Chapter 3
SAVANNAH
The scent of him hits me first. It’s a heavy blend of pine, woodsmoke, and a dark, animal musk that makes my head swim.
I open my eyes, squinting against the dim light spilling through the open bedroom doorway.
This isn't the Grand Pine Lodge. There are no sterile white walls here.
Only the rough timber of a cabin that feels as old as the mountain itself.
Memory slams into me.
The blizzard. The slide. The man with eyes like a predator.
I sit up, and the cool air bites at my skin.
I’m naked. Every inch of me feels sensitized, humming with the ghost of a touch I can't quite forget.
I remember his voice in the dark. A rough command to shed my damp clothes for the sake of warmth.
I remember the terrifying heat of his body pressed against mine, skin to skin, until the shivering stopped.
I should be scared. I’m a travel blogger from the suburbs. I’m stranded in a mountain fortress with the President of an outlaw motorcycle club. But as I shift my legs, feeling the phantom weight of him, my hand slides down my stomach to press against a low, liquid ache.
My cheeks burn.
I’m in a beast’s bed, and the most frightening part isn't that he took me—it’s that I don't want to leave.
The space beside me is cold.
He's gone.
I swing my legs out of bed. The floorboards are ice under my toes.
I find the flannel shirt Logan made me discard last night and pull it on.
The fabric is heavy. It smells of leather and rain.
The hem hits my mid-thigh, and the sleeves swallow my hands.
I roll the cuffs back, feeling the weight of the garment like a brand.
I pad toward the doorway, leaving the quiet of the bedroom behind. As I step into the living area, the heat from the hearth wraps around me. I round the massive stone fireplace and stop.
Logan is at the stove. His back is a landscape of corded muscle. The Broken Halos insignia—a skull with wings—stretches across his shoulders, rippling as he moves. He’s wearing nothing but worn jeans that hang dangerously low on his hips. The sight of him steals the air from my lungs.
He doesn't turn. But I see the muscles in his back bunch.
He knows I’m here.
My gaze traces the landscape of his back like I’m mapping a new continent. Below the dark ink of his patch, ragged lines and silvered burn marks tell stories of a life lived on the edge of a knife.
He’s massive, his sheer breadth making the industrial-sized stove look like a child’s toy.
I track the ripple of muscle across his back, my eyes glued to the dark ink of the club patch on his skin. He doesn't need to turn to know I’m there; the air between us is already thick with the scent of my pussy weeping for him.
"Floor’s cold," he rumbles, his voice a low, vibrations-heavy baritone that travels up my bare legs and settles into a throb between my tits.
"Put some socks on." "I... I couldn't find any," I whisper, my voice wrecked by the memory of his cock filling me hours ago. He turns then, and the hunger in his eyes is a physical strike.
His eyes are dark, hooded, and intense, sweeping over me from my messy hair down to my bare toes, lingering on the way his shirt gapes at my neck.
He holds a cast-iron skillet in one hand effortlessly. The domesticity of the scene—bacon, eggs, coffee—clashes violently with the lethal aura he projects. A predator playing house, and I’m the prey that wandered into the den.
"Sit," he commands, nodding toward the heavy wooden island in the center of the kitchen.
I bristle. I’ve been independent my whole life. I travel the world alone. I don’t take orders.
"I’m not a dog, Logan," I say, lifting my chin.
A corner of his mouth quirks up, not quite a smile, but something dangerous and amused. He sets the skillet down on a trivet and stalks toward me.
My defiance vaporizes as he closes the distance. He moves with a predatory grace that shouldn't be possible for a man of his size. The air in the kitchen changes, charging with static electricity.
He stops inches from me, towering over my frame. I crane my neck back to look him in the eye.
"I know you're not a dog, Savannah," he murmurs, his voice dropping an octave. "If you were, I wouldn't be thinking about bending you over that counter."
My mouth drops open. A flush burns from my chest to my hairline. "Logan!"
"Sit," he repeats, but his tone is softer this time, laced with a dark heat that makes my thighs clench. "You need to eat. You’re shaking."
He reaches out, his large hand enveloping my upper arm. His grip is firm but careful, handling fragile glass. He guides me to a tall stool at the island. I sit because my legs have suddenly decided they can’t support my weight anymore.
He turns back to the stove, plating food with efficient, jerky movements. He sets a plate in front of me—eggs, bacon, toast—and a steaming mug of black coffee.
"Eat," he says, leaning his hip against the counter opposite me, crossing his massive arms over his chest. Biceps the size of my thighs flex with the movement.
I pick up the fork, my hand trembling. "How long was I asleep?"
"Long enough," he says, watching my mouth as I take a bite of eggs. "Storm’s worse. Road is gone. We’re buried in."
My fork pauses halfway to my mouth. I look toward the window, but I see only a wall of white. The wind howls against the glass, a mournful, angry sound emphasizing our isolation.
"My car..."
"Forget the car," he cuts in, his voice hard. "It’s metal and plastic. I’ll pull it out when the snow clears."
"And when will that be?"
"Doesn't matter." His dark eyes lock onto mine. "You’re not going anywhere."
The finality in his tone sends a jolt through my blood. "I have a schedule, Logan. I have readers waiting for updates. I have a room at the Grand Pine Lodge with all my gear and my life sitting in it."
"I tried to call them," he says, his voice a low rumble. "The storm took out the main lines near the ridge, and the cell towers are screaming into the void. I sent a runner down to the lower pass—one of my boys. He’ll make sure they know you’re with 'family.
' You don't need to worry about the Lodge, Savannah. You only need to worry about me."
"Family?" I choke out a laugh. "We just met yesterday."
He pushes off the counter, moving into my personal space again. He plants his hands on the island on either side of my plate, boxing me in. His face levels with mine, his scent overwhelming me.
"Time doesn't mean shit up here, Savannah," he growls. "I knew the second I saw you on the side of that road. Hell, I knew before that. When I saw you walking down Main Street."
My heart hammers against my ribs. "You saw me in town?"
"I saw you," he confirms, his gaze dropping to my lips. "Saw you looking at the mountains like you were looking for something. You found it."
The intensity of his stare suffocates me, addictive and heavy. "I was looking for a view," I whisper. "For my blog."
"You were looking for this," he corrects, arrogance radiating off him in waves. "For me."
I want to argue. I want to tell him he’s crazy, that this is just adrenaline and Stockholm syndrome wrapped in a flannel shirt. The slick heat between my legs tells a different story.
"Eat," he orders again, nodding at my plate. "I like my women with some meat on their bones, but you're running on empty."
I take a bite of bacon, chewing slowly as he watches. He watches everything. Every swallow, every lick of my lips. It’s unnerving. It’s the most erotic thing I’ve ever experienced.
"So," I say, desperate to break the heavy silence. "Do you live here alone? It’s... big."
"It’s quiet," he says. "Keeps the bullshit out."
"The bullshit?"
"Town. Politics. People asking questions they don't want the answers to." He reaches out, his index finger tracing the line of my jaw. His skin is rough, calloused from years of gripping handlebars and wielding weapons. The contrast against my skin is electric. "Usually, I don't like company."
"But you brought me here."
"I didn't bring you here for company, Savannah."
The air leaves the room. His thumb brushes over my bottom lip, dragging it down slightly. My breath hitches, ragged and loud in the quiet kitchen.
"Why did you bring me here?" I ask, my voice barely a whisper.
He doesn't answer immediately. He stares at my mouth, his pupils blown wide, swallowing the iris. "Because if I had left you at that lodge, some soft-handed tourist would be buying you drinks right now. Looking at you." His jaw tightens, a muscle ticking in his cheek. "And I don't share."
Possessiveness rolls off him like heat from a furnace. Toxic, archaic, completely overwhelming.
"You don't even know me," I breathe.
"I know you'll taste like honey," he rumbles, stepping closer until his bare chest brushes against my knees. "I know you’re tight. I know no one has ever touched you, not really. Not until me."
I gasp, the phantom sensation of his hands on my body flashing hot and bright. "Logan..."
"Do you want to leave?" he asks suddenly, his voice dropping to a dangerous whisper. "Tell me you want to walk out into that storm and go back to your little hotel room."
I look at the window, at the swirling white death outside. Then I look back at him. At the scars on his chest, the pulse beating in his throat, the raw hunger in his eyes.
"No," I whisper. The truth hurts, but it liberates. "I don't want to leave."
A satisfied growl rumbles deep in his chest. He moves so fast I don't have time to react.
His hands grip my waist, large and inescapable, and he lifts me effortlessly. I squeak as he deposits me onto the granite countertop, shoving the plate aside. He steps between my legs, forcing my thighs apart with his hips.
The size difference is even more apparent now. Even sitting on the counter, I have to look up at him. His thighs are like iron pillars against the inside of my legs. The heat of him seeps through the flannel, branding me.
"Good," he says, his hands sliding up my sides, fingers digging into my ribs, claiming me. "Because I wasn't going to let you go anyway."
My heart thunders a frantic rhythm against my ribs. "Is that a threat?"
"It’s a promise."
He leans in, his face inches from mine. I feel his breath, hot and smelling of coffee, ghosting over my lips. My eyes flutter shut, my body leaning forward instinctively, seeking him. Every nerve ending screams for contact. I want his mouth on mine. I want him to consume me.
His hand slides lower, skimming over my hip, under the hem of the flannel shirt. His rough palm flattens against my bare thigh, warm and possessive. He slides it higher, agonizingly slow.
My breath catches. I’m completely naked under this shirt. I'd abandoned my damp panties on the nightstand hours ago, and he knows it.
"Look at me," he commands.
I force my heavy lids open. His face is a mask of strained control. The veins in his neck are corded tight.
"You have no idea what I want to do to you right now," he rasps, his thumb tracing small circles on the inside of my thigh, inching closer to the center of my heat.
"Show me," I challenge, the words bypassing my brain entirely.
His eyes flare, a dark fire igniting. His hand flexes on my thigh, gripping hard enough to bruise. He leans closer, his nose brushing against mine. The friction is electric. I tilt my head, parting my lips, ready for the crash.
I feel the heat radiating from his groin, the hard ridge of his cock pressing against my thigh through his jeans. He’s aroused. Painfully so.
"You think you're ready?" he growls against my mouth.
"Yes."
He doesn't give me a chance to reconsider. He crashes his mouth down on mine.
It’s not a gentle first kiss. It’s a raid. His tongue sweeps into my mouth, demanding entry, tasting me with a starving intensity that makes my toes curl. He tastes like coffee and danger, a dark, rich flavor that drugs my senses.
I moan into his mouth, my hands flying up to tangle in his hair, pulling him closer. He growls, the vibration rumbling against my chest, and his grip on my waist tightens, anchoring me to him.
His other hand anchors at my waist. He bunches the heavy flannel of the shirt in his fist, pulling me so flush against him that I can’t tell where my heartbeat ends and his begins.
I gasp into the kiss. My hips buck instinctively, searching for a friction that the thick denim of his jeans denies me. He keeps me balanced on the edge of the blade.
He devours the frustrated sound I make. He bites my lower lip, soothes the sting with his tongue, and plunges back in. The world narrows down to this—his taste, the dark scent of him, and the terrifying strength in the arms holding me captive.
He pulls back, leaving me gasping, my lips swollen and throbbing. A string of saliva connects us before breaking.
"You taste better than honey," he rasps, his eyes black with lust. "You taste like mine."
I sit on the counter with my legs locked around his waist. The heavy flannel of his shirt is bunched between us, a thick barrier of wool and warmth. My breath comes in shallow, wrecked gasps.
My body is a live wire. I’m throbbing. I’m aching. I’m desperately empty.
Outside, the wind screams against the timber walls, piling the snow higher with every feral gust.
I’m trapped with a beast.
And somehow, I never want to be saved.