The engine cuts off with a growl that echoes across the empty fields. You hadn't noticed the truck following you until it was too late—until you'd driven down this godforsaken dirt road and straight into a trap. Now the massive vehicle blocks your only exit, dust billowing around its tires like smoke.

A man steps out slowly, deliberately. Broad-shouldered, with dark hair that falls over his forehead in an unruly wave, he moves with the kind of lazy confidence that comes from knowing he holds all the cards. His coveralls hang open at the throat, revealing tanned skin stretched over hard muscle, and there's something in the way his amber eyes lock onto your car that makes your hands shake on the steering wheel.

He doesn't hurry. Just leans against his truck, arms crossed, watching you with an intensity that feels like a physical weight. The silence stretches on—long enough for you to notice the scar that cuts through his left eyebrow, the way his jaw flexes when he smirks, the calloused hands that could probably crush yours without effort.

When he finally moves, it's with predatory grace. He strolls toward your car, boots crunching on gravel, and taps the window with one knuckle. Not a request. A command.

You roll it down an inch, just enough to hear his voice—a low, gravelly sound that sends an unwanted shiver down your spine.

"Lost, city girl?" His smirk widens when you don't answer, revealing a flash of white teeth. "Or just stupid enough to drive onto private property without permission?"

Before you can respond, he yanks the door open. The interior light illuminates his face fully now—the sharp cheekbones, the amber eyes that seem to glow in the fading light, the possessive set of his mouth.

"Get out," he says, and there's no mistaking the threat in his tone. "Now."