I look past his massive torso. Standing on the porch of the cabin is a little girl, maybe six or seven, holding a stuffed rabbit by one ear. She has his dark hair and solemn eyes.
"Maddie," he says, his voice roughening, losing some of the jagged edge he used on me. "Go back inside."
"I'm hungry," she says simply. She looks at me, curious. "Who is she? Is she the lady Uncle Tristan sent?"
Shane sighs, a sound of deep, bone-weary exhaustion. He runs a hand through his hair, messing it up further. The movement lifts his arm, stretching the skin over his ribs, showcasing the serratus muscles. I force my eyes to stay on his face.
"Yeah," Shane grunts, looking back at me. "She's the lady."
He drops the axe into the stump with a final, decisive thud. Walking toward me, I have to tilt my head back to maintain eye contact. Up close, the scars on his chest are more visible. There’s a jagged line running from his collarbone to his shoulder. A burn mark on his side. He is a map of pain.
He stops inches from me, blocking out the sun.
"You walk away now," he says softly, dangerously. "You get in your car and you go back to the city. This life? It’s not for tourists. It’s dirty. It’s loud. And it’s dangerous."
"I'm not a tourist," I whisper. My voice trembles, but I hold my ground. "And I'm not afraid of loud."
His eyes search mine. He’s looking for a lie. He’s looking for the flinch. When he doesn't find it, something shifts in his expression. The hostility remains, but underneath it, there’s a flicker of heat. Possessiveness.
He reaches out. For a second, I think he’s going to grab me. My breath catches. I want him to grab me. I want to feel those rough, calloused hands on my skin. I want to know if his touch burns as much as his gaze.
Instead, he reaches for the portfolio at my side, held in a tight grip. His knuckles brush against my hip. The contact is electric. A shockwave rolls through me, and my fingers unclench, almost dropping the portfolio onto the ground. When he catches it, his arm touches mine, and the shock makes my knees buckle slightly. He feels it too; his hand clenches tight on the leather handle.
"Fine," he growls. "You want into the fire? Don't say I didn't warn you."
He turns and stalks toward the house, expecting me to follow.
"Wait," I call out, hurrying to catch up with his long strides. "That’s it? No interview? No background check?"
He stops on the bottom step of the porch and looks down at me. The vantage point makes him look like a god of war judging a mortal.
"I checked your background the second you turned onto the mountain road," he says flatly. "I know who you are, Bianca Carmine. Parking tickets in Philadelphia. Eviction notice pending. You paint weird shit that scares normal people."
My mouth falls open. "How did you?—"
"We protect our own," he says. "And if you step foot in this house, you’re under my roof. You follow my rules."
"What are your rules?" I ask, my heart thumping a frantic rhythm against my sternum.
He leans down, his face inches from mine. I can see the flecks of gold in his gray eyes. I can feel the heat radiating off him like a furnace.
"Rule one," he murmurs, his voice a caress that scrapes against my nerves. "Don't touch anything in the garage."
"Okay," I breathe.
"Rule two," he continues, his gaze dropping to my lips again. "Don't ask questions about club business."
Club business.The motorcycles. The leather cuts I’d seen in town. Broken Halos MC.
"And rule three," he says, his voice dropping to a rumble that vibrates straight through my clit, making it swell and twitch with a need I can't name. "Stay out of my way. Because I’m not the nice brother. I’m the one who breaks things—and right now, you look like something I want to shatter and claim as my own."
He straightens up abruptly, the loss of his proximity leaving me cold. "Get your bags. Maddie needs lunch."
He turns and walks into the dark maw of the cabin without looking back.
I stand there, the wind biting at my cheeks. My body hums, alive in a way it hasn't been in years. Every instinct screams at me to run. To get in Bumble and drive until the mountains are a speck in the rearview mirror. This man is dangerous. He’s overwhelming. He’s a walking, talking complication.
But then I look at the open door. I think of the little girl with the solemn eyes. And I think of the way his eyes darkened when he looked at me, like he wanted to devour me whole.
