Page 5 of Savage Obsession
“Nah, sweet thing. You’re better off having some fun with one of the other guys.” I untangle her arms from around me and step back. Storm sees, and he helps direct the girl’s attention to one of the patches’ friends who is visiting.
I throw my chin up in gratitude, and I know my brother understands.
Reaper takes notice of all the movement and I can see in his expression that he wants to know where I’m at mentally. He knows this time of year digs into my soul and leaves me raw.
I throw up a casual salute and offer a nod. I flash a grin at Arabelle who is still arguing with Reaper about Christmas trees.
Cipher, our club hacker and all things tech catches my eye, his arm slung around a girl, happy and a little dazed by it. Good for him. I haven’t seen him relax since we started working to take down the Vultures.
I yank on my heavy jacket, grab a set of keys to anything with four-wheel drive, and head for the door before another set of arms or tits tries to glue itself to my chest.
No thanks. Not my scene. Not anymore. Not since the night the woman I loved died in a storm just like this one. Some men crave noise to drown out regret. I need silence.
The kitchen’s behind me, a litter of empty bottles and the scent of roasting meat and sweet bourbon rolling through the warm air. It smells inviting, but I keep my boots moving. I thud across the hardwood, and my shadow stretches long past the flickering lights strung along the entry.
I slip through the back mudroom. The back door swings shut behind me, muffling the party’s chaos in one clean slam. Silence. I step out the last door and into a world gone white and wild. I draw in a deep breath and hold the ice in my lungs for several seconds, letting the pain ground me. The cold punches me in the face and bites through my thermal like a challenge. Good. I want to feel something besides irritation. I want the sting to drive out the noise of the party, the half-dressed women, and the memories gnawing at my insides.
The cold is sharp and knifes through the dark, but I welcome the stinging pain. My breath fogs in the air. The compound’s perimeter lights paint the world in amber and shadow. I cross to my four-wheel drive, boots crunching over snow that’s already burying everything in sight.
Cabin. Silence. Fire. And the luxury of not being needed by anyone. That’s the evening plan.
I crank the truck and let the engine growl to life, its heat a promise. As I pull out, the headlights sweep over the main house, the old oaks standing guard like silent sentinels. I flick the defroster on high, scraping the glass clear as I roll down the long drive. The blizzard’s a wall of white, hiding the edges of the world, and the further I get from the house, the more the party’s laughter fades into memory.
Should’ve fixed that back road. Would’ve been a good summer project for the prospects. Something to teach them how to work the new machinery, smooth out the path to my cabin in the process and I wouldn’t have to take the long way around. Maybe next year. If the Vultures don’t burn the place down before then.
I’m just turning off the main lane toward the parish road when a flicker of red catches my eye. I lean forward and squint into the darkness. Taillights, but not on any Savage vehicle. I would know. Everyone is accounted for back at the main house.
I turn the heater up and urge the defroster to work faster. Shit I can’t tell for sure, but the angle of the lights is all wrong, off the shoulder, half-buried under a snowdrift?
Frustration sends a shot of heat through me. “What the fuck is goin’ on here?”
My voice is a growl in the cab, adrenaline spiking as I yank the wheel to the side and throw the truck in park. I grab the flashlight from the glove box, check for my sidearm, and head out into the teeth of the wind.
As I approach, I can see there’s been an accident. A Jeep is flipped. Shit. The wheels are in the air, glass is shattered and thehood is crushed. And I can tell that in just a glance. I kneel and shine my light inside. There’s no sign of anyone.
I shine the beam around. There's blood on the glass scattered in the snow. And I can see a mess of footprints in the snow. They are faint and half-covered, but there. Someone crawled out, or was dragged.
Shit.
I follow the prints, heart hammering as I move around a bent cypress and spot a shape huddled against the trunk. Small. Barely breathing. Pajama pants and slippers, hair tangled and stuck to a face streaked with blood.
My pulse stutters. I drop to my knees beside the unmoving form. I don’t waste precious time being too gentle. This cold is killer and this small form barely has any clothes on. I brush hair from her cheek, and out of the way to find a pulse but the second frozen lashes flutter open to flash me emerald eyes, my heart stops.
“Willow?” My voice is rough with disbelief. “What the hell are you doing here, baby?”
She doesn’t answer, not really. Just a low groan, a shudder running through her frame. Her skin is ice-cold, lips tinged blue, shivering so hard her teeth rattle.
“Jesus Christ.” I fumble for her pulse, relief punching through when I find it, weak but steady. She’s freezing. Of course she is. The damn woman is dressed like she thought she was headed to a goddamn slumber party, not into a Louisiana blizzard.
“Don’t you have any damn sense?” I mutter, not unkind, tucking my coat around her. “Out here in a storm, in flamingo pajamasand slippers. Only you would have enough arrogance and balls, Willow.”
She moans again, eyelids fluttering. I shake my head, swearing under my breath as I slide my arms under her—one behind her back, one under her knees. She’s light as a feather, but she clings to life like a pitbull. That stubborn streak’s the only reason she’s still breathing.
I see her at Arabelle’s bookstore every month, always hiding in those oversized hoodies like anyone would mistake a Caine girl for a local. She thinks nobody notices, but I do. I always do.
She comes in every second week of the month like clockwork and I make damn sure I’m there to witness the beautiful Vulture princess defy her father, the Savages and every other unspoken rule that should keep her far away from our parish, just so she can buy her romance books.
I hold her close, wrapping my coat tight, and hustle back to the truck, all the while cursing her name, her father’s name, the whole Vulture crew, and whatever dumbass fate decided to put her in my path tonight.
