7
SAVANNAH
The silence wakes me before the cold does.
For the last two days, the world has been a roaring, white chaos of wind and ice battering the log walls. Now, the howling is gone. Heavy stillness presses against my eardrums, thick and absolute.
I stretch my legs beneath the down comforter, wincing as a delicious, dull ache radiates through my hips and inner thighs. My body feels different. Changed. Every movement pulls at muscles stretched and used thoroughly by a man who seems more like a force of nature than a human being.
"Logan?" I whisper, reaching for the other side of the bed.
Empty. The sheets are cold.
My chest constricts, air suddenly scarce in the quiet room. I sit up, clutching the quilt tight. The bedroom door stands open to the main living area. Sunlight—blinding, brilliant sunlight—streams through the windows, cutting sharp angles across the dusty floorboards. The storm has broken.
I swing my legs out of bed. Goosebumps erupt across my skin as the chilly air bites. I find Logan’s flannel shirt on the floor where he discarded it last night and slip it on. It smells like him. Woodsmoke, pine, musk, and the faint, metallic tang of the weapon he keeps on the nightstand. The fabric swallows me whole, the hem hitting my mid-thigh, the sleeves dangling past my fingertips.
I pad barefoot into the main room. Glowing embers pulse in the stone hearth, keeping the cabin warm.
"Logan?" I call out again, louder this time.
No answer.
I move to the kitchen window overlooking the front clearing. I have to shield my eyes against the glare. The menacing gray blizzard has vanished, replaced by a pristine white expanse. Drifts of snow pile six feet high against the trees, burying the porch steps, smoothing the jagged edges of the mountain into soft curves.
And there he is.
My breath hitches. Logan is outside, waist-deep in the snow near the woodpile. He wears dark jeans and heavy boots, his torso covered by a thick, thermal Henley straining across his massive shoulders. He shovels with a rhythmic, powerful motion, sending heavy sprays of white powder flying into the air.
Even from here, the sheer size of him makes my stomach flip. He dominates the landscape. The mountain doesn't dwarf him; he looks carved from the same granite as the peaks behind him.
I watch, mesmerized, as he pauses to wipe sweat from his forehead with the back of a gloved hand. He looks up. His gazesnaps straight to the window as if he felt my eyes on him. Even through the glass and distance, the intensity of his stare hits me like a visceral punch. He doesn't smile. He gives a single, sharp nod before returning to his work.
I turn away, needing to steady my racing heart. Coffee. I need coffee.
As I move toward the kitchen counter, my hip bumps against one of the heavy wooden dining chairs. A leather vest—a "cut," I think Mike at the coffee shop called it—drapes over the back. Logan hasn't worn it since the first night.
I run my fingers over the rough, black leather. It’s heavy, worn soft in places, scarred in others. I turn it around to look at the patches.
BROKEN HALOS MC.PINE VALLEY.
And on the front, a rectangular patch over the heart:PRESIDENT.
The reality of it sits heavy in my gut, warring with the lingering heat of his touch. I know who he is. I know what this means. He’s not just a mountain man. He’s an outlaw. A king of a violent kingdom. And I’m wearing his shirt, sore from his cock, humming with a sense of belonging that terrifies me.
A low rumble vibrates through the floorboards.
I freeze. A mechanical growl cut through the silence, deeper and more rhythmic than the wind, growing louder by the second. Engines. Multiple engines.
I rush back to the window.
A massive black truck, lifted high on tires that look capable of crushing a sedan, churns its way up the unplowed track, throwing snow violently to the sides. Behind it, a second vehicle, an older Bronco, follows, equally modified for this brutal terrain.
The outside world is here.
My heart hammers against my ribs. Rescue? Police? Enemies?
Logan stops shoveling. He doesn't look alarmed. He stabs the shovel into a snowbank and walks toward the approaching vehicles with a slow, predatory stride that screams authority. He doesn't raise his hands. He just stands there, feet planted wide, blocking the path to the cabin.
