"Wrong how?" My thumb strokes her jawline, grounding her.
"Too deep. Too erratic. Like the animal was panicked, or drugged. I followed them up toward the spine of the ridge. I had my radio, and I was checking in with Marcus at the base every hour. But then I heard something."
"A growl?"
"No," she says, brow furrowing. "An engine. An ATV, maybe? But quiet. Modified."
My blood runs cold. The hair on my arms stands up. ATVs are common in Pine Valley, but up on the jagged spine of Grizzly Peak? That is Gunnar territory. Or it is supposed to be.
"Did you see it?"
"No. I turned to look, to get my bearings. That's when I heard the crack. Not a branch. It sounded like... like a pop." She shudders. "The ground right next to my boot exploded. Rock fragments hit my shin. I jumped back, startled, and that's when the edge gave way." She looks at me, eyes wide and wet. "Tristan, I didn't just slip. I was spooked. It felt like..."
"Like a gunshot," I finish for her, the rage uncoiling in my gut like a striking viper. The bastard didn't wait for her to trip. He fired. The rock only pulverized because the wind on the ridgepushed the shot wide. If I hadn’t found her, they would have circled back to finish the job under the cover of the storm. Or let the cold do it for them.
"Tristan?" Her voice sounds small. "You're shaking."
I open my eyes and look at her. This woman.Mywoman. Someone has hunted her. "You're not going back out there," I say, the words grinding out like gravel. "Not for your research. Not for anything. Until I find out who was on that ridge."
"But my work?—"
"Fuck the work." I lean in, crowding her space, needing her to understand the absolute severity of this. "Someone shot at you, Alex. You were targeted."
She recoils slightly, the color draining from her face. "Shot at? Who would... I’m a biologist. I count martens and map their burrows, Tristan. Why would anyone care?"
"I don't know," I lie. I initially tracked her thinking she was a runaway the Costas were hunting—a loose end from the ridge war. But the precision of that shot doesn’t smell like the Costas. It smells like corporate money and city mercenaries. Someone doesn’t just want her gone; they want her silenced. Or maybe someone doesn’t want a scientist noticing things on the mountain that shouldn’t be there. "But I’m going to find out. And when I do, I’m going to bleed them."
She stares at me, seeing the monster now. Seeing the Enforcer, the Road Captain, the killer. Most women would have pulled away. Most would have asked to be taken to the police, to safety. Alexandria reaches out and places her hand on my cheek.
"Okay," she whispers.
The trust in that single word nearly breaks me. She doesn't fear the violence inside me; she trusts it to stand between her and the dark. I turn my face into her palm, kissing the center of it hard. "I've got you. Nobody touches you. Not the mountain, not the cold, and not whoever was on that ridge."
"I know," she says. Then she shifts, wincing again. "Tristan... the pain..."
The rage vanishes, replaced instantly by the medic. "Is it worse?"
"It's spiking. The pills haven't kicked in yet."
"Lie back."
I move the tray of food away and help her settle against the pillows. Her face is pale, sweat beading on her upper lip. I hate this. I hate that I can’t cut the pain out of her. "I’m going to check the swelling," I say, moving down to the foot of the bed. I lift the blanket. Her leg sits encased in the splint and bandages I’ve rigged, elevated on the pillows. Her toes are pink—good circulation—but I see the tension in her thigh muscles.
I run my large hands over her uninjured calf, massaging gently, trying to ground her nerves through touch. "Focus on my hands, Alex. Just the pressure." She lets out a whimpering breath, head tossing back against the pillow. "It burns."
"I know, baby. I know." I keep my voice low, a rhythmic rumble. "Breathe with me. In slow. Out slow." I work my way up, hands sliding over her knee, up the soft, pale skin of her thigh. I’m not trying to be sexual, but I can’t help the possessiveness that coats every touch. I am mapping her. Memorizing the texture of her skin, the way her muscles jump under my palms.
"Talk to me," she gasps. "Distract me. Please."
"What do you want to know?"
"You," she says through gritted teeth. "Why do you live up here? In the loft? The clubhouse is huge. You have brothers."
I keep massaging, thumbs digging into the tight muscle of her quad, working out the stress knots. "Too much noise," I say. "My head... it doesn't shut off. I track everything. Everyone. When I’m in a room with people, I’m counting exits, watching hands, listening to heart rates. It’s loud." I look up at her. She watches me, pain seemingly dulled by the confession. "It’s exhausting," I admit, a truth I haven't told anyone, not even Logan. "Up here, with the wind and the timber... the patterns make sense. Nature doesn't lie. People do."
"And me?" she asks softly. "Am I loud?"
I stop moving my hands. I look at her—messy hair, bruised shadows under her eyes, wearing my hoodie that swallows her whole. "No," I say. "You're quiet. You make the noise stop."
