CLAIMED IN THE MOUNTAINS

instalove, age gap, mountain man, forced proximity, obsessed alpha, morally gray, ex-military, biker, curvy heroine, virgin, hurt/comfort, HEA

explicit sexual content, profanity, power imbalance, manipulation and control, emotional trauma, survivor’s guilt, grief related to the death of a sibling (on the page), fatal car accident (off the page)

Chapter 1

Ainsley

The road winds like a ribbon of shadow through the trees, endless and empty, and for the first time in hours, I exhale.

Just me and the vast mountains.

No texts. No questions. No carefully arranged smiles or plates of untouched food. 

No—you should be home for this—or—he’d want us to be together. 

No grief disguised as politeness and passed around like a goddamn casserole dish.

Just asphalt, pine trees, and the sound of my brother’s voice echoing in my head.

The Grand Canyon, Ains. One day we’re doing it. You and me. Just pack the truck and go.

I tighten my grip on the steering wheel. My knuckles are white. My heart’s still trapped in that house—a thousand miles behind me. In his bedroom. In all the things I haven’t touched in a year.

It’s been exactly three-hundred-sixty-five days.

One year ago, a drunk driver ran a red light and tore Adam’s truck in half. 

I was there. The passenger side. I walked away. He didn’t.

They told me it was a miracle.

It didn’t fucking feel like one.

A slow breath fills my lungs. I roll the window down and let the air sting my skin, cold and sharp and real. Somewhere in the back of my mind, I hear him again, laughing. He always said I drove too tense. Loosen up, baby sis. Let the car move with you. She’s not out to get you.

I force myself to unclench my shoulders and lean back, fingers tapping against the steering wheel in time with the music playing low through the speakers. He’d hate this playlist. Adam used to say emo music felt like being trapped in an elevator with someone else’s emotional breakdown on a loop.

The corners of my mouth twitch, but it doesn’t quite become a smile.

I pull the sleeves of my brother’s old university hoodie down over my hands as I drive, the fabric worn soft from years of use. Without thinking, I press my nose to the collar and breathe in. The scent—laundry soap, and that familiar cologne—hits me like a punch, twisting something deep inside. It makes my heart ache in a way only he ever could.

If I close my eyes, I can almost pretend he’s still here.

Almost.

A sign blurs past. Grand Canyon—112 miles.

I whisper, “Almost there, Adam.”

And then everything lurches.

The car dips hard to the right. There's a sickening thump-thump-thump of rubber slapping pavement, the entire frame jerking like it’s trying to buck me off. I grip the wheel tight, heart punching my ribs, and steer the car onto the narrow shoulder before the whole damn car tips into a shallow ditch.

“Shit—shit—”

The car shudders, then stops.

I sit there for a full beat, chest heaving, staring straight ahead like maybe the world will reset if I don’t move. 

Birds chirp. Trees sway. Somewhere, a hidden creek babbles like it’s laughing at me.

Of course.

Of course, the tire blows now, in the middle of nowhere, an hour from anything, on a trip I probably shouldn’t even be taking alone. But Adam taught me better than to sit and cry about it.

So I don’t.

I throw the gear into park and climb out. The wind hits me hard—sharp and biting, like the temperature just remembered it’s in the mountains. I walk around to the passenger side. Sure enough, the front tire is fucking toast. Shredded like something clawed through it.

I crouch to check the sidewall. Then the tread.

No puncture. Just worn down to hell. The kind of wear I should’ve noticed.

“Nice job, genius,” I mutter under my breath. “Adam would be so proud.”

He would, though. Even now. He’d just raise a brow and say, That’s why you carry a spare, sis.

I pop the trunk and start pulling out the tools—jack, wrench, and the full-sized spare Adam swore I’d thank him for someday, instead of a shitty donut. 

I don’t even think about calling anyone. No reception out here. It was spotty an hour ago, and now I’m lucky if my phone’s not just a very expensive paperweight.

I start working immediately. My fingers are already going numb, and I’m kneeling on gravel, but it doesn’t matter. The motion is automatic, comforting in a strange way. 

Adam drilled it into me, No sister of mine is gonna wait around for someone to save her. You save yourself first.

So I do.

Or I try.

The bolts are stuck. Like welded-by-the-fucking-devil stuck.

I grunt, throw my weight into the lug wrench, and feel it give a millimeter—then nothing. Again. Again. I hiss through my teeth as my palm splits open just a little, stinging in the cold air.

“Fuck.”

I sit back on my heels and press my bleeding hand to my jeans. I’m not crying. Not from the pain. Not from the frustration.

But suddenly I’m just so tired.

Tired of being the strong one. The one who’s okay. 

The one who smiles and says, I just need some air, when what she really means is, I don’t know how to breathe without him.

The trees rustle behind me like they’re whispering secrets. The sun is starting to dip behind the mountains, throwing everything into that golden, dusky haze where things start to feel less real.

I close my eyes.

And pretend Adam is still here with me.

Just for a moment.

Just long enough to feel like I’m not entirely alone in this world.