Inferno
Kiss of Death MC (#18)
by Marteeka Karland
MC Romance
Date Published: September 18, 2026
Publisher: Changeling Press
I survived the fire. Juniper gives me a reason to burn down the world.
Juniper -- Getting dumped on my twenty-first birthday is bad enough. Finding
Brett, my ex, at Throttle with another woman turns humiliation into open
warfare. So I walk up to the biggest, meanest looking biker in the place,
climb into his lap, and claim him as mine. Inferno plays along a little too
well, and one reckless kiss becomes the hottest night of my life. Still, it
was just a one night stand. Should have ended then and there. Instead, my ex
decides he doesn’t like losing what he threw away. His calls become
threats, then the threats become violence. My bakery, my home, everything my
grandmother left me becomes a target. But Brett’s forgotten one thing.
I’m not alone anymore. I have Inferno, Kiss of Death, and a fire of my
own.
Inferno -- Juniper lands in my lap wearing red lipstick, motorcycle boots, and
enough attitude to wake something in me I thought died years ago. She’s
way too young for me, and a woman running from a controlling ex is trouble. I
also know the second Brett puts a bruise on her skin, he becomes my problem. I
went to prison for nearly killing a man who hurt a woman I loved. I’ll
burn my life down before I let history repeat itself. But Juniper isn’t
looking for a savior. She wants a partner willing to stand beside her while
she fights back. Good thing I’ve always liked playing with fire.
Brett’s about to learn exactly why they call me Inferno.
WARNING: Adult language and situations, abuse, arson, and a violent stalker
ex-boyfriend.
Excerpt
Copyright ©2026 Marteeka Karland
Juniper
The sad little grocery store cake sitting on my counter summed up my life
right now. I made cakes for a living, so I knew exactly what I was looking at.
Shortening-based buttercream, whipped too fast so it held those little air
pockets that collapsed if you pressed a finger in. Red gel piping simply said
“Happy Birthday” and skipped my name entirely, because a name is
an upcharge, and, apparently, I wasn’t worth the extra four dollars.
Twenty-one candles would’ve cost more too. There were no candles.
That morning I’d spent six hours at my own shop building a dinosaur cake
for a five-year-old named Milo. The creation had hand-piped scales on a
fondant T-rex while his mom hovered by the register asking if I could make the
teeth “less scary, but still cool.” I believed, the whole time I
worked, that tonight would be mine. That somebody would finally build me
something special for my birthday.
I closed the shop two hours early. Cooked pork chops with the mustard cream
sauce that Brett loves so much. I set the good plates from his mother that I
was always terrified I’d chip.
He’d come in forty minutes late, jacket still buttoned like he
hadn’t decided if he was staying, studying his phone like it held the
secrets of the universe. “You would not believe this lake
listing,” he said, dropping into his chair, not even glancing my way.
“Guy wants two point one for a place that’s basically standing on
a septic field. I told him, I said, ‘Gary, I can sell water to a
drowning man, but I can’t sell delusion’.” He laughed at his
own line. I simply looked at him, trying to talk myself into being cheerful.
I cut into my chop and waited for a gap in his running monologue. “So I
made this dinosaur cake today,” I said, “for this kid, Milo, and
his mom wanted the teeth less scary but still --”
“Yeah, that reminds me, Gary’s brother-in-law does teeth,
actually, orthodontist, and get this --” and he was off again, and I
just… let him go on. Because why not? I picked my fork back up and took
a bite while he rambled on. He still hadn’t told me happy birthday.
His phone buzzed and he glanced down before turning it over. After a while, it
buzzed again.
“Hey,” I said, and I tried to keep it light, “We said no
phones tonight. Right?”
He didn’t answer right away as color swept his neck to his face and a
flash of annoyance crossed his features. Then he gave me a “sorry for
you” smile. “Junie,” he said, setting his fork down
carefully. “Can I say something, and I need you to just hear it, not
react to it?”
“Um, sure.” My stomach started to roll. I recognized his tone and
I knew this would be a twenty-first birthday I’d rather forget.
“You’re a lot,” he said, simply. “I don’t mean
that as an insult. You’re needy in a way you probably don’t even
realize. Phones-away requests, the whole birthday production, the plates.
It’s a lot of ask-for, given we’re barely even in a
relationship.” He cleared his throat. “And you’re emotional.
Everything’s a whole thing with you. I can’t mention anything
without you needing your turn.”
I opened my mouth but couldn’t form words. My throat tightened with
emotion, and I could feel tears forming behind my eyes.
“And I’ll be honest,” he continued, “because I think
you’d rather I was honest, you’re kind of boring, Junie. Same
shop, same recipes, same everything. Your five-year plan is a second oven. I
used to think that was cute, but I thought you’d grow out of it once you
ran out of money and got a real job. I don’t think it’s cute
anymore. I need a woman with a little ambition. I’m going places, and
you’re… not. Dinosaur cake? Really, Junie?”
Somewhere deep inside me, a voice was screaming, actually screaming, say
something, say anything, throw the water glass, throw a pork chop at him, ask
him who’s texting him at eight-fifteen on your birthday, and what came
out of my mouth, soft and stupid, was, “The pork chops are getting
cold.”
“Juniper. I think we both know this has been coming.”
I looked down at my plate so he wouldn’t see my eyes. I didn’t
trust what my face was doing. No way was I going to give him the satisfaction.
I forced the smallest shrug I could manage.
He pushed his chair back, slow and deliberate, like he wanted me to watch
every little thing. “Look, Junie, you’re a great girl. You really
are. But we’re just not… compatible.” He wiped his mouth
with his napkin. “It’s not the end of the world. You’ll land
on your feet. I mean, you already have your little cake shop, right?”
Wow. My little cake shop. The business I’d thrown every ounce of blood,
sweat, and tears I had into. The fact was, I cleared more with my
“little cake shop” than he made with his real estate ventures. I
suspected it was the same smarmy personality I initially fell for. Unlike me,
apparently his clients knew how to cut their losses and get the fuck out of
Dodge.
“I guess so,” I said, because what else was there? I stabbed a
piece of pork chop and chewed it, even though I could barely swallow, doing my
best to act as if none of this had any effect on me.
His phone buzzed again. He actually reached for it this time. “I’m
going to head out. I’ve got to call Gary back before he does something
stupid on that listing.” He didn’t even look at me. Just stood up,
fixed his jacket, and checked his hair in the microwave door reflection.
“I’ll send someone to get my stuff later.” The door clicked
shut behind him as he left.
I went to the counter where the little birthday cake rested when the sticker
on the side caught my attention. The damned thing was on clearance! He’d
bought me a generic birthday cake on clearance because it had passed its
freshness date.
For a minute I just stood there, stomach clenched tight in the heavy silence.
Anger was slow in coming. Even when it did the feeling was directed more at
myself than Brett. I chose to stay with him for whatever reason I had at any
given time. So as much as Brett was a bastard, this disastrous birthday was as
much my fault as it was his. I should never have agreed to let him move in
with me. My only excuse is I was young and bought all his flattering.
We’d been together for two and a half years. I was right out of high
school and just taking over my grandmother’s bakery after her sudden
death. Brett had helped me through one of the most difficult times in my life,
but I suspected now he’d taken up with me because I was an easy target.
After all, he’d been living rent-free in what had been my
grandmother’s apartment since a month or so after we met.
The window over the sink stared back at me. This was my twenty-first birthday,
Goddamnit! What did one do on their twenty-first birthday? Get schnozzled and
burn the world down. At least I’d burn down my old life. Then I could
rise like a phoenix from the ashes. Or something.
I pushed away from the sink and headed to my bedroom. Going to the closet, I
pulled out the red dress I’d bought especially for tonight. The red was
probably too bright, but I didn’t want subtle. I wanted the color and
all the lovely brightness and chaos it might cause under the right
circumstances.
I showered and did my hair and makeup before slipping the silky dress over my
head, letting it settle over my hips to brush against the middle of my thighs.
I zipped up the back, then smoothed the sleeveless garment over my curves. I
let my hand run down my arm, tracing the small, faded burn scars from my
childhood. Brett said I should get them lasered -- so I wouldn’t be
reminded of my broken childhood. I suspected the real reason he wanted rid of
them was because they didn’t fit in with his image of what he wanted me
to be. Well, fuck that shit.
The red lipstick came last. Again, I’d chosen it specially to match the
dress. I drew it on slowly, even though my hand shook a little. Lipstick had
always been my armor. I had nicely shaped lips. They were my best feature, in
my opinion. The dramatic color only enhanced them. I smiled into the mirror,
wide and mean, red as a warning label.
I started to slide my feet into the Fuck Me heels I’d purchased --
again, specifically for this dress. Then I caught a glimpse of my motorcycle
boots. I’d bought them when Brett decided he wanted to get a motorcycle.
He’d taken me on exactly one ride, saying I didn’t know how to
ride with him and I would get us both killed if I moved the wrong way.
He’d never bothered to tell me what exactly I was doing wrong, so fuck
him anyway. On a whim, I stuffed my feet into the boots and took a look at
myself in the mirror. I didn’t quite look like Alice from Resident Evil,
but it was close enough I’d take it.
Throttle was less than a mile away. The bar was a known roughneck place, but
any damage caused by patrons always seemed to be contained to the property
itself and didn’t spill over into nearby neighborhoods. Though it had a
questionable reputation, I’d always wanted to go, thinking living on the
wild side held just the appeal I wanted.
About the Author
Marteeka Karland is an international bestselling author who leads a double
life as an erotic romance author by evening and a semi-domesticated housewife
by day. Known for her down and dirty MC romances, Marteeka takes pleasure in
spinning tales of tenacious, protective heroes and spirited, vulnerable
heroines. She staunchly advocates that every character deserves a blissful
ending, even, sometimes, the villains in her narratives. Her writings are
speckled with intense, raw elements resulting in page-turning delight entwined
with seductive escapades leading up to gratifying conclusions that elicit a
sigh from her readers.
Away from the pen, Marteeka finds joy in baking and supporting her husband
with their gardening activities. The late summer season is set aside for
preserving the delightful harvest that springs from their combined efforts
(which is mostly his efforts, but you can count it). To stay updated with
Marteeka's latest adventures and forthcoming books, make sure to visit her
website. Don't forget to register for her newsletter which will pepper you
with a potpourri of Teeka's beloved recipes, book suggestions, autograph
events, and a plethora of interesting tidbits.
Author on Instagram & TikTok: @marteekakarland
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Publisher on Facebook, Instagram, Twitter, and TikTok: @changelingpress
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She's justice.
He's anarchy.
They're completely wrong for each other.
And somehow, they're exactly what the other needs.
