7. Wendy #2
I’ve been drowning in roots. He’s been starving for them.
I reach out. I don't touch the files. I touch him.
I press my palm flat against the center of his chest. His heart hammers against my skin—a frantic rhythm that betrays his stoic exterior.
"You think this scares me?" I ask softly. I slide my hand up his chest, gripping the thick leather of his jacket. "You think knowing you're a lethal club prospect on a suicide mission is going to make me run?"
His jaw tightens. "It should. I’m putting a target on your back just by breathing the air in your shop."
"They were already targeting me, Tyler," I fire back, my voice gaining strength.
The sass, the fire, the refusal to be a victim surges back into my veins.
"They were already bleeding me dry. My mother died four years ago.
I stayed in this town, in this shop, because I thought if I kept the records spinning, I wouldn't lose her. I trapped myself in a cage, and the Syndicate’s been shrinking the bars every Tuesday. "
I step into his space, forcing him to look down at me.
"You didn't put a target on my back. You brought the fucking cavalry."
His chest expands on a jagged inhale. The fire in his dark eyes flares, bright and feral.
"You belong to me," he snarls, his hands coming up to grip my hips. His fingers dig into my jeans, hauling me flush against his groin. The hard ridge of his arousal presses against my stomach. He’s unapologetically hard.
The violence, the confession, the claiming—it all feeds the Ignition.
"You understand that? The cover is dead.
The mission is dead. My only directive is you. This shop. Your life. Mine."
"Yours," I confirm without a single second of hesitation.
I don't need to think about it. I don't need to weigh the pros and cons of dating an undercover operative. I belong to him. He belongs to me. That’s the truth left in Crimson Hollow.
I pull out of his grip, ignoring the immediate, protesting sound that vibrates in his throat.
I turn my attention to the files spread across the oak counter.
I push the fake licenses aside. I push the employment histories aside. I find the mission brief. The heavily redacted operational notes outlining the Syndicate’s hierarchy.
"They’re running this town like a corporation," I say, tracing the lines of text. "The Tuesday Enforcer. The collection routes. They don't use violence unless they have to. They use bureaucracy. They use fear. Wally tossing the shop tonight? That was a panic move. They‘re afraid of you."
Tyler steps up behind me. He wraps his arms around my waist, pulling my back flush against his chest, right where I belong. He rests his chin on the top of my head, looking down at the files with me.
"They’re running cross-checks on Tom from Portland," he says, his voice a deep rumble against my spine. "Nadia confirmed it. The lieutenant ordered a deep dive. My cover will hold up to a digital scrub. Daniel built it tight. But they’re getting restless."
"Because you don't fit the profile of a pushover cousin," I say, tapping the edge of the mission file. "You're too big. You're too quiet. You stand in front of me like a meat shield every time the bell rings."
"I'm not letting them look at you."
"I know." I lean back into his solid warmth. The smell of black coffee and leather surrounds me. A fortress. "But we have to use that. If they’re focused on 'Tom,' they aren't focused on the bigger picture."
I drag my finger down the list of Syndicate assets listed in the Broken Halos brief. The chop shop. The local precinct. The county clerk's office.
"Look at this," I say, tapping a heavily annotated page. "The collection routes. They pool the cash every Tuesday night. Right here in town. Before they run it up the Eastern Ridge."
Tyler's arms tighten around me. The operator shifts back into focus. The raw protector merging seamlessly with the tactical weapon.
"The drop house," he murmurs.
"Precisely." I turn my head, brushing my cheek against his rough jaw. "You've been mapping them for eight months. You know the routes. You know the players. And now they know you're here, but they think you're just a stubborn civilian."
I pull the Tuesday schedule Nadia sold him from my pocket. I set it next to the Broken Halos brief.
The pieces align. The administrative control the Syndicate wields over Crimson Hollow is built on a rigid, predictable schedule. The corporatization of their violence is their biggest weakness. They expect compliance. They expect fear.
They don't expect a ghost.
I look up at the cracked Coltrane record. I look at the spilled vintage sleeves covering the floorboards. The fear that’s suffocated me for years is gone. It burned up the second Tyler placed his hands on my hips and claimed me.
I’m not a victim. I’m the partner of a Broken Halos prospect.
I turn in his arms. I look up into his dark eyes.
"What don't they know yet," I say.
It isn't a question. It’s a demand for a tactical assessment.
Tyler’s gaze drops to my mouth. A dark, terrifying smile curves the corner of his lips. The mask is gone. This is the man underneath. The man who breaks codes. The man who dismantles lies.
"They don't know that my club is staging three miles north of the county line," Tyler says, his hands sliding up my spine, pulling me closer. "They don't know that Mac has the Ridge Road locked down. They don't know that I have a secure radio line to dispatch."
He dips his head, his mouth hovering a fraction of an inch over mine. The heat of his breath makes my skin flush.
"And they don't know that the Tuesday Enforcer is going to disappear tomorrow night," he whispers fiercely.
A sharp thrill drops low through my belly. "You're taking him out."
"I'm erasing him," Tyler confirms, his thumbs stroking the skin behind my ears. "Quietly. Using the undercover network. No violence in your shop. No blood on your floorboards. He vanishes. And the Syndicate administration panics."
"They'll come looking."
"Let them look. By the time they realize Tom from Portland is a phantom, the Broken Halos will already be inside their walls."
He kisses me. It isn't gentle. It’s a hard, consuming crush of lips and teeth that demands surrender. I open my mouth for him instantly, tangling my fingers in the thick hair at the nape of his neck. His tongue sweeps inside, claiming my taste, tasting of coffee and unchecked aggression.
The kiss is a seal. A blood vow. A united front.
We aren't hiding anymore. We’re hunting.
When he finally pulls away, my chest is heaving. My lips are bruised. My blood is a roaring inferno.
Tyler looks down at the mess on the floor. The scattered records. The cracked plastic.
"I'll clean it up," he says, his voice rough. "You go upstairs. Lock the apartment door."
"I'm staying right here," I counter, crossing my arms. The sass is back, fortified by his presence. "It's my shop. You think I'm letting you organize the jazz section? You'd probably alphabetize Miles Davis by his first name."
Tyler stares at me. A low chuckle vibrates in his chest. A real laugh. The sound is rough and rusty, like an engine turning over for the first time in years.
"Bossy," he mutters.
"Accurate," I correct him.
He shakes his head, dropping into a crouch to carefully pick up the Coltrane record. He handles the damaged sleeve with a reverence that makes my chest ache in the best possible way. The killer, carefully sorting vintage vinyl on the floor of a dying shop.
I drop down next to him. We sit shoulder to shoulder on the dusty floorboards.
The silence in the Vinyl Vault shifts. It’s no longer the suffocating quiet of isolation. It’s the loaded calm before a storm.
I slide a stack of 45s into a crate. Tyler hands me a pile of sleeves. Our hands brush. The spark of the Ignition flares, a constant, burning reminder that gravity has shifted.
Four years of carrying my mother's ghost. Years of locking the doors and praying the monsters wouldn't break the glass.
I look sideways at the man beside me. The phantom. The prospect. The killer.
Mine.
The Syndicate thinks they own Crimson Hollow. They think they run this town on a spreadsheet and a Tuesday schedule. They think they just intimidated a helpless record store owner and her dense cousin.
They have no idea what’s coming for them.
And for the first time since my mother died, I can't wait for Tuesday.