He stops mid-swing. He doesn't turn around. He freezes, hammer held aloft.
"You're barefoot," he says. His voice grinds like gravel over glass, barely audible over the forge’s roar. "Metal shavings on the floor, Tiffany."
I curl my toes, glancing down. The darker concrete glitters with dust. "I heard the noise."
He turns slowly. The front of him devastates me more than the back. His chest is broad beneath the heavy leather forge apron, his exposed arms thick and corded with muscle. But his face pins me to the spot.
Dark, intelligent eyes burn with a focus that weakens my knees. He slides his protective glasses up into his sweat-dampened hair, revealing that predatory gaze.
"Did you sleep?" He sets the hammer down on the anvil with a heavy thud. He uses the tongs to shove the cooling metal back into the roaring mouth of the forge.
"A little." A lie sits heavy on my tongue. "Where am I, Blake? Really?"
He grabs a rag from his back pocket and wipes his face, smearing soot across his cheekbone. Savage. He walks toward me. I fightthe urge to step back. He eats up the space, a looming tower of heat and aggression.
"You're in the Grizzly Peak district," he says, stopping three feet away. Close enough to smell him—sharp old sweat, metallic steel, and that rich, woodsy scent seeping from his pores. "My property. The Forge."
"Is it safe?" I ask, keeping my voice steady. I won't be the victim anymore.
Blake closes the distance. He blots out the light from the forge. He looks down at me, expression unreadable. "Nothing gets in here unless I let it in. The perimeter is alarmed. Walls reinforced. I have eyes on the road three miles out."
"You watched me," I whisper. "You admitted it last night. You’ve been watching me for months."
"Yes." No apology. Just a flat statement of fact. "And because I was watching, Ramon's hired muscle didn't drag you into a sedan yesterday."
He reaches out. His hand is massive, stained with work. I don't flinch. Blake freezes. His jaw tightens, a muscle feathering in his cheek. He waits, letting me see his hand—palm open, calloused, dangerous but still.
"I am not him," he says softly. The menace drops out of his voice, replaced by rough, possessive gravity. "I break bones, Tiffany. I burn things. I kill things that threaten what’s mine. But I will never, ever hurt you."
Static charges the air between us.
"You keep saying 'mine'," I say, meeting his gaze. "What exactly does that make me? A prisoner or a guest?"
Blake’s eyes darken. His pupils dilate until the irises look black. He steps closer, crowding my personal space, forcing me to tilt my head back. Overwhelming heat radiates off his body.
"You’re here, aren't you?" he says hoarsely. "You’re wearing my shirt. You’re in my house. You’re safe."
He avoids the question.
"Go to the kitchen," he commands, softness evaporating into his usual alpha tone. "Stay off the floor in here. I’ll be there to make you eat."
"I can cook," I say, finding a shred of my spine. "I own a bakery, Blake. I’m not an invalid."
"You’re recovering from shock." He turns back to the forge. "And you’re barefoot. Go."
He doesn't wait for me to obey. He pulls the glowing steel from the fire, the orange light painting his torso in demonic hues, and brings the hammer down.
Clang.
I turn and flee to the kitchen. My heart hammers a frantic rhythm against my ribs, matching his strikes perfectly.
Stainless steel appliances, black granite countertops, and a massive butcher block island make the kitchen shockingly modern compared to the dungeon-like workshop. Clean. Sterile. It looks like no one lives here. I find a coffee maker—a high-end espresso machine looking more complicated than my car—and manage to fumble through a double shot. My hands shake. The caffeine won’t help, but the ritual grounds me.
I lean against the counter, clutching the ceramic mug with both hands, when Blake walks in. Mostly washed up. The soot is gone from his face and arms, and he’s pulled on a fresh black t-shirt clinging to his damp skin like a second layer of dermis. He still smells like smoke. That smell never leaves him.
He moves with silent grace for a man of his size. He opens the fridge—stocked with military precision. Cartons of eggs, thick-cut bacon, steaks, spinach. No junk.
"Sit," he says, jerking his chin toward the barstools at the island.
