Chapter 1 Tiffany #2
His gaze drops to my mouth, then slowly, agonizingly, drags down my throat, over the pulse jumping frantically in my neck, down to where my apron strains over my breasts. I feel the heat of his stare like a physical touch, scorching my skin. My nipples peak instantly, painfully hard, betraying me.
His eyes snap back up to mine. He knows.
"You were scared this morning," he says. His voice is a low baritone, a grinding of gravel and bass that vibrates in the floor, traveling up my legs and settling deep in my womb. Not a question. A statement.
I freeze. "I... what?"
"Four a.m.," he says, his eyes narrowing slightly. "You saw me. You grabbed a weapon."
My mouth opens, but no sound comes out. How did he know I grabbed the rolling pin? He was outside. It was dark.
"I didn't mean to spook you," he continues, though he doesn't look sorry. His gaze remains heavy. Focused. "But you shouldn't be here alone that early. The back door lock is shit. A swift kick would snap the deadbolt."
I blink, stunned. "Excuse me?"
"I can reinforce it," he says, as if we’re discussing the weather. "I have the steel. I’ll come by later."
"I didn't ask for your help," I say, stepping back but keeping my chin up. This is too much. He’s too big, too intense. "Who are you?"
He watches me retreat, and a muscle feathers in his jaw. He doesn't like the distance. I see the irritation flash in his eyes—a predator denied its proximity.
"Blake," he says. "Gunnar."
The name lands heavy. Gunnar. I’ve heard it whispered at the grocery store. The family that runs the mountain. The Kings of Grizzly Peak. The ones you don't cross.
"Okay, Blake," I say, trying to keep my voice steady. "I’m Tiffany. And I appreciate the concern, but the lock is fine."
"It's not," he counters flatly. "And you're Tiffany Royce. You drive a beat-up blue sedan that stalls when it rains. You live in the apartment above the bakery. You don't sleep enough."
The blood drains from my face. The room spins.
"Are you stalking me?" The question is sharp, an accusation rather than a plea. I tighten my grip on the counter.
Blake’s expression darkens. He leans further over the counter, invading my space until his face is inches from mine. I should run. I should scream. But I’m rooted to the spot, trapped in the gravitational pull of his dark eyes.
"Watching," he corrects, his voice dropping to a growl meant for my ears only. "There’s a difference."
"Why?"
"Because," he says, and for a moment, the hardness in his eyes fractures, revealing something molten and desperate underneath. "Because you're soft. And this mountain eats soft things if they aren't protected."
"I can protect myself," I insist, though the tremor in my hands says otherwise.
He snorts, a rough, dismissive sound. "With a rolling pin?" He reaches out. I don't flinch. I hold his gaze, daring him.
But he just tucks a loose strand of hair behind my ear.
His fingers are rough, calloused sandpaper against my sensitive skin, but his touch is shockingly gentle.
Like he’s handling spun sugar. The contact sends a jolt of electricity through me so potent my knees buckle.
I have to grab the counter to stay upright.
His knuckles are like hot iron against my cheek, the calluses scraping my skin in a way that makes my breath hitch.
He drags his thumb across the swell of my lower lip, forcing it down, exposing the damp heat of my mouth to his gaze.
A gasp escapes me, and his pupils blow wide, twin pits of darkness devouring the light.
He leans in until his scent—leather, sweat, and hot metal—is the only thing I can breathe.
"You smell like warm cinnamon and honey," he murmurs darkly, his thumb dipping just deep enough to catch on my teeth.
"And you're already dripping for me. I can smell how bad you want to be taken. "
"I..." My brain has short-circuited. I am a deer in headlights, but I don't want to run. I want to lean into his hand. I want to rub my cheek against his rough palm.
"Coffee," he says abruptly, pulling his hand back as if burned. The loss of contact makes me ache. "Black. And two of those bear claws."
I blink, trying to reboot my cognitive functions. "Right. Coffee. Bear claws."
I move on autopilot, grabbing the tongs. My hands are steady now, fueled by a strange mix of anger and arousal. I feel him tracking my every movement. He watches the sway of my hips, the way my apron ties at the waist. I feel exposed, raw, and incredibly, undeniably turned on.
I pour the coffee. The steam rises between us. I place the cup and the bag on the counter.
"That’s... six dollars."
He pulls a wallet from his back pocket, chained to his belt loop. He pulls out a twenty and drops it on the counter.
"Keep it."
"I can't—"
"Keep it," he commands.
He grabs the coffee, taking a sip without wincing at the heat.
He pins me in place with a stare so heavy it feels like a physical hand around my throat. "I’m fixing that door today," he rumbles, the command vibrating in the pit of my stomach. "Don't even think about locking me out."
"I didn't give you permission to touch my shop," I snap, trying to find a scrap of my spine. Blake doesn't just smile; he looms, closing the distance until I’m trapped against the register.
"I don't need permission to secure what belongs to me," he growls, his voice dropping to a jagged edge. "You’re mine to watch, Tiffany. From the moment you stepped onto this mountain, you became Gunnar property. Get used to the weight of my eyes."
Then he turns and strides out, the bell jingling cheerfully behind him, oblivious to the fact that he just detonated my entire world.
I stare at the empty door. The scent of him—ozone and leather—lingers in the air, overpowering the yeast and sugar. My legs finally give out, and I sink onto the stool behind the register. I press my hand to my chest. My heart tries to beat its way out of my ribcage.
You're mine to watch.
It sounds like a threat. My ex-husband used words like mine as a cage. But when Blake said it... it didn't feel like a cage. It felt like a shield.
I touch my cheek where his fingers grazed me.
The skin still tingles, hot and sensitized.
I look at the twenty-dollar bill on the counter.
I know I should be terrified. I know I should pack my bag and run before the sun fully rises.
A man like that—a man who watches from the shadows, a man who wears violence like a second skin—is dangerous.
But as I look out the window at the growing light on Main Street, seeing the dust motes dancing where he stood, I know I’m not going anywhere. For the first time since I packed that go-bag six months ago, the cold knot of fear in my stomach has been replaced by a different kind of heat.
I pull the cash drawer open and drop the twenty inside.
"Okay, Blake Gunnar," I whisper, my voice barely carries over the hum of the ovens and the quiet chatter of the two regulars in the corner. "Let's see what you've got."
The morning rush begins ten minutes later.
The bells ring, the voices chatter, the coffee grinder whirs.
I smile, I make change, I serve muffins.
I play the part of the sweet, shy baker.
But every time the door opens, my eyes snap to it, hungry for a flash of leather, hoping for the monster to come back.
Around ten o'clock, the delivery truck from the city pulls up. I’d been so distracted by the grinding roar of the library construction crew next door that I hadn't even looked toward the back.
When I step out, I stop dead. My back door—the heavy steel security door that has always stuck in the frame—is transformed.
A thick plate of high-carbon steel has been welded over the lock mechanism, the edges still radiating a faint, industrial heat.
A professional-grade deadbolt is sunk deep into the frame, the silver gleaming like a warning.
He did this while I was twenty feet away.
He worked with the precision of a ghost while the construction noise drowned out his torch, claiming my safety before I even knew I was vulnerable.
And etched into the cooling steel, tiny and precise, sits a single rune. I don't know what it means, but it looks like protection. He was here. While I served customers, while I was distracted, he was here. Working. Fixing. Silent.
I run my fingers over the rough weld. Solid. Unbreakable. My oxygen stalls in my chest. He didn't ask for permission. He didn't wait for thanks. He just saw a weakness in my defense, and he fortified it.
A shadow detaches from the roofline of the building opposite the alley. I look up, shielding my eyes against the sun. Blake is there. Perched on the edge of the roof like a gargoyle, one leg dangling, a cigarette smoking in his hand.
He’s watching me. He sees me touch the lock. He sees the realization hit my face. He takes a drag, exhales a plume of gray smoke into the blue sky, and jerks his chin once, a rough acknowledgment that makes my breath hitch.
Mine to watch.
A jolt of electricity rips through me. It starts at my toes and ends in a clench between my thighs so intense I have to press my legs together. I don't look away. I nod back.
He tosses the cigarette, stands up in one fluid motion, and disappears over the crest of the roof.
I stand there in the alley, clutching my clipboard, staring at the spot where he vanished. I should call the police. I should call a locksmith. Instead, I turn back to my reinforced door, slide the new, heavy key he left sitting on the ledge into the lock, and turn it.
Click-thunk.
Solid. Safe. I step inside, closing the door behind me, and for the first time since I arrived in Pine Valley, I lock the world out and feel truly, completely safe.
And I know, with a terrifying certainty, that I am going to let him catch me.