I walk past him, grabbing my cut from the bench. The leather is heavy, familiar armor. As I slide my arms in, the shift happens. Chase stays in the gym. The Enforcer takes the road. And I have a target.
I don't waste a second getting on my bike, the roar of the engine drowning out the morning quiet as I hunt her down.
I find her at the Cozy Cup.
Mid-morning light floods Main Street. The air is crisp, carrying the pine scent from the Grizzly Peak district down into the valley. I roll my bike to the curb, killing the engine but letting the presence of it linger—a dark, mechanical beast resting among the sedans.
Through the large glass window, I spot her. She sits at a corner table, a laptop open, surrounded by stacks of paper.
Out of place.
Too sharp.
Too tailored.
Her suit today is charcoal gray—a shade that turns her into a walking storm cloud, dangerously beautiful. It hugs every curve a lawyer shouldn’t flaunt, daring me to look away. The skirt? Even tighter than the navy one from yesterday, clinging to the swell of her ass like it’s painted on, making my teeth itch to tear through the fabric. Her dark hair is pulled back into a knot so tight it sets my fingers on fire, desperate to unravel every strand.
I push open the door. The bell chimes. Chatter in the coffee shop dies down instantly. The Broken Halos patch commands respect and fear.
Mike, the owner, nods at me from behind the counter. "Morning, Chase. The usual?"
"Black," I say, my eyes never leaving the corner table.
Cassandra hasn't looked up. She types furiously, her brow furrowed. Pretending I’m not here. She felt me walk in. I saw the way her shoulders stiffened, the way her breath hitched in her chest. Her body knows she's mine. Her mind just needs to catch up.
I walk over, my boots heavy on the hardwood floor. I don't stop until I loom over her table, blocking out the sunlight streaming through the window.
She stops typing. Taking a slow sip of her latte, she finally looks up. Her eyes are striking hazel, flecked with gold, and right now, they hold a flinty glint of defiance that makes my cock snap to attention, straining hard and heavy against the denim of my jeans. I want to see those eyes go hazy while I’m stretching her wide.
"Mr. Gunnar," she says, her voice cool, professional. "If you're here to intimidate me into dropping the injunction, you should know I'm recording this conversation."
I smirk, pulling out the chair opposite her and sitting down without an invitation. I spread my legs, encroaching on her space beneath the small table. My knee bumps hers. She flinches but doesn't pull away.
"I don't need to intimidate you, Cassandra," I say, rolling her name around my mouth. It tastes sweet. "And you can record whatever you want. I'm just here to be a good neighbor."
"Neighbor," she scoffs, closing her laptop with a sharp snap. "You're a nuisance, Mr. Gunnar. Your club's expansion threatens three acres of protected nesting ground for the peregrine falcon, not to mention the runoff issues for the creek."
"You've never even seen the land," I say softly.
She blinks. "I've seen the maps. The surveyor reports."
"Paper," I dismiss. I lean forward, resting my forearms on the table. The distance between us shrinks to nothing. The pulse in her throat flutters wild. "You're fighting a war over lines on a map drawn by men who sit in air-conditioned offices in the city. You don't know the mountain. You don't know what we do up there."
"I know you're a biker gang trying to legitimize a fortress," she shoots back. Her tongue is sharp. I like it.
"Club," I correct her. "And if you're going to stand in front of the town council and call me a villain, you should at least have the courage to look at the crime scene."
Her eyes narrow. "What are you suggesting?"
"I'm going up there now. To the site." I stand up, towering over her. I extend a hand. A dare. "Come with me. See what you're trying to kill. Unless you're scared, Counselor."
The challenge hangs in the air, thick and electric. The café falls silent; everyone watches. Christie, the barista, has stopped wiping the counter.
Cassandra looks at my hand—large, calloused—and then up at my face. She calculates the risk. Getting in a car—or worse—with me is a terrible idea legally. But she’s prideful. I saw that yesterday. She hates to lose, and she hates to look weak.
"I have a rental car," she says, standing up. She ignores my hand, grabbing her leather briefcase—the one she was white-knuckling in the lobby yesterday. "I'll follow you."
I grin. "The road to the ridge is washed out from the storm last week. Your rental won't make it past the tree line."
