I walk to the kitchen area of the loft. Industrial, stainless steel, sharp angles. This kitchen serves men who eat protein out of a can and sleep in four-hour shifts. It’s too cold for her. But I open the fridge, pulling out the eggs and bacon I bought three days ago because I knew this day was coming. I knew I’d bring her here eventually.
As I crack eggs into the skillet, the sizzle fills the silence. I hear the rustle of sheets behind me, then the soft pad of bare feet on concrete.
She appears in the kitchen doorway, wearing one of my black T-shirts. It hangs off one shoulder, the hem hitting her mid-thigh. It looks better on her than it ever did on me. It looks like a flag. My flag.
She climbs onto one of the metal stools at the island, wrapping her arms around herself. She looks small in this massive, echoing space. Fragile.
"I need to check in with Logan," I say, flipping the bacon. The quiet turns brittle, like glass about to snap. "See if there’s been movement in town."
Tiffany stiffens, fingers gripping the edge of the steel counter. "Do you think he's still there? Ramon?"
"He's there," I say, turning to face her. I lean back against the counter, crossing my arms. "Men like him don't leave until they get what they want or until someone breaks them."
"He won't stop," she says quietly. "He thinks he owns me, Blake. He thinks I'm property."
A low growl builds in my throat. "You are property," I say, voice dropping an octave. "But you're not his. You're wearing my shirt. You're in my bed. You're eating my food. Your pussy is still full of my seed. You're mine."
Her eyes widen, breath catching. It’s a possessive, primal claim. Normal women would run. Tiffany isn't normal. She’s a survivor. She needs to know where the lines are drawn.
"Say it," I command, stepping closer, invading her space until I loom over her. "Tell me whose mark is on you."
She looks up, pupils blowing wide, swallowing the blue. Her hand reaches out, touching the abs flexing above the waistband of my sweats. "Yours," she whispers. "I'm yours, Blake."
The air leaves the room. I lean down, capturing her mouth in a kiss devoid of gentleness. It tastes of morning breath and desperation. I kiss her like I’m stealing her oxygen and replacing it with my own. My hands grip her waist, lifting her from the stool and setting her on the edge of the counter.
I want to take her right here. I want to push her back against the cold steel and remind her that she’s alive, safe, and nothing will ever touch her again without my permission.
But the phone on the counter vibrates, a harsh buzz against the metal.
I break the kiss, breathing hard, forehead resting against hers. "Fuck."
She laughs, a breathless, shaky sound. "Get the phone, Blake. I'll watch the stove."
I step back, the loss of contact hitting me like a punch to the gut. I pick up the device. Text from Austin.
AUSTIN
Eyes on the black sedan. Parked at the Lodge. Sterling is doing everything he can to help. He’s pissed—currently trying to find a legal loophole to throw them out into the snow, but Ramon has a high-priced legal team blockading him. Sterling’s not going to let this slide. Ramon has lawyers. Legal hold. We can't touch him yet without bringing heat on the club. Keep her close.
I stare at the screen. Lawyers. Of course. Ramon isn’t just a brute; he’s a wealthy, manipulative bastard hiding behind suits and paperwork. He’ll try to use the law to drag her back to hell.
"What is it?" Tiffany asks, voice thinning.
"He's at the Lodge," I say, tossing the phone back down. "He's playing the legal game. Trying to force you out."
"He'll file a missing person's report," she says, hands trembling. "He'll say you kidnapped me."
"Let him," I say, turning back to the stove to plate the food. "You’re an adult. You can be wherever you want. And you want to be here."
I set the plate in front of her. "Eat."
She picks up the fork but pushes the eggs around. "Blake, if the police come here..."
"The police don't come up here unless they have a death wish or a warrant signed by a judge who doesn't want to get re-elected,"I state flatly. "This is Gunnar land. Even the Sheriff knocks politely."
I move around the counter, stepping between her spread knees. I take the fork from her hand, spear a piece of bacon, and hold it to her lips. "Eat, Tiffany. You need your strength."
She takes the bite, eyes locked on mine. I watch her chew, watch the muscles in her throat work as she swallows. It’s intimate in a way sex wasn’t. Caretaking.
