It was insane. It was the best plan we had. Itightened a bolt that didn't need tightening and tried not to think about all the ways it could go wrong.
Tyler in the crossfire. Tyler caught in Cross's trap. Tyler dragged back into the hell he'd barely escaped, this time with no way out. Cross's hands on him. Cross's voice in his ear, whispering all the poison that had nearly destroyed him once before.
The wrench slipped, scraped my knuckles. Blood welled up, dark in the dim light, and I sucked it from the cut without really registering the pain.
I'd been scared before. Every fight carried fear—anyone who said otherwise was lying or stupid. But this was different. This wasn't fear for myself, for my own life. I'd made peace with dying years ago, the night I found Danny cold on his apartment floor. Death didn't scare me.
Losing Tyler did. The realization hit me like a fist to the chest. I'd spent so long convincing myself I didn't need anyone, didn't want anyone, that caring too much was a weakness I couldn't afford. Danny's death had taught me that love was just another word for grief waiting to happen. Better to keep everyone at arm's length. Better to stay alone.
Then Tyler had crashed into my life with his government credentials and his haunted eyes, and every wall I'd built had crumbled like paper. I set the wrench down before I broke something—the tool or my hand, either seemed equally likely at this point. Braced my palms on the workbench and let my head hang, breathing through the fear that wanted to crawl up my throat and choke me.
"You've checked those bolts three times."
Tyler's voice came from the doorway, soft and steady. I turned to find him leaning against the frame, arms crossed, watching me with eyes that saw too much. The garage door swung shut behind him with a soft click—deliberate, I realized. Giving us privacy.
"Needed something to do."
"I can think of something better."
He crossed the space between us, footsteps barely audible on the concrete floor. The work lights caught the planes of his face, the sharp line of his jaw, the curve of his lips. A month ago he'd been a stranger—another fed, another complication, another problem for the club to solve. Now he was...
Everything. He was everything.
"Tank." He stopped in front of me, close enough that I could feel the heat radiating off his skin. "Stop thinking so loud."
"Can't help it."
"Yes, you can." He took the wrench from my hand, set it aside on the workbench with a soft clink of metal on metal. "Let me help."
He kissed me. It was soft at first, tentative—giving me space to pull away if I wanted to. His lips tasted like coffee and something sweeter underneath, and his hand came up to cup the back of my neck, fingers threading through my hair. I let myself sink into it for a moment, let the sensation wash over me.
But I was done being passive. Done letting fear make my choices. I turned us, pressed Tyler back against the workbench, and took over.
He made a small sound against my mouth—surprise, pleasure, surrender. My hands found his hips, lifted him onto the bench so I could step between his thighs, so I could feel every inch of him against me. The kiss deepened, turned hungry, teeth catching on lips, tongues tangling. I let myself take what I wanted.
"Let me." The words came out rough, almost unrecognizable—my voice, but stripped down to something raw. "Tonight, let me have this."
Tyler's eyes were dark, his breath coming fast, his pupils blown wide. "Yes."
I peeled his shirt off slowly, watching the fabric reveal skin inch by inch. The scars I'd learned by heart over the past week—the thin white line across his ribs, the puckered mark on his shoulder from a bullet that had come too close. The dip of his collarbone. The way his chest rose and fell with each ragged breath. I wanted to memorize every detail, burn it into my memory so deep that nothing could ever take it away.
"I want to remember every inch of you." I traced my fingers down his chest, felt him shiver under my touch. His skin was warm, almost feverish, goosebumps rising in the wake of my fingertips. "Every single inch."
"Then take your time."
I kissed the hollow of his throat, felt his pulse hammering against my lips like a trapped bird. Traced my tongue along his collarbone, tasted the salt of his skin, the faint bitterness of sweat. His hands came up to my shoulders, gripping hard enough to leave bruises, but he didn't try to rushme. He'd given me control, and I was going to use it.
My mouth moved lower. Tyler wasn't built like me—not the heavy muscle of someone who'd spent years hauling engine blocks and swinging fists. He was lean, cut, every muscle defined beneath smooth skin like he'd been carved from marble. The kind of body that looked deceptively slender until you saw it move, until you felt the strength coiled beneath the surface.
I kissed down his chest, dragged my teeth across one nipple and felt him jerk, a sharp gasp escaping his lips. Did it again to the other side, harder this time, and his hands fisted in my hair. I worked my way lower, pressing open-mouthed kisses to his abs, feeling them tense and release under my lips.
I dropped to my knees on the concrete floor—felt the cold bite through my jeans, the hard surface already making my knees ache—and looked up at him through my lashes.
"Tank—" His voice cracked on my name.
"Quiet." I unbuckled his belt, the metal clinking loud in the silence. Worked open the button of his jeans, lowered the zipper tooth by tooth. Freed him from the fabric, and there he was—hard and straining, a bead of moisture already glistening at the tip. The sight sent a bolt of heat straight to my core.
A month ago I wouldn't have known what to do with this. A month ago the thought would have terrified me. Now I knew exactly what I wanted.
