Chapter 3
CASSANDRA
I pace the length of my suite at the Grand Pine Lodge, the plush carpet muffling the sharp click of my heels. My phone sits on the mahogany desk like a live grenade, threatening to detonate the shaky truce I’ve just negotiated with my sanity.
Fake dating.
Bile rises in my throat at the thought. I am a senior associate at a top-tier environmental law firm.
I don't engage in charades with criminal motorcycle club members who look at me like I’m a meal they’ve already paid for.
I litigate. I negotiate. I win. But when Chase Gunnar looked at me on that cliffside yesterday, with the wind tearing through his dark hair and that predatory smirk carved into his jaw, winning felt secondary to surrendering.
The vibration of my phone stops my pacing dead. The screen lights up with a single, demanding word.
Outside.
No punctuation. No greeting. Just a command.
A sharp, liquid throb pulses through my pussy, my thong already dampening—a primal reaction that has nothing to do with fear and everything to do with the heavy, predatory thud of his boots against the gravel yesterday.
My body is preparing for him before my mind even consents.
I smooth the front of my charcoal pencil skirt, checking my reflection one last time.
The silk of my cream blouse is pristine.
My lipstick is a severe, professional berry shade. I look like a woman in control.
I am a liar.
I grab my coat and head downstairs.
The air outside bites, carrying the sharp scent of pine needles and snow. The lodge’s exterior lights cast long, golden shadows across the driveway, illuminating the beast of a machine idling at the curb. And the beast leaning against it.
Chase.
He abandoned his cut tonight. He wears a dark grey thermal shirt that clings to the thick slabs of muscle across his chest, tucked into black jeans worn in all the places my eyes shouldn't linger. He crosses his arms as I approach, his biceps straining the fabric.
"You're late," he rumbles, a low vibration I feel in the soles of my feet.
"I didn't agree to a time," I counter, stopping three feet away to maintain a defensive perimeter. "And I certainly didn't agree to be summoned like a subordinate."
He pushes off the bike, closing the distance between us in two long strides.
The air around him radiates a furnace heat that cuts through the mountain chill.
He smells of sandalwood, gasoline, and heavy musk—a scent that bypasses my logic center and hits the primal part of my brain that wants to curl up and purr.
"We have a schedule to keep, Counselor," he says, looking down at me with eyes that are green, intelligent, and entirely too amused. "If we're going to sell this narrative, we need witnesses. Friday night at the Timber Trail Tavern. Peak viewing hours."
"I have a car," I say, glancing at the black motorcycle. "We can take mine. It has seatbelts and a heater."
Chase laughs, a rough, scraping sound. "Not a chance.
My girl rides with me. Besides..." He steps closer, invading my personal space until I have to tilt my head back to hold his gaze.
His hand comes up, scarred knuckles grazing the sensitive skin of my jaw.
"I like the way your pussy feels pressed against my spine when I take a corner, and I like knowing you’re holding onto me for dear life while I own the road. Get on, Counselor."
My breath hits a snag. His fingers possess a roughness that contrasts violently with the gentle way he tilts my chin up.
"It's a prop," I whisper, my voice thinner than I intend. "The bike. The touching. Props for the narrative."
"Keep telling yourself that," he murmurs, his thumb brushing my lower lip. "Now, put the helmet on, Cassandra. Obey me."
The order strikes a nerve, sending a flush of heat shooting straight to my pussy. He knows. He has to know. He saw the way my pupils dilated yesterday when he controls me, and now he weaponizes it.
I snatch the helmet from his hand, my fingers trembling. "Don't patronize me."
"I'm not patronizing you," he says, swinging a leg over the bike and firing the engine. The roar deafens me, vibrating through my chest. "I'm training you."
I should walk away. I should call a cab, call the Mayor, call my firm and demand a reassignment.
I don't. I pull the helmet on, hike my charcoal pencil skirt high up my thighs, the silk of my thong exposed to the mountain air for a split second before I straddle the seat.
I ignore the heavy, leaden throb in my core as his eyes track the movement, devouring the sight of my bare skin.
I climb on, my body pressing flush against the vibrating heat of the machine and the man.
I press my chest against his back. My thighs bracket his hips, flattening against the hard wall of his spine, and as he revs the engine, I wrap my arms around his waist. He feels solid, immovable, like the mountain itself.
As we tear out of the lot, I tell myself I’m doing this for the case.
I’m doing this to save the permit hearing.
Wind rushes past us, and the hard vibration of the bike buzzes between my legs. I’m doing this because I want to see what happens when the brakes fail.
The Timber Trail Tavern is a wall of noise and humidity.
It smells of stale beer, fried food, and sawdust. Country rock blares from a jukebox in the corner, competing with the roar of laughter and conversation.
I usually avoid these places, preferring wine bars with acoustic sets and artisanal cheese boards.
Tonight, I am on the arm of Chase Gunnar.
The atmosphere shifts the second we step through the heavy wooden doors.
A lull in conversation starts near the entrance and ripples outward until half the room looks at us.
Chase’s hand settles on the small of my back.
It brands my spine, a heavy weight claiming me in front of the room.
His large palm spans my back, fingers digging in to pull me into his side.
The heat of him seeps through my silk blouse, scorching my skin.
"Showtime," he whispers against my ear, his breath hot and damp.
He guides me through the crowd with an arrogance that clears a path.
Men nod at him with careful respect; women look at him with hungry eyes, then shift their gaze to me with assessment and envy.
I lift my chin, channeling every ounce of courtroom confidence I possess.
I am Cassandra Preston, Esq. I belong wherever I damn well choose to stand.
"Corner booth," Chase says, steering me toward the back. I spot a familiar face. Riley James, the local social media darling documenting the town's drama, sits at the bar. She spots us immediately. Her phone comes up, discreetly angled.
"Your audience is present," I murmur, leaning into Chase as we slide into the booth.
"Good," he grunts. He sits close. Too close. His thigh presses against mine, a heavy, hard line of contact I can't escape. He drapes his arm along the back of the seat, fingers idly playing with the ends of my hair. "Let's give them something to post about."
A waitress appears, eyes darting nervously between Chase and me. "Evenin', Chase. The usual?"
"Whiskey. Double. Neat," he says, eyes never leaving my face. "And a glass of your best Cabernet for the lady."
"I can order for myself," I snap, but he silences me with a look—half warning, half heat.
"You like red wine, dry, with earthy notes," he recites calmly. "I saw the bottle in your hotel room trash when I dropped you off yesterday. I pay attention, Cassandra."
The waitress scurries off before I can argue. I turn in the seat to face him, my knee knocking against his. "Is stalking part of your skill set, or just a hobby?"
"I'm the Enforcer," he says, as if that explains everything. His olive green eyes drop to my mouth, then back up. "It’s my job to know threats. And you, Counselor, are the biggest threat to my peace of mind I’ve encountered in a decade."
"Because of the zoning injunction?"
He leans in, face inches from mine. The noise of the bar fades into a dull roar. "We're not talking about zoning."
The drinks arrive. Chase wraps his hand around his glass, the crystal looking fragile in his grip. He takes a sip, throat working as he swallows, and I catch myself staring at the strong column of his neck.
"Relax," he commands softly. His hand moves from the back of the seat to my shoulder, thumb rubbing slow, hypnotic circles against my tension. "You look like you're waiting for a verdict."
"I'm waiting for you to tell me the plan," I say, taking a large gulp of the wine. It tastes rich and oaky. "We're here. We've been seen. Riley is undoubtedly already typing a caption about the lawyer sleeping with the enemy. Can we go now?"
"Not yet." His hand slides down my arm, tracing the line of my triceps, then covers my hand on the table.
His skin feels rough, calloused from work and violence, creating a shocking contrast against my manicured fingers.
"We have to look like we like each other.
Tell me something real. No lawyer talk."
I stare at our joined hands. "What do you get out of this?"
"Why are you really here?" he asks, voice dropping. "A woman like you—city sharp, expensive clothes, brain that moves faster than a Ducati—why are you fighting over a patch of dirt in Pine Valley?"
"It's my job."
"Bullshit," he growls softly. He squeezes my hand, demanding honesty. "You take cases you care about. I looked you up, too. You go after polluters, negligent corporations. Why us?"
I hesitate. The truth is dangerous. The truth makes me vulnerable. "Because you think you own this mountain," I say finally, meeting his gaze. "Because groups like yours usually steamroll over the rules because you think strength gives you the right. I don't like bullies, Chase."