Chapter 7 - Tank
Four hours isn't enough sleep. Never has been. But I've trained my body to function on less, especially during operations. And that's what this is—an operation. Not some fucking fairy tale with bedtime stories about brave rabbits and protective bears.
Jesus Christ, what's happening to me?
I lie on the too-small bed, staring at the ceiling, my feet hanging off the edge. My mind replays the moment Amelia stepped into my arms, the way she fit against me, her face pressed to my chest as if seeking shelter there.
I don't do hugs. I don't do comfort. I'm the VP of the Savage Riders, the man King sends when diplomacy has failed and pain needs to be administered. I break bones for a living, for fuck's sake. And yet today I've hugged not just my estranged sister but a woman I barely know.
And that's not even the worst of it.
My cock twitches in my briefs, hardening at the memory of Amelia's soft curves pressed against me, the scent of her hair, the warmth of her breath through my shirt.
I shift uncomfortably, disgusted with myself.
The woman is running from an abusive ex, and here I am getting hard thinking about her vulnerability.
"Fuck," I mutter, running my hand over my buzzed hair in frustration.
This is what happens when you start caring. When you let people get close. It messes with your head, makes you soft in places you can't afford to be soft. Makes you imagine things that can never happen.
I'm not father material. I'm not even decent boyfriend material.
I'm the guy women fuck when they want to piss off their daddies, the one they call when they need a thrill but never the one they bring home to meet the family.
And that's exactly how I like it. No attachments, no complications, no disappointments.
So why can't I stop thinking about the way Amelia looked at me, with gratitude? Something I haven't seen directed at me in a very long time?
A soft knock at my door interrupts my thoughts. I sit up, instantly alert, hand reaching for the gun I placed on the nightstand.
"Yeah?" I call out quietly.
The door cracks open, and Beast's massive frame fills the entrance. "You awake?"
"No, I'm sleep-talking," I growl. "What do you want?"
He steps into the room, closing the door behind him. In the dim light from the window, I can see his shit-eating grin. "Just checking if you're okay. You seemed... distracted after your little moment with our guest."
I stand up, not wanting to have this conversation from a prone position. "I'm fine. Just about to grab some sleep before I relieve you."
"There's nothing wrong with actually caring about someone, you know. Maybe even falling for them."
I roll my eyes, uncomfortable with how close his observation hits to my own internal struggle. "I have no idea what you're talking about. She's my sister's friend. A job. That's all."
"A job," Beast repeats, clearly not buying it. "Right. That's why you were looking at her like you wanted to devour her whole. That's why you told her kid a bedtime story. Because she's just a job."
"I'm the VP," I remind him, as if he could forget. "We're in the middle of a fucking war with the Iron Eagles. I can't afford to get distracted."
"You're the VP," Beast agrees easily. "But you're still a person, Tank. And everyone deserves to love and be loved. Even grumpy bastards like you."
I snort derisively. "Since when are you such a believer in love? Last I checked, you had a different woman in your bed every weekend."
Beast chuckles, a deep rumbling sound that seems too loud for the quiet cabin. "I'm not a believer. But I'm not blind either. I see the way you look at her. The way you soften around her."
"I don't soften," I snap, the accusation striking a nerve. Softness gets you killed in our world.
"Call it whatever you want," Beast says with a shrug, turning to leave. "Just don't miss out on something real because you're too stubborn to admit you might actually have a heart under all that ice."
He closes the door behind him, leaving me standing in the middle of the room, anger and confusion warring inside me. Who the fuck does he think he is, playing amateur psychologist? He doesn't know shit about what's going on in my head.
I drop back onto the bed, dragging my hands down my face. Sleep. I need to sleep and get my head straight. Tomorrow, I'll focus on the mission—protecting Amelia and Anna from the abusive bastard who's hunting them. Nothing more.
As I stretch out again on the too-small bed, I find myself falling asleep faster than usual. No nightmares creep into my consciousness, no blood-soaked memories from Afghanistan or my days on the force. Just blissful darkness.
Until my phone vibrates on the nightstand, jolting me awake.
Four hours have passed in what feels like minutes. Time for my watch. I sit up, stretching my stiff muscles, then stand and pull on my shirt. The floor is cold beneath my bare feet as I move quietly toward the living room.
Beast is slumped by the front door, his head resting against the frame, eyes closed. His breathing is deep and regular. He's fallen asleep on watch. If this were a combat zone, I'd tear him a new one. But the perimeter alarms would have sounded if anyone approached, so I cut him some slack.
I'm about to touch his shoulder when his hand shoots out, fist aimed directly at my face. My reflexes kick in, and I dodge backward, the punch whistling past my ear.
Beast's eyes snap open, momentary confusion giving way to recognition. "Shit, sorry," he mutters, lowering his fist. "Fell asleep but still got my reflexes from the underground days."
"It's fine," I tell him, keeping my voice low to avoid waking the others. "Go get some real sleep. I've got it from here."
He nods, pushing himself to his feet. "Thanks, brother. Wake me if anything changes."
I watch him disappear down the hallway, then take up position on the front porch, where I can monitor the approach while getting some fresh air. The night is cold, the kind of deep chill that seeps into your bones, but I welcome it. The cold clears my head, sharpens my senses.
The forest stretches out before me, a sea of shadows beneath a star-strewn sky. It's peaceful in a way that feels almost alien after years of chaos and violence. But my mind is anything but peaceful.
I clench my left fist, digging my fingernails into my palm until pain blooms sharp and clarifying.
There's comfort in pain. It's honest, real, something you can count on.
My father taught me that, one of the few useful lessons he imparted.
Pain doesn't lie. Doesn't disappoint. Doesn't abandon you when you need it most.
I wonder what made my father the way he was. What happened to turn him into the cold, controlling bastard who treated his family like soldiers under his command. Did someone hurt him? Break him? Or was he born with that darkness inside him, the way some people seem to be?
And if he was made, not born that way, what does that say about me? About the darkness I carry?
"Penny for your thoughts?"
The soft voice behind me nearly makes me jump. Some security expert I am, so lost in my own head I didn't even hear the door open.
Amelia stands in the doorway, arms wrapped around herself against the cold, wearing what looks like an oversized t-shirt and sweatpants. Her hair is slightly mussed from sleep, her eyes tired but alert.
"Just thinking about the past," I answer, shifting over to make room for her on the porch step. "Shouldn't you be sleeping?"
"Couldn't." She moves to sit beside me, close enough that I can feel the warmth radiating from her body, but not so close that we touch. "Anna was having nightmares again. Once she settled, I was too wound up to go back to sleep."
I nod, understanding. Sleep doesn't come easy when you're being hunted.
"What about the past?" she asks after a moment of comfortable silence. "If you don't mind me asking."
I stare out at the darkness, wondering why I feel compelled to answer her. "My father. Wondering what made him the way he was. If he had reasons for being such a controlling, authoritarian asshole."
Amelia tilts her head back, gazing up at the stars scattered like diamond dust across the black canvas of the sky.
"I used to wonder the same thing about Derek," she admits. "Was his father the same way? Is he just repeating a cycle he was taught? I spent years trying to understand him, to find the wounded man beneath the monster."
She pauses, and I wait, sensing she has more to say.
"But at some point, I realized it doesn't really matter. Maybe horrible things did happen to him. Maybe his father was worse than he is. But we're all adults, making our own choices. Our childhood can only be used as a defense for so long before we have to take accountability for who we've become."
Her words hit closer to home than I'd like to admit. I've spent years blaming my father for the man I am today. The coldness, the violence, the inability to form connections. But at what point does that excuse expire?
"You're probably right," I concede.
"You're proof of that," she says, surprising me. "Whatever your father did, whatever he was, you didn't become him. You broke the cycle."
I can't help the bitter laugh that escapes me. "I'm a violent, dangerous man who makes his living through intimidation and sometimes worse. Not exactly a paragon of moral victory."
"You might be violent and dangerous," she counters, "but you don't hurt innocent people. You use that darkness to protect, not to terrorize. That makes all the difference."
"Just lucky I have more suitable targets," I mutter, but her words affect me more than I want to admit.
She falls silent, and to my surprise, leans her head against my shoulder, the gesture so casual and trusting it leaves me momentarily speechless.
When was the last time someone leaned on me like this? Not for protection or out of fear or obligation, but simply because they wanted to be close? I can't remember. Maybe never.
The moment stretches, peaceful and perfect in a way I've never experienced before. The night air, the stars overhead, the woman beside me… I could stay like this forever and count myself a lucky man.
I glance down at her profile, illuminated by the faint moonlight, and goddamn, she's beautiful.
Not in the artificial, made-up way of the women who usually catch my eye in bars, but in a real, human way that makes my chest ache.
My cock twitches in response, hardening against my jeans, and I shift slightly to hide my body's reaction to her nearness.
Amelia places her hand over mine, her touch light. "Do you regret it?" she asks softly. "Helping us?"
The question throws me, and I stumble over my response. "No. Of course not. Why would you think that?"
"Because you seem afraid to look at me," she says, still not meeting my gaze. "Because you tense up whenever I get close. If you've changed your mind about helping us, I'd rather know now."
"I'm not afraid," I say, perhaps too forcefully. To prove it, I turn to face her fully, though she's still looking ahead at the darkness beyond the porch.
"Then what's the problem?" she asks, her voice barely above a whisper.
"The problem," I say, my voice dropping low, "is this."
Before I can think better of it, I cup her face in one hand, resting the other on her thigh, and capture her lips with mine. I expect her to push me away, to recoil from my presumption. Instead, she melts into me, her lips parting under mine, her hand coming up to grip my arm.
The kiss deepens, our tongues meeting in a hot slide that sends electricity down my spine. She tastes like mint toothpaste, and I'm instantly addicted. I angle her head to deepen the kiss further, a low growl escaping me when she responds with equal hunger.
Time loses meaning as we explore each other, the kiss turning from shy to passionate in heartbeats.
Her hand slides up my arm to my shoulder, then to the back of my neck, her fingers tangling in the short hair there.
I'm hard as stone now, my cock straining painfully against my jeans, demanding attention I know I can't give it.
When we finally break apart, we're both breathing heavily, our breath fogging in the cold night air. Her cheeks are flushed, her lips swollen from my kiss, and she's never looked more beautiful.
"I'm sorry," I say immediately, though I'm not sorry at all. "I don't want you to think you owe me anything because I'm helping you. That's not why I'm doing this."
"It's not like that," she assures me, her voice husky in a way that makes my cock throb. "I kissed you back because I wanted to."
Christ. Those words might as well be a physical caress for how they affect me.
"Don't tell me that," I groan. "It makes me want things I shouldn't even be thinking about."
Her eyes darken, and to my shock, she grabs the lapels of my cut, pulling herself closer. "Be honest with me," she demands. "Please."
I grit my teeth, torn between what I want and what I know is right. But the way she's looking at me, desperate for truth in a world that's fed her nothing but lies, breaks my resolve.
"I'm seconds away from fucking you right here on this porch," I growl, my voice rough with desire. "From bending you over the railing and pounding into you until you forget every man who came before me. From making you come so hard you'll never forget this night."
Her sharp intake of breath tells me I've shocked her, but she doesn't pull away. Instead, her pupils dilate, her grip on my cut tightening.
"What's stopping you?" she whispers, the question igniting a fire in my blood.