Chapter 2 Oliver
OLIVER
The wind howls through the pines, a low, mournful sound that usually settles my blood. Right now, all I feel is the frantic, sweet pulse of the girl behind me.
I keep my pace slow. My boots bite deep into the slush and mud, creating a path for the little shadow right under my tail.
I don't need to look back to know Avery is struggling.
Her erratic breathing reaches me, joined by the squelch of ridiculous city boots sliding on slick pine needles.
Every time a branch slaps her jacket, she makes a soft, frustrated noise.
She shouldn't be out here. This mountain is no place for her.
When I saw her on that porch, soaking wet and fighting a railing that was already dead wood, something in my chest snapped tight. My protective drive had nothing to do with a neighbor lowering property values. Instinct drove me.
"The same lethal instinct that kept me alive in the sandbox makes me the Vanguard for the Broken Halos MC—I’m the club’s primary sentry and enforcer. I’m the one who clears the path and buries the threats before they ever touch the brothers."
I saw a threat in the storm and the rot, and I saw a civilian who didn't know how to cover her own six.
"Slow down," she calls out. The gale whips her thin voice away.
My boots grind into the mud as I pivot.
She’s ten yards back, clutching the strap of the canvas bag I let her carry. I have the heavy stuff—her survival gear, the few clothes she grabbed—slung over my shoulder like it weighs nothing. To me, it does. But she looks like she’s trudging through quicksand.
"I'm barely moving, Avery," I say, dropping my voice an octave to cut under the wind.
"You have legs like tree trunks," she snaps, breathless. She wipes wet hair out of her face, leaving a streak of mud across her pale cheek. "Your casual stroll is a sprint for normal-sized people."
"Normal people don't buy rotted-out shacks on the blind side of a ridge in November."
"It has potential," she argues, though her teeth chatter.
"It has termites and a draft that could freeze a bear. Keep moving."
I turn back around, but I don't speed up. I slow down, senses expanding outward. The woods are dark, the sun long gone behind the peaks. The temperature drops fast. Rain hisses as it hits the ground, turning from liquid to ice pellets.
Perfect.
If we don't get to my cabin in ten minutes, the hypothermia I saw edging into her blue eyes back at her place will set in for real. I adjust the pack on my shoulder. Bringing her was a mistake. I should have fixed her door, lit her fire, and left her there with a stern warning.
But the thought of leaving her alone in that fragile box of timber while the storm hammered down refused to sit right. It felt like leaving a gate unlatched in wolf country.
"Ow!"
The cry is sharp. The heavy thud of a body hitting the earth follows immediately.
I spin on my heel, closing the distance before the echo dies. Avery is on the ground, tangled in a mess of exposed roots and mud. She tries to push herself up, but her foot is caught at an awkward angle in the gnarled wood of an old oak.
"Stop thrashing," I command, crouching beside her.
"I slipped," she gasps. Pain etches tight around her eyes. "I'm fine. I just... I can't get my foot loose."
"I said stop moving."
My hands find her before I think about it.
I grip her calf, my gloves soaked but my hold sure.
Her leg feels fragile beneath the layers of denim, like bird bones wrapped in silk.
I stabilize her ankle with one hand and use the other to wrench the root structure apart.
Wood groans against my strength until the gap widens enough to free her boot.
"Does it hurt?" I run my hand down to the joint, checking for swelling even through the leather.
"It's just twisted," she says, her voice trembling. "I can walk."
"Doubtful."
"I can," she insists, trying to scramble up.
Her leg buckles the second she puts weight on it.
I don't let her hit the ground this time. I catch her.
My arm hooks around her waist, hauling her upright. The momentum slams her chest against mine. The impact knocks the air out of her, a soft whoosh of breath that ghosts across my neck.
For a second, neither of us moves.
The sleet pecks at our jackets and the wind roars in the canopy, but silence reigns in my head.
Her size hits me first. I knew she was short—the top of her head barely clears my chest—but holding her like this, pressed flush against the wall of my body, the softness of her overwhelms me.
She’s compact and resilient, a fierce light wrapped in a fragile frame, molding against my hardness in a way that feels dangerous.
My hand on her waist tightens. Fingers dig into her coat, feeling the dip of her hip bone. She trembles, but the cold isn't the only cause anymore. The frantic thrum of her pulse beats against my ribs.
She looks up at me. Her eyes are wide, pupils blown so huge they swallow the blue.
"Oliver," she whispers. It sounds like a prayer. Or a plea.
I look down at her, searching for the flinch. Most people recoil when I get this close. I’m too big, too scarred, too much of a weapon. But she’s not pulling away. She remains frozen, staring at my mouth like she’s never seen a man up close before.
Then it hits me.
The way she holds herself. The way her breath catches in her throat, terrified and fascinated all at once. The complete lack of instinct on where to put her hands. She clutches my biceps not to pull me closer, but to keep herself upright, fingers unsure and tentative.
She’s innocent.
The realization lands like a physical weight. I don't know how I know—maybe it’s the scent of her, sweet rain and clean skin, or the way she looks at me like I’m a wild animal she wants to pet but knows will bite.
She hasn't been touched. Not like this. Not by a man who knows what he wants.
"You're not walking on that ankle," I growl. My voice comes out rougher than I intended.
"It's not far," she stammers, gaze dropping to my throat. "I can limp."
"No."
I shift my stance, sliding my arm from her waist down to the back of her thighs. Before she can protest, I sweep her up, lifting her high against my chest. She squeaks, a startled sound that makes something dark and possessive uncurl in my belly.
"Oliver! Put me down!"
"Hold on," I order. "Unless you want to fall."
She stiffens, then reluctantly wraps her arms around my neck. Her face buries into the crook of my shoulder to shield herself from the sleet. She’s cold, convulsing against me, but heat builds where our bodies touch.
She weighs nothing. I could carry her for miles.
"You're stubborn," she mumbles into my jacket.
"I'm practical. You're a liability out here on one leg."
"I'm not a liability," she argues weakly. "I'm a homeowner."
I snort. "You're a hazard to navigation, Little Bird."
That nickname again. Little Bird. A fragile thing that needs a cage to keep the hawks away.
I start walking. My boots find purchase on the icy trail. The weight of her in my arms changes my center of gravity, but it feels correct. Grounding. I pull her tighter, my forearm locking her legs against me. She fits.
The trail gets steeper as we approach my property line.
I have tripwires set fifty yards out—nothing lethal, just noise-makers to alert me to intruders—but I navigate around them by memory.
Avery doesn't notice. She’s fading, the adrenaline of the fall wearing off as the cold settles into her bones.
"Stay with me, Avery," I say, nudging her side with my thumb.
"I'm awake," she murmurs. "You're warm. You're like a furnace."
"Engine runs hot," I mutter.
We clear the tree line and my cabin comes into view.
It’s not like hers. Mine is a bunker disguised in timber. Heavy logs, reinforced steel shutters on the windows, a perimeter clearing that gives me full visibility. It sits with its back to the sheer rock face of Grizzly Peak, defensible and solitary.
Just the way I like it.
Usually.
Hesitation slows my boots on the porch steps. I don't bring people here. My brothers come by for club business, and Chase sometimes drags me down to the forge, but this is my space. My silence.
Bringing a woman inside—especially this woman—feels like crossing a line I can’t uncross.
I shift her weight, freeing one hand to punch the code into the keypad. The lock disengages with a heavy thunk. I shoulder the door open and step inside, kicking it shut behind us against the wind.
The silence is instant.
Military-grade insulation reduces the storm outside to a dull hum. The air inside is cool but dry, smelling of cedar, gun oil, and the lingering aroma of my morning coffee.
I hold her in the entryway, letting my eyes adjust to the gloom. The only light comes from the embers in the woodstove across the room and the blinking LED of the security panel.
"We're here," I say.
She lifts her head, blinking groggily. "It smells like you."
The unfiltered honesty makes my jaw clench.
I walk over to the large leather sofa facing the hearth and lower her down. I’m careful with her ankle, settling her into the corner cushions. She looks tiny against the dark leather, a splash of color and wet chaos in my orderly, monochrome world.
I step back, needing distance. Her body heat still clings to my jacket.
"Stay there," I command. "I need to get the fire up."
I strip off my soaked outer jacket and hang it by the door, then move to the stove. My movements are mechanical—open the grate, stir the coals, add kindling, feed the logs—but my mind races.
She watches me. I feel her eyes on my back like a laser sight between my shoulder blades.
"Oliver?"
I freeze, poker in hand. "Yeah?"
"Thank you." Her voice is small, stripped of her porch bravado. "For... catching me."
I turn around. The fire catches now, casting flickering orange light across the room. It illuminates her wet hair plastering to her skull and the tremors racking her body.
She’s soaked to the bone.
"You're freezing," I state, ignoring her gratitude. Gratitude is useless. Preparation keeps you alive. "We need to get you out of those wet clothes."
Her eyes widen, panic flashing in the whites before she hides it. "I... I can do it. Do you have a towel?"
"I have towels," I say, walking toward the hallway. "And dry clothes. Yours are in the bag, but they're cold. You'll wear mine."
"Yours will drown me."
"Better to drown in wool than freeze in wet denim."
I grab a thick towel and a gray thermal shirt from my dresser. I pause for a second, looking at the shirt in my hand. It’s going to hang off her like a dress. The image of her wearing my clothes, walking around my space marked by my scent, hits me hard.
I grip the fabric tight. The strength in my hands threatens to rip it.
She is a guest, I tell myself. A refugee from the storm. Nothing else.
The lie tastes like ash.
I walk back into the main room. She struggles to unlace her boots, hands shaking too hard to work the knots.
"Stop," I say, dropping the clothes on the coffee table.
I drop to my knees in front of her. It’s a position of submission, but we both know who has control here. I take her foot in my hand. Her boot is caked in mud.
"I can do it," she whispers, but she doesn't pull away.
"You're rattling apart, Avery. Let me work."
I make quick work of the laces, pulling the boots off and setting them on the stone hearth to dry. Then I peel off her soaked socks. Her feet are ice cold, pale and delicate. I wrap my large hands around them, rubbing briskly to generate friction.
She gasps. Her toes curl against my palms.
"Warm?" I ask, not looking up.
"Getting there." Her breath hitches.
I look up then. She leans forward, watching my hands on her skin. Her lips part, pink and swollen from the cold. A flush rises on her neck that has nothing to do with the fire.
Touching her is a mistake. I should toss her the towel and go chop wood in the shed until the storm passes.
But I can't let go.
"You have no idea what you're doing, do you?" I ask quietly.
She blinks. "What do you mean? I'm... I'm surviving."
"You're playing house in a war zone," I correct her. "The mountain isn't a backdrop for your self-discovery, Avery. It's a living thing. It eats people who aren't ready."
"Then teach me," she dares. It’s soft, but steel reinforces the words. "Don't just yell at me. Show me how to survive."
The request hangs in the air between us, heavy and loaded. Show me.
I stand up abruptly, breaking the contact. The loss of her skin leaves my hands feeling empty.
"Get changed," I say, tossing the towel into her lap. "I'll make coffee. Strong. You're going to need it."
"Why?" she asks, clutching the towel to her chest.
"Because the storm is getting worse," I say, walking toward the kitchen, my back to her. "And the power lines down in the valley just flashed. We’re going to be in the dark soon."
"I'm not afraid of the dark," she says.
I stop at the counter and look back at her over my shoulder. She looks small and determined, yet incredibly soft.
"You should be," I tell her. "You're in the woods with a wolf, Little Bird. And the cage door just locked."
I don't wait for her response. I turn to the coffee pot, hands moving through the familiar ritual of grinding beans.
I listen to the rustle of fabric behind me as she starts to undress. The sound is torture. Wet denim slides down, followed by the soft intake of breath as the cold air hits her damp skin.
I grip the edge of the counter, staring out the window at the white wall of snow beginning to fall.
She’s mine.
The thought doesn't ask for permission. It just arrives, settling into the bedrock of my mind like it’s always been there. I found her. I saved her. I brought her into my perimeter.
Now I just have to figure out how to keep her safe from the one thing on this mountain that wants to devour her most.
Me.