Chapter 7 Cassandra
CASSANDRA
My phone has been vibrating on the mahogany desk of the hotel suite for twenty minutes, a relentless, insect-like buzzing that threatens to shatter the fragile bubble I’ve been living in since I left Chase’s cabin.
I ignore it.
Instead, I stare at my reflection in the gilded mirror above the dresser.
The woman staring back looks thoroughly marked.
I spent fifteen minutes scrubbing the scent of him off my skin, though it felt like it was etched into my marrow.
I peeled off his oversized black hoodie—which smelled so strongly of leather and musk it made my knees shake—and the gray sweatpants that had been riding low on my hips, a tactile reminder of the man who’d occupied me until dawn.
My hair, usually pinned back in a severe, courtroom-ready chignon, hangs loose and wild, tangled from the wind of the motorcycle ride and the friction of Chase’s sheets.
My lips are swollen and bruised, a shade of rose that no lipstick can replicate.
And my neck.
I reach up, tracing the dark, reddish-purple hickey just below my jawline.
Mine.
His voice echoes in the quiet room, a low, vibrant rumble that vibrates straight through my bones.
A tremor runs down my spine, the ghost of his teeth against my pulse point so vivid my pussy clenches with a wet, heavy throb.
I should be horrified. I am a partner-track attorney at one of the most prestigious environmental law firms in the state.
I don’t get marked like territory. I don’t let men in leather cuts dictate my breathing patterns.
But God, I wanted it. I still want it. The memory of his massive weight pinning me to that table and the way he claimed me, "Mine, fucking take every inch," makes my silk thong cling to my skin.
My mind is screaming for distance, but my clit is humming with a traitorous, unfulfilled hunger for his thick cock.
The phone buzzes again. This time, the screen lights up with a name that acts like a bucket of ice water dumped over my head: Senior Partner Hampton.
The bubble bursts.
I snatch the phone, clearing my throat and straightening my spine, as if he can see the bruised evidence of my surrender through the connection. "Cassandra Preston."
"Cassandra." Hampton’s voice is dry, clipped, devoid of any warmth. It’s the voice of the billable hour. "I’m hearing some interesting rumors coming out of Pine Valley. Something about a conflict of interest involving the opposing party?"
My stomach twists. Pine Valley is a small town, but gossip travels faster than fiber optics. "Mr. Hampton, the situation is... nuanced. I’m employing a specific strategy to negotiate a settlement that benefits our environmental impact goals while allowing the client to—"
"I don't need the boilerplate, Cassandra," he interrupts. "I need to know if you’ve been compromised. The client pays us to block industrial overreach, not to get into bed with it. Literally or figuratively."
The accusation hangs in the air, heavy and suffocating.
"I am fully in control of the situation," I lie, my voice steady despite the way my body is still reeling from the reality of Chase’s claim. "The relationship the town is gossiping about is a fabrication. A calculated move to gain leverage and access to their internal plans. I’m gathering intel."
"See that you do," Hampton warns. "We have a reputation. Don't let a man in a biker gang ruin yours. Fix it, or come home."
The line goes dead.
I lower the phone, my pulse striking a frantic rhythm against my ribs.
A fabrication. That’s what it was supposed to be.
A fake relationship to smooth over the Town Council and buy me time to find a legal precedent to block their expansion.
But what happened in that cabin wasn’t fake.
The way he looked at me, the way he touched me with a reverence that terrified me—that felt real.
Did I imagine it? Or was Hampton right? Was I just being played by a master strategist? Chase is the Enforcer. His job isn't just violence; it's resolving problems. And right now, I am the problem.
If I leave now, I’m not just a lawyer who failed; I’m a scandal they’ll whisper about in the city. I can’t go back to Hampton defeated. I need to stay. Not for Chase, I tell myself, but to find the evidence that proves the MC manipulated me. I need to flip the script before I lose my license.
I need air. I need coffee. And I need to look my enemy in the eye and figure out if I’m his lover or his mark. I don't wait for the anxiety to settle.
I move, grabbing my keys and leather portfolio with a hand that barely shakes. By the time I hit the pavement of Main Street, the air is crisp, smelling of pine needles and damp earth—a sharp contrast to the stale anxiety of my hotel room.
I walk briskly, my heels clicking a rhythmic staccato on the pavement.
I’ve donned my armor: a tailored charcoal blazer and a pencil skirt that screams don’t touch me.
I’ve pinned my hair into a lethal, tight chignon and tied a silk scarf tight around my neck to hide the bruised hickey he’d branded me with.
I head for the Cozy Cup, needing caffeine before I face the lion's den at Peak Wilderness Outfitters.
The coffee shop is bustling, the bell above the door chiming as I step inside.
The warmth hits me instantly, smelling of roasted beans and cinnamon.
I order a black coffee, ignoring the side-eye from the barista—Christie.
She smirks at me, her gaze dropping to the scarf around my neck before flicking back to my eyes.
"Rough night?" she asks, sliding the cup across the counter.
"Long night working," I correct stiffly.
"Mmhmm. Chase Gunnar is a lot of work," she quips, turning away to wipe down the espresso machine.
My cheeks burn. I grab my cup and turn to find a table, but my path is blocked.
A man stands there, not a local. He’s wearing a suit that costs more than my car, tailored to perfection, with silver cufflinks that catch the light.
He’s older, with silver hair and eyes like flint—cold, calculating, and utterly devoid of the rustic warmth of this town.
"Ms. Preston," he says. It’s not a question.
I stiffen, my grip tightening on the cardboard cup. "I don't believe we've met."
"No, but we’re on the same side of the chessboard," he says smoothly. "My name is Sean Oswald. I represent... private interests regarding the security of the Grizzly Peak district."
I know the type. Corporate fixer. "I’m not interested in whatever you’re selling, Mr. Oswald."
I try to step around him, but he shifts, blocking me again. He doesn't touch me—he’s too smart for that—but his presence forms a wall.
"You're a brilliant lawyer, Cassandra. I've read your briefs on the watershed act. Impressive," he murmurs. "So it surprises me that you're falling for the oldest trick in the book."
I stop. "Excuse me?"
"The Honeypot," Oswald says, a faint, condescending smile playing on his lips.
"Or in this case, the Biker Prince. You think this romance is your idea? Your strategy? Chase Gunnar is the Enforcer. He secures assets. He neutralizes threats. They’ve wanted that land for years, but they only finalized those specific 'rescue' blueprints three days ago to specifically bypass the injunction you filed.
They didn't fall for you, Cassandra. They weaponized a long-term club goal to make you docile enough to advocate for it.”
Nausea churns in my gut. "I am not a threat he can neutralize with a smile."
"Aren't you?" Oswald tilts his head. "Look at you. You're wearing his mark—oh, don't look so shocked, the scarf slipped—and you're defending him to your superiors. You're ready to sign off on a permit for a 'Search and Rescue Center' based on blueprints drawn up three days ago."
He steps closer, his voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper.
"There was no plan for a rescue center until you arrived, Ms. Preston.
They needed a way to bypass the zoning restrictions you cited.
They needed a humanitarian angle to sway the council, and they needed you docile enough to advocate for it.
Chase Gunnar didn't fall for you. He was assigned to you. "
The world tilts on its axis.
"You're lying," I breathe, but the words lack conviction.
It makes too much sense. The sudden intensity.
The convenient solution to the zoning problem.
The way he overwhelmed my logic with sensation, pushing buttons I didn't know I had.
The constant claims of ownership. That wasn't affection.
He used those praises to groom me into compliance.
Oswald pulls a folded paper from his pocket and slides it onto the table.
"Look at the final revision date on the architectural request. It was timestamped the morning after you filed your injunction. They’ve been sitting on the need for a center for years, but they only dressed it up as a humanitarian priority the moment you became a threat.
It’s a con, Cassandra. Don’t let them make a fool of you. "
He tips his head and walks out, leaving me standing in the middle of the coffee shop, the scent of cinnamon suddenly turning my stomach. I stare at the paper. I don't need to open it. I know he’s telling the truth about the date.
I need to see him. I don't linger for the coffee to cool, shoving the document into my blazer pocket and pushing back out into the mountain air.
Peak Wilderness Outfitters is located just down the street, sandwiched between the bakery and the hardware store. It looks legitimate—rustic timber facade, high-end climbing gear in the window—but I know what lies behind it. The clubhouse is in the woods, but this is their forward operating base.
I shove through the front door, the bell jangling violently. The shop floor is empty of customers, just racks of carabiners and thermal jackets standing like silent sentinels.
"We're closed for lunch," a voice calls from the back.