I slide the master key into the heavy iron barrel. The mechanical thunk of the deadbolt retracting is the only sound in the mountain wind—the weight of the steel in my hand a reminder of the fortress I’ve built.
Inside, the air hangs thick with the scent of burning hickory from the woodstove and something sweeter. Freshly baked bread and a hint of nutmeg. It clashes with the metallic tang of the workshop below, invading my sanctuary. She’s baking. Her hands need to make sense of the chaos I’ve dragged her into.
I step into the main living area. The open-concept space usually feels stark—industrial shelving, exposed beams, dark leather furniture. Now, the atmosphere feels charged. Heavy.
Tiffany stands at the butcher-block island in the center of the kitchen, back to me. She wears one of my flannel shirts over her leggings. The hem hits her mid-thigh, covering her assets but leaving those soft, shapely calves exposed. My shirt swallows her, the sleeves rolled up in thick cuffs. Seeing her wrapped in my clothes does something violent to my restraint. A primitive claim. A visual stamp that saysmine.
She kneads dough, pushing the heels of her hands into the floury mass with a rhythmic, desperate energy. Her shoulders are tight, drawn up toward her ears.
"You're going to bruise the dough, Tiff," I say, my voice rougher than I intend.
She spins around. Her eyes look wide, the skin beneath them shadowed from a sleepless night. A smudge of flour streaks across her cheekbone, stark white against her flushed skin.
"Put a bell on, Sasquatch," she snaps, though her hands are steady now. "And don't tell me how to bake. It's the only thing keeping me from stabbing you with this bench scraper."
I walk toward her, movements slow, deliberate. I am a big man—scarred and calloused from a life of war and welding. In this kitchen, I feel like a bull in a china shop, terrified I’ll break the only beautiful thing I’ve ever owned.
"Perimeter is secure," I tell her, stopping on the other side of the island. "No one gets up here without me knowing. You're safe."
"Safe," she repeats, the word testing the air. She turns back to the dough, punching it down. "You have locks on the outside of the doors, Blake. Does that make this a panic room or a cell?"
"He's not leaving," I say, leaning my hands on the counter. The wood groans under my weight. "Men like him don't leave until they get what they think they're owed. And he thinks he's owed you."
Her hands freeze in the dough. Her head drops, hair falling forward to curtain her face. "I worked so hard to get away. Two years of that monster’s hand on my throat and six months of running. I finally thought Pine Valley was small enough to get lost in."
"You can't get lost," I murmur. "Not with a light like yours."
She looks up, gaze colliding with mine. The air between us thickens, suffocating. "Why were you watching me, Blake? Really?"
I grit my teeth. We danced around this yesterday. She knows I watched the bakery. She knows I reinforced her door. But shewants the ugly truth. The truth that strips away the savior mask to reveal the monster underneath.
"Because I couldn't stop," I admit. The words taste like ash.
I round the island. She takes a step back, hips bumping against the edge of the counter, but she holds her ground. That’s the thing about Tiffany—she’s terrified, but she has a core of steel that calls to the iron in my blood.
I stop inches from her, close enough to smell the yeast and the soft orange zest, close enough to see the rapid pulse fluttering in the hollow of her throat.
"I saw you three months ago," I say, voice dropping to a low pitch. "Unloading flour sacks from a delivery truck because the driver was late. You were struggling, swearing under your breath, hair in your face. Most women would have called for help. You just got angry and did it yourself."
Her lips part. She breathes shallowly, chest rising and falling in rapid hitches.
"I parked my bike and watched you move," I continue, stepping into her personal space. I tower over her, blocking out the light, blocking out the room. "I saw the way you smiled at the old ladies who came in for coffee. The way you rubbed your left wrist when it rained—an old fracture, I guessed. Defensive wound?"
She doesn't flinch. She rubs the spot unconsciously, eyes hard. "Old news. It healed strong."
"I knew," I say. "I learned your schedule. I learned that you open at 4:00 a.m. and don't leave until the sun goes down. I learned that you never sit with your back to the door." I reach out, hand hovering near her face. My fingers are stained with oil andsoot, rough and scarred. "I watched for threats, Tiff. But mostly, I watched because looking at you made the noise in my head stop."
"That's..." She pauses, studying me. "That's unnerving. And surprisingly detailed."
"I never claimed to be sane."
She stares up at me, fear warring with something else. Curiosity. Need. Her eyes drop to my mouth, then snap back up to my gaze.
"You kidnapped me," she whispers.
"I extracted you."
"You're terrifying."
