"You're overwhelmed. The house is a wreck. You're in over your head."
"Thanks for the vote of confidence."
"I didn't come here to boost your ego, Court. I'm here to fix the problem." I walk toward the door, then pause. "Oh, and James the attorney?"
She stiffens. "What about him?"
"I called him. Told him to pull the listing paperwork."
She draws in a sharp, jagged breath. "You what? You have no right! That is my attorney! You can't just?—"
"I told him the property is undergoing significant structural renovation and won't be market-ready for at least six months." I turn, giving her a dark, satisfied smile. "Which is true. Because I’m going to take my sweet time fixing this place up. Room by room. Inch by inch."
"Six months?" she shrieks. "I can't stay here for six months!"
"Then stay at the clubhouse. Or stay in my cabin." I shrug. "But you aren't leaving Pine Valley. Not while there’s work to be done."
"This is kidnapping! Or... or coercion!"
"It's construction," I drawl. "I'm saving you from a lawsuit. You sell this place as is, the roof collapses on the new owners, you're liable. I'm doing you a favor."
She stares at me, mouth agape, vibrating with impotent rage. She knows I’ve outmaneuvered her. She knows that once the Broken Halos MC decides a project is theirs, no one in this town—not even her fancy attorney—will interfere.
"You're impossible," she seethes.
"I'm thorough." I wink at her. "Get water. I'll be back with the steamer. We're doing the master bedroom next."
"Why the master bedroom?"
"Because," I say, my voice dropping to that low, vibrating growl that makes her tremble, "if you're going to be sleeping here forthe next six months, I want to make sure the bed is sturdy enough to handle... everything."
I leave her standing there, flushed, her heart pounding loud enough for me to hear from the hallway.
The hunt is over. The trap is sprung. She just needs to stop fighting the cage and realize it’s the safest place she’s ever been.
3
COURTNEY
Dust motes dance in the sliver of sunlight cutting through the grime on the kitchen window, swirling in a chaotic rhythm that matches the turbulence inside my chest. I scrub at the countertop with a ferocity that threatens to strip the varnish right off the ancient wood. My arm burns, the lactic acid building in my triceps, but stopping means thinking. And thinking forces me to acknowledge that Austin Gunnar holds me hostage in my own childhood home without using a single zip tie or lock.
He used paperwork. Backed by pure, unadulterated testosterone.
Six months.
I squeeze the sponge until soapy water runs down my wrist, dripping onto the linoleum floor that’s seen better days. He blocked the sale. He leaned on James, my attorney, and tangled the deed in enough red tape to choke a bull. James didn’t even sound apologetic when he called me back this morning. He sounded relieved, like he was glad the decision had been takenout of his hands by the terrifying force of nature that is the Broken Halos MC.
I toss the sponge into the bucket, the splash wetting the front of my old oversized t-shirt. I need coffee. Real coffee, not the instant sludge I found in the back of a cupboard that probably expired before I left for the city ten years ago. And I need air. Air that doesn't smell like cedar, rain, and Austin’s distinct, musky scent—a phantom aroma that soaked into the very drywall since he cornered me yesterday.
Grab keys. Grab purse. Escape.
The drive down the winding mountain road from Grizzly Peak into the heart of Pine Valley usually calms me. Today, the towering pines feel like the bars of a cage. Every shadow beneath the boughs looks like a biker, every rumble of a distant engine makes my pulse stutter against my ribs.
I park my rental sedan on Main Street, wedging it between a pickup truck lifted high enough to need an elevator and a sensible station wagon. The town hasn’t changed much. The storefronts represent brick and charm, hanging baskets of petunias fighting a losing war against the mountain chill. But the tension is new. A static charge prickles the fine hairs on my arms.
I keep my head down and hurry toward the Cozy Cup. The bell above the door jingles—a bright, cheerful sound violently at odds with my mood.
The shop is warm, smelling of roasted beans and cinnamon. A sanctuary. I breathe in, finally letting my shoulders drop an inch.
