When I turn around, he’s standing in the doorway. He fills the frame completely, blocking out the light, the storm, the world. He’s watching me pack with an intensity that makes my skin prickle. He’s not just waiting. He’s guarding. Ensuring I don't try to bolt out the back.
"Ready?" he asks.
"As I'll ever be," I say, slinging the bag over my shoulder.
I walk toward him. He doesn't move out of the way until I’m right in front of him. I have to squeeze past him to get out the door, and for a second, our bodies brush. His chest is like a rock wall. His arm brushes mine, and the heat seeps through my layers instantly.
He smells like danger. He smells like safety.
He follows me out, pulling the door shut behind him. He tests the handle, making sure it’s locked, then turns to me.
"Stay close," he orders. "The trail is iced over."
He starts walking toward the woods, not looking back to see if I’m following. He knows I am. He knows he’s won.
I trudge after him, my boots sinking into the slush. As we hit the tree line, the canopy of the pines blocks out some of the rain, creating a quiet, dark tunnel. I look at his broad back, the way his muscles move under that heavy canvas jacket.
I’m walking into the woods with a man who looks like he could wrestle a grizzly bear and win. I’m leaving the only home I own to stay in his fortress. It’s reckless. It’s insane.
But as I watch Oliver Gunnar cut a path through the storm, breaking branches out of the way so they don't hit me, I realize something terrifying.
I’m not scared of him.
I’m scared of how much I want to follow him.
The wind howls above us, shaking the tops of the pines, but down here in his shadow, the air is still. He stops suddenly, turning back. I nearly run into him.
"Give me the bag," he says.
"I can carry it," I protest.
He doesn't argue. He just reaches out and takes the strap from my shoulder, sliding it down my arm. His fingers graze my bicep, a slow, deliberate touch that leaves a trail of fire. He swings the bag over his own shoulder like it weighs nothing.
"Keep up, Little Bird," he says softly. "We're almost home."
Home.
The word echoes in my head as we climb higher into the darkness, my body molded against the rock-hard heat of the man who just decided I was his to keep.
2
OLIVER
The wind howls through the pines, a low, mournful sound that usually settles my blood. Right now, all I feel is the frantic, sweet pulse of the girl behind me.
I keep my pace slow. My boots bite deep into the slush and mud, creating a path for the little shadow right under my tail. I don't need to look back to know Avery is struggling. Her erratic breathing reaches me, joined by the squelch of ridiculous city boots sliding on slick pine needles. Every time a branch slaps her jacket, she makes a soft, frustrated noise.
She shouldn't be out here. This mountain is no place for her.
When I saw her on that porch, soaking wet and fighting a railing that was already dead wood, something in my chest snapped tight. My protective drive had nothing to do with a neighbor lowering property values. Instinct drove me.
"The same lethal instinct that kept me alive in the sandbox makes me the Vanguard for the Broken Halos MC—I’m the club’s primary sentry and enforcer. I’m the one who clears the path and buries the threats before they ever touch the brothers."
I saw a threat in the storm and the rot, and I saw a civilian who didn't know how to cover her own six.
"Slow down," she calls out. The gale whips her thin voice away.
My boots grind into the mud as I pivot.
