She smiles, a radiant, blinding thing warming the frozen landscape.
"Until the wheels fall off," she echoes.
I help her dress, my hands surprisingly gentle as I button her jeans and pull her boots back on. I grab the custom leather jacket I gave her at the compound and zip it over her hoodie.
It drowns her, the heavy hide weighing down her small shoulders, but the ‘Property of President’ patch on her back is a dark, permanent promise against the white snow.It looks like armor.
We climb back onto the bike. The ride down the mountain is slower.
The urgency is gone, replaced by a deep, resonant peace. The sun dips behind the western ridge, painting the snow in shades of violet and gold.
As we roll back onto the main road, heading toward the cabin, I catch a glimpse of my reflection in the side mirror. The scowl is gone. The constant tension in my shoulders has eased.
The storm that brought her here has passed. The snow melts. But the fire inside the cabin—and the fire between us—remains.
We pull up to the cabin, the headlights cutting through the twilight. I kill the engine and kick the stand down. Before I can get off, Savannah slides off the back and steps in front of me, placing her hands on my knees.
The heavy leather of the jacket I marked her with weighs down her frame, the patch a shield against the world.
The Savannah Harris who worried about blog deadlines and city traffic is a ghost from another life. That city girl lies dead, buried under the Grizzly Peak drifts, and as she leans into me, I know she’s more than okay with her being gone.
She looks toward the dark timber of the cabin, and I see no fear in her gaze—only a quiet, bone-deep recognition. She doesn't have to say the word out loud; I see 'home' reflected in the way she finally lets go of the world behind her.
She’s finally exactly where she belongs.
We walk inside together, the door shutting firmly against the night, locking the rest of the world out for good.
EPILOGUE
SAVANNAH
Mountain air in late spring smells of pine sap, damp earth, and the sweet, cloying scent of wildflowers blooming aggressively in the valleys below Grizzly Peak. It differs wildly from the biting freeze that trapped me here.
I stand on the front porch, hands wrapped around a mug of herbal tea, watching the sunrise bleed gold and violet over the ridge. Snow has vanished, leaving the world green and vibrant. The roads are clear.
I could drive the blacked-out SUV Logan bought me. It’s an armored beast, heavy enough to crush that flimsy rental I crashed.
I could take it down the switchbacks, past the Grand Pine Lodge, through Pine Valley, and straight to the airport. He’d had the rental company’s wreck hauled off months ago, growling that his woman would only drive a machine built to survive his mountain.
I take a sip of the tea, the steam warming my face. I’m not that lost city girl anymore. I’m the Queen of the Peak.
I’m Logan’s Old Lady.
I feel the weight of his protection in every breath.The silence of the woods used to be deafening.
Now, it’s just home.
The screen door creaks. Heavy boots thud on the wood planks. My body reacts before he touches me—prickle of awareness along my spine, softening in my belly, magnetic pull centering my universe on the man stepping into my space.
Logan Gunnar occupies the atmosphere.
Thick bands of muscle and ink wrap around me from behind, heavier and safer than steel. He pulls me back against his chest. Hard. Jeans cling to his powerful thighs, black t-shirt straining across his chest, leather cut smelling of old smoke and gun oil.
"You're up early." His voice vibrates against my back, rattling my ribs. He buries his face in the crook of my neck, scruff scratching against my sensitive skin. A sharp inhale follows. "Thinking about running, Savannah?"
"Just looking at the view, Logan. Checking the light for photos later."
"Fuck the photos."
