Chapter 10 Oliver
OLIVER
The angle grinder screams in the small space of my workshop, throwing a shower of orange sparks against the oil-stained concrete floor.
The noise fills my head, drowning out the wind howling through the pines outside.
It silences the instinct in my brain commanding me to check the perimeter, the locks, the ridge.
Here, with the smell of hot steel, sawdust, and grease filling my lungs, I am just a man working with his hands. Not the Vanguard. Not a broken soldier. Just a man building something solid.
I kill the power to the grinder. Silence rushes back in, heavy and ringing.
I lift the steel bracket I’ve been shaping. Heavy gauge. Overkill for a normal front door, but the cabin down the ridge isn’t just a house anymore. It’s where she lives. Nothing gets through that door unless I invite it in.
The workshop door creaks open.
I don’t turn around. I don’t have to. The air in the room shifts instantly, the sharp, metallic tang of the shop cut by something sweeter. Vanilla. Rain. Avery.
My body reacts before my brain does. My grip tightens on the steel bracket until the tension in my arms makes them shake. My blood heats, rushing south, pooling heavy and hard in my jeans. A conditioned response.
She is the trigger, and I am the weapon.
"You’ve been out here for three hours, Oliver." Her voice has changed; the soft, hesitant girl who arrived in the storm is gone, replaced by a woman with a confidence that makes my blood simmer.
I set the steel bracket down on the scarred oak of my workbench and turn. The sight of her hits me like a head-on collision, a wreck I never want to survive.
She’s standing in the doorway, the draft from the main house fluttering the hem of the black t-shirt she’s wearing.
My shirt. The cotton hangs off her shoulder, exposing the pale, flawless curve of her neck and collarbone.
It hits her mid-thigh, barely hiding the curve of her ass, her bare legs looking like silk against the dark, grimy gloom of my shop.
Her feet are shoved into my thick wool socks, making her look small.
Fragile. But those blue eyes lock onto mine with a hunger that matches the fire in my gut.
"Fixing the strike plate for your door." My voice is a rough scrape of gravel. I grab a rag and try to wipe the grease from my hands, but my eyes never leave her. "Needs to be stronger."
She navigates the maze of tool chests and lumber piles with an ease that tells me she’s finally claiming this space as her own.
She stops on the other side of the workbench, trailing a single finger through the dust on the wood. "The door is fine, Oliver. You replaced the entire frame yesterday. And the locks the day before. If you reinforce it any more, it’s going to be a bank vault."
"Good," I grunt, my jaw tightening as I watch her finger trace the oak. "Banks are safe."
"You can’t armor-plate the whole world." She quirks her lips in a smile that makes my chest ache.
"Watch me."
A low, throaty laugh vibrates from her and travels through the workbench, hitting my cock like a physical touch.
She walks around the edge, encroaching on my territory until she’s standing right in front of me, forcing her to crane her neck to look up.
I tower over her, a wall of corded muscle, sweat, and steel dust, yet she doesn't flinch.
"Take a break." She whispers it like a command, her warm palm settling on my chest. I can feel her heat through my flannel. She has no idea how close I am to snapping.
I look down at her hand—soft, unmarked—and then my gaze drops to her neck. The pulse there is fluttering like a trapped bird.
I drop the rag. It hits the floor with a wet slap.
"I don't want coffee." The growl rips from my throat. Her pupils dilate, swallowing the blue until her eyes are dark pools of need.
"What do you want, Oliver?"
I reach out, my large hands encompassing her waist. I can feel the scorching heat of her skin through the thin cotton. "I want to make sure you know exactly where you are."
I lift her. She gasps as I hoist her effortlessly, her weight nothing against my strength.
I slam her onto the edge of the workbench.
Tools rattle and a jar of brass screws tips over, spilling across the concrete in a chaotic clatter, but I don't give a damn.
I step between her legs, forcing her knees wide with my thighs, burying myself in her space.
"Oliver—"
"Quiet." I lean in until our noses brush. I can smell her pussy now, a raw, heavy musk spiking sharp and sweet, mixing with the cedar and motor oil. "You walk in here, wearing my clothes, smelling like me... you think you're walking out?"
She shakes her head, eyes wide and glazed. "No."
"Good."
I frame her face with my hands. My thumbs trace her cheekbones, and I intentionally leave dark smudges of grease and grime on her perfect skin.
I want to see the evidence of my touch on her.
I want to brand her with the mess of my world.
The thought makes my cock throb violently against my jeans.
I want to leave marks. I want to leave evidence.
"I see the way the guys in town look at you," I snarl, my gut twisting with a dark, acidic possessiveness. "They think you're just some sweet city girl who got lost."
"I don't care about them," she whispers.
"I care." My hands slide down, my thumbs pressing against the soft line of her throat, just enough to feel her swallow. "They need to know. You need to know."
I raid her mouth, devouring her. My tongue sweeps in, tasting the coffee and the honeyed sweetness that is hers alone.
She moans, her hands tangling in my beard to pull me closer as she wraps her legs around my waist, trying to fuse us together.
I break the kiss and bury my face in the crook of her neck, inhaling her until my lungs are full.
"You’re mine, Avery. Say it."
"I'm yours," she gasps. "I'm yours, Oliver."
"Damn right." I open my mouth and bite down on the muscle where her neck meets her shoulder.
She cries out, a sharp, shocked sound, but she arches into the pain.
I bite harder, sinking my teeth in to ensure a bruise forms. I suck at the tender skin, creating a dark, purple brand. Property of the Vanguard.
When I pull back, the mark is angry and red against her pale skin. Satisfaction roars through me. Primal. Dark. "Beautiful," I rasp.
Avery pants, her tits heaving under the shirt. "More," she begs, her hips bucking against my thigh.
I grip the hem of the t-shirt and rip it upward.
The sound of fabric tearing is the only music I need.
I bunch it around her neck, exposing her bare tits.
Her nipples are hard, tight pebbles of pink, aching for me.
I don't touch them yet. My hand slides down her stomach, over the soft curve of her belly, and hooks into the waistband of my boxers.
I drag them down her legs. She kicks them off, her socks sliding on the wood until she’s bare and open on a workbench covered in the scars of my labor.
I look down at her pussy. It’s glistening, soaked.
Her juices coat her thighs, shiny under the harsh overhead lights.
The sight of her dripping for me snaps the last of my control.
I unbuckle my belt, the heavy leather snapping like a whip.
I shove my jeans down, freeing my cock. It springs free, thick, heavy, and throbbing, the head already weeping a trail of pre-cum.
I grab her hips, my fingers digging into her skin, and I lift her slightly to position the head of my cock at her soaking entrance.
I drive into her, burying myself to the hilt in a single, devastating thrust.
Avery screams, her back arching off the workbench as she takes all nine inches of me. "Fuck." The sensation nearly drops me. She’s so fucking tight, her internal muscles clamping around my girth, milking me. It’s overwhelming.
It’s home.
I hold myself still for a heartbeat, buried deep, letting our bodies fuse. I rest my forehead against hers, our breath mingling in ragged gasps. "You fit," I whisper, my voice broken. "You fit so perfectly."
"Move. Please, Oliver. Move." Her nails draw blood from my shoulders.
I withdraw until only the tip of my cock remains, then I slam back in. The impact jars the heavy oak bench.
We find a rhythm that isn't gentle—it’s a hammering. A claiming. The wet, rhythmic slap of my balls hitting her skin echoes off the metal tools on the wall. I grind into her, punishing her cervix with every thrust.
"Look at me," I command. Her eyes flutter open, hazy and unfocused. "Who owns this pussy?" I snarl, watching my length disappear inside her wet pussy, stretching her to her limit.
"You," she sobs. "You do."
"Who keeps you safe?" I drive deeper, hitting that spot that makes her toes curl.
"You. Only you."
I reach down between our sweating bodies, my thumb finding her engorged clit.
It’s hard, swollen. I rub it in circular, punishing motions while maintaining the brutal pace of my hips.
She unravels instantly. Her head thrashes as she screams my name—a high, shattered sound.
I feel her pussy spasm, clamping down on me in frantic waves as her release rips through her.
The feeling of her climaxing around me is the end.
I let the beast off the leash.
I grab her ass with both hands, anchoring her against me, and piston into her, fast and furious.
I roar as I let go, emptying a heavy load of seed deep inside her. I breed her with everything I am, giving her every drop of my cum until I am empty and she is completely mine.
I collapse forward, catching my weight on my elbows so I don't crush her, burying my face in her neck again. I pant like a dying man. My heart slams against my ribs like it’s trying to break out and get to her.
We stay like that for a long time. The only sound is our ragged breathing and the wind outside, which seems to have picked up, howling around the corners of the garage.
Slowly, the world starts to seep back in. The smell of sawdust. The cold draft. The hardness of the concrete under my boots.
I pull back, looking down at her.
She’s a mess. Her lips are swollen, her hair a tangled halo around her head, and a dark, purpling bite mark on her neck stands out like a flag. She looks thoroughly, completely ravished.
And she smiles.
A slow, sleepy, satisfied smile.
"Hi," she whispers.
I let out a breath that is half-laugh, half-groan. I kiss her forehead, gentle now. The storm inside me has settled. The Vanguard is quiet. "Hi."
I pull out of her slowly. She makes a noise of protest, a little whimper of loss that tugs at my chest. I grab a shop rag—a clean one—and clean us up as best I can. Then I adjust her shirt, pulling it down to cover her, though it does nothing to hide the mark on her neck.
Good.
I zip my jeans, the adrenaline fading into a heavy, bone-deep exhaustion. But it’s a good tired. The kind you get after building something that’s going to last forever.
"Can you walk?" I ask, brushing a strand of hair out of her eyes.
She tests her legs, wincing slightly as she shifts on the bench. "Maybe. If you catch me."
"Always."
I scoop her up into my arms again, lifting her off the workbench. She wraps her arms around my neck, burying her face in my shoulder. She feels right there. A counterweight to all the heavy shit I carry.
I carry her out of the workshop, kicking the door shut behind me with my boot to seal the scent of our heat and the cold steel inside.
We move into the warmth of the cabin. The fire in the woodstove has burned down to embers, casting a soft, orange glow over the living room.
I walk toward the bedroom, intent on burying us under the quilts and sleeping for twelve hours. I don’t stop at the sideboard. I don’t look at the radio. The outside world is a ghost, and the only thing real is the woman in my arms.
I lay her on the bed, her dark hair a mess of curls against my pillow, her skin still flushed and sensitized from the brutal claiming in the workshop.
I follow her down, pinning her into the mattress with the raw, muscular weight of my body, the scent of her soaking pussy and my own spent seed rising between us in the heat of the quilts.
I pull the brass key—the key to her independence and that rotting shack down the ridge—from my pocket and press it into her soft palm."
"The snow is melting, Avery." My voice vibrates in my chest. "The pass will be open by morning. You have your own place. You have your independence."
She doesn't look at the key. She looks at me.
She lets the silver metal fall to the floor with a quiet, certain thud.
"I'm not a guest, Oliver." Her hands tangle in my beard to pull me closer. "And I'm not a stray. I'm exactly where I belong."
I let out a breath I’ve been holding for years. I kiss her, a slow, deep claim that tastes of vanilla and forever.
I pull back just enough to see her eyes, glassy and beautiful in the dim light. I reach into the small drawer of the nightstand and pull out something I’ve been working on in the forge for weeks. Steel, hammered thin and heated until it’s indestructible, with a jagged halo etched into the center.
"I don't just want you in my cabin, Avery," I say, my voice cracking with the weight of it. "I want you to carry my name. I want the whole mountain to know that if they look at you, they’re looking at a Gunnar".
Her breath hitches, her gaze fixed on the dark metal in my hand.
"I’m a mess," I whisper, my thumb tracing her lower lip. "I’m a savage who lives in the trees and sharpens knives to keep the ghosts away. But I’ll be your fortress. I’ll be the ground under your feet. Stay. Marry me."
Tears well up in her eyes, spilling over and soaking into the pillow. She doesn't hesitate. She grabs my hand, guiding the ring onto her finger. It fits perfectly. A lock clicking into place.
"Yes," she sobs, pulling me down for another kiss. "Yes, Oliver. Always."
I hold her so tight our hearts beat as one, the fire in the living room finally dying out, leaving us in the warm, safe dark.
"Tomorrow, the snow melts, and the whole world is going to find out you belong to a Savage."