Chapter 15
Lena
T he scrap of black fabric I held up could generously be called a dress if you squinted and had very poor vision. More accurately, it was a suggestion of clothing, held together by strategic placement and pure optimism. Tyson's expression went from amused to horrified in about two seconds flat.
"Absolutely not," he said for the third time, arms crossed over his chest in that way that made his biceps strain against his t-shirt. Not that I was noticing. Much.
"This is a dress," I argued, trying not to laugh at his territorial male expression. The thing barely covered the essentials, with cutouts in places that would make a stripper blush. Which was exactly why I'd bought it.
"Looks like it’s held together by dental floss." He stalked toward my closet with the determination of a man on a mission. "You're not wearing that to a boat full of drunk bikers."
"It's a party! I'm supposed to look hot." I held the rejected dress against myself, checking the mirror.
"You look hot in baggy sweatpants," he grumbled, pulling out a much more conservative—but still hot—silver dress. "This one."
"But this one makes my boobs look amazing!" I protested, gesturing at the deep V neckline of the black dress.
His eyes darkened, following the path of my hands. "That's the problem."
Before I could respond, he moved. One second I was standing by my bed, the next he had me caged against the dresser, his body blocking any escape route. The silver dress hung from his hand like a flag of surrender I had no intention of waving.
"Those," he said, voice dropping to that dangerous register that made my knees weak, "are for my eyes only, wildflower. Don't make me remind you who you belong to."
My breath caught. This close, I could feel the heat radiating from his body. His free hand came up to trace the edge of my jaw, thumb brushing over my bottom lip.
"You're not the boss of my party clothes," I managed to sass, though my voice came out breathier than intended.
His smile was all dom. "Want to rethink that statement?"
Then he spun me around, and I squeaked in surprise. My hands landed flat on the dresser, his body pressed against my back. He leaned down, lips brushing my ear.
"You're going to wear the silver dress," he said calmly, like he wasn't currently scrambling my brain cells with proximity. "You're going to stay with the bridal party. And you're going to be a good girl tonight. Understood?"
I should have agreed. Should have nodded and put on the silver dress like a reasonable person. Instead, I pressed back against him, feeling his sharp intake of breath.
"What if I don't want to be good?" I whispered.
His hand tangled in my hair, pulling my head back just enough to make me gasp. "Then we're going to have a very different conversation when we get home. One that involves you over my knee and understanding exactly who makes the rules."
Heat flooded through me. "Promises, promises."
"Brat," he growled, but released me, stepping back. The loss of contact was almost painful. "Silver dress. Now."
Twenty minutes later, I'd managed a compromise.
The silver dress hugged my curves perfectly, the deep back showing my tattoos, the hem hitting mid-thigh in a way that was sexy but not scandalous.
But I'd won the shoe battle—strappy black heels that wrapped around my ankles and made my legs look miles long.
"Those shoes are ridiculous," Tyson muttered, watching me buckle the last strap.
"These shoes are gorgeous," I corrected, standing and doing a little spin. The dress flared slightly, and his eyes tracked the movement like a laser. "Besides, they make my legs look incredible."
"Your legs always look incredible." The compliment slipped out like he couldn't help it, and I preened.
"Sweet talker." I grabbed my clutch, checking that my phone was charged. The tracker necklace sat perfectly at my throat, innocuous but reassuring. "Ready to pretend we don't know each other?"
His jaw tightened. "Be good," he warned at my door, hands shoved in his pockets like he was physically restraining himself from touching me.
"I'm always good," I lied, already planning exactly how to torment him tonight. A brush here, a bend there, just enough to watch him struggle with control.
"Lena." His voice carried warning and something else—genuine concern. "I'm serious. Duke's already suspicious. It might seem funny to you, but these are club rules—they’re serious. We can't afford to—"
"Then you better keep your distance, Daddy." I stretched up on my toes to kiss him, quick but thorough. His hands came up automatically to steady me, gripping my waist.
"You're going to be the death of me," he muttered against my lips.
"Wouldn't want to blow our cover," I said innocently, then slipped out the door before he could respond.
His groan followed me down the hallway, and I grinned. The Uber was already waiting, and I slid into the backseat, careful not to flash the driver. The silver dress rode up slightly, and I tugged it down, remembering Tyson's possessive expression.
My phone buzzed. A text from him: *Behave yourself, little girl.*
I typed back: *No promises, Soldier Boy.*
Three dots appeared, disappeared, appeared again. Finally: *I'm counting every infraction. We'll settle up later.*
A shiver ran through me that had nothing to do with the air conditioning.
I locked my phone, staring out at the city lights blurring past. Soon, I'd be on a yacht full of bikers, pretending the man I loved was just another member of the club.
Pretending his hands hadn't mapped every inch of my skin, that his voice hadn't talked me through countless nightmares, that he hadn't become my safe harbor in every storm.
The driver chatted about the weather, and I made appropriate noises, but my mind was already on the boat. On the challenge of keeping my hands to myself when every instinct screamed to touch him. On Duke's too-knowing eyes and the secrets we were desperately trying to keep.
This was going to be fun.
Or a complete disaster.
Probably both.
T he yacht was the kind of ridiculous that only existed in rap videos and mob movies—three decks of gleaming white excess bobbing in the harbor like a middle finger to financial responsibility.
I was amazed that they got this thing on the Colorado river.
String lights created constellation patterns across every surface, and a DJ setup occupied the upper deck, already pumping out something with too much bass. I'd expected a boat. This was a floating palace.
Mandy bounced over before I'd even cleared the gangplank, crown sparkling with enough rhinestones to blind low-flying aircraft. Her sash proclaimed "brIDE TO BE" in glitter that was already shedding everywhere, leaving a sparkly trail like she was marking her territory.
"Lena! Thank god, someone fun!" She thrust a champagne flute into my hand, already three drinks in judging by her flushed cheeks. "All the King’s old ladies are talking about babies and recipes. Actual recipes! Like casseroles are appropriate bachelorette party conversation."
"The horror," I laughed, accepting the champagne and taking a careful sip. Pace yourself, I reminded my brain.
Three drinks maximum. Don't do anything stupid like climb Tyson like a tree in front of everyone.
"Right? I tried to start a conversation about that new toy store that opened downtown—you know, the adult one—and Margaret actually clutched her pearls.
Actual pearls!" Mandy gestured wildly, champagne sloshing dangerously.
"Like we're not here celebrating me getting married to Thor.
THOR. You think that man does missionary with the lights off? "
I choked on my champagne, laughing. "Mandy!"
"What? It's my party, I can speculate about my future husband's bedroom preferences if I want. I’m an accountant. I’m respectable." She leaned in conspiratorially. "Between you and me, the man has this thing for—"
Movement at the gangplank caught my eye, saving me from whatever revelation Mandy was about to share.
The men were boarding in a pack, leather cuts and attitude making them look like invading Vikings.
My eyes found Tyson automatically, drawn like a magnet.
He looked unfairly good—dark jeans, black henley under his cut, every line of his body radiating controlled power.
Our eyes met across the deck. One second. Two. Then he forced himself to look away, jaw tight, hands clenched at his sides. The dismissal shouldn't have made heat pool in my stomach, but apparently my body had its own ideas about what was attractive.
Thor wore a matching "GROOM" sash that looked like it was physically hurting him. Someone—probably Duke—had added a plastic crown that sat crooked on his head. He looked like a biker king who'd lost a bet, which probably wasn't far from the truth.
"Baby!" Mia appeared from nowhere, phone already recording. "Smile for your future kids!"
"Jesus, Mia, we ain't even married yet," Thor protested, trying to duck away from the camera.
"Details," Mia waved him off. "They'll want to see how handsome their Dad looked. Lena, get in here!"
I tried to step back, but Mia's arm shot out, dragging me into frame. "Look at you! That dress is perfect. Shows off those gorgeous tattoos. Right, Tyson?"
My stomach dropped. Across the deck, Tyson's head snapped up at his name.
"Hadn't noticed," he grumbled, very deliberately studying the beer selection like it held the secrets of the universe.
Duke snorted, the sound carrying clearly. "Sure you haven't."
I forced myself to smile for Mia's camera, pretending I couldn't feel the testosterone-charged undercurrents threatening to pull me under.
"Okay, ladies!" Sarah—a barmaid from The King’s Tavern—clapped her hands, full teacher mode. "Bridal party to the main deck! We're starting with games!"