Page 58 of Claimed By 3 Mountain Men

What kind of environmentalist would I be if I left all my shit in the woods.

“Forget the Truitt brothers,” I mutter to myself, the words a mantra I desperately want to believe. “Just forget them.”

I stop for a moment, and lean against a tree to catch my breath. The rough bark digs into my back, the woods are quiet, the only sound is the distant rustle of leaves in the breeze.

“My obsession with them is just biology,” I remind myself, my voice barely more than a whisper in the night. “Just biology.”

I’m a mammal, after all. Flesh and blood and instincts. Attraction is part of the package, part of the basic wiring that keeps the species procreating. It’s nothing more than that—nothing deeper, nothing that should matter.

I’m a young woman in my prime, my body naturally wants to find a strong mate.

But even as I say the words, I know they ring hollow. The truth is, there’s something about those brothers that tugs at me, something that goes beyond the simple biology of attraction. It’s a pull I don’t want to examine too closely, a connection I’m afraid to admit even to myself.

I shake my head, angry at myself for thinking about it.

This isn’t what I came here for. This isn’t what I’ve spent years fighting for. The lynx, the forest—they’re what matters. Not some group of super hot, sexy assholes.

And no mistake about it, theyareassholes.

They fucked me and then kicked me out.

A twig snaps behind me and I freeze. It’s just the trees swaying in the breeze, right?

I shiver, though it’s not the cold that has goosebumps pricking my skin.

The forest has its own secrets, its own agenda, and I can almost believe that it’s telling me to turn back, to leave this place.

Suddenly the woods are darker than I remember. Not just dark as in nightfall, but dark in a way that makes the shadows seem alive.

The air is thick, the kind of thick that sticks to your skin and makes every breath feel like you’re pulling it through a wet cloth.

I push deeper, the underbrush tugging at my legs, the ground soft and spongy beneath my boots. The sense of urgency I had felt earlier, the thrill of finding the lynx, is still there, but it’s mixed now with something else. Something that makes the hair on the back of my neck stand up, and makes me glance over my shoulder more than once, even though I know I’m alone out here.

Or at least, I think I am.

But the usual noises—the rustle of leaves, the call of an owl—are gone. There’s just silence, thick and heavy, pressing in on me from all sides.

And then I see it.

A flicker of movement, just at the corner of my eye. I freeze, my breath catching in my throat. My eyes strain to adjust, to make out the shape in the darkness, and there it is—the lynx.

It’s standing just a few yards ahead, its silver fur catching the faintest hint of moonlight that filters through the branches. It’s even more beautiful than I imagined. Its sleek, muscular body poised and ready, its eyes glowing with an almost eerie light. For a moment, I forget everything—the Truitt’s, the danger, and the darkness closing in around me. There’s just the lynx, me, and the wild, untamed world we both inhabit.

I take a slow, cautious step forward, not wanting to startle it. My heart is pounding, a steady drumbeat in my chest, and I can’t help the thrill that runs through me.

In slow motion, I reach for the camera snugly kept in my pocket.

But the lynx doesn’t move. It just stands there, watching me with those unblinking eyes, its tail flicking ever so slightly. Almost as if it’s waiting for something.

I take another step forward, my hand reaching out as if I could actually touch it, could actually connect with this wild creature that has become the center of my world.

And that’s when it happens.

The ground beneath my feet gives way, and suddenly I’m falling, plummeting into darkness. There’s a sickening lurch in my stomach as the earth drops out from under me, and I barely have time to gasp before I hit the bottom with a bone-jarring thud.

Pain explodes in my shoulder, my breath knocked out of me as I slam against my backpack, and for a moment I’m too stunned to move, to even think. The world spins around me, and it takes me a second to realize where I am—at the bottom of a pit, surrounded by walls of dirt and roots that claw at me like fingers from the grave.

The trap is deep, the sides too steep and slick with mud to climb out. Panic flares in my chest, sharp and bright, but I force it down, trying to keep myself calm and assess my situation.

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