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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.
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
Save 15% off any order at ChangelingPress.com with code RABT15
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.
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.
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.
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
Is it friendship or something more? I think I’m ready to find out.
Yulia — They call him Salvation, and that’s exactly what
he’s been for me. I was only sixteen when he swept me up into his arms
and carried me out of hell. Things were so bad, all I wanted was to die. He
and his club, the Reckless Kings, they saved me. Salvation’s never
touched me, even though we’re technically married, and he honestly has
enough on his plate already with a daughter who’s badly scarred from an
explosion. But we’ve been together for eleven years now, and the older I
get, the more I want our marriage to be real.
Salvation — Since the day Yulia came to live with me, I’ve not once
cheated on her. She’s legally my wife, and that’s all that
matters. Besides, my daughter, Clover, has kept me busy. Now Clover’s
nearly an adult and I’ve noticed the way Yulia looks at me when she
thinks I’m not paying attention. But can we have a real marriage when
we’ve been nothing but friends all these years? It’s too bad my
family has be to taken before I realize the answer to that question. Now
I’ll do whatever it takes to get Clover and Yulia back, and I’ll
send their kidnappers straight to hell.
Warning: Salvation is intended for readers 18+ due to adult situations,
bad language, and violence. It can be read as a stand-alone, but the series
will be enjoyed more if read in order. This is a slow-burn romance with steamy
scenes. There’s no cliffhanger, no cheating, and a guaranteed HEA!
The wind whipped my hair across my face, stinging my eyes as I stood at
the edge of the school grounds. My heart pounded, each beat a reminder of the
choice before me. Memories flashed through my mind — cruel hands, mocking
laughter, endless fear. I closed my eyes, willing the images away.
This was it. The end. My fingers trembled as I gripped the knife tighter. Just
one cut and it would all be over. No more pain. No more shame. I took a shaky
breath. “Prosti menya, sestra,” I whispered. Forgive me, sister.
The blade glinted in the fading sunlight. So sharp. So final. I pressed it to
my wrist.
A roar split the air.
My eyes snapped open. In the distance, a motorcycle engine growled, growing
louder. Closer. I hesitated, the knife hovering above my skin. Who would come
here? Why now? The engine’s rumble filled my ears, drowning out the
frantic beating of my heart. Despite myself, I turned toward the sound.
A flicker of… something. Not quite hope. But curiosity. A momentary
distraction from the abyss. I lowered the knife, just slightly. My mind raced.
Should I wait? See who it was? Or finish what I’d started?
The motorcycle drew nearer. Any moment now, it would crest the hill. I bit my
lip, indecision paralyzing me. The wind continued to howl around me, urging me
forward. But that sound… it called to me. Promising… what?
I didn’t know.
For just a moment, my despair lifted. And in that moment, I chose to wait.
The motorcycle crested the hill, its rider a dark silhouette against the
blazing orange sky. My breath caught in my throat. He was massive, all broad
shoulders and muscled limbs, his leather cut emblazoned with a patch I
couldn’t quite make out.
He dismounted in one fluid motion, his boots hitting the ground with a heavy
thud. My fingers tightened around the knife as he strode toward me, his pace
urgent but measured. “Easy now, darlin’,” he called out, his
voice a low rumble that carried on the wind. “Why don’t you put
that knife down?”
I shook my head, taking a step back. “Stay away,” I warned.
“I don’t know you.”
He slowed his approach, hands raised placatingly. “Name’s Hawk.
I’m with the Reckless Kings. I was sent here to help. A few of my
brothers are waiting nearby to make sure we don’t run into
trouble.”
My mind reeled. The Reckless Kings? How did they know? Why would they care?
“No one can help,” I whispered, more to myself than to him.
“It’s too late.”
Hawk took another careful step forward. “It’s never too late,
sweetheart. Trust me on that.”
I laughed, a bitter sound that surprised even me. “Trust? I don’t
even know what that means anymore.”
His gaze met mine. “Then let me show you. Just… put the knife
down. Please.”
My hand trembled. Part of me wanted to believe him, to grasp at this lifeline
he was offering. But the fear, the pain of the past years, it all threatened
to drown me. “I can’t,” I choked out. “You don’t
understand what he did to me.”
Hawk’s expression softened. “Maybe not exactly. But I’ve
seen enough pain in this world to recognize it. You’re not alone, Yulia.
Not anymore.”
My name on his lips startled me. How did he know? Who sent him?
As if sensing my thoughts, he added, “Your sister’s worried sick.
She asked us to find you.”
Tears welled in my eyes. “Oksana?”
Hawk nodded. “She loves you. Let us help. Let me take you somewhere
safe.”
The knife slipped in my grasp, my resolve wavering… The knife clattered
to the ground, and my legs gave out. I crumpled, expecting to hit the cold
earth. Instead, strong arms caught me, steadying me against a broad chest.
“I’ve got you,” Hawk murmured, his voice a low rumble.
“You’re safe now.”
I trembled, my body wracked with silent sobs. Years of pent-up fear and pain
poured out of me as Hawk held me, his grip firm but gentle. “Can you
walk?” he asked after a moment.
I nodded weakly, not trusting my voice. Hawk kept an arm around me as he
guided me toward his motorcycle. The machine loomed before us, all gleaming
chrome and sleek lines. “Ever ridden before?” Hawk asked, swinging
his leg over the seat.
I shook my head, eyeing the bike warily. “Nyet… no.”
He extended his hand. “First time for everything. Hold on tight,
okay?”
With shaking fingers, I grasped his hand and climbed on behind him. The
leather of his cut was smooth under my palms as I wrapped my arms around his
waist. I heard three more motorcycles and noticed the men were also from the
Reckless Kings.
“Ready?” Hawk called over his shoulder.
“Da,” I whispered, tightening my grip.
The engine roared to life, vibrating through my entire body. We took off, the
world blurring around us as we sped away from the school grounds. Away from my
nightmares.
I pressed my face against Hawk’s back, the wind whipping my hair. Part
of me still couldn’t believe this was real. That I was escaping. That
someone had come for me. “Where are we going?” I shouted over the
engine’s rumble.
“Somewhere safe,” Hawk called back. “Our compound.
You’ll be protected there.”
Protected. The word sent a shiver through me — of fear or hope, I
wasn’t sure.
As we rode into the gathering darkness, I clung to Hawk, to this stranger
who’d become my unexpected savior. My mind raced with questions, with
doubts. But for now, I let the roar of the engine drown out my thoughts,
focusing only on the road ahead and the promise of safety it held.
Tears stung my eyes, instantly whisked away by the biting wind. My chest ached
with each ragged breath, emotions churning like a storm inside me. Gratitude
and terror warred for dominance.
“You okay back there?” Hawk’s voice barely reached me over
the engine’s roar.
I nodded against his back, not trusting my voice. My fingers dug into the
leather of his cut, anchoring me to this surreal moment.
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
Get ready to dive into the gritty yet heartwarming world of the Dixie
Reapers.
Amelia: I know monsters. Hammer isn’t one, regardless of what he says. He’s a
born protector with a big heart, and he’s exactly what my family needs. Sure,
there’s a big age difference between us, but why should I care about other
people’s opinions? All that matters is that Hammer makes me happy. He’s just
what my sons need and he and the Dixie Reapers can protect me from my piece of
s**t ex. Anything else is unimportant. Now I just have to convince him that we
make a good team.
Hammer: I haven’t walked the path of righteousness by any means, but it
doesn’t mean I’m a heartless bastard. Found out I had a kid who’s now a
Prospect. Discovered I had a granddaughter, and now I’m a great-grandfather.
Adopted a kid who didn’t have anyone. None of that makes up for the shit I’ve
done in my past, or the fact I’ve been in and out of prison most of my life.
So why does the sweetest woman I’ve ever met see me as her savior and not the
monster I really am? Somehow she’s become mine, along with her teen boys. If
anyone ever said I’d be a family man, I’d have laughed in their faces. Guess
the joke’s on me.
Are you ready to experience a love story that challenges the boundaries
and proves that every heart deserves a second chance?
Warning: Hammer is intended for readers 18+ due to adult situations, bad
language, and violence. There’s no cheating, no cliffhanger, and a guaranteed
HEA!
EXCERPT
Amelia
I sat on the deserted Florida beach as dusk painted the sky in shades of
orange and pink, my boys flanking me like sentinels. The rhythmic crashing of
waves against the shore masked our hushed voices, nature’s white noise
ensuring no one would overhear plans that could get us killed.
We’d chosen this spot carefully — far enough from the tourist areas to
avoid casual onlookers, but public enough that Piston wouldn’t think to
look for us here. My old man hated beaches, hated sand, hated anything that
couldn’t be controlled. The vastness of the ocean offended him somehow,
as if the world had no right to be bigger than his ego.
The setting sun cast long shadows across the sand, stretching our silhouettes
into distorted versions of ourselves. How fitting. We’d been living as
warped reflections of a family for too long — smiling in public while wearing
concealer over bruises, making excuses for absences at school functions,
practicing cover stories until they flowed from our lips more naturally than
the truth.
“Do you think he knows we’re gone yet?” I asked, my voice
barely audible above the surf.
Neither of my sons answered immediately. They’d learned to measure their
words, to calculate risks before speaking. Another gift from their father.
The breeze coming off the water carried a chill that had nothing to do with
temperature. Until this week, I’d been biding my time and slowly
preparing. I’d learned the hard way what happened when we ran. Then
things changed and I knew I needed to get us out of there. Waiting
wasn’t a luxury we could afford. Watching Piston, the boy’s
father, slam my youngest son’s head against the kitchen counter had
severed whatever twisted loyalty I still felt toward him. I’d been with
the enforcer for the Devil’s Minions for seventeen years. At least
sixteen years too damn long.
I glanced at Chase’s profile, so much like his father’s it
sometimes made my heart stutter with fear. But where Piston’s features
were permanently hardened by cruelty and excess, my sixteen-year-old
son’s face showed a different kind of hardness — determination,
protectiveness, the kind of strength that built rather than destroyed.
He’d been taking the brunt of his father’s rage for years,
positioning himself between Piston and his younger brother whenever possible.
On my other side sat Levi, his slender shoulders hunched against the evening
air. At fifteen, he should have been worrying about homework and video games,
not researching safe houses and motorcycle club rivalries. The fading
yellow-green bruise around his eye made my stomach knot with guilt. I should
have left years ago.
“We’ve got about eighteen hours before he realizes this
isn’t a shopping trip,” Chase said finally, scanning the beach for
potential threats. Always vigilant, my oldest. “Maybe less if he checks
the bank account. Especially since he thinks we’re staying overnight
somewhere. When we don’t check into a motel, he’ll come looking
for us.”
I nodded, feeling the weight of time pressing down. Piston hadn’t wanted
me to have access to money — control was his favorite weapon — but I’d
been skimming cash from the household funds for months, hiding small bills in
a tampon box he’d never deign to touch. It wasn’t much but
combined with the emergency credit card I’d applied for in secret, it
might be enough to get us to safety.
“He’ll come after us,” I said, stating what we all knew.
Piston, aka John Minsley, didn’t lose possessions, and that’s all
we were to him — things to own, to use, to break when the mood struck him.
Levi’s fingers curled around mine, his palm clammy despite the cool
evening air. “We planned for that, Mom. The Devil’s Boneyard MC
–”
“Keep your voice down,” Chase hissed, though there was no one
within a hundred yards of us.
The mention of another motorcycle club sent ice through my veins. Trading one
MC for another seemed like jumping from the fire into a different kind of
hell. But Levi had done his research, had shown me the forum posts from women
who’d escaped abusive situations with their help.
“I know you’re scared,” I told them both, squeezing
Levi’s hand. “I am too. But we can’t stay. Not
anymore.”
The evidence of that decision was written on my youngest son’s face, in
the shadows under his eyes that spoke of sleepless nights and the bruising
from his father’s temper. It was etched in the scars on Chase’s
back from that time Piston had caught him trying to call for help. It was
branded into my own skin, hidden beneath long sleeves even in Florida’s
heat.
Behind us, beyond the dunes and the sparse vegetation, our packed car waited
— everything we could safely take without raising suspicion crammed into the
trunk. Old clothes, important documents hidden in tampon boxes and
hollowed-out books, the few mementos I couldn’t bear to leave behind.
The sky deepened to purple as we sat there, three refugees planning a
desperate escape from a man who would rather see us dead than free. But in
that moment, with the endless ocean before us and my boys beside me, I felt
something I hadn’t experienced in years — hope, fragile as sea foam but
just as persistent.
Chase stood abruptly, his tall frame casting a long shadow across the sand as
he paced a few steps away, never taking his eyes off our surroundings. At
sixteen, he already carried himself like a man who’d seen too much, his
shoulders set with a tension that no teenager should know. The ocean breeze
ruffled his brown hair — the same shade as mine — but his green eyes,
Piston’s eyes, scanned the beach with a vigilance that broke my heart.
“Someone’s coming,” he muttered, nodding toward a couple
walking their dog at the far end of the beach. “We should move.”
I watched as he shifted his stance, angling his body to place himself between
us and the distant strangers. The motion was so automatic, so ingrained, that
I doubted he even realized he was doing it. Years of protecting his brother,
of trying to shield me when he could — it had become instinct. And it made me
feel like a shit mother.
“They’re just walking their dog, Chase,” I said softly.
“They’re not his men.”
His jaw tightened, the muscle jumping beneath his tanned skin. “You
don’t know that. Piston has eyes everywhere.”
“We’ve been careful.”
“Not careful enough.” He glanced at his brother, his expression
softening marginally before hardening again. “Levi’s research is
good, but Piston will call in every favor, track every account, hunt down
every friend we’ve ever had.” He knelt in front of me, his voice
dropping to a whisper. “Mom, if we do this, there’s no halfway. We
either disappear completely or we don’t bother running at all.”
The fierce intensity in his eyes reminded me so much of his father that for a
moment, fear flickered through me — not of Chase, never of him, but of the
genetic legacy he carried. Would my gentle boy who used to catch and release
spiders from our bathroom eventually morph into the monster who’d sired
him? Or was that intensity, channeled through love instead of hate, the very
thing that might save us?
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
From USA Today Bestselling Author Nikki Landis comes a steamy, forbidden, morally gray, bad boy/good girl, MC romance—the first in a new series with a slight paranormal twist.
It was only supposed to happen one time.
One reckless, wild, uninhibited night where I let my desires overrule my common sense.
I dropped that good girl mask, and for the first time, I felt free.
Gage Blade showed me exactly how tender and intoxicating his touch could be.
He carved a place into my heart and made me fall for him.
Until he rejected me in front of everyone.
A few months later, our parents got married.
My one-night stand and personal tormentor became my new stepbrother.
I’ll never consider him family. And I refuse to trust him.
He proves me right when he moves out, showing he never cared for me.
He used and abandoned me. I hate him.
Two years later, he shows up at my high school graduation.
He says he’s back to claim me, that I don’t know the truth.
I don’t want to hear his lies. Stupid me, I give in anyway.
And he leaves me again. Alone. In his bed.
I’ve been rejected twice by Gage Blade. It won’t happen a third time.
I’ve moved on and graduated from college. And now I’m focusing on my career.
There’s no place in my future for the bad boy from my past.
But when my life is in danger, and a stranger breaks into my apartment, I don’t know who else to call.
I swear I only contact him for protection.
Once this threat is eliminated, I won’t need my stepbrother biker.
The strange thing is, he’s decided he won’t let me go.
And Gage is willing to lie, cheat, steal, and kill to keep me.
This story first appeared in the Beyond the Temptation Anthology and is now a complete, full-length book. My Stepbrother Biker is the first book in the Summit Hill Vipers MC. You can read the companion novella, My Inked Neighbor, now available.
Nikki Landis is a romance enthusiast, tea addict, and book hoarder. She’s the USA Today Bestselling Author of over seventy novels, including her widely popular Tonopah, NV RBMC series. She writes wickedly fierce, spicy romances featuring dirty talkin’ bikers, deadly, possessive reapers, wild bad boys, and the feisty, independent women they love. Nikki loves to write character-driven, emotionally raw stories where protective, morally gray anti-heroes fall hard for their ride-or-die.
Are you ready to dive into a world where love and vengeance
intertwine?
Rio — I thought I had my future mapped out with the Army until two men
shattered that dream, leaving me medically discharged and lost. I journeyed
west, then returned east after a call from my superior, urging me to testify
against those who hurt me. When I stepped into a biker clubhouse along the
way, I never expected to find a place I could truly call home. Rebel makes
me want to trust again. He’s charming, bold, protective, and
understanding. I started my journey as a way to escape my past. I ended up
finding a family — and possibly love.
Rebel — The moment Rio walked into the clubhouse, she had my attention.
Proud, confident, and armed, she’s a storm ready to be unleashed. When
her past comes looking for her, I know I’ll do whatever it takes to
keep her safe. Those men have made a fatal mistake. They thought they were
hunters. What they don’t know is that I’m the predator, and they
aren’t walking out of my town alive.
Love isn’t just a feeling. It’s a battle worth fighting
for.
Warning: Rebel is intended for readers 18+ due to adult situations, bad
language, and violence. The story contains content some readers may find
difficult to read. There’s a guaranteed HEA, no cheating, and no
cliffhanger!
EXCERPT
I leaned against the wall near the bar, nursing my whiskey and watching the
usual Friday night chaos unfold. The Devil’s Boneyard clubhouse pulsed
with life around me — half-naked women draping themselves over patched
members, Prospects hustling drinks, the bass from the speakers vibrating
through the floorboards. Then she walked in, pushing the door open with more
force than necessary, like she needed everyone to know she wasn’t
sneaking in. The metal hinges had protested with a squeal that somehow cut
through the roar of Guns N’ Roses blasting from the speakers. For a
split second, a few heads turned — then most went back to their business.
Not mine. I kept watching.
Strawberry-blonde hair, fierce blue eyes, and a don’t-fuck-with-me
stride that parted the crowd like Moses and the Red Sea. Something electric
snapped in the air, and I knew my quiet night had just gotten a hell of a
lot more interesting.
She stood there in worn jeans, combat boots, and a leather jacket that had
seen better days. Not trying to show skin like the club girls but somehow
commanding more attention. Her eyes scanned the room with military
precision, taking stock of every exit, every threat. I recognized that look.
Had worn it myself once.
The clubhouse wasn’t much to look at. Worn hardwood floors bearing
cigarette burns and knife marks that told stories of parties past. The walls
were covered in a collection of road signs, license plates, and probably a
bit too much Harley-Davidson memorabilia. The lighting was shit — dim
yellow bulbs — but it hid the stains well enough.
She wrinkled her nose, probably at the cocktail of smells — stale beer,
motor oil, leather, sweat, and the unmistakable scent of sex. Her shoulders
tensed as two hang-arounds brushed past her, but she stood her ground.
Didn’t flinch. Interesting.
Charming sat at his usual table in the corner, silver-threaded hair
catching the light as he nodded at something Havoc was saying. Even from
across the room, you could feel his presence. His years as president had
that effect. Men unconsciously straightened when he looked their way,
women’s voices dropped to deferential tones. Not out of fear — though
plenty feared him — but out of the kind of respect that can’t be
demanded, only earned.
I watched her clock him immediately. Smart girl. In a room full of
predators, she’d identified the alpha in seconds. Her eyes narrowed
slightly, assessing, calculating. But she didn’t approach. Instead,
she made her way to the bar, keeping her back to the wall, ordering
something I couldn’t hear over the music.
“Who’s the new blood?” Chaos appeared beside me, beer in
hand, voice unnecessarily loud as usual.
“Don’t know yet,” I said, not taking my eyes off her.
“But I’m about to find out.”
“She looks like she’d cut your dick off for saying hello
wrong.” He grinned, obviously considering this a challenge rather than
a warning.
“Then I better say it right.” I drained my whiskey and set the
glass down with a decisive clink.
Across the room, one of the club girls — a blonde with tits that defied
gravity and the IQ of a doorknob — was trying to chat her up. Probably
recruiting for the stable, or assessing if she would be a rival. The
strawberry blonde’s expression had gone from cautious to thunderous.
Time to intervene before something ugly happened.
I crossed the floor in long strides, noticing how several of the brothers
were now watching with idle interest. New female faces always drew
attention, especially ones that didn’t fit the typical groupie
mold.
“Tiffany,” I said to the blonde, not bothering with
pleasantries, “I think Java’s looking for you.”
She pouted, those silicone lips forming a perfect bow. “I’m
just being friendly, Rebel.”
“Be friendly elsewhere.” My tone left no room for
argument.
She huffed but retreated, her six-inch heels clicking against the hardwood.
I turned to the newcomer, close enough now to see the freckles scattered
across her face and the tension in her jaw.
“The recruitment pitch gets old fast,” I said, not bothering
with introductions yet. “You looking for someone specific, or just
lost?”
Her eyes — startlingly blue up close — locked onto mine. “Do I look
like the type that gets lost?”
Southern accent. Georgia, maybe. And an attitude I could feel from three
feet away.
I smirked. “No, you look like the type that walks into a biker
clubhouse alone on purpose. Which means you’re either crazy or have a
death wish.”
“Or I can handle myself.” Her hand shifted slightly, drawing my
attention to the slight bulge under her jacket. Carrying. Interesting.
“I don’t doubt it.” I gestured to the bartender for two
more drinks. “But even the best fighters might think twice about a
thirty-to-one ratio.”
The corner of her mouth twitched — not quite a smile, but close.
“Thirty? I counted fourteen, and half of them are too drunk to stand
straight.”
I laughed, genuinely surprised. “You military?”
Something darkened in her expression. “Was.”
The bartender slid two whiskeys toward us. I pushed one her way.
“I’m Rebel.”
She eyed the drink suspiciously. “Original.”
“Says the girl who hasn’t given her name at all.”
She picked up the glass, sniffed it, then took a small sip. Testing.
“Rio.”
“Like the city?”
“Like the river. It flows where it wants to.”
I raised my glass in acknowledgment and took a swallow, feeling the burn
hit my throat. “So what brings you to our humble establishment, Rio
who flows where she wants to?”
Her eyes flicked around the room again, lingering on a group of Prospects
playing pool. “Just passing through. Heard this was where the action
is in this shithole town.”
“And what kind of action are you looking for?” I kept my tone
neutral, but we both knew what the question implied in a place like
this.
She met my gaze head-on, challenge sparking. “Not the kind
you’re thinking.”
“You’d be surprised what I’m thinking.”
A commotion near the door drew our attention. Two Prospects escorting a
belligerent drunk outside, his protests lost in the music. Rio’s hand
had drifted back toward her concealed weapon, her body tensing for
trouble.
“Relax,” I said, stepping slightly closer. “Just the
usual Friday night housekeeping.”
“I don’t relax in places I don’t know with people I
don’t trust,” she said, but her hand dropped back to her
side.
I studied her for a moment — the way she held herself, alert but not
skittish. Dangerous but controlled. “Smart policy.”
Across the room, Charming’s gaze connected with mine, one silver
eyebrow raised in silent question. I gave a subtle nod. Nothing to worry
about. Yet.
“Your President’s watching,” Rio said without turning
around. The observation impressed me — she’d maintained awareness of
the room without being obvious about it.
“He notices everything,” I confirmed. “Especially
strangers with hidden weapons.”
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
