Chapter 8 Chase
CHASE
The silence she leaves behind rings louder than a gunshot. It whines in my ears, drowning out the hum of the refrigerator in the back room of Peak Wilderness Outfitters.
Logan stands near the weapon rack, arms crossed over his massive chest. He holds his silence. He watches me with that dark stare that sees too much.
"She’s gone." The words taste like a catastrophic failure.
"I heard," Logan rumbles. "She thinks you played her."
"I didn't." The denial rips out as a snarl.
I spin, kicking a heavy crate of climbing gear.
It skids across the concrete floor and slams into the wall, but the crash doesn't fix the hole in my chest. "I tried to keep the club out of her business.
I told you I had it 'handled' so you wouldn't send Blake or Tristan to intimidate her. I tried to protect her from us."
Logan tilts his head. "And now she thinks she was just a job."
"She was never a job." The words bleed out of me. "Not for a second. Even when I wanted to strangle her with red tape, I wanted her."
The temperature in the room drops. Logan drops his arms, eyes narrowing at the devastation on my face. He knows what it looks like when a Gunnar man falls. He fell hard for Savannah in a blizzard, and he knows there’s no coming back from the drop.
"Is she yours, Chase?" Logan asks. The question carries the weight of the patch and the family bloodline.
I don't hesitate. The answer brands itself into my bone marrow. "She's mine. Body and soul. If she leaves this town, I burn."
Logan’s chin drops in a sharp, military jerk. "Then why are you still standing here talking to me? Go get her."
I move before he finishes the sentence. I grab my helmet, blood running hot on a cocktail of panic and rage.
She’s running. Cassandra is smart, efficient, and terrified.
She won’t linger. She’ll pack her bags at the Grand Pine Lodge, get in her sensible sedan, and drive until Pine Valley is a speck in her rearview mirror.
And if she’s not alone, someone’s going to pay.
The thought freezes my hand on the door handle.
Sean Oswald.
The corporate fixer. The man in the suit circling the permit hearings like a shark smelling blood.
He planted the doubt. He twisted my words.
He didn't just capitalize on a misunderstanding; he orchestrated a demolition.
My grip on the door handle tightens until the metal groans.
This feels like an extraction. Oswald is removing the obstacle—Cassandra—so he can bring in a lawyer who plays by his corrupt rules.
If he’s near her...
A red haze drops over my vision. The world narrows to a single, violent objective.
I shove the door open, the bell chiming cheerfully above my head—a sickening contrast to the violence churning in my gut. I stride onto Main Street, ignoring the tourists and locals. I mount my Harley, the engine roaring to life with a savage growl matching the noise in my head.
I ignore the speed limit. I tear through the center of Pine Valley, weaving between pickup trucks and SUVs. The wind whips past, but the cold doesn't register. Only the clock ticks. Every second she’s away creates distance. Every second she’s alone leaves her vulnerable to Oswald.
I bank hard around the curve leading up to the Grand Pine Lodge, tires protesting against the asphalt. The massive timber and stone structure looms ahead. Usually I tolerate the place because Lucas Sterling runs a tight ship, but today it feels like a fortress I have to breach.
I skid to a halt right in front of the main entrance and kill the engine. I kick the stand down and dismount. The valet steps forward, eyes wide.
"Mr. Gunnar, you can't park—"
I toss him my keys. "Keep it running."
The look in my eyes withers his resolve. He catches the keys and steps back, swallowing hard. I storm through the double doors, the heavy scent of pine and expensive polished wood hitting me.
The lobby is busy. Guests mill about, luggage carts roll. I scan the room, predator instincts dialed to maximum. I don’t see her. I stride toward the front desk. The receptionist, Susan, looks up and pales.
"Cassandra Preston," I demand. "Room number."
"Chase, I can't give out guest info—"
"Susan." I lean over the counter, voice low and vibrating with a threat I don't have to articulate. "This isn't social. She’s in danger. Room. Now."
She flinches, typing frantically. "312. But she just called down for a bellhop. She’s checking out."
"Cancel the bellhop."
I head for the elevators, but the doors slide shut. I hit the stairs, taking them two at a time. My thighs burn, lungs pump air, but my heart hammers against my ribs.
Please be there. Please be there.
I burst onto the third floor. The hallway stretches long, carpeted in plush burgundy. A man stands in the doorway of Room 312.
Sean Oswald.
He leans against the frame, looking relaxed, smug. He holds a file folder, talking to someone inside. Talking to her.
"It’s for the best, Ms. Preston," Oswald says, voice oily and smooth. "This town isn't suited for professionals like us. The Gunnars are animals. You saw how he treated you. Like a piece of meat to be traded."
The red haze turns black.
I don't announce my presence. I just move. The distance between the stairwell and the room disappears. Oswald hears me at the last second. He starts to turn, eyes widening as he registers the six-foot-four wall of biker leather and fury descending on him.
"Gun—"
I slam my forearm into his chest, driving him backward into the room. He hits the opposite wall hard, the file folder flying from his hands and scattering papers across the carpet.
Cassandra screams.
She stands by the bed, her charcoal skirt wrinkled and her silk scarf askew, revealing the bruised brand I left on her neck.
Even in her rage, I can smell the raw, heavy musk of her arousal—she’s drenched for me despite the tears.
Seeing her like this, marked by my touch and manipulated by his lies, makes my cock throb with a violent, protective ache.
Oswald slides down the wall, gasping for air, clutching his chest. I step over him, looming, my shadow swallowing him whole.
"I should throw you off the balcony," I say, my voice terrifyingly calm. "I should drag you out to the cliffs and let the coyotes chew on your expensive Italian loafers."
"Chase!" Cassandra’s voice cuts through the violence, thin and breaking. "Stop! What are you doing?"
I don't look at her yet. If I look at her, I might break. I keep my eyes on Oswald. I reach down, grabbing him by the lapels of his suit jacket, and haul him to his feet. I slam him against the wall again, pinning him there with one hand, my face inches from his.
"You put your filthy corporate mouth on my business and your lies in my woman’s head. You think you can walk into my territory and try to steal what I’ve already marked and bred? You’re lucky I don’t open your throat right here."
"I... I was protecting my client's interests," Oswald wheezes, face turning a blotchy purple. "She... she wanted to leave."
"She stays," I snarl. "And you go. If I see you in Pine Valley again—if I see your car, your face, or even your name on a piece of paper—I won't be this polite. Do you understand?"
He nods frantically.
I release him. He stumbles toward the door, straightening his jacket with trembling hands. He looks at Cassandra, then back at me, and decides fleeing is the better part of valor. He scrambles out into the hallway. I kick the door shut behind him and throw the deadbolt.
Then, silence.
Heavy, suffocating silence.
I turn slowly to face her. Cassandra backs against the dresser. Her fingers strain against the wood, the grip tight enough to snap bone. Her chest heaves. She shrinks back, her gaze tracking me like I'm a wolf about to strike.
Maybe I am. But I’m her wolf.
"You're insane," she whispers. "You assault a corporate attorney in a hotel room? Are you trying to go to prison?"
"I don't give a fuck about prison," I say, stalking toward her. "I care about you leaving."
"I am leaving!" She pushes off the dresser, trying to muster that courtroom bravado, but I see the cracks. I see the tear tracks on her cheeks. "I heard you, Chase. I heard what you told your President. I was 'handled.' I was a strategy."
"You were a crisis I tried to contain!" I shout back, the volume making her flinch.
I force myself to lower my voice, to reign in the aggression.
I stop three feet from her. "Logan was going to send Tristan to dig up dirt on you.
Or Blake to shadow you. I told him I had it handled so he would back off.
I told him that so I could have you to myself. "
"To manipulate me," she accuses, tears spilling over again. "To fuck the permit out of me."
"Is that what you think happened last night?" My voice drops to a rough whisper. I step closer, invading her space. "You think I took you to my cabin, laid you out on my table, and worshipped every inch of you for a zoning permit? You think I can fake the way my heart stops when you look at me?"
"I don't know!" She throws her hands up, sobbing now. "I don't know what's real with you! You're an actor, Chase. That's the whole deal. Fake dating. Fake smiles. Fake—"
I bridge the gap. I grab her wrists, pinning them against her sides while my body crowds her against the dresser.
I let her feel the thick, heavy ridge of my cock—hard enough to bruise—pressing into her belly.
I want her to feel exactly what she’s walking away from.
I want her pussy to soak through that expensive wool until she can’t think of anything but me filling her to the brim again.
"Look at me," I command.
She squeezes her eyes shut, turning her head away. "No. Let me go."
"Cassandra." I use the voice. The deep, rumbling baritone that vibrates straight through her sternum to her core. The voice of authority. The voice that makes her submissive instincts flare hot and bright. "Look at me, little shark."
A shudder rips through her body. Her breath hitches. Slowly, reluctantly, she opens her wet eyes and meets mine.
"There she is," I murmur, bringing one hand up to cup her jaw, thumb wiping away a tear. "That’s my girl. Now listen to the truth."
"Chase..."
"I don't care about the permit," I say, staring into her soul.
"I'll burn the shop down myself. I don't care about the council.
I don't care about Oswald or the law or any of it.
Since I saw you at Town Hall, nothing else mattered.
You called it the Thunderbolt? Fine. Call it whatever you want.
But it happened. I can't breathe without you, Cass. It physically hurts."
She trembles under my touch, her defiance crumbling under the weight of my intensity. "But you said..."
"I lied to Logan," I admit. "I lied to my President to keep you safe. But I never lied to you. Not when I touched you. Not when I kissed you." I lean down, brushing my lips against her ear. "Not when I was inside you."
She lets out a choked sob, body softening against mine. The fight leaves her, replaced by the exhaustion of the emotional whiplash.
"I'm scared," she whispers. "You're... this life... it's too much. The violence. The intensity. I'm a lawyer, Chase. I fight with paper. You just assaulted a man in the hallway."
"I protect what's mine," I say simply. "And you are mine. Aren't you?"
I slide my hand down her throat, resting fingers over her pulse point. It flutters like a trapped bird. I apply the slightest pressure—grounding her, claiming her.
"Tell me," I demand softly. "Tell me you don't belong to me."
She stares up at me, pupils blown wide. She wants to deny it. Her logic screams at her to run. But her body... her body knows.
"I..." She swallows. "I can't do this."
"Yes, you can." I kiss her forehead. "You're strong enough for me. You're the only one who is."
I step back, releasing her, but I don't give her space. I walk over to her suitcase.
"What are you doing?" she asks, wary again.
I zip the suitcase shut. "You're checking out."
"I told you, I'm going back to—"
"No." I lift the suitcase effortlessly. "You're checking out of the lodge. You're coming with me."
Her eyes widen. "To the cabin?"
"To the mountain," I correct. "Where Oswald can't get to you. Where you can't run away from this conversation."
"This is kidnapping," she says, but without heat.
"Call it protective custody," I drawl, walking back to her. I wrap my free arm around her waist, pulling her flush against me. "You’re done running, Cassandra. I gave you space, and you tried to leave me. Lesson learned. No more space."
I steer her toward the door. She resists for a fraction of a second, heels digging into the carpet. Then, with a defeated, frustrated sigh, she leans into me.
"You're an arrogant, overbearing asshole," she mutters into my chest.
"I’m the man who owns you, Cassandra. The man who’s going to spend the rest of the night reminding your body exactly who it belongs to. We’re going back to the mountain, and I’m going to bury myself so deep inside you that Oswald’s name will be scorched out of your head."
We walk out into the hallway. Oswald is gone.
The door to the stairwell is shut. I keep her tucked tight against my side, shielding her from the world.
We take the elevator down this time. When the doors open to the lobby, people stare.
I look like murder, and she looks like she’s been crying, but I dare anyone to say a word.
The valet brings my bike around. I toss the suitcase at the valet, my eyes never leaving Cassandra. "Secure storage. If there's a scratch on it, I'm coming for you. I'll send a prospect for it by sundown."
"Yes, sir," the kid stammers.
I climb onto the bike and hold out a hand for her. Cassandra looks at the bike, then at me. She looks at the road leading out of town, back toward safety and normalcy. Then she looks at the mountain looming behind me, dark and wild.
She takes my hand.
I pull her onto the seat behind me. She wraps her arms around my waist, pressing her face against my leather cut. Her warmth seeps through the layers.
"Hold on tight, Cass," I say, kicking the bike into gear. "I'm never letting you go again."
As we tear out of the parking lot and hit the incline toward Grizzly Peak, the panic in my chest settles into a cold, hard resolve.
I have her back. But this isn't over. Oswald is still out there.
The permit remains a mess. And I have to explain to Logan that I just declared war on a corporate law firm.
But with her arms around me, none of that feels like fear. It feels like fuel.
Let them come. I’ll burn the whole world down to keep her warm.