Chapter 3
Tyson
I'd changed out of my usual tactical gear into dark jeans and a plain black t-shirt under my cut. Less military-formal, more approachable. At least that's what I told myself. Truth was, I didn't want to spook Lena by showing up looking like I was ready for a raid.
Through the window, I spotted her bent over a client, and my tactical assessment went straight to hell.
Purple-streaked hair twisted up in a messy bun that exposed the delicate curve of her neck. Black tank top riding up just enough to reveal a strip of skin above low-rise jeans. The way she leaned over the table made her ass look—
Professional. I was here to be professional.
Duke had made it quite clear—Lena was off the menu.
Her tongue poked out slightly, the way it always did when she concentrated.
I'd noticed that about her. Noticed too many things about her.
Like how she chewed on her lip ring when she was thinking.
How her hands moved with absolute precision despite the chaos she cultivated everywhere else.
How she smelled like vanilla and ink and most of all, trouble.
She shifted slightly, pushing that perfect ass out and back and—holy crap, I had to look away.
My chest tightened. So did my pants.
Christ. Why did it have to be Lena I had to guard? Woman was dangerously sexy without even trying. With her smart mouth and her bratty attitude and those brown eyes and those sweet, pink lips—
The bell chimed as I pushed through the door, and Tanya waved from the piercing station where she was organizing jewelry.
"Hey Ty! She's finishing up Rudy's phoenix. Should just be a few more minutes."
I nodded.
"No rush." I moved toward Lena's station, boots heavy on the polished concrete floor.
Her workspace was chaotic—exactly what I'd expect.
Ink caps arranged in rainbow spirals that probably made sense to her.
Machines holstered on the table like an artist's gun belt.
Sketches and references pinned to every available surface.
But underneath the creative disorder, I spotted what my tactical mind was looking for.
A baseball bat leaning against the wall, painted to look like art but positioned for easy grabbing. Smart. A heavy glass paperweight on the counter, perfect improvised weapon. The way she'd arranged her station to keep her back to the wall with clear sightlines to both exits.
The woman thought tactically without even realizing it.
Lena’s voice broke through my thoughts.
"If you're here for that butterfly tramp stamp, Tyson, I'm booked solid."
Her voice held that familiar snark, but she didn't look up from her work. Didn't need to. She'd probably clocked me the second I walked in.
Rudy chuckled from the table. "Tramp stamp, Tyson? Didn’t know you were the type.”
“Yeah well, guess you just need to get to know me better,” I said, sarcastically.
“Clearly. Hey, I’m almost done, bro. This girl's an artist."
I moved closer, and that's when I really saw what she was creating.
The phoenix sprawled across Rudy's dark skin in brilliant reds and golds, every feather detailed with obsessive precision. Flames licked up from abstract ashes at the base, transforming into wings that seemed ready to lift off his shoulder blade.
Lena's hand moved in smooth, confident strokes, the tattoo machine humming like an angry bee. She was completely absorbed, lost in her art. No trace of the defensive brat who usually kept everyone at arm's length. Just pure focus and skill.
Beautiful.
The thought hit me like a gut punch. Not just her ass in those jeans or the way her tank top clung to her curves. The whole picture—her talent, her concentration, the way she created something meaningful out of ink and skin.
I'd been watching Lena for months. Years, if I was honest. Telling myself it was just awareness, just keeping tabs on someone in our circle.
Bullshit. I wanted her. Wanted to know what sounds she'd make if I got my hands on her.
Wanted to see if that bratty mouth would still be talking back when I had her bent over—
"There," she murmured, pulling back to examine her work. "Just needs the final highlights and you're good to go."
The phoenix gleamed under the shop lights, fresh and raw and perfect.
Just like her.
She leaned in close for the final highlights, adding dimension to each flame with tiny dots of white and yellow. The machine buzzed steadier now, her movements more delicate. Each touch of the needle brought the phoenix to life, made it seem to flicker and burn against Rudy's skin.
"Alright, Rudster," she said, sitting back and setting down the machine. "You're officially reborn. Let me get the wrap."
She peeled off her black nitrile gloves in one smooth motion, tossing them in the waste bin. The casual efficiency of it shouldn't have been sexy. Wasn't supposed to be. But something about watching her hands—
Focus, Monroe.
I turned my attention to the security cameras, noting angles and blind spots. Two cameras covered the main floor, but there was a dead zone near the supply shelves. Another vulnerability to add to my list.
Lena stood and stretched, her tank top riding up again. She reached for the top shelf where the bandage supplies were stored, going up on her toes.
I stepped backward to get a better angle on the camera positioning just as she turned with the supplies.
We collided.
Her chest hit mine solid, and my hands moved on instinct—catching her waist, steadying her before she could stumble. Time stopped. The shop noise faded. Just her body pressed against mine and my hands spanning her waist.
Christ, she was small.
I knew Lena was petite, but feeling her against me drove it home. The top of her head barely reached my chin. My hands wrapped around her waist entirely, thumbs brushing the soft skin where her shirt had ridden up. Her hip bones pressed against my palms through the low-rise denim.
She'd gone completely still. Not pulling away, not pushing closer. Just frozen there with her hands braced against my chest and her brown eyes wide.
Her pupils dilated as I watched. Black swallowing the warm brown.
"Steady," I murmured.
The word came out rougher than intended. Lower. Like I'd been gargling gravel.
She smelled like vanilla and ink and something else. Something warm and sweet that made me want to bury my face in her neck and breathe her in. Her pulse hammered against my thumb where it rested near her hip bone. Quick little rabbit beats that matched the sudden tightness in my chest.
I should let go. Step back. Apologize for not watching where I was going.
I didn't.
Neither did she.
For three heartbeats, maybe four, we stood there pressed together in the middle of her tattoo shop. Her breasts rose and fell against my chest with each quick breath. Her fingers curled slightly, catching the fabric of my shirt.
Then she blinked and the moment shattered.
"Hands off the merchandise, Soldier Boy."
The bratty mask slammed back into place, but her voice came out breathier than usual. Less bite, more breathless.
She still didn't move.
Neither did I.
"Just making sure you didn't drop anything." My thumbs traced small circles on her skin. Barely there. Just enough to feel her shiver.
"I'm fine." She swallowed. "You can let go now."
I released her slowly. One hand at a time. Letting her slide down my body as she found her feet. Missing her warmth the second air hit the space between us.
She grabbed the bandages like a lifeline, turning away and muttering something about "giants who don't watch where they're going" and "taking up all the damn space."
Rudy grinned from the tattoo table, watching us with knowing eyes. "Y'all need a minute? I can wait."
"No." Lena's answer came too quick. Too sharp. "Just need to wrap this and you're done."
She moved back to the table, but I caught the slight tremor in her hands as she tore open the bandage wrapper. Professional Lena taking over, explaining aftercare procedures while avoiding my gaze entirely.
"Keep it covered for the first few hours. Wash with antibacterial soap, no scented stuff. Pat dry, don't rub. Baby cream is good, under wrap. I'll give you the care sheet . . ."
Her voice steadied as she fell into the familiar routine, but she kept her distance. Careful not to brush against me as she worked. Hyperaware of where I stood.
I stepped back, giving her space while my hands still tingled from holding her. My chest felt tight where she'd pressed against me. Every breath brought her vanilla scent, now permanently etched in my memory next to tactical assessments and threat evaluations.
The air crackled between us. Electric. Dangerous.
I'd touched her for maybe ten seconds. Long enough to catalog a dozen details I had no business knowing. The exact span of her waist. The way she fit against me like she was made for it. The quick catch in her breathing when my thumbs found skin.
It was also long enough to know I was completely fucked.
Because now I knew what she felt like. Now I had to pretend I didn't want to back her against the wall and find out what other sounds she'd make. Had to stand here making security assessments while my body screamed to eliminate the careful distance she'd put between us.
Had to act like holding Lena Rivera for those few seconds hadn't just rewired something fundamental in my brain.
Professional. I was supposed to be professional.
But the way she kept glancing at me when she thought I wasn't looking, the slight flush on her cheeks, the way she worried her lip ring with her teeth—
Yeah. We were both completely fucked.
Lena attacked her station with antiseptic wipes like she was trying to scrub away the last few minutes.
I grabbed a rolling stool from the corner, wheels squeaking against the concrete as I pulled it closer.
Better to have something solid under me.
Something to grip when she inevitably made me crazy.