Chapter 2 Tristan
TRISTAN
The jagged tear in the denim reveals the damage, and a low, dangerous growl vibrates in my chest—a sound I don’t recognize as my own. Her skin, usually pale and soft like the underbelly of a fawn, is marred by violent blooms of purple and blue just above the ankle. The leg is twisted. Wrong.
She whimpers, a sharp, broken sound cutting through the silence of my loft.
"Easy," I rumble. My voice sounds like gravel grinding together. I don't look at her face. I can't. If I look at her eyes, at the pain swimming in those dilated pupils, I might lose the cold, clinical detachment I need to fix this.
I am the Road Captain. I am the tracker. I find things. I fix things. I keep the pack moving. But this… this is different. This woman is not a broken bike or a lost trail. She is something precious I found broken in the mud, something that belongs to me now simply by right of discovery.
The storm hammers against the tin roof of the garage below, the wind howling through the pines of Grizzly Peak.
Up here, the air is thick, still, smelling of rain, copper blood, and her.
The scent hit me when I knelt beside her in the ravine—wildflowers crushed under heavy boots.
It triggered something primal in the base of my skull, a lizard-brain snap that rewrote my entire existence instantly.
Mine.
The word echoes in the cavern of my mind, drowning out reason.
My hands, scarred and calloused from years of working steel and gripping throttles, look impossibly large against the delicate curve of her calf. I slide my palm underneath her knee, supporting the joint. Her muscle spasms, a ripple of tension under my fingertips.
"Don't move," I command. I'm not asking.
"Tristan," she gasps. Her voice is wet. Trembling. "It hurts. God, it hurts."
"I know." I reach for the heavy duffel bag I kicked across the floor. I unzip it with one hand, not letting go of her leg. I pull out a syrette of morphine—club supplies. I’m going to put her under, make her body go limp and heavy for me.
We don't go to hospitals for things I can handle in my own bed. I am keeping her in-house. No one else gets to lay a finger on her skin. No doctor, no nurse, no other man. She’s mine to fix, mine to drug, and mine to keep.
"This will sting."
I don't wait for permission. I uncap the needle and drive it into her thigh, right through the remaining scrap of denim I haven't cut away yet. She cries out, her body arching off the mattress. I use my weight to pin her down, my forearm pressing gently but immovably across her hips.
"Shh. Take it. Let it work," I murmur.
The tension slowly bleeds out of her frame as the drug hits her system. Her head falls back against my pillows—dark gray sheets that smell like me, now cradling her golden-brown hair. The contrast makes my teeth ache.
I turn my attention back to the injury. A clean break, tib-fib by the looks of it, but the swelling is coming on fast. I need to stabilize it before I can even think about cleaning the rest of her up.
I work with efficient, brutal movements.
I’ve splinted broken bones on the side of the highway with nothing but duct tape and tire irons.
Here, I have padded aluminum splints and compression bandages.
I align the leg, feeling the bone grate slightly.
She hisses through her teeth, her hands gripping my sheets into fists, the skin pulled tight over her knuckles.
"Almost done, Alexandria. Breathe."
I say her name like a prayer. Alexandria. It tastes heavy on my tongue.
I wrap the bandage tight, securing the limb. My fingers linger on her skin above the wrap. She’s cold. Hypothermia was setting in when I found her, the rain soaking through her hiking gear. I need to get her warm. I need to get her naked.
The thought sends a spike of lust straight to my groin, hard and unforgiving. Wrong timing. She’s injured, drugged, helpless. But the predator in me doesn't care about ethics. It sees a mate in the nest, needing heat. Needing claiming.
I stand up, boots heavy on the wooden floorboards. The loft is a fortress—open plan, exposed beams, walls lined with gun racks and maps of the mountain. A man’s space, utilitarian and stark. Seeing her softness in the middle of it jars me. It changes the room. It changes everything.
I walk to the kitchenette and fill a basin with hot water. I grab a stack of clean white towels and a bottle of antiseptic. When I return to the bed, her eyes are half-lidded, the morphine dragging her under.
"Hospital," she mumbles, the word thick. "Need… x-rays."
"No hospital," I say flatly. I set the basin on the nightstand. "I’ve got you."
"Tristan…" She tries to lift her head, fighting the fog. "My insurance… protocol…"
I lean over her, placing a hand on the side of her face. My thumb strokes her cheekbone, smearing a streak of mud. "You aren't listening, darling. You aren't going down the mountain. The roads are washed out."
A lie. I could get a truck down there if I wanted to. I don't want to.
"You’re staying here."
She blinks up at me. Confusion wars with the drugs. "Why?"
"Because I found you."
The only explanation she’s going to get. I straighten up and look at her body. The flannel shirt she’s wearing is soaked, clinging to her breasts. Her remaining pant leg is heavy with mud.
"I need to get these wet clothes off you," I state.
She doesn't argue. She doesn't have the strength. I take a pair of trauma shears from the kit. I could unbutton the shirt, but the fabric is ruined anyway, and I don't want to jostle her by manipulating her arms too much.
I slide the cold steel of the shears under the collar of her shirt.
Snip. The fabric gives way. I cut down the center, the sound of tearing cloth loud in the quiet room.
I peel the wet flannel back, revealing a pale pink lace bra.
The flimsy fabric is a joke, a thin barrier barely holding back the heavy, lush spill of her tits.
My breath hitches; she is magnificent—all soft valleys and skin that begs to be marked with my teeth.
Her nipples are dark, hard peaks straining against the lace, begging for the heat of my mouth.
I work with a predator’s efficiency, stripping the wet fabric away until she lies there in just her bra and panties, shivering for me. I soak a towel in steaming water and wring it out.
"Warm," I promise. I start at her face, wiping away the mountain mud until her skin flushes pink under the heat.
I move down to her neck, cleaning the hollow of her throat where her pulse thrums with jagged electricity, then trace the line of her clavicle.
I press firm enough to claim her, gentle enough to soothe.
When I reach her arms, I dab antiseptic on the scratches from her fall.
She watches me with a wary curiosity that makes my gut tighten.
"You're very… thorough," she whispers.
"I don't do things halfway." I drag the steaming cloth over the heavy, lush swell of her tits, letting the moisture soak into the pink lace until it’s translucent, exposing the dark, engorged circles of her nipples.
I want to rip the flimsy lace away and bury my face in her cleavage until I can taste the mountain air and her arousal on my tongue.
I want to see her bare, to see the way her breasts bounce and heavy tits sway when she gasps under the rhythmic thrusting of my cock.
I want to watch my thick seed dry on her flat stomach while she’s still shaking from the force of her climax.
I restrain myself for now, but the air in the loft is already thick with the localized scent of her pussy getting slick and ready for me. I move to her midriff, wiping away a smear of mud from her navel. My knuckles graze the waistband of her panties, and her stomach muscles contract sharply.
"Tristan," she breathes out. A warning.
"Quiet," I murmur. "Almost done."
I clean her good leg, running the cloth from her thigh down to her toes.
Her foot is small, arched high. I wrap my hand around her ankle, feeling the delicacy of the bones.
I could crush her so easily. My gut tightens.
The fragility calls to the monster in my blood, urging me to squeeze, to possess.
I would never hurt her, but the power dynamic intoxicates me. She is entirely at my mercy.
I toss the dirty towel into the basin. The water has turned brown and red.
"You're freezing."
I go to the wardrobe—a heavy oak thing I built myself—and pull out one of my hoodies. Black, worn soft, smelling like gun oil and pine. I grab a thick wool blanket.
"Sit up," I instruct, sliding my arm behind her back to help her.
She groans as she moves, head lolling against my shoulder. She feels tiny against me, her softness yielding to my hard muscle. I maneuver her arms into the hoodie. It swallows her whole. The hem comes down to her thighs, the sleeves hanging past her hands.
"Better?" I ask, laying her back down.
She nods, burrowing her nose into the collar of my hoodie. She inhales deeply. I watch her take my scent into her lungs. Good. Let her get used to it.
I pull the wool blanket up to her chin, tucking it in tight around her sides, cocooning her. She looks small in my bed, surrounded by my things, wearing my clothes. The sight settles something jagged inside me.
"Are you hungry?" I ask.
She shakes her head. "Thirsty."