Savannah
The wipers on my rented SUV fight a losing battle against the whiteout. Their rhythmic scraping is the only sound left in a world gone dangerously still. I grip the steering wheel until my palms ache, staring into the blinding void.
Snow piles up on the hood. My lungs seize. The air turns brittle in my chest, forming a freezing mist in the cabin. I slam my palm against the driver’s side window in a burst of useless frustration.
Well, I’m definitely lost. And the silence is deafening.
My phone sits in the cup holder, a useless brick of glass and metal.
No Service.
The words mock me. I haven't seen another car in forty minutes. The heater blasts, but the engine temperature gauge has performed a terrifying dance for the last mile. With the sinking dread of a city girl way out of her depth, I know if the engine dies, I die.
I pull my faux-fur coat tighter around my chest. Stylish. Meant for après-ski cocktails at the lodge, not for survival in a blizzard in the Grizzly Peak District.
The engine gives one final, wheezing gasp. It shudders once and dies.
In the sudden, absolute silence, the only sound is the mournful howl of the wind and the soft, relentless hiss of snow piling against the car's glass windows. A nearby pine branch cracks under the weight, a sharp snap like a gunshot in the void.
I think back to earlier this afternoon, the safety and warmth of the Grand Pine Lodge.
I can still smell the expensive cedar and leather of the lobby.
I’d been checking in, distracted by the sheer opulence of the place, when a man’s voice cut through the ambient jazz.
He stood near the fireplace, back turned—a tall, imposing figure in a suit that cost more than my car.
"I don't care what they want." His voice was deep and steady, carrying the natural authority of a man used to being heard. "Tell them the conservation easement stands. We aren't developing that ridge."
The receptionist had frozen for a split second, eyes darting toward him—Lucas Sterling, the owner, she’d whispered later—before handing me my key card.
I should have stayed there. I should have ordered room service and stayed in my fluffy robe.
But no, I had to stop at that quaint coffee shop, Cozy Cup, where Mike, the owner, had poured me a latte and warned me about the weather.
"Storm's coming in fast, miss. And watch yourself up on the pass. The Gunnars run things on the mountain, but there's another group up on the eastern cliffs. Best keep to the main roads."
I didn't listen. I saw a patch of blue sky and thought I could beat the clouds. Now, the snow drifts halfway up the passenger door.
My throat constricts, air struggling to pass through. I’m going to freeze to death here. They’ll find me in the spring, a frozen popsicle of a travel blogger, clutching her DSLR camera.
Hot moisture stings my eyes. I squeeze them shut, trying to regulate my breathing. In for four, hold for four, out for four.
Then, a rumble.
Vibration hits the floorboards first, traveling through the soles of my boots. I open my eyes. Twin beams of light, yellow and piercing, slice through the swirling snow behind me. Set high. Too high for a car.
A massive black truck looms out of the white void like a prehistoric beast. Huge. Lifted on tires that look like they could crush my rental without slowing down. A heavy steel grille guard protects the front like a warrior’s shield.
It pulls up alongside me. The engine growl is deep and guttural, shaking my bones.
Breath rushes out of me in a ragged gasp. I fumble for the door handle, but the wind pressures against it. My frozen fingers slip.
The truck door opens. A pair of heavy black boots hits the snow.
I look up. And up. And up.
The man who steps out of the truck is a mountain himself.
Terrifyingly large, broad shoulders spanning the width of the storm, clad in black leather that seems to absorb the little light remaining in the world.
He doesn't hunch against the wind. He ignores it.
As if the elements wouldn't dare inconvenience him.
He stalks around the front of his truck toward my driver’s side door. He wears a leather vest—a 'cut,' I realize with a jolt of memory from Mike’s warning—over a thick thermal shirt straining against muscles visible even through the fabric. Patches on the leather. Broken Halos MC.
Fear spikes, warring with hope. This is one of them. The Gunnars. The kings of the mountain.
He reaches my door and rips it open. The metal latch might as well be cardboard. Wind howls into the cabin, bringing a flurry of snow and the scent of him—pine, exhaust, leather, and heavy, dark musk.
"Out."
His voice is a tectonic plate shifting. Deep. Rough. Scraping against my nerve endings.
I look up into his face. The roar of the blizzard fades to a dull thrum. The cold vanishes. There is only him.
A jaw carved from granite, covered in a thick, dark beard.
Rough to the touch. His hair is dark, wind-whipped, and wild.
A scar cuts through his face, giving him a perpetually dangerous expression.
But his eyes pin me to the seat. Dark, turbulent, burning with an intensity that feels like a physical touch.
He stares at me. His pupils dilate, swallowing the iris. He looks at me like a starving man who has just found a feast laid out in the snow.
My heart slams against my ribs, a frantic, trapped bird. A strange, hot current zips down my spine. A heavy throb ignites low in my belly, making my thighs instinctively press together. I should be terrified. This man is a predator. Everything about him screams danger. Giant. Biker. Brute.
But my soul doesn't scream run. My soul hums a vibration I’ve never felt in my twenty-four years. It whispers: Oh. There you are.
"My car died." My voice is a pathetic squeak.
He doesn't answer. His gaze drops, sweeping over me with tangible weight. He looks at my wide eyes, my trembling lips. Lower. To where my coat has fallen open. He stares at the swell of my breasts in my knit sweater. His jaw tightens. He isn't being polite. He’s assessing. Claiming.
He leans in. One massive hand grips the roof of my car, his bulk filling the doorway. The heat radiating off him is intoxicating.
"You shouldn't be here," he growls, eyes snapping back to mine. "Little thing like you. You'd freeze in an hour."
"I was just..." I trail off, unable to form a coherent sentence.
"Doesn't matter." He reaches in.
I flinch instinctively. He doesn't strike. His hand—calloused, scarred, enormous—wraps around my upper arm. Firm grip. Iron-hard. Shockingly gentle. He pulls. I unbuckle my seatbelt with shaking hands, my coordination failing.
"Come here," he commands.
I slide out of the car. My boots sink into the snow. As soon as I’m upright, the wind hits me, stealing my breath. I stumble, legs numb from the cold and the adrenaline crash.
I fall forward. I land against a wall of solid muscle.
He catches me. One arm bands around my waist, hauling me flush against his body. The impact knocks the air out of me. Rock hard everywhere. The hardness of his chest, the buckle of his belt pressing into my stomach, the sheer density of him.
I look up, craning my neck. The size difference is absurd. I’m not a small girl—curvy, hips that make buying jeans a nightmare—but next to him, I feel tiny. Delicate.
He looks down, face inches from mine. Snow catches in his beard, melting against the heat of his skin. His nostrils flare as he inhales. Smelling me. My sweat. My shampoo. My skin.
"Mine."
The word is a dark, heavy weight exhaled against my skin. It travels through his chest and into mine, settling deep in my marrow.
"What?" I whisper.
He doesn't repeat it. He shifts his grip.
In one fluid motion, he sweeps me off my feet, lifting me into his arms as if I weigh nothing more than a snowflake.
I gasp, wrapping my arms around his thick neck to steady myself.
The leather of his cut is cold and slick under my fingers. The man beneath it is infernal.
"Car's dead," he says, turning toward his truck. "You're coming with me."
"My luggage." My protest is weak. "My camera."
"I'll get it later. Right now, you need heat."
He carries me to the passenger side of his monster truck.
He opens the door one-handed, balancing me effortlessly, then deposits me onto the leather seat.
He leans in to buckle me up. For a second, he’s everywhere—his scent surrounding me, beard brushing my cheek, massive arm grazing my breasts as he pulls the belt across.
Sharp, electric heat zips to my chest. My nipples ache against the lace of my bra. I’ve never reacted to a man like this. I’ve dated boring, safe accountants who asked permission to hold my hand. I’m a virgin, waiting for... something. I didn't know what I was waiting for until this very second.
I was waiting for the storm.
He pulls back. Dark eyes lock onto mine one last time. He slams the door.
Sealed in.
He walks around the front of the truck, a dark shadow against the headlights. I watch him. My pulse hammers a frantic rhythm against my ribs. Thump-thump-thump.
He climbs into the driver’s seat. The storm follows him in for a brief second before he shuts it out. The cab is warm, smelling of him and old tobacco. He shifts into gear, the stick shift disappearing in his huge hand.
We move. Tires crunch over the snow, gripping where my rental failed.
I risk a glance at him. Severe profile illuminated by the dash lights. He grips the steering wheel with relaxed power, forearms flexing as he navigates the treacherous road.
"I'm Savannah," I say softly. The silence stretches too thin.
He doesn't look at me. "I know."
I blink. "You... you know?"
"Saw you," he says, voice gravelly. "In town. At the lodge."
He saw me? I rack my brain. I never saw him. If I had seen a man like this, I would have remembered. I would have walked into a wall.
"I didn't see you."