Motorcycle Club Romance, Suspense, Age Gap

Date Published: February 20, 2026

Spending more than half my life in prison taught me how to survive, not how to
live.

Jag — I took the fall for my club once and it cost me everything. Freedom
doesn’t feel like freedom when your past is still hunting you. Kiss of
Death MC is different now. Safer. Smarter. And full of things I don’t
trust. Like kindness, loyalty, and Ada. She sees too much. Asks the hard
questions. And somehow makes me want things I buried a long time ago. Wanting
her is dangerous. Touching her could destroy us both. But when an old enemy
resurfaces and targets her to get to the club, walking away isn’t an
option. I’ll protect her. Even if it costs me everything… again.

Ada — I know the difference between monsters and men who’ve survived
hell. Jag Kross is the most dangerous man I’ve ever met. And the most
broken. He doesn’t want saving. He doesn’t believe he deserves
love. And he definitely doesn’t want me anywhere near his darkness. Too
bad. When someone starts watching me, following me, threatening everything the
club protects, Jag becomes my shadow. My shield. My temptation. He says
he’s not a good man. I say he’s exactly the one I want. I’m
not afraid of the scars he carries. I’m afraid of what happens if he
leaves.

Jag

The gates of USP Terre Haute swung open with a mechanical groan that I’d
heard a thousand times from the other side. This time, I was walking out.

The guard shoved a manila envelope into my hands without meeting my eyes.
“Use your prison ID until you get your state issued ID. Inside the
envelope you’ll find your release papers, a debit card with two hundred
dollars. I was informed you didn’t need a ride?” He finally looked
up at me, bored, and raised an eyebrow in question. When I didn’t
answer, he shifted his weight with a huff. “Well?”

“Was there a question?”

“Do you have a fuckin’ ride or not, buddy?” He slapped a
piece of paper down in front of me.

“What’s this?” I asked, nodding to the form.

He slapped a pen down on top of the paper. “Says you understand the
terms of your release supervision and that failure to comply can, and likely
will, result in an extended stay in the Hilton back here.” He hiked his
thumb over his shoulder, indicating the prison.

Instead of answering him, I picked up the pen and signed my name at the bottom
across the highlighted line. “Anything else?”

When the guy shook his head, I stormed out the door. I had no idea if Knuckles
followed through with his promise to have guys waiting on me when I got out. I
hadn’t called him, but he’d told me I wouldn’t have to. When
I was released, there would be a couple of brothers from Kiss of Death to
offer me a ride back to Nashville, if I wanted to go. I hadn’t really
been sure if I’d take him up on the offer even if he did actually show,
but when the prison asked me where I planned on setting up residence,
I’d told them Nashville.

I stepped across the threshold, the highly recognizable line between captivity
and freedom in the form of a smaller gate through a big-ass fucking prison
gate. I squinted against the natural light. Closing my eyes, I inhaled deeply,
then relaxed.

Nothing happened.

“Expecting the air outside the yard to smell different than it did
inside the yard?” The guy had one elbow resting on the open window of a
black F-150 in the slot two spaces over. Another, a truly massive man, rested
against the bed of the truck next to the first guy, like they’d just
been having a chat. He’d crossed his legs at the ankles and his arms
over his chest, his pose casual.

“Jag?” the giant asked. “I’m Tiny. This is
Rancor.” He was soft-spoken, his voice a gruff rumble.

I nodded once, acknowledging but not inviting further conversation.

“Ready to roll?” Tiny asked, gaze friendly.

I shrugged and nodded again, fingers digging into my palms, the sharp pain
grounding me.

Tiny straightened. “Front or backseat, man?”

“Back.”

Tiny nodded respectfully, obviously expecting my choice since Rancor
hadn’t offered to move. He climbed behind the wheel while I opened the
back passenger-side door. I tossed the small bag holding my few possessions
across the seat to the far side of the vehicle. Sitting behind the passenger
left Rancor with a huge blind spot. While the driver could still watch me, he
needed to watch the road, too. I didn’t think these guys meant me harm,
but I also wasn’t going to get shanked my first hour out of prison.

The interior of the truck smelled like leather and tobacco. Clean. No blood.
No piss. No sweat. No puke. Definitely nice for a change.

The rumble vibrated through the seat and into my bones, a foreign sensation
after years of concrete and steel. Of all the things I’d missed in
prison, I’d missed riding my bike the most. I’d been away for
thirty-seven years. My bike had probably long since been sold off.

As we pulled away, I allowed myself one last glance at the prison. The
limestone walls and razor wire had been my entire world. I’d learned to
kill there. I’d learned to survive there. I’d forgotten how to
live anywhere else.

Tiny met my eyes briefly in the rearview mirror. “Long ride to
Nashville.” He handed me something I recognized as some kind of smart
phone. I’d never held one, but I’d seen them on TV, watched as
people used them in commercials or movies, when I’d been allowed to
watch. Also, a few of the guards didn’t bother with the policy on no
phones out of the locker rooms.

“Scroll through.” He used his finger to drag the screen upward,
revealing more. Yeah, I’d seen that before from some of the guards.
“It’s my social media feed. I set it to show articles you might be
interested in about Nashville. I like to call it my ‘Long-Term
Incarcerated’s Guide to the New World.’” I took the phone
from him. “It gives you some information about our club, the shelter we
help fund and protect, as well as terms you might not be familiar with. A
bunch of the guys got together, at our old ladies’ insistence, and made
a list of things hardest for them to adjust to when reentering society.”
He shrugged. “Some of the guys found it helpful. Including me.”

I grunted. Though, I had to admit, this surprised me. I’d been worried
about looking like an idiot when someone handed me something like the famed
“Three Seashells” and I looked just as dumb as Stallone’s
character.

I still didn’t know if I could concentrate while basically helpless in a
moving vehicle with two men I didn’t know who had served time just like
me. And had likely learned the same lessons I’d learned. Yeah.
Concentrate fully on something right now? Not fucking likely. I kept my
expression neutral and pretended to take in the material for a moment until I
was sure neither of them watched me too closely. Then I turned my head to look
out the window instead.

My reflection stared back at me from the glass — hollow eyes, angular face,
hair cropped close to my scalp. Prison-pale skin already burning under the
unfiltered sunlight. I barely recognized myself. The man in the reflection
wasn’t the one who’d gone inside. He was something else now.
Something hardened and remote. Something dangerous.

An hour into the trip, the interstate rolled beneath us, mile markers ticking
by like a countdown to something I wasn’t sure I was ready for. Tiny
kept both hands on the wheel except when he leaned one arm on the window.
Rancor sat with one arm propped on the window ledge, fingers drumming
occasionally to whatever was playing low on the radio.

The silence stretched between us, but it didn’t feel uncomfortable. I
thought, maybe these guys understood I needed time to adjust to friendly
company. Though I couldn’t trust them yet, my respect for them grew with
the care they showed for my sanity.

After another half hour of silence, other than the low music on the radio,
Tiny turned his head slightly to speak to me. “Knuckles runs a tight
ship. We’ve got legitimate business fronts now. Auto shop’s doing
well. Custom work bringing in good money. Also help with a shelter for
especially traumatized and terrorized women and children.” He shrugged.
“Most of the time, we just have a couple guys stand outside the gate.
Their… problems tend to give us a wide berth.” Tiny chuckled
darkly.

“Legal?” I said, the word feeling strange on my tongue.

Tiny shrugged. “Mostly. Still got side hustles, but we’re careful.
Knuckles makes sure of it. Shelter’s all on the up-and-up.” He
spoke like the shelter was his pride and joy. I used to talk about my bike
with that kind of reverence, so I knew this place meant something to the man.

There was another beat of silence before Rancor glanced at me in the rearview
mirror. “We know what you did for Kiss of Death that put you behind
bars.” He waited until I met and held his gaze. “That ain’t
this club anymore. We have each other’s back, and no one takes the fall
for anything.”

“Ain’t goin’ back.” I snarled the words before I could
stop myself. “Gave my fuckin’ soul for this club once. Not sure I
can do it again. If that’s a deal breaker, you can drop me off
here.”

“Never said you had to, brother. Knuckles knows his people. You
don’t have to prove anything. In his eyes, you’ve already proven
everything he needed to see, and he’ll make sure you never go
back.”

Rancor reached forward and turned up the volume slightly as “Sympathy
for the Devil” came on. My fingers twitched involuntarily against my
thigh. I’d had a cellmate who would sing this under his breath for
hours, driving the guy in the next cell into a rage. Ended with a shank to the
kidney during yard time. Though I liked the song, my cellie’s singing,
not so much. And he was a dick. Fun times.

We crossed the state line into Kentucky, the landscape gradually shifting. The
F-150 ate up the miles, comfortable in a way that made me uncomfortable. Too
soft.

Tiny pulled into a truck stop off the interstate. “Need to fill
up,” Tiny announced. “You want to stretch your legs?”

I shook my head. The thought of navigating the open space, the strangers, was
all too much to attempt right now.

“Be right back,” Rancor said, unfolding himself from the passenger
seat. “Taking a piss.”

I watched them through the windows as they moved around the station. Tiny
pumped gas while Rancor disappeared inside, reappearing minutes later with a
plastic bag.

A family pulled up at the neighboring pump, a man and woman, with two kids
arguing in the back seat. The woman laughed at something the man said, her
head tipping back to expose her throat. The children tumbled out, shoving at
each other, voices high and piercing. One of them looked my way, curious eyes
meeting mine before the mother called him back to her side.

I turned away, something hollow opening up in my chest. I’d forgotten
what families looked like. Forgotten I used to want one of my own.

Tiny and Rancor returned to the truck, Tiny sliding behind the wheel while
Rancor passed a plastic bag over the seat to me.

“Got you some water, sandwich, chips,” he said.
“Wasn’t sure what you’d want.”

I took the bag, not meeting his eyes. The scent of barbecue sauce wafted from
the bag as I opened it. “Thanks.” The word came out rusty, unused.

I opened the water first, taking a quick pull before unwrapping the sandwich
and taking a bite, nearly closing my eyes in bliss as rich barbecued pork
exploded across my tongue. “Christ,” I muttered.

Rancor chuckled softly. “Yeah, man. I think I had basically the same
reaction to my first good meal on the outside.”

“Ain’t sure that qualifies as a good meal,” Tiny muttered.

“A ham sandwich would be better than what we got in that place.”
Rancor waved off Tiny’s words. I agreed with him.

“Still fuckin’ good.” I took another bite, fumbling with the
napkin when I realized I probably looked like some kind of primitive who
didn’t know how to eat in civilized company. One more thing to add to
the list of things to get used to again.

Another hour and we entered the outskirts of Nashville. Tiny made a call and
the sound came through the car radio.

“We got a room ready for him.” I’d recognize Knuckles’
voice anywhere. The man had literally saved my sanity the short time
we’d been cellies. “He’s gonna want some time to himself to
transition, but I don’t want him isolated.”

“You just assume he came with us,” Rancor said, shooting Tiny an
amused grin. “Maybe he said fuck off.”

Knuckles barked out a laugh. “Oh, I’m sure he told you to fuck
off. Just maybe not out loud. But yeah. I’m sure he came. I know my
people, Rancor.”

“I came.” Not sure why I thought I had to speak up, but Knuckles
only grunted.

“Of course you did. This is your home. Rat Man did you dirty.”

“Almost there, Prez,” Tiny said. “Ten minutes.”

“Good. I’ll meet you at the main warehouse.” There was a
pause. “Hannah made sure you’d have everything you need,” he
continued. “She talked to every fucking guy in the place, so she and the
other women could give you as comfortable a place as they could. I know
you’re not a man who’d want a fuss made or anything but expect the
old ladies to make sure you have plenty of home-cooked food in your fridge for
when you’re hungry.”

“I — what?”

“You heard me.”

“Yeah, and I guess I’m not sure which surprises me.”

Knuckles grunted again. “The fact that you have your own fridge, or the
fact the girls bothered to stock it?”

“Both, I guess.”

“See you soon.” The call disconnected.

“Expect them to drop by often because our women can be mother
hens.” Rancor continued the conversation as we turned onto a narrow,
paved but crumbling road that cut between abandoned warehouses. “They
won’t let you suffer in silence, no matter how often you tell them to
leave. They don’t get their feelings hurt with big, surly bikers, but
oddly, they usually know when to back off before they get irritating.
It’s the weirdest fucking thing.”

That got a laugh from Tiny. “My two hellions haven’t figured out
when to back off. Don’t expect they will either.”

“Oh, your girls know where the line is. They simply refuse to let a
little thing like an imaginary line in the sand stop them.”
Rancor’s grin said he enjoyed the show on more than one occasion.

I thought I might see irritation in Tiny’s expression, but instead I saw
fondness and pride. Tiny loved whoever he was talking about. Likely loved the
fact they didn’t stop when they should. The revelation settled something
else inside me and my respect for the men grew a little more.

“Why?” I asked softly. “I feel like I’m bein’
set up or some shit. You guys don’t know me and the few who do know I
ain’t a kind man.”

“Club takes care of its own,” Rancor said quietly. “Whether
our own want it or not.”

Something twisted in my chest — not pain exactly, but its close cousin. Why
would anyone prepare for me? I was nobody to these people. The club had
changed since I’d been a member. I doubted anyone knew me from anywhere
but Terre Haute. Maybe not even then. The idea that someone had thought about
what I might need, had taken time to prepare for my arrival didn’t
compute with the world as I understood it.

“Don’t need special treatment,” I managed, voice rough.

Tiny chuckled, a deep, low rumble. “Ain’t special, brother.
It’s baseline. You’ll see.”

The Kiss of Death compound emerged from the industrial wasteland like a
fortress. Which was exactly what it was. Camo netting stretched between
warehouses arranged in a defensive square, breaking up sight lines and
confusing surveillance. I counted four visible cameras covering the entrance
alone, probably a dozen more I couldn’t see. Smart setup. Defensible.
And it was designed to keep people out. Not to hold them inside.

Tiny slowed at a reinforced gate. A guard in a booth nodded recognition, and
the gate slid open. We rolled through to a big warehouse well away from the
entrance to the compound.

Knuckles stood waiting at the inner entrance, arms crossed over his chest. He
was built solid, heavily muscled but leaner and shorter than Tiny.

Tiny parked the truck in front of the warehouse, cutting the engine. I stepped
out of the cage, feet planted firmly on the gravel. The air smelled of motor
oil, leather, and something delicious cooking.

“Good to see you breathing free air,” Knuckles said, extending his
hand.

I took his hand, the handshake brief but firm. His eyes held mine, assessing
but not demanding. He didn’t try to establish dominance through the
handshake, didn’t pump my arm or crush my fingers. Just a simple
acknowledgment between equals which surprised me. Even if I were technically
still part of Kiss of Death, Knuckles, as the president, outranked me
significantly.

“Appreciate the welcome,” I said, the words coming easier than I
expected.

Knuckles nodded, seeming to understand all I wasn’t saying.
“Let’s get you settled.”

He led the way through the compound, Tiny and Rancor falling in behind us. A
few club members moved about their business. They looked up as we passed,
nodding respectfully but didn’t approach.

“Bottom floors of the outer buildings are club business,” Knuckles
explained, voice low enough that only I could hear. “Upper floors are
apartments for patched members. Inner buildings are all living quarters.

“Hannah, my woman, assigned you a unit in the east building, second
floor,” Knuckles continued. “Quieter side of the compound.”

Knuckles stopped at a door at the corner of the back side of the building. He
handed me a keycard. “Room’s yours as long as you want to stay.
Old ladies will make sure you’re stocked. Don’t ask them to do
your laundry. They will shank you.”

That got a bark of laughter out of me when I hadn’t expected to feel
like smiling so soon. “I appreciate the place to crash.”

“No thanks necessary.”

The apartment was simple but far larger than any space I’d occupied in
nearly four decades. A main room with a couch and coffee table. Small kitchen
area with actual appliances. A window overlooking the compound below.

“Basics are all here,” Knuckles said, remaining by the door.
Giving me room. “The girls brought linens and shit, so you’ve got
bedding and towels. There’s probably a box of toiletries in the
bathroom.” He motioned to a set of doors next to each other on one end
of the room. “Bedroom and bathroom.” He pointed in the other
direction. “Spare room for whatever the fuck you want to do with
it.”

I moved farther into the space, checking the place out. Clean surfaces. No
dust. The faint scent of something lemon. Someone had prepared this place
recently, anticipating my arrival. The thought was unsettling in its kindness.

“Bathroom’s got everything you need,” Knuckles continued.
“Hot water takes about thirty seconds to kick in. Pressure’s good
and the shower is large. There’s also a bathtub. Anything else you need,
just say the word.” He paused, watching me carefully. “When the
old ladies come by to bring you more food, let them in, please.”

My head snapped up, surprised by his insight. I’d been calculating how
long I could go without opening that door, how to minimize contact until
I’d found my bearings.

Knuckles gave me a knowing look. “They mean well. And trust me, you
don’t want to be on their bad side.”

A faint smile tugged at my lips again before I could suppress it.
“Noted.”

“I’ll leave you to get settled,” Knuckles said, stepping
back into the hallway. “Club meeting tomorrow at noon if you want to
join. No pressure. Just know you’re welcome. When or if you’re
ready to take an active role in the club, we would all welcome you to find
your place with us.” He gave me another grin. “Welcome home,
brother.”

He closed the door behind him with a soft click, and I was alone. Truly alone
for the first time in years outside of AdSeg — what most people call solitary
confinement, or Administrative Segregation. Whatever you call it, AdSeg was
the only time I didn’t have a cellmate breathing in the bunk below. No
guards passing by at regular intervals. No constant background noise of men
living in forced proximity.

Just silence.

I stood motionless in the center of the room. The space felt impossibly large
after my cell, the silence deafening after years of constant noise.

I moved to the window, drawn by the natural light. Below, club members moved
about their business. Two men working on a Harley. A woman carrying what
looked like groceries toward another building. Normal life continuing in its
rhythm.

My reflection stared back at me from the glass, superimposed over the scene
below. A man caught between worlds, belonging to neither. The prison had
released my body but kept pieces of my soul. The club had offered shelter but
couldn’t give me back what I’d lost to them before. I thought I
should move on, put this chapter of my life behind me, but the thought made my
insides twist. Knuckles was right. Though the compound had moved location, the
spirit of the club I’d first joined was within this fenced-off land. I
could feel the energy all around me and it felt like home.

I placed my palm against the cool glass, watching my breath fog a small
circle. Outside, the sun was setting, casting long shadows across the
compound. The stranger in the glass looked back at me, equally lost in a world
he no longer understood.

Marteeka Karland is an international bestselling author who leads a double
life as an erotic romance author by evening and a semi-domesticated housewife
by day. Known for her down and dirty MC romances, Marteeka takes pleasure in
spinning tales of tenacious, protective heroes and spirited, vulnerable
heroines. She staunchly advocates that every character deserves a blissful
ending, even, sometimes, the villains in her narratives. Her writings are
speckled with intense, raw elements resulting in page-turning delight entwined
with seductive escapades leading up to gratifying conclusions that elicit a
sigh from her readers.

Away from the pen, Marteeka finds joy in baking and supporting her husband
with their gardening activities. The late summer season is set aside for
preserving the delightful harvest that springs from their combined efforts
(which is mostly his efforts, but you can count it). To stay updated with
Marteeka’s latest adventures and forthcoming books, make sure to visit her
website. Don’t forget to register for her newsletter which will pepper you
with a potpourri of Teeka’s beloved recipes, book suggestions, autograph
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Author on Instagram & TikTok: @marteekakarland

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Brotherhood of the Wild 1

A Riptide MC Romance

Date Published: January 2, 2026

Publisher: Changeling Press

Ryland — I was tailing a gang of poachers, certain they’d lead me
straight to their kingpin, when a stray arrow from a crossbow slammed into me.
Pain lanced through me and everything faded to black. In that blur of
unconsciousness, I could have sworn a pure white bear stood over me, calm as
can be. When I opened my eyes again, a woman — curvy and impossibly beautiful
— was watching me with the cutest look of mixed concern and distrust on her
face.

Kimberly — I thought I was alone on a tiny island off the coast of British
Columbia until an arrow from a crossbow barely missed skewering me. With my
dog Diego at my heels, I ran to hide in a maze of caves, my heart pounding.
Crouched down in the dark, I listened in terror as voices and footsteps
floated to me from outside. I prayed the shooters wouldn’t find the
spirit bear that inhabited this place. When I finally crept back out into the
daylight, I found I wasn’t the only target — but the unconscious man
lying in a pool of his own blood wasn’t talking. Victim or one of them?

Ryland

A sudden squawk of alarm sounded directly in front of me. The quiet morning
exploded into sound as a covey of startled pheasants took flight.

Damn! I was hiding in the thick brush off the side of the path, out of sight
of my quarry, but right behind the fucking birds. One of the poachers turned,
aiming a crossbow straight at the panicked birds. Straight at me.

Double damn.

I ducked low to the ground, hoping to avoid detection. My handgun was nestled
in its shoulder holster, and a couple of my favorite throwing knives were
strapped to my thighs but there were six poachers and one of me. Not sure why
they were using crossbows instead of firearms. Maybe they wanted to avoid
making any noise that might bring attention to their presence, but I
couldn’t imagine who they thought might hear them on this deserted piece
of dirt off the coast of British Columbia.

Even without guns, though, the odds were against me. I braced myself as the
arrow arced its way toward me.

Moving to avoid the projectile wasn’t an option. I couldn’t afford
to let the poachers detect my presence. My mission depended on them not
knowing they’d been made.

The shooter had already turned back to catch up with the rest of the group
when the sharp tip of the projectile sliced through the meaty outer part of my
upper arm. I gritted my teeth as blood spurted from the wound.

Son of a bitch, that hurt.

Still, it was a lucky shot — a flesh wound, even if a painful one. I’d
had worse. Just one foot to the left and it would have gone straight through
my heart. A broadhead arrow could prove fatal under the right circumstances.

The flapping of the pheasants’ wings made so much racket that it drowned
out any noise I made as I lowered myself to the ground, grimacing at the red
stain spreading on my sleeve. I needed to staunch the bleeding. Like it or
not, the chase was over for today.

I glanced down at my watch. I was cutting it close. I needed to get back to my
boat and report in. If William didn’t hear from me on schedule,
he’d send the troops storming in to find me and that would blow any
chance we had of learning what these guys were up to.

I leaned back against a moss-covered tree stump in the center of the bushes.
The sound of the poachers joking amongst themselves as they retreated let me
know my presence hadn’t been detected.

Well, at least that was a positive.

I’d been tailing these jerks for almost a week now, ever since an
anonymous tip-off to the Operations Center had clued William in on their
activity in this neck of the woods. When they’d landed on this island
though, I was baffled. What could there possibly be here that would interest
an international ring of poachers? If they’d been farther north or on
the mainland, I would have assumed they were going after bears for their
saleable parts, a lucrative business these days. Bear gall was in high demand
in the traditional Chinese medicine markets for its supposed healing
properties. Bears were territorial creatures, though. On an island this small,
the chances of finding more than one were slim, assuming you even found one.
Hardly worth the effort of getting here.

Wincing, I shifted my weight slightly to take the pressure off my injured arm.
I didn’t dare leave my hiding spot, not yet. I needed to be sure the
poachers didn’t circle back. They were a nasty bunch, not above killing
someone if they thought they could get away with it.

I closed my eyes, gritting my teeth against the pain lancing through my arm.
The slow drip of water hitting the rocks beside me had a mesmerizing effect.
Or was it the blood from the wound?

I pivoted my head to look at my injured arm. Despite the copious amounts of
blood staining my shirt and the ground beneath me, the wound didn’t
appear serious. The flow of the blood would have cleaned out any foreign
debris, and the arrow had missed hitting the artery.

Yup, I’d definitely had worse.

Using my good arm, I pulled a knife out of the sheath strapped to my thigh and
sliced a large swath of fabric from the front of my shirt to use as a
makeshift bandage. A tight compress would staunch the bleeding long enough for
me to make my way back to the mainland and get it taken care of properly.

I struggled to remove my belt, the worn leather creaking and groaning in
protest as I pulled it loose.

It should not have taken that much effort. Maybe I’d lost more blood
than I thought. Didn’t matter. I wasn’t dying, and the mission
took precedence over a little discomfort.

The reason we had decided to investigate this group was the anomalies. This
was one loaded group of badass poachers. Normally poachers were a solitary
bunch, untrusting and cynical in the extreme. Finding two or three teamed
together to go after larger prey wasn’t uncommon but teaming up like
these guys were doing was totally out of character.

I’d been following them since they’d arrived from Hong Kong and
met up with a local guide of questionable repute. It was evident that the
meeting had been scheduled ahead of time. Prior to heading north, the five
stayed at the Vancouver Airport Hotel for the night. That meant they had money
behind them. They’d rented a Jeep and driven to their staging area,
where they parked the Jeep in a forestry site lot on the coast. A fully
stocked boat, complete with captain, was waiting for them, and they motored
straight to this little island.

That was a considerable amount of effort just to reach this deserted piece of
land in the Pacific Ocean. If not for the bug I’d managed to plant on
one of the poachers at the airport, I would have lost contact with them. It
was impossible to track a boat on the open ocean without visual sightings, so
stealth required electronic solutions.

It would take someone with local knowledge to even find the island. It
certainly didn’t show on international maps, and as far as I knew it
wasn’t big enough to have a formal name, just a number on the navigation
grid. That still didn’t explain what the attraction was, though. Given
the people involved, there had to be some tie-in to the illegal poaching
running rampant in this part of Canada. I just needed to figure out what it
was.

I’d heard rumors one of the protected spirit bears inhabiting one of the
small islands in this area. I knew they were extremely rare, but no one had
been able to verify the story, and I put it down to a myth the locals used to
lure tourists to the area. A quick Google search confirmed that the small
population of spirit bears in this part of the world lived farther north,
around Haida Gwaii.

Surely a group of international thieves would know better than to get taken in
by such a blatant tourist-trapping lie? The parts from such a creature would
be worth a devil’s ransom, but it would be difficult to harvest salable
items from a myth. More likely, they were after something else, something
valuable. But what?

I folded the soft strip of flannel from my shirt and placed it over the wound
on my arm. The bleeding had slowed, a good sign. Gritting my teeth, I wrapped
the belt around the makeshift bandage and pulled it tight.

A searing bolt of pain sliced through the raw wound, and colored dots danced
before my eyes. I concentrated on my breathing as I waited for the throbbing
to subside.

Looked like the wound was worse than I’d thought.

I’d left my medi-kit on the boat, but I’d seen a birch tree a few
lengths back. My grandfather had been a bit of a survivalist and had shown me
how to make a traditional wound dressing from birch bark. That would serve to
dull the pain until I retrieved the medi-kit and the heavy-duty painkillers in
it. I’d outgrown that macho, I-can-take-the-pain stage a long time ago.

I got to my feet, using the massive tree stump to steady myself. For a moment,
the world swam in front of my eyes. Great, just what I needed.

I closed them, waiting for the forest to stop moving. When it did, I pushed
off from the stump, trekking slowly in the direction of the beachhead where
I’d left my boat.

One foot in front of the other. Easy as that. I could do this.

My arm throbbed, and I glanced down. No fresh blood. Good.

I stopped by the birch tree, dropping to one knee. Using a sharp-bladed
hunting knife to slice off a few lengths of bark, I shredded it into fibers
and formed them into a compress. Sucking in a deep breath, I gently placed the
birch bark poultice over the raw flesh and reapplied the dressing, securing it
with the belt.

Resting for a bit to let the pain ease up, I rose to my feet and continued in
the direction of the boat.

Seconds later, I stumbled over a surface root, thudding heavily to my knees.
The loss of blood must have weakened me more than I’d realized, and it
took a long moment before I managed to get back up. I picked up a broken tree
limb, leaning on it for balance.

My focus narrowed. I needed to get to the boat. Keeping my hold on the
makeshift walking stick, I took a step. Better, much better.

The birch bark compress supplied some relief from the pain in my arm.
I’d had worse injuries back in my military days. I could do this.

Concentrate. The boat.

Need to get to boat.

Need to report back in.

Whatever these guys were after, the Brotherhood of the Wild would put a stop
to it. We had the advantage of operating internationally, bypassing local
bureaucracy. And we had money. Money could open doors and make officials look
the other way.

Boat. Need to get to the boat.

I stumbled again, pausing to lean on a tree until my vision cleared.

Clenching my jaw, I pushed myself upright and took one step. Then another.

Leaning heavily on the walking stick, I steadied myself. The notion of balance
seemed to have deserted my brain entirely, and I compromised with a slow
shuffling gait that kept me on my feet and heading in the right direction.
That was really all I needed.

I felt myself start to fall again and reached out for the closest tree. Had I
even made it twenty feet since the last time I’d had to reach for a
tree? Maybe. But not much farther.

I took a deep breath and tried to clear my head. Nope. Wasn’t going to
work this time. Never mind. I just needed to keep moving in the direction of
the boat. That was all.

Just keep moving.

About the Author

Anne Kane lives in the beautiful Okanagan Valley with a bouncy little rescue
dog whose breed defies description, a cantankerous Himalayan cat, and too many
fish to count. She spent many years trying to fit in and act normal, but
finally gave up the effort. She started writing romance in 2008, and her fate
was sealed when she won a publishing contract with Red Sage Publishing and
just a month later Changeling Press accepted her first submission. Since then
she has published more than thirty stories in a variety of sub-genres, all
with a happily ever after.

She has two handsome sons and six adorable grandchildren and enjoys spending
time with them whenever she can. Her hobbies, when she’s not playing
with the characters in her head, include kayaking, hiking, swimming, playing
guitar, singing and of course, reading.

Author Links

Website

Facebook

Twitter (X)

Goodreads

Save 15% off any order at ChangelingPress.com with code RABT15

(Riptide MC)

Motorcycle Club Romance, Age Gap, Suspense

Date Published: November 7, 2025

Lily ran from a nightmare straight to Rattler’s arms. He’s all leather,
muscle and lethal promise. Dare she hope for an HEA?

Lily — Abusing me was bad enough, but when my a**hole of a boyfriend
threatened to shoot a tiny kitten, I brained him with a pot of spaghetti sauce
and ran — straight into the arms of the tattooed VP of the Riptide MC.
He’s everything my ex isn’t, and that gives me hope. He promises
to keep Scrapper and I safe, but my ex isn’t the forgiving kind. He said
he would kill me if I left him and I know he’s going to come looking for
revenge.

Rattler — She might be younger than me in years, but there’s a world of
experience looking out of those gorgeous eyes, and it isn’t the good
kind. When she pulled a gun on me, I knew she was my kind of woman.
She’s on the run from an a**hole who used her as a punching bag. He
might have the local law enforcement in his pocket, but me and my brothers in
Riptide have military experience, and sometimes vigilante justice is
necessary.

Trigger Warning: This is an MC action thriller romance. It contains violence,
abuse, coarse language, vigilante justice, and adult situations. No cheating,
no cliffhangers, and a guaranteed happily ever after. Enjoy!

Rattler

Thor and Janet were actually going to tie the fucking knot! I suppose I should
have seen it coming, but they’d been playing friends-with-benefits for
so long I guess I thought that’s all they’d ever be. And now here
I was — sitting in a bakery waiting for a box of frilly wedding-type cupcakes
to take back to the clubhouse for the old ladies to sample. Not sure how I got
conned into playing fetch. I was happy for them and all, but you’d think
they could have sent a prospect, not the fucking VP.

The bell on the door tinkled, and I looked up as a woman came in. She looked
rough. More than rough. One eye was black, and through the open collar of her
coat I could see a circle of greenish yellow bruises on her neck. Her clothes
looked like she’d slept in them, and she had a bulging backpack slung
across one shoulder. She looked young, too young to be stuck in the kind of
relationship those bruises indicated.

She glanced in my direction and quickly looked away. Yeah, she was scared of
something. Or more likely, someone. She walked up to the counter, and I
noticed a slight limp. Probably from the same incident that gave her that
black eye.

Maybe I was wrong. Ace always chided me for jumping to conclusions. She could
have been in a car accident or tripped and fallen down a flight of stairs. The
problem was, in my experience, that only happened once in a very long while.
I’d bet my bottom dollar there were more bruises hidden under her
clothes, in varying shades of blue, yellow, and purple. Evidence of an ongoing
series of attacks.

Impotent assholes who beat up on their women were one of my triggers, and I
looked outside to see if maybe this was my lucky day. Maybe the asshole was
here with her.

She asked the woman behind the counter for a coffee, and when the lady turned
to get it, she grabbed a muffin and stuffed it in her pocket. The attendant
turned back and sat the cup of steaming coffee on the counter and rang in the
purchase. Pulling a few bills out of her bra, the newcomer paid the bill and
hurried back outside, gulping the coffee down as she went. I watched as she
turned the corner and headed down the alley beside the bakery.

Standing, I strode over to the counter. Tossing a couple of bills on the
counter, I smiled. “For my coffee, and the muffin you forgot to charge
my friend for.”

“Your friend?” Her brows raised in disbelief.

“That’s right. She must not have seen me waiting for her.
I’ll be back in a few minutes for those cupcakes.” I pivoted and
strode out the door before she could ask exactly how anyone could miss seeing
someone as big as me.

I turned the corner and saw the woman crouched down at the far end of the
alley, petting a kitten that had its head poked out of her backpack. She gave
me the side-eye as I sauntered toward her, trying to look as unthreatening as
possible.

I obviously didn’t do a very good job. She waited until I was about ten
feet from her, far enough away not to touch her but close enough to block the
view of anyone who happened to walk past the mouth of the alley. Then she
straightened up and pulled the gun out from under her shirt. She made damn
sure I saw her flick the safety off.

“Don’t come near me.” She pulled the backpack a little
closer as if to protect the tiny scrap of a kitten in it.

Did I seriously look like the kind of guy who’d hurt a kitten?

Apparently, she thought so. I held my hands up. “I just wanted to talk.
I’m not going to harm you.”

She didn’t look convinced. “Tim send you?”

I frowned, taking in her battered appearance. “Tim the guy that did that
to you?”

She didn’t answer for a moment, and the gun didn’t waver.
“Fuck off.”

I had to work at not smiling. The swear words sounded cute coming out of such
a tiny thing. “No, I have no fucking idea who Tim is. I just saw you
come in and nick that muffin and wondered if maybe you needed a hand. I paid
for the muffin, by the way, so you don’t have to worry about
that.”

She snorted. “Not high on my list of worries right now.”

“Fair enough.” I gestured at the ground. “Doesn’t look
all that comfortable down there. Care to come back into the bakery and we can
talk?”

“Why would I want to talk to you?”

I shrugged. “I’m a nice guy. No offense, but it’s pretty
obvious you’re running from someone. Maybe I can help. Do you have
somewhere to go? I can offer you and your little companion there a
ride.”

Her eyes narrowed, and I could see her calculate the odds of me being a serial
killer. “I’m looking for the Riptide MC. Do you know where to find
them?”

Anne Kane lives in the beautiful Okanagan Valley with a bouncy little rescue
dog whose breed defies description, a cantankerous Himalayan cat, and too many
fish to count. She spent many years trying to fit in and act normal, but
finally gave up the effort. She started writing romance in 2008, and her fate
was sealed when she won a publishing contract with Red Sage Publishing and
just a month later Changeling Press accepted her first submission. Since then
she has published more than thirty stories in a variety of sub-genres, all
with a happily ever after.

She has two handsome sons and six adorable grandchildren and enjoys spending
time with them whenever she can. Her hobbies, when she’s not playing
with the characters in her head, include kayaking, hiking, swimming, playing
guitar, singing and of course, reading.

Author Links

Website

Facebook

Twitter (X)

Goodreads

Publisher on Facebook, Instagram, Twitter, and TikTok: @changelingpress

Save 15% off any order at ChangelingPress.com with code RABT15

Motorcycle Club Romance, Suspense

Date Published: October 10, 2025

Publisher: Changeling Press

Dylan — I thought I could handle my uncle’s world. I thought if I kept
my head down and stayed quiet, I could survive with the help of the mysterious
man who’d slipped into my bed like a secret I didn’t want to
question. But one night everything shattered. My uncle Eli handed me off to a
trafficker like I was nothing, and the man I trusted turned out to be the
ghost Eli thought he’d left hanging in the woods — the man who would
kill to keep me safe.

Vendetta — I used to be Tank, proud to wear the Cottonmouth patch, until I
spoke out against the rot our so-called leaders let poison our MC. They hung
me for it. I crawled out of my grave and took a new name. Now I’m back
to burn the criminal empire infecting Oak Grove, and the Cottonmouths that
invited it in, to the ground.

Dylan was never supposed to be part of the plan. Hell, she’s the niece
of the man who betrayed me. But I’ll die before I let him hurt her
again. And when Eli and his men try to finish what they started, they’ll
see I’m not the same man they tried to bury.

Warning: Vendetta is intended for readers 18+ due to explicit adult content,
violence, and bad language. There’s no cliffhanger, no cheating, and a
guaranteed HEA.

Dylan

Ned’s Sundown Lounge looked rougher in the light of day than it ever did
at night.

Dylan Crizer waited across the street with her keys clenched in her hand,
taking it all in. The building looked old, dressed in faded black brick. The
same flickering neon sign that barely spelled the word “Open” was
still there. She remembered it from passing by that building as a child. The
tinted windows smeared with fingerprints and smoke stains were new. While the
building wasn’t falling apart just yet, it had clearly seen better days.
Maybe better decades.

Yeah, it was as bad as her Uncle Eli had said it was. It blew her mind that he
was now co-owner of the bar that had been there most of her life. Eli Crizer
was a big bad biker, president of the Cottonmouths and all that, but
he’d never been well-off before. How did a biker get that kind of money?
Did he dip into his retirement account? Did he even have one of those?

Not long after she returned to Oak Grove, she found out her uncle had bought
the place with a “business associate.” How did he get a business
associate? The place had always fascinated her, so when she saw the
‘help wanted’ sign in the window, she marched herself in and
applied right away. Not surprisingly, her uncle, who hadn’t made time to
reach out to her so far, called her the same day about her application.

“It’s not the place for you, Dylan,” he said right off the
bat. When she asked why, he countered with, “It’s gonna be full of
drunks, ex-cons, and worse.”

She thought the fact that she’d been a waitress for years would
guarantee her the job. She had bartender experience too, although she
wasn’t the best at making drinks consistently good in a rough
environment. Her uncle didn’t agree. “You’re a Crizer.
You’re better than serving drinks to scummy people.”

But here she was anyway. Not just because she had something to prove. She now
had something to rebuild. Her entire life basically. Maybe she wouldn’t
be starting a new job today; Eli as a co-owner could cut her off. But she had
to try.

Dylan spent five years with a man who couldn’t commit and didn’t
want her to grow. Five years pretending she was happy in a dead-end
relationship in Richmond. When she left him and the city, she made up her mind
that she’d come back to Oak Grove and figure it out from the ground up.
She’d start over. Hell, she was only twenty-five. She had time.

She was starting over right here at Ned’s Sundown Lounge.

Pushing through the front door, Dylan blinked as her eyes adjusted to the low
light inside the bar. The entire place smelled of old leather, cheap whiskey,
and stale beer. It appeared to be well stocked and mostly clean despite all
the scuff marks and the sticky spots along the floor. The tables were roomy
and spaced out well around its central dance floor. A narrow hallway led off
in the direction of the restrooms and the back offices. Ned’s Sundown
Lounge had its own unique charm. If you squinted.

“Good afternoon,” came a voice from behind the bar. A tall, older
woman with a sharp jaw and leopard-print eyeglasses worked at polishing
glasses, watching Dylan with a smile. “You must be Eli’s
niece.”

“Dylan,” she said, stepping up to the bar. “Here for my
first day.”

At least she hoped she was. If Eli told them she couldn’t work there,
what would she do? She really needed the job and had already told him that.

“I’m Peggy,” the woman said in the way of introduction as
she gave her a once-over and nodded like she approved of what she saw.
“You got the job. Just stay aware and don’t take shit from anyone.
Even the regulars. You’ll be fine.”

Dylan didn’t hesitate. “Wasn’t planning on it.”

“Come on.” Peggy put the last glass she polished on the bar and
motioned for Dylan to follow her.

Down that narrow hallway and to the left was a line of really old lockers
outside the business offices. All of them had huge padlocks, protecting the
personal items the employees wanted to tuck away. Just one, at the far end,
had a small key stuck in the bottom of its padlock. Peggy pointed to that one.

“There’s only one key,” Peggy warned. “If you lose it,
you’re responsible for getting a new lock, okay?”

Dylan nodded, tucking her purse into the locker and securing it with the
padlock before sliding its tiny silver key into the front pocket of her jeans.

Peggy jerked a thumb in the opposite direction. “The kitchen is that
way. There’s not a lot of menu options to memorize. Burgers, fries,
nachos. I think they have chili a couple of times a week. None of it is that
great.”

Good to know. Pulling the hair tie from her wrist, she pulled her hair up into
a ponytail as she followed the woman back through the bar, taking in every
corner as she went. Dylan was many things but naive wasn’t one of them.

Her Uncle Eli had influence here and he led a shady biker club. And now he was
a co-owner of this place. People didn’t just “run bars”
these days. Bars were often covers for other things. More shady shit.
She’d left a couple of bars after learning they were running drugs out
of them. The second one had a full police raid one night and it took hours for
it to be cleared up so everyone could go home. She never returned because
drugs were dangerous and brought dangerous people. No job was worth putting
herself in the line of fire.

But until she had proof that something wasn’t right here at her
uncle’s bar, she was going to do the damn job. Unfortunately, she needed
the money to get back on her feet.

Smile. Hustle. Listen. It had been her mantra since her first job in a bar.

Peggy looked to be somewhere in her forties. She had a no-nonsense attitude
that had to come in handy in a place as rough as this. “House rules.
Keep the regulars’ drinks full and staff are not allowed to talk
politics. Or religion. People don’t want to think about religion when
they’re drinking and partying, you know? The jukebox plays when it
fucking wants to, so no beating it or kicking it. If Ned’s here and he
sees you do it, he’ll lose his mind.”

“Who’s Ned?” Dylan asked.

“The other co-owner,” Peggy replied. “Try not to piss him
off, even if you are Eli’s family.”

“Understood,” Dylan said.

“Now, if a fight breaks out and there’s usually one each fucking
week,” Peggy explained, “don’t be a hero. Just try and get
clear and wave down one of the bouncers. We usually have at least two of them
scheduled each night. It’s not a bad idea to check the schedule.
It’s on the whiteboard with the lockers. See who’s on duty each
night so you know who you’re looking for.” She jerked her chin in
the direction of the far end of the bar.

Dylan followed her gaze to the two huge guys leaning against the back wall
near the hallway, perfectly still and silent. One of them was built like a
refrigerator with tattoos creeping up both sides of his neck. The other looked
mean even though he wasn’t actively trying to at that moment. He was
leaner with an angular face and a body you could only get from hours each week
in the gym. The gym rats were hit-or-miss as bouncers. Dylan would be willing
to bet money that the fridge was the one to flag down in a fight.

“They don’t talk much, but they move fast, let me tell you. If
some shit goes down, make eye contact, give a nod, and then get out of the
way. Got it?”

“Got it,” Dylan said, scanning the room as Peggy handed her an
apron and a notepad. “Is there a panic button or something? I’ve
worked in other places that had them.”

Peggy snorted. “This ain’t Applebee’s, sweetheart. You see
something coming, you move. Fast.”

It wasn’t the serious lack of formal safety protocols that raised
Dylan’s eyebrows. It was the way Peggy said it, like fights
weren’t just a possibility, they were expected. Like there was a rhythm
to them and they were allowed. She nodded and kept listening, but something
about that rubbed her wrong.

“Most of our business is on the weekends, of course, but the VIPs come
in all during the week,” Peggy went on, already moving back to the bar
to stock napkins in old-fashioned metal boxes. “You’ll know them
when you see them. They don’t tip, but don’t piss them off. Eli
likes to keep them happy.”

Dylan paused, notebook in hand. “VIPs?”

“Locals. Out-of-towners. Some are from his MC. Doesn’t
matter,” Peggy said, without looking up. “You serve what they
order and stay out of their conversations. That’s not me being rude.
That’s me keeping you employed.”

The words hit her like a warning. Something about all of it, the emphasis, the
look in Peggy’s eyes, the way she didn’t offer names made
Dylan’s stomach tighten as she kept listening, wondering what else she
was going to hear. Nodding, she filed it all away and forced a smile.

“Thanks for showing me the ropes,” Dylan said. “I appreciate
it.”

Peggy finally looked at her, a long, assessing stare. Then she shrugged.
“You’ve got the eyes for this place. You watch everything.
That’s good. Just make sure you don’t watch too closely,
yeah?”

Dylan didn’t answer. But she was definitely paying attention.

“One last thing.” Peggy spoke quietly. “You’re one of
the owner’s family members which probably means you’d have to
really fuck up to get fired. But just keep in mind, you’re still
expendable.”

“I’ll do my best to remember that.”

The evening crowd was light, just as Peggy explained it would be. It was
Thursday night, and Ned’s Sundown Lounge always did look better at
night. The dim lighting and the fact that the sun had already set, covered the
bar’s many imperfections better than paint ever could. The jukebox was
working tonight, playing songs that were moody and lazy, and they filled the
space without drawing attention.

The regulars were easy to spot, planted on barstools like fixtures, beers in
front of them. Some of them talked to each other in low voices, some were
there on their own. Dylan had just finished clearing one of her tables when
the cool night air blew a newcomer through the front doors.

Dylan glanced up and paused.

The newest patron was tall and built. She didn’t think she’d seen
him before. That didn’t necessarily mean anything. She was just back in
town after having been gone several years.

The man who just walked in didn’t look like a local. Six-four, easy,
with broad shoulders under a worn jean jacket and a dark hoodie that had
definitely seen better days. His long dark hair was pulled back low at the
neck, and a beat-up baseball cap shadowed most of his face. Not that it helped
much. He was fine and pretty hard to miss.

Dark eyes scanned the room once, slow and deliberate. He didn’t come
across as cocky, just aware. Like he was used to being in places where trouble
could find him in a hurry. When his gaze finally landed on her, it lingered
for half a second longer than it needed to. Not creepy or flirty. Maybe
interested.

Dylan straightened and stepped behind the bar, already reaching for a clean
glass. But the new guy didn’t sit at the bar like most of them. No, he
picked out a booth near the back, one that gave him the best line of sight on
both the bar’s exits.

Shit, they really must have fights often here.

Dylan clocked that and noticed how relaxed his movements were. Like someone
trained not to draw attention but fully capable of handling it if he had to.

She walked over with a notepad in hand, smiling when his gaze met hers.
“You look like a bourbon guy,” she said by way of greeting.

“It depends on who’s pouring,” he said, voice deep and
gravel smooth.

About the Author

Jamie Targaet is the author of the Hounds of Hell MC. She’s anxious to
introduce you to this club of gorgeous, dominant men and the lucky women who
surrender to them. The ride is going to get wild at times, not going to lie.
But there’s thrilling action, scorching hot sex scenes, and all the feels.

Jamie writes erotic romance for Changeling Press, a little fanfiction on the
side, and she’s an aspiring horror writer in another life. She enjoys time
with her family (including the fur babies). She likes good horror movies and
shows, emo metal and classic rock, and time spent in other worlds writing and
reading. She loves hearing from readers and is looking forward to hearing from
you.

Author on Amazon

Author’s Website

Save 15% off any order at ChangelingPress.com with code RABT15