"Ready to explain why you ran," he says. "And ready to accept that you're never running again."
We walk to my car in silence, but the air between us screams. He loads the paint into my trunk, slams it shut, and leans against the metal, crossing his arms.
"Go home, Courtney. Lock the door. Don't open it for anyone but me."
"What about the eastern cliffs?" I ask, remembering Christie's warning. "Is that real?"
Austin’s face shuts down. The mask of the Vice President slides into place—cold, lethal, detached. "Let me worry about the politics. You just worry about... home improvement."
He turns and walks away, striding down Main Street toward where his bike must be parked. I watch him go, watching the way his denim jeans cling to powerful thighs, the way his shoulders move.
I get into my car and grip the steering wheel until my fingers cramp. I lift a hand to touch my lips. They still burn.
He's right. I'm not leaving in three days.
I’m in trouble.
Deep, dangerous trouble.
4
AUSTIN
The rumble of my Harley cuts through the silence of Grizzly Peak like a chainsaw through bone. I let it idle, glaring at the porch I’ve spent the last forty-eight hours rebuilding while she watched from the windows. The 'three-day' deadline she arrived with has long since expired, buried under sawdust and the weight of how we look at each other when the sun goes down.
I don’t bother killing the engine as I coast up the long, cracked driveway of the Wade estate. The deep, guttural thrum vibrates up through my thighs and into my chest, announcing my arrival.
I want her to hear me. I want her heart kicking against her ribs the way it used to when we were kids and I’d sneak up to her window. But back then, I was just the boy from the wrong side of the mountain, looking for a friend. Now, I’m the monster who owns the mountain. And I’m looking for a lot more than friendship.
The house looms above me, a rotting Victorian skeleton against the black sky. Abandoned. A place where memories go to die.But in the second-story window—the master bedroom—a warm, yellow light glows.
My chest tightens. She’s up there.
I kill the bike, silence crashing down instantly. The wind whips through the pines, carrying the metallic scent of rain and the damp earth of the forest floor. I stand there, boots planted in the gravel, breathing in the night. My eyes scan the perimeter, habit overriding lust. The shadows are deep here. Perfect cover.
Logan’s warning from this morning echoes in my head. The family on the eastern cliffs. The Costa territory creates a jagged border with ours, and lately, the air between us has been thin enough to snap. If they know Courtney is back—if they know she’s important to me—she becomes a target.
My blood turns to ice, then boils into rage. No one touches her. Not a single soul.
I walk up the porch steps, testing the repairs I made previously. The wood holds firm under my weight. Solid. Just like the cage I’m building around her, slat by slat, until she realizes she doesn’t want to leave.
I don’t knock.
The front door is unlocked. My jaw clenches. I told her to lock it. I told her specifically, looking her dead in those wide, whiskey-colored eyes, to keep the world out.
I step inside, closing the door behind me and throwing the deadbolt with a harsh clack. The foyer is dark, smelling of dust and lemon polish—she’s been cleaning. I move through the shadows, boots silent on the runner rug. The house groansaround me, settling for the night, but I hear movement upstairs. A soft scuffling. A frustrated sigh.
I take the stairs two at a time.
The door to the master bedroom stands ajar. I push it open with my fingertips.
Courtney stands in the middle of the room, her back to me. She’s stripped off the clothes she wore to town—the respectable jeans and blouse—and wears an oversized t-shirt that hangs off one shoulder, ending just mid-thigh. It’s old, faded grey, hugging the curve of her ass in a way that makes my mouth water. She reaches up, trying to pry a stubborn sconce cover off the wall near the closet, her body stretched long.
Every muscle in my body locks up. The sight of her—relaxed, unguarded, soft—hits me like a sledgehammer. Ten years. I waited ten fucking years for this view.
"You didn't lock the front door," I say, my voice a low rasp scratching against the silence.
She bolts straight up, the screwdriver clattering to the floor as a gasp rips from her throat. Her hand flies to her chest, pressing against the frantic beat of her heart.
