K. Alex Walker's Blog

“Sis…this was EXCELLENT!!! Thank you, thank you, thank you…”

“Listen…. The way you ended this? -chef’s kiss ”

“This was EVERYTHING…”

“WOW!! Love, love, love this!  All I can think to say is Thank You! ”

Larke

Me tagging along was like an inexperienced swimmer trying to save someone from drowning. At the end of the day, I would only end up pulling him beneath the ocean’s surface with me.

So, we danced around each other all evening. Whenever he asked whether I was all right, I lied, but faking strength was the last leg I had to stand on. At times, I caught him watching me, but I pretended not to notice. There was no guarantee someone would come, and we might end up having to stay together anyhow, but that notion didn’t break my heart any less.

Usually, we stayed up to read together.

It was married-old-couple behavior, and in the beginning, we barely made it past one chapter before falling asleep. Eventually, however, we found a rhythm. We made it through scene after scene, sitting or lying side by side as each story unfolded. 

Tonight, instead of reading, I went straight to bed. 

Less than an hour later, Dez’s candlelit shadow darkened my doorway, gripping a book in one hand. “You don’t want to read with me tonight?” he asked, soft undertones of disappointment noticeable in his voice. “Tapley, look…don’t be mad. You’re better off with a group of p—”

“Okay. You’re right.” I rolled onto my side, facing away from him. But then, imbued with the spirit of a fist rising in protest, I flopped back over. “No, I take that back. You’re wrong.”

“Tapley—”

“Let me make myself very clear, Dez. If someone shows up here tonight, they can go right on and f*ck themselves. They could promise me the land of milk and honey, promise me a paradise. It-does-not-matter. I’m not leaving you. I don’t trust anyone else within damn near a thousand miles outside of you.”

He stalked across the room, grabbed a chunk of my tank top, and yanked me up until our faces were inches apart.

“That’s my point,” he hissed. “If you don’t leave me now, I’ll never give you another chance. I’ll never let you go. The world is ending, and you’re all I have. That kind of selfishness? It could get you killed or worse, and I can’t do it, Tapley. I can’t see you turned into one of those things. I can’t see you not getting excited about your nineties R&B, or have you look at me and…” His expression softened. “And there’s no life behind your eyes. If that happens, it’s my fault. It’s on me, and I can’t explain just how much that sh*t would hurt me down to my f*cking soul.”

Hi, Lovelies!

I'm dropping in to reintroduce you to my online store, now located at: 

Paperbacks (signed, special edition, and more)

eBooks for selected titles (I'll also be temporarily offering selected eBooks on the site for discounted prices).

Limited-edition merch inspired by fan-favorite books & characters (even the characters I might not have realized ARE fan favorites…my bad).

Wellness journals and cozy, low-stim gifts for those of you who, like me, might be out here seeking soft moments between chaos.

You could say it's bookish luxury mixed with dark romance vibes, with everything curated to reflect the stories we love reading, writing, and building together.

Go ahead and browse, linger, or treat yourself.

I'll see you soon.

xoxo,
K. Alex Walker

“You have to go,” I half-said, half-asked. “It’s fine. I understand.”

“Are you sick?” he asked again.

“Yeah. Going on about a week or so now.”

“Do you know what you have?”

“No.” 

“Do you know if it’s…”

“I don’t.”

He swiped his thumb over my right brow. “I looked for you, Tapley. I didn’t abandon you. I never will. It doesn’t matter what you see me wearing. I’ll never abandon you.”

“I believe you,” I said.

“Don’t just believe me. Know it. Trust it. Have faith in it. Being in here doesn’t mean the oath I took to protect you goes away. I take my duties seriously. You know that.”

I heard every word. 

Yet, as he looked at me, I saw neither oath nor duty. For the first time since we met, his poker face completely failed. His expression betrayed him, along with the slight trembling I felt in the hand pressed against my face.

Continue Reading on Patreon

As far as I knew, we were in the same location, but I wasn’t yet able to confirm whether that was the case. Then, as a former SEAL, I was considered a VIP resident. As a former prosecutor, I wanted to believe she’d received the same designation, but four principles determined hierarchies at the safe zone—the ability to build, heal, farm, and protect. Everyone else was considered non-essential, or NEs. I was a Protector, my level set at the highest rank for a guard: Class 1 Elite.

Sighing, I ran my fingers through my hair, crossed off the area I’d searched the day before, and went to the bathroom to prepare for my day.

Once finished with my morning routine, I dragged on the all-black uniform that regularly made me want to turn my weapon on myself and stepped out into the main corridor. 

A few other guards, these in gray camo, made their way down to the “mess hall” on the ground floor. From what I’d gleaned in the last three weeks, the safe zone had started as an apartment community that the government seized from the original developer. However, the need for a safe space for citizens arrived quicker than expected, which explained the construction still underway on the farthest edge of the complex’s perimeter. 

My living quarters were on the seventh floor out of eight. Yet, I bypassed the elevator and took the stairs, in no mood to be stuck inside a windowless box and expected to engage in small talk about ridiculous shit as if all was right in the world.

Loud chatter and laughter greeted me the closer I got to the repurposed grand event hall. Then, swallowing my annoyance, I entered the large room with the checkered flooring, ornate coffered ceilings with gilded accents, and communal tables. 

A few of the guards tossed head nods my way. 

Several others waved. 

I ignored them all. 

I wasn’t there to make friends. I was there because I couldn’t leave without my girl.

Continue Reading on Patreon

So, there’s a slight difference that you may notice with Mori’s book compared to the others in the International Mafia series.

Did you notice?

Well, Mori and Michelle’s story will be written in first-person POV. I tried to get third-person POV to work for months, but my brain hasn’t been braining. I ended up attempting to write in both POVs to see which one resulted in my usual “flow state.” 

First person won, hands down.

I’m also learning about this demon known as brain fog. 

To be honest, as someone born with an unemployed working memory, I thought I knew what brain fog was, but this is different. My usual memory lapses are like forgotten threads and glitches. Something was there, and then I lost it. Brain fog feels more like there’s nothing there. I can’t recall things, or my processing speed is like my cousin’s old Camry, which a toddler could have outrun at a stoplight. 

Trust me, if this is happening to you, work with it, not against it. 

Get as much sleep as you can. 

(It does actually help quite a bit)

With some autoimmune diseases, you might even teeter on the edge of paranoia, but you’re not “crazy.” Systemic inflammation means inflammation can be anywhere or everywhere. Brain fog has even been linked to neuroinflammation. 

Later on, if I remember, I'll  write a post about innocuous early warning signs that could signal your body might be going into “friendly-fire” mode. I’ll also write about what tests to ask for and how to pay close attention to symptoms that could indicate an issue with one or more of the organs these diseases like, especially the kidneys.

But that tangent was longer than the Nile River.

In conclusion, Mori and Michelle will be 1st person POV. The cover is with the designer and coming soon.

Engines rumbled low and deep from nearby idling trucks, spewing diesel perfume into the air. Wooden crates and barrels being loaded and unloaded added a steady crash and thump. Muffled commands came through radios, and armed personnel walked in repetitive patterns in towers that loomed above the walls.

One of the soldiers pointed. “Men, you go to this tent, he said. “Women, you come with me. Your tent is further down.”

My hand went from secure in Dez’s grip to being choked by it, and a different kind of panic unfurled in my stomach. 

Dez was skilled. 

He was also outnumbered.

Roughly ninety percent of the group followed the soldier’s command. Even if I’d wanted to move, I wouldn’t have been able to go far with Dez’s hand wrapped around mine like a jammed pair of pliers.

“Two is one, and one is one,” he said, under his breath. “That means we stick together, Tapley. You’re not going anywhere without me.”

Continue reading on Patreon.

“That’s my point,” he hissed. “If you don’t leave me now, I’ll never give you another chance. I’ll never let you go. The world is ending, and you’re all I have. That kind of selfishness? It could get you killed or worse, and I can’t do it, Tapley. I can’t see you turned into one of those things. I can’t see you not getting excited about your ‘90s R&B, or have you look at me and…” his expression softened, “and there’s no life behind your eyes. If that happens, it’s my fault. It’s on me, and I can’t explain just how much that shit would hurt me down to my fucking soul.”

Link: https://www.amazon.com/dp/B0DSGRCX2V

And don’t forget that Volume Two: Dez & Larke is already underway on Patreon.

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While we're Assassin…ing over on Patreon, let's talk more about my #wip.

I love me a good prophecy. 

Prophesies, soulmates, traditions, and lore.

::cough:: The Gatekeeper ::wink:

I also LOVE learning about other cultures, so let's dig a little bit into Mori and Michelle's story, shall we?

Michelle is a painfully shy museum archivist, but the meek persona is a fraud; she and her cousin, Latasha, come from a family of art thieves whose primary purpose is stealing to keep the art with those who have a vested interest in the history behind each piece. 

This time, they are the vested interest. 

Artifacts discovered on a dig by a school in London are 13th-century relics from the Swahili Coast. Relics that, according to family lore, come from their own ancestry.

Unfortunately, it's not just their ancestry.

Some of the artifacts discovered are believed to have belonged to Motohiro Masahi, a samurai who went missing during the 1st Mongol invasion of Japan. Moriyama Masahiko, the current oyabun of the Yakuza, is a direct descendant of that samurai, and he's determined to recover the lost remnants of his family lineage.

Yet, neither Mori nor Michelle knows just how connected they are by their ancestries, their lives intertwined by a red thread of fate.

Remember Jordan's story from  Knight for a Queen?

Red Thread of Fate mythology talks about the thread that ties destinies together—a mythical string tied around the pinky finger. Michelle is a descendant of Princess Nyota of the Onoorwonne Empire, who is present the first time Motohiro washes up along the shores of her kingdom. Nyota is Swahili for star. Eventually, Motohiro comes to know her as "Jinsei," which is Japanese for life.

Obligatory disclaimer: As this is a WIP, the following is subject to change prior to publication.

Those warm, welcoming, kind eyes weren’t those of the man who’d confronted her that night in Tokyo. “Is that why you’re here?” she asked, voice hushed. “To try to recruit me?”

He raised an index finger. “At first, but I was so impressed by your resume that I decided to buy the museum to get the chance to work with you.”

The room collectively gasped.

Michelle nearly choked on hers.

“Mr. Nakamura and I finalized the purchase this morning.”

All went silent.

“What does that mean for us?” Deja asked.

“First of all, no one is losing their jobs,” he reassured the room. “But I will be implementing a few changes around here to help with the…visitor situation. There are too many beautiful relics here for them to go unseen, but the first change I’ll be making is to employee salaries. Right now, they're abysmal. Masahiko Incorporated can do better. So, starting from the next pay period, your paychecks will reflect a thirty percent annual salary increase.”

Michelle turned to the room, expecting cheers and whistles, but nearly everyone’s jaw was on the floor. However, once the news sank in, the cheers followed, combined with a round of applause, hugs, tears, and phone calls.

There was a reason this man had come to Corningshire all the way from Tokyo, and she refused to believe it solely had to do with her resume or to buy their tiny museum. Either he really had offered her a job that she’d turned down, assuming it was a scam because no one offered that kind of money over the phone, or he knew she was the one he captured that night. This was simply his insidious way of taking his revenge.

“I’ll be in town for a few months, finishing up the transition plan,” he went on. “For the time being, I haven’t seen all of the museum. I would like a tour.”

Deja stepped forward. “I would be happy—”

“Ms. Stewart?” Those dark eyes zeroed in on her. “If you’d do me the honor?”

“Um,” she nodded, “sure. Of course, sir…uh, Mr. Masahiko. Of course. Will, uh, Mr. Nakamura be, um—”

“Breathe.”

She inhaled and then released an unsteady breath. 

“Satoshi’s going to stay behind. It’ll be just you and me, Ms. Stewart.” He gestured to the door. “After you.”