Chapter 3 Tiffany #2
I grab a bowl and the flour. I don't even know what I’m making—biscuits, maybe. Something simple. I just need to knead dough. I need to beat something up that won’t hit back.
We work in silence. The sizzle of bacon hits the pan, the scent rich and savory mingling with the yeasty smell of the flour I’m measuring. Domestic. Perversely, terrifyingly domestic.
"My sister," I say, cutting butter into the flour. "I need to call my sister. She’ll worry if I don't open the shop. She's going to think he got me."
Blake flips a strip of bacon. "I took care of it."
My hands freeze in the dough. "What do you mean?"
"I had my cousins send a message from a cloned number," he says calmly. "Told her you were taking a mental health break. Going to the coast for a week. Told her not to call."
"She won’t believe that."
"She will. Because they attached a photo of a coastal rental confirmation." He turns to look at me, leaning his hip against the counter, spatula in hand. "I’ve been planning this contingency for three months, ever since I saw the black sedan parked across from your shop the first time."
I stare at him, hands coated in sticky dough. "You invasive jerk," I breathe, though the anger is warring with relief. "You saw him three months ago?"
"I saw his scouts," Blake corrects. "I ran the plates. I knew they were looking, but Ramon is thorough. He wanted a constant lock. I found a military-grade GPS tile magnetized to the underside of your car’s frame.
Even without your phone, they had a breadcrumb trail leading straight to the base of this ridge. I knew it was a matter of time."
"You should have told me," I snap, my voice rising. "I’m not a child, Blake. I could have handled..." I trail off, knowing it's a lie.
Blake drops the spatula. It clatters on the granite. He moves so fast I don't process it. One second he stands by the stove, the next he’s in front of me, invading my space. His hands grip the edge of the counter on either side of my hips, boxing me in.
"Run where?" he challenges. He leans down until his face is inches from mine. "Where would you go, Tiffany? Another town? Another state? He found you here. He’d find you there. You can’t run from money like that. Not alone."
"I was doing fine," I argue, though my voice turns breathless. My heart pounds against my ribs like a trapped bird. He’s so close. His eyes burn into mine, searching for cracks.
"You were shaking every time the door chime rang," he counters, voice dropping to a rough whisper. "You were sleeping three hours a night. I saw the bags under your eyes. I saw you check the locks four times before you went upstairs. You weren't handling it, Tiff. You were surviving it."
He lifts a hand, ignoring the flour dust in the air, and brushes a stray lock of hair behind my ear. His fingers are rough, calloused, but his touch is shockingly gentle. A tremor runs down my spine and curls my toes on the rung of the stool.
"You weren't living," he murmurs. "You were waiting to be caught."
"And now I am caught," I whisper, looking up at him. "Just by a different man."
His gaze drops to my mouth. The air in the kitchen thickens like syrup. The smell of burning bacon is faint in the background, but neither of us moves to fix it.
"I am not keeping you in a cage, Tiffany," he says. His voice vibrates in his chest, resonating through my own body. "I am the wall he has to break through to get to you. And he won’t break me."
He leans in closer. His lips hover near mine.
I can smell the coffee on his breath, the heat radiating from his skin.
My lids flutter heavy. My body betrays me, leaning forward just a fraction of an inch, seeking the contact.
I want him to kiss me. I want him to claim me.
I want to feel something other than fear.
His hand slides from the counter to my waist, his thumb digging deep into my side through the thin fabric of my shirt. His grip is possessive. Absolute. He jerks me forward until my hips slam against the thick, heavy ridge of his cock.
A wrecked moan breaks from my throat as I feel the sheer size of him through his denim.
Blake freezes. He hears it. His eyes flare with a dark hunger. He inhales sharply, nostrils flaring as he breathes in my scent—flour, sleep, and arousal.
"You have no idea," he grinds out, his voice raw, "how long I have wanted to have you in this kitchen."
"Blake," I breathe.
Restraint snaps.
He crashes his mouth onto mine. It’s not a gentle kiss.
It’s a collision. He devours me, his tongue marking the inside of my mouth as if he’s tasting every inch of his territory.
He tastes like smoke, dark coffee, and pure, masculine hunger.
He snatches my hips, hauling me upward until my pussy is crushed against the thick, throbbing ridge of his cock straining against his denim.
He doesn't just grind; he claims, the friction so intense I can feel the heat of his pre-cum through the fabric. I’m soaked, my pussy weeping against the rough barrier of his jeans, begging for the release of his weight.
When he hauls me flush against him, it sends a jolt of pure fire straight to my clit, making my inner walls twitch and weep for him.
The hesitation doesn't just vanish; it’s incinerated by a raw, primal need to be occupied by the monster in front of me.
Acrid smoke fills my nose. Blake tears his mouth from mine, chest heaving. He stares at me, eyes blown wide and black, lips slick with my saliva.
"The bacon," he mutters. He curses, spinning around to snatch the pan off the burner. Smoke billows up from the charred strips.
I stand there, breathing hard. My lips throb. My blood runs hot and fast, singing with a new, dangerous energy.
"It’s ruined," he mutters, tossing the pan into the sink with a hiss of steam.
"I don't care," I say, my voice barely a whisper.
He turns back to me. The hunger is still there, dialed back but simmering just beneath the surface. He looks at my swollen lips, then at my eyes.
"Eat the eggs," he orders, voice rough. "Then we’re going down to the armory. If you’re going to stay here, you need to know how to use a weapon."
"I hate guns," I say quietly.
"I know," he says, eyes locking with mine. "But Ramon doesn't. And until I put him in the ground, you don't get the luxury of hating the things that keep you alive."
He grabs a plate, serving the eggs with aggressive movements. He slides it across the island toward me.
"Eat, Tiffany."
I pick up the fork. I eat. Because he’s right. And because the monster standing next to me is the only thing standing between me and the dark. I glance at Blake’s arm, the thick muscles flexing as he leans against the counter, watching the perimeter monitors.
"Blake?"
"Yeah?"
"Don't let him take me."
Blake turns his head slowly. The expression on his face is a vow written in blood and iron. "He would have to kill every Gunnar on this mountain to touch you," he says. "And even then... my ghost would haunt him until he died screaming."
He means it. For the first time in months, the knot of fear in my chest loosens. I take another bite of eggs, watching the man who stalked me, who kidnapped me, and who just branded me with his mouth.
"Okay," I whisper. "Okay."