Chapter 7 #2
Tristan grabs Austin’s arm. "Let’s go check the perimeter, brother. Give them a minute."
Austin holds up his hands in mock surrender, leaving the phone on the table. "You’ve got ten minutes, darlin'. Make the call. Tell them you’re safe. Or Nathan is going to be kicking down this door by noon, and Logan will have to kill him. And that’s a mound of paperwork I don’t want to do."
The door slams shut behind them.
I stare at Logan, chest heaving. The reality of my situation crashes down on me. I wasn't just trapped by the storm. I was trapped by him.
"You blocked the road," the realization makes my knees weak. "Even if the snow melted yesterday, I wasn't leaving."
Logan stalks toward me. Terrifying. Beautiful. "No."
"That’s kidnapping, Logan!"
"It’s claiming," he corrects, reaching out to cup my face. His hands are rough, calloused, large enough to crush my skull, but he holds me with terrifying gentleness. "You felt it. I know you did. The second I saw you. The second I touched you. You’re mine. My woman. My Old Lady."
"I barely know you!" I shout, pulling away. I back up until my hips hit the counter. "I don't know your middle name. I don't know your birthday. I just know you’re in a motorcycle club and you... you have guns and people who talk about killing rescue workers like it’s paperwork!"
"Club," he growls, stepping into me again, caging me against the wood. "It’s a club. And you know the only thing that matters. You know how my hands feel on your skin. You know how my cock feels inside you. You trust me, Savannah. Your body trusts me even if your brain is panicking."
"That’s lust!" I cry, tears pricking my eyes. "You can’t build a life on that."
"Watch me."
He grabs my waist, lifting me effortlessly onto the counter. I gasp, hands landing on his shoulders to steady myself. He steps between my spread thighs, the denim of his jeans rough against my bare skin. The friction sends a jolt of arousal straight to my core, betraying me instantly.
"Logan, stop," I plead, though my voice lacks conviction. "I have a family. My mother calls me every Sunday. My boss expects an article on Tuesday. I can't just vanish."
"You’re not vanishing," he says, leaning in until his nose brushes mine. His eyes are molten gold, burning with an intensity that threatens to consume me. "You’re just changing worlds. You think that life out there matters? The deadlines? The traffic? The people who don't see you?"
He grips my chin, forcing me to look at him. "I see you, Savannah. I saw you in that snowstorm, and I saw the part of you that was waiting for this. For a man who wouldn't ask permission to take care of you. A man who would burn the world down to keep you warm."
"You're crazy," I whisper, a tear spilling over my cheek.
"I am," he agrees, licking the tear away. His tongue is hot, rough. "I’m crazy for you. I’m obsessed. I tried to be gentle, Savannah. I tried to go slow. But if you try to leave this mountain, I will hunt you down. I will drag you back. And I won't be gentle the next time."
The threat hangs in the air, heavy and erotic. My heart pounds so hard it hurts. This is madness. This is the kind of thing you read about and scream at the girl to run away from.
But I’m not running. My fingers curl into the fabric of his Henley.
"I need to call my mom," I say, voice trembling. "She worries."
Logan stares at me, jaw ticking. Then, slowly, the dark fury recedes, replaced by that overwhelming, crushing possessiveness.
"Call her," he says. He reaches behind him, grabs the phone Austin left on the table, and presses it into my hand. "Tell her you met someone. Tell her you’re safe."
"And the job?"
"Quit," he says simply. "You don't need to work. I provide for you now."
"I like writing," I argue, a small spark of defiance returning. "I like my blog."
He pauses, considering. His hand slides up my thigh, thumb tracing the sensitive skin of my inner thigh, making my breath hitch. "Then write about this place. Write about the mountains. But you do it from here. From my bed."
He leans down, pressing a hard, claiming kiss to the pulse point of my neck. I whimper, head falling back.
"You’re scared," he murmurs against my skin.
"Yes."
"Good. You should be. This isn't a game, Savannah. Once you make that call... once you tell them you’re staying... there’s no going back. You’re wearing my patch. You’re under my protection. But you’re also under my command."
He pulls back, eyes searching mine. "Can you handle that? Can you handle being the property of a monster?"
I look at him—really look at him. I see the scars on his neck. The darkness in his eyes. The violence simmering just beneath the surface. But I also remember the way he warmed my frozen feet with his hands. The way he fed me soup. The way he worshipped my body last night like it was a holy temple.
My life in San Francisco feels a million miles away. Gray. Lonely. Safe.
Here, the air is thin and dangerous. But I feel alive.
"I'll make the call," I whisper.
Logan lets out a breath, a ragged sound of relief. He rests his forehead against mine. "Good girl."
He kisses me then, deep and bruising, tasting of coffee and dominance. His hand slides up my shirt, cupping my breast, thumb flicking over the nipple until I moan into his mouth.
"Make the call," he orders, pulling away and leaving me breathless and aching on the counter. "Then get dressed. Austin and Tristan are going to take you to town to get your things."
I blink, dazed. "I thought I couldn't leave."
"You can't leave me," Logan corrects, turning toward the door. He grabs his leather cut from the chair and shrugs it on. The transformation is instant. He looks bigger, broader, infinitely more dangerous. "I'm coming with you. We’re going to the Lodge. I need to have a word with Lucas Sterling."
He pauses at the door, looking back at me with a dark smirk.
"And then I'm bringing you home. And I'm going to spend the next week showing you exactly why you’re never going to want to leave this bed again."
The ride down the mountain terrifies me for entirely new reasons.
I’m squeezed into the middle of the front bench seat of Logan’s massive truck. Logan drives, one hand draped casually over the steering wheel, the other resting heavily on my thigh. Austin rides shotgun, scrolling through his phone, while Tristan follows in the Bronco behind us.
The snowplows have cleared a single lane, creating walls of white on either side of us that tower like canyon walls. The sun is blindingly bright, reflecting off the ice.
"So," Austin breaks the silence, glancing at Logan’s hand on my leg. "Does she know about the Eastern Cliffs yet?"
Logan’s grip on my thigh tightens. "Not now, Austin."
"She needs to know, Pres," Austin says, tone losing its joking edge. "If she’s going to be wearing your patch—figuratively speaking—she needs to know where the boundaries are. Especially if we're walking into Sterling's territory."
I look between them. "What are the Eastern Cliffs?"
Logan sighs, a low rumble of annoyance. He keeps his eyes on the treacherous road. "There’s another... family. Up on the ridge. The Costas."
"Are they a club?"
"No," Austin answers, looking out the window at the passing pines. "They're worse. We run the mountain. They run the imports. We stay out of their way, they stay out of ours. It’s a polite arrangement. Usually."
"Usually?" I echo.
"Usually," Logan confirms grimly. "But Sterling—the guy who owns the Lodge you were staying at—he’s been poking the bear. He wants to buy land that belongs to them. And if he drags the town into a war between the factions, Pine Valley is going to get messy."
My stomach twists. "And we're going to see him? Sterling?"
"We have to," Logan says. "He knows I have you. If I don't show my face, he’ll think I’m weak. Or hiding something. We walk in, we get your bags, we pay the bill, and we leave. You don't speak to anyone unless I tell you to. You stay glued to my side. Understood?"
"Yes," I say, small voice.
"Good." He squeezes my thigh, thumb rubbing soothing circles against the denim of my jeans—borrowed from a stash of women's clothes Austin mysteriously had in his truck. I didn't ask whose they were. I didn't want to know.
We reach the edge of Pine Valley twenty minutes later.
The town looks like a Christmas card, buried in snow, with smoke curling from chimneys and colorful lights strung across Main Street.
But the vibe is tense. Pedestrians stop on the sidewalks to watch the truck pass.
They know this vehicle. They know who is inside.
We pull up to the Grand Pine Lodge. Massive timber and stone structure, screaming luxury and money. A valet rushes out, but Logan waves him off, parking the truck right in front of the main entrance, blocking the lane.
Austin jumps out of the passenger side first, clearing the way. Then Logan kills the engine and rounds the front of the truck. He opens the passenger door, reaching past the empty seat to grab me from the middle.
He hooks his massive hands under my arms and hauls me out, dragging my body flush against his leather-clad chest before setting me on the pavement.
We walk into the lobby. Expensive perfume and pine needles scent the air. A fire roars in a massive central fireplace. Guests in designer ski gear turn to stare.
We don't fit here. Logan, in his dirty boots and leather cut, looks like a wolf that walked into a poodle show.
"Mr. Gunnar," a smooth voice calls out.
A man steps out from the reception office. Tall, wearing a suit that probably costs more than my car, with silver-blonde hair and eyes that are calm and observant.
As he adjusts his cuff, a simple gold band on his left hand glints in the firelight—a quiet testament to the woman who finally anchored the Lodge’s king to the mountain. Lucas Sterling.
"Sterling," Logan acknowledges, voice flat.
"I see the search party can be called off," Sterling says, gaze sliding to me. He offers a polite, professional smile. "Miss Harris. We were quite concerned."
"She's fine," Logan says, cutting me off before I can speak. "We're here for her things. She’s checking out."
"Is she?" Sterling tilts his head. "The roads are finally clear. If you need a car or assistance getting to the airport, the Lodge is at your service."
"She's staying with me," Logan says. The threat in his voice is unmistakable. The temperature in the lobby seems to drop ten degrees.
Sterling’s smile tightens. He looks from Logan to me, then back to Logan.
Logan looks ready to kill him, even though Lucas Sterling has been nothing but a perfect gentleman. Clearly, his jealousy is as irrational as it is bone-deep, a primitive response to any man daring to exist in my orbit.
"I see. Does the MC have a new addition to the Gunnar family? It's good to see the mountain treating you well, Logan."
"Family," Logan says. The word rings out like a gunshot. "She's family."
Sterling’s eyebrows raise slightly. "That is a significant designation, Logan. I hope you’re prepared for what that entails. Especially with the... other interested parties in town watching the alliances shift."
The two of them stand there like kings of separate empires on a shared border, bound by a history of keeping the peace in the valley and a grudging respect only two titans could share.
"I handle my own," Logan says. "Just get the bill."
Logan doesn't blink. He pulls a thick roll of cash from his pocket and drops it on the marble counter with a heavy thud.
"I don't need your charity, Sterling. I pay for what’s mine. Keep the change."
While the receptionist types frantically, the front doors open again.
The air in the room shifts instantly. Heavy. Charged.
Two men walk in. They are dressed in immaculate, dark wool coats over suits. They don't look like skiers. They don't look like locals. They look like sharks.
Logan stiffens against my side. His hand moves instinctively to his hip, near his belt. Austin shifts his stance, angling his body between me and the door.
The older of the two men, a distinguished figure with silver hair, pauses. He looks at Sterling, then at Logan. His gaze lingers on the President patch, then slides to me.
He nods, once. A curt, respectful, terrifying acknowledgment.
"Mr. Gunnar," the man says softly. His accent is thick, old-world. "I trust the winter treats you well."
"Costa," Logan replies. His voice is barely a growl.
"A lovely thing, to find warmth in the cold," the man says, eyes locking on mine for a split second. "Guard it well. The wolves are hungry this year."
He walks past us toward the elevators, his silent bodyguard trailing behind.
I forget to breathe until the elevator doors close.
"Who was that?" I whisper, hands shaking.
"That," Logan says, grabbing the key card the receptionist hands him, "is the reason you never leave my sight again."
He steers me toward the stairs, his grip bruising. "Let’s get your bags. We’re leaving. Now."
As we climb the stairs, surrounded by the scent of polished wood and old money, I realize Logan wasn't lying. I haven't just been rescued. I’ve been drafted into a war I don't understand.
As I look at the broad expanse of Logan's back, the only thing I feel is safe.