Chapter 11
Lena
T he lotus flower bloomed under my needle, each petal taking shape with practiced precision while my mind drifted somewhere else entirely.
Somewhere that involved strong hands gripping my hips, a rough voice calling me perfect, the weight of Tyson's body pressing me into silk sheets.
My hand steadied against the practice skin, but inside I was all sparklers and smoke, lit up by memories of last night.
Three days.
Three days since we'd signed our contract with purple ink and promises, and I was already a junkie for his particular brand of careful dominance.
The secret sat under my skin like subcutaneous glitter, making me shine from the inside out.
Every time I thought about him—which was approximately every thirty seconds—warmth pooled low in my belly.
I caught myself smiling at nothing again, probably looking like a lovesick teenager. But God, the way he'd held me after, like I was something precious and breakable and worth protecting . . . No one had ever touched me like that.
The shop hummed with its usual afternoon energy.
Buzzing from Rick's station where he was working on a back piece, the low thrum of metal music from the speakers, the antiseptic-ink-leather smell that meant home.
Normal Tuesday afternoon at Marked Kings, nothing special except for the secret burning bright in my chest. Hidden cameras capturing nothing but banality.
The bell above the door chimed, breaking through my Tyson-induced haze. I glanced up, expecting to see Marcus, my three o'clock appointment. Guy wanted a memorial piece for his grandfather, had sent over references of vintage motorcycles and—
My blood turned to ice water.
Cruz strolled through my door like he had every right to be there, examining the flash art on the walls with the casual interest of any potential customer.
Same lean build, same calculated way of moving that made him look harmless to people who didn't know better.
His hair was shorter now, styled in that expensive way that screamed respectability.
The suit probably cost more than I made in a month.
"Nice shop," he said, not looking at me yet, fingers trailing over the framed designs. "Heard good things about the artist here."
My hand trembled as I set down the machine, carefully, so carefully, like any sudden movement might shatter the illusion that this wasn't happening. Four years of distance, four years of rebuilding, and here he stood in my sanctuary like a poison dressed in Armani.
"We're booked solid today." My voice came out steadier than expected, even as my pulse hammered against my throat.
"Really?" He turned then, dark eyes widening in perfectly feigned surprise. "Lena? What are the odds? I had no idea you worked here."
The lie slid off his tongue smooth as velvet.
Of course he knew. Cruz always knew everything, gathered information like weapons, deployed it with surgical precision.
This whole performance was for my benefit—or maybe for Rick, who'd stopped working to assess the newcomer with the wariness all bikers showed around suits.
"Small world," I managed, fingers curling against my thigh. "Like I said, we're booked."
"That's a shame." He moved closer with that predator's grace I remembered too well, studying the artwork covering the walls.
My artwork. Pieces of my soul hung up for public consumption, and his eyes consumed them like he was cataloging vulnerabilities.
"I was hoping for something special. You always did have talented hands. "
The innuendo slithered between us, invisible to anyone else but clear as a threat to me. My skin crawled with the memory of those hands bound, of being told my art was a silly hobby, of creativity crushed under his heel like everything else that made me myself.
"I specifically wanted a piece about . . . letting go of the past. Moving forward." He paused at a design I'd done last month, a phoenix rising from geometric ashes. "You know how important that is, right? Not letting old things haunt you?"
"You should try the shop on Fifth," I said firmly, even as my stomach churned. "They take walk-ins."
"But I'm already here." He'd made it to my station now, too close, invading the space I'd carefully cultivated as mine.
His eyes roamed over my setup—the organized chaos of ink bottles, the photos tucked into the mirror's edge, the small purple unicorn sticker Tyson had snuck onto my lamp yesterday when I wasn't looking.
"Besides, we have history. That has to count for something. "
Rick had fully stopped working now, his instincts clearly pinging that something was wrong. But what could I say? 'This well-dressed man used to control every aspect of my life through a twisted version of BDSM'? 'He's threatening me with words that sound perfectly reasonable'?
Cruz leaned closer, and the smell hit me like a physical blow. Same cologne—Tom Ford, Tobacco Vanille, ninety dollars an ounce. He'd made me memorize the name, the price, told me I should be grateful he spent so much to smell good for me.
"You can play tough with your new boys," he murmured, voice low enough that Rick couldn't hear. "But we both know what you really are. What you need. That hasn't changed."
I couldn't breathe. Couldn't think. The walls of my shop—my sanctuary, my safe space—contracted until all I could see was his face, that small satisfied smile that meant he'd won this round. He'd walked into my territory and made me feel small without laying a finger on me.
"I’ll let you get back to work," he said at normal volume, stepping back like a gentleman.
Like he hadn't just stripped three years of armor off me with words alone.
"Think about that tattoo idea, won't you?
About letting go? I have a feeling the right artist could make something really meaningful out of it. "
He headed for the door with unhurried steps, pausing to examine one more piece—a sugar skull surrounded by marigolds that I'd been particularly proud of. "See you around, princess," he called over his shoulder, and then he was gone.
The bell chimed his exit with the same cheerful sound as his entrance, leaving me frozen at my station while my sanctuary filled back up with familiar sounds.
Rick's machine started up again with a questioning look in my direction, but I just shook my head.
How could I explain that I'd just been eviscerated by someone who never raised his voice or made an actual threat?
I wanted Tyson. But how could I explain that nothing had actually happened?
That Cruz had just . . . talked? Asked about a tattoo like any potential client?
The subtle cruelty of it made me feel crazy, like I was overreacting to a completely normal interaction.
Maybe I was. Maybe this was all in my head, reading threats into innocent words because I was too damaged to—
No. It wasn’t my fault and I wasn’t crazy. I texted Tyson, asking if he was free to come to the shop, and he instantly replied, “Be there in five.”
He arrived in four.
Clearly, I looked shaken, because he said, "Hey, hey. What happened?" He glanced at the rest of the shop, eyes narrowed with concern.
"Cruz," I whispered, the name scraping my throat raw. "He—he came in. Just talked but—but—"
Understanding dawned in those brown eyes, followed immediately by fury so cold it made me shiver. But his voice stayed gentle, controlled. "You're safe. He's gone."
I wanted his arms around me so badly—it was torture to be this close but not be able to feel his warmth.
"He pretended he didn't know I worked here." The words tumbled out in stuttering bursts. "Said he wanted a tattoo about letting go of the past. Called me—called me princess like he used to, like he still—"
"I understand." His voice had gone to granite, the kind of tone that promised violence to anyone who threatened what was his. "Mind games. His specialty."
He did understand. That was the miracle of it.
The floating feeling had started—that disconnection where I watched myself from the outside, everything too big and too loud and too much for the small thing I was becoming.
"Can't be big right now," I whispered. The admission felt like failure. I was supposed to be strong, independent, a badass tattoo artist who took no shit. Not this trembling thing that needed to be held.
"I know, baby. Let's get you home." Then he looked me in the eye with deadly sincerity. “I’ll handle Cruz. I swear it.”
My heart pounded. “Are you gonna hurt h—”
“Not your concern. You don’t ever need to think about him again.”
I felt Rick peer out from the back room, caught Tyson's subtle head shake that said 'not now,' appreciated how he protected my dignity even as I fell apart. The last thing I needed was witnesses to this unraveling.
“Now come on, let’s get you back to your place.”
B eing carried should have made me feel helpless.
Instead, wrapped in Tyson's arms as he navigated my apartment stairs, I felt protected.
My legs were too shaky to trust anyway, trembling with aftershocks of panic that wouldn't quite stop.
He shouldered my door open with practiced ease, like carrying distraught women was part of his daily routine, though I knew better.
Knew this tenderness was reserved for me.
He settled me on the couch with the kind of careful handling usually reserved for explosives. Appropriate, considering I felt about as stable as nitroglycerin. His weight dipped the cushions as he crouched in front of me, those tactical eyes scanning my face like a situation report.
"Lena, look at me."
I managed to drag my gaze up from where I'd been studying my hands—when had they gotten so small?—to meet his eyes. Brown like good coffee, steady like mountains. Real. Here. Not four years ago in a different apartment with different hands holding me down.