Sealed in.
He walks around the front of the truck, a dark shadow against the headlights. I watch him. My pulse hammers a frantic rhythm against my ribs.Thump-thump-thump.
He climbs into the driver’s seat. The storm follows him in for a brief second before he shuts it out. The cab is warm, smellingof him and old tobacco. He shifts into gear, the stick shift disappearing in his huge hand.
We move. Tires crunch over the snow, gripping where my rental failed.
I risk a glance at him. Severe profile illuminated by the dash lights. He grips the steering wheel with relaxed power, forearms flexing as he navigates the treacherous road.
"I'm Savannah," I say softly. The silence stretches too thin.
He doesn't look at me. "I know."
I blink. "You... you know?"
"Saw you," he says, voice gravelly. "In town. At the lodge."
He saw me? I rack my brain. I never saw him. If I had seen a man like this, I would have remembered. I would have walked into a wall.
"I didn't see you."
He shoots me a glance. Quick. Burning. "Good. If you had, I would have taken you then."
My mouth drops open. The air in the cab thickens, charged with static. "Taken me?"
"Off the market," he corrects.
The hunger in his tone suggests the first interpretation was the correct one.
"You don't belong in that lodge, Savannah. Too many vultures."
"I... I have a reservation," I stammer, grasping for my usual confidence. "If you could just drop me off there, I'd really appreciate it. I can pay you for the rescue."
He laughs. A dark, dry sound devoid of humor. "Your money's no good here. And we aren't going to the lodge."
I stiffen. "Where are we going?"
He turns the truck off the main road. A narrower track winds deeper into the darkness of the forest. Trees press in closer. Ancient pines laden with snow. We head up. Toward Grizzly Peak. Toward the territory Mike warned me about.
"The road back to town is blocked," he states.
I want to believe he’s exaggerating. But the wall of white burying my rental car proved him right. The mountain has closed its gates. This man—this brute—is the only one with the key.
"My place is closer. You'll stay there until the storm breaks."
"Your place?" My voice rises an octave. "I don't even know your name."
He slows the truck as the terrain roughens. He turns his head fully toward me. In the dim light, his scars look deeper, his eyes darker. A king deciding the fate of a trespasser.
"Logan."
The name lands heavy in my stomach. Logan Gunnar. The President.
"You're the President," I whisper. "Of the MC."
One eyebrow raises. A flicker of surprise crosses his face. "Did your homework."
"The guy at the coffee shop..."
