Jealousy Lumberjack (Jealous & Possessive #5)

1. Knox

KNOX

M ornings like this are what I live for.

The rising sun kissing my bare back, warming the sweat collecting there.

The sound of my axe splitting clean through a log is better than any goddamn therapy.

It’s sharp. Final. Clean.

That’s why I do it first thing every morning, just as the sun claws its way over the spine of Eagle’s Crown. That’s what I call my mountain.

To the tourists down in town, ten miles east, it’s a picture postcard—peaks that blush pink at dawn, forests that roll out like a green sea, and a lake that shines silver whenever the moon hits it.

But they don’t know the real heart or soul of it.

The hidden cliffs that shear straight down into nothing.

The pines that twist into snarled fists where the wind’s strongest.

They only imagine the cougars that prowl the lower trails, the black bears that roam the midlands.

And up here at the top?

Me. Knox Hunter.

The most dangerous animal of all.

I sink the axe into another log and revel in the shock that runs up through my arms. I don’t drink or smoke. Don’t touch the powdered or pill-shaped shit that ruined every last Hunter before me.

Once upon a time, adrenaline and adoration were my vices.

Now it’s wood. Splitting, stacking, sweating. It burns the itch out of my blood and keeps my mind steady when the dark gets too loud.

Some men need a bottle. Some need a needle.

Me? I needed the fight. The pain.

I used to get it under bright lights, in front of tens of thousands with ropes under my hands, sweat on my shoulders and faces screaming my name.

The Grizzly.

That was me. Six-foot-eight, scarred, brutal, chewing up and spitting out anyone they put in front of me. Made the kinds of millions that brought out the bottom-feeders and parasites.

I loved every second of it. Until I didn’t.

Because crowds are liars. Friends even worse. And women? Fuck, don’t get me started.

I spit in the dirt, jaw flexing, growl building at the back of my throat.

The blade whistles down again, splitting oak with a crack that echoes off the ridge.

I pause for a moment, breathe in lungfuls of cleansing air. Gather back my control, shake away memories of the crap I left behind, and remind myself why I’m here.

Eagle’s Crown doesn't lie.

She’ll kill you if you don’t respect her, but she won’t smile while she does it. She’s honest, wears no mask and knows no betrayal. Just her stark truth. That’s why I bought her outright the second I cut ties with the WWE machine eight years ago.

She’s mine.

Every stone, every tree, every shadow.

And I don’t share.

The pile of logs at my feet is already waist-high. My shirt’s been stripped since the first swing, sweat sliding down my back and chest.

My hands are leathered, scarred from more than splinters. My body’s carved the way it was back in the ring, but thicker now. Harder. Not trained for show under the Vegas lights, but for survival.

I live alone.

I eat alone.

I sleep alone.

Five years celibate. Eight years without stepping off this mountain for more than supplies. And you know what? That’s fine.

Women have come up here, sure. Groupie types who thought they’d tame The Grizzly with spread legs and false promises. At the beginning I took what I needed before I sent every last one packing.

These days I don’t even let them close.

Because I know myself.

I’ve got the same goddamn wiring as my father, his father, all of them. Addictive. Obsessive. A switch flips, and suddenly it’s not a drink or a needle in my blood—it’s a woman. A single scent, a soft body, and I’d tear myself open just to keep it close.

So I don’t touch and I don’t taste and astonishingly I shed that addiction too.

I grip the axe, swing hard, and watch another log split quicker than a twenty-dollar whore’s thighs. Not that I know what that looks like, of course. My tastes ran a little more expensive once upon a time. Until even that was cheapened with betrayal.

A low growl rumbles free, and I’m irritated with myself all over again for my inability to throttle my memories the way I throttled my opponents in the ring.

From up here, I can see the town. Little dots of rooftops clinging to the valley and smoke curling from chimneys, morning light catching church steeples. Pretty from a distance. Poison up close.

I know. I came from places like that. Grew up hearing bottles smash against walls, fists smash into skin and lies slurred through teeth. I was lucky enough to claw my way out, build a name, build a body too damn big to break.

And unlucky enough to find out names mean nothing when the people you trust are rotten at the core.

I roll my shoulders, plant another log. My heartbeat is steady, a heavy drum.

This is my life now. Steel traps around my property lines, a rifle on the porch, shelves stocked for winter. Anyone who steps foot past my boundaries will regret it. I’ve got snares, tripwires, things most people wouldn’t recognize until it’s too late.

Because the one thing Eagle’s Crown gives me more than peace?

Control. Stability. Honesty .

I lift the axe again, swing down, and the crack of splitting wood carries through the trees. A hawk screams above, slicing the sky.

The mountain and I—we’re both rugged and formidable. And we’ll gut you if you get too close.

I smack the toe of the axe into the stump and let my gaze roam my view, leaning on the axe handle, sweat dripping from my jaw, breath steaming in the crisp air. The sun’s climbing now, washing the peaks in pale gold.

It’s quiet. Too quiet.

My eyes narrow.

Eagle’s Crown doesn’t do silence. Not like this. Not unless something’s wrong.

The hairs on the back of my neck rise. I scan the tree line, every muscle tight, waiting. There’s a weight in the air. A prickle in the dirt under my boots.

And then?—

Crrck, Crrck, Snap.

A sound I know too well.

One of my snares, triggered. A second later, the device in my back pocket delivers its silent vibrating confirmation.

Fuck this bullshit.

The axe drops from my hand, the log forgotten. My blood kicks to life, fast and hard, the way it used to before a match.

Someone’s trespassed.

On my mountain.

And if Eagle’s Crown doesn’t chew them up first, I sure as hell will.

I pull the device from my pocket just long enough to verify the location.

Then I head in that direction.

I don’t rush.

I never do. I figure whoever or whatever had the balls to step onto my land deserves to sweat a little. Deserves to dangle and panic and wonder. Take a minute to think about the wisdom of their choices—of ignoring the two dozen keep-the-fuck-off signs I have staked all over my mountain.

Throwing an irritated look at the pile of logs I’m still yet to chop, I pick up the axe, slide it over my shoulder, and start down the ridge.

The path is no path at all—just steep shale and clawing pine roots, but my body eats the terrain like I was born to it. My boots crunch rock as my thighs burn and arms flex with every handhold.

I’m a fucking mountain myself, and every creature and leaf and stone on Eagle’s Crown bows to me.

The closer I get, the more the silence grows—no birds, zero wind, just the metallic squeak of military-grade wire under strain.

And then…thirty feet away…color.

A flash of buttercup yellow between the pines. Bright. Beautiful. Wrong .

I stop dead.

It’s not an animal or some hunter with a rifle.

It’s a female. A girl.

She hangs tangled in my snare, rope biting into her calf and her dress riding up her thighs. Her blonde hair is wild and her cheeks are flushed from struggling, her eyes flashing like she’s ready to spit at the devil himself.

I don’t move. Can’t. My chest locks; the air sticks in my lungs.

Eight years alone, five years untouched to the day, and the thing my mountain gives me to celebrate the start of my sixth year is…this?

“Dammit.”

“God. No, no, no.”

“Help me.”

Her voice starts strong, irritated, but then grows thin, frayed at the edges, but still…it slides down my spine like sticky, honeyed fire. Sweet. Desperate. Alive .

My hands tighten on the axe.

I should move. Should close the distance, assess the threat. But all I can do is stand there like a fool and drink her in. That dress—yellow as wildflowers in spring. The way her leg kicks weakly against the rope.

The wobble-firm-wobble of her Cupid’s-bow lips. Then the frantic pulse fluttering in her throat.

My blood is chaos. My brain, worse than mush. Thoughts crashing into each other, ugly and bewildered and hungry.

Who the hell is she? Why is she here? She shouldn’t be here. She’s mine now.

No—no, not mine. Don’t even think that. Fuck, look at her.

Too soft. Too small. She’ll break. I’ll break her. I can’t move. Move, you bastard, move.

Maybe I inhale. Maybe I breathe out. Maybe my body takes up too much room.

She twists in the trap, her eyes darting through the trees. Alarm sharpens her features. “Is someone there?”

Her voice again.

Christ .

It’s like hearing a benediction hymn when you’ve been damned for years. Like a bell ringing through a church long since burned down.

My feet finally obey, crunching forward through needles and stone. Slow. Deliberate. The way a predator circles prey.

Her breath hitches when she twists around and sees me. I know what she sees: a giant, shirtless, scarred and sweating, axe slung casual but no less lethal.

My shadow swallows hers three times over.

She goes still, fear pouring off her in waves.

And my head is a cesspool of madness.

Don’t scare her. Fuck, she’s already scared. Don’t speak yet. Wait. Just look. Look at the way her lips part, the way her chest rises, that tiny sound in her throat. The way her tits—perky and round and fuck, so mouthwatering—rise and fall. God, she’ll smell like flowers, won’t she?

No. She smells like trouble.

You can’t.

You shouldn’t.

You will.

You already have.

I step closer, boots deliberate, and her eyes go wide. She struggles harder, twisting against the rope.

“Stay back!” she cries, voice cracking like a frightened bird.

I don’t stop.

I fucking can’t.