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"Eddie was just telling me more about Johnnie," I said, surprised at how easily the half-truth came. "Sponsored him, right?"

"Yeah." Eddie nodded, playing along perfectly. "Good kid. Waste of potential."

He left without another word, but his eyes met mine for a fraction of a second. The message was clear—think about it, but not too long. Every hour mattered.

Tyson pulled me close the moment Eddie was gone, chin resting on top of my head. "You okay? Know this is a lot—"

"I just want it to be over," I admitted, the truest thing I'd said all day. "I want us to be safe. Want to stop seeing those empty chairs everywhere I look."

"We will be," he promised, arms tightening around me. "I'll fix this, baby. Trust me."

I did trust him. Trusted him to die for me, to kill for me, to burn the whole world down if that's what it took. Which was exactly the problem.

"Take me home?" I asked, needing to be away from the memorial, from the weight of those empty cuts and Eddie's reasonable words.

"Yeah. Let's get out of here."

As he led me out, his hand warm and solid in mine, I felt awful. Tomorrow I'd go shopping on Main Street. I'd be visible, vulnerable, the perfect bait for a predator like Cruz.

And if that meant lying to the man I loved to save his life, then that's a price I'd pay.

After all, Rico and Johnnie had paid much more.

Chapter 18

Lena

Myboyfriend.

My protector.

My Daddy Dom.

I'd been watching Tyson sleep for the past hour, memorizing every line of his face like I might be tested on it later. Or like I might never see it again. His face looked younger in sleep, all those hard edges softened by dreams I hoped were better than the nightmares that sometimes plagued him. Even unconscious, his arm draped possessively across my waist, hand splayed over my hip like he was afraid I'd disappear.

Which was exactly what I was about to do.

The note took me six attempts to write.

Gone to the shop. Need to process through painting. Don't worry about me. I love you. -L

Every word was technically accurate. I was going out. I did need to process—just not through painting. And God, I lovedhim more than I'd ever thought possible. That's why I was doing this. To keep him from starting a war that would end with him bleeding out in some alley, all because Cruz wanted to own me like property.

I placed the note carefully on my pillow, right where he'd see it when he reached for me. My hand lingered on the paper like it might somehow transfer my apology through the fibers.

The floor creaked under my weight—that one board near the dresser that always gave me away. I froze, heart hammering against my ribs. Tyson shifted, murmured something that might have been my name, then settled deeper into the pillows.

Three more steps to my shoes. Two to my jacket. One to the door.

"Where you going, wildflower?"

I froze with my hand on the doorknob, closing my eyes against the wave of guilt that crashed over me. Of course he'd wake up.

I turned, forcing my face into something resembling normal. He was propped on one elbow, instantly alert despite being dead asleep seconds ago. His hair stuck up in three different directions, and there was a pillow crease on his cheek that made my chest tight with affection I couldn't afford right now.

"Bathroom," I lied, the word tasting like battery acid. "Then coffee. Want some?"

"Mmm." He was already settling back, but his eyes tracked me with that lazy focus that meant he was still processing, still deciding if this required full consciousness. "Use the good stuff. Bottom shelf."