Chapter 4
SHANE
The rain hammers against the roof of the cabin like bullets, a relentless rhythm that usually helps me sleep. Tonight, it just sounds like noise. Static in a radio line I can’t clear.
I gave up on rest two hours ago. My bed felt like a cage, sheets tangling around my legs, the silence of the room amplifying the roar of blood in my ears.
Insomnia is nothing new. I’m the Sergeant at Arms. My job requires seeing threats before they manifest, anticipating violence before the first punch lands.
My mind doesn’t shut off just because the sun goes down.
The club feels a million miles away. The Costa family threat on the eastern cliffs fades into background noise. Only the woman sleeping down the hall matters.
Bianca.
Even thinking her name makes my jaw ache. Three days since she arrived with her bright colors and city scent, infiltrating my fortress of solitude like a virus I have no antibody for. Too loud. Too soft. Too much.
I roll out of bed. The cold hardwood floor bites my bare feet.
I don’t bother with a shirt. The air in the cabin is chilly, the storm outside dropping the temperature, but my skin feels feverish.
I need water. I need to patrol the perimeter.
I need to do something other than stare at the ceiling and imagine what she looks like under that quilt I gave her.
I grab my Glock from the nightstand—habit, not necessity, though the line blurs often in my life—and tuck it into the waistband of my sweatpants.
I move silently into the hallway. Floorboards don’t creak under my weight; I know exactly where to step.
I’ve memorized every inch of this house, every weakness, every angle of fire.
I pause outside her door.
I shouldn’t stop. Walking away, checking the locks, and drinking a glass of ice water until my brain freezes over would be the rational move. My boots root to the spot instead. The soft rhythm of her breathing drifts through the wood. Faint, but my senses are tuned to her frequency now. Maddening.
Go, my brain commands.
Stay, the beast in my chest growls.
I force myself to move, descending the stairs into the darkness of the living room. Embers in the fireplace have died down to a dull, throbbing orange glow, casting twisted shadows across the rug.
Rounds complete. Front door: locked. Deadbolt engaged. Windows: secured. Back door: locked. The security system panel glows a reassuring green. The house is a fortress. Nothing gets in.
The problem isn’t what’s outside. The danger stands right here in the kitchen, staring at the empty coffee pot.
I freeze in the archway.
She’s not in her room. She’s here.
Bianca stands by the kitchen island, illuminated only by the small light above the stove and the occasional flash of lightning from the window.
Her back is to me. She wears one of those oversized t-shirts that hangs off her shoulder, the fabric thin and worn, reaching down to her mid-thighs.
Below that, she’s bare. Legs that go on for miles, pale and creamy in the dim light, ending in socks with little cartoon bears on them.
Ridiculous. Innocent. It hits me in the gut like a sledgehammer.
She hums a low, soft melody that drifts through the heavy air, weaving around my defenses. She reaches up to a high cabinet, stretching onto her tiptoes. The movement pulls the hem of her shirt up an inch, revealing the curve of her backside, the soft indentation of her waist.
My vision tunnels. That familiar red haze washes over me, not with aggression, but hunger. Pure, unadulterated, predatory hunger.
Common decency dictates I clear my throat or announce my presence.
I stalk forward instead.
I move into the kitchen, the predator in me taking over. I pull out the gun and quietly place it on top of the fridge. She doesn’t notice me until I’m three feet away, until my shadow eclipses her light.
She spins around, a small gasp escaping her lips, clutching a mug to her chest. Her eyes go wide, pupils dilating instantly as they lock onto mine.
"Jesus, Shane!" she breathes. I can hear her heart rate spiking. I can almost taste the adrenaline flooding her blood. "You really need to stop doing that".
"You shouldn't be down here," I grate out. My voice sounds rough, scraped over gravel, deeper than usual because of the hour and the tension.
She blinks, recovering quickly. That’s the thing about Bianca—she’s resilient. Most people cower when I loom over them. She straightens her spine.
"I couldn't sleep," she says, her grip on the mug relaxing. "The storm. I came down for some tea". She glances at my chest, gaze lingering on the scars, the ink, the heavy muscle, before darting back up to my face. A flush rises on her cheeks. "Why are you stalking around in the dark?".
"I don't stalk," I lie. "I patrol. It's my house".
"Right. Your territory," she mocks, turning back to the kettle. She tries to play it cool, but I see the tremor in her hand as she reaches for the tea bag.
She wrecks my fucking control. And the little brat knows exactly what she’s doing to me.
I step closer. I should get out of here, go to the garage, or hit something—anything but this. But I want her too much to stay away. I can't look at her without wanting to take her right here.
"I told you to lock your door," I say, my voice dropping an octave.
She stiffens but doesn't turn around. "I did. I unlocked it to come down here".
"You shouldn't be wandering around at night, Bianca".
"Why?" She spins around again, leaning back against the counter, trapping herself. "Are you afraid I'm going to paint the walls yellow? Or maybe uncover some dark MC secret in the cookie jar?".
Her sarcasm is a shield. I want to smash it.
I plant my hands on the granite countertop on either side of her hips, boxing her in.
The air in the kitchen instantly becomes too thin, too hot.
The space between us evaporates. I’m massive compared to her—my shoulders block out the rest of the room, my height forcing her to crane her neck to look me in the eye.
"I'm not worried about the walls," I growl, leaning down until my face is inches from hers.
Her scent hits me full force now. Exotic wild orchid, rain, and a primal warmth. It bypasses my rational brain and goes straight to the primitive stem that only knows want.
"Then what?" she challenges, though her voice is barely a whisper.
Her chest heaves, the thin shirt straining over her tits. Her nipples are hard, poking against the fabric, and I can smell that she is already slick and pulsing for me, her pussy leaking through the thin cotton of that shirt.
"I'm worried about what happens when I find you like this," I say, my voice sounding like gravel. "Half-naked and smelling like you're ready to be fucked. Smelling like you're already drenched and waiting for my cock to stretch you out."
"I'm not half-naked," she argues, glancing down at her shirt. "And I don't think I own a single inch of my own body anymore. You've made it very clear who's in charge of every breath I take under this roof."
"Damn right".
I look at her. Really look at her. Her hair is a messy riot of curls, tumbling over one shoulder. Her lips are parted, pink and swollen, begging to be bitten. Her eyes are dark pools of desire mirroring my own.
Running would be the smart choice for her. Pushing me away, terrified of the scarred, violent man cornering her in the dark. She leans toward me instead.
That small movement snaps the last thread of my control.
"You have no idea what you're doing," I murmur, my gaze dropping to her mouth.
"Maybe I do," she breathes.
The defiance in her eyes is the spark that lights the fuse.
I don't think. I react.
One of my hands leaves the counter and wraps around the back of her neck, fingers tangling in her hair, gripping tight enough to control but not enough to hurt.
I tilt her head back to get at her throat, then slam my mouth onto hers. It’s messy and hard, the agony of wanting her after that first kiss finally boiling over.
I take her mouth like I own it, forcing my tongue past her teeth to claim what’s mine. I don't give her a choice but to take me.
She tastes like peppermint tea and sweetness. She tastes like mine.
Bianca makes a noise in the back of her throat—a whimper that vibrates against my lips—and melts against me. Her hands come up, tentatively at first, then clutching at my bare shoulders, fingers digging into my skin. She doesn't fight. She meets me.
I groan and press myself against her. She’s small compared to me, all soft curves against my muscle.
I shove her back against the counter and step between her legs, my heavy cock pressing against her through my sweatpants, hard as iron.
She’s soaking wet, and I can feel the heat of her pussy dripping right through her shirt, branding my thighs with her scent.
I’m hard as iron, and the pressure is starting to hurt.
I want to lift her onto the counter and rip that shirt off.
I want to spread her legs wide and bury my cock so deep she forgets everything but me.
I kiss her jaw, her neck, sucking a bruise onto the sensitive skin right below her ear. Marking her. Every man in this town needs to look at her and see my claim.
"You're mine," I growl against her skin, the words vibrating through her. "You understand that? You don't look at the others. You don't smile at the rescue boys. You're mine".
"Shane...". She arches her back, pressing her breasts against my chest. Her hands are in my hair now, pulling me closer, fueling the fire. "Yes. God, yes".
The surrender in her voice is nearly my undoing. Taking her right here, on the kitchen island, would be so easy. Satisfy the hunger that’s been clawing at my insides.
Lightning flashes, illuminating the kitchen in a stark, white burst.
I see our reflection in the dark window across the room. A massive, tattooed beast of a man devouring a small, soft woman. Dangerous. I look like the thing I’ve spent my life protecting people from.
I freeze.
What the hell am I doing?.
She’s the nanny. Innocent. She’s here to bring light into Maddie’s life, not to be dragged into the darkness of mine. If I take her, there’s no going back. I’ll ruin her. I’ll pull her into the club’s orbit, into the crosshairs of people like the Costas.
And I won't ever be able to let her go.
I tear myself away from her, breathing heavy, chest heaving like I’ve just run a marathon up the mountain.
Bianca stumbles slightly without my support, gripping the counter behind her. Her lips are red and swollen, hair wild, chest rising and falling rapidly. She looks thoroughly ravished.
She looks beautiful.
I take a step back, putting distance between us before I lose my resolve and grab her again. My hands shake. I clench them into fists at my sides.
"Go to bed," I say. My voice is unrecognizable. Harsh. Guttural.
She blinks, dazed, hand coming up to touch her lips. "Shane?".
"Go to bed, Bianca," I snap, louder this time. I need her to leave. I need her gone before I throw her over my shoulder and carry her upstairs. "Now".
She recoils as if I've struck her, hurt flashing in her eyes before she masks it with confusion. She straightens her shirt, pulling it down over her thighs, trying to regain some dignity.
"Okay," she whispers.
She moves toward the doorway, giving me a wide berth. Her scent washes over me one last time as she passes, taunting me.
She stops at the archway and looks back. "You can't just... do that, and then shut down".
I turn to face her, letting her see the darkness in my eyes. Letting her see the monster. "I can do whatever I want. This is my house. You play by my rules".
"That didn't feel like a rule," she says softly, voice trembling but brave. "That felt real".
"This wasn't a mistake, but it’s a warning," I growl, letting the brutal truth settle between us. "I’m a violent man, Bianca, and right now, I’m the biggest threat to your safety.
Get to your room, lock the door, and don't open it again tonight, or I'll turn into a beast that wants to tear your clothes off. "
She holds my gaze, searching for something—tenderness, maybe, or a shred of the 'good man' she wants me to be. She won't find it. I killed him a long time ago.
She turns and runs up the stairs.
I listen to her footsteps, light and quick, until I hear the soft click of her bedroom door closing. Then the slide of the lock.
Good.
I turn back to the counter, gripping the edge until the stone threatens to crack under the pressure. Cold granite does nothing to cool the fire in my blood. I look down at my sweatpants, at the visible evidence of how much I want her.
"Fuck," I hiss into the silence.
I walk to the sink and splash icy water onto my face, scrubbing at my skin as if I can wash away the feel of her. It doesn’t work. Her taste is branded on my tongue. Her scent is embedded in my pores.
I check the back door again, rattling the handle aggressively. Locked. Everything is locked tight.
But the defense has already been breached.
I pace the living room, the energy too high to contain. Calling Logan crosses my mind. Going to the clubhouse and hitting the heavy bag until my hands bleed seems like a viable option. But I can’t leave. I can’t leave her here alone.
She was right. More than a kiss. A claiming.
I meant what I said. She is mine. I’ve marked her now. And even though I pushed her away tonight, the clock is ticking. I can only hold the beast back for so long.
I walk over to the window and stare out at the storm. The pines thrash in the wind, bending but not breaking.
Up on the eastern cliffs, I know the Costas are watching. They’re always watching. They know the MC is vulnerable when we have civilians close. They know about Maddie. If they find out about Bianca….
My hand drifts to the grip of the Glock in my waistband.
Let them come.
Let them try to touch what belongs to me.
I’ll burn the whole mountain down before I let anyone hurt her.