The blizzard. The slide. The man with eyes like a predator.
I sit up, and the cool air bites at my skin. I’m naked. Every inch of me feels sensitized, humming with the ghost of a touch I can't quite forget. I remember his voice in the dark. A rough command to shed my damp clothes for the sake of warmth. I remember the terrifying heat of his body pressed against mine, skin to skin, until the shivering stopped.
I should be scared. I’m a travel blogger from the suburbs. I’m stranded in a mountain fortress with the President of an outlaw motorcycle club. But as I shift my legs, feeling the phantomweight of him, my hand slides down my stomach to press against a low, liquid ache.
My cheeks burn.
I’m in a beast’s bed, and the most frightening part isn't that he took me—it’s that I don't want to leave.
The space beside me is cold.
He's gone.
I swing my legs out of bed. The floorboards are ice under my toes. I find the flannel shirt Logan made me discard last night and pull it on. The fabric is heavy. It smells of leather and rain. The hem hits my mid-thigh, and the sleeves swallow my hands. I roll the cuffs back, feeling the weight of the garment like a brand.
I pad toward the doorway, leaving the quiet of the bedroom behind. As I step into the living area, the heat from the hearth wraps around me. I round the massive stone fireplace and stop.
Logan is at the stove. His back is a landscape of corded muscle. The Broken Halos insignia—a skull with wings—stretches across his shoulders, rippling as he moves. He’s wearing nothing but worn jeans that hang dangerously low on his hips. The sight of him steals the air from my lungs.
He doesn't turn. But I see the muscles in his back bunch.
He knows I’m here.
My gaze traces the landscape of his back like I’m mapping a new continent. Below the dark ink of his patch, ragged lines and silvered burn marks tell stories of a life lived on the edge of a knife.
He’s massive, his sheer breadth making the industrial-sized stove look like a child’s toy.
I track the ripple of muscle across his back, my eyes glued to the dark ink of the club patch on his skin. He doesn't need to turn to know I’m there; the air between us is already thick with the scent of my pussy weeping for him.
"Floor’s cold," he rumbles, his voice a low, vibrations-heavy baritone that travels up my bare legs and settles into a throb between my tits.
"Put some socks on." "I... I couldn't find any," I whisper, my voice wrecked by the memory of his cock filling me hours ago. He turns then, and the hunger in his eyes is a physical strike.
His eyes are dark, hooded, and intense, sweeping over me from my messy hair down to my bare toes, lingering on the way his shirt gapes at my neck.
He holds a cast-iron skillet in one hand effortlessly. The domesticity of the scene—bacon, eggs, coffee—clashes violently with the lethal aura he projects. A predator playing house, and I’m the prey that wandered into the den.
"Sit," he commands, nodding toward the heavy wooden island in the center of the kitchen.
I bristle. I’ve been independent my whole life. I travel the world alone. I don’t take orders.
"I’m not a dog, Logan," I say, lifting my chin.
A corner of his mouth quirks up, not quite a smile, but something dangerous and amused. He sets the skillet down on a trivet and stalks toward me.
My defiance vaporizes as he closes the distance. He moves with a predatory grace that shouldn't be possible for a man of his size. The air in the kitchen changes, charging with static electricity.
He stops inches from me, towering over my frame. I crane my neck back to look him in the eye.
"I know you're not a dog, Savannah," he murmurs, his voice dropping an octave. "If you were, I wouldn't be thinking about bending you over that counter."
My mouth drops open. A flush burns from my chest to my hairline. "Logan!"
"Sit," he repeats, but his tone is softer this time, laced with a dark heat that makes my thighs clench. "You need to eat. You’re shaking."
He reaches out, his large hand enveloping my upper arm. His grip is firm but careful, handling fragile glass. He guides me to a tall stool at the island. I sit because my legs have suddenly decided they can’t support my weight anymore.
He turns back to the stove, plating food with efficient, jerky movements. He sets a plate in front of me—eggs, bacon, toast—and a steaming mug of black coffee.
