Chapter 3 Alexandria
ALEXANDRIA
Heat registers first. Heavy, consuming warmth drags me up from the black ocean of sleep. Not the biting cold of the mountain ridge where I slipped. Not the sterile air of a hospital room. This air smells of woodsmoke and cedar, layered with something darker like musk and hot metal.
The world tilts violently when I try to shift. A groan scrapes out of my dry throat.
"Easy."
The low rumble vibrates in my marrow, a tectonic shift freezing the breath in my lungs. I force my heavy lids open.
Amber glow from a wood stove flickers in the corner, battling the gray light filtering through rain-lashed windows. Exposed rafters and heavy timber beams stretch overhead—a fortress of a loft.
My body sinks into a mattress that seems to swallow me whole. To my right, a stack of stiff pillows elevates my leg, immobilized in a custom-molded splint wrapped in dark bandages.
"Drink."
A shadow detaches from the gloom. My heart gives an erratic thump before steadying as the figure moves into the firelight.
Tristan.
Memory crashes in. The fall. The bone snap. The biting wind. Then him—the giant from the road, the Broken Halos Road Captain. He carried me. He cut my clothes off.
I look down. I’m drowning in a black hoodie smelling of clean sweat and pine. It hangs off my shoulders, sleeves swallowing my hands. Below the hem, cool air brushes my bare thighs, though a wool blanket covers me to the waist.
Tristan blocks the light from the stove. Standing this close, he is terrifyingly large.
His muscular frame, covered in intricate tattoos that snake from his shoulders down to his forearms, glistens with a sheen of sweat.
The worn leather vest clings to his broad chest, revealing the defined planes of his abs and the powerful stance of a man who commands attention without saying a word.
He holds out a heavy ceramic mug. "Water."
My arms feel like noodles when I try to push up. Agony spikes up my leg.
Before I can collapse, a large hand slides behind my neck. Calloused palm against my sensitive nape, yet his grip remains shockingly gentle. He supports my head, lifting me just enough to bring the mug to my lips.
"Small sips."
Cool, clean water soothes my parched throat. He controls the angle, tilting it back when I’ve had enough, then lowering my head to the pillow with a delicacy that belies his size.
"Where are we?" My whisper sounds weak to my own ears.
"My place. Above the garage." He sits on the edge of the mattress. The bed dips, gravity warping around him to pull everything into his orbit.
"The hospital." Panic flutters in my chest. "I need X-rays. A doctor."
Tristan shakes his head. "No hospital."
"My leg is broken, Tristan. I know the sound. I felt it."
"Tibial fracture." He recites the term with clinical detachment. "Clean break. I set it. Splinted it. You’re loaded with enough morphine to drop a horse. You’re not going anywhere."
My biologist brain tries to process the data while the woman in me reacts to his proximity. "You set it?"
"I’ve fixed worse on the side of the road with a tire iron and duct tape." His eyes drop to my leg. "This was easy."
"You can’t just kidnap me."
His gaze snaps back to mine, burning with dark possession. "You were dying, Alexandria. Hypothermia setting in. No signal. Rescue team wouldn’t have made it up the ridge before nightfall." He leans in, his scent flooding my senses. "I didn't kidnap you. I saved you."
"But—"
"Storm’s washed out the access road." He jerks his chin toward the glass where rain hammers like shrapnel. "Power lines are down in the valley. Nobody’s getting up here, and you sure as hell aren’t getting down."
I look at the bruised purple sky. "How long?"
"Sixteen hours."
Lost time. I look back, really seeing him. A tight black t-shirt strains across his chest, fabric clinging to granite muscle. Ink covers his arms—complex geometric patterns and skulls disappearing under his sleeves. Lines of tension etched around his eyes speak of exhaustion.
"Have you been here the whole time?"
"Yes."
Simple. Absolute.
He reaches out. Knuckles brush my forehead, checking my temperature. His skin feels rough and electric. A tremor ripples down my spine, settling low in my belly.
"Fever’s down," he murmurs. "Good."
"Tristan, I can’t stay here."
"You’re staying."
"People will be looking for me. My research team—"
"They’ll think you’re hunkered down in a shelter. Or dead." He doesn't flinch. "When the storm breaks, I’ll make a call. Until then, you’re mine to take care of."
Mine.
The word hangs heavy in the air. Territory is everything to men like him. I occupy his space, wear his clothes, sleep in his bed.
"I need to use the bathroom."
Tristan stands. No bedpan. No crutches. He slides one arm under my knees and the other behind my back.
"Wait—" My hands fly to his chest.
Beneath my palms, rock-hard pectorals feel warm and solid as a wall. The slow, steady thrum of his heart beats against my hand, calm and powerful against the racing flutter of my own pulse.
"Hold on."
He lifts me as if I weigh nothing, his massive arms locking me against the heat of his chest. I wrap my arms around his neck, my face pressed into his shoulder where he smells of rain, grease, and raw male. My injured leg dangles, but he holds me so securely I feel like a part of him.
As he walks, the oversized hoodie rides up to my waist. He holds me high against his chest, one arm under my knees and the other behind my back, but my legs are spread wide around his narrow hips to accommodate my injury.
The coarse, salt-stained denim of his jeans rubs rhythmically against my sensitive inner thighs and the soaking wet lips of my pussy with every heavy stride he takes.
The maddening friction of his granite-hard quads moving against my soft flesh sends a jolt of electricity straight to my clit, which is already engorged and throbbing for him.
I whimper into his neck, my juices staining the leather of his vest as the raw, alpha power of his movement vibrates through my core.
He feels it—I know he does—because his grip on my ass tightened, his thick fingers digging into my flesh as he claims every inch of my weight.
He carries me to a small, partitioned bathroom and sets me on the closed toilet lid. His hands stay on my waist, steadying me.
"Can you manage?" His voice drops an octave.
I look up. Static charges the air in the small room. He towers between my spread knees. If I lean forward an inch, my forehead would rest against his belt buckle.
"Yes." My voice squeaks. "But I need privacy."
He hesitates. His eyes trace my jaw, my lips. I hold my breath, certain he would refuse. Heat pulses through me at the thought of his eyes on me—possessive and unwavering.
"Don't lock the door." He steps back. "If I hear a thud, I’m coming in."
He leaves the door cracked.
I hoist my dead-weight leg, jaw locked tight as I navigate the small space. Every inch is a battle against the fracture. When I finish washing my hands, gripping the sink for support, I realized I can’t verify if I bled anywhere else without stripping. Not happening.
"Tristan?"
The door pushes open instantly. He fills the frame.
He scoops me up again. My body already learning the shape of his, relaxing into the hold.
"You’re lighter than you look," he rumbles, carrying me back.
"Is that a compliment?" I mumble into his shirt.
"Observation. You’re soft."
Soft. The word curls my toes. A confession of a weakness he despises but can’t resist.
He deposits me on the mattress, adjusting pillows with meticulous care.
Before he tucks the blanket around my hips, he notices a leaf from the ravine floor tangled in a lock of my hair near my temple.
He doesn't say a word; he just reaches out, his massive, calloused fingers moving with the precision of a jeweler as he gently untangles the debris.
His knuckles brush my skin, a feather-light caress that makes me blush harder than any of his growls.
He ensures the hair is smoothed back from my face, his eyes lingering on mine with a soft, silent promise of safety that hits me right in the chest.
Such a domestic act for a man who could snap a baseball bat in one hand.
"Hungry?"
"A little."
He ladles something from a cast-iron pot on the stove. Steam rises in thick curls.
Returning, he pulls a wooden chair close. It scrapes loudly against the floorboards.
"Beef stew. My mom’s recipe. I’ve been letting it simmer on the stove since I brought you in." He holds out a spoon, the steam carrying the scent of rich herbs and seared meat. "I don’t do canned shit. You need real fuel to knit those bones back together."
"I can feed myself. My hands aren't broken."
He doesn't pull back. Dark eyes locked onto mine. A silent battle of wills. The Road Captain versus the scientist. I don’t spook easily.
I reach for the spoon.
He pulls it back. "Let me."
"Why?"
"Because you're shaking."
My hands tremble—aftershocks of trauma or adrenaline withdrawal. Defeated, I open my mouth.
He feeds me slowly. Rich, salty stew warms me from the inside. He watches my lips with a predatory focus that makes my throat tighten.
Every time I open for the spoon, his gaze darkens, fixed on the wet, glistening interior of my mouth. It isn't just lunch; it is a ritual of absolute submission. I am his to keep alive, his to feed, his to own.
When a drip of broth escapes and tracks down my chin, Tristan’s thumb swipes it away with predatory speed.
He doesn't just wipe it; he shoves the rough, calloused pad of his thumb deep into my mouth, dragging it across my bottom lip to expose the wet, sensitive skin inside.
I suck on his digit instinctively, my tongue swirling around the salty, grease-stained skin of his thumb.
He lets out a low, guttural growl, his eyes tracking the way my throat works as I swallow, imagining my mouth wrapped around his thick cock instead of a spoon.
He lets his thumb linger there, claiming my mouth, and the taste of his salt and skin on my tongue makes my breath hitch.
Time stops. The storm fades. Only the crackle of the stove and Tristan’s harsh intake of breath remain.
My eyes flutter halfway shut. I lean into his touch, seeking more. The drug-haze makes everything heavy, but the spark between us remains sharp.
Tristan’s gaze drops to my mouth. Pupils blown wide, swallowing the iris. Hunger, stark and raw. He leans in, the chair creaking.
Hot breath laced with coffee ghosts over my lips. My heart collides against my ribs. I want him to close that distance. Want to taste the danger radiating off him.
"Tristan," I whisper. A plea to stop or continue, I don’t know.
His hand cups my jaw, fingers sliding into the hair at my nape. Grip tightening, possessive and firm. He tilts my head back, exposing my throat.
He leans closer. Lips millimeters from mine.
Then he freezes.
Lethal tension locks his jaw. He squeezes his eyes shut, a mask of restraint.
"You’re high on morphine," he grounds out.
He snatches his hand away. The loss of touch hits like a gut-punch. Cold air rushes in.
"Tristan?"
He stands, putting distance between us, pacing toward the window like a caged animal. Shoulders rise and fall with heavy breaths.
"Go to sleep, Alex." His voice leaves no room for argument. "I gave you another syrette an hour ago. You're still floating on a cloud of morphine, and the pain is going to stay buried for a while longer. You need to rest."
"I’m not tired anymore," I whisper, the arousal in my blood battling the haze in my brain. "I want... I want you to stay."
"Sleep," he orders, his voice a jagged rasp as he keeps his back to me.
"I'm not touching you like that—not when you're drugged out of your mind and can't feel exactly how much I'm going to ruin you. I want you wide awake and screaming my name when I finally slide my cock inside you. I’m not that kind of man to take a half-conscious woman, but don't think for a second you're getting away once you're sober. "
Like that.
The implication hangs in the room. He wants to touch me. He has almost done it.
I sink back into the pillows, body humming with frustration and a terrifying sense of safety. He could have done anything he wanted. I was helpless. But he stopped.
I watch his silhouette against the stormy window. A silent sentinel between me and the world.
He wasn't keeping me here just to heal my leg. And the scariest part wasn't being trapped.
I don’t want to leave.