Page 6

"Oh really?" Duke crossed his arms. "Because that little tell when Thor mentioned Lena's name says otherwise."

Heat crept up my neck. "It's nothing."

"Brother, I've known you since we were fifteen. You've got three tells when you're interested in a woman. The pen pause, that thing you do with your jaw, and you get real specific about tactical challenges." He smiled, but his eyes stayed serious. "You just hit all three in under a minute."

"She's under club protection."

"She's not claimed." Duke's voice carried meaning. "Not property. Not family. Just a friend who does good work and keeps her mouth shut."

"Thor thinks of her as a sister."

"Thor thinks of everyone as family. Doesn't make it law." Duke moved toward the door, then paused. "Just keep your head clear. We need you focused on security, not purple hair and pretty smiles."

"My focus is solid."

"Good. Because if the Serpents notice you spending every day at that shop, they might wonder why. Might make her more of a target than she already is."

The words hit like cold water. I hadn't considered that angle, too caught up in my own concerns to see the tactical implications. My presence could paint a target on her back.

"I'll be careful."

"You'll be professional. No one in the club touches her, and that includes you."

"There is no me and Lena."

"Good." Duke headed for the door.

I finished packing, each movement automatic while my brain worked the problem. Eight weeks of daily proximity to Lena. Eight weeks of professional distance while ensuring her safety. Eight weeks of watching those talented hands create art while pretending I didn't wonder what they'd feel like touching something other than a tattoo machine.

Eight weeks of torture.

Chapter 2

Lena

SomehowIknewthatthis was not going to be a good day.

I was twenty-four years old, wearing the lavender slip dress Cruz had chosen, sitting in what he called "proper position for his good girl." Hands folded in my lap, spine straight, chin tilted down just enough to show submission but not so much I couldn't watch him pace.

The loft stretched around me like a museum—white walls, minimal furniture, everything precisely placed. My art supplies locked in the closet because I hadn't "earned them" this week. The easel I'd brought from home, gone. Sketchbooks, hidden. Even my tattoo equipment banished to storage because "good girls don't need distractions from Daddy."

His dress shoes clicked across the floor, each step measured. Italian leather, five hundred dollars, paid for with my money though he'd never admit it. Cruz loved beautiful things. Loved owning them more.

"We need to discuss your spending." His voice carried that reasonable tone that made my stomach clench. Behind me now, his cologne—Tom Ford, another expensive habit—filling my lungs. "I've had to cancel your credit cards."

"But I—"

"Shh." His finger pressed against my lips. "Good girls don't interrupt. The cards are maxed because you can't control yourself, Little One. All those art supplies, those childish indulgences. You're lucky I'm here to handle the finances."

He moved in front of me, crouching down. Manicured fingers tilted my chin up, forcing eye contact. Those brown eyes that had seemed so warm when we met at the gallery, now calculating every micro-expression on my face.

"I know this is hard, baby girl. Being little means accepting you need guidance. Structure. That's why Daddy makes the rules."

More footsteps. The click-click-click drilling into my skull.

"Speaking of which, I don't want you seeing Sarah anymore."

My chest tightened. Sarah, my best friend since middle school. The only person who'd questioned our relationship, who'd noticed the bruises beneath the little girl dresses.