Chapter 4 Austin
AUSTIN
The rumble of my Harley cuts through the silence of Grizzly Peak like a chainsaw through bone.
I let it idle, glaring at the porch I’ve spent the last forty-eight hours rebuilding while she watched from the windows.
The 'three-day' deadline she arrived with has long since expired, buried under sawdust and the weight of how we look at each other when the sun goes down.
I don’t bother killing the engine as I coast up the long, cracked driveway of the Wade estate. The deep, guttural thrum vibrates up through my thighs and into my chest, announcing my arrival.
I want her to hear me. I want her heart kicking against her ribs the way it used to when we were kids and I’d sneak up to her window.
But back then, I was just the boy from the wrong side of the mountain, looking for a friend.
Now, I’m the monster who owns the mountain.
And I’m looking for a lot more than friendship.
The house looms above me, a rotting Victorian skeleton against the black sky. Abandoned. A place where memories go to die. But in the second-story window—the master bedroom—a warm, yellow light glows.
My chest tightens. She’s up there.
I kill the bike, silence crashing down instantly.
The wind whips through the pines, carrying the metallic scent of rain and the damp earth of the forest floor.
I stand there, boots planted in the gravel, breathing in the night.
My eyes scan the perimeter, habit overriding lust. The shadows are deep here. Perfect cover.
Logan’s warning from this morning echoes in my head. The family on the eastern cliffs. The Costa territory creates a jagged border with ours, and lately, the air between us has been thin enough to snap. If they know Courtney is back—if they know she’s important to me—she becomes a target.
My blood turns to ice, then boils into rage. No one touches her. Not a single soul.
I walk up the porch steps, testing the repairs I made previously. The wood holds firm under my weight. Solid. Just like the cage I’m building around her, slat by slat, until she realizes she doesn’t want to leave.
I don’t knock.
The front door is unlocked. My jaw clenches. I told her to lock it. I told her specifically, looking her dead in those wide, whiskey-colored eyes, to keep the world out.
I step inside, closing the door behind me and throwing the deadbolt with a harsh clack.
The foyer is dark, smelling of dust and lemon polish—she’s been cleaning.
I move through the shadows, boots silent on the runner rug.
The house groans around me, settling for the night, but I hear movement upstairs. A soft scuffling. A frustrated sigh.
I take the stairs two at a time.
The door to the master bedroom stands ajar. I push it open with my fingertips.
Courtney stands in the middle of the room, her back to me.
She’s stripped off the clothes she wore to town—the respectable jeans and blouse—and wears an oversized t-shirt that hangs off one shoulder, ending just mid-thigh.
It’s old, faded grey, hugging the curve of her ass in a way that makes my mouth water.
She reaches up, trying to pry a stubborn sconce cover off the wall near the closet, her body stretched long.
Every muscle in my body locks up. The sight of her—relaxed, unguarded, soft—hits me like a sledgehammer. Ten years. I waited ten fucking years for this view.
"You didn't lock the front door," I say, my voice a low rasp scratching against the silence.
She bolts straight up, the screwdriver clattering to the floor as a gasp rips from her throat. Her hand flies to her chest, pressing against the frantic beat of her heart.
"Jesus, Austin!" she hisses, eyes wide. "Are you trying to give me a heart attack?"
"I'm trying to keep you alive," I say, stepping into the room. I kick the door shut behind me. "There are wolves in these woods, Court. And worse things than wolves."
"I forgot," she says, her voice shaky. She stoops to pick up the screwdriver, bending at the waist.
The t-shirt rides up.
I see the creamy pale skin of her upper thighs.
The softness of it. The curve leading to hips made to be held, widened, filled.
A dark, primal instinct roars to life in the back of my skull—the breeding instinct plaguing me since she came back.
My hands itch to grab those hips, to pull her back against me, to bury myself so deep inside her she forgets every year she spent away from me.
I force myself to breathe. Slow. Controlled. I’m the VP. I don’t lose control. I calculate.
"You forgot," I repeat, walking toward her. The room feels smaller with every step. "Careless."
She straightens up, clutching the screwdriver like a weapon. "I'm not used to living in a fortress, Austin. In the city, I have a doorman."
"You don't have a doorman here," I say, stopping just inside her personal space. I’m close enough to smell her now. Lavender—warm and slightly herbal. The best fucking thing I’ve ever smelled. "You have me."
She looks up, tilting her head back to meet my gaze. The height difference is significant. I tower over her, broad where she is soft, scarred where she is pristine. She swallows hard, her throat working.
"I didn't ask for a bodyguard," she whispers, though no heat backs the words. Just a trembling awareness.
"Didn't ask for a handyman either," I say, glancing at the sconce. "But you got both."
I reach out, not for her, but for the wall beside her head. I plant my hand flat against the peeling floral wallpaper, leaning down until our faces are inches apart. Trapping her. My body radiates heat toward her, and I watch the flush creep up her neck, staining her skin pink.
"I told you I'd check the wiring," I murmur, eyes dropping to her lips. Full, parted slightly. "This old place is a fire hazard. One spark, and the whole thing goes up."
"The wiring is fine," she breathes. Her eyes dart to my mouth, then back up. She’s lying. She knows exactly what kind of spark I’m talking about.
"Is it?" I challenge.
I shift my weight, bringing my hips closer. I’m not touching her, not yet, but the air between us is charged, thick with static. Heat rolls off her body in waves.
"Austin," she says, her voice wrecked. "Why are you doing this?"
"Doing what?"
"This. Being here. Taking over my house. Looking at me like..." She trails off, unable to say it.
"Like what, Court?" I push. "Say it."
She shakes her head, looking away. "Like I'm something you're planning to eat."
I let out a low, dark chuckle. "Eating is for survival, sweetheart. This?" I move my hand from the wall to catch a lock of her hair, rubbing the silky strands between my rough, calloused fingers. "This is hunger. Starvation."
A tremor rocks her frame.
"We were friends," she says, voice fragile as glass, hands rising to rebuild the invisible wall she always uses when the spark between us flares. "Best friends."
"Were," I correct her. "Past tense. We were kids who scraped knees and shared secrets. Then you left." My voice hardens. The old wound throbs. "You ran, Courtney. You left me here."
"I had to," she defends, eyes snapping back to mine, flashing with fire. "You know why I left. It was dangerous. Violent."
"And now you're back," I say, stepping closer until my chest brushes the tips of her breasts. She gasps, freezing. "And it's still dangerous. Still violent. But I'm not the boy who watched you drive away anymore. I'm the man who runs the violence."
I drop the lock of hair and let my knuckles graze down her cheek. Her skin is impossibly soft. Silk against concrete. I trace the line of her jaw, down her throat, resting my hand over her pulse point. It hammers. Thump-thump-thump. Like a trapped bird.
"I missed you," I admit, the words tearing out before I can stop them. A weakness, but I don’t care. "Every day. For ten years."
Her breath hitches. "Austin..."
"Did you think about me?" I ask, voice dropping to a growl. My thumb strokes the hollow of her throat. "When you were in the city, safe in your apartment with your doorman. Did you think about the boy you left on the mountain?"
She closes her eyes, tears gathering in her lashes. "Yes," she whispers. "All the time."
That confession snaps the last thread of restraint.
"Good," I growl.
I move my hand to the back of her neck, tangling fingers in her hair. I don't give her a chance to overthink it. No chance to run.
I crash my mouth onto hers.
The kiss is a fucking explosion. Violent. Reckless. Years of repressed anger and lust detonating all at once.
I groan into her mouth, a guttural sound vibrating through both of us. Her lips are soft, yielding, tasting of mint and shock. I tilt her head back, deepening the angle, demanding more. I need to taste her. I need to breathe her air.
For a second, she stands rigid, hands hovering. Then, she breaks.
She makes a small, desperate sound in her throat and surges against me. Her arms come up, wrapping around my neck, fingers digging into the leather of my cut. She opens for me, and I take the invitation. My tongue sweeps into her mouth, tangling with hers, hot and wet.
Electric. Burning. Like coming home and torching the house down at the same time.
I press into her, flattening her soft curves against the hard planes of my body. My knee drives between her legs, spreading her thighs apart. She gasps into the kiss, hips instinctively bucking against my thigh.
Fuck.
The friction sends a jolt of pleasure straight to my groin, made sharper by the heavy weight of the burner phone shoved in my pocket pressing into my hip. I’m hard instantly. Painfully. My cock strains against the denim of my jeans, aching to be closer. To be inside.
"Courtney," I grind out against her lips, breaking the kiss for a fraction of a second just to say her name. "You taste so fucking good."
"Austin, please," she whimpers, breathless. She doesn't know what she’s pleading for—for me to stop, or for me to never stop.