Owned By the Prospect (Broken Halos Motorcycle Club #7)

Chapter 1 Tiffany

TIFFANY

The heavy thud of dough hitting the butcher block counter is the only sound in the world that makes sense to me anymore.

Thump.

Exhale.

Thump.

I push the heels of my hands into the yielding, warm mass.

Fold. Turn. Push. It’s four in the morning, the hour of ghosts and bakers.

The front windows of Sweet Pine Bakery act as black mirrors reflecting the interior: the chrome of the espresso machine, the glass display cases currently empty and waiting, and me—a woman trying to disappear inside an oversized flour-dusted apron.

My arms burn with the rhythm, a familiar, grounding ache.

This is safety. This is control. Here, in the back of the shop on Main Street, surrounded by fifty-pound sacks of flour and the hum of the convection ovens, I am not the terrified girl who ran from Chicago in the middle of the night with nothing but a go-bag and bruised ribs.

I am Tiffany Royce. I make the best bear claws in the Grizzly Peak District. I am boring. Invisible.

"Two hundred turns," I whisper, my voice strained in the quiet. "One hundred ninety-eight left."

I lean my weight into the dough, feeling the gluten strands tighten.

My hair, a heavy dark curtain tied back in a messy knot, threatens to escape its clip.

Sweat gathers at my temples, sliding down the curve of my neck.

It’s hot back here, a sweltering, yeasty womb that keeps the mountain chill at bay.

Outside, Pine Valley sleeps. The fog will be rolling off the Grizzly Peak cliffs right now, blanketing the pines in that thick, gray soup that makes everything feel isolated.

Isolation used to scare me.

Now, I crave it. The mountains stand as a wall, a fortress of granite and timber keeping the past out.

Or so I tell myself.

The town has been buzzing since the ribbon-cutting for the new rescue center last week. I’d watched from the edge of the crowd as the Gunnars stood on that stage like kings.

They were terrifying, but it was the one standing in the back—with the dark, heavy stare—who made the air in my lungs stall. He hadn't been looking at the Mayor or the cameras; he’d been looking at me.

I’d retreated to the safety of my dough and my ovens, but I haven't been able to shake the feeling that I brought the weight of his eyes home with me.

I shake my head, forcing my focus back to the butcher block and the familiar resistance of the dough.

The flour-dusted air feels suddenly charged, as if that same heavy gaze from the ceremony has followed me through the week, finally narrowing down to this very room.

The fine hairs on my nape stand on end as the silence outside becomes too heavy, too intentional.

I look up, my gaze snagging on the dark, empty sidewalk visible through the front window.

A shadow falls across the front glass.

My hands freeze on the dough. My heart slams against my ribs, instant adrenaline flooding my system like battery acid. I don’t breathe. I don’t blink. I just stare at the reflection in the dark window.

Nothing moves.

Just a deer, I tell myself, forcing my lungs to expand. Or a stray dog. Or the wind.

But the primal part of my brain—the lizard brain that kept me alive through two years of a marriage that was less a partnership and more a hostage situation, and the six months of looking over my shoulder since—disagrees. It screams predator.

I reach for the rolling pin. It’s heavy maple, solid enough to break a bone if I swing it hard enough. I grip it until my fingers dig into the wood, dust falling like snow.

"Try me," I hiss, my grip tightening on the maple handle. "I left Chicago for a quiet life. I'm not going back without a fight."

The shadow detaches itself from the darkness of Main Street and moves toward the door.

Not a deer. A man. And he’s huge. Even through the distorted reflection and the gloom, I see the sheer breadth of his shoulders.

He blots out the streetlights, a monolith of darkness.

He doesn't walk. He prowls. A fluid, lethal grace to his movement separates him from normal people.

Normal people walk with hesitation, with noise. He moves like smoke.

He stops at the door. The sign clearly says CLOSED.

I hold my breath, the rolling pin raised. If he tries the lock, he’s getting a face full of maple. I’m not running out the back. I’m done running.

He doesn't try the handle. He just stands there. Watching.

I can’t see his eyes, but I feel them. A physical sensation, like a rough thumb tracing the nape of my neck.

The air in the bakery, thick with the scent of cinnamon and yeast, suddenly feels charged, heavy with static.

The fine hairs on my arms stand up, pricking against the fabric of my long sleeves.

This isn’t the first time I’ve felt this.

For weeks, eyes have tracked me. While I’m unloading the delivery truck.

While I’m walking to the bank. A heavy, silent weight pressing against my skin.

I chalked it up to a broken instinct, the phantom itch of a survivor.

But looking at the silhouette framed in my glass door, I know.

The weight on my skin wasn't a ghost of my past; it was the heavy, living presence of the man in the glass.

He raises a hand. I brace myself, feet planted, refusing to flinch. He doesn't hit the door. He rests his palm against the glass, high up, flat and open. A massive hand. Even through the barrier, the gesture feels intimate. Possessive.

Then, just as silently as he arrived, he turns and melts into the shadows of the alleyway next to the hardware store. I let out a breath, lowering the rolling pin but not letting go. My heart hammers against my ribs, but it’s not just fear. It’s adrenaline. It’s a challenge.

"Creep," I mutter, wiping damp hands on my apron.

But my body betrays my terror with a violent, animalistic hunger.

My nipples are agonizingly tight, chafing raw against the lace of my bra with every ragged breath.

Lower down, my pussy pulses, a sudden, heavy ache blooming in my depths.

I’m already soaked, the heat dripping between my thighs in a way that has nothing to do with fear and everything to do with the raw, primal pheromones of the predator on the other side of the glass.

I’m being hunted, and my body is begging to be caught.

I hate myself for it. I hate that my body reacts to danger with arousal. I force myself back to the dough. Work is the cure. Work is the distraction.

Thump.

But now, the rhythm is broken. Every shadow in the corner of the room looks like him. Every creak of the building settling sounds like a footstep.

By six a.m., the display case is full. Glazed croissants, blueberry scones, cinnamon twists, and the signature bear claws—massive, flaky, and drizzled with almond icing. The smell is intoxicating, a siren song for the morning commuters.

I flip the sign to OPEN and unlock the door, my heart still doing that nervous flutter in my throat.

Routine helps. Mrs. Gable comes in at 6:05 for her bran muffin.

The construction crew working on the new library wing comes in at 6:15 for coffee and donuts.

The noise of the espresso grinder drowns out the quiet terror in my head.

The bell above the door jingles at 6:45. A time usually reserved for the quiet rush before the school run. The air changes instantly. The oxygen thins, turning cold and sharp. The chatter of the two tourists in the corner booth dies out.

I look up from the register, and the air in my lungs turns to stone. He’s here. The shadow.

He has to duck to get through the doorway.

He is... terrifying. Absolutely, brutally magnificent.

He wears worn denim and heavy boots that thud ominously against the hardwood floor.

A black t-shirt strains across a chest carved from granite, hugging biceps thick enough to crush a human skull.

Over the shirt, a leather vest—a "cut," I think they call it. I’ve seen them around town.

Broken Halos MC. The patch on his heart says PROSPECT, but nothing about this man suggests subservience.

He is chaos and order wrapped in skin. His face is harsh, all sharp angles and rough stubble, a permanent, dangerous scowl etched into his features. His hair is dark, shorn close on the sides, longer on top, messy as if he’s been riding through a storm.

But his eyes paralyze me. Dark, almost black, burning with an intensity that strips me naked right here behind the counter. He doesn’t look around the shop. He doesn’t look at the menu board. He doesn’t look at the tourists shrinking into their booth. He looks at me. A physical impact. A collision.

My hands, reaching for a to-go cup, pause. I force them to move steadily. He walks to the counter. Every step deliberate. He moves like he owns the floorboards beneath his feet. He owns the air I’m trying to breathe. He owns the silence that has fallen over the room.

He stops directly in front of me. The counter is high, meant to create a barrier between me and the customers, but he towers over it.

He’s so close I can smell him. He smells like hot iron, ozone, leather, and something uniquely, muskily him.

A scent that bypasses my logic centers and hits my limbic system like a drug.

"Hi," I manage. My voice is tighter than I like, but clear. I clear my throat, summoning the professional baker mask I’ve perfected. "Can I help you?"

He doesn't answer immediately. He leans forward, placing those massive hands on the glass countertop. I see grease stains deep in the whorls of his fingerprints, calluses thick and rough. These are hands that build. Hands that destroy.