Chapter 6 #2
The question laid there like a trap. Everyone waited. I stared at my coloring book, the purple unicorn now looking garish and wrong. My chest felt too tight, like someone was sitting on it.
"This is a bad idea," Tyson said finally.
The words hit like a physical blow. Here I'd been replaying that kiss in the storage room, the way he'd held me like I was precious, the heat in his eyes when he'd said he wanted me. And now he couldn't even stand the thought of being near me.
Of course not. Why would he want to babysit the broken girl with the dangerous past? The kiss had been adrenaline, nothing more. Now, in the cold light of the meeting room, he was remembering who I really was.
The purple-haired baby who brought nothing but trouble.
"It's the best option we have," Duke said, tone brooking no argument. "Unless you're compromised in some way? Something affecting your judgment?"
"No," Tyson said, the word ground out like broken glass. "Nothing's affecting my judgment."
"Good. Then it's settled." Duke's gaze swept the table. "Tyson moves in tonight. We'll work out the other details—shop security, protocols, response plans. But priority one is keeping Lena breathing."
I found my voice, small and uncertain. "Don't I get a say?"
Duke's expression softened marginally. "Of course you do, darlin'. But facts are facts. You've got Serpents throwing your past through windows. This isn't about your independence—it's about keeping you alive long enough to still have independence."
He was right. I knew he was right.
"Now that protection's sorted," Duke said, and I noticed how he emphasized sorted like it was final, "we need to discuss retaliation."
The energy in the room shifted, testosterone levels spiking like someone had thrown raw meat to wolves. Members sat up straighter, eyes sharpening.
"Fuckers need to burn," Rex growled, cracking his knuckles. "That photo—that's psychological warfare. Can't let it stand."
"Agreed," Tyson said, and I could hear him forcing himself back into tactical mode, emotions locked down tight. "But on our timeline. We hit them when they're weak, not when they're expecting it."
He moved from behind my chair, pacing to the side where I could finally see him. His face was carved granite, all sharp angles and controlled fury. The bloody knuckles stood out stark against his skin as he gestured at the table.
"So we just sit on our hands?" someone demanded. "Let them think we're weak?"
"We let them think they're winning," Tyson corrected. "While we gather intel. Find their soft spots. Cruz—he's the key. How's he connected? What's his value to them? Why now?"
The questions hung in the air, each one another piece of the puzzle he was assembling in that tactical mind.
"Could hit their cook houses," Thor suggested. "Disrupt their income."
"Too obvious. They'll have those locked down tight after tonight."
"What about their bikes?" Dex offered. "Nothing hurts more than chrome and steel in pieces."
"Sends a message, but not the right one. Makes us look petty."
Each suggestion got weighed, measured, filed away or discarded. The debate flowed back and forth, violence dressed up in strategic terms.
Then a younger voice piped up—Eddie, one of the older members. He was large, with a heavy gray beard.
"What if we use Lena as bait?"
The room went silent. Not quiet—silent. Like all the air had been sucked out at once.
Eddie continued, oblivious to the danger. "I mean, if they want her so bad, we could set up a trap. Make it look like she's vulnerable, then when they come—"
The sound Tyson made wasn't human. Before anyone could react, he was across the room, hand around Eddie's throat, slamming him back against the wall. Chairs scraped as members jumped up, but no one intervened.
"Tyson!" I gasped, but he didn't hear me.
"Say that again." His voice was death itself, cold and final. "Suggest using her as bait one more time."
Eddie's eyes bulged, feet scrabbling for purchase. His hands clawed at Tyson's grip, but it was like trying to move iron.
"I'm just—just saying—" Eddie wheezed, "if they want—"
"Touch her and I'll break every bone in your body." Each word was precisely enunciated, a promise carved in stone. "Look at her wrong, and I'll remove your eyes. Suggest putting her in danger again, and they'll never find enough of you to bury. We clear?"
"Crystal," Eddie squeaked, face turning purple.
"Tyson." Duke's voice cut through the violence, calm but commanding. "Let him go."
For a moment, I thought Tyson might not listen. His whole body vibrated with barely leashed violence, tendons standing out in his neck. I’d never seen him like this before—not even close. Then, slowly, he released Eddie, who slumped gasping against the wall.
"Anyone else want to suggest using a civilian as bait?" Tyson asked the room at large. "Anyone else think her life is worth risking for a tactical advantage?"
Silence.
"Didn't think so." He returned to his position behind my chair, but I could feel the violence still radiating off him like heat.
Duke studied his sergeant with interest, head tilted slightly. "We’ll talk more about our plans, but for now, meeting's adjourned. Church convenes tomorrow night to make some decisions. Tyson, brief me on security protocols once you're settled."
Members started filing out, Eddie scrambling away while rubbing his throat. Before long, it was just me and Tyson in the empty bar, the weight of everything that had happened pressing down like lead.
I turned to look at him, finding his expression completely shuttered. Whatever had driven him to nearly strangle Eddie was locked away again, hidden behind that tactical mask.
"We should go," he said, voice flat. "Need to secure your apartment before dawn."
Right. The mission. The protection detail. The job he didn't want but couldn't refuse.
M y apartment had never felt smaller. Tyson filled the doorway like he was built for bigger spaces, broader skies, somewhere that didn't smell like vanilla candles and acrylic paint.
I fumbled with my keys, hyperaware of everything wrong with my space—the dishes in the sink, the bra draped over the couch arm, the half-finished canvas propped against the wall depicting what might generously be called abstract fury.
"Sorry about the mess," I muttered, pushing inside and immediately wanting to hide everything.
"It's fine." His voice was all business, already scanning the room with those tactical eyes. "I need to do a security assessment. Check all entry points."
Right. Security. The job. I dumped my coloring book on the coffee table, adding to the chaos of adult coloring books scattered across the surface. If he noticed the titles—"Fucking Adorable Kittens" and "Zen as Shit"—he didn't comment.
He moved through my space with methodical precision, checking windows, testing locks, examining sight lines. Professional. Detached. Like I was just another asset to secure, not the woman he'd kissed like he was drowning just hours ago.
"Locks need reinforcing," he said, fingering the deadbolt. "Windows too. I'll handle it tomorrow."
"Today," I corrected automatically. "It's already tomorrow."
He didn't smile. Hadn't really looked at me since we'd left the bar.
Just kept cataloging vulnerabilities like my life was a problem to solve.
Door frame—insufficient. Window latches—substandard.
Fire escape—security risk. Each assessment another reminder that I was a job, a duty, an obligation he couldn't refuse.
"Bathroom window?" he asked.
"Painted shut years ago." I wrapped my arms around myself, the hoodie doing nothing for the chill spreading through my bones. "Landlord's version of security."
He made a noncommittal sound, continuing his inspection.
His presence made my carefully cultivated chaos feel exposed, vulnerable.
The stack of bills I'd been avoiding. The empty wine bottles by the recycling I hadn't taken out.
The box of Lucky Charms on the counter because sometimes a girl needed cereal for dinner.
"I'll grab bedding," I said, needing escape. "For the couch."
"Lena—"
"Bathroom's through there if you need it." I fled down the short hallway, closing my bedroom door and leaning against it.
My room was worse than the living area. Clothes exploded from the closet like textile confetti. My desk overflowed with art supplies, sketch pads, and reference photos.
I grabbed sheets and a blanket from the closet. The weight of the night crashed over me in waves. The photo. The meeting. Tyson nearly choking Eddie for suggesting I be bait. The kiss that had changed everything and nothing.
When I returned, I found him standing in front of my largest canvas—a piece I'd painted after a particularly bad night. All reds and blacks, violent slashes of color that looked like an emotional crime scene.
"This is good," he said quietly, not turning around.
"Thanks." I dumped the bedding on the couch, proud my voice stayed steady. "Look, I know you don't want to be here—"
"Lena—"
"No, I get it." The words tumbled out, unable to stop them. "That kiss was adrenaline. Near-death experiences. Chemical reaction to danger. Won't happen again."
He turned then, and the look in his eyes stopped my rambling cold. Raw. Hungry. Barely controlled.
"You think I don't want you?"
The question hung between us, dangerous as a loaded weapon. I forced myself to meet his gaze, lifting my chin.
"I saw your face when Duke gave the order. Like someone had sentenced you to prison."
"Worse than prison." The admission came out rough, torn from somewhere deep. "Being this close to you and not being able to touch you is going to be torture."
My heart stopped. Actually stopped, suspended between beats while my brain tried to process his words.
"What?"
He crossed the room in two strides, stopping just out of reach. Close enough that I could smell gun oil and leather, that uniquely Tyson scent that made my knees weak.
"The kiss was a mistake. Duke made his position clear weeks ago." His hands clenched at his sides like he was physically stopping himself from reaching for me. "No club member touches you. You're off-limits until after the wedding, maybe permanently. He doesn't want you caught up in club business."
"Duke doesn't own me." Heat rose in my chest, anger mixing with want.
"No, but I answer to him." His jaw worked, struggling with words. "And I can't—Christ, Lena. I can't lose my place in the club. It's all I have left."
The weight of that admission hit hard. The club wasn't just his job or his friends. It was his family, his purpose, his anchor in a world that had taken everything else.
"So that kiss?" I needed to hear him say it.
"Was everything." The words came out like they hurt. "And it can't happen again."
We stood there in my tiny living room, three feet and a universe apart. The sunrise painted everything in shades of gold and shadow through my sketchy curtains. He looked wrecked—hair messed from running his hands through it, those brown eyes full of want and regret in equal measure.
"This is stupid," I said finally.
"Really stupid," he agreed, but he'd moved closer. When had he moved closer?
"Duke doesn't have to know," I whispered, the suggestion hanging between us like a lit match over gasoline.
"He'll kill me." But his hand was already reaching up, thumb brushing my cheekbone with reverent care. "Literally. Thor will help hide the body."
"Worth it?" I leaned into his touch, shameless.
"You have no idea." Then his mouth was on mine, and thought became impossible.
This kiss was different from the desperate collision in the storage room. Deliberate. Decisive. He kissed me like he'd made a choice and damn the consequences. His hands framed my face, holding me steady while he took me apart with lips and tongue and careful teeth.
I melted into him, hands fisting in his shirt, pulling him closer. He tasted like coffee and danger, like safety and rebellion all mixed together. A whimper escaped when he angled my head, deepening the kiss until I couldn't tell where I ended and he began.
"Bedroom," I gasped against his mouth.
He lifted me like I weighed nothing, and I wrapped my legs around his waist, trusting him to navigate. My apartment was tiny—five steps to the hallway, three to my door. But he kissed me the whole way, like he couldn't stand even seconds without my mouth on his.
We fell onto my unmade bed in a tangle of need and want and too many clothes. His weight pressed me into the mattress, perfect and overwhelming. I arched under him, desperate for more contact, more skin, more everything.
His hands were everywhere—waist, hips, the sensitive spot where my neck met my shoulder that made me gasp. He mapped me like territory to be claimed, thorough and possessive. I fumbled with his vest, needing it gone, needing to feel him.
"Wait." The word came out tortured. He pulled back, breathing hard, forehead pressed to mine.
"If you stop now, I'll be the one that murders you," I threatened, meaning it.
"If we do this, we do it right." His thumb traced my lower lip, eyes serious despite the heat in them. "I need . . . we need rules. Structure. A contract."
"A contract?" I was incredulous, aroused, frustrated, all of it.
"You’re a Little, Lena. We’ll have clear terms. What you need, what I need. Limits. Safe words." His hand cupped my face, gentle despite the intensity. "I need to know I'm not . . . that this isn't like him."
Understanding hit like cold water. He needed to know he wasn't becoming Cruz. That my submission, if I gave it, was freely chosen. That the control came from care, not manipulation. That I wanted this—wanted him—not because I had to but because I chose to.
"Okay," I said softly.
"But Duke—"
"Can't know. This stays between us until after the wedding. Then we'll figure out the rest." The timeline felt both eternal and too short.
Despite my frustration at being cockblocked by logistics, excitement bubbled up. A secret. Our secret. Something just for us in a world where the club knew everything.
"A secret contract?" I grinned, already imagining the negotiations.
"Our secret," he confirmed, sealing it with a kiss that promised everything.
"Then let's negotiate terms, Soldier Boy."