(Savage Raptors MC)
Motorcycle Club Romance, Age Gap, Suspense
Date Published: January 9, 2026
Marci: Running only works for so long when the devil hunting me wears a badge. I’ve spent a year hiding behind fake names and cheap motel rooms, praying I could disappear. Bryson Corners was supposed to be a quiet stop before I ran again.
Then I walk into The Broken Spoke and meet Ace. He looks at me and I feel safe… and I believe him. I shouldn’t. Attachment gets people killed. But every time he touches me, every time he stands between me and the world, I want to stay instead of run.
Ace: I’ve learned the hard way that peace never lasts. Managing the bar keeps me steady -- until Marci walks in, scared and stubborn and pretending she doesn’t need anyone. She’s mine before I can stop it.
She’s running from something brutal, and whoever wants her will have to go through me -- and through the Savage Raptors MC. I’ve fought for my brothers, my patch, my life… but for her?
I’ll burn the world down.
An emotional age-gap MC romance full of danger, loyalty, and the kind of love that takes root and refuses to let go.
Marci
The Honda’s engine ticked while heat faded, each sharp sound far too loud in the afternoon quiet. I sat behind the wheel, hands locked around the steering wheel, knuckles white, and counted my breaths the way I’d trained myself to do whenever panic climbed my throat. One. Two. Three. The parking lot stretched empty before me except for a single pickup truck near the building’s entrance, and I’d already checked every mirror twice to make sure no one had followed me here.
The Broken Spoke hunched low under the Oklahoma sky, weathered boards faded from sun and storms, neon sign quiet during daylight hours. The whole place looked tired and rough around the edges, the kind of bar where broken people carried wounds behind their eyes, where forgetting felt easier than healing.
I peeled my fingers from the steering wheel, joints stiff from the grip. Shaking returned, small at first, then stronger once my focus locked on the tremor. Two years of this -- two years since I’d walked away from everything I knew, carrying only a backpack and clothes from a life better left behind. I learned to hide the tremor. Learned to keep my hands busy, to move like I belonged anywhere, even on days when my balance barely held.
A Help Wanted sign waited in the window, same place I saw yesterday during a slow drive through town. I had bartended, waitressed, cleaned houses, taken any job paying cash, asking no questions. Those jobs kept me fed and moving forward. My ribs remembered hunger. My heart remembered the way loss hollowed me out.
I drew a breath rough enough to scrape my throat and reached for the door handle. One step at a time. Survive first. Trust later.
I grabbed my purse from the passenger seat and checked my reflection in the rearview mirror. Blonde hair pulled back in a ponytail, no makeup except a touch of lip gloss I’d worried off an hour ago. I looked tired. I looked like someone who’d been running for too long. But I also looked ordinary, forgettable, and the point settled heavy in my chest.
The door handle felt slick under my palm as I pushed the door open. Heat washed over me in an instant, thick afternoon warmth turning every breath into work. I locked the car -- muscle memory by now, even though nothing inside held any value -- and started across the parking lot.
Each step carried a quiet prayer for a place where I could disappear, earn enough to survive, and not draw attention. Ordinary helped. Forgettable kept doors from slamming in my face. I clung to both, even when my heart begged for something more.
Gravel crunched under my sneakers. I kept my gaze moving, scanning the tree line beyond the building, the road I’d just come from, the shadows under the eaves where someone could wait unseen. Old habits. Survival instincts kept me alive this long. I couldn’t let go of those instincts, no matter how hard I tried to believe safety waited here for me.
The hinges announced my entrance in a drawn-out creak, a sharp warning dragging tension through my shoulders. Inside, the bar sat dim and cool, the smell of old beer and wood polish settling over me like a memory I didn’t know I needed. My eyes took a moment to adjust, shapes forming slowly from the gloom. Tables and chairs. A long bar, bottles lined up behind the counter. A jukebox quiet in the corner, waiting for someone brave enough to wake the music.
A small part of me wanted to collapse into the comfort promised by that familiar scene. A larger part stayed on guard, ready for danger around every shadow. Hope and fear fought under my skin, and neither side won.
And a man.
He straightened from a crouch beside a stack of crates, turning toward me in an unhurried movement conveying complete awareness of his surroundings. Tall -- easily over six feet. Broad through the shoulders from real labor, not hours in a gym. Dark hair needing a cut, hazel eyes finding mine and holding my gaze through an intensity strong enough to steal a breath from my lungs.
“We’re closed.” His voice was deep, measured. It didn’t need to be raised to command attention.
“I saw the sign. The Help Wanted sign. I was hoping to talk to someone about the position.”
He studied me for a long moment, and I forced myself not to fidget under his gaze. I’d gotten good at standing still, at appearing calm even when my pulse was hammering. He set down the clipboard he’d been holding and walked closer, his movements economical, controlled.
“What’s your name?” he asked.
“Marci. Marci Robbins.”
“I’m Ace. I manage this place.” He leaned against the bar, arms crossing over his chest. “You have experience?”
“Yes.” I’d practiced this part, rehearsed what I’d say. “I’ve bartended before. A few different places over the years. I’m good with customers, I show up on time, and I’m a hard worker.”
“Where was your last job?”
The question I’d been waiting for. “A place in San Antonio. Small bar, nothing fancy. It closed down a few months back, and I’ve been moving around since then, picking up work where I can find it.”
His gaze hadn’t left my face. He was looking at me the way people looked when they were trying to see past the surface, searching for whatever you were hiding. I had seen the same look before -- from cops pulling me over for a busted taillight, from landlords asking for references I could never provide, from strangers sensing something off and failing to name the source.
“You got any references?” he asked.
“No.” I met his gaze directly. “The owner of my last place died, and I lost touch with the other employees after it closed. But I can prove I know what I’m doing if you give me a chance.”
“Why The Broken Spoke?”
“I need work.” Simple. Honest. “I’m new to the area and this was the first place I saw hiring. I’m not picky about where I work as long as it’s steady.”
He nodded slowly, leaving me unsure whether anything positive would come from the moment. My hands wanted to shake again, so I shoved them into my pockets. The bar felt too quiet around us, just the hum of coolers and the distant sound of traffic from the road. I’d already mapped the exits -- front door, back door through what I assumed was the kitchen, emergency exit near the restrooms. Automatic assessment, the kind I did everywhere now.
“Family in the area?”
“No.” The word landed sharper than I wanted. I tried to soften the moment through a shrug. “Just me.”
Something shifted in his expression, though I couldn’t read the meaning. He pushed off the bar and stepped behind the counter, reaching for a glass. He filled the glass from the tap and set the water in front of me.
“Drink,” he said.
I hadn’t realized how thirsty I was until the glass was in my hand. I drank half before I could stop myself, the cool water cutting through the dryness in my throat. When I lifted my gaze, he still watched me, and a new intensity in his eyes replaced whatever I’d seen before. Not quite sympathy. Not quite suspicion. Something in between.
“The work’s hard. Long hours, late nights. We get a rough crowd sometimes -- bikers, locals, people passing through. You have to be able to handle yourself.”
“I can handle myself.”
“You sure about that?” The question wasn’t challenging, exactly. More like he was genuinely asking, trying to gauge whether I understood what I was signing up for.
“I’m sure.”
He studied me for another moment, then nodded. “All right. I’ll give you a trial shift. Tonight. Be here by six. I’ll show you the ropes and see how you do. If it works out, the job’s yours.”
Harley Wylde is an accomplished author known for her captivating MC Romances. With an unwavering commitment to sensual storytelling, Wylde immerses her readers in an exciting world of fierce men and irresistible women. Her works exude passion, danger, and gritty realism, while still managing to end on a satisfying note each time.
When not crafting her tales, Wylde spends her time brainstorming new plotlines, indulging in a hot cup of Starbucks, or delving into a good book. She has a particular affinity for supernatural horror literature and movies. Visit Wylde's website to learn more about her works and upcoming events, and don't forget to sign up for her newsletter to receive exclusive discounts and other exciting perks.
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