"You’re my Old Lady," I say. The term is weighty and archaic to outsiders, but sacred to us. "You’re under my protection. You ride on my bike. You sleep in my bed. And if anyone looks at you sideways, they answer to the Broken Halos MC."
She shudders, but I see the thrill in her eyes. She craves this. The modern world is too soft, too disconnected. She’s been waiting for a monster to come out of the woods and drag her home.
"Okay," she breathes.
"Okay?" I raise a brow.
"Okay," she repeats, firmer this time. "But I still need to check my email."
I let out a rough bark of laughter—a sound that surprises even me.
"Deal," I agree. "But first, food. Then, I’m putting you back in that bed."
"To sleep?" she asks innocently.
I stand, lifting her with me, and set her gently on the mattress. I lean over, bracing my hands on either side of her head, caging her one last time.
"To recover," I correct her, voice dropping to that dangerous pitch. "Because once you’re healed up, Savannah... I’m going to use you until you forget your own name."
I turn and walk toward the kitchen, feeling her eyes on my back.
The radio on the counter crackles. Low-band frequency.
“Pres. You copy?”
Austin. My VP.
I stare at the radio. The real world knocking. Austin, Shane, Tristan—they’ll be wondering why I haven't checked in. They know I found a stray, but they don't know I’ve found my queen.
I pick up the mic, thumbing the button. I glance back at the bed. Savannah watches me, the towel slipping low on her chest.
"I’m here," I say.
“Roads are still shit,” Austin’s voice comes through, distorted by static. “Nathan from Rescue says they’re pulling the plows until visibility improves. You good up there?”
"I’m good," I say, eyes locked on Savannah. "Better than good."
“The girl?” Austin asks. A pause. “You send her on her way yet?”
"No," I say. The word is final. "She stays."
“...Copy that, Pres. She stays.” Austin’s tone changes. He knows. He hears it in my voice.
I release the button and toss the mic back on the counter.
I grab the cast-iron skillet. The metal feels cold and heavy. I start cooking, the domestic task grounding me.
I can’t breathe without her.
The realization hits me again. If she walked out that door, into the snow, and disappeared, my chest would cave in. The air would turn to glass in my lungs. Suffocation.
I look at the knife block. The scars on my arms. The darkness living in the corners of this cabin. I’ve spent my life guarding this mountain, fighting for territory, pushing away anything soft.
But she makes me stronger.
I crack an egg into the skillet, the hiss of grease filling the silence.
She’s staying. I don't care what Lucas Sterling thinks, or the town council, or her blog schedule. The mountain has claimed her. I have claimed her.
