"I wasn't screaming," she says softly. "My radio broke. I was just… hoping."
"I heard you," I repeat. Not with my ears. I felt her. I felt the disturbance in the woods, the sudden absence of rightness in the world until I found her.
She studies me, her gaze tracing the ink creeping up my sleeves from under my t-shirt. "You're one of the Gunnars," she whispers, a new kind of tremor in her voice. "I’ve seen your club in town. People… they stay out of your way."
"Smart people do," I rumble, moving closer until my shadow pins her to the mattress.
"Tristan," she says, her voice breathless as she uses my name. It sounds different here, in the quiet of my loft, than it did in the mud of the ravine. It sounds like a plea.
She looks at the leather vest again, her eyes landing on the 'Road Captain' patch stitched over the heart. "What is that?" she asks, nodding toward the cut. "The patch. What does a Road Captain do?"
"It means the path is mine," I say, my voice dropping an octave as I lean over her. "I decide where the club goes. I decide the terrain. I decide who gets lost and who gets found on this mountain." I pause, my gaze dropping to her mouth. "And right now, it means I decide exactly what happens to you."
She shivers. Not from cold. I see the gooseflesh rising on her neck. She senses it—the cage door clicking shut. But she doesn't look afraid. She looks… captivated.
"My leg," she says, changing the subject, voice wavering. "How long?"
"Six weeks. Maybe eight. You did a good job on it."
"Six weeks?" Panic flares in her eyes. "I can't… I have research. The presentation at Town Hall. My grant is up for review in a month. I can't be stuck in a cast for six weeks."
"You're stuck," I say, ruthless. "You aren't walking anywhere."
"I have crutches at my apartment. I can?—"
"You aren't going to your apartment." I lean in close, placing my hands on the mattress on either side of her head, caging her. "You’re staying here."
"Here? In the clubhouse?" Her eyes dart around the room. "Tristan, I can't stay here. People will talk. My job…"
"Let them talk." I lean closer, until my nose almost touches hers. I see the flecks of gold in her green eyes. "You almost died today. If I hadn't been patrolling the ridge, you’d be freezing to death right now. You’re my responsibility."
"I'm not a stray dog you picked up," she snaps. A flash of spirit cuts through the pain and drugs.
"No," I agree. "You're not a dog. You're a biologist. You study things. You watch nature take its course." I pause, letting the weight of my presence settle on her. "This is nature taking its course, Alexandria. The mountain took you. I took you back."
She stares at me, mouth slightly open, her respiration coming in shallow, jagged gasps. She should be arguing. She should be demanding a phone. She isn't. She’s looking at my mouth.
"Sleep," I order, pushing off the bed. "I'll be right here."
I walk over to the heavy leather armchair in the corner, dragging it across the floor until it sits directly beside the bed. The scraping sound is loud. Final. I sit down, sprawling my legs out, crossing my arms over my chest.
She watches me for a long time. The morphine pulls her under again, eyelids heavy.
"You're not going to leave?" she mumbles.
"No."
"What if… what if I need something?"
"I'm right here."
She closes her eyes. Her breathing evens out, deepening into the rhythm of sleep.
I don't sleep. I watch her.
I watch the rise and fall of her chest under my hoodie. I watch the way her hair fans out on the pillow. I memorize the shape of her face, the curve of her jaw, the pulse in her neck.
My body is wired, adrenaline and lust humming through my veins like high-voltage current. I should call Logan. I should tellthe President I have a civilian in the loft. I should tell him she’s injured and I’m keeping her.
