I move before he finishes the sentence. I grab my helmet, blood running hot on a cocktail of panic and rage. She’s running. Cassandra is smart, efficient, and terrified. She won’t linger. She’ll pack her bags at the Grand Pine Lodge, get in her sensible sedan, and drive until Pine Valley is a speck in her rearview mirror.
And if she’s not alone, someone’s going to pay.
The thought freezes my hand on the door handle.
Sean Oswald.
The corporate fixer. The man in the suit circling the permit hearings like a shark smelling blood. He planted the doubt. He twisted my words. He didn't just capitalize on a misunderstanding; he orchestrated a demolition. My grip on the door handle tightens until the metal groans. This feels like anextraction. Oswald is removing the obstacle—Cassandra—so he can bring in a lawyer who plays by his corrupt rules.
If he’s near her...
A red haze drops over my vision. The world narrows to a single, violent objective.
I shove the door open, the bell chiming cheerfully above my head—a sickening contrast to the violence churning in my gut. I stride onto Main Street, ignoring the tourists and locals. I mount my Harley, the engine roaring to life with a savage growl matching the noise in my head.
I ignore the speed limit. I tear through the center of Pine Valley, weaving between pickup trucks and SUVs. The wind whips past, but the cold doesn't register. Only the clock ticks. Every second she’s away creates distance. Every second she’s alone leaves her vulnerable to Oswald.
I bank hard around the curve leading up to the Grand Pine Lodge, tires protesting against the asphalt. The massive timber and stone structure looms ahead. Usually I tolerate the place because Lucas Sterling runs a tight ship, but today it feels like a fortress I have to breach.
I skid to a halt right in front of the main entrance and kill the engine. I kick the stand down and dismount. The valet steps forward, eyes wide.
"Mr. Gunnar, you can't park?—"
I toss him my keys. "Keep it running."
The look in my eyes withers his resolve. He catches the keys and steps back, swallowing hard. I storm through the double doors, the heavy scent of pine and expensive polished wood hitting me.
The lobby is busy. Guests mill about, luggage carts roll. I scan the room, predator instincts dialed to maximum. I don’t see her. I stride toward the front desk. The receptionist, Susan, looks up and pales.
"Cassandra Preston," I demand. "Room number."
"Chase, I can't give out guest info?—"
"Susan." I lean over the counter, voice low and vibrating with a threat I don't have to articulate. "This isn't social. She’s in danger. Room. Now."
She flinches, typing frantically. "312. But she just called down for a bellhop. She’s checking out."
"Cancel the bellhop."
I head for the elevators, but the doors slide shut. I hit the stairs, taking them two at a time. My thighs burn, lungs pump air, but my heart hammers against my ribs.
Please be there. Please be there.
I burst onto the third floor. The hallway stretches long, carpeted in plush burgundy. A man stands in the doorway of Room 312.
Sean Oswald.
He leans against the frame, looking relaxed, smug. He holds a file folder, talking to someone inside. Talking to her.
"It’s for the best, Ms. Preston," Oswald says, voice oily and smooth. "This town isn't suited for professionals like us. The Gunnars are animals. You saw how he treated you. Like a piece of meat to be traded."
The red haze turns black.
I don't announce my presence. I just move. The distance between the stairwell and the room disappears. Oswald hears me at the last second. He starts to turn, eyes widening as he registers the six-foot-four wall of biker leather and fury descending on him.
"Gun—"
I slam my forearm into his chest, driving him backward into the room. He hits the opposite wall hard, the file folder flying from his hands and scattering papers across the carpet.
