Chapter 8
LOGAN
The silence in the cab of my truck is thick enough to choke on. A predator paces the perimeter of a cage in the quiet, restless and lethal.
My hands cramp where they grip the steering wheel, the leather groaning under the pressure.
Beside me, Savannah watches the tree line blur past, her fingers twisting the hem of her shirt—my shirt.
She looks small against the dark upholstery, a splash of soft light in a world built of steel and shadow.
But all I see is the way Dominic Costa looked at her.
The old man didn’t say a word. He didn’t have to.
He looked at her with that cold, calculating assessment men of power use when weighing the value of a potential asset.
And Lucas Sterling… the way the lodge owner spoke to her, smooth and polite, masked a look of quiet amusement at how far off the deep end I'd gone for her.
A low growl vibrates in my chest, involuntary and deep.
Savannah jumps, turning her wide eyes toward me. "Logan? Are you okay?"
"No," I rasp, shifting gears as we hit the incline of the switchback. The engine roars, tires biting into the slush and gravel of the mountain road. "I’m not."
I check the rearview mirror. Austin’s black truck follows two lengths behind, Tristan riding shotgun.
They’re my blood, my brothers, but right now, even their proximity feels like an intrusion.
I need to be alone with her. I need to erase the scent of the Lodge, the sterile perfume of the lobby, and the lingering gaze of other men.
I need to remind her—and myself—who she belongs to.
I jerk the wheel to the right, steering the massive truck onto the gravel shoulder of the scenic overlook. It’s a blind turn, hidden by a wall of pines, looking out over a valley currently drowning in gray mist.
"Logan?" Savannah’s voice hitches. "What’s wrong? Is it the engine?"
I don’t answer. I slam the truck into park and kill the engine, plunging us into sudden, ringing silence. In the mirror, Austin’s brake lights flare red as he slows down. I flash my high beams once—a dismissal. Keep moving.
Austin pauses for a second, then taps his horn and accelerates, his truck disappearing around the bend and up toward the clubhouse.
Good.
I unbuckle my seatbelt, the metal clicking loudly in the quiet cab. Savannah presses herself back against the passenger door, her breath fogging the cold window. She doesn't tremble with fear. I know the difference between terror and arousal, and right now, she radiates heat.
"Come here," I command.
She hesitates, biting her lip. "Logan, we’re on the side of the road. Anyone could—"
"No one comes up here but us," I cut her off, my voice dropping to a gravelly murmur. I reach across the center console, my hand engulfing her knee. "And I don’t give a fuck if the whole world watches. I need to feel you."
Her pupils blow wide, swallowing the hazel. "Right now?"
"Right fucking now."
I don't wait for permission. I’ve already claimed her. I took her in my bed, marked her skin with my beard burn, and filled her with my seed. But the civilized world down in the valley tried to claw her back today.
They tried to make her doubt.
I reach for her, my fingers digging into the denim of her thighs as I haul her across the wide bench seat.
There is no console to block me, only the open space of the cab that I intend to fill with the scent of her arousal.
I hitch her up until she’s straddling my lap, her back slamming against the steering wheel as I cage her.
The horn blares a short, sharp blast under the weight of her spine, a loud, violent announcement of my claim.
I’m hard as the granite peaks surrounding us, my thick cock straining against the fly of my heavy denim work pants.
I don’t just want her; I want to colonize her.
I grind my hips upward, the brutal ridge of my shaft buried against her soaking pussy through the fabric.
She gasps, her head falling back against the wheel, her internal muscles clenching around the phantom sensation of me filling her.
I can feel the dampness of her heat seeping through her jeans, a sticky invitation that makes me want to rip the zipper out and claim her right here on the shoulder of the road.
She gasps, her head falling back against the roof of the cab with a soft thump.
"You're mine," I say, the words rough like gravel. "Say it."
"I'm yours," she breathes, her pulse fluttering wild against her throat where my thumb rests.
"Damn right." I kiss her, hard and bruising, swallowing her sigh. I want to take her here. I want to strip these jeans off and ruin her for anyone else, leave my mark so deep she never forgets. But not here. Not rushing on the side of the road like we're hiding.
I pull back, my chest heaving. "We're going home. I have something for you."
She nods weakly, her lips swollen from my mouth. "Okay."
I lift her back to the passenger seat, buckling her in. She leans her head against the window, watching me with a mixture of exhaustion and adoration that makes my chest ache.
I start the truck. The engine roars to life, echoing the beast inside me that has been temporarily soothed, but never silenced.
The drive to the clubhouse is short, but by the time we pass the reinforced steel gate and roll onto the gravel lot of Broken Halos, I have a plan.
Austin and Tristan are already parked, their bikes—which they must have swapped for in the garage—lined up in front of the main building. They stand on the porch, smoking, watching as I pull up.
I kill the engine and get out, rounding the hood to open Savannah’s door before she can move. She slides out, her legs wobbling when her boots hit the ground. I wrap an arm around her waist, taking her weight.
"You good, Boss?" Austin calls out, flicking his cigarette butt into the snow. His eyes flick to Savannah, noting her flushed cheeks, and a smirk touches his mouth.
"Fine," I grunt. "Get the boys inside. Church in ten. But I need a minute first."
"You got it," Austin says, slapping Tristan’s shoulder. They disappear inside the heavy oak doors.
I steer Savannah away from the main clubhouse entrance, taking her through the private breezeway that connects the back of the hall to my personal cabin. This is my sanctuary within the compound—the only place on the mountain where the President doesn't have to answer the door.
The air inside is heavy with the scent of our previous night.
I lead her into the living area where the rug is still bunched from where I had her on her knees before the fire.
She looks around, her eyes landing on her discarded lace panties and my heavy work shirt scattered on the floorboards from our final, desperate round this morning before Austin and Tristan arrived.
A dark, heated blush stains her cheeks at the reminder of how thoroughly I used her.
"Stay," I order.
I go to the closet—a heavy, locked armoire made of ironwood. I pull the key from the chain around my neck and unlock it. Inside aren't clothes. It’s the club’s history. The charters. The cash reserves. And the spare cuts.
I bypass the standard leather vests. I reach for the hanger in the back.
It’s a woman’s jacket. Black leather, heavy duty, not the fashion garbage they sell at the mall. Reinforced elbows and shoulders. I had it made three years ago, not knowing who it was for, just knowing that if I ever found the woman who could handle the weight of my life, she would need armor.
I pull it out. On the back, stitched in the same white and red thread as my own patch, is the Broken Halos logo. But the bottom rocker doesn't say a territory. It says: PROPERTY OF PRESIDENT.
I turn back to Savannah. She watches me approach, her eyes widening as she sees the leather in my hands.
"Stand up," I say softly.
She stands, her gaze fixed on the jacket. "Logan? What is that?"
"Protection," I say. I hold it open. "Put your arms in."
She slips her arms into the sleeves. The jacket is a little big on her, the leather swallowing her small frame, the sleeves coming down past her wrists. It makes her look fragile, but it also makes her look dangerous. Like she’s wearing my skin.
I step in front of her, gripping the lapels. I zip it up halfway, encasing her in the scent of new leather and oil.
"This isn't a gift, Savannah," I tell her, my voice low and serious. "Consider this a warning label."
She runs her hands down the front of the jacket. "A warning to who?"
"To everyone," I say. "Sterling. Costa. The rescue team. Anyone who thinks they can look at you, talk to you, or touch you. When you wear this, you carry my flag. You are under the protection of the Broken Halos MC. An attack on you is an act of war against me and every brother on this mountain."
She looks up at me, her eyes shimmering. "You really mean that. You’d go to war for me?"
I cup her face, my thumbs tracing her cheekbones. "Savannah, I would burn this entire valley to ash if someone touched a hair on your head. I claimed you. That means something to a man like me. It means everything."
She leans into my touch, closing her eyes. "I’ve never felt safe before," she whispers. "Not really. Not like this."
"You’re safe now," I promise.
The vibration of my phone in my pocket kills the quiet.
I ignore it. It buzzes again. And again.
"Ignore it," Savannah murmurs, but the tension in her shoulders returns.
"I can't." I pull back, frustration tightening my jaw. I fish the phone out. It’s Austin. Again.
I swipe to answer. "I said ten minutes."
"You need to get down to the shop," Austin’s voice is tight, devoid of its usual humor. "Now."
My blood runs cold. "What happened?"
"Someone put a brick through the front window of Peak Wilderness. Main Street is covered in glass."
"Is anyone hurt?"
"No. Shop was closed. But there was a note attached to the brick, Logan. You need to see it."