"Come on, Bumble," I mutter, gripping the steering wheel until my hands cramp. "Don't die on me now. We need this gig."
We really, really need this gig.
Outside, the Pine Valley wilderness looms, oppressive and magnificent. The trees here aren't the manicured oaks of the city parks I’m used to sketching. These ancient pines, towering giants that block out the midday sun, cast long, bruised shadows across the snow-dusted ground. This is the Grizzly Peak District. Even the name sounds like a threat.
I remember Frank, the old guy at Harrison’s Hardware where I stopped for directions, giving me a look that was half-pity, half-warning. “You’re going up to the Gunnar place? Alone? Best keep your head down, missy. That’s deep territory.”
Deep territory.I didn’t ask what that meant. I was too busy staring at the zeros in my bank account balance and the eviction notice tacked to my studio apartment door back in Philadelphia.
I fled because the shadows in Philly were starting to reach for me. Between the mounting debt and a predatory gallery owner who didn't take 'no' for an answer, I was drowning. Pine Valley is my fortress. I needed a place where the world couldn't find me—and looking at the jagged peaks of Grizzly Peak, I realized I’d found a place where the world was simply afraid to go.
So, I’m answering an ad. Nanny needed. Live-in. Good pay. Discretion required.
Discretion usually means the kid is a brat or the dad is a celebrity. I’m hoping for the latter, though looking around at the dense, claustrophobic forest, I doubt any celebrity is hiding out here unless they’re on the run.
The road curves sharply, and my tires spin in a patch of mud before gripping. The engine whines, pushing us up the final incline. Then, the trees break.
The cabin is a fortress of dark timber and river stone. It sits on a ridge that overlooks the valley, isolated and imposing. A massive detached garage sits to the left, the metal doors rolled up to reveal darkness and the glint of chrome. Several motorcycles occupy the slab, black and menacing.
My stomach drops. Bikes. Not weekend warrior Harleys, but heavy, custom machines that look like they’ve seen war.
I kill the engine. The absolute silence presses against the glass, heavy and waiting.
"Okay, Bianca. You can do this," I whisper, checking my reflection in the rearview mirror. My hair is a riot of dark curls I tried to tame with a clip, but rogue tendrils are already escaping. I’m wearing my 'sensible' clothes—a thick knit sweater that hides my breasts and jeans that aren't painted on—but I still feel too colorful for this grayscale world.
I step out. The crisp air smells of pine needles, wet earth, and something metallic. Gasoline?
I grab my portfolio, unsure why I brought it, and head toward the massive front door. Before I reach the steps, a sound stops me.
Thwack.
It’s a visceral, wet sound. Wood splitting.
I follow the noise around the side of the garage. The air grows colder here, the wind whipping off the ridge.
Then I see him.
He stands in a clearing filled with split logs. He has his back to me, and for a second, my brain refuses to process the scale of him. He is a mountain made of flesh and bone. He’s not wearing a shirt, despite the biting chill, and his back is a roadmap of violence. Muscles coil and ripple under skin that’s tanned and scarred. A massive tattoo—a skull with wings—covers his shoulder blades, the ink dark and stark against his skin.
He swings a heavy axe over his head. The movement is fluid, terrifyingly efficient.
Thwack.
The log explodes. He doesn't just split the wood; he obliterates it.
I should clear my throat. I should announce myself. But my feet are rooted to the frozen mud. I’m an artist; I’ve spent years studying the human form, sketching models in drafty studios, trying to capture the essence of movement. But I’ve never seen anything like this. This isn't a model posing. This is raw, kinetic power.
He grabs another log, his biceps bulging as he sets it on the stump. Sweat gleams on his skin, tracing the valley of his spine.
My breath hitches. It’s a loud, pathetic sound in the quiet clearing.
He freezes.
He doesn't turn around immediately. The stillness that overtakes him is predatory, like a wolf catching a scent. The axe hangs loosely in one hand, heavy and dangerous. He buries the axe into the chopping block with a single-handed, bone-shatteringthud
Then, he turns.
If his back was a landscape of violence, his face is the aftermath of the war. He’s handsome, but in a brutal, devastating way. Dark hair, cut short on the sides, messy on top. A jawline sharp enough to cut glass, covered in a shadow of stubble. But it’s his eyes that spear me to the spot.
