Chapter 3 Courtney
COURTNEY
Dust motes dance in the sliver of sunlight cutting through the grime on the kitchen window, swirling in a chaotic rhythm that matches the turbulence inside my chest. I scrub at the countertop with a ferocity that threatens to strip the varnish right off the ancient wood.
My arm burns, the lactic acid building in my triceps, but stopping means thinking.
And thinking forces me to acknowledge that Austin Gunnar holds me hostage in my own childhood home without using a single zip tie or lock.
He used paperwork. Backed by pure, unadulterated testosterone.
Six months.
I squeeze the sponge until soapy water runs down my wrist, dripping onto the linoleum floor that’s seen better days.
He blocked the sale. He leaned on James, my attorney, and tangled the deed in enough red tape to choke a bull.
James didn’t even sound apologetic when he called me back this morning.
He sounded relieved, like he was glad the decision had been taken out of his hands by the terrifying force of nature that is the Broken Halos MC.
I toss the sponge into the bucket, the splash wetting the front of my old oversized t-shirt.
I need coffee. Real coffee, not the instant sludge I found in the back of a cupboard that probably expired before I left for the city ten years ago.
And I need air. Air that doesn't smell like cedar, rain, and Austin’s distinct, musky scent—a phantom aroma that soaked into the very drywall since he cornered me yesterday.
Grab keys. Grab purse. Escape.
The drive down the winding mountain road from Grizzly Peak into the heart of Pine Valley usually calms me. Today, the towering pines feel like the bars of a cage. Every shadow beneath the boughs looks like a biker, every rumble of a distant engine makes my pulse stutter against my ribs.
I park my rental sedan on Main Street, wedging it between a pickup truck lifted high enough to need an elevator and a sensible station wagon.
The town hasn’t changed much. The storefronts represent brick and charm, hanging baskets of petunias fighting a losing war against the mountain chill.
But the tension is new. A static charge prickles the fine hairs on my arms.
I keep my head down and hurry toward the Cozy Cup. The bell above the door jingles—a bright, cheerful sound violently at odds with my mood.
The shop is warm, smelling of roasted beans and cinnamon. A sanctuary. I breathe in, finally letting my shoulders drop an inch.
"Well, if it isn't the runaway ghost."
I freeze. Behind the counter, Christie leans against the espresso machine, a rag in her hand and sharp intelligence in her eyes. We went to high school together. She knew everyone’s secrets before they knew them themselves.
"Hi, Christie," I manage, walking up to the counter. "I see the rumor mill is faster than fiber optics in this town."
"Faster and more accurate," she grins, though it’s not unkind. She looks me up and down, her gaze lingering on the messy bun I threw my hair into and the flush on my cheeks. "Tall skim latte with two pumps of hazelnut?"
"You remember?"
"I remember everything, Courtney. Especially when the person in question has become the main topic of conversation at the Timber Trail Tavern." She starts tapping buttons on the register. "So, you're back. And you're staying at the old Wade estate up in the Peak."
"Temporarily," I correct quickly. "Just to sell it."
Christie pauses, holding a to-go cup in mid-air. Her eyebrows shoot up. "Sell it? Honey, I heard Austin Gunnar was up there fixing the roof yesterday. You don't fix a roof on a house that's being sold to strangers. You fix a roof on a home you're keeping."
My stomach flips. "He's... being helpful. Old friends, you know."
Christie snorts. "Helpful. Right. Just like a wolf is helpful to a sheep. Look, I’m not gonna pry—" she leans over the counter, lowering her voice, "—but you be careful.
The Gunnars own this mountain, we all know that.
But the air is thin up there right now. Bad blood is brewing with the folks on the eastern cliffs. "
"The eastern cliffs?" I ask, taking the mug she slides toward me. "James mentioned them too."
"If James warned you, you listen," she says, her face hardening. "Just... stay close to the people you know. If Austin has his sights on you, maybe that’s the safest place to be."
I take a sip of the coffee, the hazelnut sweetness warring with the bitter reality check. "I can take care of myself, Christie."
"I know you can, Court. You survived leaving. But coming back? That’s the hard part." She wipes a spot on the counter, her eyes flicking to the window. "Speak of the devil."
I don't have to turn around to know what she sees. I feel it. A low vibration in the floorboards. The sudden silence that falls over the few other patrons in the shop. The atmosphere shifts from cozy to charged in a second.
I keep my back to the door, staring into my latte foam as if the secrets of the universe are written in the bubbles. The bell jingles again, sounding like a warning this time.
Heavy boots thud against the hardwood floor. Slow. Deliberate. A predator who knows his prey has nowhere to run.
"Large black coffee. To go."
His voice is gravel grinding on glass. Deep, resonant, and so familiar it makes my womb clench tight.
"Coming right up, Austin," Christie says, her tone brisk but respectful. She doesn't flirt. You don't flirt with a man who looks like he could snap the counter in half with one hand.
I refuse to turn. I will not turn. I am an independent woman selling a house and leaving.
A large, warm body moves into the space beside me. He doesn't touch me, but the heat radiating off him feels like a blast furnace. He smells of leather, cold mountain wind, and that unique, spicy scent of high-octane fuel.
"You left the house."
The words rumble near my ear, heavy with accusation.
I turn slowly, forcing myself to look up.
And up. Austin Gunnar is massive. In the daylight of the coffee shop, he’s even more imposing than he was in the dim hallway of my house.
His cut—the leather vest with the Broken Halos patch—stretches across shoulders that are impossibly broad.
His arms, covered in tattoos that disappear under his black t-shirt, are thick with muscle.
A jagged scar runs from his jaw down his neck, disappearing into his collar, a brutal reminder of the violence I ran away from.
But his eyes pin me. Dark, stormy, and fixed on my face with a possessiveness that weakens my knees.
"I didn't know I was a prisoner, Austin," I say, trying to keep my voice steady.
"You're not a prisoner, Courtney," he murmurs, stepping closer so his boot nudges mine. "You're a local asset. And assets shouldn't wander around unprotected."
"I'm buying coffee," I hiss. "Not wandering into a war zone."
"With the way you look?" His gaze drops, dragging over my throat, down the front of my shirt to where my breasts push against the fabric, then lower to the curve of my hips. It’s a physical caress, heavy and insolent. "Every zone is a war zone when you're walking around like this."
My cheeks burn. "Like what? It’s a t-shirt and jeans."
"It's you," he says simply. "You think the years that passed erased the target on your back? Or the one on your..." He stops, his eyes darkening as they linger on my midsection. The look is primal. Hungry. It triggers something deep in my hindbrain—the instinct to bare my neck and let him bite.
Christie sets a large paper cup on the counter with a loud thump. "Black coffee. On the house, Austin."
"Put it on my tab," he counters, throwing a twenty onto the counter. "And hers too."
"I can pay for my own—"
"Let's go." He grabs his cup. He doesn't grab me, but his body angles toward the door, issuing a silent command.
"I have errands to run," I lie. I do have errands, but stating them feels like a rebellion. "I need paint. For the living room."
His lip quirks up in a smirk that is equal parts arrogant and devastatingly handsome. "Harrison's Hardware. It’s two doors down. Walk with me."
He doesn't wait for an answer.
I say goodbye to Christie, who gives me a look that is half-pity, half-envy, and follow him out.
The street feels different with him beside me.
People move out of the way. Men who might have glanced at me before now avert their eyes entirely, their gazes sliding off me the moment they see the cut on Austin's back.
"You blocked the sale," I say as we walk, the anger bubbling up again.
"I delayed it," he corrects. He takes a sip of his scalding coffee without even wincing. "House isn't safe. Foundation needs work. Wiring is a fire hazard. I'm not letting you sell a death trap to some unsuspecting family. Bad for property values."
"Since when do you care about property values?"
He stops in the middle of the sidewalk, forcing me to halt or run into his solid chest. He looks down at me, his expression serious. "I care about what's mine. That land has been next to ours for three generations. I'm not letting it go to strangers."
What's mine. The words hang in the air, ambiguous and heavy.
We enter Harrison's Hardware. The smell of sawdust and metal replaces the coffee aroma. Frank, the owner, is behind the counter. He’s an older man with hands like gnarled roots.
"Austin," Frank nods. "Courtney. Good to see you back, girl."
"Hi, Frank," I smile, and place my drink on the counter. "Just need some primer and interior white."
I move toward the paint aisle, grateful for the distraction. Austin’s eyes track me every step of the way. I feel him watching the sway of my hips, the movement of my legs. It’s maddening. Exhilarating.
After dragging a gallon of paint off the lowest shelf, I attempt to grab two gallons of primer, struggling slightly with the weight.
Suddenly, a warm, hard chest presses against my back. Large hands cover mine on the handles of the paint cans.