She wants to be trapped with me. She wants the isolation.
A dark, satisfaction curls in my gut. I lean down and press one last, hard kiss to her mouth. A brand. A promise.
"Go sit by the fire," I tell her. "Warm up. I need to bring in more wood."
"Logan..."
"Go," I command, stepping back. "Before I change my mind and take you right here on the rug."
She turns and practically flees to the couch, curling up under the heavy wool blanket I left there. She watches me, though. As I grab my coat and head for the door, I can feel her eyes on me.
I step out onto the porch, the freezing wind slapping me in the face instantly. The cold should kill the fire in my blood. It doesn't.
I grab the axe leaning against the wall and look out at the white oblivion of Grizzly Peak. This is my territory. My mountain. And now, the woman inside is my heart.
Austin will laugh, Shane will brood, and Tristan will just look at me with that knowing silence of his. They’ll say she’s a civilian. They’ll say she’s a liability. They’ll tell me the life we lead—the violence, the rivalries, the heat coming from the eastern cliffs—is too dangerous for a soft thing like her.
Let them talk.
I swing the axe, burying it deep into a log. The wood splits cleanly.
Let the world try to take her. I’ll burn Pine Valley to the ground before I let anyone touch a hair on her head. She thinks the storm is the reason she’s stuck here. She thinks nature is the force keeping her in my cabin.
She’s wrong.
I’m the storm. And she’s never leaving.
5
SAVANNAH
The rhythmic thwack of the axe echoes through the glass. A steady, primal thud. The sound syncs with the hammering in my chest.
I can’t stay on the couch. Discarding the wool blanket, I move to the frost-rimmed window. I stand there clutching the hem of the flannel shirt. My toes curl into the cold floorboards.
Outside, the blizzard is a vortex of white. It erases the road. It erases any hope of escape.
Not that I want to leave.
I watch him. He’s tossed the coat he grabbed onto the porch railing. He’s out there in nothing but his jeans and boots, ignoring the wind screaming across his skin.
His back is to me, a vast landscape of corded muscle and ink. With every swing, the muscles in his shoulders bunch and ripple, the movement fluid and devastatingly powerful. He obliterates the logs with a violence that should terrify me.
Instead, my thighs clench together, sticky and aching.
The way he had me against the wall left me unraveled. I can still feel the phantom pressure of his hand. The rough calluses against my slick heat.
He stopped. He actually walked away because he wants to do this "right." He wants the bed.
He thinks I’m fragile.
A sharp turn brings his gaze directly to mine. I’m caught. Even through the swirling snow and double-paned glass, the connection is electric. A violent tug pulls at the center of my chest.
Steam rises from his heaving chest. A sheen of sweat slicks his skin despite the sub-zero air. The axe sinks into the stump with one final, echoing crack. Ignoring the bite of the wind, he gathers a heavy armload of logs.
Heavy boots crunch against the frozen ground as he marches toward the cabin. Eye contact remains unbroken. The porch boards groan under the weight of his approach.
The door flies open, and the freezing gale isn’t the only thing that crashes into the room.
