Claiming His Mountain Bride
Madison Faye
Claiming His Mountain Bride
Madison Faye
Contents
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Claiming His Mountain Bride
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Epilogue
Featured Content
Also by Madison Faye
Mailing List
Tempting Daddy’s Boss
Tempting Daddy’s Boss
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Epilogue
Paying The Debt - Sneak Peek
Professor
Professor
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Epilogue
Mailing List
Royally Shared
Royally Shared
Free Books Offer
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Epilogue
Also by Madison Faye
About the Author
Mailing List
About the Author
Copyright © 2018 Madison Faye
All rights reserved.
No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission from the author, except in the case of brief quotations used for review purposes.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are solely the product of the author’s imagination and/or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, organizations, actual events or locales is entirely coincidental. The author acknowledges the trademark status of products referred to in this book and acknowledges that trademarks have been used without permission.
This book is intended for mature, adult audiences only. It contains extremely sexually explicit and graphic scenes and language which may be considered offensive by some readers. This book is strictly intended for those over the age of 18.
All sexually active characters in this work are 18 years of age or older. All acts of a sexual nature are completely consensual.
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Claiming His Mountain Bride
My mountain. My cabin. My rules. And she’s my woman – she just doesn’t know it yet.
I left civilization and my demons a long time ago, seeking solitude up on Blackthorn Mountain. Just one ex-Marine, a remote cabin, and the wilderness, with no distractions.
But then she turns up, blowing in with a winter’s blizzard like a very fucking big distraction.
Blonde, beautiful, and mouthy as all hell, even when I save her from freezing that sweet little ass off.
A rough mountain man like me should want nothing to do with a rich little city girl like Katrina. Except one look at her sweet, tempting curves, and one taste of those sassy, pouty lips, and I want everything to do with her.
I saved her from freezing, but maybe it’s her who’s going to save my frozen heart.
We’re trapped up here for the storm, locked in a cabin with only the heat between us to keep us warm. Her wealthy, city family thinks they can marry her off to some rich little shit. But they’re very wrong.
My mountain. My cabin. My woman.
I’ll make Katrina my bride, and I’ll be damned if I let them take her from me.
Heads up - I’ve gone totally off the rails with this one. This book is pure, unfiltered, growly-alpha-claims-his-woman smut at it’s finest. It’s sweet, it’s filthy, and it’s completely ridiculous. You’re probably going to love it ;). Safe, no cheating, and HEA guaranteed.
1
Katrina
The blast of freezing cold wind hit the car like a thunderclap, making me jump. The Land Rover jerked on the icy road, the steering wheel lurching in my white-knuckle grip as I eased on the gas and wrestled back control. I shivered despite the heat cranking inside the vehicle, my eyes narrowed as I tired to peer through the wall of white coming down in sheets across the small mountain road in front of me.
Shit, maybe this was a terrible idea.
But then, I hadn’t known what else to do except run. My gut instinct had been to flee to the only place I knew where I could just escape everything. Of course, I hadn’t exactly expected the snow storm of the century coming down like some sort of biblical plague.
My mind slid back to three hours before, back at the restaurant where Paul, my fiancé had decided to remind me exactly how much of a piece of shit I always knew he was.
“Excuse me?!”
“C’mon, Katrina, calm the fuck down. This doesn’t change anything.”
In a way, he’d been right.
I can’t say I was heartbroken having just been told by my fiancé that he was screwing another woman. Heartbroken would imply that I’d cared enough for Paul to well, be heartbroken. But I hadn’t, so it wasn’t broken. I was pissed the hell off though.
The truth is, I’d never wanted to marry Paul, but in the world I grew up in, things like that don’t matter. Paul and I marrying just “made sense,” as my father Milton put it. After all, the Bartholomew’s were a family just as connected, and stately, and rich, and well, obnoxious and pretentious as mine. Paul’s father was a VP at some huge financial institution, just like mine was. We’d gone to the same level of snooty, snobby private schools, had the same stern-faced, hugely expensive nannies growing up, and had gone to the same calibre of bought-and-paid for ivy league colleges. In the world I grew up in, Paul and I would get married, he’d become VP of some other bank or hedge fund, and I’d sit at home redecorating our mansion on the shore every two months and popping out three perfect little children.
And to some girls, that was the dream. To some people, that was a life worth living.
But to me?
…The thought made m
y skin crawl.
I hated the idea of being a stepford wife — of being this trophy sitting in some rich, smug asshole’s big pretentious house. And on top of that, I really didn’t like Paul, like, as a person. He was a prick, and rude, and the thought of being physical intimate with him made my stomach heave. But thankfully, it hadn’t come to that yet. See, if I was going to be forced into this bullshit, antiquated arranged marriage thing, well then, I’d do it antiquated all the way. They wanted to force me to marry some jerk like Paul as if we lived in Elizabethan England? Fine, then I‘d pretend I was a woman of the same time, and women of arranged marriages did not sleep with their betrothed until marriage.
Yeah, take that, assholes.
I can tell you, watching the smug look fall from Paul’s face when I told him point blank he wouldn’t be getting any was almost worth the lifetime I’d have to spend with him. But then, apparently, Paul had gone out and gotten a little side piece. And told me about it, in the middle of a three-star restaurant, two minutes before our parents walked in for a dinner where we’d be discussing wedding locations.
“You’re a real piece of work, Paul,” I’d spat out shaking my head and jerking my arm away from him.
“Listen ice-queen, you brought this on yourself. A man had needs, Katrina.”
Again, I wasn’t upset about Paul fucking some other girl — hell, she probably deserved a medal. I’d certainly never done anything with him, but a girl I’d gone to private school with apparently had, and through the rumor mill, I’d heard every gross detail about how small he was and how downright abusive in bed he’d been.
Yeah, no thanks.
So, whoever this side girl was, fuck it, she could have him. I didn’t have feelings for Paul, but I did have pride.
“Sit down,” he’d hissed. “Sit your tight ass down, shut the fuck up, and smile pretty, Katrina.”
My blood boiled.
“Look, our parents are here,” he’d hissed, nodding past me at the door to the restaurant. He’d put a big plastic smile on his face and waved.
“This marriage is happening. It makes sense for our families to be connected. We’ve got good genes, and our children—”
“Not fucking happening,” I’d spit out.
Paul had sneered.
“The wedding is next month, bitch. And after that, you’re going to damn well learn to spread those legs and let me get a piece of what's mine.”
Right then is when something in me snapped. Maybe it was the other girl. Maybe it was him talking to me like I was a piano he was buying for his house. Maybe it was the thought of having sex with him that made the bile rise in my throat.
Whatever it was, suddenly, it all clicked into place.
I didn’t want this life. I didn’t want Paul, I didn’t want that future, and I was not going to just sit there and let it happen.
Horrified gasps erupted around us as I’d hurled the wine from my untouched glass right into Paul’s face. He’d sworn fiercely, staggering to his feet and sputtering.
“You bitch! You fucking—”
“Paul?”
He’d froze.
“Go fuck yourself.”
And then I’d turned and walked away. I’d walked right out of the restaurant, ignoring Paul, and my father bellowing at me to get back there, and my mother echoing the same. I’d almost caught a cab, but instead, with a smug grin, I’d let the valet know that I’d be taking my fiancé’s car.
Dick.
I’d driven the extravagant black and chrome Land Rover back to my apartment, snagging anything that could fit into a small pack and changing into the warmest cold-weather stuff I could find. I’d turned my phone off, jumped back into the SUV, headed out of the city, and driven the two hours straight here, to Blackthorn Mountain.
A blast of frozen winter wind slammed into the car again, making me gasp as the whole thing shuddered sideways on the road.
Yeah, maybe this had been a terrible idea…
2
Katrina
Shit.
As another blast of wind shook the car across the snowy frozen road, I finally admitted defeat.
Okay, maybe this had been a terrible idea.
The cabin had been my great uncle’s, on my mom’s side. Uncle Stan had always been the black sheep of his family, which is why I guess we’d always gotten along. I think he’d seen himself in me, or at least that spirit that rebelled against living the whole rich and pampered life that came with our family. Stan had been wealthy, but he’d rejected the social snobbery that came with it. He donated a ton of money, and he’d done relief work in war-torn countries. He never came to the parties and functions of the wealthy elite, listened to loud rock music, and drove a motorcycle.
Needless to say, I wasn’t allowed to hang out with Uncle Stan much, as both my father and mother considered him “touched.” But, when I did see him from time to time, he was always my favorite. It was one of the last times I’d seen him before his death — Christmas my sophomore year of college — that he’d given me the present.
…He’d given me his cabin.
Obviously, hiking and camping weren’t exactly things I’d been brought up doing, but my Freshman roommate at college, Stella, had been a fairly rebellious spirit herself, and had gotten me really into it. It’d taken just one trip out to the woods and away from the glitz of the city to make me see what I’d been missing. It’d taken one deep breath of the forest air to make me feel like I was breathing for the first time.
After that, I was hooked. I started going to the woods every chance I got. I’d spend weekends traipsing around hiking trails and exploring rivers and mountains instead of partying. I cut my winter break short so I could go snowshoeing with Stella and some of her other friends, and for Spring Break that year, I skipped Europe or partying in the islands to go camping in New Zealand.
My parents had found out and freaked out that I was “acting weird” and that “people would talk.” My dad assumed that wanting to do outdoors activities meant I was a lesbian. But Uncle Stan understood, and it’s why he’d given me the keys to this place those years before. I’d come as often as I could — once or twice with Stella, but other than that, no one. The cabin was my secret getaway — I hadn’t even told my parents about it.
To me, it was my getaway, and that’s why I was heading there that night — to get away.
But the blizzard, or whatever it was, had come out of nowhere. I’d been halfway up the winding pass that wound up the side of Blackthorn Mountain and led to the dirt road to Stan’s cabin when the snow had just surrounded me. And with the winds slamming at the windows and visibility getting worse and worse, I knew continuing would be a quick trip over the side of the road.
“Well, shit.” I muttered, gunning the car over to a small little turnaround on the side of the road. I glanced at my phone — thankful that I still had one bar of service up here. I ignored the forty or so messages from my parents and Paul and thumbed open the map to get my bearings. Okay, I wasn’t far. It wasn’t going to be a fun walk in the woods with this weather, but it was doable.
Well, sort of.
When I’d left the city, I’d prepared for winter, but not a freaking blizzard. I’d brought warm weather clothes, but my real outdoor gear was still packed away in storage. But I pulled on my city coat nevertheless, layering up as much as I could. I laced up my boots — not real hiking boots, but they’d been the tallest, warmest ones I’d had on hand in my apartment, even if they were way more suited to going out on the town than going up a mountain.
I was going to get wet and really cold getting there, but the cabin was less than a mile away. I could do it.
I glanced in the rearview mirror, pushing my long blonde hair back and pulling on a big fuzzy hat. I took a deep breath, shouldered my small pack, and stepped out into the icy frozen snow.
The wind slammed into me, stinging my eyes like I’d been slapped. Fuck it was cold.
I shivered, looking around and catchin
g my bearings. I knew this turnaround, and there, next to the boulder at the treeline, was the small trail marker that’d lead me up to Stan’s cabin.
Let’s do this.
I braced myself, and I started to head for the trail when I felt something prickling up my back.
I whirled, half expecting to see someone; that prickle had felt like eyes on me. But there was no one there, of course. Just the car, the snowed-in road, and the empty woods.
Stop imagining things, I chided myself, before I hefted the pack, turned, and headed into the woods.
3
Braun
She doesn’t belong here.
The thought burned into my brain as I hunkered down, my eyes narrowing at her. I could feel my muscles coiling — clenching tight with my breath from my run down the side of the mountain. My alarm had gone off the second she’d crossed over the old bridge over Rowan’s Creek. No one came up this road — and I mean no one. But then, that was entirely the reason I was there. It was the reason this was my fucking mountain. I’d set up the alarm a year before, and when it’d gone off that day, I’d set off running to see who the fuck was coming up to my domain.
Her.
Blonde, small, innocent, and goddamn gorgeous. But she had no fucking business being there. A city girl for sure — the clothes, the car, the fucking way she held herself in that prissy city way with her shoulders all straight and starched were all dead giveaways.
It was wrong that she was there, but fuck if looking at her didn’t do something very right to me. My blood blazed through my veins, my jaw tightened, and even with the wind whipping around me and slicing at my face, I could feel my cock throbbing to life between my thighs. I groaned, watching from my perch through her windshield as she pushed that long blonde hair back and pulled on a hat.
