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The pain in her voice gutted me. I wanted to give her everything—public claiming, open affection, the right to call me hers in front of the whole world. Instead, I was asking her to pretend I meant nothing while surrounded by happy couples.

"After the wedding," I promised, tightening my arms around her. "I'll talk to Duke. Make him understand this isn't some casual thing."

"What if he doesn't?" The question was small, scared. "What if he makes you choose?"

I'd been trying not to think about that possibility. Duke had saved me, given me purpose when I'd been drowning. The club was my family, my life. But Lena . . . Lena was becoming something else. Something necessary as breathing.

"We'll figure it out," I said, meaning it. "Whatever happens, we'll handle it together."

I just hoped we’d be able to.

Chapter 11

Lena

Thelotusflowerbloomedunder my needle, each petal taking shape with practiced precision while my mind drifted somewhere else entirely. Somewhere that involved strong hands gripping my hips, a rough voice calling me perfect, the weight of Tyson's body pressing me into silk sheets. My hand steadied against the practice skin, but inside I was all sparklers and smoke, lit up by memories of last night.

Three days.

Three days since we'd signed our contract with purple ink and promises, and I was already a junkie for his particular brand of careful dominance. The secret sat under my skin like subcutaneous glitter, making me shine from the inside out. Every time I thought about him—which was approximately every thirty seconds—warmth pooled low in my belly.

I caught myself smiling at nothing again, probably looking like a lovesick teenager. But God, the way he'd held me after, like Iwas something precious and breakable and worth protecting . . . No one had ever touched me like that.

The shop hummed with its usual afternoon energy. Buzzing from Rick's station where he was working on a back piece, the low thrum of metal music from the speakers, the antiseptic-ink-leather smell that meant home. Normal Tuesday afternoon at Marked Kings, nothing special except for the secret burning bright in my chest. Hidden cameras capturing nothing but banality.

The bell above the door chimed, breaking through my Tyson-induced haze. I glanced up, expecting to see Marcus, my three o'clock appointment. Guy wanted a memorial piece for his grandfather, had sent over references of vintage motorcycles and—

My blood turned to ice water.

Cruz strolled through my door like he had every right to be there, examining the flash art on the walls with the casual interest of any potential customer. Same lean build, same calculated way of moving that made him look harmless to people who didn't know better. His hair was shorter now, styled in that expensive way that screamed respectability. The suit probably cost more than I made in a month.

"Nice shop," he said, not looking at me yet, fingers trailing over the framed designs. "Heard good things about the artist here."

My hand trembled as I set down the machine, carefully, so carefully, like any sudden movement might shatter the illusion that this wasn't happening. Four years of distance, four years of rebuilding, and here he stood in my sanctuary like a poison dressed in Armani.

"We're booked solid today." My voice came out steadier than expected, even as my pulse hammered against my throat.

"Really?" He turned then, dark eyes widening in perfectly feigned surprise. "Lena? What are the odds? I had no idea you worked here."

The lie slid off his tongue smooth as velvet. Of course he knew. Cruz always knew everything, gathered information like weapons, deployed it with surgical precision. This whole performance was for my benefit—or maybe for Rick, who'd stopped working to assess the newcomer with the wariness all bikers showed around suits.

"Small world," I managed, fingers curling against my thigh. "Like I said, we're booked."

"That's a shame." He moved closer with that predator's grace I remembered too well, studying the artwork covering the walls. My artwork. Pieces of my soul hung up for public consumption, and his eyes consumed them like he was cataloging vulnerabilities. "I was hoping for something special. You always did have talented hands."

The innuendo slithered between us, invisible to anyone else but clear as a threat to me. My skin crawled with the memory of those hands bound, of being told my art was a silly hobby, of creativity crushed under his heel like everything else that made me myself.

"I specifically wanted a piece about . . . letting go of the past. Moving forward." He paused at a design I'd done last month, a phoenix rising from geometric ashes. "You know how important that is, right? Not letting old things haunt you?"

"You should try the shop on Fifth," I said firmly, even as my stomach churned. "They take walk-ins."

"But I'm already here." He'd made it to my station now, too close, invading the space I'd carefully cultivated as mine. His eyes roamed over my setup—the organized chaos of ink bottles, the photos tucked into the mirror's edge, the small purple unicorn sticker Tyson had snuck onto my lamp yesterday whenI wasn't looking. "Besides, we have history. That has to count for something."

Rick had fully stopped working now, his instincts clearly pinging that something was wrong. But what could I say? 'This well-dressed man used to control every aspect of my life through a twisted version of BDSM'? 'He's threatening me with words that sound perfectly reasonable'?

Cruz leaned closer, and the smell hit me like a physical blow. Same cologne—Tom Ford, Tobacco Vanille, ninety dollars an ounce. He'd made me memorize the name, the price, told me I should be grateful he spent so much to smell good for me.

"You can play tough with your new boys," he murmured, voice low enough that Rick couldn't hear. "But we both know what you really are. What you need. That hasn't changed."