Tag Archives: Suspense

by | July 15, 2025 · 5:00 am

Xavier Teaser Tuesday

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Xavier cover

 

Kiss of Death MC

Motorcycle Club Romance, Suspense, Age Gap

Date Published: July 18, 2025

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Xavier may be an ex-con, but he’s strong, protective, and totally
sexy. He’s my hero.

 

Tillie: At the lowest time in my life, I realize I might have gained my very
own guardian angel. I never saw Xavier as more than a friend, but then he went
to prison for me. I’ll never forget his sacrifice. He’s the one
person I can tell anything, the one person I trust above all else. He’s
also the man I’ve built up in my little fantasy world as being the
perfect husband. Only problem is, I forgot he’s still a killer. How can
I be with a man who’s capable of taking a life? I’m torn between
my growing feelings for him and my fear of what it means to love a man like
Xavier.

Xavier: Did I have to kill the man who beat Tillie? No. But I’m headed
to prison anyway, so why not get an added bonus? Tillie defended me to anyone
who would listen, but I still never expected she’d be almost religious
in coming to see me every Saturday. I also didn’t expect to fall in love
with the beautiful, spirited woman. Seeing her smile now is worth the extra
time I’m spending away from my brothers in Kiss of Death and the comfort
of home. Unfortunately, my little Tillie is a magnet for trouble. Good thing
she has me to protect her, because there is nothing I won’t do for
Tillie. Nothing. If I have to kill for her again, so be it. Anyone who touches
her is dead. May God have mercy, because I won’t.


Warning: Adult situations, graphic language, and violence, which may be a
trigger for some readers.

 

 

Xavier tablet

EXCERPT

 

Xavier

“Hey, Sugar.” The one bright spot in my life was Tillie St.
Martin. Ironic because the night I found her was in the middle of the worst
damned storm I’d ever tried to drive through. That was also the night
that changed mine and Tillie’s lives forever.

I think I had a weird sort of connection with her from the second she looked
at me over her shoulder, soaked to the skin in ripped and blood-stained
clothing, with an angry-looking bruise forming on her left cheek. She was
walking down a two-lane country road at one in the morning. Nothing good
happens at one in the morning if you’re forced to walk on a deserted
road in the middle of a storm.

“I did it, Xave!” She grinned brightly at me through the
bulletproof glass. She had the wall phone to her ear and looked so happy my
heart was breaking.

Then I frowned. “Wait a minute. You’re not moving to San Diego
with that creep you were telling me about last month, are you?”

“What?” She jerked back, a scowl on her face. “You honestly
think I’m that stupid?”

I had a moment of panic. Clearly, I’d fucked up. I just wasn’t
sure how. “Of course, you’re not stupid!” I rubbed my hand
over the back of my neck. “But I’m not sure what I said to make
you think I’d think you were stupid?” She raised her eyebrows.
“OK, clearly, we need to start over.”

Then she broke out into giggles. “You’re so cute when you think
I’m irritated at you.”

“I kinda thought I’d said something to thoroughly piss you
off.”

“Pfft.” She waved away my words. “I could never be pissed at
you. You’re my hero after all.”

“Aww, Tillie. You have no idea… Seeing you smile, how much
happier you look now… You kind of gave me a whole new outlook on
life.”

“Oh?” She was still smiling but she looked genuinely curious. Not
like she was humoring me. “What’s that?”

“Sometimes, the outcome is worth the fuckin’ consequence.” I
grumbled out the words, but it was the fucking truth. Yes, I was in prison.
Would I rather be on the outside with my brothers? Sure. But I could pull my
weight with the club in prison same as I could out. Given that I had some good
connections here in Terre Haute, I figured I’d make the best of a bad
situation. Like I said, some things were just worth the cost.

Tillie’s face softened and she put her palm against the window. I put
mine over hers against the glass. I’d never actually touched her skin,
but I could imagine how her hand would entwine with mine. She was twenty-three
years old. Way to fucking young for me when compared to my thirty-eight years,
but her life experiences made her seem older sometimes.

“You ended my nightmare, Xavier. I will never take that for granted.
I’d be dead if it weren’t for you.”

“Only thing I ever want from you is for you to be happy. You never have
to come back here, Tillie. I know this is a scary place sometimes. But if you
do come by occasionally, I hope you always have a smile this bright on your
face.” That got me another beautiful smile, but also a trembling chin
and two tears from her pale green eyes. “So. If you’re not moving
to San Diego with Dipshit, what’s got you all smiles, Sugar?”

She gave a watery laugh as she swiped at her tears. “I did it.”

“Well, yeah, you said that.” I grinned, trying not to chuckle but
failing miserably. “Gonna have to give me an antecedent to go with your
pronoun, baby.”

That really got an amused laugh from her. “Really? Antecedent?”

“Hey. You’re the author between the two of us. You should know
those kinds of words, what they mean, and how to avoid making me say
them.”

“Fine. It refers to buying a house.” She bounced in her seat
excitedly.

I grinned. “You’ll have to show me pictures when you get moved
in.”

“Oh, I will.” Her grin got even wider. “Want to know the
best part?”

“What’s that, sweetheart?”

“I’m moving to Terre Haute.”

OK, this was unexpected. She lived an hour and a half away but had never
mentioned she was moving, let alone anywhere close by. “Honey, why would
you move to Terre Haute?”

“Two reasons.” She straightened, her smile still really wide.
“First, Terre Haute has way more affordable housing. I found a house for
half the price in Terre Haute than I could find in Indianapolis.”

“I could see that.” I tried to keep a lighthearted expression on
my face, but I could tell something was up. “But why get a place of your
own at all? I thought you were happy to stay with your folks.”

“Well, that’s the second reason.” She still smiled and still
seemed happy, but also… sad? Scared?

“Tillie…” I gave her a stern look, knowing something was
off. Every instinct in my body was now screaming at me. Not because I thought
she was in danger. Because, I knew with every fiber of my being, someone had
hurt her feelings. And that simply was not acceptable. “What.
Happened?”

 

 

About the Author

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

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

 

Author Contact Links

Author on Instagram & TikTok: @marteekakarland

Author on Facebook

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

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by | June 24, 2025 · 5:00 am

Hammer Teaser Tuesday

Hammer cover

 

Hammer cover

(Dixie Reapers MC)

Motorcycle Club Romance, Age Gap, Suspense

Date Published: June 27, 2025

 

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Get ready to dive into the gritty yet heartwarming world of the Dixie
Reapers.

Amelia: I know monsters. Hammer isn’t one, regardless of what he says. He’s a
born protector with a big heart, and he’s exactly what my family needs. Sure,
there’s a big age difference between us, but why should I care about other
people’s opinions? All that matters is that Hammer makes me happy. He’s just
what my sons need and he and the Dixie Reapers can protect me from my piece of
s**t ex. Anything else is unimportant. Now I just have to convince him that we
make a good team.

Hammer: I haven’t walked the path of righteousness by any means, but it
doesn’t mean I’m a heartless bastard. Found out I had a kid who’s now a
Prospect. Discovered I had a granddaughter, and now I’m a great-grandfather.
Adopted a kid who didn’t have anyone. None of that makes up for the shit I’ve
done in my past, or the fact I’ve been in and out of prison most of my life.
So why does the sweetest woman I’ve ever met see me as her savior and not the
monster I really am? Somehow she’s become mine, along with her teen boys. If
anyone ever said I’d be a family man, I’d have laughed in their faces. Guess
the joke’s on me.

Are you ready to experience a love story that challenges the boundaries
and proves that every heart deserves a second chance?

 


Warning: Hammer is intended for readers 18+ due to adult situations, bad
language, and violence. There’s no cheating, no cliffhanger, and a guaranteed
HEA!

 

 

Hammer tablet

 

EXCERPT

 

Amelia

I sat on the deserted Florida beach as dusk painted the sky in shades of
orange and pink, my boys flanking me like sentinels. The rhythmic crashing of
waves against the shore masked our hushed voices, nature’s white noise
ensuring no one would overhear plans that could get us killed.

We’d chosen this spot carefully — far enough from the tourist areas to
avoid casual onlookers, but public enough that Piston wouldn’t think to
look for us here. My old man hated beaches, hated sand, hated anything that
couldn’t be controlled. The vastness of the ocean offended him somehow,
as if the world had no right to be bigger than his ego.

The setting sun cast long shadows across the sand, stretching our silhouettes
into distorted versions of ourselves. How fitting. We’d been living as
warped reflections of a family for too long — smiling in public while wearing
concealer over bruises, making excuses for absences at school functions,
practicing cover stories until they flowed from our lips more naturally than
the truth.

“Do you think he knows we’re gone yet?” I asked, my voice
barely audible above the surf.

Neither of my sons answered immediately. They’d learned to measure their
words, to calculate risks before speaking. Another gift from their father.

The breeze coming off the water carried a chill that had nothing to do with
temperature. Until this week, I’d been biding my time and slowly
preparing. I’d learned the hard way what happened when we ran. Then
things changed and I knew I needed to get us out of there. Waiting
wasn’t a luxury we could afford. Watching Piston, the boy’s
father, slam my youngest son’s head against the kitchen counter had
severed whatever twisted loyalty I still felt toward him. I’d been with
the enforcer for the Devil’s Minions for seventeen years. At least
sixteen years too damn long.

I glanced at Chase’s profile, so much like his father’s it
sometimes made my heart stutter with fear. But where Piston’s features
were permanently hardened by cruelty and excess, my sixteen-year-old
son’s face showed a different kind of hardness — determination,
protectiveness, the kind of strength that built rather than destroyed.
He’d been taking the brunt of his father’s rage for years,
positioning himself between Piston and his younger brother whenever possible.

On my other side sat Levi, his slender shoulders hunched against the evening
air. At fifteen, he should have been worrying about homework and video games,
not researching safe houses and motorcycle club rivalries. The fading
yellow-green bruise around his eye made my stomach knot with guilt. I should
have left years ago.

“We’ve got about eighteen hours before he realizes this
isn’t a shopping trip,” Chase said finally, scanning the beach for
potential threats. Always vigilant, my oldest. “Maybe less if he checks
the bank account. Especially since he thinks we’re staying overnight
somewhere. When we don’t check into a motel, he’ll come looking
for us.”

I nodded, feeling the weight of time pressing down. Piston hadn’t wanted
me to have access to money — control was his favorite weapon — but I’d
been skimming cash from the household funds for months, hiding small bills in
a tampon box he’d never deign to touch. It wasn’t much but
combined with the emergency credit card I’d applied for in secret, it
might be enough to get us to safety.

“He’ll come after us,” I said, stating what we all knew.
Piston, aka John Minsley, didn’t lose possessions, and that’s all
we were to him — things to own, to use, to break when the mood struck him.

Levi’s fingers curled around mine, his palm clammy despite the cool
evening air. “We planned for that, Mom. The Devil’s Boneyard MC
–”

“Keep your voice down,” Chase hissed, though there was no one
within a hundred yards of us.

The mention of another motorcycle club sent ice through my veins. Trading one
MC for another seemed like jumping from the fire into a different kind of
hell. But Levi had done his research, had shown me the forum posts from women
who’d escaped abusive situations with their help.

“I know you’re scared,” I told them both, squeezing
Levi’s hand. “I am too. But we can’t stay. Not
anymore.”

The evidence of that decision was written on my youngest son’s face, in
the shadows under his eyes that spoke of sleepless nights and the bruising
from his father’s temper. It was etched in the scars on Chase’s
back from that time Piston had caught him trying to call for help. It was
branded into my own skin, hidden beneath long sleeves even in Florida’s
heat.

Behind us, beyond the dunes and the sparse vegetation, our packed car waited
— everything we could safely take without raising suspicion crammed into the
trunk. Old clothes, important documents hidden in tampon boxes and
hollowed-out books, the few mementos I couldn’t bear to leave behind.

The sky deepened to purple as we sat there, three refugees planning a
desperate escape from a man who would rather see us dead than free. But in
that moment, with the endless ocean before us and my boys beside me, I felt
something I hadn’t experienced in years — hope, fragile as sea foam but
just as persistent.

Chase stood abruptly, his tall frame casting a long shadow across the sand as
he paced a few steps away, never taking his eyes off our surroundings. At
sixteen, he already carried himself like a man who’d seen too much, his
shoulders set with a tension that no teenager should know. The ocean breeze
ruffled his brown hair — the same shade as mine — but his green eyes,
Piston’s eyes, scanned the beach with a vigilance that broke my heart.

“Someone’s coming,” he muttered, nodding toward a couple
walking their dog at the far end of the beach. “We should move.”

I watched as he shifted his stance, angling his body to place himself between
us and the distant strangers. The motion was so automatic, so ingrained, that
I doubted he even realized he was doing it. Years of protecting his brother,
of trying to shield me when he could — it had become instinct. And it made me
feel like a shit mother.

“They’re just walking their dog, Chase,” I said softly.
“They’re not his men.”

His jaw tightened, the muscle jumping beneath his tanned skin. “You
don’t know that. Piston has eyes everywhere.”

“We’ve been careful.”

“Not careful enough.” He glanced at his brother, his expression
softening marginally before hardening again. “Levi’s research is
good, but Piston will call in every favor, track every account, hunt down
every friend we’ve ever had.” He knelt in front of me, his voice
dropping to a whisper. “Mom, if we do this, there’s no halfway. We
either disappear completely or we don’t bother running at all.”

The fierce intensity in his eyes reminded me so much of his father that for a
moment, fear flickered through me — not of Chase, never of him, but of the
genetic legacy he carried. Would my gentle boy who used to catch and release
spiders from our bathroom eventually morph into the monster who’d sired
him? Or was that intensity, channeled through love instead of hate, the very
thing that might save us?

 

About the Author

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

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

 

Author on Facebook, Instagram, & TikTok: @harleywylde

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

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

 

 

 

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by | June 16, 2025 · 5:00 am

Riot Teaser

Riot banner

 

Riot cover

(Kiss of Death MC)

Motorcycle Club Romance, Suspense, Age Gap

Date Published: June 20, 2025

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Violet Harrington has a haunted look about her that pulls at my
protective instincts like nothing has in a long time.

 

Violet — In my world, girls aren’t deemed useful for much other than to
be married off, creating a tie to a rival family. I did my job. I married the
man my family chose, and I got pregnant right away. Now my life is a
nightmare, wondering if this is the day someone will kill me, or worse, take
my son. When Caleb witnesses the abuse I live with, he gives me an ultimatum.
Leave his father, or Caleb will kill the man himself. That’s when my
lawyer introduces me to Quinn Devereaux, the man known as Riot. He asks me a
question I’ve never heard before. What do you need, Violet?

Riot — I was gone the first moment I laid eyes on the tiny woman with the
suspicious twelve-year-old guarding her like a pit bull. She’s my
service requirement assignment — to protect her and her kid from her husband
and father. Domestic abuse is never pretty, but her story hits way too close
to home. I’ll watch over them, and in the end, I’ll do whatever it
takes to prevent history from repeating itself. Even if it means I risk going
back to prison.


Warning: Riot (Kiss of Death MC 4) deals with issues of domestic abuse that
may be triggers for some readers.

 

Riot paperback

 

EXCERPT

 

Riot


Community service. What a fucking joke. I appreciated the fact I needed to pay
my debt to society. I did bad shit and deserved everything the judge gave me
and then some. Knuckles pulled some strings and got me out on parole three
years earlier than expected, and it had come with mandatory community service.
My lawyer told me Knuckles had friends in high places and not to look a gift
horse in the mouth. I understood. I also knew how to keep my mouth shut so I
had no intention of finding out anything more.

I’d only been out of prison three days. Now they expected me to go back
to the courthouse. Voluntarily. I didn’t know why, only that it had to
do with the aforementioned community service.

It was three o’clock on Friday afternoon. My instructions were to wait
outside in a specific area. Which wasn’t suspicious at all. I parked my
bike under a tree at the back of the building and waited. As a condition of my
parole, I had to carry a cell phone on me at all times. I had no trouble a
phone on me. The last thing I wanted was to go back to jail, so if being tied
to the fucking phone meant the powers that be could track my every move, so
fucking be it.

I had to chuckle. I wanted to stay out of prison, yet I was all in with
Knuckles and Kiss of Death MC. An outlaw club by their own admission. Yeah, I
was new and didn’t know all the guys yet, but there were two things we
all had in common. First, we’d all spent time in Terre Haute. Some more
than others. And second, we all knew and trusted Knuckles with our lives.
Knuckles had the keys to the yard in Terre Haute. He’d been the shot
caller on the inside. I thought he probably had more power in prison than most
people did on the outside. If he said he could keep me safe from the probation
officers with an ax to grind, I’d do what he said, when he said do it,
and count my blessings.

The point being, Knuckles was the one who set me up with this particular
lawyer. She’d represented me at my parole hearing and she was the one
who demanded my presence at the courthouse today. Knuckles said do what she
said to the best of my ability and without objection. The details were
supposed to be given to me when we met up. Apparently, this was a rush job or
something. Knuckles said she’d made a point for me to wear my colors and
ride my bike. Jeans, black T-shirt, motorcycle boots, and my cut proudly
proclaiming I’m a member of Kiss of Death MC and that we were a one
percent club. I personally didn’t like this idea, but Knuckles told me
not to worry. He’d kept my ass alive in prison. Just like he had most of
the other guys. No way would he toss me to the wolves now.

I glanced at my watch. Five after three. She’d told me three
o’clock sharp, but I’m just the ex-con biker. What did I know
about being on time?

At ten after, a little white Ford Fiesta pulled up next to me. I was leaning
against the seat of my parked bike, my legs crossed at the ankles and my arms
crossed over my chest. Classic badass biker intimidation pose. The windows
were tinted on all sides except the front. I couldn’t see the passengers
but I recognized the woman who got out of the driver’s side.

“Ms. Thompson. Wasn’t expecting to see you again so soon.” I
wasn’t lying. Knuckles had explained everything to me on the way to
Nashville from Terre Haute, but I thought I’d have a little time to
process life on the outside before I got shoved back into the legal system.

“Nothing’s free in this world, Riot. You know that.” Lana
Thompson was an in-your-face powerhouse. She wasn’t the sneak attack you
didn’t see coming. She was the mortar fire you heard half a mile away
and hurried to get the fuck out of the blast zone.

“And it shouldn’t be. I ain’t complainin’. I just
wasn’t expecting my point of contact to be you.”

She gave me a superior smirk. “Oh, you and I will see a lot more of each
other, I assure you. I’m the reason you’re out, you know.
Well…” She shrugged. “Me and my other employer. He pays me.
Knuckles gets his people.”

“Impressive. Do I want to know who your other employer is?”

“Probably not. In any case, I wouldn’t tell you. You want to know
shit like that, talk to Knuckles.”

“Yeah. I’m good.” I rolled my eyes and sighed. “When I
asked my parole officer about my community service, he said someone would
contact me. No one has. You sure this is countin’ toward my community
service?”

“Who told you to meet me here?”

“Knuckles.”

She grinned. “Looks like you have your answer.”

“I’m not sure Knuckles counts?”

“You said your parole officer told you someone would contact me. He say
who?” I could tell by the look on her face she knew the answer to this
question but I was committed now.

“He said to do whatever the fuck Knuckles told me to.”

“Uh huh.”

“You know, people would like you better if you weren’t so
smug.” I wanted to be irritated at the woman, but really, her making fun
of me was my own fault. The joke practically wrote itself. I raised my hands
defensively. “Knuckles told me to be here and I’m here. I was told
three o’clock sharp.” I gave her a pointed glance, then down at my
watch.

“Yeah,” she breathed with a sigh. “Sorry about that. Poor
thing’s balking hard.” She nodded to the vehicle and her
passengers. “Her son and I had to coax her into letting him do this and
we still had to practically drag her into the car.”

That got my attention. “What’s going on? What is it I need to
do?” Something inside me coiled tight. I knew without a doubt something
was about to happen that would change my life. Every instinct I had was
screaming at me to pay attention because I was about to get knocked on my ass.

“My client is about to testify that his father beat his mother. Kid
knows his mom is the underdog in this fight. His father’s a big shot
with a whole team of lawyers and she’s got me.” She grinned, but
that feeling in the pit of my stomach was getting stronger by the second.
“Caleb is a good kid. He’s so protective of his mother it almost
hurts. If his father gets Caleb alone, Caleb will do his level best to kill
the guy.”

I gave her a hard look for long moments, replaying her words to make sure
I’d heard her correctly. The weight of everything she was saying was
hitting me like a wrecking ball to the fucking head. This woman had chosen me
for more than one reason. “You fuckin’ bitch,” I bit out.
“Only reason I don’t kill you right here is because it’s not
worth goin’ back to prison.”

“Good!” Bitch Thompson, as I would now refer to her, said with
wide-eyed enthusiasm. “You don’t want to go back to prison.
That’s great! But the only way you stay out of prison is by doing your
community service, big guy, and this is it.”

“Why? Why me? There’s got to be hundreds of other people you could
use for this.”

“You don’t even know what I want you to do yet.”

“Got a pretty fuckin’ good idea. Is this supposed to make me feel
better about what happened and about what I did?”

Instantly, Lana Thompson was in my face. This was the side of her everyone in
the courtroom feared seeing. She’d used the same expression and tone of
voice at my parole hearing as she was using now. Only this time, she grabbed a
hold of my ear and yanked, twisting my earlobe painfully. Sure, I could have
made her stop. I could have seriously hurt her. But I didn’t hit women.
Not for any reason.

“No. It’s not supposed to make you feel better. It’s
supposed to keep that young man out of fucking prison. Now. What are you going
to do about this situation, hmm?” Lana’s voice was silky smooth as
she purred in a supremely satisfied voice.

“The fuck kind of question is that? Have you lost your fuckin’
mind?”

“Can’t you get out of a simple ear hold from a woman half your
size?”

“Lana, what the fuck’s your problem? I could fuckin’ break
you in half and you fuckin’ know it!” I felt like I was the butt
of some joke I didn’t get.

“Exactly!” I thought she might let me go, but she didn’t.
Instead, she twisted harder and I had to lean down to keep her from taking my
fucking ear off. “You’ll stand there and let me hurt you rather
than take a chance on hurting me.” Yep. Definitely the butt of the joke.

“What the fuck do you want me to do?” I snarled my question at
her. “I ain’t gonna hit you. I don’t hit women. Or kids.
Now, let go of my fuckin’ ear!”

To my surprise, she let me go and stepped back, grinning from ear to ear.
“Which was my whole point.” She called out to whoever was in the
car. “You see? Come on out.”

I rubbed my ear, trying to get blood moving again as well as ease the ache. As
I was working up to a scathing remark to Lana, the doors to the car opened and
a boy of about eleven or twelve got out of the back while a short, slender
woman emerged from the front. She wasn’t much taller than the boy and it
was a tossup as to who weighed more.

My heart thumped painfully in my chest and I froze. She had short, shaggy
curls in a riot of orange around her head and skin as creamy as milk. Her eyes
were the palest blue I’d ever seen and almost too big for her face. But
what had me wanting to howl in rage, what had me ready to murder some
motherfucking son of a bitch, was the bruise across her cheek, the finger-mark
bruises on her bare arms, and the cut on her lower lip that stood out like an
accusation.

I swallowed as I stood to my full height, still rubbing my ear absently. The
kid moved in front of his mother but stood his ground.

“See, Violet? This isn’t a man who’s going to hurt
you.”

“What do you need?” My gaze bore straight into Violet’s,
trying to pull the information I wanted out of her head so I could go kill
someone. Déjà vu but I didn’t care. I’d charge hell
with a water pistol and damned the consequences if this woman said to.

“I-I just w-wanted someone strong to be here to support my s-son.”
Her voice was melodious and soft. Like an angel whispering. She was obviously
nervous, that didn’t make her any less beautiful or courageous.
“M-my husband can be…” she trailed off.

“Where do you need me, Ms. Violet?” Because, parole or not, there
was no way I was leaving this woman to deal with some asshole on her own.

 

About the Author

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

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

 

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

 

 

 

 

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by | May 20, 2025 · 5:00 am

Rebel Blitz

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Rebel cover

(Devil’s Boneyard MC)

Motorcycle Club Romance, Age Gap, Suspense

Date Published: May 23, 2025

 

 

Are you ready to dive into a world where love and vengeance
intertwine?

 

Rio — I thought I had my future mapped out with the Army until two men
shattered that dream, leaving me medically discharged and lost. I journeyed
west, then returned east after a call from my superior, urging me to testify
against those who hurt me. When I stepped into a biker clubhouse along the
way, I never expected to find a place I could truly call home. Rebel makes
me want to trust again. He’s charming, bold, protective, and
understanding. I started my journey as a way to escape my past. I ended up
finding a family — and possibly love.

Rebel — The moment Rio walked into the clubhouse, she had my attention.
Proud, confident, and armed, she’s a storm ready to be unleashed. When
her past comes looking for her, I know I’ll do whatever it takes to
keep her safe. Those men have made a fatal mistake. They thought they were
hunters. What they don’t know is that I’m the predator, and they
aren’t walking out of my town alive.

 

Love isn’t just a feeling. It’s a battle worth fighting
for.

 

Warning: Rebel is intended for readers 18+ due to adult situations, bad
language, and violence. The story contains content some readers may find
difficult to read. There’s a guaranteed HEA, no cheating, and no
cliffhanger!

 

Rebel tablet

EXCERPT

I leaned against the wall near the bar, nursing my whiskey and watching the
usual Friday night chaos unfold. The Devil’s Boneyard clubhouse pulsed
with life around me — half-naked women draping themselves over patched
members, Prospects hustling drinks, the bass from the speakers vibrating
through the floorboards. Then she walked in, pushing the door open with more
force than necessary, like she needed everyone to know she wasn’t
sneaking in. The metal hinges had protested with a squeal that somehow cut
through the roar of Guns N’ Roses blasting from the speakers. For a
split second, a few heads turned — then most went back to their business.
Not mine. I kept watching.

Strawberry-blonde hair, fierce blue eyes, and a don’t-fuck-with-me
stride that parted the crowd like Moses and the Red Sea. Something electric
snapped in the air, and I knew my quiet night had just gotten a hell of a
lot more interesting.

She stood there in worn jeans, combat boots, and a leather jacket that had
seen better days. Not trying to show skin like the club girls but somehow
commanding more attention. Her eyes scanned the room with military
precision, taking stock of every exit, every threat. I recognized that look.
Had worn it myself once.

The clubhouse wasn’t much to look at. Worn hardwood floors bearing
cigarette burns and knife marks that told stories of parties past. The walls
were covered in a collection of road signs, license plates, and probably a
bit too much Harley-Davidson memorabilia. The lighting was shit — dim
yellow bulbs — but it hid the stains well enough.

She wrinkled her nose, probably at the cocktail of smells — stale beer,
motor oil, leather, sweat, and the unmistakable scent of sex. Her shoulders
tensed as two hang-arounds brushed past her, but she stood her ground.
Didn’t flinch. Interesting.

Charming sat at his usual table in the corner, silver-threaded hair
catching the light as he nodded at something Havoc was saying. Even from
across the room, you could feel his presence. His years as president had
that effect. Men unconsciously straightened when he looked their way,
women’s voices dropped to deferential tones. Not out of fear — though
plenty feared him — but out of the kind of respect that can’t be
demanded, only earned.

I watched her clock him immediately. Smart girl. In a room full of
predators, she’d identified the alpha in seconds. Her eyes narrowed
slightly, assessing, calculating. But she didn’t approach. Instead,
she made her way to the bar, keeping her back to the wall, ordering
something I couldn’t hear over the music.

“Who’s the new blood?” Chaos appeared beside me, beer in
hand, voice unnecessarily loud as usual.

“Don’t know yet,” I said, not taking my eyes off her.
“But I’m about to find out.”

“She looks like she’d cut your dick off for saying hello
wrong.” He grinned, obviously considering this a challenge rather than
a warning.

“Then I better say it right.” I drained my whiskey and set the
glass down with a decisive clink.

Across the room, one of the club girls — a blonde with tits that defied
gravity and the IQ of a doorknob — was trying to chat her up. Probably
recruiting for the stable, or assessing if she would be a rival. The
strawberry blonde’s expression had gone from cautious to thunderous.
Time to intervene before something ugly happened.

I crossed the floor in long strides, noticing how several of the brothers
were now watching with idle interest. New female faces always drew
attention, especially ones that didn’t fit the typical groupie
mold.

“Tiffany,” I said to the blonde, not bothering with
pleasantries, “I think Java’s looking for you.”

She pouted, those silicone lips forming a perfect bow. “I’m
just being friendly, Rebel.”

“Be friendly elsewhere.” My tone left no room for
argument.

She huffed but retreated, her six-inch heels clicking against the hardwood.
I turned to the newcomer, close enough now to see the freckles scattered
across her face and the tension in her jaw.

“The recruitment pitch gets old fast,” I said, not bothering
with introductions yet. “You looking for someone specific, or just
lost?”

Her eyes — startlingly blue up close — locked onto mine. “Do I look
like the type that gets lost?”

Southern accent. Georgia, maybe. And an attitude I could feel from three
feet away.

I smirked. “No, you look like the type that walks into a biker
clubhouse alone on purpose. Which means you’re either crazy or have a
death wish.”

“Or I can handle myself.” Her hand shifted slightly, drawing my
attention to the slight bulge under her jacket. Carrying. Interesting.

“I don’t doubt it.” I gestured to the bartender for two
more drinks. “But even the best fighters might think twice about a
thirty-to-one ratio.”

The corner of her mouth twitched — not quite a smile, but close.
“Thirty? I counted fourteen, and half of them are too drunk to stand
straight.”

I laughed, genuinely surprised. “You military?”

Something darkened in her expression. “Was.”

The bartender slid two whiskeys toward us. I pushed one her way.
“I’m Rebel.”

She eyed the drink suspiciously. “Original.”

“Says the girl who hasn’t given her name at all.”

She picked up the glass, sniffed it, then took a small sip. Testing.
“Rio.”

“Like the city?”

“Like the river. It flows where it wants to.”

I raised my glass in acknowledgment and took a swallow, feeling the burn
hit my throat. “So what brings you to our humble establishment, Rio
who flows where she wants to?”

Her eyes flicked around the room again, lingering on a group of Prospects
playing pool. “Just passing through. Heard this was where the action
is in this shithole town.”

“And what kind of action are you looking for?” I kept my tone
neutral, but we both knew what the question implied in a place like
this.

She met my gaze head-on, challenge sparking. “Not the kind
you’re thinking.”

“You’d be surprised what I’m thinking.”

A commotion near the door drew our attention. Two Prospects escorting a
belligerent drunk outside, his protests lost in the music. Rio’s hand
had drifted back toward her concealed weapon, her body tensing for
trouble.

“Relax,” I said, stepping slightly closer. “Just the
usual Friday night housekeeping.”

“I don’t relax in places I don’t know with people I
don’t trust,” she said, but her hand dropped back to her
side.

I studied her for a moment — the way she held herself, alert but not
skittish. Dangerous but controlled. “Smart policy.”

Across the room, Charming’s gaze connected with mine, one silver
eyebrow raised in silent question. I gave a subtle nod. Nothing to worry
about. Yet.

“Your President’s watching,” Rio said without turning
around. The observation impressed me — she’d maintained awareness of
the room without being obvious about it.

“He notices everything,” I confirmed. “Especially
strangers with hidden weapons.”

 

About the Author

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

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

 

Author on Facebook, Instagram, & TikTok: @harleywylde

 

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

 

Pre-Order Today

 

 

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by | May 6, 2025 · 5:00 am

Outcast Teaser Tuesday

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Outcast cover

Motorcycle Club Romance, Suspense

Date Published: May 9, 2025

 

 

Anya’s his captive, but she’s always been mine. I’ll burn
their empire to the ground to bring her home.

Anya — I never forgot Jackson — not when the foster system chewed us up
and spit us out, and not when I was dragged into the nightmare world of
Sebastian Six. Jackson was the one bright spot in my past, the only person
who ever tried to save me. Now, trapped as Six’s captive, I’ve
lost hope… until I see him again. Jackson isn’t just a memory
anymore; he’s a badass biker called Outcast. He fights the brutal
champion in Six’s underground ring, just to win a night with me.
He’s risking everything to get me out. This time, I’m not
letting him go.

Outcast — She was everything to me once. The only thing that ever
mattered. I tried to save her when we were young and failed. But when her
photo turned up on a soldier tied to a fake gun deal, I knew I’d been
given another chance. I tracked her to Louisville, to the syndicate, to the
monster who owns her. If she had been safe and happy, I would’ve
walked away. But she wasn’t. So I fought their champion in a cage
match just to get close. Now I’m running with her again — only this
time, I’m ready to kill anyone who gets in my way for her. No one is
taking Anya from me. Not now. Not ever again.

Trigger Warning: Outcast (Hounds of Hell MC 7) contains scenes of human
trafficking, violence, physical abuse, rape, and vigilante justice that may
be triggers for some readers. There’s also a strong alpha hero willing
to risk everything to save his woman.

Outcast tablet

 

 

EXCERPT

Outcast

Player scrolled through his phone in the passenger seat next to him,
killing time while they waited in the Jeep for the Red Scourge MC’s
soldiers to show. In the back, Crash sat silent, his usual restless energy
contained — for now. Malachai’s illegally modified rifles were tucked
in the back, behind the rear seats, ready for the deal. Snow and the twins
were positioned in the woods nearby, out of sight but primed to strike if
things went sideways. Everyone was in place and ready.

Well, the Hounds were ready. The other MC was new to this part of Virginia,
and the fact that they’d reached out about guns right away had sent up
an immediate red flag for Outcast. Now they were running late, testing his
patience as he ran through all the ways this deal could turn bloody if the
buyers decided to play dirty. Yeah, the club needed the money, but with so
many unknowns surrounding this crew, Razor had made sure they were prepared
for everything. Probably.

The late February sky loomed heavy with dark clouds as the wind howled
through the trees, whipping past them in the Jeep. Outcast killed the
engine, powering down his driver’s side window just an inch or two. He
was vigilant, keeping an eye on all the vehicle’s mirrors. He
listened, trying to tune out the sounds of the wind and the occasional
vehicle driving by on the highway behind them. For the meeting place,
they’d selected a remote area between Mercy and Oak Grove. Outcast had
picked it out — a stretch with no houses or businesses — in case things
went south.

Player shoved his phone back into the pocket of his leather jacket, his
attention now on Outcast. “You sure you’re feeling up to this,
brother?”

Outcast nodded, shutting down any chance of a drawn-out conversation about
his well-being. It was bad enough dealing with Deva every day, her constant
hovering after his recovery from the beating Victor Grayson’s men had
handed him. And where Deva went, Razor followed — especially now that they
were together. His club president was a hell of a lot harder to shake than
his sister.

“I’m fine,” Outcast said, and for the most part, it was
true. Mornings were rough, and by night, the lingering pain crept back in —
especially after a long day. But each day, it dulled a little more. Still,
the slow recovery gnawed at him. Pushing forty or not, he should’ve
been back to full strength by now, and the frustration of it sat heavy on
his shoulders.

“They’re here.” Snow’s rough whisper came over the
walkie talkie Outcast had positioned in the cupholder of the center
console.

Sure enough, a huge black Hummer turned off Route 221 onto the narrow dirt
road where they waited. Player pressed the button on the transceiver and
said, “Copy that.”

Outcast watched the other vehicle move closer. Player grinned at him from
the passenger seat, itching for a fight Outcast hoped they could avoid.
“It’s show time,” he said. Crash’s gaze met
Outcast’s in the rearview mirror, and he nodded.

“Focus,” Outcast told them, watching the Hummer rumble to a
stop on the other side of the road. He counted four heads but there was
plenty of room in that behemoth of a vehicle for more to be hiding. A bad
vibe twisted in his gut. Just now he was really fucking grateful for
Razor’s command that they take backup.

It was ten minutes until five, and Outcast knew the sun was sinking toward
the horizon, though the thick storm clouds kept it hidden. He slowly opened
the door and stepped out of the Jeep, the wind biting against his skin.
Crash climbed out at the same time, moving with his usual measured calm.
Player, on the other hand, damn near rocked the whole vehicle as he jumped
out of the passenger side, his boots hitting the ground hard. Moving too
fast for Outcast’s liking, Player strode around to stand just behind
him, his massive frame coiled tight, ready for a fight before one had even
started.

The smell of rain and the acrid tang of cigarette smoke from the four men
who exited the Hummer hung in the cold evening air. Outcast stood just in
front of his friends; his weight shifted casually and every muscle he had
tensed. This was far from Outcast’s first deal, but something about
this particular group set his nerves on edge.

Four men stood across from them, their faces partially obscured by the
fading light and shifting shadows of the storm. Their leather cuts were
crisp, their jeans too clean, and not one of them carried the rough,
road-worn edge Outcast expected from outlaw bikers. Something about them
felt off — like they were playing a role rather than living the life. And
considering none of the Hounds had ever heard of Red Scourge MC before now,
that didn’t sit right with him. Whoever the fuck they were, he
didn’t like the vibes they were giving off.

“Appreciate you boys coming all this way,” the taller of the
four drawled, lighting up a cigarette. Outcast recognized Hawk’s voice
from speaking with him on the phone. “Been hearing good things about
the Hounds’ hardware. Guess you need something to do out here in the
middle of Bumfuck, Virginia.”

Outcast nodded, holding Hawk’s gaze as the other man sized him up.
“Guess so.”

Hawk took another step closer, studying Outcast. A challenge. After a
minute, the man nodded. “Well, they were right about you. Outcast,
right? You got some cold, motherfuckin’ eyes.”

Outcast never took on personal comments, just waited, staring the man down.
Hawk, they were told, was a VP in his club. He had none of Snow or
Razor’s authoritative presence and his insecurities were as obvious as
a Halloween mask. Hawk squared his shoulders, but the slight twitch in his
fingers and the way he shifted his weight from foot to foot told a different
story. The man wasn’t as fearless as he wanted everyone to
believe.

Player smirked at Outcast’s side, his posture radiating confidence.
Towering over most, his broad frame made him an imposing presence — only
Beast outweighed him in the club. His voice was smooth, almost lazy, but the
edge beneath it was unmistakable. “Money’s what matters,”
Player said, flashing a grin that didn’t quite reach his eyes.
“If you’ve got that, we’ve got your hardware.”

Hawk nodded to the younger man standing to his left who pulled a thick
envelope from his jacket and handed it to him. Holding it up for the Hounds
to see, he said, “Here’s our end of the deal. Now, we’d
like to see what we’re paying for.”

Without taking his eyes off the Red Scourge soldiers, Outcast said,
“Crash.”

It was the cue for Crash to climb into the back of the Jeep and haul out
one of the two heavy plastic totes, each packed with rifles. He lowered it
to the ground, unlocking the padlock that secured the lid to the body of the
bin. Crash pulled out a sleek, fully-automatic rifle. Its dark wood grip and
black metal barrel looked ominous in the dim light. Malachai, the newest
patched member of the Hounds, was goddamned good at what he did, illegally
modifying weapons himself to make them more lethal. His skill with
high-powered firearms was one of the reasons the prospect had earned his
cut.

Crash moved with deliberate ease, stepping toward Hawk and extending an
unloaded rifle. At the same time, Hawk handed over the thick, bulging
envelope — supposedly filled with cash. The exchange happened smoothly. Too
smoothly. Outcast kept his eyes locked on the Red Scourge leader.

Hawk gripped the rifle, turning it over in his hands like he knew what he
was looking for. Crash, on the other hand, tore open the envelope and
thumbed through the stack of bills inside. Outcast caught the barely
perceptible glance his brother-in-arms shot him.

I fucking knew it.

 

About the Author

Jamie Targaet is the author of the Hounds of Hell MC. She’s anxious to
introduce you to this club of gorgeous, dominant men and the lucky women who
surrender to them. The ride is going to get wild at times, not going to lie.
But there’s thrilling action, scorching hot sex scenes, and all the
feels. 

Jamie writes erotic romance for Changeling Press, a little fanfiction on
the side, and she’s an aspiring horror writer in another life. She enjoys
time with her family (including the fur babies). She likes good horror
movies and shows, emo metal and classic rock, and time spent in other worlds
writing and reading. She loves hearing from readers and is looking forward
to hearing from you.

Author on Facebook

Author on Amazon

Author’s Website

 

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

 

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