He looks up. That laser-focus returns, making me feel like the only thing in the world. "Haunted," he corrects.
"Are you?"
He leans forward, elbows on knees. "Everyone on this mountain is haunted, Bianca. Remember that. To keep you safe. From me. From my world."
"I don't feel unsafe with you."
He laughs, a dry, humorless sound. "Then you're not paying attention." He stands, his shadow stretching long across the floor, consuming me. He reaches down, gripping the sketchbook and tossing it onto the table. "You should run," he growls, stepping into the V of my legs. "You should pack your bags and drive that yellow deathtrap back to the city."
I look up at him, heart battering my ribs. "I'm not running."
"No?" His eyes darken to black pits. "Then you're a fool."
He bends down. His hands grip the back of the couch on either side of my head, caging me in. The heat rolling off him suffocates me. "Shane," I whisper, a plea and a challenge.
"Don't say my name like that unless you want trouble."
"Maybe I do."
Something snaps in his face. A restraint breaking. He slams his mouth onto mine, a violent collision of raw aggression. He isn't asking; he’s taking. His tongue thrusts past my lips, tasting of coffee and dominance, and I whimper as my pussy gives a hard, wet throb. He moves his hand to my throat, his grip firm and possessive, his thumb pressing right over my pulse while his other hand snakes down to cup my rear, squeezing the flesh hard. He’s claiming me. He kisses me like he wants to rip my clothes off and bury his cock so deep inside me that I forget my own name.
Just as my body melts, preparing to surrender everything, he tears himself away. He stands, chest heaving, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. He looks at me—lips swollen, eyeswide—and a curse rips from his throat. "Go to bed, Bianca," he rasps, voice wrecked. "Lock your door."
"Shane—"
"Lock it!" he roars. "Before I forget I'm supposed to be the good guy."
He turns and stalks toward the kitchen, leaving me breathless by the fire. I touch my lips. They still burn. I scramble up and head for the stairs on shaky legs. I rush to my room, slam the door, and turn the lock.
Click.
4
SHANE
The rain hammers against the roof of the cabin like bullets, a relentless rhythm that usually helps me sleep. Tonight, it just sounds like noise. Static in a radio line I can’t clear.
I gave up on rest two hours ago. My bed felt like a cage, sheets tangling around my legs, the silence of the room amplifying the roar of blood in my ears. Insomnia is nothing new. I’m the Sergeant at Arms. My job requires seeing threats before they manifest, anticipating violence before the first punch lands. My mind doesn’t shut off just because the sun goes down.
The club feels a million miles away. The Costa family threat on the eastern cliffs fades into background noise. Only the woman sleeping down the hall matters.
Bianca.
Even thinking her name makes my jaw ache. Three days since she arrived with her bright colors and city scent, infiltrating my fortress of solitude like a virus I have no antibody for. Too loud. Too soft. Too much.
I roll out of bed. The cold hardwood floor bites my bare feet. I don’t bother with a shirt. The air in the cabin is chilly, the storm outside dropping the temperature, but my skin feels feverish. I need water. I need to patrol the perimeter. I need to do something other than stare at the ceiling and imagine what she looks like under that quilt I gave her.
I grab my Glock from the nightstand—habit, not necessity, though the line blurs often in my life—and tuck it into the waistband of my sweatpants. I move silently into the hallway. Floorboards don’t creak under my weight; I know exactly where to step. I’ve memorized every inch of this house, every weakness, every angle of fire.
I pause outside her door.
I shouldn’t stop. Walking away, checking the locks, and drinking a glass of ice water until my brain freezes over would be the rational move. My boots root to the spot instead. The soft rhythm of her breathing drifts through the wood. Faint, but my senses are tuned to her frequency now. Maddening.
Go, my brain commands.
Stay, the beast in my chest growls.
I force myself to move, descending the stairs into the darkness of the living room. Embers in the fireplace have died down to a dull, throbbing orange glow, casting twisted shadows across the rug.
