The wipers on my rented SUV fight a losing battle against the whiteout. Their rhythmic scraping is the only sound left in a world gone dangerously still. I grip the steering wheel until my palms ache, staring into the blinding void.
Snow piles up on the hood. My lungs seize. The air turns brittle in my chest, forming a freezing mist in the cabin. I slam my palm against the driver’s side window in a burst of useless frustration.
"Stupid, Savannah."
The words fall from my lips against the cold glass. I stare out at the impenetrable wall of white. This is supposed to be a quick excursion. Just a twenty-minute drive up the ridge to capture the "perfect brooding mountain aesthetic" for theSavannah Wandersblog. My followers love that cozy, slightly melancholic winter content. I have the caption written in my head:Lost in the pines, found in the silence.
Well, I’m definitely lost. And the silence is deafening.
My phone sits in the cup holder, a useless brick of glass and metal.
No Service.
The words mock me. I haven't seen another car in forty minutes. The heater blasts, but the engine temperature gauge has performed a terrifying dance for the last mile. With the sinking dread of a city girl way out of her depth, I know if the engine dies, I die.
I pull my faux-fur coat tighter around my chest. Stylish. Meant for après-ski cocktails at the lodge, not for survival in a blizzard in the Grizzly Peak District.
The engine gives one final, wheezing gasp. It shudders once and dies.
In the sudden, absolute silence, the only sound is the mournful howl of the wind and the soft, relentless hiss of snow piling against the car's glass windows. A nearby pine branch cracks under the weight, a sharpsnaplike a gunshot in the void.
I think back to earlier this afternoon, the safety and warmth of the Grand Pine Lodge. I can still smell the expensive cedar and leather of the lobby. I’d been checking in, distracted by the sheer opulence of the place, when a man’s voice cut through the ambient jazz. He stood near the fireplace, back turned—a tall, imposing figure in a suit that cost more than my car.
"I don't care what they want." His voice was deep and steady, carrying the natural authority of a man used to being heard. "Tell them the conservation easement stands. We aren't developing that ridge."
The receptionist had frozen for a split second, eyes darting toward him—Lucas Sterling, the owner, she’d whispered later—before handing me my key card. I should have stayed there. I should have ordered room service and stayed in my fluffy robe. But no, I had to stop at that quaint coffee shop, Cozy Cup, where Mike, the owner, had poured me a latte and warned me about the weather.
"Storm's coming in fast, miss. And watch yourself up on the pass. The Gunnars run things on the mountain, but there's another group up on the eastern cliffs. Best keep to the main roads."
I didn't listen. I saw a patch of blue sky and thought I could beat the clouds. Now, the snow drifts halfway up the passenger door.
My throat constricts, air struggling to pass through. I’m going to freeze to death here. They’ll find me in the spring, a frozen popsicle of a travel blogger, clutching her DSLR camera.
Hot moisture stings my eyes. I squeeze them shut, trying to regulate my breathing. In for four, hold for four, out for four.
Then, a rumble.
Vibration hits the floorboards first, traveling through the soles of my boots. I open my eyes. Twin beams of light, yellow and piercing, slice through the swirling snow behind me. Set high. Too high for a car.
A massive black truck looms out of the white void like a prehistoric beast. Huge. Lifted on tires that look like they could crush my rental without slowing down. A heavy steel grille guard protects the front like a warrior’s shield.
It pulls up alongside me. The engine growl is deep and guttural, shaking my bones.
Breath rushes out of me in a ragged gasp. I fumble for the door handle, but the wind pressures against it. My frozen fingers slip.
The truck door opens. A pair of heavy black boots hits the snow.
I look up. And up. And up.
The man who steps out of the truck is a mountain himself. Terrifyingly large, broad shoulders spanning the width of the storm, clad in black leather that seems to absorb the little light remaining in the world. He doesn't hunch against the wind. He ignores it. As if the elements wouldn't dare inconvenience him.
He stalks around the front of his truck toward my driver’s side door. He wears a leather vest—a 'cut,' I realize with a jolt of memory from Mike’s warning—over a thick thermal shirt straining against muscles visible even through the fabric. Patches on the leather.Broken Halos MC.
Fear spikes, warring with hope. This is one of them. The Gunnars. The kings of the mountain.
He reaches my door and rips it open. The metal latch might as well be cardboard. Wind howls into the cabin, bringing a flurry of snow and the scent of him—pine, exhaust, leather, and heavy, dark musk.
"Out."
