(Hades Abyss MC 15)
Date Published: September 25, 2026
Publisher: Changeling Press
Katy -- Running was supposed to keep my daughter safe. Instead, it left us stranded with a broken SUV and nowhere to go. Then Dread pulled up. He’s gruff, stubborn, and impossible to push away. Every day I spend behind the gates of Hades Abyss makes it harder to remember why I should leave. Ellie finally feels safe, and my heart is starting to believe we might have found a home.
But the man I escaped isn’t finished with me. If he comes for us, I know he’ll discover the worst mistake of his life was threatening the woman Dread has claimed as his own.
Katy
The highway stretched ahead like something half-melted, the asphalt rippling in the midday heat until the horizon disappeared into a silver wash. No shade. No cover. Just the sun beating down on two lanes of cracked blacktop and the thin strip of gravel shoulder where my SUV sat crippled, the rear end canted at a drunken angle, passenger-side tire blown and gone soft against the stones.
I’d already dragged the spare out from under the cargo hold, heavy and awkward in my hands, and positioned the jack as best I could. The metal base wobbled on the uneven gravel, finding purchase in small divots that shifted whenever I applied pressure. Not stable. Nothing about this was stable.
My fingers kept sliding off the lug wrench. The nuts were torqued down by some mechanic with gorilla hands and a pneumatic gun, or maybe years of highway vibration had fused them to the studs. Either way, the wrench handle grew slicker with every attempt, sweat coating my palms until the metal felt like it had been oiled. I wiped my hands on my shorts, left dark smears, tried again. The wrench turned a fraction of an inch before my grip failed. I adjusted, set my feet wider, and threw my weight into it. My arms shook. Not the fine tremor of fatigue -- a deep, structural quiver that started in my shoulders and ran down through my elbows to my wrists. Shaking that meant my body was running out of things to burn.
Ellie sat on the running board in the narrow strip of shade cast by the SUV’s open door, knees pulled up to her chest, arms wrapped around her shins. Her light brown hair was dark with sweat at the roots, plastered in damp curls against her neck. She watched me with a small, tight frown that didn’t belong on a seven-year-old’s face.
“Are we going to be late?” she asked.
“No, sweetie. We’re not in a hurry,” I said.
“Does it hurt your hands?”
“It’s just a little hard to turn, that’s all.”
“How much longer?” she asked.
“Not long. Almost done.”
Each answer came out in a steady voice I didn’t recognize, a measured calm that lived nowhere near the hollow panic pulling taut inside me. The heat was warping my vision. The horizon kept tilting -- a slow, nauseating roll through my skull, like the world was trying to tip itself over. I planted my feet harder. The gravel shifted under my sneakers.
I got the first lug nut loose after three tries, the wrench finally catching and turning with a metallic shriek that cut through the thick air. The second came easier. My shirt clung to my back, soaked through at the shoulder blades and along my spine. The ponytail I’d tied that morning hung heavy against my neck, the elastic digging a wet groove into my scalp.
The third nut wouldn’t budge. I leaned into the wrench until my body was at a forty-five-degree angle, heels digging into gravel, and felt something give -- not the nut, but the jack. It shifted sideways with a scrape of metal on stone, and the SUV dropped half an inch. I jerked back, heart hammering, and pressed my hand to the hot quarter panel to steady myself. The metal burned. I left it there. The sharpness helped me focus, at least. Something I could feel besides the heat and the fear.
Ellie said my name. Just “Mom,” soft and careful -- the tone she used when she was scared but trying not to show it.
“It’s fine,” I told her. “We’re fine. Almost done.”
I wasn’t almost done. The jack needed resetting. I crouched beside it, my knees popping, and wrestled the base into a new position, digging shallow trenches in the gravel with the edge of my palm. The metal was hot enough to raise a blister. I didn’t check. Sweat ran into my eyes, stinging, and I wiped it away with the back of my wrist, leaving a streak of grit across my forehead.
Back to the wrench. I braced one foot against the tire itself for leverage, wrapped both hands around the handle, and pulled. My shoulders screamed. The nut turned -- a quarter inch, then nothing. I repositioned, pulled again. Another quarter. The progress was measured in fractions, each one costing more than the last.
The fourth nut came free suddenly, the wrench spinning loose and nearly catching me across the shin. I stumbled back, caught myself on the bumper, and stood there breathing hard. The air felt thick enough to chew. My lungs worked and nothing changed.
One nut left. The last one.
I set the wrench, lined it up with shaking hands, and threw everything I had into the turn. My vision grayed at the edges. Not a gentle fade -- a hard, sudden dimming, like someone had turned a dial on the world’s brightness. The gravel tilted under me. I let go of the wrench and dropped into a crouch, head down between my knees, hands braced on my patellas. Breathe. Just breathe.
Ellie said something I couldn’t make out through the blood pounding in my ears.
“I’m okay,” I said, or tried to say. The words came out strained and hollow. “One second.”
The gray receded slowly, pulling back from the edges of my sight like water draining from a tub. I stayed crouched until the gravel stopped moving, then pushed myself upright using the bumper for support. My legs felt like they’d been filled with wet sand.
The last nut was still there. The jack wobbled on its uneven perch. The spare lay in the dirt where I’d dropped it, the tread pattern filling with fine dust.
Almost done.
I wasn’t almost done.
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.
Author on Facebook, Instagram, & TikTok: @harleywylde
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