Page 18 of Billionaire Lumberjack's Bride

And the clock is ticking.

Time is running out.

Sacrificing my future, my happiness, is nothing compared to why I’m doing this. Owing your life to someone else means sacrificing it when necessary.

I inhale deeply and keep reading until I finish the contract. Under the clause for “intimate relations,” a simple “TBDbetween parties” fills the space, which I guess means it’s open for negotiation. I guess that’s better than it saying I have to fuck him on our wedding night…

Two blank lines for signatures occupy the final page, with a spot for Ronald and me to print our names under.

You’re literally signing away your life…

It all seems so surreal, but so does everything that’s happened over the last few weeks. Like I’m living in some movie, watching someone else’s life unfold before me.

This is someone else asking the question. “Do you have a pen?”

The old man who will become my husband reaches into his breast pocket and pulls one from it. His steady hand holds out the pen to me, and I reach for it with my shaky one.

God, don’t let him see how nervous I am.

That would automatically put me on uneven footing with him, and I don’t want to start whatever this is with Ronald thinking I’m a weak woman who breaks down under the slightest signs of stress.

I force a smile. “I think we can make this work between us. You seem—”

His white brows fly up, eyes wide. “Oh!” He holds up his hands to stop me. “Oh, God. I’m sorry. You have it all wrong.” He points to his chest. “I’m not the one you’re marrying.”

“What?”

“Sorry if I gave you that impression…”

I shake my head to try to clear the confusion now overwhelming me. “But, if I’m not marrying you, whoamI marrying?”

A floorboard creaks to my left, and I whip my focus in that direction, just in time to see a massive, muscled, bearded, tattooed mountain man step out from one of the few doors along the wall in the tiny cabin.

His hard gray eyes meet mine—devoid of anything but the simmering heat of anger. “Me.”

ChapterThree

LYLA

All the air rushes from my lungs. My body trembles so hard that the rickety chair’s uneven legs rattle against the worn wood floor. Blood rushes in my ears as the man who looks like he stepped straight out of a police line-up for one-percenter motorcycle club members approaches me with heavy-booted steps. Long sandy-blond hair falls past his shoulders, and he rubs a hand over his bearded face, the only place on his body seemingly not covered by intricate tattoos.

Icy-blue eyes stay locked on me, and the closer he moves, the clearer the fire burning across their surface becomes.

I don’t dare look away, even though the longer he holds my gaze, the tighter my chest becomes. “Who areyou?”

He finally darts his attention to Ronald, who offers a non-committal shrug and motions to the contract still in front of me.

“If you’re really going through with this, you’re going to have to tell her, eventually.”

The man who claims to be my future husband finally stops a few feet from the table and stares down at me like he’s looking at something he’s never seen before and isn’t quite sure what to do with me or what to say. “My name is Silas Bolton, and he”—he points to Ronald—“is the attorney for my family’s company.”

Silas Bolton.

The name rattles around in my head for a moment.

Family company.

It takes another few seconds before it finally clicks.

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