Chapter 6
LOGAN
Embers glow dull orange against the log walls, but the heat remains trapped under the heavy quilt, radiating from the soft body pressed against my side.
I don’t sleep.
For three hours, I’ve done nothing but breathe her in. Every inhale drags deep, heavy with her scent—jasmine, sweat, and the musk of our sex. It fills my lungs, settling the constant static of violence that usually hums in my blood.
Savannah shifts. Her face buries itself in the crook of my neck, her hand resting over my heart. Small. Delicate. Unmarked by the labor and fighting that turned my own hands into scarred maps of past sins.
I look down at her, careful not to move. My arm is numb where her head rests, but I’d cut the damn thing off before disturbing her rest.
She’s mine.
This reality stands as solid as the granite cliffs of Grizzly Peak. Yesterday, a stranger stranded in a snowstorm. Today, the marrow in my bones.
My gaze shifts to the window. Gray dawn light pushes against the blizzard, but the snow still falls in thick sheets. The world outside doesn't exist. The club, the Sterling land dispute, the rescue team sniffing around our territory—all noise.
Touch her and you die.
The MC motto usually revolves around the patch, the brotherhood. But looking at the bruise forming on her neck—a purple mark left by my mouth—the code has rewritten itself. If anyone tried to take her, I wouldn’t just kill them. I would burn Pine Valley to the ground and salt the earth.
Savannah stirs, a small whimper escaping her throat. Her brows knit together, legs twitching against mine.
"Shh," I rumble, the sound vibrating in my chest against her cheek. "I’ve got you."
Her eyes flutter open. Hazy confusion clouds the green depths before they find my face. The panic dies instantly, replaced by a softness that hits me like a sledgehammer to the gut. She doesn't pull away or scramble for the edge of the bed.
She snuggles closer.
"Logan," she whispers, voice rough and unused.
"I’m here." I brush a strand of dark hair away from her forehead, my thumb dragging against smooth skin. "How do you feel?"
She blinks, taking stock. A flush rises up her neck, staining her cheeks pink. She remembers. Every second. The stretching. The claiming.
"I’m… sore," she admits, biting her lower lip.
"I know." I run my hand down the curve of her spine, resting my palm on the swell of her hip. "I was too big. I didn't stop."
"I didn't want you to stop."
My cock twitches, heavy and half-hard even now.
"Good," I growl. "Because I’m not done. I’m never going to be done, Savannah."
She pushes herself up slightly, wincing as the movement pulls at tender muscles. The sheet falls away, exposing her breasts. Full, creamy, perfect. Nipples peaked from the chill. I track the movement with a hunger that should alarm me, but rational thought left the building hours ago.
"The storm?" she asks, glancing toward the window.
"Still raging." I lie. It’s slowing down, but she doesn't need that information yet. "Roads are buried under six feet of drift. We aren't going anywhere."
"My car…"
"Forget the car." My tone comes out sharper than intended. I moderate it, stroking her hip. "Tristan will haul it out when the pass clears. Blake can fix whatever’s broken. You don't need to worry about a thing."
She searches my face. "You talk like this is normal. Me being here. You taking care of everything."
"It is normal now."
"Logan, I have a life. A job. I’m a travel blogger. I have a schedule to keep."
I sit up, the cold air hitting my bare chest. I turn, caging her between my arms, leaning over to block out the rest of the room. She needs to understand the gravity of this.
"You had a life," I correct her. "Now you have me."
Her breath hitches. "That sounds… crazy. You know that, right? We met yesterday."
"Time doesn't mean shit." I lean down, brushing my nose against hers. "My grandfather met my grandmother on a Tuesday and married her on a Friday. When a Gunnar finds his mate, the clock stops. Don't lie to me, Savannah. When I pulled you out of that car, when you looked at me… you felt it."
She swallows hard, pupils dilated. "I felt safe. Even though you look like you could crush me."
"I could," I admit, voice dropping to a whisper. "I could crush you with one hand. I’ve hurt people, Savannah. I run a club that operates outside the lines. I’m not a good man. But for you? I’m the only man who matters."
I capture her lips. Deep, heavy, pouring every ounce of my obsession into her mouth. I taste her surrender as she opens for me, tongue meeting mine, arms winding around my neck to pull me down.
When I pull back, we’re both breathless.
"Let’s get you cleaned up," I say, retreating before I lose control and bury myself in her again. She’s too sore. I need to tend to the prize I’ve won.
I throw the covers off. She trembles, instinctively trying to cover herself with her hands, but I catch her wrists.
"No," I command softly. "Don't hide. Not from me. Never from me."
I scoop her up. She squeaks, wrapping her legs around my waist.
She’s so small, her skin pale and soft against my tattoos. I carry her effortlessly through the cabin to the bathroom.
The floors are cold, but the radiant heat in the bathroom warms the slate. I set her down on the closed toilet lid and turn on the shower. Steam begins to fill the massive stone stall.
I turn back to her. She watches me, eyes tracing the ink on my chest, the jagged scar running from my ribs to my hip—a souvenir from a knife fight three years ago.
"Does it hurt?" she asks, reaching out. Her fingertips brush the scar tissue.
My muscles seize. No one touches me there without getting their hand broken. But her touch sends a jolt straight to my groin.
"Old news," I grunt. "Doesn't hurt anymore."
I take her hand and pull her up. "Get in."
We step into the spray. The water scalds, just the way I like it. It beats down on my shoulders, washing away the tension. Savannah gasps, turning her face into the spray, hair plastering to her back.
I grab the bar of soap—rough, handmade stuff—and lather my hands.
"Turn around," I order.
She obeys. I step in close, chest pressing against her back. I run soapy hands over her shoulders, down her arms, kneading the muscles. She groans, head falling back against my shoulder.
"You’re tight," I murmur against her wet ear.
"You’re… big," she whispers back.
I smirk. "I know."
My hands slide down to her waist, then lower. I cup her hips, pulling her back until her ass presses firmly against my hardening cock. She can feel me. No hiding the effect she has on me.
"Spread your legs a little, sweetheart."
She widens her stance. My hand slips between her thighs to wash her. She flinches, anticipating pain, but I’m gentle. I clean away the blood and the evidence of my claiming. An act—cleaning my own mess—but also reverence. This body took me. Held me.
"Logan," she gasps, hands gripping the tiled wall.
I keep the rhythm steady, careful not to push her too far. She’s swollen, sensitive. I kiss the wet skin of her neck, biting lightly at the cord of muscle. She trembles, knees shaking. I support her weight with one arm wrapped around her waist.
This isn’t about getting off. This is about binding her to me. Making her associate this safety and heat with me alone.
"You did good," I whisper into her ear. "Took everything I gave you."
When she stops shaking, I turn off the water and wrap her in a towel before she catches a chill, carrying her back out to the main room.
I sit on the edge of the bed, pulling her into my lap. She rests her head on my shoulder, looking exhausted and thoroughly ravished.
"Hungry?" I ask.
She nods against my chest. "Starving."
"I’ll make eggs. There’s bacon in the cooler."
"Logan?"
"Yeah?"
She pulls back enough to look at me. Her eyes are clear now, the haze fading into intensity. "What happens when the snow melts?"
I hold her gaze. My face remains stone, but inside, my heart hammers a warning rhythm.
"Nothing changes," I tell her. "I take you down the mountain. You see the clubhouse. You meet my brothers. They need to know who you are."
"Who am I?" she asks, voice barely a whisper.
I run my thumb over her bottom lip, dragging it down to expose the wet pink inner flesh.
"You’re my Old Lady," I say. The term is weighty and archaic to outsiders, but sacred to us. "You’re under my protection. You ride on my bike. You sleep in my bed. And if anyone looks at you sideways, they answer to the Broken Halos MC."
She shudders, but I see the thrill in her eyes. She craves this. The modern world is too soft, too disconnected. She’s been waiting for a monster to come out of the woods and drag her home.
"Okay," she breathes.
"Okay?" I raise a brow.
"Okay," she repeats, firmer this time. "But I still need to check my email."
I let out a rough bark of laughter—a sound that surprises even me.
"Deal," I agree. "But first, food. Then, I’m putting you back in that bed."
"To sleep?" she asks innocently.
I stand, lifting her with me, and set her gently on the mattress. I lean over, bracing my hands on either side of her head, caging her one last time.
"To recover," I correct her, voice dropping to that dangerous pitch. "Because once you’re healed up, Savannah... I’m going to use you until you forget your own name."
I turn and walk toward the kitchen, feeling her eyes on my back.
The radio on the counter crackles. Low-band frequency.
“Pres. You copy?”
Austin. My VP.
I stare at the radio. The real world knocking. Austin, Shane, Tristan—they’ll be wondering why I haven't checked in. They know I found a stray, but they don't know I’ve found my queen.
I pick up the mic, thumbing the button. I glance back at the bed. Savannah watches me, the towel slipping low on her chest.
"I’m here," I say.
“Roads are still shit,” Austin’s voice comes through, distorted by static. “Nathan from Rescue says they’re pulling the plows until visibility improves. You good up there?”
"I’m good," I say, eyes locked on Savannah. "Better than good."
“The girl?” Austin asks. A pause. “You send her on her way yet?”
"No," I say. The word is final. "She stays."
“...Copy that, Pres. She stays.” Austin’s tone changes. He knows. He hears it in my voice.
I release the button and toss the mic back on the counter.
I grab the cast-iron skillet. The metal feels cold and heavy. I start cooking, the domestic task grounding me.
I can’t breathe without her.
The realization hits me again. If she walked out that door, into the snow, and disappeared, my chest would cave in. The air would turn to glass in my lungs. Suffocation.
I look at the knife block. The scars on my arms. The darkness living in the corners of this cabin. I’ve spent my life guarding this mountain, fighting for territory, pushing away anything soft.
But she makes me stronger.
I crack an egg into the skillet, the hiss of grease filling the silence.
She’s staying. I don't care what Lucas Sterling thinks, or the town council, or her blog schedule. The mountain has claimed her. I have claimed her.