Chapter Thirty
Bianca
I grip Tank’s waist as the motorcycle shudders beneath us, a wild beast barely restrained and eager to break free. Its growl vibrates through my entire body as he maneuvers us with raw expertise through the hectic streets of Boise. The city is a flickering blur around me, a chaotic backdrop as we weave through traffic. We speed past the dull, watchful glow of streetlights and the looming, shadowy silhouettes of buildings. The wind thrashes wildly against my face, cool and sharp, an icy whip that makes my breath catch somewhere between lungs and throat. It’s exhilarating, terrifying, reckless. It’s everything I haven’t let myself feel. For a second, I think we’re flying—untethered, unbound. For a second, I believe we might never come down. It feels like freedom.
Tank takes a sudden turn, leaning into it faster and sharper than I’m ready for, and instinctively I squeeze him tighter, my fingers digging into the firm warmth of his body. He’s solid, reliable, a rock in the middle of chaos. I want him to be. I need him to be.
“Having fun?” he shouts over the roar of the bike. His voice is playful, taunting, daring me to admit what he already knows.
I laugh breathlessly, my heart pounding in my throat. “I feel like I should be terrified, but…”
“But you trust me.”
It’s not a question. It’s a fact. Or what I want to believe is a fact. I tell myself it’s true, even let it cut through my doubts—about him, about his tattoos, about who he really is—because I so desperately want it to be. I want to trust him. To let down walls I’ve had around me for so long that I’ve forgotten what it’s like to be without them. I want to love him. A part of me has already started to.
I don’t answer, because I don’t need to.
Instead, I close my eyes for a second, breathe it all in—the scent of leather, of him, the rush of speed, the feeling of letting go. I haven't let go in a long, long time.
Tank slows as we turn onto a quieter street, all the noise and chaos fading into the background. Suddenly, we’re pulling into the parking lot of a nice-looking restaurant. It’s not over-the-top fancy with crystal chandeliers and white linen tablecloths, but it’s definitely not a dive bar that smells of stale beer and desperation either. It screams date night.
I raise an eyebrow as he kicks the stand down and turns to me. “What?” I ask, my voice teasing. “No sketchy bars this time?”
Tank smirks, a flicker of amusement in his sharp blue eyes. “I figured you deserved something decent for once.”
“Gee, thanks.” But the sarcasm fades on my lips when he helps me off the bike, his touch lingering just a little longer than necessary, sending a shiver through me. I forget how to be sarcastic for a second. I forget everything except the way he’s looking at me.
The restaurant has an understated sign — Bolero — that emits a soft glow into the dark night. Couples are filing inside, laughing and brushing off the cold, their hands intertwined like it’s the most natural thing in the world. A slow warmth spreads through me. He really is taking me on a date. I’m not sure why this surprises me, but it does.
We step inside, and I notice how intimate the atmosphere is. Warm lighting, a little rustic, a little elegant, with tables set just far enough apart to feel private.
Tank and I get seated in a booth, and when I glance at him, I realize he’s watching me carefully, his expression softer than usual.
“What?” I ask, suddenly self-conscious.
He leans back, folding his arms. “I spent the entire morning thinking about you.”
My stomach flips. “Oh?”
“About how much stress you’ve been under, how hard you’re working for this event.” He leans forward, and I feel the warmth of his words as much as I hear them. “I wanted to help you relax.” A fluttery warmth unfurls in my chest, spreading like a soft glow. I can't stop the smile creeping onto my lips. And then he chuckles, the sound low and easy. “Plus, I saw what was in your fridge when I made you breakfast.”
I blink. “And?”
Tank shakes his head. “Pastries. A ton of them. And nothing much else.”
I cross my arms. “I’ve been busy. And you make good pastries. Is it a problem I like your food?”
“You haven’t been eating actual meals. You have to take care of yourself. That’s why we’re here.”
I open my mouth to argue, to protest that I don’t need looking after, that I can handle it all on my own, but he cuts me off.
“I care about you, Bianca.” His voice changes, becoming softer, more serious. “No, I — ” He hesitates for half a second that feels like forever, his sharp blue eyes searching mine, before he says it. “I love you. And I want to treat you right.”
The words knock the breath out of me. That word. That word — those four letters — that makes my fingers tighten around the edge of the table.
I should panic. I should be terrified.
Instead, I smile.
“I love you too.”
The words tumble out, unplanned and unguarded, and I realize I mean them. I really, truly mean them. Something shifts inside me, and I feel light, unburdened, like I’m discovering a new part of myself.
The server comes, says something — I don’t remember — and we order something else, which I also don’t remember. I’m too caught up in the moment, in the way Tank is looking at me like I’m the most important thing in the world, like I’m something worth loving. Suddenly, it’s just a plate that gets put in front of me, which I pick at idly, while losing myself in Tank’s eyes, his voice, the way my heart feels every moment I look at him.
We both lean in closer, our food long forgotten as we talk. The words come easier than I ever thought they could, spilling out in a rush of honesty and emotion.
I tell him things I don’t normally share.
I tell him about why I started Safe House, about my need to make a difference, even if it’s small, even if it feels hopeless sometimes.
I tell him about my ex. The abuse. The way it broke me, and the way I had to rebuild myself, piece by fragile piece, into the woman I am now. The woman who is still afraid she might shatter again.
And Tank listens. Really listens. His gaze doesn’t waver, holding me steady like a life rope, like an anchor.
He doesn’t pity me. He doesn’t try to fix it. He doesn’t offer suggestions or advice. He doesn’t tell me what I should have done, or why I didn’t do this or that.
He just lets me be me.
“Can I tell you something? I still remember the scariest moment in my life. It was the first time I killed a man,” Tank says after a long silence, his voice surprisingly raw, each word like a jagged piece of gravel breaking free.
I freeze. I nod.
He exhales slowly, as if releasing years of tension. “It was in combat. First tour. I was young. So young. We were ambushed, and I…” He pauses, swallows hard, his gaze dropping like he’s reliving it right now. “I hesitated.” The word hangs between us, thick with meaning. He shakes his head, and I can almost feel the chaos of that moment, the devastation and horror. “In that moment I felt this terrible sensation… This weight about what it means to end a life. To kill someone.” He looks up; the pain in his eyes makes my chest tighten. “I hesitated, and I almost felt broken before I even did it. But I did.” The words crack like bones breaking. “Because if I hadn’t pulled the trigger, my team would’ve died.” There’s a tremor in his voice, a vulnerability that makes my heart ache. “One way or another, I would’ve been a murderer.”
I see it in his eyes — the weight of it, the way it's embedded in him, a scar that never fully healed. This is not the story of a hardened soldier; it’s a story of a young man thrust into choices no one should have to make.
The same way I faced terror, abuse, the same way I faced choices no one should have to make.
“Do you regret it?” I ask gently.
He’s quiet for a moment. Then: “No. But I hate that I was put in that position.”
I nod, biting my lip, feeling the old wounds within me. Understanding what it’s like to be forced into impossible choices, choices that leave you broken no matter how they fall.
Then Tank exhales sharply and gives me a wistful smile. “I never expected to find love in Boise.”
Then Tank takes a sharp breath and releases it with a wistful smile. “I never expected to find love in Boise.” The sudden shift surprises me, and I’m not sure if he’s trying to lighten the mood or if there’s more he’s not saying. Something in his expression is off, though. The way he says it—like there’s a sadness behind it.
For a split second, suspicion flickers through me. And I wonder: is it real, this suspicion I feel, or is it my old fears, my old habits, trying to break through the genuine love that exists between us?
But then he reaches across the table, tracing his thumb over my knuckles, and my thoughts scatter.
I write it off. Just old memories surfacing. Nothing to worry about.
Tank sits back and watches me as I take the last bite of my meal.
“Well,” he says. “Shall I take you back to Safe House?”
I glance at the time. It’s late, well after dinnertime. After most of the staff — except for Alex — will have gone home.
I’ve got time. I run the place, I pick my hours, and, right now, I feel good.
Better than I have in a long, long time.
So I smile, tilting my head. “I still have plenty of time. A couple hours, at least.”
Tank raises an eyebrow. “A couple hours?”
“I’m the boss. My breaks is as long as I want it to be.” I lean in, lowering my voice. “And my house is only ten minutes away.”
Tank’s eyes darken. A slow, dangerous grin spreads across his face.
“Let’s go.”