He brushes a strand of hair off my damp forehead.
"You belong to the mountain now, Savannah. And you belong to me."
I look up at him, and at the fierce possessiveness burning in his eyes. My old life—the blog, the travel plans, the city apartment—feels like a dream from a thousand years ago.
I reach up and cup his jaw, feeling the rough stubble.
"I know," I whisper.
The terrifying part is, I wouldn't have it any other way.
Logan pulls me against his chest, the heavy weight of the quilt settling over us like a shield. My eyes grow heavy, the exhaustion of the day finally catching up. I drift, anchored by the steady, rhythmic beat of his heart under my palm.
In the silence of the room, his grip tightens just a fraction.
He isn't looking at the fire. He’s looking at me with a hunger that hasn't been satisfied, but deepened. It’s a look of absolute possession, one that promises he will never let me go.
The blizzard screams against the logs, a warning I’m too tired to heed.
I close my eyes, falling into a dreamless sleep, unaware of the sudden, dark tension in his frame.
He knows something I don’t.
He knows that by marking me, he hasn't just claimed my body—he’s put a target on my back that no mountain can hide.
6
LOGAN
Embers glow dull orange against the log walls, but the heat remains trapped under the heavy quilt, radiating from the soft body pressed against my side.
I don’t sleep.
For three hours, I’ve done nothing but breathe her in. Every inhale drags deep, heavy with her scent—jasmine, sweat, and the musk of our sex. It fills my lungs, settling the constant static of violence that usually hums in my blood.
Savannah shifts. Her face buries itself in the crook of my neck, her hand resting over my heart. Small. Delicate. Unmarked by the labor and fighting that turned my own hands into scarred maps of past sins.
I look down at her, careful not to move. My arm is numb where her head rests, but I’d cut the damn thing off before disturbing her rest.
She’s mine.
This reality stands as solid as the granite cliffs of Grizzly Peak. Yesterday, a stranger stranded in a snowstorm. Today, the marrow in my bones.
My gaze shifts to the window. Gray dawn light pushes against the blizzard, but the snow still falls in thick sheets. The world outside doesn't exist. The club, the Sterling land dispute, the rescue team sniffing around our territory—all noise.
Touch her and you die.
The MC motto usually revolves around the patch, the brotherhood. But looking at the bruise forming on her neck—a purple mark left by my mouth—the code has rewritten itself. If anyone tried to take her, I wouldn’t just kill them. I would burn Pine Valley to the ground and salt the earth.
Savannah stirs, a small whimper escaping her throat. Her brows knit together, legs twitching against mine.
"Shh," I rumble, the sound vibrating in my chest against her cheek. "I’ve got you."
Her eyes flutter open. Hazy confusion clouds the green depths before they find my face. The panic dies instantly, replaced by a softness that hits me like a sledgehammer to the gut. She doesn't pull away or scramble for the edge of the bed.
She snuggles closer.
"Logan," she whispers, voice rough and unused.
