"Yeah," I murmur, opening the fridge to hide my flushed face. "He definitely is."
But as I reach for the cheddar, my hands are still tingling from where he brushed against me. And deep down, in the part of my brain that controls survival and desire, I know one thing for certain.
I’m not leaving this mountain. Not until I figure out what lies beneath those scars. And not until I find out what it feels like to be broken by him.
2
SHANE
The water from the showerhead is freezing, sharp needles of ice meant to shock the heat out of my blood. It isn’t working. Not when the fire is this deep. The itch is under the skin, buried in the marrow where the cold can’t reach.
I brace my hands against the black tile, head hanging low, breathing in ragged, angry gasps. My grip tightens until the scarred skin stretches over the bone. My body feels too big for this shower. Too violent for the domestic silence I’ve tried to maintain for my daughter.
And now, there’s a woman downstairs.
Bianca.
Even the name tastes like sugar and trouble. I shut my eyes, but the image of her burns onto the back of my eyelids. That chaotic yellow car, the ridiculous boots, the curves that looked soft enough to bruise. When she stepped out of that vehicle, looking lost and defiant, something inside me—the wolf, the beast, the Sergeant at Arms—snapped a chain.
Attraction is simple. Attraction is a scratching post for an itch you handle at the clubhouse with a bottle of whiskey and a club girl who knows the rules.
This is recognition. A sledgehammer to the chest. My soul looked at hers and said,There you are. You’re late.
I groan, a low, guttural sound that vibrates in the small stall, and twist the handle. The silence that follows is heavy. I grab a towel, scrubbing it roughly over my wet hair, then down my chest, over the ink and the scars that map out a life of violence.
I shouldn’t have hired her. I should have terrified her, thrown cash at her for gas, and told her to get the hell off my mountain. Tristan, my interfering prick of a brother, set this up. He thinks Maddie needs a "feminine influence." He doesn't understand that bringing something soft into a house made of iron and bad memories is a recipe for disaster.
When I looked at her, standing there in the snow, trembling, with those wide, whiskey-colored eyes... I couldn’t send her away. The thought of another man looking at her, seeing that flush on her cheeks, has my hand twitching toward the Glock sitting on the sink counter.
She’s mine.
The realization is quiet, absolute, and terrifying. I haven't even touched her yet—not really—and I’m already planning where to bury anyone who tries to take her.
I wrap the towel around my waist and step out into the chilled air of the bathroom. The mirror is clear, reflecting the monster staring back with stark, unforgiving clarity. I don’t need steam to hide what I am; the scars tell the story well enough.
Dark eyes, hard jaw, the grim set of a mouth that forgot how to smile years ago.
"Get a grip, Shane," I mutter, my voice sounding like gravel grinding together.
I dress quickly. Jeans, worn soft at the thighs and knees. A black t-shirt that strains across my shoulders. I skip the cut. The leather vest with the Broken Halos MC patch stays on the hook by the door. I don't need the patch to tell her who I am. She knows. I saw the fear in her eyes. Good. She should be afraid.
I clip my knife to my belt and step out into the hallway.
The cabin is usually silent. A tomb of timber and stone. But today, a sound drifts up the stairs.
Laughter.
It stops me dead at the top of the landing. Maddie. My seven-year-old daughter, who has been walking around with the weight of her mother’s death on her tiny shoulders for two years, is giggling. The bright, bubbling sound claws at my heart.
I move down the stairs. The wood doesn't creak under my boots; I know exactly where to step. A skill learned from hunting—both animals in the Grizzly Peak wilderness and men in the city streets.
I stop in the shadow of the hallway, watching the kitchen.
Bianca is there. She’s taken off that heavy coat, revealing a sweater that hangs off one shoulder, exposing smooth, creamy skin that makes my mouth water. She moves around my kitchen like she’s been there for years. She pulls ingredients out of the fridge—things I didn't even know we had—and chops vegetables with a rhythm that speaks of capability.
Maddie sits on the counter. I have a strict rule about feet on the furniture. But she’s sitting there, swinging her legs, watching Bianca with wide, fascinated eyes.
"So, the yellow car is named Bumble?" Maddie asks.
