Guest Post | Psychic Obsession

May 1, 2026May 1, 2026 ~ Ofelia Gränd ~ Leave a comment

A few days ago, Psychic Obsession was released. It celebrates National Raisin Day, so prepare for little red Sun-Maid boxes.

Frode is a psychic. If he touches an item, he’ll see everyone who’s touched it before him. It doesn’t matter if the touch happened a hundred years ago, he’ll still see it. At times, he helps the police out by doing readings of things collected from crime scenes, but there is always a risk of it being too much for him. Too many touches will leave him unconscious.

When he’s called in to help the homicide department, he’s not prepared to come face-to-face with Nicolai Nesterova – his nemesis… and brother’s best friend. Nicolai left town years ago, and Frode didn’t think he’d ever have to see him again, much less work with him.

Read the first chapter below!

Psychic Obsession

Frode will never forget a face. Once he’s touched the same item you have, you’re forever etched into his memory.

Three months ago, Nikolai Nesterova moved back to his hometown. He swore he’d never set foot there again after his family kicked him out, but when his fiancé broke up with him, he needed somewhere familiar to land. There was an opening in the homicide department, but Nikolai wasn’t prepared for a serial killer case to be dropped in his lap.

If Frode Bakke touches an object, he sees all the people who have touched it before him. He can’t control the influx of faces or break the stream once it’s started, and he fears he’s one touch away from frying his brain.

Buy Links:

Paranormal Gay Romance: 70,682 words

JMS Books :: Amazon

Chapter 1

Frode Bakke pushed a sweat-slicked strand of hair off his forehead and tried to swallow down the bile before it could reach the point of no return. The hair stuck to his shaking hand, and it took a couple of tries to get it out of his face.

He should cut it. Should’ve cut it months ago. He couldn’t remember when he last had his hair cut. Years since a professional had done it, but Hjalmar, his big brother, had hacked off a good number of inches about a year ago. Maybe he should ask him again. Or he could do it himself, if he remembered.

The moment he gained control of his fingers, he slipped on the glove he’d removed from his right hand and reached for the snack-sized red box of raisins. He popped one into his mouth.

The sweet taste was enough of a shock to the system to make some of the nausea disperse but it did nothing about the shaking.

It would go away soon.

Or not.

Some days, he trembled for hours.

With a deep breath, he looked across the table and met Hjalmar’s gaze. His eyes were a startling blue in contrast to Frode’s brown ones. Sometimes he questioned if they were blood-related. He’d seen the baby pictures, so he was pretty sure they were, but Hjalmar was tall and broad, blue-eyed and blond, with a square jaw and a straight nose. He looked like a Norse god. Frode was slimmer, darker, and not Norse-god-looking at all.

And then there was the fact of Hjalmar’s being a normal man, a great one in Frode’s opinion, but there wasn’t a lick of psychic ability in him whereas Frode couldn’t touch a single thing without being tumbled into the past.

“Anything?” Hjalmar’s voice was calm. He was calm. Always. Where others lost patience with him, Hjalmar never did. Maybe because he’d seen the aftermath.

Frode raised an eyebrow, not sure his voice would work yet.

In front of him was a bullet, or not a bullet, a casing. Casings were all right. His contract stated he’d touch casings if the police asked him to—and Hjalmar had asked him to.

Frode worked with the police on a consultant contract. It was the best he could do. In a perfect world, he’d spend the rest of his life in his house, never seeing anyone other than Hjalmar, but he had bills to pay, a mortgage, and sadly food cost money.

Hjalmar worked in drug enforcement, tracked dealers and drug lords, and he was the one who most often requested Frode’s help.

Frode ate another raisin from the Sun-Maid box.

“Ready to look at pictures?” Hjalmar was already reaching for a folder.

Frode cleared his throat. “What are you looking for?”

By touching the casing, the faces of everyone who’d touched it before him had flitted through his mind. His brain had more faces stored than should be possible, and he was drowning in them. Once he’d seen them, there was no way to unsee them, and he didn’t forget.

He might forget where he’d seen them, forgot which object they’d touched, but he never forgot a face.

He’d read somewhere a normal human brain could remember about five thousand faces. If Frode was unlucky, he could get five thousand from one single thing, which was why he refused to touch door handles, anything to do with public transportation, the interiors of restaurants, schools, hospitals, and places like that.

There was a long list in his contract.

Hjalmar opened the folder, spun it, and placed row upon row of photos in front of Frode.

“We want to know who was there. A man was shot to death, we know which gang he’s connected to, and we have a pretty good idea where the order to take him out came from, but we don’t know who did it.”

“And it’s important?” Frode hated knowing he’d have a murderer stored in his mind for the rest of his life. Though, this man wasn’t the first, and most likely wouldn’t be the last.

“We’re trying to get an idea of what’s going on. These two gangs used to work together. They both get their product from the same cartel.” He shrugged. “We need to get to the higher-ups, and the shot guy isn’t at the bottom. He’s not at the top, but a few steps up the ladder. Every piece of information helps.”

Frode sighed. All he could give Hjalmar was a face, but sometimes it was all he needed.

“You have him? You know who he is?”

He didn’t know who he was. It wasn’t like a name popped up. Frode ate another raisin then dug his trembling fingers into his thighs in an attempt to still them.

“You were the first.” Which made perfect sense since he saw the most recent contact first. “Then the evidence woman.” She wasn’t the only one who got evidence out of storage, but it was often her. “Then the forensic woman.” Considering he’d worked for the police for over a decade, he should know the names of the people on the forensic team, but he wasn’t interested enough to learn them, and he only ever saw them for a second. He recognized their faces and could rule them out. Which was enough for him. He never minded seeing them. It was calming to work with the same people over and over again. It made it easier for his brain to handle.

“Dubose.”

Frode nodded, not because he knew her name, but he was sure Hjalmar did. “And the cute guy from the forensic team.”

A flicker of a smile. “Saylor.”

“His name is Saylor?” It was a name his brain should’ve stored.

“Jaxon Saylor.”

“Are you kidding?”

“No, why?”

“It sounds like a made-up name.”

“Like Frode Bakke?”

Frode scowled. Out of the two of them, he believed he’d drawn the winning ticket in the name lottery. Their mother’s love for everything Norwegian was insane, and a lot of people had teased him for his name through the years, but he still believed it was better than Hjalmar.

“Way cooler than Frode Bakke.”

“You only say that because you think he’s cute.”

Frode was aware of what he was doing. This teasing was to calm him, to help center him, and he appreciated it, he did, but he also wanted this over with so he could go home and not pick up his phone for a day or two.

“Next is a man I haven’t seen before.”

Hjalmar nodded. “What does he look like?”

Frode closed his eyes. “Mid-forties, perhaps. Dark, almost black hair. I want to say Italian, but I’m basing it on his colors. Could be entirely wrong. Handsome.”

Hjalmar nudged the folder with the photos closer to him, and he forced himself to focus on them. He looked at one at the time before moving on to the next.

When he turned the page, Hjalmar stiffened. Frode looked up at him. “You expected him to be on the first page?”

“Yeah.”

Shaking his head, he continued assessing the photos. Hjalmar always placed his top suspects on the first page to make this part as short as possible. Frode crashed after a reading and needed to rest, as Hjalmar knew.

Frode appreciated everything he did. He did, despite snarling at him for it at times.

It was different when he worked with other agents and detectives. They were not as accommodating.

On the last row on the fourth page, he found him. It was a photo taken of the man from afar as he exited a building, but recognition sang in Frode’s bones.

He tapped a gloved finger at it. “There he is.”

Hjalmar spun the folder around so fast, Frode hardly managed to get his hand away in time.

“Are you kidding me?”

Stupid questions don’t deserve any answers, so Frode kept quiet.

“That’s—” Hjalmar pressed his lips together. “He’s up top, not at the absolute top, but he sure as hell hangs out with them on a regular basis. I didn’t think he did any dirty work anymore.”

Frode still didn’t speak. He didn’t want to know. He touched things and pointed at photos. It was as deep into police work as he was willing to get. “I hope it helps.”

Hjalmar stared at him. “Yeah… Yeah, only have to prove it, you know.”

Because while they wanted Frode’s input, his saying something didn’t make it stick in court. All he had were words, and no one could trust a lunatic like Frode Bakke. If they could’ve broken into his brain to see what he saw, then maybe it would’ve helped, but the few times he’d been asked to come to court to talk about his part in the investigation, everything he’d said had been dismissed.

“Am I free to go?”

“Let me drive you home.” Hjalmar flipped the folder shut. Frode wanted to snarl at him, but he was in no shape to drive. He never was after having touched something, which was why he’d taken a cab here. “We’ll grab lunch on the way. You need to eat.”

Frode wanted to protest, wanted to bark at him to mind his own fucking business, but he did need to eat. The tremors and the floatiness in his mind wouldn’t go away before he’d eaten and gotten some rest.

They moved toward the door, and Frode steeled himself. He didn’t want to go out there, didn’t want to go to Hjalmar’s desk where people would talk to them. The sneers weren’t as obvious when Hjalmar was by his side, but it only made him feel worse. They were all deceiving Hjalmar. Fuckers. Pretended to be friendly, then, when Hjalmar wasn’t around, they’d turn into schoolyard bullies.

Frode could handle bullies. He wasn’t a scared kid anymore, and he’d come to realize, in many cases, they acted as they did because they feared him. Plus, he’d learned how to be rude.

He hated cops. All kinds of them—didn’t matter if they were officers, detectives, agents, and whatever the correct term for the brass was. Most of them were small-dicked insecure excuses of men. They flashed their badges and believed it made them superior to everyone else. Pathetic.

And sometimes they needed to be told.

He ran a gloved hand through his hair. No longer sweat-slicked, but grimy. He needed a shower despite having showered before he got here.

“Ready?” Hjalmar waited with his hand on the door handle, and Frode had to force down the urge to push him out of the way and throw the door open simply to get it over with.

“Yeah.” He tugged at his gloves to make sure they were in place—they always were.

* * * *

Nikolai Nesterova stared at the living room with the blood-soaked rug, and the woman sprawled on top of it. There was blood splatter on the walls.

“Wow, we need to ask Dexter to come look at this.”

Nikolai gave Isaac Elmore, the fellow homicide detective he’d been paired with, an unimpressed look.

“What?” Isaac widened his eyes. “There is a lot of splatter. I’m sure he could’ve given us some insight.”

Nikolai held in a sigh. “We have a forensic team, a real one.” He stared at Isaac, something most found intimidating, but it had no effect whatsoever on Isaac. “And you do realize Dexter is a fictional character, right? He doesn’t analyze blood splatter for real.”

“You’re such a killjoy, Nesterova.”

Nikolai gave him the kind of smirk his ex-fiancé had called cruel and gestured around. “You’re not having fun? There is so much happiness in this room.” Fuck, he needed a drink.

“I’ll go talk to the neighbors.” Isaac stalked out of the apartment.

Nikolai had moved back to Berg three months ago.

He’d promised himself he would never come back here. Ever. His family had been here for three generations, him being the third. His grandfather had immigrated from the Soviet Union when he’d been in his twenties. He’d met a lovely Soviet woman, married her, and had five children. One of them had been his father, who in his turn had found a lovely Soviet woman, and together they’d had three children—Dimitri, Natalya, and lastly Nikolai.

Only Nikolai came out queer, so he was no longer welcome in the family. They’d never said he needed to leave town, but it had been heavily implied.

He hadn’t spoken with anyone from the Nesterova clan for over fifteen years, and he’d fully intended to change his last name when he and Julian got married.

Only Julian didn’t want to get married anymore.

He swallowed a sigh and looked around as the forensic team put out number tags and took photos before bagging everything.

One of the crime scene investigators walked over to Nikolai and gave him a nod. “You’re new.”

“No. Transferred here three months ago.”

A slight frown stole over the man’s face. “Huh, I feel like I should’ve known. We’ll wrap up here.” He stepped out of the way as the body bag containing the woman was moved out of the room. “I’ll send you what we find, and I think the body will go to Zachary Mallon.”

“Who?” Nikolai hadn’t heard the name before; he didn’t think, at least.

“The ME. He examined the other two. If he’s not available, I guess Audry Hinds will take it, but I don’t think Mallon will let it go.”

Cold seeped into Nikolai. “What do you mean, the other two?”

The man’s eyes swept over his face. “About six months ago, you’ll have to check the date, there was a woman placed on a rug in her living room, her throat cut—” He gestured back into the room. “Then there was another one about four months ago. A woman with a sliced throat, on a rug in the middle of her living room.” He shrugged. “Third time’s a charm, right? You’ll get him this time.”

The man took a step away as if to leave, but Nikolai snagged the sleeve of his white disposable coveralls. “Wait. Are you telling me there is a serial killer?”

The man gave him a confused look. “Eh… It’s your case, isn’t it? Detective Bedell retired and handed it to you?”

Nikolai was going to kill someone—strangle them because he’d seen enough blood for one day. “Yeah, he retired.” But Lieutenant Medlin hadn’t said anything about a serial killer.

The man shrugged, and Nikolai realized he still held onto his sleeve. “What’s your name?”

“Oh, sorry.” The man offered his gloved hand. “Jaxon Saylor.” He motioned at a woman walking out of the room. “Maeve Dubose, and eh…” He looked around, but the room had emptied. They weren’t done, but for some reason, everyone had found things to do elsewhere at the moment.

“I’ll let you know when we’ve found everything we can, Detective…” He tilted his head as if there was a question in the statement. It took a couple of seconds, then he wanted to smack himself.

“Sorry. Nikolai Nesterova.”

Saylor narrowed his eyes. “Nesterova? Have we met?”

Nikolai shook his head. It was hard to see what a person looked like underneath the marshmallow suit, but he didn’t think they’d met, and he didn’t want to mention his family, so he settled for the head shake.

“I’ll ping you, all right.”

Isaac appeared by his side. “Ready for some lunch?”

With the scent of death clinging to his nostrils, food wasn’t what he was thinking of. “I think we need to have a talk with Medlin.”

Isaac sighed. “I don’t wanna.”

For fuck’s sake. “How old are you?”

“Thirty-seven.”

Nikolai looked him up and down. Thirty-seven? He’d have guessed thirty, though he was a detective, and Nikolai had the feeling he’d been one for some time.

“How come?”

“You act like you’re seventeen.”

Isaac snorted. “And how old are you, Papi?”

Isaac was as white as they came, blond, blue-eyed, with a boy-next-door appearance. “I didn’t know you spoke Spanish.”

“I don’t.”

“Right. Medlin, now.” He turned and walked out of the blood-drenched apartment. Shouldn’t someone have noticed a woman being murdered in an apartment building? He guessed they’d have to wait for the autopsy report, but if she was alive when the murderer had sliced her throat, there would’ve been sounds. She would’ve fought, would have screamed.

“You never answered.” Isaac tumbled after him like an excited puppy.

“What did you ask?”

“How old you are. I think I read your birth date somewhere, but I can’t remember.”

Nikolai glared at him. “Forty-one.”

“Looking good.” Isaac wiggled his eyebrows.

Nikolai sighed.

Guest Post | House of Horrors by Holly Day

April 3, 2026April 1, 2026 ~ Ofelia Gränd ~ Leave a comment

I’m here as Holly today! The House of Horrors box set is now out! It contains Rufus the Dead, The Death God, and To Kill a Ghost.

For the first 90 days, it will be available through KU. After that, it’ll be released wide. So, if you’re in KU…

These are paranormal romance stories about two vampires who escape their crazy coven leader. As part of the escape, they happen to steal a bunch of psychics held captive by some bad guys. One of the vampires bought a fixer-upper castle where they all will live while trying to take down the house of horrors, where the psychics were held captive.

I really like this world, and one day, I might write stories about the neighboring werewolf pack that helps at times. We’ll see. Below you can read the first chapter of Rufus the Dead.

House of Horrors

Rufus and Gregory never meant to steal a bunch of psychics and form a coven with them.

Read the entire House of Horrors trilogy in one go! Vampires live in covens, but when Rufus and Gregory learn there are psychics kept locked up in an underground facility, they want out. They kidnap some of them and buy a decrepit castle to start a new life, but the psychics won’t give up until all their friends are freed from the house of horrors.

Contains the stories:

Rufus the Dead: Rufus will do anything not to remain staked in a coffin, including stealing a psychic and forming a blood bond with him at his coven leader’s demand. Jaki can’t foresee anything other than weather, and the coven leader is demanding he use his skills to find someone, or she’ll put Rufus back in the coffin. How will Jaki be able to find anyone when all he can see is the weather?

The Death God: Vampires don’t share their blood willingly since it creates a partial mate bond with the person drinking it, but Thanatos would’ve died if Gregory hadn’t intervened. Thanatos never asked anyone to save his life. It’s not his fault Gregory is trapped in a partial mate bond, but he is grateful. So when Gregory asks him to be his fake boyfriend for a weekend, he can’t say no, can he?

To Kill a Ghost: Arawn Sage has a ghost problem. The warden of the facility where he once was held captive has come back to haunt him, and Arawn has no idea what to do about it. There is no way to escape a ghost, or that’s what he’s always believed, at least. One accidental collision with a vampire shows otherwise, but he can’t walk around touching vampires, can he?

Buy Link:

Gay Paranormal Romance: 159,490 words

Amazon

Chapter 1

Jaki Sage looked at the bare white walls. His heart was thudding uncomfortably in his chest, and he had a bad feeling.

“So, a vampire?” Minerva, his roommate, looked at him from her cot. Her last name was also Sage, but they weren’t related. He didn’t think so, at least. They looked nothing alike, and everyone in this wing of the house of horrors was named Sage.

“It was what the warden said.” He’d taken Jaki aside and informed him there had been a last-minute booking of his services, and the person coming was a vampire. They rarely had vampires here. Jaki had never met one. The reason the warden had told him before it was time to go was to frighten him, but the warden didn’t make idle threats. He didn’t have to. Minerva and Jaki hadn’t named the facility the house of horrors for nothing. There was no point in lying, since many of those living here would be able to pick up on the lies.

“Lucky you. They’re super-hot. All that raw sex appeal, and they’re freakishly strong.” Neither of them cared about sex appeal, so this was her attempt to distract him. She gave him a weak smile, then winced as her already split lip started seeping again. The last customer couldn’t have liked her prediction.

Jaki would most likely look about the same way when he got back. He couldn’t predict the future, which was why people came here. They paid the warden crazy amounts of money to get answers to questions, and Jaki couldn’t give answers.

“Yeah, a good chance of getting killed, right? Displease a vampire.” A knot grew in his belly. The warden didn’t normally invite vampires to the facility. Maybe he was afraid they’d kill his precious seers. Not precious as in something he cherished, but precious as in worth a lot of money. That must be why he gave Jaki to the vampire. He wasn’t worth nearly as much as the others.

She huffed. “They could snap you like a twig, but I don’t think they’d kill the merchandise. Too pricey.” She was quiet for a few seconds. “Is it a private session?”

Sometimes, depending on how wealthy the client was, they could be left alone in a room with the seer. The official reason was that no one other than the client would hear the prediction, but that was only part of it. The other was that the facility was moonlighting as a brothel.

“I don’t know.” Nausea built inside. Private sessions weren’t good. Both because people, for some reason, believed all psychics were women, and because Jaki was neither a psychic nor a woman. It often left the client disappointed, and… yeah… It was better not to worry about it until it happened.

There were a few other men in here. Prophecy and Thanatos had the room next to Minerva’s and his, but he seldom saw them anywhere other than in the canteen. He only ever spoke to Minerva.

She looked at him for a long time before holding out her hand. He hesitated. They never touched, but the poor thing had seen better days. Glancing out into the corridor through the window in the door to make sure no guard was watching them, he stepped closer and gently took her hand in his.

The moment he did, her eyes turned white. Irises and pupils disappeared, and she spoke in a hollow voice. “You must leave with him.”

“What?”

“Rufus the Dead.”

Oh, goodie. “Why?”

“You will die.”

Sweat threatened to break out on his skin. Fuck. He didn’t want to die. He might say he did, but if it’d been true, he’d have ended himself a long time ago. No one spent their entire life locked up in a horrid facility without trying to kill themselves if they truly wanted to die. “I’ll die if I stay?”

Between one blink and the next, her hazel eyes were back in place.

“What the fuck, Minerva!” She was capable of one prediction a day, as were most seers, which meant she hadn’t made one between the time she’d left the room this morning and now, but she’d gotten beaten half to death. Which meant a guard must’ve done the beating. They wore gloves to prevent unwelcome triggers. Had the client beaten her, it would’ve forced her into a prediction. Granted there was skin contact, of course.

“Did you save your prediction for me?” He was a mix of furious and worried. He never wanted her to get in trouble for him.

“Prophecy told me to.”

Of all the stupid names of the people living here, Prophecy had the stupidest one. Not his fault since they didn’t get to pick their names, but the stupid name combined with him always sucking up to the warden and the others working here made Jaki want to hit him. Stupid fucker.

“You took a beating because of something Prophecy said?”

“Was it worth it?” She grinned, then winced and dabbed at her lip again.

“I don’t know. You tell me!” He hadn’t meant to snap, but damn.

“What did I say?”

“You said I must leave with Rufus the Dead, and that I will die.”

“That you will die if you go, or you’ll die if you stay?”

“You never said.”

“What? It seems like an important question to answer.”

Jaki snorted. “It was short. You said: You must leave with him. I think I replied with something smart, like what?” He gave her a quick smile because damn, he’d been around seers long enough to know not to waste time on stupid questions. “And you said Rufus the Dead. I asked why, and you told me I’ll die.”

“You will die? With emphasis on will?” She frowned.

“Yeah. I tried to get you to answer if I’d die if I stayed, but you woke up before you could answer.”

“Way too short. No wonder the warden is displeased with me if that’s what my predictions are like these days.” She changed position and grimaced. “It can’t be what Prophecy wanted you to hear.”

“Since when do you talk to Prophecy?”

“He offered me his Snack Pack in the canteen, claimed he didn’t like chocolate pudding.”

“Huh, always knew he was insane.” They got dessert once a week and only an idiot would pass it up.

“Yeah, I think he lied to have a reason to talk to me. He looked pale, and there were tiny drops of sweat forming on his upper lip. I believed he was sick, but maybe he was having a vision. He can remember them, you know. He doesn’t need to speak while he’s having them.” Jaki had heard about it, but he did not care.

“He can do it without touching. It’s much harder for him, and touch still triggers a prediction, but he could be alone in his room and still make a prediction. So cool.”

He didn’t like the admiration in her voice. Prophecy was an idiot. Sure, he was good at what he did, good enough for Jaki to hear the whispers despite paying little attention to the others’ skills in this place. Jaki wasn’t measuring up; it was all he needed to know. The others saw visions or did what Minerva did. All he could do was tell people what the weather had been like on specific days. A useless skill, and he was surprised the warden hadn’t gotten rid of him a long time ago. Maybe it was what he was planning to do now, by giving him to a vampire.

The door rattled, and Jaki jumped away from Minerva. Touch wasn’t allowed since most were triggered by it—like Minerva. She had to touch the one she was giving a reading.

One of the big burly guards filled the doorway. “Time to go.” He glared at Jaki.

Jaki sent a pleading glance at Minerva. He didn’t want to go. Nothing good ever happened when he was with a client.

“It’ll be fine.” She nodded at him.

“You said I’ll die.”

“Raw sex appeal.”

“Yeah, Rufus the Dead sounds sexy as hell.”

She laughed but it ebbed into a hiss, and the last thing Jaki saw as he left the room was her clutching her side.

* * * *

Jaki’s steps echoed in the deserted corridor. The beige linoleum floor matched with the white wall gave him the creeps. He’d never seen anything else. Not anything he could remember, at least. He wasn’t born here, so he must’ve seen a real home at some point.

They were moved frequently, a few times a year, but the buildings they were taken to always looked the same. He didn’t know how many different locations they’d been in, but he suspected they were underground since there were no windows anywhere, and his senses were crippled. He’d tried to explain it to Minerva once. It was as if he wasn’t supposed to be buried, he had to be in the weather. Being kept from it clipped his wings.

On moving day, the guards would walk around at night and give them a sedative, and then the next time they woke, they were in a different place. Sometimes the room was a mirror image of the previous one, sometimes not, but he was always placed with Minerva, for which he was glad. If the warden knew how much Minerva meant to him, he’d use her against him. But many psychics couldn’t handle change well, so they seldom split roommates up.

The guard stopped in front of a gray, windowless door. “One hour.”

“What?”

“Private session. One hour.”

Fuck. One hour? Predictions lasted no more than a few seconds, a couple of minutes if the client booked someone good, which Jaki was not. “What should I do for an hour?”

The guard gave him a blank stare. “Whatever he tells you to do.”

He. Great. It was almost always a he, so no surprise there. But the hes coming here almost always expected a young pretty girl to step through the door, and Jaki wasn’t young, he wasn’t pretty, and he wasn’t a girl.

With a deep breath, he pushed open the door.

Inside sat a badly scarred man with long copper hair that hung in matted tresses, and Jaki did his best to suppress a shudder. Raw sex appeal? Minerva must’ve hit her head—or had someone hit her head for her. The man looked like a monster in severe need of a shower and a haircut.

“One hour.” The guard closed the door, and the sound of the lock sliding into place filled the air. Fuck. Jaki’s pulse sped up, and fear urged him to try to claw his way out of the room.

Seconds ticked by as he stared into the guy’s eyes while he stared back.

“You’re the seer?”

“Not really.”

“I paid to see a seer.” His lips looked hard. Maybe it was the scars making them look as if they were trapped in a permanent sneer, but Jaki couldn’t look away.

He filled his lungs as he tried to make up his mind about how to play this. Should he be pliant and accommodating, or should he try to get the beating over with as soon as possible? If he provoked him into hitting him, he could go back to his room, and he and Minerva could nurse their injuries together. “Dude, you paid for an hour. Which means you paid for a whore.”

The man blinked at him, then sharp teeth made an appearance. “I paid for a meal.”

Crap.

“A meal?” Jaki did his best to ignore the way his voice cracked. Vampire. Had he forgotten the guy was a vampire? Must have. Provoking a vampire couldn’t be smart in any scenario.

“I paid for a prediction and a feeding.” The scars made him look sinister, perhaps more so than he’d intended. Jaki wouldn’t bet on it, though.

How bad could being bitten be? Pretty bad. “Will it hurt?”

“Yes.” His eyes were cold. Not great, but better than if they’d been filled with lust. Jaki didn’t want people touching him. He’d never been vampire snack before, but it could hardly be worse than being a vampire whore, right? And it didn’t look like Mr. No-Sex-Appeal-Whatsoever was looking for a fuck. Small blessings.

“Okay, you want to ask your question first or do the munching first?”

The man’s eyes widened a fraction. “You said you weren’t a seer.”

Jaki held up his hands. “Atmokinesis. I can’t speak a prophecy. I can’t predict the future.”

The man didn’t move, didn’t breathe, which was unnerving. “Atmo… what does it mean?”

Yup, it was a crappy skill or real atmokinesis would’ve been cool, but Jaki couldn’t control the weather. “What’s your name?” If someone was going to eat him, he’d like to know the name.

“Rufus.”

“Rufus the Dead.”

If he believed the man had been still before, it was nothing compared to what he was now, and Jaki’s heart blocked his throat. Damn his stupid mouth.

“How did you know?” Something deadly crept into Rufus’ eyes, and Jaki fought the urge to fling himself at the door. It was locked, so it would be of no use.

“I didn’t.”

“Few know that name. How did you?” He took a step forward, and Jaki took one back.

“I didn’t. Minerva, my roommate, said I was to go with Rufus the Dead. She’s a seer for real.”

Fangs peeked out from underneath Rufus’ upper lip, and despite telling himself to look away, Jaki couldn’t.

“Then I want her.”

“Yeah… She’s out of commission.” Since she’d used her prediction on him.

“I don’t care. I want her.”

Jaki gestured at the door. “You have to take it up with the warden.”

“And he’ll give me someone else?”

Rufus looked at him as if it was something he should be able to predict. It was, but not thanks to psychic powers. “My guess is nope.” He popped the p.

“Your guess?”

“Look, I do atmokinesis. I can’t tell you what the warden will do.” Though he could bet an arm Rufus was stuck with him for the night—or the hour at least.

“I paid for blood and prophecies, not… atmo-shit.” The snarl was impressive, and Jaki nodded in an attempt to placate him.

“Okay, ask the warden.”

Rufus narrowed his eyes. “But the answer will be no.”

“Yeah. He’ll say no.”

“You know or you’re guessing?”

“He never lets anyone exchange the psychic they’re with. If he agreed to swap out the merchandise if someone was displeased, then he wouldn’t make any money off me, would he?” Jaki tried for a smile, which Rufus ignored.

Instead, he walked over to the door and banged on it. Jaki took in the long, black overcoat and black Doc Martens boots and almost snorted. It didn’t help that he was massive and wore a white ruffle shirt underneath the unbuttoned coat with a hole over his heart which was soiled by what looked like dried blood. Fuck, had he been staked or was he coming directly from a dress-up party?

The guard opened the door a couple of seconds later, which meant he had to have been standing right outside, listening to them. Pervert.

Guest Post | The Fourth Wall

March 13, 2026March 9, 2026 ~ Ofelia Gränd ~ Leave a comment

Hiya! I’m here as Holly today. The Fourth Wall is out!!!

The day we’re celebrating is Popcorn Lover’s Day, and this is a contemporary short story.

If you’re in the mood for light and silly, then check this out. I was having a lot of fun writing it, and it’s a bit… well. Darcy and his best friend, Etta, love the theater. The problem is they can’t afford any tickets, so instead they bring a big bowl of popcorn and watch the drama their neighbors bring to the curb.

The problem with being in the audience is that you aren’t supposed to interact with the actors, but when Theodore, Darcy’s hot neighbor, takes the scene, Darcy has a hard time keeping his excitement in check.

Read the first chapter below!

The Fourth Wall

The problem with being in the audience is you aren’t supposed to interact with the actors.

Darcy Hudson loves theatre. Or maybe love is too strong a word, but he certainly appreciates the drama unfolding outside his apartment building. He and his best friend take turns bringing the popcorn to the curb performance.

Theodore Galanis, his hot neighbor, has an ongoing conflict with their equally hot, but evil, landlord. The entertainment value is high, but most of all, Darcy wants to rescue Theodore from the Greek tragedy he’s trapped in and claim Theodore for himself. And maybe he will, after the next bowl of popcorn.

Buy links:

Contemporary gay romance: 12,755 words

JMS Books :: Amazon

Chapter 1

Darcy Hudson rushed down one flight of stairs, balancing the bowl of popcorn in one hand while throwing a folded blanket over his shoulder. When he came to the floor below, he rushed past the first door to his right before slapping his palm on the second.

Not a sound.

He banged again, more insistently this time.

The door was yanked open from underneath his hand.

“What?” Etta—not Etta James but almost as awesome—glared at him. Her dark eyes squinting, her teal hair a tumbly mess, and there were dark smudges underneath her eyes. Ooops!

“You didn’t answer your phone. I have popcorn.” He held out the bowl to her.

Etta was the first friend he’d made after moving here, and he believed she might be the best one he’d ever had. Sadly, she was a bartender who worked late nights, and he was an early-to-rise, early-to-bed kind of person.

He often forgot not everyone was.

“What are you doing here?” She yawned as she rubbed her sternum, and he noticed she wore gray cotton pajamas with elephants on them. Cute.

“It’s started. I made popcorn, but I don’t think we can delay any longer, or we’ll miss the entire show.” He shoved the bowl at her, and when she took it, he reached past her and grabbed her coat. As he draped it over her shoulders, she stared at him.

“What’s started?”

She clearly wasn’t awake enough to think. He reclaimed the bowl, curled his arm around it, grabbed her hand in his other, and dragged her out of the apartment.

“It’s a morning show today.”

“Darcy, for fuck’s sake. We don’t do morning shows, don’t they know?”

“Come on. We’re late.” But she was right. They never did morning shows. He wondered why they made an exception today.

She grumbled but allowed him to drag her down the next flight of stairs into the foyer of the building. There were black, slightly scarred mailboxes along one wall, a bench along another, and someone—Mrs. Carell, he believed—had placed a few pots with large Swiss Cheese plants to try to conceal the hideous orange walls.

Darcy wished Mr. Doukas, the owner, would repaint. Maybe he was waiting for the orange and brown nightmare of the seventies to come back in style—it most likely would soon. Shudder.

It would’ve been so much nicer with a calming blue or if they truly were waiting for the seventies to reappear, why not brown? Brown walls could be lovely with some lighting and the right decor.

“Fuck, the floor is cold.”

He looked down at Etta’s bare feet, took in the black and silver of her toenails, and winced. “Sorry, I forgot to demand shoes.” It couldn’t be helped. “Nice nails.”

She nodded and yawned again.

“Here. Hold.” He held out the bowl. “Don’t spill.” Then he hefted her up into his arms, bridal style. Luckily, she was small because he wasn’t the strongest man around.

He moved toward the door release button. “Open it.” She pressed it with her foot, and they stepped out into the March morning sun. It was a beautiful but cold day.

He hurried over to an old wooden bench and stilled. Fuck. He didn’t want to put her down. Bare feet on cold ground. “Can you grab the blanket?”

Etta stared at him. “What?”

He shrugged his shoulders as the raised voices from a few feet away grew louder. “The blanket. I don’t want my ass cheeks to get stuck to the bench.”

She frowned. “How would they get stuck?”

“You know how your mama told you not to lick things when it was freezing outside because your tongue would stick to the metal?”

She stared at him for several long seconds, and they didn’t have seconds to waste.

“Come on.”

“Put me down.” She wiggled, and since she was growing heavier by the nanosecond, he did. She held the popcorn, he put the blanket on the bench for them to sit on, and she tucked her bare feet under her.

Darcy took a handful of popcorn and shoved them into his mouth at the exact moment Theodore Galanis, his across-the-hall neighbor, glared at him. He moaned but kept on chewing.

Theodore’s dark, wavy hair shone in the sun, his brown eyes shot daggers, and his jaw was set.

Etta ate some popcorn, too. “You know, I don’t think it’s normal for mothers to have to tell their kids not to lick things when it’s freezing outside. And I don’t want to think about how you took it to mean your ass would get stuck to a cold bench. It’s the saliva freezing making you stick, right? So… how wet is your ass?”

Darcy ignored her comment about his ass. “It’s normal. My mother told me all the time.”

“Uh-huh.” She held her breath as Mr. Doukas waved and shouted something in Greek. Theodore scowled in reply, and Darcy sighed. He preferred it when they shouted at each other in English, so he could understand what they said, but Greek was nice too.

“How old were you?”

“Thirty-four.”

She threw popcorn at him. “Were. How old were you, not how old are you.”

Darcy tore his eyes away from the spectacle and focused on Etta for a second. “When?”

“When your mom told you not to lick things. Since you remember it, you must’ve been pretty old.”

He frowned. “I don’t know.”

“Because I get how you might need to tell a three-year-old not to lick lamp posts or whatever when it’s freezing cold outside. Maybe. I mean, I can see it happening, but you don’t remember much from when you’re three, which makes me believe you were older.”

“You lying, cheating son of a bitch!”

Etta’s eyes widened, and they both turned to see Theodore take a step closer to Mr. Doukas; hands fisted at his sides and murder in his eyes.

“Oh, I think there is more history here than we believed.” Darcy ate another handful of popcorn.

“Hmm.” Etta reached into the bowl too.

Mr. A. Doukas moved in two months ago. He’d owned the building for far longer, but Darcy hadn’t seen him before he moved in. He’d pictured him as an old, grumpy man, but A. Doukas was in his late thirties to early forties, immaculately dressed, and beautiful with the warm colors of someone from the Mediterranean.

Theodore had the same colors, but he was bigger, broader, wore jeans and a black leather jacket, and made Darcy salivate.

When Darcy first came to look at the apartment he now lived in, a stunning woman with olive skin, long brown, almost black hair, and hazel eyes had shown him around and accepted the contract when he signed it. He’d assumed she was Mrs. Doukas. Had imagined a dirty old man corrupting the young, unassuming beauty.

Maybe she was Mrs. Doukas, but the narrative had changed. She might have married for love.

“You think he cheated on his wife, got caught, and when she kicked him out, he had to move in here?” He pushed more popcorn into his mouth.

“Maybe Mrs. Doukas is Theodore’s sister.”

Darcy nodded. “Would explain the hurt feelings.”

He’d never seen Theodore smile. They lived on the same floor. Theodore had already been there when Darcy moved in two years ago, and every time he met him on the stairs, he beamed at him, said hello, or wished him a lovely evening, or whatever suited the situation, and at the most, he got a grunt in reply.

It was fine. Theodore could grunt at him all day long, and he’d still swoon. A Greek god in the flesh.

“Move your fucking car!” Mr. Doukas gestured wildly, and Darcy sighed. This was how their arguing most often ended. Theodore parked his car in front of the apartment building. There was no parking lot there, but there was no sign saying you couldn’t park either, and he wasn’t blocking the entrance. Then Mr. Doukas would come storming out and yell at him to move the car.

They’d shout, exchange insults in both English and Greek, then it ended with Theodore getting into his car, revving the engine, and driving off with squealing tires.

“What does the A stand for?” He reached for more popcorn, not taking his eyes off Theodore.

“Huh?”

“On Mr. Doukas’ mailbox. It says A. Doukas. Adonis?”

She huffed. “Andreas.”

“Nah, I think it’s Adonis.” It fit him better. He could sense Etta’s eyes on him, so he tore his gaze away from the entertainment.

“I believed we were here to drool over Theodore.”

“We are, but you can’t tell me Adonis isn’t hot.”

She scrunched her nose. “He’s not your type. Too vain.”

“You think?” He slid his gaze over Adonis. His hair was perfectly styled, there wasn’t a wrinkle in sight, his clean-shaven face looked well moisturized, and his eyebrows were flawless.

Hmm, maybe Etta was right.

She smirked. “He’s too clean to get down and dirty.”

Theodore snarled something in Greek and yanked open the car door.

“Oh no, it’s a tragedy this time too.” Darcy reached into the popcorn bowl and realized it was almost empty.

“Always is. Should we applaud?”

The sound of Theodore slamming the door shut and the engine coming to life reached them. “Next time. We need to be faster. Theodore wouldn’t hear the applause now.”

Adonis gave Theodore’s car the finger as he sped off, and Etta laughed. “Oh, this was worth waking up for. A bit more fiery than usual.”

The glare Adonis sent them as he stomped inside was Oscar-worthy.

“He really takes his role seriously.” Darcy sighed dreamily as the door slid shut behind him.

Etta’s laugh was a little louder than it needed to be, but he got up, offered his back in a piggyback invitation, and grunted when she hopped on board.