Two men walk in. They are dressed in immaculate, dark wool coats over suits. They don't look like skiers. They don't look like locals. They look like sharks.
Logan stiffens against my side. His hand moves instinctively to his hip, near his belt. Austin shifts his stance, angling his body between me and the door.
The older of the two men, a distinguished figure with silver hair, pauses. He looks at Sterling, then at Logan. His gaze lingers on thePresidentpatch, then slides to me.
He nods, once. A curt, respectful, terrifying acknowledgment.
"Mr. Gunnar," the man says softly. His accent is thick, old-world. "I trust the winter treats you well."
"Costa," Logan replies. His voice is barely a growl.
"A lovely thing, to find warmth in the cold," the man says, eyes locking on mine for a split second. "Guard it well. The wolves are hungry this year."
He walks past us toward the elevators, his silent bodyguard trailing behind.
I forget to breathe until the elevator doors close.
"Who was that?" I whisper, hands shaking.
"That," Logan says, grabbing the key card the receptionist hands him, "is the reason you never leave my sight again."
He steers me toward the stairs, his grip bruising. "Let’s get your bags. We’re leaving. Now."
As we climb the stairs, surrounded by the scent of polished wood and old money, I realize Logan wasn't lying. I haven't just been rescued. I’ve been drafted into a war I don't understand.
As I look at the broad expanse of Logan's back, the only thing I feel is safe.
8
LOGAN
The silence in the cab of my truck is thick enough to choke on. A predator paces the perimeter of a cage in the quiet, restless and lethal.
My hands cramp where they grip the steering wheel, the leather groaning under the pressure. Beside me, Savannah watches the tree line blur past, her fingers twisting the hem of her shirt—my shirt. She looks small against the dark upholstery, a splash of soft light in a world built of steel and shadow.
But all I see is the way Dominic Costa looked at her.
The old man didn’t say a word. He didn’t have to. He looked at her with that cold, calculating assessment men of power use when weighing the value of a potential asset. And Lucas Sterling… the way the lodge owner spoke to her, smooth and polite, masked a look of quiet amusement at how far off the deep end I'd gone for her.
A low growl vibrates in my chest, involuntary and deep.
Savannah jumps, turning her wide eyes toward me. "Logan? Are you okay?"
"No," I rasp, shifting gears as we hit the incline of the switchback. The engine roars, tires biting into the slush and gravel of the mountain road. "I’m not."
I check the rearview mirror. Austin’s black truck follows two lengths behind, Tristan riding shotgun. They’re my blood, my brothers, but right now, even their proximity feels like an intrusion. I need to be alone with her. I need to erase the scent of the Lodge, the sterile perfume of the lobby, and the lingering gaze of other men.
I need to remind her—and myself—who she belongs to.
I jerk the wheel to the right, steering the massive truck onto the gravel shoulder of the scenic overlook. It’s a blind turn, hidden by a wall of pines, looking out over a valley currently drowning in gray mist.
"Logan?" Savannah’s voice hitches. "What’s wrong? Is it the engine?"
I don’t answer. I slam the truck into park and kill the engine, plunging us into sudden, ringing silence. In the mirror, Austin’s brake lights flare red as he slows down. I flash my high beams once—a dismissal. Keep moving.
Austin pauses for a second, then taps his horn and accelerates, his truck disappearing around the bend and up toward the clubhouse.
Good.
