Page 57 of Tank
Until they don’t.
Until they turn cold, or cruel, or possessive.
Until they take pieces of you and never give them back.
My pulse quickens with the memory of it, the echo of a past I've tried to bury but can't. I know this pattern. I’ve lived it. No, I survived it. Survived it by the skin of my teeth and with barely my soul intact.
And now, lying here wrapped in his warmth, surrounded by the scent of woodsmoke and cinnamon, I feel something I haven’t let myself feel in years. A deep pull. A dangerous longing. It calls to me, whispers promises of something more than survival, but I know how easily those promises break.
Something that could be love, or could be the beginning of a mistake I can’t afford to make.
I have to be careful. I have to remember the lessons I’ve learned; I can’t make the same mistake twice. I can't let his touch, his presence, lull me into a false sense of security. The more I feel, the less I'm able to think, and that kind of recklessness could be my undoing. My breath hitches with an unsteady exhale. The fear is choking. It's too much, and I need to act before it paralyzes me.
I exhale softly, careful not to wake him, and ease out of his arms. The moment our bodies separate, I feel colder.
I shake it off. I need to clear my head.
I grab my phone from the coffee table, padding barefoot toward the door. The cabin is quiet, the only sound the distant hoot of an owl and the faint rustle of the wind through the trees.
I slip outside into the night.
The air is crisp, carrying the scent of pine and damp earth. A reminder that I’m far from the city, far from everything I know.
I stare at my phone for a long moment. Then, before I can talk myself out of it, I pull up an old contact.
Detective Liam Carter.
A good man. One of the only ones I’ve ever really trusted. He helped me deal with my ex, with the threats, the police reports, the restraining order. Even looking at his name on my contacts list sends me back, makes my hands shake, sends me back to that place I never hoped to be again.
But I have to go there. I have to be sure. I have to be safe.
He picks up on the second ring. "Bianca?" His voice is rough with sleep but alert. Concerned. "Are you okay?"
I swallow hard.
"I need you to look into someone for me."
There’s a pause.
Then, cautious but firm, Liam says, "Who?"
I hesitate. My fingers tighten around the phone. I glance back at the cabin, at the warm light glowing through the window. At the man sleeping inside.
“His name is Caleb Morgan. I want you to look into him. I want to know everything about him.”
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Tank
The smell of fresh-baked bread, cinnamon, and sugar fills the air as I knead dough behind the counter. My hands are covered in flour, and I take a deep breath, letting the familiar scents ease the tension I didn’t even know I had. Next to me, Ricky is hunched over, tongue sticking out slightly as he focuses on piping filling into his newest batch of pastries. They look like shit. Lopsided, uneven little disasters that resemble something a toddler would make after a couple of Jaegerbombs. But compared to his first attempts, these are less awful — the filling's at least inside the pastry this time. When he finally finishes this round, he wipes the back of his hand across his forehead, leaving a streak of white, and shoots me a sideways, questioning look.
I decide to be nice about it for once. “You’re getting better,” I grunt, never breaking the rhythm of my kneading.
Ricky beams. “Yeah?”
I nod. “Still ugly as sin, but at least I wouldn’t mistake ‘em for roadkill anymore.”
Ricky throws his head back and laughs, a big, unrestrained noise that fills the room. For the first time since I took him in, he actually seems... happy. The constant tension that usually knots up his shoulders is gone, and he looks lighter, freer. As I listen closer, I realize he’s even humming to himself, a sound so strange coming from him I can’t help but raise an eyebrow.
