Page 37

"Bathroom window?" he asked.

"Painted shut years ago." I wrapped my arms around myself, the hoodie doing nothing for the chill spreading through my bones. "Landlord's version of security."

He made a noncommittal sound, continuing his inspection. His presence made my carefully cultivated chaos feel exposed, vulnerable. The stack of bills I'd been avoiding. The empty wine bottles by the recycling I hadn't taken out. The box of Lucky Charms on the counter because sometimes a girl needed cereal for dinner.

"I'll grab bedding," I said, needing escape. "For the couch."

"Lena—"

"Bathroom's through there if you need it." I fled down the short hallway, closing my bedroom door and leaning against it.

My room was worse than the living area. Clothes exploded from the closet like textile confetti. My desk overflowed with art supplies, sketch pads, and reference photos.

I grabbed sheets and a blanket from the closet. The weight of the night crashed over me in waves. The photo. The meeting. Tyson nearly choking Eddie for suggesting I be bait. The kiss that had changed everything and nothing.

When I returned, I found him standing in front of my largest canvas—a piece I'd painted after a particularly bad night. All reds and blacks, violent slashes of color that looked like an emotional crime scene.

"This is good," he said quietly, not turning around.

"Thanks." I dumped the bedding on the couch, proud my voice stayed steady. "Look, I know you don't want to be here—"

"Lena—"

"No, I get it." The words tumbled out, unable to stop them. "That kiss was adrenaline. Near-death experiences. Chemical reaction to danger. Won't happen again."

He turned then, and the look in his eyes stopped my rambling cold. Raw. Hungry. Barely controlled.

"You think I don't want you?"

The question hung between us, dangerous as a loaded weapon. I forced myself to meet his gaze, lifting my chin.

"I saw your face when Duke gave the order. Like someone had sentenced you to prison."

"Worse than prison." The admission came out rough, torn from somewhere deep. "Being this close to you and not being able to touch you is going to be torture."

My heart stopped. Actually stopped, suspended between beats while my brain tried to process his words.

"What?"

He crossed the room in two strides, stopping just out of reach. Close enough that I could smell gun oil and leather, that uniquely Tyson scent that made my knees weak.

"The kiss was a mistake. Duke made his position clear weeks ago." His hands clenched at his sides like he was physically stopping himself from reaching for me. "No club member touches you. You're off-limits until after the wedding, maybe permanently. He doesn't want you caught up in club business."

"Duke doesn't own me." Heat rose in my chest, anger mixing with want.

"No, but I answer to him." His jaw worked, struggling with words. "And I can't—Christ, Lena. I can't lose my place in the club. It's all I have left."

The weight of that admission hit hard. The club wasn't just his job or his friends. It was his family, his purpose, his anchor in a world that had taken everything else.

"So that kiss?" I needed to hear him say it.

"Was everything." The words came out like they hurt. "And it can't happen again."

We stood there in my tiny living room, three feet and a universe apart. The sunrise painted everything in shades of gold and shadow through my sketchy curtains. He looked wrecked—hair messed from running his hands through it, those brown eyes full of want and regret in equal measure.

"This is stupid," I said finally.

"Really stupid," he agreed, but he'd moved closer. When had he moved closer?