Chapter Eight
Bianca
I push open the door and cautiously step inside, bracing myself for chaos. I imagine the mess a man like Tank would live in — maybe a grimy, cluttered pit suitable only for cockroaches and vermin and him. But nothing in my wildest dreams prepares me for the sight that greets me. I draw in a sharp breath, frozen on the threshold by the shock of finding an expansive, open-plan marvel that feels like some kind of rustic sanctuary.
Thick beams traverse the space above like the ribs of a mighty ship, binding everything in a sturdy embrace. Heavy, rough-hewn furniture, solid as Tank himself, is scattered across the room. Weapons — an alarming number, but not a surprising number, based on what little I know about him — decorate the walls, more relics of warfare than home decor. Still, they are polished and gleaming and artfully displayed. The place is clean. Immaculate, even. It’s not the rundown hovel I’d feared, but a well-crafted masterpiece. Against all reason, it is almost… beautiful.
My eyes magnetically drift to the kitchen: dominating the space is an enormous restaurant-grade stove made of brushed stainless steel, standing proudly against polished wood countertops that shine in the light. Everything is meticulously arranged, a study in order and precision. It looks like something straight out of a fantasy cabin magazine, the place people dream of when they long to escape the world.
I stand there, dumbfounded, unable to help myself. For a moment, I feel a strange pang of envy.
Tank notices me gawking, and his voice cuts through the air, dripping with a knowing amusement that catches me off guard. “Just because I hate most people and hate the hollow, horrid husk that we call civilization doesn't mean I can’t have nice things.”
I turn slowly, processing not just the words but the staggering implications of them. This man—this gruff, violent, impossible man—lives here? He made this incredible space? The sheer elegance and order of it clash so violently with everything I know about him that my mind reels with disbelief.
Before I can respond, Tank strides past with the air of someone who has done this countless times before. He flings Ricky’s limp body onto the bed that sits heavily against the log-lined wall, not missing a beat as he efficiently opens a drawer and pulls out a set of shackles.
With a practiced ease that suggests this isn’t the first time he’s had to improvise a holding cell within the confines of his home, Tank ties Ricky down. I’m too stunned to even attempt a sarcastic comment, watching as he loops the chain through the metal frame, making it both confining and secure.
“Hold on while I chain Ricky here to my bed,” he warns in a tone that mixes seriousness with self-mockery, as if preemptively defending against my judgment. He knows what I’m thinking, what anyone with a pulse would think, but he bulldozes through anyway, unapologetic. “Keep your damn comments to yourself,” he continues, standing over Ricky and giving the chain a decisive tug. It clinks with finality against the bedpost, loud as a gunshot in the ordered silence of the room. “The steel frame is the only thing I got right now to hold this piece of shit while I'm busy, thanks to you torching my shed. So while you sit here, I’ve got to go put out the fire you started.”
Just like that, he stalks out, the door shutting behind him with a slam.
What the fuck is going on here? I should leave. I should run.
Instead, I linger, taking in the contradictions of this place, the contradictions of him. I trail my fingers slowly over the polished countertop, feeling the cool surface beneath my skin and letting the sheer unlikeliness of it seep into me, each immaculate line and detail a testament to Tank’s baffling nature. It is all so precise, so painstakingly crafted, so beautiful, reflecting a depth and complexity that I hadn’t thought possible. Nothing fits the picture I’d painted of him, and that incongruity fascinates and unsettles me in equal measure.
I find myself drawn to a small alcove in the kitchen area where cookbooks line a built-in shelf. I pull one out, surprised to find dog-eared pages and handwritten notes in the margins — tweaks to recipes, temperature adjustments, personal touches. The handwriting is unexpectedly neat, each letter carefully formed. Tank doesn’t just bake, but he corrects the recipes in cookbooks? The thought is so absurd, I almost laugh out loud.
When Tank comes back, he wipes his hands on a towel, his movements calm, deliberate.
I can’t help it. I gesture around. “This kitchen. This whole place… it’s not what I expected.”
Tank raises an eyebrow, clearly enjoying my discomfort. "What were you expecting? Beer cans and pizza boxes?"
"Something like that," I admit, reluctantly placing the cookbook back on the shelf. "Maybe a pile of guns on the floor and bloodstains on the walls."
He snorts, moving past me to check on Ricky, who's still unconscious on the bed. "Just because I can kill a man seventeen different ways doesn't mean I want to live in filth."
I follow him with my eyes, trying to reconcile the man who threatened me earlier with this... domestic creature who apparently annotates baking recipes. "So you're telling me you built all this?"
"Most of it." There's unmistakable pride in his voice as he glances around. “Didn’t build the stove, the refrigerator, the kitchen hardware. But most of what you see? Yeah, I built it or remodeled it. This cabin had good bones, despite being a wreck when I found it.”
“Why?”
Tank shrugs, pulling a water bottle from the counter and twisting off the cap. “When you don’t have nice things when you’re younger, sometimes you have to give those things to yourself as an adult.”
Something in the way he says it makes me pause. There’s no sarcasm, no teasing. It’s just… matter-of-fact. A truth buried in those words.
I study him. This brutal, impossible man—who kidnaps people and chains them to beds, who cracks jokes while securing a prisoner—but who also lives here, in this strangely beautiful space he built for himself.
“What do you mean?” I ask.
Tank takes a long swallow of water, his throat working, before he looks at me with a flicker of something unreadable in his eyes. For a moment, I think he might not answer, that I've crossed some invisible line with my question.
"I mean exactly what I said," he finally replies, his voice rougher than before. "Some of us didn't grow up with silver spoons and fancy galas, princess."
I bristle at the assumption. Bristle even more at how incorrect it is. He thinks I grew up wealthy? No, I grew up afraid. "You think I had it easy?"
"Easier than most," he counters, gesturing vaguely at my clothes, my hair, my everything. "You've got that look."
"What look?"
"The one that says you've never had to worry about your next meal or whether the heat would stay on through winter."
I want to argue, to tell him he knows nothing about me, but just as I open my mouth, his shoulders tighten, his eyes darken, his face shutters. The change is instant.
“It’s time for you to go,” he says.
I could let it go. But I don’t. Because I remember why I’m here, and it’s not to admire his handcrafted kitchen.
I cross my arms, plant my feet.
“Not until I’m sure that you will not kill Ricky.”
Tank snorts, shaking his head. “Not only am I not going to kill Ricky, I’ve already extended to him the awkward hospitality of giving him the only damn bed in this place, and there's no fucking way I’m crawling in beside him. I’ll be sleeping on the goddamn floor until he and I are through and I’ve gotten what I want from him.”
I narrow my eyes. “Gotten what you want? Is that why you chained him to the bed?”
Tank smirks, that infuriating, cocky glint back in his eyes. “Your mind went right to it, huh? Or was it already there — thinking about just what it’d feel like to be chained to my bed?”
I hate the way my cheeks burn at his insinuation. "That's not what I meant."
"No?" His eyes dance with amusement. "Because I'm pretty sure that's exactly what you were thinking."
"I was thinking that you're a psychopath who's chained an unconscious man to your bed. Forgive me for wondering what your intentions are."
Tank steps closer, and I fight the urge to back away. I won't give him the satisfaction.
I glare. “So what is it, then?”
He tilts his head, looking me over. “No, what I want isn’t in his pants. But seeing as I’ve already told you, I’m not killing him. It’s time for you to leave. Tell me where I can drop you.”
I shake my head. "I'm not going anywhere."
"Like hell you aren't." Tank steps closer, his presence suddenly filling the space between us. "This isn't a democracy. You don't get a vote."
"I'm staying," I say firmly, even as my heart hammers against my ribs. "You say you're not going to kill him, but I need to make sure."
He runs a hand over his beard, frustration clear in the hard set of his jaw. "Jesus Christ. You're like a goddamn tick that won't let go."
"I've been called worse."
Something in the way he’s looking at me now — like he’s questioning who I am as much as I’ve been questioning him — makes my pulse jump. Who does he think I am? Why is it that the more I fight him, the more that some unreadable light comes into his eyes?
“Why do you care so much?”
The words hit me like a punch. Not because they’re mocking — they’re not. They’re genuine. Unexpectedly genuine. And… warm.
And I don’t have a lie ready.
I swallow, my voice quieter when I finally speak. “Because I see where bad decisions and violent actions lead. I’ve seen those consequences up close and way too personal and way too often.” Tank doesn’t speak, but I can feel him watching me, and his eyes push me to keep going, keep speaking, and my voice picks up speed. “I’ve spent a lot of my life, my time, my energy, and what little money I have trying to protect people from harm.”
The air between us shifts.
For the first time, I feel like he actually sees me. Not just as someone in his way. Not just as a problem.
Something more.
Tank's eyes narrow, his head tilting slightly as he studies me. The silence stretches between us, taut as a wire. When he finally speaks, his voice is lower, rougher.
"Protect people from harm, huh?" He gestures toward the window, toward the smoldering remains of his shed. "That why you set my property on fire?”
"That was..." I falter, suddenly aware of how ridiculous my actions must seem. "That was different."
"Different how?" He's closer now, close enough that I can smell him—wood smoke and something earthy, masculine. "You were protecting Ricky? The guy who, from what I can tell, has left a trail of broken people behind him?"
I lift my chin. "I didn't know who you were or what you wanted with him."
"And now?"
"Now I still don't know what you want with Ricky, but I know I don’t want to see anyone else get hurt.”
Tank doesn’t respond immediately; his gaze lingers on mine, his expression unreadable. Then, finally, he tilts his head slightly. Considering.
“Well,” he mutters. “That makes two of us.”
I should leave it alone. Should back off before I say too much. But I don’t. Because I can’t.
"Then let Ricky go! Put him back in your car, take us both out of here, and let me deal with him.” There’s a moment where he looks like he wavers, like I might win, like maybe I’ve done enough crazy shit — like setting his shed on fire and nearly killing him with a flare gun — to earn his respect and acquiescence. Or maybe he sees that the longer I'm here, the more likely it is that I'll chip away at whatever wall he's trying to put up and get exactly what I came for. He rubs at his beard, deliberates, and for a second I think he might actually listen.
Then he shakes his head.
“I told you,” he grunts. “Time to go.”
I don’t move right away, and Tank simply crosses his enormous arms, glowering at me.
Finally, I exhale. Give him a look. “I’m not done with this conversation.”
Tank chuckles, shaking his head. “Yeah, sweetheart, I kinda figured. But you are done taking up space in my cabin.” Before I can protest, before I can react, he moves with stunning quickness to scoop me up in his arms and throw me over his shoulder. Just as I open my mouth to say something — put me the fuck down — he slaps me hard on the ass and says, “Be good and keep quiet.”
I gasp, furious and mortified all at once. The shock of his hand on my ass ignites something between rage and... something else I don't want to acknowledge. My body dangles over his shoulder like a rag doll, my face pressed against the broad plane of his back, and I can feel the heat of him through his shirt. My hands instinctively brace against him to keep from falling, and I'm struck by how solid he feels, like a mountain that refuses to yield.
"Put me down!" I demand, my voice muffled against his back. I pound my fists against him, but it's like hitting concrete. "You can't just manhandle me like this!"
"Watch me," Tank replies, his voice rumbling through his body and into mine as he strides toward the door.
We step outside, where the fire outside still smolders. The morning isn’t over yet. And even though he’s got me slung over the shoulder and has smacked my ass so hard I’m seeing stars and feeling heat burn through my body, whatever this is between us is far from over.