"Quit," he says simply. "You don't need to work. I provide for you now."
"I like writing," I argue, a small spark of defiance returning. "I like my blog."
He pauses, considering. His hand slides up my thigh, thumb tracing the sensitive skin of my inner thigh, making my breath hitch. "Then write about this place. Write about the mountains. But you do it from here. From my bed."
He leans down, pressing a hard, claiming kiss to the pulse point of my neck. I whimper, head falling back.
"You’re scared," he murmurs against my skin.
"Yes."
"Good. You should be. This isn't a game, Savannah. Once you make that call... once you tell them you’re staying... there’s no going back. You’re wearing my patch. You’re under my protection. But you’re also under my command."
He pulls back, eyes searching mine. "Can you handle that? Can you handle being the property of a monster?"
I look at him—really look at him. I see the scars on his neck. The darkness in his eyes. The violence simmering just beneath the surface. But I also remember the way he warmed my frozen feet with his hands. The way he fed me soup. The way he worshipped my body last night like it was a holy temple.
My life in San Francisco feels a million miles away. Gray. Lonely. Safe.
Here, the air is thin and dangerous. But I feel alive.
"I'll make the call," I whisper.
Logan lets out a breath, a ragged sound of relief. He rests his forehead against mine. "Good girl."
He kisses me then, deep and bruising, tasting of coffee and dominance. His hand slides up my shirt, cupping my breast, thumb flicking over the nipple until I moan into his mouth.
"Make the call," he orders, pulling away and leaving me breathless and aching on the counter. "Then get dressed. Austin and Tristan are going to take you to town to get your things."
I blink, dazed. "I thought I couldn't leave."
"You can't leave me," Logan corrects, turning toward the door. He grabs his leather cut from the chair and shrugs it on. The transformation is instant. He looks bigger, broader, infinitely more dangerous. "I'm coming with you. We’re going to the Lodge. I need to have a word with Lucas Sterling."
He pauses at the door, looking back at me with a dark smirk.
"And then I'm bringing you home. And I'm going to spend the next week showing you exactly why you’re never going to want to leave this bed again."
The ride down the mountain terrifies me for entirely new reasons.
I’m squeezed into the middle of the front bench seat of Logan’s massive truck. Logan drives, one hand draped casually over the steering wheel, the other resting heavily on my thigh. Austin rides shotgun, scrolling through his phone, while Tristan follows in the Bronco behind us.
The snowplows have cleared a single lane, creating walls of white on either side of us that tower like canyon walls. The sun is blindingly bright, reflecting off the ice.
"So," Austin breaks the silence, glancing at Logan’s hand on my leg. "Does she know about the Eastern Cliffs yet?"
Logan’s grip on my thigh tightens. "Not now, Austin."
"She needs to know, Pres," Austin says, tone losing its joking edge. "If she’s going to be wearing your patch—figurativelyspeaking—she needs to know where the boundaries are. Especially if we're walking into Sterling's territory."
I look between them. "What are the Eastern Cliffs?"
Logan sighs, a low rumble of annoyance. He keeps his eyes on the treacherous road. "There’s another... family. Up on the ridge. The Costas."
"Are they a club?"
"No," Austin answers, looking out the window at the passing pines. "They're worse. We run the mountain. They run the imports. We stay out of their way, they stay out of ours. It’s a polite arrangement. Usually."
"Usually?" I echo.
