But with her arms around me, none of that feels like fear. It feels like fuel.
Let them come. I’ll burn the whole world down to keep her warm.
9
CASSANDRA
The roar of the engine vibrating through my chest is the only thing keeping me tethered to the earth. The wind whips past us, a biting, cold fury that stings my exposed skin, but the heat radiating off Chase’s back is a furnace. I have my arms wrapped around his waist, my fingers dug into the leather of his cut so hard I’m surprised I haven’t punched holes through the tough hide.
A sudden, blinding glare in the side mirror catches my eye.
"Chase!" I scream, the sound torn away by the wind.
A black SUV surges up behind us, grille looming like a set of iron teeth. It doesn't slow down. It accelerates.
Chase sees it. I feel his muscles bunch, hard as rock. He doesn't panic. He reacts. He drops a gear, the Harley screaming in protest as he twists the throttle, shooting us forward just as the SUV's bumper clips our rear fender. The impact jars my spine, sending a jolt of pure terror through my veins.
"Hang on!" he roars.
We aren’t riding like normal anymore. We are tearing up the asphalt, banking around the switchbacks of Grizzly Peak with a ferocity that screams survival. The SUV is heavy, but fast. It takes the corners wide, tires screeching, relentless.
Chase leans the bike so low my knee almost scrapes the pavement. Sparks fly. He weaves into the oncoming lane to dodge a sedan, then cuts back sharply, putting a logging truck between us and our pursuer. The SUV slams on its brakes, horn blaring, but Chase doesn't look back. He pushes the bike to its limit, demanding everything from the machine.
For three minutes, the world is nothing but blurred trees, the smell of burning rubber, and the terrifying proximity of death. Then, he spots the turnoff. He kills the lights.
We hit the gravel turnoff in pitch darkness, the bike fishtailing wildly before Chase wrestles it under control. We slide behind a dense cluster of pines, the engine cutting out instantly. Silence crashes down.
Seconds later, the black SUV roars past on the main road, taillights disappearing into the night.
Chase lets out a breath that sounds like a curse. He turns to me, checking me over with frantic hands. "You hurt?"
"No," I gasp, adrenaline trembling in my limbs. "Who was that?"
"Oswald's cleanup crew," he growls. "Trying to run us off the mountain."
He checks the road one last time before gunning it toward the ridge, the bike's engine screaming as we fly through the final miles of shadows.
The bike slows as we hit the gravel turnoff, the tires crunching loudly in the sudden stillness of the deep woods. The towering pines swallow the sunlight, casting long, bruised shadows across the path to his cabin. When the engine finally cuts out, the silence rushes in, heavy and thick.
Chase kicks the kickstand down but doesn’t move to get off. He sits there, his shoulders rising and falling with jagged breaths. I can feel the tension in him, coiled tight like a spring ready to snap.
"Off," he commands, his voice rough, gravel over steel.
I slide off the back, my legs trembling as my heels hit the ground. I feel unmoored without the solid wall of his back against me. I hug my arms around myself, trying to summon the icy demeanor of Cassandra Preston, Attorney at Law, but I am just Cassandra—rattled from the near-miss on the road and the terrifying realization that I just let a man abduct me because my soul hurt too much to say no.
Chase dismounts in one fluid, aggressive motion. He doesn’t look at me. He stalks toward the cabin, unlocking the heavy reinforced door with a snap of his wrist. He holds it open, his body blocking the exit, his eyes hidden behind dark aviators.
"Inside. Now."
My spine stiffens at the tone, my lawyer brain finally finding a foothold in the chaos. "I am not your prisoner, Chase. You can’t just drag me up here and order me around."
He takes off the glasses, hooking them into the neck of his t-shirt. His eyes are wild, rimmed with red, burning with an intensity that makes my knees weak. "You think you’re a prisoner?" He laughs, a dark, humorless sound. "Cassandra, outthere? With Oswald and his threats and your career hanging by a thread? That’s the prison. This?" He gestures to the cabin, to the fire I know is waiting to be lit. "This is the only place you’re safe."
"Safe?" I step inside, the familiar scent of cedar and musk wrapping around me. "Safe from who? Oswald? Or you?"
He shuts the door behind us and throws the deadbolt with a finality that echoes in my chest. He turns, leaning his back against the wood, crossing his tattooed arms over his chest. "You think you need protection from me?"
"I heard you." My throat tightens. "I heard what you told Logan. You said I was handled. You said you knew which buttons to push. You made me sound like a strategy. A zoning permit with legs."
