Published by Changeling Press
Cover Artist: Bryan Keller
Release Date: March 2026
Some men protect with promises.
I protect with possession.
Samson: I don’t chase power. I don’t wear rank. I don’t claim women. Until I find her broken on the edge of Reckless Kings territory — and realize letting her go would sign her death warrant.
Inside the gates, there’s only one way she stays. So I claim her. No waiting. No soft edges. She sleeps in my house, under my name, with my hand always close enough to remind the world she’s not unprotected anymore. The man hunting her thinks I’m just another biker without authority.
He’s about to learn commitment is far more dangerous than rank.
Callie: I run because men like him don’t hear no. They twist it. Punish it. Being claimed should feel like another trap — but Samson doesn’t cage me. He stands in front of me. Believes me. Touches me like I’m something worth keeping, not something to break.
The danger follows me straight to the compound gates. This time, it meets a man who doesn’t hesitate… and never lets go of what’s his.
A dark Motorcycle Club Romance where obsession is protection, love is irrevocable, and justice is served in the most painful way possible.
Perfect for fans of Romantic Crime Thrillers and MC Romance.
WARNING: Intended for readers 18+ due to adult themes and content that may be disturbing or triggering for some readers, including: intense emotional situations, predatory behavior, motorcycle club–related criminal activity, and trauma recovery and psychological distress.
PREORDER LINKS COMING SOON!
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EXCERPT
All rights reserved.
Copyright ©2026 Harley Wylde
Samson
The narrow backroad twisted through Tennessee pines, a black ribbon barely visible in the late evening darkness. I leaned into the curve, my Harley’s engine growling beneath me, the vibration familiar against my thighs. The headlight carved a path through the night, insects dancing in the beam as I pushed toward the compound. Another mile and I’d be on Reckless Kings territory. My gaze locked on a crumpled shape at the edge of my light, half-hidden where asphalt met gravel and dirt.
I eased off the throttle, the bike slowing as I approached. My mind ran through possibilities — discarded trash, dead animal, maybe a dumped duffle bag. But something about the shape didn’t fit any of those. The moonlight broke through the trees just enough to catch the paleness of skin against dark earth.
“Shit,” I muttered, slowing to a crawl.
My boots hit the asphalt as I killed the engine. The night pressed in, but I left the bike’s running lights on, giving me just enough visibility. My hand went to my waistband, fingers brushing the grip of my pistol — fifteen years with the Kings had taught me caution.
I approached slowly, scanning the tree line for movement. Nothing but night sounds — crickets, the occasional rustle of nocturnal creatures. The shape resolved into a woman as I drew closer, curled on her side facing away from the road. Her clothes — what looked like jeans and a thin jacket — were torn and filthy.
“Hey,” I called, keeping my voice low but firm. “You okay?”
She flinched hard, curling tighter, a ragged breath escaping her.
I stopped ten feet away, making myself visible in the dim glow from my bike. “Not going to hurt you. You need help?”
She rolled slightly, turning just enough to see me. Her face was a mess — dirt streaked with tears or sweat, hair matted against her forehead, a nasty cut at her temple with dried blood in a smear down her cheek. But her eyes — wide with terror — were what caught me. The look of someone hunted.
“Go away,” she rasped.
I stayed where I was, keeping my hands visible. “You’re hurt. Middle of nowhere. Temperature’s dropping.” I kept my voice matter-of-fact, neither pushing nor retreating. “I can help or I can leave. Your call.”
Her breathing came fast and shallow, the rhythm of someone running on pure adrenaline. I’d seen it before, in Prospects during their first real violence, in civilians caught in club business. The body burning through its reserves before the crash came.
And she was close to crashing.
“What’s your name?” I crouched down to appear less threatening, still maintaining distance.
She didn’t answer, just watched me with those wary eyes. Up close, I could see the exhaustion etched into her face. Early-twenties, maybe, though hard to tell through the dirt and fear. Her knuckles were scraped raw, fingernails broken and caked with dirt. She’d fought something or someone.
I glanced back at the empty road, then to the dense trees. The nearest house was miles away. Club territory began just around the next bend, but this stretch was no-man’s-land — the kind of place bodies got dumped. The kind of place women didn’t end up by accident.
“I’m Samson,” I offered, not using my real name. Nobody outside the club knew Lyle Harker existed anymore. “I’m heading home. But I’m not leaving you out here like this.”
Her chapped lips parted as if to speak, then pressed together in pain. The jacket she wore had ridden up, revealing bruises on her side — fingermarks, dark against pale skin. Recent, but not fresh. Maybe a day old.
The road remained empty behind me, but something felt off. The birds had gone quiet. I’d spent enough years riding these backroads to know when something wasn’t right. The woman must have sensed it too — her gaze darted past me toward the trees across the road.
“How long you been running?” I asked, voice even lower.
Her gaze snapped back to me, surprise breaking through the fear for just a second.
“Your shoes.” I nodded toward her feet. The sneakers were shredded at the edges, the once-white fabric now brown with mud and blood. “Those have seen some miles.”
She swallowed hard, her throat working painfully. When she spoke, her voice cracked. “Since last night.”
I spotted the edge of a zip tie mark on her wrist, peeking from beneath her sleeve. Not from police cuffs — those left a different kind of bruise. Someone had restrained her, and she’d torn herself free. The skin was raw, inflamed.
The night seemed to press closer. Despite the warm evening, goosebumps rose on my arms. Years in the Reckless Kings had honed my instincts. Right now, they screamed we weren’t alone.
I straightened slowly, scanning the tree line again. Nothing moved, but the feeling persisted. Whoever had marked this woman up might be watching. Waiting. The compound was only two minutes away by bike, but even that could feel like an eternity if someone made their move.
“Can you stand?” I asked, not taking my eyes off the darkness beyond the road.
She tried to push herself up and failed, collapsing back against the ground with a soft whimper. Dehydrated, exhausted, probably not eaten in at least a day. The dried blood on her temple concerned me — head wounds were tricky. Could be nothing, could be a concussion.
I made my decision. The Kings had rules about bringing outsiders anywhere near our territory but leaving her here wasn’t an option. Not with those marks on her. Not with whoever gave them to her potentially closing in.
“Let me help you up.” I stepped closer. “Then we’ll figure out what comes next.”
Her eyes fixed on the patch on my cut — Reckless Kings in bold stitching. For a moment, fresh fear washed over her face. I knew what she saw — a thirty-something biker, broad-shouldered and tattooed, offering help more dangerous than whatever she was running from.
But then her gaze drifted back to the trees, and she made her choice.
I kept my hands visible, fingers spread, as I edged closer to her. Club life had taught me how to move without threatening — a skill useful whether dealing with rival MCs or frightened women on backroads. Her gaze locked onto my every movement, muscles tensed to flee despite her exhaustion. Behind the fear in her eyes lurked something sharper — calculation, survival instinct. Whatever hell she’d escaped from had taught her to think even when terrified.
“Water?” I asked, I retreated to grab the bottle in my saddlebag. I unscrewed the cap and held it out, still maintaining distance. “Small sips. Too much at once will make you sick.”
She stared at the bottle, conflict evident on her face — desperate thirst warring with ingrained caution. Thirst won. She reached out with trembling fingers, taking the bottle and bringing it to her cracked lips. Water dribbled down her chin as she drank greedily, ignoring my advice.
“Easy,” I warned. “Been without long?”
She lowered the bottle, gasping slightly. Half-empty already. “Since yesterday morning.”
I crouched down to her level, still giving her space. The dried blood at her temple formed a jagged path down to her jaw. Head wound, but not fresh — maybe twenty-four hours old. No active bleeding, pupils equal size. Good signs.
“Mind if I look at your head?” I asked.
She flinched back. “Don’t touch me.”
I nodded, respecting the boundary. “Fair enough. Can you tell me your name?”
A pause. She took another drink. “Callie.”
“Callie,” I repeated, keeping my voice steady. “You got somewhere safe to go, Callie?”
Her laugh came out hollow, more air than sound. “Nowhere’s safe.”
“Someone after you?”
Her gaze darted back to the road. She didn’t answer, but she didn’t need to. The zip tie marks, the bruises, her terror — they told enough of the story.
“How bad are you hurt? Besides what I can see.”
She shrugged one shoulder, wincing at the movement. “I’ll live.”
“That’s a low bar.”
Her eyes met mine, surprising me with a flash of defiance. “Higher than it was yesterday.”
I found myself respecting her — the spark still burning beneath all the fear and pain. The Kings valued resilience. This woman had it in spades.