7
COURTNEY
Silence usually weighs on the house like the rotting velvet drapes in the parlor. Today, it wraps around me like a cocoon.
I sit at the scarred oak kitchen table, wrapping my hands around a steaming mug of coffee, staring into the liquid. My body hums. A physical, unavoidable sensation pulses—a deep, rhythmic throb between my thighs and a bruising tenderness along the curve of my hips where Austin’s thumbs dug in deep last night.
I shift in the wooden chair, wincing as a flush heats my cheeks. Walking around with the physical evidence of a man's possession stamped into my skin feels foreign. Every movement pulls at a muscle he overextended or brushes against a patch of skin he bit.
He is gone. For now.
He left before dawn, pressing a rough kiss to my forehead and growling something about checking in with Logan and securing the structural timber needed to finish reinforcing the roof. A shotgun stands propped by the back door, and a massivehandgun rests on the nightstand, along with a sticky note:Stay inside. Locked. I’ll be back by noon.
His tone is commanding and overbearing, a weight that should feel like a cage. It is stifling, pressing in on me until I have no choice but to listen. It is the kind of authority that usually makes me want to run. But that one sharp order makes me feel safer than I have in ten years. The frantic pulse in my throat finally begins to steady. For the first time since the night it all went wrong, I am not the one who has to be strong.
A sharp rap on the front door shatters the morning peace.
My heart slams against my ribs. Austin doesn't knock. Austin has a key, or he’d just kick the door in. This sounds polite. Hesitant.
I tighten the belt of my silk robe, which I’ve thrown on over Austin's oversized flannel shirt to hide the evidence of our night. The layers of fabric cling to the marks he left—a secret friction against my breasts as I pad barefoot down the hallway. I check the peephole.
James. My attorney.
I undo the deadbolt and crack the door. The morning air bites at my exposed skin, smelling of pine needles and damp earth. James stands on the porch, clutching a leather briefcase to his chest like a shield. He looks pale, eyes darting toward the tree line before snapping back to me.
"Courtney," he breathes, shoulders sagging. "Thank God. I wanted to call, but I decided it would be better to talk in person."
"James? What are you doing here? Is everything okay with the title?"
He licks his lips, adjusting his wire-rimmed glasses. "Can I come in? Just for a minute. I shouldn't be here, but I couldn't sit on this."
I step back, opening the door wider. "Sure. Come in."
He practically scrambles over the threshold, locking the door behind him immediately. He follows me into the kitchen, refusing my offer of coffee.
"I don't have much time," he says, placing his briefcase on the table. He doesn't sit. He vibrates with nervous energy. "I heard talk in town. About you and the Gunnars."
My spine stiffens. "Austin is helping me with repairs. We’re old friends, James."
"Friends." He says the word like a diagnosis. He pulls out a thick manila folder. "Correspondence. From the Broken Halos Motorcycle Club to your late father. Dating back five years."
I frown, reaching for the folder. "My dad hated the club."
"He ignored them. But they didn't ignore him." James lowers his voice. "This land, Courtney. The Wade Estate. Look at the map."
I open the folder. On top lies a topographical map of the Grizzly Peak District. A thick red line marks the eastern ridge—the cliffs. My property sits right at the choke point.
"The Gunnars need this land, Courtney. If the Costas get it, the MC loses their flank. They lose the mountain." James looks at me with pity. "Austin Gunnar is a protector, but he lives in a world of wolves. If you stay, you aren't just a neighbor—you’re a target."
My hands start to tremble. "No. Austin and I have history."
"Ten years ago," James counters softly. "He’s the Vice President, Courtney. His first loyalty is to the patch. Always. I found a buyer from the city, an LLC that has no ties to either group. We can sign the papers at my office today. You can be back in your condo by tonight."
I stare at the letters.Strategic acquisition.
The memories of last night crash into me, tainted now. Was it passion? Or just colonization? Was I the easiest way to get the deed?
"Courtney?" James prompts.
