Silence chokes the room. The predator inside me bares its teeth. My hands clench into fists. The idea of taking her back—of leaving her in some sterile apartment in town, of letting her walk away from the mountain—feels like tearing out my own ribcage. Words are unnecessary.
Alexandria places her hand on my forearm. Her fingers are warm, her touch grounding. She looks at Logan, her chin lifting with a defiance that makes my chest swell with pride. "I have a lot of rehabilitation ahead of me," she says smoothly. "My apartment has stairs. It's not suitable for recovery."
"Is that so?" Austin asks, eyes twinkling with amusement.
"Besides," she continues, her thumb rubbing circles into the ink on my skin. "My field research is centered on Grizzly Peak. I can't very well monitor the habitat from downtown. I need to be on site."
Logan sighs, but I see the ghost of a smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. He respects strength. He respects loyalty. And he sees exactly what is happening.
"Tristan," Logan says.
"She stays," I snarl. That is not a request; it’s a fact as immutable as the granite cliffs outside. "She’s mine. The loft is hers. The mountain is hers. Anyone has a problem with that, they can take it up with me."
Logan stands up, signaling the end of the meeting. "No problem, brother. Just make sure she knows the rules. Once you wear the patch's protection, you don't get to take it off."
I look down at her, expecting her to yield to my claim. Instead, she arches an eyebrow, her chin lifting. "He means I’ve read the handbook, Logan. I’m still working on my own set of amendments for the Road Captain’s behavior."
I feel a tug of pride in my chest. She’s the only person on this mountain who dares to talk back to me, and I’m going to spend the rest of my life letting her win the small wars. "You can writeall the amendments you want, Allie," I rumble, my hand sliding to the back of her neck in a possessive grip that is as much a caress as a claim. "As long as I’m the one who gets to sign them."
"Good," Logan rasps, a rare glint of amusement in his eyes as he watches his Brother by the Patch get handled by a five-foot-nothing scientist. The word is a seal on her fate.
The Chapel falls into a heavy, respectful quiet, the business concluded but the atmosphere still buzzing with the ghost of our victory. I look at the ink on my forearm where her fingers still rest, and the need to have her in my own territory—away from the smoke and the noise—snaps the last of my patience.
I don't wait for the others to dismiss us; I’ve already spent too long sharing her with the club’s gaze.
I haul her up out of the wheelchair, ignoring her squeak of surprise and the hooting laughter from Austin and Shane. I cradle her against my chest, her broken leg supported by my arm, and carry her through the smoky bar and out into the cool, pine-scented night air. I don't stop until we reach the garage, my boots heavy on the metal stairs as I bring her home to my territory. My lair. Now hers.
The loft is quiet, the storm that raged for days finally gone, leaving the world outside washed clean. I kick the door shut behind us and lock it—three heavy deadbolts sliding into place with a definitivethunk-thunk-thunk. I carry her to the bed—the massive, custom-built mattress that has been my solitary refuge for years. Setting her down on the mattress, I handle her like a hunter with a wounded mate—careful but possessive. Pillows go under her splint to keep the weight off the break. My calloused fingers press against her toes, making sure the blood is stillflowing right before I stop being a medic and start being the man who’s going to claim her.
"Tristan," she whispers.
I straighten up and look at her. The adrenaline of the confrontation, the violence of the last twenty-four hours, the fear of losing her—it’s all crashing down, leaving me raw. "You had an out," I say, voice rough. I remove my cut, hanging the heavy leather vest carefully over the back of the chair. "Logan gave you an out. You could have gone back to your grant money and your university and your safe, civilian life."
She watches me as I pull my t-shirt over my head, baring my torso to the cool air. My body is a map of scars, a history of violence. I am too big, too quiet, too damaged for a woman like her. "I didn't want an out," she says softly.
I move toward the bed, the predator in me prowling closer. I brace my hands on the mattress on either side of her hips, looming over her, caging her in. "You don't know what you're signing up for, Alexandria. I'm not a hero. You saw what I did to those men on the ridge. That wasn't self-defense; it was a cold-blooded execution."
"I saw a man protecting what was his," she counters, reaching up to trace the line of my jaw. Her fingers tremble slightly, but not from fear. "I saw the man who found me in the mud and rain when everyone else had given up. Who kept me warm. Who fed me."
"I kidnapped you," I remind her, leaning down until our noses brush. "I drugged you and held you captive."
"You saved me," she corrects, breath hitching as I press my hips against the edge of the mattress. "And now I'm saving you."
Looking at her, I realize I hadn't been content; I was just waiting. "You're not leaving," I growl, needing to hear it again. Needing to brand it into the air between us.
"Try and make me," she challenges.
Something inside me snaps. I capture her mouth in a kiss that isn't gentle. It’s a possession. My mouth crashes over hers, my tongue forcing its way deep to taste the desperation I’ve been feeling for days. Her hands tangle in my hair, her nails scratching my scalp as she hauls me closer. A low growl rips from my throat as her soft, trembling body yields to the scarred muscle of my chest. I pull back, gasping for air, forehead resting against hers. "Your leg..."
"Is fine," she pants, pupils blown wide, swallowing the emerald green of her irises, matching the mossy depths of my own. "Be careful. But don't stop."
"I’m never stopping," I vow against her skin.
I move down her body, worshipping every inch of skin I expose. I pull the hoodie up, pressing wet, open-mouthed kisses to the valley between her breasts, listening to her heart hammer against her ribs like a trapped bird. But she’s not trapped. She’s nesting. My hands are large, rough-skinned and calloused, covering her softness. I slide the hoodie off completely, leaving her bare to my gaze. She is perfection. Lush, soft, pale skin marked with the fading bruises of her fall.
I peel her sweatpants down, careful, so careful, over the splint. I toss them aside.
"Tristan," she whines, a needy sound that makes my blood boil.