Page 32 of Tyson
"Shut up and kiss me."
Christ. The words hit like a physical blow, need slamming through me so hard my vision wavered. But I forced myself to move slowly, telegraphing like she'd done for me. Giving her time to change her mind, to pull back, to remember all the reasons this was insane.
She didn't pull back. Instead, she leaned in, eyes fluttering closed, lips parting slightly. An invitation. A gift.
The first contact was electric—soft despite the desperation clawing at my chest, careful despite the hunger. Her lips were impossibly gentle against mine, tasting faintly of coffee and something sweet. She made a sound that was part sob, part relief, and then her hands were fisting in my tactical vest, pulling me deeper.
I threaded my fingers through her purple chaos, silk strands tangling around my knuckles. The angle was wrong, both of us sitting awkwardly, but I didn't care. Couldn't care about anything except the way she opened for me, generous and eager.
Her tongue traced my lower lip, tentative exploration, and my control snapped. I angled her head, tasting her properly—vanillaand rebellion, soft surrender and fierce need. She gasped into my mouth, and I swallowed the sound like communion.
I pulled her into my lap, needing her closer, needing to feel her against me. She came willingly, eagerly, straddling my thighs like she belonged there. Like she'd always belonged there.
"I've wanted—" The words broke as she rocked against me, pure instinct. "God, you have no idea—"
"Tell me." She nipped at my lower lip, soothing it with her tongue. "Tell me what you've wanted."
"You." Simple. Honest. Everything. "Just you. All of you. The chaos and the care and the stuffed animals and the attitude and—"
She kissed me again, deeper this time, swallowing my confession. Her hands mapped my chest through the vest, finding skin at my throat, my jaw. Every touch was fire, every breath shared between us sacred.
I gripped her waist, spanning the curve with my hands. She was so small against me, but she didn't feel fragile. She felt like unleashed storm, like barely contained power. Like everything I never knew I needed.
"Lena," I breathed against her mouth, tasting her name. "Fuck, Lena—"
CRASH.
The front window exploded in a shower of glass.
Training kicked in before thought. I rolled us behind the metal shelving, covering her body with mine as glass rained down like deadly confetti. The tinkling cascade seemed to last forever, each impact another violation of the peace we'd built.
"Stay down." The command came out harsh, military. My hand was already on the Glock, though I kept it holstered.
Glass crunched under my boots as I assessed. Brick on the shop floor. White paper attached. The morning streetlights illuminated everything in sick amber tones.
"Tyson—"
"Don't move." I scanned the broken window, the street beyond. No movement. No follow-up attack. Just the message, delivered and done.
Still shielding her with my body, I reached for the brick. The paper came away easily—photo paper, I realized. My blood turned to ice before I even turned it over.
The image showed Lena, younger, on her knees in what looked like a child's dress. Lavender, with white lace. Tears streamed down her face while a man's manicured hand twisted in her hair, holding her in place. The positioning, her expression—it was violently intimate, meant to humiliate and control.
Across the bottom in red sharpie: "The Serpents know what you like, little girl. Cruz says hello."
Behind me, Lena made a sound like a wounded animal. She'd seen it over my shoulder, and all the color drained from her face.
"No. No, no, no—" She scrambled backward, hyperventilating. "He said he destroyed them. He promised if I left quietly—"
My rage was arctic cold, precise as a sniper's bullet. Someone was going to die for this. Multiple someones. Starting with Cruz and working through every Serpent who thought they could touch what was mine.
What was mine. When had I started thinking of her that way?
Didn't matter. What mattered was the terror in her eyes, the way she'd curled into herself like she could disappear.
"Lena, look at me." I used the same command voice that had gotten soldiers through firefights. "You're safe. I've got you."
"You don't understand." Her voice was thread-thin. "If they have these photos, if Cruz gave them—" She broke off, shaking.
