AUSTIN
The question hangs in the sharp mountain air, vibrating between us like a live wire. I don’t flinch or blink. I just tighten my grip on her hip, my fingers sinking into the soft denim of her jeans, anchoring her to the porch and the dirt beneath our feet.
"It’s a declaration, Courtney," I growl, my voice dropping into the low, proprietary register usually reserved for club business. Today, strictly personal. "Proposals imply you have a choice. You don’t. You’ve been mine since you were twelve years old, skip-stoning in the creek. The last ten years were a glitch. A long, painful blackout. Now? Now the lights are back on."
I step closer, crowding her against the railing I’ve just reinforced. The wood doesn't groan. It holds firm. I’ll make sure every pillar of her life stays just as steady. "Gunnar and Wade. This is about blood, Court. Not just land. I’m planting my flag. I’m moving my things in, and I’m never moving them out."
Courtney tilts her head back, her hazel eyes searching mine for hesitation. She finds none. The heavy, primal weight of ourshared blood-bond sits between us—a biological imperative that makes the rest of the world feel like static.
"You're very sure of yourself," she whispers, her breath ghosting against my lips.
"I've had ten years to think about exactly how I was going to claim every inch of your body when you finally came home," I reply, my voice a dark, possessive rumble.
I reach up, my thumb tracing the line of her jaw before dragging down to press firmly against her pulse point, letting her feel the predatory heat of my hand. "I'm not just asking to be your husband. I'm telling you that I'm your fortress. I'm the man who kills the monsters at your door and the one who builds the walls that keep you safe."
My mouth crushes hers, the answer to every fear she’s ever had. A slow, deep sealing of our contract. When I pull back, the surrender in her eyes tells me everything—the way she leans into me as if I were the only solid thing left in the universe.
"Okay," she breathes. "Gunnar and Wade."
"Good." I nip at her lower lip, a sharp, biting reminder of exactly who owns it. "Now go inside and start drafting that announcement for your new firm. I’m going to finish clearing the splinters of that sign from our yard."
Two Weeks Later
The rhythmic, bone-deep crack of a hammer driving a four-inch nail into solid oak echoes off the granite walls of the valley. It's a sharp, repetitive sound that beats any city therapy.
I wipe a thick smear of sweat and sawdust from my forehead, throat parched from the afternoon sun. Grizzly Peak burns white-hot today, the morning mist long evaporated into the scent of resin and dry pine. My muscles burn, a pleasant ache signaling a job nearly finished. I am dry-mouthed and exhausted, but every swing of my arm feels like nailing down the floorboards of my future.
Two weeks ago, this house was a Victorian corpse—rotting beams, sagging floors, a thousand dark corners filled with neglect. Now, the supports are reinforced with fresh, aromatic timber. I added a screen door to the front entrance to let the air in, and the main door has been replaced with heavy mahogany wood. The danger is gone. Just like the danger of her leaving.
I pause, resting the hammer against my thigh, and look up at the second-story window. The glass reflects the deep green of the forest, but my focus locks on the shadow moving behind the pane. I feel her presence like a gravitational pull. Courtney. My Court. Thirst hits me hard. I’d give anything for a cold glass of water and a look at her face.
For a decade, I’ve been a ghost haunting my own life, going through the motions of being the Vice President of Broken Halos while the only part of me that actually matters was missing. Now, she is inside. The world finally has color again.
The roar of a V-twin engine cuts through the silence, shattering the peace of the ridge. I don’t flinch. I know that deep, guttural thrum. It vibrates at a lower frequency than any other bike in the club.
Logan.
I set the hammer on a stack of fresh lumber and stand, brushing wood shavings from my jeans. I walk down the newly stable steps just as my brother’s blacked-out Harley kicks up a cloud of dust and slides to a precision halt in the gravel. Logan kills the engine and swings a massive leg over the seat, his face set in that stone-cold expression that makes grown men in this valley cross the street.
He pulls off his helmet and stares at the house, then at my bare, sweat-slicked chest. "You look like shit, Austin," he rumbles, voice like gravel grinding together.
"Been working," I say, crossing my arms.
Logan tracks the line of the new finish-grade beams, his jaw tight. "You handled those scouts at the ridge yesterday."
"Three of Dominic Costa’s men," I confirm.
"They’ve been testing the perimeter for two weeks, but after yesterday, they won't be walking right for a few months. Message sent."
"Message received," Logan says. "I got a call from an intermediary this morning. The Costas are pulling back to the ridge. They claim it was a 'misunderstanding' over property boundaries. They know now that the Wade estate is Gunnar ground."
"It’s my ground," I say, voice dropping an octave. "The club doesn't need a buffer zone here. Courtney isn't selling. Not to the Costas. Not to the club. She’s keeping the house."
Logan stares at me, searching for a crack in my resolve. He finds none. I officially flagged this property as 'VP Interest' years ago; I am just finally building the fortress to match the claim.
"So you’re moving off the compound?" Logan asks.
"I’m moving in here. Permanently."
