Book of Legion – Badlands MC Series by J.A. Huss – Read Books Online Free Ebooks good best novels to read

Book of Legion – Badlands MC Series by J.A. Huss – Read Books Online Free Ebooks good best novels to read http://www.books2020.com Thu, 23 Apr 2026 23:00:41 +0000 en-US hourly 1 https://wordpress.org/?v=6.9.4 http://www.books2020.com/wp-content/uploads/2020/09/favicon.png Book of Legion – Badlands MC Series by J.A. Huss – Read Books Online Free Ebooks good best novels to read http://www.books2020.com 32 32 Skulls and Lace (Book of Legion – Badlands MC #4) Read Online J.A. Huss http://www.books2020.com/skulls-and-lace-book-of-legion-badlands-mc-4-read-online-j-a-huss Thu, 23 Apr 2026 23:00:41 +0000 https://www.books2020.com/skulls-and-lace-book-of-legion-badlands-mc-4-read-online-j-a-huss Genre: Alpha Male, Biker, Dark, MC, Novella Authors: J.A. Huss Series: Book of Legion - Badlands MC Series by J.A. Huss
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Total pages in book: 40
Estimated words: 38333 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 192(@200wpm)___ 153(@250wpm)___ 128(@300wpm)

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Trigger warning: Inc*st between triplets, violence.

This is a m/m/m short story.

Life’s been hard for the love triplets.
Abusive home life. Cruel kids at school. Hateful town.
The only love they’ve known is each other.

When they turn eighteen, they leave to make a life of their own, free of pain and sadness.
It’s better than they could have ever imagined.

Until new feelings emerge, threatening to destroy the only thing they care about…each other.
They’re brothers. Best friends. Together from the beginning.
Can they be lovers, too, or will this steal the only bit of happiness they’ve ever known?

*************FULL BOOK START HERE*************

CHAPTER 1

The clubhouse door hits the wall as I shoulder it open, the familiar smell of cigarettes and spilled beer doing nothing to mask the iron tang of blood. Blood on my hands. Blood on my shirt. Blood trailing behind us like breadcrumbs through the fucking forest. One month back with my brothers, and already everything's gone to shit.

"Move!" I shout, kicking a chair out of the way as Crow and Dusty struggle through the door behind me, Butch's weight sagging between them. His head lolls forward, chin touching chest. Too much blood loss. Too much time in the truck getting back. The prospects' faces are ghost-white under the fluorescent lights, eyes wide with panic. Kids playing at being outlaws until the bullets start flying.

"Jesus fuck," someone whispers from the bar.

"Not helping," I growl, scanning the room. Too many eyes watching. Too many mouths that'll talk later. "Everyone out. Now."

The bar empties in seconds—hangarounds and weekend warriors all scrambling for the door. Only patched members remain, frozen in place like they're watching a movie they can't pause.

Butch groans, a wet, rattling sound that means there's blood in places it shouldn't be.

"Put him down," I order, clearing empty bottles and ashtrays from the closest table with a sweep of my arm. "Here. Don’t rock him, Dusty! Be careful!"

The prospects lay Butch down, his body heavy and unresponsive as he bleeds out on the table.

I've seen enough gunshot wounds to know this one's bad. The entry wound is a small. A nice, neat hole just below his collarbone. But the exit wound is a ragged crater of flesh.

His skin is gray, his lips blue at the edges.

Fuck. He’s not gonna make it. He’s not gonna make it.

"Where's the fuckin’ doctor?" I demand, pressing my palm against the wound. Blood seeps between my fingers, warm and steady.

Crow shakes his head, swallowing hard. "I’ve called him three times. He didn’t pick up."

"Try again," I snap, meeting his eyes. "And keep trying until he does."

Crow nods, stepping away with his phone pressed to his ear.

"What happened out there?" Ledger asks from somewhere behind me. "That route was supposed to be clean."

Clean. That’s almost funny at this point. I reach for clean bar towels, packing them around the wound. "Ambush. Three trucks came in, no lights on. Like they had night vision. They knew exactly where we'd be. We were in the middle of the drop, piling it up under the tarp behind the gas station on Route 12, when they came burnin’ in. Butch had to abandon his bike and hop in the damn truck. That’s how he got shot.”

“What did they take?” Diesel asks.

“All of it,” I snap. “All of it, Diesel.”

"Well…” Roach shrugs. It could’ve been a coincidence.”

"Bullshit," I scoff. "This is the third time this month something's gone sideways." I press harder on Butch's wound, and he groans. "Someone's feeding information. We’ve got ourselves a fuckin’ rat."

The room goes quiet except for Butch's labored breathing and Crow's desperate voice in the corner, still on the phone.

"Got him!" Crow shouts. "He's twenty minutes out."

"Tell him to make it ten," I order.

Diesel meets my eyes, sighing. He knows it’s true. Things are… not OK here in Badlands. Haven’t been since I got back. “Let me take over,” he says, pushing my hands away from Butch’s wound. I let him do it because I’m so fuckin’ pissed, I might explode if I don’t walk it off.

Diesel places his big hands over the towel that’s already wet with blood while I play the ambush on a loop in my head.

We were loadin’, then… we heard them. But it was fast. There was no time to get out. Then the lights flashed, lit up in three directions. They started shootin’ immediately.

I cannot even believe that Butch was the only one shot. At least a dozen bullets went whizzin’ by me, missin’. But just barely.

I’m lookin’ at the clubhouse door, still lost in the memory, when it swings open and Brick walks through.

Well… finally. “Where the fuck have you been,” I snap. “I’ve been callin’ you for twenty fuckin’ minutes.” I point at Butch on the table.

Brick approaches, unhurried. Like our guys bleed out on tables every day of the fuckin’ week. "Church at noon," he deadpans. “We’ll discuss.” He doesn’t even look at Butch. Doesn't ask what happened. Doesn't offer to help.

What the fuck is happening here? "Did you hear me? I’ve been callin’ you. We were ambushed. Someone knew the route."

Brick's face remains impassive. "Bad luck."

"Bad luck?" I echo, incredulous. "Three times in a month isn't bad luck, Brick. It's a fuckin’ pattern."

Brick’s eyes go narrow. “Are you tryin’ to say somethin’ here, Legion?” His voice is dangerously soft.

The room goes still. Diesel's hands remain steady on Butch's wound, but I can feel the tension radiating from him. Everyone is watching. Waiting to see what I’ll say.

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Advertisement Smoke and Honey (Book of Legion – Badlands MC #4) Read Online J.A. Huss http://www.books2020.com/smoke-and-honey-book-of-legion-badlands-mc-4-read-online-j-a-huss Fri, 03 Apr 2026 23:15:36 +0000 http://www.books2020.com/smoke-and-honey-book-of-legion-badlands-mc-4-read-online-j-a-huss Genre: Alpha Male, Biker, Insta-Love, MC Authors: J.A. Huss Series: Book of Legion - Badlands MC Series by J.A. Huss
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Total pages in book: 42
Estimated words: 38856 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 194(@200wpm)___ 155(@250wpm)___ 130(@300wpm)

<<<<1 2 3 11 21 >42

In this war between heaven and hell, someone has to bleed. Legion Kane understands this to his core. He’s spent his whole life being trailer trash with no future.
Savannah Ashby was a dream. Perfection wrapped up in designer prairie dresses and equestrian boots. An angel to his demon.
And now, she’s his savior.
But salvation looks a lot like surrender when you’re recovering under the Ashby roof. Sleeping in their guest room. Eating at their table. Watching Mercy get everything he never could’ve given her—ponies, new clothes, a bedroom with a door that locks from the inside.
Hardest part is… spoiled looks good on his baby sister.
And Ashby money is something Legion will never have

*************FULL BOOK START HERE*************

CHAPTER 1

My name has always felt like a warning.

Prophetic and foreboding at the same time.

There are demons inside you, Legion.

Not one or two, but Many.

We are many…

I get it. It's not a good start to life, I do agree. But at least I understand it, this demon thing. Because most people think demons are entities. Ghosts. Evil spirits.

But that's not what they are at all.

Demons are regrets. Mistakes. The time you spent off the path because even though you knew—you fucking knew—you were goin' in the wrong direction, you went anyway.

That's what a demon is. It's a mistake that turns into a regret.

And it comes due, the consequences of these mistakes.

Always. They always come due.

I wake flat on my back. My eyes crack open slow, like they're weighted with lead. The world's a blurry smear, and I blink twice, three times, strugglin’ to focus on anything solid.

Light cuts through the wooden slats above me in sharp, dusty beams. Grain dust hangs suspended in the air, swirlin’ like smoke in the morning light. Each particle catches fire in the sun—thousands of tiny stars drifting in slow circles. I've seen this ceiling before.

I smile despite the pounding in my head.

This place. This goddamn place.

Outside the silo, there's a faint sound threadin’ through the quiet—the distant buzz of a dirt bike's engine winding up and down the hills. The sound hits me in the chest harder than any fist.

That sound meant freedom once.

My first bike was a piece of shit Honda with faded plastics and a bent clutch lever, but she ran. Fifteen years old with nothing but that bike and a pocketful of hard-earned cash I'd scraped together nickel by fucking dime.

Most of the time I worked the feed barn. Stackin’ fifty-pound bags until my shoulders burned, sweepin’ out corn that stuck to my sweat-soaked skin. Sleepin’ in the loft some nights when things got too bad at home.

Builds character, hard work like that does. But more importantly, if you're fifteen and a boy who just wants to be a man, it builds muscles. I was always lean, but after that year in the feed barn, I was a monster.

In the spring and summer, I picked up work at the grain co-op. Sweepin’ out grain bins in a dust mask, sweatin’ in ninety-degree heat. Shovelin’ out pits when they got plugged up because no one else would fuckin’ do it. It was a terrible job. But it paid. Spring and summer in Drybone was like a salve over the burn of winter. It soothed ya. Made you forget about the minus-forty windchill comin’ around the corner.

Then there was the livestock auction in the fall—sortin’ calves in freezing wind, moving cattle with hot shots, walking through frozen shit.

And at the end of all that character building that gave me muscles, was the dirt bike.

It was everything to me that summer.

I can still hear it in the distance. Just for a moment, I'm fifteen again. Counting out six-hundred and seventy-five dollars in hard-earned cash. A fist-full of wrinkled bills I'd hidden in a coffee can under the trailer. That feelin’ I got when I kick started the engine the first time was somethin’ like clarity.

Somethin’ that was mine.

Bought and paid for.

Somethin’ no one could take from me.

I blink again, harder this time, trying to clear the fog from my head.

Somethin’s not right.

I try to sit up, but my body feels wrong—disconnected, like I'm wearing someone else's skin. Not painful, just... off. Like someone took me apart and put me back together with pieces missing.

I look down at my hands. They're mine. Callused palms, knuckles that have seen more fights than I can count, the faded "MERCY" inked across them. The letters worn and blurred from years of throwin' punches and grippin' handlebars. My boots are still on—scuffed leather. Jeans too, faded and ripped. Worn to perfection.

But I'm shirtless. Bare chest risin’ and fallin’ with each breath, the sprawlin’ tattoos of angels and demons locked in eternal combat across my skin, catchin’ the dim light filtering through the silo's rusted walls.

No blood. No bandages. And no brand.

I run my fingers over the spot where the Badlands B should be burned into my flesh, just above my heart. Nothing. Just smooth skin where that iron pressed against me, where Chains held that glowing metal while the brothers stomped their boots in rhythm. The place that had been raw, angry red, still weeping when Savannah touched it last night.

This has got to be a drunk blackout. Wouldn't be the first time I woke up in this silo with gaps in my memory. But this doesn't have the cotton-mouth, head-splitting quality of a hangover. No taste of stale whiskey, no churning stomach. This is somethin’ else.

How the fuck did I get here?

I close my eyes, trying to pull the pieces together from the fog. The last thing—the very last thing I remember—was lying in the bunkhouse in room 3 with Savannah's head against my shoulder. She was breathing slow and even as she drifted off. The hum of nothing in the hallway outside our door, just the distant sounds of the club settling for the night.

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Advertisement Scars and Promises (Book of Legion – Badlands MC #3) Read Online J.A. Huss http://www.books2020.com/scars-and-promises-book-of-legion-badlands-mc-3-read-online-j-a-huss Fri, 03 Apr 2026 23:15:04 +0000 http://www.books2020.com/scars-and-promises-book-of-legion-badlands-mc-3-read-online-j-a-huss Genre: Alpha Male, Biker, Dark, MC, Novella Authors: J.A. Huss Series: Book of Legion - Badlands MC Series by J.A. Huss
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Total pages in book: 35
Estimated words: 32319 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 162(@200wpm)___ 129(@250wpm)___ 108(@300wpm)

<<<<1 2 3 11 21 >35

Two families. One blood, one found.

Eleanor Ashby became obsessed with Legion Kane the day he was born. The evidence is in the vault—thousands of photos spanning two decades, all bound up in a book with his name on it.
Savannah has to face the facts. The Ashbys don’t protect people. They devour innocence and call it charity. Even Colt—the one she thought was the good brother—proves it.
The Badlands MC don’t even know the meaning of the word charity.
Everything is earned. Every act of kindness comes with a price.
Outlaws don’t care about feelings, they care about brotherhood.
How far will you go for the club.
How much will you give for the patch.
It better be everything, or there will be consequences

*************FULL BOOK START HERE*************

CHAPTER 1

Everything slows down.

The way it always does when death enters the conversation.

The gun in my hand feels unusually light. Like three pounds of cold certainty against my palm belongs there. Has more right to be there than a spoon or a pen ever did.

The barrel points at Colt's forehead, dead center. I could put a hole right between his eyes from twice this distance.

My finger rests alongside the trigger guard—not on the trigger. Not yet.

But that's discipline, not mercy.

Behind me, I hear the clubhouse door creak open. Boots on gravel.

In front of me, Colt's eyes widen just enough to show he understands exactly how close he is to the end of his story.

My arm doesn't shake. Prison built these muscles layer by layer, cell by cell. Three years of push-ups and pull-ups until my body became a weapon that didn't need to be smuggled in.

Destiny clutches her baby tighter, the yellow blanket bright against the gathering dusk. "Legion, don't⁠—"

"Shut up," I say, voice flat. Not angry. Just empty.

My focus narrows to Colt's face, but my mind splits open, falling backward through time.

Once upon a time, Destiny was my world. When she was small. Hours old. Days old. Weeks old. Hell, my fascination with Destiny Kane lasted several years. I was fifteen when she was born.

Before Destiny, it was just me and mama. When Deacon, Destiny and Mercy's father, started hanging around, I thought things would never be good again. Not that they were much better before, but a single boy to take care of is one thing. A boy and two girls paints a very different picture of what it means to survive.

But it wasn’t all bad. Deacon didn't hang around much after Destiny was born. He worked, spent most of his money on gambling, came home at night to fuck my mama, sleep, and eat our food. But he helped, I guess.

Destiny was the most beautiful child ever. She's got a more exotic look to her compared to me. Dark hair, almost midnight black, where mine has always been blond. But we both have mama's blue eyes.

There were days back when she was small where I would just look at her. Get lost in that beauty. In my limited world of scrubland and lonely prairies, Destiny was a bluebell surrounded by dust.

Then Mercy came and it all fell apart.

One kid a single mother can handle. Even one like me.

Two… it's iffy.

Three breaks everythin’.

Deacon’s angry indifference, combined with the demands of hungry children—well, it was too much for her.

Did my mama kill herself? Did her car slip off that icy freeway overpass on purpose, or by accident?

Won’t ever know.

But did she choose to take enough oxy to kill a horse that same night, leave her newborn baby home alone, and then go out drivin’ in a blizzard?

That’s a resoundin’ yes, folks.

I won’t let Destiny’s life end up being so worthless.

I can’t do it. I won’t be able to live with myself if her end is nothin’ but a repeat of the woman who brought her into this world.

The wind picks up, blowing grit across the parking lot. It stings my eyes, but I don't blink. The late afternoon sun sits heavy and gold on the horizon, casting long shadows across Colt's face. Sweat beads along my hairline, trickling down my temple.

My world has always been about choices with no good options.

Prison or my sisters.

Club or Savannah.

Now this—Destiny with Colt's baby, my gun, my sister, my woman, my club.

Thirty-nine men behind these walls just voted to protect what's mine. But Destiny's mine too. Blood of my blood. The one I failed by going inside, by not being there when she needed me.

I don't need to ask to know that every member of Badlands is rethinking that decision now.

Even Diesel. He’s my best friend, but this right here—this intrusion, this drama, this… impossible situation with Destiny and Colt…

Church, and the decisions that come out of it, aren’t about friendship.

They’re about survival.

The skin between my shoulder blades prickles and I can feel those eight pairs of dissenting eyes boring into my back like bullet holes. I don't need to turn around to know exactly who's watching—because everyone is watching.

The shift in the air behind me is subtle. The moment when respect starts bleeding into doubt. Every second this gun stays raised, I'm burning through the goodwill my three years inside earned me.

The brand on my chest throbs with my heartbeat, still raw, still healing.

What does it mean, it's asking.

What am I willing to give up to respect that brand.

I'm at a crossroads here. Every single member of Badlands is watching. Waiting to see which Legion Kane I really am.

The disciplined soldier who earned his patch in blood and silence?

Or a fool who'll burn it all down for a woman and a sister?

The fact is, in this moment, I'm not really sure.

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Advertisement Dust and Flowers (Book of Legion – Badlands MC #1) Read Online J.A. Huss http://www.books2020.com/dust-and-flowers-book-of-legion-badlands-mc-1-read-online-j-a-huss Sat, 28 Feb 2026 17:33:04 +0000 http://www.books2020.com/dust-and-flowers-book-of-legion-badlands-mc-1-read-online-j-a-huss Genre: Alpha Male, BDSM, Dark, Erotic, Forbidden Authors: J.A. Huss Series: Book of Legion - Badlands MC Series by J.A. Huss
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Total pages in book: 43
Estimated words: 40966 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 205(@200wpm)___ 164(@250wpm)___ 137(@300wpm)

<<<<1 2 3 11 21 >43

If Sons of Anarchy and Yellowstone had a feral baby raised by the devil himself...

Savannah Ashby has been photographed 70,000 times—-every smile, every outfit, every moment of her perfect ranch heiress life has been documented on social media by her dead mother's cameras.

Legion Kane came out of Whitefall Prison with nothin’ but an expired driver‘s license, $27 in his wallet, and a name that means biblical demon possession.

She wears another man's three-carat diamond.
He wears a fresh MC brand burned into his chest.

They’ve been meeting in secret at an abandoned silo since they were kids.

Now her family wants him dead, his MC wants him loyal, and the only thing that matters is what happens when she meets him at midnight, whisperin’ his name like a prayer.

Montana badlands.
Outlaw bikers.
Ranch royalty.

War is coming.

DUST AND FLOWERS

Their secret just became everyone's problem.

Please This is the first book in an ongoing serial . Every novella ends on a cliff. Novellas will release weekly through book five

*************FULL BOOK START HERE*************

CHAPTER 1

Hell isn’t a place you go, it’s a place you carry back.

That’s my poetic opinion after serving three years in prison for something I didn’t do.

Willingly, I might add. Not the shit I didn’t do, but the shit I went in for.

But if you want my professional opinion on hell—and at this point in my life, I feel like I’m qualified to have a professional opinion—Hell is just… well, everything around you.

This world. These people. All the rules, all the traps, the entire fuckin’ game is rigged.

That’s hell.

It’s everywhere.

But… occasionally.

Every once in a while.

There is a day like today that makes Hell not so hot.

The gates of Whitefall Prison open in front of me. Loud, and clanging as radio chatter from the guards fills the gap between this world and that one. The June morning spreads out before me in a way I’ve never noticed before. Bright, hot, and… oddly, empty.

One of the guards starts yappin’ at me to fucking get on with it and starts the mechanism to close the gates back up as he makes pointless, hollow threats. So when I do get on with it, I pass through just before the heavy steel gates slam closed.

It’s a lot of pointless drama.

Another guard heckles me from the tower when I pause, fumbling through the yellow envelope that contains pretty much everything I own at the moment—a twenty-seven-dollar cash-out from my prison account and my driver’s license, two years expired—and remove a pack of Reds.

Demon this, the hecklin’ guard says. Demon that. Demon… Demon… Demon.

Cause that’s me.

Legion Kane.

We are many.

I take out a smoke, light it up using the Bic that also did time with me, suck in my freedom, and slowly distance myself from the three years of time I did, but didn’t have to.

Trying to remember to appreciate it.

Inhale. A ritual to keep me standing.

Exhale. The smoke drifts up like a prayer.

I take a few steps away from the prison, no urge to look back, and just scan the world before me as I continue smoking.

It’s a whole bunch of nothin’. I’m talking big sky over vast badlands and that’s about it.

But it shouldn’t be this way.

This parking lot should not be empty.

But I guess it checks out, because I’m early.

One day early.

What could that possibly mean? What government facility actually makes mistakes in your favor? It doesn’t happen.

There should be bikes here. All lined up.

Should be brothers with cuts, and grins, and the promise of whiskey.

Badlands owes me that much.

Where the fuck is everyone?

As if on cue, as if this whole fucking thing is a movie, as if I was cast in the leading role of a story no one bothered to write an ending for—the wind shifts, and suddenly, in the distance, appears a white Ford F-350. Dust blowin’ up behind it, catching sunlight in ways that make it look like somethin’ holy.

I squint my eyes, take a drag on the smoke, and watch as it screams into the parking lot like judgment day arriving early.

One day early.

The Ashby Ranch logo gleams on the door panel—a stylized "A" with barbed wire wrapped around it. In some places, money whispers. In Eastern Montana, money announces itself with chrome trim and custom wheels.

Cash Ashby skids the truck to a stop twenty feet away. The engine idles like it’s alive. Baring its teeth, waitin’ to bite. He kills it with a press of a button and the silence that follows feels deliberate, like a statement.

When the driver's door swings open, his boots hit gravel with a crunch that carries weight. And it’s not just a sound—it’s a fuckin’ proclamation. The kind that comes with land deeds, water rights, and bank accounts that never run dry.

Cash steps out, all six-four of him the product of pure Montana breeding just like the cattle he runs. His Stetson catches the morning June sun, brim pulled low, but not so low I can't see his eyes sizing me up.

What’s ol’ Legion been up to, that look says. How much has he changed. How far can I push him.

"Well goddamn, Kane. Three years looks good on you." His mouth lifts up at one corner—that half-smile that's gotten him out of bar fights and into bedroom windows across three counties. "Prison food must be better than they say."

My face plays it cool. Not because it can’t smile, it just kinda forgot how.

"Caaaaaash." I drag the word out slow, lettin’ my drawl thicken. "Thought the welcoming committee would have patches, not polo shirts."

Cash leans against his truck door, crossing one ostrich-leather boot over the other. Casual as a shiv between the ribs.

"So how was it really?" he asks, like he cares. "Life inside treating Legion Kane to all the amenities?"

I give him what he wants to hear. What men like Cash always want—stories that make them feel better about never having to find out for themselves.

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