Title: Death Growl
Series: Comet Lake Chronicles, Book Three
Author: Layla Dorine
Publisher: NineStar Press
Release Date: 10/04/2022
Heat Level: 3 – Some Sex
Pairing: Male/Male, Male/Male Menage
Length: 90400
Genre: Paranormal, LGBTQIA+, menage, shifters, bonded mates, hurt-comfort, doctors, musicians, motorcycle club, enemies to lovers, intersex, nonbinary
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Description
The fates say all three of them belong together, like broken pieces of carnival glass just itching for a bit of glue, and the fates are never wrong, are they? Graham doesn’t think so, but convincing Zane and Cormac of that might take words never covered in his anatomy books.
One season: that’s the longest Zane stays anywhere. When the snow thaws and the pass is clear, he and his band will limp out of town in their battered RV, leaving Graham and his bruised heart behind, unless he can find a way to convince Zane to take a chance on something no one has ever taken the time to explain to him.
Bond marks might be a desire for some wolves, but for Zane, they mean the end of the only family he’s ever known. On stage, he’s not the pup some angry wolf tossed out an open window, he’s Z—wild, charismatic, nymphomaniac lead singer of Howling Rain. His aftershow activities are what put the bond marks on his wrists in the first place, much to the dismay of his bandmates who fear that those other kinds of mates will be the end of the success they’ve found together.
It’s up to Graham to teach them all that compromise and understanding are a big part of the mating process, and that their found families can be expanded to fit a couple more wolves. After all, the attraction is there, and in those soft, cuddly moments where Z fades and Zane emerges, all their little wolf wants is cuddles, warm blankets, and lots of love.
Death Growl
Layla Dorine © 2022
All Rights Reserved
Shivering, Zane whined and grasped around for another blanket, yanking the cloth over his shoulder only to leave his legs exposed. Sunlight streamed in from the window above his head, and no matter which way he rolled he couldn’t avoid it. Curling into a ball, he tugged at the covers again, finally able to get one to cover his feet and head, not that he could get warm. His stomach was a little queasy, and what little movement he’d made already left him wrung out.
Of course, that would be the moment someone decided to bounce his bed, and that little bit of queasy became overwhelming in an instant. Lunging for the edge of the bed, his shoulder collided with a solid form as he hurled.
“Ugh what the fuck, dude? Seriously!”
Emery’s voice was like an ice pick to the ear, prompting another heave and the expelling of the remaining contents of Zane’s stomach. If anything, being sick only left him feeling colder, shaking so hard his teeth rattled together until he clenched them enough to make it stop. Groaning, he laid his head on his arm, and panted through the explosion of noise his bandmates were making. Was Emery’s own damn fault he’d gotten puked on in the first place, shaking the bed like that.
Someone’s hand pressed to his forehead, and he heard grumbling, the deepness of the rumble suggesting it was his band’s drummer, Dalton, the big-ass bear who’d carried him off the stage more than once in their tenure together.
“You’re freezing,” Dalton said, repositioning the blankets to cover Zane completely.
The strong aroma of a lavender-scented cleaning product made his nose wrinkle, even as he was hit with a surge of gratitude for whichever of his remaining bandmates was cleaning up the mess he’d made. He’d make it up to them all as soon as he felt up to cooking, which might not be until the end of the day with the way he was feeling.
“I know you didn’t drink that damn much last night, so what’s wrong?”
The sound, so close to his other ear, let him know Erik was cleaning up the mess.
“Dunno,” he groaned, and he truly didn’t. The memories of the night before should have left him greeting the day with a smile, instead of being off-kilter and chilled, his head beginning to throb. His wolf felt off, whimpering pitifully in the corner of his mind, its misery only amplifying his own discomfort.
“Well,” Dalton drawled. “I hate to say it, but you may have finally fucked so much that you’ve developed an allergy to come.”
“In that case, just kill me. I don’t want to go on,” Zane moaned theatrically, not kidding in the slightest.
“If not allergic, then at the very least, last night’s pickup might have broken you a little,” Dalton said. “I’ve never seen you that out of it after you got through with someone.”
“You mean, after he got through with me,” Zane admitted. “I never got to do a damn thing but moan and take it—not that I’m complaining, because damn, that wolf knew how to fuck.”
“Yeah, we got the idea from the way the RV was shaking,” Erik grumbled, the sloshing of the water cluing Zane in to the fact that he was still working on the floor. At least the lavender scent was better than regurgitated breaded mushrooms and beer.
“Not to mention the noise,” Dalton pointed out, wiping Zane’s mouth with a wet cloth that felt amazing. “If you can’t sing come the next show, we’ll all know why.”
Groaning, Zane pressed his face against the sheet. The last thing he wanted to think about was moving, let alone performing.
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Layla Dorine lives among the sprawling prairies of Midwestern America, in a house with more cats than people. She loves hiking, fishing, swimming, martial arts, camping out, photography, cooking, and dabbling with several artistic mediums. In addition, she loves to travel and visit museums, historic, and haunted places.
Layla got hooked on writing as a child, starting with poetry and then branching out, and she hasn’t stopped writing since. Hard times, troubled times, the lives of her characters are never easy, but then what life is? The story is in the struggle, the journey, the triumphs and the falls. She writes about artists, musicians, loners, drifters, dreamers, hippies, bikers, truckers, hunters and all the other folks that she’s met and fallen in love with over the years. Sometimes she writes urban romance and sometimes its aliens crash landing near a roadside bar. When she isn’t writing, or wandering somewhere outdoors, she can often be found curled up with a good book and a kitty on her lap.
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