(Savage Raptors MC)
Motorcycle Club Romance, Age Gap, Suspense
Date Published: May 22, 2026
Publisher: Changeling Press
When loyalty fractures, only the ruthless survive.
Lila — I walked into Savage Raptors territory with proof one of them is a
traitor. Stupid? Maybe. But numbers don’t lie — and someone inside
their club is selling intel. I won’t stay silent, even if it means
putting myself in the crosshairs. Spade doesn’t trust me. He watches me
like I’m the threat. But he’s wrong. The danger is already wearing
his patch.
Spade — Outsiders don’t accuse my brothers and live to tell about it.
Lila shows up with spreadsheets and nerve, claiming betrayal inside my club. I
bring her under my roof to prove her wrong. Instead, I find evidence
she’s right. Now I have a choice — protect my brotherhood at any
cost… or protect the woman who just became mine. If someone’s
playing both sides, I’ll end it. As for Lila? She’s mine. And once I
claim something, I don’t let it go.
A slow-burn MC romance with loyalty, betrayal, and a guaranteed HEA. No
cheating.
WARNING: Intended for readers 18+ years of age. This book contains mature
themes including motorcycle club–related criminal activity, violence,
strong language, and references to trauma. Reader discretion is advised.
EXCERPT
Spade
It wasn’t often we held Church without every patched member present, but
all things considered, we were operating this one with a skeleton crew. Moving
with deliberate precision Atilla gathered the evidence spread across the
table. The room fell silent. Brothers shifted in their seats, tension thick
enough to cut. I kept my face blank, waiting. When Atilla finally looked up,
his eyes were cold steel, decision made. The verdict was coming, and every man
in the room knew it would change everything.
“The evidence is compelling.” Atilla’s voice filled the room
without raising above a conversational tone. Decades of authority behind it.
“We have a problem.”
Stinger slammed his fist on the table. “We can’t trust her! This
whole thing reeks.”
“Shut up.” Atilla didn’t even look at him. His focus
remained on the papers, then shifted to me. “Spade. She stays with you.
Under guard. Protected and watched. Twenty-four seven.”
I nodded once. No questions needed.
“You believe this shit?” General pushed away from the table, chair
scraping across the floor. “Some random Horsemen bitch walks in with
paperwork, and we’re supposed to –”
“Yes.” Atilla cut him off. “We are. Because these dates
match our failed runs. Every time.” He tapped the folder with one
finger. “You got a better explanation for how they knew about the
Colombian meet? That was Church business only.” Church business was
sacred. Patched members only.
“Could be coincidence,” Tinker offered, but his voice lacked
conviction.
“This many times?” Lila spoke for the first time, her voice steady
despite being surrounded by hostile men. “That’s one hell of a
statistical anomaly.”
Wildcard’s hand drifted toward his waistband. “You don’t
speak unless spoken to.”
I caught his eye, shook my head slightly. He backed down, but his face stayed
dark with anger.
Atilla stood, signaling the meeting’s end. “Spade has point on
this. Full authority. Anyone who gets in his way answers to me.” He
fixed each brother with a hard stare. “Until we know who’s clean
and who isn’t, information stays compartmentalized. Need to know
only.”
The implications hung heavy. Trust — our foundation — had just been
officially suspended.
“Move her now,” Atilla told me. “Take the back exit. Fewer
eyes.”
I rose, gesturing for Lila to follow. She gathered her remaining papers,
clutching the folder against her chest like armor. Smart. In this room,
information was her only protection.
The brothers parted as we moved toward the door, their faces a study in
conflicting emotions. Suspicion. Anger. Unease. Each one wondering if they
were under scrutiny. Each one wondering who among them couldn’t be
trusted.
“Keys.” I held my hand out to Wildcard, who’d driven her car
into the compound.
He slapped them into my palm with unnecessary force. “Watch your
back,” he muttered, low enough that only I could hear.
Warning? Or threat? Hard to tell. I filed it away for later analysis.
The back hallway was empty, dim emergency lights casting long shadows. Lila
kept pace beside me, not behind. Her gaze scanned everything — exit signs,
security cameras, door locks. Cataloging. Memorizing. I noticed but
didn’t comment.
“Where are we going?” she asked as we stepped into the cool night
air.
“My place. On the compound.”
My Harley waited in its usual spot, glossy black paint catching moonlight. I
handed her a helmet from the saddlebag, watching as she adjusted it with
practiced hands. Not her first time on a bike, then.
“Hold tight,” I instructed, swinging my leg over the seat.
“And keep that folder secure.”
She slid on behind me, zipped her precious evidence into her jacket, then put
her arms around my waist. Her grip was firm but not desperate. The engine
roared to life beneath us, vibrating through my bones the way it always did.
Familiar. Grounding.
We pulled away from the clubhouse, headlight cutting through darkness. The
compound spread before us — twenty acres of Savage Raptors territory. My home
for twenty years. Now potentially compromised.
I took the long route deliberately, giving her the tour she hadn’t asked
for. Security checkpoint at the main gate — two armed brothers nodding as we
passed. Motion sensors along the perimeter fence, red lights blinking in
sequence. Camera poles at strategic intersections, covering approach angles
and blind spots. The garage where we kept our vehicles — always guarded,
always locked.
In my side mirror, I watched her head turn, taking in each detail. Not casual
observation. Assessment. She was mapping our security, finding the gaps.
Professional habit or something more?
Brothers stopped to watch us pass, hands resting casually near weapons. Word
had spread already. The Horsemen’s accountant. The potential trap. The
security risk. Comments followed in our wake.
“Who’s the bitch?”
“President’s orders.”
“Fucking VP’s gone soft.”
I ignored them. Petty bullshit wasn’t my concern. Finding our leak was.
We passed the shop where club business happened away from prying eyes. The
mess hall where brothers ate together. The row of cabins where Prospects lived
during initiation. All the while, her grip remained steady, her body angled to
see everything we passed.
My house sat apart from the others — VP privilege and personal preference.
Single story, secure, isolated. I cut the engine in the driveway, silence
rushing in to fill the void.
“This is it?” she asked, removing the helmet.
“Home, sweet home.” I swung off the bike, taking the helmet from
her hands. “For both of us now.”
She stood, pulled the folder out of her jacket, and clutching it tightly
against her chest. Never letting go of it. Smart woman.
The security light above my porch caught her face at an angle, highlighting
the bruise on her jaw. In the harsh white glow, it looked worse than before —
blue-black center fading to sickly yellow at the edges. The kind of hit meant
to hurt, not just intimidate.
“How did you get into the compound in the first place?” I asked.
“I threatened to rip off the Prospect’s balls if he didn’t
let me through.”
I stared her down, knowing that hadn’t been enough to get her through
the gate.
She sighed. “I told him I had intel his President would want and that
the club was in jeopardy. Then I leaned out the window a little, giving him a
glimpse down my shirt. It’s amazing how many doors open when you show a
guy your boobs.”
Well, fuck. She had a point. Most men wouldn’t see her as a threat. And
our Prospects did tend to think with their dicks. Especially the younger ones.
“They really did try to kill you,” I said, not a question.
Her gaze met mine, unflinching. “Yes. And they’ll try again when
they realize what I took.”
“Good thing you’ve got the Savage Raptors watching your back
now.” I unlocked my front door, punching in the security code.
“Is it?” She stepped past me into the house. “Guess that
depends on which one is selling you out.”
I couldn’t argue with that logic. We both knew the enemy could already
be inside these walls. Could be any face we passed tonight. Could be someone
I’d called brother for years.
About the Author
Harley Wylde is an accomplished author known for her captivating MC Romances.
With an unwavering commitment to sensual storytelling, Wylde immerses her
readers in an exciting world of fierce men and irresistible women. Her works
exude passion, danger, and gritty realism, while still managing to end on a
satisfying note each time.
When not crafting her tales, Wylde spends her time brainstorming new
plotlines, indulging in a hot cup of Starbucks, or delving into a good book.
She has a particular affinity for supernatural horror literature and movies.
Visit Wylde’s website to learn more about her works and upcoming events, and
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Author on Facebook, Instagram, & TikTok: @harleywylde
Publisher on Facebook, Instagram, Twitter, and TikTok: @changelingpress
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