"I have to go to the bakery," she whispers, even as her hips buck against my hand.
"The bakery can wait," I rasp, but I pull my hand away, the loss of contact making her whimper. I’m not finished, but I want her hungry. I want her thinking about my cock every second we’re in town. "Get dressed. We’re going down the mountain. We’re going to look at what’s left of your shop, and then I’m going to show you how I rebuild what’s mine."
The drive down to Pine Valley is a study in suppressed violence and overt possession. I drive the F-250 one-handed, my other hand clamped onto the back of her neck, my thumb stroking the sensitive skin behind her ear. I keep her close, forcing her to lean into my side. Every time I shift gears, I let my hand brush the swell of her breast under my flannel shirt, reminding her that I’m the only reason she’s still breathing.
Pine Valley is quiet, but as we roll onto Main Street, the "cozy" facade is cracked. People are out on the sidewalks, whispering. They saw the convoy yesterday. They saw the terrifying Prospect of Broken Halos claim the baker. I don't give a fuck what they think. I pull up to the curb, the engine’s idle a low, aggressive thrum that vibrates through the floorboards.
The shop is a graveyard of flour and broken glass. The smell of stale yeast and chemical fire-suppressant hits me like a fist when I swing the door open. Tiffany steps inside, her boots crunching on the remains of her display cases. She looks small in the middle of the destruction, her shoulders shaking as she looks at the ruins of her dream.
I don't offer empty words. I move up behind her, my chest a wall at her back, and wrap my arms around her. I let her feel the Glock pressed against her hip and the heat of my body."He didn't win, Tiffany. He broke some glass. He smashed some wood. But he didn't touch you. And he never will again."
"He destroyed everything," she whispers, looking at the splintered wood where she used to knead her bread.
"Then I build you a better one," I vow, my lips grazing her ear. "Steel. Solid iron base. I’m gonna weld the frame myself at the Forge. I’ll top it with a slab of butcher block so thick a bomb wouldn't dent it. I’m knocking out the back wall, too. I’m expanding the prep area, putting in reinforced industrial ovens, and I’m armoring the back entrance with a steel-core door. This won't be a shop anymore, Tiff. It’ll be a fortress."
She turns in my arms, a tear tracking through the dust on her cheek. "You want to armor my bakery?"
"I’m armoring your world," I tell her, my thumb wiping the moisture from her face. "I want every man in this town to know that if they even look at you the wrong way, they’re answering to me. I want you safe. I want you to have every tool you need to build your empire, and I want it all backed by Gunnar steel."
A shadow falls over the doorway. Logan and Austin are standing there, their leather cuts heavy, their presence a silent warning to the townspeople watching from across the street.
"Checking the damage," Logan rumbles. He doesn't look at the broken glass; he looks at the North Ridge looming over the town. "Ramon was a distraction, Blake. While we were down here playing rescue, Dominic Costa’s men took the logging relay station. They have eyes on every gate we own now."
The victory in my chest turns to lead. "He used Tiff to pull us off the mountain."
"He used all of us," Logan spits. "Elias says the club’s 'front' accounts just got flagged for a federal audit. Dominic didn't just take the ridge; he called in the suits to choke our money. We’re in a cold war now."
I tighten my grip on Tiffany's waist. I’ve won the girl, but the mountain is screaming.
I look at the black stylized wave painted on the wall, then back at Tiffany. She’s pale, her fingers trembling as she grips the ruined counter.
"I’ve got her," I say, my voice a jagged rasp that leaves no room for debate. "Tell the club I’m off rotation. My focus is the Forge. If a Costa breathes near this shop or my ridge, I’m ending them."
Logan and Austin exchange a look—the kind of look men give when they know one of their own has gone off the deep end. They don't argue. They just nod and leave, the roar of their bikes leaving a vacuum of silence in the wreckage.
"Blake?" Tiffany whispers, her eyes wide. "What did he mean? A cold war? The money?"
"It means I’m done sharing your attention with the world," I state, grabbing her hand and leading her toward the truck. "The bakery can wait. Main Street can wait. My world doesn't move another inch until I know you're marked."
I don't give her time to ask what that means. The drive back up is faster, the tires spitting gravel as I push the Silverado to the limit, the engine roaring like a wounded beast as I tear up the mountain pass. My blood is up, the adrenaline of the morning mixing with a possessive urge I can’t suppress. I need her inside my walls. I need her under my steel.
When we hit the compound, I don’t take her to the house. I lead her straight into the heat of my workshop. The air in here is cool, smelling of ozone, charcoal, and burnt iron. My anvil sits in the center, a scarred altar to the work I do. I lead her to the workbench and reach into the safe I keep hidden behind the welding tanks.
Tiffany watches me, her breath hitching, likely thinking I’m reaching for more ammunition.
I pull out the small velvet box. I don't kneel. A Gunnar doesn't ask for permission to protect what’s his. I stand over her, my shadow swallowing her whole.
"I made this," I say roughly, opening the box.
The ring is Damascus steel, thousands of layers of dark and light metal hammered together in a forge until they’re inseparable. In the center, a flawless diamond is held in a heavy platinum tension setting. It’s not dainty. It’s a piece of armor.
"Damascus is made by taking two different metals and heating them until they're nearly liquid," I tell her, taking her hand. Her fingers are trembling. "You hammer them, fold them, and burn them until the two become one. You can't tell where one starts and the other ends. That’s us, Tiffany. We’ve been through the fire. We’ve been hammered by the world. And now, you’re bonded to me. Forever."
I slide the ring onto her finger. It’s a perfect fit. "You're wearing my metal, Tiffany. You're my Queen, my wife, my life. If anyone ever tries to take you, they’ll have to go through me and every man in that clubhouse."
"I love you," she whispers, her eyes swimming with tears.
"I love you," I answer, but the words are too soft for the hunger in my gut.
