"Alex," he repeats. The way my name rolls off his tongue feels like a brand.
"And for the record, Tristan," I add, wincing as he shifts my weight, "I usually prefer to vet my rescuers. Do you have references? A Yelp review? Anything that says you won’t feed me to the local bear population?"
"References are for men who ask for permission," he rumbles, his mossy eyes pinning me. "No clinic. I’m taking you home."
"No?" I wheeze, the pain making my head swim. "Tristan, I need a hospital. A doctor."
"You have me," he growls, his voice a low vibration that settles in my gut. "I decide where you go. And right now, you’re going home with me. There's a storm coming in," he says, tilting his head toward the ridge as if the clouds obey him. "Temperatures are dropping. The nearest road is three miles back that way, and you wouldn't make it a hundred yards."
"So what do we do?" My heart rate kicks up again. "You have a radio? Can you call Search and Rescue?"
He looks down at me, his expression unreadable. "I am the rescue."
"I’d spent two years chasing a ghost on this ridge. The Costas called her the 'Runaway'—a shadow that kept popping up in their survey zones, ruining their expansion plans with 'protected species' reports. I’d seen her tracks in the mud and found her ribbon markers, but I’d never caught a glimpse of her face. I’d left the clubhouse in the rain tonight because the sensors tripped near the shale face. I thought I was finally catching a spy. I didn’t expect to find a broken woman with a PhD."
Before I can process that, he bends down. "Arms around my neck."
"Wait, you can't?—"
"Arms," he repeats.
I reach up, wrapping my arms around his thick neck. The leather of his vest is cool, but the skin of his neck is hot. His hair brushes against my wrists, soft despite the ruggedness of the rest of him.
He slides one arm under my knees and the other behind my back before lifting me.
I gasp as his massive arms lock beneath me. I’m not some waif; I have wide, child-bearing hips and thick thighs that rub together with every step. I’m used to men grunting under my weight, but Tristan hauls me up like I’m a prize he just claimed from the dirt. He doesn’t just hold me; he crushes me against the wall of his chest, his massive arms locking beneath me like iron bands. My soft breasts flatten against his hard pectorals, and my thick thighs drape over his forearm as he settles my weight.
I feel small—not because I am, but because he is a monolith of pure, unchecked power.
My injured leg dangles, but he angles his forearm to support the calf, minimizing the movement.
"Hold on," he grunts.
He starts walking.
The movement is surprisingly smooth. His body acts as a shock absorber. Every step he takes is calculated to keep me steady. I press my face into the junction of his neck and shoulder, hiding from the spinning world. I can feel the steady, powerful thrum of his heart against my chest. Slow. Controlled.
"You're sure about this?" I whisper into his vest, the scent of him—pine, old leather, and pure male—making my head spin more than the pain.
"I'm sure of everything on my mountain," he grunts. His grip on me tightens, possessive and absolute. "I saw your truck at the trailhead earlier. Read the permit on the dash. Alexandria Emerson. Wildlife Biology. You were trespassing on Gunnar land the second you stepped off that scree, Alex. Now you're mine to deal with."
I pull back slightly to look at him, wincing as the motion jostles my leg. "You... you were watching me?"
His jaw works, a muscle jumping in his granite-carved face as he navigates the treacherous terrain with an ease that suggests he memorized every root and stone of this mountain before he was born. "I watch everything that enters my territory. Especially things as pretty and out-of-place as you."
Mymountain. Notthemountain. His.
The possessiveness in his voice sends a tremor down my spine that has nothing to do with the cold. Arrogance usually repels me, but this feels like a promise. If this is his mountain, and he is holding me, then I am under his protection.
The pain comes in waves now, gray spots dancing in my vision. "Tristan... I don't feel so good."
His arms tighten around me, crushing me closer. "Stay with me, Alex. Almost there."
"Where is there?" I slur.
"Home."
We walk for what feels like hours, though it’s probably only twenty minutes. The woods grow darker, the shadows lengthening into black bars. I drift in a haze of endorphins and agony, aware only of the heat of his body and the steady rhythm of his breathing.
