Chapter 8 Tristan
TRISTAN
The wind cuts through the pines like a serrated blade, carrying the scent of impending snow and old rust. But the sour tang of panic radiating off Alexandria’s skin overpowers it all, mixing with the musk of our earlier intimacy.
I hold her tighter against my chest. My shoulder blocks the biting wind from her face.
My leather cut usually feels like armor, but today it weighs a ton, burdened by the failure sitting like lead in my gut.
Someone watched us. While I washed her, fed her, buried myself inside her.
.. a camera lens watched. A scope. Eyes belonging to a ghost I should have sensed.
The Road Captain tracks. He knows every twig snap, every shifted rock.
I let the soft curves of her body blind me to the perimeter.
"Tristan." Her voice shakes against my neck. Her hands grip the front of the hoodie I put on her days ago. It swallows her small frame, offering zero protection against a bullet.
"I’ve got you." The rumble travels from my chest to hers. "Keep your head down."
We descend the wooden stairs from the loft.
My eyes dissect the shadows. The shifting gray light makes every swaying branch a threat.
Logan waits at the bottom. His massive frame blocks the line of sight from the eastern ridge.
His sidearm is drawn, held low against his thigh.
His jaw sets so hard the muscle jumps. Austin moves in a sweeping arc ten yards out, eyes hidden behind dark glasses.
"Clear to the transport," Austin calls out.
I move with speed that defies my size. I cradle Alexandria’s broken leg to keep it from jostling. She winces, a small, choked sound that tears at my composure. Pain. I’m causing her pain. Again.
"Almost there, darling."
We aren’t taking bikes. Austin pulled the club’s armored SUV around. The back door hangs open. I slide into the backseat. I refuse to put her down. I refuse to let go even to buckle her in. I pull her onto my lap, maneuvering her splint across the bench seat while I curl my body around hers.
Logan slams the door. The heavy thud of the lock engaging sounds like a prison cell. Or a coffin.
Austin jumps into the driver's seat, the engine roaring as he slams it into gear.
"Drive," Logan barks.
I pull Alexandria closer, my hand covering the side of her face to keep her from seeing the ridge.
"They saw nothing but a man claiming his territory," I growl, the words meant for the ghosts watching through scopes.
"They saw me burying my cock in what belongs to me.
Now, they're going to pay for that look in blood.
" The engine roars, tires crunching over the gravel. We only have three hundred yards to the main clubhouse, but in a sniper’s scope, three hundred yards is an eternity.
Alexandria trembles. Her teeth chatter. The adrenaline crash hits hard.
"I’m sorry," she stammers, eyes glassy. "I... I brought this here. I didn’t know—"
"Stop." I press my thumb over her lips. The skin is soft. "You didn’t bring this. This is my territory. If someone hunts on my mountain, that’s my failure."
"But they were watching." Her voice drops to a horrified whisper. "In the loft. When we..."
Blood rushes to her face. Rage spikes in my veins, hot and corrosive. Another man seeing her bare skin, the arch of her back, her eyes rolling back... I want to burn the forest until nothing remains but ash.
"They saw nothing but a man claiming what belongs to him." My voice drops to the lethal register that makes men back down. "And now they die for it."
She buries her face in my neck. I inhale the rainwater scent of her hair. I need to fix this. I need to put her somewhere safe so I can stop being a shield and start being a sword.
The SUV jerks to a halt behind the main clubhouse. The rear entrance is fortified brick and steel.
"Move," Logan barks.
I hoist her up. We move fast, a phalanx of leather and muscle pushing through the reinforced steel door held open by Shane.
The clubhouse smells of stale beer and gun oil. We bypass the main bar for the heavy metal door at the end of the hall. Shane punches the code. The keypad beeps. The locks disengage with a mechanical clunk.
The Vault is more than a bunker; it’s the club’s final heartbeat.
The air is thick with the scent of gun oil and the faint, vanilla perfume Savannah always wears—a jarring reminder of what Logan is protecting in the back quarters.
Beyond the heavy partition, I hear the muffled, low murmur of Savannah’s voice, likely soothing Rhett.
Logan stands by the monitors, his jaw a jagged line of granite. He isn’t just pissed about the breach; he’s vibrating with the need to keep the world away from the door separating us from his wife and son.
I lower Alexandria onto the nearest cot, immediately grabbing a stack of MRE crates to prop her splinted leg above her heart.
She grips my arms, her nails digging into the leather of my cut, her breath hitching as the blood shifts in the injury.
I can feel Logan’s eyes burning into my back—he hates that I’ve brought this chaos so close to his own.
"Don't leave me," she gasps. "Tristan, please."
"I have to secure the door."
Logan and Austin stand in the doorway. Logan looks toward the back partition where his family is hidden, then back at me, his eyes murderous.
"You brought a fireteam to my front door, Tristan," Logan growls, his voice a low vibration of threat. "Savannah and the kid are twenty feet away. "War room. Five minutes. We end this now.'"
"I’m not leaving her."
"Tristan," Logan warns. "We have a shooter with eyes on the compound. We need the Road Captain, not the boyfriend."
"I’m both. Give me a minute."
Logan assesses me. He gives a sharp jerk of his chin. "Five minutes. Then Shane takes guard duty and you get your head in the game."
The door closes. Silence rings in the Vault. The ventilation system hums. Alexandria looks small on the cot. Her face is drawn. The splint on her leg shines stark white against the gray wool blanket. A broken doll I tried to glue back together.
I drop to my knees beside the cot. The cold concrete grounds me.
"Look at me."
Her eyes find mine. Tears swim there, but she refuses to shed them. She calculates. Survives.
"You going out there?" she asks. "To find them?"
"Yes."
"Will you come back?"
I cup her face in my rough hands. My thumbs trace her cheekbones. "I found you in the middle of a damn deluge, Alex. I carried you through a mudslide and down a mountain. Do you think a gun keeps me from coming back to you?
"I don't know who they are. I don't know why..." Her breath hitches.
"It doesn't matter who they are." I press my forehead against hers. "They breathed the same air as you. First mistake. They looked at you. Last."
She exhales a shaky breath. Her hands grip my wrists. Her pulse thunders against my palms. I need to slow it down. I need to ground her here before panic takes her completely.
"I need you to stay in this room. Can you do that for me?"
"Yes."
"Good." I slide my hands down to her shoulders, squeezing the tension there. "I need to know you’re mine. I need to know that while I’m out there hunting, you’re in here, thinking about me. Only me."
"Tristan..."
I capture her mouth, the kiss a brutal, claiming branding. I don't just kiss her; I occupy her, my tongue shoving deep inside her mouth to own her space. I taste the sharp tang of her fear and the heavy, musk-sweet cream of her arousal.
I grind my hips against her, making sure she feels the hard, thick length of my cock through my jeans, a promise of the deep, thorough stretching I’m going to give her pussy once these bastards are in the ground. I want her dripping for me while I’m out there killing for her.
She moans, her pussy soaking the seat of her jeans as her hands tangle in my hair.
I want her to feel every inch of my hardness, to know that the man who is about to go kill for her is the only one who gets to fill her.
My hand slides down, my palm heavy over her mound, feeling the clit-throb even through the denim.
I’m going to stretch her wide, fill her with my seed until she can’t remember her own name, but first, I have to make the world bleed for looking at her.
She moans, hands tangling in my hair. The pain in her leg fades under the searing heat of contact. My hand slides to the back of her neck, holding her in place. I deepen the kiss, demanding everything. I want to leave a mark. A warning sign. Property of Broken Halos. Property of Tristan Gunnar.
I pull back, resting my forehead against hers. Her lips are swollen, her eyes dazed. The fear is gone, replaced by a hazy focus on me.
"You stay here," I say. The loss of contact hurts. "Shane will be at the door. If anyone other than me or my brothers tries to come in, there’s a Glock taped under the sink. You know how to use a safety?"
"Yes. My dad taught me."
"Good girl." I reach into my boot and pull out my spare tactical knife, pressing the heavy steel handle into her palm. "You keep the Glock under the sink for distance, but if anyone gets close enough to touch you, you gut them with this. Understand?"
She nods, her fingers curling around the hilt, her eyes showing that steel spine I’ve grown to crave.
"I'm locking this from the outside," I command, adjusting my cut and ensuring the leather sits straight over my shoulders. I don’t leave until I hear the heavy steel bolts slide home.
"Understood. Logan’s waiting in the chapel," Shane mutters from his post in the hallway.
I walk down the hallway, the sound of the locks echoing behind me like a promise. Click. Click. Click.
She’s safe.
Now I can destroy everything else.
I push through the double doors into the chapel. The heavy oak table bears the scars of three generations of Gunnars. Logan sits at the head. Austin is to his right. Blake stands by the window. Chase paces the length of the room.
Every head turns.