Chapter 2
LOGAN
Earlier, as I’d fought the truck through the drifts near Mile Marker Four, I’d looked up toward the high ridge.
Through the swirling white chaos, a single amber spark flickered—the light from Oliver’s hearth.
My brother by the patch is inside, warm and settled with his girl, his fortress finally sealed.
I’d looked back at the black abyss of the road ahead, the hunger in my gut twisting because the mountain hadn't given me my prize yet.
Until now.
The storm outside is a feral beast, clawing at the thick timber walls of my cabin, but the storm inside my chest threatens to drown me.
I stand with my back to the heavy oak door, the iron deadbolt slid home with a finality that echoes in the small space.
Savannah stands by the hearth, shaking so hard her teeth rattle.
She looks small. Too small for a man like me.
Too soft for a life like this. And yet, every instinct I possess—the ones honed by years of violence and protecting this mountain—screams that she belongs exactly where she is.
Here. With me.
"Take them off," I growl. My voice is rougher than I intend, like gravel grinding in a mixer. I don't apologize for it. I don't apologize for anything.
She wraps her arms around herself, her blue lips parting. "What?"
"Your clothes, Savannah. They're freezing to your skin. Hypothermia isn't a joke up here on the peak. You strip, or I cut them off you."
I step away from the door, my boots thudding heavy against the floorboards.
The cabin is freezing, the air biting, but I don't feel the cold. I run hot. Always have. It’s a furnace in my blood that’s been waiting for fuel, and looking at her—wet, trembling, and staring at me with those wide, doe eyes—is like throwing gasoline on an open flame.
She hesitates, her fingers fumbling with the hem of her soaked sweater. Her hands shake too badly to work the fabric.
"I... I can't feel my fingers," she stammers, her voice barely a whisper over the wind howling around the eaves.
I close the distance between us. I loom over her, blocking out the dim light from the frosted window.
The height difference is ridiculous. If I wanted to, I could snap her in half.
The thought should horrify me, but instead, it wakes up the dark, possessive beast that lives in the cellar of my soul.
I want to surround her. Envelop her. Keep her.
"Let me."
I don't wait for permission. I reach out, my large, calloused hands covering hers. Her skin is ice cold, shocking against my heat. I brush her hands away and grip the bottom of her sweater. I lift it.
She gasps, a sharp intake of breath that punches me right in the gut, but she raises her arms. I peel the wet wool up and over her head, tossing the sodden garment into the corner.
Underneath, she’s wearing a thermal shirt that clings to her curves like a second skin, outlining the heavy swell of her breasts. My jaw tightens until it aches. She’s lush. Soft in all the places I’m hard. A travel blogger from the city, stumbling into a predator’s den.
"Pants," I order, dropping to one knee.
My hands go to the button of her jeans. She flinches, her thighs locking together, but I don't stop. I pop the button and drag the zipper down. The sound scrapes loud in the quiet cabin. I grip her hips—my thumbs digging into the soft flesh above her waistband—and tug the denim down.
She has to hold onto my shoulders for balance as she steps out of the stiff, freezing material.
My face is level with her stomach. Through the thin cotton of her panties, I can smell her.
Not just the rain and the cold, but her.
A sweet, fresh jasmine with a hint of sweet honey lingering on her skin hits my olfactory senses like a drug.
It triggers a biological imperative so strong I almost groan.
Mine.
The word slams into my brain. A verdict.
I stand up, leaving her in just her panties and that tight thermal. "Sit by the hearth. Don't move."
I turn my back on her before I do something reckless, like throw her onto the bearskin rug and ravage her before she’s even warm.
My leather cut is already draped over the chair where I’d tossed it, the Broken Halos patch heavy and familiar in the firelight.
The logs I’d lit moments ago are already roaring, the heat beginning to bleed into the room and fight back the chill.
I reach for the buttons of my heavy flannel. I strip it off, then yank my t-shirt over my head in one fluid motion. I toss the flannel at her. It hits her square in the chest. I stand there bare-chested.
The heat from the fire makes the ink on my skin gleam.
"Are you... are you going to put a shirt on?" she asks. Her eyes are glued to the tattoos traversing my chest and arms.
"Put it on," I growl. "You’re shaking the floorboards."
She scrambles into the shirt. It swallows her whole. The sleeves hang past her hands, and the hem hits her mid-thigh. Seeing her in my clothes does something twisty to my gut. It looks right. It looks like a claim.
She stares at the ink, at the scars—knifed lines from bar fights, burn marks from the forge, road rash from spills on the asphalt.
"No," I say, grabbing a bottle of whiskey from the shelf. I crack the seal and take a swig, relishing the burn, then hand it to her. "Drink."
She takes it tentatively, tipping the bottle back. She coughs as the amber liquid hits her throat, her face flushing pink. "God, that's strong."
"It'll warm your blood." I take the bottle back and take another pull, placing my lips exactly where hers were. A primitive kiss.
I move to the small kitchenette, grabbing a cast-iron pot of stew I’d made yesterday. Elk and root vegetables. I put it on the hook over the fire.
"Where are we?" she asks softly. She sits on the rug now, knees pulled to her chest, bathed in the orange glow of the fire.
"Grizzly Peak. My territory."
I look at her, really look at her, the firelight dancing in those wide, terrified eyes. "You remember my name, Savannah? Or did that cold scramble your brain?"
"Logan," she whispers, the name sounding heavy and dangerous coming off her tongue.
I crowd her space, my heat a physical weight that demands she acknowledge me. She looks at the storm still battering the windows and then back at me, the predator crouching in front of her.
"You said the roads were closed, but you could have made it," she says, her voice trembling but her gaze holding mine. "Why didn't you take me there?"
I turn slowly, the firelight catching the hard, jagged angles of my face. I don't lie to her. I never will.
"Maybe I could have," I admit, my voice a low, guttural growl that vibrates through the floorboards. "But I didn't want to."
Her breath hitches. "Why?"
"Because the second I saw you at that desk, the mountain stopped breathing."
I drop into a crouch in front of her, invading her space until she has nowhere to look but at me. I reach out, my rough, calloused finger tracing the line of her jaw, feeling the heat bloom under her skin.
"I didn't just see a woman, Savannah. I recognized the only thing on this peak I ever wanted for myself. I watched you walk toward that car and I knew—that if I let you drive away, I’d be hunting you across state lines before the moon hit the sky. The storm didn't trap you here. I did. And now that you’re in my territory, wearing my clothes and smelling like my fire, you’re never going back to that lodge.
You’re exactly where you belong. With me. "
Her pupils shrink, blue irises stark against the whites. My nostrils flare. I can smell the change in her pheromones now, mixing with the jasmine. It’s distinct—a musky, damp sweetness that makes my mouth water.
"You... you kidnapped me?"
"I rescued you," I correct, though we both know it’s a thin line. "And now you're here. Snowed in. No cell service. No way down until I say the road is clear."
She should run. If she had any sense of self-preservation, she’d be looking for a weapon. But she doesn't. She leans into my hand.
"Are you going to hurt me?"
"Never." The word is a vow. "I’ll kill anyone who tries. But hurt you? No." I let my thumb brush over her bottom lip, dragging it down to expose the pink wetness inside. "I’m going to keep you, Savannah."
She doesn't pull away. She stares at me, her pupils blown wide, swallowing the blue. The silence stretches, thick and heavy with unspoken things. The wind batters the cabin, but in here, the only thing that matters is the heat radiating between us.
I stand up and check the stew. It’s bubbling. I ladle some into a bowl and hand it to her. "Eat."
She eats. I watch her. I watch every swallow, every movement of her throat. I eat straight from the pot, animalistic hunger rising.
When the food is gone, the fire has warmed the room to a comfortable temperature. Her movements slow, limbs heavy. Her eyelids droop.
"Bed," I state.
Her breath hitches, the sound loud in the small space.
She looks around the main room, her gaze searching for an exit. I nod toward the heavy timber door just off the hearth.
"Bedroom's through there."
I lead the way. My boots thud on the floorboards as we cross the living area. I stop at the doorway. I still. I watch her as she steps past me into the smaller room. Her eyes land on the massive, rough-hewn log bed filling the space.
The only bed.
"Where are you going to sleep?" she asks.
"In my bed."
"With me?"
"Unless you want the floor."
She swallows hard, standing up. The flannel shirt rides up her thighs. "Okay."
I kill the lantern in the main room. The only light left is the orange glow from the hearth, spilling through the open bedroom doorway.
I walk into the room and strip out of my jeans. I’m down to my boxer briefs. I don’t hide myself. I want her to see the size of me. The threat of me.
I’m hard. I’m straining against the cotton. It’s a thick, heavy need. It’s been building since I saw her check in at the lodge.
She averts her eyes, a hot flush creeping up her neck, and scrambles under the heavy down quilt. She curls into a tight ball on the far edge of the mattress, trying to disappear into the shadows.
I climb in after her. The log frame groans, and the mattress dips deep under my weight. I don't stay on my side. I slide across the sheets until the heat of my chest hits the curve of her back.
"Logan—" she squeaks, her voice small and trembling.
"Quiet. You’re still shivering, and I won't have you freezing in my bed.
Shed the thermal and that lace bra, Savannah. Then lose the panties. I want you naked against me, or you’ll never get warm."
I feel the indecision radiating off her spine. She hesitates, her breath hitching in the dark before she reaches under the quilt.
I watch the silhouette of her movement as she wriggles out of the tight thermal shirt, unhooks her bra, and shoves her panties over her hips, pushing the damp bundle of silk and cotton over the side of the bed.
I pull her flush against me. Skin to skin. She’s like a live wire, humming with a frantic energy that makes my own blood simmer.
"I can feel... you," she whispers into the silence.
I grind my hips forward, just enough to let the hard ridge of my cock press into her heat. "Good. Then you know exactly what you’re sleeping next to. Don't make me remind you again."
She stiffens, a sharp intake of breath rattling in her lungs, before she finally collapses into the mattress.
Her breathing evens out, but sleep is a mile away for me.
I lay there, inhaling the fresh jasmine with a hint of sweet honey and rain clinging to her hair. My hand splayed wide over her stomach.
An hour passes. In the other room, the fire dies down to orange embers, casting long, dancing shadows through the open doorway. The storm still claws at the timber walls, a feral thing trying to get in, but the only thing that matters is the woman in my arms.
She shifts, turning over in her sleep until she’s facing me. Her leg hooks over my hip, her soft thigh rubbing against my erection with a friction that tests every ounce of my control.
I grit my teeth. I’m the President of the Broken Halos MC. I control an army of killers. I can surely control my own pulse.
But then she whimpers. She presses her face into the crook of my neck, her soft breasts smashing against the ink on my chest. My heart hammers against my ribs like a trapped bird.
I keep my hand still on her hip, my fingers digging into her soft flesh just enough to leave a mark.
Even in her sleep, her body knows I’m the one.
I bury my face in her hair, the scent of her intoxicating in the dark.
"Sleep," I whisper, my voice a rough vow. "You’re going to need your energy for tomorrow."
She snuggles closer, her warmth bleeding into my skin as she falls deeper into the arms of the beast who just stole her life. The silence of the mountain doesn't feel lonely anymore. It feels like victory.
But the storm isn't the only thing that's going to break by morning.