Chapter Four

He stood before me, his hands tucked casually into the pockets of his expensive suit. His blonde hair was styled perfectly off his sharp, aristocratic features, his blue eyes gleaming with a cold fire that sent an immediate chill down my spine.

His leather shoes clicked rhythmically against the asphalt. His stride was controlled and calm, as if he hadn't just tracked me across the state like an animal. His expression remained entirely neutral as he stepped onto the concrete walkway of the motel, closing the distance between us.

My mind raced a million miles an hour, trying to figure out how he’d found me.

"Come home, Lottie. Don't make me get blood on your mother's jacket," he drawled, cutting through my panic with a flat tone that brokered no argument. A malicious, arrogant curl deformed his lips as his hand slipped out of his pocket. He reached out, his fingers wrapping like a steel cuff around my wrist. "You'll forgive me. We can forget this whole little incident ever happened."

I yanked my arm back, ripping away from him as if his touch would leave third-degree burns. "How the fuck did you find me?" My voice was breathless, my heart hammering a frantic rhythm against my ribs.

His hand hovered in the empty space between us, his fingers flexing before his expression twisted with pure annoyance. He exhaled a long, slow breath—a predator trying to keep himself from tearing his prey apart too quickly. His jaw clenched so hard the muscle ticked under his pristine skin.

"Did you really think I'd let my little wife just walk out on me?" he sneered. His voice sounded like melting ice scraping over glass. He tilted his head, his cold blue eyes boring into mine. "I'll always find you, Lottie. It doesn't matter where you run."

The absolute certainty in his tone sent a heavy weight of dread down my spine. I took a deliberate step backward, shaking my head, my jaw set with a stubborn edge I rarely ever showed him. "I'm not coming back with you, Arthur—"

Before I could finish the sentence, his hands shot out.

He shoved me back violently. My boots skidded across the threshold of the motel room, my shoulder hitting the door as I was pushed backward into the dim space just before he slammed the heavy door shut with his heel. The lock clicked into place with agonizing finality.

I stumbled, my hands scraping against the cheap drywall to catch my balance. I locked my knees and glared up at him, the fear instantly morphing into pure, unadulterated rage. "You piece of shi—"

Crack.

The heavy, silver alumni ring on his finger caught the meat of my cheek. The force of the strike snapped my head to the side, blinding white stars exploding across my vision as the impact threatened to throw me off balance.

But I didn't fall.

Years of growing up around the Vipers—watching men take punches and give them right back—commanded my body to react. I planted my boots against the synthetic carpet, compensating for the momentum, and caught myself before I lost my footing.

My head whipped back around, my glare locking onto his. A sharp, copper tang pooled in my mouth, my lower lip burning where his ring had easily split the skin.

Arthur stepped directly into my space. He lunged forward, gripping my chin with a crushing, controlling harshness that instantly executed every remaining happy memory I had of him.

"Yes, you fucking are," he hissed. His eyes flicked down to the duffel bag that had slipped from my grip when he struck me, the arrogant curl returning to his lips. "You have no idea how many tracking chips I put on you, Lottie. You could be completely naked and run to fucking Antarctica, and I'll still find you."

I didn't cower. I didn't beg. Instead, a fire ignited in the dead of winter behind my eyes.

I reached up and gripped his wrist, my fingers digging mercilessly into the pressure points between his tendons. "I don't give a shit, Arthur," I growled, squeezing with every ounce of strength I had left. "I won't stop trying to get away from you. Not now that I know exactly what you are."

His teeth audibly gritted, the sharp click of his molars echoing in the small room. The sudden flash of pain caused his grip on my jaw to falter just enough.

I wrenched my face free. At the same instant, I drove my knee upward with every ounce of strength I had left, catching him squarely between the legs.

Arthur let out a strangled grunt, a choked curse escaping his lips as he instantly doubled over, his hands flying down to cup the mediocre family jewels I’d just tried to drive into his sternum.

I scrambled backward, narrowly avoiding his arm as he swiped blindly through the air like a pissed-off lion trying to swat its escaping kill.

"You fucking bitch!" he roared. He forced himself upright, his face contorted in pure, ugly rage, and lunged. His fingers clamped down on my forearm with a bruising grip, and he threw me toward the bed.

I hit the mattress with a jarring bounce. The impact forced the air from my lungs, my already-bruised ribs screaming in protest. Before I could draw a breath to recover, his heavy frame slammed down on top of me. His legs caged my hips, pinning me against the cheap bedding, and his knees dug mercilessly into my waist. A strangled groan of pain escaped my throat.

His eyes blazed with absolute fury, his lips twisted into a murderous sneer.

I threw a wild, desperate swing, my fist catching him dead on the jaw. His head rocked sideways, but the blow wasn't enough to dislodge him. Using his sheer size and weight against me, he pinned me down. He grabbed my wrists, slamming them into the mattress above my head, looming over me like a shadow.

A rough, dark laugh rumbled from his chest as he looked down at me. My breathing was ragged, fueled by pure adrenaline and agonizing pain. I kicked my legs wildly, trying to drive my boot into his back, but he completely ignored the effort.

"That was a cheap shot, wife," he hissed, grinning down at me like a maniac. "Kicking your husband in the balls? You better hope I can still use those." He leaned lower, his gaze pinning me in place with pure malice.

"I hope you fucking can't!" I screamed back, thrashing like a wild animal caught in a snare. "Get the fuck off me! I'm not your fucking wife! We're done!"

He let out a dry, barking laugh, filled with mocking amusement. "We're done when I say we're done, Lottie," he sneered. "Now, you have two options." He hovered mere inches above my face, his eyes searching my expression for any sign of submission. "You can calm the fuck down and walk out to the car like a good girl..."

He released one of my wrists, his hand wrapping around my throat. He squeezed, applying just enough pressure to cut off my oxygen. My freed hand instantly flew to his wrist, my fingers clawing at his skin to loosen the suffocating grip.

"Or you can be classified as a missing person," he continued, his voice dropping to a terrifying, conversational whisper. "I'll report your disappearance, bury your pretty little body deep in the fucking woods, and tell your family—if those trashy bikers even bother coming to look—that you left me for some pathetic, drug-fucked idiot." A sadistic grin spread across his face. "I already have the perfect scapegoat—an associate of mine who handles some of my... unsavory deals with old friends of yours."

My breath choked off, my eyes wide as I stared up at him in sheer horror.

Old friends? He didn't mean...

Suddenly, the deep, earth-shaking roar of a modified engine filled the silence. Headlights cut a bright swath across the room through the gap in the heavy blinds.

Before I could process the sound—one so familiar to my bones that my panicked brain couldn't quite name it—the engine cut out. The room was plunged into shadow once more.

Then came the heavy, rhythmic stomp of leather boots marching across the gravel parking lot.

BANG!

Arthur and I both jolted in shock. The motel door was violently kicked inward, the cheap wood splintering and shearing completely off its hinges before clattering heavily to the floor.

I strained my neck to look, still trapped beneath Arthur’s suffocating weight, my eyes adjusting to the broad-shouldered frame silhouetted in the doorway.

My heart stuttered, stopping for a solid second before breaking into a disbelieving, frantic sprint.

The security lights from the parking lot illuminated his towering size, shrouding his face in shadow like an avenging angel prepared for war. His leather cut exposed thick, heavily tattooed arms that ended in fists resembling sledgehammers. His broad chest rippled with a level of raw, natural power that felt entirely unyielding.

"Get. The. Fuck. Off. Her."

It wasn't a roar. It wasn't a shout. It was a cold, level command that carried a terrifying, absolute authority.

Arthur’s grip faltered. My eyes finally adjusted, taking in the sharp green eyes, the arrogantly handsome jawline, and the rebellious, natural white streak shooting through his dark hair.

Logan.