Books By Faith

I wrote Kya as a reflection of older versions of me. To be able to share her with the world leaves me in complete awe 💕 “The Reaper’s Sunshine” by me coming 2/11/26 ❤️‍🔥

Shout out to Shavon Dani for coming through for me on these visuals 📸

📝 ARC Reviews 📝

Here are what readers are saying who received their Advanced Reader Copy (ARC) of “The Reaper’s Sunshine” releasing 2/11.

Reaper Fontaine is days away from inheriting a powerful empire when his father demands he choose a wife in seven days—or lose everything. Determined to escape an arranged future, Reaper’s rebellion collides with Kya Beaumont, a free-spirited artist whose chaotic world is nothing like his own. Their attraction is undeniable, but so are the secrets, expectations, and legacy threatening to tear them apart. With love, identity, and power on the line, they must decide whether to obey the lives chosen for them—or risk it all to create their own. ✨

Read how their story unfolds on February 11th on Kindle Unlimited. Who wants to be tagged?

🎞️ SNEAK PEAK SCENE 🎞️

Kya Beaumont’s Intro (Told from Kya’s POV):

​It all started with my mother.

Well… technically, it started with me inside of her womb. At birth. I came into the world a hollering newborn at the same time my mother departed the earth. I was the sunrise, and she became my sunset, choosing me before we ever had the chance to meet.

I liked to imagine her holding me for a second, maybe two. Maybe she smiled, maybe she whispered something soft and holy that nobody else caught that day in the hospital. I bet her hands smelled like lavender and hospital soap. Or maybe I was making that up. I didn’t know. I made up a lot of things—little details to fill the holes people left behind.

Anyway, I’d seen the pictures my father showed me. She was beautiful. Skin like melted bronze, smile like it had its own light switch. My father said she was kind. The kind of kind that made other people uncomfortable because they couldn’t understand how someone could give that much without keeping something for themselves. I guess that was where I got it from—this habit of pouring too much, even when I was half empty.

Speaking of empty, I needed to refill my coffee. I left it on the counter this morning, right next to my cell phone I spent twenty minutes looking for. I lost something I literally put down myself. I did that all the time. I once lost a whole paint brush for two weeks just to find it tucked in a book I swore I was going to read. I never read it. I should have, though. I think it was still on my nightstand. Or maybe the kitchen table.

Wait, what was I talking about again?

​Oh, that’s right! My mommy.

​She died bringing me into this world, and somehow, that turned into the story people told about me before I was even old enough to make one for myself.

​“That’s little Kya,” they’d say, “the baby who lived while her mama died.”

​I used to hate that sentence. Still kind of did. Like it made me responsible for a tragedy I didn’t even remember.

​But here was the thing: her absence shaped everything about me. Not in a tragic, violin-playing way, but in a… restless way. Like, I’d been running my whole life trying to find the pieces of her scattered across the city. A laugh that sounded too familiar. A woman’s perfume that lingered like a ghost in a grocery store. I collected them all, tiny fragments of a woman I never met, trying to build a whole picture.

​Sometimes I thought if she was still here, she would’ve been the one person who could keep up with me—my thoughts, my detours, my constant jumping from one thing to another like a radio that couldn’t stay on one station. My father paid my assistant, Tayla, to do that for me, but my stepmother said she had her work cut out for her. Maybe my mother would’ve understood the way my brain moved too fast for my mouth to catch up. Maybe she would’ve known how to slow me down.

​But she wasn’t.

​There was only one real conversation I ever had with my father about my mother. Just one. I was six. I remembered because I’d just learned how to tie my shoes properly, and I was proud of myself—like it meant I was officially grown enough to ask grown-up questions. We were sitting on the porch that day. It was the kind of humid afternoon where the air felt like syrup. I asked him what she was like–my mother, I mean. My father always spoke her name like it was a prayer, but he never told me who she was.

​He didn’t look at me right away. Just stared out into the yard like he was watching a movie only he could see. Then, real soft, he said, “You remind me of her. You’re her twin.”

​I remembered tilting my head, confused. Twin? I didn’t think we looked alike. My hair was wild then, my knees were always scraped, and I had this gap between my teeth that made me whistle every time I said the word “juice.” I didn’t see a twin. I saw a messy little girl who talked too much and never sat still.

​But he said it again, like he needed to believe it himself. “You’re her twin, Kya.”

​At six, I didn’t know what that meant. At 25, I still didn’t think I did.

​Sometimes, I wondered if it was just something he said to make the silence hurt less, or if he really saw her when he looked at me. I didn’t trust that it was a fair assessment, though. How could it be? I was just a kid with a popsicle stain on my shirt and dirt under my fingernails. There’s no way I could’ve carried the kind of beauty or grace he said she had.

​And honestly, I didn’t know who I was like. Some days, I thought I had pieces of my father—his stubbornness, his quiet kind of anger that hid under calm words. Other days, I felt like a stranger wearing borrowed skin.

​My stepmother said I couldn’t be compared to anyone on this planet anyway. According to her, I “moved like somebody who got dropped off from outer space and never adjusted to gravity.” That was what she said. I actually wrote it down once because it sounded poetic in a mean kind of way. She didn’t mean it as a compliment, but I don’t know... there was something freeing about being too different to be measured.

​Still, sometimes I wished I knew which parts of me came from my mother, which came from my father, and which just… appeared out of nowhere.

​Maybe that was why I talked too much. Or thought too much. Or started one thing and ended up halfway across another thought before I even realized I’d drifted.

​Maybe it was because I’d been chasing reflections of people I never fully knew.

​Just like my father and that one conversation we had that kept echoing all these years.

​He called me my mother’s twin, and I’d been trying to see her in me ever since.