The black truck and the Bronco grind to a halt ten yards from him, flanking him like twin beasts. The doors of the lead truck swing wide as a massive, dark-haired man jumps out, while a second man kills the engine of the Bronco and steps into the snowy clearing. Both newcomers move with the practiced, lethal synchronicity of soldiers in a war zone.
They are huge—not quite as massive as Logan, but close. They wear similar leather cuts over heavy winter gear. The first man has a jawline sharp enough to cut glass and a smirk playing on his lips as he says something to Logan. The second man is quieter, watchful, with sandy hair and eyes that seem to scan the perimeter instantly.
Logan points toward the cabin, his posture unyielding.
I take a step back, suddenly conscious of my bare legs and messy hair. He’s bringing them inside.
The front door opens a moment later, bringing a gust of freezing air and the scent of exhaust with it. Logan enters first, stompingsnow off his boots. He looks at me immediately, scanning me from head to toe.
"Savannah," he says, his voice rougher than the whisper in my ear last night. "Put some socks on. The floor's cold."
The two strangers file in behind him. The small cabin shrinks instantly, filled with too much size and aggression. The air suddenly feels too thin.
"So this is her," the dark-haired one says. His voice is smooth, charming, but carries a dangerous edge. He looks me over with a critical, assessing gaze. "The little bird that fell out of the sky."
"Watch it, Austin," Logan growls, moving to stand between us. He doesn't touch me, but his body language forms a shield. "Savannah, this is Austin. My VP. And Tristan. My Road Captain."
Austin—the Vice President—grins, extending a hand I’m too stunned to shake. "Nice to meet you, darlin'. You've got half the town in a panic, you know that?"
Blood drains from my face. "What?"
"The storm took out the cell towers, but the grid is coming back online," Austin says, walking past Logan to warm his hands by the fire. "That runner you sent to the Lodge? He gave them the message that the girl was with ‘family,’ but Lucas Sterling didn't buy the 'old lady' story for a second. He thinks you snatched a tourist to keep your bed warm during the freeze. Nathan—Mr. Mountain Rescue—is using it as an excuse to bring a search party and dogs up the trailhead by noon."
I gasp, hand flying to my mouth. "Oh god. My mom... my job. They must be terrified."
"Probably," Tristan says. His voice is quieter, deep and soothing, but his eyes remain hard. "Which is why we’re here. We need to handle the optics before the cops start knocking on clubhouse doors."
I look at Logan. He hasn't moved. His face is a mask of stone. "Handle it?"
"You need to make a call," Austin says, pulling a sleek black smartphone from his pocket. "Tell them you're safe. Tell them you decided to extend your stay at a private rental because of the weather. You’re fine, you’re happy, and you don’t need saving."
I reach for the phone, relief washing over me. "Okay. Yes. I’ll call my mom, and then I can call the rental place... when can I leave? Can you guys take me down? If your trucks made it up..."
The silence that follows is deafening.
Austin’s smirk vanishes. Tristan looks at the floor.
Logan turns to me slowly. The look in his eyes sends a tremor skittering down my spine. Dark. Possessive. Final.
"You're not going down, Savannah."
I freeze, fingers inches from Austin’s phone. "What?"
"The roads are still dangerous," Logan says, but it sounds like a lie. A convenient excuse. "You’re staying here."
"But..." I look at Austin, then back to Logan. "You just said Nathan is looking for me. If I tell them I'm safe, I can just go back to the Lodge. I have my luggage there. My laptop. I can't just... stay here indefinitely."
"You have luggage?" Austin asks Logan, raising an eyebrow. "Or are you keeping her in your shirts forever? Not that I’m complaining about the view, brother, but practicalities."
"I'll get her things," Logan snaps at his brother, hands curling into fists at his sides. "Tristan can run to the Lodge. Grab her bags. Pay the bill."
"Wait," I say, voice rising. I step out from behind the kitchen island. "Stop. You’re talking about me like I’m not here. I need to go back. I have a life, Logan. I have a flight to catch in three days. I have a blog to run."
Logan steps into my space, forcing me to tilt my head back. The tenderness from this morning has vanished, replaced by the immovable granite of the MC President.
"Cancel the flight," he says.
"Excuse me?"
