by Sky Winters
The words cut like knife edges into her heart, deflating her spirit. She knew he was right—there was simply no way a nine-months-pregnant woman could outrun three fit men, no matter how desperately she needed to escape.
Her breath restored, Olivia launched into another run, her arms once again wrapped around her belly.
How did he know? she thought, her mind going back to the moment only a few hours ago when she returned to the upstate New York motel where she’d been hiding out. How did he know that I’d be there?
She knew driving her car away from the city that she needed to put as much distance between her and him as possible. Brody wasn’t the type to take an insult like his fiancée leaving him two days before his wedding lying down. And Olivia knew that he’d be hot on her tail as soon as he realized she was gone. He was out late for his bachelor party; she figured that he’d pass out drunk like he always did, wake up around noon hungover and groggy. She assumed that she’d have at least a half a day to get as far away as possible.
But she didn’t count on her pregnant body rebelling against her as she drove, filling her with a fatigue that was overwhelming. She knew she shouldn’t have stopped, that she needed to drive or die trying, but the need to sleep was just too much. Nor did she count on seeing Brody’s car, that menacing, black Mercedes, parked outside of the motel lobby. She didn’t know what to do. She panicked, grabbed her things, and drove off, the peeling of her tires out of the motel parking lot the final proof that Brody needed to know that his prey was here.
She couldn’t outdrive him. Her economy car was no match for his Mercedes. So she’d pulled off onto some forgotten road near Bear Mountain, one of the many lonely peaks that rose into the night sky. She drove as far into the woods as she could, only stopping when the thick trunks of the woods made it impossible to pass in any way but on foot.
And then she ran.
Olivia kept on, not knowing where she was going, chiding herself for forgetting her shoes with every step of her bare feet on the cold, muddy earth.
“You better stop now!” yelled Brody. “Think about what happens if you fall right on your face! Think about that baby in your belly!”
Again, he was right. But before his words cut into her too deeply, she remembered why she was running, what this man was capable of. The thought of her child living under the same roof as this man who’d caused her so much pain was enough to make her feel sick to her stomach.
But the muscles in her legs screamed out; her pregnant body needed rest and calm, not what she was putting it through. Part of her wanted to stop, to give in, to accept the punishment that would surely come.
Propping her hand against another tree, she attempted to catch her breath once more. And as she stood, a strange sight caught her eye. It was lights. Lights that looked like a city’s.
That’s impossible, she thought. The nearest city’s miles from here.
Whatever the source of the lights was, Olivia knew it was her only hope. Rejuvenated, she took off once again towards the lights. She ran, praying for a ranger station, or better yet, a logging camp. The lights grew larger and larger in the distance, and after several minutes of pained running, she grew close enough to see just what it was.
It was a compound; that was the only way she could describe it.
A series of large buildings, square-shaped and ringed with floodlights that looked out into the woods and overpowered the moonlight above. A tall, black fence encircled the property, which Olivia guessed was several acres. On the other side of the property, away from the compound, was a dozen or so small cabins. It was like a small town, one that she couldn’t explain.
“I see those lights! I know that’s where you’re going!”
Olivia scanned the property, looking for any sign of life. Her eyes locked onto a small road that led to the gate of the fence, a freestanding speaker box to the side of it. She ran over to the speaker, looking desperately for some sort of call button. Pressing what looked to be it, she spoke into the box.
“Hello, is anyone there?”
No response.
“Please, if anyone’s there, I need help. Please.”
Still, no response. Tears began to well in her eyes once again as every muscle in her body screamed for rest.
“I don’t know if you’re listening, but if you are, my name is Olivia Willet. I’m pregnant, and I’m scared. I think my life’s in danger.”
“There you are!”
Olivia looked over in the direction of the voice, and saw the silhouettes of Brody and the two men he was with, their figures black amidst the bright of the flood lights. The three were only a few minutes off, and began walking towards her at a slow, menacing pace.
“About damn time!” called Brody.
“Please, he’s here. Please.”
Unable to bear the sight of Brody coming close, Olivia closed her eyes.
“Please,” she said, her finger shaking as she pressed it against the call button.
Then, just as any last trace of hope left her body, the metallic thunk of the gate lock unfastening cut through the still of the night.
“Come in now,” said a man’s voice from the speaker box. “And shut the gate behind you.”
Olivia nodded, despite no one being there to see her do it, and ran towards the now-unlocked gate. She pushed it open, slid through, and shut the massive entrance behind her.
“What the hell?” called Brody.
Olivia ran towards the compound, up to the sturdy double-doors, and wrapped her fingers against them. Once the knock sounded, her body gave up. She collapsed in an exhausted heap, her body slumped against the cold steel of the doors.
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Preview of Bear Mountain Biker
My jaw dropped in surprise as I watched the biker's fist connect with the other man's face. A strange sound rang out, like a fleshy crack, and the struck man stumbled backward into the bar stools behind him, the seats falling over with a heavy clatter. The punch was a full swing right to the jaw, full power; it looked strong enough to knock a horse right off his hooves.
"You even dream about thinking about touching my woman again, I'll break this pool cue right in half and shove both pieces right up your fuckin' ass!"
My eyes went wide as the biker who threw the first punch strode over to the one he'd just slugged and stood over him, legs astride like some kind of leather-clad statue. I would've thought the man who'd been hit would be out cold, but instead, he just looked up at the attacking biker with a blood-smeared little sneer.
"You got somethin' to say, you little fuck?" the punching biker yelled, the rock music blasting over the speakers a backdrop to his voice.
But the hit biker didn't say a single word. Instead, he reached over, grabbed one of the barstools by the legs and, with a grunt, swung the thing right at the first biker, the chair connecting and shattering into pieces with the impact.
The fight was on, and as I took another sip of my cheap beer, I could only watch in rapt attention. This was better than Netflix any day of the week.
My name is Isabella Finch. I'm a recent graduate from the oh-so-prestigious school of the University of Missouri, and your standard post-graduation aimlessness has brought me to the town of Branlen in upstate New York, a tiny little place in the shadow of Bear Mountain. A cousin of mine, Atticus, who I never even knew existed, reached out to me. He let me know there was a family here, my family, and they were looking to reconnect with Finches across the country. It sounded weird, but college was over, and I was at a loss for what to do next. And with both my parents gone since I was a kid, being around family for a change sounded nice.
But as soon as I got here, as soon as I realized I was free to do whatever I wanted, I became very restless, very fast. I needed thrills, something different than the sanitized college campus I'd been stuck on for the last four years. So, when I found out there was a biker bar a couple town over, I knew I had to check it out. So far, I wasn't d
isappointed in the slightest.
The biker who'd been hit with the chair staggered backward, the pieces of the barstool clattering to the floor at his feet. Cheers sounded out from the rest of the few dozen rough-looking men and women at the bar, all of them just as excited as I was to see some action. The first biker, the one who threw the punch, went backward so far that he ended up falling onto a nearby pool table, the back of his head hitting the squat green lights hanging over the table, the impact sounding with a strange ‘thunk', like someone flicking a big, empty milk jug.
"Get that little fucker!" shouted one of the punching bikers, some giant dude with a braided, gray beard.
A sick, thrilled little smile formed on my face when I realized this wasn't just going to be a little incident; it was going to be a full-on brawl.
The biker who'd swung the barstool jumped to his feet, his friends from across the bar running to his side as the punching biker's friends ran to his. There were six all told, and they stared each other up and down with narrow eyes that were set on ruddy, rough faces with bandanas above and thick beards below. They looked amazing, like Vikings.
But these Vikings were in denim and leather, just the way I wanted them.
I took a slow sip of my beer as I watched the two groups of men size each other up. I scanned the men, wondering who was going to make the first move. After a few seconds of thinking about it, I settled on the littlest biker, a bald guy with a tight, rat face who was with the punching biker and seemed eager for a fight. I'd seen frat boys get into sloppy, drunken scraps a few times, and it always seemed like the little guys were the ones who were most eager to prove themselves.
Looking around the place, I could see the rest of the clientele was just as eager to see a show as I was. The pair of bartenders kept their distance, continuing to make drinks while the fight brewed. They'd flick their eyes over to the men, weary expressions on their faces.
Then, just like I had guessed, the little man went for it. With a roar, he rushed toward the other bikers and threw a wild swing at the nearest one. The punch went wide, and the biker he'd intended to hit returned the favor with a pint glass to the side of the head. The glass exploded into shards, and the little biker howled in pain. I couldn't help but notice one of the bartenders sighed, as though he were thinking more about the mess of blood and glass he was going to have to clean up than anything else.
The little man's attack set the whole thing off, and before I knew it, the two groups of men were at each other, fists swinging, yells erupting, glasses breaking-the works. And I and the rest of the place were watching the thing like it was nothing but entertainment. We cheered when a fist connected, groaned when a cheap shot got in, and gasped when one of the men would go down for the count.
Soon, the fight wound down, the men remaining on one side forming a tight circle around the last guy on the other side and closing in for the coup de grace. The fight was won, and my interest wound down, though my blood continued to rush in my veins from the spectacle. I brought my beer up to my lips and drained the last few drops and decided I was ready for another, so I grabbed my glass and strolled up to the bar.
I gave the fight a quick look over, and saw that the bikers who were still conscious were already celebrating the brawl with a round of shots. I couldn't help but smile as I watched the men who were at each other's throats only moments ago now making cheers with their whiskey shots and carrying on like old friends. Guys were like that-just a few punches and whatever they were pissed off about was over and done with. I knew, from high school, girls were different; a spat between us could drag on for months, only, instead of trading blows, we traded whispered gossip. I couldn't stand it, which is why when I went off to school, I made the decision to focus on my studies instead of boys and friends. It paid off-I graduated at the top of my class, but now that I was free, I had the irresistible urge to make up for lost time.
"One more," I said to the bartender, a grizzled-looking guy with a long, braided beard.
He nodded, and poured me another tall pint of golden-colored beer.
But before I could reach for my money to pay, a twenty-dollar bill shot out of the corner of my eye in the direction of the bartender, who took the bill.
"Now, what the hell is a girl like you doing paying for your own drinks?"
My gaze snapped toward the direction of the voice, and when I laid eyes on the man who'd spoken, my jaw just about hit the floor.
To say he was gorgeous would be to put it in the mildest terms possible. He was tall, that was the first thing I noticed. Now, I'm a pretty tall girl, but this guy absolutely towered over me. From his height, he looked down at me with smoky blue eyes, his jet-black hair shoulder-length and falling on both sides of his face. He had a slim nose, his lips were full and sensual, and his jaw looked like it'd been cut from granite. He was built like a brick wall, too, with wide strong shoulders, pecs that strained against his white t-shirt, and a pair of blue jeans on his tree trunk legs that formed an enticing outline around what was assuredly a fantastic package. A pair of heavy black boots and a leather vest adorned with patches completed the look.
He wasn't just studly; he was god-like.
"Well?" he asked, moving in front of me and leaning against the bar, a cocky little smirk on his gorgeous face. "You got some college boy around here who's already planted his flag, or what?"
I raised my eyebrows and cocked my head at this invasive little question.
"'Planted his flag'?" I asked. "That's…an interesting way to ask if I have a boyfriend."
"'Interesting'?" he asked.
"Well, crude, to be more precise."
"I'm not one for beating around the bush," he asked. "I don't like to waste my time, and I wanna know right away if there's some little frat boy twerp around here I gotta work over before I drag you [LR6]outta here caveman-style."
I was aghast at this. He certainly wasn't joking when he said he doesn't like to beat around the bush- I didn't think I've ever had a man come on to me that strongly before.
But I'd be lying if I said I wasn't intrigued. Didn't hurt that he was one of the hottest guys I'd ever seen in my life.
"No," I said, my eyes flicking over to the pair of beers the bartender set down in front of us. "I'm here by myself."
The man let out a loud, barking laugh.
"'Here by yourself'?" he said, seemingly having a hard time believing the words. "You know what kinda bar this is, little lady?"
I cast another glance at the area of the bar where the fight had taken place, the brawl now replaced by a barback who was busy cleaning up the blood.
"I think I know now," I said.
"Oh, you mean that little lover's quarrel?" he asked. "That was nothing; that was a warm-up. I've seen this whole place turn into a scrap like that; it ain't pretty, and ain't the kind of place where a little thing like you oughta be."
I raised my eyebrows as I took a sip of my beer.
"Oh?" I asked. "And where should a little thing like me be?"
The large lump of his Adam's apple bobbed up and down as he took a long, slow draw of his beer. When he was done, he set it back down on the bar and leaned in close.
"I can think of a few places," he said with a smirk.
I should've slapped him in the face; I should've thrown my drink at him. I should've done something –anything –as punishment for him saying something so forward and crude. But I couldn't find it in me. All I could do was blush, my gaze drifting to the floor. At that moment, I felt like putty in this handsome stranger's hands. It was as though a spell had been cast on me.
So, of course, it was at that moment that I felt a hand fall on my shoulder, followed by the stern tone of a familiar voice.
"Isabella- what the hell do you think you're doing?"
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About The Author
Sky Winters is drawn to writing paranormal fairy tales with bad-ass shapeshifters. She likes her heroes and heroines to
be the unexpected ones, and their passion to be steamy! She writes these sizzl'n and surreal tales for you, late at night, when the wolves are howling from her Northwestern home.
If surreal romance with shapeshifters is your thing, you best sign up for Paranormal Romance Publishers email list, and grab a copy of “Wolf Babies” for FREE
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[LR1]The blue was already a different color she had said.
[LR2]Fixed this to fit with the next paragraph.
[T3]Did he quit making sculptures when they moved?
[T4]He was described as stoic previously, which means he isn’t the passionate, emotional type.
[T5]This has already been said a few times
[LR6]I am guessing this is YOU and not HIM.