Embedded Files
Reckless Kings MC (#7)
MC Romance / Romantic Suspense
Date to be Published: August 22, 2025
Publisher: Changeling Press
One night. One mistake. One baby that changes everything.
Cheri -- I’ve always been the preacher’s perfect niece, the small-town good girl who never stepped out of line. But one reckless night with a gruff, dangerous biker flipped my world upside down. Now I’m eighteen, unexpectedly pregnant, and kicked out of my home for breaking the rules. With nowhere else to turn, I end up on the doorstep of the one man I shouldn’t want. Friar. He’s a rough, older member of an outlaw motorcycle club, and the father of my baby. At least, I think he is. That night is a bit of a blur. He’s also the only one who might protect me from a world that suddenly wants to chew me up and spit me out. Even if he doesn’t love me, I need him… and maybe he needs me too.
Friar -- As a biker, I’ve lived hard and broken more laws than I can count. I’ve never claimed to be a good man. Hell, I don’t even try. But when Cheri shows up at my MC’s door with wide eyes and a baby on the way, something in me shifts. I was never supposed to touch her. She’s too young, too innocent, too off-limits. But I did. And now she’s mine.
They can judge us. Try to tear us apart. But I’ll do whatever it takes to protect my woman and my unborn child. Even if I have to burn down the world to do it.
Excerpt
All rights reserved.
Copyright ©2025 Harley Wylde
Cheri
The wooden crucifix above my bed seemed to watch me with judgment as I lay still, listening to the house settle into silence. Eleven forty-five. Uncle Pete and Aunt June had been in bed for over an hour, their nightly prayers long finished. I’d waited, counting each minute, feeling my heartbeat quicken with every passing second. Tonight was my night. My escape. Even if it was just for a few hours.
I slid out from under the floral quilt Aunt June had made for me when I first came to live with them three years ago. The floor was cold against my bare feet, but I didn’t dare turn on the small lamp. The moonlight filtering through the lace curtains was enough. I moved to my closet, pushing past the modest dresses and high-necked blouses that filled the space. Behind them, hidden in the darkest corner, hung the outfit I’d been saving -- tight jeans and a low-cut top that would have Aunt June clutching her pearls and Uncle Pete quoting Proverbs about the path of sin.
My fingers traced the outline of a framed verse on my nightstand: “She is clothed with strength and dignity; she can laugh at the days to come.” Proverbs 31:25. How many times had Aunt June reminded me that a godly woman’s worth wasn’t in her appearance? Yet here I was, applying mascara and lip gloss by the dim light of my phone screen, my movements practiced and furtive.
I pulled on my forbidden clothes, the fabric clinging to my body in ways that made me feel alive, dangerous. The girl in the mirror looked like someone else -- someone exciting, someone with secrets. I tucked my hair behind my ears and took a deep breath. It was time.
The hallway stretched before me like a gauntlet. Family photos lined the walls, interspersed with carved wooden crosses and framed Bible verses that seemed to glow in the darkness. I knew every creaky floorboard, every spot that would betray me. I stepped carefully, placing my weight on the edges near the walls where the boards were less likely to complain. The scent of Aunt June’s lavender potpourri hung in the air, cloying and sweet, a constant reminder of her presence even when she wasn’t around.
I froze as I approached their bedroom door. It stood slightly ajar, and the soft sound of Uncle Pete’s snoring drifted out. My heart hammered so hard I was certain they’d hear it. A shaft of light from their bedside lamp sliced through the gap in the door. Aunt June always kept it on -- afraid of the dark or maybe afraid of what lurked in it. I held my breath and pressed my body against the opposite wall, inching past with glacial slowness.
“Peter?” Aunt June’s voice, thick with sleep, stopped me cold. My blood turned to ice, and I pressed myself deeper into the shadows.
The snoring paused. “Hmm?”
“Did you lock the back door?”
“Yes, June. Go back to sleep.”
I remained frozen, counting to thirty in my head before daring to move again. The lock. I hadn’t thought about the lock. Would I be able to unlock it without making noise? I’d have to risk it.
The stairs were next -- thirteen of them, each with its own personality and voice. I’d mapped them out over months of late-night kitchen raids: the third one screamed, the seventh groaned, the ninth whispered, and the eleventh threatened to wake the dead. I navigated them like a dance I’d rehearsed a thousand times, my hand barely touching the banister for balance.
The living room was a shrine to their faith. A massive painting of Jesus with lambs hung over the fireplace, His eyes following me accusingly across the room. Bibles sat on every surface, bookmarked and well-worn. A collection of angels watched from the mantel, their porcelain faces frozen in eternal worship. The smell of potpourri was stronger here, mingling with the lingering scent of the pot roast we’d had for dinner.
I made my way to the kitchen, where a needlepoint hung over the sink: “In everything give thanks.” My car keys were in my pocket, heavy and promising. Freedom was just beyond the back door. I reached for the deadbolt, turning it with painful slowness, feeling each click of the mechanism like a gunshot in the silence. When it finally released, I eased the door open just enough to slip through.
The night air hit me like a blessing, cool and free from the suffocating holiness of the house. The porch steps were new and didn’t creak, a small mercy. I stepped onto the damp grass, shoes in hand, moving quickly now toward the driveway where my ancient Honda waited.
I slid into the driver’s seat, my heart still racing. The key went into the ignition, and I said a silent prayer -- the irony not lost on me -- that the engine wouldn’t roar to life with its usual enthusiasm. I turned the key, and the car started with a mercifully subdued rumble. No lights came on in the house. I backed out slowly, not turning on my headlights until I was a safe distance down the road.
In my rearview mirror, the house grew smaller, a dark silhouette against the night sky. I finally allowed myself to breathe. The windows were down, and the wind whipped my hair around my face. I felt wild, untethered. The address of the Reckless Kings clubhouse was burned into my memory from whispered conversations in school bathrooms.
My heart fluttered with nervous excitement. This wasn’t just about breaking curfew or wearing forbidden clothes. This was about stepping into a world so different from the one I’d been trapped in, a world raw and real and alive. The night stretched ahead of me, dark and full of promise, as I drove toward the edge of town where the Reckless Kings waited.
I pressed harder on the gas, leaving behind the weight of expectations and the suffocation of someone else’s righteousness. For tonight, at least, I would be free. For tonight, I would be more than just Uncle Pete and Aunt June’s good Christian niece. I would be Cheri Waite, a girl with fire in her veins and rebellion in her heart.
I parked my Honda at the end of a long line of cars outside the clubhouse, partly to hide my car from anyone who might recognize it, partly because I needed those extra steps to steady my nerves. The Reckless Kings’ domain loomed ahead, a rather fancy looking log-cabin-style building. Music pulsed from inside, a heartbeat I could feel even from this distance. Motorcycles lined the entrance, chrome gleaming under bright lights, their owners somewhere inside doing things my uncle would call sinful and I would call living.
My legs felt weak as I walked toward the building. Each step brought me closer to crossing a line I couldn’t uncross. I’d heard whispers about the Reckless Kings since I’d moved to town -- dangerous men who lived by their own code, who took what they wanted and answered to no one. The kind of men Aunt June prayed for on Sundays, her voice tight with disapproval and fear.
The bikes stood like sentinels guarding the entrance. I ran my fingers over a sleek handlebar as I passed, feeling the cool metal against my skin. I smoothed my hands over my jeans, adjusted my top to show just the right amount of cleavage, and took a deep breath. This was it. No turning back.
I pulled the door open and stepped inside.
The sensory assault was immediate and overwhelming. The air was thick with cigarette smoke that hung in blue-gray clouds beneath the ceiling, mingling with the smell of spilled beer, leather, and sweat. The bass from the music vibrated through the soles of my shoes and up into my chest, making my heart sync with its rhythm. Colored lights from neon beer signs cast red and blue shadows across the room, illuminating faces in fragments -- a tattooed arm here, a bearded jaw there, bodies moving through the haze like apparitions.
My eyes stung, adjusting to the smoke and dimness. The floor beneath me was sticky with what I hoped was just beer, pulling at my shoes with each step. Bodies pressed against each other in the center of the room, dancing to music that felt more like a physical force than a sound. Women in tight clothes and high heels leaned against men in leather cuts, their laughter cutting through the din like glass breaking.
Conversations stuttered as I moved deeper into the room. Heads turned, eyes assessed. I felt each gaze like a physical touch -- some curious, some predatory, all intense. A woman with a snake tattoo winding up her neck stared at me with narrowed eyes, her arm tightening around the waist of the man beside her. I kept my chin up, tried to look like I belonged, like I wasn’t counting every rapid beat of my heart.
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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.
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