Showing posts with label motorcycle club romance. Show all posts
Showing posts with label motorcycle club romance. Show all posts

Tuesday, April 14, 2026

Oktober - Kiss of Death MC 13 - Romance #Romance #MCRomance #MotorcycleClubRomance

Marteeka Karland is here to tell us about Oktober, Kiss of Death MC 13, a motorcycle club romance.

Read on for details...

__________________
 


(Kiss of Death MC 13)


MC Romance

Date Published: April 17, 2026

Publisher: Changeling Press



Mia looks like heartbreak. When her toxic ex follows, he doesn’t know what he’s up against.

Mia: I caught my boyfriend cheating with my best friend. So I did what any emotionally stable woman would do. I rented a secluded cabin in the Smoky Mountains and swore off men forever. Then the motorcycles arrived, along with Oktober. He’s six feet of tattooed temptation with a voice like sin and a stare that says he’s already picturing me against the nearest solid surface. He doesn’t offer sympathy. He offers control. And after being lied to, gaslit, and humiliated, control sounds… therapeutic. What starts as a revenge-fueled vacation fling turns into possessive heat, obsessive chemistry, and the kind of dark romance that makes bad decisions feel like personal growth. But when my toxic ex tracks me down, I learn two things. Eric still thinks I belong to him. He has no idea who he’s competing with.

Oktober: I came to the mountains for downtime with my MC brothers. Beer. Bikes. No drama. Then I found Mia next door looking like heartbreak wrapped in stubborn pride. I don’t chase women. I don’t beg. And I definitely don’t do feelings. I claim. She says she just wants a distraction. I give her protection, obsession, and enough heat to make her forget her ex’s name. When the idiot shows up trying to intimidate her, I almost feel bad for him. Almost. Kiss of Death MC doesn’t tolerate disrespect.

“Touch her and die” isn’t a cute slogan. It’s community policy.

 

Excerpt
Copyright ©2026 Marteeka Karland

Mia

I walked up the three flights of stairs to our apartment, conference badge still hanging from my neck, my rolling suitcase bumping rhythmically against each step. The academic panel had ended early. Budget cuts meant fewer speakers, fewer questions, fewer reasons to stay. I hadn’t texted Eric. The thought of surprising him, of seeing his face light up when I walked through the door two days ahead of schedule, made my lips curve into a smile. We might even head early to the little cabin retreat I’d been planning for after the weekend. Maybe I’d call ahead and see if I could get it starting tonight or tomorrow. I shifted the takeout bag to my other hand and dug for my keys, the scent of his favorite pad thai spiraling up from the paper sack.

The hallway stretched before me, same beige carpet I’d walked nearly every day for the past six months since I’d moved in with Eric. Our door waited at the end, looking exactly as it always did. I took comfort in the mundane. I loved surprises but preferred my quiet, steady life as drama free as I could keep it.

I opened the door and stepped inside the spacious apartment Eric owned in downtown Nashville. I heard them before I saw them. A muffled laugh, a thump against a wall in the bedroom. For a moment as I approached the closed door, I thought maybe Eric was watching something on his laptop. He did that sometimes, sprawled across our bed as he watched or even worked from bed. When he did, he sometimes hit the wall as he shifted.

The bedroom door swung open, and time moved to slow motion around me. Eric’s bare back faced me, the knobs of his spine visible as he hunched over her. My best friend, Jade’s, legs were wrapped around his waist, her head thrown back against my pillow on my side of the bed. Her dark hair spread across the soft linens I’d washed before leaving for the conference the day before.

My keys dangled from suddenly numb fingers. Thank God I’d set the takeout bag on the counter as I’d passed by the kitchen or I’d have dropped it. Just like I did the keys two seconds later.

They froze. Their heads turned in unison, like puppets controlled by the same string.

“Mia!” Eric’s voice cracked as he shoved up from Jade and the bed, his junk on full display. Without a condom. Just ducky. “Jesus -- you’re… You weren’t supposed to --”

Jade yanked the sheet up to her chin, her eyes wide and glassy. “Oh God, Mia, I can explain --”

Could she? Could she explain why my best friend since sophomore year of college was naked in my bed with my boyfriend of three years? Could she explain why they were both looking at me with expressions more annoyed than ashamed, as though I’d interrupted something that was rightfully theirs?

I didn’t want to hear it.

I stood there, my suitcase forgotten in the hallway, watching Eric scramble to pull on his jeans. His mouth was moving, explanations tumbling out. I heard something about loneliness and mistakes and too much wine. His words hit a barrier around me, sounds without meaning. I noticed things instead. Like the wineglass on my nightstand with Jade’s lipstick on the rim. The way she clutched my sheet to her chest like she had any right to modesty in this moment. The condom wrappers on the floor.

“Mia, please say something,” Eric pleaded, his hand reaching for my arm.

I stepped back. My body felt disconnected, operating on primitive autopilot while my mind floated, watching this scene unfold to someone else, trying to detach myself from the stark reality of what I’d just witnessed.

“How long?” My voice sounded weak and thready. Like I had to force the words out. I suppose I did because I really had no desire to know how long I’d played the fool and looked like an idiot in front of all our friends.

They exchanged a look. That look told me everything I needed to know.

I turned away, walking to the closet where we kept our luggage. Eric followed, his bare feet slapping against the hardwood.

“Mia, it’s not what you think. It just happened. We were both missing you --”

I pulled my large duffel bag from the top shelf, the one I’d planned to use for our cabin trip next week. The trip I’d booked six months ago because Eric had complained we never went anywhere, just the two of us.

“Mia, please --” Jade appeared in the doorway, my robe wrapped around her body. My robe. On her body. “We never meant to hurt you. It was a mistake.”

I moved around our apartment like a ghost. The only thing I really needed was my laptop and that was still packed. The duffel had already been packed with my favorite, most comfortable clothes from jeans and T-shirts to a couple of nice sundresses for the early spring weather. Plenty of underwear and my toiletries. Beyond that, I didn’t need anything else.

“What are you doing?” Eric’s voice rose, panic edging in. “You can’t just leave. We need to talk about this.”

I looked at him then, really looked at him. His face, the face I’d woken up to nearly every morning since I’d moved in with him six months ago, suddenly seemed foreign.

“The cabin,” I said, zipping the duffel bag closed. “I’m going to the cabin.”

“Our cabin trip? That’s next weekend.” His confusion was genuine, as if he thought we might still have a future with plans and dates to keep.

“No,” I replied. “My cabin trip. You’re not invited and I need some space to think.”

I walked past them both, grabbing my purse from the hook by the door. My suitcase waited in the hallway, a silent witness. I left it there. I didn’t want anything I’d packed for the conference. This homecoming had further emphasized why I hated drama. It also reminded me of how I’d changed my life’s direction to meet Eric’s expectations and needs. I’d chosen academia over social work even though my own background had called me to that field.

“You can’t drive all the way to the Smokies right now,” Jade said, her voice thin with forced reason. “It’s getting late. You’re upset. Stay at my place if you need space from Eric.”

The laugh that escaped me was brittle. “Are you for real right now?”

I was already down the hallway, duffel bag slung over my shoulder, when Eric caught up with me. “The cabin’s over three hours away. You’re not thinking clearly. At least let me drive you.”

I shook him off. “Don’t touch me. You never get to touch me again, Eric.”

I hurried out of the apartment building and got into my car. As I tried to leave, he got in front of my vehicle and stopped me.

“Mia! Stop acting like this! Go back inside and we can discuss this like adults.”

“Get out of my way or I’m going to run you over, Eric.”

He smirked. “No, you won’t.”

I saw red.

Eric must have seen something shift in my expression because his eyes widened. He backed up and out of the path of my vehicle, just before I gunned it and peeled out of the parking lot.

* * *

 

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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Thursday, March 26, 2026

Samson - Motorcycle Club Romance - Age Gap - Suspense #Romance #MotorcycleClubRomance #MCRomance #AgeGap #Suspense

Harley Wylde is here to tell us about Samson, a motorcycle club romance, featuring an age gap and suspense.

Read on for details...


_____________________
 



Motorcycle Club Romance, Age Gap, Suspense

Date Published: March 27. 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 ran 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: Adult themes and content including: intense emotional situations, predatory behavior, motorcycle club -- related criminal activity, trauma recovery and psychological distress may trigger some readers.




EXCERPT

 

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, goose bumps 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.

“What happened to your head?” I asked, nodding toward the wound.

She touched it gingerly. “I’m not sure. Not the first time, though. This one isn’t as bad as the first time I tried to run.”

The casual way she said it raised the hair on my neck, like getting hurt counted as just another Tuesday. I’d seen that kind of detachment before in people who normalized violence to survive.

“You need a hospital?” I asked, though I already knew the answer.

She shook her head vehemently. “No. They’ll look there.”

“They?”

Her mouth clamped shut, fear returning to her eyes.

“All right,” I said, backing off. “No hospitals.”

Wind rustled through the trees, carrying the scent of pine and something else -- the metallic tang of coming rain. The temperature had dropped another few degrees. Callie shivered, her thin jacket providing minimal protection against the night air.

I glanced at my watch. Nearly midnight. The compound was close but bringing her there would mean questions. Hard ones.

“Let me see your hands,” I said.

She hesitated, then extended them. She’d need medical care.

“You fight back,” I observed.

A small, grim smile. “Always.”

I respected that too.

“When’s the last time you ate?”

She shrugged again. “Not sure.”

“Can you stand?”

She tried, bracing against the ground. Her legs wobbled, threatening to collapse. I reached out instinctively, stopping just short of touching her.

“May I?”

She nodded, reluctance clear in every line of her body. I slipped an arm around her waist, supporting her weight as she found her footing. She felt too light, bones sharp beneath skin meant to hold more weight. Malnourished, and not just from two days without food.

“You’re not cops,” she said, nodding toward my cut. “But you’re something.”

“Something,” I agreed, not elaborating. The less she knew about the Kings, the better -- for her safety as much as ours.

She swayed on her feet, and I tightened my grip slightly to keep her upright. She flinched at the pressure but didn’t pull away.

“I need to get you somewhere safe,” I said.

“Nowhere’s safe,” she repeated, but with less conviction.

“Safer than here.”

A distant sound pierced the night -- an engine, far off but approaching. Callie’s entire body tensed, her breathing accelerating into near hyperventilation.

“That them?” I asked.

She nodded, panic overriding caution.

Decision time. I knew taking her to the compound would have consequences. Was I prepared to face them?

“I’ve got a place,” I said, making my choice. “People who can help. But you need to trust me, just for tonight.”

“Why would you help me?” she asked, suspicion threading through the fear. “You don’t know me.”

A fair question. One I’d asked myself.

“Because years ago, I was on the wrong side of some bad men,” I said simply. “Someone helped me then. Sometimes that’s reason enough.”

Not the whole truth, but enough of it. The Kings had saved me from a life heading nowhere fast, given me purpose, family. Some debts you pay forward.

“I don’t have another option, do I?” she asked.

“You always have options,” I said. “Right now, they’re just all bad ones. I’m offering the least bad one I can.”

She glanced toward the sound of the approaching engine, then back to me. Weighing unknown dangers against the devil she knew.

 

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

 

Pre-Order Today


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Wednesday, January 14, 2026

Rancor - Kiss of Death MC - Motorcycle Club Romance - Suspense - Age Gap #Romance #MCRomance #MotorcycleClubRomance #Suspense #AgeGap

Marteeka Karland is here to tell us about Rancor, Kiss of Death MC, motorcycle club romance, suspense, and age gap.

Read on for details...

__________________
 



(Kiss of Death MC)

 

Motorcycle Club Romance, Suspense, Age Gap

Date Published: January 16, 2026



A broken man, a wary woman, and a past that wants blood -- love has never been more dangerous.

 

Cora -- Survival is my full-time job. Delivering groceries to the Kiss of Death MC should’ve been just another stop… until Rancor stepped out of the shadows and looked at me like he already knew my secrets. His quiet strength is wrapped in scars and heat. He’s the kind of man who could break the world but touches me like I’m the only soft thing he’s got left. I should run. Instead, I keep driving through those gates, craving the one man who makes me feel safe in ways I don’t dare say out loud.

Rancor -- I buried my heart years ago. Grief, violence, and prison killed anything left inside me, and I was glad. It meant I didn’t have to feel anything. Then Cora walked into the compound and cracked me open with a single glance. She’s brave without meaning to be, a storm in a small frame, and the first woman to make me feel anything since the night my life ended. One touch, and I knew I’d protect her with my last breath. One kiss and I knew I’d kill for her. I’ve already lost too much to lose her, too. Especially not to the same family who already ruined my life.



EXCERPT

 

Cora

The gates of the Kiss of Death MC compound loomed ahead, iron and rust and threat. I knew the place was called Kiss of Death because there was a big-ass sign on the gate. I tightened my grip on the steering wheel of my beat-up sedan. No one wanted to deliver here, and for good reason. My second delivery here felt even worse.

The first time I could blame ignorance, on not knowing better. This time I drove through those gates with full knowledge of what waited inside. At least, I hoped I did. The people inside these gates had been nothing but kind to me. Tipped well, too. I still found it hard to let my guard down in a place literally named Kiss of Death.

The sedan’s engine coughed as I pressed the accelerator. The sound seemed too loud, even in a place that could get noisy. The rumble of a bike starting up had me jumping. As the guy caught sight of me, he froze and shut down the bike. Next thing I knew he was rolling backward, pushing the bike with his feet until he returned to the inside of the garage. I rolled forward, past the gates.

Camo netting stretched between the buildings, creating shadows in the afternoon light. The warehouses formed a perfect square like some kind of military precision in architecture. If I didn’t need the money, I definitely wouldn’t be here.

The main building rose ahead. I’d been directed there last time, so I aimed for the same spot. I thought about the envelope from my first delivery. Cash, all of it, with a tip that equaled half the order total. That money had bought groceries for a week, gas for two. It had been the difference between making rent on time and asking my landlord for another extension I wouldn’t get.

The parking area materialized ahead. I pulled in next to a row of motorcycles, their chrome catching the filtered light through the netting. My sedan looked all kinds of wrong among them.

I shifted into park and killed the engine. The silence felt worse than the noise. Now I could hear everything. Distant music from somewhere inside the compound. Male voices, laughing. It all sounded so normal I wanted to laugh at myself. Obviously they’d been grateful to get someone to deliver here and had treated me well. The phone app tracked my movements, kind of like a safeguard, so I really had little to worry about. I hoped.

My fingers fumbled with the door handle. Metal, cold against my palm. I pushed it open and the hinges squeaked, announcing my presence to anyone within earshot. The air outside tasted different than in my car. Heavier. It carried scents I couldn’t identify; motor oil and something sharp underneath, something that made my lizard brain want to run.

Movement from the clubhouse caught my eye. Hannah bounded out waving as she hurried to me. She’d been the one to meet me last time.

She hurried toward me with an easy confidence and a bright, genuine smile I envied. Her dark hair caught the filtered light, pulled back from her face in a way that revealed high cheekbones and those striking hazel eyes. She wore jeans and a simple T-shirt, and a black leather vest. I’d noticed last time the vest was similar to her husband’s, though the back proclaimed her as “Property of Knuckles” where his simply said “Kiss of Death MC” and “Nashville, TN”. It sounded barbaric, but this woman didn’t seem oppressed in any way. In fact, when I met her the last time, her husband had dropped a kiss on top of her head as he’d passed her and hadn’t let Hannah carry anything from the car.

I raised a hand in an awkward wave, immediately feeling stupid for the gesture. But Hannah’s expression softened further, and she picked up her pace. I moved to the back of my car and lifted the trunk lid, ready to help her unload.

“You came back.” Hannah’s voice held a warm welcome that seemed impossible in this place. She stopped a few feet from my car, close enough to be friendly but far enough to respect boundaries. “I wasn’t sure you would.”

“The order came through.” I tried to keep my voice steady, professional. “Same as last time.”

“And you accepted it.” Something shifted in her expression, a subtle approval that made me stand a little straighter. “Most drivers reject anything with our address. The guys haven’t done anything, but this many ex-cons in one place makes people nervous, I guess.” She frowned. “People tend to overlook the good they do. Not every person guilty of bad things are bad people.”

I tilted my head to the side. “You know, I never thought about it that way. But you’re right. I shouldn’t judge people unless they give me reason to.” I looked away, suddenly ashamed of myself. “I’d be in a world of hurt if people judged me by what they saw on the surface.”

“Hey.” Hannah moved closer, reaching out to touch my shoulder gently. “I wasn’t trying to make you feel bad. We truly are grateful someone is willing to give us all a chance.” She smiled, squeezing my shoulder gently before dropping her hand.

“Um, can I ask a question?” I didn’t know why I asked her, but once I had, I intended to follow through.

“Of course.” She looked pleasantly curious.

“I saw a guy when I first came in today. He came out of that building,” I pointed back the way I’d come. “But he turned off his bike and rolled back into the shadows.” I swallowed hard. If I’d gotten too nosy I might well have crossed a line I shouldn’t have. But it was odd! Also, I might be feeling a little paranoid. But to my surprise, Hannah only smiled.

“The guys know this place isn’t everyone’s cup of tea. They also know that some people are scared of the noise, to say nothing of the men themselves. There’s not one of them who doesn’t look scary as hell.” She grinned. “But every single one of them sat through and energetically participated in the Christmas party they had for the women and children in the shelter they help protect. The kids adore them all.”

Before I could respond, movement behind her drew my attention. Another figure emerged from the clubhouse, moving with a deliberate slowness that made every step feel intentional.

My breath caught. He was big. Tall and broad-shouldered, and big in the way that suggested power held in careful check. His shoulders stretched a gray T-shirt to its limits.

His head was shaved clean, and somehow, the man was more intimidating for its starkness. But it was his face that made my fingers tighten on the grocery bag I still held. Weathered. Lined with stress that had carved deep grooves around his mouth and between his eyebrows. He looked like a man who’d forgotten how to relax, if he’d ever known.

He approached with that same measured pace, each footfall deliberate. The way he moved reminded me of documentaries I’d seen about predators. Not rushing. Never rushing. Because predators didn’t need to hurry when they knew their prey couldn’t escape. My heart, which had just started to calm, kicked back into overdrive.

“Cora, this is Rancor.” Hannah gestured between us, casually as if introducing neighbors at a barbecue. Thank God she didn’t notice my discomfort because how embarrassing would that be? “He’s going to help with the groceries.”

His gaze met mine, and I forced myself not to look away even though every instinct screamed at me to drop my gaze. His eyes were dark, nearly black in the shadow of the camo netting, and he studied me with an intensity that made my skin prickle.

“Ma’am.” His voice was quiet and rough, as if he didn’t use it much.

“Hi.” The syllable came out higher than I wanted. I cleared my throat. “There are a lot of bags.” Brilliant conversational skills, Cora. Truly impressive.

But Rancor just nodded, a single dip of his head, and moved past me to the trunk. He smelled like soap and motor oil, the combination oddly intriguing.

I stepped back, giving him room.

He reached into the trunk and pulled out several bags at once, hoisting them like they weighed nothing. His forearms flexed, muscles shifting under skin decorated with what looked like a burn scar. Then he turned and walked toward the clubhouse, that same deliberate pace.

“So.” Hannah’s voice pulled my attention back to her. She’d moved closer, filling the space Rancor had vacated. “You deliver every day?”

“Most days.” I watched Rancor’s back as he walked away, the way his T-shirt stretched across his shoulders. “Depends on the orders.”

“That’s a lot of driving.” Hannah leaned against my car, comfortable in a way I envied. “You like it?”

Did I like it? I liked eating. I liked having electricity. I liked not being homeless. My job met those ends.

“It’s fine,” I said. “Flexible schedule.”

Hannah’s smile widened. Not mocking. Understanding. “Money talks?”

“Sometimes, I guess.” No point in pretending otherwise. My car was clean, inside and out, and I took care with my appearance. I didn’t have anything fancy, nor did I know how to do makeup or anything, but I kept myself clean, my clothes washed and pressed. Obviously, I didn’t have much, but I had pride.

Rancor emerged from the clubhouse, empty-handed now, heading back toward us. My pulse quickened at his proximity. Stupid. His presence made my pulse jump and my body betray me. I’d seen good-looking men before, both nice guys and dipshits. For some reason, though, this guy just did it for me when he shouldn’t. Story of my life. Wanting things I had no business dreaming about.

He reached the trunk and grabbed another few bags. This time when he lifted them, his eyes cut to mine briefly. Just a flicker of contact, there and gone, but it jolted through me like touching a live wire. I looked away first. Examined my shoes as if they held the secrets of the universe.

“Where are you from?” Hannah asked, still making conversation like this was normal, like we were normal people in a normal place.

“Here. Nashville.” I shifted my weight. “Well, just outside the city.”

“You grow up here?”

“No.” The word came out clipped. I didn’t elaborate. Hannah didn’t push. She seemed to have a way of paying attention to my body language and feeling me out.

Hannah glanced toward Rancor, who was emerging from the clubhouse again. When she looked back at me, something knowing glinted in her hazel eyes. “I’m glad you came back. Hopefully I can make a friend because you did.”

Rancor collected the last of the bags. His fingers brushed the trunk’s edge near where mine rested. We weren’t touching, but we were close enough that I felt the heat of his skin.

He straightened with the final bags and paused. Looked at me full-on, not just a glance but actual eye contact that held for three long heartbeats. Then he walked away, and I remembered how to breathe.

When I finally brought my attention back to Hannah, I found her watching me with that same knowing expression, approval written in the curve of her mouth. I felt exposed in a way that had nothing to do with danger and everything to do with desire I had no business feeling.

Rancor must have set his load down somewhere because he now stood near the clubhouse door, hands loose at his sides, watching us. Watching me. The weight of his gaze pressed against my skin like humidity before a storm.

Hannah shifted closer, close enough that her voice dropped to something almost conspiratorial. “You know,” she said, quiet enough that Rancor probably couldn’t hear her. “You couldn’t pick a better protector than any of the men from Kiss of Death.”

The words hit me wrong. Too direct. Too knowing. Like she’d reached inside my head and pulled out thoughts I hadn’t fully formed yet. “I’m just delivering groceries.” I kept my voice light, aiming for casual and probably missing by miles. “I don’t need protection.”

But even as I said the words, I felt the lie in them. I was one bad day’s work away from being homeless. I lived in a really shitty part of town because I couldn’t afford anything better.

Hannah’s smile suggested she heard everything I didn’t say. “Of course.” I didn’t know what to do with the implication hanging between us. That I needed protecting. That I might want protecting. Or, more aptly, that the men here, Rancor specifically, could provide the safety I longed for.

The idea should have offended me. I’d spent years learning to protect myself, to need no one, to be self-sufficient in every way that mattered. I’d always been stubborn. At least, I had been after I left my parents’ sphere of influence.

 

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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Saturday, October 25, 2025

Chains - Kiss of Death MC - Motorcycle Club Romance #Romance #MC #MotorcycleClub #MCRomance #MotorcycleClubRomance

Marteeka Karland is here to tell us about Chains, Kiss of Death MC, a motorcycle club romance.

Read on for details...

____________________
 

 


Kiss of Death MC

 

Motorcycle Club Romance, Suspense, Age Gap

Date Published: October 17, 2025

 


Three black cats. One grumpy biker. Fate’s about to get witchy. And wickedly hot.


Elvira – Halloween’s my favorite holiday, until one teeny mishap with my practice spell. Suddenly I’m homeless, stinking of swamp gas, and dragging three black cats into a biker compound… Where I meet Chains. Big, broody, and superstitious as hell, he glares at my “demon spawn” like they’re plotting his death. But the way he looks at me? Let’s just say my spell isn’t the only thing that’s likely to combust. He’s all hard muscle and harder attitude, and I can’t tell if he wants to banish me… or bend me over the couch and have his wicked way with me. I would definitely approve of option number two!

Chains -- I don’t fear much after nine years inside, but Ellie is chaos. She’s a walking disaster. Loud, messy, and makes Halloween look like a lifestyle, not a holiday. And her damn cats have me spooked. I tell myself she’s trouble. Too naïve. Too good. Then she kisses me, and suddenly I’m ready to sell my soul for another taste. My MC brothers think it’s funny. Screw em. Elvira’s mine. And if anyone touches her, I’ll burn this place to the ground.

 

WARNING: Chains contains memories of domestic abuse and manipulation. However, there is a happy-ever-after ending that will make you feel warm and fuzzy.



EXCERPT

 

Elvira

I stood in the center of my apartment, surveying the disaster zone that used to be my living room. The cauldron, which was actually just my favorite stock pot, lay on its side on the stove. Dark green liquid dripped steadily from the countertop by the stove onto the cheap linoleum floor. My witches’ brew experiment had gone spectacularly wrong, again, filling the air with a stench so foul it made my eyes water. I’d only wanted to create a love potion. Instead, I’d concocted what smelled like a demonic skunk had mated with rotting eggs in a garbage fire.

“It’s okay, babies,” I cooed to the three black cats, who’d retreated to their carriers the moment the pot bubbled over. “Mommy just had a tiny magical mishap.”

Lucifer hissed from behind his carrier door, his yellow eyes narrowed in judgment. Binx paced in tight circles, while Salem had his paws pressed against his nose. Even my familiars couldn’t stand the smell.

“I know, I know. I should have followed the recipe.” I pulled my tank top over my nose, breathing through the fabric. “But who has time to find owl feathers and moonwater on a Tuesday night?”

I flung open every window in my apartment, the October air rushing in but barely making a dent in the stench. The smoke detector, which had been screaming for ten minutes, finally quieted. Green sludge dripped from the ceiling above the stove where the potion had splattered during its violent eruption. My carefully arranged Halloween decorations were now coated in something that looked like radioactive snot.

“We can fix this,” I muttered to myself, only half convinced. “Just need some bleach, maybe an exorcism, definitely a new carpet…”

The pounding on my door made me jump. “Miss Blackheart!” Yeah. He didn’t sound happy. “Open the door right now!”

“Coming, Mr. Peterson!” I sang out in my cheeriest voice, frantically attempting to right the fallen cauldron. Green goo sloshed over my fingers, burning slightly. “Just freshening up!”

I wiped my hands on my black jeans and pulled my long hair back into a heavy ponytail. Taking a deep breath, I immediately regretted it as the fumes hit my lungs, I opened the door with my most innocent smile even as my eyes watered.

Mr. Peterson stood there, his face the color of an overripe tomato. The vein in his forehead throbbed with such intensity I worried it might burst. His nostrils flared before he clamped a hand over his nose as the wall of stink hit him.

“What in God’s name --” He choked, stumbling backward. “The entire building smells like… like…”

“Aromatherapy!” I offered brightly. “It’s a, um, rare Eastern technique for cleansing negative energy.”

His eyes bulged as he peered past me into the apartment. “Your ceiling is green! There’s smoke everywhere!”

“That’s part of the process?” My voice lifted higher with each word, betraying my desperation.

“The Johnsons in 3B are throwing up. Mrs. Wittlesby’s cat fainted. The Andersons’ dog is howling like it’s seen a ghost.” He thrust a piece of paper at me. “This is an eviction notice. You’re out, Miss Blackheart.”

I took the paper with trembling fingers. “But Mr. Peterson, I’ve always paid my rent on time, and --”

“I don’t care if you paid your rent in gold bars! You’ve violated every health code in existence. People are evacuating the damn building!” The longer he spoke, the louder he got. And he’d been pretty damned loud to start with.

Behind me, one of my cats let out a mournful yowl. “Those damn black cats of yours,” he muttered, making the sign of the cross. “I knew they were bad news.”

I felt my cheeks flush. “Don’t blame my cats for this. They’re innocent.”

“You have until tonight to get out,” he bellowed, gesturing wildly at my smoke-stained ceiling. “Eight hours! After that, I’m calling animal control for those beasts and the hazmat team for… whatever hellbrew you’ve cooked up in here.”

“But where am I supposed to go?” My voice cracked, the reality of my situation finally sinking in. “You can’t kick me out with no notice!”

“Not my problem. And it’s my damn building; I’ll do whatever the hell I want. Take it to court if you want. Don’t care. But until you get a court date, I want you out of here!” He stepped back, pulling a handkerchief over his nose. “I’ve put up with the stink for the last time. Eight hours, Miss Blackheart. Not a minute more.”

The door slammed in my face. I stood there, clutching the eviction notice, feeling the edges of panic creeping in. Sure, I could take him to court. He’d have to call the police to force me to leave and they wouldn’t make me unless there was a court order. But, honestly, I knew it was time to move on. I wasn’t ready to leave yet. I’d hoped to save a little more money before then. But maybe this was a sign.

My hands shook as I turned to face my ruined apartment. The clock on the wall shaped like a grinning skull showed it was already noon.

“Well, shit,” I whispered to no one in particular.

I sank down onto my potion-spattered couch, the eviction notice crumpling in my grip. My eyes burned, and not just from the fumes. I really wasn’t sure where I was going to go. I had a couple thousand dollars in my savings account, and a hundred in my checking to do me until payday. If I could find a new place that wasn’t too expensive, I might have enough for a security deposit and first month’s rent. If I was really lucky. And that was assuming I could find something in the next eight hours. Right. Not a snowball’s chance in hell.

I glanced at my phone, scrolling through the pitiful list of contacts until I came to Carrie’s number and took a deep breath. We weren’t exactly close friends, but she’d always been kind to me at the coffee shop where I worked weekends. She seemed like a really nice person. She’d offered me a place to crash the last time my landlord threatened to kick me out. I hadn’t taken her up on the offer then since I only knew her from the coffee shop, but I wasn’t sure I had many options at the moment.

The phone rang three times before she picked up. “Ellie! Hey!” She sounded excited. To hear from me?

“Hey.” I tried to keep my voice steady, but it wavered. “I’m so sorry to bother you, but I’m having a bit of an emergency.”

“Oh no, Ellie! What kind of emergency? Are you all right?” Carrie sounded distressed. She was such a sweet person I had no doubt she genuinely was distressed.

“I… um… may have accidentally created a biohazard in my apartment and gotten evicted?” I laughed, the sound hollow and desperate. “I need to be out by eight tonight, and I have nowhere to go, and I have my cats, and --” My voice broke, tears threatening.

There was a muffled commotion in the background. I could hear Carrie talking and other people responding, but it was like she had her hand over the speaker or something. I closed my eyes, bracing for rejection.

“Now drop me a pin and we’ll get over there.” Carrie sounded determined and, I thought, authoritative? Like she was the one giving the orders and everyone else was doing her bidding. So, I did as she instructed. “We’ll be there in fifteen minutes.”

Relief flooded through me so fast I nearly dropped the phone. “We?” My voice came out a squeak. I knew Carrie’s man was a member of a local motorcycle club called Kiss of Death. Which I kind of liked the sound of, but it was still a motorcycle club. Honestly, though, I kind of thought the guys I’d met at the coffee shop were much safer than some of the people living in this building.

“Oh yeah! The girls are gonna get you a room ready while Hannah and I are bringing Knuckles and Hawk. We’ll get you packed up and out of there in no time.”

“I don’t want to cause anyone any trouble, Carrie. It’s bad enough I’m asking you guys for a place to stay.”

“Nonsense! We all want to help!” There was more racket in the background, then Carrie was back. “We’re bringing boxes and some big contractor bags. Anything you want to keep that’s soiled or smells too bad we can put in there and wash later. Be on the lookout for a blue Bronco.”

 

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



RABT Book Tours & PR



Thanks so much for reading today's post. Hope you enjoyed it!

Follow me on Bookbub: https://www.bookbub.com/authors/tina-donahue

Please feel free to share the post via FB, Bluesky, Linked In, and more...share buttons at the bottom of this post :)

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