Embedded Files
(Savage Raptors MC 9)
MC Romance
Date Published: November 27, 2026
Publisher: Changeling Press
Our past should make me her enemy. Survival will make her mine.
Storm -- I’ve spent years proving I’m no longer the reckless bastard who used women, broke promises, and walked away. Then I find Ella bleeding behind a gas station -- the younger sister of a woman whose heart I shattered.
She’s uncovered a human trafficking ring operating through the freight company where she works. Now a corrupt cop and ruthless criminals want her evidence buried with her. Taking Ella to the Savage Raptors MC compound is the only way to keep her alive. But forced proximity to the woman I shouldn’t want tests every ounce of my control.
Ella -- I knew Foster at his worst. Charming. Selfish. Careless with any woman foolish enough to trust him. The protective biker guarding me now calls himself Storm, and every hard choice he makes proves he’s no longer the man who hurt my sister.
Trusting Storm with my life is terrifying. Wanting him is even more dangerous. As the trafficking investigation closes in on the Savage Raptors, our age-gap attraction becomes impossible to fight. To survive, I must decide whether our past will destroy us -- or whether this reformed bad boy can protect my heart as fiercely as he protects me.
WARNING: Storm contains explicit adult content, including strong language, violence, kidnapping, human trafficking, threats against women, and corrupt law enforcement. Some scenes may be disturbing to sensitive readers.
Excerpt
Copyright ©2026 Harley Wylde
Storm
I scraped the last bite of biscuit through the gravy on my plate and set the fork down. Across the kitchen table, Mom was already reaching for the serving dish.
“You’re not done,” she said, not a question. The second biscuit landed on my plate before I could move my hand.
“I’m full.” The lie tasted about as convincing as it sounded.
“You’re thin.” She looked me over, my shoulders, my arms, how my T-shirt hung. “They feeding you out there in Oklahoma? Or is it all beer and whatever the hell passes for food at that clubhouse of yours?”
“Bryson Corners has actual restaurants, Mom.”
“I’ve seen what men eat when women aren’t looking.” She nudged the butter dish closer. “Eat.”
I ate. Resistance was technically possible but practically useless. The house smelled like gun oil and baking powder and the faint evergreen air freshener Mom plugged in every outlet. Through the doorway to the living room, I could see the framed photos on the wall -- Dad and Mom’s tenth anniversary, me and Isy at various ages, a couple of club group shots with the Dixie Reapers patches bright against leather. Nothing from the past few years. Nothing with the Savage Raptors patch on my back.
Dad leaned against the counter with his coffee mug, watching me with the half-smile that meant he’d been saving something up. “So the Raptors patched you in.”
“It’s been a while now.”
“Took ‘em long enough. Figured they’d send you packing after the first week.”
“Some of them tried.”
He snorted. “Smart boys. They catch on you’re the reason every woman within twenty miles develops a sudden interest in motorcycle maintenance?”
I set my fork down harder than necessary. The gravy congealed a little on my tongue. “I’m not prospecting anymore, Dad. That’s not --”
“Not what? Not who you are?” He took a long sip. “Hell, son, I changed your diapers. I know exactly who you are.”
The kitchen clock ticked. Mom turned on the faucet and started rinsing plates, her back to us in a way that wasn’t accidental.
“The Raptors know what they’re doing,” I said. The words came out harder than I wanted. “Atilla runs a tight club. Tight Prospect program. I earned the patch.”
“Sure.” Dad set his mug down and reached for the coffeepot. “And they’ve got no idea about that girl in high school who swore you knocked her up? Or that waitress in Huntsville who called the clubhouse seven nights in a row looking for you? Or --”
“I was nineteen.”
“Twenty-two for the waitress.”
“Twenty-one and drunk.”
“Always the details with you.” He poured, steam rising off the mugs. “Always the technicalities. Never the pattern.”
I forced my shoulders down. Counted under my breath. The old habit of rising to bait, of defending the indefensible because I couldn’t stand the silence after -- it sat behind my ribs like a living thing. But I’d ridden a long way to sit at this table, and I wasn’t riding back with the same shit unresolved.
“The pattern changed,” I said.
Dad looked at me over the rim of his mug. Something flickered in his expression -- not quite disbelief, not quite hope. “Yeah?”
“Yeah.”
He held my gaze a beat too long, then nodded once and turned toward the living room. “Good.”
That was it. Just good, delivered over his shoulder like an afterthought, and then he was settling into his recliner with the remote.
I finished the second biscuit. Mom dried her hands on a dish towel and came to stand beside my chair, her palm resting warm on the back of my neck. She didn’t say anything. She didn’t need to.
“I should hit the road,” I said. “Long haul ahead of me.”
“It’s two in the afternoon.”
“Which is exactly why I’m leaving now and not after you talk me into a third biscuit.”
She swatted my arm. “Smartass.”
I stood and carried my plate to the sink. Through the window above it, I could see my bike parked in the driveway, chrome catching the Alabama sun. The ride back would eat a long stretch of road, more hours than I wanted to count. A long stretch of open road and my own thoughts, which was about that much too long.
In the entryway, I pulled on my boots and reached for my cut. The Savage Raptors patch sat heavy on my back, the Prospect rocker gone, replaced by the full member designation I’d worked hard to earn. Dad hadn’t mentioned it. Hadn’t asked to see it. Had looked right through it like it was invisible.
My helmet was on the hall table where I’d left it. I picked it up, ran my thumb along the edge of the visor. The ritual was automatic by now -- helmet first, then gloves, then the familiar heft of throwing a leg over the seat, the engine catching under me. I’d done it ten thousand times. It was the only thing in my life that never changed.
Mom followed me to the door. She caught my arm as I stepped onto the porch, her fingers digging into the leather of my sleeve. Just once, hard enough that I felt it through the material, and then she let go.
“You call when you get there,” she said.
“I will.”
“Not a text. A call.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“And, Foster?” She waited until I looked at her. “Your father’s an ass. But he listened to every word.”
I nodded. I didn’t trust my voice.
The bike started on the first try. I backed out of the driveway, raised a hand without looking back, and pulled onto the road. The house sat behind me, warm and cluttered and full of the life my parents had built without me in it. It fit them perfectly. The framed photos, the recliner with the remote control worn smooth, Mom’s dish towels hanging from the oven door.
It didn’t fit me anymore. I’d known that for a while. Knowing it and feeling it were different things, and today the feeling sat in my throat like a stone.
I opened the throttle and pointed the front wheel west.
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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: https://www.amazon.com/dp/B0HPBY7BYP
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