Page 23 of Prospect’s Curvy Vinyl Girl

A driver's license with his face, the name a fabricated stranger. An employment record for a long-haul trucking company out of Denver. Eighteen months of pay stubs.

Another license. An Albuquerque security consultant badge—a name I’ve never heard him use.

And the latest. The Portland cousin license. A phantom history, meticulously crafted, printed on thick government paper.

"The club hacker, Daniel, built these," Tyler says, his voice a low cadence of confession. "He hands me an envelope. I memorize the history. I become the man on the paper. I've run so many covers I don't even know what my own voice sounds like anymore. The trucker liked country music. The security consultant drank his coffee with sugar. Tom is afraid of confrontation."

He looks up at me. The shadows under his eyes are bruised testaments to years of psychological isolation. "Tyler drinks his coffee black," he says, stepping closer. He crowds my space, the heat of his body radiating into the chill of the shop. "Tyler is the sixth unpatched prospect of the Broken Halos Motorcycle Club. Tyler came to Crimson Hollow on a deep-cover infiltration mission from the club president, tasked with mapping the Syndicate’s administrative infrastructure so we can burn it to the ground."

He points a thick finger at the files.

"Every piece of paper on this counter is a ghost. A lie. A man who never existed. I gave up everything. I gave up my life, my brothers, my own fucking face, just to blend into the wallpaper of this town."

His hand drops. His fingers trace the edge of the Coltrane record the Syndicate goons dropped.

"And then you walked up to me in the soft rock aisle," he murmurs, his voice dropping into a raspy register. "You grabbed my arm. You claimed me. And the whole operation burned."

I stare at the spread of fake lives. The weight of his trauma hits me in the chest. He’s been a ghost for years. Wandering through other people's lives, never keeping anything for himself. No attachments. No sanctuary. Just a go-bag and a new name.

I’ve been drowning in roots. He’s been starving for them.

I reach out. I don't touch the files. I touch him.

I press my palm flat against the center of his chest. His heart hammers against my skin—a frantic rhythm that betrays his stoic exterior.

"You think this scares me?" I ask softly. I slide my hand up his chest, gripping the thick leather of his jacket. "You think knowing you're a lethal club prospect on a suicide mission is going to make me run?"

His jaw tightens. "It should. I’m putting a target on your back just by breathing the air in your shop."

"They were already targeting me, Tyler," I fire back, my voice gaining strength. The sass, the fire, the refusal to be a victim surges back into my veins. "They were already bleeding me dry. My mother died four years ago. I stayed in this town, in this shop, because I thought if I kept the records spinning, I wouldn't lose her. I trapped myself in a cage, and the Syndicate’s been shrinking the bars every Tuesday."

I step into his space, forcing him to look down at me.

"You didn't put a target on my back. You brought the fucking cavalry."

His chest expands on a jagged inhale. The fire in his dark eyes flares, bright and feral.

"You belong to me," he snarls, his hands coming up to grip my hips. His fingers dig into my jeans, hauling me flush against his groin. The hard ridge of his arousal presses against my stomach. He’s unapologetically hard. The violence, the confession, the claiming—it all feeds the Ignition. "You understand that? The cover is dead. The mission is dead. My only directive is you. This shop. Your life. Mine."

"Yours," I confirm without a single second of hesitation.

I don't need to think about it. I don't need to weigh the pros and cons of dating an undercover operative. I belong to him. He belongs to me. That’s the truth left in Crimson Hollow.

I pull out of his grip, ignoring the immediate, protesting sound that vibrates in his throat.

I turn my attention to the files spread across the oak counter.

I push the fake licenses aside. I push the employment histories aside. I find the mission brief. The heavily redacted operational notes outlining the Syndicate’s hierarchy.

"They’re running this town like a corporation," I say, tracing the lines of text. "The Tuesday Enforcer. The collection routes. They don't use violence unless they have to. They use bureaucracy. They use fear. Wally tossing the shop tonight? That was a panic move. They‘re afraid of you."

Tyler steps up behind me. He wraps his arms around my waist, pulling my back flush against his chest, right where I belong. He rests his chin on the top of my head, looking down at the files with me.

"They’re running cross-checks on Tom from Portland," he says, his voice a deep rumble against my spine. "Nadia confirmed it. The lieutenant ordered a deep dive. My cover will hold up to a digital scrub. Daniel built it tight. But they’re getting restless."

"Because you don't fit the profile of a pushover cousin," I say, tapping the edge of the mission file. "You're too big. You're too quiet. You stand in front of me like a meat shield every time the bell rings."

"I'm not letting them look at you."