Chapter 2
CHASE
The impact of the heavy bag against my knuckles is the only thing keeping me from tearing the town apart brick by brick.
Thud.
Cassandra Preston.
Thud.
Her name is a jagged rhythm in my head, synching with the violence of my punches.
I can still smell her. It’s been fifteen hours since I cornered her—fifteen hours of me staring at the ceiling and feeling my own skin itch with the need to mark her.
It makes my blood roar and my cock throb with a heavy, restless ache.
"You're going to break the chain, Chase."
I throw a right hook that makes the heavy bag groan, the chain rattling ominously against the steel beam of the gym ceiling.
This part of the clubhouse—the iron paradise tucked behind the garage—is usually where I find clarity.
Today, it’s a furnace for the primal need to hunt.
My cock is a thick, leaden weight against my thigh, engorged and demanding, fueled by the memory of the way her pulse jumped under my thumb.
"Chase."
I catch the bag on the backswing, my chest heaving.
Sweat drips from my nose, landing on the scarred concrete.
I turn. Logan leans against the doorframe.
My cousin. Our President. He has that look on his face.
He knows exactly what kind of hell burns a hole in my gut because he’s been there.
He went through it with Savannah. Austin went through it with Courtney.
The Gunnar curse. The Thunderbolt.
"The lawyer filed an injunction this morning," Logan says, his voice a low rumble like an idling Harley. "She's trying to freeze the permit process for the expansion. Says she needs an environmental impact study that could take six months."
My teeth grind together so hard I feel it in my jaw. "She's not waiting six months."
"She's good, Chase. She's got the council spooked. Mayor Thompson is wobbling." Logan crosses his massive arms. "We need this expansion. The search-and-rescue center isn't just for PR. The winters are getting worse. We need the facility."
I unwrap the tape from my hands, the sound ripping through the quiet air. "I know what we need."
"Do you?" Logan tilts his head. "Because yesterday you looked like you wanted to eat her alive in that meeting. And not in the diplomatic way."
"She's mine." The words come out before I can check them. Guttural. Final.
Logan doesn't blink. He doesn't laugh. He just nods. In our family, when you know, you know. There’s no courting period. No dating. There is only the recognition of the other half of your soul, followed by the ruthless, unwavering drive to secure it.
"Then handle it," Logan says, pushing off the doorframe. "But get my permits, Enforcer. Don't let her bury us in paperwork while you're chasing her tail."
"She won't bury us," I growl, tossing the tape into the trash. "She won't have the chance."
I walk past him, grabbing my cut from the bench. The leather is heavy, familiar armor. As I slide my arms in, the shift happens. Chase stays in the gym. The Enforcer takes the road. And I have a target.
I don't waste a second getting on my bike, the roar of the engine drowning out the morning quiet as I hunt her down.
I find her at the Cozy Cup.
Mid-morning light floods Main Street. The air is crisp, carrying the pine scent from the Grizzly Peak district down into the valley. I roll my bike to the curb, killing the engine but letting the presence of it linger—a dark, mechanical beast resting among the sedans.
Through the large glass window, I spot her. She sits at a corner table, a laptop open, surrounded by stacks of paper.
Out of place.
Too sharp.
Too tailored.
Her suit today is charcoal gray—a shade that turns her into a walking storm cloud, dangerously beautiful.
It hugs every curve a lawyer shouldn’t flaunt, daring me to look away.
The skirt? Even tighter than the navy one from yesterday, clinging to the swell of her ass like it’s painted on, making my teeth itch to tear through the fabric.
Her dark hair is pulled back into a knot so tight it sets my fingers on fire, desperate to unravel every strand.
I push open the door. The bell chimes. Chatter in the coffee shop dies down instantly. The Broken Halos patch commands respect and fear.
Mike, the owner, nods at me from behind the counter. "Morning, Chase. The usual?"
"Black," I say, my eyes never leaving the corner table.
Cassandra hasn't looked up. She types furiously, her brow furrowed. Pretending I’m not here. She felt me walk in. I saw the way her shoulders stiffened, the way her breath hitched in her chest. Her body knows she's mine. Her mind just needs to catch up.
I walk over, my boots heavy on the hardwood floor. I don't stop until I loom over her table, blocking out the sunlight streaming through the window.
She stops typing. Taking a slow sip of her latte, she finally looks up.
Her eyes are striking hazel, flecked with gold, and right now, they hold a flinty glint of defiance that makes my cock snap to attention, straining hard and heavy against the denim of my jeans.
I want to see those eyes go hazy while I’m stretching her wide.
"Mr. Gunnar," she says, her voice cool, professional. "If you're here to intimidate me into dropping the injunction, you should know I'm recording this conversation."
I smirk, pulling out the chair opposite her and sitting down without an invitation. I spread my legs, encroaching on her space beneath the small table. My knee bumps hers. She flinches but doesn't pull away.
"I don't need to intimidate you, Cassandra," I say, rolling her name around my mouth. It tastes sweet. "And you can record whatever you want. I'm just here to be a good neighbor."
"Neighbor," she scoffs, closing her laptop with a sharp snap. "You're a nuisance, Mr. Gunnar. Your club's expansion threatens three acres of protected nesting ground for the peregrine falcon, not to mention the runoff issues for the creek."
"You've never even seen the land," I say softly.
She blinks. "I've seen the maps. The surveyor reports."
"Paper," I dismiss. I lean forward, resting my forearms on the table.
The distance between us shrinks to nothing.
The pulse in her throat flutters wild. "You're fighting a war over lines on a map drawn by men who sit in air-conditioned offices in the city.
You don't know the mountain. You don't know what we do up there. "
"I know you're a biker gang trying to legitimize a fortress," she shoots back. Her tongue is sharp. I like it.
"Club," I correct her. "And if you're going to stand in front of the town council and call me a villain, you should at least have the courage to look at the crime scene."
Her eyes narrow. "What are you suggesting?"
"I'm going up there now. To the site." I stand up, towering over her. I extend a hand. A dare. "Come with me. See what you're trying to kill. Unless you're scared, Counselor."
The challenge hangs in the air, thick and electric. The café falls silent; everyone watches. Christie, the barista, has stopped wiping the counter.
Cassandra looks at my hand—large, calloused—and then up at my face. She calculates the risk. Getting in a car—or worse—with me is a terrible idea legally. But she’s prideful. I saw that yesterday. She hates to lose, and she hates to look weak.
"I have a rental car," she says, standing up. She ignores my hand, grabbing her leather briefcase—the one she was white-knuckling in the lobby yesterday. "I'll follow you."
I grin. "The road to the ridge is washed out from the storm last week. Your rental won't make it past the tree line."
She pauses. "Then we'll take a Jeep."
"Don't have one handy," I lie. The club has three. "You want to see the site today? You ride with me."
Her gaze flicks to the window, to the massive black Harley parked at the curb. Her throat works as she swallows. "I am not getting on that motorcycle with you."
"Then go back to your hotel and write your briefs," I say, turning my back on her. "But don't pretend you care about the truth. You're just another suit scared of getting a little dirt on your shoes."
I walk to the door. I count the steps.
One.
Two.
"Wait."
I stop, hiding the triumphant smile that splits my face. I turn back. She stands there, her chest rising and falling rapidly, clutching her designer bag like a shield.
"If I go," she says, her voice tight, "and I see that the environmental impact is significant, you agree to review the alternative site proposal."
"If you see it and you're right," I say, "I'll tear up the permit application myself."
She nods, sharp and decisive. "Fine. Let's go."
The moment we step out into the crisp mountain air, her proximity is a physical weight.
She doesn't touch me—not yet—but the scent of her, that mix of fig and adrenaline, is a tether wrapped around my balls. She hesitates at first, standing by the bike like it’s a bomb waiting to go off.
I hand her a spare helmet—matte black, full face.
"Put it on. And keep that hair tucked tight. I don't want it whipping in my face."
She glares at me but complies, her fingers fumbling slightly with the strap. I brush her hands aside, doing it for her. My knuckles graze the soft skin under her chin. Her breath hitches, warm against my thumb.
"Tight enough?" I ask, my voice dropping an octave.
"It's fine," she whispers. Her pupils are blown wide, swallowing the hazel.
I grab her leather briefcase and laptop bag, my fingers brushing hers as I snatch them. I shove the expensive leather into the hard-shell saddlebag of the Harley and snap the lock.
She’s coming with me, and I’m making sure she has no excuse to leave. I swing a leg over the bike and bring it to life.
She climbs on behind me. She tries to hold the grab bars at first, keeping space between us. I rev the engine, letting the bike jerk forward just an inch. She gasps and slams against my back, her arms instinctively flying around my waist to anchor herself.