Security footage. Drone footage. Multiple angles of the warehouse assault, playing simultaneously in a grid pattern. I watched, unable to look away, as Phoenix members fought and fell and bled.
There was Blade, taking rounds to the chest, crumpling against the side of a van. There was Hawk on the ridge, his rifle kicking, blood visible on his arm even from a distance. There were Santos and Marco, pinned behind shelving, Marco's leg soaked red.
And there was Tank. Fighting through the wreckage, trying to reach me. His face twisted with desperation, with rage, with something that looked like agony. Taking down man after man, but more kept coming, and I watched myself being dragged away from him, watched him scream my name as the hood went over my head.
The footage was silent—no audio, just images—but I could hear his voice anyway. Could hear him screaming for me, the sound burned into my memory from those final moments in the warehouse.
Cross paused the footage on Tank's face. Zoomed in until the image filled the screen, until I could see every line of anguish, every trace of desperate love.
"He really does love you, doesn't he?" Cross's voice was soft, almost wondering. "Look at him. He would have died trying to get to you."
I couldn't speak. My throat had closed up, my eyes burning with tears I refused to let fall.
"How touching." Cross set the tablet aside, placed it face-down on the armrest, denying me even the comfort of seeing Tank's face. "I have to admit, I'm almost jealous. You never looked at me like that."
Because you never deserved it.
"The Wolves are hunting the survivors as we speak." Cross's tone was conversational, matter-of-fact. "Anyone who made it out of that warehouse won't last the week. Your club is broken, Tyler. There's nothing left for you to go back to."
He was lying. He had to be lying.
But what if he wasn't?
"Your man, though—Tank, they call him?" Cross smiled. "Him, I've left alone. For now."
I looked at him. Couldn't help it.
"Ah, there it is." Cross's smile widened. "That's what I wanted to see. You do care about him. More than you ever cared about me."
"What do you want?" The words scraped out of my throat.
"I want you back." Cross rose, walked toward me. I forced myself not to retreat. "I want you here, with me, where you belong. I want things to be the way they were."
"They were never?—"
"They were perfect." His voice hardened. "We were perfect. Until you decided to throw it all away for a bunch of criminals on motorcycles."
He stopped in front of me, close enough that I could smell his cologne—expensive, subtle, achingly familiar. Three years, and he still wore the same scent. The smell transported me back to that apartment, that life, those endless days of walking on eggshells and praying I wouldn't set him off.
"Here's what's going to happen." Cross reached out, cupped my face in his hands. His grip was gentle, but I could feel the strength in his fingers, the threat of violence barely contained. "You're going to stay here with me. You're going to remember how good we were together. And in time, you're going to forget all about your biker and your club and whatever life you thought you were building."
"And if I don't?"
"Then I'll have Tank brought here." Cross's thumbtraced my cheekbone, almost tender. "I'll let you watch while my men take him apart, piece by piece. And when there's nothing left of him but meat and screaming, I'll ask you again."
My blood turned to ice.
"Or." Cross's grip tightened, just slightly. "You could behave. Cooperate. Give me what I want. And I'll call off the hunt. Let your biker live out his pathetic life, thinking about you every day, knowing he'll never see you again."
"You're lying." My voice was steady. I didn't know how. "You'll kill him either way."
"Maybe." Cross shrugged, released my face. "Maybe not. But you'll never know for certain, will you? And isn't that worse?"
He stepped back, adjusting his sleeves, smoothing his expression back to calm affability.
"I'll give you time to think about it. But don't take too long, Tyler. My patience isn't infinite."
Cross rose from the armchair, straightened the cuffs of his sleeves, and walked to the door without looking back. Two knocks. The bolts slid open from the other side. He stepped through, and the door swung shut behind him with a heavy, final sound—like a coffin lid closing.
