TRISTAN
The silence in the loft is usually my sanctuary. For years, I hoarded it like a dragon guarding gold, pushing away the noise of the club, the roar of the bikes, and the chaotic demands of my brothers. I needed the quiet to think, to track, to map out the wilderness in my head. Now, the silence without the sound of her breathing makes my chest ache.
I lie on my back, the heavy beams of the ceiling lost in the shadows above, listening to the wind howl against the metal roof. The storm is dying, but it isn’t dead yet. Good. Let it rage. Let it drown the road under another ten inches of rain. I don’t want the road crews or the mud to dry. I don’t want the sun to reveal the path that leads back to the world. I don’t want the world to remember we exist.
Alexandria is a warm, heavy weight sprawled across my right side. Her injured leg sits propped carefully on a pillow fortress I’ve constructed, but the rest of her is plastered against me, seeking heat. Her hand rests flat over my heart, fingers twitching slightly in sleep. I stare at that hand. Small. Pale against the inkand scars covering my chest. Fragile. Breakable. And yet, she holds me down to the earth.
I shift slightly, just enough to tilt my head and bury my nose in her hair. It smells like the sandalwood soap from the basin, but underneath, the scent is all hers—the sharp, musky sweetness of crushed wildflowers and the metallic tang of the mountain. It smells like sex, too. The scent of my claim.
The memory of last night hits me with the force of a sledgehammer. The way her pussy had stretched to accommodate my thick cock, inch by agonizing inch, her wet walls clamping down on my shaft as I bottomed out inside her. I’d fought the primal urge to hammer into her, to bury my cock deep in her pussy, slamming against her cervix while I feel her heavy tits crushing against my chest. I’m careful with her broken leg, but my mind is feral, imagining the moment I can finally drive hilt-deep without restraint and fill her to the brim with my heat.
I move my arm, wrapping it tighter around her waist, my palm covering the curve of her hip. My thumb traces the line of her bare hip where the heavy quilt has slipped down.
"Tristan?" Her voice rasps, rough with sleep and the lingering effects of the pain meds.
I freeze. "I'm here."
She doesn't open her eyes. She just nuzzled her face into the crook of my neck, breath hot and damp against my skin. "You're thinking too loud."
"Didn't know that was possible."
"With you, everything is heavy," she mumbles, her hand curling into a fist against my pec. "Even your thoughts. They feel like... weights."
I smile into her hair. Observant. Dangerous for a man who keeps secrets, but I find I don't want to hide from her. "How's the leg?"
"Throbbing." She finally blinks her eyes open. They are hazy, the color of wet moss, focusing on my chin before dragging up to my eyes. "But not as bad as before. The distractions help."
A flush creeps up her neck, pink and lovely. I lean down, brushing my lips against her forehead. "I can distract you again."
She lets out a soft, breathless laugh that vibrates through my ribs. "I think I need water first. And maybe food. My stomach is eating itself."
I tighten my hold for a second—just a selfish, possessive squeeze—before forcing myself to let go. Peeling myself away from her feels like tearing off a layer of skin. I sit up, the cold air of the loft hitting my bare back, and swing my legs over the edge of the mattress.
"Stay," I order softly. "I'll get it."
I move through the loft with the silence of a predator, naked and unbothered by the chill. I feel her eyes on me, watching the play of muscles in my back, the scars that map my history of violence. Usually, being watched makes my hackles rise. With her, the attention feels like a caress. I fill a glass of water from the tap and grab the bottle of pills. Then I move to the small kitchenette, slicing bread and cheese, finding an apple. Simple food. Survival food. I need to get supplies from the main house soon, but that means leaving the loft. That means unlocking the door. I hate the idea.
When I return to the bed, she tries to push herself up, wincing as the movement jars her splint. "Don't," I rumble, setting the food on the nightstand. I slide my arm behind her back, lifting her effortlessly, adjusting the pillows until she is upright but comfortable. I handle her like she is made of blown glass, terrified that my strength—the strength that breaks bones and crushes windpipes—will bruise her.
"I'm not an invalid, Tristan," she whispers, though she leans into my touch.
"You have a broken tibia and fibula, Alex. You're staying put."
I hand her the water and the pills. She takes them without argument, fingers brushing mine. The spark snaps immediately, traveling straight to my groin. I sit on the edge of the bed, watching her eat. I’m not hungry. The sight of her in my bed, wearing my clothes, eating my food feeds something else entirely. It’s primal. She is in my cave, and she is safe.
"Talk to me," I say, voice low.
She pauses, an apple slice halfway to her mouth. "About what?"
"About the fall."
The atmosphere in the room shifts. The cozy, post-sex haze evaporates, replaced by the cold, sharp instinct of the hunt. Her throat bobs as she swallows. She puts the apple down. "I told you," she says, looking at her lap. "I slipped. The scree was loose near the ridge."
"I know that ridge," I say. "I know the scree. I also know you. You're not clumsy. You move through the woods like you respect them. You check your footing." I reach out, taking her chin inmy hand and tilting her face up until she has to look at me. Her pupils are dilated. Fear? Or just the memory of pain?
"Tell me exactly what happened, Alexandria. Before you fell."
She lets out a shaky breath. "I was tracking the colony. The pine martens—the elusive little bastards are the key to my dissertation. I found prints, but they were... wrong."
