"It’s not for the paper." I swing my leg back over the bike. The engine roars to life, a violent growl matching my internal storm.
Austin takes a sip of his coffee. "Does she know that?"
"She thinks it's a game." I grip the handlebars until the leather groans. "She thinks we're playing pretend for a month."
"And when the month ends?"
I look at the Lodge one last time, imagining her in the elevator, straightening her clothes, trying to scrub my scent off her skin.
"The month isn't going to end." The realization settles in my bones like lead. "Not for me."
I kick the bike into gear. Acceleration snaps my head back, rushing wind filling the void she left behind. I hit the ground miles ago. Bleeding out.
I tear down Main Street, heading for the clubhouse. I need to hit something. The truth sits heavy in my gut. I’m not fighting Cassandra Preston to win a zoning permit. I’m fighting to ensure that when this month-long charade ends, she doesn't pack her bags and leave Pine Valley. If she leaves, she takes my air with her. I refuse to suffocate on this mountain alone.
I bank hard onto the ridge road, tires biting into the asphalt. The plan is dead. I just haven't told her yet. Now, the real campaign begins. She wants a war in the courtroom? Fine. I’ll give her one. But the real war will happen in her bed, in her head, and in her heart. Unlike her, I don't fight fair. I fight to win.
"Mine," I whisper into the wind. The claim tastes like a promise. "You have no idea what you've started."
7
CASSANDRA
My phone has been vibrating on the mahogany desk of the hotel suite for twenty minutes, a relentless, insect-like buzzing that threatens to shatter the fragile bubble I’ve been living in since I left Chase’s cabin.
I ignore it.
Instead, I stare at my reflection in the gilded mirror above the dresser. The woman staring back looks thoroughly marked. I spent fifteen minutes scrubbing the scent of him off my skin, though it felt like it was etched into my marrow. I peeled off his oversized black hoodie—which smelled so strongly of leather and musk it made my knees shake—and the gray sweatpants that had been riding low on my hips, a tactile reminder of the man who’d occupied me until dawn. My hair, usually pinned back in a severe, courtroom-ready chignon, hangs loose and wild, tangled from the wind of the motorcycle ride and the friction of Chase’s sheets. My lips are swollen and bruised, a shade of rose that no lipstick can replicate.
And my neck.
I reach up, tracing the dark, reddish-purple hickey just below my jawline.
Mine.
His voice echoes in the quiet room, a low, vibrant rumble that vibrates straight through my bones. A tremor runs down my spine, the ghost of his teeth against my pulse point so vivid my pussy clenches with a wet, heavy throb. I should be horrified. I am a partner-track attorney at one of the most prestigious environmental law firms in the state. I don’t get marked like territory. I don’t let men in leather cuts dictate my breathing patterns.
But God, I wanted it. I still want it. The memory of his massive weight pinning me to that table and the way he claimed me, "Mine, fucking take every inch," makes my silk thong cling to my skin. My mind is screaming for distance, but my clit is humming with a traitorous, unfulfilled hunger for his thick cock.
The phone buzzes again. This time, the screen lights up with a name that acts like a bucket of ice water dumped over my head: Senior Partner Hampton.
The bubble bursts.
I snatch the phone, clearing my throat and straightening my spine, as if he can see the bruised evidence of my surrender through the connection. "Cassandra Preston."
"Cassandra." Hampton’s voice is dry, clipped, devoid of any warmth. It’s the voice of the billable hour. "I’m hearing some interesting rumors coming out of Pine Valley. Something about a conflict of interest involving the opposing party?"
My stomach twists. Pine Valley is a small town, but gossip travels faster than fiber optics. "Mr. Hampton, the situation is... nuanced. I’m employing a specific strategy to negotiate a settlement that benefits our environmental impact goals while allowing the client to?—"
"I don't need the boilerplate, Cassandra," he interrupts. "I need to know if you’ve been compromised. The client pays us to block industrial overreach, not to get into bed with it. Literally or figuratively."
The accusation hangs in the air, heavy and suffocating.
"I am fully in control of the situation," I lie, my voice steady despite the way my body is still reeling from the reality of Chase’s claim. "The relationship the town is gossiping about is a fabrication. A calculated move to gain leverage and access to their internal plans. I’m gathering intel."
"See that you do," Hampton warns. "We have a reputation. Don't let a man in a biker gang ruin yours. Fix it, or come home."
The line goes dead.
