An Unholy Kind of Love

Chapter 1

Isla

The wind howls as the seaplane skims the icy waters, the engine roaring before it settles into a quiet hum. I brace against the cold that knifes through my layers, biting into my skin the second I step onto the dock. Snow-covered pines stretch endlessly, their towering forms framing the sharp contrast of the world I’ve just entered—raw, untamed wilderness on one side, a hulking monument to human arrogance on the other.

Rhys Walker’s resort.

The lodge looms in the distance, its sleek, modern architecture at war with the rugged land surrounding it. Massive glass windows reflect the bruised sky, steel beams and wood paneling attempting some weak mimicry of nature. It doesn’t belong here. Nothing about this place does.

My boots crunch against the ice-packed ground as I hoist my camera bag over my shoulder. The moment I move inland, the smell of pine thickens, mingling with the faint burn of woodsmoke from the resort’s chimneys. The air is sharp, brimming with the kind of silence that only true wilderness can hold—until a mechanical hum shatters it.

A snowmobile, sleek and unnecessarily polished, cuts through the tree line, kicking up powder in its wake. A man rides it with the kind of ease that says he doesn’t belong out here but thinks he does. Blond hair tousled by the wind, a bespoke winter coat instead of proper gear, his gloved hands gripping the handles like he’s never done real work a day in his life.

I already know who he is before he slows to a stop, ice-blue eyes flicking over me with mild interest.

Rhys Walker. Billionaire. Arrogant. The Enemy.

I keep walking.

He doesn’t move. Just watches. Like I’m something unexpected that’s just appeared on his land, and he’s deciding whether I’m an inconvenience or an actual threat.

My fingers twitch around the strap of my bag. "If you're planning on running me over, at least have the decency to pretend it was an accident."

His mouth curves, but it’s the kind of smirk that doesn’t reach his eyes. "You're not important enough for me to stage an accident over."

Ah. Fantastic. A man with a God complex.

I lift my chin. "Then get out of my way."

Rhys doesn’t. Just tilts his head slightly, as if amused. "You must be Isla Evans."

"And you must be the walking trust fund I keep hearing about."

He huffs a laugh, finally dismounting from the snowmobile, his boots sinking into the fresh snow as he steps closer. "I see my reputation precedes me."

"You mean your reputation for trying to turn protected land into your personal playground?"

His smirk sharpens. "Protected land? I own this land."

"Legally. Not morally."

His jaw ticks, but amusement still lingers in his expression, like I’m nothing more than a mild inconvenience. It makes me want to knock that whiskey-smooth arrogance right out of him.

Instead, I brush past him and keep walking toward the resort.

The moment I step inside, I hate it even more.

The lobby is warm, sleek, polished—everything nature isn’t. Soft lighting casts an amber glow across gleaming hardwood floors, floor-to-ceiling stone fireplaces, velvet seating that looks too expensive for people to actually sit in. It's an attempt at rustic luxury, a carefully manufactured version of the very wilderness it disrespects.

I don’t belong here. And I don’t want to.

I make it exactly three steps in before a voice stops me.

"You’re tracking snow all over my floors."

Rhys again.

I don’t bother turning around as I shrug off my coat, shaking it out just a little harder than necessary. "It’s snow. In Alaska. You’ll live."

"Will I?" He sounds far too bored for a man trying to intimidate me. "You just walked into my resort like you own the place."

I finally turn, eyes locking onto his as I dump my gear on one of the pretentious leather couches. Rhys leans against the stone fireplace, a tumbler of whiskey in his hand. His presence dominates the space, all relaxed arrogance and quiet assessment.

His gaze flicks over my worn boots, my cargo pants stained from the trek in, my braid unraveling from the wind. I know what he sees—someone wild and unpolished, someone who doesn't fit into his world.

Good.

I lift a brow. "You own the land, but you don’t own me. And I have permission to be here."

His lips part—just slightly, like he wasn’t expecting that particular bite. But then he chuckles, low and slow, before taking a sip of his drink. "Great. Another activist here to save the world."

Something sharp curls inside me.

"You say that like it’s a bad thing."

He tilts his glass toward me, whiskey catching the firelight. "It’s an exhausting thing. Every season, someone new shows up to lecture me about my own property. But you—" He studies me now, long and deliberate, like he’s picking me apart piece by piece. "You actually believe you can make a difference, don’t you?"

"Because I can," I say simply.

His smirk is slow, deliberate. "We'll see about that."

I refuse to let him get under my skin, but something about that look, that voice, unsettles me in a way I wasn’t prepared for. I hold my ground, meeting his gaze head-on.

And then something shifts.

The air between us, charged with something too sharp to name. The awareness of him—of the way he watches me, the way his presence feels like a challenge I’m aching to rise to.

I don’t like it.

Not one damn bit.

And judging by the flicker in his expression, neither does he.

The moment stretches—just a second too long—before I grab my gear and turn away.

"I’ll stay out of your way, Walker," I throw over my shoulder. "As long as you stay out of mine."

I don’t wait for a response.

I already know that this battle between us is just getting started.