Chapter 4 #3
My pencil moved faster, adding unnecessary detail to avoid her gaze. "He's like forty—"
"Thirty-five," Mandy corrected immediately. How did she even know that?
"—and probably thinks I'm an idiot child who can't color inside the lines."
"Pretty sure he thinks you're brilliant."
"Well, I think he's an uptight control freak with a stick up his perfect ass."
"Perfect ass, huh?"
Fuck. Walked right into that one.
"Perfect as in . . . uh, it moves his legs just like it should. Like, it works. Plus," I continued, ignoring her triumphant grin, "he's clearly a Daddy Dom and I'm not—I don't—that's not my thing."
The lie tasted bitter. Poisonous. Necessary.
Mandy's eyes softened with understanding that made me want to run. "Lena—"
"It's not," I insisted. "I'm independent. Strong. I don't need someone telling me what to do or treating me like—like—"
Like I matter. Like I'm precious. Like I'm worth protecting.
"Like Thor treats me?" she supplied gently.
"That's different. You're—" Perfect. Soft. Everything I trained myself not to be. "You're you."
"And you're you. That doesn't mean you don't deserve—"
"Just leave it. Please.”
"If you say so, babe."
She didn't push. Didn't try to convince me that I deserved better or any of the platitudes that would have made me bolt. Just accepted my lie with gentle grace.
Which somehow made it worse.
The door chimed as Thor returned, immediately checking on his girl. "You good, baby?"
"Perfect, Daddy. Lena's designing something beautiful."
He dropped a kiss on her forehead, casual affection that made my eyes burn. "She always does. Our Lena's an artist."
My cheeks blushed.
The door chimed twenty minutes later, and Tyson returned, carrying a tray of four coffees. His eyes locked with mine and something flickered across his face—gone before I could name it.
Then the mask clicked back into place. Professional Tyson. Security Tyson. Definitely-not-thinking-about-pressing-me-against-alarm-panels Tyson.
He moved through the shop with that controlled grace, setting coffees on the counter. When he placed mine down—iced vanilla latte with oat milk and an extra shot—my brain short-circuited.
"You know how I take it?"
His eyes met mine, and that careful control cracked just slightly. "I remember everything about you."
The words hung there like a grenade with the pin pulled. Heavy. Dangerous.
His jaw tightened like he wanted to recall them. Too late.
"Oh, this is better than reality TV," Mandy stage-whispered, loud enough for the next state to hear.
Thor's chuckle rumbled through the shop. "You two gonna keep pretending there's nothing here, or can we all acknowledge the obvious?"
My face went nuclear. Tyson suddenly found his coffee fascinating, studying the cup like it held military secrets. I grabbed my pencil and attacked Mandy's sketch with renewed focus, adding completely unnecessary detail to a forget-me-not petal.
"No idea what you're talking about," I managed.
"Sure, sure." Thor's knowing look made me want to crawl under my station. "Just like I don't know what Mandy's talking about when she says you two have more sexual tension than—"
"Okay!" Mandy interrupted, shooting her fiancé a look. "Let's see those flower details, Lena."
I'd never been more grateful for a subject change. We spent the next fifteen minutes finalizing her design while Tyson prowled the shop, checking his ridiculous camera angles and pretending he wasn't watching me every few seconds. I, in turn, pretended I wasn't hyperaware of every move he made.
"Perfect," Mandy declared finally. "Same time next week for the actual ink?"
"I'll be here." Obviously. Where else would I be? Home alone with my poor overworked vibrator and fantasies about certain security specialists?
Thor helped Mandy up with ridiculous gentleness, like she was made of spun glass.
"Later, Lena. Tyson." Thor's nod held weight. Alpha to alpha. Some kind of Viking warrior communication I didn't speak.
"Take care," Tyson replied, equally weighted.
And then they were gone, leaving me alone with him.
The shop felt different without buffers. Smaller. Like all the air had been sucked out with their departure. Just me and Tyson and enough sexual tension to power a small city.
I busied myself cleaning already clean surfaces. "So General Sparkles meets your approval? I can add more glitter if—"
"Duke called."
His voice had changed completely. Military Tyson in full effect—clipped, professional, zero-nonsense. The shift gave me whiplash.
"Oh?" I kept my tone carefully neutral while my insides twisted. Duke only called about serious shit.
"Got intel about potential trouble tonight." He moved closer, and I caught that shift in his body language. From prowling to protective. "I'm staying here as a precaution."
My response bypassed my brain entirely. "Should I stay too? It's my shop."
"Absolutely not."
The words cracked like a whip. Hard. Final.
My spine snapped straight, every stubborn bone in my body activating at once. "Excuse me?"
"You're leaving at normal time." He wasn't even looking at me, too busy checking window locks like I hadn't spoken.
"You can't just dismiss me." I slammed down my cleaning cloth, making him finally face me. "This is my business. My responsibility. My—"
"If something happens, I need to focus on the threat, not worry about you."
"I can handle myself," I said, but it came out weaker than intended.
"I know you can." He stepped closer, and God, why did he always smell so good? "But I need—"
He cut himself off, jaw clenching. When he continued, his voice was rougher. Lower. "I need to know you're safe. Away from here. Please."
I wanted to argue. Wanted to rage about being sidelined in my own shop. Wanted to plant myself behind the counter with my baseball bat and dare anyone to try something.
But his eyes . . . Christ, his eyes were doing that thing. That soft-hard combination that made my knees weak.
"Fine." The word tasted like defeat and something else. Something that felt dangerously like trust. "But if my shop gets fucked up because you were too proud to have backup—"
"I'll fix it."
Simple. Certain. Like he'd personally rebuild every wall if needed.
I realized I was standing too close. Close enough to see the gold flecks in his brown eyes. Close enough to catch the way his breathing had changed. Close enough to do something spectacularly stupid.
"I should get back to work," I said, not moving.
"You should," he agreed, not stepping back.
The air between us crackled with everything unsaid. Everything we couldn't say. Everything we both wanted but couldn't have.
Just then, it hit me.
My guitar case. He might discover my guitar case.