Chapter 7
Elise walked into the compound's main building carrying two guitar cases because they were the only things left that were entirely hers.
The converted mine complex sprawled around her like a small city—buildings connected by covered walkways, industrial heating rumbling somewhere underground, the smell of coffee and motor oil and wood smoke mixing into something that shouldn't have been comforting but somehow was.
She'd killed a man four hours ago.
The thought kept circling back, unavoidable. The weight of the shotgun. The kick against her shoulder. The way his chest had opened up and he'd fallen and she hadn't hesitated, hadn't frozen, had just pulled the trigger and watched him drop.
Her hands weren't shaking anymore. She wasn't sure what that meant.
Roughcut walked beside her with his palm pressed against the small of her back.
He'd barely let go of her since they left the garage—small touches, constant contact, like he needed to confirm she was still there with every step.
She should have minded. Should have told him she wasn't fragile, wasn't going to shatter just because the night had gone to hell.
Instead, she leaned into his hand and let him guide her through corridors she didn't know.
The main house was bigger than it looked from outside.
High ceilings that had probably belonged to some mine executive's office, now converted into a gathering space with worn leather furniture and a bar built from what looked like old mining equipment.
Warmth poured from a massive fireplace, and the walls were covered with photographs—decades of Savage history, faces she didn't recognize, bikes she couldn't name.
Maren appeared from somewhere with blankets and a bottle of whiskey.
"Bunkhouse is this way," she said, pressing the blankets into Elise's arms. "You're in the guest quarters until we figure out something more permanent."
"Permanent?" Elise blinked. "I'm not—this isn't—"
"Honey." Maren's voice was kind but firm. "Your van is ash, your house is probably being watched, and you just survived an assault that killed six of Wennberg's men. You're not going anywhere tonight, and probably not tomorrow either."
Elise opened her mouth to argue. Closed it.
She didn't have anywhere else to go.
Roughcut's hand pressed more firmly against her back. Grounding. Present.
"I'll show her," he said.
Maren's eyes flicked between them—assessing something Elise couldn't read. Then she nodded, a small smile playing at the corner of her mouth.
"Astrid's making food," she said. "Come to the kitchen when you're settled. You need to eat something, even if you don't feel hungry."
The bunkhouse was a converted office building connected to the main structure by a heated walkway. Roughcut led her to a room at the end of the hall—small but clean, with a single bed, a desk, and a window that looked out over pine forest touched by the first gray light of dawn.
He set her guitar cases against the wall with that same impossible gentleness. Like they were made of glass. Like everything he touched might break.
"You need anything?" he asked.
"I need about twelve hours of sleep and a time machine." She sat on the edge of the bed, exhaustion hitting her all at once. "Failing that, I'll take the whiskey."
He handed her the bottle Maren had given them. She took a long pull, felt it burn down her throat, and passed it back.
"You should try to rest," Roughcut said.
"So should you."
"I will. After."
"After what?"
He didn't answer. Just stood there in the doorway, filling the frame, looking at her with those sad brown eyes like she was something precious he'd been trusted to protect.
"You don't have to watch me sleep," she said quietly.
"I know."
"Roughcut—"
"Sam."
The word landed like a stone in still water. Elise went still.
"What?"
"My name." He said it simply, without ceremony. "Sam Pelletier. The brothers call me Roughcut because of the dozer work. But my name is Sam."
She stared at him. In the gray dawn light, he looked exhausted—blood on his clothes, dust in his hair, bruises forming on his jaw where Kovich had landed blows. But his eyes were clear. Focused entirely on her.
"Why are you telling me this?"
"Because you should know." He held her gaze. "Because after tonight, you've earned it."
Something cracked open in her chest. The same feeling she'd had in the garage when he'd pulled her against him—the overwhelming sense of being held by someone who actually gave a damn whether she lived or died.
"Sam," she said, testing the sound of it.
His expression shifted. Just slightly. Like hearing his name in her voice did something to him he hadn't expected.
"Get some sleep," he said, his voice rougher than before. "I'll be outside."
He pulled the door closed behind him.
Elise sat in the silence for a long moment, the whiskey warm in her stomach and the weight of the night pressing down on her shoulders. She should sleep. Should close her eyes and let the exhaustion take her.
Instead, she reached for her acoustic.
The guitar felt solid in her hands. Real. The calluses on her fingertips found the strings like coming home, and she played a soft chord that bounced off the mine-office walls instead of bar ceilings.
Different acoustics. Different room. Same instrument that had gotten her through a decade of fifty-dollar gigs and empty highways and nights when the loneliness felt like it might swallow her whole.
She played another chord. Let her fingers wander into something new—a melody she hadn't known was living in her head until this moment.
Something about a man with sad eyes and gentle hands. About the way he'd said her name wasn't his to protect, and then protected her anyway. About trust built in the space between gunshots and silence.
The first line came without warning.
Heavy things move when they're ready to fall—
She stopped. Looked at the words her hand had written on the notepad beside the bed, the one she hadn't even noticed picking up.
A new song. In the middle of everything—the violence, the fear, the complete destruction of the life she'd built—her brain had started writing a new song.
About him.
Elise set the guitar aside and stared at the ceiling, something complicated and terrifying taking root in her chest.
She was in so much trouble.
A soft knock at the door made her sit up. "Yeah?"
The door opened to reveal Astrid—Ice's woman, according to Maren. Blonde and soft-spoken, with flour-dusted hands that spoke to her bakery work and kind eyes that saw more than they let on.
"I brought food." She held up a plate of sandwiches and a thermos. "Maren said you probably wouldn't come to the kitchen, so the kitchen came to you."
"You didn't have to—"
"I know." Astrid set the food on the desk and settled into the room's only chair like she belonged there. "But this is what we do. The women, I mean. We take care of each other."
Elise looked at the sandwiches. Her stomach growled despite everything.
"Eat," Astrid said gently. "You'll feel more human after."
She ate. Astrid watched without watching—that particular skill of women who understood the value of silent company.
"The first night is the hardest," Astrid said eventually. "All of us have been where you are. Different circumstances, different threats, but the same feeling of your whole world getting turned upside down."
"Does it get easier?"
"The fear does. The rest..." Astrid shrugged. "You learn to live with it. To appreciate what you have instead of mourning what you lost."
Elise set down the sandwich. "And what exactly do I have now?"
"Protection. Community. A man who killed someone with his bare hands tonight because that someone threatened you.
" Astrid's eyes were steady. "That might not seem like much right now.
But trust me—these men will move heaven and earth for the women they claim.
And that one out there? He's already decided you're his, whether he's admitted it to himself or not. "
The words landed heavy in the quiet room.
"I don't belong to anyone," Elise said automatically.
"That's not what I said." Astrid smiled. "Belonging to someone and being claimed by them aren't the same thing. One is about possession. The other is about protection." She stood, gathering the empty plate. "Get some rest. Tomorrow will be complicated enough without you facing it exhausted."
She left as quietly as she'd come.
Elise sat in the silence, Astrid's words echoing in her head. He's already decided you're his.
She thought about the way Roughcut—Sam—had pulled her against his chest in the wrecked garage. The way his hands had run over her body, checking for wounds, frantic and possessive. The way he'd given her his name like it was something sacred.
Sam.
She picked up the guitar again. Found that new melody. Let the words come.
Heavy things move when they're ready to fall, But you held the ground when the mountain called—
The song wasn't finished. Might not be finished for weeks, for months, for however long this chaos lasted.
But it was starting.
And somehow, that felt like the only thing that mattered.