"I don't give praise I don't mean."
The words settled between us, simple and heavy. I thought about the envelope under my mattress, thephotograph of Cross's arm around my shoulders, the date written in careful block letters. I thought about Kai's voice sayingyou're allowed to want to stay.
I thought about Tank's hands on the engine, gentle despite their strength, and wondered what it would feel like to be something he chose to work on.
"Are we still on for tomorrow?"
"If you want to be."
I did. That was the problem. I wanted to stay, wanted to learn, wanted to keep waking up in a room that felt like it might become mine. I wanted things I had no right to want, with people who didn't know they were standing in the path of something that could destroy them.
"I want to be."
Tank nodded. "Same time, then."
I turned to leave, and his voice stopped me at the door.
"Tyler."
I looked back. The work light caught his face, hollowed his cheeks, turned his eyes into dark pools I couldn't read.
"If something's wrong—" He spoke slowly, carefully, like he was picking his way through unfamiliar territory. "You can tell me. You know that, right?"
The offer hung in the air between us. I could feel its weight, its warmth, the genuine care beneath the gruff delivery. He meant it. He actually meant it, this man I'd known for three months, this enforcer who'd defended me to his own club and taught me to ride and never once asked for anything in return.
I could tell him. Right now, right here, I could pull out the envelope and show him everything and let him decide what happened next. Let him carry some of this weight that was slowly crushing me.
But that would mean putting him in danger. That would mean making him complicit in my secrets. That would mean trusting someone with the most vulnerable parts of myself, and I'd already made that mistake once.
"I know. Thanks."
I walked out before I could change my mind.
The clubhouse was quieter now, most people drifted off to bed or to the fire pit out back. I could hear voices in the distance, laughter, the low rumble of conversation. The sounds of family.
I stood in the hallway outside my room and let myself feel the weight of it—what I had, what I might have to leave, what Cross was trying to take from me.
One week.
I had one week to decide if I was brave enough to stay or smart enough to run.
Neither option felt like winning.
5
TELL
TANK
Three days, and Tyler had stopped sleeping. I could see it in the shadows beneath his eyes, the new hollows in his cheeks, the way his movements had gone slightly jerky—like his body was running on fumes and willpower alone. He showed up for our morning lessons on time, worked hard, learned fast. But something had changed since the ride through the foothills, some light behind his eyes dimming by degrees.
He thought I hadn't noticed. He was wrong.
The morning was cool, fog clinging to the valley floor in wisps that the rising sun was slowly burning away. Moisture beaded on the chrome of the bikes lined up outside the clubhouse, and the air smelled like wet grass and the faint promise of heat to come. Iwaited by the Sportster, helmet in hand, watching Tyler cross the lot toward me.
His gait was steady, his posture controlled, but his gaze kept drifting—to the main road, to the treeline, to the gate where prospects monitored who came and went. Every few steps, his head would turn slightly, checking angles, scanning for threats. The hypervigilance of a man expecting violence.
"You're late."
