Chapter 2
SHANE
The water from the showerhead is freezing, sharp needles of ice meant to shock the heat out of my blood. It isn’t working. Not when the fire is this deep. The itch is under the skin, buried in the marrow where the cold can’t reach.
I brace my hands against the black tile, head hanging low, breathing in ragged, angry gasps. My grip tightens until the scarred skin stretches over the bone. My body feels too big for this shower. Too violent for the domestic silence I’ve tried to maintain for my daughter.
And now, there’s a woman downstairs.
Bianca.
Even the name tastes like sugar and trouble.
I shut my eyes, but the image of her burns onto the back of my eyelids.
That chaotic yellow car, the ridiculous boots, the curves that looked soft enough to bruise.
When she stepped out of that vehicle, looking lost and defiant, something inside me—the wolf, the beast, the Sergeant at Arms—snapped a chain.
Attraction is simple. Attraction is a scratching post for an itch you handle at the clubhouse with a bottle of whiskey and a club girl who knows the rules.
This is recognition. A sledgehammer to the chest. My soul looked at hers and said, There you are. You’re late.
I groan, a low, guttural sound that vibrates in the small stall, and twist the handle. The silence that follows is heavy. I grab a towel, scrubbing it roughly over my wet hair, then down my chest, over the ink and the scars that map out a life of violence.
I shouldn’t have hired her. I should have terrified her, thrown cash at her for gas, and told her to get the hell off my mountain.
Tristan, my interfering prick of a brother, set this up.
He thinks Maddie needs a "feminine influence.
" He doesn't understand that bringing something soft into a house made of iron and bad memories is a recipe for disaster.
When I looked at her, standing there in the snow, trembling, with those wide, whiskey-colored eyes... I couldn’t send her away. The thought of another man looking at her, seeing that flush on her cheeks, has my hand twitching toward the Glock sitting on the sink counter.
She’s mine.
The realization is quiet, absolute, and terrifying. I haven't even touched her yet—not really—and I’m already planning where to bury anyone who tries to take her.
I wrap the towel around my waist and step out into the chilled air of the bathroom. The mirror is clear, reflecting the monster staring back with stark, unforgiving clarity. I don’t need steam to hide what I am; the scars tell the story well enough.
Dark eyes, hard jaw, the grim set of a mouth that forgot how to smile years ago.
"Get a grip, Shane," I mutter, my voice sounding like gravel grinding together.
I dress quickly. Jeans, worn soft at the thighs and knees.
A black t-shirt that strains across my shoulders.
I skip the cut. The leather vest with the Broken Halos MC patch stays on the hook by the door.
I don't need the patch to tell her who I am.
She knows. I saw the fear in her eyes. Good. She should be afraid.
I clip my knife to my belt and step out into the hallway.
The cabin is usually silent. A tomb of timber and stone. But today, a sound drifts up the stairs.
Laughter.
It stops me dead at the top of the landing. Maddie. My seven-year-old daughter, who has been walking around with the weight of her mother’s death on her tiny shoulders for two years, is giggling. The bright, bubbling sound claws at my heart.
I move down the stairs. The wood doesn't creak under my boots; I know exactly where to step. A skill learned from hunting—both animals in the Grizzly Peak wilderness and men in the city streets.
I stop in the shadow of the hallway, watching the kitchen.
Bianca is there. She’s taken off that heavy coat, revealing a sweater that hangs off one shoulder, exposing smooth, creamy skin that makes my mouth water.
She moves around my kitchen like she’s been there for years.
She pulls ingredients out of the fridge—things I didn't even know we had—and chops vegetables with a rhythm that speaks of capability.
Maddie sits on the counter. I have a strict rule about feet on the furniture. But she’s sitting there, swinging her legs, watching Bianca with wide, fascinated eyes.
"So, the yellow car is named Bumble?" Maddie asks.
"Short for Bumblebee," Bianca says, tossing a piece of red pepper into the air and catching it in her mouth. She grins, the expression transforming her face into pure sunshine. It lights up the dim, masculine kitchen. "Because she’s round and cute and sounds like she’s buzzing when I drive fast."
Maddie giggles again. "Daddy drives fast. But his bike sounds like a dragon."
Bianca pauses, her knife hovering over a cucumber. The smile falters.
"Dragons can be scary," Bianca says softly.
"Only if you steal their gold," I say, stepping into the light.
Bianca jumps, the knife clattering onto the cutting board. She spins around, her hand going to her throat. Her eyes widen, taking in my fresh clothes, my damp hair, the sheer size of me filling the doorway.
"Jesus," she breathes. "Do you have a bell? Or do you just enjoy giving people heart attacks?"
"I don't make noise unless I want to." I walk into the room. The kitchen suddenly feels very small. My presence sucks the air out of the space, turning the atmosphere thick.
Maddie’s smile dims a fraction, her eyes darting to me. I immediately soften my stance, forcing the Sergeant back into his cage so my daughter only sees her father. I’ve spent two years trying to be her shield, but I realize now I’ve been a shadow.
That stops today.
"Daddy, Bianca is making wraps! With faces on them!" Maddie holds up a tortilla that looks vaguely like a smiling face made of vegetables.
I look at the food, then at Bianca. She’s backed up against the counter, her hip pressing into the granite. She tries to lift her chin, but the pulse flutters wildly in the hollow of her throat. I want to put my mouth there. I want to taste that frantic rhythm.
"Faces," I repeat.
"Kids eat better when it’s fun," Bianca says, her voice trembling slightly but holding firm. "I found some turkey and cheese. And veggies. I hope that’s okay. You didn't leave a menu."
She’s sassy. I like it. I hate that I like it.
I walk past her to the fridge, forcing her to lean back to avoid touching me.
I don’t give her the space. I move into her personal bubble, invading her territory.
I smell her instantly—the heady lure of wild orchid, rain, and the unmistakable, pungent musk of a pussy that’s already drenched for me.
The scent of her arousal hits me harder than the ice-cold water did, my cock thickening and straining against my denim, throbbing with a primal demand to bury itself deep in her soaking heat and claim the pussy that’s already weeping for my touch.
I grab a bottle of water, taking my time, letting the silence stretch until it’s thin and brittle.
I turn back, leaning against the fridge, crossing my arms over my chest. I stare at her.
Dissecting her. Learning her. The way a stray curl falls over her eye.
The way her jeans hug hips made for gripping.
The way her fingers curl white-knuckled around the edge of the counter.
"Are you going to fire me for making lunch?" she asks.
"No." I take a long drink of water, watching her throat swallow dryly as she watches me. "But there are rules when it comes to Maddie."
“Rules?" she repeats. “More rules?”
"One," I say, holding up a finger. "Maddie doesn't go in the garage. Ever. That’s my workspace. It’s dangerous."
"Okay," Bianca says. "No garage."
"Two." My voice drops an octave. "You don't answer the door unless you know who it is. If you don't know the face, you don't open it. You call me."
Her brow furrows. "Is... is that a common problem? Strangers knocking in the middle of the woods?"
"I’m the Sergeant at Arms for the Broken Halos MC." I let the title hang in the air like a threat. "I have enemies. Some of them are stupid enough to come up here. You need to be smart."
She swallows hard, looking at Maddie, then back at me. I see the calculation in her eyes. She realizes this isn't just a nanny gig. This is a deployment. Most women would run. Most women would grab their purse and sprint for that yellow Beetle.
"Is Maddie safe?" she asks.
That question hits me in the gut.
"I keep her safe," I say, my voice rough. "That’s why I’m here. That’s why the windows are reinforced. That’s why you listen to me."
She holds my gaze. She has golden flecks in her irises. I could get lost in them.
"Okay," she whispers. "Rule three?"
I push off the fridge and take a step toward her. She doesn't retreat. She can’t. She’s trapped between the counter and the wall of muscle that is me. I stop inches from her, close enough to feel the heat radiating off her skin.
"Rule three," I murmur, pitching my voice into a low, vibrating rumble that I know she feels in her bones.
"You stay away from the eastern cliffs. The property line is marked.
You don't cross it. And don't forget my personal rule, Sunshine: stay out of my way, or you’ll find yourself pinned to the nearest flat surface while I remind you exactly who owns every inch of your body. "
"Why should I stay away from the eastern cliffs?"
"Because there are things in these mountains worse than me." A half-lie. The family on the eastern cliffs—the Costas—are dangerous, but we have a truce. I just don't want her wandering into their sights. I don't want anyone seeing her.
"Okay," she says, eyes wide. "No garage. Don't open the door. Stay away from the cliffs."
"Good girl."
The praise slips out before I can stop it. Her pupils blow wide, swallowing the gold. A flush creeps up her neck, staining her cheeks pink. The air between us crackles. I want to reach out and trace that blush with my thumb. I want to wreck her composure.