Chapter 10 Austin
AUSTIN
The question hangs in the sharp mountain air, vibrating between us like a live wire. I don’t flinch or blink. I just tighten my grip on her hip, my fingers sinking into the soft denim of her jeans, anchoring her to the porch and the dirt beneath our feet.
"It’s a declaration, Courtney," I growl, my voice dropping into the low, proprietary register usually reserved for club business. Today, strictly personal. "Proposals imply you have a choice. You don’t. You’ve been mine since you were twelve years old, skip-stoning in the creek.
The last ten years were a glitch. A long, painful blackout. Now? Now the lights are back on."
I step closer, crowding her against the railing I’ve just reinforced.
The wood doesn't groan. It holds firm. I’ll make sure every pillar of her life stays just as steady.
"Gunnar and Wade. This is about blood, Court. Not just land. I’m planting my flag.
I’m moving my things in, and I’m never moving them out. "
Courtney tilts her head back, her hazel eyes searching mine for hesitation. She finds none. The heavy, primal weight of our shared blood-bond sits between us—a biological imperative that makes the rest of the world feel like static.
"You're very sure of yourself," she whispers, her breath ghosting against my lips.
"I've had ten years to think about exactly how I was going to claim every inch of your body when you finally came home," I reply, my voice a dark, possessive rumble.
I reach up, my thumb tracing the line of her jaw before dragging down to press firmly against her pulse point, letting her feel the predatory heat of my hand.
"I'm not just asking to be your husband.
I'm telling you that I'm your fortress. I'm the man who kills the monsters at your door and the one who builds the walls that keep you safe. "
My mouth crushes hers, the answer to every fear she’s ever had. A slow, deep sealing of our contract. When I pull back, the surrender in her eyes tells me everything—the way she leans into me as if I were the only solid thing left in the universe.
"Okay," she breathes. "Gunnar and Wade."
"Good." I nip at her lower lip, a sharp, biting reminder of exactly who owns it. "Now go inside and start drafting that announcement for your new firm. I’m going to finish clearing the splinters of that sign from our yard."
Two Weeks Later
The rhythmic, bone-deep crack of a hammer driving a four-inch nail into solid oak echoes off the granite walls of the valley. It's a sharp, repetitive sound that beats any city therapy.
I wipe a thick smear of sweat and sawdust from my forehead, throat parched from the afternoon sun.
Grizzly Peak burns white-hot today, the morning mist long evaporated into the scent of resin and dry pine.
My muscles burn, a pleasant ache signaling a job nearly finished.
I am dry-mouthed and exhausted, but every swing of my arm feels like nailing down the floorboards of my future.
Two weeks ago, this house was a Victorian corpse—rotting beams, sagging floors, a thousand dark corners filled with neglect.
Now, the supports are reinforced with fresh, aromatic timber.
I added a screen door to the front entrance to let the air in, and the main door has been replaced with heavy mahogany wood.
The danger is gone. Just like the danger of her leaving.
I pause, resting the hammer against my thigh, and look up at the second-story window.
The glass reflects the deep green of the forest, but my focus locks on the shadow moving behind the pane.
I feel her presence like a gravitational pull.
Courtney. My Court. Thirst hits me hard.
I’d give anything for a cold glass of water and a look at her face.
For a decade, I’ve been a ghost haunting my own life, going through the motions of being the Vice President of Broken Halos while the only part of me that actually matters was missing. Now, she is inside. The world finally has color again.
The roar of a V-twin engine cuts through the silence, shattering the peace of the ridge. I don’t flinch. I know that deep, guttural thrum. It vibrates at a lower frequency than any other bike in the club.
Logan.
I set the hammer on a stack of fresh lumber and stand, brushing wood shavings from my jeans.
I walk down the newly stable steps just as my brother’s blacked-out Harley kicks up a cloud of dust and slides to a precision halt in the gravel.
Logan kills the engine and swings a massive leg over the seat, his face set in that stone-cold expression that makes grown men in this valley cross the street.
He pulls off his helmet and stares at the house, then at my bare, sweat-slicked chest. "You look like shit, Austin," he rumbles, voice like gravel grinding together.
"Been working," I say, crossing my arms.
Logan tracks the line of the new finish-grade beams, his jaw tight. "You handled those scouts at the ridge yesterday."
"Three of Dominic Costa’s men," I confirm.
"They’ve been testing the perimeter for two weeks, but after yesterday, they won't be walking right for a few months. Message sent."
"Message received," Logan says. "I got a call from an intermediary this morning. The Costas are pulling back to the ridge. They claim it was a 'misunderstanding' over property boundaries. They know now that the Wade estate is Gunnar ground."
"It’s my ground," I say, voice dropping an octave. "The club doesn't need a buffer zone here. Courtney isn't selling. Not to the Costas. Not to the club. She’s keeping the house."
Logan stares at me, searching for a crack in my resolve. He finds none. I officially flagged this property as 'VP Interest' years ago; I am just finally building the fortress to match the claim.
"So you’re moving off the compound?" Logan asks.
"I’m moving in here. Permanently."
The screen door creaks open. Bare feet pad onto the premium oak finish-boards I’ve just finished nailing down as the final layer of this fortress.
"He’s not leaving the club, Logan," Courtney’s voice rings out, steady and strong. "But he’s not leaving me, either."
Logan looks past me to where she stands on the porch, wearing one of my black t-shirts and nothing else. A slow, rare grin spreads across his face. "Took you ten years," Logan mutters, turning back to his bike. "About damn time."
He gives Courtney a respectful nod—the kind reserved strictly for an "Old Lady"—and peels out of the driveway. I watch him go until the sound fades, then turn back to the woman on my porch. She leans against the railing, holding two glasses of ice-cold water.
"You told him no," she says softly as I walk up the steps.
"I told him the truth," I reply, stopping in front of her. I take one of the glasses, condensation cold against my calloused palm, and drain it in one go. My thirst vanishes, replaced by a much older, deeper hunger as my eyes track the sun hitting her swollen lips. "I’m nesting, Court. Making sure it’s safe for you. For us."
She reaches out, fingers tracing the line of muscle on my abdomen, heedless of the grime. "You’ve been working out here for hours, Austin. I brought you water because you looked like you were about to drop."
"I told you to stay inside," I growl, stepping into her space until her back hits the railing. I set the empty glass down on the wood. "I don't need water, Court."
"No?" she teases, eyes heavy-lidded. "What do you need?"
"Trouble," I say roughly, hands dropping to her waist. "I was looking at that window wishing for a drink, but you walking out here like this? You’re bringing me a whole different kind of trouble."
My control snaps. I lift her effortlessly, her legs wrapping around my waist instantly. I carry her inside, letting the screen door slam shut behind us. The living room is cool and dim, smelling of old wood and the fresh lemon polish she’s found. I don't stop.
I march her straight into the dining room, her legs locked around my waist while my cock throbs against her pussy with every heavy step. I slam her back against the wall, the impact rattling the windowpane.
"You think you can just walk out there without any panties while I’m working?" I growl, grinding my hips into her, letting her feel the massive, rock-hard length of the 'trouble' she’s about to handle.
"I was being helpful," she lies, breathless.
"You were being mine."
I kiss her, devouring the sound she makes. A claiming kiss, deep and wet.
I haul her over to the heavy oak sideboard, dropping her onto the polished wood and shoving her thighs wide. I yank her shirt up, exposing her tits—heavy, perfect, and straining for my touch. Her nipples are engorged, purple and hard in the cool air, begging to be claimed.
"You're so beautiful it hurts," I mutter, burying my face in her neck. "I’m going to fill you to the brim, Court. I’m going to pump every drop of my seed into you until there’s no doubt left whose baby is growing inside you."
She lets out a desperate, broken whimper, her fingers clawing into my hair. "Do it," she sobs. "Please, Austin. Breed me. Fill me up."
The beast inside me roars. That breeding imperative is no fantasy. It is the only way I know how to knit our souls together permanently.
I rip at my belt, my hands shaking with a starved, violent need.
I shove my jeans down, my cock springing free—thick, heavy, and leaking precum.
I line myself up at her soaking entrance, finding her pussy drenched and swollen, begging for the intrusion.
I thrust forward with everything I have, burying my cock to the hilt in one brutal motion.
She screams as I stretch her pussy to the absolute limit, her body taking the full, thick length of me while the heavy oak sideboard slams against the wall with the force of my entry. I groan as her walls clamp around my dick like a vice. Better than any fight I've ever won. It is peace.
"You fit perfectly," she gasps, legs tightening around my waist.
I set a punishing rhythm—fast, hard. I want to leave my mark on every inch of this house, on every inch of her. Every thrust is a statement: Mine. Mine. Mine.
"Austin, I’m close," she cries out, nails drawing blood from my shoulders. "I’m—oh God!"
"Show me," I demand, driving harder into that deep spot that makes her toes curl.
She comes apart. I feel her pussy spasming around me in violent, rhythmic pulses, her walls milking my cock and dragging me over the edge.
I roar, all my control snapping as I drive in deep, bottoming out against her cervix one last time.
I empty myself into her, my seed hitting her womb in hot, thick jets, filling her pussy to capacity.
I stay buried there, pulsing deep inside her, ensuring every drop of my cum stays right where it belongs—marking her as mine forever.
I hold her there, pressing her against the wall, refusing to pull out even as the waves subside. I want her soaking in me. I want her to smell like my claim for days.
We stay like that for a long time, our breathing the only sound in the house. Slowly, I pull back, kissing her salt-slicked forehead. "I love you," I whisper. "I’ve loved you since the third grade, Court. I’m just sorry I was too stupid to realize I didn't have to push you away to keep you safe."
She smiles, cupping my jaw. "You’re here now."
I gently withdraw and pull her shirt back down, covering her. "Come on," I say, offering her my hand. "There’s a view from the master balcony I want to show you."
She slides off the sideboard, legs wobbling.
I catch her instantly, steadying her against my side.
We walk up the stairs together, the wood solid beneath our feet.
As she leans her head on my shoulder, her hand resting subconsciously on her flat stomach, I know I am exactly where I am supposed to be.
The Costas can watch from their cliffs all they want. The club can run the town. But this house? This woman?
This is mine. And I dare anyone to try and take it.