"Okay," she whispers. "Rule three?"
I push off the fridge and take a step toward her. She doesn't retreat. She can’t. She’s trapped between the counter and the wall of muscle that is me. I stop inches from her, close enough to feel the heat radiating off her skin.
"Rule three," I murmur, pitching my voice into a low, vibrating rumble that I know she feels in her bones. "You stay away from the eastern cliffs. The property line is marked. You don't cross it. And don't forget my personal rule, Sunshine: stay out of my way, or you’ll find yourself pinned to the nearest flat surface while I remind you exactly who owns every inch of your body."
"Why should I stay away from the eastern cliffs?"
"Because there are things in these mountains worse than me." A half-lie. The family on the eastern cliffs—the Costas—are dangerous, but we have a truce. I just don't want her wandering into their sights. I don't want anyone seeing her.
"Okay," she says, eyes wide. "No garage. Don't open the door. Stay away from the cliffs."
"Good girl."
The praise slips out before I can stop it. Her pupils blow wide, swallowing the gold. A flush creeps up her neck, staining her cheeks pink. The air between us crackles. I want to reach out and trace that blush with my thumb. I want to wreck her composure.
"Daddy, are you hungry?" Maddie chirps, oblivious to the tension threatening to blow the roof off the cabin.
I tear my eyes away from Bianca. The effort is physical, like pulling a magnet from steel. I look at my daughter.
"Yeah, Mads. I’m hungry."
Starving.
I pull out a stool and sit. The wood groans under my weight. Bianca exhales, a shaky sound, and turns back to the food. Her hands tremble as she assembles another wrap.
I watch the way her sweater rides up when she reaches for a plate, exposing a strip of pale skin at her lower back. I want to put my brand there. I want to mark her so thoroughly that every man in Pine Valley knows she’s off-limits.
This is a collision. A car crash. I didn't fall for her; I slammed into her at a hundred miles an hour, and now I’m pinned in the wreckage, waiting for the fire.
She sets a plate in front of me. A turkey wrap with a vegetable face. It looks ridiculous. It looks perfect.
"Thanks," I grunt.
She sits opposite me, next to Maddie. She starts eating, trying to ignore my stare. But she can’t. Every time she lifts her food to her mouth, her eyes flick to mine. It’s a dance. A primitive, silent conversation.
I see you.
I feel you.
Run.
Stay.
"So," Bianca says after the silence becomes suffocating. "Mr. Gunnar?—"
"Shane," I correct her. "Mr. Gunnar is my father, and he’s dead."
"Shane," she tests the name. It sounds too good on her tongue. Soft. Intimate. "What... what do you do besides the club? Your brother mentioned a business?"
"Peak Wilderness Outfitters. On Main Street. We run tours, sell gear. Legit business."
"Legit," she echoes. "As opposed to the illegitimate ones?"
I stop chewing. I lean forward, resting my forearms on the table.
"Do you really want to know about the other stuff, Bianca? Do you want to know what I do when the sun goes down?"
She holds my gaze, her breath hitching. She’s curious. That curiosity will get her killed. Or pregnant.
