Page 112 of Tyson
His other hand came up to trace the purple streak in my hair, gentle as butterfly wings. "No nightmares last night."
"I noticed." Third night in a row, actually. The warehouse dreams were fading, replaced by normal things—showing up to work naked, forgetting how to tattoo, Tyson deciding he preferred blondes. "Helps having you there."
"Always gonna be there," he murmured into my hair. "Ready to watch your Daddy in a suit on Saturday?"
The word still sent heat through me, private and perfect between us. "More than ready. You clean up nice, Soldier Boy."
"Flatterer." But he was smiling against my temple, that content rumble in his chest that meant all was right in his world. "Finish up here by six? Thought we could grab dinner at that Thai place you like."
"The one where you complained the mild was too spicy?"
"I've been building tolerance." He pulled back enough to meet my eyes. "For you, I'll suffer through medium."
I laughed, pushing at his chest. "My hero. Now get out of here before Thor's right about defiling the shop."
"Rain check?" His eyes went dark with promise.
"Always." I stretched up for a quick kiss that turned into two, three, before he finally stepped back.
"Six o'clock," he reminded me from the door. "Be good, little girl."
"Never," I called after him, grinning at his growl.
The shop felt lighter when he left but not empty. Never empty anymore. I had four more tattoos to do, a wedding to prepare for, and a life that finally felt like mine. The nightmares might come back—trauma was sneaky like that—but they'd find me harder to break.
After all, I had a thriving business and a Daddy who brought me coffee. What more could a girl want?
RiversideGardensbloomedlikea purple and silver dream, wisteria dripping from every archway while ribbons fluttered in the warm breeze. Brothers in cuts stood at every entrance—trying to look casual while their eyes tracked every movement, every unfamiliar face. No chances, not after the yacht.
I smoothed my hands down the purple bridesmaid dress for the hundredth time, silk whispering against my palms. Mandy had chosen perfectly—deep purple that complemented my hair, cut to show the wildflower tattoo on my hip when I moved just right. Which Tyson had already noticed. Twice.
"Stop fidgeting," I told him, reaching up to adjust his tie one last time. The man could face down armies without blinking, but formal wear made him twitchy. "You look incredible."
"I look like a fed." But his hands settled on my waist, thumbs stroking through the silk. That thing he did, grounding himself through touch. "This dress . . ."
"Is perfectly appropriate for a wedding," I said firmly, recognizing the heat building in his eyes. "Don't even think about it."
"Too late." His voice dropped to that gravelly tone that made my insides liquid. "Been thinking about peeling it off you since you put it on."
"Tyson." I glanced around, but the other groomsmen were busy with their own adjustments. Tank was fighting with cufflinks while Duke straightened Tank's tie with presidential authority. "Behave during the ceremony."
"Always behave," he murmured, pulling me closer. The heat of him seeped through his suit, making me hyperaware of every point of contact. "Question is, will you?"
I nipped at his jaw, quick and teasing. "Guess you'll have to watch and find out."
His grip tightened, and for a moment I thought he might kiss me right there, audience be damned. Then the music started—soft guitar that meant places, everyone—and he stepped back with visible reluctance.
"Later," I promised, smoothing his lapel one last time.
His smile was pure predator. "Count on it, baby girl."
The wedding party arranged itself with practiced chaos. Five bridesmaids, five groomsmen, all trying to remember which side they stood on. I caught Mia's eye, both of us fighting giggles at the sheer normalcy of it. Here we were, playing wedding like regular people, like we hadn't washed blood from our hair a month ago.
"Wrists up, ladies," Amy, Mandy’s sister commanded, and we all raised our arms to show the matching infinity tattoos. The photographer went crazy, clicking away at the delicate symbols that bound us together. Permanent sisterhood, inked in skin and sealed in survival.
The music shifted, and everyone turned. Even the brothers on security swiveled their heads, drawn by the processional march. First the flower girl—someone's niece, scattering purple petals with deadly seriousness. Then us, one by one, trying not to trip in heels on grass.
I locked eyes with Tyson as I passed, unable to help myself. He stood at attention, military straight, but his eyes tracked me like I was the only person in the garden. The promise in that look made me stumble slightly, catching myself before anyone but him noticed. His lips quirked—the bastard knew exactly what he did to me.
