Chapter 10 Tristan
TRISTAN
The air in the Chapel is thick enough to chew on, smelling of stale cigarette smoke, gun oil, and the aggressive testosterone my brothers emit just by existing.
I don’t sit in my usual chair. I can’t. I stand at the head of the dark oak table, a monolithic slab of wood that has seen more blood and liquor than the floor of the Timber Trail Tavern.
My arms are crossed over my chest, muscles coiled tight, but my attention isn't on the map spread out in front of Logan.
My gaze locks on the woman sitting in the wheelchair beside me.
Alexandria. She appears small in the chaotic, scarred interior of the clubhouse meeting room.
Her leg is propped up, still encased in the heavy tactical splint and dark pressure bandages I’ve been maintaining.
I’ve reinforced the bracing, but she’s still weeks away from putting weight on it.
She wears my black hoodie, the sleeves falling over her hands, and her hair is a messy, honey-toned halo catching the low light of the hanging bulbs.
She shed the victim skin somewhere on the ridge.
Now she looks like a queen on a throne she didn't ask for but intends to keep.
"Tell me again," Logan growls, leaning forward. His grip on the table is so brutal the ancient oak groans under the pressure. He stares at the hard drive sitting in the center of the wood like it’s a bomb.
"This drive contains the encrypted master files for the environmental impact study.
The cloud backups are locked behind a biometric key only I can activate.
Without me and this physical drive, their falsified reports would stand.
They didn't just want the data; they wanted the only person who could verify it gone.
Ramirez was betting that if I died 'accidentally' on the ridge, he could bribe a local official to bypass the encryption or simply declare the habitat study 'lost' due to my death. "
Austin leans back in his chair, spinning a knife on the wood. "Which means the mercenaries they hired to kill you to stop the release of this data—"
"Are out of a paycheck," Chase finishes, a wicked grin spreading across his face. "And out of a target. If the info is public, killing her doesn't stop anything. It adds a murder charge to a failed investment. Once Alexandria presents this data via video link to the board tomorrow, she won't just be a candidate anymore. She’ll be the lead conservator for the Grizzly Peak District. Her Ph.D. won't just be a degree—it’ll be a legal shield that even Ramirez’s millions can’t pierce. She’s the new Queen of the Ridge, and the law is officially on the Gunnars' side. "
"It ends the siege," I rumble, my voice vibrating through the room. "The moment that data hits the servers of the Pine Valley Gazette and the state attorney's office, she’s safe."
Logan looks up at me. His eyes are dark, assessing. We are the kings of this mountain, but we play a dangerous game with the law. Handing over evidence to authorities goes against every instinct in our blood, but this isn't about us. It’s about her.
"Do it," Logan commands. He looks at Chase.
"Get it to James. Tell him to file the injunctions and leak the rest to the press.
Burn that development company to the ground legally.
Our 'cleaners' in the DA's office are already framing the ridge shootout as a localized clash between rival mercenary factions.
With the mercenaries' records being what they are, the police won't dig too deep into why they were on our land.
We'll win this in the courtroom while the bodies are handled off the books. "
Chase snatches up the drive. "With pleasure."
The tension in the room snaps, replaced by the grim satisfaction of a war won.
But one piece of business remains. Logan shifts his gaze to Alexandria.
He looks at the cuts on her face, the splint on her leg, and then he looks at me.
He sees the way I stand over her—not just guarding her, but hovering.
Consumed. He sees the claim I’ve staked in the air around her, a perimeter that no one, not even my president, is allowed to cross.
"The threat is gone," Logan says, his voice deceptively calm. "The rescue team has been asking questions. Marcus is sniffing around. Dr. Grace is pissed we haven't brought her in. You could take her back to town, Tristan. Drop her at the clinic. Let her go back to her life."
Silence chokes the room. The predator inside me bares its teeth. My hands clench into fists. The idea of taking her back—of leaving her in some sterile apartment in town, of letting her walk away from the mountain—feels like tearing out my own ribcage. Words are unnecessary.
Alexandria places her hand on my forearm. Her fingers are warm, her touch grounding. She looks at Logan, her chin lifting with a defiance that makes my chest swell with pride. "I have a lot of rehabilitation ahead of me," she says smoothly. "My apartment has stairs. It's not suitable for recovery."
"Is that so?" Austin asks, eyes twinkling with amusement.
"Besides," she continues, her thumb rubbing circles into the ink on my skin. "My field research is centered on Grizzly Peak. I can't very well monitor the habitat from downtown. I need to be on site."
Logan sighs, but I see the ghost of a smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. He respects strength. He respects loyalty. And he sees exactly what is happening.
"Tristan," Logan says.
"She stays," I snarl. That is not a request; it’s a fact as immutable as the granite cliffs outside. "She’s mine. The loft is hers. The mountain is hers. Anyone has a problem with that, they can take it up with me."
Logan stands up, signaling the end of the meeting. "No problem, brother. Just make sure she knows the rules. Once you wear the patch's protection, you don't get to take it off."
I look down at her, expecting her to yield to my claim. Instead, she arches an eyebrow, her chin lifting. "He means I’ve read the handbook, Logan. I’m still working on my own set of amendments for the Road Captain’s behavior."
I feel a tug of pride in my chest. She’s the only person on this mountain who dares to talk back to me, and I’m going to spend the rest of my life letting her win the small wars.
"You can write all the amendments you want, Allie," I rumble, my hand sliding to the back of her neck in a possessive grip that is as much a caress as a claim.
"As long as I’m the one who gets to sign them. "
"Good," Logan rasps, a rare glint of amusement in his eyes as he watches his Brother by the Patch get handled by a five-foot-nothing scientist. The word is a seal on her fate.
The Chapel falls into a heavy, respectful quiet, the business concluded but the atmosphere still buzzing with the ghost of our victory.
I look at the ink on my forearm where her fingers still rest, and the need to have her in my own territory—away from the smoke and the noise—snaps the last of my patience.
I don't wait for the others to dismiss us; I’ve already spent too long sharing her with the club’s gaze.
I haul her up out of the wheelchair, ignoring her squeak of surprise and the hooting laughter from Austin and Shane.
I cradle her against my chest, her broken leg supported by my arm, and carry her through the smoky bar and out into the cool, pine-scented night air.
I don't stop until we reach the garage, my boots heavy on the metal stairs as I bring her home to my territory. My lair. Now hers.
The loft is quiet, the storm that raged for days finally gone, leaving the world outside washed clean.
I kick the door shut behind us and lock it—three heavy deadbolts sliding into place with a definitive thunk-thunk-thunk.
I carry her to the bed—the massive, custom-built mattress that has been my solitary refuge for years.
Setting her down on the mattress, I handle her like a hunter with a wounded mate—careful but possessive.
Pillows go under her splint to keep the weight off the break.
My calloused fingers press against her toes, making sure the blood is still flowing right before I stop being a medic and start being the man who’s going to claim her.
"Tristan," she whispers.
I straighten up and look at her. The adrenaline of the confrontation, the violence of the last twenty-four hours, the fear of losing her—it’s all crashing down, leaving me raw.
"You had an out," I say, voice rough. I remove my cut, hanging the heavy leather vest carefully over the back of the chair.
"Logan gave you an out. You could have gone back to your grant money and your university and your safe, civilian life. "
She watches me as I pull my t-shirt over my head, baring my torso to the cool air. My body is a map of scars, a history of violence. I am too big, too quiet, too damaged for a woman like her. "I didn't want an out," she says softly.
I move toward the bed, the predator in me prowling closer.
I brace my hands on the mattress on either side of her hips, looming over her, caging her in.
"You don't know what you're signing up for, Alexandria.
I'm not a hero. You saw what I did to those men on the ridge.
That wasn't self-defense; it was a cold-blooded execution. "
"I saw a man protecting what was his," she counters, reaching up to trace the line of my jaw. Her fingers tremble slightly, but not from fear. "I saw the man who found me in the mud and rain when everyone else had given up. Who kept me warm. Who fed me."
"I kidnapped you," I remind her, leaning down until our noses brush. "I drugged you and held you captive."
"You saved me," she corrects, breath hitching as I press my hips against the edge of the mattress. "And now I'm saving you."