Chapter 18 Alone #2
"The Wolves are hunting the survivors as we speak." Cross's tone was conversational, matter-of-fact. "Anyone who made it out of that warehouse won't last the week. Your club is broken, Tyler. There's nothing left for you to go back to."
He was lying. He had to be lying.
But what if he wasn't?
"Your man, though—Tank, they call him?" Cross smiled. "Him, I've left alone. For now."
I looked at him. Couldn't help it.
"Ah, there it is." Cross's smile widened. "That's what I wanted to see. You do care about him. More than you ever cared about me."
"What do you want?" The words scraped out of my throat.
"I want you back." Cross rose, walked toward me. I forced myself not to retreat. "I want you here, with me, where you belong. I want things to be the way they were."
"They were never—"
"They were perfect." His voice hardened. "We were perfect. Until you decided to throw it all away for a bunch of criminals on motorcycles."
He stopped in front of me, close enough that I could smell his cologne—expensive, subtle, achingly familiar. Three years, and he still wore the same scent. The smell transported me back to that apartment, that life, those endless days of walking on eggshells and praying I wouldn't set him off.
"Here's what's going to happen." Cross reached out, cupped my face in his hands.
His grip was gentle, but I could feel the strength in his fingers, the threat of violence barely contained.
"You're going to stay here with me. You're going to remember how good we were together.
And in time, you're going to forget all about your biker and your club and whatever life you thought you were building. "
"And if I don't?"
"Then I'll have Tank brought here." Cross's thumb traced my cheekbone, almost tender. "I'll let you watch while my men take him apart, piece by piece. And when there's nothing left of him but meat and screaming, I'll ask you again."
My blood turned to ice.
"Or." Cross's grip tightened, just slightly. "You could behave. Cooperate. Give me what I want. And I'll call off the hunt. Let your biker live out his pathetic life, thinking about you every day, knowing he'll never see you again."
"You're lying." My voice was steady. I didn't know how. "You'll kill him either way."
"Maybe." Cross shrugged, released my face. "Maybe not. But you'll never know for certain, will you? And isn't that worse?"
He stepped back, adjusting his sleeves, smoothing his expression back to calm affability.
"I'll give you time to think about it. But don't take too long, Tyler. My patience isn't infinite."
Cross rose from the armchair, straightened the cuffs of his sleeves, and walked to the door without looking back. Two knocks. The bolts slid open from the other side. He stepped through, and the door swung shut behind him with a heavy, final sound—like a coffin lid closing.
The locks engaged one after another. The room fell silent again, that perfect, suffocating silence broken only by the hum of the air system.
His cologne lingered in the air. I could still feel the ghost of his grip on my face, the precise pressure of his fingers against my jaw.
I sank onto the bed, my whole body shaking. My hands trembled. My heart raced.
He had me. He really had me this time.
And I didn't know if anyone was coming to save me.
After the second day, time began to dissolve.
There was no clock in the room, no window to show the passage of day to night.
The lights stayed at the same level—bright enough to see, dim enough to sleep, never changing.
The constant illumination pressed against my eyelids even when I closed them, turning rest into something shallow and unsatisfying, never quite unconsciousness.
Meals appeared through a slot in the door at irregular intervals: breakfast food sometimes followed by dinner, lunch arriving what felt like minutes after I'd finished eating.
Sometimes the gaps between meals stretched into what felt like an entire day.
Sometimes food came so frequently I couldn't finish one tray before the next appeared.
I tried to track the rhythm, to count meals and divide by three to estimate days, but Cross was too clever for that.
He'd studied the same techniques I had. He knew how to dismantle a person's internal clock, how to turn hours into days and days into nothing.
I recognized the technique. I'd studied it at Quantico, learned about it in interrogation resistance training, read case studies of POWs who'd been subjected to exactly this kind of sensory manipulation. That didn't make it any less effective. Knowing you're being broken doesn't stop the breaking.
I fought back the only way I could: with discipline.
I counted seconds. Sixty seconds to a minute, sixty minutes to an hour.
When I lost count, I started over. I did push-ups and sit-ups and squats, burning off nervous energy, keeping my body strong, giving myself something to mark the time.
Fifty push-ups, rest, fifty more. Squats until my thighs burned. Sit-ups until my abs screamed.
I recited FBI protocols, federal statutes, the names of every agent I'd worked with in chronological order.
I mentally rebuilt the compound, room by room, trying to remember every detail—the scratched wood of the bar, the smell of motor oil in the garage, the weight of Tank's arm across my waist when I woke beside him.
Tank.
His hands—rough with calluses, gentle when they touched me.
His voice—low and steady, the voice that had talked me through panic attacks and nightmares and the slow, terrifying process of learning to trust again.
The way he looked at me like I was something worth keeping, something precious, something he'd fight to protect.
The weight of his body beside me in bed, the sound of his breathing in the darkness, the taste of his mouth when he kissed me.
I will find my way back to you. And you will find your way back to me.
I held onto that promise like a drowning man holds onto driftwood. It was all I had.
Cross visited at unpredictable intervals—sometimes twice in what felt like a few hours, sometimes disappearing for stretches so long I began to wonder if he'd left entirely, if he'd sealed me in this room and simply walked away.
Each visit followed the same pattern: charm, conversation, casual touches that lingered too long, and the slow tightening of the noose.
He mentioned Kai on what I believed was the third day. Said it casually, like an afterthought, midway through a monologue about the books on the shelf and why he'd chosen them for me. Just slipped the name in, watched my reaction, smiled when he saw the fear I couldn't quite hide.
"Your little nurse friend. The one who patched you up after our... misunderstanding."
Misunderstanding. As if the bruises and broken ribs and shattered pieces of my psyche had been a simple miscommunication. As if his fists had been an accident, his cruelty a misinterpretation.
"He's still at the compound, isn't he? With the wounded." Cross examined his nails, the picture of casual indifference. "So vulnerable. So... accessible."
I went cold. Cross knew about Kai. Knew where he was, what he did, how much he mattered to me.
"I have people everywhere, Tyler. One phone call." He glanced up, his eyes meeting mine. "That's all it would take."
I thought about Kai saying goodbye to Axel before we'd left. The way they'd held each other—not a quick embrace, but something desperate, something that acknowledged they might never see each other again. The fierce hope in Kai's eyes when he'd gripped my arm and told me to bring everyone back.
If Cross hurt him—if Cross so much as touched him—Axel would burn the world down. And Cross would love it. He'd love watching people I cared about destroy themselves trying to protect each other.
"If you touch him—" The words came out before I could stop them.
"If I touch him, what?" Cross's smile was patient, indulgent—the smile of someone holding all the cards. "What will you do from here, Tyler? From this room, in this basement, miles from anyone who could help you?"
I had no answer. No threat to make, no leverage to wield.
"I don't want to hurt your friends," Cross continued, his voice softening into something almost gentle. "I really don't. I just want you back. Give me that, and everyone lives. Your biker. Your nurse. The whole pathetic club you've gotten so attached to."
He reached out, tucked a strand of hair behind my ear. The gesture was intimate—the kind of touch a lover might offer.
It made my skin crawl. Cross held my gaze for a long moment, then turned and walked to the door. Two knocks. The bolts slid. He paused on the threshold, silhouetted against the corridor light—a dark shape framed in harsh fluorescence.
"Think about it," he said softly, and stepped through.
The door swung shut. The bolts locked. The scent of his cologne remained, polluting the air.
I pressed my palms against the cool wall, forehead resting against the plaster, and forced myself to breathe.
Tank will come. Tank will find me.
I had to believe that. Had to hold onto it. Because if I stopped believing, Cross had already won.
By the fourth day—or what I believed was the fourth day, counting meals and sleep cycles as best I could—I'd memorized every inch of my prison.
Twelve steps from the bed to the door. Eight from the door to the bathroom.
Six from the bathroom to the closet. The bathroom had a shower, a toilet, a sink—all bolted to the walls, nothing removable, nothing that could be fashioned into a weapon or a tool.
The shower head was fixed in place. The mirror was polished metal, not glass.