Tag Archives: MC romance

TEASER: Ace by Harley Wylde

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(Savage Raptors MC)

 

Motorcycle Club Romance, Age Gap, Suspense

Date Published: January 9, 2026

He’s the calm before the storm. She’s the chaos that makes
him feel alive.

 

Marci: Running only works for so long when the devil hunting me wears a badge.
I’ve spent a year hiding behind fake names and cheap motel rooms,
praying I could disappear. Bryson Corners was supposed to be a quiet stop
before I ran again.

Then I walk into The Broken Spoke and meet Ace. He looks at me and I feel
safe… and I believe him. I shouldn’t. Attachment gets people
killed. But every time he touches me, every time he stands between me and the
world, I want to stay instead of run.

Ace: I’ve learned the hard way that peace never lasts. Managing the bar
keeps me steady — until Marci walks in, scared and stubborn and pretending
she doesn’t need anyone. She’s mine before I can stop it.

She’s running from something brutal, and whoever wants her will have to
go through me — and through the Savage Raptors MC. I’ve fought for my
brothers, my patch, my life… but for her?

I’ll burn the world down.

 


An emotional age-gap MC romance full of danger, loyalty, and the kind of love
that takes root and refuses to let go.

 

EXCERPT

Marci

The Honda’s engine ticked while heat faded, each sharp sound far too
loud in the afternoon quiet. I sat behind the wheel, hands locked around the
steering wheel, knuckles white, and counted my breaths the way I’d
trained myself to do whenever panic climbed my throat. One. Two. Three. The
parking lot stretched empty before me except for a single pickup truck near
the building’s entrance, and I’d already checked every mirror
twice to make sure no one had followed me here.

The Broken Spoke hunched low under the Oklahoma sky, weathered boards faded
from sun and storms, neon sign quiet during daylight hours. The whole place
looked tired and rough around the edges, the kind of bar where broken people
carried wounds behind their eyes, where forgetting felt easier than healing.

I peeled my fingers from the steering wheel, joints stiff from the grip.
Shaking returned, small at first, then stronger once my focus locked on the
tremor. Two years of this — two years since I’d walked away from
everything I knew, carrying only a backpack and clothes from a life better
left behind. I learned to hide the tremor. Learned to keep my hands busy, to
move like I belonged anywhere, even on days when my balance barely held.

A Help Wanted sign waited in the window, same place I saw yesterday during a
slow drive through town. I had bartended, waitressed, cleaned houses, taken
any job paying cash, asking no questions. Those jobs kept me fed and moving
forward. My ribs remembered hunger. My heart remembered the way loss hollowed
me out.

I drew a breath rough enough to scrape my throat and reached for the door
handle. One step at a time. Survive first. Trust later.

I grabbed my purse from the passenger seat and checked my reflection in the
rearview mirror. Blonde hair pulled back in a ponytail, no makeup except a
touch of lip gloss I’d worried off an hour ago. I looked tired. I looked
like someone who’d been running for too long. But I also looked
ordinary, forgettable, and the point settled heavy in my chest.

The door handle felt slick under my palm as I pushed the door open. Heat
washed over me in an instant, thick afternoon warmth turning every breath into
work. I locked the car — muscle memory by now, even though nothing inside
held any value — and started across the parking lot.

Each step carried a quiet prayer for a place where I could disappear, earn
enough to survive, and not draw attention. Ordinary helped. Forgettable kept
doors from slamming in my face. I clung to both, even when my heart begged for
something more.

Gravel crunched under my sneakers. I kept my gaze moving, scanning the tree
line beyond the building, the road I’d just come from, the shadows under
the eaves where someone could wait unseen. Old habits. Survival instincts kept
me alive this long. I couldn’t let go of those instincts, no matter how
hard I tried to believe safety waited here for me.

The hinges announced my entrance in a drawn-out creak, a sharp warning
dragging tension through my shoulders. Inside, the bar sat dim and cool, the
smell of old beer and wood polish settling over me like a memory I
didn’t know I needed. My eyes took a moment to adjust, shapes forming
slowly from the gloom. Tables and chairs. A long bar, bottles lined up behind
the counter. A jukebox quiet in the corner, waiting for someone brave enough
to wake the music.

A small part of me wanted to collapse into the comfort promised by that
familiar scene. A larger part stayed on guard, ready for danger around every
shadow. Hope and fear fought under my skin, and neither side won.

And a man.

He straightened from a crouch beside a stack of crates, turning toward me in
an unhurried movement conveying complete awareness of his surroundings. Tall
— easily over six feet. Broad through the shoulders from real labor, not
hours in a gym. Dark hair needing a cut, hazel eyes finding mine and holding
my gaze through an intensity strong enough to steal a breath from my lungs.

“We’re closed.” His voice was deep, measured. It
didn’t need to be raised to command attention.

“I saw the sign. The Help Wanted sign. I was hoping to talk to someone
about the position.”

He studied me for a long moment, and I forced myself not to fidget under his
gaze. I’d gotten good at standing still, at appearing calm even when my
pulse was hammering. He set down the clipboard he’d been holding and
walked closer, his movements economical, controlled.

“What’s your name?” he asked.

“Marci. Marci Robbins.”

“I’m Ace. I manage this place.” He leaned against the bar,
arms crossing over his chest. “You have experience?”

“Yes.” I’d practiced this part, rehearsed what I’d
say. “I’ve bartended before. A few different places over the
years. I’m good with customers, I show up on time, and I’m a hard
worker.”

“Where was your last job?”

The question I’d been waiting for. “A place in San Antonio. Small
bar, nothing fancy. It closed down a few months back, and I’ve been
moving around since then, picking up work where I can find it.”

His gaze hadn’t left my face. He was looking at me the way people looked
when they were trying to see past the surface, searching for whatever you were
hiding. I had seen the same look before — from cops pulling me over for a
busted taillight, from landlords asking for references I could never provide,
from strangers sensing something off and failing to name the source.

“You got any references?” he asked.

“No.” I met his gaze directly. “The owner of my last place
died, and I lost touch with the other employees after it closed. But I can
prove I know what I’m doing if you give me a chance.”

“Why The Broken Spoke?”

“I need work.” Simple. Honest. “I’m new to the area
and this was the first place I saw hiring. I’m not picky about where I
work as long as it’s steady.”

He nodded slowly, leaving me unsure whether anything positive would come from
the moment. My hands wanted to shake again, so I shoved them into my pockets.
The bar felt too quiet around us, just the hum of coolers and the distant
sound of traffic from the road. I’d already mapped the exits — front
door, back door through what I assumed was the kitchen, emergency exit near
the restrooms. Automatic assessment, the kind I did everywhere now.

“Family in the area?”

“No.” The word landed sharper than I wanted. I tried to soften the
moment through a shrug. “Just me.”

Something shifted in his expression, though I couldn’t read the meaning.
He pushed off the bar and stepped behind the counter, reaching for a glass. He
filled the glass from the tap and set the water in front of me.

“Drink,” he said.

I hadn’t realized how thirsty I was until the glass was in my hand. I
drank half before I could stop myself, the cool water cutting through the
dryness in my throat. When I lifted my gaze, he still watched me, and a new
intensity in his eyes replaced whatever I’d seen before. Not quite
sympathy. Not quite suspicion. Something in between.

“The work’s hard. Long hours, late nights. We get a rough crowd
sometimes — bikers, locals, people passing through. You have to be able to
handle yourself.”

“I can handle myself.”

“You sure about that?” The question wasn’t challenging,
exactly. More like he was genuinely asking, trying to gauge whether I
understood what I was signing up for.

“I’m sure.”

He studied me for another moment, then nodded. “All right. I’ll
give you a trial shift. Tonight. Be here by six. I’ll show you the ropes
and see how you do. If it works out, the job’s yours.”

 

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
don’t forget to sign up for her newsletter to receive exclusive discounts and
other exciting perks.

 

Author on Facebook, Instagram, & TikTok: @harleywylde

 

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

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

 

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TEASER: Spirit Bear Conspiracy by Anne Kane

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Brotherhood of the Wild 1

A Riptide MC Romance

MC Romance

Date Published: January 2, 2026

Publisher: Changeling Press

My mission: Save my woman, guard the secret of the rare spirit bear, and
take down the poachers.

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?


Excerpt
Copyright ©2026 Anne Kane

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

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

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

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TEASER TUESDAY: Tiny by Marteeka Karland

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Motorcycle Club Romance, Suspense, Age Gap

Date Published: December 19, 2025

 

 


A giant of a man with a shattered soul. A mother running on fear and fury.
Love isn’t even an afterthought.

 


Tiny — Christmas meant nothing to me. Just cold nights and bad memories. Then
she arrived at Haven. Penny. A woman who’s already fought her share of
battles. She and her girls light up this place like the most beautiful of
Christmas lights. I never thought I’d crave my own family. But watching
them hang ornaments and laugh? Feels like coming home.


Penny — I don’t believe in miracles. Not anymore. Not until I meet a
man who looks like sin and loves like salvation. Tiny’s scarred, quiet,
and so gentle with my girls it breaks my heart. This Christmas, we’re
not running. We’re starting over. All of us. Including Tiny. One kiss,
one breath, one strand of lights at a time, I will build my girls a future to
look forward to. And maybe, just maybe, my own Christmas miracle can withstand
the storm about to crash down on us.

 


Tiny (Kiss of Death MC 9) is a gritty, emotional, and deeply romantic story of
survival, redemption, and a protective alpha hero who would burn the world
down to keep his family dafe. Can be read as a standalone in the Kiss of Death
MC series.

 


WARNING: Depictions of domestic abuse, violence, and strong language may be
triggers for some readers. Reader discretion is advised.

 

EXCERPT

 

Tiny

I ducked my head and turned slightly sideways as I stepped through the door of
the large warehouse, a habit born from years of door frames too small for my
frame. The club had renovated the structure several months ago because the
club’s old ladies demanded the place be secured for their new project.
The shelter only accepted horribly abused women deemed high risk for
retaliatory violence from their abusers. We’d started calling the
shelter Haven. The girls all did their best to make it a haven. It also meant
men with my size weren’t exactly welcome.

I smelled fresh coffee when I stepped inside, a stark contrast to the leather
and exhaust fumes that clung to my clothes. Inside, the few conversations
stuttered to silence as heads turned my way. The newer people stared at me
with wide eyes and a touch of fear. I was used to it. Nearly seven feet tall,
shoulders wide as a doorway, with a mohawk and a beard you could lose a small
animal in, I never entered a room without changing its atmosphere.

Violet spotted me from across the common area and waved me over with an
enthusiastic smile. I moved carefully, each step measured, making myself as
predictable as possible. Prison taught me how to move without threatening, how
to exist in a space where sudden movements could get you shanked. Also taught
me how to use my size to every advantage I could. Here, those same skills
served a different purpose.

“Tiny, I’m glad you could make it,” Violet said, her voice
warm but pitched just loud enough that others nearby could hear. Deliberate.
Showing them I was expected and approved of. Safe.

“Knight asked me to check the security systems,” I replied,
keeping my voice soft. When you’re my size, everything about you can
intimidate, even your voice. Especially when there were young children around.
It’s why I played Santa at Christmas. It helped the kids associate me
with Santa so when they saw me out and about, they remembered. At least, that
was my theory. It had worked pretty well last year, but the very nature of
this place meant the kids didn’t stick around long. Though, I was pretty
sure the old ladies had invited every mother and child who’d come
through this place in the last year to the Christmas party.

As I headed to the back of the big room where the security office sat nestled
off to itself, I noticed three new faces huddled on the worn sofa near the
window. A woman in her mid to late twenties with light brown hair and hazel
eyes sat in the corner with a book while the girls played quietly on the floor
with LEGOs. All three glanced up as I neared the office door.

The girls, though they appeared to be twins, had very different stances. One
with fists clenched, shoulders squared, stood to put herself slightly in front
of her sister. The other girl reached for a threadbare stuffed rabbit with one
missing eye, clutching it to her tightly.

I recognized the signs as clearly as if they’d been written in neon. The
way the woman’s eyes darted to the exits, how she stood slowly, not
making any sudden moves, to put herself between me and her daughters.

“This is Penny and her daughters, Zelda and Kira,” Violet said,
gesturing toward them. “They arrived a few days ago. Penny, this is
Tiny. He’s with the same club Riot’s with. They provide security
for us here.”

I nodded once, not approaching. “Ma’am.”

The woman, Penny, gave me a tight smile that didn’t quite reach her
eyes. It was the smile of someone who’d learned to hide her true
emotions.

“Tiny helps maintain our security system,” Violet continued, her
voice still carrying that deliberate lightness. “And he sometimes
escorts our residents when they need to go to appointments or court dates.
Tiny is an amazing friend to have in those kinds of situations.”

“Yes,” Penny whispered. “I imagine he is.”

I thought Violet would move with me to the office where we could talk.
Instead, she sat on the other end of the couch from Penny. There were two more
couches in the area arranged in the shape of a U. Normally, I’d take a
seat as far away from the women as I could, but I’d still be at a
distinct height advantage even sitting down. So, I sank to the floor, sitting
cross-legged with my back against the couch.

The change was immediate. I watched Penny’s shoulders relax. The girl
unclenched her hands, giving me a curious look. From my position on the floor,
I was still eye level with most people standing, but the psychological
difference mattered.

“Knight and I updated the cameras last week,” I said to Violet,
keeping the conversation normal, mundane. “But he thought one on the
east side might have a small blind spot.”

Violet nodded, following my lead. “That’s the one near the service
entrance, right? I noticed it seemed off when I checked the monitors
yesterday.”

As we talked, I kept my peripheral vision on the small family. Though Zelda
had relaxed somewhat, she still kept a wary gaze on me. Kira watched me with
cautious curiosity now. She clutched her rabbit tighter, its worn fabric
testament to years of comfort sought.

Then it happened. The rabbit slipped from her grasp, falling to the floor and
bouncing once before settling a few feet from where I sat. The girl froze,
eyes wide with alarm.

I didn’t move immediately. Instead, I telegraphed my intentions clearly.
“Would you like me to get your friend for you, Kira?” My voice was
soft as I addressed her directly.

The girl looked to her mother, who gave a barely perceptible nod. Only then
did I slowly unfold one long arm, reaching for the toy. I kept my movements
smooth and deliberate, picking it up with the gentlest grip I could manage.

I didn’t extend it toward her — that would force her to come to me.
Instead, I leaned over, stretching as far as I could, and placed the rabbit
gently on the floor halfway between us, then returned to my original position.

“Thank you,” the woman, Penny, said when her daughter didn’t
speak.

The moment crashed into me like a wave, dragging me back fifteen years. My
sister Julie, sixteen and broken, flinching from every raised voice after what
that bastard did to her. The way she’d curl into herself when men came
near. The stuffed horse she’d kept since childhood that she clutched at
night when she thought no one would see.

The same stuffed horse that had been torn to pieces the day I came home and
found her hurt and half dead.

I blinked away the memory. That had been the worst night of my life. I think
it hurt just as bad as when she died a few days later.

“Tiny’s road captain for the club. He also helps with security
both here and at the clubhouse.” Violet spoke to Penny and her voice
pulled me back to the present. “He’s been instrumental in setting
up our security systems here.”

I shifted uncomfortably at the praise, my vest creaking again with the
movement. I understood why Violet was doing it. These women needed to know I
wasn’t a threat, but praise had never sat well with me. Not before
prison, and certainly not after. “Just trying to help,” I mumbled,
examining the tattoo on my forearm to avoid meeting anyone’s eyes.

“Tiny volunteers for most of the escort duties when our residents need
to go to court,” Violet continued. “He’s been a huge help to
many of the women who’ve passed through here.”

I glanced up to find Penny studying me with a careful gaze. Not fearful
anymore, but assessing. I recognized that look too. She was recalculating,
reshuffling whatever assumptions she’d made when I first walked in. No
doubt because she knew Violet had a point. I was a big fucker. The
intimidation factor alone was generally enough to keep unwanted people at a
distance.

“Good to know.” Penny spoke softly, almost timidly. I got it and
wasn’t insulted. I didn’t know their story, but to be here in the
first place, there had to be some pretty horrific details.

The smaller girl had reclaimed her rabbit by now, holding it against her chest
as she whispered something into its tattered ear. For just a moment, our eyes
met, and I saw something there that squeezed my chest tight. Not fear, not
anymore. Something closer to recognition.

I knew that feeling. The paradox of finding safety with someone who looked
like they could crush you with one hand. I’d seen it in the eyes of
younger inmates who gravitated toward me in Terre Haute, seeking protection in
my shadow. It was a burden I carried willingly, both inside those walls and
now here, in this shelter with its mismatched furniture and reinforced doors.
I wasn’t an overly religious person, but I’d always felt God put
me on this earth with my size and strength to be a protector. It had started
with my sister. Now I did my best to continue as much as I could. It took a
while, but I could usually prove that sometimes safety came in unexpected
packages. Like a giant with a mohawk and prison tattoos, sitting cross-legged
on the floor to avoid scaring a little girl and her stuffed rabbit.

That’s when I noticed the small movement at the edge of my vision. Kira,
the girl I’d handed back her stuffie, had moved in my direction. The
stuffed rabbit dangled from her hand as she took one cautious step in my
direction, then another. Penny was distracted, talking with one of the shelter
staff, but her sister had noticed. Zelda’s eyes narrowed and I could
almost see the fierce protective instinct that sometimes rode me, too, envelop
her. She stood but didn’t immediately hurry our way.

I remained perfectly still, not wanting to spook either of them. The
girl’s approach reminded me of how stray cats would sometimes appear at
the prison fences, wary and ready to bolt at the slightest provocation, but
driven by some need stronger than fear. She stopped several feet away, her
small fingers working nervously at the rabbit’s worn fabric. Up close, I
could see the careful stitches where someone had repaired a seam, the worn
spot where fur had been loved away. A well-tended comfort object. Someone
cared enough to keep fixing it.

“His name is Mr. Hoppers,” she said, voice barely audible. The
first words she’d spoken in my presence.

I nodded solemnly, giving the introduction the gravity it deserved.
“Good name.”

She studied me with an intensity that belied her age. Not the fearful
assessment I was used to, but something different. Searching. Her eyes tracked
from my hands to my face, then back to my hands again.

“You have big hands,” she observed.

“Yes.”

“But you were careful with Mr. Hoppers.”

I understood then what she was doing. Testing a theory. “I try to be
careful with things and people smaller than me.” I shook my head slowly.
“I don’t like hurting people.”

Her head tilted slightly. “My dad has big hands too. But he breaks
things.”

The simple statement hit me like a punch to the gut. I kept my expression
even, though something hot and angry flared in my chest. “Some men
don’t know how to be careful.”

She nodded as if I’d confirmed something important. Then, with
deliberate care, she extended her arms, offering me the rabbit. The trust in
that gesture staggered me. I held perfectly still, afraid that any movement
might shatter this fragile moment. Then, with the same care I’d use
handling a newborn, I accepted the offering, cradling the worn toy in palms
that could crush a man’s skull.

“He likes you,” she said with the conviction of absolute
certainty.

“I’m honored,” I replied, meaning it more than she could
know.

That’s when I saw it, the recognition in her eyes. Not of me
specifically, but of something in me that felt safe despite appearances.
I’d seen the look often but this was the first time I could say someone
making that judgment had the right of it. I could be deceptively calm. Until I
wasn’t. But not with this girl. Or anyone here seeking shelter.

The moment stretched between us like a bridge, this strange connection forged
in the quietest of gestures. I gently returned Mr. Hoppers to her waiting
hands, and she clutched him close again, a half-smile ghosting across her
face.

Then the spell broke when the very kind of man this little girl had been
running from just walked into the Goddamned foyer.

“Let me in, you little bitches! I know she’s in there!” The
male voice exploded from outside the main area but still inside the warehouse,
followed by the sound of something hitting the front door hard enough to
rattle the windows. I wasn’t certain how he’d gotten in but I knew
at least two of the brothers wouldn’t be far behind him.

 

 

About the Author

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
events, and a plethora of interesting tidbits.

 

Author on Instagram & TikTok: @marteekakarland

Author on Facebook

 

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

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TEASER: Player by Jamie Targaet

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Motorcycle Club Romance, Suspense, Christmas Romance

Date Published: December 12, 2025

I’ve played every game there is. But this time, it’s for
keeps.

 

Heather — Brick promised me a good paying job. I just didn’t know he
was working for a cartel. When their money went missing, I was hunted along
with him, used and finally left with the Hounds of Hell MC in Mercy to answer
for his crimes. If not for Player, I would have wound up dead or worse. He
claimed me as his old lady to keep me from being turned over to the cartel. He
shielded me, fought for me. And somehow, I started to believe I mattered
again. The cartel is still gunning for me, but Player’s not backing
down. He says I’m his, and I want to be. If we can survive this.

Player — I’m called Player for a reason. My life’s been a string
of one-night stands and bad decisions. Until Heather. She’s scared and
in over her head, but there’s something about her I can’t shake.
When Brick left her in Mercy, running from the cartel he stole from, I made a
choice. I don’t care what she’s done or what they think she knows.
Heather is under my protection now. And if anyone wants her, they’ll
have to go through me — and every single brother I’ve got.

 


Warning: Player contains adult language, explicit sex, violence, threats of
torture, stalking, and references to past emotional abuse. It also features a
dirty-talking alpha biker who will cross every line to protect the woman he
claims as his own.

EXCERPT

 

Player

The Hounds of Hell clubhouse sat at the far end of Main Street, past the reach
of the twinkling lights and holiday carolers who’d turned Mercy’s
annual tree lighting into a full-blown event last night. Normally, the Hounds
didn’t bother with Christmas decorations because they were too much
trouble, too much cheer. But this year was different.

Deva, Razor’s old lady, made it clear even if the club wasn’t
going to feel like home, the place could at least look the part for the
holidays. No one was going to tell the president’s lady no. So now
mismatched strands of blinking lights clung to the porch like a half-hearted
apology, and the scent of pine fought to cut through layers of leather, smoke,
and liquor. Inside, the mood was anything but festive.

Since Player had lost a bet, one he still claimed was rigged, he’d
earned the honor of decorating the Christmas tree Deva had dropped off at the
clubhouse the night before. The tree was still boxed in Razor’s office,
fake pine branches and all, along with a tub of lights, ornaments, and exactly
one glitter-covered star Snow refused to touch.

Player had his hand on the doorknob, figuring he’d grab the box and let
Razor know he was making good on his punishment. But then he paused, hearing
Razor and Snow talking in low and clipped voices, the kind of conversation you
didn’t interrupt unless invited. Whatever was going down in there, it
wasn’t about garland or tinsel.

He heard the rumble of a bike pulling in out front. Curiosity made him let go
of the doorknob and head for the front of the clubhouse to see who’d
come calling.

The bike now parked out front belonged to Brick, a patch from the Mississippi
chapter in Biloxi. From what he remembered, the guy was all swagger and no
spine. Player didn’t like him, but Brick had never been dumb enough to
test anyone here directly. He’d visited Mercy a couple of times in the
past, but he always had the good sense to fly under the radar.

A second rider dismounted, swinging one long leg over the back of the bike. A
woman. No, not just a woman. A vision.

Her dark jeans clung to her like old sin, her boots dusted with grit from the
road. A leather jack hung too heavy on her slender frame. When she pulled off
the helmet, she shook loose long, glossy dark spirals of hair. She turned her
head enough for Player to catch a flash of wide green eyes and a full mouth. A
woman who looked like that should be all sass and fire, but there was a
wariness about her. Her gaze moved over the front of the clubhouse as though
being there filled her with dread. She expected trouble.


Was she with Brick? How had he gotten a woman who looked that good? Brick
looked like he’d crawled out from under a busted oil pan and
hadn’t changed his shirt since. He had a thick neck, and a gut
stretching the bottom of his cut. He wore his hair slicked back, as if he
thought he still had a full head of it. The man’s nose was twisted from
too many fights he probably hadn’t won, and a mouth that curved like he
was about to lie.

Brick turned and spoke to her. She nodded and followed him. There was a subtle
shift in her posture. Her shoulders were tight. She was bracing for a fight.

Player wasn’t buying those two as a couple. She didn’t belonged on
the back of Brick’s bike or in his bed unless money was involved.
Staying in the shadows near the main entrance, he folded his arms and watched
as Brick swaggered toward the clubhouse.

The main door opened, and Brick walked in with the woman, just in time to see
Razor and Snow walk back to the front of the house.

“Brick,” Razor said, voice flat. “Didn’t expect to see
you.”

Brick gave Razor a lazy grin. “I’m calling in that favor, brother.
Need a place to crash for a while. Lay low.”


Favor, huh? Player stepped toward the front door. Razor didn’t do
favors. Anyone who knew the man knew that. But Player had a pretty good idea
what favor Brick was talking about.

Back when Sadie had first showed up in Mercy, before becoming Axel’s old
lady, they’d found a tracker on her car, put there by the abusive Mafia
boyfriend she’d been running from. To throw him off, Ryder, Axel’s
twin, had driven the vehicle all the way to Mississippi. The Biloxi Hounds had
been the ones to help him make the tracker disappear without a trace.

If that was the “favor” Brick meant, it wasn’t much of one.
Ryder wouldn’t have needed a lot of help to lose the tracker. If Brick
was desperate enough to stretch the truth about something like that, there was
a lot more to why he’d shown up here with a woman on the back of his
bike.

Razor’s stare was ice cold. Apparently their president didn’t like
Brick any more than Player did. Player leaned against the wall, letting his
presence be known. Brick’s gaze moved toward him and back. Player
smiled.

Razor looked Brick over like he was already sorting out the lie.
“Funny,” he said. “I don’t remember owing you
shit.”

Brick tipped his chin up. “You don’t, huh? What about when Ryder
came down to Mississippi with that tracker you needed gone? Who do you think
helped him ditch it in the bayou, so no one found it?”

Razor’s gaze didn’t so much as flicker. “I remember Biloxi
helping him out. Didn’t know that meant you specifically.”

Brick gave a shrug meant to look casual. “I was there. Helped ditch the
thing myself. Figured that kind of help might buy me a place to breathe for a
few days.”

“You think you’re in the right place for that?”
Razor’s voice was low, dangerous.

Snow shifted beside him, arms crossed. Player watched the way Brick’s
gaze bounced between them, like he couldn’t decide who’d swing
first.

“You want a roof? I want answers,” Razor went on. “Why
you’re here. What kind of heat’s chasing you.” Razor’s
hazel-eyed gaze shifted to the woman standing behind him. “And her? She
yours?”

Brick gave a one-shoulder shrug. “Yeah. She rides with me.”

“Didn’t ask if she rode in with you. I asked if she’s
yours.”

“Heather’s with me,” Brick said, a little more force in his
voice now. “You don’t need to worry about her.”

“If she’s under this roof, she’s my business,” Razor
told him. “You want her here, then I need to know she’s not a
problem.”

Brick chuckled without humor. “She won’t be. She knows how to stay
quiet.”

Snow’s jaw muscle moved. Their VP didn’t like men who talked about
women as if they were property. Not in his clubhouse. Not since he met his
little blonde baker, Emily.

Snow remained silent, his gaze locked on Brick like he was already considering
the consequences of dragging the fucker out by his dirty collar. Player felt
the same way, and not only because Brick was an asshole. They’d all seen
worse. What bothered him was the way the young woman with him stood behind
him. She was keeping quiet, and she didn’t look down or even move.
Seemed like she didn’t want to draw attention. Was she afraid of
something? The only thing he knew for sure about her was she didn’t
belong with a man like Brick. Player couldn’t decide if that made her
more interesting or more dangerous.

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 Facebook

Author on Amazon

Author’s Website


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

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TEASER: Rattler by Anne Kane

Posted on by

(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!

EXCERPT

 

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?”

 

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

 

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

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

Pre-Order Today


TEASER TUESDAY: Doc (Dixie Reapers MC) by Harley Wylde

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(Dixie Reapers MC)

 

Motorcycle Club Romance, Age Gap, Suspense

Date Published: October 24, 2025

When a fierce heroine collides with a hardened outlaw, secrets ignite
and sparks fly.

 

Nova — I was never a part of my uncle Bats’ outlaw MC world. He kept me
far from the Dixie Reapers, convinced distance meant safety. But when my
parents died in a crash I know wasn’t an accident, I walk straight into
the world I’ve been shielded from, where every secret carries blood,
betrayal, and danger. Each step puts a bigger target on my back, but I
can’t stop. Not when the conspiracy reached higher than I ever imagined.
And then there’s Doc. He’s a risk I can’t afford, no matter
how much I want him.

Doc — I patched into the Dixie Reapers for a fresh start, not to guard the 19
year old niece of a fallen brother. As a veteran and the club’s medic, I
know how to fight, save lives, and bury temptation. But Nova’s stubborn,
reckless, and too tempting to resist. I fell fast, and hard. Once I’ve
set eyes on her, I’m not letting go. Protecting her tests me more than
any battlefield ever has, but losing her isn’t an option.

Enemies circle like vultures — dirty cops, corrupt judges, men willing to
kill to silence us. Together we uncover a deadly web of human trafficking and
murder. But in the outlaw world, justice comes at a cost. Nova is mine, and
I’ll burn the world down before I let anyone take her.

 


If you like possessive alpha males, gritty MC romance, heart-pounding
suspense, and age gap romances, you’re going to love Doc and
Nova’s story!

 


WARNING: This book contains mature themes, government corruption, human
trafficking, violence, and adult content. Reader discretion advised.

 

 

EXCERPT

 

Nova

 

My little Honda looked pathetic among the gleaming motorcycles, like a child
who’d accidentally wandered into an adult party. I gripped the steering
wheel, knuckles white, as I scanned the Dixie Reapers clubhouse. Uncle Bats
had always warned me to stay away from this place, from his world. But Uncle
Bats was dead, and I needed answers that only his brothers might have.

The folder and notebook on my passenger seat contained everything I had left
of my mother — her research notes, newspaper clippings, and a lifetime of
suspicions that had probably gotten her killed. I picked them up, clutching
them to my chest like armor.

“You can do this, Nova,” I whispered to myself. “For Mom and
Dad.”

I took three deep breaths, counting each one the way my therapist had taught
me after the accident. Except it wasn’t an accident. I knew it
wasn’t, no matter what the police report said.

Outside, the late afternoon sun cast long shadows across the parking lot. Men
in leather cuts moved between motorcycles, their laughter and conversations a
low rumble that stopped abruptly when they noticed my car. I felt their gazes
on me, assessing, suspicious.

Uncle Bats had kept me secret from them, and while I knew of the Dixie
Reapers, I’d never been allowed to meet them. Now I was about to shatter
that barrier. The thought sent a tremor through my hands, but I shoved the
fear down deep where it couldn’t reach my face.

I stepped out of the car, my sensible flats crunching on the gravel. Five feet
tall in my best shoes, I’d never felt smaller than I did walking toward
that building. The folder and notebook clutched to my chest were my only
shield against their stares.

“Hey, darlin’, you lost?” called one man, his tone somewhere
between amused and suspicious. Tattoos covered his arms and disappeared
beneath the leather vest emblazoned with the Dixie Reapers patch.

I kept walking, eyes forward, spine straight the way my mother had taught me.
“Look them in the eye, Nova,” she’d say. “Don’t
let them think you’re afraid, even when you are.”

The surrounding conversations died one by one, replaced by silence and the
weight of two dozen stares. I could feel them taking in my brown hair, my
hazel eyes, my five-foot-nothing frame that had never intimidated anyone. I
probably looked like a strong wind could blow me over, but they didn’t
know about the steel underneath. They didn’t know I was
Mary-Jane’s daughter.

The clubhouse door loomed ahead, guarded by a mountain of a man with a graying
beard and hands the size of dinner plates. His cut identified him as a full
member, not just a hang-around. He stepped directly into my path, forcing me
to stop or walk straight into his chest.

“Clubhouse is members only, sweetheart,” he said, voice like
gravel. “Whatever you’re selling, we ain’t buying.”

Tiling my chin up, I met his gaze. “I’m not selling anything. I
need to speak with whoever’s in charge.”

He chuckled, but there was no humor in it. “That so? And what business
would a little thing like you have with the Dixie Reapers?”

The men behind me had moved closer, forming a loose semicircle. I could feel
them at my back, curiosity and suspicion rolling off them in waves.

“My name is Nova Treemont. I’m Bats’ niece.”

The effect was immediate. The doorman’s expression shifted from
dismissive to shocked in an instant. A murmur rippled through the men behind
me.

“Bullshit,” someone whispered.

“Bats never had family,” said another.

“He had a sister,” another voice said.

The doorman’s eyes narrowed, searching my face. “Bats never
mentioned no niece.”

“He wouldn’t have.” I met his gaze. “He kept me out
of… all this. For protection.” I gestured at the clubhouse with
my free hand. “But he’s gone now, and I need help. The kind only
the Dixie Reapers can provide.”

The doorman studied me for what felt like an eternity, his gaze moving from my
face to the items I clutched and back again. I could almost see the gears
turning behind his eyes, weighing the possibility I was telling the truth
against the risk of letting a stranger into their sanctuary.

“Wait here.” He turned to enter the clubhouse.

I stood rooted to the spot, aware of the bikers still watching me. I could
feel the curiosity and hostility aimed my way. I kept my breathing even,
pretending I couldn’t feel their stares boring into my back.

The doorman returned a minute later, holding the door open. “Come
on,” he said gruffly.

I stepped past him into a world my uncle had spent his life shielding me from.
The air was thick with cigarette smoke that clung to the furniture and walls.
The smell of beer and whiskey undercut everything, along with something else
— something distinctly male and dangerous.

Pool balls clacked on a table where a game paused mid-shot as players turned
to stare. Behind a long bar, bottles gleamed under dim lights. Motorcycle
memorabilia covered the walls — license plates, photos.

It should have felt alien, this place my blood relation had called home.
Instead, deep inside me, something whispered recognition. As if some part of
me had been waiting to find this place my whole life.

The doorman nudged me forward with a hand that could have wrapped around my
entire upper arm. “This way.” He guided me deeper into the
clubhouse. “They’re waiting.”

I followed, clutching my mother’s research to my chest, aware that I was
crossing a threshold I could never uncross. Behind me, I heard someone say
softly, “Mary-Jane’s kid? Jesus Christ.”

They’d known my mother then. At least some of them had known, and
they’d stayed away all these years. Just as Bats had intended.

The thought steadied me as I walked toward whatever waited ahead. I
wasn’t just Nova Treemont anymore. I was Mary-Jane’s daughter,
Bats’ niece. And I had questions that needed answering, no matter how
dangerous the answers might be.

The back room was darker than the main area. Five men sat around a table,
their faces half in shadow, their cuts marking them as the officers of the
Dixie Reapers. I stood before them, a girl in jeans and a cardigan, feeling
like I was facing a firing squad. But I’d come too far to falter now.

The doorman who’d escorted me in gave a brief nod to the man at the head
of the table before stepping back, positioning himself in front of the closed
door. Message received: I wasn’t leaving until they decided I could.

“So,” said the man at the head of the table. His neatly trimmed
gray beard and dark eyes seemed sharp beneath heavy brows. The patches on his
cut read, “President — Savior.” “You claim to be
Bats’ niece.”

It wasn’t a question, but I answered anyway. “I am Bats’
niece. My mother was Mary-Jane Treemont, his younger sister.”

A muscle in the President’s jaw twitched. “Bats was a brother to
us for a long ass time. Never once mentioned a niece.”

“He was protecting me. Keeping his family separate from… this
life.”

One of the other men — younger, with a Vice President patch — snorted.
“Convenient story, sweetheart. Got any proof?”

I unzipped my bag and pulled out a small photo album, sliding it across the
table. “Page three. That’s my mother and uncle at her college
graduation.”

I watched as the President flipped to the page, his expression unchanging as
he studied the photo of a much younger Bats with his arm around my mother.

“Could be anyone.” The VP’s tone lacked conviction.

“Check the next page,” I said. “That’s from my
parents’ wedding. My mother, my father, and uncle.”

The President studied the photo longer this time before passing the album to
the man next to him. It made its way around the table, each man taking a
moment to examine the proof of a side of Bats they’d never known.

“So you’re his niece.” The President slid the album back
across the table. “What do you want from us?”

I took a deep breath and placed my folder on the table. “My parents died
several weeks ago in what was ruled a car accident. Their car went off the
road. Police said my father lost control.”

“And you don’t believe that.” The VP watched me with
narrowed eyes.

“No,” I said firmly. “I don’t. My mother was an
investigative journalist. She was working on a story.” I opened the
folder, spreading out newspaper clippings and photocopied notes across the
scarred wood. “She was investigating connections between Magnolia County
officials and organized crime. Money laundering, illegal gambling, possibly
human trafficking.”

The men exchanged glances, their expressions giving nothing away. I’d
honestly expected some sort of reaction, especially since this was happening
in their territory. My uncle had always been clear that while he may be an
outlaw, some things weren’t tolerated.

“Three days before she died, she called me,” I continued.
“She said she’d found something big. Something that would blow the
whole thing wide open. She wouldn’t tell me details over the phone, said
she’d show me everything when they came to visit that weekend.” My
voice cracked slightly. “They never made it.”

I pulled out a copy of the police report, pointing to highlighted sections.
“The accident report says the car was traveling at high speed, that my
father lost control. But my father never drove fast. He was cautious,
meticulous. And the witness statements are vague. No one actually saw the car
go off the road.”

“Accidents happen.” An older member with a gray ponytail watched
me intently. “Doesn’t mean someone killed your parents.”

I met his gaze directly. “After the funeral, our house was broken into.
Nothing valuable was taken, but my mother’s home office was ransacked.
Her computer was gone. All her files.”

That got their attention. The men straightened, exchanging glances that spoke
volumes.

“I managed to salvage these.” I gestured to the documents on the
table. “She kept backups in a safety deposit box. But it’s not
everything. There are references to evidence she had that I can’t
find.”

The President leaned forward, resting his forearms on the table. “And
what exactly do you expect us to do about this, Ms. Treemont?”

“I’ve tried the legal route,” I said. “I’ve been
to the police, the FBI, even a private investigator. No one will touch it. The
case is closed.” I swallowed hard. “My uncle –Bats — once
told my mother that if she ever needed help, real help, she should come to his
brothers. That you take care of your own.”

“Bats said that?” The VP’s eyebrows raised.

“He did,” I confirmed. “And with him gone, you’re all
I have left.”

The President’s eyes were unreadable as he studied my face. “You
understand what you’re asking? If what you’re saying is true,
you’re talking about going up against powerful people. The kind that can
make a car accident happen.”

“I know.” My voice came out steadier than I felt. “But they
killed my parents. They’ve been watching me too. Cars following me home.
Strange calls. Last week someone broke into my apartment.” I pulled up
my sleeve, revealing a jagged raw wound on my forearm. “I surprised him.
He had a knife.”

That drew a low curse from one of the men who hadn’t spoken yet.

“Before she died, my mother dug into something dangerous — something
big enough to get her killed. These bastards still tried to bury it, but I
swore I’d drag the truth into the light and make them pay.” My
gaze cut across the table, meeting each man’s eyes in turn.
“Justice for my parents is the only thing that matters.”

The silence that followed was heavy, broken only by the distant sounds of the
main room beyond the door.

Finally, the President gathered up my mother’s papers, tapping them into
a neat stack. “Wait outside.”

The doorman stepped forward, opening the door for me. I hesitated, reluctant
to leave my mother’s research behind.

“We’ll return these,” the President said, seeing my
hesitation. “Go on now.”

I had no choice but to comply. The doorman escorted me back to the main room,
indicating a worn leather couch against the wall. “Sit tight.”

I perched on the edge of the couch, feeling the weight of curious stares from
the men scattered around the room. No one approached me, but I could hear the
whispers.

“… Bats’ niece…”

“… Mary-Jane’s kid…”

“… looks just like her mother…”

That last comment made me look up sharply, trying to identify who had spoken.
An older member nodded at me from the bar, raising his beer bottle slightly.
“Knew your mama when she was younger than you. Bats always said she was
the smart one in the family. Said she could sniff out a lie from a mile
away.”

A lump formed in my throat. I’d never heard anyone talk about my mother
like that, like they’d known her personally. “Did you know her
well?”

The man shrugged. “Well enough. Your uncle always spoke highly of her
investigative skills. Said she could’ve been FBI if she hadn’t
been so damn stubborn about working outside the system.”

That sounded like my mother. And it sounded like something Uncle Bats would
say.

I sat straighter, hope kindling in my chest for the first time since I’d
arrived. Maybe they would help me after all. Maybe I’d finally get the
answers I’d been seeking for several weeks.

I just had to convince them I was worth the risk.

I traced the edge of my mother’s notebook with my fingertip, counting
the seconds that stretched into minutes. The leather couch beneath me had seen
better days, cracked and worn by years of men larger than me shifting their
weight. Around the room, bikers pretended not to watch me while doing exactly
that. I wondered if Uncle Bats had sat here, on this very couch, planning runs
or celebrating victories I’d never know about.

My gaze drifted to a wall of photos near the bar — men in Dixie Reapers cuts,
arms slung around each other’s shoulders, grins splitting their bearded
faces. I rose slowly, drawn to search for my uncle’s face among them. A
few members tensed as I moved, but none stopped me.

There he was. Younger, with fewer lines around his eyes, his arm thrown around
another member, looking more relaxed than I’d ever seen him during his
rare visits to our home. He’d always been on edge around us, as if
expecting trouble to follow him through our door.

Now I understood why.

“He was a good man,” said a voice behind me.

I turned to find the older member who’d spoken to me earlier, the one
who’d known my mother.

“One of our best,” he continued. “Loyal to the bone.”

“But not loyal enough to tell you about his family,” I said
softly.

The old biker’s mouth quirked in a half-smile. “That was his
loyalty to you, girl. Keeping you separate. Safe.” He nodded toward the
back room. “Not many of us manage that trick.”

Before I could respond, the door to the back room opened. The President
emerged, followed by the others. The room fell silent as they approached.

“Ms. Treemont,” the President said, his voice carrying across the
now-quiet clubhouse. “We’ve discussed your situation.”

I returned to the couch, perching on its edge, hands folded in my lap to hide
their trembling. “And?”

“Bats was our brother.” The President spoke in a measured voice,
choosing each word with care. “That carries weight. But what
you’re asking involves the club in what appears to be a personal
vendetta against powerful people, based on circumstantial evidence.”

My heart sank. “It’s not just –”

He held up a hand, cutting me off. “I didn’t say we wouldn’t
help. I said you’re asking a lot.”

Hope flickered back to life in my chest.

“We’ll hear you out,” he continued. “Review what
you’ve brought us. But I can’t promise involvement beyond that.
Understand?”

I nodded quickly. “Yes. Thank you.”

“Don’t thank me yet.” His expression remained stern.
“This isn’t a democracy. I make decisions based on what’s
best for the club, not for outsiders — even ones with Bats’
blood.”

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
don’t forget to sign up for her newsletter to receive exclusive discounts and
other exciting perks.

 

Author on Facebook, Instagram, & TikTok: @harleywylde

 

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

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TEASER: Chains by Marteeka Karland

Posted on by

 

Kiss of Death MC

 

Motorcycle Club Romance, Suspense, Age Gap

Date Published: October 17, 2025

 


Three black cats. One grumpy biker. Fate’s about to get witchy. And
wickedly hot.


Elvira – Halloween’s my favorite holiday, until one teeny mishap
with my practice spell. Suddenly I’m homeless, stinking of swamp gas,
and dragging three black cats into a biker compound… Where I meet
Chains. Big, broody, and superstitious as hell, he glares at my “demon
spawn” like they’re plotting his death. But the way he looks at
me? Let’s just say my spell isn’t the only thing that’s
likely to combust. He’s all hard muscle and harder attitude, and I
can’t tell if he wants to banish me… or bend me over the couch
and have his wicked way with me. I would definitely approve of option number
two!

Chains — I don’t fear much after nine years inside, but Ellie is chaos.
She’s a walking disaster. Loud, messy, and makes Halloween look like a
lifestyle, not a holiday. And her damn cats have me spooked. I tell myself
she’s trouble. Too naïve. Too good. Then she kisses me, and
suddenly I’m ready to sell my soul for another taste. My MC brothers
think it’s funny. Screw em. Elvira’s mine. And if anyone touches
her, I’ll burn this place to the ground.

 


WARNING: Chains contains memories of domestic abuse and manipulation. However,
there is a happy-ever-after ending that will make you feel warm and fuzzy.


EXCERPT

 

Elvira

I stood in the center of my apartment, surveying the disaster zone that used
to be my living room. The cauldron, which was actually just my favorite stock
pot, lay on its side on the stove. Dark green liquid dripped steadily from the
countertop by the stove onto the cheap linoleum floor. My witches’ brew
experiment had gone spectacularly wrong, again, filling the air with a stench
so foul it made my eyes water. I’d only wanted to create a love potion.
Instead, I’d concocted what smelled like a demonic skunk had mated with
rotting eggs in a garbage fire.

“It’s okay, babies,” I cooed to the three black cats,
who’d retreated to their carriers the moment the pot bubbled over.
“Mommy just had a tiny magical mishap.”

Lucifer hissed from behind his carrier door, his yellow eyes narrowed in
judgment. Binx paced in tight circles, while Salem had his paws pressed
against his nose. Even my familiars couldn’t stand the smell.

“I know, I know. I should have followed the recipe.” I pulled my
tank top over my nose, breathing through the fabric. “But who has time
to find owl feathers and moonwater on a Tuesday night?”

I flung open every window in my apartment, the October air rushing in but
barely making a dent in the stench. The smoke detector, which had been
screaming for ten minutes, finally quieted. Green sludge dripped from the
ceiling above the stove where the potion had splattered during its violent
eruption. My carefully arranged Halloween decorations were now coated in
something that looked like radioactive snot.

“We can fix this,” I muttered to myself, only half convinced.
“Just need some bleach, maybe an exorcism, definitely a new
carpet…”

The pounding on my door made me jump. “Miss Blackheart!” Yeah. He
didn’t sound happy. “Open the door right now!”

“Coming, Mr. Peterson!” I sang out in my cheeriest voice,
frantically attempting to right the fallen cauldron. Green goo sloshed over my
fingers, burning slightly. “Just freshening up!”

I wiped my hands on my black jeans and pulled my long hair back into a heavy
ponytail. Taking a deep breath, I immediately regretted it as the fumes hit my
lungs, I opened the door with my most innocent smile even as my eyes watered.

Mr. Peterson stood there, his face the color of an overripe tomato. The vein
in his forehead throbbed with such intensity I worried it might burst. His
nostrils flared before he clamped a hand over his nose as the wall of stink
hit him.

“What in God’s name –” He choked, stumbling backward.
“The entire building smells like… like…”

“Aromatherapy!” I offered brightly. “It’s a, um, rare
Eastern technique for cleansing negative energy.”

His eyes bulged as he peered past me into the apartment. “Your ceiling
is green! There’s smoke everywhere!”

“That’s part of the process?” My voice lifted higher with
each word, betraying my desperation.

“The Johnsons in 3B are throwing up. Mrs. Wittlesby’s cat fainted.
The Andersons’ dog is howling like it’s seen a ghost.” He
thrust a piece of paper at me. “This is an eviction notice. You’re
out, Miss Blackheart.”

I took the paper with trembling fingers. “But Mr. Peterson, I’ve
always paid my rent on time, and –”

“I don’t care if you paid your rent in gold bars! You’ve
violated every health code in existence. People are evacuating the damn
building!” The longer he spoke, the louder he got. And he’d been
pretty damned loud to start with.

Behind me, one of my cats let out a mournful yowl. “Those damn black
cats of yours,” he muttered, making the sign of the cross. “I knew
they were bad news.”

I felt my cheeks flush. “Don’t blame my cats for this.
They’re innocent.”

“You have until tonight to get out,” he bellowed, gesturing wildly
at my smoke-stained ceiling. “Eight hours! After that, I’m calling
animal control for those beasts and the hazmat team for… whatever
hellbrew you’ve cooked up in here.”

“But where am I supposed to go?” My voice cracked, the reality of
my situation finally sinking in. “You can’t kick me out with no
notice!”

“Not my problem. And it’s my damn building; I’ll do whatever
the hell I want. Take it to court if you want. Don’t care. But until you
get a court date, I want you out of here!” He stepped back, pulling a
handkerchief over his nose. “I’ve put up with the stink for the
last time. Eight hours, Miss Blackheart. Not a minute more.”

The door slammed in my face. I stood there, clutching the eviction notice,
feeling the edges of panic creeping in. Sure, I could take him to court.
He’d have to call the police to force me to leave and they
wouldn’t make me unless there was a court order. But, honestly, I knew
it was time to move on. I wasn’t ready to leave yet. I’d hoped to
save a little more money before then. But maybe this was a sign.

My hands shook as I turned to face my ruined apartment. The clock on the wall
shaped like a grinning skull showed it was already noon.

“Well, shit,” I whispered to no one in particular.

I sank down onto my potion-spattered couch, the eviction notice crumpling in
my grip. My eyes burned, and not just from the fumes. I really wasn’t
sure where I was going to go. I had a couple thousand dollars in my savings
account, and a hundred in my checking to do me until payday. If I could find a
new place that wasn’t too expensive, I might have enough for a security
deposit and first month’s rent. If I was really lucky. And that was
assuming I could find something in the next eight hours. Right. Not a
snowball’s chance in hell.

I glanced at my phone, scrolling through the pitiful list of contacts until I
came to Carrie’s number and took a deep breath. We weren’t exactly
close friends, but she’d always been kind to me at the coffee shop where
I worked weekends. She seemed like a really nice person. She’d offered
me a place to crash the last time my landlord threatened to kick me out. I
hadn’t taken her up on the offer then since I only knew her from the
coffee shop, but I wasn’t sure I had many options at the moment.

The phone rang three times before she picked up. “Ellie! Hey!” She
sounded excited. To hear from me?

“Hey.” I tried to keep my voice steady, but it wavered.
“I’m so sorry to bother you, but I’m having a bit of an
emergency.”

“Oh no, Ellie! What kind of emergency? Are you all right?” Carrie
sounded distressed. She was such a sweet person I had no doubt she genuinely
was distressed.

“I… um… may have accidentally created a biohazard in my
apartment and gotten evicted?” I laughed, the sound hollow and
desperate. “I need to be out by eight tonight, and I have nowhere to go,
and I have my cats, and –” My voice broke, tears threatening.

There was a muffled commotion in the background. I could hear Carrie talking
and other people responding, but it was like she had her hand over the speaker
or something. I closed my eyes, bracing for rejection.

“Now drop me a pin and we’ll get over there.” Carrie sounded
determined and, I thought, authoritative? Like she was the one giving the
orders and everyone else was doing her bidding. So, I did as she instructed.
“We’ll be there in fifteen minutes.”

Relief flooded through me so fast I nearly dropped the phone.
“We?” My voice came out a squeak. I knew Carrie’s man was a
member of a local motorcycle club called Kiss of Death. Which I kind of liked
the sound of, but it was still a motorcycle club. Honestly, though, I kind of
thought the guys I’d met at the coffee shop were much safer than some of
the people living in this building.

“Oh yeah! The girls are gonna get you a room ready while Hannah and I
are bringing Knuckles and Hawk. We’ll get you packed up and out of there
in no time.”

“I don’t want to cause anyone any trouble, Carrie. It’s bad
enough I’m asking you guys for a place to stay.”

“Nonsense! We all want to help!” There was more racket in the
background, then Carrie was back. “We’re bringing boxes and some
big contractor bags. Anything you want to keep that’s soiled or smells
too bad we can put in there and wash later. Be on the lookout for a blue
Bronco.”

 

About the Author

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
events, and a plethora of interesting tidbits.

 

Author on Instagram & TikTok: @marteekakarland

Author on Facebook

 

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

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TEASER: Vendetta by Jamie Targaet

Posted on by

 

Motorcycle Club Romance, Suspense

Date Published: October 10, 2025

Publisher: Changeling Press


They betrayed me. They tried to sell my woman. But I’m the man
they couldn’t kill. Now I’m the darkness coming for them.

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.

 

EXCERPT

 

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.


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Author’s Website


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

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PREORDER BLITZ: Friar (Reckless Kings MC) by Harley Wylde

Posted on by

 

Reckless Kings MC (#7)

MC Romance / Romantic Suspense

Date to be Published: August 22, 2025

Publisher: Changeling Press

One night. One mistake. One baby that changes everything.

Cheri — I’ve always been the preacher’s perfect niece, the
small-town good girl who never stepped out of line. But one reckless night
with a gruff, dangerous biker flipped my world upside down. Now I’m
eighteen, unexpectedly pregnant, and kicked out of my home for breaking the
rules. With nowhere else to turn, I end up on the doorstep of the one man I
shouldn’t want. Friar. He’s a rough, older member of an outlaw
motorcycle club, and the father of my baby. At least, I think he is. That
night is a bit of a blur. He’s also the only one who might protect me
from a world that suddenly wants to chew me up and spit me out. Even if he
doesn’t love me, I need him… and maybe he needs me too.

Friar — As a biker, I’ve lived hard and broken more laws than I can
count. I’ve never claimed to be a good man. Hell, I don’t even
try. But when Cheri shows up at my MC’s door with wide eyes and a baby
on the way, something in me shifts. I was never supposed to touch her.
She’s too young, too innocent, too off-limits. But I did. And now
she’s mine.

They can judge us. Try to tear us apart. But I’ll do whatever it takes
to protect my woman and my unborn child. Even if I have to burn down the world
to do it.

Excerpt

All rights reserved.
Copyright ©2025 Harley Wylde

Cheri

The wooden crucifix above my bed seemed to watch me with judgment as I lay
still, listening to the house settle into silence. Eleven forty-five. Uncle
Pete and Aunt June had been in bed for over an hour, their nightly prayers
long finished. I’d waited, counting each minute, feeling my heartbeat
quicken with every passing second. Tonight was my night. My escape. Even if it
was just for a few hours.

I slid out from under the floral quilt Aunt June had made for me when I first
came to live with them three years ago. The floor was cold against my bare
feet, but I didn’t dare turn on the small lamp. The moonlight filtering
through the lace curtains was enough. I moved to my closet, pushing past the
modest dresses and high-necked blouses that filled the space. Behind them,
hidden in the darkest corner, hung the outfit I’d been saving — tight
jeans and a low-cut top that would have Aunt June clutching her pearls and
Uncle Pete quoting Proverbs about the path of sin.

My fingers traced the outline of a framed verse on my nightstand: “She
is clothed with strength and dignity; she can laugh at the days to
come.” Proverbs 31:25. How many times had Aunt June reminded me that a
godly woman’s worth wasn’t in her appearance? Yet here I was,
applying mascara and lip gloss by the dim light of my phone screen, my
movements practiced and furtive.

I pulled on my forbidden clothes, the fabric clinging to my body in ways that
made me feel alive, dangerous. The girl in the mirror looked like someone else
— someone exciting, someone with secrets. I tucked my hair behind my ears and
took a deep breath. It was time.

The hallway stretched before me like a gauntlet. Family photos lined the
walls, interspersed with carved wooden crosses and framed Bible verses that
seemed to glow in the darkness. I knew every creaky floorboard, every spot
that would betray me. I stepped carefully, placing my weight on the edges near
the walls where the boards were less likely to complain. The scent of Aunt
June’s lavender potpourri hung in the air, cloying and sweet, a constant
reminder of her presence even when she wasn’t around.

I froze as I approached their bedroom door. It stood slightly ajar, and the
soft sound of Uncle Pete’s snoring drifted out. My heart hammered so
hard I was certain they’d hear it. A shaft of light from their bedside
lamp sliced through the gap in the door. Aunt June always kept it on — afraid
of the dark or maybe afraid of what lurked in it. I held my breath and pressed
my body against the opposite wall, inching past with glacial slowness.

“Peter?” Aunt June’s voice, thick with sleep, stopped me
cold. My blood turned to ice, and I pressed myself deeper into the shadows.

The snoring paused. “Hmm?”

“Did you lock the back door?”

“Yes, June. Go back to sleep.”

I remained frozen, counting to thirty in my head before daring to move again.
The lock. I hadn’t thought about the lock. Would I be able to unlock it
without making noise? I’d have to risk it.

The stairs were next — thirteen of them, each with its own personality and
voice. I’d mapped them out over months of late-night kitchen raids: the
third one screamed, the seventh groaned, the ninth whispered, and the eleventh
threatened to wake the dead. I navigated them like a dance I’d rehearsed
a thousand times, my hand barely touching the banister for balance.

The living room was a shrine to their faith. A massive painting of Jesus with
lambs hung over the fireplace, His eyes following me accusingly across the
room. Bibles sat on every surface, bookmarked and well-worn. A collection of
angels watched from the mantel, their porcelain faces frozen in eternal
worship. The smell of potpourri was stronger here, mingling with the lingering
scent of the pot roast we’d had for dinner.

I made my way to the kitchen, where a needlepoint hung over the sink:
“In everything give thanks.” My car keys were in my pocket, heavy
and promising. Freedom was just beyond the back door. I reached for the
deadbolt, turning it with painful slowness, feeling each click of the
mechanism like a gunshot in the silence. When it finally released, I eased the
door open just enough to slip through.

The night air hit me like a blessing, cool and free from the suffocating
holiness of the house. The porch steps were new and didn’t creak, a
small mercy. I stepped onto the damp grass, shoes in hand, moving quickly now
toward the driveway where my ancient Honda waited.

I slid into the driver’s seat, my heart still racing. The key went into
the ignition, and I said a silent prayer — the irony not lost on me — that
the engine wouldn’t roar to life with its usual enthusiasm. I turned the
key, and the car started with a mercifully subdued rumble. No lights came on
in the house. I backed out slowly, not turning on my headlights until I was a
safe distance down the road.

In my rearview mirror, the house grew smaller, a dark silhouette against the
night sky. I finally allowed myself to breathe. The windows were down, and the
wind whipped my hair around my face. I felt wild, untethered. The address of
the Reckless Kings clubhouse was burned into my memory from whispered
conversations in school bathrooms.

My heart fluttered with nervous excitement. This wasn’t just about
breaking curfew or wearing forbidden clothes. This was about stepping into a
world so different from the one I’d been trapped in, a world raw and
real and alive. The night stretched ahead of me, dark and full of promise, as
I drove toward the edge of town where the Reckless Kings waited.

I pressed harder on the gas, leaving behind the weight of expectations and the
suffocation of someone else’s righteousness. For tonight, at least, I
would be free. For tonight, I would be more than just Uncle Pete and Aunt
June’s good Christian niece. I would be Cheri Waite, a girl with fire in
her veins and rebellion in her heart.

I parked my Honda at the end of a long line of cars outside the clubhouse,
partly to hide my car from anyone who might recognize it, partly because I
needed those extra steps to steady my nerves. The Reckless Kings’ domain
loomed ahead, a rather fancy looking log-cabin-style building. Music pulsed
from inside, a heartbeat I could feel even from this distance. Motorcycles
lined the entrance, chrome gleaming under bright lights, their owners
somewhere inside doing things my uncle would call sinful and I would call
living.

My legs felt weak as I walked toward the building. Each step brought me closer
to crossing a line I couldn’t uncross. I’d heard whispers about
the Reckless Kings since I’d moved to town — dangerous men who lived by
their own code, who took what they wanted and answered to no one. The kind of
men Aunt June prayed for on Sundays, her voice tight with disapproval and
fear.

The bikes stood like sentinels guarding the entrance. I ran my fingers over a
sleek handlebar as I passed, feeling the cool metal against my skin. I
smoothed my hands over my jeans, adjusted my top to show just the right amount
of cleavage, and took a deep breath. This was it. No turning back.

I pulled the door open and stepped inside.

The sensory assault was immediate and overwhelming. The air was thick with
cigarette smoke that hung in blue-gray clouds beneath the ceiling, mingling
with the smell of spilled beer, leather, and sweat. The bass from the music
vibrated through the soles of my shoes and up into my chest, making my heart
sync with its rhythm. Colored lights from neon beer signs cast red and blue
shadows across the room, illuminating faces in fragments — a tattooed arm
here, a bearded jaw there, bodies moving through the haze like apparitions.

My eyes stung, adjusting to the smoke and dimness. The floor beneath me was
sticky with what I hoped was just beer, pulling at my shoes with each step.
Bodies pressed against each other in the center of the room, dancing to music
that felt more like a physical force than a sound. Women in tight clothes and
high heels leaned against men in leather cuts, their laughter cutting through
the din like glass breaking.

Conversations stuttered as I moved deeper into the room. Heads turned, eyes
assessed. I felt each gaze like a physical touch — some curious, some
predatory, all intense. A woman with a snake tattoo winding up her neck stared
at me with narrowed eyes, her arm tightening around the waist of the man
beside her. I kept my chin up, tried to look like I belonged, like I
wasn’t counting every rapid beat of my heart.

 

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
don’t forget to sign up for her newsletter to receive exclusive discounts and
other exciting perks.

 

Author on Facebook, Instagram, & TikTok: @harleywylde

 

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

Save 15% off any order at http://changelingPress.com with code RABT15

Pre-Order Today