Chapter 6
BLAKE
The forge below us sits cold, the fires dampened for the night, but the heat in the loft is suffocating. Good. It’s a thick, heavy warmth smelling of sex, of my cum drying on her thighs, and the honey-scented shampoo I’ve tracked from a distance for three months.
Now, that scent fills my lungs.
Tiffany sleeps curled into the hollow of my side, her breathing a soft, rhythmic hitch against my ribs. Her hair spills like a chaotic curtain of midnight across my dark sheets, tangled from my fingers, from the way I gripped her while I buried myself inside her.
I haven’t slept. Sleep feels impossible.
Sunlight bleeds through the high, reinforced windows, casting long, gray shadows across the industrial concrete of my home.
Usually, I’m patrolling by now. Checking the perimeter.
Verifying the structural integrity of the gate.
But I can't move. If I shift, I might wake her.
If I wake her, the reality of the world outside—her ex-husband, the threat, the war coming to my doorstep—comes rushing back in.
For now, in this gray dawn, I just want to watch her.
My hand rests on her hip, thumb tracing the curve of bone and the soft yield of flesh.
I’ve memorized her shape through shop windows and telephoto lenses.
I’ve watched her stretch to reach the top shelf of her display case.
I’ve watched her rub the small of her back after a double shift.
I’ve cataloged every movement, every wince, every smile she faked for customers.
But watching her like this? Feeling the steady thrum of her pulse against my palm? The sensation claws at my gut.
I know exactly what I am capable of doing to keep this. I am not a good man. I killed men overseas for a flag, and I’ve hurt men here for a patch. I am a weapon the Gunnars point at problems. I live in a fortress of steel and fire because I don’t fit in the soft world she inhabits.
Yet, here she is. In the monster’s bed. Sleeping like she’s safe.
The thought tightens my chest, a physical ache resembling a cracked rib. Safe. That’s the only thing that matters.
Her eyelids flutter, the rhythm of her breathing shifting. A small sound, a whimper of a dream, escapes her lips. My hand tightens reflexively on her hip, grounding her.
"I've got you," I say, voice rough with disuse and the gravel of the morning. "You're good, Tiff. I've got you."
Her eyes open slowly, hazy with sleep. For a split second, panic flares—the muscle memory of waking up in a house where she wasn't safe. She stiffens, breath hitching. Then her eyes focus on my face, on the scars running down my neck, on the dark ink of my tattoos.
Her body melts against mine.
That reaction hits me harder than a bullet to the plate carrier. She sees me—the scarred, silent giant who kidnapped her—and her instinct is to soften.
"Blake," she whispers, voice thick. She shifts, bare leg sliding between mine, skin hot against my rougher texture.
"Morning." I brush a strand of hair away from her face, tucking it behind her ear. My fingers feel too large, too calloused against her porcelain skin. "How did you sleep?"
"Better than I have in years," she admits, a small, sad smile touching her lips. She traces a line across my chest, following the ridge of an old knife wound. "Did you watch me the whole time?"
I don't lie to her. I’m done with secrets. "Yes."
She doesn't flinch. Instead, she presses closer, burying her face in the crook of my neck. "Thanks."
The word comes muffled against my skin, sending a shockwave through my nervous system. She accepts the darkness in me because it stands between her and the thing she fears. She accepts the monster at the door because the monster is hers.
"Hungry?" I ask, needing to provide something. My instincts scream at me to secure the perimeter, to check the cameras, but my need to take care of her is louder.
"Starving," she murmurs.
"Don't move."
I extricate myself from the tangle of limbs, missing her warmth the second the cool air hits my skin. I pull on sweatpants, leaving my chest bare. I don't feel the cold. I never have.
I walk to the kitchen area of the loft. Industrial, stainless steel, sharp angles.
This kitchen serves men who eat protein out of a can and sleep in four-hour shifts.
It’s too cold for her. But I open the fridge, pulling out the eggs and bacon I bought three days ago because I knew this day was coming. I knew I’d bring her here eventually.
As I crack eggs into the skillet, the sizzle fills the silence. I hear the rustle of sheets behind me, then the soft pad of bare feet on concrete.
She appears in the kitchen doorway, wearing one of my black T-shirts. It hangs off one shoulder, the hem hitting her mid-thigh. It looks better on her than it ever did on me. It looks like a flag. My flag.
She climbs onto one of the metal stools at the island, wrapping her arms around herself. She looks small in this massive, echoing space. Fragile.
"I need to check in with Logan," I say, flipping the bacon. The quiet turns brittle, like glass about to snap. "See if there’s been movement in town."
Tiffany stiffens, fingers gripping the edge of the steel counter. "Do you think he's still there? Ramon?"
"He's there," I say, turning to face her. I lean back against the counter, crossing my arms. "Men like him don't leave until they get what they want or until someone breaks them."
"He won't stop," she says quietly. "He thinks he owns me, Blake. He thinks I'm property."
A low growl builds in my throat. "You are property," I say, voice dropping an octave. "But you're not his. You're wearing my shirt. You're in my bed. You're eating my food. Your pussy is still full of my seed. You're mine."
Her eyes widen, breath catching. It’s a possessive, primal claim. Normal women would run. Tiffany isn't normal. She’s a survivor. She needs to know where the lines are drawn.
"Say it," I command, stepping closer, invading her space until I loom over her. "Tell me whose mark is on you."
She looks up, pupils blowing wide, swallowing the blue. Her hand reaches out, touching the abs flexing above the waistband of my sweats. "Yours," she whispers. "I'm yours, Blake."
The air leaves the room. I lean down, capturing her mouth in a kiss devoid of gentleness.
It tastes of morning breath and desperation.
I kiss her like I’m stealing her oxygen and replacing it with my own.
My hands grip her waist, lifting her from the stool and setting her on the edge of the counter.
I want to take her right here. I want to push her back against the cold steel and remind her that she’s alive, safe, and nothing will ever touch her again without my permission.
But the phone on the counter vibrates, a harsh buzz against the metal.
I break the kiss, breathing hard, forehead resting against hers. "Fuck."
She laughs, a breathless, shaky sound. "Get the phone, Blake. I'll watch the stove."
I step back, the loss of contact hitting me like a punch to the gut. I pick up the device. Text from Austin.
AUSTIN
Eyes on the black sedan. Parked at the Lodge.
Sterling is doing everything he can to help.
He’s pissed—currently trying to find a legal loophole to throw them out into the snow, but Ramon has a high-priced legal team blockading him.
Sterling’s not going to let this slide. Ramon has lawyers.
Legal hold. We can't touch him yet without bringing heat on the club. Keep her close.
I stare at the screen. Lawyers. Of course. Ramon isn’t just a brute; he’s a wealthy, manipulative bastard hiding behind suits and paperwork. He’ll try to use the law to drag her back to hell.
"What is it?" Tiffany asks, voice thinning.
"He's at the Lodge," I say, tossing the phone back down. "He's playing the legal game. Trying to force you out."
"He'll file a missing person's report," she says, hands trembling. "He'll say you kidnapped me."
"Let him," I say, turning back to the stove to plate the food. "You’re an adult. You can be wherever you want. And you want to be here."
I set the plate in front of her. "Eat."
She picks up the fork but pushes the eggs around. "Blake, if the police come here..."
"The police don't come up here unless they have a death wish or a warrant signed by a judge who doesn't want to get re-elected," I state flatly. "This is Gunnar land. Even the Sheriff knocks politely."
I move around the counter, stepping between her spread knees. I take the fork from her hand, spear a piece of bacon, and hold it to her lips. "Eat, Tiffany. You need your strength."
She takes the bite, eyes locked on mine. I watch her chew, watch the muscles in her throat work as she swallows. It’s intimate in a way sex wasn’t. Caretaking.
"Why me?" she asks suddenly.
I pause, the fork halfway to the plate. "What?"
"Why me?" she repeats. "You could have any woman in Pine Valley. You're... you." She gestures vaguely at my chest, at the shop around us. "You’re strong. You’re lethal. I’m just a baker with a broken past and too much baggage. Why did you watch me for three months? Why did you bring me here?"
I set the fork down. The question hangs in the air, heavy and sharp. I could tell her she’s beautiful. I could tell her about curves that drive me insane. But that’s surface level. That’s not why I stood in the rain outside her shop at 4:00 a.m. ensuring she got inside safely.
"Come with me," I say.
I take her hand and lead her away from the kitchen, toward the spiral metal staircase leading down to the main floor. The forge.
The workshop is cavernous, smelling of iron filings, ozone, and oil. My welding rig sits in the corner. Anvils, hammers, sheets of raw steel. This is where I make sense. This is where I take things that are hard and unyielding and bend them to my will with fire and force.