Next Strike Novels & Stories

Last Frame: It all boils down to this. I need a strike to shut her out. The ball feels heavy, grounded in my hand. I can feel the weight of her gaze on my back as I step onto the approach. I take my time, find my mark, breathe out the last of the day’s stress, and let it fly. Strike. The pins explode in a satisfying, chaotic clatter. I throw my arms up, turning to her with a grin that feels like it belongs to a much younger, happier version of myself. “Game over. Associate Knight takes the title.”

He reached out slowly and pressed the cold blade against my belly. I froze. “Let’s see if your baby likes the truth too.” His hand was steady, the knife grazing my skin. And then—he paused. Right there. That tiny moment of stillness was all I needed. I gripped the bat tighter and swung it. Hard. But I missed. The bat whooshed past his face and hit the wall instead. His eyes widened. Then darkened. “You bitch,” he spat. “How dare you?”

Anyone watching from afar would’ve mistaken it for an intimate moment. “Linnet’s in the hospital. They found traces of mercury in her system. Did you have anything to do with it?” Before I could finish, Eric spun me around, his hand already rising to strike. I ducked just in time and swung a kick into his leg. He staggered back, eyes blazing. He lunged at me again, but before he could touch me, I jumped, wrapping my legs around his neck and dragging him to the ground. In a flash, I was on top of him, a small dagger pressed against his throat.

"Prepare a strike team. We're crashing that party." Victor nodded, his eyes reflecting the same determination that coursed through me. We couldn't let Alpha Jack's brutal actions go unanswered. Justice would be served, and it would be served with fire and fury. As the funeral came to a close, I discreetly gathered with the strike team. These were individuals who had proven their loyalty time and time again, and now, they would be instrumental in our retaliation against Alpha Jack. Under the cover of darkness, we moved with stealth and precision towards the location of the birthday party. The distant sound of music and laughter filled the air, a stark contrast to the grim purpose that had bro

“Who’s there? Who are you people? Why are you all after me!?” No one answered. The silence stretched for a few seconds before that same female voice spoke again — cold and commanding. “You know what time it is?” she said slowly. “Make him understand it better.” “Yes, Ma’am!” the man replied sharply and began marching toward me. I couldn’t tell what he was about to do, but panic set in instantly. I tried to move, to dodge whatever was coming, but before I could even figure anything out, a sharp, heavy strike landed on my head.

“You don’t own—” The first strike lands across the back of her thigh. Through fabric. Sharp. Controlled. Her gasp isn’t fear. It’s shock. The second comes slower. Deliberate. Not enough to bruise. But enough to remind her. “To understand,” I continued calmly, “that recklessness has a cost.” Three more strikes. Spaced. Never escalating. Never cruel. When I stopped, I rested my palm briefly where the heat bloomed—sealing the message rather than prolonging it.

The momentary distraction nearly costs me as his next strike barely misses my shoulder. Why is he bringing this up now? "Don't you think this is an odd time for that conversation?" I manage to say, blocking another strike. “Actually, I think now’s perfect,” he replies smoothly, his fist already darting toward my midsection. His words distract me just enough—I react too slow. The hit lands solidly, driving the air from my lungs. My stomach caves under the impact, and I double over slightly, a wave of pain radiating outward.

Another strike. Closer. Stronger. It’s learning too. Adjusting. Mirroring me. That’s bad. Really bad. Because if it adapts faster— I lose. And if I lose— I don’t just die. I become that. “No!” I push harder. Faster. Breaking rhythm. Breaking pattern. Unpredictable. And for the first time— it hesitates. Just a second. Just enough. I strike. Precise. Targeted. It stumbles back.

He was twenty yards away, watching. "The next time you’re in my path, disappear," Zack added, his voice dropping to a lethal whisper. "You only get three strikes. You just used your last one." He sent out another jolt of energy, hitting her nervous system just hard enough to knock her out. He stepped back as she slumped into the grass, feeling a surge of genuine pride.

Watch out for “Striking Blow.” (Strike Zone Book #2) This is Pearl and Antonio’s story. Filled with international intrigue and subterfuge. Striking Blow Colombo. Sri Lanka. Pearl needed directions—a map—a freaking GPS back to herself. Finding her worth again meant starting with a physical transformation. For starters, the blonde princess staring back at her in the mirror wasn’t real, and it was time to pack “socialite barbie” away in a dark drawer; time to step away from the two-hundred-dollar haircut and her designer lifestyle.