(Reckless Kings MC 9): A Dixie Reapers Bad Boys Romance

Date Published: June 26, 2026

Publisher: Changeling Press

Willa — I tell myself I’m here for one reason — to survive. Not for
him. Not for what we had. One night shouldn’t have mattered. But it did.
Now I’m back, pregnant, and desperate, standing in the last place I
should be. And the worst part? He sees me.

Nitro — She thinks I won’t recognize her. Thinks I won’t put it
together. She’s wrong. One look at her, at the curve of her stomach, and
I know exactly what she tried to keep from me.

I don’t hesitate. I don’t negotiate. I claim her in front of
everyone. She can be angry. She can fight. Doesn’t change anything.
She’s mine. The kid’s mine. And I don’t let what belongs to
me walk away.

Perfect for fans of dominant bikers, secret baby romance, and second chance
love stories.

Willa

The gate loomed ahead, iron and intimidation. I adjusted my canvas bag higher
on my shoulder. Dusk had settled over the compound. I’d rehearsed what
to say fifty times on the bus ride over, how to stand, how to sound casual
about a decision that had kept me awake for weeks. But now, with my heart
hammering against my ribs and my hand resting protectively over the two lives
growing inside me, the words dried up in my throat.

I hadn’t planned for this — for any of this. One night with a man whose
face I’d memorized in the dark, and then the positive test, and then the
second one, and then the doctor’s office confirming what my body had
already told me. I’d kept moving. Found a room in a house with thin
walls and a landlord who didn’t ask questions. Worked shifts until my
feet ached and my back protested. Except it hadn’t been enough. I could
either pay rent, or eat. Most of the time, I didn’t make enough to do
both. And all the while, the babies inside me grew, a reality I couldn’t
walk away from no matter how much I sometimes wanted to.

I buttoned my coat one more time, checking that it covered the slight curve of
my belly. Not that it mattered anymore. Four months in, there was no hiding
what I’d come here to admit.

The Prospect guard stepped forward as I approached the gate, his expression
caught between wariness and routine assessment. Young — maybe twenty-five —
with a patch that marked him as not quite a full member. He had the careful
stance of someone who’d been told to take his job seriously.

“This is private property,” he said, voice neutral. “You
looking for someone?”

I’d expected this. Rehearsed for it. “I’m here about a job.
At the strip club.” I kept my voice steady, pitched it to sound casual,
like applying for work at an outlaw motorcycle club’s strip joint was
something I did every Tuesday. “Someone told me you’re hiring
dancers. I stopped by the strip club, but it looked closed.”

His gaze moved over me once, taking stock. I’d done what I could to look
the part — worn jeans tight enough to show the shape of my legs, a top with
sleeves long enough to cover my arms but cut low enough to suggest what was
underneath. Of course, my coat currently covered the top half of me. My hair
was loose instead of pulled back the way it had been the night I’d met
Nitro. The night this whole thing started.

“We don’t take applications at the gate,” the Prospect said,
but his tone had softened slightly. Maybe he believed me. Maybe he just wanted
to believe a woman with my face would want to take her clothes off for money.
Men usually did.

“I was told to ask for Nitro,” I said, the name catching in my
throat.

The Prospect’s expression changed — a flash of something like
recognition, quickly masked. “Nitro’s busy. Maybe you should come
back another time.”

“I don’t have another time.” The truth of it slipped out
before I could catch it. I took a breath. “Please. It won’t take
long.”

He hesitated, clearly weighing options. I watched the calculation happen
behind his eyes — the balance between turning me away and the potential
consequences if I was telling the truth about knowing someone important.

“Hold on,” he said finally, and reached for the radio clipped to
his belt.

I shifted my weight, trying to ease the persistent ache in my lower back. The
bag on my shoulder felt heavier by the second. The night I’d spent here
had been warm — hot with bodies and music and the specific heat of
Nitro’s skin against mine — but now the air carried a chill that cut
through my jacket. Or maybe that was just fear, sending ice through my veins
while my heart tried to beat its way out of my chest.

The Prospect was speaking into the radio, voice too low for me to catch the
words. I turned away slightly, giving him the illusion of privacy, and
that’s when I saw him.

Nitro.

He stood at the edge of the parking area, half-shadowed by the building. Even
from this distance, I could read the lines of his body — the way he held
himself, alert without appearing tense. He’d been about to leave or had
just arrived. It didn’t matter. What mattered was the way his gaze found
mine across the open space, the way his head tilted slightly as recognition
hit.

I didn’t move. Couldn’t move. My rehearsed speech, my careful
composure — all of it evaporated under his gaze. He was exactly as I
remembered. Tall, solid, with that watchful quality that made him seem both
completely present and somehow separate from whatever was happening around
him. I’d spent four months trying to forget the feel of his hands and
the sound of his voice, and here he was, real as anything, looking at me like
he was trying to fit the pieces together.

Then his gaze dropped to my stomach.

Just for a second — a quick, involuntary movement — but I saw it. His
expression didn’t change, but something happened behind his eyes, a
recalculation. When he looked back at my face, his gaze had sharpened.

The Prospect was saying something, but I couldn’t hear it over the blood
rushing in my ears.

Nitro straightened, said something to the men near him without taking his gaze
off me. The Prospect fell back a step, his posture shifting subtly into
something closer to deference. Nitro was moving now, crossing the open ground
between us with the same measured confidence I remembered from that night. Not
hurrying, but covering distance efficiently, each step deliberate.

He stopped three feet from me, close enough that I could smell the faint trace
of cigarette smoke on his clothes, far enough to give me room to step back if
I wanted to. I didn’t. My feet felt rooted to the ground, my body caught
between fight and flight with nowhere to run.

“Nitro,” I said. Just his name, the way I’d said mine that
night. Nothing attached to it, no explanation for why I was here or what I
wanted or why the shape of me had changed since he’d last seen me.

He looked at me for a long moment, his expression giving away nothing. Then,
without speaking, he tilted his head toward the gate and stepped aside,
creating a path.

An invitation. Not a question.

I swallowed hard. This was it — the moment everything changed. I’d
thought about it for weeks, turned it over in my mind during the long nights
when I couldn’t sleep, played out every possible reaction, every
potential ending. But standing here now, with the reality of him in front of
me and the knowledge of what I carried between us, none of those rehearsals
mattered.

What mattered was the step forward. The commitment to whatever came next.

I moved past him through the gate, feeling the brush of air as he turned to
follow. My back tingled with the awareness of his presence behind me, the same
awareness I’d felt that night in the hallway when I’d followed him
to his room. The same pull, complicated now by everything that had happened
since.

The compound opened up around me — the main building with its lit windows,
the row of bikes gleaming in the fading light, the sounds of voices and music
carrying on the evening air. It was exactly as I remembered and completely
different, seen now with the knowledge of what had happened here and what it
had led to.

I stopped a few yards inside the gate, suddenly uncertain. The bag on my
shoulder felt heavy. The babies in my belly seemed to pulse with their own
heartbeats, separate from mine but impossibly connected. I’d come this
far. Made the decision. Stepped through the gate. But now, with the reality of
it surrounding me, I couldn’t remember why I’d thought this was
the right choice.

Nitro moved past me, not touching, but close enough that I caught the scent of
him — clean and sharp underneath the smoke. He glanced at me once, his
expression still unreadable, and then tipped his head toward the main
building.

“Come inside,” he said, the first words he’d spoken. Not a
question. But also not a command.

I followed him across the gravel, my footsteps sounding too loud in my ears.
The Prospect watched us go, his expression carefully blank. A few of the men
near the building turned to look, curiosity quickly masked when they saw who
was with me. I kept my gaze on Nitro’s back, on the straight line of his
shoulders under his cut, on the measured certainty of his stride.

He held the door for me, one hand on the frame, not quite touching as I
passed. The warmth inside hit me like a wall after the evening chill, along
with the smell of beer and leather and the scent of a space lived in by too
many people for too long. It was exactly as I remembered from that night —
the same low lighting, the same sense of contained chaos — but empty now of
the press of bodies, the crush of the party.

We were alone in the main room, or nearly. A man I didn’t recognize sat
at the far end of the bar, nursing a drink and pretending not to watch us.
Otherwise, the space was ours — Nitro standing with his back to the door, me
with my bag still on my shoulder and my hand still resting protectively over
my stomach.

He glanced toward the bar and made a motion with his hand. The music died down
a few seconds later. He looked at me for a long moment, his expression giving
away nothing of what he was thinking. Then he reached for my bag.

I let him take it, my fingers slow to release the strap. As he lifted it, it
felt like some small piece of the burden I’d been carrying grew lighter.
Not the important one. Not the one that had brought me here. But something, at
least.

“Why are you here?” he asked, his voice level.

I took a breath. “You know why.”

His gaze dropped to my stomach again, this time holding there. Yeah. He might
not be able to see through my jacket, but he’d figured it out anyway.
Why else would I show up here out of the blue? Sure, he’d used a condom,
but those were never foolproof.

“Four months,” he said. Not a question.

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
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Author on Facebook, Instagram, & TikTok: @harleywylde

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

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