Chapter 6 Austin #2
My phone vibrates on the counter. I stare at it.
LOGAN: Report.
One word. Efficient. The President of the MC doesn't waste time.
I pick it up, typing with one thumb while I slice an apple with the knife I pull from my boot.
AUSTIN: Secure. staying at the site. need a supply run. lumber, drywall, wiring. and food.
The response is immediate.
LOGAN: You’re nesting. Thought you went there to secure the asset, not play house.
I scowl at the screen.
AUSTIN: Asset secured. Permanently. Watch the eastern ridge, I’ll handle the flank. Leave us alone for 24 hours unless the sky falls.
LOGAN: Copy. Congrats, brother.
I toss the phone aside. He knows. He’s always known this was coming. The Gunnars don’t love lightly, and we don’t love twice.
The domesticity of the act of bringing her food feels revolutionary. I’ve carried ammo crates, injured brothers, and kegs of beer, but carrying breakfast in bed for my woman makes my chest tighten in a way I’m not ready to analyze. I pick up the tray and head upstairs.
When I kick the door open gently, Courtney sits up, wearing one of my heavy flannel shirts she must have dug out of the duffel bag I brought up from the truck earlier.
It swamps her, the hem barely covering her pussy, and the sight of her in my colors hits me harder than a physical blow.
It’s a flag. A banner flying over a conquered castle.
"Coffee," I announce, setting the tray on the nightstand.
She reaches for her mug, wrapping both hands around it. As the sweet, nutty scent of hazelnut hits her, she freezes, her eyes widening as they find mine. "You... you went and got this? After seeing me at the Cozy Cup?"
"I told you, Court. I pay attention to everything you put in your mouth." I take a slow, deliberate sip of my own coffee—bitter, black, and lethal.
She laughs. “Black, like your soul?”
I smirk. "And you’re the one who needs a dessert in a cup to wake up. Drink it while it's hot."
She takes a tentative sip and her eyelids flutter in bliss. “I can’t believe you even remembered a short encounter like that.”
"I remember everything, Court. Every conversation. Every time you wore that yellow sundress that drove me crazy. Every time you cried over math homework." I pick up the spoon, scooping up some oatmeal. "Eat."
She opens her mouth, letting me feed her. It’s intimate, primal. I watch her chew, watch her throat work as she swallows. I’m feeding her. I’m sustaining her.
"We need to talk about what you did," she says, her voice gaining strength as the caffeine hits her system. "James called me. He said you personally told him to pull the listing. He sounded... relieved, Austin. Like he was terrified to say no to you."
"He should be," I say flatly, watching her over the rim of my mug. "The house isn't fit for a showing, let alone a sale. I told him six months for renovations. Minimum."
"Six months? Austin, I can't afford to keep this place for six weeks. The inheritance tax is a noose around my neck. That’s why I had to sell. I'm drowning here."
"I have money," I say. "Clean money. From the Outfitters. And not-so-clean money, if you want it. But the club takes care of its own. We’ll cover the taxes. The boys will come up and do the labor. Blake can weld the gates. Shane can handle the security system."
She lowers the mug, her hands trembling slightly against the ceramic. "You're paying my debts? You're just... deciding I'm staying? You'd spend that kind of money for a pile of rotting wood?"
"I'm not doing it for the wood, Court," I snap, leaning in until I can see my own reflection in her wide eyes.
"I'm doing it so you have no excuses left to run. This is Gunnar territory now. Strategically, it’s a strongpoint we need to hold.
But personally?" I slide my hand into her hair, forcing her to hold my gaze. "It’s where I'm keeping my woman."
"Your woman," she tests the words. Gooseflesh rises on her arms.
"My woman." The words taste like iron and victory. "My best friend. My future."
I take the mug from her hands and set it down, needing to touch her again. I slide my hands up her thighs, finding the warm skin of her waist. I pull her to the edge of the bed until her knees are bracketed by my hips.
"I already told you," I say, my voice dropping to that low, vibrating growl I use when giving orders that determine life or death.
"I can’t function without you. Yesterday.
.. before I even saw you... I was looking at a map of the mountain and I couldn't focus.
My hands shook from a desperate craving for a woman I haven't tasted for a long time. "
I press my palm flat against her lower belly, feeling the subtle rise and fall of her breath. "I’m an addict, Courtney. And you’re the fix. If you leave again, I won't survive it. I’ll turn mean. I’ll turn into something this town can't handle. You keep me human."
She covers my hand with hers, pressing it harder against her stomach. "I was scared," she whispers. "Coming back. Scared of the memories. Scared of you. But being here... with you... it’s the only time the fear goes away."
"I’ll kill the fear," I vow. "I’ll kill anything that scares you."
"Even the ghosts?" she asks, looking around the room.
"Especially the ghosts."
I lean forward, resting my forehead against hers again. "I have to go down and check the perimeter properly. Check the wiring in the basement. I saw some fraying that could spark a fire. I need to make this place safe for you."
"Okay," she breathes.
"But I need a promise first."
"Anything."
"You don't leave the property line. Not today. If you need anything—groceries, paint, tampons, I don't care—you call me. Or you text the number I put in your phone for the clubhouse. Do not go into town alone. Do not open the door for anyone who isn't wearing a cut."
She dips her chin, her gaze dropping as she absorbs the reality of the threat.
She knows enough about my world to know I’m not being paranoid.
The eastern cliffs are watching. Dominic Costa is watching.
And a woman as beautiful as Courtney, alone in a rotting house on the edge of the territory, is bait I refuse to dangle.
"I promise," she says.
"Good." I kiss her hard, a seal on the contract. "I’m going to go get my tools from the truck. You eat. Shower. Put on something of mine. I like seeing you in my clothes."
I stand up. The loss of contact creates a wrenching sensation in my gut. I force myself to walk to the door.
"Austin?"
I turn back, my hand on the frame. She sits in the pool of sunlight, wearing my flannel shirt—a sight that hits me harder than a gunshot to the chest. Her hair is a mess, her lips still swollen from my mouth.
"I meant it," she says. Her voice is quiet, stripped of the adrenaline and the moans from last night. "What I said when... when you were inside me. I love you, Austin. I never stopped."
The air leaves the room. Hearing it in the cold light of day is different than hearing it in the dark. It’s not a plea anymore; it’s a surrender. I haven't had those words directed at me in a decade, and now that they're here, they're the only thing keeping me upright.
"I heard you the first time," I reply, my voice dropping to a rough, possessive growl. "And I'm never letting you take it back. I've loved you since the third grade, Courtney. Every minute you were gone was just time I spent waiting to hear you say it again."
I walk out into the hallway before I do something embarrassing like fall to my knees. I march down the stairs. The wooden steps creak under my boots. I hit the front door and step out onto the porch. The mountain air is crisp, smelling of pine and ice.
I scan the tree line. West is clear. North is clear. East... toward the ridge... the shadows are deep. I narrow my eyes. I can feel eyes on me. The hair on the back of my neck stands up.
Let them watch.
I walk to my truck and pull out my tool belt and the shotgun I keep behind the seat. I rack the slide. The sound echoes off the trees—a metallic warning to anything hiding in the pines.
I’m Austin Gunnar. I’m the Vice President of Broken Halos. And I’m home.
I turn back to the house, hammer in one hand, shotgun in the other.
It’s time to build a life.