First order of business: bracing the joists under the kitchen and the master suite. I’m not letting her sit on a chair until I know the wood is as solid as the mountain itself. I want her supported when I finally get her alone.
Logan sets his mug down. The amusement vanishes. "Be careful, Austin. The mood in the valley is shifting. I had a run-in with a few suits near the eastern cliffs yesterday. New faces. Polished."
My jaw tightens. The eastern cliffs. The territory everyone in Pine Valley knows to ignore, even if they don't know why. "The Costa family?"
"Maybe," Logan says. "Or someone working for them. Point is, if Courtney is back at that estate, she’s right on the edge of the zone. If things heat up, she’s exposed."
"She's not exposed," I snap, the possessive instinct flaring hot and bright in my chest. "Because I'm moving in."
Logan raises an eyebrow. "Moving in?"
"To the site. For security. And repairs." I push off the railing, the decision hardening into concrete reality. "I need a truck from the lot. And I’m raiding the supply inventory at Peak Wilderness. Lumber, tools, heavy duty shit. I’m starting at dawn."
Logan studies me for a long time, assessing my mental state. He sees the obsession, the hunger that’s been starving for ten years. He gives a single, sharp jerk of his chin. "Take the F-250. And grab whatever you need from the shop. Just remember... she's a civilian, Austin. Don't scare her off before you get a chance to keep her."
"She’s not a civilian," I mutter, turning back toward the gravel lot. "She’s mine. She just forgot."
Dawn breaks over Grizzly Peak with a heavy, grey fog that clings to the treetops. The air is damp, chilling the sweat on my back as I haul the last stack of two-by-fours out of the truck bed. I’ve been here for an hour, working in the semi-darkness,letting the physical exertion burn off the adrenaline that kept me awake all night.
Courtney’s house—the Wade Estate, as the town calls it—looks even worse in the daylight. It’s a majestic, tragic corpse of a building. Victorian gingerbread trim snapped off like brittle bone, windows clouded with years of grime, a porch that sags dangerously to the left. It smells of wet wood and abandonment.
But inside... inside, she is sleeping.
The thought sends a jolt of heat straight to my groin. I know exactly which room she’s in. Second floor, corner room facing the east. Her room when we were kids. I spent a thousand nights throwing pebbles at that window, waiting for her to slide the sash up and grin down at me.
I grab a crowbar from the toolbox. The front porch steps are the first priority. One wrong step and she’ll put her foot right through the rot. I jam the metal claw under a warped plank and heave. The wood shrieks as it splinters, nails groaning in protest.
I work with savage efficiency. Shirt off, despite the chill. The cold air feels good against my heated skin. I want her to see this. I want her to see the scars on my back, the ink that covers my arms, the muscle I’ve packed onto my frame since I was the skinny kid who used to carry her books. I want to overwhelm her senses. Force her to focus on nothing but me.
A squeak from above stops me—the window sash.
I pause, the crowbar hanging loosely in my grip, and look up.
Courtney is there.
She leans out the second-story window, her hair a chaotic halo around her face, sleep still clinging to her eyes. She’s wrappedin something silky and blue that slips off one shoulder, revealing the creamy skin of her collarbone. My mouth goes dry. She looks lush. Ripened. The girl I knew was cute; the woman looking down at me is a goddess of curves begging to be bruised by a rough hand.
"Austin?" Her voice sounds raspy, confused. "What the hell are you doing?"
"Fixing your stairs," I call back, my voice echoing in the quiet morning. "Unless you want to break a leg coming down for coffee."
"It's six in the morning!" she hisses, pulling the robe tighter around herself, though it does little to hide the heavy swell of her breasts. God, she’s perfect. "And I didn't hire you!"
"You didn't have to." I rip another plank free, the wood screaming as I muscle it off the joists. "I told you last night. The club handles things on this mountain. This house is a hazard."
"I can handle my own house!"
"Clearly not." I lean the crowbar against my thigh, letting my gaze slow-burn its way up the length of her legs visible in the window. "Get dressed, Court. I brought two coffees—they're sitting on the hood of my truck. One of them is yours. If you’re lucky, you’ll pick the right one."
She stares at me, mouth opening and closing as she tries to find an argument. She won't find one that works. I watch the color rise on her cheeks—anger, yes, but beneath that, her eyes track the sweat rolling down my chest, her gaze lingering on the tattoo—a cracked skull pierced by a dagger, etched sharp and dark over my heart.
She slams the window shut.
I grin, turning back to the wood. "That's it, sweetheart," I mutter to myself. "Get mad. Wake up."
By the time she finally emerges from the house, I’ve ripped out the worst of the rot and I’m measuring the new cuts. She looks sleep-mussed and edible in tight jeans and an oversized sweater that slides off one cream-colored shoulder.
She doesn't look at me as she walks straight past the porch toward my truck. I stop measuring, watching the sway of her hips until she reaches the hood. She stares at the two plastic cups for a long heartbeat, then reaches out. Her fingers hesitate, hovering, before she decisively grabs the black coffee and turns to face me.
