I’m starting a new newsletter connected to my new witchy Instagram account, and you can subscribe below! Book club, spiritual musings, and all things witchy. I have a lot of ideas bursting to come out, so I hope you join the party hehe.

Naomi Loud | Friendly Neighbourhood Witch

Sometimes whimsical, sometimes deep, always somewhere in between: astrology, tarot, magic, spirituality & creativity.

The Long Version:

Oh hello!

Dang, it’s been a while! How is it almost the end of the summer?? And honestly, I’m kind of here for it. The crisp fall air always makes me feel so ALIVE.

As if everything and anything is possible.

Before jumping into why I’m sending this newsletter, let me celebrate my 4-year authorversary!!! Crazy crazy crazy. I feel like I’ve lived six million lives since 2022, and even this last year had me transform into another version of myself yet again. My life is but a spiral of death and rebirth fr fr.

For those who have been paying attention a little bit more closely than most, I’m sure you won’t be surprised by what I’m gonna say here. But I genuinely have no clue when I’ll be back to writing books. Now don’t get me wrong, I have like 3 stories knocking around in my brain, but I’ve just been too busy filling my cup to focus on the Herculean strength it takes to birth story after story. Ya girl got burnt.

It’s not that I’ve stopped creating, but I’ve just been creating in other ways. I’ve also just let the universe take me wherever it pleased this year, and I was quite surprised when it led me right back to the beginning: astrology and tarot.

I’ve reopened my books after a 4-year retirement! Life is funny that way.

My new witchy Instagram account, which I started for fun, is gaining a lot of traction, and I know it would be a mistake if I didn’t follow where this new path is taking me. It’s already allowed me to quit my bar job and give self-employment a third try since 2021 (third time is the charm, right??).

I’m starting a new newsletter (god I know I’m so annoying); I just like to keep things separate. I’m mindful that my author audience and my witchy audience are just not the same group of people, but I DO know there’s some overlap, hence why I’m telling you about it here in case you want to follow my little journey over there.

I also have a fun little nonfiction book club idea for my new witchy newsletter.

VIRGO SEASON HERE I COME.

All my love,

Naomi

My goodness, I’ve been so BUSY lately. I went from taking a huge creative break to juggling six million projects (self-imposed, mind you), but I have to admit I do thrive when my brain is actively creating, no matter what it is.

If I really think about it, my brain is always creating—but sometimes it’s creating bad things like compulsions and ruminations lmao, so keeping my brain occupied on positive outlets is hugely beneficial for someone like little ol’ me.

Anywho, thought I would update you on all the balls I’ve been juggling.

First, which is the most exciting for ya’ll: I am contemplating creating a giveaway for my Substack subscribers, because I’ve been receiving a lot of special editions of my books and I don’t know what to do with them! So I thought I would create a HUGE giveaway. More on that when I receive all of the books I’m waiting on, hehe.

I am celebrating six months of my snail mail club!!

The In Between Poetry Club has been a great little outlet for me to slow down and connect with my audience (you!!). It’s just been so much fun to create something refreshingly new for me after years of solely writing books. It’s been massively helpful for my creative spark. So thank you for supporting me in this passion project.

You can subscribe here to receive month SIX of my snail mail club.

Speaking of passion projects…

The Rage & Whimsy Merch Collection is now live!!

This little side project came to me out of nowhere, and ended up chewing up A LOT of my time lmao, but we don’t talk about that, I said we don’t talk about that!! I’m just happy it’s now out in the world, and I can stop thinking about it, cause like I’ve mentioned, mama’s got a lot on her self-imposed plate lmao.

This collection was just my small contribution to the fight against apathy. To remember that the world might be on fire, but hope is still ALIVE.

To hope is to resist.

You can shop the collection here!

Ok, one last thing!!

Episode 5 of Somewhere in Between is out tomorrow!!

Episode 5 is called 20 Things I Wish I Knew In My 20s, and I think it’s my fav episode yet! I had a lot of giggles recording it, and I hope you find a few morsels of wisdom while listening, hehe.

You can listen on Spotify, Apple Podcast, or YouTube (or any other streaming platform!). We’re a little over a month post-launch, and it feels like I’m finally hitting my stride. So here’s to many more episodes.

Ok bye for now!!

All my love,

Noams

You can subscribe and listen on YouTube or listen wherever you love to binge your fav podcasts. Here’s the link to Spotify and Apple Podcasts. <3

Ciao for now! xox

Time flies when the world is burning imma right? Speaking of the world burning (sorry, dark humour is my go-to for everything, sue me), I was speaking on that subject this week, and how, instead of being filled with despair, I am somehow filled with hope.

Does that mean I’m burying my head in the sand and pretending that everything is fine? Hell nah. But I’ll let you in on a weird little secret. When I was a kid, I used to yearn to be part of a revolution (weird kid, at your service). I used to read books about people being part of political revolts, and my heart would twinge with jealousy. When I grew up, I always wondered why that was. Maybe my childhood riddled with trauma? Maybe it was my bursting empathy having nowhere to go or maybe I just wanted to feel like I had purpose, like I was part of something bigger than me.

Whatever the root cause, in a bizarre way, it prepared me for this moment. Like a part of me is locked in and activated. Hope is resistance against the horrors we’re witnessing. Hope is an indispensable tool for revolution. They want us checked out, they want us locked into an endless doomscrool. They want us frozen with apathy.

Do you feel overwhelmed with what to do? How to act?

Then pick just one.

We don’t all need to be revolutionary leaders. This is why community is so important. Choose what you’re good at and do that. Focus on that.

What am I good at? Art. I’m an artist. And that’s where I’ll be focusing my energy. Because art is resistance. We are dreamers. And that’s a dangerous thing.

I asked my sister the same question this week. She said she wants to focus her energy on the children. The one who will inherit this world. The ones who will most likely make the biggest difference.

So what’s your role in all this?

Just a little something, something to think about.

This leads me to my next point. What kind of art can I make if I’m spending all my time doomscrolling? I find myself barely awake and already reaching for my phone. Then I blink, and an hour or two has passed. I could have spent that time creating. Instead, I spent it mindlessly consuming (or being consumed, more like).

I already have a problem with over-consumption, mostly with alcohol. I can go days without drinking, no problem, but it’s when I do drink that my brain goes: Okay, so what if we took like, 5 more shots?

I’m going to be so real right now, but I find moderation boring. Which is also why I’m an all-or-nothing person. But this year I’m actually trying to explore my relationship with moderation because for me (and this is really solely for me), I find just removing the problem entirely is a cop out. An easy fix. If moderation is my problem, then isn’t that where I should focus my attention? Shouldn’t I try to flex moderation like an atrophied muscle?

I’m coming back to doomscrolling soon, I’m just on a small digression.

Because this issue isn’t just with alcohol, I do that with everything. There’s a part of me that enjoys being consumed. For example, I haven’t drank coffee since 2019, and then this past month I started drinking a cup here and there when I was in Mexico and realized it wasn’t making me jittery like it used to. So then this week, I went to my local coffee shop and had a coffee, and then another one … and then another one. Then all of a sudden it’s not just a little treat once in a while but something I must do every day. Anyway, yes, I have an addictive personality lmao, did you catch that?

Okay, back to doomscrolling.

That is also an addiction. I’m painfully online, more than most. And I can typically convince myself that “oh, it’s because this is my job, having an online presence is just part of the game.” Okay, but the three hours watching TikTok is also my job?

Be fucking for real, Naomi.

So I’m going on another social media purge. Different this time because moderation is what I’m practicing after all. I was considering getting something like a Brick, which locks you out of your apps, but decided against it. I need to prove to myself that these fucking apps don’t have control over me.

Social media breaks are good for my mental health, duh. That’s already been proven plenty of times, but my reason is more specific this time. And it has to do with my purpose or role or whatever you want to call it in this resistance.

Boredom.

I need to be bored to make great art.

How can I expect to create when all I’m doing is consuming? Especially consuming with ZERO intention. The ease of swiping through countless videos is that you remove choice. You remove curiosity.

Boredom creates space for inspiration. True inspiration. And not inspiration fuelled by jealousy or constantly comparing myself to others.

Boredom creates silence, and it’s in that silence that my muses speak to me.

And I listen.

Let’s discover together where this will lead me, shall we?

P.S This entire newsletter was written while listening to the album THIS MUSIC MAY CONTAIN HOPE by Raye. I recommend you listen to it too. <3

QUICK UPDATES

The muses are speaking. And gasp, does this mean I’m ready to write a new book? I’m approaching this newfound inspiration with delicate hands so as not to scare it away. I’m excited, though.

I’m working on a small line of merch, it’s not bookish merch, but it’s very much Naomi merch all the same. The name of the collection will be called: RAGE & WHIMSY. And that’s it for now! Stay tuned for more updates, hihi.

Reminder that the In Between Poetry Club is still ongoing, and thank you SO MUCH to those who have subscribed so I can live out my little poet fantasy every month. You can subscribe here if you crave more whimsy in your life (don’t we all?).

The podcast is coming, I promise, but 2026 has really been all about listening to my body and not forcing the timing of anything. I’m aiming for mid-April!

Anywho, that’s my little astrology soundbite for the day. YOU’RE WELCOME.

How are you doing? I’m having some tea, would you like some?

(this is how you’re finding me)

My writing hiatus is still going on. I mean, technically, I am writing. But poetry and long-form fiction are two different animals. I’m trusting that this break is what I need to slowly fill my cup, the half-written book sitting in my drafts aging like fine wine lol. Plus, I just can’t rush that book; it’s the most personal story I’ve ever written, and I’m left raw every time I work on it. That book has its own timeline, and I’m just listening to my muses telling me “not now".

These past months, I’ve been really embracing a “let go and let god” attitude, but I’m not religious, so I’ve coined a new phrase!

Let go and let float.

I imagine life as a river, and I’m just letting the current take me where it pleases. I am but a frog on a lillypad enjoy life's smallest of pleasures.

It’s doing wonders for my mental health ngl.

Speaking of poetry. I wanted to give thanks to the 21 subscribers of the In Between Poetry Club! People are finally starting to receive their letters, and it makes me so happy!! Very grateful for those who chose to embark on this little venture with me.

CLICK HERE if you want to add some Naomi whimsy to your life.

SHADOWS AND SEDUCTION PREORDER

This is another reminder that if you are attending the Shadows and Seduction convention in March, my preorders are open and will be closing on February first. My stock will be extremely limited and will not be bringing ANY Was I Ever books with me, so be warned!

CLICK HERE for preorders.

This year, I’ve made a promise to myself to only do things that feel right. And well, launching the In Between Poetry Club today felt right. I know it’s an awkward time to launch, being the holiday season and all, but it just feels RIGHT.

So here it is!!

In Between Poetry Club is a labour of love. I’ve been searching for a more intimate way to connect, as well as for me to share my poetry and art, and a snail mail subscription is the perfect outlet! Every month, you will receive an exclusive poem, art (either a print or sticker, whatever fits best for that month), and I will also include a letter where I share some insights about the poem and some general thoughts and feelings.

I am drunk with whimsy and hope to share this experience with you. <3

Click here to subscribe or visit my website at www.naomiloud.com

You know that your girl loves to reflect on the past and its influence on the present moment, so let’s do just that!

I think back on my summer specifically, and on how angry I was … and honestly, I’m very grateful that I allowed myself to really feel that anger. I needed to be angry at the world for a while; it’s as if I knew it was just gunk that needed to get exorcised before the real work needed to happen.

2025 was, to put it lightly, life-changing. I’m again SO grateful, I had the courage to stare straight into the darkness and dissect my fears. Did it suck? Yeah, of course it did. Real work never feels good in the moment. But I’ve faced my shit far too many times in my life not to know that if you just suck it up and let yourself feel bad and raw and hurt for a while, you get rewarded with a healed version of yourself that was worth all the bullshit.

And tada!

I’m finally out of the ugly and uncomfortable cocoon phase, and I now feel like a cutie little patootie butterfly.

It’s funny cause nothing big happened externally, and honestly, if I were to put the facts on paper, I’d see a lot of failures this year. Especially, especially, in my career. I had to go back to bartending after a 7-year hiatus, for god's sake! The ego hit I took was gut-wrenching, and it took me quite a while to even admit publicly that I wasn’t a full-time author anymore. (I have thoughts about that declaration of me not being full-time anymore, but that will be for another time.)

Gosh, this newsletter could go on and on, but let me try to focus on the most important part and less on how I got here. So here are a few announcements!

The podcast launch is finally in full swing( coming out in 2026)! You might have noticed the rebrand already, but I hope to transform this newsletter into far more than just book marketing (which I decided to pretty much stop altogether lmao). I realized this year that I was desperate to un-niche myself on social media. I am so much more than just an author, and in this specific phase of my life, all my other parts are screaming to be heard.

Which leads me to my second announcement!

I am also launching a snail mail club in 2026! What’s a snail mail club? Well, think of it like a one-way pen pal situation where you would receive a letter from me every month, along with an exclusive poem written by yours truly (and a sticker!).

I know not everyone will be inspired to follow me on my new creative ventures (and that’s okay!), but for those who want to see more of me (all of me), I’ve created a new Instagram account (and TikTok) for all things podcast, snail mail club, and everything in between! (You see what I did there?)

You can follow me on Instagram here (same handle for TikTok, I’m too lazy to add it here lol, sue me).

So that’s it for now. I’m very excited and can’t wait to share all my new projects with you all!! I hope to see you on the other side with me. Much love. xox

Lots of love xoxox

***

He said it so softly. Like a promise. Or a secret meant for just us.

“I love you.”

My heart soars. I’m so happy, I could die. I cry even harder, my tear-stained cheeks cold against the January air as we stand beside my sister’s idling car. I sniffle into his shoulder, gripping his coat tight. I let a few more tears fall as I peer into his sorrowful eyes.

“I love you, too,” I croak, my throat tight with emotion.

I can’t believe he’s finally said it.

At last, someone loves me. Twenty years old and finally, finally, someone loves me.

“I promise I’ll come back for you,” I say softly against the cold wind. A vow made on a random afternoon in the dead of winter. A vow that will eventually kill me. I kiss his lips, cold like winter. “Please wait for me.”

He doesn’t promise. Only nods, words evading him. It doesn’t matter. We are beyond words, he and I. Beyond all the obstacles keeping us apart.

It’s fate. We are fate.

Because why else would this hurt so much?

Hurt this deeply. Hurt this viscerally.

Eventually, we run out of time. I have a plane to catch. I need to leave. Leave him. Leave the only life I’ve ever loved. Why did it have to happen this way? Life’s cruel joke. Star-crossed lovers ripped apart.

We kiss one last time. His lips taste like salt.

His lips, god, his lips.

I can’t do this. I can’t leave.

I can’t do this. I can’t fucking do this.

Not now.

Things are different now.

I can’t do this. I can’t leave.

He starts to let me go.

I cry even harder. His hand lingers in mine before he wordlessly lets go, and I watch him turn away and start down the street. Down, down, down the street, he goes. I don’t move until he turns the corner and disappears from sight.

The ache is soul deep. But there’s something tragically beautiful, poetic even, about my tears still staining my cold cheeks.

Our love is true love. I know this because he told me.

I believe him with every part of me, even the parts of myself I hardly understand.

He’s my first love, and this, he’ll always remain. Whether the love born from so many mistakes can ever be real, I can’t say. But at this moment, between us both, it’s real. Every single moment spent with him is a prayer answered, and I long for the day we can be real.

Real?

Real.

Yeah…

Real.

I thought I’d take the time to sit down and give you a small sign of life (I first wrote “sigh of life” and I’m laughing at the Freudian slip). I’m reflecting back on the last newsletter I sent in early July, and so much has happened behind the scenes since then.

Everything and nothing has happened tbh.

Except for the entire trajectory of my writing career.

I’m usually an open book when it comes to my plans and goals. I love bringing you all along for the ride. THE RIDE OF LIFE THAT NEVER SEEMS TO STOP. But this time, I would rather move in silence. I need time alone to recalibrate and figure out my next moves. I know it must be frustrating to hear, but I’ll try my best to give you as much info as possible while keeping most cards close to my chest.

2025 has been extremely hard on me mentally, both in my personal and professional life. It’s just been a series of (metaphorical) deaths, and I’ve just been in an extended period of mourning. Luckily, I’m a spiritually girlie through and through, so I’ve managed to find meaning in it all … doesn’t mean it wasn’t excruciating to live through.

So yeah … I’ve just been trying to find my footing again. One day at a time. :)

Some of you might have seen my little sneaky announcement that I was planning on launching a podcast this month. WELP. In a year full of setbacks, this is just another one lmao, I had to put a pin in it for now until the dust settles in my personal life, but I’m really hoping to launch it next month or in November (but then my brain is like … at that point, should I just wait till 2026?) IDK WHO KNOWS I KNOW NOTHING.

Some good news: the Mania audiobook will be released just in time for spooky season!! And Play the Part is currently in the works as well.

I guess that’s it for me now. I’ve been on a massive reading kick lately (yay), maybe I’ll make a little reading list for y’all for next time. :)

Have a great weekend!!

xoxox

Gosh, this newsletter was supposed to be sent out on Wednesday, but it totally slipped my mind! Better late than never SHEESH.

One thing about this community I love is how supportive we are of one another. Diem has always been a huge supporter of my books, and this is just a small way I can pay it forward. Sending her all the love and strength in these hard times. xox

Helping a mama in need:

On Saturday, July 12th, 2025, there will be an online silent auction in the Facebook group named: “𝐃𝐢𝐞𝐦’𝐬 𝐁𝐨𝐨𝐤 𝐀𝐮𝐜𝐭𝐢𝐨𝐧: 𝐀 𝐅𝐮𝐧𝐝𝐫𝐚𝐢𝐬𝐞𝐫 𝐟𝐨𝐫 𝐚 𝐅𝐫𝐞𝐬𝐡 𝐒𝐭𝐚𝐫𝐭”.

Diem has been a huge part of the bookish community, supporting so many people, so now it's our turn to rally behind her! All proceeds will go to Diem and her family.

I donated a signed paperback of Play the Part + 2 NSFW art of On the Line.

Bids will start at 11 am CST and will be open for 24 hours. Whoever has the highest bid will win! Please ensure you follow the Facebook group to stay up to date and see sneak peeks of all the incredible items that authors and businesses are donating.

If you would like to donate without participating in the auction, you can send a donation through PayPal to: veerieedits@gmail.com.

All individual donations will be added to the final amount received from the auction and sent to Diem at one time. If you'd like to add a note to the donation, feel free to do so, and we’ll be sure to pass the messages along. And if you'd like to remain anonymous and don't want the donor information shared, please make a note.

Hope to see you there!

No promo today. Just some words from the heart. <3

As of a lot of you know, I’m on a social media hiatus for the month of July, and it’s already helping loads. I’ve put myself on a bit of a spiritual Boot Camp, waking up at dawn, meditating, journaling, and reading Taoist literature.

That might sound a little hoity toity on my part but alas lmao, reconnecting to my spirituality has never failed me in the past, so ya girl needs her faith back or I will wither into dust soon enough.

Anywho, it’s definitely been helping, practicing mindfulness is a sure way to climb my way out of negative thinking and anxiety. I’ve also started dream journaling again, and it’s a particular dream I’ve had that has made me want to sit here and write this newsletter.

If it wasn’t already obvious by reading my books, I’m a big fan of dealing with your shit. Looking to your past, and asking questions…like ACTUALLY asking the hard questions, 9 times out ten (if not 100% but trying not to sound cocky hehe), will show you where you are still bleeding. If the past is left unhealed, you will be unconsciously recreating scenarios and putting yourself into situations that will reactivate this wound (or wound(s) let’s be real here), hoping for a different outcome and never quite getting it.

I’m a big fan of using myself as an example to convey a universal message, so let’s get into the nitty gritty, sha’ll we?

When I first started on this path of healing and digging up all the shit that threatened to kill me but ultimately didn’t (yeah healing isn’t fun, I’m not going to lie to you, but what rebirth is?), I focused a lot on my issues with my parents since they were enemy number one when it came to most of my trauma.

But now, ten years later, most of my issues with my parents are resolved (that doesn’t mean I have a close and loving relationship with my parents, but that’s for another time). A part of me knows that healing is a lifetime endeavor; it’s part of being human. We learn and we heal and we evolve until our last breath (oh the draaaaama).

But sometimes, I get cocky and forget that some of issues and triggers don’t stem from my parents/family—those were just the most traumatic. But that doesn’t discount my other wounds. The more subtle ones, the ones that passed under the radar when things were already hard at home.

Like my friendships. Especially my teenage friendships. I moved around a lot as a kid, and by the time I was 14, I had moved to a new school, and I was desperate to make friends. I eventually did. It was me and two other girls, we formed a little trio for the next three years. But deep down, I knew they were friends first, and if pushed come to shove, they would choose each other, and I would be cast aside.

So I did everything for that not to happen.

One of the two, let’s call her Jenny, was the root cause of most of what I am still unpacking twenty years later. Internalized limiting beliefs are fucking HARD to shake, ya’ll.

The summer after my first year at that school, I decided to lose my virginity at a party (at the ripe age of 14, no less). It was planned and everything, the boy knew about it, (and at the very least, considering my choices later in life, was the same age as me.) So anyways that happened, while his friends cheered us on from outside the door (brooooo, this story is insane, my god I had issues).

Guys, here me out, there’s so much to unpack in this story, but this newsletter is already getting long, so I’m only focusing on the friend aspect.

The thing is, Jenny was doing the same exact thing with another boy in a tent somewhere. We had decided that our virginity was this embarrassing thing we needed to get rid of asap.

The next day, I found Jenny in another tent, making out with the boy I had slept with just a few hours previously. Look, logically, I knew this boy was never going to be my boyfriend, but I was fourteen and traumatized, so please give me A BREAK.

I was devastated.

But Jenny never apologized. She just repeated the same stupid ass line to me over and over again: I’m just enjoying my youth.

I kept my mouth shut, internalized it all and moved on because no matter how fucked up it was if I pushed back, I would be dumped from the friend group.

What’s worse? Being heartbroken and an outcast, or heartbroken but with friends?

Oh, to be a teenager and think your friends are the only friends you’ll ever make.

Two years later, teenage woes squashed, it was now our last year of high school. (The school system is different in Quebec; we were 16-17 for context.)

Jenny had finally gotten herself a boyfriend, he was a little older and didn’t go to our school. Unbeknownst to me, her boyfriend, who had met me for like fifteen minutes tops, decided he didn’t like me. He had a cottage in the country, and Jenny would invite all of our friend group to come on the weekends, but not me. Because APPARENTLY (but who knows, maybe she was just a sneaky little liar) her boyfriend would tell her not to invite me. So I would be left with no friends to hang out with come the weekend.

So once again, I was pushed aside. Never chosen. Not special or interesting enough to be part of the friend group. I was disposable.

Do you see where I’m going with this?

These are all things I internalized, and internalized HARD.

If only I’m nice enough, they’ll like me.

If only I’m entertaining enough, they’ll want me around.

If only I don’t complain when I’m hurt, they won’t toss me aside.

I’ve intellectualized this specific wound long ago, but my gosh, it never seems to help, and it’s still left unhealed. I’ve struggled my entire life with those insecurities. Feeling safe within my friendships has been a long and arduous fucking road. And it’s only in the past few years that I’ve been able to open myself fully to receive those types of unconditional friendships.

The dream I had today, about Jenny, made me realize that this unhealed wound isn’t just affecting my friendships, but it’s also how I approach my career. Because so much of it relies on being liked. Being chosen, loved, appreciated, SEEN.

If only I do everything perfectly, they will choose me.

They will notice me.

I’ll finally feel worthy.

GROAN.

I guess I’m not as healed as I thought, huh?? The first step is to acknowledge the hurt. And this one really fucking hurts. But I never seem to know how to truly heal this particular wound. Maybe it’s a cruel twist of fate that I chose a career that directly centers those wounds. Or maybe just maybe it’s all part of the plan.

Because these wounds are MEANT to heal.

And this time, hopefully, I’m finally learning to let go and step into my power.

Life has been… a lot lately. Some might have seen my teensy crash out on Instagram last week but yeah… lmao, the feeling persists. But I do feel like I’m moving away from sadness and entering the “I am filled with rage and spite” phase of whatever this is.

I started writing a secret project in honour of said spite. Maybe creating from this space is exactly what is being asked of me. My sister says my current anger (which is extremely uncharacteristic of me) has leveled the playing field and is counter-acting my obsessive need to people please. So I guess there’s that.

The last time I felt this way was about 3 years ago and oopsie my life changed radically not long after. So who knows maybe I’m on the cusp of something big. Maybe I’m shedding another layer of my old life.

LITERALLY WHO KNOWS OKAY BYE.

WHAT’S NEW

In case you missed it! I announced a pre-order incentive last week for Play the Part. If you show proof of preorder (ebook only, thanks a lot amazon) and fill out this form, you’ll receive some cute freebies after release! WOO!

NEW RELEASES

There’s been some bangers coming out in the past weeks!

First, we have Nouha’s new Why Choose romance (I’m a sucker for Why Choose gyurl).

And then we have the queen of novellas, B. Sobjakken, coming out with her first full-length mafia romance!! Cue fireworks.

Surprise!

I am SO excited to share the cover for Play the Part weeeeeee. I’ve been sitting on this bad boy for a hot sec and I’ve been bursting at the seams, wanting to shove it in everyone’s faces. Isn’t my designer Cat so darn talented? The blurb is coming next week, as well as some art of the couple. Yay!

Please keep the reveal a secret until I post on Instagram tomorrow morning!

You can pre-order here <3

Goodreads will be live tomorrow!

Have a lovely weekend!!

As tradition goes when I start editing my latest WIP; here are the first two chapters! Usually, I only share the opening chapter but I felt generous this morning hehe.

If you missed the announcement on Instagram last week, the second book in the On the Line universe is called Play the Part, starring Huxley and Connie. :)

Cover reveal will be next week!

As always, you can share your excitement about the new chapters but please do not share an excerpt. Chapters are still in the editing process and are subject to change.

Happy reading!

CHAPTER 1: Huxley

I’m all alone. 

My body is shaking. 

I’m alone. I’m so fucking alone. 

I curl my fingers into a tight fist, nails biting into my sweaty palms, willing myself not to shake. I can’t show weakness. I can’t show emotion. 

I’m alone, so fucking alone. 

Alone, alone, alone, alone—

“Step up, state your name and age.”

Snapping my head up to face Officer Berty on my left, I choke down my beating heart before quickly walking up to the bench on shaky legs where he’s waiting for me. The intake room is full of men just like me, waiting their turn. But the silence is stifling. 

“Huxley McKenna.” My voice cracks, I don’t bother clearing my throat and push through. “Eighteen.”

Officer Berty glares down at me from the height of his booted feet, severe brow, ruddy cheeks, and freshly shaven. 

I want to puke. 

I want to scream. 

I want to bash my fists against my head and wail. 

“One article of clothing at a time. Got it?” His lips curl with every word. 

He hates me. He hates everyone here. 

My mouth is so dry I can barely lick my lips, but I give a quick little sniff and nod silently. 

“Shirt first,” Officer Berty orders. 

As I pull my shirt off, the first hit of the cold air on my heated skin solidifies my fate.

I’m a prisoner. 

Scum of this earth. 

I’m nothing but a failure. 

I hand Officer Berty my shirt. 

Then come the shoes. 

“Bang them together,” he barks. 

I do as he said. 

“Socks next. Turn them inside out.” 

The floor is dirty, grit digs into my naked soles as I bite into my cheek, knowing what will eventually come next. 

I take my jeans off. 

Shake them. 

“Boxers.” 

Such an innocuous word. But here. In this room. My forehead breaks out in a cold sweat. 

I stick my fingers under the elastic but hesitate. 

Don’t show weakness. 

I push them down my legs and turn them inside out as instructed before handing my underwear to Officer Berty. 

I’m now naked in a room full of strangers. 

Stripped bare and hopeless. 

“Stretch out your arms. Let me see your palms.” 

Officer Berty’s glare stays clinical, but it scorches my skin nonetheless. It sears into my soul and carves gashes into it with every sweep of his gaze on my naked body. 

My mind slips somewhere far away from here while my body obeys his orders. His words become one long, mashed-up sentence. I barely register a thing.

Openyourmouthwidestickoutyourtongueliftupyoutoplippuldownyourbottomlipliftyourarmsintheairbendyourrightearbendyourleftearfingersthroughhair.

“Lift your piece.” 

I snap back to full awareness. 

He means my cock. Shame burns like gas fluid through my veins. 

With cold fingers, I follow the order. 

“Lift your nut sack.” This time I do hear disgust in his tone. 

I’m sure he wants to be here just as much as I do. But I’d switch positions with him in a heartbeat if it meant I could walk out of this room a free man. 

He orders me to turn around. 

Lift my right foot. 

Lift my left. 

Bend over. 

“Spread your cheeks.” 

I thought I already knew what self-loathing meant. Thought I knew it intimately. But no feeling will ever compare to this very moment. Nothing will ever match the intensity of my revulsion—my rage. 

For myself. For the system that failed me. For the parents that brought me into this miserable life. For the same parents who gave me nothing. 

You’re no better than her now. 

Just like my mother. 

Locked up and worthless.

I pretend there aren’t multiple sets of eyes on me and pin my gaze to the ground as I spread my ass cheeks. 

“Cough.” 

I cough. 

“Alright, get dressed,” Officer Berty snaps.

A wave of relief washes over me as I hurriedly stand up, grab my clothes, and get dressed as fast as possible. He points to the end of the hallway and tells me to face the wall and not speak. I walk up to the designated spot. 

I feel my body moving. 

My feet lift up and down, but I feel like a puppet on a string, as if most of me isn’t even here. 

A few men are already standing in line. I step up next to them. 

We ignore each other. 

Face the wall. 

Think about what you’ve done.

CHAPTER 2: Huxley

Five Years Later

My skin feels too tight. My clothes too itchy. 

I pick at a hangnail and chew on my thumb as I try to drown out the noise, but nothing I do helps. Everything is too loud. Too bright. Too much. 

I’m at my brother Ozzy’s engagement party. He’s been with his girl for six years now, but he said he wanted me out of prison before getting married. 

That should have made me feel good. 

It doesn’t. 

All it does is remind me that I spent almost half of my twenties in prison and made him wait to celebrate his life. For a stupid fucking decision I made when I was seventeen. I was the getaway car in a liquor store robbery gone wrong. The car was stolen, so they eventually got me for grand theft auto. 

Ozzy should have forgotten about me. 

Everyone else has. 

I study him from where I’m sitting. He seems happy. Like really happy. Eyes bright, shoulders relaxed. He’s dancing with James, his fiancée, and his friends on the small makeshift dance floor they made by pushing some of the dining room tables against the wall near the kitchen. They closed their friend Itzel’s restaurant just for their engagement party. 

It’s meant to be intimate. 

Still, there are too many people here for my taste. 

I’ve been out for a couple of months now. But it still feels like there’s a rope around my neck, choking me. Ozzy told me that therapy would probably help. I told him to fuck off. The feeling is especially acute when I’m around practical strangers and can’t drink alcohol to numb the edges.    

Fucking probation. 

I abruptly stand up and head for the back door.

At least I’m still allowed nicotine. 

***

The back door swings open, letting the music spill out along with Connie, James’ best friend from LA. 

“Oh!” she chirps when she realizes who’s outside with her. 

I already feel like a fucking pariah but the look she gives me just solidifies the feeling. 

I look away, pushing the smoke from my lungs out into the night sky. 

They can all fuck off.

I pretend to ignore her, but I can sense every small move she makes. A skill I picked up in prison. Amongst others. 

With the quiet scuffs of her heels on the asphalt, she seems to deliberate, but eventually, she says, “I just needed some air.” 

Her giggle is disingenuous, but I look back at her anyhow. The light above the door bounces off the red in her hair. It almost looks gold from this angle. 

“And maybe a small drag of that?” Her hazel eyes sparkle like we’re sharing a secret as she brings her index finger to her thumb, leaving a few inches of space between them, before pointing to my cigarette. “I never really smoke—but I just had a couple of glasses of wine and—”

“I don’t care.” 

I’m pressed against the bricked wall and make no effort to lean any closer but still hold my arm out toward her so she can grab my cigarette. Connie scoffs, slightly vexed, but still takes it out of my hand. She takes a drag, her eyes fixed on me. 

“Haven’t seen you since Jamie’s first Christmas with Ozzy.” 

God …  Is this chick for real? 

I drag my tongue over my teeth and look down at the ground before lifting my gaze to the sky. “I’ve been busy.” 

This time, her laugh is real. “You’re quite the charmer.” 

My attention lands back on her as she takes another drag of my cigarette. She’s propped an elbow onto her opposite palm, the cigarette dangling from dainty fingers. Her eyes are narrowed, head cocked to the side, clearly assessing me. 

A shiver tickles my nape. 

“How old are you now, anyway?” 

My first reflex is to bite out an annoyed, “Why do you care?” But I let the word simmer on my tongue and say, “Twenty-three,” then add quickly, “Twenty-four in October.” 

I internally cringe. I sound like a fucking kid counting their age in halves and quarters trying to sound older. It’s especially mortifying knowing that she must be around the same age as James, who’s twenty-eight. I try to offset the feeling by barking for her to give me back my cigarette. 

She quirks a smile. Unbothered by my aggressive outburst. The silence floats around us before she steps a little closer to me and hands me back my smoke. 

She doesn’t step back, and her presence so close to mine makes my skin start to itch again. Shooting me another coy smile, she slides a finger over my forearm.

“Nice tattoo.”

My skin breaks out into goosebumps, and I look down at where the pad of her finger is slowly pulling away from my arm. She’s pointing at a shitty stick-and-poke tattoo of an eight-ball my bunkmate gave me two years ago. 

The tattoo is anything but nice.

The realization that she might be flirting with me hits me square in the jaw. I suddenly feel cornered between the wall and the dumpster next to me. I croak out a Thanks and avoid her gaze, hoping she’ll take a step back soon. 

She lingers for a few seconds longer, watching me smoke. 

“Anyway,” she says as she turns around. My eyes dip to her ass in her tight green pants. They fly back up before she looks at me over her shoulder. She shoots me a wink. “See you back in there.”

***

Everything is still too loud, too bright, too much. 

But ever since the shared cigarette with Connie a few hours ago, I haven’t been able to keep my eyes off of her. It’s made everything else a little more bearable. 

I keep convincing myself that I’ve made everything up, but then I catch her staring at me from across the room, and it feels like there’s a fist squeezing my lungs into a tight ball.

I’m sitting at a table with my younger sister, Sophia, and baby brother, Charlie. They’re the only other sober people here since they’re both underage—nineteen and thirteen, respectively. 

Ozzy became their legal guardian three years ago when our dad died of liver failure. 

None of us were shocked. He was an alcoholic and a piece of shit. Technically, our mother is still alive. I hear she’s out of prison, but no one has heard from her in years. 

Sophia is listening to another one of Charlie’s weird tangents about the Vietnam War, which he’s been hyper-fixated on since he watched Full Metal Jacket last year. I pretend to listen as I track Connie’s whereabouts around the restaurant. 

“Wait, where you going?” Charlie squawks when he sees me stand up. “I haven’t gotten to the best part yet!”

“I’ll live.” I give him a condescending pat on the head, my eyes still on Connie, and his teeth narrowly miss my hand. 

I see Ozzy near the bar with James and avoid their line of sight, not wanting to be pulled into a conversation. As inconspicuously as I can, I move to stand near the swinging kitchen doors, Connie just a few feet away. 

She’s facing my way, talking to someone whose name I didn’t bother remembering. Her eyes flick to me, then back to her friend. I try not to feel awkward just standing there, leaning against a table as casually as possible while my heart is racing. 

I’m such a fucking idiot. 

I’m about to bolt when I see Connie move away from her friend and slowly strut my way. I notice her quick glance toward James as if double-checking that we’re not being watched. My stomach twists into a knot at the implication. 

“Hey,” she says softly. 

“Hey,” I croak back, swiping a hand over my shaved head before rubbing the back of my neck. 

She studies me for a second, the music drowning us in bass, before curling a finger around the belt loop of my jeans and giving it a short tug. It’s quick, and her hand is off me just as fast, but I feel like I’m toppling over the edge of reason. 

She smiles, her tongue pushing into her cheek. 

“Follow me?”

My throat tightens, and I lose the ability to speak. 

I swallow hard, my gaze locked with hers, and nod. 

How has 2025 been treating you? Oh not so great? Coo coo coo, me too.

All jokes aside, as your neighbourhood witch (as well as your favourite author hehe), I’m here to tell you that things “should” start looking up. Just in time for spring. Winter has been drab to say the least, I can’t wait for walking weather!!

BOOKISH UPDATES

I’ll be announcing it officially on Instagram some time next week but I finally have some audiobook dates!

On the Line: April 15th (Dual)

A Dance Macabre: July 17th (Duet)

Feast of Fools: July 31st (Duet)

In other news, I’ve finally decided to close down my Patreon. It’s been on my mind for a while now, I just wasn’t vibing with the platform. I’m going back to the basics this year and this newsletter inspires me more than Patreon. I’m considering offering a paid tier here on Substack where you can receive a monthly recap of behind-the-scenes updates, quote teasers and NSFW art. So keep an eye out for that if that’s something that interests you!

I’m three weeks away from finishing the first draft of Huxley’s book. Woot! Cover and title reveal will be in April and I’m soooo excited. I also have some character art in the works so yeah, April is going to be fun, fun, fun!

IN THE NEWS

Happy release to Brynne Weaver! And becoming an instant NYT bestseller!!

The other day, I came across a Latin phrase that not only spoke to me at a soul level but also felt very à propos for the release of Feast of Fools:

Amor Fati: is a Latin phrase that may be translated as "love of fate" or "love of one's fate". It is used to describe an attitude in which one sees everything that happens in one's life, including suffering and loss, as good or, at the very least, necessary.

Because who is Gemini but a lover of fate?

Also yes, the tattoo appointment is booked … Anyone surprised?

Ready for another excerpt from my Past Selves? This one is kind of a doozy, it made me sad rereading it lol. I’ve edited a few things here and there, but nothing major. It’s interesting because this is a memory straight out of my own life. But I was experimenting with maybe turning it into fiction and so this is probably the very first mention of a character named Sunny. Pretty full circle huh?

TW: Death, Obsessive thoughts, written September 12th 2020

***

Sunny was thirteen years old when death wrapped its dirty little claws around her throat. 

It happened one day in English class. 

Movie day but make it scarring. 

Her teacher slid the VHS into the VCR Final Destination written in bold letters across the tape. Sunny only had time to watch one traumatizing scene before there was a knock on the door. 

It was for her. 

She looked over her shoulder and in came Death. 

It moved about the classroom like a slippery snake. No one took notice when Death pulled up a chair next to Sunny. She tried not to look but Death didn’t care, it nudged her in the ribs and pointed to the screen. 

“Hey look, that’s me.” It leaned in closer to Sunny and whispered, “You can’t cheat me.” 

She was traumatized by the time the bell rang. 

An inescapable depression—which had trailed her since childhood—had finally found a way in. 

Sunny’s fragile reality crumbled right in front of her.

She could see pieces of another reality emerging from the cracks. 

Not only was death inescapable but dying from a terrifyingly painful death was also possible. 

Why wouldn’t it happen to her? 

Was the movie itself really enough to fuck her up or was she really that fragile? 

Born ready to be torn apart one way or the other.

Death knew Sunny by another name. 

Death knew her intimately. 

But still, she refused to look. 

When the doorbell rang, Sunny walked out and Death tagged alongside her. Death was here to stay as Sunny navigated the halls. While her body kept walking, she was being hollowed out, scooped out like a melon. Sunny was nothing but a carcass by the time she reached her locker. Thirteen years old and still, she knew her mind was brittle. 

Death stayed with her for years after that, never truly leaving. 

Eventually, she got used to Death’s presence. 

But those first few months were unbearable. 

When Death moved in, Sunny conjured up Obsession. 

It would tell her things about Death she never knew could exist. 

When her mind wandered to simpler things, Obsession would tap her on the shoulder and smile. 

“Pssst. Hey! Remember how you could die at any moment?”

Sunny was slowly being eaten alive by darkness. 

She would sit in class, and will herself to stare at the teacher. Focus on anything normal. But her neck would eventually crane to the side, peering out the window. She’d watch in horror as Death hovered outside, waving, watching. 

How could she live a normal life ever again? 

Obsession soothed her as well as scared her. 

At night, it would come to visit when Sunny was stiff in bed and play the same song on repeat on the stereo. Can’t Fight the Moonlight by Leanne Rhymes was somehow the only thing that could soothe. Obsession knew it would comfort her, perform some kind of trance, and take her upwards of eight times listening to the song for her to fall asleep. 

Sometimes even the song couldn’t shield her from Death’s constant moaning and she would crawl into her mother’s bed and hoped it wouldn’t follow. 

But Death would slip under the sheets next to her and whisper in her ear. 

“What if you wake up tomorrow,” he’d say, “And your Mommy is no longer in bed but replaced by a butchered meat carcass like the ones your Daddy used to keep in the shop freezer?” It would cozy up even closer and grin. “What would you do then?”

Sunny’s mother was convinced the root of her depression was her older brother leaving earlier that year to live with their father, three hours away. She herself was enduring the loss of her child and cried over empty drawers as if her brother had died. Her mother mistook her grief as Sunny’s. 

But Sunny knew this wasn’t close to what was happening inside of her but she had no words to express the harrowing feelings she felt inside. 

So she let her mother believe a lie. That her depression was caused by missing her older brother. And swallowed up all the words she could never seem to speak aloud. 

What are my author besties up to?

Mourning Wings by Nouha Jullienne is now available anywhere you listen to audiobooks, run don’t walk!

Santana Knox’s infamous No Way Back is also coming to audio!

Don’t forget to check out The Omega Trials trilogy. Books 1 & 2 out now!

Note: if you’re reading this and don’t remember signing up to my newsletter it’s because you entered a giveaway where you consented to have your email added. :)

In the past few months, I’ve been reflecting a lot about how I present myself on social media. And one thing that has been really bothering me more than I realized was the fact that because social media forces you into a specific niche, I was now only known as “Naomi Loud, Romance Author”. And look, I get it, a large percentage of my audience only wants that version of me, and that’s okay.

But I am an artist first and foremost, fiction and romance is only a small facet of my life’s work. I need different platforms where I can unfurl my creative wings and show all the different parts of my creative soul. (omg the drama Naomi.)

So here we are, on Substack. There’s a freedom here. It’s free. There’s no algorithm. So allow me to introduce you to another side of me. The side that craves vulnerability and connection. I will never be the elusive artist, the private and secretive artist. My art is inherently connected to my private life. The type of art that cracks my chest open and shows you where I’m bleeding.

The other day, I opened a file on my computer that I hadn’t opened in years. I was stunned to find countless personal essays that have never seen the light of day. Raw, pained, visceral work. It came directly from a version of myself that was actively healing from a lifetime of trauma. I genuinely think I could never write like that again. But there’s power in those words, and they have nowhere to go … so why not share it here?

My goal is not to rework these excerpts, most of them feel unfinished. But what’s already on page, I believe, needs to be shared. It’s heavy, it’s not cute but it’s real. I’ll polish off the grammar but that’s about it. A window into my past self. And maybe some of you will find yourself in what I’ve gone through and feel a little less alone.

***

(Written September 14th 2020) TW: Self-harm

My skin was a canvas for the past I did not remember. I was also young enough to be my past. I was living it, my brain just didn’t bother cataloging it. 

My skin would scream at me in class, as I tried to listen to my teacher’s droning voice. But my skin was louder. Quietly I’d fish out my geometry set from my school bag and pick out that one tool no one ever used; the one with the pointy metal tips at the end. 

That would suffice. 

My skin would convince me I needed to do it, the carvings were already there I just had to make them real. 

I wasn’t in charge, I never had domain over my body. 

I would just listen to everyone else. 

This time, my skin spoke to me, pleading for an exit wound. 

I dug the pointy tip into my arm as hard as possible and as little obvious as possible in a class full of my peers. I never really bled, it wasn’t sharp enough but I did hurt and it would leave marks and that would satisfy me for now. 

My skin would stop screaming for a while, it would stay silent for a few days until it would scream at me once more and I would listen to its cries. 

On the school’s computers, I would research others like me. Others who’s need to bleed was a siren’s call. They were out there, their words coaxing me to eventually cut deeper. I would touch the dusty computer screen with my fingers as I connected with souls like me. 

I still felt like a newborn, reading about stories online that nowhere compared to what I was capable of. Nowhere near compared to the man whose words I still remember. Of his urge so strong he took a razor blade to his tongue. 

I could barely cut. 

The jagged edge of a steak knife felt good in theory but I would chicken out eventually. I wasn’t as strong as the man with the razor on his tongue. Instead, I’d let my friends burn me with lighters while we smoked our mothers' stolen cigarettes. 

Thirteen and I felt nothing. 

I was gone, even the attempted cuts on my arms made no difference. I had let go of the string, my mind and psyche floating somewhere in the ether while I animated my body with god knows what. 

But it seemed to convince my mother. 

She noticed once. Told me I might be depressed. That morning I cried in the shower as if someone had finally gave me the permission to be sad. 

I visited the school’s therapist once. I cried the entire session without barely saying one word. I was so ashamed afterward that I refused to go back and my mother never pushed the subject. 

I just continued to float somewhere far away from this body that carried so much of the sadness I’d refuse to acknowledge. How could I know to cry when I didn’t even understand the emotion in the first place?

For as long as I can remember, I’ve been told what to feel. 

Or that my feelings were not valid and that I was just too sensitive. 

I was the quiet one, quietly traumatized in the corner of the room busying herself with books and imaginary worlds. Eventually, I stopped trusting my own feelings. 

The way my body spoke to me. 

I lost touch. I forgot the words to my body’s secret language and left it to fend for itself. My body was unnecessary and irrelevant. 

My mother would forget to eat, and I would too. I mirrored her behaviour because I knew nothing about my own self. My mother believed we were close and that we were so similar.

But in reality, my mother’s body was frozen in traumatic escapism. Then, when in her womb, I inherited everything she held petrified inside her. And then as a toddler, I experienced my own trauma. I froze and stayed frozen for the next twenty years of my life. My mother and I were similar, yes, but in the worst ways possible. Our bodies ice-cold like the dead cows hanging from a hook in my father’s butcher shop. Cut off at the head, we wandered aimlessly, convinced we had a connection when in actuality we were both dead.

***

If you’re interested in more of this kind of writing, I also plan on sharing a memoir I wrote about my twenties on Patreon. I turned my memoir into an audio series and will be releasing an episode a week. The first one drops tomorrow (Sunday, January 5th) and you can listen to it for free! You can read more about this project here.

November was introspection central for me. I spent most of the month reflecting and retreating away from social media. It has done me a world of good, a little spa day (or month) for my brain and creativity.

I was meant to start writing my next book this week, but I made the decision a few weeks back that I needed more time off, so I pushed it till January. And wow the relief I felt. I knew then I had made the right decision.

Feast of Fools has been sent to my proofreader!! I’m ordering a copy this week and can’t wait to see the cover in person. You can preorder FOF here.

What’s to come this December:

I am revamping my Patreon and soft launching today. I’m only telling my newsletter and then will go public in January.

What’s changed?? Well a lot lol.

First big change is that I now offer free and paid content when before I only offered paid content. This means you can sign up for free and still have a taste of what it means to be a patron. I want to build a community and this felt like the right choice moving forward.

The next big change is the content itself. When I launched Patreon last year, I focused only on “Naomi Loud, Romance Author” content and it soon became a drag for me. Fiction is only a small part of how I express my creativity. I am deeply craving a space where I can just be me as authentically as possible.

Patreon seemed to be the perfect answer.

So if that tickles your curiosity and would like to join and discover the little universe I will slowly build along with you, you can do so here!

I wanted to share Gemini’s blurb & cover with my newsletter first :)

Please keep this a secret until I’ve shared it publicly tomorrow on Instagram.

Lots of love and goodnight!

Naomi xox

BLURB:

Gemini Foley. 

The most cunning of our children. 

A servant and devoted worshiper of trickery—and himself.

He revels in the illusion, always hungry for lies told in secrecy. 

He will snatch the truth right out of any poor soul’s lungs.

It’s a gift we have given him, and he uses it magnificently.

But a new epoch is now upon us, and it is time for one more gift.

A surprise, for the lover of tricks.

She will appear as his sacrifice during the Feast of Fools. 

And it will be his fate not to kill her. 

Cunning just as we claim, will he sense something in her?

Sense a blinding truth he cannot yet put into words. 

He will allow her to slip away …

Until time and fate are just right. 

Before catching her once again. 

This time, to keep her as his prize.  

Promise, I’m not getting into the habit of clogging up your inbox but I think we can make an exception for Gemini, no?

I won’t be revealing the title just yet but it’s soon, promise!

As always, yes you can share your excitement online just don’t share anything that can be a spoiler. :) Please remember that the excerpt is still undergoing the editing process and is subject to change.

Lots of love!

Naomi

PROLOGUE: Veil 

It was impossible to prepare for the harrowing feeling of awaiting my own sacrifice. 

Naively, I always assumed I would sense when death would come to collect my soul … that I would feel its presence like a shadow merging with my own. 

Immaterial but nonetheless there. Waiting. Stalking. 

But nothing prepared me for today. 

To gaze true evil in the eyes—one blue, one green. 

I thought I knew. I thought I had a good grasp on the depravity of this city, far too similar to the one I left behind three months ago. It’s an incomparable feeling to have to dine in the presence of evil while pretending to be under their spell. It’s as disturbing as letting a thousand spiders crawl over me without making a single sound, without moving a single muscle. 

I feasted with those who never saw it coming. Fools … just like myself. I feigned pleasantries as if fear wasn’t dousing me in gasoline as I sat far too close to an open flame. 

I watched in horror as the six heirs of Pravitia dined in excess at the table beside us, animals gnashing on meat and bones while they spoke callously about the upcoming sacrifice. Their faces devoid of any worry lines, a psychopathic flawlessness to their dewy skin. 

Now I stand in the middle of a hedge maze, lined up like cattle with the others, facing our slaughterers. A shiver crawls down my spine watching them leer, practically salivating at the thought of our deaths. Nausea roils in my stomach. I want to scream. I want to wail. Something. Instead, I do nothing but wait. 

I should have fought harder when the blond with the mismatched eyes found me in the city square. But something came over me when I felt the hard tip of his knife pressed to my ribs. 

I froze. I let fear overcome me. 

Then I was shoved in a limousine and the bearded one began his … hypnosis? I couldn’t quite tell—the one thing I was sure of was that it seemed to work on all the others captured but me. Their eyes turned dazed, glazed over as if drugged, and a foreboding chill wracked my body. 

I wish the waxing moon wasn’t so bright as I stand here. 

I wish I could stop seeing the disturbed hunger in their eyes as they continue to stare at us. As if still starving after their gluttonous meal. And I wait, caged and terrified under a placid expression. 

Suddenly, I feel the air shift. Like an invisible veil has been lifted. And by the whimpers beside me, I surmise that the one who hypnotized us has finally broken the spell the others were under. I pretend to be just as shocked as the rest of them while I furtively glance around, trying to plan a feeble attempt at an escape.

My gaze catches on my kidnapper; he’s staring straight at me. 

“Boo,” he says to the six of us with a sneer. 

An unnatural sting washes over me. I realize then, somewhat late, that he’s the one I’ll be running from. He is the presence I should have sensed, not death—him. 

Someone clears their throat. It’s the bearded one, his gray-blue eyes as dark as the night sky. 

“I suggest,” he says with a slow drawl, “you run.”

The words are barely out of his mouth before I bolt toward one of the hedged paths, my bare feet pounding into the soft wet grass. 

I hear a laugh rise into the night. It’s a wicked, hateful thing and somehow I know it’s emanating from the man who captured me. 

The one who is bound to capture me again. 

***

The blood roars so loudly in my ears that I can barely hear myself breathe. It feels like I’ve been running for hours, days, a lifetime. My feet are bleeding, my legs so sore they’ve gone shaky and weak. I don’t know how much longer I can last. I’m a rat in a maze, a lowly nothing destined to be squashed under a shoe.

As silently as I can, I turn a corner and come across a body. At the sight of it, I slam my hand over my mouth and try to swallow a distressed scream. 

Or at the sight of what is left of it …

The only thing I can properly discern is black hair sticky with blood, but the face is indistinguishable, cruelly pummeled and macerated—bludgeoned to its very last breath. 

I bite down into my palm as tears burn down my cheeks, anguish pulsing through my veins as I imagine my own agonizing fate at the hands of one of the ruling families. 

They are barely human. Just a sick animated rendering of the gods controlling this city.

My mouth fills up with saliva. I’m about to be sick but I swallow it back down and run as far away as I can from the massacred corpse. 

I turn right, then left, the air burning my lungs, my hair matted with sweat. I slow down. Listen. There’s no sign of life, but my body buzzes with the maddening knowledge that I am not alone in this maze. I stumble over a raised root and can’t help but swear under my breath, blindly grasping at the small branches of the hedge as I turn another corner. The hard bark digs into my palms but I pay it no mind, not when my mind is racing with all the tormenting possibilities of my eventual capture. 

I barely have time to lift my gaze before a hand flies out from the darkness and catches me by the throat. His mismatched eyes glow like blazing coal. 

He’s found me.

My scream is visceral, the fear unholy, and my first instinct is to try to turn my body away from him. My impulse backfires and I pitch backward, bringing us both down to the ground with him landing on top of me. 

I react like a trapped animal. Thrashing under him, bleating like a dying goat, avoiding his eyes as if they would hold power over me. 

His laugh is dark and twisted, a strand of blond hair falling over his forehead, followed by a few tsks. “Don’t think you can escape me now,” he says and his voice feels like being dunked into an icy bath. 

“Get off me, you monster!” I shriek. 

I’m still trying to fight him even after he’s managed to pin my legs under him and slam my wrists over my head. 

His body grows still and mine stills along with it. My eyes land on him as he tilts his head to the side, sniffing the air before his piercing gaze returns to mine. 

“Say that again,” he orders. 

I’m momentarily confused, surprised by the change in his demeanor. It’s a fleeting feeling, soon enough, I renew my attempt to fight him off. “Let me go!” I yell. 

His eyes narrow as he lifts a manicured brow while his fingers tighten around my wrists, his many rings digging grooves into my skin. “Who are you?” he says slowly. 

My fighting wanes, the confusion returning. 

Who am I?

“I — I’m.” I stop, suddenly feeling ridiculous that I even considered answering his question and I begin to struggle under his grasp again. “Let me go!” 

His expression falters and I’m convinced my mind is playing tricks on me—some desperate last wishes before he kills me—because somehow he appears to be deliberating.

Then he lets me go. Pushing himself off the ground, he jumps back up on his feet. 

I immediately skitter backward, stunned but nonetheless fearful. 

This is a trap. It must be a trap.

For a long pregnant pause, we stare at each other. The sweat beading my forehead turns cold against the night chill. His tattooed chest heaves with rapid breaths under his ripped linen shirt. Then, finally, he speaks again, resolve in his tone. “Two rights, one left, and another right.” 

I’m stunned, the words taking far too long to sink in. 

Is he—is he telling me how to escape?

Impossible. I don’t dare move. 

He pouts, then with one hand on his hip, he leans closer and flicks his other hand my way. “Run run run, little rabbit, before I change my mind,” he sing-songs, his lips curling into a blood-curdling grin. 

This can’t be real. 

This can’t be real. 

I scramble to my feet, expecting him to follow but I at least need to try. 

I run for my life. 

It’s much too literal, my legs pumping as hard as they can and I can’t bear looking behind me for fear of seeing him prowling after me. 

Then I see it: A small opening in the maze. 

My laugh is crazed. I don’t dare slow down. 

He let me go. 

He let me go.

I repeat the words over and over again as I run and run and run, successfully escaping my fate.