I get off on tempting fate—until the day I make a reckless misstep that claims three lives.
The Alaskan bush offers the perfect opportunity to overcome survivor’s guilt and find peace: Live off grid in seclusion where a mistake only threatens one life—my own.
My only tie to humanity is a feisty bush pilot who hates everything I am. Even though the connection between us blazes like a forest fire, she’s determined to keep her distance.
The backcountry has other plans, however, and I end up with her life in my hands.
Unknown to me, there’s a tenacious huntsman on her tracks, shadowing her every move, and one wrong choice leaves her vulnerable.
He takes what’s mine.
A wild beast rises inside me, and the hunter becomes the prey. I will level mountains, fight the untamed wilderness, to save her—even if I leave a path of carnage behind me.
The first time I’d taken control of Dad’s plane, my palms hadn’t sweated, but flying out to see the man I was determined to hate, had my forehead and between my breasts beaded with moisture.
A little over a half hour of pure torture on my libido as my brain fought my body’s wants.
Drop off his shit and get the hell outta there.
My heart raced when his cabin came into view, and I flew in low over the river straight toward his home as though I wished fate intended us to crash into one another once more. A sense of impending tragedy shivered down my spine, raising the hairs on my arms, and I lifted away from the river, buzzed his clearing, and caught sight of him at the brush’s edge—shirtless and covered in blood.
“Oh, God.” My hands shook, concern over the amount of red smeared over his torso keeping my heart in my throat as I landed upriver and made my way toward the ramp.
He dropped his knife at the river’s edge, stalked a few feet into the current, and dove beneath the surface.
Needing to focus, I tore my stare off where he’d gone under, pulled my Beaver onto the ramp, and shut my baby down, hopping out of the door the second I could safely do so. Brock hadn’t surfaced—or he’d dove back down.
I hurried to tie up the pontoons before hopping onto land and spinning back around to scan the river.
Brock’s dark head broke the water a few feet beyond my plane, and two strokes of his arms later, he stood in shallow water, his pants hanging low on his hips, stubborn streaks of red still lining his upper body—but no trace of a wound.
“Brock?” I called to him, shaking like a goddamn flag left out on its pole in a blizzard, my fists clenched so tightly my fingernails dug into my palms.
He stalked forward like a prowling lion, no trace of a limp, bulging shoulders hunched, bearded chin lowered. Eyes dark as coal peered at me beneath his furrowed brow, and my heart seized inside my chest as he neared land, river water splashing away from his boots.
He’d lost his goddamn mind, and I stood frozen in his sights.
Unable to move. Every inch of my skin ready to combust. Wetness pooled to soak my panties.
“Jessie,” he breathed my name—a trace of humanity flickering in his gaze.
One last stride, and he grasped my ponytail and my ass, jerking me against his hard, hot form. My squeak cut off by the claiming of his mouth, his hungry lips and tongue seeming hellbent on owning. He tasted of wildness and the forest, a creature at one with his surroundings.
Addictive and damn explosive on my tongue. Damn my libido, and my lack of concern for my well-being. I couldn’t get enough.
Lynn Burke is a full time mother, voracious gardener, and scribbler of spicy romance stories. A country bumpkin turned Bay Stater, she enjoys her chowdah and Dunkin Donuts when not trying to escape the reality of city life.