9. Susan
Susan
Splintered pine and crushed neon plastic form a jagged mountain on my front step.
The frigid air rips off the northern ridge, biting straight through my flannel shirt, but the cold doesn't even register against my skin.
The man standing on the other side of the debris commands every single ounce of oxygen in the atmosphere.
Alas.
His chest rises and falls in a slow, hypnotic rhythm. His gaze locks onto mine, burning with an unblinking intensity that would send any sane woman running for the hills. But I’m not running. I’m staring at his hands.
They’re a wreck. Smears of copper-scented blood mix with sticky, hardened pine sap across his knuckles.
Deep gouges line his palms, slicing through the calluses.
Dirt is packed under his fingernails. He spent the night taking down the markers.
For hours, in the pitch-black darkness, he hunted down every surveyor stake and plastic ribbon.
These were the ones the Silver Serpent Syndicate hammered into my south trail.
He tore apart their legal right-of-passage easement with his bare hands and a combat knife. He erased their claim.
He bled for my dirt.
The armor I’ve worn every day for the last two years fractures right down the middle.
An aching crack splits the defensive shell I built around this farm.
Fighting alone was my only survival tactic.
Letting anyone help meant admitting I was failing.
Letting anyone in meant giving them the power to leave.
Alas isn't leaving. He’s standing where he planted himself, waiting for my next move.
"You look like you wrestled a woodchipper." My voice comes out raspy, lacking its usual sarcastic bite.
"Trail's clear." His voice is low and steady. "Nobody crosses the line."
I look from the pile of destroyed Syndicate markers back to his bleeding knuckles.
The magnitude of his violence is terrifying, but it’s directed outward, forming an impenetrable wall between me and the rest of the world.
The relief is physical, a weight sliding off my shoulders.
I don't have to carry the farm alone today.
I don't have to patrol the tree line alone.
"Get inside." I step back, holding the door open. "Before you bleed to death on my doorstep and I have to bill your club for the stain removal."
A low, rough sound vibrates in his chest. A rough approximation of a laugh.
He steps over the ruined stakes, bringing the sharp scent of crushed pine needles, sweat, and cold mountain air into my hallway.
He fills the space instantly, his broad shoulders practically brushing the doorframes.
I lead him into the kitchen, pointing to the sturdy oak chair at the table my grandfather built.
Alas sits. He doesn't fidget. He doesn't complain. His stillness is unbroken, a calm that usually belongs to apex predators waiting to strike. But right now, that stillness is offered to me.
I retrieve the plastic first-aid kit from the cabinet above the sink, setting it on the table with a thud. Pulling up a chair opposite him, I reach out. My hands tremble slightly. I hate the weakness, but the adrenaline of the morning is crashing hard.
He flips his hands palms up, offering them to me without a word.
I take his left hand. His skin is burning hot, a stark contrast to the freezing temperatures outside. The calluses are as rough as sandpaper against my softer palms. I soak a white cotton washcloth in warm water and iodine, wringing it out before pressing it to the deepest cut across his knuckles.
He doesn't flinch. Not a single muscle twitches.
"This is going to sting," I mutter, applying more pressure to clean out the embedded dirt.
"No." He stares at my mouth. "It doesn't."
The utter conviction in his tone sends heat crawling up my neck.
He isn't trying to act tough. The physical pain genuinely doesn’t register for him compared to the psychological anchor of sitting in this kitchen with me.
I scrub the dried blood away, revealing the split skin underneath.
The contrast between my hands—stained with honey and propolis—and his hands—built for breaking bones and snapping necks—is jarring. Yet, they fit together perfectly.
"You didn't have to do it alone," I say quietly, keeping my eyes fixed on the washcloth. "Mac brought you a radio. You could’ve called your brothers. You could’ve asked for backup."
"My job." The words are a low rumble. "My perimeter."
I swap the bloody washcloth for a clean one, moving to his right hand. "The club president told me to leave. Logan made it very clear that staying here is a tactical liability."
Alas's fingers curl around my wrist. His thumb presses into the thin skin over the bone. "Logan doesn't run this property. The Vanguard gave the order to hold the line. We hold the line."
We.
The word hits me like a round to the sternum. Not you. Not I. We.
For twenty-four months, my existence has been a solitary war of attrition.
Wake up before dawn. Smoke the hives. Extract the honey.
Fight the bank. Fight the winter. Fight the men in dark SUVs who keep showing up on the south trail.
I’ve been drowning in slow motion, too stubborn to ask for a life raft.
Now, this biker has simply reached into the water and hauled me out by the throat, declaring the ocean off-limits.
I smear antibacterial ointment across his cleaned knuckles, wrapping them tightly in white gauze. My movements are practiced, steady. I used to bandage my grandfather's hands when he slipped with the hive tool. Taking care of someone else feels familiar, grounding.
"Keep them dry," I command, tying off the bandage. "The bees hate the smell of blood. They'll swarm you if you go near the line smelling like an open wound."
Alas inspects his wrapped hands, flexing his fingers slowly. "They don't sting me."
"They will if you give them a reason." I stand up, taking the ruined washcloths to the sink.
The water runs pink as I rinse them out.
"We need to go into town. I have a supply run, and I need to check the post office.
My mail-order queen bees are over a week late.
If I don't get them installed by Friday, the colonies will start building supersedure cells and the whole apiary will swarm. "
"I drive." Alas is already standing. He doesn't ask. He states a fact.
"It's my truck."
"I drive."
Arguing with a brick wall would yield better results.
I grab my keys from the hook by the door and toss them to him.
He catches them out of the air with his left hand, the movement blindingly fast. A dark, satisfied smirk flashes across his scarred mouth.
He likes the submission. He likes that I didn't fight him on something so small.
We step back outside. The pile of destroyed Syndicate markers sits there like a bloody trophy.
"Leave it," Alas orders when I move to pick up a splintered stake. "A warning."
He opens the passenger side door of my battered Ford F-150.
I slide onto the bench seat, ignoring the dominance radiating off him.
He shuts the door with a solid thud, rounding the hood and climbing into the driver's seat.
He treats the civilian truck like a piece of military hardware, adjusting the mirrors with sharp, precise movements.
The engine turns over with a sputter. Alas shifts into gear, navigating the rutted dirt driveway with a smooth, controlled violence. He doesn't take his eyes off the tree line. His head swivels, checking the blind spots, scanning the dense pine corridor for threats. He’s hunting.
We merge onto the main two-lane road leading into Pine Valley.
The tension inside the cab is dense enough to cut with a hive tool.
Alas rests his right hand on the steering wheel.
His knuckles are white beneath the fresh bandages.
He tracks every single vehicle we pass, cataloging license plates, makes, and models.
"You can relax," I tell him, staring out the window. "We're in civilian territory now."
"Never relax."
We hit Main Street. The town is fully awake.
Plumes of white exhaust rise from parked cars.
The familiar, comforting smell of roasted coffee beans and dark cinnamon drifts through the cracked window as we pass the Cozy Cup.
A few locals wave at my truck, their expressions morphing into utter shock when they see the biker behind the wheel instead of me.
"Pull in there." I point to the small brick building at the end of the block. The Pine Valley Post Office.
Alas parks the truck perfectly parallel to the curb, taking up one space. He cuts the engine but leaves the keys in the ignition. He steps out, rounding the hood to flank my door before I even have the handle pulled.
The bell chimes overhead as I push through the glass door.
The post office smells like old paper, dust, and lemon floor cleaner.
Behind the counter, Mrs. Gable looks up from a stack of sorted envelopes.
Her gray hair is swept up in a neat bun, and her reading glasses hang from a beaded chain around her neck.
At her feet, Barnaby, the Saint Bernard, thumps his tail against the linoleum.
"Susan, dear," Mrs. Gable greets, offering a warm smile that falters the second Alas steps through the door behind me.
Alas fills the small lobby. He doesn't say a word, just moves to stand behind my right shoulder. A lethal shadow. Barnaby stops wagging his tail, letting out a low, questioning boof. Alas stares the hundred-and-fifty-pound dog down until Barnaby drops his head onto his paws and sighs in submission.
"Morning, Mrs. Gable," I say, forcing a cheerful tone to counteract the rolling wave of intimidation radiating from my escort. "I'm just checking on the shipment. The tracking numbers for the three Russian hybrid queens haven't updated in ten days. They were supposed to be delivered last Tuesday."