Chapter 2 Blake #2
"You’re not going back to him." I lean down, my mouth inches from her ear. I inhale the scent of her—warm cinnamon, honey, and woman. "You’re coming with me. And once I get you up that mountain, Tiffany... you’re never going to be afraid again."
She looks at me. She sees the permanent scowl etched into my features. She sees the darkness that lives in my eyes. And for some insane reason, she doesn't pull away. She leans in.
"Okay," she whispers.
"Good girl."
The praise slips out automatically. I see her pupils blow wide, swallowing the blue. A flush rises on her neck, pink and lovely. Even in terror, her body responds to me. That knowledge settles the monster in my blood better than violence ever could.
I march her into the office. She grabs her purse and a tote bag.
"My phone," she says, reaching for it on the desk.
I intercept her hand. "Leave it."
"But—"
"They can track it. GPS. If he found you, he has resources." I pick up her phone and drop it into a pitcher of water sitting on her desk.
She gasps. "Blake! That was brand new!"
"I'll buy you the factory," I mutter, grabbing her hand again. "Let's go."
We move to the back door. I pause, checking the alley.
Empty. I hustle her to the truck, opening the passenger door and lifting her in by her waist. My hands span her hips easily.
She’s light, but curvy in all the right places.
As I lift her, her skirt rides up, exposing a pale, soft thigh.
I force myself to look away, slamming the door shut.
I circle the truck, scanning the rooftops, the street corners. Nothing. I climb in and lock the doors. As I pull out of the alley, I see her looking at her bakery in the side mirror, her expression crumpling.
"I worked so hard for this place," she says softly.
"It’ll be there tomorrow," I promise, reaching across the center console.
I take her hand, pulling it onto my thigh.
Her fingers are ice cold. I crank the heat up to max without asking and reach into the back seat, grabbing the heavy wool blanket I keep for emergencies.
I drape it over her lap with one hand, tucking it around her legs.
"My cousins will have eyes on it by morning.
Nobody burns down a Gunnar protected business. "
"Gunnar protected?" She looks at my hand engulfing hers, her thumb tracing the thick vein on the back of my wrist. "Is that what this is? Business?"
I shift gears, the engine growling as we start the climb up the switchbacks. The town lights fade behind us, replaced by the towering, silent sentinels of the pines. The air gets thinner, colder.
"No," I say, my voice low. "This isn't business."
I don't elaborate. I drive.
The road to my place is barely a road. It’s a gravel track that winds up the eastern cliffs, far past where the pavement ends. We pass the turnoff for the main Clubhouse. We keep going up.
"Where do you live?" she asks. The fear recedes, replaced by a nervous curiosity. She watches me drive, her eyes tracking the flex of my forearm as I wrestle the wheel.
"The Old Forge," I say. "My grandfather built it. It’s the highest structure on the ridge."
"Is it... safe?"
I glance at her. "It’s a fortress, Tiffany. Steel reinforced doors. Bulletproof glass. You could drop a bomb on it and it wouldn't shake."
"And you live there alone?"
"I like the quiet." I liked the quiet. Now, looking at her sitting in my passenger seat, silence seems unbearable. I want to hear her breathe. I want to hear her moan.
We crest the final rise. The Forge sits against the rock face like it was carved out of the mountain itself. It’s an ugly, brutalist structure of stone and iron, smoke rising from the chimney stack. The security lights flood the gravel turnaround as I pull in.
I kill the engine. The sudden silence is deafening. The wind howls outside, stripping through the pine needles, but inside the cab, it’s just our breathing.
"We’re here," I say.
She looks out at the dark building. "It looks... intense."
"It keeps the world out."
I get out and come around to her side. When she opens the door, the mountain air hits her—crisp and freezing.
She quakes immediately, her thin bakery apron offering no protection.
I strip off my cut. Underneath, I’m wearing a black t-shirt that strains across my chest. I drape the heavy leather vest over her shoulders.
It swallows her. She looks ridiculous and perfect, wearing my patch.
"Come on."
I lead her to the massive steel front door. It unlocks with a biometric scan of my palm. The bolts retract with heavy, mechanical thuds. More vault than prison. And I just put my most valuable asset inside.
We step into the living space. Open concept, industrial. Concrete floors heated from beneath. Exposed beams. One wall is entirely glass—the bulletproof kind—looking out over the dark valley below. A massive stone fireplace dominates the room, the embers still glowing red from this morning.
I lock the door behind us. The sound is final.
Tiffany stands in the middle of the room, clutching my vest around her. She looks around, taking in the sparse furniture, the lack of decorations, the wall mounted with antique tools and weapons.
"It’s warm," she murmurs.
"I keep the fires going." I walk past her to the kitchen area. "Are you hungry?"
"No. I feel sick." She sits down on one of the leather barstools, legs trembling again. "Blake, what happens now? I can't stay here forever. The police—"
"The police can't help you," I say, pouring a glass of amber liquid from a decanter. "If they could, you wouldn't be running."
I slide the glass across the granite counter. "Drink."
She sniffs it. "Whiskey?"
"You didn't eat that bear claw this morning," I say, walking to the fridge. "I watched you leave it on the counter. You're running on empty, Tiff." I pull out a carton of eggs and some pre-cut vegetables. "Sit. I'm making you an omelet. Drink it slowly, whiskey on an empty stomach will drop you."
She takes a sip, coughing as the burn hits her throat. But she takes another. A flush of color returns to her cheeks.
I walk around the counter until I’m standing between her spread knees. It’s an aggressive stance. I want her to know it. I place my hands on the granite on either side of her hips, boxing her in.
"You stay here," I say, my voice dropping to that rough register that makes her eyelids flutter. "You sleep in my bed. You eat my food. You let me handle the threat."
"And what do you get out of this?" she asks, her voice small. She looks at my mouth. "Why are you doing this for a baker you barely know?"
I reach up, brushing a thumb across her cheekbone.
I smear a streak of flour, revealing the creamy skin beneath.
"I know you, Tiffany. I know you unlock your door at 3:45 a.m. I know you listen to true crime podcasts while you knead the dough because the silence scares you.
I know you check the locks three times before you start the ovens. "
Her breath hitches. "You... you’ve been watching me."
"Yes." I don't apologize. I don't shy away.
"For how long?"
"Since the day you moved into town."
"That’s... that’s stalking, Blake."
"Call it what you want." I lean in closer, until our noses are almost touching. "Tonight, that stalking is the only reason you aren't in the trunk of a black sedan heading back to a man who hurts you."
She stiffens, her eyes flashing. "So you're my savior and my stalker? Convenient." But she doesn't pull away.
"You’re safe here," I tell her. "But there are rules."
"Rules?" Her chin tilts up. There’s that spark of defiance I saw when she held the rolling pin. I want to fan that spark into a flame.
"Rule one," I say, running my hand down the side of her neck, feeling her pulse jump. "You don't leave this house without me. Not for fresh air. Not for anything. The perimeter is alarmed. If you cross it, I’ll know."
She swallows hard. "Okay."
"Rule two." My hand drifts lower, resting on the curve of her shoulder beneath the leather vest. "You do what I say, when I say it. In a situation like this, hesitation gets people killed."
"I’m not a soldier, Blake."
"No. You’re the objective. And I don't lose."
The air between us is thick, heavy with the scent of her pussy getting drenched while she stares at me.
I can see the way she clenches her thighs together, trying to fight the ache I’ve put in her.
She’s terrified, yeah, but she’s also dripping for the man who just hauled her out of the fire.
It’s a visceral, raw need that makes my balls tighten, a silent plea for me to fill her until she can’t scream.
"Is there a rule three?" she whispers.
My gaze drops to her lips. Full, parted, pink. I want to devour her. I want to lift her onto this counter and bury myself so deep inside her she forgets her own name. But she’s traumatized. Fragile. If I break her now, she’ll never heal right.
I force myself to step back. The loss of proximity hurts physically.
"Rule three," I state, my hand moving to the nape of her neck, my thumb stroking the tension there.
"You sleep in my bed. Under my sheets. I’ll be in the chair by the door.
" I catch her gaze, letting her see the raw honesty in mine.
"I can't sleep unless I can hear you breathing, Tiffany.
I need to know the monster didn't get in. "
"Blake—"
"Don't argue with me, Tiff." I walk toward the hallway. "Bathroom is on the left. Towels are clean. Wash the flour off. You smell like a cookie, and it’s making it very hard for me to think."
I leave her sitting there, stunned and flushed, clutching my whiskey glass.
I turn back to the stove, cracking eggs into the skillet with a harsh sizzle. I stare down at the cooking food, my blood still thrumming. The beast paces in my chest, scratching at the back of my ribs.
She’s here. She’s under my roof. Safe.
I pull up the security feed on my phone again. The perimeter is clear. The mountain is silent. But they’re out there. And when the sun comes up, the real war begins.
I listen to the sound of the shower turning on in the other room. I close my eyes and visualize the water running over her body, soap suds sliding down those curves I’ve only memorized from a distance.
I groan, scrubbing a hand over my face. It’s going to be a long fucking night.