Teaser: Rogue by Harley Wylde

 

(Reckless Kings MC 10)

MC Romance

Date Published: July 24, 2026

Publisher: Changeling Press

She ran from a monster. I became her shield -- and everyone else’s nightmare.

Lennox -- I was supposed to marry a man chosen by my family. Smile for the cameras. Say the vows. Do what I was told. The wedding wasn’t about love. It was a business deal, and I was the price being paid.

So I ran. Terrified. Still wearing my wedding dress. I didn’t have a plan. I didn’t have anywhere to go. Then a biker named Rogue stopped beside the road and changed everything.

Rogue -- I’ve spent years handling problems for the Reckless Kings MC. Quietly. Permanently. Picking up a runaway bride wasn’t part of the plan. Neither was getting married. One look at the bruises she tried to hide and the fear she couldn’t quite mask, and I knew one thing for certain. She wasn’t going back.

Now her wealthy family, powerful ex-fiancé, and anyone else stupid enough to come after her will have to deal with me first. The longer Lennox stays under my protection, the harder it becomes to remember this started as a way to keep her safe. She deserves freedom, a future, and the chance to choose her own path. What she doesn’t realize is that I’ve already made my choice. She’s mine. And nobody is taking her away.

 

Excerpt

Copyright ©2026 Harley Wylde

Rogue

The lot at Hadley’s sat empty -- one rusted Buick, a flickering sodium light, dead still except for the canopy buzz. I rolled the Harley under the canopy and killed the engine. The noise dropped away. The night pressed close.

I’d been on the road since nine, a pointless run Hawk sent me on to check a stretch of road south of Nashville. Two of our guys thought they’d picked up a tail last week. I’d seen nothing but dark asphalt. Now, twenty minutes from turning north for home, I was hungry, bone-tired, and needed gas. Hadley’s had it all.

I swung off the bike and stretched the road out of my shoulders. The canopy lights hummed. Inside the store, a kid in a Titans cap sat behind the counter with his face in his phone, and a country station played thin from a blown speaker mounted by the cigarette racks. I paid him cash for two gallons of regular, picked up a black coffee and a Slim Jim I wouldn’t eat, and walked back out under the buzzing light and its collected moths.

I was about to unlock the gas tank when I clocked the white.

It was a flicker, no more -- a piece of something pale catching the edge of the security light around the corner of the building, where the dumpsters sat behind a low cinder block wall the owner had built so the highway couldn’t see the trash. The Buick at the far pump still had no driver. The road was empty in both directions. The tree line beyond the lot was black. Tennessee woods in November swallowed light whole. I stayed at the pump.

I leaned against the pump, uncapped the coffee, and took a long, slow sip I didn’t want. Then I looked. The lot. The road. The tree line. I gave it two minutes. Nothing moved. The flicker of white stayed put.

I set the coffee on top of the pump and walked around the corner of the building.

She was crouched in the gravel between the cinder block wall and the back end of the second dumpster, knees up, the skirt of a dress that had cost somebody a year of salary bunched around her thighs and stained dark at the hem with whatever Hadley’s back lot had to offer. There was a veil in her hair. An actual veil. Pinned high and torn loose at the bottom edge where she’d caught it on something. Brown hair had freed itself from the pins on one side.

She was pressing her left wrist against her ribs.

The wrist was already swelling. Fresh. The skin had gone an angry red and was thinking about turning purple, the kind of mark left by a hand closing around it and yanking hard. It hadn’t happened long ago.

She heard me before she saw me.

Her head came up so fast I thought for a second, she was going to put it into the cinder block behind her. She got her feet under her in one motion. She looked around eighteen. Small. She moved with the twitchy speed of prey, getting her back against the wall, her hands flat to the block at her sides like she could push it down behind her and go through it if she had to.

I stopped several feet from her and put out my hands where she could see them. Palms open. Empty… except for the Slim Jim still in one of them, which was not the dignified detail I would have picked.

I didn’t say anything for a beat. I let her look at me. Let her clock the cut, the patches, the boots, the beard -- whatever she needed. She scanned fast, doing math on the distance between me and the road, where the gap was. She was a girl who had learned how to measure rooms.

The veil moved a little in the night air. She didn’t.

“You hurt?” I kept it short. I kept the road out of my voice -- the put-her-at-ease lilt I used on women at the bar who didn’t know me yet -- because she didn’t need a man being charming at her right now. She needed a man being quiet.

She lifted her chin.

“I’m fine.” The words came too even. Too rehearsed. “I just need a ride.”

Bruised jaw. Swollen wrist. Veil still pinned in her hair.

“Okay,” I said.

She narrowed her eyes half a degree. She’d been ready for the next question. People who looked the way she did were always ready for the next one, and the one after that, and the moment a man decided he’d earned an answer.

I tipped my head back toward the front of the building.

“Bike’s at the pump.”

I waited for the second it took her to understand that I wasn’t going to walk her to it. Then I turned and went back the way I’d come, around the corner of the building, into the buzz of the canopy lights. I topped off the tank, returned the nozzle to the pump, tightened the gas cap. I picked up the cup of coffee from the top of the pump and held it like I had reason to be standing there. I didn’t look back.

A few seconds passed. The night did its small noises. The fluorescent up by the air pump ticked through another bad cycle and gave up, then came back on.

Then I heard the gravel.

Two steps. A pause. Three more, slower, picking the path. I could hear the soft drag of a hem.

I took another sip of the now-cold coffee, and I waited.

She came up on my left, two feet of clearance between us, and stopped at the back end of the bike like she’d been told once, a long time ago, that you didn’t walk up on a man’s machine without permission and she’d never quite let go of the lesson. The dress dragged on the concrete behind her. There was gravel pressed into the white of it in a stripe across the hip. Up close, under the canopy lights, the bruise on her wrist had gone the dirty red of something the next hour was going to make worse.

I’d kept my attention on the road for the last forty seconds because something had started pulling at the inside of my chest before my thinking brain caught up, and a man in my line of work learned to pay attention to that pull or learned to bleed.

That was when the first set of headlights came up out of the dark to the south.

They came slow. Slow enough that I had time to set the coffee down on top of the pump. Slow enough that I had time to read the shape of the vehicle before I clocked the speed of it -- square, high, blacked-out, the kind of SUV nobody bought in this county to haul kids to school. It turned in off the county road without indicating, and the second one came in behind it without indicating either. They didn’t roll up to a pump. They rolled past the pumps. They stopped twenty yards from the front doors of the store, in the open part of the lot where they could see everything, and sat there with their engines running and their windows up.

I felt her go still beside me.

She didn’t make a sound or move. She froze with the instinct of someone who’d learned motion could get her hurt.

I unhooked the helmet from the handlebar.

I held it out to her without looking at her. Sideways, low, between our hips, where the bulk of my body was between it and the SUVs.

“Take it.”

She took it. Both hands. The bruised wrist came out from her ribs and caught the light, and she tightened her fingers around the foam at the helmet’s edge hard enough that the skin across her knuckles pulled flat and colorless.

The driver’s door of the front SUV opened.

A man stepped out. Dark jacket. No coat for the weather, which meant he didn’t plan to be outside long. He didn’t walk toward the store. He stood in the open door of his vehicle with one hand on the frame and the other hand down at his hip where I couldn’t see it, and he scanned the lot -- left to right, slow, taking inventory.

He took clocked the Buick, my bike, and even me.

I threw a leg over the bike.

“Get on.”

She followed the softly spoken command. She didn’t ask which side. She didn’t ask where to put her hands. She scrambled on, hiking the dress up with a clumsy heave. She swung a leg over the seat, her heel scraping against the pipe before her foot found the peg. The helmet bumped once against the back of my shoulder as she settled, grabbing for purchase.

Her fingers dug into my shirt as she held on.

It wasn’t the loose grip of a girl who’d been on the back of a bike before and remembered the etiquette. Both of her hands closed in the front of my jacket like the leather was a railing and she was a half-step from going over, and both fists pressed into my stomach through the cut.

The man in the dark jacket lifted his hand off the SUV’s frame.

I was already moving.

I twisted the throttle. The rear tire spat a plume of gravel, the back end sliding for a split second before it caught traction. We shot out from under the canopy, and I leaned hard into the turn onto the county road. She moved with me instead of fighting it. On a first ride, that was the only thing that kept you upright.

Behind us, a door slammed. Then a second door. The high beams of the second SUV swept across the front of the store, across the pumps and the spot we’d been parked in three seconds ago, and then they swung wide toward the road.

I opened the throttle the rest of the way.

The county highway south of Nashville at eleven-thirty on a weeknight was a black river with a yellow line down the middle of it, and the bike ate it. The tree line on either side blurred into something you couldn’t look at without your eyes watering. Cold came up off the asphalt, through my jeans, through the cuffs of my jacket, and somewhere behind us, in the mirror, the SUV headlights came around onto the road in a wide, scrambling arc and started after us.

They were big vehicles. They were fast on a straight. They were not fast through curves, and I knew every curve on this stretch of road between Hadley’s and the county line by the time I was twenty.

I took the first one without braking.

Her hands clamped tighter. I felt the second fistful of jacket bunch under my ribs. She made a small sound, not quite a word, swallowed almost before it started. She put her helmet against the back of my shoulder and pressed it there. That was all.

I checked the mirror.

The headlights clung to us through the first curves, too bright in my mirror. I knew a feeder road up ahead they wouldn’t expect. I took the turn hard, the tires screaming. I saw their brake lights flare red as they overshot the turn-in. They’d be back, but I’d bought us thirty seconds. It would have to be enough. I didn’t slow down.

The next exit north was a county road. From there, I could hit a web of back roads leading to the woods south of the compound. A man on a bike could get lost in those trees. The men in the SUVs would have to be born in them to follow. I pointed the bike at the exit.

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

 

Pre-Order Today

Teaser: Nitro by Harley Wylde

 

 

(Reckless Kings MC 9): A Dixie Reapers Bad Boys Romance

MC Romance

Date Published: June 26, 2026

Publisher: Changeling Press

She came back with a secret. He answers with a claim.

Willa -- I tell myself I’m here for one reason -- to survive. Not for him. Not for what we had. One night shouldn’t have mattered. But it did. Now I’m back, pregnant, and desperate, standing in the last place I should be. And the worst part? He sees me.

Nitro -- She thinks I won’t recognize her. Thinks I won’t put it together. She’s wrong. One look at her, at the curve of her stomach, and I know exactly what she tried to keep from me.

I don’t hesitate. I don’t negotiate. I claim her in front of everyone. She can be angry. She can fight. Doesn’t change anything. She’s mine. The kid’s mine. And I don’t let what belongs to me walk away.

Perfect for fans of dominant bikers, secret baby romance, and second chance love stories.

 

Excerpt

Copyright ©2026 Harley Wylde

Willa

The gate loomed ahead, iron and intimidation. I adjusted my canvas bag higher on my shoulder. Dusk had settled over the compound. I’d rehearsed what to say fifty times on the bus ride over, how to stand, how to sound casual about a decision that had kept me awake for weeks. But now, with my heart hammering against my ribs and my hand resting protectively over the two lives growing inside me, the words dried up in my throat.

I hadn’t planned for this -- for any of this. One night with a man whose face I’d memorized in the dark, and then the positive test, and then the second one, and then the doctor’s office confirming what my body had already told me. I’d kept moving. Found a room in a house with thin walls and a landlord who didn’t ask questions. Worked shifts until my feet ached and my back protested. Except it hadn’t been enough. I could either pay rent, or eat. Most of the time, I didn’t make enough to do both. And all the while, the babies inside me grew, a reality I couldn’t walk away from no matter how much I sometimes wanted to.

I buttoned my coat one more time, checking that it covered the slight curve of my belly. Not that it mattered anymore. Four months in, there was no hiding what I’d come here to admit.

The Prospect guard stepped forward as I approached the gate, his expression caught between wariness and routine assessment. Young -- maybe twenty-five -- with a patch that marked him as not quite a full member. He had the careful stance of someone who’d been told to take his job seriously.

“This is private property,” he said, voice neutral. “You looking for someone?”

I’d expected this. Rehearsed for it. “I’m here about a job. At the strip club.” I kept my voice steady, pitched it to sound casual, like applying for work at an outlaw motorcycle club’s strip joint was something I did every Tuesday. “Someone told me you’re hiring dancers. I stopped by the strip club, but it looked closed.”

His gaze moved over me once, taking stock. I’d done what I could to look the part -- worn jeans tight enough to show the shape of my legs, a top with sleeves long enough to cover my arms but cut low enough to suggest what was underneath. Of course, my coat currently covered the top half of me. My hair was loose instead of pulled back the way it had been the night I’d met Nitro. The night this whole thing started.

“We don’t take applications at the gate,” the Prospect said, but his tone had softened slightly. Maybe he believed me. Maybe he just wanted to believe a woman with my face would want to take her clothes off for money. Men usually did.

“I was told to ask for Nitro,” I said, the name catching in my throat.

The Prospect’s expression changed -- a flash of something like recognition, quickly masked. “Nitro’s busy. Maybe you should come back another time.”

“I don’t have another time.” The truth of it slipped out before I could catch it. I took a breath. “Please. It won’t take long.”

He hesitated, clearly weighing options. I watched the calculation happen behind his eyes -- the balance between turning me away and the potential consequences if I was telling the truth about knowing someone important.

“Hold on,” he said finally, and reached for the radio clipped to his belt.

I shifted my weight, trying to ease the persistent ache in my lower back. The bag on my shoulder felt heavier by the second. The night I’d spent here had been warm -- hot with bodies and music and the specific heat of Nitro’s skin against mine -- but now the air carried a chill that cut through my jacket. Or maybe that was just fear, sending ice through my veins while my heart tried to beat its way out of my chest.

The Prospect was speaking into the radio, voice too low for me to catch the words. I turned away slightly, giving him the illusion of privacy, and that’s when I saw him.

Nitro.

He stood at the edge of the parking area, half-shadowed by the building. Even from this distance, I could read the lines of his body -- the way he held himself, alert without appearing tense. He’d been about to leave or had just arrived. It didn’t matter. What mattered was the way his gaze found mine across the open space, the way his head tilted slightly as recognition hit.

I didn’t move. Couldn’t move. My rehearsed speech, my careful composure -- all of it evaporated under his gaze. He was exactly as I remembered. Tall, solid, with that watchful quality that made him seem both completely present and somehow separate from whatever was happening around him. I’d spent four months trying to forget the feel of his hands and the sound of his voice, and here he was, real as anything, looking at me like he was trying to fit the pieces together.

Then his gaze dropped to my stomach.

Just for a second -- a quick, involuntary movement -- but I saw it. His expression didn’t change, but something happened behind his eyes, a recalculation. When he looked back at my face, his gaze had sharpened.

The Prospect was saying something, but I couldn’t hear it over the blood rushing in my ears.

Nitro straightened, said something to the men near him without taking his gaze off me. The Prospect fell back a step, his posture shifting subtly into something closer to deference. Nitro was moving now, crossing the open ground between us with the same measured confidence I remembered from that night. Not hurrying, but covering distance efficiently, each step deliberate.

He stopped three feet from me, close enough that I could smell the faint trace of cigarette smoke on his clothes, far enough to give me room to step back if I wanted to. I didn’t. My feet felt rooted to the ground, my body caught between fight and flight with nowhere to run.

“Nitro,” I said. Just his name, the way I’d said mine that night. Nothing attached to it, no explanation for why I was here or what I wanted or why the shape of me had changed since he’d last seen me.

He looked at me for a long moment, his expression giving away nothing. Then, without speaking, he tilted his head toward the gate and stepped aside, creating a path.

An invitation. Not a question.

I swallowed hard. This was it -- the moment everything changed. I’d thought about it for weeks, turned it over in my mind during the long nights when I couldn’t sleep, played out every possible reaction, every potential ending. But standing here now, with the reality of him in front of me and the knowledge of what I carried between us, none of those rehearsals mattered.

What mattered was the step forward. The commitment to whatever came next.

I moved past him through the gate, feeling the brush of air as he turned to follow. My back tingled with the awareness of his presence behind me, the same awareness I’d felt that night in the hallway when I’d followed him to his room. The same pull, complicated now by everything that had happened since.

The compound opened up around me -- the main building with its lit windows, the row of bikes gleaming in the fading light, the sounds of voices and music carrying on the evening air. It was exactly as I remembered and completely different, seen now with the knowledge of what had happened here and what it had led to.

I stopped a few yards inside the gate, suddenly uncertain. The bag on my shoulder felt heavy. The babies in my belly seemed to pulse with their own heartbeats, separate from mine but impossibly connected. I’d come this far. Made the decision. Stepped through the gate. But now, with the reality of it surrounding me, I couldn’t remember why I’d thought this was the right choice.

Nitro moved past me, not touching, but close enough that I caught the scent of him -- clean and sharp underneath the smoke. He glanced at me once, his expression still unreadable, and then tipped his head toward the main building.

“Come inside,” he said, the first words he’d spoken. Not a question. But also not a command.

I followed him across the gravel, my footsteps sounding too loud in my ears. The Prospect watched us go, his expression carefully blank. A few of the men near the building turned to look, curiosity quickly masked when they saw who was with me. I kept my gaze on Nitro’s back, on the straight line of his shoulders under his cut, on the measured certainty of his stride.

He held the door for me, one hand on the frame, not quite touching as I passed. The warmth inside hit me like a wall after the evening chill, along with the smell of beer and leather and the scent of a space lived in by too many people for too long. It was exactly as I remembered from that night -- the same low lighting, the same sense of contained chaos -- but empty now of the press of bodies, the crush of the party.

We were alone in the main room, or nearly. A man I didn’t recognize sat at the far end of the bar, nursing a drink and pretending not to watch us. Otherwise, the space was ours -- Nitro standing with his back to the door, me with my bag still on my shoulder and my hand still resting protectively over my stomach.

He glanced toward the bar and made a motion with his hand. The music died down a few seconds later. He looked at me for a long moment, his expression giving away nothing of what he was thinking. Then he reached for my bag.

I let him take it, my fingers slow to release the strap. As he lifted it, it felt like some small piece of the burden I’d been carrying grew lighter. Not the important one. Not the one that had brought me here. But something, at least.

“Why are you here?” he asked, his voice level.

I took a breath. “You know why.”

His gaze dropped to my stomach again, this time holding there. Yeah. He might not be able to see through my jacket, but he’d figured it out anyway. Why else would I show up here out of the blue? Sure, he’d used a condom, but those were never foolproof.

“Four months,” he said. Not a question.

 

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

 

Pre-Order Today

Teaser: Spade by Harley Wylde

 

(Savage Raptors MC)

 

Motorcycle Club Romance, Age Gap, Suspense

Date Published: May 22, 2026

Publisher: Changeling Press

When loyalty fractures, only the ruthless survive.

Lila -- I walked into Savage Raptors territory with proof one of them is a traitor. Stupid? Maybe. But numbers don’t lie -- and someone inside their club is selling intel. I won’t stay silent, even if it means putting myself in the crosshairs. Spade doesn’t trust me. He watches me like I’m the threat. But he’s wrong. The danger is already wearing his patch.

Spade -- Outsiders don’t accuse my brothers and live to tell about it. Lila shows up with spreadsheets and nerve, claiming betrayal inside my club. I bring her under my roof to prove her wrong. Instead, I find evidence she’s right. Now I have a choice -- protect my brotherhood at any cost… or protect the woman who just became mine. If someone’s playing both sides, I’ll end it. As for Lila? She's mine. And once I claim something, I don’t let it go.

A slow-burn MC romance with loyalty, betrayal, and a guaranteed HEA. No cheating.

 

WARNING: Intended for readers 18+ years of age. This book contains mature themes including motorcycle club–related criminal activity, violence, strong language, and references to trauma. Reader discretion is advised.

 

EXCERPT

 

Spade

It wasn’t often we held Church without every patched member present, but all things considered, we were operating this one with a skeleton crew. Moving with deliberate precision Atilla gathered the evidence spread across the table. The room fell silent. Brothers shifted in their seats, tension thick enough to cut. I kept my face blank, waiting. When Atilla finally looked up, his eyes were cold steel, decision made. The verdict was coming, and every man in the room knew it would change everything.

“The evidence is compelling.” Atilla’s voice filled the room without raising above a conversational tone. Decades of authority behind it. “We have a problem.”

Stinger slammed his fist on the table. “We can’t trust her! This whole thing reeks.”

“Shut up.” Atilla didn’t even look at him. His focus remained on the papers, then shifted to me. “Spade. She stays with you. Under guard. Protected and watched. Twenty-four seven.”

I nodded once. No questions needed.

“You believe this shit?” General pushed away from the table, chair scraping across the floor. “Some random Horsemen bitch walks in with paperwork, and we’re supposed to --”

“Yes.” Atilla cut him off. “We are. Because these dates match our failed runs. Every time.” He tapped the folder with one finger. “You got a better explanation for how they knew about the Colombian meet? That was Church business only.” Church business was sacred. Patched members only.

“Could be coincidence,” Tinker offered, but his voice lacked conviction.

“This many times?” Lila spoke for the first time, her voice steady despite being surrounded by hostile men. “That’s one hell of a statistical anomaly.”

Wildcard’s hand drifted toward his waistband. “You don’t speak unless spoken to.”

I caught his eye, shook my head slightly. He backed down, but his face stayed dark with anger.

Atilla stood, signaling the meeting’s end. “Spade has point on this. Full authority. Anyone who gets in his way answers to me.” He fixed each brother with a hard stare. “Until we know who’s clean and who isn’t, information stays compartmentalized. Need to know only.”

The implications hung heavy. Trust -- our foundation -- had just been officially suspended.

“Move her now,” Atilla told me. “Take the back exit. Fewer eyes.”

I rose, gesturing for Lila to follow. She gathered her remaining papers, clutching the folder against her chest like armor. Smart. In this room, information was her only protection.

The brothers parted as we moved toward the door, their faces a study in conflicting emotions. Suspicion. Anger. Unease. Each one wondering if they were under scrutiny. Each one wondering who among them couldn’t be trusted.

“Keys.” I held my hand out to Wildcard, who’d driven her car into the compound.

He slapped them into my palm with unnecessary force. “Watch your back,” he muttered, low enough that only I could hear.

Warning? Or threat? Hard to tell. I filed it away for later analysis.

The back hallway was empty, dim emergency lights casting long shadows. Lila kept pace beside me, not behind. Her gaze scanned everything -- exit signs, security cameras, door locks. Cataloging. Memorizing. I noticed but didn’t comment.

“Where are we going?” she asked as we stepped into the cool night air.

“My place. On the compound.”

My Harley waited in its usual spot, glossy black paint catching moonlight. I handed her a helmet from the saddlebag, watching as she adjusted it with practiced hands. Not her first time on a bike, then.

“Hold tight,” I instructed, swinging my leg over the seat. “And keep that folder secure.”

She slid on behind me, zipped her precious evidence into her jacket, then put her arms around my waist. Her grip was firm but not desperate. The engine roared to life beneath us, vibrating through my bones the way it always did. Familiar. Grounding.

We pulled away from the clubhouse, headlight cutting through darkness. The compound spread before us -- twenty acres of Savage Raptors territory. My home for twenty years. Now potentially compromised.

I took the long route deliberately, giving her the tour she hadn’t asked for. Security checkpoint at the main gate -- two armed brothers nodding as we passed. Motion sensors along the perimeter fence, red lights blinking in sequence. Camera poles at strategic intersections, covering approach angles and blind spots. The garage where we kept our vehicles -- always guarded, always locked.

In my side mirror, I watched her head turn, taking in each detail. Not casual observation. Assessment. She was mapping our security, finding the gaps. Professional habit or something more?

Brothers stopped to watch us pass, hands resting casually near weapons. Word had spread already. The Horsemen’s accountant. The potential trap. The security risk. Comments followed in our wake.

“Who’s the bitch?”

“President’s orders.”

“Fucking VP’s gone soft.”

I ignored them. Petty bullshit wasn’t my concern. Finding our leak was.

We passed the shop where club business happened away from prying eyes. The mess hall where brothers ate together. The row of cabins where Prospects lived during initiation. All the while, her grip remained steady, her body angled to see everything we passed.

My house sat apart from the others -- VP privilege and personal preference. Single story, secure, isolated. I cut the engine in the driveway, silence rushing in to fill the void.

“This is it?” she asked, removing the helmet.

“Home, sweet home.” I swung off the bike, taking the helmet from her hands. “For both of us now.”

She stood, pulled the folder out of her jacket, and clutching it tightly against her chest. Never letting go of it. Smart woman.

The security light above my porch caught her face at an angle, highlighting the bruise on her jaw. In the harsh white glow, it looked worse than before -- blue-black center fading to sickly yellow at the edges. The kind of hit meant to hurt, not just intimidate.

“How did you get into the compound in the first place?” I asked.

“I threatened to rip off the Prospect’s balls if he didn’t let me through.”

I stared her down, knowing that hadn’t been enough to get her through the gate.

She sighed. “I told him I had intel his President would want and that the club was in jeopardy. Then I leaned out the window a little, giving him a glimpse down my shirt. It’s amazing how many doors open when you show a guy your boobs.”

Well, fuck. She had a point. Most men wouldn’t see her as a threat. And our Prospects did tend to think with their dicks. Especially the younger ones.

“They really did try to kill you,” I said, not a question.

Her gaze met mine, unflinching. “Yes. And they’ll try again when they realize what I took.”

“Good thing you’ve got the Savage Raptors watching your back now.” I unlocked my front door, punching in the security code.

“Is it?” She stepped past me into the house. “Guess that depends on which one is selling you out.”

I couldn’t argue with that logic. We both knew the enemy could already be inside these walls. Could be any face we passed tonight. Could be someone I’d called brother for years.

About the Author

Harley Wylde is an accomplished author known for her captivating MC Romances. With an unwavering commitment to sensual storytelling, Wylde immerses her readers in an exciting world of fierce men and irresistible women. Her works exude passion, danger, and gritty realism, while still managing to end on a satisfying note each time.

When not crafting her tales, Wylde spends her time brainstorming new plotlines, indulging in a hot cup of Starbucks, or delving into a good book. She has a particular affinity for supernatural horror literature and movies. Visit Wylde's website to learn more about her works and upcoming events, and 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

 

Pre-Order Today

Teaser: Falcon by Harley Wylde

 

(Savage Raptors MC)

 

Motorcycle Club Romance, Age Gap, Suspense

Date Published: February 13, 2026

Who would have thought a woman asking for help would be the reason Kane finally earns his patch?

 

Jade: I didn’t go looking for trouble -- trouble found me. Again. When the danger turns real, there’s only one man I trust enough to ask for help. Kane. He’s stepped in before, when things got rough, but this time it’s different. This time, someone wants me gone. Walking into the Savage Raptors’ MC should terrify me, yet somehow it feels like the only place I might survive. And the man sworn to protect me? He might be the most dangerous of all.

Kane: I’ve helped Jade before. Fixed her problems. Kept her safe. But this time, the stakes are higher, and so is the risk to my club. Jade doesn’t belong in my world, and I sure as hell don’t belong in hers. Still, walking away isn’t an option. When danger closes in, I’ll stand between her and the fire. Once I claim someone as mine, I don’t let go. I’ll burn their world to the ground before I let anyone take her from me.

 

Warning: This story contains adult themes, violence, and trauma. Intended for mature readers only. HEA guaranteed. No cheating.

EXCERPT

 

Kane

Football played on my TV, but my brain refused to care who scored.

Sound stayed low enough to fill the room without turning my place into a damn cave. Noise helped when the compound settled down, when the night stretched long and quiet and a Prospect’s mind started chewing on everything he couldn’t control. My shoulders still ached from hauling boxes at the shop, then running errands for patched brothers until my legs felt like dead weight. Grunt work never stopped. Prospects didn’t earn the right to slow down.

Beer warmed in my hand while the screen flickered in front of me. I took a swallow anyway, because habit came easier than rest. Sleep should’ve grabbed me the second I hit my couch. Instead, I sat there, elbows on my knees, staring straight ahead while my thoughts drifted to the same place they always went.

Do more. Prove yourself. Don’t fuck up.

A Prospect lived inside a narrow lane. He worked hard, kept his mouth shut, learned fast, and didn’t bring trouble to the club’s door. He didn’t make choices that risked patched men. He didn’t drag unknown chaos onto club property and hope the President appreciated the surprise.

Those rules existed for a reason.

Savage Raptors didn’t hand out patches because a man wanted one. They handed them out because a man earned one, bled for one, proved he had the spine to carry it without breaking under the weight. A year of work might not be enough. Two might not be enough. A single wrong decision could erase everything.

No patch. No brotherhood. No family.

I’d wanted this anyway.

My gaze swept over the small house, stirring up a familiar mix of gratitude and impatience. Four walls inside the compound. One bedroom. Ugly carpet. Scuffed paint. An abandoned couch. A mismatched recliner. The coffee table had endured more spilled beer than any furniture deserved to survive. Whenever I flipped the switch, the kitchen light flickered as though the bulb longed for death but lacked the decency to follow through.

The fridge hummed loud enough to irritate me at night. Pipes clanked when the water ran cold. Nothing worked perfectly. Nothing looked pretty.

Roof over my head mattered more than pretty.

My phone rested facedown on the coffee table. No one would text me this late unless something went sideways, and brothers tended to call when they wanted a Prospect moving fast. I should’ve showered and crashed. Muscles begged for sleep. Mind refused to cooperate.

Patched brothers didn’t pretend. They lived their code, protected their own, and expected the same loyalty back.

I wanted to be one of them.

Setting my beer back onto the table, I leaned against the couch cushion and closed my eyes briefly. The announcer’s voice droned on while crowd noise rumbled through the speakers. My breathing slowed.

A prickle crawled along the back of my neck.

Eyes snapping open, I scanned the room. Nothing had changed. Shadows remained in their corners. The air felt still and undisturbed. Despite this, something tightened in my gut -- an instinct impossible to ignore.

That feeling never showed up for no reason.

I turned my head slightly and listened. Fridge hum. The faint tick of the cheap wall clock. A distant engine beyond the fence, somewhere out on the road. Football noise. Nothing else.

My hand slid toward the side table because training lived deeper than logic. Fingers brushed the Glock I kept there. I didn’t grab it yet. I waited, listening harder, making sure my mind didn’t invent problems out of boredom.

A sharp knock hit my front door.

Hard enough to rattle the frame.

I sat up fast, heart slamming once against my ribs. The knock came again, quick and frantic. Not the steady rap of a brother. Not some drunk brother stumbling around. Desperation lived in those blows.

I snatched the Glock and moved off the couch in one smooth motion. Feet carried me to the door without making noise. I stayed to the side of the frame, not directly in front of it, because I’d learned better than to stand where a bullet might come through.

No voice followed.

No footsteps.

Only breathing, shaky and uneven, right outside the door.

“Who is it?” My voice came low, controlled.

“Kane?”

A woman calling my name at this hour should’ve triggered every alarm bell. Setup. Trap. Maybe someone testing how a Prospect handles unexpected visitors. Despite my suspicion, genuine fear resonated in her voice. Panic carried a distinctive edge -- a tremble impossible to manufacture without having experienced real terror.

With my gun ready, I slid the deadbolt back while keeping the chain secured, then eased the door open enough to peer outside.

Cold air rushed in.

Empty porch.

My gaze cut left and right, scanning what I could see past the edge of the house. Nothing moved near my place. No shadow lingered. No figure waited.

Breathing came again, closer this time, but not from the porch.

From the hallway window.

I shut the door and pressed my eye to the narrow side window. Outside, the walkway stretched toward the guard shack and main internal road, with security lights casting yellow pools across the gravel. Farther down the path stood a figure, half in shadow, half in light.

A woman.

Arms wrapped around herself, shoulders hunched against cold and fear. Damp tangles of dark hair framed her face. Purple and ugly, a bruise bloomed along one cheekbone. From beneath her coat collar crept another mark. Her eyes darted everywhere, scanning the quiet compound as though expecting an attacker to emerge from the darkness.

Jade.

My chest clenched hard.

We’d crossed paths a few times in town. Months earlier, I’d found her stranded near one of the club’s businesses with a flat tire and lug nuts refusing to budge. Being close enough to help, I did. She’d responded with gratitude so intense it seemed I’d handed her a gold bar instead of basic assistance. The following week at the diner, cheeks flushed pink and voice timid, she’d pressed a coffee into my hand -- someone clearly unaccustomed to kindness from strangers.

Occasional sightings followed. Grocery store. Walking into work. Brief encounters. Polite. Never lingering.

Now she stood inside the compound.

Someone had let her past the gate.

That meant trouble.

Out of habit, I threw on my cut, grabbed my keys, and shoved my phone into my pocket. The Glock slid into the waistband at the small of my back. Surprises weren’t my thing, especially when they arrived wearing bruises.

Cold air slapped my face as the door swung open. Jade whipped her head toward me with such force I felt the panic radiating from her. For a brief moment, relief flickered across her expression -- quick and fragile, as though she couldn’t trust it to last.

“Kane.” My name came out of her mouth on a broken breath. “I… I’m sorry. I didn’t know what else to do.”

“Stop.” I closed the distance fast, keeping my body between her and the open walkway. “Who let you in?”

Her hands shook as she tried to gesture back toward the guard shack. “I went to the gate. I told them I needed you. I begged. I said --” Her voice cracked. “I said I was scared.”

Anger surged through me, sharp and immediate, not at her. At whatever had put her in a place where begging strangers felt like the best option.

“Tinker?” I called out, voice carrying.

The guard shack door opened. Tinker stepped out, bundled in a jacket, face hard and alert. His gaze flicked to Jade, then back to me.

“Prez knows.” Tinker didn’t waste words. “Saw her on camera. Called me. Told me not to turn her away. Told me to notify you and keep eyes on the road.”

So Atilla had made the call before I even stepped outside.

That eased one knot in my chest, then tightened another. If Atilla knew, the situation already mattered. Presidents didn’t wake up for minor problems.

Tinker’s eyes narrowed slightly. “She’s got marks.”

“I see them.” My jaw clenched. “Did anyone follow her in?”

“Gate camera shows her car only,” Tinker said. “No tail. No slow roll behind her. No second set of headlights. Doesn’t mean nobody watched her leave town, but nobody came through our gate after.”

Jade struggled for each breath, and I could see the terror in her eyes.

“You planning to stand out here all night?” I turned my head slightly, dropping my voice to a gentle rumble. “Or would you rather come inside?”

For several heartbeats she remained frozen. No step toward me. No retreat either. When her gaze finally locked with mine -- wide, bloodshot, desperate -- something beneath my sternum wrenched painfully.

She didn’t trust safety anymore.

“Inside,” she whispered.

“Good.” I kept my hand low, not reaching for her. People who’d been grabbed didn’t like sudden touch, no matter who offered it. “Stay close. If anything feels off, you tell me.”

She nodded, small and shaky.

We moved down the walkway toward my place. Tinker stayed near the guard shack, watching our backs, gaze scanning the fence line and the road beyond. Security lights threw our shadows across the gravel. Jade flinched at every sound -- distant engine, wind rattling something metal, even the soft bark of a dog farther down the property.

Her fear didn’t come from imagination. Something had taught her to react.

My front porch light flicked on when we neared. I unlocked the door and stepped inside first, scanning the room out of habit. Nothing had changed since I’d sat on the couch. TV still glowed. Beer still sat on the table. My place looked normal.

Normal didn’t mean safe.

I turned toward Jade and stepped back, giving her space to enter.

She crossed the threshold with the caution of someone expecting the floor to collapse beneath her. Inside my living room, her shoulders remained tight while her gaze swept across corners and windows.

Behind us, I secured our safety -- door shut, deadbolt slid home, chain hooked. Each lock clicked into place with solid finality.

The tension in Jade’s frame eased a fraction. A flicker of relief appeared, only to be immediately overwhelmed by fear.

“Sit.” My hand gestured toward the couch. “Water? Coffee? Something stronger?”

Her attention caught on my waistband, and I wondered if I’d turned just enough for her to spot my Glock. After swallowing hard, she averted her eyes -- unwilling to appear intimidated by a weapon in a biker’s home.

“Water,” she managed. “Please.”

I moved into the kitchen and filled a glass. Pipes clanked. Tap ran cold. I set the glass on the coffee table in front of her and crouched down across from her, far enough not to crowd, close enough to see her face.

The purple bruise on her cheekbone stood out in stark relief under my living room light. Along her neck, a faint scratch trailed downward before vanishing beneath her coat collar. Near the elbow, her torn sleeve revealed a spreading dark stain.

“Tell me what happened,” I said.

Jade fixed her gaze on the water glass as though it contained all the answers she needed. Beneath her crossed arms, her fingers dug into her own ribs, clutching herself in a desperate self-embrace. Each breath came shallow and uneven, her chest rising and falling in an irregular rhythm.

Words finally spilled out, rough and uneven. “He came to my apartment. I thought the locks would hold. I changed them. I installed a chain. I did everything I could think of.”

“Who?” I kept it simple. Panic made stories tangle.

Her gaze lifted for a fraction, met mine, then dropped again. “The man who says I owe him. The one who’s been watching me.”

My stomach knotted itself. For weeks, rumors circulated through the club about some asshole pressuring vulnerable people around town. He squeezed anyone who seemed an easy mark -- predatory loans, brutal collections, interest compounding faster than mold after rain.

Until now, I’d had no idea Jade numbered among his victims. “Name.”

She swallowed. “Roth.”

A slow burn crawled up my spine. The name rang familiar to every member of our club. Though not cartel-level, his connections made him a genuine threat. In his world, money and intimidation purchased anything he desired.

“How long has he been after you?”

Her answer came thin. “A while. Months. Maybe longer if you count when my brother… when he first owed them money. I didn’t understand they’d come after me until it was already too late.”

Anger rolled slowly through my chest, heavy and dark. “Your brother owed Roth money.”

Her head shook. “Someone. He mentioned a name once, but I didn’t listen. Should have.” She dragged in a breath and looked away. “Then he got arrested. I thought the worst part had passed. I thought whatever mess he’d made stayed his problem. Those were his choices. Not mine.”

“Men like Roth don’t care about differences,” I said.

Jade nodded, eyes glassy. “A month after my brother went to prison, they appeared at my door. Called me part of the collateral. Somehow they’d learned where I worked, lived, when I came and went. Even my friends’ names.” Her voice trembled. “When I explained about having no money, their response was simple -- other payment methods existed.”

My jaw clenched until it ached. “Did they touch you?”

The color vanished from her face. She froze, then gave a single shake of her head.

“They attempted to,” she whispered. “Made their point clear enough. A neighbor walking down the hall interrupted before… “ She swallowed hard. “Afterward, I never answered knocks. Changed my routes home. Slept fully dressed because their return seemed inevitable.”

Unwanted scenes played across my mind while my fists curled, hungry for contact.

“Why seek me out at our gate?” The question emerged harsher than intended.

A tear escaped, rolling down her cheek before she quickly wiped it away.

“Remember fixing my tire? Months back, near the east side grocery? The lug nuts wouldn’t budge until you stopped to help. You inspected the spare, then followed behind to ensure my car wouldn’t break down again.”

Memory hit hard. Tight jeans. Messy ponytail. Stubborn chin. The way she apologized for taking up my time before I’d even touched the tire iron. When she bought me coffee later, I’d wanted to ask for her number. I hadn’t.

Prospects rarely dated if they wanted a patch. Our time belonged to the club. An easy lay was one thing, but I’d wanted more from her.

“You were kind. You didn’t make me feel stupid. You didn’t ask for anything.” She sniffed hard, furious at herself for crying. “When I saw you the next week at the diner, you remembered my name. You remembered.”

Her voice broke at the last word.

“Whenever I saw you after that, I felt… safe. Not once did you look at me as though I were a problem.” Her shoulders curled inward. “People talked about the club. Some claimed you were dangerous. Others said nobody messed with anyone under your protection. In my mind, if anyone could keep Roth away, it would be you.”

Across her expression spread a shame suggesting she expected mockery for trusting rumors and a Prospect who hadn’t been patched in yet.

I sat there and felt responsibility settle in my bones.

“Tonight he kicked my door open.” Her words came faster now, panic rising again. “Locks slowed him down, but not enough. He came in angry. He said I was ignoring his calls. He said I was running out of chances.” One hand twisted her sleeve tight. “He threw my coffee table. He pulled my hair. He told me I didn’t understand what he could do.”

My hands clenched. “How did you get away?”

“The phone in his pocket buzzed and distracted him.” Her chest heaved with shallow breaths. “He spat curses, then announced he’d return later. The way he strode out -- as though he owned every inch of the building -- made me think he’d get back into my apartment no matter what I did.” A hard swallow caught in her throat. “After his footsteps faded, I bolted. My hands grabbed only keys and emergency cash from beneath the floorboard. No clothes. Nothing else mattered. For miles I drove while headlights in my rearview mirror transformed into his pursuing car.”

Her gaze lifted and locked on mine. “I didn’t think it through. My head kept screaming one thing. Find Kane.”

Rules existed for a reason. Prospects didn’t bring outsiders onto club property. Prospects didn’t add unknown danger to the compound and hope the President appreciated the surprise.

I knew all of that.

Jade trembled on my couch, purple bruise stark against her pale skin. Sending her away would be condemning her to a grave.

“Did you call the cops?” I asked.

A harsh laugh escaped her, ugly and bitter. “Weeks ago I tried. Filed a report. Nothing happened.” She wrapped her arms tighter around herself. “The next day one of his men sat in my diner, smiling across the counter as though we shared some private joke.” Her voice dropped to nearly a whisper. “When I returned to follow up, suddenly nobody had time. My problem belonged to nobody but me.”

I blew out a slow breath, forcing my anger down into something useful. Rage didn’t help Jade, didn’t protect her. It could get me killed and get the club dragged into a mess at the wrong angle.

Atilla needed to hear her full story. Through Tinker, he knew about her arrival at the gate, but the President remained unaware of crucial details.

Rising from my seat, I pulled out my phone to check the time.

Late.

Too damn late for another call without pissing him off. Mostly because a ringing phone would wake the kids. Still, he knew she was here. Surely he expected me to reach out?

Yeah, silence would enrage him more when everything eventually surfaced.

When I faced Jade again, her gaze followed my movements with resignation, as though she already saw herself being escorted back into the darkness beyond our compound.

“I’m calling my President,” I said. “He needs your story from you, but he needs to know the basics right now.”

Fear flickered bright. “He’s going to send me away.”

“He might want to.” I couldn’t lie to her. “I won’t let you walk back into the dark alone tonight.”

Tears gathered again, but she blinked them back hard. Her chin lifted a fraction, stubbornness showing through fear. She looked like she hated needing anyone.

So did I.

I called Atilla.

Two rings. He answered, voice rough, awake. “Talk.”

“She’s inside my house now. The gate opened on your order. Roth broke into her apartment earlier. Grabbed her hair, threw furniture around. His phone rang, pulling him away. Before leaving, he promised to return. She fled straight to our compound, terrified and alone.”

Silence sat heavy on the line for a beat.

“What else?” Atilla asked.

“Brother went to prison. Debt started there. They called her collateral. She tried cops. No help.” I kept it tight. “She came because she trusted me.”

“Bring her to church,” he said. “Now.”

 

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

 

Pre-Order Today

Teaser: Ace by Harley Wylde

 

(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

 

Pre-Order Today

Teaser: The Enforcer's Possession by Harley Wylde

 

(Ruthless Alliances #1)

 

Mafia Romance, Age Gap, Suspense

Date Published: November 28, 2025

A contract of power. A marriage of enemies. A love written in blood, bound by desire.

Caterina: My father thinks he owns me. A spoiled mafia princess, good for one thing -- marriage to strengthen his empire. But I refuse to be sold to a cruel man. If he wants an alliance, I’ll give him one -- on my terms. So I go to Dante De Luca, the De Luca family’s most dangerous enforcer. Cold. Controlled. Lethal. Our contract marriage is supposed to be business, not desire. Then he touches me, and everything I thought I knew about power and control shatters.

Dante: Caterina Lombardi doesn’t know what she’s started. She wants protection. I want her. She thinks she can use me to defy her father, but once she’s mine, she stays mine. She’s fire wrapped in silk -- reckless, beautiful, and born to test every rule I’ve ever followed. But in our world, rebellion comes with blood, and enemies are closing in. I’ll burn everything to protect her… even if it means becoming the monster she fears.

A dark mafia romance filled with obsession, betrayal, and dangerous passion. For readers who love possessive alpha heroes, spoiled princess heroines, enemies-to-lovers heat, and contracts written in blood.

 

WARNING: Intended for readers 18+ The Enforcer’s Possession includes dark and possessive elements, emotional intensity, and morally gray behavior.

 

EXCERPT

 

Caterina

I sprawled across the velvet chaise near my bedroom windows, one leg dangling over the armrest, my phone pressed to my ear while Adriana went on about some party at the Castellano estate. I wasn’t really listening. Instead, I picked at the silk blouse I’d tossed aside an hour ago -- Valentino, bought last week, already boring -- and let my gaze drift across the disaster zone my room had become.

Designer clothes lay scattered across the marble floors like expensive casualties. A Gucci dress hung half-off my bed frame. Three pairs of Louboutins created a hazardous path to my bathroom. My jewelry cases sat open on every available surface, catching the afternoon light and throwing rainbow refractions across the walls.

“Cat? Are you even listening to me?”

“Hmm?” I shifted, letting the blouse fall to the floor. “Sorry, what?”

“I said Marco asked about you. Again.” Adriana’s voice held that knowing tone that made me want to reach through the phone and smack her. “He wants to know if you’ll be at --”

“Tell Marco to go fuck himself.” I sat up, reaching for my discarded iced coffee on the side table. Watered down. Disgusting. I set it back without drinking. “I’m not interested in whatever trust fund baby wants to play gangster this week.”

“He’s not that bad.”

“He wore a fedora to Lucia’s birthday party. A fedora, Adi.”

She laughed, and I felt myself smile despite my mood. That was the thing about Adriana -- she got it. She understood what it was like to live in this world, to be decorative and controlled and expected to smile through it all.

“Fair point,” she said. “So what’s got you in such a charming mood today? And don’t say nothing, because I can hear it in your voice.”

I stood, pacing toward my walk-in closet. The motion felt good, gave me something to do with the restless energy crawling under my skin. “My father. What else?”

“What did Giuseppe do now?”

“He’s acting like I’m some prized mare to be traded off to the highest bidder.” I stepped into the closet, running my hand along the row of couture gowns that lined one wall. Versace, Dolce & Gabbana, Armani -- thousands of dollars of fabric I was expected to wear while playing the dutiful daughter. “Apparently, he’s been having meetings. About my future.”

“Meetings.” Adriana’s voice went flat. She knew what that meant. We all did.

“With families. Old families. Traditional families who think women should be seen and not heard.” I grabbed a dress at random -- something in emerald green I’d worn once to a charity gala -- and pulled it off its hanger. Held it up. Put it back. Wrong. All wrong. “He actually told me yesterday that it was time I started thinking about settling down. Settling down. I’m twenty-one, not forty.”

“What did you say?”

“I told him I’d rather die.”

Adriana sucked in a breath. “Cat. You didn’t.”

“I did.” I moved to my vanity table, surveying the collection of high-end makeup and perfumes arranged across its surface. My reflection stared back at me from the mirror -- dark hair falling in waves past my shoulders, green eyes sharp with anger I couldn’t quite bank. I looked like my mother had at my age, according to the photos. Before Papa had worn her down into the perfect Mafia wife. “He didn’t appreciate it.”

“I’m shocked.”

“The thing is, he doesn’t even see it. Doesn’t see how fucking archaic it all is.” I picked up a lipstick, twisted it open, then put on a little across my lips. “We all know he’s doing this for himself or the family, but I’m sure part of him also thinks he’s protecting me. Providing for me. Making sure I’m taken care of.”

“By selling you off to some capo’s son?”

“Basically.” I walked back to the windows, looking out over the Lombardi estate gardens. Perfectly manicured hedges, marble fountains, rose bushes that cost more to maintain than most people made in a year. Beautiful. Like a gilded cage. “He keeps talking about duty and family and legacy. As if I’m just another asset to be leveraged. At the same time, I know he feels women are inferior. I’m sure he doesn’t believe I could ever take care of myself.”

“You are, though. To him.” Adriana’s voice was gentle, which somehow made it worse. “In his world, that’s what daughters are for.”

I pressed my forehead against the cool glass. “I know. That’s what makes it so Goddamn frustrating. He genuinely believes he’s doing right by me. That finding me a wealthy, connected husband is the best thing he can offer.”

“What about what you want?”

“What I want doesn’t factor into the equation.” I turned away from the window, surveying my room again. The luxury that surrounded me suddenly felt suffocating rather than comfortable. “I’m a Lombardi. I’m supposed to want what’s best for the family.”

“And what do you want?”

The question hung in the air. I didn’t have a good answer. I wanted freedom, but freedom to do what? I’d never had to think about it before. My life had always been mapped out -- private schools, designer clothes, carefully curated social events, and eventually a marriage that would strengthen family alliances.

“I want to choose,” I said finally. “I want to choose who I fuck, who I marry if I marry, what I do with my life. Is that too much to ask?”

“For Giuseppe? Probably.”

I laughed, but it came out bitter. Moving back to the chaise, I dropped onto it dramatically, throwing one arm over my eyes. “He’s been worse lately. More controlling. Like he knows something I don’t.”

“Maybe he does.”

“That’s what I’m afraid of.” I let my arm fall, staring at the ceiling. The fresco up there -- some Renaissance reproduction that had cost a fortune -- suddenly seemed ridiculous. Everything in this room was ridiculous. Beautiful and expensive and utterly meaningless. “I can feel it, Adi. Something’s coming. Some decision he’s already made that’s going to change everything.”

“Have you tried talking to him? Actually talking, not just fighting?”

“You can’t talk to Papa. You can plead your case and then watch him do whatever he was going to do anyway.” I sat up, running my fingers through my hair. My diamond bracelet caught on a strand and I yanked it free with more force than necessary. “He pretends to listen, nods in all the right places, and then completely ignores everything you’ve said.”

“What about Sofia?”

“Mama?” I snorted. “She’s worse. At least Papa is honest about being a controlling bastard. Mama just smiles and suggests I try being more accommodating. More understanding of the family’s needs.”

“Ouch.”

“Yeah.” I stood again, unable to stay still. The restless energy was back, stronger now. I moved to one of my jewelry cases, running my fingers over the pieces inside. Tiffany, Cartier, Bulgari -- gifts from my father, purchased with blood money and given with the expectation of gratitude. “She’s been doing this so long she doesn’t even see it anymore. The way she swallows her opinions, plays the perfect hostess, pretends not to notice when Papa comes home with blood on his cuffs.”

“Is that what you’re afraid of? Turning into her?”

The question hit too close to home. I closed the jewelry case with a sharp snap. “I’d rather die,” I said again, and this time I meant it with everything in me.

“Well, don’t do that. Your funeral would be boring and I’d have to wear black, which washes me out.”

Despite everything, I smiled. “You’re the worst.”

“I’m the best and you know it.” I could hear her moving around on her end, probably getting ready for whatever evening plans she had. “Look, I know you don’t want advice --”

“Then don’t give it.”

“-- but maybe pick your battles. Giuseppe’s old school. You’re not going to change his mind by going head-to-head with him every time.”

“So what, I should just roll over and accept whatever he decides?”

“No. I’m saying be smart about it. You’re clever, Cat. Probably the smartest person I know, even if you are a spoiled brat.”

“Fuck you.”

“Love you too. My point is, if you’re going to fight him, make it count. Don’t waste your energy on every little thing.”

I wanted to argue, but she wasn’t wrong. Papa responded to strength, to strategy. Throwing tantrums -- no matter how justified -- just made him dismiss me as a child. “Fine. I’ll be strategic.”

“Liar. You’re going to do something dramatic and probably get yourself grounded, aren’t you?”

“Probably.” I glanced at my closet, an idea already forming. “There’s a family dinner tonight. Something important, based on how tense everyone’s been.”

“Oh no.”

“Oh yes.”

“Caterina Lombardi, whatever you’re planning --”

“Gotta go, my warden’s here.” I’d heard the footsteps in the hall, recognized my mother’s measured pace. “I’ll call you later.”

“Don’t do anything I wouldn’t do.”

“That leaves me a lot of options.” I ended the call, dropping my phone onto the chaise just as my bedroom door opened.

Mama swept into my room like she was entering a ballroom, her posture so perfect it made my spine hurt just looking at her. She wore a cream-colored Chanel suit that probably cost more than a compact car, paired with pearls that had been in the family for three generations. Every dark hair sat exactly where it was supposed to. Not a wrinkle in sight. She looked like the poster child for “Mafia wife perfection,” and it made me want to scream.

Her gaze traveled across the disaster of my room -- the scattered clothes, the open jewelry cases, the general chaos -- but her expression remained serene. That was Sofia Lombardi’s superpower. Nothing ruffled her. Ever.

“Caterina.” She said my name like it was a complete sentence, with just enough weight to convey disappointment without actually expressing it.

“Mama.” I stayed where I was on the chaise, not bothering to sit up straighter or pretend I was doing anything productive. Let her see the mess. Let her judge it. I didn’t care.

That was a lie. I cared. But I’d rather die than admit it.

“I wanted to remind you about tonight’s dinner.” She stepped farther into the room, her heels clicking precisely against the marble. Even her footsteps were measured. “Your father expects everyone to be present and properly dressed by seven.”

“Properly dressed.” I let the words hang in the air between us, loaded with all the implications they carried. “You mean demure and obedient? Quiet and decorative?”

“I mean appropriate for a family gathering.” Her tone remained gentle, but I caught the steel underneath. Mama had spent twenty-some years perfecting the art of being firm while sounding pleasant. “We have important guests coming.”

“Of course we do.” I sat up, swinging my legs off the chaise with deliberate carelessness. One of my discarded shoes clattered across the floor. “Let me guess. Someone essential. Someone whose opinion matters. Someone Papa wants to impress.”

Mama’s lips pressed together for just a moment -- the only crack in her composure. “This is vital to your father.”

“Everything is a key component to Papa. His reputation, his alliances, his legacy.” I stood, moving to my vanity and picking up a bottle of perfume just to have something to do with my hands. “His ability to control every aspect of his daughter’s life.”

“Caterina.” This time my name came with a sigh, and when I glanced at her reflection in the mirror, I saw something that might have been weariness in her eyes. “Must you make everything a battle?”

“Must he treat me like property?” I set the perfume down harder than necessary. The glass bottle made a sharp sound against the marble vanity top. “I’m not a business asset, Mama. I’m a person.”

“No one said you weren’t.”

“They don’t have to say it. They just act like it.” I turned to face her directly, crossing my arms. “Do you know what he told me last week? That it was time I started considering my options. My options. Like I’m shopping for a new car instead of thinking about my future.”

Mama moved to my bed, perching on the edge with practiced grace. Even sitting casually, she looked like she was posing for a portrait. “Your father wants what’s best for you.”

“What’s best for the family, you mean.”

“Sometimes those things align.”

“And when they don’t?” I challenged. “What happens when what’s best for the family means sacrificing what I want? What I need?”

She looked at me then, really looked at me, and for a moment I saw something genuine beneath the polished exterior. Regret, maybe. Or recognition. “We all make sacrifices, Caterina. That’s what it means to be part of something larger than ourselves.”

“I didn’t ask to be part of this.” My voice came out sharper than I intended. “I didn’t choose the Lombardi name. I didn’t choose this life.”

“None of us do.” She stood, smoothing her skirt even though it didn’t need smoothing. “But it’s the life we have. The question is what we do with it.”

I wanted to argue more, to push until that perfect composure cracked and she admitted how much she’d given up, how much she’d swallowed to be Giuseppe Lombardi’s wife. But I also knew it was pointless. Mama had made her peace with her choices a long time ago. She’d decided that compliance was easier than resistance, that playing the role was safer than fighting the script.

I’d never be able to do the same.

“Seven o’clock,” she said again, moving toward the door. “Please don’t be late. And, Caterina?” She paused, her hand on the doorknob. “Wear something appropriate.”

I drummed my manicured nails against the vanity top, the sharp click-click-click filling the silence. It was a nervous habit I’d never been able to break, and one that drove my father crazy. Mama’s gaze flicked to my hand, but she said nothing. Just waited.

“I’ll be there,” I said finally. “Properly dressed and everything.”

Something in my tone must have warned her, because her eyes narrowed slightly. Not angry, just… knowing. She’d raised me, after all. She knew when I was planning something.

“Caterina --”

“I said I’ll be there.” I gave her my sweetest smile, the one I used when I was about to do something that would make Papa’s blood pressure spike. “You can count on me.”

 

 

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.

 

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