Gone Wild (Wild Hearts #1)

Chapter 1

Lucien

The cabin has changed since the last time I was here.

Last time, it was a ramshackle assortment of logs that had been stacked on top of each other.

A rudimentary dwelling that was no more than a step up from a tent in the woods.

A space that tested the very limits of my ability to present myself as laid-back and outdoorsy.

Two years ago, three days up here in the mountains saw me ending my trip a day early, and rushing back to city lights and civilization as fast as I could.

It took a very long, very hot candlelit bath, a large glass of wine, and an overnight collagen facemask to bring me back to a semblance of myself.

Even then, it took a few days and several double rinses to shampoo the smell of flannel and pine needles from my hair.

In the lead-up to this trip, Jensen assured me ad nauseam that the cabin had undergone extensive renovations.

It’s the only reason I even entertained the idea of coming back.

He was elaborate in his praise, but he’s prone to exaggeration, so honestly, I wasn’t expecting anything quite on this scale.

The living spaces have been gutted. Walls torn down to reveal a vast open-concept space with high ceilings.

The dark timber that clad everything before—and I really, really do mean everything—is gone.

So are the pokey windows. Wide bleached oak boards now run seamlessly from floor to ceiling and large black-framed windows give the space a sleek, modern feel.

From what I can see, most of the furniture is new too. That, along with vaulted ceilings I never noticed before, makes the place feel spacious and a lot bigger than it did.

I shuck off my shoes at the entrance and head toward the bedrooms in my socks, rolling my luggage behind me.

Bill, the taxi driver who brought me up here, had a lot to say about how many bags I packed for a long weekend. He was one of those alphas who had a lot to say about a lot of things. When he wasn’t complaining about my luggage, he was banging on about the road and the weather.

Small-town people can be so dramatic about the weather, can’t they? Ugh, it’s exhausting. I think it’s because so little happens in their lives that they fixate on seasonal changes as a source of entertainment.

Anyway, I’m here now, and that’s the main thing.

I make my way down the hall, poking my head into each of the bedrooms leading off it.

There are four of them, a small one at the end of the hall that Jensen said he’d take, and three others that are similar in terms of size and décor.

It’s nice because it means Paul won’t be able to complain about the room he gets.

I put my bags in the one with a nice view of the forest and sit on the bed to catch my breath.

There’s a chance Bill was right about my luggage.

Still, better to be prepared than sorry when you’re willfully heading into the middle of nowhere. That’s what I always say.

I check my phone, feeling mildly perplexed when I don’t see the Bad Bitches Getaway group chat at the top of the list. My friends have been messaging about the trip nonstop for weeks, so it’s unusual not to have unread messages pop up.

They must be en route. Poor things. They’re probably having a nightmare finding a driver who can be assed to drive them up here this late in the day.

Bill was definitely reluctant to make the trip, and it was early afternoon when we left the station.

Hopefully, they’re able to find a driver who’s a little less work-shy.

I’d have waited for them if I’d known they were going to be late, but I have a long history of being the one who’s late. We have an agreement in our friend group that they’ll travel together while I make my own way, so I don’t keep everyone waiting.

It’s a strange feeling to be early. Not bad, but not nice enough that I can see what all the fuss is about.

I’m not really sure what to do with myself.

Maybe I should unpack.

Nah. Might have a little nap instead.

A husky voice infiltrates my dreams, startling me. “Lucien, is that you?”

He’s on the porch when I get there. A solid wall of testosterone.

A brick shithouse of a man. Branson Lawlor, Jensen’s older brother.

A dusty-blond alpha with an old-fashioned face and an imposing aura.

He’s wearing a heavy brown jacket, jeans, and a flannel shirt.

Obviously, he’s wearing a flannel shirt.

I was bored at work once and decided to compare all the times I’ve seen him and the number of times I’ve seen him wearing a flannel, and as suspected, the two numbers were one and the same.

I told Paul, and we had a good laugh about it.

Branson scrapes mud and sleet off his work boots, studying me with what looks like a fairly big question mark.

When he’s satisfied with the state of his boots, he dips his head and enters the cabin, straightening once inside. My head tilts back as I meet his gaze.

He’s tall. I’ll give him that.

“How did you know it was me?” I ask to make conversation more than anything else.

Branson is one of those people who’s not particularly easy to be around.

He’s difficult to talk to. Hard to draw out.

He has a very big, obvious presence, if you know what I mean.

A presence that takes up a lot of space.

He never makes any real effort to insert himself into our group, and I think he prefers hovering around the periphery and keeping to himself.

It’s not that he’s a bad guy. I’m not saying that. He’s fine. He’s perfectly fine. Jensen swears and declares he’s the greatest big brother anyone’s ever had. Jensen’s an omega too, and he dated me for over a year way back when, so he’s obviously an excellent judge of character.

“Just a feeling.” As he says it, his nostrils flare slightly.

It’s a faint, microscopic reaction. Almost undetectable. I’d miss it if not for the fact that I’ve seen countless alphas react the same way in the past.

Ah. That’s right.

He smelled me. Even though it’s been months since I last saw him, Branson didn’t have to open the front door or step into the cabin to know it was me. All he had to do was breathe in.

I cringe as hard as I possibly can without allowing my face to reflect the emotion.

Lovely. Just lovely.

Branson knows me by scent.

“What are you doing here?” he asks.

I’m momentarily taken aback by the brusqueness of his tone, so I perform some quick mental gymnastics to make sure I haven’t got my dates wrong—it’s happened to me before, so it’s not impossible—but no, I spoke to Jensen and Paul about the trip on Monday.

They ended the call with a cheery, “See you this weekend.”

The trip is this weekend. I’m exactly where I’m supposed to be when I’m supposed to be here.

Perhaps there’s been some sort of miscommunication between the brothers.

Gosh. Maybe Jensen didn’t tell Branson we’d be using the cabin.

Quite a big oversight, really, because Branson owns the cabin, but far be it from me to cast judgment on their family dynamics.

“I’m not sure whether Jensen mentioned it, but it’s the Bad Bitches Getaway this weekend,” I explain.

Branson looks at me blankly, heavy brows creeping down low and causing a deep line to form between them. “The getaway was canceled.”

“What do you mean the getaway was canceled?” I exclaim a lot louder than I was expecting to. “We’ve been planning it for months. Why would it be canceled?”

“Um…” He looks at me for a beat and gestures broadly to the massive picture window framing the seating area. “Because of the weather.”

See what I mean about small-town people and the weather?

Not that Branson’s from here. He lives and works in the city, but he’s up here almost every weekend, so he’s probably caught the weather fixation from his neighbors. People around here are obsessed with it. I’m pretty sure it’s a kink for some of them. They probably get off on talking about it.

I’m about to tell him so, when I look outside.

I must have napped for longer than I thought I did because it’s almost dark now.

The light frosting of snow that was coming down when I got here is a thing of the past. It’s dumping now, coming down in sheets, thick wads landing silently.

The landscape was varied in color, throwing up greens and browns on the drive here. Now it features one color only.

White.

Snow white.

Pieces of a puzzle fall slowly into place.

Oh shit!

I know what happened. I was at work, and the group chat was insane.

Seriously, it was insane. I couldn’t get a thing done.

Everyone was messaging like crazy. Alerts were popping up every few seconds.

They were messaging about food, alcohol, and who should bring what.

Paul was sending recipe links, and Jensen was replying with meme after meme.

It was distracting the hell out of me, so I muted the chat.

I meant to turn it back on when I got home.

I dig my phone out of my pocket and unmute the chat as Branson watches, arms crossed over his chest. Sure enough, there are a hundred and thirty-eight unread messages. I scroll through the most recent ones, and find, with a sinking heart, that it’s official: I’m the only bad bitch on this getaway.

“Ha-ha,” I say, enunciating the words instead of actually laughing. It’s a lackluster attempt at using humor to deflect from my embarrassment that falls flat. “Looks like I missed a few important messages, huh?”

Branson neither agrees nor disagrees. He just looks at me like I’m a blithering idiot.

Ordinarily, a look like that would royally piss me off, and alpha or not, I’d let him have it. Given the circumstance, I choose to let it go. Sometimes you have to be the bigger man. Rise above it, and all that.

I put my phone back in my pocket and rub my hands together. “So,” I say, “guess I’m here for the night.”

It’s a disaster. An absolute disaster. I don’t know this man anywhere near well enough to be trapped in the middle of nowhere with him. I mean, yes, things have changed, but being stuck alone in a cabin with an unmated alpha overnight is still far from my idea of a good time.

Branson blinks at me slowly. “You really don’t check the weather, do you?”

“Hmm,” I reply when I find myself unable to muster the energy required for another ha-ha.

I take my phone out of my pocket again and open the weather app.

It takes a while to load because, in truth, there are a few outstanding updates.

I don’t mention it to Branson, choosing instead to check my fingers for hangnails.

When the app finally opens, it’s not working.

Ugh. The goddamn middle of nowhere. Nothing works this far from civilization.

Instead of a five-day forecast, the bloody app is showing the weather for the same day over and over.

Wait.

Oh God.

No!

“A blizzard!?” My voice has a screechy, unhinged quality to it that I don’t like at all.

“Yeah, a whiteout.”

He looks nonplussed about the situation, and that buoys me. It’s one night. How bad can it be? He’s Jensen’s brother. He’s known to me. It’s not like he’s going to drag me off by the hair or anything.

It’ll be fine.

“Fine,” I say with a very nonchalant wave. “That’s absolutely fine. I’ll just have to, uh, be here tomorrow, and I’ll head home the day after. I mean, how long does it actually snow for during a whiteout? Four or five hours…a day, at most?”

Branson’s expression is a straight line that gives me the impression I’ve got it very, very wrong. “It’s forecast to be a bad storm. Worst one we’ve had in years. It’s going to come down on and off for the next three days.”

“Three days!?” The unhinged quality is back, and this time with a lot more vengeance.

He plants a know-it-all hand on his hip. “That’s the least of your problems.”

“The least of my problems,” I parrot back.

“Yeah, the biggest issue you’re gonna have is the bridge.”

“The bridge?”

“Jameson Bridge. You crossed it on your way up here.”

I did cross it. It was old and narrow and hardly looked fit to bear the weight of the vehicle. I remember because Bill swore viciously as he navigated it.

“W-what’s wrong with the bridge?” I ask weakly.

“It’s low-lying,” he explains with an unbothered shrug. “It gets iced over in inclement weather. Takes a while to thaw.”

With that, he heads to the fireplace, arranges a stack of kindling and logs with the kind of expertise typically exhibited by cavemen, and lights the fire.

I flop down on the sofa as flames flicker to life.

I lace my fingers together and place them neatly on my lap, looking steadfastly at my hands until I’m able to summon the courage required to ask my next question.

“How long is a while?” I say when I can.

He looks back at me, tilting his head from side to side, bunching the corner of his lips to one side as he does it. “’Bout a week. Maybe more.”

Thank God I’m sitting down, that’s all I can say. If I weren’t, my legs would have given out for sure.