Chapter 9 Avery
AVERY
Sunlight hammers against my eyelids, dragging me out of the deep, dreamless black.
I blink, groaning as I try to bury my face back into the pillow. But the surface beneath my cheek isn't soft. It’s firm, warm, and smells of pine resin and woodsmoke.
My eyes snap open.
I’m not alone.
A heavy arm drapes over my waist, pinning me to the mattress. Oliver. He feels like a wall of heat against my back, his breathing slow and steady, a deep rhythm vibrating through my own chest. I freeze, the memories of last night crashing into me. The fear. The rejection. The reconciliation.
The keys.
I shift slightly, and his arm tightens instantly. Even in sleep, he acts the possessor. Even in sleep, he remains the Vanguard.
"Stop wiggling," he rumbles, his voice a gravelly scrape right against my ear.
"I’m not wiggling," I whisper, though my heart hammers a frantic rhythm against my ribs. "I’m breathing. You’re squishing me."
"Good."
He buries his face in the crook of my neck, his beard scratching the sensitive skin there, sending a sensation skittering down my spine. He inhales deeply, dragging my scent into his lungs, before finally relaxing his grip enough for me to turn over.
I shift to face him. In the harsh glare of morning—real sunlight reflecting off the snow outside—he looks even more imposing.
Dark hair messy, beard thick, the scar on his shoulder standing out pale against his tanned skin.
But the tension usually radiating off him in waves has dialed back. The storm in his eyes has settled.
"The snow stopped," I say, glancing toward the window. The world outside shines a blinding, brilliant white. Silence lies heavy over the mountain, the howling wind finally gone.
"Yeah," Oliver says, not looking at the window. He looks at me. His gaze lands heavy and tactile, feeling like a physical touch. "Plows will be through by noon. Pass should be open."
The words hang in the air between us.
The pass is open.
Escape becomes possible. The world comes rushing back in. I can leave.
Ice floods my chest. I look at the man who built a fortress around my heart in three days, and the thought of leaving this cabin feels like stepping off a cliff.
"Do you want me to go?" I ask, the question quiet, terrified.
Oliver’s eyes darken. His hand comes up, cupping my jaw, his thumb brushing over my cheekbone. "You have the keys, Avery. Both of them."
"That’s not an answer."
"It’s the only one that matters." He leans in, pressing a hard, brief kiss to my forehead. The contact serves as a seal. A stamp of ownership. "Coffee. Then we check your place. See if my work holds up in the light."
He rolls out of bed, a magnificent expanse of muscle and scars, and pulls on his jeans. I watch him, shameless, feeling a flush heat my skin. He catches me staring and smirks—a rare, genuine expression transforming his face.
"Like what you see, Avery?"
"I’m just checking for injuries," I lie, scrambling to sit up and pulling the sheet with me. "You were out there all night."
"I’m fine." He grabs a flannel shirt from the floor and tosses it to me. "Put this on. It’s colder than a witch's tit out there, even with the sun."
I pull on his shirt, the fabric drowning me, smelling entirely of him. A comfort I didn't know I needed settles over me. As I button it up, the crackle of static erupts from the other room.
The radio.
I follow him out into the main living space. The fire has burned down to embers, but the room remains warm. Oliver stands by the desk in the corner, a black tactical radio in his hand.
"Gunnar here," he says, his voice shifting into that low command tone.
"About time you woke up, Sleeping Beauty." The voice on the other end is deep, mocking, and laced with exhaustion. Logan. The President. "Road crews are hitting the lower switchbacks. Austin is bringing the truck up with supplies for the shop. We’ve got a problem with the manifest."
Oliver scowls, rubbing a hand over his face. "What kind of problem?"
"The supplier sent us three crates of climbing rope and zero carabiners, and the invoice is a wreck. I need someone to untangle the paperwork before the shipment hits the floor at Peak Wilderness. You know I hate the admin shit."
"I’m not a desk jockey, Logan," Oliver growls. "I fix things. I don’t push paper."
"You’re the only one up there who can read without moving his lips," Logan shoots back. "Just look at the digital file I sent over. Verify the stock against the order."
Oliver sighs, the sound of a man defeated by bureaucracy. He taps the screen of a ruggedized tablet sitting on the desk, his brow furrowing as he stares at the spreadsheet. He looks like he’d rather fight a bear.
I step closer, curiosity getting the better of me. "What’s wrong?"
He glances at me, then tilts the screen so I can see. "Club business. Legit side. We run the Outfitters store in town. Supplier messed up the order, and the inventory system is..." He struggles for a word.
"A disaster," I supply, looking at the chaotic columns of numbers.
"Yeah. That."
I lean over the desk, my shoulder brushing his arm. My eyes scan the data. A mess, sure, but a familiar one. I spent four years working inventory for a logistics company in the city before I inherited the cabin. Soul-sucking work, but I was good at it. I see patterns where other people see noise.
"This is more than a supplier error," I say, tapping the screen.
"Look. The SKU codes are misaligned. They’re billing you for the rope by the foot, but receiving it by the spool.
And here—" I point to another column. "You’re double-ordering safety gear because the re-order trigger is set too high. You’re hemorrhaging money on storage fees for stock you don't need. "
Silence.
I look up to find Oliver staring at me. He ignores the tablet now. He looks at me with a mix of surprise and something dangerously close to admiration.
"You speak fluent nerd?" he asks.
I roll my eyes. "I speak fluent 'I don't like wasting money.' Fix the SKU here, adjust the par levels, and tell the supplier to eat the shipping cost on the carabiners because it’s their error code on the invoice. See? It says 'Sub-Type B' right there. Their internal code for bulk, not retail."
Oliver stares at the screen, then back at me. A slow grin spreads across his face. He presses the transmit button on the radio.
"Logan."
"Yeah?"
"I’m sending a revised list. The supplier owes us a refund on shipping, and we’re cancelling the backorder on the safety gear."
"Since when do you know what a backorder is?" Logan asks, sounding suspicious.
Oliver’s eyes lock on mine. They are moss-green, intense, filled with a sudden, sharp clarity. "I didn't. Avery did."
"The girl?" Logan’s voice changes. Interest peaks. "The stray?"
"Not a stray," Oliver corrects, his voice dropping an octave. "She’s with me."
He cuts the connection before Logan can respond. Silence rushes back in, but it feels different now. Charged.
"You’re good at that," Oliver says, nodding at the tablet.
"I needed a job that paid the rent," I shrug, suddenly self-conscious. "It’s boring."
"It’s necessary," he counters. He moves closer, trapping me between his body and the desk. He smells like coffee and dominance. "The club... we’re good at protecting the mountain. We’re good at the physical side.
But the business? It’s growing faster than we can manage.
We need someone who can see the cracks before they break. "
My heart skips a beat. "Are you offering me a job?"
"I’m offering you a place," he corrects. His hands come up to rest on my waist, heavy and grounding. "You said you needed to fix things. You said you needed to be useful. You can run the supply side. Organize the shop. Keep Logan off my back."
"You want me to work for the MC?"
"I want you to stay," he says simply. "I want you to have a reason to be here, besides just me. I know you, Avery. You’re independent. You won’t just sit around and let me keep you. You need your own ground."
He understands me. The realization hits harder than the physical attraction ever did. He looked past the fear and the clumsiness to see the need for purpose.
"I... I’d like that," I whisper. "But I’m expensive."
Oliver chuckles, a low rumble I feel in my toes. "I can afford you."
He kisses me then, hard and quick, before pulling back. "Get your boots. We’re going down the ridge. I want to show you what I did last night."
The trek down to my property goes easier in the daylight, though the snow remains deep.
Oliver walks ahead of me, breaking the trail, his massive boots packing down the powder so I can follow in his wake.
He carries a rifle slung over his shoulder—casual, like a backpack—and his head stays on a swivel, scanning the tree line. The Vanguard, always watching.
When my cabin comes into view, I stop dead.
The rotting ruin from three days ago has vanished.
The treacherous porch railing is gone. In its place, thick, treated lumber stands bolted together with heavy iron brackets. It looks solid enough to stop a truck. The sagging front steps have been leveled and reinforced. And the door...
The flimsy wooden panel that used to rattle in the wind has been braced with steel plates. A shiny new deadbolt glints in the sun.
"Oliver," I breathe, my hand going to my mouth.
He stops and turns back, watching me. He looks unsure for the first time, shifting his weight from foot to foot. "I didn't have time to paint it. And the roof still needs work come spring. But it’s secure. No one’s kicking that door in."
I walk forward, stepping onto the porch. No creaking. No swaying. Just s solid wood beneath my feet.
I run my hand over the smooth wood of the new railing. He did this in the freezing dark. He worked while I slept, driven by guilt and a desperate need to keep me safe.
"You built a fortress," I say, turning to look at him.
"I built a perimeter," he corrects, stepping up onto the porch with me. He looms over me, blocking out the sun, blocking out the rest of the world. "Small, but yours. Safe now."
He reaches into his pocket and pulls out the keys again. The brass one for this door. The silver one for his.
He holds them out.
"Your choice, Avery," he says, his voice rough. "You can stay here. It’s safe. You have your independence. You have your home."
I look at the brass key. It represents everything I thought I wanted when I came to these mountains. A place of my own. No foster parents, no landlords, no rules but mine.
Then I look at the silver key.
I look at the man holding it. The man who carried me through a blizzard. The man who taught me how to hold a screwdriver and then made me come apart with just his hands.
The man who sees my need for independence and doesn't try to crush it, but builds a foundation under it so I don't fall.
"I don't want to be alone anymore," I say softly.
I reach out and take the keys. Both of them.
I slide the silver key into my pocket. Then I take the brass key and close my fist around it, holding it tight against my heart.
"I’m keeping the cabin," I say. "It’s my project. I’m going to fix it up."
Oliver’s jaw tightens, his gaze never leaving mine. "Okay."
"But I’m not sleeping here," I continue.
His eyes snap to mine.
"My bed is terrible," I say, stepping closer to him, until the toes of my boots bump against his. "And it’s cold. And the coffee is bad."
"Is that right?" A spark of hope flares in his eyes.
"Also," I reach up, tangling my fingers in the front of his jacket, "the landlord at the other place is much hotter."
Oliver lets out a breath that sounds like a curse, his arms wrapping around me and lifting me off my feet. He crushes me to his chest, burying his face in my hair. His shoulders drop, the iron tension draining from his frame.
"You’re staying," he growls into my neck.
"I’m staying," I promise. "I’ll run the inventory. I’ll fix the cabin on weekends. But I’m coming home to you."
"Damn right you are." He pulls back, his hands framing my face, his thumbs tracing my lips. "You belong on this mountain, Avery. You belong with me."
"I know."
He kisses me then, and the shift is instantaneous. Unlike the desperate friction of last night, this touch creates a contract signed in breath and heat.
When he breaks the kiss, he rests his forehead against mine. "Logan’s coming up the pass this afternoon. He wants to meet you. Officially."
"The President?"
"Yeah. And Austin. Probably Chase too. They’re nosy."
I laugh, the sound bubbling up light and free in the cold air. "Am I ready for the Broken Halos MC?"
Oliver pulls back, looking down at me with fierce, possessive pride. "You handled the storm. You handled me. You can handle a few bikers."
He sets me down but keeps his arm around my shoulders, tucking me into his side. We stand there on the sturdy new porch, looking out over the valley. The snow shines blinding white, the pines stand tall and dark, and the road below finally clears.
A black, rugged truck crawls up the switchbacks in the distance. The brothers. The club. The life I’m choosing.
I touch the silver key in my pocket again.
"Let’s go home," I say.
Oliver tightens his grip. "We are home, Little Bird. We are home."
He turns me back toward the trail, back toward the high ridge where his cabin sits waiting. The Vanguard and his girl. The wilderness has shifted, transforming into a kingdom.
And we’re just getting started.
But as we head back toward the ridge, I catch Oliver looking at me with a hunger so sharp it makes my breath hitch, a silent demand that says tonight, the cabin is ours alone.