1
CASSANDRA
I stare at my reflection in the restroom mirror of the Pine Valley Town Hall, smoothing nonexistent wrinkles from my navy pencil skirt. The fluorescent lights hum with a headache-inducing flicker, casting a sickly pallor over the beige tiles, but I look impeccable. I always do. The silk blouse, the tailored blazer, the stilettos that click like gunfire against the floorboards—it's calculated armor. I dress to make men twice my size feel small.
"You've got this, Cassandra," I whisper. The words fog the glass for a split second before vanishing.
I check my lipstick—blood red, sharp edges—and exhale a breath held since I parked my sedan between a muddy pickup truck and a Jeep with a winch capable of pulling down a bank vault. Boston courtrooms operate on different physics than the Grizzly Peak District. Rules of engagement here are feral, unwritten things buried under layers of pine needles and snow.
I’d heard the whispers at a gas station two towns over—news of a local biologist, the "Marten Girl," who’d used the club’s"protection" to dismantle a multi-million dollar development firm.
The Broken Halos are currently being hailed as vigilante heroes, a narrative that makes them twice as dangerous as the beasts the rumors paint them to be.
I’m not here to fight monsters in the woods, though. I’m targeting the business entity. Peak Wilderness Outfitters might look like a rugged, charming storefront on Main Street, but to anyone with eyes, it’s a front—a glossy veneer slapped over an organization that runs these mountains like feudal lords.
My client, the "Pine Valley Preservation Society"—three retired schoolteachers and an angry birder named Martha—hired me to block the zoning permit. They worry the expansion will disrupt the local nesting grounds of the spotted owl. I know the Gunnars just want to swallow more of the town, inch by greedy inch.
I grab my leather briefcase, the handle cool and solid against my damp palm, and push out of the restroom. The hallway smells of floor wax and stale coffee, the scent of bureaucracy. I march toward the double doors of the council chamber, my heels striking the linoleum with a rhythmic, martial cadence.
Click. Click. Click.
I am a professional. I am a weapon.
I scan the room for a seat near the front, but my eyes snag on the group of men dominating the front row on the right. My breath jams in my throat like a jagged stone. They take up too much space. Shoulders too broad, legs too long, a distinct air of violence radiating off them like heat waves on asphalt. No "cuts"—the leather vests with the patches—but the menaceweaves into their dark, well-fitted button-downs and heavy denim all the same.
Then one of them turns his head.
The world tilts. The floor seems to drop out from under me, a sickening, vertigo-inducing lurch that has nothing to do with my heels. He sits in the center of the group, leaning back with illegal arrogance. Devastating doesn't begin to cover it.
His skin gleams with a thin sheen of sweat, muscles carved and tense like a living statue. Tattoos peek out from the collar of his shirt and wrap around his broad hands, the ink promising a fierce, untamed nature that seems to pulse with power and danger. His dark hair is pulled back, strands loose and wild, as if he just shook free from some restless storm.
And his eyes—olive green, smoldering—catch the gaze from across the room, locking on with steady, unflinching heat.
He doesn’t look away. Most men flinch or politely divert their gaze when caught. He holds me there, pinning me to the spot with physical weight. A violation and a caress all at once. My nipples pebble against the silk of my bra, a rebellious biological spike that makes me want to cross my legs.
Who is that?
Recognition slams into me, ancient and terrifying. His name is a mystery, but my blood knows him. My marrow knows him. A magnetic hook lodges deep in my solar plexus, dragging me toward him.
"Miss Preston?"
The Mayor’s voice breaks the trance. I jerk my head toward the dais, my pulse hammering a frantic rhythm against my ribs. Heat flushes my skin.
"Yes, Mr. Mayor," I say, my voice steady despite the internal riot. "I’m here."
I walk down the center aisle, conscious of every step, conscious of the fabric of my skirt pulling across my thighs. His gaze feels tactile, a warm hand sliding down my spine to trace the curve of my ass. I don’t look back. Looking back would ignite me.
I take my seat at the small table set up for the opposition. My hands shake. I clasp them together on top of my file folder to hide the tremor.
"We’re here to discuss the zoning variance for Peak Wilderness Outfitters," Mayor Thompson says, shuffling his papers. "Representing the applicants is Mr. Chase Gunnar."
Chase. The name tastes like smoke.
The man rises. Oh, God. He’s even bigger standing up. He unfolds himself from the chair with fluid, lethal grace, towering over everyone else in the vicinity. A charcoal button-down shirt strains desperately across his chest and biceps, the sleeves rolled up to reveal forearms corded with muscle and inked with dark, intricate tattoos. He walks to the podium opposite mine. He moves with silent, heavy weight. Large hands rest on the wood, knuckles scarred, fingers thick and capable.
"Afternoon, Mayor," Chase says. His voice is a low rumble, a baritone that vibrates through the floorboards and settles straight between my thighs. Pure, uncut testosterone. "Council members." He turns his head slightly. Those olive green eyesspear me again. A smirk plays on his lips—cruel, knowing, sexy. "And Miss Preston," he adds. "Pleasure."
He tastes the word, rolling it around his tongue like he imagines exactly what kind of pleasure he means. Less a greeting, more a challenge.
