Chapter 10
BLAKE
The silence in the mountains used to be a warning.
In the sandbox, or even here in the Grizzly Peak District, silence meant the perimeter was too quiet.
It meant an ambush was brewing. But this morning, as the first gray light of dawn bleeds through the blackout curtains of The Forge, the silence is thick with something else.
It’s heavy with the scent of a female who has been thoroughly claimed, and the musk of a male who isn't finished with her yet.
I don’t move. I can’t. Tiffany is draped across my chest, her soft, warm weight pinning me to the mattress.
Her hair is a tangled veil of midnight silk across my throat, smelling of warm spice and honey and the raw, salt-and-steel scent of the high-octane sex we had while I had her wrists locked in steel.
Her pale skin still shows the faint, pink shadow of the leather-lined cuffs I only just removed an hour ago.
Every time she breathes, her bare breasts rub against my ribs, the friction sending a low, steady throb to my cock.
I’m already rock-hard, my morning wood a rigid, pulsing weight between us that she hasn't even noticed yet.
I stare at the ceiling, my hand resting on the flare of her hip.
My fingers look dark, scarred, and violent against her pale skin.
I’ve spent three months watching her through a scope, memorizing her rhythm.
Now, there’s no glass between us. Ramon is a non-variable now; Austin and Shane are currently ensuring he’ll never be found, burying him in a hole so deep the mountain will forget he ever existed.
Tiffany stirs, her thigh sliding up mine. The soft skin of her inner leg rubs against the coarse hair of my thigh, and the friction is like a match to a fuse. I groan, a low, guttural vibration that I feel in my fucking marrow.
"You're awake," she murmurs, her voice raspy from the screams I tore out of her. She doesn't open her eyes, just nuzzles closer to my neck, her lips brushing my pulse point.
"I've been awake for an hour," I growl, my voice a wreck.
I don't wait for her to wake up fully. I slide my hand down, my palm cupping her pussy through the gap in her legs. She’s already soaked, her juices coating my fingers the second I touch her.
"You’re dripping for me in your sleep, Tiff.
Do you have any idea what that does to me? "
"Blake..." she gasps, her eyes snapping open, her pupils dilating as she feels the weight of my hand.
"Hush," I command, my thumb finding her engorged clit and grinding against it with a rhythmic, punishing pressure.
I watch her face as she unravels in seconds, her back arching off the mattress, her breasts bouncing with the force of her breath.
I don't let up. I want her to start the day knowing exactly who owns her body. I work my fingers into her, stretching her, my hand rubbing against her pussy until she’s sobbing my name.
"I have to go to the bakery," she whispers, even as her hips buck against my hand.
"The bakery can wait," I rasp, but I pull my hand away, the loss of contact making her whimper. I’m not finished, but I want her hungry. I want her thinking about my cock every second we’re in town.
"Get dressed. We’re going down the mountain.
We’re going to look at what’s left of your shop, and then I’m going to show you how I rebuild what’s mine. "
The drive down to Pine Valley is a study in suppressed violence and overt possession.
I drive the F-250 one-handed, my other hand clamped onto the back of her neck, my thumb stroking the sensitive skin behind her ear.
I keep her close, forcing her to lean into my side.
Every time I shift gears, I let my hand brush the swell of her breast under my flannel shirt, reminding her that I’m the only reason she’s still breathing.
Pine Valley is quiet, but as we roll onto Main Street, the "cozy" facade is cracked.
People are out on the sidewalks, whispering.
They saw the convoy yesterday. They saw the terrifying Prospect of Broken Halos claim the baker.
I don't give a fuck what they think. I pull up to the curb, the engine’s idle a low, aggressive thrum that vibrates through the floorboards.
The shop is a graveyard of flour and broken glass.
The smell of stale yeast and chemical fire-suppressant hits me like a fist when I swing the door open.
Tiffany steps inside, her boots crunching on the remains of her display cases.
She looks small in the middle of the destruction, her shoulders shaking as she looks at the ruins of her dream.
I don't offer empty words. I move up behind her, my chest a wall at her back, and wrap my arms around her. I let her feel the Glock pressed against her hip and the heat of my body. "He didn't win, Tiffany. He broke some glass. He smashed some wood. But he didn't touch you. And he never will again."
"He destroyed everything," she whispers, looking at the splintered wood where she used to knead her bread.
"Then I build you a better one," I vow, my lips grazing her ear. "Steel. Solid iron base. I’m gonna weld the frame myself at the Forge. I’ll top it with a slab of butcher block so thick a bomb wouldn't dent it. I’m knocking out the back wall, too. I’m expanding the prep area, putting in reinforced industrial ovens, and I’m armoring the back entrance with a steel-core door.
This won't be a shop anymore, Tiff. It’ll be a fortress. "
She turns in my arms, a tear tracking through the dust on her cheek. "You want to armor my bakery?"
"I’m armoring your world," I tell her, my thumb wiping the moisture from her face.
"I want every man in this town to know that if they even look at you the wrong way, they’re answering to me.
I want you safe. I want you to have every tool you need to build your empire, and I want it all backed by Gunnar steel. "
A shadow falls over the doorway. Logan and Austin are standing there, their leather cuts heavy, their presence a silent warning to the townspeople watching from across the street.
"Checking the damage," Logan rumbles. He doesn't look at the broken glass; he looks at the North Ridge looming over the town. "Ramon was a distraction, Blake. While we were down here playing rescue, Dominic Costa’s men took the logging relay station. They have eyes on every gate we own now."
The victory in my chest turns to lead. "He used Tiff to pull us off the mountain."
"He used all of us," Logan spits. "Elias says the club’s 'front' accounts just got flagged for a federal audit. Dominic didn't just take the ridge; he called in the suits to choke our money. We’re in a cold war now."
I tighten my grip on Tiffany's waist. I’ve won the girl, but the mountain is screaming.
I look at the black stylized wave painted on the wall, then back at Tiffany. She’s pale, her fingers trembling as she grips the ruined counter.
"I’ve got her," I say, my voice a jagged rasp that leaves no room for debate. "Tell the club I’m off rotation. My focus is the Forge. If a Costa breathes near this shop or my ridge, I’m ending them."
Logan and Austin exchange a look—the kind of look men give when they know one of their own has gone off the deep end. They don't argue. They just nod and leave, the roar of their bikes leaving a vacuum of silence in the wreckage.
"Blake?" Tiffany whispers, her eyes wide. "What did he mean? A cold war? The money?"
"It means I’m done sharing your attention with the world," I state, grabbing her hand and leading her toward the truck. "The bakery can wait. Main Street can wait. My world doesn't move another inch until I know you're marked."
I don't give her time to ask what that means. The drive back up is faster, the tires spitting gravel as I push the Silverado to the limit, the engine roaring like a wounded beast as I tear up the mountain pass. My blood is up, the adrenaline of the morning mixing with a possessive urge I can’t suppress.
I need her inside my walls. I need her under my steel.
When we hit the compound, I don’t take her to the house.
I lead her straight into the heat of my workshop.
The air in here is cool, smelling of ozone, charcoal, and burnt iron.
My anvil sits in the center, a scarred altar to the work I do.
I lead her to the workbench and reach into the safe I keep hidden behind the welding tanks.
Tiffany watches me, her breath hitching, likely thinking I’m reaching for more ammunition.
I pull out the small velvet box. I don't kneel. A Gunnar doesn't ask for permission to protect what’s his. I stand over her, my shadow swallowing her whole.
"I made this," I say roughly, opening the box.
The ring is Damascus steel, thousands of layers of dark and light metal hammered together in a forge until they’re inseparable. In the center, a flawless diamond is held in a heavy platinum tension setting. It’s not dainty. It’s a piece of armor.
"Damascus is made by taking two different metals and heating them until they're nearly liquid," I tell her, taking her hand. Her fingers are trembling. "You hammer them, fold them, and burn them until the two become one. You can't tell where one starts and the other ends. That’s us, Tiffany. We’ve been through the fire. We’ve been hammered by the world. And now, you’re bonded to me. Forever."
I slide the ring onto her finger. It’s a perfect fit. "You're wearing my metal, Tiffany. You're my Queen, my wife, my life. If anyone ever tries to take you, they’ll have to go through me and every man in that clubhouse."
"I love you," she whispers, her eyes swimming with tears.
"I love you," I answer, but the words are too soft for the hunger in my gut.
I grab her by the waist and hoist her onto the heavy oak workbench.
I sweep a row of steel calipers and schematics to the floor with a violent crash.
I step between her thighs, my hands reaching for the buttons of my flannel she’s wearing.
I don't unbutton them. I grip the collar and yank, the fabric shredding as the buttons fly across the concrete floor.
Her tits spill out, pale and beautiful in the dim light of the shop. I groan, my head dropping as I bury my face in her soft flesh, my tongue licking the valley between them. I can smell her drenched pussy now, the heavy, musky scent of a woman who is ready to be taken.
"Blake, please," she gasps, her hands frantically working at my belt.
I don't give her a choice, my hands moving in a frantic blur as I hook my thumbs into the waistband of her jeans and her soaked lace panties. I rip them down her legs with a single, violent tug, baring her to the freezing mountain air and my own scorching gaze.
She gasps, her thighs trembling as I help her out of the denim tangle before shedding my own jeans and boxers in a single motion.
My cock snaps free, heavy and engorged, the head already weeping with the need to claim her.
My cock is a rigid, pulsing weight, throbbing with the need to be inside her.
I look at her, sitting on my workbench, her legs spread, wearing nothing but my ring and the remains of my shirt.
"You want the monster, Tiffany?" I growl. "You've got him."
I grab her thighs, my fingers digging into her soft flesh, and I drive home.
I hit her with everything I have, my entire length burying itself deep in her wet, hot pussy in one brutal thrust. She screams, her head snapping back as she grips the edge of the workbench, her body stretching to take all of me.
I don't slow down. I begin to hammer into her, a rhythmic, punishing pace that makes the heavy wood of the bench groan and shift against the floor.
The sound of our bodies colliding—a wet, heavy thwack—echoes off the corrugated steel walls.
I watch her face, watching her eyes roll back as her pussy clamps down on my shaft, milking me.
She’s soaked, her juices running down my thighs as I bottom out, my balls slamming against her with every thrust.
"Mine," I snarl, my hand reaching out to grip her throat, not to hurt, but to anchor her as I fuck her senseless. "Whose pussy is this, Tiffany?"
"Yours!" she cries out, her body convulsing. "Only yours, Blake! Fuck me! Harder!"
I oblige, my movements becoming primal. I can smell her soaked pussy, the sharp scent of ozone, and the raw musk of my own testosterone. I reach down, my thumb finding her engorged clit, grinding against it as I drive into her.
She shatters. I feel the tremors start deep in her twitching walls, her inner walls rippling around my cock in a series of violent, exquisite contractions.
She screams my name, a wrecked, beautiful sound that fills the workshop.
The sight of her unraveling is the final straw.
I roar, my body tensing as I deliver one last, devastating thrust. I feel the hot jets of my seed erupting inside her, flooding her womb, marking her from the inside out.
I pump into her until I’m empty, my forehead resting against hers as our breath hitches in the quiet air.
I don't pull out. I stay buried deep, my heart drumming against her ribs. I look down at her hand, the Damascus ring glinting on her finger as she clutches my shoulder.
"I've got you, Tiffany Royce. Forever."
Outside, the sun begins to set over the peaks. I’ve won her, but Logan’s voice still rings in my head.
Ramon was a pawn, a noisy decoy to let the Costas move the markers on the North Ridge. The mission isn't over; the theater of war just shifted. But as I pull Tiffany tighter against my chest, I know one thing.
The Costas can move the lines all they want. They’ll never move me. I have my anchor. I have my heart. And God help the man who tries to break either one.