Chapter 9
TIFFANY
The flashing lights of the police cruisers and the mountain rescue trucks strobe against the wet asphalt of Main Street, painting the world in chaotic bursts of red and blue. Everything around me feels distant, muffled, viewed through a pane of thick, bulletproof glass.
The only thing with gravity is the man standing ten feet away.
Blake.
He resembles a demon dredged up from the darkest pit of the earth. Soot and dirt smear his tactical vest. His hands are split and bloody—not his blood, I know, but Ramon’s. His chest heaves with the aftershocks of violence, heavy, rhythmic breaths I can almost feel vibrating in the air between us.
He speaks to Logan, the President of the MC, and an older man in a suit I don't recognize, but his eyes never leave me. Dark. Intense. Filled with a terrifying amount of concern.
The chaos of the last hour—the standoff, the threat of the bomb, the way Blake launched himself like a missile at the man who haunted my nightmares for two and a half years—crashes down on me at once. My knees turn to water.
Before gravity can claim me, Blake is there.
He moves faster than a man his size should be able to move, closing the distance in a blur. One second he stands with his brother, and the next, his massive arms wrap around me, holding me up, crushing me against the hard ballistic plate on his chest.
"I've got you," he murmurs, his voice a rough vibration against my ear. "I've got you, Tiff. Breathe."
I bury my face in his neck. He smells of gunpowder, iron, sweat, and that deep, woodsmoke scent uniquely him. That heavy musk grounds me. For years, the metallic tang of aggression terrified me. Now, it keeps me tethered to the earth.
"Is he..." I can't even say the name. My throat feels full of glass shards.
Blake pulls back just enough to cup my face in his large, rough hands. His thumbs sweep over my cheekbones, wiping away tears I hadn't realized I shed. His gaze burns, searching my face for any sign of physical harm.
"He's done," Blake says, his voice a low, vibrating growl that settles the chaos in my chest. He doesn't look back at the blacked-out van pulling away, and neither do I.
"The brothers have him. He’s going to a place where the law can’t find him, and where he can’t ever hurt you again. He’s been erased, Tiffany. You hear me? The hunt is over. You’re safe."
The hunt is over.
I shudder, a sob ripping through my chest. For thirty months, I have been the prey.
Two years of his belt and six months of his shadow.
I lived my life looking over my shoulder, checking locks three times, flinching at loud noises.
And for the last few months, I have been hunted by Blake, too—my silent shadow, my guardian in the dark.
"Take me home," I whisper, gripping the tactical straps of his vest. "Please, Blake. Just take me home."
He doesn't ask which home I mean. He doesn't ask if I want to go to my apartment above the bakery or to a hotel. His chin drops in a single, sharp snap of agreement. He scoops me up into his arms as if I weigh nothing more than a bag of flour and marches toward his truck.
The town watches. I feel the eyes of the rescue team, the shop owners, the people I served coffee and pastries to every morning. They watch the monster carry the baker away. For the first time in my life, I don't care about the spectacle. Let them watch. Let them see who keeps the darkness at bay.
The drive up to the Grizzly Peak District passes in silence. Blake drives with one hand on the wheel, his other hand gripping my thigh with bruising intensity, as if he needs the physical contact to assure himself I remain beside him.
We wind higher, leaving the lights of Pine Valley behind, ascending into the thick, ancient pines where the air grows thin and cold.
When the iron gates of The Forge come into view, something inside my chest uncoils.
The massive, fortress-like structure clinging to the cliffside isn't just a house; it is a vault.
And I am the treasure he has locked inside.
Blake kills the engine in the courtyard. The silence of the mountains rushes in, heavy and profound. He sits there, staring out the windshield at the steel doors of his sanctuary, his grip on my leg tightening.
"I lost control," he admits. His voice scrapes against the silence. "Back there. On the street."
I look at him. In the pale moonlight, the sharp angles of his face appear carved from granite. Exhausted. Haunted.
"You saved my life," I say.
"I wanted to kill him right there on the pavement," Blake confesses, turning his head to look at me.
His eyes are dark pools of turmoil. "I wanted to tear his throat out with my teeth for what he did to you.
For the fear he put in your eyes. It took everything I had—everything Logan and Austin taught me—not to execute him in front of half the town. "
He pulls his hand away from my leg, looking down at his blood-stained knuckles.
"I’m a man of violence, Tiffany. That’s all there is," he rasps, his voice scraping against the moonlight. He holds up his hands—the skin split and stained dark with the blood of the man who tried to break me.
He is offering me an out. The realization hits with piercing clarity. He is showing me his bloodied hands to tell me that now the threat is gone, now that I don't need a protector, I can choose to walk away from the monster.
I don't move away. I reach out and take his damaged hand in mine. My fingers look pale and soft against his battered, scarred skin. I bring his hand to my lips, kissing the split skin, tasting the copper and the salt of the war he’d just fought for me.
Blake hisses in a breath, his whole body going rigid as a granite slab. "Tiffany..."
"I don't need a savior anymore, Blake," I whisper against his skin, tasting the iron. "I need the man who burns the world down for me."
He stares at me, his expression fracturing. The stoic mask he wears—the soldier, the enforcer, the stalker—crumbles, revealing the man beneath. A man terrified that he is too broken to be loved.
"Let's go inside," I say softly. He nods once and opens the door.
Inside The Forge, the air feels cool and smells of cold iron and polished wood.
Blake moves through the space with restless energy, shedding his tactical gear piece by piece.
The ballistic vest lands with a heavy thud on the floor.
The belt follows. He stands in the center of the living room in his blood-spattered t-shirt and jeans, looking out the massive windows at the dark valley below.
I watch him from the doorway. I need to wash the day off me, but I can't leave him. He is vibrating with adrenaline, the crash coming down hard and fast.
"He had a detonator," Blake says, his voice low and mechanical. He is replaying the tactical data, the what-ifs. "He rigged the gas line. If I had been two seconds slower... if I hadn't seen the wire..."
I walk up behind him and wrap my arms around his waist, pressing my cheek against the center of his back. He feels solid, warm, unshakeable. "But you weren't slow. You saw it. You're always watching."
He turns in my arms, his movements sudden and desperate. He buries his face in the crook of my neck, his hands gripping my hips, pulling me into his hard frame so fast my feet almost leave the floor.
"I almost lost you," he groans, his voice cracking. "I've spent months watching you, Tiff. Every morning. Every night. Learning how you take your coffee, the way you smile when you pull fresh bread from the oven. I told myself I was just doing a job."
He pulls back, his dark eyes burning into mine.
"But the job turned into a fucking obsession.
I was drowning in you. And today... when I saw him near you.
.. I realized I would burn the entire world to ash just to keep you safe.
I would become the villain in everyone else's story if it meant you were the heroine in mine. "
My heart hammers against my ribs. This was the truth, raw and bleeding.
"I don't want a hero, Blake," I say, reaching up to tangle my fingers in his dark, messy hair.
"Ramon was a 'nice guy' to the world, and a monster behind closed doors.
You? You're a monster to the world. You snarl and you break bones.
But with me? You built me a steel rose. You handle me like I'm made of glass even though you could crush me with one hand.
I choose the monster, Blake. I choose you. "
A low sound rumbles in his chest, a primal, possessive note of pure dominance. "You don't know what you're asking for. I'm never letting you go. Not ever. I’m going to watch you every second of every day because I can't breathe when you're not in my sights."
"Good," I breathe, rising up on my toes. "Watch me."
He doesn't give me a chance to say another word. His mouth crushes mine, a searing brand of ownership. He kisses me like he is starving, his tongue sweeping into my mouth, demanding and hot, tasting of copper and desperation.
"Bedroom," he orders against my lips. "Now."
He doesn't wait for me to walk. He bends down, driving his shoulder into my stomach and lifting me into a fireman's carry.
He carries me through the house like a prize of war, kicking his bedroom door open with a force that shakes the walls.
He slams the door and throws the deadbolt.
He lets me slide down his body, but before my feet hit the floor, he is ripping his shirt over his head.
"I'm going to mark you so deep you'll never remember his name," he snarls. He grabs the front of my shirt and tears it open, buttons flying as he exposes my breasts. He doesn't tease; he lunges, his mouth devouring one nipple, his teeth grazing the sensitive skin until I scream.
His hands are everywhere, stripping my jeans and panties away in a frantic, rough blur until I am bared to his black, hungry gaze. He drops to his knees, shoving my legs wide and burying his face in my pussy.