They back away, eyes fixed on me, until they hit the tree line, then turn and scramble down the path, sliding on loose shale intheir haste. I watch them go until they vanish. I wait until the sound of their engine fading down the access road confirms their exit.
I don't relax. Adrenaline pumps, a toxic sludge in my veins. They know where we are. The sanctity of The Forge is broken. They touched the perimeter.
I turn and head back inside. I lock the heavy door, throwing the deadbolts with savage force. Tiffany stands behind the anvil, face pale.
"Did you...?" she trails off, looking at the shotgun.
"They're gone," I say, leaning the weapon against the bench. "For now."
I cross the space between us in two strides. I need to touch her. I need to verify she's still here. I grab her, pulling her against me hard enough to bruise.
"We can't stay here," I say into her hair, heart hammering against her chest. "He knows the location. He sent pros."
"Where do we go?" she asks, clutching my shirt.
"The Clubhouse," I say. "I wanted to keep you to myself. I wanted to keep you in my world. But I can't protect the perimeter alone against a team like that while watching you."
It kills me to admit it. It feels like failure. But I will not let pride get her taken.
"Pack your bag," I tell her, pulling back to look into her eyes. "We're going to war, Tiff. And I need my brothers."
She nods, the steel rose still clutched in her hand. "Okay. I'm ready."
I look at her—fierce, terrified, and beautiful. My throat tightens.
"You’re the air in my lungs," I growl, the words tearing out of my throat like jagged iron. "I’m obsessed with you, Tiff. I don’t just want you—I’ve branded you. You’re mine, in this life and whatever hell comes next."
She freezes. Then a smile breaks through the fear, radiant and blinding. "I know," she whispers. "I love you too, you crazy stalker."
I kiss her hard, sealing the oath. My eyes shift back to the monitors. Let them try.
7
TIFFANY
The steel rose in my lap is heavy, its petals cold against my palms, but it’s the only thing grounding me as Blake maneuvers his massive truck down the winding switchbacks of Grizzly Peak.
The engine growls, a low vibration rattling through the floorboards and into my bones. Outside the window, the dense pine forest blurs into a wall of green shadow. We are leaving the sanctuary. We are leaving The Forge.
I glance at Blake. His profile is cut from granite, jaw set tight, eyes hidden behind dark aviators despite the gloom of the mountain canopy. His hands grip the steering wheel with bruising intensity, the veins in his forearms roping under scarred skin. The man who worshiped my body an hour ago has vanished. The artist who bent steel into a flower to prove his devotion is gone. He’s the soldier now. The weapon.
"You're quiet," he rumbles, keeping his eyes on the road. His voice is gravel over asphalt, devoid of the softness he showed me in the sheets.
"I'm thinking." My voice sounds small in the cab. I trace the sharp edge of a metal petal with my thumb until it stings. "About what happens next."
He shifts gears, the truck lurching as we hit a pothole. His hand leaves the stick shift and instantly finds my thigh, his large palm engulfing my knee. The heat of him seeps through my jeans, a brand of possession that steals my breath.
"Nothing happens to you," he says, the promise dark and absolute. "I told you. You’re under the protection of the club now. Ramon won't get within a mile of you."
"I know," I whisper.
And I do know. I saw him handle those men in the woods. But the club is an abstract concept to me. Blake is real. Blake is the one who watched me from the shadows for three months, who learned the rhythm of my breathing before I even knew his name. Now we’re going to his brothers. To the Broken Halos MC. I’m trading one fortress for another, but this new one is filled with strangers.
"We're here." His grip on my knee tightens for a second before he pulls away to downshift.
We turn off the main road onto a gravel track that seems to disappear into the cliffside. A massive iron gate looms ahead, topped with razor wire. A man in a leather vest—a cut—steps out of a guard shack, a shotgun resting casually in the crook of his arm. My pulse thrashes against my ribs. This place isn't a house; it's a war camp.
The guard sees the truck and nods, hitting a button to slide the gate open. As we roll through, the reality of Blake's world slams into me. Rows of motorcycles line up like chrome beasts. Musicthumps from a garage with open bay doors, carrying the sharp scent of welding ozone and stale beer. Men in cuts move with lethal purpose, loyal soldiers pacing a cage.
