Kaila
My eyes feel like someone scrubbed them with high-grit sandpaper.
I've been awake for sixty-four hours, fueled by lukewarm energy drinks and a terror that sits heavy in my gut. The blue light from the six monitors surrounding me is the only light I’ve seen in three weeks.
Code cascades down the center screen, green against black. The algorithm runs its deadly path.
"Come on, you bastard," I whisper. "Let me in."
I’m not trying to steal money or crash a government server. I’m trying to save a bunch of leather-clad idiots who don’t even know they’re walking into a trap.
The Broken Halos MC—the Gunnar men.
My fingers fly over the mechanical keys. The click-clack rhythm fills this frozen, abandoned cabin I’ve squatted in for the last month. The rotting wood structure barely stands, but it has a power line I managed to splice into.
Or so I thought.
A proximity alarm blares on the far left monitor. The sharp ping stops the breath in my lungs.
Staring at the grainy thermal feed from the camera I rigged up in the tree line a hundred yards out, my chest burns.
The white-hot signature of a figure moves through the snow. Animals don't move in tactical crouches.
The heat signature flares and vanishes. Thermal cloaking blankets. Pros.
"No, no, no." I shove my chair back. The legs screech against the warped floorboards. "Not now. I’m so close."
Kevin's face flashes in my mind. He's the only reason I’m out here in the frozen ass-end of Pine Valley instead of safe in a server room. If they find me, they find the leverage to execute my little brother.
I grab the soldering iron from the workbench. The tip glows a dull orange. It isn't a gun. It'll have to do.
I have maybe thirty seconds.
Glancing at the hard drives, I hover my finger over the kill script I wrote for this exact scenario. Protocol Zero would burn it all down. Wiping the drives destroys the location data on the Costa compound and the only lead I have on where they’re keeping Kevin.
"Damn it!"
Scrambling over the mess of cables snaking across the floor, I head for the back window. The snow outside piles high. I yank the sash, but the frame is frozen shut.
Of course.
Wood splinters inward from the front door with a violence that shakes the entire cabin. The deafening crack of timber gives way to brute force.
I spin around, raising the soldering iron like a dagger.
A man steps through the ruin of the doorframe.
Ducking to clear the destroyed wood, the massive intruder steps inside.
The wall of muscle and black leather is coated in a layer of fresh snow.
The sheer size of him fills the room and sucks the oxygen out of the air.
A cut—the heavy leather vest—stretches across his chest, bearing the Broken Halos Reaper patch.
I know that patch. I know the man wearing it.
I’ve been watching him through traffic cameras and hacked security feeds for eight months.
Daniel Gunnar. The club's tracker.
They send him when they want someone found. The quiet, dangerous enforcer avoids posing for photos or getting into bar fights like his cousins.
Now he stands in the center of the rotting room.
Scanning the space in a fluid motion, his dark eyes assess the mess. His gaze lands on the monitors before locking onto me.
Instead of yelling or drawing a weapon, the tracker shuts the ruined door. The action plunges the room back into the semi-darkness of the screen glow.
"Put it down," he orders. His voice rumbles like gravel shifting underground.
"Take one more step and I’ll burn your eye out," I threaten. My hand shakes. My voice holds steady. I’ve dealt with digital monsters my whole life and can handle a flesh-and-blood one.
He tilts his head. His jaw shifts, the muscles ticking under his skin. "You're the 'Ghost in the Machine', the hacker piggybacking on our encrypted comms."
"I'm the one keeping your family from getting blown to bits by the Costa cartel." I tighten my grip on the iron. "You're welcome, by the way."
He takes a step.
I lunge.
My five-foot-four frame runs on caffeine. His massive build runs on violence. Letting him take me means the Costas will kill Kevin just to prove a point.
I aim the glowing tip of the iron at his neck.
The giant moves faster than a man his size has any right to move. Stepping inside my guard, his leather-gloved hand snaps out and catches my wrist. His grip acts as a concrete wall, halting my momentum.
"Bad idea," he murmurs.
I twist, trying to kick his knee, but he steps into me, using his weight to drive me backward. My back hits the edge of my desk. Monitors wobble. A half-empty can of Red Bull tips over, spilling sticky liquid onto the floor.
~~He presses his hips against mine, pinning me to the wood.
The air leaves my lungs in a rush.
The solid weight of him presses against me. Cold pine and gun oil cling to his leather cut, bypassing the frantic racing of my pulse to hit a primal switch deep in my brain.
A dangerous, possessive thought surges through the chaos. Mine.
I look up. His face fills my vision—a strong jaw dusted with dark stubble, a rugged beard framing his mouth. A thin line slices through his left eyebrow; a deeper, jagged scar runs from above his right brow, down past his eye, and fades into his cheek. His eyes are dark as obsidian, drawing me in.
He twists my wrist gently, forcing my fingers to open. The soldering iron clatters to the desk, sizzling as it burns a black mark into the wood.
"You have fight in you," he murmurs. "I like that."
"Get off me, you oversized Neanderthal."
"Make me."
My pulse hammers against my throat. The heat of his body seeps through his layers of leather and tactical gear, warming the chill of the cabin. With his thighs locked around mine, I am completely trapped.~~
He slams his hips into mine, the heavy weight of his tactical belt bruising my skin. The impact drives me back into the jagged edge of the desk, making me gasp as the wood bites into my lower back. I can’t breathe.
The solid, lethal weight of him is suffocating. Cold pine and gun oil clinging to his leather cut hit my senses like a physical blow. It isn’t just a smell; it’s a taste. A thick, primitive scent that feeds right into the base of my brain, overriding every survival instinct I have left.
I look up. His face fills my entire visual field, a jagged landscape of violence and control.
Dark stubble and a rugged beard frame a mouth that looks hard enough to shatter mine.
A thin scar marks his left brow, while a deeper, jagged line tracks down past his right eye.
His eyes are dark as obsidian, pulling me into a void where logic doesn't exist.
He shifts his weight, the brutal pressure forcing my thighs to part.
He doesn't twist my wrist gently; he snaps it down with a strength that leaves no room for struggle. My fingers splay, dropping the soldering iron. It clatters to the wood, sizzling as it burns, but the sound is drowned out by the thunder of my own pulse.
A massive, thick thigh so hard it feels made of iron rams between mine, forcing me wider.
He doesn't just hold me; he claims the space between my legs, filling it completely. I’m utterly trapped, and my body, this disloyal, exhausted machine, betrays me with a sudden, pulsing heat at the center of my denim.
His weight is a promise of total annihilation. He grinds his hips once, a slow, deliberate marking of his territory that has me arching into him before I can stop myself.
"You have fight in you," he rasps, his breath hot and smelling of coffee and adrenaline. "Good. You’re going to need it."
"Get off me," I breathe, but my voice is a thin, shaky surrender.
His gaze drops to my mouth, and he grinds his heavy ridge against me again, slow and agonizingly firm.
"Make me." The two words rumble deep in his chest, a challenge and a promise that vibrates through my entire frame.
His intense stare lacks the cold detachment of a captor. The man looks like he just found a prize he plans to keep.
"I know who you are. Daniel Gunnar, the Tracker. You clean up the messes for the Gunnars."
His eyes narrow, the irises darkening to pitch black. "You know a lot for a tourist."
"I’m a necessity." Struggling against his hold proves useless. "The Costas are moving on the Eastern Cliffs with a shipment coming in tonight. Dragging me out of here means I lose the trace."
He freezes. "The Eastern Cliffs?"
"Yes. They’re setting up a kill box for your cousin Chase."
Silence stretches between us. He studies my face to find a lie. I am the best liar in the digital world, but right now, I’m telling the honest truth.
"Why?" he demands. "Why help us?"
"Because they have my brother." The words crack on the way out. Exhaustion strips my armor away. "They took Kevin eight months ago to force me to crack your encryptions. I’ve been feeding them garbage data and blocking their malware while I hunt for him."
The hard line of Daniel's mouth softens. His gaze drops to my mouth, lingering on my lips before snapping back to my eyes.
"You’ve been fighting a war on two fronts," he states.
"I’m winning," I lie. The drowning sensation in my chest suggests otherwise.
Shifting his weight, his hand leaves my wrist. His leather-gloved hand slides up my arm and over the rough wool of my sweater to cup the back of my neck. His calloused thumb brushes the racing pulse under my jaw.
A jolt goes through me, devoid of fear.
Pure liquid heat floods my veins.
Instead of recoiling, I lean into his touch. The involuntary heat sparked by his raw power overrides my logic. He’s a predator. I might need a predator.
"You're done running," he growls.
"I can't stop. If I stop, Kevin dies."
"I didn't say you stop fighting." His thumb traces the line of my jaw. "I said you stop running. You're coming with me."
"To the clubhouse?" A jagged laugh escapes my throat. "The club president will put a bullet in my head before I can explain. I’ve been inside your servers, Daniel. I know where the bodies are buried."
"Logan won't touch you."
"Why? Because you say so?"
"Because you're mine now."
The absolute statement hangs in the freezing air.
Mine.
He states the claim as an undeniable fact, wrapping his violent protection around me.
My lungs seized. "I’m not property."
"No," he agrees, leaning in until his forehead rests against mine. "You're trouble. You are also freezing to death in a shack while trying to save my family."
Pulling back, his grip slides from my neck to my upper arm. The massive biker hauls me up from the desk. My knees buckle, sending me stumbling against the solid wall of his chest.
"Grab your drives," he commands. "Leave the rest."
"My rig—"
"We have better gear at the club. Grab the data. We’re leaving."
"The Costas might be watching."
"Let them watch." A feral grin spreads across his face, transforming the stoic mountain man into a lethal threat. "Let them see me take you. Let them know the tracker has you."
Scrambling to eject the external drives, my trembling fingers drop a casing. Daniel scoops the metal up before it hits the floor.
Standing guard at the door, he blocks the howling wind. The giant watches me pack my backpack without rushing the process.
Shoving my laptop into the bag, I zip the canvas shut. The vast emptiness of the destroyed room closes in.
"Ready?" he asks.
"No."
"Good." Grabbing the strap of my bag, he slings it over his massive shoulder. A heavy arm wraps around my waist, pulling me flush against his side.
We fit.
I’m tucked firmly against his side, my hip bumping his powerful thigh with every step. The top of my head rests at the hollow of his shoulder. Radiating body heat, he acts as a furnace against the biting drafts.
"Hold on to me," he orders as he kicks the remains of the door open wider.
We step out into the blizzard. The wind howls, biting at my exposed face, but Daniel shields me from the worst of it. He marches us toward a matte-black truck parked at the edge of the clearing, hidden in the trees.
I look back at the ruined cabin.
"Don't look back," Daniel growls near my ear. Opening the passenger door, he lifts me onto the seat. The grip on my waist lingers. "You're with the Halos now, little ghost. We don't lose what's ours."
He slams the door, shutting out the cold.
Watching him walk around the front of the truck, his predatory grace dominates the clearing. The massive enforcer scans the trees for threats.
And for the first time in eight months, I don't feel alone.
A deep tremble runs through my limbs, brought on by the burning look he gave me right before he closed the door.
His dark eyes promised he was already planning on devouring me.
End of preview. Continue Reading Hunted by the Tracker here.