"Stay," he rumbles, voice thick with sleep. He pulls me tighter, fingers digging into the soft flesh of my hip. "The world doesn’t get you today, Avery. Just me."
"It’s our wedding day, Oliver." I reach back, tangling my fingers in his messy dark hair. "People are waiting. Your brothers are probably already setting the bonfire."
"Let them wait." He flips me onto my back, hovering over me. His moss-green eyes are dark with a hunger that never seems to fade. He looks at me like I’m the sun and he’s been living in a cave for a decade. He leans down, beard scratching my jaw as he kisses me—a slow, deep, possessive claim tasting of dark coffee and forever.
He doesn’t let me out of bed for another hour. By the time we finally move, the cabin is filled with the scent of pine and the sharp, clean bite of high-altitude air. Oliver watches me get ready. He doesn’t leave the room. He sits on the edge of the bed, shirtless and scarred, sharpening his hunting knife with rhythmic, steady strokes. Every time I catch his gaze in the mirror, the oxygen leaves the room.He’s guarding me.
The drive down to the Broken Halos clubhouse is a blur of blinding white and skeletal, ice-covered pines. Oliver drives his truck like he’s in a race, his hand never leaving my thigh. The steel ring he forged for me catches the light, a heavy reminder of the promise we made in the dark. As we pull through the gates of the clubhouse, the roar of motorcycles hits me like a sonic boom. Loud. Aggressive. Beautiful.
The Gunnar brothers line the porch, leather cuts dark against the wood, eyes hard enough to stop a bullet. Logan stands in the center, the President’s patches on his leather cut looking sharp. He broods, arms crossed over a chest built from granite. He gives Oliver a sharp nod—the silent language of men who would die for each other. Then his gaze shifts to me, holding a rare approval. Logan keeps this whole mountain from falling apart, and seeing him approve of me feels like being knighted.
"Vanguard," Logan calls out as we jump down. "You’re late. Austin was about to start the whiskey without you."
"He touches the good bottle before the vows and I’ll bury him," Oliver grunts, pulling me into his side.
Austin, the VP, rounds the corner with a keg on his shoulder. He grins, eyes full of the kind of charm that gets him into more trouble than the law. "Don’t listen to the grump, Avery. You look too good for him. You sure you don’t want the charming brother instead?"
Oliver’s arm tightens around my waist until I can barely breathe. His growl is low. Dangerous. Austin just laughs, unfazed. He knows Oliver would burn the world for me, and he loves poking the bear. Then there’s Shane, the Sergeant at Arms. He stands by the fire pit, his young daughter perched on his hip. He catches my eye and jerks his chin once. Tristan, the Road Captain, patrols the perimeter, his quiet, lethal eyes scanning the woods. He moves like a ghost. Chase and Blake argue over the logs for the bonfire, their laughter echoing through the pines.
I married a fortress.
The ceremony happens at sunset on the ridge overlooking the valley. The sky is a bruised purple, the mountains rising up like jagged teeth. No aisle. No white carpet. Just the dirt of Grizzly Peak under my boots and the heavy scent of woodsmoke.
Logan stands before us, his voice projected over the whistling wind. "We’re here to witness a claim. In this club, we don’t do things halfway. When a Gunnar takes a woman, he marks her soul. Oliver, say your piece."
Oliver takes my hands. His are rough, calloused, and shaking just a fraction. He looks at me, and the rest of the worldvanishes. The bikers, the bikes, the clubhouse—it all fades into the grey mist.
"I was a dead man walking until the night I found you in the rain," Oliver says, voice rough as gravel. "I thought I was meant to stay in the shadows, guarding a mountain that didn’t want me. Then you looked at me. You didn’t see a savage. You saw a home. I promise to be your walls, Avery. I promise to keep the fire lit. I promise that as long as I’m standing, you will never be cold or alone again. You’re mine. Solid."
Tears track down my cheeks, hot and fast. I squeeze his hands, the steel of our rings clinking together.
"I spent twenty-three years waiting for someone to find me," I whisper. "I thought I was disposable. A guest in everyone else's life. But you gave me a key. You gave me a name. I’m not just a bird in a cage, Oliver. I’m the queen of your mountain. I’m yours. Solid."
"Solid," he echoes.
Logan grins, a flash of white in the growing dark. "Kiss her, brother. Show the mountain who she belongs to."
Oliver hauls me against him, his arm sweeping around my waist and lifting me off my feet. He crushes his mouth to mine, a desperate, hungry, final claim. The yard erupts. Engines rev until the ground vibrates. Someone fires a pistol into the air, the crack echoing off the rocks. Chaotic and loud. Perfect.
The reception blurs into whiskey, country music, and the heavy warmth of the bonfire. I sit on a bench, watching the brothers. Logan stands off to the side, talking quietly to Tristan, face illuminated by the orange glow of the fire. He looks settled, buta restlessness vibrates in him, a weight on his shoulders waiting for its own storm to break.
Oliver finds me in the dark. He doesn’t say a word. He just hooks his fingers in my belt loops and pulls me to my feet. "Home," he rumbles.
"The party is just starting," I tease.
"My party starts when I get you back behind a locked door." His eyes darken with a promise that makes my blood hum.
We leave the clubhouse as the first few flakes of snow begin to fall. Oliver drives fast, hand back on my thigh, the heater in the truck blasting. The mountain is quiet, the trees turning into white ghosts as the whiteout begins to settle over the pass. We reach the cabin and he carries me inside. He doesn't set me down until we’re in front of the hearth.
The fire in the hearth is a roar of orange and gold, the only light in the cabin as the blizzard begins to scream against the logs. I am wrapped in a thick wool blanket, but the only heat I truly feel is the man behind me. Oliver is a wall of corded muscle and protective intent, his arms locked around my waist, nose buried in the sensitive curve of my neck.
He breathes me in like I’m the only oxygen left in a high-altitude world. Every time he exhales, the heavy rumble of his chest vibrates through my spine. A physical reminder. I am no longer a guest in someone else’s life. I am the center of his.
"Look at the frost on the glass, Little Bird," he murmurs, voice a low, gravelly caress. "The mountain is closing. Nobody gets in. Nobody takes you out."
I lift my hand, the dark steel of my wedding ring catching the firelight. Heavy. Permanent. A promise hammered into my skin. I lean my head back against his shoulder, closing my eyes as his large, calloused hands slide up my ribcage.
"I don't want to leave, Oliver," I whisper. "I’ve spent my whole life running. I think I’m ready to be still."
