"They were looking at the donuts, Blake."
"They weren't looking at the fucking donuts, Tiff." He rounds the counter, ignoring the 'Employees Only' sign. He pins me against the prep table, his body a wall of heat that traps me. He leans down, his nose brushing the sensitive spot behind my ear as he inhales deeply. "You smell like warm cinnamon. And underneath that."
My breath hitches as his hand slides up my thigh, his thumb digging into the soft flesh. "Blake, we're in the shop. Someone could walk in."
"Let them," he rasps, his hand moving higher, hooking into the lace of my panties and pulling them aside. He doesn't ask. He simply claims. He slides two thick fingers into my wet pussy, stretching me open right there behind the counter. I let out a low moan, my head dropping to his shoulder as he begins to work me, his thumb grinding against my clit with a rhythmic, punishing pressure. "The sign says closed for the next twenty minutes. I’m marking my territory before the rush starts."
He doesn't stop until I’m sobbing into his neck, my juices coating his fingers. He withdraws and licks the moisture from his hand, his eyes dark with a primal, terrifying satisfaction. "Flip the sign, Tiffany. We’re going home. Now."
"It's ten a.m.," I protest, but I’m already reaching for my keys. The urgency in his voice is a command I can’t—and don’t want to—ignore.
The drive up to Grizzly Peak is a blur. Blake drives with a hand clamped onto my neck, his thumb stroking my jaw, his silence heavy and expectant. He’s always been a man of few words, but today, the energy rolling off him is different. It’s not just possessiveness; it’s a restless, vibrating need. When we pull up to The Forge, the black steel and gray stone look more like a sanctuary than ever. This is our world. This is the fortress he built for the woman he snatched from the jaws of a monster.
He carries me inside, his boots thudding on the floorboards as he marches straight to the living room. He sets me on the edge of the large oak table, stepping between my knees. He doesn't start with sex. He starts with a look—a deep, searching gaze that tries to peel back my skin.
"You've been different all week," he says, his voice a low rumble. He stops between my knees, his hands gripping my hips, his fingers digging into the silk of my dress. "Quiet. Thinking too much. Talk to me, Tiff. If those Costa scouts I saw near the trailhead are scaring you, I need to know so I can hunt them."
"It's not the Costas, Blake," I say softly, reaching out to cup his face. His beard is rough against my palms, his skin hot. "And it's not the shadows. I’m not that girl anymore."
"Then why are you vibrating?"
I take a deep breath, my heart hammering a frantic rhythm. This is the moment. The final piece of the armor. I take his hand—the massive, scarred hand that has dealt so much death—and I place it flat against my lower stomach. He freezes. I can feel thetension radiate through his entire arm, turning his muscles to granite.
"I’m pregnant, Blake," I whisper. "Two months. I took the tests this morning."
The silence that follows is absolute. The only sound is the crackle of the woodstove and the heavy, rhythmic thrum of his heart. Blake stares at his hand on my belly, his pupils dilating until his eyes are nothing but black voids of shock.
"A baby," he rasps, the word sounding like it was dragged through gravel. "I bred you? My seed took?"
"Yes," I choke out, tears blurring my vision. "We’re having a baby."
He makes a sound—a raw, guttural roar of triumph and terror—and buries his face in my stomach. He wraps his arms around my waist, pulling me so close I can feel the vibration of his ragged breathing. He’s shaking. The Ghost of Grizzly Peak, the man who dismantled an entire tactical team without breaking a sweat, is trembling against my womb.
"I'm a monster, Tiff," he mumbles into the fabric of my dress. "I’ve got blood on these hands. I don't know how to be a father. I only know how to be a weapon."
"You're the man who saved me," I tell him, my fingers tangling in his hair, forcing him to look up at me. His dark eyes are wet, filled with a raw vulnerability that breaks my heart. "You’re the man who built me a rose out of steel because you wanted me to have something beautiful that couldn't be broken. You’re going to be a father who makes sure this child never knows a second of fear. You’re going to armor their life just like you armored mine."
The fear in his eyes recedes, replaced by a sudden, terrifyingly intense flash of possessiveness. He stands up, his height looming over me, his face set in a mask of absolute dominance. "You’re my territory, Tiffany," he growls, his hand covering my belly. "My child. My seed. No one touches this family. No one even looks at you without my permission. I'll weld the gates shut if I have to."
He grabs the hem of my sundress and yanks it up, the fabric bunching around my waist. He doesn't care about finesse. He wants to mark the body that’s carrying his legacy. He drops to his knees, his mouth hitting my stomach in a series of hard, bruising kisses.
"I'm going to build the crib," he says against my skin, his breath hot. "Steel. Reinforced. I’ll forge every joint myself. No one’s getting near my kid."
He looks up at me, his jaw set. "But first, I’m going to remind you who you belong to. I want you so occupied by me you forget your own name."
He doesn't wait. He stands, shedding his leather cut and his jeans in a frantic blur of motion. His cock is a massive, vein-corded pillar of heat, throbbing with a violent need. He grabs my hips and flips me right there on the table, pinning me face-down among the mail and the scattered keys.
"Look at me," he commands, his hand reaching around to grip my throat, his thumb forcing my chin up toward the mirror on the wall. "See who’s taking you, Tiffany. See who owns every inch of this."
He thrusts home without a single word of warning. He slams into me, his entire length burying itself in my soaked pussywith a force that makes the heavy table groan. I scream, my body arching as my walls stretch to accommodate the sheer scale of him. He doesn't slow down. He begins to fuck me with a rhythmic, primal intensity, his hips driving against my thighs andass with a wet, heavy thwack that echoes through the house.
Every thrust is a claim. Every movement is a vow. He is bottoming out, his cock hitting my womb, marking the space where his seed is growing. I’m sobbing, my hands clawing at the wood of the table, my pussy clamping down on him as the friction becomes an unbearable, white-hot fire.
"You're mine," he snarls, his teeth grazing my shoulder, leaving a mark that will be there for a week. "This baby is mine. This life is mine. Tell me, Tiffany. Tell me who you belong to."
"You!" I scream, the orgasm starting to rip through me, violent and all-consuming. "I'm yours, Blake! Please, give it to me!"
He roars, a primal sound of pure, unadulterated dominance, and delivers three more devastating thrusts. I feel his body go rigid behind me, his fingers digging into my hips as he erupts. I feel the hot, thick jets of his seed flooding me, filling me until I’m filled to the brim with him. He holds me there, twitching against me, as we both shatter into a thousand pieces.
