Chapter 7
SAVANNAH
The silence wakes me before the cold does.
For the last two days, the world has been a roaring, white chaos of wind and ice battering the log walls. Now, the howling is gone. Heavy stillness presses against my eardrums, thick and absolute.
I stretch my legs beneath the down comforter, wincing as a delicious, dull ache radiates through my hips and inner thighs. My body feels different. Changed. Every movement pulls at muscles stretched and used thoroughly by a man who seems more like a force of nature than a human being.
"Logan?" I whisper, reaching for the other side of the bed.
Empty. The sheets are cold.
My chest constricts, air suddenly scarce in the quiet room. I sit up, clutching the quilt tight. The bedroom door stands open to the main living area. Sunlight—blinding, brilliant sunlight—streams through the windows, cutting sharp angles across the dusty floorboards. The storm has broken.
I swing my legs out of bed. Goosebumps erupt across my skin as the chilly air bites.
I find Logan’s flannel shirt on the floor where he discarded it last night and slip it on.
It smells like him. Woodsmoke, pine, musk, and the faint, metallic tang of the weapon he keeps on the nightstand.
The fabric swallows me whole, the hem hitting my mid-thigh, the sleeves dangling past my fingertips.
I pad barefoot into the main room. Glowing embers pulse in the stone hearth, keeping the cabin warm.
"Logan?" I call out again, louder this time.
No answer.
I move to the kitchen window overlooking the front clearing.
I have to shield my eyes against the glare.
The menacing gray blizzard has vanished, replaced by a pristine white expanse.
Drifts of snow pile six feet high against the trees, burying the porch steps, smoothing the jagged edges of the mountain into soft curves.
And there he is.
My breath hitches. Logan is outside, waist-deep in the snow near the woodpile.
He wears dark jeans and heavy boots, his torso covered by a thick, thermal Henley straining across his massive shoulders.
He shovels with a rhythmic, powerful motion, sending heavy sprays of white powder flying into the air.
Even from here, the sheer size of him makes my stomach flip. He dominates the landscape. The mountain doesn't dwarf him; he looks carved from the same granite as the peaks behind him.
I watch, mesmerized, as he pauses to wipe sweat from his forehead with the back of a gloved hand.
He looks up. His gaze snaps straight to the window as if he felt my eyes on him.
Even through the glass and distance, the intensity of his stare hits me like a visceral punch.
He doesn't smile. He gives a single, sharp nod before returning to his work.
I turn away, needing to steady my racing heart. Coffee. I need coffee.
As I move toward the kitchen counter, my hip bumps against one of the heavy wooden dining chairs. A leather vest—a "cut," I think Mike at the coffee shop called it—drapes over the back. Logan hasn't worn it since the first night.
I run my fingers over the rough, black leather. It’s heavy, worn soft in places, scarred in others. I turn it around to look at the patches.
brOKEN HALOS MC. PINE VALLEY.
And on the front, a rectangular patch over the heart: PRESIDENT.
The reality of it sits heavy in my gut, warring with the lingering heat of his touch.
I know who he is. I know what this means.
He’s not just a mountain man. He’s an outlaw.
A king of a violent kingdom. And I’m wearing his shirt, sore from his cock, humming with a sense of belonging that terrifies me.
A low rumble vibrates through the floorboards.
I freeze. A mechanical growl cut through the silence, deeper and more rhythmic than the wind, growing louder by the second. Engines. Multiple engines.
I rush back to the window.
A massive black truck, lifted high on tires that look capable of crushing a sedan, churns its way up the unplowed track, throwing snow violently to the sides. Behind it, a second vehicle, an older Bronco, follows, equally modified for this brutal terrain.
The outside world is here.
My heart hammers against my ribs. Rescue? Police? Enemies?
Logan stops shoveling. He doesn't look alarmed. He stabs the shovel into a snowbank and walks toward the approaching vehicles with a slow, predatory stride that screams authority. He doesn't raise his hands. He just stands there, feet planted wide, blocking the path to the cabin.
The black truck and the Bronco grind to a halt ten yards from him, flanking him like twin beasts.
The doors of the lead truck swing wide as a massive, dark-haired man jumps out, while a second man kills the engine of the Bronco and steps into the snowy clearing.
Both newcomers move with the practiced, lethal synchronicity of soldiers in a war zone.
They are huge—not quite as massive as Logan, but close.
They wear similar leather cuts over heavy winter gear.
The first man has a jawline sharp enough to cut glass and a smirk playing on his lips as he says something to Logan.
The second man is quieter, watchful, with sandy hair and eyes that seem to scan the perimeter instantly.
Logan points toward the cabin, his posture unyielding.
I take a step back, suddenly conscious of my bare legs and messy hair. He’s bringing them inside.
The front door opens a moment later, bringing a gust of freezing air and the scent of exhaust with it. Logan enters first, stomping snow off his boots. He looks at me immediately, scanning me from head to toe.
"Savannah," he says, his voice rougher than the whisper in my ear last night. "Put some socks on. The floor's cold."
The two strangers file in behind him. The small cabin shrinks instantly, filled with too much size and aggression. The air suddenly feels too thin.
"So this is her," the dark-haired one says. His voice is smooth, charming, but carries a dangerous edge. He looks me over with a critical, assessing gaze. "The little bird that fell out of the sky."
"Watch it, Austin," Logan growls, moving to stand between us. He doesn't touch me, but his body language forms a shield. "Savannah, this is Austin. My VP. And Tristan. My Road Captain."
Austin—the Vice President—grins, extending a hand I’m too stunned to shake. "Nice to meet you, darlin'. You've got half the town in a panic, you know that?"
Blood drains from my face. "What?"
"The storm took out the cell towers, but the grid is coming back online," Austin says, walking past Logan to warm his hands by the fire.
"That runner you sent to the Lodge? He gave them the message that the girl was with ‘family,’ but Lucas Sterling didn't buy the 'old lady' story for a second.
He thinks you snatched a tourist to keep your bed warm during the freeze.
Nathan—Mr. Mountain Rescue—is using it as an excuse to bring a search party and dogs up the trailhead by noon. "
I gasp, hand flying to my mouth. "Oh god. My mom... my job. They must be terrified."
"Probably," Tristan says. His voice is quieter, deep and soothing, but his eyes remain hard. "Which is why we’re here. We need to handle the optics before the cops start knocking on clubhouse doors."
I look at Logan. He hasn't moved. His face is a mask of stone. "Handle it?"
"You need to make a call," Austin says, pulling a sleek black smartphone from his pocket. "Tell them you're safe. Tell them you decided to extend your stay at a private rental because of the weather. You’re fine, you’re happy, and you don’t need saving."
I reach for the phone, relief washing over me. "Okay. Yes. I’ll call my mom, and then I can call the rental place... when can I leave? Can you guys take me down? If your trucks made it up..."
The silence that follows is deafening.
Austin’s smirk vanishes. Tristan looks at the floor.
Logan turns to me slowly. The look in his eyes sends a tremor skittering down my spine. Dark. Possessive. Final.
"You're not going down, Savannah."
I freeze, fingers inches from Austin’s phone. "What?"
"The roads are still dangerous," Logan says, but it sounds like a lie. A convenient excuse. "You’re staying here."
"But..." I look at Austin, then back to Logan. "You just said Nathan is looking for me. If I tell them I'm safe, I can just go back to the Lodge. I have my luggage there. My laptop. I can't just... stay here indefinitely."
"You have luggage?" Austin asks Logan, raising an eyebrow. "Or are you keeping her in your shirts forever? Not that I’m complaining about the view, brother, but practicalities."
"I'll get her things," Logan snaps at his brother, hands curling into fists at his sides. "Tristan can run to the Lodge. Grab her bags. Pay the bill."
"Wait," I say, voice rising. I step out from behind the kitchen island. "Stop. You’re talking about me like I’m not here. I need to go back. I have a life, Logan. I have a flight to catch in three days. I have a blog to run."
Logan steps into my space, forcing me to tilt my head back. The tenderness from this morning has vanished, replaced by the immovable granite of the MC President.
"Cancel the flight," he says.
"Excuse me?"
"You're not leaving, Savannah." He says it low, a rumble vibrating in my chest. "You belong to me. We established that. You gave yourself to me."
"I..." My face heats, shame and anger warring in my blood. "I slept with you, Logan. I didn't sign a contract. You can't just keep me on a mountain."
Austin lets out a low whistle. "She’s got fire, Pres. I like her."
"Out," Logan snarls, gaze locked on me.
"We need to discuss the Sterling situation," Austin presses, tone turning serious. "He’s asking questions about the eastern ridge. If the Gunnars are harboring a missing tourist while Sterling is trying to broker a peace treaty with the Costa family, it complicates things."
"I said out," Logan roars, the sound echoing off the timber walls.