Chapter 7 Alexandria #2
I turn away, staring at the brick wall. Fight the sting of tears.
The loft's safety evaporates, replaced by cold reality.
He saved my life on the mountain. He claimed my body in this bed.
But as he sits guard like a sentinel at the gates of hell, I realize I don't know Tristan Gunnar at all.
I only know the Road Captain. And right now, he looks at me not as a lover, but as a mission.
Hours drag. The silence isn't comfortable anymore. It’s the tense quiet of a waiting room. I drift in a painkiller haze. Every time I wake, he’s there. Still. Watching. He brings water. He helps me to the bathroom with a detachment that hurts worse than the broken bone. Then he returns to his post.
Late afternoon. The radio on his belt crackles. "Tris. You copy?"
Tristan hits the button. "Go for Tris."
"It’s Shane. Up at the ridge."
Tristan’s posture sharpens. "What did you find?"
Static fills the pause. "Found the impact site. She told the truth. Rock is pulverized. High caliber. Not the only thing."
"Spit it out."
"Found a trail cam fifty yards out. Belonged to the shooter. Must have been scouting game trails. I pulled the memory card."
My heart leaps. "Evidence?"
Tristan holds up a hand. "What’s on it?"
"Photos of the valley. Deer. And a dozen shots of the loft. The garage. Comings and goings."
Tristan goes rigid, his knuckles white as he grips the radio.
"They've been watching," he rumbles, the sound like a tectonic plate shifting.
"Waiting for the storm to clear for extraction.
They knew the loft was a kill-box, but they hesitated—they wanted the drive intact before burning the building to the ground.
Once we moved this morning, they realized their window was closing. They had to move on our turf."
Blood drains from my face. Tristan stands, chair clattering backward. He moves to the window, slamming the heavy metal shutters closed. Barring them. "They know she's here," Tristan says into the radio.
"They know," Shane confirms. "If they were watching this morning, they saw Logan and the rest arrive. They know she’s under club protection."
"Means they strike fast before we dig in," Logan cuts in. "Tris, get her ready. Moving her to the compound vault. Now."
"Copy." Tristan kills the radio. Turns to me. Detachment gone. Fear is there, naked and raw. Mixed with feral intensity, vibrating the air. He crosses the room in two strides.
"We have to go." He shoves feet into boots.
"They were watching us? Through the window?"
He stops. Looks at the bed. The spot where he’d had my legs spread wide against the headboard this morning, his thick cock buried to the root in my drenched pussy while the blinds were open to the storm-gray light.
A muscle feathers in his jaw as he realizes they watched every rhythmic thrust, watched the way I screamed when his seed filled me.
"They saw," he snarls, a low, predatory sound that vibrates in the floorboards.
"They saw you shivering for me. They saw me claiming your pussy while they waited for a clear shot. They saw my brand on your skin."
He grabs a duffel bag, shoving things inside. Medical supplies. Clothes. Ammo. "They looked at what is mine." The possessiveness is terrifying. Violent. "They’re going to die for it. First, I get you underground."
He comes to the bed. Doesn't ask. Slides arms under me, lifting me like a child. Pain flares in my leg. I gasp, clutching his shoulders.
"I've got you." He pulls me tight against his chest. Buries his face in my neck for a split second, inhaling deeply. "Got you, Allie. Sorry I went cold. Had to."
"Tristan—"
"Had to lock it down," he whispers against my skin, lips brushing my pulse. "If I feel how scared I am of losing you, I can't kill the men coming for us."
He pulls back, eyes blazing with terrifying clarity. "And I am going to kill them."
He hitches me higher against his chest, freeing one massive hand to throw the heavy deadbolts.
He jerks the door inward, shielding me with his body as he carries me out.
He didn't slow down, his arms locked around me like iron bands as he hauls me toward the garage.
The quiet man I thought I knew is dead. In his place stands something raw and jagged.
I don't flinch. Instead, I grab the front of his jacket, my fingers curling into the leather. I am terrified of what's coming, but I am more terrified of being left behind.
He bypasses the bikes, their chrome glinting mockingly in the shadows.
Instead, he carries me toward the heavy, black-out truck idling by the garage door, its engine a low, predatory thrum.
He climbs into the back seat, pulling me onto his lap and shielding my body with his own.
He cages me against the broad wall of his chest, his massive arms locking around my waist while Austin jumps into the driver’s seat.
Tristan looks down at me, his eyes dark with a primal, unchecked hunger. "I've got you, Allie," he growls, his voice a promise of the violence he’s about to unleash on anyone who dared to watch us.