Savannah #2
He shoots me a glance. Quick. Burning. "Good. If you had, I would have taken you then."
My mouth drops open. The air in the cab thickens, charged with static. "Taken me?"
"Off the market," he corrects.
The hunger in his tone suggests the first interpretation was the correct one.
"You don't belong in that lodge, Savannah. Too many vultures."
"I... I have a reservation," I stammer, grasping for my usual confidence. "If you could just drop me off there, I'd really appreciate it. I can pay you for the rescue."
He laughs. A dark, dry sound devoid of humor. "Your money's no good here. And we aren't going to the lodge."
I stiffen. "Where are we going?"
He turns the truck off the main road. A narrower track winds deeper into the darkness of the forest. Trees press in closer. Ancient pines laden with snow. We head up. Toward Grizzly Peak. Toward the territory Mike warned me about.
"The road back to town is blocked," he states.
I want to believe he’s exaggerating. But the wall of white burying my rental car proved him right. The mountain has closed its gates. This man—this brute—is the only one with the key.
"My place is closer. You'll stay there until the storm breaks."
"Your place?" My voice rises an octave. "I don't even know your name."
He slows the truck as the terrain roughens. He turns his head fully toward me. In the dim light, his scars look deeper, his eyes darker. A king deciding the fate of a trespasser.
"Logan."
The name lands heavy in my stomach. Logan Gunnar. The President.
"You're the President," I whisper. "Of the MC."
One eyebrow raises. A flicker of surprise crosses his face. "Did your homework."
"The guy at the coffee shop..."
"Mike talks too much." Logan turns back to the road, jaw setting. "Don't worry about the patch, Savannah. You're safer with me than you are anywhere else on this mountain."
"Why?" The question hangs in the air. Why me? Why help? Why look at me like you want to devour me whole?
He maneuvers the truck up a steep incline, engine roaring. Finally, as the silhouette of a large, timber-framed cabin comes into view through the snow, he speaks.
"Because I found you," he says simply. "Possession is nine-tenths of the law. And on this mountain, it's the only law that matters."
He kills the engine. The silence returns, different now. We aren't stranded in the middle of nowhere. We are parked in front of a dark, secluded cabin, miles from civilization.
He unbuckles. The metal clasp release is loud in the quiet cab. He shifts, draping one arm over the steering wheel to face me. The leather of his cut creaks.
"You scared?"
I look at his hands—huge, capable of violence. I look at his mouth—full lips hidden in that beard. Lips that look like they could bruise.
"Yes," I admit.
"Good." He nods. Satisfaction darkens his eyes. "Fear keeps you sharp. But you don't need to be scared of me."
He reaches out. His hand hovers near my face. I hold my breath. He brushes his thumb over my cheekbone, catching a stray tear. His skin is rough, creating friction against my softness. Electric. It zaps straight down to my core. My thighs clench.
"I'd never hurt what's mine," he murmurs, eyes tracking the path of his thumb. "And make no mistake, Savannah. The second I saw you in that snow... the second I pulled you out of that car..."
He leans in. Breath hot on my lips.
"You became mine."
My heart threatens to beat out of my chest. Insane. Stockholm Syndrome in record time. Every stranger-danger warning my mother ever gave me.
But when he pulls back and opens his door, inviting the cold in again, I don't hesitate.
"Come on," he orders. "Let's get you warm."
I scramble out of the truck. Boots crunch in the snow. He’s there instantly. He scoops me up, holding me high against his chest. I wrap my legs around his waist this time, instinct taking over. I bury my face in the crook of his neck, inhaling him.
Winter. Danger. Home.
He carries me up the steps to the cabin, kicking the snow off his boots. He unlocks the heavy wooden door and carries me across the threshold.
He kicks the door shut. The world is gone.
Inside, it’s dark and freezing, but dry. He walks through the darkness with the confidence of a predator in his den. He sets me down on a soft, leather sofa.
"Stay," he commands.
I curl my legs under me. My teeth chatter. Adrenaline fades, letting the cold seep back into my bones.
He moves around. The strike of a match is followed by the crackle of dry kindling. A stone fireplace roars to life, casting dancing orange shadows across the room.
The light reveals the cabin. Masculine. Sparse but expensive. Taxidermy on the walls—a stag, a bear. Heavy wooden furniture. And Logan, standing by the fire, stripping off his leather cut.
He tosses the vest onto a chair and turns to face me.
Without the bulk of the leather, he’s even more intimidating.
His thermal shirt clings to a chest broad and thick with muscle.
Arms like tree trunks. He rolls up his sleeves, revealing tattoos—black ink, tribal designs, skulls, and roses winding up his forearms.
He walks toward me, firelight catching the glint in his eyes.
"You're shaking."
"I'm c-cold."
He stops in front of me, blocking the fire, casting me in his shadow. Gaze heavy. Possessive.
"We need to get those wet clothes off." He states it as a cold fact.
My breath hitches. "I..."
"Don't fight me on this, Savannah," he rumbles, dropping to one knee in front of me.
Eye level now. His sheer size overwhelms me. His knees spread wide, encompassing mine. He reaches out and takes my hands. His palms are furnaces. He rubs my fingers, bringing circulation back.
"I'm not going to touch you," he says, voice dropping to a rough whisper. "Not like that. Not yet."
Not yet. The promise hangs in the air. Thick. Heavy.
"But you're freezing. And I need you warm. I need you healthy."
"Why?" Desperate for an answer that makes sense.
He looks at my hands in his. He turns my palm over, tracing the lifeline with his thumb. The sensation is almost too much to bear.
"Because." He looks up, dark eyes locking onto mine. "I've been waiting a long time for you to show up on my mountain."
He releases my hands and stands up, towering over me once more.
"Strip."
The command brooks no argument.
"I'll get you a blanket and some whiskey. If those clothes aren't off when I get back, I'll take them off for you."
He turns toward the kitchen, leaving me breathless, terrified, and aching with a need I don't understand.
I look at the fire, then at the retreating back of the beast who just saved my life. My hands go to the hem of my coat.
My fingers tremble, but not just from the cold. I manage to shrug out of the damp faux-fur, but when I reach for my sweater, my stiff fingers refuse to move.
I am trapped in a blizzard with the President of the Broken Halos MC. I am miles from civilization. I am completely at his mercy.
But if this is my prison, I’m not sure I want to escape.
End of preview. Continue Reading Trapped by the President here.