Chapter 3 Tiffany
TIFFANY
Cedar and hot iron saturate the sheets, a scent so aggressively masculine it wakes me before the sunlight does.
My eyes snap open, and the first thing I see isn't the unfamiliar timber of the ceiling. A heavy leather chair sits empty in the corner. He’s not here. The nightmares start to creep in, a physical weight pressing down on my chest. Air traps in my lungs like a cold fist.
For three seconds, the cage closes in. Ramon’s house. Then I turn my head. The steel-reinforced door, heavy deadbolts, and gunmetal grey walls slam my reality back into place.
Blake.
Wariness settles deeply in my belly, but it’s not panic.
I left Ramon’s manicured prison for the beast’s den, but at least this beast looks me in the eye.
I sit up, the massive duvet pooling around my waist. The bed is enormous, a custom-built frame of dark, welded pipe and distressed wood taking up half the room.
I’m wearing his t-shirt. He gave it to me last night after scrubbing the fear off my skin in the shower.
It hangs off my shoulder, the hem hitting my mid-thigh.
The fabric feels heavy, weighted with his essence.
Clang.
The sound rings through the floorboards. A rhythmic, deep-bellied impact vibrates in my teeth.
Clang.
Steady. Precise. Controlled violence.
I slide my legs out of the bed. Heated polished concrete warms my bare soles. My body aches from the adrenaline crash of yesterday. The terrifying drive up the mountain, the men trying to break into my bakery, Blake’s terrifying efficiency as he extracted me from my life and planted me here.
Clang.
Working.
I should stay in this room. Three inches of solid oak and steel separate me from the rest of the house.
But the silence in the room is loud. My thoughts swarm like bees I can’t outrun.
Ramon found me. After two years of hell and six months of looking over my shoulder, of startled jumps every time a door slammed, he found me. And Blake knew.
I wrap my arms around myself and walk toward the door.
The handle is cool industrial pipe. I turn it and step into the hallway.
The house is structured like a bunker disguised as a cabin—open concept, high ceilings, sightlines that feel tactical rather than aesthetic.
The rhythmic hammering grows louder, coming from the heavy steel door at the end of the main living space. Heat bleeds from beneath it.
I move toward it. The pull is magnetic. Blake Gunnar terrified me yesterday, but he also stood between me and the nightmare I’ve been running from. He looked at violence and didn’t blink. I push the heavy door open.
A physical wall of dry, scorching air slams into me.
Sulfur and coal dust coat my tongue. It tastes like a thunderstorm trapped in a bottle.
The workshop is cavernous, a cathedral of industry attached to the side of the mountain.
One wall is natural rock, weeping slightly with moisture that sizzles where it meets the air.
Racks of tools, sheets of metal, and welding rigs fill the rest of the space.
In the center, bathed in the orange glow of a gas forge roaring like a jet engine, stands Blake. My breath hitches. Stripped to the waist, his skin glistens with sweat and soot. I’ve seen him in the bakery, massive in his leather cut or flannel. This is different. This is the raw animal.
His back is a landscape of muscle and trauma.
Ridges of scar tissue weave through the ink covering his shoulders—thick, jagged lines telling stories of knife fights and shrapnel.
As he swings a heavy hammer down onto a glowing bar of red-hot steel on the anvil, the muscles of his back ripple like pythons moving under silk.
Clang.
Sparks shower around him. Deadly confetti bounces off his heavy leather apron and denim-clad thighs.
He ignores it, completely absorbed in the violence of creation.
He lifts the tongs, flipping the glowing metal with an ease that belies the weight, and strikes again.
His biceps bulge. Veins pop against the tanned skin of his forearms. He looks like Hephaestus forged from the mountain itself.
I watch, mesmerized. My ex-husband was a businessman.
Soft hands, expensive suits, cruelty living in his words.
Blake is purely physical. A weapon. Watching the sweat drip down the channel of his spine, my pussy is already drenched, the heat dripping between my thighs in a heavy, rhythmic pulse.
I shouldn't be turned on. I should be running. But I’m not running.
He stops mid-swing. He doesn't turn around. He freezes, hammer held aloft.
"You're barefoot," he says. His voice grinds like gravel over glass, barely audible over the forge’s roar. "Metal shavings on the floor, Tiffany."
I curl my toes, glancing down. The darker concrete glitters with dust. "I heard the noise."
He turns slowly. The front of him devastates me more than the back. His chest is broad beneath the heavy leather forge apron, his exposed arms thick and corded with muscle. But his face pins me to the spot.
Dark, intelligent eyes burn with a focus that weakens my knees. He slides his protective glasses up into his sweat-dampened hair, revealing that predatory gaze.
"Did you sleep?" He sets the hammer down on the anvil with a heavy thud. He uses the tongs to shove the cooling metal back into the roaring mouth of the forge.
"A little." A lie sits heavy on my tongue. "Where am I, Blake? Really?"
He grabs a rag from his back pocket and wipes his face, smearing soot across his cheekbone. Savage. He walks toward me. I fight the urge to step back. He eats up the space, a looming tower of heat and aggression.
"You're in the Grizzly Peak district," he says, stopping three feet away. Close enough to smell him—sharp old sweat, metallic steel, and that rich, woodsy scent seeping from his pores. "My property. The Forge."
"Is it safe?" I ask, keeping my voice steady. I won't be the victim anymore.
Blake closes the distance. He blots out the light from the forge. He looks down at me, expression unreadable. "Nothing gets in here unless I let it in. The perimeter is alarmed. Walls reinforced. I have eyes on the road three miles out."
"You watched me," I whisper. "You admitted it last night. You’ve been watching me for months."
"Yes." No apology. Just a flat statement of fact. "And because I was watching, Ramon's hired muscle didn't drag you into a sedan yesterday."
He reaches out. His hand is massive, stained with work. I don't flinch. Blake freezes. His jaw tightens, a muscle feathering in his cheek. He waits, letting me see his hand—palm open, calloused, dangerous but still.
"I am not him," he says softly. The menace drops out of his voice, replaced by rough, possessive gravity. "I break bones, Tiffany. I burn things. I kill things that threaten what’s mine. But I will never, ever hurt you."
Static charges the air between us.
"You keep saying 'mine'," I say, meeting his gaze. "What exactly does that make me? A prisoner or a guest?"
Blake’s eyes darken. His pupils dilate until the irises look black. He steps closer, crowding my personal space, forcing me to tilt my head back. Overwhelming heat radiates off his body.
"You’re here, aren't you?" he says hoarsely. "You’re wearing my shirt. You’re in my house. You’re safe."
He avoids the question.
"Go to the kitchen," he commands, softness evaporating into his usual alpha tone. "Stay off the floor in here. I’ll be there to make you eat."
"I can cook," I say, finding a shred of my spine. "I own a bakery, Blake. I’m not an invalid."
"You’re recovering from shock." He turns back to the forge. "And you’re barefoot. Go."
He doesn't wait for me to obey. He pulls the glowing steel from the fire, the orange light painting his torso in demonic hues, and brings the hammer down.
Clang.
I turn and flee to the kitchen. My heart hammers a frantic rhythm against my ribs, matching his strikes perfectly.
Stainless steel appliances, black granite countertops, and a massive butcher block island make the kitchen shockingly modern compared to the dungeon-like workshop.
Clean. Sterile. It looks like no one lives here.
I find a coffee maker—a high-end espresso machine looking more complicated than my car—and manage to fumble through a double shot.
My hands shake. The caffeine won’t help, but the ritual grounds me.
I lean against the counter, clutching the ceramic mug with both hands, when Blake walks in.
Mostly washed up. The soot is gone from his face and arms, and he’s pulled on a fresh black t-shirt clinging to his damp skin like a second layer of dermis.
He still smells like smoke. That smell never leaves him.
He moves with silent grace for a man of his size. He opens the fridge—stocked with military precision. Cartons of eggs, thick-cut bacon, steaks, spinach. No junk.
"Sit," he says, jerking his chin toward the barstools at the island.
"I want to help," I insist, setting my mug down. "Blake, please. I need to do something with my hands or I’m going to scream."
He pauses, a carton of eggs in one hand, a cast-iron skillet in the other. He assesses my mental state with terrifying precision.
"Flour."
"What?"
"Top cupboard to the left of the sink. I bought flour. Sugar. Baking soda." He turns to the stove, igniting the gas burner with a click. "I figured you’d need to... do whatever it is you do."
I stare at his broad back. He bought baking supplies?
He’s been stalking me, yes, but the attention to detail disarms me.
He planned to keep me sane. I move to the cupboard.
Brand new bags of high-quality flour, sugar, and creamy maple and warm spice sit on the shelf.
My throat tightens. Kindness I didn't expect from a man who looks like he eats nails for breakfast.