(Savage Raptors MC)
Motorcycle Club Romance, Age Gap, Suspense
Date Published: February 13, 2026
Jade: I didn’t go looking for trouble -- trouble found me. Again. When the danger turns real, there’s only one man I trust enough to ask for help. Kane. He’s stepped in before, when things got rough, but this time it’s different. This time, someone wants me gone. Walking into the Savage Raptors’ MC should terrify me, yet somehow it feels like the only place I might survive. And the man sworn to protect me? He might be the most dangerous of all.
Kane: I’ve helped Jade before. Fixed her problems. Kept her safe. But this time, the stakes are higher, and so is the risk to my club. Jade doesn’t belong in my world, and I sure as hell don’t belong in hers. Still, walking away isn’t an option. When danger closes in, I’ll stand between her and the fire. Once I claim someone as mine, I don’t let go. I’ll burn their world to the ground before I let anyone take her from me.
Warning: This story contains adult themes, violence, and trauma. Intended for mature readers only. HEA guaranteed. No cheating.
Kane
Football played on my TV, but my brain refused to care who scored.
Sound stayed low enough to fill the room without turning my place into a damn cave. Noise helped when the compound settled down, when the night stretched long and quiet and a Prospect’s mind started chewing on everything he couldn’t control. My shoulders still ached from hauling boxes at the shop, then running errands for patched brothers until my legs felt like dead weight. Grunt work never stopped. Prospects didn’t earn the right to slow down.
Beer warmed in my hand while the screen flickered in front of me. I took a swallow anyway, because habit came easier than rest. Sleep should’ve grabbed me the second I hit my couch. Instead, I sat there, elbows on my knees, staring straight ahead while my thoughts drifted to the same place they always went.
Do more. Prove yourself. Don’t fuck up.
A Prospect lived inside a narrow lane. He worked hard, kept his mouth shut, learned fast, and didn’t bring trouble to the club’s door. He didn’t make choices that risked patched men. He didn’t drag unknown chaos onto club property and hope the President appreciated the surprise.
Those rules existed for a reason.
Savage Raptors didn’t hand out patches because a man wanted one. They handed them out because a man earned one, bled for one, proved he had the spine to carry it without breaking under the weight. A year of work might not be enough. Two might not be enough. A single wrong decision could erase everything.
No patch. No brotherhood. No family.
I’d wanted this anyway.
My gaze swept over the small house, stirring up a familiar mix of gratitude and impatience. Four walls inside the compound. One bedroom. Ugly carpet. Scuffed paint. An abandoned couch. A mismatched recliner. The coffee table had endured more spilled beer than any furniture deserved to survive. Whenever I flipped the switch, the kitchen light flickered as though the bulb longed for death but lacked the decency to follow through.
The fridge hummed loud enough to irritate me at night. Pipes clanked when the water ran cold. Nothing worked perfectly. Nothing looked pretty.
Roof over my head mattered more than pretty.
My phone rested facedown on the coffee table. No one would text me this late unless something went sideways, and brothers tended to call when they wanted a Prospect moving fast. I should’ve showered and crashed. Muscles begged for sleep. Mind refused to cooperate.
Patched brothers didn’t pretend. They lived their code, protected their own, and expected the same loyalty back.
I wanted to be one of them.
Setting my beer back onto the table, I leaned against the couch cushion and closed my eyes briefly. The announcer’s voice droned on while crowd noise rumbled through the speakers. My breathing slowed.
A prickle crawled along the back of my neck.
Eyes snapping open, I scanned the room. Nothing had changed. Shadows remained in their corners. The air felt still and undisturbed. Despite this, something tightened in my gut -- an instinct impossible to ignore.
That feeling never showed up for no reason.
I turned my head slightly and listened. Fridge hum. The faint tick of the cheap wall clock. A distant engine beyond the fence, somewhere out on the road. Football noise. Nothing else.
My hand slid toward the side table because training lived deeper than logic. Fingers brushed the Glock I kept there. I didn’t grab it yet. I waited, listening harder, making sure my mind didn’t invent problems out of boredom.
A sharp knock hit my front door.
Hard enough to rattle the frame.
I sat up fast, heart slamming once against my ribs. The knock came again, quick and frantic. Not the steady rap of a brother. Not some drunk brother stumbling around. Desperation lived in those blows.
I snatched the Glock and moved off the couch in one smooth motion. Feet carried me to the door without making noise. I stayed to the side of the frame, not directly in front of it, because I’d learned better than to stand where a bullet might come through.
No voice followed.
No footsteps.
Only breathing, shaky and uneven, right outside the door.
“Who is it?” My voice came low, controlled.
“Kane?”
A woman calling my name at this hour should’ve triggered every alarm bell. Setup. Trap. Maybe someone testing how a Prospect handles unexpected visitors. Despite my suspicion, genuine fear resonated in her voice. Panic carried a distinctive edge -- a tremble impossible to manufacture without having experienced real terror.
With my gun ready, I slid the deadbolt back while keeping the chain secured, then eased the door open enough to peer outside.
Cold air rushed in.
Empty porch.
My gaze cut left and right, scanning what I could see past the edge of the house. Nothing moved near my place. No shadow lingered. No figure waited.
Breathing came again, closer this time, but not from the porch.
From the hallway window.
I shut the door and pressed my eye to the narrow side window. Outside, the walkway stretched toward the guard shack and main internal road, with security lights casting yellow pools across the gravel. Farther down the path stood a figure, half in shadow, half in light.
A woman.
Arms wrapped around herself, shoulders hunched against cold and fear. Damp tangles of dark hair framed her face. Purple and ugly, a bruise bloomed along one cheekbone. From beneath her coat collar crept another mark. Her eyes darted everywhere, scanning the quiet compound as though expecting an attacker to emerge from the darkness.
Jade.
My chest clenched hard.
We’d crossed paths a few times in town. Months earlier, I’d found her stranded near one of the club’s businesses with a flat tire and lug nuts refusing to budge. Being close enough to help, I did. She’d responded with gratitude so intense it seemed I’d handed her a gold bar instead of basic assistance. The following week at the diner, cheeks flushed pink and voice timid, she’d pressed a coffee into my hand -- someone clearly unaccustomed to kindness from strangers.
Occasional sightings followed. Grocery store. Walking into work. Brief encounters. Polite. Never lingering.
Now she stood inside the compound.
Someone had let her past the gate.
That meant trouble.
Out of habit, I threw on my cut, grabbed my keys, and shoved my phone into my pocket. The Glock slid into the waistband at the small of my back. Surprises weren’t my thing, especially when they arrived wearing bruises.
Cold air slapped my face as the door swung open. Jade whipped her head toward me with such force I felt the panic radiating from her. For a brief moment, relief flickered across her expression -- quick and fragile, as though she couldn’t trust it to last.
“Kane.” My name came out of her mouth on a broken breath. “I… I’m sorry. I didn’t know what else to do.”
“Stop.” I closed the distance fast, keeping my body between her and the open walkway. “Who let you in?”
Her hands shook as she tried to gesture back toward the guard shack. “I went to the gate. I told them I needed you. I begged. I said --” Her voice cracked. “I said I was scared.”
Anger surged through me, sharp and immediate, not at her. At whatever had put her in a place where begging strangers felt like the best option.
“Tinker?” I called out, voice carrying.
The guard shack door opened. Tinker stepped out, bundled in a jacket, face hard and alert. His gaze flicked to Jade, then back to me.
“Prez knows.” Tinker didn’t waste words. “Saw her on camera. Called me. Told me not to turn her away. Told me to notify you and keep eyes on the road.”
So Atilla had made the call before I even stepped outside.
That eased one knot in my chest, then tightened another. If Atilla knew, the situation already mattered. Presidents didn’t wake up for minor problems.
Tinker’s eyes narrowed slightly. “She’s got marks.”
“I see them.” My jaw clenched. “Did anyone follow her in?”
“Gate camera shows her car only,” Tinker said. “No tail. No slow roll behind her. No second set of headlights. Doesn’t mean nobody watched her leave town, but nobody came through our gate after.”
Jade struggled for each breath, and I could see the terror in her eyes.
“You planning to stand out here all night?” I turned my head slightly, dropping my voice to a gentle rumble. “Or would you rather come inside?”
For several heartbeats she remained frozen. No step toward me. No retreat either. When her gaze finally locked with mine -- wide, bloodshot, desperate -- something beneath my sternum wrenched painfully.
She didn’t trust safety anymore.
“Inside,” she whispered.
“Good.” I kept my hand low, not reaching for her. People who’d been grabbed didn’t like sudden touch, no matter who offered it. “Stay close. If anything feels off, you tell me.”
She nodded, small and shaky.
We moved down the walkway toward my place. Tinker stayed near the guard shack, watching our backs, gaze scanning the fence line and the road beyond. Security lights threw our shadows across the gravel. Jade flinched at every sound -- distant engine, wind rattling something metal, even the soft bark of a dog farther down the property.
Her fear didn’t come from imagination. Something had taught her to react.
My front porch light flicked on when we neared. I unlocked the door and stepped inside first, scanning the room out of habit. Nothing had changed since I’d sat on the couch. TV still glowed. Beer still sat on the table. My place looked normal.
Normal didn’t mean safe.
I turned toward Jade and stepped back, giving her space to enter.
She crossed the threshold with the caution of someone expecting the floor to collapse beneath her. Inside my living room, her shoulders remained tight while her gaze swept across corners and windows.
Behind us, I secured our safety -- door shut, deadbolt slid home, chain hooked. Each lock clicked into place with solid finality.
The tension in Jade’s frame eased a fraction. A flicker of relief appeared, only to be immediately overwhelmed by fear.
“Sit.” My hand gestured toward the couch. “Water? Coffee? Something stronger?”
Her attention caught on my waistband, and I wondered if I’d turned just enough for her to spot my Glock. After swallowing hard, she averted her eyes -- unwilling to appear intimidated by a weapon in a biker’s home.
“Water,” she managed. “Please.”
I moved into the kitchen and filled a glass. Pipes clanked. Tap ran cold. I set the glass on the coffee table in front of her and crouched down across from her, far enough not to crowd, close enough to see her face.
The purple bruise on her cheekbone stood out in stark relief under my living room light. Along her neck, a faint scratch trailed downward before vanishing beneath her coat collar. Near the elbow, her torn sleeve revealed a spreading dark stain.
“Tell me what happened,” I said.
Jade fixed her gaze on the water glass as though it contained all the answers she needed. Beneath her crossed arms, her fingers dug into her own ribs, clutching herself in a desperate self-embrace. Each breath came shallow and uneven, her chest rising and falling in an irregular rhythm.
Words finally spilled out, rough and uneven. “He came to my apartment. I thought the locks would hold. I changed them. I installed a chain. I did everything I could think of.”
“Who?” I kept it simple. Panic made stories tangle.
Her gaze lifted for a fraction, met mine, then dropped again. “The man who says I owe him. The one who’s been watching me.”
My stomach knotted itself. For weeks, rumors circulated through the club about some asshole pressuring vulnerable people around town. He squeezed anyone who seemed an easy mark -- predatory loans, brutal collections, interest compounding faster than mold after rain.
Until now, I’d had no idea Jade numbered among his victims. “Name.”
She swallowed. “Roth.”
A slow burn crawled up my spine. The name rang familiar to every member of our club. Though not cartel-level, his connections made him a genuine threat. In his world, money and intimidation purchased anything he desired.
“How long has he been after you?”
Her answer came thin. “A while. Months. Maybe longer if you count when my brother… when he first owed them money. I didn’t understand they’d come after me until it was already too late.”
Anger rolled slowly through my chest, heavy and dark. “Your brother owed Roth money.”
Her head shook. “Someone. He mentioned a name once, but I didn’t listen. Should have.” She dragged in a breath and looked away. “Then he got arrested. I thought the worst part had passed. I thought whatever mess he’d made stayed his problem. Those were his choices. Not mine.”
“Men like Roth don’t care about differences,” I said.
Jade nodded, eyes glassy. “A month after my brother went to prison, they appeared at my door. Called me part of the collateral. Somehow they’d learned where I worked, lived, when I came and went. Even my friends’ names.” Her voice trembled. “When I explained about having no money, their response was simple -- other payment methods existed.”
My jaw clenched until it ached. “Did they touch you?”
The color vanished from her face. She froze, then gave a single shake of her head.
“They attempted to,” she whispered. “Made their point clear enough. A neighbor walking down the hall interrupted before… “ She swallowed hard. “Afterward, I never answered knocks. Changed my routes home. Slept fully dressed because their return seemed inevitable.”
Unwanted scenes played across my mind while my fists curled, hungry for contact.
“Why seek me out at our gate?” The question emerged harsher than intended.
A tear escaped, rolling down her cheek before she quickly wiped it away.
“Remember fixing my tire? Months back, near the east side grocery? The lug nuts wouldn’t budge until you stopped to help. You inspected the spare, then followed behind to ensure my car wouldn’t break down again.”
Memory hit hard. Tight jeans. Messy ponytail. Stubborn chin. The way she apologized for taking up my time before I’d even touched the tire iron. When she bought me coffee later, I’d wanted to ask for her number. I hadn’t.
Prospects rarely dated if they wanted a patch. Our time belonged to the club. An easy lay was one thing, but I’d wanted more from her.
“You were kind. You didn’t make me feel stupid. You didn’t ask for anything.” She sniffed hard, furious at herself for crying. “When I saw you the next week at the diner, you remembered my name. You remembered.”
Her voice broke at the last word.
“Whenever I saw you after that, I felt… safe. Not once did you look at me as though I were a problem.” Her shoulders curled inward. “People talked about the club. Some claimed you were dangerous. Others said nobody messed with anyone under your protection. In my mind, if anyone could keep Roth away, it would be you.”
Across her expression spread a shame suggesting she expected mockery for trusting rumors and a Prospect who hadn’t been patched in yet.
I sat there and felt responsibility settle in my bones.
“Tonight he kicked my door open.” Her words came faster now, panic rising again. “Locks slowed him down, but not enough. He came in angry. He said I was ignoring his calls. He said I was running out of chances.” One hand twisted her sleeve tight. “He threw my coffee table. He pulled my hair. He told me I didn’t understand what he could do.”
My hands clenched. “How did you get away?”
“The phone in his pocket buzzed and distracted him.” Her chest heaved with shallow breaths. “He spat curses, then announced he’d return later. The way he strode out -- as though he owned every inch of the building -- made me think he’d get back into my apartment no matter what I did.” A hard swallow caught in her throat. “After his footsteps faded, I bolted. My hands grabbed only keys and emergency cash from beneath the floorboard. No clothes. Nothing else mattered. For miles I drove while headlights in my rearview mirror transformed into his pursuing car.”
Her gaze lifted and locked on mine. “I didn’t think it through. My head kept screaming one thing. Find Kane.”
Rules existed for a reason. Prospects didn’t bring outsiders onto club property. Prospects didn’t add unknown danger to the compound and hope the President appreciated the surprise.
I knew all of that.
Jade trembled on my couch, purple bruise stark against her pale skin. Sending her away would be condemning her to a grave.
“Did you call the cops?” I asked.
A harsh laugh escaped her, ugly and bitter. “Weeks ago I tried. Filed a report. Nothing happened.” She wrapped her arms tighter around herself. “The next day one of his men sat in my diner, smiling across the counter as though we shared some private joke.” Her voice dropped to nearly a whisper. “When I returned to follow up, suddenly nobody had time. My problem belonged to nobody but me.”
I blew out a slow breath, forcing my anger down into something useful. Rage didn’t help Jade, didn’t protect her. It could get me killed and get the club dragged into a mess at the wrong angle.
Atilla needed to hear her full story. Through Tinker, he knew about her arrival at the gate, but the President remained unaware of crucial details.
Rising from my seat, I pulled out my phone to check the time.
Late.
Too damn late for another call without pissing him off. Mostly because a ringing phone would wake the kids. Still, he knew she was here. Surely he expected me to reach out?
Yeah, silence would enrage him more when everything eventually surfaced.
When I faced Jade again, her gaze followed my movements with resignation, as though she already saw herself being escorted back into the darkness beyond our compound.
“I’m calling my President,” I said. “He needs your story from you, but he needs to know the basics right now.”
Fear flickered bright. “He’s going to send me away.”
“He might want to.” I couldn’t lie to her. “I won’t let you walk back into the dark alone tonight.”
Tears gathered again, but she blinked them back hard. Her chin lifted a fraction, stubbornness showing through fear. She looked like she hated needing anyone.
So did I.
I called Atilla.
Two rings. He answered, voice rough, awake. “Talk.”
“She’s inside my house now. The gate opened on your order. Roth broke into her apartment earlier. Grabbed her hair, threw furniture around. His phone rang, pulling him away. Before leaving, he promised to return. She fled straight to our compound, terrified and alone.”
Silence sat heavy on the line for a beat.
“What else?” Atilla asked.
“Brother went to prison. Debt started there. They called her collateral. She tried cops. No help.” I kept it tight. “She came because she trusted me.”
“Bring her to church,” he said. “Now.”
About the Author
Harley Wylde is an accomplished author known for her captivating MC Romances. With an unwavering commitment to sensual storytelling, Wylde immerses her readers in an exciting world of fierce men and irresistible women. Her works exude passion, danger, and gritty realism, while still managing to end on a satisfying note each time.
When not crafting her tales, Wylde spends her time brainstorming new plotlines, indulging in a hot cup of Starbucks, or delving into a good book. She has a particular affinity for supernatural horror literature and movies. Visit Wylde's website to learn more about her works and upcoming events, and don't forget to sign up for her newsletter to receive exclusive discounts and other exciting perks.
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