"Usually," Logan confirms grimly. "But Sterling—the guy who owns the Lodge you were staying at—he’s been poking the bear. He wants to buy land that belongs to them. And if he drags the town into a war between the factions, Pine Valley is going to get messy."
My stomach twists. "And we're going to see him? Sterling?"
"We have to," Logan says. "He knows I have you. If I don't show my face, he’ll think I’m weak. Or hiding something. We walk in, we get your bags, we pay the bill, and we leave. You don't speak to anyone unless I tell you to. You stay glued to my side. Understood?"
"Yes," I say, small voice.
"Good." He squeezes my thigh, thumb rubbing soothing circles against the denim of my jeans—borrowed from a stash ofwomen's clothes Austin mysteriously had in his truck. I didn't ask whose they were. I didn't want to know.
We reach the edge of Pine Valley twenty minutes later. The town looks like a Christmas card, buried in snow, with smoke curling from chimneys and colorful lights strung across Main Street. But the vibe is tense. Pedestrians stop on the sidewalks to watch the truck pass. They know this vehicle. They know who is inside.
We pull up to the Grand Pine Lodge. Massive timber and stone structure, screaming luxury and money. A valet rushes out, but Logan waves him off, parking the truck right in front of the main entrance, blocking the lane.
Austin jumps out of the passenger side first, clearing the way. Then Logan kills the engine and rounds the front of the truck. He opens the passenger door, reaching past the empty seat to grab me from the middle.
He hooks his massive hands under my arms and hauls me out, dragging my body flush against his leather-clad chest before setting me on the pavement.
We walk into the lobby. Expensive perfume and pine needles scent the air. A fire roars in a massive central fireplace. Guests in designer ski gear turn to stare.
We don't fit here. Logan, in his dirty boots and leather cut, looks like a wolf that walked into a poodle show.
"Mr. Gunnar," a smooth voice calls out.
A man steps out from the reception office. Tall, wearing a suit that probably costs more than my car, with silver-blonde hair and eyes that are calm and observant.
As he adjusts his cuff, a simple gold band on his left hand glints in the firelight—a quiet testament to the woman who finally anchored the Lodge’s king to the mountain. Lucas Sterling.
"Sterling," Logan acknowledges, voice flat.
"I see the search party can be called off," Sterling says, gaze sliding to me. He offers a polite, professional smile. "Miss Harris. We were quite concerned."
"She's fine," Logan says, cutting me off before I can speak. "We're here for her things. She’s checking out."
"Is she?" Sterling tilts his head. "The roads are finally clear. If you need a car or assistance getting to the airport, the Lodge is at your service."
"She's staying with me," Logan says. The threat in his voice is unmistakable. The temperature in the lobby seems to drop ten degrees.
Sterling’s smile tightens. He looks from Logan to me, then back to Logan.
Logan looks ready to kill him, even though Lucas Sterling has been nothing but a perfect gentleman. Clearly, his jealousy is as irrational as it is bone-deep, a primitive response to any man daring to exist in my orbit.
"I see. Does the MC have a new addition to the Gunnar family? It's good to see the mountain treating you well, Logan."
"Family," Logan says. The word rings out like a gunshot. "She's family."
Sterling’s eyebrows raise slightly. "That is a significant designation, Logan. I hope you’re prepared for what that entails.Especially with the... other interested parties in town watching the alliances shift."
The two of them stand there like kings of separate empires on a shared border, bound by a history of keeping the peace in the valley and a grudging respect only two titans could share.
"I handle my own," Logan says. "Just get the bill."
Logan doesn't blink. He pulls a thick roll of cash from his pocket and drops it on the marble counter with a heavy thud.
"I don't need your charity, Sterling. I pay for what’s mine. Keep the change."
While the receptionist types frantically, the front doors open again.
The air in the room shifts instantly. Heavy. Charged.
