Reaper's Fall (Reapers MC, #5)

Reaper's Fall (Reapers MC, #5) by Joanna Wylde

For Dawn Dawn and Colleen.

Every writer needs a nurse and a lawyer in her corner, and I got the two most badass ones available.

Thank you.


Thank you very much to everyone at Berkley who made this book possible, especially Cindy Hwang. Thanks also to Jessica Brock, the Goddess of Publicity who not only works hard to sell my books, but also gives my online readers’ group fabulous, shiny stickers. They like the stickers. A lot. (I’m also a huge fan of the stickers, but I’m far too cool and fabulous to ever publicly admit that.) I owe much to Amy Tannenbaum, my incredible agent who I’m fairly certain is secretly a superhero. Someday I’m going to catch her riding a unicorn while wielding a rainbow sword against all who oppose me. (Okay, probably not, but she’s really good about returning my emails and never makes fun of me even when I’m crazy.) Amy, you kick ass. I’m pretty sure you’re already aware of this fact, but it never hurts to repeat it.

My writing friends keep me sane(ish) and I couldn’t do it without you. Thanks to Rebecca Zanetti, Cara Carnes, Kim Jones, Renee Carlino, Katy Evans, and the ever dreadful Kylie Scott. I love all of you except for Kylie, whom I tolerate.

Every day, I’m supported by amazing friends online, including the Sweetbutts, the Junkies (dino-power!), Hang Le, Kandace, Danielle, Lori, the other Lori, Milasy, and Lisa. “Thanks” seems fairly inadequate for all that you’ve given me.

Special thanks to Matt “Boo” Hintz, who taught me all about paint, boards, matte medium, the art world, and Willie G. I’m still fangirling a little that you were willing to talk to me.

Finally, thanks to my long-suffering husband and kids, who still love me despite my writing career. I’m not sure how you put up with me, but it’s much appreciated.


Thank you so much for giving my book a chance. As with the previous books in my series, this one has been read by a woman who has lived the MC life for accuracy, although I never let reality get in the way of telling the story I want to tell. For that reason, it’s worth noting a few realities that I’ve deliberately chosen to ignore while writing it.

In this book, the words “jail” and “prison” are used interchangeably by several characters. In real life, they’re two very different places, but for the sake of word variety I’ve opted to ignore that.

Rodeo is a complicated sport that I’ve described in a very simplistic way for the sake of brevity. Please know that I made a deliberate choice to streamline my description of events.

Finally, I’d like to make it clear that any officials or law enforcement personnel portrayed in my books as corrupt are not there because I believe they’re corrupt in real life. My stories would be very boring if there was never any conflict, which means someone has to be the antagonist. Because of the nature of the stories, that antagonist is often connected with law enforcement. Please know that in my own life, I have the utmost respect for the law enforcement officers who risk their lives daily to protect the people of Coeur d’Alene. Thank you so much for your service.





“Fuckin’ hell,” Horse said, looking out across the crowded clubhouse. I paused, beer halfway to my mouth, turning to follow his gaze. “Painter, brother, you gotta stay calm—”

That’s when I saw her.

Melanie Tucker.


This wasn’t happening. Maybe I was hallucinating, because I couldn’t imagine a reality where she’d actually be this goddamn stupid. I dropped my beer bottle, glass shattering as I stalked across the room. Everything narrowed, my vision fading to red.

“Hold on, son,” Picnic growled. I respected the hell out of him, loved him like a father . . . but there wasn’t a damned thing the Reapers MC president could’ve said to slow me down in that instant. That’s because the mother of my child stood in the clubhouse doorway, eyes wide and scared. She knew she’d f*cked up.

Standing next to her was a man. A biker. Hangaround? He’d wrapped his arm around her like she belonged to him.

Yeah. He put his hands on my Melanie.

Except she wasn’t mine and hadn’t been in a long time. Her choice, so f*ck her very much. But that freedom she’d wanted so badly came with one rule and she’d just broken the shit out of it. No bikers. Yet here she was with this cockwad *, some douche who thought putting on leathers gave him the right to exist.

In an MC clubhouse, no less.

This was a problem. A big f*ckin’ problem. That terror on her face was totally justified, because she was about to witness a goddamn murder. And no, that wasn’t just a figure of speech. In ten seconds I had every intention of ripping the dick off his body, feeding it to him at knifepoint, and then jerking it back out his ass before repeating the process.

A hand wrapped around my arm, silently warning me—my president, trying to calm me down. I shrugged it off, tuning out whatever the hell Pic was trying to communicate as I lunged forward, catching the little prick by the front of his shirt. I jerked him savagely into the center of the room. A rushing sound filled my ears and in the distance I heard Mel scream. Then my fist connected with his face, sweet pain tearing through my knuckles as time slowed.

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