Filthy Bastard by Madison Faye

Sneak Peek - Claiming His Mountain Bride

My mountain. My cabin. My rules. And she’s mywoman – 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.

Chapter 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 my 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…

Chapter 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 catching 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.

Chapter 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.

Poofy, furry — like something off a goddamn mall mannequin.

She pulled a coat on, and I growled again. What the fuck did she think she was doing, going out for a fucking stroll in the snow? The coat screamed “city.” It was something you put on between the restaurant and the cab, not something you went out walking in these woods wearing. The coat would be soaked and freezing in ten minutes in these conditions. In an hour, it’d be deadly.

I frowned at the car. I mean, at least a Land Rover had all-wheel drive, but the chrome and the fancy black paint job screamed city. It screamed “luxury,” and that had no place on a snowy mountain like Blackthorn.

She glanced at her reflection in the reviewer mirror, licking her lips. I knew it should’ve bothered me — like she was bringing this bullshit city vanity out here to the woods where it didn’t belong. But it didn’t. In fact, watching her soft pink tongue dart out to lick those lips made my whole body come alive. It made my fucking cock throb and my balls tingle in ways they hadn’t in longer than I could remember.

She shouldered a pack, opened the door, and stepped out into the snow.

What the fuck was she doing?

No, stay in the fucking car.

For a second, I almost said it out loud. For a second, I thought about walking over, throwing her over my shoulder, plunking her back in that car and telling her to get the fuck off my mountain.

But I didn’t.

I couldn’t.

With the exception of a few run-ins with Austin, Dallas, Vlad, and occasionally Axe up here on the Mountain, I’d sworn off people when I’d come up here a year before.

After Kandahar, I was done with people.

It was Stan who’d told me about his cabin up here on Blackthorn, back when I’d been on his guard duty over in Afghanistan. The guy was one of those guys I should have immediately disliked — rich, throwing his money around, and a total city-slicker. But then, I’d realized who he really was and what he was really all about, and that’d all changed. Yeah, he threw his money around, but he threw it at real problems, not a new car just for having another one, or big fancy houses he didn’t live in. The man wanted to make real change in the world, which is why he was over there risking his ass to build schools and hospitals. We’d bonded over bikes first, and after that he’d been like father figure to me until the day he’d died a few years ago to cancer.

Yeah, that’d sucked.

But Stan had told me all about Blackthorn Mountain and the cabin he kept here that his rich-ass, snobby family didn’t know about. So after I’d gotten out, when I’d been done with it all, it was the only place I knew to go.

I’d been there ever since — alone, and at peace. Until that day.

Until this hot little blonde, bright-eyed, fancy-assed, and sexy as sin stranger had stepped out of her city car in her city clothes right the fuck in the middle of my woods, not one goddamn mile from my cabin. I didn’t know whether to be rip-shit mad or turned the fuck on. Hell, the fact that I was snarling quietly through a clenched jaw while also sporting a hard-on ready to tear through my damn jeans said it all.

Blondie slung the bag over her shoulder, looked around, and took a deep breath. Fuck, even from here and even in that stupid city coat, I could see those curves. I could see the way her breasts heaved against that coat, making my mouth water and my balls pulse.

She might’ve been an interloper. She might’ve been trouble. Hell, she might’ve been trespassing, cause she sure as hell was. But none of that mattered, because all of a sudden, there was one thing I knew about her above all that:

She was mine.

She didn’t know it yet, but I did. And now that she was there, in my woods on my mountain? I was going to show her exactly how mine she was.

I watched as she started walking, my blood roaring in my ears and my eyes narrowing on those cute, pouty lips of hers. Everything inside of me stirred, and growled, and hungered for her.

But when she stopped, looked round, and then suddenly changed course, I went numb

…She was going right for trail-head — the one you’d never even see unless you knew where to look. The trail that went right to the cabin. We weren’t that close, but fuck if it didn’t look like all of a sudden she knew exactly where she was going.

Yeah, no more waiting. No more watching and wondering what this tempting little stranger was doing up here. I growled as I stood from where I’d been squatting in the snow, my muscles tensed and hardened, my senses tuned, and my cock still fucking hard as stone.

I marched right for her, every intention of snatching that curvy little body up into my arms, throwing her over my shoulder caveman-style, marching back to my cabin to figure out who the fuck she was. But that’s when I heard the cracking sound.

That’s when I felt the thundering of the ground moving under me.

Aw fuck.

That’s when the avalanche hit, and the last thing I remember is wanting to know what those pink, full lips tasted like, before it all went white.

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