Chapter Eight #2
The remaining man growls and charges harder, smarter.
Tank blocks, counters, strikes. His body moves like it was built for this. Muscle memory and instinct working in perfect sync. There’s no rage in him. No recklessness.
Just focus.
Just purpose.
The second prospect lasts longer.
But not long enough.
Tank hooks an arm, sweeps his legs, and sends him skidding across the concrete before shoving him straight into the pool beside his partner.
Tank finally steps back, chest rising, sweat glistening across his skin. He scans the group once, sharp and assessing.
I stay where I am, half-hidden, quiet as a shadow.
Tank gestures for the next two prospects to step forward, flicking his fingers like he’s already bored with them. The previous pair staggers back, dripping and gasping.
“You,” he says. “And you.”
They square up, nervous but determined.
Tank rolls his shoulders again, muscles shifting under his skin, sweat already streaking down his chest and along the ridges of his abs. I’ve seen him shirtless more times than I can count.
But this?
This is different.
It’s the way his body moves. The way every muscle works together…coiling, stretching, snapping into motion with lethal grace.
Heat pools low in my belly before I can stop it.
I press my thighs together, annoyed at my own body. I’m supposed to be putting distance between me and this man. Not wanting him more than ever. Especially after what I just went through.
“Again,” he says to the new pair, voice calm. Deadly. “I’m here to hurt your precious women. Your men. Your children.”
The air shifts.
“I’m going to tie you up,” he continues evenly, “and make you watch while I make them scream.”
Well, that does the trick.
The prospects’ faces darken with rage as they charge him at full speed.
Tank takes it in stride.
He doesn’t rush. He doesn’t retreat.
He flows.
One man swings…Tank ducks, pivots, and counters with a brutal elbow that sends the prospect stumbling. The second comes in from behind.
Tank grunts as a hit lands against his side…but he grins.
They fight harder now. Smarter. Together.
Tank blocks, absorbs, strikes back. Sweat drips from his jaw, tracks down his neck, disappears into the waistband of his jeans. His muscles flex and tighten with every movement, his body twisting and contorting in ways that steal my breath.
This time, it takes longer.
They land hits. They adapt.
And Tank?
He lets them.
When he finally subdues them, it isn’t with spectacle.
It’s with precision.
A sharp move here. A controlled takedown there. Both prospects end up flat on their backs, chests heaving.
Tank steps back.
He doesn’t throw them in the pool. Instead, he nods.
“Better,” he says. “You fought like you had something worth protecting.”
The men look stunned.
“Be proud of that,” he adds. “You earned it.”
Relief and pride flood their faces.
Then Tank’s gaze lifts and lands directly on me. Almost as if he knew I was standing here the whole time.
Everything stills.
“Call it,” he says without breaking eye contact with me. “We’re done for today.”
A ripple of groans and laughter moves through the group.
“But don’t get comfortable,” Tank adds. “Same time tomorrow.”
His lips twitch.
“With me.”
A pause.
“And Foster.”
The men collectively groan like they’ve just been sentenced.
I can’t help but smile. I still don’t quite understand why they’re so terrified of working with our local… retired… fireman. Foster is super sweet and always smiling.
Tank walks over to me and accepts the bottle of water I hold out.
“Thanks,” he mutters, twisting the cap off and downing most of it in one go.
“You’re not going easy on them,” I say.
“Can’t,” he replies. “We use prospects for guard duty and added security when we need it. They have to know how to fight and how to think while doing it.”
I nod. That makes sense.
“Thanks for lunch,” I say. “I didn’t realize how hungry I was until I pulled out that sandwich.”
“Anytime, babygirl,” he says, a small smile tugging at his mouth. “How’s the dress coming along?”
“Almost finished,” I admit. “Eli seems to think I need a go-between because I tried to talk my client into paying me less than what she offered.”
Tank huffs softly. “Eli’s a smart man.”
“He is,” I agree.
“He knows your worth,” Tank continues. “One day, you will too.”
“Maybe,” I say. “Anyway, I just wanted to say thanks. You didn’t have to do that.”
“I wanted to, Abby,” he says, finishing his water and going for a second bottle. “Besides, had I not sent Eli with food, you’d still be working and not taking a break.”
“True,” I admit. “Anyway, I’m going to go finish the dress. I have some new orders that came in that I need to fill.”
Tank nods, and I take that as my cue to leave. He doesn’t stop me, and I don’t know if that makes me happy that he’s respecting my space or mad that he’s not.
***
“We’re having a cookout,” Lila says. “Cody’s coming over. He says he misses your face.”
“He was just here yesterday,” I laugh.
“Yeah, but not for very long,” she counters. “And you worked the entire time.”
“But I finished the dress,” I say, smiling broadly.
“That you did,” she grins. “And it is freaking stunning.”
“Yeah,” I sigh, equal parts proud and relieved. “It really is. Her assistant is coming to pick it up at three.”
“She’s not coming herself?” Lila asks. “Doesn’t she want to make sure everything fits before taking it home?”
“She already tried it on after I finished the bodice,” I explain. “But she hasn’t seen it since I added all the details. The crystals. The final touches.”
I hesitate.
“I wish I could see her face when she sees it for the first time,” I admit. “But this isn’t about me or my needs.”
Lila gives me a look. The you’re ridiculous kind.
“Maybe not,” she says. “But you’re going to get that recognition whether you want it or not. Her wedding is going to be everywhere. News outlets, blogs, social media. And when they talk about the dress?”
She smiles knowingly.
“They’ll talk about you. Designers. Stylists. Brides who want something made just for them.”
She’s not wrong.
My client is a major Hollywood star, and the fact that she reached out to me still feels unreal.
I tried turning her down. I told her I was new, inexperienced, not ready for something this big.
She refused to hear it.
And now, standing here with the finished dress behind me, I’m grateful she didn’t.
“Anyway,” Lila says, breaking the moment. “Cookout in the center. Now that the Christmas tree is down, there’s room for a fire pit. So s’mores are very much in our near future.”
“I mean,” I laugh, “who can say no to s’mores?”
Laughing, Lila leaves my house.
I head into the bathroom and study my reflection, my gaze drifting to the skin still visible beneath my clothes. A few faint marks remain where that man cut me the deepest, but for the most part, everything has healed.
There’s almost no outward sign that I was hurt at all.
Aside from the same dream that still haunts my sleep, I don’t remember anything. Patch says it’s likely I never will because I was drugged and unconscious. He thinks the dream is simply the last thing my mind registered before everything went dark.
He’s probably right.
And while I’m grateful I won’t remember the rest of it, there’s still a part of me that’s angry…at myself.
No matter what Tank says. No matter what my brother, my therapist, or my friends tell me.
It feels like my fault.
I knew the risks. I knew the danger of being a single, drunk woman. I know the danger women face every day, drunk or sober, and I still let myself make that choice.
I still trusted the wrong person.
I know, logically, that blame doesn’t belong to me.
But healing isn’t logical.
And some days, the hardest part isn’t surviving what happened…it’s learning how to forgive myself for it.
***
“Can we get a swing?” Bree asks her dad. “One with a seat for me and one with a platform for Uncle-Brother Micah?”
Max smiles down at his sweet girl.
“Did you ask your brother if that’s what he wants?” he asks.
Micah is technically Lila’s brother…Bree’s uncle…but after Lila and Max became a family, Bree made a firm declaration. Since they were all one family now, Micah was no longer her uncle.
He was her brother.
No one argued.
Old habits die hard, though, and Bree still sometimes forgets to drop the uncle part before Micah’s name.
Hence… Uncle-Brother.
I think it’s adorable.
And I secretly hope she never stops saying it.
“I think it’s a swell idea,” Micah’s tablet says.
It used to take him a while to respond, but Foster’s been tinkering with the tablet attached to his chair. I can’t prove it, but I’m almost positive the thing can read Micah’s mind now because his answers come almost as fast as mine.
For someone with locked-in syndrome, he’s incredibly active.
If he’s not playing chess with Foster…and losing…then he’s outside with Bree. Lila told me he’ll never get his body back, but he can move his hands now. His toes. His face.
It’s not much movement, but it’s everything.
We can read his emotions now. Before, no matter what he was feeling, his face stayed stoic and unreadable.
Right now, his eyes are on Max.
And he’s smiling.
Just a little.
But it says more than words ever could.
“Ultimately, it’s not my decision,” Max tells his daughter. “You’ll have to take that up with the big man.”
“God?” Bree asks, eyes wide with wonder.
We all laugh, which only makes her smile.
“No, darling,” Lila says. “Uncle Spike.”
“Oh,” she says. “Phew. That was close.”
“Why’s that?” I ask her.
“Because,” Bree says very seriously, pressing a hand to her chest, “I already asked God for a unicorn. I didn’t want to bother him again so soon.”
“Wise planning,” Micah says.
Max snorts. Lila bursts out laughing, bending at the waist.
“That’s fair,” I tell her solemnly. “You don’t want to overwhelm him.”
Bree nods, clearly relieved. “Exactly. Uncle Spike is much easier to talk to.”
“And much scarier,” someone adds.
Bree shrugs. “Only if you’re in trouble.”
Her eyes flick toward the men gathered nearby…specifically Skip
“I’m not like you, Uncle Skip,” Bree adds quickly. “I never do things that make Uncle Spike mad. So I think we’re good.”
We all laugh again.
“Uncle Spike, if we can have a swing, I promise I’ll push you when it’s your turn,” she says sweetly.
“I don’t think a swing is a very good idea,” Spike tells her, earning an immediate pout. “It would get boring swinging all the time. How about we put in an entire park instead? That way, there’s always something to do.”
Her eyes light up. “A slide too?” she asks, bouncing on her toes.
“Wouldn’t be much fun without one,” he smiles. “We’ll need a baby swing for Asher as well. He’s way too little for the big swings.”
She nods solemnly, taking this responsibility very seriously.
“And,” Spike adds, pointing at her, “I’m holding you to your promise of pushing me when it’s my turn.”
“Deal,” she says, thrusting out her hand.
“Deal,” he agrees, shaking it and sealing the bargain.
Watching them, I can’t help but smile.
This place isn’t just a compound anymore.
It’s a home.
I glance over at Tank and find him smiling back at me.
My heart immediately screams at me to run to him. To let him pull me into his arms and pretend the world hasn’t been complicated and painful and slow.
That thought gets shoved straight out the window when an elbow digs into my side.
“You’re not holding the door open anymore,” Eli whispers. “Remember? Wipe that look off your face.”
“What look?” I glare back at him.
“The one that says you’re about to eat that beast alive,” Cody snorts.
“I hate you both,” I mutter.
They just grin.
I grab the half-eaten s’more out of Eli’s hand right as he’s about to finish it and shove it into my mouth.
“Brat,” he laughs, reaching for another marshmallow.
“If I don’t get food in me soon, I’m going to wither away into nothingness,” Skip announces dramatically. “Where’s the steak?”
“We’re having burgers,” Spike mutters.
“They’ll be done shortly,” Patch calls back.
The fact that he’s even here at all feels like a gift. Patch doesn’t usually come around unless someone’s hurt… or getting married. But Riley has made it her personal mission to drag him into family life.
“Can I have a hot dog, Uncle Patchy?” Bree asks.
“Course you can, little darlin’,” Patch says. “How ’bout you make me a burnt marshmallow while I get it ready for you?”
“Daddy says I can’t be near the fire,” she replies solemnly.
“Come on, princess,” Foster laughs. “I’ll help you.”
“’Cause you’re a fireman?” she asks.
Foster scoops her up onto his shoulders and heads toward the fire.
“Yep,” he says, handing her a skewer and a marshmallow. “Can’t get much safer around a fire than sittin’ on a fireman’s shoulders, right?”
And there we sit.
One big, loud, imperfect family.
My heart feels so full it might burst.
Tank doesn’t hate me.
I’m not alone.
And for the first time in a long time, the future doesn’t feel like something I have to survive.
It feels like something I might actually get to live.
Beyond the walls of the compound, evil still exists. It always will. The world doesn’t stop being dangerous just because we’ve carved out a small place of peace inside it.
But here…within these walls…I’m safe.
I’m loved.
I’m happy.
Happiness is something you hold onto with both hands, knowing it can be taken the moment you loosen your grip.
So tonight, I stay close to the fire. To my family. To the place that feels like home.
Because when the darkness comes again…And it always does…I want to remember exactly what I’m fighting to protect.
And that darkness is far closer than any of us realizes.