"James is a lawyer, Courtney. He sees the world in deeds and borders. He's not lying about the letters, but he’s only telling you half the story because he doesn't know the man I am when the cut comes off."
"Not everything he says is true?" She steps toward me, poking a finger into my chest. Brave. Stupid, but brave. "Did the Broken Halos MC try to buy this estate? Yes or no?"
I snatch her hand before she can poke me again, trapping her wrist. I pull her close, eliminating the space between us until she has to crane her neck. I loom over her, a wall of scarred muscle and bad intentions.
"Yes," I hiss. "The club wanted the land. It’s a strategic buffer. If the Costas get this ridge, they can look right down into our compound. They can track our movements. Sniper lines. Surveillance. So yeah, Logan wanted the deed."
Her face crumbles. "So it was all real. You… you used me."
"Don't you dare." I squeeze her wrist, pulling her up onto her toes. "Don't reduce what I feel for you to club politics."
"Then why didn't you tell me?"
"Because I didn't give a shit about the land!" I roar. Dust shakes loose from the chandelier above us.
She flinches. I hate myself for causing it, but the dam has broken.
"Logan wrote those letters because it’s his job as President to look at maps, but he stopped sending them years ago because I made it clear this house was off-limits." I reach into the inner pocket of my cut—the one pressed against my heart—and pull out a folded, oil-stained internal memo from the club archives.
"Read the date, Courtney. It’s from the month after you left. I officially flagged this property as 'VP Interest.' In this club, that means if any brother—including Logan—tried to seize it, they’d have to go through me first. I didn't wait for you so I could get a deed. I protected this dirt for a decade so you’d have a home to come back to."
I release her wrist and scrub a hand over my face, pacing the small entryway. "You think I’m here fixing your porch because Logan ordered me to? You think I’m sleeping in your bed because of a property line? I’m here because I’m obsessed withyou, Courtney. I have been since I was twelve years old."
She wraps her arms around herself, watching me pace. "But James said?—"
"James is trying to drive a wedge," I snap, stopping in front of her. "And you made it easy for him. You ran to the Outfitters. You exposed yourself. Those men who walked in? That was the Costa family. They aren't mountain rescue, Courtney. They don't play by our rules. If I hadn't been there..."
The image of the alternative flashes in my mind. Her, cornered. Taken. Used as leverage against the club. My vision goes red around the edges.
"I protected you," I say, breathing hard. "I nearly killed three men in the middle of Main Street because they looked at you too long. Does that sound like a business transaction to you?"
She stares at me, chest rising and falling rapidly. The silence stretches, thick and electric. She processes it—the violence she saw in the shop, the way I threw myself between her and the threat, the way I look at her right now. Like I want to consume her whole just to keep her safe.
"You… you really would have hurt them," she whispers.
"I would have burned the whole town down," I promise, stepping into her space again. I back her up until her spine hits the wall near the staircase. "If they touched you? If they took you? There wouldn't be a Pine Valley left by morning."
I place my hands on the wall on either side of her head, caging her in. My body is a furnace, radiating heat.
"You are mine, Courtney. You were mine before you left, and you’re sure as hell mine now. The land? Keep it. Burn it. Give it to charity. I don't care. But you aren't leaving this mountain. Not now. Not ever."
Her breath hitches. She looks up, searching my face, and the fear in her eyes shifts. It changes into something darker. Something heavy. She sees the monster in me, the violence I keep on a leash, and instead of running, she leans in.
"Show me," she breathes.
The command snaps the last thread of my control.
I crash my mouth onto hers, a violent collision that has nothing to do with romance and everything to do with ownership.
I’m not kissing her; I’m raiding her, my tongue forcing its way past her teeth to claim every wet inch of her mouth. I slam my hips into hers, grinding the heavy, aching length of my cock against her pussy through the thick barrier of our denim.
I’m rock hard, the adrenaline from the warehouse fight hardening me into a blunt instrument that needs to be buried deep inside her right fucking now.
She whimpers, hands fisting in my cut, dragging me closer. That little sound undoes me.
I sink my fingers into her hips, as I haul her up. She wraps her legs around my waist instantly, her pussy grinding against the ridge of my jeans with every heavy step I take toward the stairs.
I don’t slow down; I march us upward, the friction of her inner thighs squeezing my ribs while I devour her mouth, making sure she feels the predatory weight of the man who just cleared a room for her.
