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"No rush." I moved toward Lena's station, boots heavy on the polished concrete floor.

Her workspace was chaotic—exactly what I'd expect. Ink caps arranged in rainbow spirals that probably made sense to her. Machines holstered on the table like an artist's gun belt. Sketches and references pinned to every available surface. But underneath the creative disorder, I spotted what my tactical mind was looking for.

A baseball bat leaning against the wall, painted to look like art but positioned for easy grabbing. Smart. A heavy glass paperweight on the counter, perfect improvised weapon. The way she'd arranged her station to keep her back to the wall with clear sightlines to both exits.

The woman thought tactically without even realizing it.

Lena’s voice broke through my thoughts.

"If you're here for that butterfly tramp stamp, Tyson, I'm booked solid."

Her voice held that familiar snark, but she didn't look up from her work. Didn't need to. She'd probably clocked me the second I walked in.

Rudy chuckled from the table. "Tramp stamp, Tyson? Didn’t know you were the type.”

“Yeah well, guess you just need to get to know me better,” I said, sarcastically.

“Clearly. Hey, I’m almost done, bro. This girl's an artist."

I moved closer, and that's when I really saw what she was creating.

The phoenix sprawled across Rudy's dark skin in brilliant reds and golds, every feather detailed with obsessive precision. Flames licked up from abstract ashes at the base, transforming into wings that seemed ready to lift off his shoulder blade.

Lena's hand moved in smooth, confident strokes, the tattoo machine humming like an angry bee. She was completely absorbed, lost in her art. No trace of the defensive brat who usually kept everyone at arm's length. Just pure focus and skill.

Beautiful.

The thought hit me like a gut punch. Not just her ass in those jeans or the way her tank top clung to her curves. The whole picture—her talent, her concentration, the way she created something meaningful out of ink and skin.

I'd been watching Lena for months. Years, if I was honest. Telling myself it was just awareness, just keeping tabs on someone in our circle. Bullshit. I wanted her. Wanted to know what sounds she'd make if I got my hands on her. Wanted to see if that bratty mouth would still be talking back when I had her bent over—

"There," she murmured, pulling back to examine her work. "Just needs the final highlights and you're good to go."

The phoenix gleamed under the shop lights, fresh and raw and perfect.

Just like her.

She leaned in close for the final highlights, adding dimension to each flame with tiny dots of white and yellow. The machine buzzed steadier now, her movements more delicate. Each touch of the needle brought the phoenix to life, made it seem to flicker and burn against Rudy's skin.

"Alright, Rudster," she said, sitting back and setting down the machine. "You're officially reborn. Let me get the wrap."

She peeled off her black nitrile gloves in one smooth motion, tossing them in the waste bin. The casual efficiency of it shouldn't have been sexy. Wasn't supposed to be. But something about watching her hands—

Focus, Monroe.

I turned my attention to the security cameras, noting angles and blind spots. Two cameras covered the main floor, but there was a dead zone near the supply shelves. Another vulnerability to add to my list.

Lena stood and stretched, her tank top riding up again. She reached for the top shelf where the bandage supplies were stored, going up on her toes.

I stepped backward to get a better angle on the camera positioning just as she turned with the supplies.

We collided.

Her chest hit mine solid, and my hands moved on instinct—catching her waist, steadying her before she could stumble. Time stopped. The shop noise faded. Just her body pressed against mine and my hands spanning her waist.

Christ, she was small.

I knew Lena was petite, but feeling her against me drove it home. The top of her head barely reached my chin. My hands wrapped around her waist entirely, thumbs brushing the soft skin where her shirt had ridden up. Her hip bones pressed against my palms through the low-rise denim.