Page 1 of Auctioned to the Devil

Chapter 1

Emily

By the time I roll into Devil’s Peak, my shoulders ache from ten straight hours behind the wheel and my caffeine buzz has long since given up on pretending it can carry me any farther.

The mountains are bigger than they looked in my grandfather’s photographs.

Everything is.

The pines tower over the winding road, their branches swaying lazily in the afternoon breeze, while patches of stubborn snow still cling to the higher elevations despite the spring sunshine. The town itself is small enough that I almost miss it. A weathered welcome sign sits beside a two-lane road lined with brick storefronts, hanging flower baskets, and pickup trucks that probably cost more than my Jeep.

The pace is slower here.

Quieter.

Like the whole mountain has agreed to breathe a little deeper than the rest of the world.

I pull into an angled parking spot in front of a diner with a faded wooden sign that reads The Devil’s Diner in bold black lettering.

Cute.

Subtle.

Definitely not ominous.

My stomach growls loud enough to make me laugh.

“Coffee first,” I mutter. “Then existential crises.”

I kill the engine and twist around, reaching into the backseat for my purse. Boxes have shifted during the drive, burying my wallet somewhere beneath folders, notebooks, and a stack of renovation plans for the lodge.

“Come on…”

I stretch farther, fingertips brushing leather.

“Got you.”

Triumphantly clutching my wallet, I step backward out of the Jeep.

Straight into something that doesn’t move.

Not an inch.

I bounce off what feels less like a person and more like a granite cliff.

“Oh!”

I stumble, catching myself against the open door before I fall flat on my face.

“I’m so sorry.”

The apology comes automatically as I look up.

Good Lord.

The man standing behind me is enormous.

Well over six feet, broad enough to block the afternoon sun, wearing a dark thermal stretched across shoulders that look carved from the mountain itself. His jeans are worn, his boots muddy, and one scar disappears beneath the sleeve rolled halfway up his forearm. Another crosses the back of his hand, pale against weathered skin.