Tyler turned to face me. Something moved behind his eyes—frustration, maybe, or something closer to desperation.
"I can handle it."
"That's not the point."
"Then what is the point?"
"The point is that I'm not going to watch you kill yourself because you're too stubborn to admit you need rest."
The words came out harder than I intended. Tyler's expression shifted, the defensiveness cracking just slightly, revealing something raw underneath.
"Okay." His voice dropped, almost resigned. "Okay. We'll head back."
We mounted up and rode down the mountain in silence, the curves easier on the descent, the valley rising to meet us like a promise of level ground. Tyler's focus was better on the way back—sharper, more present—but I could still see the exhaustion in his movements, the effort it cost him to maintain concentration.
Something was eating at him. Something he wasn't ready to share.
The garage was busy when we returned—three customer bikes in the bays, Irish and Ghost working on repairs while Blade handled the front desk. The smell of exhaust and hot metal filled the air, familiar as breathing, and the radio was playing something with a heavy bass line that vibrated through the concrete floor.
The unfamiliar motorcycle was parked near the entrance.
I noticed it before I'd even killed my engine—a Harley Softail, black and chrome, custom work that spoke of money and taste. The pipes were aftermarket, polished to a mirror shine. The tank had subtle ghost flames that only showed in certain light. Montana plates, but not local.
I didn't recognize the bike, which meant I didn't recognize the rider.
Tyler had gone still beside me.
I dismounted, watching him from the corner of my eye. His face had drained of color, his body rigid, his hands frozen on the Sportster's grips like he'd forgotten how to let go.
"Tyler."
He didn't respond. His gaze was fixed on the garage entrance, on the figure visible through the open bay doors—a man in a leather jacket, standing at the counter, talking to Irish with easy familiarity.
I looked. Really looked.
The man was tall, lean, with the kind of rangy build that suggested speed rather than power. Dark hair cut short, strong jaw, features that were handsome in a sharp, predatory way. He wore hisjacket like a second skin, comfortable in the space, comfortable in his body, radiating the easy confidence of someone who'd never met a room he couldn't own.
He was smiling at something Irish had said, and the smile was warm, engaging, the kind of expression that made people want to lean in, want to trust, want to believe that someone this charming couldn't possibly mean them harm.
But his eyes were wrong. Even from here, I could see it—a flatness behind the charm, a coldness that didn't match the easy body language. Like looking at a well-crafted mask and catching a glimpse of the emptiness behind it.
Cross.
I moved without thinking.
One moment I was standing beside my bike, the next I was between Tyler and the garage, my body positioned to block the line of sight. I didn't make a conscious choice—my feet just carried me there, muscle memory from years of threat assessment putting me exactly where I needed to be.
"Stay here." Low enough that only Tyler could hear.
"Tank—"
"Stay. Here."
I walked toward the garage, keeping my pace easy, my posture relaxed. Nothing to see. Just the club's enforcer, checking on his territory.
Irish looked up as I entered, grease smeared across his forehead, his expression open and unsuspecting. "Tank. Good timing. This gentleman'sgot a Softail that's making a noise he doesn't like. I was just telling him we're backed up, but?—"
"I don't mind waiting." Cross's voice was smooth, cultured, carrying just a hint of an accent I couldn't place. Something eastern, maybe, worn down by years of moving around. He turned to face me, and that smile widened, showing teeth that were too perfect. "You must be Tank. I've heard good things."
