1
BIANCA
The GPS on my phone died ten minutes ago, right around the time the paved road turned into a rutted, gravel track that looked less like a driveway and more like a tear in the earth. My little hatchback, a bright yellow Beetle that fit perfectly in the city’s concrete grid, rattles like a tin can full of nails.
I remember the old man at Harrison’s Hardware shaking his head as I bought a map of the switchbacks. "You’re the fourth girl the club has sent up that ridge in two weeks," he’d muttered, his eyes full of pity.
"The Sergeant doesn’t want a nanny; he wants to be left alone in the dark with his ghosts. You’ll be back down the mountain by sundown, just like the ones before you."
I’d ignored him, but as the trees thicken around my little car, his words feel less like a warning and more like a prophecy.
The road narrows into a slick, muddy climb that makes the mountain feel like it’s tilting against me. My engine wheezes, a rhythmic, concerning rattle that vibrates through the floorboards and into my heels.
The shadows of the pines stretch across the hood like skeletal fingers, and the silence of the woods becomes a heavy, physical weight.
"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 sharp, splintering crack. Wood yielding to heavy steel.
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. Dark, intricate ink curls around his powerful forearms, the shadows of the design disappearing into the heavy flex of his triceps as he moves. The swirling shadows and sharp lines of the ink give the tattoos a fierce, almost alive quality, etched deeply into his sun-bronzed skin.
He swings a heavy axe over his head. The movement is fluid, terrifyingly efficient.
Thwack.
