Claimed By the Outlaw (Broken Halos MC #1)

Chapter 1 Avery

AVERY

The freezing rain feels less like water and more like a thousand tiny needles stabbing every inch of exposed skin on my face.

My fingers are numb inside these cheap hardware store gloves, stiff and clumsy as I grip the hammer. I swing at the nail head for the third time and miss, the metal head connecting with a wet thud against the rotting wood of the porch railing instead.

"Come on," I hiss through my chattering teeth, adjusting my grip. "Just go in. Please."

The nail mocks me. It’s bent at a forty-five-degree angle now, half-embedded in the gray, waterlogged timber like a crooked tooth.

This cabin was supposed to be a fresh start. A refuge.

When the lawyer called to tell me my biological uncle—a man I’d never met—had left me a property in Pine Valley, I pictured a cozy A-frame with a smoking chimney and a bearskin rug.

I did not picture this.

The shack, because that’s really what it is, leans precariously to the left. The roof has more moss than shingles, and the front porch railing—the one I’m currently fighting a losing war against—is hanging on by sheer force of habit.

But it’s mine.

For the first time in twenty-three years of bouncing between foster homes, crowded group centers, and apartments with paper-thin walls, I own something that can’t be taken away. Even if it is currently trying to give me hypothermia.

A gust of wind screams down the mountain pass, nearly knocking me off the step stool. The vintage toolkit I found under the sink sits open on the decking, rapidly filling with water.

I don't even know what half the tools are for. There's a wrench that looks like it could double as a weapon and a saw so rusty I’m afraid looking at it will give me tetanus.

"Okay, Avery," I mutter, wiping rain out of my eyes. "Focus. You survived the system. You survived rush hour in the city. You can survive a piece of wood."

I line up the hammer again. I need to secure this railing before the storm gets worse. If it goes, it takes the structural integrity of the front steps with it, and I really don't want to break a leg trying to get my morning coffee.

I pull my arm back, squeezing my eyes shut for a split second to brace against the wind, and swing.

Crack.

Not the sound of a nail going in. The sound of wood splitting.

The railing groans, lurching outward.

I yelp, dropping the hammer—it lands with a heavy splash in a puddle—and grab the banister with both hands, trying to hold it in place.

It’s heavy, way heavier than it looks, soaked through with decades of rain and snow. My boots slip on the slick decking. I slide a foot, my hip slamming into the wood siding of the cabin.

"No, no, no!" I grunt, digging my heels in. "Stay!"

But it doesn't listen.

The wood creaks, a slow, agonizing sound of surrender. I'm not strong enough. I’m five-foot-four on a good day, and my gym membership was mostly for the sauna. I’m losing the battle, and gravity is a cruel opponent.

Then I hear it.

Not the wind.

Not the rain.

A deep, rhythmic crunching sound. Like heavy boots breaking through the frozen crust of the earth.

I turn my head, hair plastering against my cheek, and I freeze.

He’s standing at the edge of the clearing where the dense pines give way to my sad excuse for a yard.

He looks less like a man and more like a piece of the mountain that broke off and decided to walk.

He’s massive, shrouded in a dark, waxed canvas jacket that looks impenetrable.

A hood is pulled up, shadowing his face, but I can feel the weight of his stare from here.

It hits me harder than the freezing rain.

He isn't moving. He’s just watching me wrestle a rotting piece of architecture in a freezing downpour.

"Help!" I shout, my voice snatched away by the wind. "A little help here?"

He doesn't rush. He doesn't jog. He moves with a terrifying, predatory grace, stalking toward the porch like he owns the very ground beneath his boots.

As he gets closer, the sheer scale of him becomes alarming.

He has to be over six-four. His shoulders are broad enough to block out the gray skyline.

He steps onto the first stair. The wood groans under his weight, a sound of protest I completely understand.

"Let go," he says.

His voice is a low rumble, gravel grinding against granite. It vibrates in my chest, warm and jarring against the cold.

"Are you crazy?" I shout back, my muscles screaming as I hold the railing up. "If I let go, the whole thing falls off!"

He’s beside me now. He smells like wet pine, woodsmoke, and something sharp like motor oil. Up close, he’s even bigger. He towers over me, a wall of heat and hardness in the freezing chaos.

He reaches out, one hand—a hand the size of a dinner plate, encased in a thick leather glove—and grabs the railing I’m struggling to support.

"I said, let go."

He takes the weight effortlessly. Where I was straining every fiber of my being, he holds the heavy, waterlogged timber with a casual, almost insulting ease.

I let go, my arms trembling as the blood rushes back into them. I stumble back a step, nearly tripping over my toolbox.

"Who are you?" I ask, breathless. My heart is hammering against my ribs, and it’s not just from the exertion.

He ignores me. He inspects the wood, his head tilting slightly.

He pushes the railing back into place with a single shove that shakes the entire porch, then holds it there with one hand while he reaches into a pocket with the other.

He pulls out a long, wicked-looking nail, seemingly out of nowhere, and produces a hammer from a loop on his belt that looks significantly more professional than mine.

Whack. Whack. Whack.

Three strikes. That’s all it takes.

He drives the spike through the railing and deep into the support post. He does it again a foot lower. In ten seconds, he’s fixed what I’ve been fighting for an hour.

He turns to look at me then, pushing his hood back.

The air leaves my lungs.

He has a thick, dark beard that’s glistening with raindrops, trimmed but wild enough to suggest he doesn't spend much time in front of a mirror.

His face is harsh, made of sharp angles and rough terrain, but his eyes.

.. his eyes are the color of moss found deep in a forest where the sun rarely touches.

They are intense, intelligent, and currently narrowed at me with a mix of irritation and something else. Something hotter.

"You're trying to get yourself killed," he says flatly.

"I was fixing my porch," I defend, crossing my arms over my chest to stop the shivering. It doesn't work. "I had it under control until the wind picked up."

He snorts, a derisive sound. "You were fixing to crush your foot and freeze to death. Who taught you to hold a hammer? A toddler?"

"Hey!" I bristle, stepping closer to him despite the fact that I have to crane my neck back to look him in the eye. "I’m learning. And for your information, this is my property. You’re trespassing."

He steps into my space. The distance between us vanishes. The heat radiating off him is palpable, a furnace against the chill.

I should be scared—he’s huge, a stranger, and clearly dangerous—but my body doesn't signal fear. It signals something electric. A sudden, sharp pull in my belly that makes my knees feel weaker than the storm did.

"Your property borders Gunnar land," he growls, pointing a gloved finger toward the trees he emerged from. "Which means when you start screaming because a beam fell on you, it’s my problem."

"I didn't scream," I lie. "I called for assistance."

His eyes drop, scanning me from head to toe.

I’m wearing oversized coveralls I found at a thrift store, three layers of mismatched sweaters, and a beanie that’s currently soaked through.

I look like a drowned rat. But the way his gaze moves over me feels heavy, like a physical touch.

It lingers on the curve of my hip where the coveralls pull tight, then snaps back to my face.

"You're soaking wet," he observes, his voice dropping an octave. "Your lips are blue."

"I'm fine," I chatter, my teeth betraying me instantly.

He swears under his breath, a harsh curse directed at the sky. Before I can process his movement, he strips off his gloves, shoving them into his pockets. His bare hands are rough, calloused, scarred across the knuckles.

He reaches out and touches my cheek.

The contact is a shock to my system. His skin is hot, his thumb rough against my frozen jaw. I gasp, my eyes widening. He’s not hurting me. He’s checking my temperature, but it feels like he’s branding me.

"You're ice cold," he murmurs, his thumb brushing over my lower lip. His eyes darken, the mossy green turning turbulent. "You don't have the sense God gave a squirrel, do you, Little Bird?"

Little Bird. The nickname hits me in the chest. It’s patronizing. It’s dismissive. And damn it, I can’t help but like it.

"My name is Avery," I manage to whisper.

"I know who you are," he says. "The city girl who thinks she can tame the mountain with a rusted saw and a YouTube tutorial."

He pulls his hand back, and I instantly miss the warmth. The loss is surprisingly sharp.

"I'm not a city girl anymore," I say, trying to summon some dignity. "I live here."

"You exist here," he corrects, looking at the cabin with disdain. "In a structure that’s barely standing. This porch is the least of your worries. The roof line is sagging on the north side. You have dry rot in the foundation. And a storm is coming in tonight that’s going to make this little drizzle look like a spring shower. "

"I'll handle it," I say stubbornly.

"You'll die," he states. It’s not a threat. It’s a fact to him.

He looks past me, staring at the front door of my cabin. "Do you have heat?"

"I have a wood stove," I say. "I just... haven't figured out the flue yet. It gets a little smoky."