Motorcycle Club Romance, Suspense
Date Published: May 9, 2025
Anya’s his captive, but she’s always been mine. I’ll burn
their empire to the ground to bring her home.
Anya -- I never forgot Jackson -- not when the foster system chewed us up
and spit us out, and not when I was dragged into the nightmare world of
Sebastian Six. Jackson was the one bright spot in my past, the only person
who ever tried to save me. Now, trapped as Six’s captive, I’ve
lost hope… until I see him again. Jackson isn’t just a memory
anymore; he’s a badass biker called Outcast. He fights the brutal
champion in Six’s underground ring, just to win a night with me.
He’s risking everything to get me out. This time, I’m not
letting him go.
Outcast -- She was everything to me once. The only thing that ever
mattered. I tried to save her when we were young and failed. But when her
photo turned up on a soldier tied to a fake gun deal, I knew I’d been
given another chance. I tracked her to Louisville, to the syndicate, to the
monster who owns her. If she had been safe and happy, I would’ve
walked away. But she wasn’t. So I fought their champion in a cage
match just to get close. Now I’m running with her again -- only this
time, I’m ready to kill anyone who gets in my way for her. No one is
taking Anya from me. Not now. Not ever again.
Trigger Warning: Outcast (Hounds of Hell MC 7) contains scenes of human
trafficking, violence, physical abuse, rape, and vigilante justice that may
be triggers for some readers. There’s also a strong alpha hero willing
to risk everything to save his woman.
Content advisory for the excerpt: Profanity, threatening situations.
EXCERPT
Outcast
Player scrolled through his phone in the passenger seat next to him,
killing time while they waited in the Jeep for the Red Scourge MC’s
soldiers to show. In the back, Crash sat silent, his usual restless energy
contained -- for now. Malachai’s illegally modified rifles were tucked
in the back, behind the rear seats, ready for the deal. Snow and the twins
were positioned in the woods nearby, out of sight but primed to strike if
things went sideways. Everyone was in place and ready.
Well, the Hounds were ready. The other MC was new to this part of Virginia,
and the fact that they’d reached out about guns right away had sent up
an immediate red flag for Outcast. Now they were running late, testing his
patience as he ran through all the ways this deal could turn bloody if the
buyers decided to play dirty. Yeah, the club needed the money, but with so
many unknowns surrounding this crew, Razor had made sure they were prepared
for everything. Probably.
The late February sky loomed heavy with dark clouds as the wind howled
through the trees, whipping past them in the Jeep. Outcast killed the
engine, powering down his driver’s side window just an inch or two. He
was vigilant, keeping an eye on all the vehicle’s mirrors. He
listened, trying to tune out the sounds of the wind and the occasional
vehicle driving by on the highway behind them. For the meeting place,
they’d selected a remote area between Mercy and Oak Grove. Outcast had
picked it out -- a stretch with no houses or businesses -- in case things
went south.
Player shoved his phone back into the pocket of his leather jacket, his
attention now on Outcast. “You sure you’re feeling up to this,
brother?”
Outcast nodded, shutting down any chance of a drawn-out conversation about
his well-being. It was bad enough dealing with Deva every day, her constant
hovering after his recovery from the beating Victor Grayson’s men had
handed him. And where Deva went, Razor followed -- especially now that they
were together. His club president was a hell of a lot harder to shake than
his sister.
“I’m fine,” Outcast said, and for the most part, it was
true. Mornings were rough, and by night, the lingering pain crept back in --
especially after a long day. But each day, it dulled a little more. Still,
the slow recovery gnawed at him. Pushing forty or not, he should’ve
been back to full strength by now, and the frustration of it sat heavy on
his shoulders.
“They’re here.” Snow’s rough whisper came over the
walkie talkie Outcast had positioned in the cupholder of the center
console.
Sure enough, a huge black Hummer turned off Route 221 onto the narrow dirt
road where they waited. Player pressed the button on the transceiver and
said, “Copy that.”
Outcast watched the other vehicle move closer. Player grinned at him from
the passenger seat, itching for a fight Outcast hoped they could avoid.
“It’s show time,” he said. Crash’s gaze met
Outcast’s in the rearview mirror, and he nodded.
“Focus,” Outcast told them, watching the Hummer rumble to a
stop on the other side of the road. He counted four heads but there was
plenty of room in that behemoth of a vehicle for more to be hiding. A bad
vibe twisted in his gut. Just now he was really fucking grateful for
Razor’s command that they take backup.
It was ten minutes until five, and Outcast knew the sun was sinking toward
the horizon, though the thick storm clouds kept it hidden. He slowly opened
the door and stepped out of the Jeep, the wind biting against his skin.
Crash climbed out at the same time, moving with his usual measured calm.
Player, on the other hand, damn near rocked the whole vehicle as he jumped
out of the passenger side, his boots hitting the ground hard. Moving too
fast for Outcast’s liking, Player strode around to stand just behind
him, his massive frame coiled tight, ready for a fight before one had even
started.
The smell of rain and the acrid tang of cigarette smoke from the four men
who exited the Hummer hung in the cold evening air. Outcast stood just in
front of his friends; his weight shifted casually and every muscle he had
tensed. This was far from Outcast’s first deal, but something about
this particular group set his nerves on edge.
Four men stood across from them, their faces partially obscured by the
fading light and shifting shadows of the storm. Their leather cuts were
crisp, their jeans too clean, and not one of them carried the rough,
road-worn edge Outcast expected from outlaw bikers. Something about them
felt off -- like they were playing a role rather than living the life. And
considering none of the Hounds had ever heard of Red Scourge MC before now,
that didn’t sit right with him. Whoever the fuck they were, he
didn’t like the vibes they were giving off.
“Appreciate you boys coming all this way,” the taller of the
four drawled, lighting up a cigarette. Outcast recognized Hawk’s voice
from speaking with him on the phone. “Been hearing good things about
the Hounds’ hardware. Guess you need something to do out here in the
middle of Bumfuck, Virginia.”
Outcast nodded, holding Hawk’s gaze as the other man sized him up.
“Guess so.”
Hawk took another step closer, studying Outcast. A challenge. After a
minute, the man nodded. “Well, they were right about you. Outcast,
right? You got some cold, motherfuckin’ eyes.”
Outcast never took on personal comments, just waited, staring the man down.
Hawk, they were told, was a VP in his club. He had none of Snow or
Razor’s authoritative presence and his insecurities were as obvious as
a Halloween mask. Hawk squared his shoulders, but the slight twitch in his
fingers and the way he shifted his weight from foot to foot told a different
story. The man wasn’t as fearless as he wanted everyone to
believe.
Player smirked at Outcast’s side, his posture radiating confidence.
Towering over most, his broad frame made him an imposing presence -- only
Beast outweighed him in the club. His voice was smooth, almost lazy, but the
edge beneath it was unmistakable. “Money’s what matters,”
Player said, flashing a grin that didn’t quite reach his eyes.
“If you’ve got that, we’ve got your hardware.”
Hawk nodded to the younger man standing to his left who pulled a thick
envelope from his jacket and handed it to him. Holding it up for the Hounds
to see, he said, “Here’s our end of the deal. Now, we’d
like to see what we’re paying for.”
Without taking his eyes off the Red Scourge soldiers, Outcast said,
“Crash.”
It was the cue for Crash to climb into the back of the Jeep and haul out
one of the two heavy plastic totes, each packed with rifles. He lowered it
to the ground, unlocking the padlock that secured the lid to the body of the
bin. Crash pulled out a sleek, fully-automatic rifle. Its dark wood grip and
black metal barrel looked ominous in the dim light. Malachai, the newest
patched member of the Hounds, was goddamned good at what he did, illegally
modifying weapons himself to make them more lethal. His skill with
high-powered firearms was one of the reasons the prospect had earned his
cut.
Crash moved with deliberate ease, stepping toward Hawk and extending an
unloaded rifle. At the same time, Hawk handed over the thick, bulging
envelope -- supposedly filled with cash. The exchange happened smoothly. Too
smoothly. Outcast kept his eyes locked on the Red Scourge leader.
Hawk gripped the rifle, turning it over in his hands like he knew what he
was looking for. Crash, on the other hand, tore open the envelope and
thumbed through the stack of bills inside. Outcast caught the barely
perceptible glance his brother-in-arms shot him.
I fucking knew it.
About the Author
Jamie Targaet is the author of the Hounds of Hell MC. She's anxious to
introduce you to this club of gorgeous, dominant men and the lucky women who
surrender to them. The ride is going to get wild at times, not going to lie.
But there's thrilling action, scorching hot sex scenes, and all the
feels.
Jamie writes erotic romance for Changeling Press, a little fanfiction on
the side, and she's an aspiring horror writer in another life. She enjoys
time with her family (including the fur babies). She likes good horror
movies and shows, emo metal and classic rock, and time spent in other worlds
writing and reading. She loves hearing from readers and is looking forward
to hearing from you.
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Author’s Website
Publisher on Facebook, Instagram, Twitter, and TikTok:
@changelingpress
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