Chapter 5 #2
"I'm going to move really slowly, okay? Just gonna set this bat down."
The aluminum bat clinked against the floor, rolled away harmless. My weapon tracked her movements, muscle memory overriding reason.
"There's no threat here. Just me being an idiot who couldn't stay away from her own shop."
She stepped closer. One foot. Then another. I should warn her. Should tell her to run. Armed man having a flashback—textbook dangerous. But words wouldn't come. Just ragged breathing and the taste of dust that wasn't there.
"Can I?" She meant the weapon.
I managed a nod. Her hand settled over mine, warm and steady. No grabbing, no sudden moves. Just gentle downward pressure.
"There we go. Nice and easy."
The Glock lowered until it pointed at the floor. Safe. Her other hand joined the first, carefully bracketing mine.
"You want to put it down?"
I set the weapon on the concrete, safety still on. My hands shook worse without the weight.
"Hey, you're doing great." Her fingers squeezed mine briefly before letting go.
We stood there in her storage room, surrounded by ink supplies and the lingering ghost of my panic. She'd seen me at my worst—armed, dangerous, lost in my head. And stayed.
"Thank you," I said quietly.
"Sure thing, Soldier Boy." But her eyes were soft. "Just maybe next time have your existential crisis somewhere with better lighting? My storage room ambiance is seriously lacking."
I laughed again, fuller this time. "I'll keep that in mind. Why are you here, Lena?”
She didn’t say anything. Instead, her eyes flicked to the guitar case and the mess of items that lay strewn across the floor. Then, without thinking about it, I sank down to the ground. Lena did the same.
The adrenaline crash hit me hard—limbs heavy, mind finally quiet. Lena pulled her knees to her chest, purple hair falling forward to hide her face.
"I came back for that," she admitted, voice barely above a whisper. "Couldn't sleep thinking you might find it. Might see . . ."
She trailed off, fingers picking at a hole in her jeans.
"See what?" I kept my voice gentle, non-threatening. "That you need comfort sometimes?"
Her laugh was bitter, sharp enough to cut. "That I'm exactly what Cruz said I was. Pathetic little girl who can't function without her—" She bit off the words, shoulders hunching.
"Stop." The command in my voice made her look up, startled. "Whatever he told you, it was manipulation. Control."
"You don't even know who he—"
"I don't need to." I shifted closer, careful not to crowd her. "I know the type. They find your soft spots and dig in. Make you hate the parts of yourself that need care."
Her eyes searched mine, wary but wanting to believe. "Voice of experience?"
"Different kind of experience." I rubbed my jaw, choosing words carefully. "But yeah, there are parts of me I’m not proud of. I know how it feels.”
“Suppose it wouldn’t help if I told you that it’s not your fault? Those parts of you?”
I laughed a grim laugh.
“It’s different.”
“How so.”
I sighed. “People lost their lives because of me."
Her eyes widened. “I didn’t know.”
“Yeah, because I don’t tell anyone.”
“Sorry you had to go through that.”
The words tasted like sand and regret. "Came home needing everything locked down tight. Schedules, backup plans, contingencies for contingencies. Thor calls it my 'military-grade anxiety.' I need structure all the time."
She was quiet for a long moment, processing. When she spoke again, her voice was smaller. "I used to crave structure. Someone to make decisions. Take care of everything."
My jaw clenched, but I stayed silent. Let her tell it her way.
"Turns out there's a thin line between care and cage." Her voice hardened, anger replacing vulnerability. "Started small. Choosing my clothes. Scheduling my days. Said it was for my own good, that I needed guidance."
“Damn.”
"By the time I realized I was drowning, he had... leverage."
The word hung heavy between us. I thought of the Serpents' threat, Cruz's name on that text. Connected dots I didn't like.
“Now, ever since Cruz, I’ve wanted only chaos. No rules. Not structure.”
“But you need it. We all need structure.”
She looked at me. “And we all need a bit of chaos.”
"My structure, your chaos—we're both just trying to survive our damage." I met her eyes steadily. "Neither one's more valid than the other. We're all walking wounded," I said quietly. "Some of us just hide it better."
I reached for the case, movements slow and telegraphed like she'd done with me. She didn't stop me as I opened it, revealing the neat organization inside. My thumb brushed over the stuffed dragon—soft, well-loved, innocent.
"This isn't pathetic, Lena." I set the tortoise down gently, met her eyes. "It's brave as hell."
She blinked rapidly, fighting tears. "How is keeping stuffed animals brave?"
"Because someone tried to kill this part of you." I gestured at the case. "Beat it down, made you ashamed of it. But you kept it alive anyway. Protected it. That's warrior shit."
I looked at her directly, seeing all of her—the brat who challenged everything, the artist who healed others, the Little who kept softness alive despite everything, the survivor who chose chaos over cages.
"You care so much it scares you. So you hide it under attitude and purple hair and tornado energy."
"Speaking from experience, Soldier Boy?" But her voice was soft now, wondering.
"Maybe." I shifted closer, our knees almost touching. "Maybe we're both tired of hiding."
Something shifted in the air between us, electric and inevitable. The storage room suddenly felt too small, too warm despite the pre-dawn chill. Lena's hand trembled as she reached for her dragon, and I caught it gently, my fingers wrapping around hers.
"You don't have to hide from me," I said, voice rougher than intended. "Not any part of you."
She looked up at me then, and the vulnerability in her eyes broke my last defense. Those hazel depths held fear and want in equal measure, asking questions I desperately wanted to answer.
"This is a terrible idea," she whispered, but she turned her hand in mine, fingers interlacing.
"The worst," I agreed, my free hand moving without permission to cup her face. Her skin was silk under my palm, warm and real and here. My thumb brushed her cheekbone, reverent, like she might disappear if I moved too fast.
"We're too different."
"Too damaged. Too—"
"Tyson?"
"Yeah?"
"Shut up and kiss me."
Christ. The words hit like a physical blow, need slamming through me so hard my vision wavered. But I forced myself to move slowly, telegraphing like she'd done for me. Giving her time to change her mind, to pull back, to remember all the reasons this was insane.
She didn't pull back. Instead, she leaned in, eyes fluttering closed, lips parting slightly. An invitation. A gift.
The first contact was electric—soft despite the desperation clawing at my chest, careful despite the hunger.
Her lips were impossibly gentle against mine, tasting faintly of coffee and something sweet.
She made a sound that was part sob, part relief, and then her hands were fisting in my tactical vest, pulling me deeper.
I threaded my fingers through her purple chaos, silk strands tangling around my knuckles. The angle was wrong, both of us sitting awkwardly, but I didn't care. Couldn't care about anything except the way she opened for me, generous and eager.
Her tongue traced my lower lip, tentative exploration, and my control snapped. I angled her head, tasting her properly—vanilla and rebellion, soft surrender and fierce need. She gasped into my mouth, and I swallowed the sound like communion.
I pulled her into my lap, needing her closer, needing to feel her against me. She came willingly, eagerly, straddling my thighs like she belonged there. Like she'd always belonged there.
"I've wanted—" The words broke as she rocked against me, pure instinct. "God, you have no idea—"
"Tell me." She nipped at my lower lip, soothing it with her tongue. "Tell me what you've wanted."
"You." Simple. Honest. Everything. "Just you. All of you. The chaos and the care and the stuffed animals and the attitude and—"
She kissed me again, deeper this time, swallowing my confession. Her hands mapped my chest through the vest, finding skin at my throat, my jaw. Every touch was fire, every breath shared between us sacred.
I gripped her waist, spanning the curve with my hands. She was so small against me, but she didn't feel fragile. She felt like unleashed storm, like barely contained power. Like everything I never knew I needed.
"Lena," I breathed against her mouth, tasting her name. "Fuck, Lena—"
CRASH.
The front window exploded in a shower of glass.
Training kicked in before thought. I rolled us behind the metal shelving, covering her body with mine as glass rained down like deadly confetti. The tinkling cascade seemed to last forever, each impact another violation of the peace we'd built.
"Stay down." The command came out harsh, military. My hand was already on the Glock, though I kept it holstered.
Glass crunched under my boots as I assessed. Brick on the shop floor. White paper attached. The morning streetlights illuminated everything in sick amber tones.
"Tyson—"
"Don't move." I scanned the broken window, the street beyond. No movement. No follow-up attack. Just the message, delivered and done.
Still shielding her with my body, I reached for the brick. The paper came away easily—photo paper, I realized. My blood turned to ice before I even turned it over.
The image showed Lena, younger, on her knees in what looked like a child's dress.
Lavender, with white lace. Tears streamed down her face while a man's manicured hand twisted in her hair, holding her in place.
The positioning, her expression—it was violently intimate, meant to humiliate and control.
Across the bottom in red sharpie: "The Serpents know what you like, little girl. Cruz says hello."
Behind me, Lena made a sound like a wounded animal. She'd seen it over my shoulder, and all the color drained from her face.
"No. No, no, no—" She scrambled backward, hyperventilating. "He said he destroyed them. He promised if I left quietly—"
My rage was arctic cold, precise as a sniper's bullet. Someone was going to die for this. Multiple someones. Starting with Cruz and working through every Serpent who thought they could touch what was mine.
What was mine. When had I started thinking of her that way?
Didn't matter. What mattered was the terror in her eyes, the way she'd curled into herself like she could disappear.
"Lena, look at me." I used the same command voice that had gotten soldiers through firefights. "You're safe. I've got you."
"You don't understand." Her voice was thread-thin. "If they have these photos, if Cruz gave them—" She broke off, shaking.
"We need to move. Now." Because if they were throwing bricks, they were watching. And every instinct screamed that this was just the opening salvo.
I helped her stand, keeping my body between her and the window. She swayed, shock making her unsteady. I steadied her with one hand, the other ready to draw.
"My bike's out back," I said. "We're going to the clubhouse. Duke needs to know about this."
"I can't." Fresh tears tracked down her cheeks. "If the club sees those photos—"
"No one's seeing shit." The protective fury in my voice made her blink. "The Serpents just declared war using you as the message. That ends now."
She stared at me, something shifting in her expression. "You'd do that? Go to war for—"
"For you? Yeah." No hesitation. "I've got you," I repeated, meaning it with every fiber of my being. "And I'm never letting anyone hurt you again."
The promise hung between us, heavy as a vow. I meant every word. Cruz, the Serpents, anyone who thought they could use her past against her—they'd learn what happened when you threatened what Tyson Monroe protected.
And somewhere between the kiss and the broken glass, between her trust and my rage, Lena had become exactly that:
Mine to protect. Mine to defend. Mine to kill for if necessary.
The war was coming whether we were ready or not. But I'd be damned if she faced it alone.