A Life Through Books

Date Published: October 16, 2026

Publisher: Changeling Press

Dane -- Brielle Sloan’s tangled up in the worst years of my life. Now she’s at my clubhouse with secrets that could change everything, trouble on her heels, and a mouth I have no business thinking about kissing. Then she stands up to me, and all I can think about is getting closer. Having her under my protection means seeing the woman behind our past. Getting involved could cost me my parole, but when she looks at me like she’s aching for me, I’m ready to take that risk. Every touch makes keeping my distance harder. Whoever’s after her will have to get through me first.

Dane

The long ribbon of highway carried me south along the riverfront before the sun had cleared the mountain tops. Cold air bit through my coat collar and hit the back of my neck. My bike thrummed under me, a steady vibration through the handlebars and into my palms.

Three blocks later, I noticed a dark blue Fusion behind me. It held my pace at two car lengths, never dropping back. I watched it in the side mirror without turning my head. The driver kept a distance but didn’t seem to be trying to hide as they followed. So, I promptly ran the next light. If the cops had suddenly taken an interest in me, I wanted the biggest head start I could get. Not because I’d done anything, but because right now, I could pretend I didn’t see them and speed back to the compound. Once inside, the guys could call the lawyer who sometimes helped us out. If they blue lighted me, though, it was over. So? I did ninety.

The compact waited at the intersection. A couple seconds later, I slowed down. I still kept an eye out but went much slower so I could take my eyes off the road and glance back occasionally. I thought that might have been the end of it, but a half mile down the road, I spotted the same car. OK. I’d play.

Instead of continuing to evade, I led the fucker straight to the compound. If someone was after me, I’d need backup. It’s what Knuckles and Gunnar stressed when I first came here. If I got into trouble, my first call or my next stop would be the Kiss of Death compound.

It didn’t take long until I reached the warehouses by the dock where the compound sat. A few minutes later, I pulled up to the gate and waited. Sure enough, shortly after, the little blue Fusion rolled up to the entrance and stopped.

I swung off my bike and crossed the fifteen feet between me and the car in long, threatening strides. My fist came down on the compact’s roof hard enough to feel the metal give. The sound cracked through the predawn quiet like a gunshot. Inferno and Oktober stepped just outside the gate where they’d been on watch and waited to see if I needed backup.

“Who the hell put you up to this?” Cold air snapped at my coat’s collar. “Why are you following me?”

The driver’s window rolled down. A woman’s face emerged from the shadows of the car interior, pale in the gray light, dark hair pulled back, and she trembled visibly. Her gaze found mine and held.

At first, I was just annoyed. Then my brain finally caught up with my eyes and pushed away from the car like she struck me. All of a sudden, the past came back to punch me in the balls.

The woman at the bank. She’d been the one to testify against me. Her testimony had been crucial to putting me away, so her face wasn’t one I ever wanted to see again.

She exhaled. Her breath misted between us. An envelope sat clutched in her hands, pressed against the steering wheel like she was afraid to let it go.

“I -- I’m Brielle Sloan.” Her voice shook as if she were nervous or scared. Good. I hope she was scared. “I saw that charity-run article in one of the city’s online papers. I wanted to find you at your clubhouse and didn’t realize who I was following.”

“You saw me in town and followed me.” Not only was she a bitch but she was a stupid bitch. “You thought it was safe to follow a strange man affiliated with any kind of MC to their clubhouse? Is that what I’m hearing?”

She blinked up at me, shivering now in the October wind. “I…” She swallowed. “I guess so.” When she spoke that time, her voice was soft and subdued, likely knowing she’d fucked up.

“You’re not here about a fuckin’ charity run.” I held her gaze, letting my anger bleed through so she knew exactly what she was dealing with. “What the fuck do you want?”

She took a breath before opening the door and stepping out. She was smaller than I remembered from the courtroom. In fact, she looked like shit with her cheekbones prominent and her skin almost sallow. She looked like she’d missed more than a couple meals and ran herself ragged. Outside the car, her breath came in short white clouds between us.

“I’m sorry,” she blurted out. “I didn’t want to testify against you, but I was being threatened.” She held out the manila envelope she’d been clutching to her chest, offering it to me. “This proves he built that robbery around you.”

This was not on my bingo card. “Evidence I was set up? The fuck ‘er you talkin’ about?” Twelve years. Twelve years I’d spent on the inside, just trying to survive in an environment not in any way shape or form friendly to a lone white boy. The lessons I’d learned had to be learned hard and fast.

She took a tentative step forward, insisting I take the envelope. “It’s all in there.” Brielle’s voice changed. The level quality thinned at the edges. “I’m sorry, Mr. Rourke. I never meant to be the bad guy in all this.”

Wind cut across the service road. Cold river air, carrying the scents of diesel and mud. Her hair stirred at the edges with a couple of strands catching on her eyelashes. She didn’t push them away, instead held the envelope.

I took the envelope from her just as I noticed another car. I’d been so focused on the blue car, I ignored the other car following. This was a gray sedan. Seeing it now triggered the memory and I knew I had more than one person following me. When Brielle got out of her car, she’d turned the engine off. I’d been waiting for her at the clubhouse gate with my bike shut off. Which meant, the gray sedan I’d seen earlier couldn’t see our lights and didn’t have a warning we were around the next bend.

As the car rounded the curve and finally saw us, the driver let off the accelerator a moment before continuing on as if nothing had happened. Admittedly, the driver could have lifted his foot on reflex. But I had a tingle between my shoulders I’d learned never to dismiss offhand.

Out of the corner of my vision, I saw Oktober and Inferno ready themselves. Inferno actually started toward me, though Oktober held back. Likely to have the wider angle, and to call for reinforcements.

The car continued on and had to pass close enough for me to see the outline of the driver behind the windshield. I thought the guy had a phone in his hand, but it was hard to tell as the floodlights glared against the windshield and the driver’s side window.

Brielle didn’t seem to notice the other vehicle. At least, she didn’t glance at it. Instead, she seemed so focused on me nothing else around her seemed to register. I could see her hands shaking, but she didn’t tuck them away or try to hide it. Which meant, she likely hadn’t known who was in the sedan or knew she’d been followed. If she had and this was a setup, she’d have shifted her gaze to the car on instinct.

Just as I thought the car would roll on and keep going, it stopped a few car lengths away from us. I could see the driver aiming his phone at his side mirror. Taking a picture?

“Don’t move,” I said to Brielle.

Oktober and Inferno both now moved to cover me and Brielle, between us and the sedan. The sedan stayed a moment longer. I caught the outline of the driver through the back window. Great.

“What’s going on?” Oktober looked from me to Brielle and back.

“Not sure,” I muttered. “But someone just photographed me and the woman whose testimony put me in prison. I doubt my parole officer would be impressed to find out we’d had contact of any sort.” I scowled, stepping backward so fast, Inferno had to stop me from knocking him down.

“Easy, man,” he said softly. “What’s going on?”

I pointed at Brielle. “If you’re trying to get me tangled in something to get my parole revoked, you can just take your sweet ass back to wherever the fuck you came from.”

Gravel sprayed from the rear tires as the sedan hurried out of the area and faded as the car swung onto the main road and disappeared toward Nashville. Still, that itch between my shoulders became more insistent and bothersome. Something wasn’t right at all.

“Who was in the gray car, Brielle?”

Her brow wrinkled in confusion. “I… what?”

“The car that just stopped and took our picture. Who was following us?”

She shook her head, a helpless expression on her face as she looked at Oktober and Inferno, then glanced around the area. She turned her head to look down the road opposite where the car had been. Could the woman be that clueless of her surroundings?

Fuck. “So fucking stupid,” I muttered. I didn’t know if I meant Brielle, or me. Because I was about to do something so incredibly stupid as to not even be believed.

I tucked the envelope inside my coat. “Get in your car, Brielle.”

Brielle didn’t move. “OK. I’ll leave.”

“No,” I snapped. “Follow me to the compound. Follow me and don’t stop for anything.” I moved back to my bike and climbed on.

“Everything OK?” Oktober followed me, Inferno hanging back to watch over Brielle.

“I don’t know,” I admitted. “I’m taking her to the compound. I’ll let Knuckles and Knight sort this out.”

“Sort what out?”

I met his gaze. “I’m pretty sure trouble just came crawling to our doorstep.”

Oktober nodded at the little Fusion as Brielle climbed back inside. “Someone was interested in whatever she brought me.” I indicated the envelope. “It might be nothing, but if she’s not actually working to wrap me up in some kind of trap, then she could be in some serious danger.”

Inferno instructed Brielle which way to go once she passed through the gate. As I watched, her eyes grew round and wide. Her already pale face seemed to lose even more color as fear settled into her expression. She looked almost haunted, like she knew it was only a matter of time before the bad guys caught up to her.

She pulled up beside me, just inside the gate. “What’s going on?”

I gave her a hard look, hoping I got through to her because, while I might be angry with her, none of what happened back then had been her fault. And even if it was, I knew the kind of man Grant Sutton was. Brielle had been little more than a teenager when it had all gone down. He’d likely blackmailed her or threatened her. Still, I couldn’t help my harsh tone. “Does Sutton know you’re here?”

“What?” Her eyes widened and she started trembling even more. “Why would he know I’m here?”

“I don’t know what your game is, but I’d bet my ass Sutton has had you followed. He now knows you’re not playing by his rules anymore. Whatever protection you thought you had just evaporated. Follow me and don’t stop until I do.”

I rolled toward the compound, my brothers at my back. I knew one of them would have contacted Knuckles. Both of them probably called their old ladies because neither man would want the woman following me to be thrown to the wolves without some backup. Whether she deserved that backup remained to be seen. Either way, I’d get to the bottom of this. And I really hoped Brielle Sloan was on the up and up.

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

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

Author on Instagram & TikTok: @marteekakarland

Author on Facebook

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

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

Date Published: September 18, 2026

Publisher: Changeling Press

Juniper -- Getting dumped on my twenty-first birthday is bad enough. Finding Brett, my ex, at Throttle with another woman turns humiliation into open warfare. So I walk up to the biggest, meanest looking biker in the place, climb into his lap, and claim him as mine. Inferno plays along a little too well, and one reckless kiss becomes the hottest night of my life. Still, it was just a one night stand. Should have ended then and there. Instead, my ex decides he doesn’t like losing what he threw away. His calls become threats, then the threats become violence. My bakery, my home, everything my grandmother left me becomes a target. But Brett’s forgotten one thing. I’m not alone anymore. I have Inferno, Kiss of Death, and a fire of my own.

Inferno -- Juniper lands in my lap wearing red lipstick, motorcycle boots, and enough attitude to wake something in me I thought died years ago. She’s way too young for me, and a woman running from a controlling ex is trouble. I also know the second Brett puts a bruise on her skin, he becomes my problem. I went to prison for nearly killing a man who hurt a woman I loved. I’ll burn my life down before I let history repeat itself. But Juniper isn’t looking for a savior. She wants a partner willing to stand beside her while she fights back. Good thing I’ve always liked playing with fire. Brett’s about to learn exactly why they call me Inferno.

WARNING: Adult language and situations, abuse, arson, and a violent stalker ex-boyfriend.

Copyright ©2026 Marteeka Karland

Juniper

The sad little grocery store cake sitting on my counter summed up my life right now. I made cakes for a living, so I knew exactly what I was looking at. Shortening-based buttercream, whipped too fast so it held those little air pockets that collapsed if you pressed a finger in. Red gel piping simply said “Happy Birthday” and skipped my name entirely, because a name is an upcharge, and, apparently, I wasn’t worth the extra four dollars. Twenty-one candles would’ve cost more too. There were no candles.

That morning I’d spent six hours at my own shop building a dinosaur cake for a five-year-old named Milo. The creation had hand-piped scales on a fondant T-rex while his mom hovered by the register asking if I could make the teeth “less scary, but still cool.” I believed, the whole time I worked, that tonight would be mine. That somebody would finally build me something special for my birthday.

I closed the shop two hours early. Cooked pork chops with the mustard cream sauce that Brett loves so much. I set the good plates from his mother that I was always terrified I’d chip.

He’d come in forty minutes late, jacket still buttoned like he hadn’t decided if he was staying, studying his phone like it held the secrets of the universe. “You would not believe this lake listing,” he said, dropping into his chair, not even glancing my way. “Guy wants two point one for a place that’s basically standing on a septic field. I told him, I said, ‘Gary, I can sell water to a drowning man, but I can’t sell delusion’.” He laughed at his own line. I simply looked at him, trying to talk myself into being cheerful.

I cut into my chop and waited for a gap in his running monologue. “So I made this dinosaur cake today,” I said, “for this kid, Milo, and his mom wanted the teeth less scary but still --”

“Yeah, that reminds me, Gary’s brother-in-law does teeth, actually, orthodontist, and get this --” and he was off again, and I just… let him go on. Because why not? I picked my fork back up and took a bite while he rambled on. He still hadn’t told me happy birthday.

His phone buzzed and he glanced down before turning it over. After a while, it buzzed again.

“Hey,” I said, and I tried to keep it light, “We said no phones tonight. Right?”

He didn’t answer right away as color swept his neck to his face and a flash of annoyance crossed his features. Then he gave me a “sorry for you” smile. “Junie,” he said, setting his fork down carefully. “Can I say something, and I need you to just hear it, not react to it?”

“Um, sure.” My stomach started to roll. I recognized his tone and I knew this would be a twenty-first birthday I’d rather forget.

“You’re a lot,” he said, simply. “I don’t mean that as an insult. You’re needy in a way you probably don’t even realize. Phones-away requests, the whole birthday production, the plates. It’s a lot of ask-for, given we’re barely even in a relationship.” He cleared his throat. “And you’re emotional. Everything’s a whole thing with you. I can’t mention anything without you needing your turn.”

I opened my mouth but couldn’t form words. My throat tightened with emotion, and I could feel tears forming behind my eyes.

“And I’ll be honest,” he continued, “because I think you’d rather I was honest, you’re kind of boring, Junie. Same shop, same recipes, same everything. Your five-year plan is a second oven. I used to think that was cute, but I thought you’d grow out of it once you ran out of money and got a real job. I don’t think it’s cute anymore. I need a woman with a little ambition. I’m going places, and you’re… not. Dinosaur cake? Really, Junie?”

Somewhere deep inside me, a voice was screaming, actually screaming, say something, say anything, throw the water glass, throw a pork chop at him, ask him who’s texting him at eight-fifteen on your birthday, and what came out of my mouth, soft and stupid, was, “The pork chops are getting cold.”

“Juniper. I think we both know this has been coming.”

I looked down at my plate so he wouldn’t see my eyes. I didn’t trust what my face was doing. No way was I going to give him the satisfaction. I forced the smallest shrug I could manage.

He pushed his chair back, slow and deliberate, like he wanted me to watch every little thing. “Look, Junie, you’re a great girl. You really are. But we’re just not… compatible.” He wiped his mouth with his napkin. “It’s not the end of the world. You’ll land on your feet. I mean, you already have your little cake shop, right?”

Wow. My little cake shop. The business I’d thrown every ounce of blood, sweat, and tears I had into. The fact was, I cleared more with my “little cake shop” than he made with his real estate ventures. I suspected it was the same smarmy personality I initially fell for. Unlike me, apparently his clients knew how to cut their losses and get the fuck out of Dodge.

“I guess so,” I said, because what else was there? I stabbed a piece of pork chop and chewed it, even though I could barely swallow, doing my best to act as if none of this had any effect on me.

His phone buzzed again. He actually reached for it this time. “I’m going to head out. I’ve got to call Gary back before he does something stupid on that listing.” He didn’t even look at me. Just stood up, fixed his jacket, and checked his hair in the microwave door reflection. “I’ll send someone to get my stuff later.” The door clicked shut behind him as he left.

I went to the counter where the little birthday cake rested when the sticker on the side caught my attention. The damned thing was on clearance! He’d bought me a generic birthday cake on clearance because it had passed its freshness date.

For a minute I just stood there, stomach clenched tight in the heavy silence. Anger was slow in coming. Even when it did the feeling was directed more at myself than Brett. I chose to stay with him for whatever reason I had at any given time. So as much as Brett was a bastard, this disastrous birthday was as much my fault as it was his. I should never have agreed to let him move in with me. My only excuse is I was young and bought all his flattering.

We’d been together for two and a half years. I was right out of high school and just taking over my grandmother’s bakery after her sudden death. Brett had helped me through one of the most difficult times in my life, but I suspected now he’d taken up with me because I was an easy target. After all, he’d been living rent-free in what had been my grandmother’s apartment since a month or so after we met.

The window over the sink stared back at me. This was my twenty-first birthday, Goddamnit! What did one do on their twenty-first birthday? Get schnozzled and burn the world down. At least I’d burn down my old life. Then I could rise like a phoenix from the ashes. Or something.

I pushed away from the sink and headed to my bedroom. Going to the closet, I pulled out the red dress I’d bought especially for tonight. The red was probably too bright, but I didn’t want subtle. I wanted the color and all the lovely brightness and chaos it might cause under the right circumstances.

I showered and did my hair and makeup before slipping the silky dress over my head, letting it settle over my hips to brush against the middle of my thighs. I zipped up the back, then smoothed the sleeveless garment over my curves. I let my hand run down my arm, tracing the small, faded burn scars from my childhood. Brett said I should get them lasered -- so I wouldn’t be reminded of my broken childhood. I suspected the real reason he wanted rid of them was because they didn’t fit in with his image of what he wanted me to be. Well, fuck that shit.

The red lipstick came last. Again, I’d chosen it specially to match the dress. I drew it on slowly, even though my hand shook a little. Lipstick had always been my armor. I had nicely shaped lips. They were my best feature, in my opinion. The dramatic color only enhanced them. I smiled into the mirror, wide and mean, red as a warning label.

I started to slide my feet into the Fuck Me heels I’d purchased -- again, specifically for this dress. Then I caught a glimpse of my motorcycle boots. I’d bought them when Brett decided he wanted to get a motorcycle. He’d taken me on exactly one ride, saying I didn’t know how to ride with him and I would get us both killed if I moved the wrong way. He’d never bothered to tell me what exactly I was doing wrong, so fuck him anyway. On a whim, I stuffed my feet into the boots and took a look at myself in the mirror. I didn’t quite look like Alice from Resident Evil, but it was close enough I’d take it.

Throttle was less than a mile away. The bar was a known roughneck place, but any damage caused by patrons always seemed to be contained to the property itself and didn’t spill over into nearby neighborhoods. Though it had a questionable reputation, I’d always wanted to go, thinking living on the wild side held just the appeal I wanted.

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

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

Author on Instagram & TikTok: @marteekakarland

Author on Facebook

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

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

Date Published: July 24, 2026

Publisher: Changeling Press

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.

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.

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

When not crafting her tales, Wylde spends her time brainstorming new plotlines, indulging in a hot cup of Starbucks, or delving into a good book. She has a particular affinity for supernatural horror literature and movies. Visit Wylde's website to learn more about her works and upcoming events, and don't forget to sign up for her newsletter to receive exclusive discounts and other exciting perks.

Author on Facebook, Instagram, & TikTok: @harleywylde

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

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Motorcycle Club Romance, Suspense, Age Gap

Date Published: July 17, 2026

Griffin -- Veda Garrison should have run from me. Instead, she aimed a gun at my chest and dared me to betray her. Big mistake, sweetheart. Now she’s mine to protect, mine to crave, and mine to keep alive. Her evidence could destroy a trafficking ring, ignite a war with the Steel Serpents, and expose men powerful enough to own the law. They want Veda? They’ll have to come through me.

Warning: Adult themes including kidnapping, sex trafficking, and political corruption, which may trigger some readers. Protective ex-con hero, HEA, and, as always, no cheating, no cliffhangers.

EXCERPT

Veda

Four months of work fit inside a hollowed-out pen pressed against my sternum. Ten minutes ago, I decided this was the last night I would ever set foot inside Enclave Éclipse. The back office held its usual smells. Lemon furniture polish from the cleaning crew that came through Tuesdays and Fridays, the dry-paper musk of ledgers stacked four deep on the metal shelving, and underneath all of it the faint sour note of Carl Pruitt’s cologne, which he reapplied every afternoon at three like a man trying to mask his lover’s perfume before he went home to his beautiful wife.

Carl’s desk sat in the middle of the room, the dominant feature. Oversized, mahogany veneer, the leather chair behind it big enough for a man twice his size. The bottom drawer was the one I had photographed last, the one where the master ledger lived under a false bottom that any auditor with a ruler would have found in nine seconds. Carl was not bright. He’d been skimming his bosses for a year and change, and that, I suspected, was about to matter to Carl in a very huge, very permanent way.

I crouched behind the second shelving unit with my knees pressed together, trying to keep my breathing slow and shallow when I heard the front buzzer go. Then the hallway door. Then the murmur of voices that did not belong to Carl.

I froze when the office door opened and four men walked in. Carl came first, walking on his own but not by choice. His collar was already dark with sweat and his hair stuck to his forehead. Behind him came two men I had never laid eyes on. But the man who entered last almost made me whimper in fear.

I’d seen Iron twice before, both times here at the club and only from a distance. He was broader up close. The tattoos that climbed up the side of his neck disappeared into his short beard and over his shaved head. His gaze swept the room and stopped at the desk. He noticed the open ledger on top of it that I hadn’t had time to put away. He noticed the chair. He didn’t notice me, because I sat very still and I had picked my hiding place in week two for a reason. Thank God I had a small, wiry frame.

“Sit,” Iron said.

Carl sat. The leather chair sighed under him.

Iron walked to the desk. He looked down at the open ledger. He looked at Carl. He did not raise his voice. In fact, he used all the inflection he might if he ordered a cup of coffee. “Someone’s been going through the books,” Iron said, still not raising his voice. He tapped a thick finger on the open ledger. “These numbers are wrong.”

Carl’s Adam’s apple bobbed. “I don’t know what you’re talking about. I keep everything --”

“You’ve been skimming, Carl. That’s fine.” Iron smiled, a bare flash of teeth. “Everyone’s got their hand in the cookie jar. But someone else has been keeping their own set of numbers. And that’s not fine.”

“I don’t -- I swear to God, I wouldn’t --” Carl’s voice cracked.

Iron snatched Carl by the hair and slammed his face into the desk with a wet crack. Carl’s nose sprayed blood across the ledger pages. Iron hauled him up by the hair, Carl’s feet barely touching the floor, and slammed him down again. This time the sound was different, duller, and Carl’s legs kicked once and then stopped moving entirely. Iron let go. Carl slumped sideways in the chair, his head lolling, one hand flopping limply against the desk edge before he slid to the floor.

I pressed my hand flat over my mouth and watched Carl’s hand from my hiding place. I kind of felt bad but Carl was a swine and he deserved everything about to happen to him.

Iron turned to one of the other men. “Clear the hallway.”

The man nodded and left the room. Seconds later, I heard the thud of something heavy hitting the wall, a muffled shout cut short, then the scrape of something being dragged. The door opened again, and the man returned with two of the hallway workers, a young man with a sleeve of tats and a woman with her dark hair in a tight bun. Both had their hands bound behind them with zip ties, both looked like they’d been smacked around. Terrified didn’t begin to describe the pair.

“Against the wall,” Iron said.

The two men pushed the workers to the far wall. The woman tried to speak, her words slurred through what was probably a broken jaw. “Please -- we didn’t --”

The shots came before she could finish. I couldn’t be sure because I didn’t have a direct line of sight, but I thought they’d both been shot in the head. Blood spread across the laminate wood flooring in a dark pool.

Iron’s men began pulling files from the cabinets, sliding hard drives into a duffel bag one of them had brought in. They worked methodically, opening each drawer in turn, checking the contents before removing them. One of them moved to Carl’s desk, opened the bottom drawer, and pulled out the master ledger. He handed it to Iron, who fanned the pages with his thumb, then nodded and set it aside.

My pen camera had gotten it all. Every page, every column of numbers, every name. Four months of surveillance distilled down to what would fit on a micro SD card.

Iron turned in a slow circle. Again, I couldn’t see everything but I imagined he gave the room a final once over. Then, without changing his tone, he said, “They’re still here.” The other men stopped what they were doing.

“Someone was in this room tonight,” Iron continued. “They were going through these books when we arrived. They’re still in the building.” He looked at the two men. “Find them.”

I held my breath. My fingers pressed harder against my lips. One of the men spoke up. “You want us to check the whole place?”

“I want you to find them,” Iron snarled. “Start with the offices and work out.”

The men nodded and left the room, moving into the hallway. Iron remained behind, standing over Carl’s body with his arms crossed. I could see him now. He looked down at the ledger on the desk. There was no way to miss Carl’s blood smeared over the cover. He turned his gaze back to the door, then at the window on the far wall.

One of the men returned. “Garage is clear. Kitchen’s clear.”

“Keep looking,” Iron said.

The man left again. Iron pulled out his phone, sent a text, then put it away. He paced the length of the room once, then again, his boots leaving prints in the blood on the floor.

I needed to get out. I needed to move. But Iron was still in the room, and the two men were searching the building, and if I stepped out from behind this shelving unit I would be exactly as dead as Carl.

The second man came back. “Rest of the building’s clear. You want us to check the roof?”

Iron shook his head. “They’re still here.” He looked at the door. “They’re good at hiding, but they made a mistake. They left this ledger open when they heard us coming in. They didn’t have time to put it away.” He tapped his finger on the desk. “They’re still in this room.”

My heart stopped for a full second, then kicked back into double-time. This was it. In mere seconds I’d be dead. Or worse.

The men looked around, confused. “There’s nowhere to hide in here except --”

“Under the desk,” Iron said. “Check under the desk.”

The first man dropped to his knees and shined a flashlight under Carl’s massive desk. The beam swept in a wide arc, illuminating the empty knee well. I was still behind the shelving unit, pressed flat against the wall, my knees pulled tight to my chest.

“Nothing,” the man said.

Iron’s jaw tightened. “Check again.”

The man ducked his head lower, shining the light into every corner of the space under the desk. “I’m telling you, there’s nobody there.”

Iron nodded, finally satisfied. “Get the rest of the files. Then we burn the place.”

The two men returned to the filing cabinets. They worked quickly now, pulling out folders and stacks of paper, dumping them into the duffel bag. One of them returned to the hallway and came back with a plastic jug. He unscrewed the cap and began pouring a clear liquid across the floor. The sharp chemical reek cut through the air. Smelled like gasoline or something similar.

My eyes started to water. I pressed my sleeve against my nose.

Iron watched his men work, then checked his watch. “Two minutes,” he said. “Then we’re gone.”

They finished packing the duffel and stepped into the hallway. Iron paused at the door, took one last look at the office, then pulled it closed behind him.

I waited silently, not daring to move or even breathe too much in case I coughed on the fumes. I heard the front door of the building open and close. I heard the rumble of engines starting outside. Then the fire started with a hollow whomp. Smoke began to push under the office door in a gray curl.

I couldn’t stay behind the shelving unit. Smoke was already thickening along the ceiling, and the acrid smell burned my nostrils. I needed to get to the window on the far wall. Surely to God the men had all left before the building was completely engulfed.

The smoke got thicker, pushing through the office doorway in billowing gray clouds. Flames licked at the door facing, eating through the wood with hungry crackles.

I crawled, keeping low beneath the smoke. The heat pressed against my skin. My eyes stung. I ripped off my jacket and wrapped it around my right forearm, creating a makeshift pad to protect myself. The window on the far wall was my only way out. A narrow rectangle set high in the exterior wall, just wide enough for my shoulders if I turned sideways.

I hurried to the window. Grabbing an ornate wooden paperweight, I hurled it at the glass. The window shattered with a musical crash. I cleared the jagged edges as best I could, then hoisted myself up.

Bits of glass from the window frame bit into my palms. I got my upper body through, then twisted to bring my legs after me. The drop was about ten feet to asphalt of the alley below. I went through feet first, pushing off from the window frame with my hands.

The fall seemed to last forever. My stomach lurched. The ground rushed up to meet me. I hit the pavement, stumbling forward. Pain shot up my legs and I fell forward, rolling until I hit the brick wall of the building on the other side of the alley.

Above me, flames licked at the edges of the broken window. The fire had taken hold of the building’s interior. Smoke filled the alley as more of the building caught fire and hot wind swirled around me, the fire creating its own down draft. My eyes watered and stung, and I coughed with every intake of breath. In minutes, the entire structure would be engulfed and I needed to be far away from here.

I scrambled to my feet and backed against the wall, putting distance between myself and the burning building. Embers now swirled in the air like orange snow. Somewhere in the distance, a siren wailed.

I hurried to the side of the building where I’d stashed a .38 revolver I’d purchased at a gun show a few months back. I’d always known there was a good possibility I’d get caught and had protected myself the only way I could think of. Didn’t do me a lot of good outside the building, but they had metal detectors we had to pass through before entering. I’d stashed the weapon out here knowing that window would be my best way out in a bad situation. Thankfully, the weapon hadn’t been noticed by anyone. I pulled it from my hiding place and clutched the weapon to me like a lifeline.

The alley stretched about fifty yards in either direction. To my right, it dead-ended at a brick wall. To my left, it opened onto the street that ran past the front of the Enclave Éclipse. Going that way meant risking being seen by whoever responded to the fire and I didn’t know if I could see a threat coming with my eyes burning and stinging.

The sirens grew louder. I couldn’t be here when they arrived. I had no doubt Iron had killed everyone in the building. If anyone other than me escaped, they’d be getting as scarce as I wanted to. Everyone who worked there knew shady shit got done inside that building. Most of them kept their heads down, collected their cash, and ignored everything else. No one wanted to get caught up in this mess. On either side of the law.

Halfway to the street, I heard the distinctive rumble of a motorcycle engine, cutting through the wail of sirens. The sound grew louder. I froze, pressing myself against the alley wall again. The smoke still hampered my vision and I couldn’t be certain I headed away from danger rather than straight into it.

I huddled against the alley wall, gun at the ready, though I doubted the way I trembled would encourage the guy to keep his distance if he confronted me. Half blinded by the smoke, I doubt I could have hit anything from any distance. The pen camera was still tucked into my bra, the micro SD card secure inside it. I absolutely could not lose that drive.

I took a breath and closed my eyes briefly. Sweat trickled from my hairline, mixing with the ash and soot on my skin to drip into my eyes. I raised my hand to swipe at the drops. I saw the blood before I touched my face. My palm must have caught the edge of the window as I climbed out because a gash split the meaty part of my palm. I didn’t think it was too deep, but I definitely needed to clean and bandage it.

I had no car. I’d taken the bus here, like I did every night. I couldn’t go to the police because two of the names on my list were Williamson County deputies, and I had no way of knowing how many were dirty. I couldn’t go home because Iron knew someone had been in that building, and he would start pulling threads until he found me.

The sirens in the distance weren’t coming for me. They were coming for the fire, and eventually for the bodies inside. By the time the first responders arrived, I needed to be gone and the guy on the motorcycle made that seriously difficult.

I’d gotten myself into this situation because of my sister. Tessa Garrison. Twenty-one years old. My only family after Mom checked out. She worked at the Enclave Éclipse for six weeks as a cocktail waitress and then disappeared. The police finally let me file a missing persons report a month after she vanished, only to close it two weeks later with a professional shrug. With no leads and no evidence of foul play, the officer working her case decided maybe she didn’t want to be found.

So I took matters into my own hands. I got a job as a bookkeeper at a tax preparation office three blocks from the Éclipse. I made a lifted key when the night manager left his key ring on the bar during his smoke break. The guy had two keys for the club on the same ring and, thankfully, hadn’t noticed one being gone in the bundle of keys he kept. I bought a hollowed-out pen camera from a guy who sold spy gear out of his van behind the flea market. I took photos of every ledger, every receipt, every name that passed through Carl Pruitt’s sweaty fingers I could manage to get my hands on.

Finally, I found what I searched so hard for. The one transaction that shouldn’t have been there. Five thousand dollars, cash, entered the same night Tessa disappeared. I never found Tessa’s phone and her body never turned up. But I found enough to know she’d likely been taken. And the people who took her were the same people who owned the Enclave Éclipse, who paid off deputies to look the other way, who thought they could make problems disappear with cash and threats. People like Iron.

The fire was fully involved now, visible flames from the window I’d originally jumped from licked up the wall in an orange glow. I needed to get out of here. Fast.

Taking a breath, I hurried down the alley, the driving certainty that danger hunted me nearly throwing me into a panic. As I stumbled out of the alley onto the sidewalk I collided with a large, solid body. Strong hands gripped my shoulders, steadying me, or I’d have fallen on my ass.

“Easy there.” I shied back, backing up several steps to stand against the building. I couldn’t see the guy clearly. His form resembled a blurry blob, with the occasional glimpse of a person‑shaped blob. “Hey, I’m not gonna hurt you. Are you OK? Were you in the building?”

The guy’s question made me grip my gun all the harder. Iron knew someone was inside the room, or, at least, the building. If this guy was one of Iron’s men, I’d have no hope of fighting him off. I raised my gun, tightening my grip. I still didn’t know if I could actually pull the trigger. I mean, I could, but hesitating would be just as bad as not shooting. Either way, I’d be dead.

The figure took a step forward, then another, his movements careful and measured. I raised the gun, pointing at the center of what I hoped was his chest. My finger settled alongside the trigger. I didn’t trust myself not to shoot accidentally and hurt someone innocent.

“Don’t come any closer,” I called, my voice steady despite the fear crawling up my throat. My hand trembled wildly as I held the heavy firearm. My other hand burned, but I had to bring it up to hold the gun relatively steady.

The figure stopped. For a long moment, we faced each other in the alley. The fire cast jumping shadows across the pavement. The sirens wailed, almost on top of us now.

“You’re bleeding.” He spoke in a calm voice. “And the cops are thirty seconds out. You want to explain why you’re standing outside a burning building with a gun, or do you want a ride somewhere that isn’t here?”

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

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

Author on Instagram & TikTok: @marteekakarland

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

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LGBTQ Romance, Romantasy

Date Published: July 3, 2026

Aaron Pryce has lived a reclusive life for centuries, content with his dogs and his cabin. A one-night stand, however, sends his comfortable existence into a whirlwind. He’s the best candidate to take over the former House Zalis, but nothing is ever easy. When he visits the compound, he gets the shock of his life.

Zach Cane couldn’t get the man he’d spent one night with out of his head. So imagine his surprise when they meet at Saridan Tower weeks later. As they work to navigate a new relationship, old secrets from Aaron’s past come to light… none of them good.

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

“There is no way in hell I am going to take over an entire house.”

The words -- my words -- still rang clear in my head. Two weeks had passed since that conversation with Raphael Santos. I had been very determined to nix the idea completely, but a tiny glimmer of “what-if” lingered. I also couldn’t fathom the work needed to run what was left of House Zalis now that its founding leader, Ivan Zalis, was dead.

Raph had been right, though. The house needed a magic user to run it. I wanted to kick myself for even thinking about it.

Swift on the heels of that came the reminder that it wasn’t just me and the pups now. Although we hadn’t talked about the future during the past couple of lunch dates we’d had since our unexpected meeting at Saridan Tower, there was no denying Zach Cane and I were mates. I had known that first night, when a few hours of insanely hot, quasi-anonymous sex had sealed my damn fate.

I didn’t know if Zach had any clue what we were. Surely, as an alpha, he did, but he hadn’t shown any indication that night or any time since. I certainly hadn’t told him either. I was still struggling with it myself. I’d spent my entire life torn between hoping for my fated mate and praying I never found him. I put the blame squarely at my parents’ feet, too. My alpha father, Stefan, had been a narcissistic asshole who’d used his magic to cause trouble for just about anyone he met, and my omega stepfather, Martin, had despised him for it. I’d been hidden away by him in hopes that my own magic would never be an issue. Hell, Martin had forced me to live as a laicas, a commoner. When he died, though, all bets were off. That’s when I began honing my skills as an Incantas. But watching my folks’ marriage deteriorate, magic or no, soured me on relationships.

Then Zach waltzed into my life.

Barking from inside the house snapped me back to the present. I realized I’d been sitting in the truck for longer than intended. I got out and grabbed the bags of dog food. As soon as I stepped into the house, all four pups swarmed me as if they’d been starving.

“It’s only been an hour, you idiots,” I said with a laugh.

I set the bags down and sat on the floor to get kisses and tail-smacks in the face. I never really intended to have this many pets. I’d started with one, then came another. Then I rescued two more. Now I couldn’t imagine life without my furbabies.

“Okay, okay,” I said as I stood. “Let’s get you nutcases fed.”

I picked up the bags and headed for the kitchen. The cabin wasn’t huge, but it suited me perfectly. I spent the majority of my life here after Martin whisked me away once they split up. Growing up, I hated the isolation, but, over time, I soon preferred it to the city and being around other people. I still had an apartment at Saridan Tower, but this was home. Just me and the pups.

My phone rang as I started filling the four food dishes. I answered it and put it on speaker.

“Hey.”

“Got a minute?” Deacon Saridan asked.

I glanced over at the phone and inwardly sighed. I had the feeling I knew what this was about. “Sure.”

“I’ve been in talks with Javier Torneau. We agree that, while the former House Lorthaen should be dissolved completely, what remains of House Zalis is simply too important, magic-wise. That said, they need a leader.”

“Fuck,” I grumbled. I sat down at the dining table and sighed. “Deacon…”

“I know it isn’t something you really want, but you’re the most obvious choice,” my half-brother said. “You’re one of the strongest Incantas in this area.”

“I don’t want to lead.”

“That’s precisely why you’re the best choice,” Deacon countered. “You’re not the type to let any sort of power go to your head.”

I grimaced. “That’s what Raph said. Have you two been talking?”

Deacon chuckled. “Perhaps, but we’re right.”

“You’re also an asshole,” I muttered. “Both of you.”

“So I’ll see you this afternoon then for a meeting? Say… two?”

“Ugh. Fine. Jackass.”

Deacon laughed. “See you then.”

We hung up, and I dropped my head to the tabletop, tempted to bang it a few times for good measure. Yes, I knew they were right. Ivan Zalis had been a Spiritori, but his death left a lot of good magic users in limbo without a leader. Magiens, Incantas, even a few Spiritori made up what had once been House Zalis. That much firepower, so to speak, couldn’t be unchecked and left to float around without direction and someone to watch them. An Incantas could also weed out the undesirables from the ones who just wanted to live without trouble. Much like myself.

When my phone pinged with a text, I half dreaded looking at it. I did, though, and couldn’t help but smile. Despite the mates issue lingering like an elephant between us, seeing Zach’s name pop on my screen made me ache with a hunger I hadn’t felt for anyone before meeting him.

Got any plans this evening?

Mychael Black has been writing professionally since 2005. He writes gay romance and erotica, but also het romance as Carys Seraphine and queer fantasy as Katherine Cook.

He's an avid PC gamer with a love for RPGs, a horror fanatic, and a fantasy nut. He also has a weakness for anything relating to skulls, dogs, and Spongebob Squarepants.

Mychael lives on the Eastern Shore of the US with his family. He loves to hear from readers, be it via email or Facebook.

BDSM Romance, Capture Fantasy

Date Published: June 26, 2026

Kaska means to make Matia the centerpiece in an erotic ritual to honor his Dark god.

Matia of Ruza is one of the legendary Battlemaids -- a woman warrior who has taken an oath of celibacy in service of the Maid of Light. When mercenary Kaska of Artane helps Matia defeat a gang of brigands, the two become partners.

Matia finds her oath of celibacy tested by her handsome Shieldmate’s erotic appeal. But Kaska means to do more than test her. He worships the Dark One, and he wants to make Matia the centerpiece in a sizzling erotic ritual in honor of his god.

But first, he must defeat her in combat -- and win her heart.

EXCERPT

 

Kaska of Artane slowed his stallion to an easy amble. Prince Britar's fortress lay a full day away, and he'd ridden poor Warbringer hard this past month. He knew the Prince awaited the intelligence he'd gathered as a spy in neighboring Trovan but laming his horse would serve no purpose.

Particularly with war on the horizon.

Besides, the last time Kaska had come this way, he'd had to battle the local brigands. Two fell to his blade before the rest fled, but that left five. And they might be in the mood for revenge. I don't care to ride headlong into an ambush.

"Whoreson bastards!" A woman's roar of fury brought Kaska's head up. He drew Warbringer to a prancing halt.

Swords clashed, interspaced with male taunts and laughter. The laughter had a distinctly ugly note. The woman swore again, an edge of grim desperation in her voice.

The thieves had found a new victim.

Kaska set his heels to Warbringer's flanks and thundered up the road toward the sound. Rounding the bend, he saw five men fighting a lone female traveler they'd managed to unhorse. He recognized the dented, rusted armor and unshaven faces; it was indeed the same band of thieves.

But their victim was no common woman. Her armor and sword marked her as a follower of the Maid of Light -- a female warrior. She was tall for a woman, with a lithe, muscular build and pretty breasts barely contained by her intricately embossed breastplate. Long black hair swirled around her face as she spun and hacked at her tormentors with a slim sword designed for a woman's hand.

One of the brigands already lay dead at her feet, but four others remained, odds too great even for one of the legendary Battlemaids.

A grin of sheer, savage joy spread across Kaska's face. With a howl, he drew the blade sheathed across his back and kicked Warbringer into a thundering charge.

The nearest of the brigands whirled too late. Kaska took his head with a single stroke.

Another of the men jumped at him, hacking for his thigh with an axe, but Kaska spun Warbringer aside and thrust his blade into the thief's chest. The man tumbled off the lethal point, gurgling out his life.

Meanwhile, the third brigand fell to the Battlemaid's sword. His head tumbled from his shoulders.

The fourth man looked from Kaska to the thieves' would-be victim, calculated the odds, and took to his heels.

Kaska snatched a dagger from his thigh sheath and hurled it at the coward with an expert flip of his wrist. The man went down, the blade buried to the hilt between his shoulder blades.

Scarcely breathing hard, Kaska turned to the maid. "Are you well?"

"Well enough." She studied him, her dark eyes level. There was a sharp and elegant beauty to her face, with its broad, high cheekbones and square little chin. Her lush mouth could inspire a monk to carnal fantasies.

"My thanks, warrior," she said at last in a low, husky voice, pushing the long black hair out of her face. "There were too many of them for me to best alone." She considered him, appraising the width of his chest and the strength of his sword arm. Female appreciation lit her gaze, mixed with a warrior's caution.

She had reason for that caution, for he meant to challenge her himself. He worshiped the Dark One, and his god relished nothing as much as the moans of a defeated Battlemaid.

Imagining the tight grip of her virgin ass, Kaska felt his cock swell behind his loincloth.

Give her time to rest, and then…

Of course, the maid might well kill him instead, but looking at her long legs and full, sweet breasts, Kaska thought it a chance well worth taking.

But as he opened his mouth to warn her of his intent, all color left the Battlemaid's face. Her eyes rolled up. Kaska threw himself from Warbringer's back as she collapsed in a heap.

Two long strides carried him to the maid's side. Dropping to one knee on the dusty road, Kaska began an anxious examination. He found no wounds on the front of her body, so he rolled her onto her back.

The maid groaned and lifted her head. "Wha -?"

"Seems one of your cur attackers landed a blow after all," he told her grimly. "There's a stab wound in your back just under your backplate, over your left hip."

"Aye," she said, letting her head fall. "One of them had a dagger."

"'Tis not deep, but it bleeds still," Kaska said. "I can treat it, if you permit."

"Aye," the maid said, breathing now in shallow pants. "My thanks."

Kaska nodded and rose to retrieve his pack of battlefield medicines from Warbringer. Well, he thought as he walked to his horse, I won't be challenging her any time soon. Not with that wound.

Later, perhaps. When he'd examined her, he'd noticed she had a truly delicious ass.

He wanted it.

 

About the Author

New York Times best-selling author Angela Knight has written and published more than sixty novels, novellas, and ebooks, including the Mageverse and Merlin’s Legacy series. With a career spanning more than two decades, Romantic Times Bookclub Magazine has awarded her their Career Achievement award in Paranormal Romance, as well as two Reviewers’ Choice awards for Best Erotic Romance and Best Werewolf Romance.

Angela is currently a writer, editor, and cover artist for Changeling Press LLC. She also teaches online writing courses. Besides her fiction work, Angela’s writing career includes a decade as an award-winning South Carolina newspaper reporter. She lives in South Carolina with her husband, Michael, a thirty-year police veteran and detective with a local police department.

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

 

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

Date Published: June 26, 2026

Publisher: Changeling Press

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.

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.

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

When not crafting her tales, Wylde spends her time brainstorming new plotlines, indulging in a hot cup of Starbucks, or delving into a good book. She has a particular affinity for supernatural horror literature and movies. Visit Wylde's website to learn more about her works and upcoming events, and don't forget to sign up for her newsletter to receive exclusive discounts and other exciting perks.

Author on Facebook, Instagram, & TikTok: @harleywylde

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

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