"I need to tell Hawk."
"You need to be careful who you tell." Sarah's grip tightened. "If the mole realizes you know, they'll run—or worse, they'll warn Cross. You need to figure out who it is before you make any moves."
I nodded slowly, my mind already racing through possibilities. Who had access? Who had opportunity? The compound was a fortress, but that meant nothing if the threat was already inside the walls.
"Thank you." I stood, looking down at the woman who'd risked everything for me. "For believing me. For everything."
"Thank me by staying alive." Sarah's smile was tired but real. "And Tyler? Whatever's happening with the big one—the one who looks at you like you hung the moon—hold onto that. Cross tried to convince you that you didn't deserve good things. Prove him wrong."
I didn't ask how she knew. Sarah had always been able to read people like books.
"I'm working on it."
The compound was quiet as I made my way across the lot, the late evening settling into the kind of stillness that came after chaos. Most of the club had retreated to lick their wounds—physical and otherwise. The morning's firefight had taken its toll, and everyone was processing in their own way.
I should go to Hawk. Should call an emergency church, lay out what Sarah had told me, start the process of identifying the traitor. That was the smart play. The tactical play.
Instead, my feet carried me toward Tank's room.
I told myself I just wanted to tell him first. He deserved to know before the others—he'd been there for the extraction, had taken a bullet meant for me, had carried the weight of Danny's murder through all of it. But that wasn't the whole truth, and I knew it.
The truth was simpler. Rawer.
I wanted to see him. Wanted to be near him. After everything that had happened today—the firefight, the grief, the conversation in the garage—I felt like a wire stretched too tight, vibrating with tension that had nowhere to go. And Tank was the only thing that made the vibration feel like something other than impending collapse.
His door was unlocked. I pushed it open without knocking, stepping into the dim room and closing it behind me.
The sound of running water drew my attention immediately. The bathroom door was ajar, steam curling through the gap, the shower still going. He'd been in there a while—I could tell by the humidityin the air, the way the mirror I glimpsed through the doorway was completely fogged over.
I should wait. Should sit on the bed, give him privacy, have the conversation about the mole like a rational adult.
Instead, I walked toward the bathroom.
The steam wrapped around me as I pushed the door open wider, warm and thick and carrying the scent of soap and something underneath that was justTank. Through the frosted glass of the shower door, I could see him—the broad shape of his shoulders, the dark outline of his body, his head bowed under the spray like he was trying to wash away more than just dirt.
He hadn't heard me come in. Or maybe he had and didn't care. Either way, he didn't move as I stood there watching, my heart hammering against my ribs.
I thought about Cross. About three years of being told what I wanted was wrong, what I felt was too much, what I needed was weakness. I thought about the careful walls I'd built around my own desire, the way I'd learned to make myself small so someone else could feel big.
I was so fucking tired of being small.
I pulled my shirt over my head.
The fabric hit the floor with a soft sound, and through the glass I saw Tank's head turn. Saw him register my presence, the blur of my movement as I reached for my belt.
"Tyler?" His voice was rough, uncertain.
"Don't." I kicked off my boots, shoved my jeans down. "Don't think. Don't second-guess. Just?—"
I pulled the shower door open and stepped inside.
The water hit me like a baptism, hot and hard and washing away the last of my hesitation. Tank was staring at me, water streaming down his face, his eyes dark and wide with something that looked like shock and hunger tangled together.
"Tyler, what?—"
I kissed him.
Not gentle. Not careful. I fisted my hands in his wet hair and pulled him down to me, claiming his mouth with all the desperation I'd been holding back for weeks. He made a sound against my lips—surprise, maybe, or surrender—and then his hands were on me, huge and hot against my water-slicked skin, pulling me against him until there was nothing between us but steam and want.
