Second in a stunning post-apocalyptic paranormal romance trilogy. Three years of wandering the postapocalyptic wasteland has stripped Dr. Chris Welsh of hope. A harrowing loss drove him from his home, and he hasn't stopped moving-until he encounters Valle de Bravo, a haven of civilization amid the chaos of the Change. Soldiers take their orders from Rosa Cortez-the iron hand within a velvet glove. The last thing Rosa needs is a feral loner upsetting the town's tentative balance. However, for the good of her people, she lets Chris stay, and as bloodthirsty raiders strike again and again, Chris and Rosa battle hellhounds and dust pirates while also fighting desperate attraction. To save them, love must overcome the pain of the past-and build a future in this brutal Dark Age... Praise for Midnight : “Ellen Connor’s Dark Age Dawning series contains the best of the post-apocalyptic genre with a strong paranormal twist.”— Fresh Fiction “Gritty and intense.”— Fiction Vixen Book Reviews “The chemistry between Chris and Rosa was combustible…a sizzling passion that singed the pages.”— Night Owl Reviews Ellen Connor is a pseudonym for Ann Aguirre and Carrie Lofty, two acclaimed romance authors. Ann Aguirre lives in Mexico. Carrie Lofty lives in Wisconsin. Chris jerked awake and sat half upright. A rock gouged the palm of one hand. The vivid spring dawn made him squint. He checked his weapon and found it primed nearby, but he heard no threat. The secluded crevice where he’d made his night camp served as a trusted partner at his back. The last of his weariness gone, he eased out from the crevice and surveyed the surrounding gorge. Creosote bushes bloomed along the jagged upslope of striated limestone, their roots clinging to the smallest holds. A woodpecker made a racket, reminding him of those first few months after the change hit the west coast. They hadn’t seen sign of any wildlife, not even insects, until the demon dogs had cleared out, starving and defeated. That so many natural creatures still thrived in the world should have given him some reason to smile, but Chris hardly remembered how. He checked his Beretta in its holster and slumped against the cold, solid rock wall. A dream must have woken him. Closing his eyes, his skin already covered in goose bumps, he tried to recapture the last few moments of unconsciousness, fully expecting to find memories of blood. But the lingering images were not so violent. He saw a wisp of white, a flash of corn silk hair. Whenever he dreamed of Penny—the child he’d left behind after her mother died—he walked south . . . and always found something remarkable. Once he’d found water, just in time to keep his dehydrated body from shutting down. Another time he’d found a young girl. She’d been hiding in a tree, stranded after escaping a pack of demon dogs and too scared to climb down. In appreciation her brother and mother had opened their meager stores to him. Reluctant curiosity tugged him to his feet. After a quick piss, he packed his gear and stepped into the sharp daylight. Climbing up the short bank of what might have once been a river, he allowed himself to think about Penny. It was for the best that she lived with his friends Jenna and Mason now. After Ange died, he had found it impossible to stick around beyond the spring thaw. And Chris was alone. That too was for the best. He reached the top of the rise and looked over the desert. Dawn still tinted the landscape, but the dry heat sizzling the back of his neck foretold the coming day. He scratched his jaw through his beard and searched for abnormalities. No voices. No prickling sensation of another human presence. But then came an unexpected sound—an old sound that took a long minute to place. Trucks. What the hell? He held as still as death, leaning nearer to the source as if that gesture might make the unbelievable more real. Trucks. He set off at an easy run. Across the length of the country, always heading south, he’d seen the occasional working vehicle and the trouble it could bring. Gasoline supplies had gone scarce, and owners developed twitchy trigger fingers when it came to protecting their valuables. But he hadn’t heard a big-throated, full-throttle rumble since Before—almost like rush hour and coffee shops and the White House. Old things. He gave up on pacing himself and hit a full run. The wonder of his legs responding to such an impulse no longer surprised him. After nearly four years of wandering, he wouldn’t recognize himself in the mirror. Hard-won resilience waited in every muscle, with every strike of his boots against the flinty earth. At the next rise he crept along on his belly and looked down. Glasses he’d relied on for years to correct a slight astigmatism had broken back near Colorado, but he didn’t need them to see the distant remains of a two-lane highway. Long-ago engineers had blasted a canyon right through the middle of a wide granite plateau. The highway ran like a river down the midd