Logan Chance – Read Books Online Free Ebooks good best novels to read

Logan Chance – Read Books Online Free Ebooks good best novels to read http://www.wownovels.com Fri, 03 Apr 2026 23:15:19 +0000 en-US hourly 1 https://wordpress.org/?v=6.9.4 http://www.wownovels.com/wp-content/uploads/2020/09/favicon.png Logan Chance – Read Books Online Free Ebooks good best novels to read http://www.wownovels.com 32 32 Make Them Hurt (Pretty Deadly Things #4) Read Online Logan Chance http://www.wownovels.com/make-them-hurt-pretty-deadly-things-4-read-online-logan-chance Fri, 03 Apr 2026 23:15:19 +0000 http://www.wownovels.com/make-them-hurt-pretty-deadly-things-4-read-online-logan-chance Genre: Alpha Male, Dark, Insta-Love Authors: Logan Chance Series: Pretty Deadly Things Series by Logan Chance
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Total pages in book: 72
Estimated words: 70801 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 354(@200wpm)___ 283(@250wpm)___ 236(@300wpm)

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She was supposed to be a rescue.
Not a temptation.

Ozzy Oliver is sent in to pull Salem Bloom out of a trafficking pipeline. But the moment he gets her free, the ring realizes she’s gone… and the hunt begins.

Now they’re trapped in a safehouse with one bed, no time, and enemies closing in. Ozzy’s got one keep her alive while he and his crew burn the whole operation to the ground.

Forced proximity turns into late-night confessions. Survival turns into heat.
And the men who hurt her?

Ozzy’s about to make them hurt back.

MAKE THEM HURT is a steamy, high-stakes vigilante romance packed with action, suspense, one-bed tension, and a protector hero who fights dirty for the woman he can’t let go

*************FULL BOOK START HERE*************

PROLOGUE

Salem

The skatepark in Saint Pierce always smells like hot asphalt mixed with that fake strawberry vape cloud kids pretend is cool. Concrete bowls chipped and scarred, rails tagged over so many times the colors bleed together into gray mush. Sirens wail somewhere far off, same as always. It’s like the city’s got one finger permanently on the panic button.

I’m parked on the lip of the biggest ramp, orange board balanced across my legs. It’s so loud it might as well be a traffic cone with attitude. My thumb keeps flicking through TikTok, scroll-scroll-scroll, like if I go fast enough the feed will swallow the knot in my chest.

It doesn’t.

Some kid drops in hard; wheels scream. A cheer goes up, then a wipeout, followed by that fake-ha-ha-I’m-totally-fine laugh. Yeah. Been there.

My phone buzzes.

Mom.

Missed call. No voicemail. No “hey are you alive?” Just her thumb brushing the screen and bailing halfway through the impulse. Probably a butt dial if I’m being honest. I hate her for that.

Heat crawls up my neck. My pulse thuds behind my eyes. I jam the phone deep into my hoodie pocket before I can be dumb enough to call her back and hope for once she picks up like she means it.

The board’s warm under my palms. The grip tape is rough and familiar. It’s the only thing that feels solid right now. And right now, that’s huge.

Another board rattles up, and stops inches from my knee.

“Yo. Orange board.”

I glance up.

A guy in a backwards cap with a grin too big for his face, smiles at me. His eyes slide over me—not the board, me.

“You skate?” he asks.

“Enough to know where they keep the good painkillers at the ER,” I say.

He laughs like I just told the joke of the year as he steps closer. He’s testing.

My lungs squeeze as my shoulders lock. I don’t budge an inch. I’ve been hit on by guys before. I also know an asshole when I see one.

“You here alone?” His voice drops, like we’re in on something dirty.

“Not even close.” Sweet smile. “I’m with my boyfriend.”

His dark eyes narrow. “Where’s he at?”

I tilt my head. “Probably figuring out how to yank teeth with pliers without getting blood on his shoes.”

The grin falters. He mutters something under his breath and rolls off.

My hands stay steady. However, my heart doesn’t.

Because it’s not him. It’s the thing already waiting at home. Carl. Mom’s boyfriend. The one who says “kiddo” like it’s cute while his stare lingers too long, too low. The one who thinks because Mom’s checked out, the house is his playground.

Last week he leaned in close enough I could smell his cheap body spray and whispered, If I was your age…

My stomach twists just remembering it. My skin feels too tight, like someone took a Brillo pad to the inside.

My phone buzzes again.

Unknown number.

My fingertips go numb as my pulse slams so hard I can feel it in my teeth. I open it anyway. Because apparently fear and nosiness cancel each other out.

UNKNOWN: u at the park?

UNKNOWN: u got the orange board right?

Ice slips down my spine. I scan the crowd. Kids grinding rails. Two dudes filming tricks. A couple on the bleachers sharing a slushie like nothing’s wrong with the world.

Normal. Normal. Normal.

Except the woods behind the park look blacker than they should. Trees packed tight, staring back.

ME: who is this?

Three dots.

UNKNOWN: friend of a friend. don’t freak out.

A laugh punches out of me. My ribs feel strapped tight. I’m the epitome of silently freaking out each and every day.

“Don’t freak out,” I mutter. “Yeah, great advice, dude.”

I flip to the chat with Jules. New girl. Pit bull in a flower crown for a profile pic. She’d slid into my comments after I posted about finally finding this park. Said she skates. Said she needed someone who could handle dark humor without flinching.

Soulmate material, maybe.

ME: here. ramp by the bowl. orange board.

Sun’s still up but dropping fast, throwing long shadows across the ramps like fingers reaching.

My phone buzzes nearly startling me. I almost drop the board, but I glance around the park and nobody notices me. No one ever does.

UNKNOWN: look behind u

Everything locks. The hairs on the back of my neck stand on end. I turn slowly. Controlled. Refusing to let panic win the sprint. Fuck.

Nothing. Just concrete and noise and people who belong here.

I glance back to the screen.

UNKNOWN: not there. woods.

My throat clicks when I swallow. Every true-crime podcast I’ve ever binged is screaming don’t. Logic screams don’t. But something else—something tired and pissed—stands up inside me.

Tired of Carl’s hand “accidentally” grazing my waist. Tired of Mom’s glassy eyes when I say his name. Tired of scraping together grocery money when I should be stressing about algebra and who likes who.

With the board under my arm, and my phone clenched in my fist, I walk. One foot in front of the other. I walk straight toward the tree line. My heart pounds in my ears, but I ignore it.

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Operation Bombshell – A Cupid City Security Read Online Logan Chance http://www.wownovels.com/operation-bombshell-a-cupid-city-security-read-online-logan-chance Sat, 28 Feb 2026 17:32:37 +0000 http://www.wownovels.com/operation-bombshell-a-cupid-city-security-read-online-logan-chance Genre: Alpha Male, Contemporary, Forbidden, Suspense Authors: Logan Chance Advertisement

Total pages in book: 25
Estimated words: 23269 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 116(@200wpm)___ 93(@250wpm)___ 78(@300wpm)

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She’s the target in heels. He’s the shield in boots. Together, they’re the last line of defense—and the first spark of something explosive.

Supermodel Indigo Lyric comes to Cupid City to headline the Valentine Lingerie Showcase and reboot her brand with heart-eyed charm, not headline the news with a stalker story. Enter Mack Hawthorne, former Navy SEAL turned elite protector, who believes in three plans, protocols, and never, ever falling for the client.
Too bad Cupid City has other plans.

When a bouquet explodes in confetti and shrapnel, Heartline’s Operation Valentine assigns Mack as Indigo’s 24/7 shadow. a penthouse lockdown with one bed—for insurance photos, sir—fake-date optics to kill a rumor, and a city that insists on kissing booths, heart-shaped everything.

He’s grumpy, growly, and alpha enough to make danger blink first. She’s sunshine with a runway strut and a habit of breaking his rules.

Cupid City rule #1: Don’t get attached.
Cupid City rule #1: Good luck with that.

Bombshell delivers romcom banter, protector heat, and pulse-pounding suspense, because sometimes the safest place to fall… is straight into your bodyguard’s arms. Happily ever after guaranteed.

*In Cupid City, Valentine’s means glittering galas and dangerous secrets. Heartline Security keeps the city breathing between fireworks and threats. That is, until each protector meets the one person worth breaking protocol for.

Fall in love this February where these standalones serve high heat, high stakes, and heart-melting HEAs. Guards up. Hearts open. Valentine gives love the last word

*************FULL BOOK START HERE*************

ONE

INDIGO

The steam curls up from my chamomile tea like little ghosts in the late afternoon light. I cup the mug in both hands, letting the warmth seep into my palms as I sit cross-legged on the cream velvet sofa in my living room. The house is quiet except for the soft tick of the grandfather clock in the hall and the occasional sigh of the AC kicking on. Outside, the Saint Pierce sun is dipping low, painting the palms gold through the sheer curtains.

I take a slow sip, eyes half-closed. The tea tastes like honey and calm—exactly what I need right now. In three days, I'll be on a plane to Cupid City for the Lingerie Showcase. Not just walking; headlining. The theme is "Love in Every Curve," all silk and shadows, lace that looks like midnight secrets. I've been practicing my turns in the mirror for weeks, perfecting that slow, liquid glide that makes photographers lose their minds. My agent says this could be the one that catapults me from "rising star" to household name. I believe her. Mostly.

I let my mind drift to the runway. The lights will be low, crimson and violet, pulsing like a heartbeat. I'll step out in that black corset with the garnet beads, the one that cinches my waist until breathing feels like a performance. The music will swell—something deep and electronic—and I'll feel the eyes of the entire front row on me. Hungry. Appreciative. A little dangerous. I love that part. The power in being looked at and knowing exactly how to give them more without giving anything away.

A smile tugs at my lips. I set the mug on the glass coffee table and stretch my arms overhead, feeling the pull in my shoulders from yesterday's Pilates. Everything is lined up. Flight's booked, show fitting tomorrow morning, press junket the day after. I just need to stay loose, stay centered. No drama. No distractions.

That's when I hear it.

A soft click from the back of the house. Like a door latch releasing.

My body freezes before my brain catches up. The sound is wrong. Too deliberate. The house is supposed to be locked—deadbolt, chain, alarm armed. I always set it when I'm home alone.

Then the alarm shrieks.

It's deafening, a piercing wail that drills straight into my skull. Red lights flash from the panel in the foyer. Motion detected. Rear entry.

My heart slams against my ribs. I snatch my phone from the cushion beside me, fingers shaking as I swipe to the emergency dial. The alarm keeps screaming as my breathing kicks up.

"911, what's your emergency?"

"Someone's in my house," I whisper-shout over the noise. "The alarm just went off. I'm alone. Please hurry."

The operator is calm, asking for my address, asking if I can see the intruder. I can't. I'm still on the sofa, legs tucked under me like that'll make me invisible. I edge toward the hallway, peering around the corner. Nothing. Just shadows stretching long across the hardwood.

"Stay on the line," she says. "Officers are en route. ETA five minutes."

Five minutes feels like forever.

I back into the kitchen, putting the island between me and the hall. My pulse is thunder in my ears. Then I see it—on the counter, right next to my fruit bowl. A folded piece of paper that wasn't there before.

White. Ordinary. My name scrawled on the front in black marker: Indigo.

My stomach drops.

I don't touch it at first. I just stare, like it might bite. The alarm is still blaring, but the world narrows to that square of paper. Finally, I unfold it with trembling fingers.

One line, written in neat script letters:

I'm always watching.

No signature. No threat beyond the words themselves. But they land like ice water down my spine.

Sirens wail in the distance. Real ones this time.

The police arrive in a storm of lights and boots. Two officers sweep the house while I wait on the front porch, arms wrapped around myself even though it's eighty degrees. They find the back door jimmied—clean, professional. No prints on the handle. The intruder was in and out fast. They bag the note as evidence, take my statement, promise to increase patrols. Standard procedure, they say. Probably just a creep who saw my face in a magazine.

I nod like I believe them.

When they're gone, the house feels too big, too quiet again. I reset the alarm, double-check every lock, then call Etta.

My manager picks up on the first ring. "Indi? You okay? You sound⁠—"

"Someone broke in." The words tumble out. "They left a note. 'I'm always watching.' Police just left."

Silence. Then Etta's voice sharpens. "Are you hurt?"

"No."

"Where are you now?"

"Home. Living room."

"Stay put. I'm coming over."

She arrives twenty minutes later in her silver Audi, heels clicking like gunfire on the driveway. Etta's in her late forties, sharp cheekbones, sharper instincts. She's been with me since I was nineteen, back when I was just another tall girl with good bone structure. She storms in, pulls me into a quick, fierce hug, then holds me at arm's length to scan for damage.

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Guardian On Base – Hearts on Base Read Online Logan Chance http://www.wownovels.com/guardian-on-base-hearts-on-base-read-online-logan-chance Thu, 26 Feb 2026 08:20:10 +0000 http://www.wownovels.com/guardian-on-base-hearts-on-base-read-online-logan-chance Genre: Alpha Male, Insta-Love, Suspense Authors: Logan Chance Advertisement

Total pages in book: 30
Estimated words: 31866 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 159(@200wpm)___ 127(@250wpm)___ 106(@300wpm)

<<<<1 2 3 11 21 >30

High stakes. Forced proximity. Protective military hero. Snowed-in cabin. Off-the-charts chemistry.

In Pine Valley, Colorado, the mountains don’t whisper—they challenge.

Crewe Hawthorne lives for danger. Night jumps. Rescue missions. Rules that keep his heart locked down tight.
Then Riley Willow walks onto Ridgeway Air Force Base—brilliant, stubborn, and way too tempting for a man trained to never lose focus.

When Riley’s next-gen drone tech is sabotaged and turned into a weapon, Crewe is assigned to protect her.

Up close.
Cabin-in-a-blizzard close.

The kind of close where his hand never leaves her back… and every breath against her skin feels like a promise.

By day, they hunt the traitor inside Ridgeway. By night, the heat between them burns through every line Crewe swore he’d never cross.

Because the enemy doesn’t just want Riley’s work.
They want her.

And if they come for what’s his?
Crewe will go to war.

*Welcome to Ridgeway Base, where duty meets desire in a heartbeat. Hearts on Base is a series of swoon-worthy instalove military romances featuring rugged servicemen, fierce heroines, and the kind of heat that doesn’t quit! Each book delivers a complete, feel-good love story with high stakes, instant sparks, and a guaranteed happy ending. Who says love can’t be a tactical advantage?

Join 12 of your favorite (or soon to be favorite) contemporary romance authors for an exciting and steamy military series!

*************FULL BOOK START HERE*************

ONE

CREWE

I stand at the edge of the ramp, wind whipping around me, nothing below but swirling snow and empty sky.

The cargo plane vibrates behind me, loud and restless, like it’s eager to shake me loose. A gloved tap hits my shoulder—two quick knocks. Go time. I glance into the whiteout, spotting the blinking rescue beacon far below in the foothills. Just a faint red pulse through the storm.

My oxygen mask hisses as I breathe. I taste metal. I taste the storm.

“Green in five!” the loadmaster yells, voice nearly lost in the roar of the engines. My team’s voices crackle over comms, calm and clipped. This isn’t their first storm. It’s not mine either.

“Winds are gusting,” Major Lexi Chen calls from the command center back at Ridgeway. “We’ve got a thermal hit. One survivor.”

“Copy,” I say. “Hawthorne stepping.”

The ramp light turns green, and the world narrows into a single choice.

I jump.

The cold hits like a punch to the lungs. I fall fast, arms tucked in tight, body slicing through the wind. The storm tries to flip me, but I stay steady, letting my training take over. Altimeter beeps. My hand finds the cord. I pull.

The chute snaps open hard, jerking me upright. Everything goes quiet except for the hiss of snow as I glide down into the dark.

Below me, the Rockies stretch out like a shadow, broken by flashes of light and the red pulse of the crash beacon. Somewhere down there, a pilot is waiting for me. I won’t let him down.

I drop through a layer of clouds and finally see the slope. Trees sag under heavy snow. The crash site is a mess—twisted metal barely visible in the storm. I aim for a narrow opening between two trees, adjusting as the wind tries to shove me off course.

I hit the ground hard, knees bending deep in snow. I roll, release my chute, and pack it down before the wind can drag it away. Then I move low, night-vision goggles helping me pick out the shapes of trees, rocks, and what’s left of the trainer aircraft.

“Ridgeway, Hawthorne on the ground,” I murmur. “Two minutes out.”

“Copy that. Rescue bird inbound. ETA six minutes,” Lexi says in my ear.

“Make it four,” I say, already moving.

The crash looks worse up close. The nose of the plane is smashed in, glass shattered, metal crumpled like paper. The snow is stained in places I don’t like.

I trudge through waist-deep powder, heart pounding, and finally reach the cockpit. One pilot. Slumped forward. Mask hanging loose. Helmet cracked.

I press two fingers to his neck.

Pulse.

Weak, but there.

“Hey, Lieutenant,” I say gently. “Pararescue. Name’s Crewe. We’re getting you home.”

He lets out a sound—could be a laugh or a groan. Either works. He’s alive.

I cut through his seat harness, careful with his neck and limbs. Something’s wrong with the way his collarbone sits, so I brace it. I work quickly—compression pads, thermal blanket, gear check. Every move has a purpose. The cold gnaws at my hands, but I keep going.

Far off, the helicopter’s rotors hum through the snow. That’s our ride out. I flash my infrared beacon, guiding them in.

“Pedro Two is on station,” the pilot confirms.

“LZ’s just below me. Watch the trees—tight clearance. We’re running hot on fuel, so let’s make this clean. Ready on hoist.”

“Copy that.”

But something moves in the snow. My instincts snap tight.

Then I hear it—a sharp, high whine cutting through the wind.

I turn, spotting a strange little drone drifting toward the helicopter. No green or red lights. No markings. Just four rotors and bad intentions.

What the hell is a drone doing out here?

“Ridgeway, we’ve got an unmarked drone in the area,” I call in. “It’s not friendly. Looks autonomous.”

“Say again?” Lexi says sharply.

“Unknown drone. Acting hostile.”

The thing zips through the air, circling the chopper’s hoist cable like it’s hunting it. I don’t need a manual to know this isn’t some civilian toy.

Its movements are too familiar. Too precise. I’ve seen this behavior before—on base, during a test demo. Riley Willow’s drones move just like this.

Except this one’s not wearing her name.

“Pedro Two, what’s your status?” I ask.

“Hover is steady. Visual on the drone.”

“Hold hover. I’ll handle it.”

I dig a jammer from my harness, jam it into the snow, and flip it on. A pulse of interference rolls out, enough to throw off most cheap drone systems. The quadcopter stutters in midair—then adjusts and pushes forward.

Okay. Not cheap.

I pull out the collapsible net launcher from my pack. The guys laughed when I picked this up. I didn’t.

The drone zips low, aiming for the chopper’s cable. That’s when I make the call.

“Pedro Two, trust me. Six seconds.”

“Trusting you, Hawthorne. Make it count.”

I hold my breath. Wait.

Now.

I fire. The net spreads midair, tangling in the rotors. The drone spirals down like a kicked wasp and crashes in the snow at my boots. It whines once. I stomp. It doesn’t whine again.

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Wrangling With the Bodyguard – Lone Star Security Read Online Logan Chance http://www.wownovels.com/wrangling-with-the-bodyguard-lone-star-security-read-online-logan-chance Sun, 01 Feb 2026 09:23:13 +0000 https://www.wownovels.com/wrangling-with-the-bodyguard-lone-star-security-read-online-logan-chance Genre: Alpha Male, Contemporary, Insta-Love, Suspense Authors: Logan Chance Advertisement

Total pages in book: 43
Estimated words: 43512 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 218(@200wpm)___ 174(@250wpm)___ 145(@300wpm)

<<<<1 2 3 11 21 >43

Valor Springs, Texas—where the creek still remembers two kids who swore they’d always find their way back.

Nash Hawthorne has spent years turning that boy into a soldier, then a cowboy-quiet security protector for Lone Star Security. He follows orders, keeps his heart on lockdown, and pretends he’s forgotten the girl who once dared him off the rope swing and into a first almost-kiss. He hasn’t. Not for a single sunrise.

Delaney Coleman left town chasing big-city dreams. Now she’s back to save her family’s ranch, and trouble is waiting—mysterious “accidents,” missing livestock, and a saboteur who wants the Coleman Ranch ruined. Nash’s assignment is move in, lock down, keep Delaney safe. But the minute he steps onto Coleman land, the past steps with him—fireflies, carved initials on the dock, and a pull that feels like coming home.

Now they’re pretending to date to save her ranch. Delaney breaks his rules with a smile. Nash fixes the fence, checks the locks, and pretends it isn’t killing him to want what walked away from him years ago.

When the saboteur ups the stakes and old secrets surface, Nash has to keep his distance like a good soldier…or claim the only woman who ever felt like forever.

Tropes to expect: Bodyguard romance • Ex-military hero • Cowboy protector • Small-town Texas • Back to her hometown • Saving the family ranch • Childhood friends to lovers • Almost-first-kiss history • Second chance romance • Fake dating • Forced proximity • Living on the ranch • Grumpy/Sunshine • Protective hero • Touch Her and Die • Who Did This To You? • One Bed • Slow burn with sizzle • Ranch sabotage mystery • Family legacy stakes • He’s emotionally locked down • She challenges his control • She falls first, he falls harder • Texas-big HEA

Vibes to expect: He checks the perimeter before sunrise • “I’m not here for you.” (lies) • Boots on her porch at midnight • Fixing fences with quiet devotion • A storm hits and they’re stuck together • He sleeps closer to the door • A hand at her lower back in public • “We’re convincing.” • Dust, denim, and dangerously soft moments • Bandaging his knuckles after a bad night • He learns her coffee order without asking • She makes him laugh when he least expects it • Old memories on the dock • Fireflies and unfinished kisses • A fake relationship that turns terrifyingly real • He doesn’t say love—he shows it • And so much MORE!

A Texas cowboy-security romance where danger rides shotgun and a grumpy protector gets branded by love.

*Meet the heroes of Lone Star Security. Cowboy bodyguards forged under the Texas sun. Dangerous when they have to be, gentle when it counts, these ranch-bred alphas wear Stetsons over steel and carry more scars than they’ll admit. They don’t do anything halfway. Instead, they do sunup to sundown, with dust on their boots and love in their hearts. These protectors will ride through hell and high water to prove worthy of the women they love

*************FULL BOOK START HERE*************

PROLOGUE

Delaney — Age 11

The rope swing hangs over the creek like a dare.

“Chicken?” I call, toes gripping the sun-warm plank of the little dock Daddy built before Mom says he forgot how. Fireflies blink between the pecans like sparks from the forge at the blacksmith’s tent during Rodeo Days. It’s late enough that the cicadas have a steady hum going. Late enough Mama would holler if she knew I’d snuck out. Late enough that the water looks like spilled ink.

Nash Hawthorne squints at me from the bank, all elbows and stubborn jaw. He’s twelve and thinks that’s basically grown. “I ain’t chicken, Laney.”

“Prove it.”

He snatches the rope, runs three steps, and launches. For a heartbeat he’s flying, hands high, bare feet pointed like he’s part comet. He lets go at the peak, hits the water with a splash big enough to rattle the minnows. I whoop, because I can’t help it, because it’s summer and Valor Springs belongs to us.

His head pops up, hair slicked back, grin brighter than the lightning bugs. “You comin’ or you just gonna stand there flappin’ your jaw?”

“I am a lady,” I say, even as I grab the rope. “And ladies make an entrance.”

“Ladies stall,” he says, laughing.

I run, swing, let go. The creek grabs me cold and perfect, and we both come up hollering at the sky. By the time we swim to the bank, we’re snorting creek water and spitting laughter. I flop onto the grass, dress clinging, boots abandoned on the dock. Nash rolls beside me. The night smells like wet earth and honeysuckle and the smoke from somebody’s barbecue a pasture over.

“Pinky swear,” I blurt, sticking out my little finger.

He blinks. “On what?”

“If we ever get lost,” I say, because the thought has been living in my chest lately, the way grown-ups whisper when bills show up and the pasture needs reseeding, “we meet back here. Always.”

Nash considers that like it’s a mission. Then he hooks his finger with mine. His hand’s warm. “Always,” he says, solemn as a judge.

I sit up, dig in my pocket for the treasure I stole from Uncle Buck’s junk drawer: a pocketknife, dull from cutting twine. “Help me.”

“You’ll get tanned.”

“Only if I get caught.” I flip the blade open, tongue peeking out the corner of my mouth like it helps me aim. On the dock post, where the rope’s tied, I scratch slow, careful letters. N + D—come home.

Nash leans in, shoulder bumping mine. When I finish, he touches the groove with a thumb, like pressing a brand. “Looks good,” he says softly. For a second he’s not elbows and bluffs—he’s a boy who wants a promise to be true.

“You goin’ to the rodeo practice tomorrow?” I ask, light again, because heavy makes my throat tight.

“Maybe.” He looks out over the black water. “Daddy says I got to toughen up. Says Hawthornes serve. Crewe says he’s gonna do pararescue. Mack talks Army all day.” He rattles off his brothers like a string of beads. “Sin—Sinclaire—won’t say nothin’ but he stares at the river like it’s an ocean. Banks says he’s too smart for all of us and he’s gonna get rich and buy Valor Springs. Jace’s into anything that smells like gun oil. Colt wants to disappear into the mountains like a ghost.”

“What about you?” I ask.

He shrugs one shoulder. “Daddy wants me to enlist. A Hawthorne with a plan. I ain’t sure what mine is, ‘cept…” He flicks a look at the engraving. “‘Cept I like it here.”

“You can go,” I say, throat tight again. “But you come back. I’ll keep the ranch good till you do. I’ll fix what’s broke and plant winter rye and teach the calves not to be dumb. I’ll⁠—”

“You’ll boss everybody ‘til they cry?”

“Probably.” That makes us both grin.

The rope creaks when the breeze shifts. Fireflies pulse. Somewhere a cow lows, soft, like she’s telling a bedtime story. Nash steals another look at the crooked heart I carved like he’s taking a picture with his eyes.

“Always,” he says again.

“Always,” I echo.

We don’t tell anyone we sealed it with a pinky swear. It feels like the kind of thing that only works if nobody else hears.

Nash — Age 12

The creek’s the only place quiet enough to hear my own thinking.

At home it’s all boots and brothers and Daddy’s voice, that grit-through-gravel kind that sounds like orders even when he’s saying pass the salt. Mama’s soft but tired. Crewe runs us like a squad. Mack bets chores on dares. Sin watches everything. Banks is already scheming about flipping junk trucks. Jace will sign up for the Marines the day they’ll take him, I can see it. Colt’s half wild and already talking about living in the mountains.

Me? I don’t know what I am besides the oldest. (Crewe calls that “the pack mule.”)

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Make Them Beg (Pretty Deadly Things #3) Read Online Logan Chance http://www.wownovels.com/make-them-beg-pretty-deadly-things-3-read-online-logan-chance Wed, 07 Jan 2026 10:41:11 +0000 http://www.wownovels.com/make-them-beg-pretty-deadly-things-3-read-online-logan-chance Genre: Alpha Male, Contemporary, Dark, Forbidden Authors: Logan Chance Series: Pretty Deadly Things Series by Logan Chance
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Total pages in book: 58
Estimated words: 60921 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 305(@200wpm)___ 244(@250wpm)___ 203(@300wpm)

<<<<1 2 3 11 21 >58

He’s used to being the predator.
He never expected to be her prey.

Knight Hayes lives for the hunt. There’s nothing quite like the adrenaline rush of taking down the kind of monsters who hide behind screens and power suits. He’s sharp, controlled, and always ten steps ahead… until someone starts watching him.

Every move. Every mission. Every secret.

She sees it all.

The stalker? His best friend’s little sister—the same girl who once doodled his name in hearts and now shows up in a leather jacket, wearing a mask, and holding all his secrets in the palm of her black-gloved hand.

Her name is Lark Dawson, and she wants in. But he’s not having that. Not on his life. Not on his missions. And definitely not in his passenger seat.

But Lark’s not playing by his rules. She’s got blackmail, a bat, and zero boundaries. And unfortunately for Knight… she’s not going away.

When a job goes sideways and both their faces hit someone’s most-wanted list, Knight’s only option is to go on the run—with the girl who makes him crazy in more ways than one. He’s supposed to keep her safe. Keep his hands off. Keep things strictly professional.

Too bad Lark has other plans.
And Knight? He’s starting to forget why saying no ever seemed like a good idea.

One cocky vigilante. One chaos-loving wild card. One explosive ride that will leave them both begging—for mercy, for safety, and maybe… for each other.

Make Them Beg is a high-heat, high-stakes enemies-to-lovers dark romcom with a badass heroine in combat boots, a hero who can’t stop growling, and enough heated tension to burn the whole operation down

*************FULL BOOK START HERE*************

ONE

JUST ANOTHER TUESDAY NIGHT FELONY

KNIGHT

You ever watch a man eat chicken wings like he doesn’t deserve happiness?

That’s what I’m dealing with tonight.

Across the cracked blinds of Table 13 at Nolan’s Bar, our target—one Gregory “Wife-Beater” Dunn—is elbows-deep in a plate of nuclear buffalo wings, licking his fingers like he didn’t just embezzle half a mil from a non-profit and break his ex’s nose last Christmas. He's got sauce on his chin. Hellfire on his rap sheet. And zero idea he's about to be served a different kind of justice.

I adjust the burner phone in my hoodie pocket and glance at the time. 9:47 p.m.

Right on schedule.

“Anything from Lark?” I murmur into the mic clipped to my shirt collar. My voice is a whisper beneath the buzz of bad jukebox country and the sound of someone losing a game of darts behind me.

Static. Then Arrow’s voice crackles in my ear. “Nothing yet. She’s still ghosting the outer firewall.”

Classic Lark. When I tell her no, she hears try harder.

“I swear,” I mutter, sipping flat soda from my sticky glass. “One day I’m gonna change all the passwords and lock her out for good.”

“You say that,” Arrow deadpans, “but last week she hacked your Nest thermostat and made your apartment play the Teletubbies theme every time you opened the fridge.”

I pinch the bridge of my nose.

“Don’t remind me.”

“Let me remind you of something else—our window’s closing. You’re sure this guy’s dirty?”

“Oh, he’s filthier than a Reddit comment section,” I reply. “I scrubbed his VPN trail last week. He’s been funneling charity funds into a shell company registered to a yacht named Assets & Ass. No joke. He also buys fake reviews for his self-published crypto e-book. And the worst part?”

Arrow hums. “Tell me.”

“His ebook sucks bad.”

“Jesus,” Arrow whispers. “Take him down.”

I grin.

This is what we do now.

After Arrow helped Juno track her sister’s killers, and Gage brought down that HR creep at NovaPlay, we got… hooked. Somewhere between the late-night missions, burner phones, and Red Bull-fueled stakeouts, it stopped being revenge.

And became a purpose.

We’re not cops. We’re not mercs. We’re just pissed-off misfits with high-speed internet and a low tolerance for bastards in power.

And tonight? Gregory Dunn is next.

“Alright, I’m moving in,” I mutter, sliding out of the booth. My hoodie is zipped, my gloves are on, and my boots are blessedly silent on sticky linoleum.

I cross the bar. The lights are dim, the air smells like spilled beer and shame, and the bouncer is too busy scrolling TikTok to clock me.

Dunn doesn’t even look up. Just keeps licking wing sauce off his fingers like a psychopath.

I lean close, hand on the edge of the booth. “You ever think about what it feels like to lose everything in one night?”

He blinks, and then his eyes dart up. “What?”

I smile. “Check your phone.”

It buzzes on the table. He hesitates. Then picks it up.

His expression melts from confused to panicked in three seconds flat.

Because on that phone? Is a video. Of him. In his home office. Moving funds. Screaming at his ex. Throwing a lamp. It's all there. Time-stamped. Synced. Edited. Beautiful.

“Who—how did you⁠—?”

I drop a thumb drive on the table. “That’s for the authorities. They're already en route.”

“Y-you can’t⁠—!”

“Already did.”

His hand moves for something. A knife? His phone?

Too slow.

I snatch his wrist and slam it into the table. Not hard enough to break, but enough to make a statement. “I suggest you stay put,” I say. “Or don’t. I kind of hope you run. I haven’t stretched in a while.”

His eyes are wide now. “You’re insane.”

“Probably,” I say with a wink.

Then I walk. Out the door. Past the bouncer. Into the night. And there, parked half a block down, is my old Altima.

Arrow’s waiting, laptop open, hoodie up, and chewing on a Slim Jim like he hasn’t eaten in ages.

“Cops got the tip?” I ask as I slide into the passenger seat.

He nods. “Three minutes out. You really dropped the ‘Assets & Ass’ line?”

“I’m a professional.”

He snorts.

I grab my own laptop from the back seat and boot up. “Alright,” I say, fingers flying across the keys. “Let’s scrub all the data, wipe the footage from my cam, and reset all network nodes. We’re ghosts.”

Arrow glances sideways at me. “You know… you could’ve just mailed the tip anonymously.”

“And miss the look on his face?” I grin. “Never.”

My phone buzzes.

It’s a text from a blocked number.

Blocked Number: [Attachment: Video File]

Caption: Your backdoor encryption sucks, Hayes. Try harder.

Arrow sees it.

“Is that…?”

“Lark,” I mutter, staring at the video. It’s from inside the bar. Of me. Confronting Dunn. The whole damn interaction.

She had eyes on me the entire time.

Arrow exhales a laugh. “She’s good.”

“She’s annoying,” I grumble. But my chest is warm. And tight. And kind of buzzing.

Because for the first time in a long time… I’m not sure I’m the predator anymore.

<<<<1 2 3 11 21 >58

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Oh What Fun It Is To Ride Read Online Logan Chance http://www.wownovels.com/oh-what-fun-it-is-to-ride-read-online-logan-chance Thu, 25 Dec 2025 22:03:37 +0000 http://www.wownovels.com/oh-what-fun-it-is-to-ride-read-online-logan-chance Genre: Alpha Male, Angst Authors: Logan Chance Series: Series by Logan Chance
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Total pages in book: 42
Estimated words: 40951 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 205(@200wpm)___ 164(@250wpm)___ 137(@300wpm)

<<<<1 2 3 11 21 >42

From USA Today bestselling author, Logan Chance comes a steamy, swoony, and stuffed with holiday magic romantic comedy that'll have you laughing-out-loud one minute, and clutching your metaphorical pearls the next. When big-city PR manager, Ivy Garland crashes—literally—into the town’s prized sleigh, she lands smack dab on the naughty list of Rhett Ryder, grumpy owner of Jingle Bell Rides and protector of all things holly and highly inconvenient. With the Snowflake Jubilee days away and sponsors threatening to bail, Ivy’s got one shot to save the festival (and her job): convince Mr. “Bah Humbug” to let her spin a little Christmas magic.

Rhett would rather eat yellow snow than fake-smile for Ivy’s cameras…until a blizzard strands them at his cozy cabin with one roaring fire, one very nosy town, and exactly one bed. Suddenly, the girl who “sleighs” at crisis management is jingling his bells, and the man who swore off mistletoe is ready to fa-la-la-la-lose control.

Cue candy-cane kisses, peppermint-hot chemistry, and a town determined to ship them harder than a rush-order sleigh. But when Ivy’s past threatens to frostbite their future, they’ll have to decide if they’re just dashing through the snow—or in for the long sleigh ride

*************FULL BOOK START HERE*************

ONE

IVY

The first thing I do when I hit Chimney Gorge is face-plant into Christmas.

To be fair, the town doesn’t exactly ease you in. There’s a twelve-foot peppermint-striped arch that says WELCOME TO CHIMNEY GORGE in curly gold script, twinkle lights stitched across every roofline, and a giant snowman wearing a scarf that could double as a sail. It’s like a Hallmark set and a Yankee Candle had a baby and then gave it a sugar rush.

I step out of my rental car in my very sensible big-city boots and promptly skid on a patch of black ice so sneaky it should be prosecuted. I flail, my cardboard tray of sponsor hot cocoa kits rockets into the air, and I—PR professional, fixer of crises, proud carrier of glitter gel pens—slam shoulder-first into a gleaming red sleigh.

The sleigh wobbles.

I wobble.

The box of cocoa kits explodes like a peppermint piñata.

“Whoa there!” A deep voice snaps across the cold air. Arms like steel cables catch me before I can make the world’s most embarrassing snow angel. I end up clutching flannel.

I look up and see a jaw carved by Nordic gods who probably chop their own firewood for fun. A beard lumberjacks are most likely jealous of. He’s got stormy blue-gray eyes under a knit cap and a mouth that looks made for scowling.

“Are you okay?” he asks, not sounding particularly invested in the answer.

“I’m… festive?” I wheeze, because my coat is now dusted in instant cocoa mix and little marshmallows. One is stuck to my lip. Excellent. “Hi. I’m Ivy. Ivy Garland.”

“Of course you are,” he says, prying a marshmallow off my collar and tossing it into the snow. “I’m Rhett Ryder.”

The name lands with a thunk in my brain, pinging off the panic already rattling around in there. I know that name. I’m here because of that name. Jingle Bell Rides—his sleigh ride business—is the anchor attraction for the Snowflake Jubilee, which my agency’s client sponsors. Said sponsor now wants to pull out unless I generate an avalanche of cozy content, stat. So here I am, armed with cocoa kits, a smile, and a proposal to turn this very grinchy-looking man into a viral holiday heartthrob.

“Jingle Bell Rides,” I blurt, pointing at the hand-painted sign on the barn behind him. “Rhett Ryder. Great name. On brand. So…ridery.”

He leans past me to inspect the sleigh. “You cracked the runner.”

“I—what? No.” I crouch, mortification burning hotter than the air nipping my cheeks. Yep. Thin silver fissure along the wood. “Oh, holly heck.”

A woman in a tartan coat comes hustling over, bells chiming on her boots. “Rhett, I heard a crash and—oh!” She gives me the kind of sympathetic smile people reserve for toddlers and disasters. “You must be the PR lady.”

“Please tell me that’s not my official title,” I say.

“It is now,” Rhett mutters.

“Tally Turner,” the woman chirps, holding out a hand. “Mayor. We are so delighted you’re here to work your Christmas magic, Ivy. The Jubilee needs all the sparkle it can get. Donations dropped after last year’s storm, and the sponsors⁠—”

“—are skittish,” I finish, because that’s why my boss sent me instead of anyone else. I have a reputation for turning coal into diamonds and crises into hashtags. “Don’t worry, Mayor Turner. I’m here to save Christmas.”

Rhett snorts. “Christmas doesn’t need saving. It needs people to stop breaking things.”

I paste on my best client-facing smile. “I’m happy to pay for the repair.”

“It’s a handcrafted runner from the forties,” he says, eyes cool. “The artisan who can fix that is three towns over and booked solid.”

“Okay,” I say, brain revving. “What if we partner the repair with a sponsor? ‘Heritage Holiday: Restoring a Classic Sleigh’—we film it, highlight craftsmanship, community, tradition⁠—”

“No cameras,” he says, sharp as icicles.

Mayor Turner frowns lightly. “Rhett.”

“I said no cameras when they pitched using my horses for a commercial,” he says. “I’m not turning the barn into a set.”

I open and close my mouth like a caroling goldfish. “What if there’s…no set? Just, you know, understated storytelling. B-roll. Hands. Wood shavings. Manly competence⁠—”

“No,” he repeats, turning away. Conversation apparently over.

“Wait,” I say, jogging after him as he heads toward a stall where a massive chestnut draft horse peers out like it’s judging my life choices. “I can’t go back to my boss with a no. She’ll make me stuff stockings for the rest of eternity.”

He pats the horse’s neck. “Maybe you’ll learn the difference between boots with traction and whatever you’re wearing.”

“These are traction-adjacent,” I say, then flush when he glances at the heeled leather with all the contempt of a man who’s never known the joy of a pre-Christmas sale. “Look, Rhett. I messed up, and I’m sorry. But I can fix this.”

“You can fix a broken runner?”

“No, but I can trend.” I gesture grandly and a marshmallow flies off my sleeve like a sad snowball. “If we don’t keep the sponsor on board, the Jubilee loses funding. Kids lose the tree lighting, the toy drive shrinks, and Mrs. Claus over there—” I nod at the giant fiberglass matriarch in the town square “—looks personally disappointed in me. Help me help you help Christmas.”

<<<<1 2 3 11 21 >42

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Make Them Cry (Pretty Deadly Things #2) Read Online Logan Chance http://www.wownovels.com/make-them-cry-pretty-deadly-things-2-read-online-logan-chance Wed, 19 Nov 2025 18:28:14 +0000 http://www.wownovels.com/make-them-cry-pretty-deadly-things-2-read-online-logan-chance Genre: Alpha Male, Dark, Insta-Love Authors: Logan Chance Series: Pretty Deadly Things Series by Logan Chance
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Total pages in book: 75
Estimated words: 77051 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 385(@200wpm)___ 308(@250wpm)___ 257(@300wpm)

<<<<1 2 3 11 21 >75

They called her curvy.

They called her worthless.

They never expected her to fight back.

River Quinn is done playing nice. After enduring years of online harassment from a pack of anonymous cowards, she’s hit her limit. The insults. The threats. The sick messages that keep her up at night. When the hate turns physical—doors left unlocked, shadows that shouldn’t be there—River turns to the only place the dark web.

She isn’t looking for justice.

She’s looking for vengeance.

Enter him. A masked vigilante who offers protection in exchange for secrecy. He’s dangerous. Silent. Untraceable. And he promises one thing—he’ll make them cry.

But River doesn’t know the man behind the mask is someone she already knows. Someone she loathes. Her cocky, arrogant coworker, Gage Dawson, who pushes all her buttons and steals the last cup of coffee. The one man she’d never willingly accept help from.

Too bad he’s been obsessed with her for years.

Too bad he’s the only one standing between her and the monsters who want to break her.

Too bad he's about to show her just how deadly he can be—for her enemies... and her heart.

Dark secrets. Masked desire. And a revenge plan that might just end with love.

Make Them Cry is a steamy, twisted enemies-to-lovers vigilante romance full of sharp banter, dark humor, and one possessive hero with a vigilante streak and a very dirty mouth. Buckle up. This one’s going to hurt so good

*************FULL BOOK START HERE*************

PROLOGUE

RIVER

I tell people I love my job and watch their shoulders drop in relief. As if passion is a shield. As if saying it out loud makes it true all the time.

Most days it is. I’m a video game developer at NovaPlay Studios, and there’s a high I chase that nothing else touches. Like the moment a broken loop finally runs, the second an enemy AI chooses exactly what I taught it to and my whole screen feels like fireworks. I live for the hum of the office before sunrise, the burn of coffee gone cold, and the tiny triumphs that string together into a world.

And then there’s the part where the world strings me up.

The first messages a year ago were gnats—annoying, harmless, buzzing around my DMs. “Hack.” “Try harder.” I swatted and kept coding. Then the gnats became hornets. Organized. Mean. They learned my name. They learned my face. I’m the visible one on our dev diaries, the cheerful voice in the behind-the-scenes. When someone hates a feature, they hate me with their whole chest. Threads spin out under my interviews like oil slicks—shiny, poisonous, impossible to clean.

I mute. I block. I pretend I’m Teflon. But Teflon scratches.

They critique my work. Then my body. Then my voice. Then my right to exist. It’s ridiculous how quickly your brain will nod along to strangers armed with avatars and bad grammar. It’s easier to believe the worst because the worst is familiar; it’s the voice I already use on myself when I’m tired and the code won’t compile.

Some nights I stare at my ceiling and negotiate with the dark. If I push harder, if I smile wider, if I disappear entirely—would they stop?

They don’t.

I keep going anyway. I plant my feet. I promise myself I won’t give a mob of ghosts the satisfaction of watching me quit the one thing that makes me feel like I’m more than a pair of hands at a keyboard.

And then the comment lands.

Not on my feed, but on Cathedral, the social network for our developers and players. A username I don’t recognize. Five words and a photo.

River Quinn lives here.

A grainy shot of my porch. My black-and-white welcome mat. The cracked flowerpot I never replaced. My ribs cinch so tight I can’t pull a full breath. I check the locks even though I’m already inside. I pull the blinds even though they were already closed. Terror makes you do things in duplicate. Triple.

My phone keeps buzzing, the notifications stacking into a tower I can’t climb down from. I scroll until my thumb aches, until the screen blurs, until my reflection—tired, puffy-eyed, not the cool girl from the dev diaries—stares back at me like she’s asking what we did to deserve this.

I’ve loved things that hurt me before, but never like this. Never where the thing I love—building worlds, finding the logic thread and following it out of the maze—becomes the very reason people think I should stop breathing.

“Don’t read the comments,” everyone says. As if the comments aren’t in my inbox, in my mentions, in my mailbox. As if they aren’t in my head.

I tell myself to code. To work. To focus on the boss fight tuning or the pathfinding bug in Level Twelve. But my hands hover above the keys, useless birds.

There are reasons I love and hate this job, and lately they stack like bad Jenga pulls. One more piece and the whole thing will topple. And then there’s the reason in human form—the one I’d rather not examine too closely because it complicates everything.

Gage Dawson.

He’s the kind of gorgeous that makes you forget your own name for a second—dimples, green eyes, all sun-through-glass and sharp edges. He’s also a walking red flag: brilliant, cocky, and the exact wrong person to make my heart trip when he leans over my shoulder to point at my code. He’s praise and threat in the same breath. He’s a problem I don’t have bandwidth for, and somehow the only person whose voice can cut through the noise in my head.

I hate that I notice him. I hate how much I want him to notice me back.

Another ping. Another laugh-cry emoji. Another “we know where you live” whispered through a screen.

I square my shoulders. I put my fingers on the keys and tell myself that if fear wants my life, it will have to pry it from my code-stained hands. My heart still sprints. My throat still burns. The mob still chants.

But the game needs me.

And, God help me, I need the game.

I need something steady when everything else shakes. Even if the ground I’m standing on is cracking. Even if the devil with dimples is smiling from two desks over.

ONE

RIVER

There’s a sign above the NovaPlay Studios office coffee maker that says PLEASE BE CONSIDERATE in Comic Sans, which tells you everything you need to know about the moral fiber of this place.

<<<<1 2 3 11 21 >75

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A Very Bumpy Christmas Read Online Logan Chance http://www.wownovels.com/a-very-bumpy-christmas-read-online-logan-chance Wed, 29 Oct 2025 22:15:31 +0000 http://www.wownovels.com/a-very-bumpy-christmas-read-online-logan-chance Genre: Alpha Male, Insta-Love Authors: Logan Chance Advertisement

Total pages in book: 51
Estimated words: 49385 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 247(@200wpm)___ 198(@250wpm)___ 165(@300wpm)

<<<<1 2 3 11 21 >51

Melanie had one goal when she headed to the snowy mountains for a cozy weekend with her bestie sip cocoa, snap some cute dog rescue pics for her influencer page, and maybe unwind a little.

She did not plan on the tall, broody security guy with a dimpled smirk and arms built like he lifts Christmas trees for fun. But after one too many mugs of mulled wine and a shared blanket by the fire, Melanie finds herself unwrapping a lot more than presents.

Back home in Saint Pierce, she’s feeling merry and bright… until two pink lines on a stick change everything.

Now Melanie’s facing a very jingle-belly situation and trying to figure out how to tell Lucas. And he’s suddenly showing up everywhere, being way too sweet, and somehow looking even hotter in flannel. Did Santa put her on the naughty list… or the nice one?

With twinkle lights, mistletoe mishaps, and a surprise baby on the way, Melanie’s about to discover that the best Christmas gifts can’t be wrapped, and love might be the most unexpected stocking stuffer of all.

Perfect for fans of snowy cabin shenanigans, surprise pregnancies, and cinnamon roll heroes with protective streaks and secret feelings.

Get ready to laugh, swoon, and fa-la-la-fall in love!

*************FULL BOOK START HERE*************

1

Melanie

It’s supposed to be an easy drive.

Supposed to be being the operative phrase.

Charlotte and Asher invited me up to their new cabin in the mountains to help with the dog rescue this weekend—snap some photos for social, get these pups some exposure, and maybe escape the nonstop DM storm that’s been my life lately. Honestly, I need this break. Fresh air. Fuzzy faces. My best friend. It sounded perfect.

Absolutely perfect.

Until my tire decided it had other plans.

I’d been jamming out to a feel-good playlist, the pine trees blurring past my window, when the unmistakable whump, whump, whump hit like a hammer. The car wobbled. My heart stopped. I managed to pull over onto a skinny patch of gravel shoulder, the mountain road dipping sharply on one side, winding into green oblivion on the other.

I turn off the engine, sigh dramatically, and rest my forehead on the steering wheel. “Seriously? You had one job.”

My phone shows one lonely bar of service. Just enough to text Charlotte and hope for the best.

Me: Hey, got a flat. Of course. I’ll be late.

Charlotte: Oh no! You okay? Want me and Asher to come get you?

Me: I’m okay. Trying to figure out the tire situation. Will update.

Right. The tire situation.

I open the trunk and stare blankly at the sad excuse for an emergency kit, realizing two critical things:

1.I’ve never changed a tire in my life.

2.I don’t have a spare.

Cue another dramatic sigh. I lean against the side of the car, arms folded, debating whether to post a tragic “stranded” selfie when the rumble of a big engine draws my attention.

A truck—a gorgeous black pickup with a slight lift—slows as it approaches, window rolling down. A man leans out, framed by golden afternoon light. He appears tall, broad shoulders filling the cab, aviators perched on a ruggedly handsome face, dark stubble tracing his jawline.

“Well, you look like you could use a hand,” he says, voice deep and smooth as honey over gravel.

I blink. Why does this stuff never happen when I’m dressed to impress? I’m in yoga pants, an oversized sweatshirt, and a messy top knot that would make even a rescue pup cringe.

“Uh—yeah. Flat tire. No spare. Rookie mistake,” I say with a sheepish grin.

He pulls the truck fully onto the shoulder behind me and steps out. And wow, wow—he is tall. Six-three, maybe six-four. Dark hair shoved back. Fitted jeans, worn boots, and a plain gray tee that hugs every inch of a broad chest and lean waist.

I catch myself staring and snap into influencer mode. Friendly smile. Polite banter. “You wouldn’t happen to have a miracle in that truck, would you?”

He chuckles, the sound rich and easy. “I’ve got tools, but having no spare’s gonna be tricky.” His gaze flicks to my rental, then back at me. “You headed up the mountain?”

“Yeah. My best friend and her husband’s place. They run a dog rescue.”

His brow lifts. “Don’t suppose your friend’s husband is Asher Hawke?”

I blink again, caught off guard. “Uh—yeah. Why?”

The man grins, crossing his arms. “Because Asher’s my boss.”

My jaw drops. “You’re kidding.”

“Name’s Lucas.” He extends a hand, big and calloused but warm as I shake it. “I run with Dean’s security team. The Denver team.”

Of course he’s in security. That explains the whole I can probably lift this car if I wanted to vibe he’s giving off.

“Well, Lucas, it’s very nice to meet you,” I say, giving my best friendly smile. “I’m Melanie. The friend who was not prepared for mountain driving, clearly.”

He laughs again. “We’ve all been there. Tell you what—no point in sitting here waiting on the roadside. Hop in. I’ll take you the rest of the way. I know where the cabin is.”

I hesitate for half a second—then remind myself Dean’s team, Asher’s his boss, this man is vetted ten ways to Sunday. And honestly? The thought of sitting in my cold car for an hour waiting on a tow from the rental company is way less appealing than being driven through the mountains by a handsome security specialist.

“You’re sure? I don’t want to mess up your afternoon.”

He tips his head toward the passenger door. “Wouldn’t offer if I minded.”

Okay, then. “Let me grab my stuff.”

A few minutes later I’m settled into the passenger seat of his truck, duffel and camera bag at my feet, my two suitcases in the back, and the seatbelt clicks into place.

“Nice rig,” I say, eyeing the pristine dashboard and faint smell of leather.

He throws me a sidelong glance. “Don’t tell anyone—I spent more time picking out this truck than I did my last apartment.”

I laugh, tension sliding away. The engine hums to life, and we ease back onto the road, the windows cracked to let in the crisp mountain air.

“So you do security,” I say, curiosity getting the better of me.

“Yup. Background in military, then contract work, now with Dean’s firm full time. Denver branch is new—we’re still building out the team. Asher’s running point.”

<<<<1 2 3 11 21 >51

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Riggs (The Maddox Bravo Team #2) Read Online Logan Chance http://www.wownovels.com/riggs-the-maddox-bravo-team-2-read-online-logan-chance Thu, 25 Sep 2025 16:14:06 +0000 http://www.wownovels.com/riggs-the-maddox-bravo-team-2-read-online-logan-chance Genre: Alpha Male, Erotic, Suspense Authors: Logan Chance Series: The Maddox Bravo Team Series by Logan Chance
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Total pages in book: 49
Estimated words: 46223 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 231(@200wpm)___ 185(@250wpm)___ 154(@300wpm)

<<<<1 2 3 11 21 >49

He’s the fortress. She’s the feed. The stalker wants the world to watch.

Andy “Riggs” Riggs does not babysit influencers. BRAVO Security’s blunt-force problem-solver prefers doors he can breach and threats he can see. Until her. He’s assigned to protect Vanessa Mercado, a viral powerhouse with 20 million followers, a seven-city brand tour, and a stalker who’s turned her comments section into a countdown.

Vanessa lives online—unboxings, hotel keys, live streams at golden hour—until “fan” messages become doxxing, hacked room locks, and a white van that keeps appearing off-camera. She refuses to cancel, and the only thing gruffer than her new bodyguard’s voice is the way his hand settles at her back when the lights go out. Grumpy guard, sunshine siren—one fake-dating cover to shake a tail, one very real “only one bed” booking, and heat neither can post about.

As the tour spirals so do the sabotaged venues, inside leaks, and a sponsor with dirty strings. Riggs follows the money while Vanessa rewrites the rules of what she shares. To stop a hunter obsessed with turning her into his final viral moment, they’ll have to go dark, go off-script, and trust the kind of love that holds when the cameras don’t.

High heat, higher stakes, relentless cat-and-mouse

*************FULL BOOK START HERE*************

1

Riggs

Dean slides a manila folder across his desk like it’s a live device and not paper. “You already know her.”

I already know who it is. How can I not? “I don’t do glitter,” I say, even as I open it.

“You do threats.” He laces his fingers on the blotter. “Vanessa Mercado. Seven-city brand tour. DMs went from dumb to dangerous—timed to her private itinerary. Sponsors won’t cancel. She asked for BRAVO. She asked for you.”

We met in the Kingsley mess—sunshine in heels, flirting to hide fear, called me Beard-Mountain like it was a rank. Chemistry? Sure. Useless on a detail. I keep the file between us and start reading.

Screenshots. “I know where you sleep” junk, then two clean messages. One hits five minutes after her manager updates the travel doc. One includes a photo of a hotel hallway hours before she checked in. Low angle, maintenance phone. Another’s a drone still over her last rooftop shoot, framed too well to be luck.

“Inside leak,” I say. “Plus someone's flying eyes.”

“Rae’s remote.” Dean nods toward the bullpen where Rae pretends not to eavesdrop over a screen full of code. “Jaxson on call for digital; Hayes if we see devices. You’re primary. Build the box. Find the leak.”

I flip to the route grid. “Cities?”

“Saint Pierce, Seattle, Denver, Austin, Nashville, D.C., New York. Two weeks. Venues range from hotel ballrooms to rooftops to pop-up shops.”

“What does she want?”

“To keep her commitments and stay alive,” he says dryly. “In that order unless you convince her otherwise.”

“Copy.” I stand. “Anything else I should know?”

Dean’s mouth twitches. “Her brand manager, Brice. Hair higher than his threat IQ. He’ll whine about ‘deliverables.’ You’ll remind him warm skin tones look terrible in morgues.”

Rae finally turns. “I’ve got her metadata. Her comments are a crime scene. Scraping threats now. Also, someone accessed the Hotel Delphine staff portal from a tablet this morning—ghost user. If it pings again, I’ll tag it.”

“Good.” I tap my ear. “Stay with me.”

“Always,” she says.

Dean palms the folder back, takes a breath like he’s about to add rules. He doesn’t. He meets my eyes instead. “Keep it professional.”

“Always,” I echo, and this time it’s not for Rae.

Hotel Delphine smells like new money and polished citrus. The valet lane’s clogged with SUVs and ring lights the size of moons. I park on the side street because I don’t valet my ride, and I take the service elevator because I don’t enter through a lobby if there’s another way in.

Penthouse level: floral carpet fighting chrome. Two rental-blazer guards at a folding table check badges like they’re TSA. I flash BRAVO credentials, and they straighten like someone just made their day easier.

“Andy Riggs,” I say. “BRAVO.”

“Yes, sir.” The taller one swallows relief. He waves me toward the double doors.

The suite could fit a basketball court. Air’s hairspray, coffee, and a faint ozone from too many power strips. I sweep fast. Two exits. Windows sealed. Balcony slider dead-bolted but liftable. Bathroom clear. Kitchenette clear. People everywhere. A blonde woman with a headset bumps a cart and apologizes to a ficus. Brice—blazer, importance hair—barks into a phone about color temperature like it’s life support.

Center of gravity is on a stool under a ring light. Vanessa.

Cameras don’t catch gravity. People like her pull a room. She’s in jeans and an off-shoulder black top, bare feet—pink toes—and an effortless laugh that dies the second she sees me in the mirror. Not fear. Assessment. Memory.

She swivels, slides off the stool as the stylist swears and ducks, and then she crosses barefoot, smile already loaded.

“Riggs,” she says, like we left off yesterday. “Here to ruin golden hour?”

“Here to make sure you survive it.” I stop where I can see both doors and the balcony in a single glance. “Ground rules.”

Brice glides up, tight-smiled. “We have deliverables⁠—”

“You have a beating heart,” I say. “We post on delay against a neutral wall. No live location tells. Cut the real itinerary to need-to-know.”

Brice blinks. “Absolutely not.”

Vanessa doesn’t look at him. “We’ll cut it down,” she says. “Do it.”

He makes a deflating-balloon noise and stalks off.

I hand her a phone—slim, black case. “Secure device. Personal stays off unless Rae says otherwise. SOS triple-click on your watch is active. No unvetted food or packages. If you think you’re being followed, you don’t post. You move to an exit on my command.”

She flips the phone in her hand. “Not pink.”

“Encrypted.”

“Does it have a filter that makes me look like I slept eight hours?”

“No.”

“Honesty. How refreshing.” She tucks a stray hair behind her ear and tips her head toward the balcony. “If I filmed an outfit transition there, how many ways could someone watch me do it?”

“Eight without trying,” I say. “Sixteen if they have time. High-rise across, balcony above, drone, phones, building’s own cams if someone has access.”

“And we don’t like being watched.” She files it away. “Okay, Beard Mountain.”

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Make Them Bleed (Pretty Deadly Things #1) Read Online Logan Chance http://www.wownovels.com/make-them-bleed-pretty-deadly-things-1-read-online-logan-chance Thu, 25 Sep 2025 16:13:38 +0000 http://www.wownovels.com/make-them-bleed-pretty-deadly-things-1-read-online-logan-chance Genre: Alpha Male, Dark Authors: Logan Chance Series: Pretty Deadly Things Series by Logan Chance
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Total pages in book: 102
Estimated words: 97537 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 488(@200wpm)___ 390(@250wpm)___ 325(@300wpm)

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He’s secretly stalking her inbox. She’s secretly hiring masked killers. Love’s never been this twisted—or this deadly.

Mega influencer Arby Kate’s murder shocked the world when five masked men ended her livestream… and her life. Now, months later, her sister Juno Kate is obsessed with revenge, turning to the dark web for vigilante justice. Arrow Finn, Juno’s best friend and hopelessly devoted secret admirer, panics when he discovers her dangerous plan—thanks to the spy software he’s secretly installed on her computer.

Determined to protect her, Arrow poses as an online masked vigilante expert to help Juno track down the killers. But as they chase shadows through the neon-lit streets of Saint Pierce, the lines between friendship, obsession, and love blur dangerously.

Can Arrow keep his identity hidden while Juno’s quest for justice spirals hilariously, chaotically out of control? Or will their twisted game of masks finally expose the truth they’re both too scared to admit?

Darkly comedic, outrageously romantic, and deliciously suspenseful. This masked-stalker romcom will steal your heart…if it doesn’t kill you first

*************FULL BOOK START HERE*************

Glossary

YOLOv5: (you only look once): A real-time object detection algorithm and a prominent member of the YOLO family of models. Used to detect objects in images and videos.

OSINT (Open Source Intelligence): is the practice of gathering and analyzing publicly available information to produce actionable intelligence.

Nonplayer character: (NPC): a video game terminology used as a metaphor to describe someone who is perceived as lacking independent thought or blindly following trends.

VoIP: which stands for Voice over Internet Protocol. It’s a technology that allows you to make a phone call over the internet rather than traditional phone lines.

PoE injector, or Power over Ethernet injector. A device that adds power to an Ethernet cable, enabling it to power devices that support PoE (Power over Ethernet) without needing a dedicated PoE-enabled switch.

BLE: Bluetooth Low Energy: a wireless personal area network technology designed for low-power consumption, making it suitable for connecting devices like wearables, sensors, and beacons.

Prologue

ELIJAH

I’ve been waiting ages for this exact moment. Arby Kate. My obsession. My fascination. My hardcore, heart-pounding crush. She doesn’t know me, of course. Why would she? I’ve only seen her in person once, and even then, she didn’t see me. I was buried somewhere deep in the crowd at the local bookshop, craning my neck just to catch a glimpse of her as she walked gracefully by, ready to sign copies of her latest bestseller. She was dazzling, and I fell instantly, hopelessly, irrevocably in love.

Now, finally, she's about to go live on her channel. Today, she’s revealing her new tour dates, and there’s no way I’m missing out. This time, I’ll be there, front and center, ready to introduce myself. Ready to finally meet her properly, ready for her to actually see me.

My friends—okay, fine, they're not exactly friends, more like the bullies who took every opportunity to make my high school life miserable—tell me I should “get a life.” Move on, grow up. But they don't get it. They don't understand Arby’s magic, her brightness, how she effortlessly lights up every screen she appears on. They don’t realize how profoundly she’s changed my life simply by existing.

But high school is over now, and soon I’ll be heading off to college in the fall. Not just any college, either. Saint Pierce State University, the same college Arby Kate attends. Did I plan it? You bet I did. It certainly didn’t hurt that I’m a certified genius who could’ve gotten into any school I wanted. But there was only one choice, really—the one school that held the promise of being close to her.

I glance at my Mac screen as it flickers to life, and my stomach flutters nervously. I log onto Arby’s YouTube channel, counting down the minutes. Only fifteen minutes left until her sweet, bubbly voice floods my speakers, her vibrant pink ponytails bouncing cheerfully, and that impossibly bright smile illuminates everything.

God, I love her.

My obsession with Arby began last year when I was a senior in high school. She went viral on TikTok, spinning around in a fluffy pink tutu, laughing as if the whole world was a joyful place. Sure, there are thousands of women dancing and shaking their asses online, but Arby was different. Special. Her energy was contagious, her joy genuine. Every time she looked into the camera, it felt like she was reaching out directly to me, looking into my eyes, searching deep within my soul. And each time, my heart whispered the same undeniable truth.

She’s mine. She just doesn’t know it yet.

I grab the box of Kleenex from across the room, and set it closer to my computer screen. The lotion sits nearby, and I consider myself ready. Ready to watch Arby Kate dance on screen. Ready for her to announce her tour dates, and ready to jerk off to the fantasy of her.

I double check that my bedroom door is locked. Don’t need my mother walking in on me mid-stroke.

I dim the lights, letting the glow from the monitor light my room. I smile at the screen, waiting for Arby’s face to fill my screen.

And then, finally, the moment I’ve been desperately waiting for arrives.

My screen lights up, and there she is—Arby Kate—but instantly my heart stutters with confusion. Whoa. She looks…different. Her trademark bubblegum-pink ponytails are gone, replaced with a muted shade of blonde that almost blends into the background behind her. It’s as if the brightness she usually radiates has dimmed, overshadowed by something heavy. Something sad.

My pulse quickens as I lean closer to the screen, taking in every detail. She still flashes her usual smile, wide and perfectly rehearsed, but it doesn’t quite reach her eyes. Those beautiful eyes. Beneath the expertly applied mascara and soft pastel eyeshadow, I see it—an unmistakable trace of exhaustion, worry, sadness. It’s subtle, but I can tell. Something’s wrong. Something she’s desperately trying to hide.

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