Chapter 18
Lena
M y boyfriend.
My protector.
My Daddy Dom.
I'd been watching Tyson sleep for the past hour, memorizing every line of his face like I might be tested on it later.
Or like I might never see it again. His face looked younger in sleep, all those hard edges softened by dreams I hoped were better than the nightmares that sometimes plagued him.
Even unconscious, his arm draped possessively across my waist, hand splayed over my hip like he was afraid I'd disappear.
Which was exactly what I was about to do.
The note took me six attempts to write.
Gone to the shop. Need to process through painting. Don't worry about me. I love you. -L
Every word was technically accurate. I was going out.
I did need to process—just not through painting.
And God, I loved him more than I'd ever thought possible.
That's why I was doing this. To keep him from starting a war that would end with him bleeding out in some alley, all because Cruz wanted to own me like property.
I placed the note carefully on my pillow, right where he'd see it when he reached for me. My hand lingered on the paper like it might somehow transfer my apology through the fibers.
The floor creaked under my weight—that one board near the dresser that always gave me away. I froze, heart hammering against my ribs. Tyson shifted, murmured something that might have been my name, then settled deeper into the pillows.
Three more steps to my shoes. Two to my jacket. One to the door.
"Where you going, wildflower?"
I froze with my hand on the doorknob, closing my eyes against the wave of guilt that crashed over me. Of course he'd wake up.
I turned, forcing my face into something resembling normal.
He was propped on one elbow, instantly alert despite being dead asleep seconds ago.
His hair stuck up in three different directions, and there was a pillow crease on his cheek that made my chest tight with affection I couldn't afford right now.
"Bathroom," I lied, the word tasting like battery acid. "Then coffee. Want some?"
"Mmm." He was already settling back, but his eyes tracked me with that lazy focus that meant he was still processing, still deciding if this required full consciousness. "Use the good stuff. Bottom shelf."
"Always so demanding." I kept my voice light, teasing, even as my heart tried to claw its way out of my chest. This might be the last time we spoke. The last time I saw him soft and sleep-warm and trusting.
"Love you too," he mumbled, already drifting back toward sleep.
I waited until his breathing evened out, counting each inhale and exhale like a rosary. Forty-three breaths. That's how long it took for him to fully surrender back to sleep. Forty-three chances to change my mind, to crawl back into bed and tell Eddie to fuck off with his plan.
Forty-three times I chose to leave anyway.
The hallway felt like a tunnel, stretching impossibly long between me and the elevator.
Every step echoed too loud, bouncing off walls that seemed to lean in with judgment.
The breakfast sounds from other apartments—coffee makers gurgling, news anchors droning, children arguing over cereal—felt like glimpses of a normal life I was walking away from.
Two blocks. Eddie had said two blocks down, nondescript sedan. He'd been very specific about the details, professional in that way that made you trust someone even when your gut screamed warnings.
The morning air hit like a slap, sharp with the promise of rain. I pulled my jacket tighter, hunching against more than just the cold. Every parked car looked suspicious. Every early morning jogger might be surveillance. Paranoia, maybe, but Tyson's caution had rubbed off on me.
Eddie's sedan sat exactly where he'd promised, engine running, exhaust creating small clouds in the cool air. He watched me approach through the driver's side mirror, hands visible on the steering wheel. Professional. Careful. Everything about this screamed military precision.
"Almost thought you'd changed your mind," he said as I slid into the passenger seat.
"I did. About fifty times." I stared straight ahead, memorizing the crack in the windshield, the pine tree air freshener hanging from the mirror, anything to avoid looking at him. "This better work."
"It will. Trust me."
Trust. Such a simple word for such a complicated thing. I trusted Tyson with my life, my heart, my broken pieces. Eddie? Eddie I trusted to have a plan. Whether that plan included my survival was another question entirely.
He drove carefully, narrating the plan again like a tour guide from hell. "Johnson and Martinez are already in position at the coffee shop. They'll have eyes on the whole street. Tank's got overwatch from the parking garage—best sniper we have after your boy. Medical's standing by two blocks out."
Each detail should have been reassuring. Instead, they piled up like evidence of premeditation, too perfect, too thought-out.
"What about civilians?" I asked, watching the familiar streets pass by.
"Minimal risk. Early morning, most shops aren't open yet. We've got prospects redirecting foot traffic." He glanced at me, something flickering across his face too fast to read. "I've been planning ops since before you were born, girl. I know what I'm doing."
The city gave way to industrial areas, warehouses and loading docks replacing boutiques and cafes. My stomach dropped like an elevator with cut cables.
"This isn't Main Street."
The words came out small, childish, like pointing out the obvious might somehow change reality. Eddie's hands tightened on the wheel, knuckles going white then relaxing. When he spoke, his voice had changed, all that professional warmth stripped away.
"Change of plans."
T he abandoned warehouse loomed against the gray morning sky like a tombstone.
Eddie pulled into a loading dock where shadows swallowed the sedan whole, cutting us off from the world of normal people going about normal lives.
Three motorcycles sat waiting, chrome gleaming despite the dim light.
Serpent bikes, their colors bold as a declaration of war.
"Cruz insisted on a secure location," Eddie continued, like we were discussing restaurant choices instead of my abduction.
"Eddie . . ." But I already knew. Could see it in the way his shoulders hunched, how his fingers drummed against the steering wheel in a rhythm that might have been morse code for 'sorry.' The plan had never been about catching Cruz.
I was the plan.
The package to be delivered.
"How long?" My voice came out steadier than I felt. Inside, everything was screaming, a cacophony of betrayal and fear and fury that threatened to tear me apart. "How long have you been working with them?"
"Does it matter?" He finally looked at me then, and what I saw made my stomach twist. Not evil, not even greed. Just exhaustion. Defeat. The face of a man who'd given up on honor because honor hadn't paid the bills. "Get out."
"Eddie, please—"
"GET OUT!" His palm slammed against the dashboard hard enough to make me jump. The professional mask shattered completely, revealing something raw and ugly underneath. "You think this was easy? You think I wanted this?"
He came around to my side before I could lock the door—not that it would have mattered. Where would I run in this concrete maze? His hand on my arm wasn't rough, exactly, but it brooked no argument.
"Twenty years," he said, the words spilling out like pus from an infected wound. "Twenty fucking years I gave that club. Bled for them, killed for them, watched brothers die in my arms. And what did I get? Passed over for every promotion, every position of real authority."
The Serpents approached from the shadows, moving with the casual confidence of predators who knew the prey was already caught. One carried zip ties, another had his hand resting on his weapon. The third just smiled, the expression all teeth and anticipation.
"Then pretty boy shows up," Eddie continued, like he needed me to understand, to absolve him somehow.
"Fresh from the military with his fancy planning and his spreadsheets. Suddenly he’s VP.
Not only that, he beats me down in front of everyone over some civilian piece of ass—no offense. He's Duke's golden boy?"
"Is that what this is about? Your pride?" The words tasted like copper and disappointment. All those lives lost, all that blood spilled, because Eddie couldn't handle being second-best.
"This is about survival." He handed me over to the nearest Serpent like I was a package, something to be signed for and delivered. "Venom made a better offer.”
My blood ran cold at the mention of Venom, long-time President of the Serpents.
“Simple as that,” he continued. “Enough money to disappear, start fresh somewhere they've never heard of the Heavy Kings."
The zip ties bit into my wrists as the Serpent yanked them tight, plastic edges designed to hurt. Another ran his hands over me, checking for weapons or wires, lingering in places that made my skin crawl. I forced myself to stay still, to not give them the satisfaction of struggling.
"She's clean," he reported, stepping back with obvious disappointment.
"Tyson will kill you." I said it quietly, not a threat but a simple statement of fact. “And Duke will let him.”
Eddie's laugh held no humor. "They'll have to find me first. By tonight, Eddie Vaughn will be nothing but ashes in a warehouse fire. Tragic accident, faulty wiring. Maybe they'll even give me a memorial chair."
"Tell that to Rico and Johnnie." The names hit him like physical blows. I saw him flinch, saw something that might have been shame flicker across his features. "Tell their families that your hurt feelings were worth their lives."
"For what it's worth," he said, already backing toward his car, "I argued against hitting the party. Told them civilian casualties would bring too much heat. Venom wouldn't listen. Said he needed to make a statement."