Home > Silver Bastard (Silver Valley #1)

Silver Bastard (Silver Valley #1)
Author: Joanna Wylde


As always, thank you very much to everyone at The Berkley Publishing Group for making this book possible, particularly Cindy Hwang. Thanks also to Jessica Brock for her promotional work and the Berkley art department, which has given me yet another amazing cover. I appreciate your efforts so much.

I owe a special debt to Amy Tannenbaum, who never fails to return my calls no matter how disjointed my messages may be.

This book would not have been possible without the support of my crit partners, Kylie Scott and Cara Carnes. Renee Carlino and Kim Jones have nursed me through many a crisis as well, and Rebecca Zanetti has been an invaluable support when it comes to research (and the occasional celebratory lunch date!). I also appreciate the efforts of my beta readers, including Danielle, Hang, Sally, and Lori.

My online community is the only thing keeping me sane most days. Much love to my Sweet Butts, who always listen to me rant. Love also to the Joanna Wylde Junkies—may your dinosaurs frolic happily for all your days. Thanks to all the bloggers who have supported me all along during this journey, particularly Maryse, Lisa, Milasy, the other Lisa, and so many more. There are so many who have shown me kindness that I find it overwhelming. Thank you so much.

Finally, thanks to my family, including my endlessly patient husband and children. Yes, Mommy is finally finished with her book, and yes, we can go see a movie tonight.




Thank you for choosing to read Silver Bastard, the first in my new Silver Valley series. The Silver Bastards Motorcycle Club was first featured in Reaper’s Property, and the Reapers MC plays a significant role in this particular story. Having said that, this book stands alone, so don’t worry if you haven’t read the Reapers series first.

Unlike the Reapers books, the Silver Valley series won’t be centered around motorcycle clubs, but a location. North Idaho’s Silver Valley is located just east of Coeur d’Alene. It’s a short drive from my home, and our family has been visiting the area for more than twenty years. It’s an area rich in history, culture, and true stories so crazy you couldn’t make them up if you tried. Miners, whores, con artists, and Wyatt Earp himself helped build the boomtowns that sprang up here when precious metals were discovered during the late 1800s. Those mines were so productive that the Silver Valley is among the top ten mining districts in world history, with total value of metals mined rising above $6 billion dollars.

Many of the major historical events and locations in the Silver Valley series are based in reality, although I’ve changed some names and shifted some dates. As always, I haven’t let reality stand in the way of the story I want to tell. Having said that, my motorcycle club friends have reviewed this book for accuracy.




Praise for the Reapers Motorcycle Club Series

Berkley titles by Joanna Wylde

Title Page




Author’s Note


Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen


Bonus Epilogue

Historical Note







Motherfucker that burned.

The shot was a double, and the fact that it’d come cradled between two beautiful, giant tits attached to a stripper with endless legs and a tight ass didn’t hurt one goddamned bit. Tequila hit my stomach, the alcohol shocking my system, and shit finally got real.


Fourteen months since the last time I’d had a decent drink—all but forgotten what it felt like, too. That sweet, harsh pain that comes from losing the surface layer of skin all the way down your throat? Gorgeous. Never felt better in my life, and that’s a fact. Helped that the queen of body shots had sucked me off right after we’d pulled up to the party.

Spent the last year trying to decide what I’d do first when I finally got out. Kept going back and forth between getting laid and getting drunk, but God apparently has a soft spot for assholes because we’d found one hell of a good compromise.

I’d been free nearly four hours now. Still felt like a dream. The California Department of Corrections took its own sweet time with everything, up to and including processing a man out. I’d spent half the wait wondering if the cockwads would change their minds or if the club lawyer had forgotten something. Figured they’d find some way to fuck with my head.

FBI, state cops, even Homeland Security—they all wanted a piece of my club, the Silver Bastards MC, and not a week went by inside that they didn’t try to cut it out of my hide. Guess they figured a prospect made an easy target.

Not fucking likely.

My old man died for the Bastards. If I turned, he’d haunt my ass the rest of my life because that shit does not stand in my family. I’d been born to wear a Bastard cut. And tonight? For the first time I finally had the right to show those colors off.

A hand slapped my shoulder, then a burly man caught me up in a hug so tight it hurt. My fucking ribs creaked.

“That patch feel right on your back, brother?” asked Boonie. He was the president of the Silver Bastards in Callup, Idaho, and I’d heard him call me a hell of a lot of things—but never brother. Felt good. Damned good. Until an hour ago, I’d been a prospect and I’d never gotten any special treatment because of my old man. That’s how I wanted it.

“Best night of my life,” I admitted. He pulled back, and his face grew serious.

“Proud of you,” he said. “You did what you had to. Protected the club, took care of business. Painter told us how things were inside, how you took his back. You earned this, earned it with your life and your blood. I know you won’t shame this patch, Puck.”

“I won’t,” I replied, his words almost too much. Boonie grinned suddenly, then grabbed my arm and turned me toward the bar again.

“Drink up,” he told me. “Then find yourself some pretty little thing to play with, because tomorrow we’re ridin’ home. Your bike’s in good shape—took care of it for you.”


“Another shot, baby?” the stripper asked. She rolled onto her side, reaching out to catch my neck with her hand, pulling me in for a kiss. That brought me a little too close to her face. She was sweaty, and her mascara had started running. Didn’t smell that great, either.

“More shots,” I said, pulling away. I’d appreciated the blow job, no question. But she wasn’t exactly the fantasy I’d been jacking off to the last year and I’d promised myself I wouldn’t settle once I got out. I wanted someone fresh—someone clean and soft and sweet enough to eat. I’d play with her for a while before letting myself go, punching through all that softness until she screamed and begged for mercy.

Mouth, cunt, ass.

That’d been what got me through those long nights wondering why the fuck I’d let myself get caught.

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