunning cover. To Sam and Iris, for the daily Facebook shenanigans that help keep me sane while I spend my days stuck at home covered in cats.

  To you, the reader, for going on this journey with me, even though it’s led to some dark places. If you’re enjoying Kings of Miskatonic Prep and want to read more from me, check out my new dark bully romance series, Broken Muses of Manderley Academy. Book 1 is Ghosted and it’s a classic gothic tale of ghosts and betrayal, creepy old houses and a beautifully haunted boy with a secret. You will LOVE it – you’ll find a short preview on the next page.

  If the relationship between Hazel and her boys makes you squee with delight, I’ve also got two other reverse harem series. The Nevermore Bookshop Mysteries is what you’d get if you crossed Agatha Christie with Black Books and added a harem of famous literary men. It’s my most popular series to date, and it’s a lot more light-hearted and fun (despite all the murder). Start book 1, A Dead and Stormy Night. If you turn the page, there’s a short excerpt from book 1.

  The Briarwood Witches series is about a science nerd heroine who inherits an honest-to-goodness English castle, complete with five hot British/Irish tenants, a fas problem, and some magic she can’t control. It’s a little bit dark and angsty and sexy, and complete at 5 books. You can grab the box set here.

  If you want to hang out and talk about all things Shunned, my readers are sharing their theories and discussing the book over in my Facebook group, Books That Bite. Come join the fun.

  I’m so happy you enjoyed this story! I’d love it if you wanted to leave a review on Amazon or Goodreads. It will help other readers to find their next read.

  Thank you, thank you! I love you heaps! Until next time.

  Steff

  He may play like an angel, but this sinful musician is determined to make my life hell.

  When my Mum got sick, my dreams of a career in music imploded. That is, until Madame Usher wafts into my life like a ghost from the past, offering me the chance to study at the exclusive Manderley Academy – a music school for the most gifted and wealthy.

  It’s an offer I can’t refuse—free room and board at the gothic mansion where elite students immerse themselves in mastering their art. But there’s a catch, and it’s a big one.

  I’m her slave.

  I clean the rooms. I polish the piano keys. I serve her and the six rich, pretentious students who paid to be here.

  I must endure their bullying in silence. Even when they destroy my things, sabotage my performances, and try their best to drive me from Manderley.

  Rich. Arrogant. Cruel. Especially Dorien Valencourt – the cute boy who used to be my friend grew up into the world's hottest a-hole, with his sinister smirk and come-to-bed eyes. Dorien won’t have the poor little charity case ruining his fun. He’s heard me play. He knows I’m a serious contender for the prestigious Manderley Prize.

  Dorien isn’t used to losing, especially to the help.

  But he’s not the only one haunting me.

  Something twisted and evil shrouds Manderley Academy. Maybe my bullies are the least of my problems. Maybe Dorien’s not the one behind the strange noises in the walls, the warnings scrawled on my mirror, and the gruesome murders on the school grounds.

  Maybe...maybe Manderley’s ghosts are real.

  A dark mystery unfolds around musician Faye de Winter in book one of this gripping gothic college bully romance by USA Today best-selling author Steffanie Holmes. Warning: Proceed with caution – this tale of a spoiled rich boy with an unsettling secret and the girl who refuses to put up with his shit contains dark themes, a creepy house, a smoldering second-chance romance, college angst, cruel bullies, swoon-worthy sex, and potential triggers.

  START READING NOW

  Excerpt: Ghosted

  Broken Muses of Manderley Academy 1

  “...expect these rooms to be tidied and the sheets changed every week. There are guest suites on this floor for parents or visiting musicians, and you’ll need to dust—”

  The door on the far end of the hall hung open. I stepped in front of it, and curiosity drew my gaze inside.

  Sprawled across an enormous canopy bed hung with blue curtains was the most beautiful guy I’d ever seen. He was my age but the look in his slate-grey eyes was older, like he’d seen some shit. Soft lips set into a cruel slash as haunted eyes flickered over my body.

  Familiar haunted eyes.

  Eyes I’d recognise anywhere.

  It can’t be.

  I willed myself to turn away, but my gaze drew down his naked chest, across the tattoos that curved around his pecs, down impossibly sculpted arms to his hands, where treble-clef tattoos danced across long fingers.

  None other than Dorien fucking Valencourt.

  My breath caught.

  My heart plunged.

  My childhood friend, the boy who’d torn my heart out and stomped it so hard that I’d never open it for anyone else, shot me a wily smile as his fingers stroked the most enormous cock I’d ever seen.

  GET IT NOW

  Agatha Christie meets Black Books

  What do you get wh
en you cross a cursed bookshop, three hot fictional men, and a punk rock heroine nursing a broken heart?

  After being fired from her fashion internship in New York City, Mina Wilde decides it’s time to reevaluate her life. She returns to the quaint English village where she grew up to take a job at the local bookshop, hoping that being surrounded by great literature will help her heal from a devastating blow.

  But Mina soon discovers her life is stranger than fiction – a mysterious curse on the bookshop brings fictional characters to life in lust-worthy bodies. Mina finds herself babysitting Poe’s raven, making hot dogs for Heathcliff, and getting IT help from James Moriarty, all while trying not to fall for the three broken men who should only exist within her imagination.

  When Mina’s ex-best friend shows up dead with a knife in her back, she’s the chief suspect. She’ll have to solve the murder if she wants to clear her name. Will her fictional boyfriends be able to keep her out of prison?

  The Nevermore Bookshop Mysteries are what you get when all your book boyfriends come to life. Join a brooding antihero, a master criminal, a cheeky raven, and a heroine with a big heart (and an even bigger book collection) in this brand new steamy reverse harem paranormal mystery series by USA Today bestselling author Steffanie Holmes.

  READ NOW

  Excerpt: A Dead and Stormy Night

  Chapter one

  Wanted: Assistant/shelf stacker/general dogsbody to work in secondhand bookshop. Must be fluent in classical literature, detest electronic books and all who indulge them, and have experience answering inane customer questions for eight hours straight. Cannot be allergic to dust or cats – if I had to choose between you and the cat, you will lose. Hard work, terrible pay. Apply within at Nevermore Bookshop.

  Yikes. I closed the Argleton community app and shoved my phone into my pocket. The person who wrote that ad really doesn’t want to hire an assistant.

  Unfortunately, he or she hadn’t counted on me, Wilhelmina Wilde, recently-failed fashion designer, owner of two wonky eyes, and pathetic excuse for a human. I was landing this assistant job, whether Grumpy-Cat-Obsessed-Underpaying-Ad-Writer wanted me or not.

  I had no options left.

  I peered up at the towering Victorian brick facade of Nevermore Bookshop – number 221 Butcher Street, Argleton, in Barsetshire – with a mixture of nostalgia and dread. I’d spent most of my childhood in a darkened corner of this shop, and now if I played my cards right I’d get to see it from the other side of the counter. It was the one shining beacon in my dark world of shite.

  I don’t remember it looking so… foreboding.

  Apart from the faded Nevermore Bookshop written in gothic type over the entrance, the facade bore no clue that I stood in front of one of the largest secondhand bookshops in England. A ramshackle Georgian house facade with Victorian additions rose four stories from the street, looking more like a creepy orphanage from a gothic novel than a repository of fine literature. Trees bent their bare branches across the darkened windows and wisteria crept over grimy brickwork, shrouding the building in a thick skin of foliage. Cobwebs entwined in the lattice and draped over the windowsills. There didn’t appear to be a single light on inside.

  Weeds choked the two flower pots flanking the door, which had once been glazed a bright blue but were since stained in brown and white streaks from overzealous birds. A pigeon cooed ominously from the gutter above the door, threatening me with an unwelcome deposit. Twin dormer windows in the attic glared over the narrow cobbled street like evil eyes, and a narrow balcony of black wrought iron on the second story the teeth. A hexagonal turret jutted from the south-western corner, where it might once have caught sun before Butcher Street had built up around it.

  When I used to hang out as a kid, the first two floors were given over to the shop – a rabbit warren of narrow corridors and pokey rooms, every wall and table covered in books. The previous owner – a kindly blind old man named Mr. Simson – lived on the remaining two floors, but for all I knew, the new owner used that space as an opium den or a meat smoker.

  At least the flaccid British sun peeked through the grey clouds, which meant I could make out these finer details of the facade. The buildings on either side of it were cloaked in the creeping black shadow that now followed me everywhere. I squinted at the chalkboard sign on the street, hoping for some clue as to the new owner’s personality, but all it had on it were some wonky lines that looked like chickens’ feet.

  This place is even more drab than I remember. It could use a little TLC.

  That makes two of us. I squinted at my reflection in the darkened shop window, but I could barely make out the basic shape of my body. At least I knew I looked fierce when I left the house, in my Vivienne Westwood pleated skirt (scored on eBay for twenty-five quid), vintage ruffled shirt, men’s cravat from a weird goth shop at Camden market, and my old school blazer with an enamel pin on the collar that read, ‘Jane Austen is my Homegirl.’ Combined with my favorite Docs and a pair of thick-framed glasses, I’d nailed the ‘boss-bitch librarian’ look.

  That is, if you ignored the fact that I pushed my nose up against the glass to see my reflection, and twisted my head in order to see all the details of my outfit because of the creeping darkness in the corners of my eyes.

  Please, Isis and Astarte and any other goddess listening, let me get this job. I can’t deal with any more rejection.

  I smoothed my hair, sucked in a breath, pushed open the creaking shop door, and stepped back in time.

  As the shop bell tinkled and the smell of musty paper filled my nostrils, I became nine years old again – the weird outcast kid whose mother was banned from school events after swindling the chair of the PTA with a Forex trading mastermind program that was really just a CD-rom of my mother comparing currency trading to doing the laundry. (It was his own fault for getting swindled. Who even uses CDs anymore?)

  As soon as the school bell rang I’d sprint into town, duck through this same door and escape into another world. I’d curl up in the cracking leather armchair in the World History room with a huge stack of books and read until my mother finished her shift and came to collect me. Books become my friends – characters like Jane Eyre and Dorian Grey the perfect substitutes for the kids who were horrible to me. When I was older and the guys at school sneered at me and fawned over my best friend, I fell into books again – this time to fall in love with the bad boys, the intelligent boys, the boys filled with anger and lust and pain. Dark horses and anti heroes like Heathcliff and Sherlock Holmes, and melancholy authors like Edgar Allan Poe spoke directly to my soul.

  Mr. Simson barely said a word to me, but he never seemed to mind the fact that I read every book in the shop but couldn’t afford to buy any. Sometimes he’d even let me riffle through the boxes of rejects before he sent them away for recycling. People would come into the store and try to sell Mr. Simson stacks of airport books – James Patterson and John Grisham paperbacks that no one buys secondhand. When he refused their generous bounty, they’d creep back at night and shove the volumes one by one through the mail slot, so Mr. Simson always had stacks of them lying around. I would smuggle the books home to our housing estate – If Mum caught me reading she’d lecture about how men didn’t like smart girls and we’d have a big row – and read them under the covers at night or hidden in my textbooks during class.

  It was in Nevermore Bookshop where I first discovered punk music. I found a box of battered 1970 zines in the Popular Music section, and I lost myself in faded photographs of bored teenagers with bleached mohawks. None of them fit in, and they didn’t give a shit. I was in love.

  Teenage Mina threw herself into punk music and fashion, bought a second-hand sewing machine, and started cutting up all her clothes. Fashion became a way to express myself, and opened up a world that was bigger and brighter and more fun than the council estate and my shitty school and lack of tits and the tiny village of Argleton.

  When you don’t have any friends and have an entire bo
okshop for research, you get a lot of schoolwork done. At the end of my last year at secondary school, I was offered four scholarships to prestigious universities. But there was only one thing I wanted – to become a punk-rock fashion designer. The next Vivienne Westwood, thank you very much. So when I was awarded a place at New York’s infamous Fashion Institute, I packed up my Docs and sewing machine and left Argleton behind me for good.

  Or so I thought.

  For four glorious years I lived in New York City, working my arse off, living it up with my best friend Ashley, and learning everything there was to learn about the fashion industry. Last year I finished my degree and Ashley and I landed the same year-long internship with Marcus Ribald, our favorite designer of all time after Vivienne.

  Then I noticed a faint blur in the corner of my eye and I fell down the stairs three days in a row. I would reach for my coffee cup and knock it over, or sign my name on a document and miss the line completely. I thought it was nothing – I walked through life constantly hungover and running on coffee and discounted day-old hot dogs, which I assumed explained the pounding headaches that stabbed me day and night. But I kept pushing, kept working, kept drinking. I was living the dream. Nothing could stop me.