Chapter 12
Through the windowsof our suite at the St. Regis, I see the velvet crater of Central Park.
The rooms are spacious, ridiculous—even to me, a daughter of Laurence Bank—but Mark pays attention to none of it. His eyes immediately find the wedding present I arranged to have waiting for him, and his whole demeanor changes.
“Is this for us?” he asks, sounding delighted.
I nod at the chessboard sitting on a small table by the window, suddenly feeling shy. I’ve never dated, never been courted, have no idea how gifts work when given to someone who knows what your body tastes like. It’s strangely vulnerable. “It’s for you.”
“And here I am, unable to give you your present until we’re at Lyonesse.” Mark is already walking over to it, his stride eager. The city lights sparkle on the pieces lined up along the sides—one set obsidian, the other crystal. He runs his fingers along the board, clear and milky quartz cleverly joined together in squares, and his fingertips twitch in the same way they twitched against my ribboned throat earlier tonight.
“The quartz on the board is from Maine, near where you and Melody grew up,” I say softly. “And the obsidian is from Carpathia.”
The place where he first served as a soldier. The place that made him into the former killer and present-day deviant he is.
“And the crystal?” he asks, still looking at the board.
“Ireland.”
He lifts his eyes to me, and I fight off the urge to shiver, his gaze is so intense. “So it’s you and me on the board,” he says.
“Yes. Do you like it?”
A wide, almost boyish grin spreads across his face, and I’m nearly knocked back onto my heels. The white teeth, the lines around his eyes, the unabashed glee.
It’s a good thing my husband is rarely happy, because a smile like this could stop my heart.
I look away as a knock sounds at the door, and I take the opportunity to flee. I’m infected enough already, besotted against my will, and I don’t need any more candles burning at my private altar. I open the door, and a quick prayer flits across my thoughts.
God help me.
It’s Tristan, still buttoned and knotted and earpieced, exhaustion smudged under his eyes and stubble peppering his jaw. When his gaze meets mine, I see a misery so profound that it makes my bones hurt just to see.
No, not misery.
Grief.
For the loss of me or for the loss of Mark, I don’t know. Probably the latter, given that Tristan and I only met two months ago, which shouldn’t make my bones hurt even more, but there’s a selfishness inside me that I can’t seem to root out. A selfishness that refuses to be the only one craving kisses and broken confessions.
I need this so much.
I’m obsessed.
It’s a dream where nothing matters but you.
I am never more grateful for my unique upbringing as both a socialite and a future saint of the Church because I know my body betrays nothing. I know I’m still standing with straight shoulders and a lifted chin, that my breathing appears even, that my face is as still and emotionless as a doll’s.
But then Tristan sees my dress, sees my body through the dress, and his face shows everything. Shock and longing and the same grief as earlier, but magnified into flat-out torture now.
“Isolde,” he exhales. “I?—”
“Is that Tristan?” Mark calls from the window. “Tell him to come in.”
I open the door even wider, and Tristan steps in, mouth sealed against whatever he’d been about to say. Together we walk toward Mark, who is currently unknotting his bow tie while looking down at his new chessboard.
“I’ve checked the suite and liaised with the hotel security, Mr. Trevena,” Tristan says, his voice and face mostly under control. I can’t forget that he was a soldier, that discipline is second nature to him. However, deception is not, and no matter how much he wants to perform the role of stoic, unaffected bodyguard right now, unhappiness is seeping into his voice and bleeding into his features. “We should be set for the night. Goran, Sedge, and Dinah have already left for Lyonesse, and Jago will be here at ten tomorrow morning to take us to the airport.”
“Wonderful,” Mark says. He’s unbuttoning the top button of his shirt now, exposing a notch of strong, suntanned throat. “Would you like to stay and watch us play a game of chess? My wife has given me a new chessboard.”
Tristan’s eyes flick to the board and then to me. “It’s a beautiful board, but I should get to bed, Mr. Trevena. It’s been a long day.”
It has been a long day. A long day of him watching his two former lovers pledge, marry, and now stand in the suite where they’ll have their wedding night. I hate the thought of him lying awake in his room later, wondering if Mark is touching me, fucking me.
“You could play too,” I offer. “You don’t only have to watch.”
“Thank you, but no,” Tristan says quickly, and Mark gives a snort.
I feel like I’m missing some kind of chess backstory. “Why not?”
“I’m not good at chess,” Tristan admits sheepishly at the same time Mark says, “He plays like a soldier.”
It comes out petulant, almost childish, like a schoolboy complaining that a companion is no fun, but there’s a fondness in the shape of Mark’s mouth as he looks at Tristan.
“Although if you’d like me to beat you at chess, I’ll happily oblige, my knight.”
There’s a flush across the bridge of Tristan’s nose now, and he shakes his head. “No, sir. I don’t think that’s necessary.”
“Well, then I suppose I’ll have to play Isolde.” Mark works open his tuxedo jacket, his fingers deft and strong on the button, and both Tristan and I watch, hypnotized for a moment.
I rip my gaze away. “I should change,” I murmur.
If we can’t get Tristan to stay, maybe I can at least give the two of them a moment together.
Mark sits at the table and starts placing the pieces on the board, sliding them to the precise centers of their squares. “You’ll need help unfastening your dress. Tristan, why don’t you help Isolde with that before you go?”
He’s not looking at us, but we’re both looking at him, hands at our sides, completely wordless. For a brief instant, I am utterly frozen by the brazenness of it, the high-handedness. The pointlessness of it, because why wouldn’t Mark, my husband, unfasten my dress for me? Why ask Tristan?
Unless Mark knows.
Unless he suspects.
But it doesn’t seem like a test of fidelity—Mark isn’t watching us with jealous eyes; he isn’t paying attention to us at all. He looks like nothing more than a man who is impatient to play chess.
Still, though, this is a farce and imperious and impolite, and I’m about to tell Mark that he can unhook my dress himself when Tristan steps behind me.
I will my face not to move, my body not to react to his nearness, but then he brushes the tails of the ribbon around my neck over my shoulder, and goose bumps erupt all over my arms. I am so grateful that Mark is still occupied with the board and its pieces, and I give a short urgent prayer that Tristan is quick.
The bodyguard’s fingers are warm as they search out the first hook on the back of my dress, pressing as they work the hook open. He must have undressed me two or three times a day on the yacht, peeling wet swimsuits from my skin, unbuttoning silk blouses to expose my breasts, yanking down my leggings to get at my cunt. But never has it felt as indecent, as sexually charged, as it does right now, with his hands opening my reception dress while my husband sits just a few feet away. My husband, who used to fuck him. My husband, whom he’s still in love with.
Maybe this wasn’t meant to be a test for me at all, but a test for Tristan instead. A way for Tristan to prove how dutiful he’ll be, even after Mark has married someone else.
And that is more than impolite. That’s fucking cruel.
I can hear the catch of Tristan’s breath as the last hook is released and the dress sags down to show the top of my slip. I catch the bodice before it drops past my breasts, and Tristan carefully finds the ribbon ends hanging over my shoulder and smooths them down my spine.
His touch lingers there, between my shoulder blades, and I don’t move, and how can I still be getting wet between the legs when Mark is right there, when the reason Tristan can’t touch me is close enough for us to see the small scar arrowing into his brilliant hair?
For a wild moment, I want Mark to look over at us. I want him to see Tristan’s hands on me and the goose bumps on my skin and the small trembles we’re both trying so desperately to hide.
It’s a stupid, intrusive thought.
Tristan’s hands drop, and I hear him step backward, the solid step of someone who is used to marching in time. Right now it sounds like a retreat.
I turn to face him, partly, holding my dress to my chest.
“Thank you,” I say, the words coming out civil and collected, like my nipples aren’t achingly stiff behind the loose bodice of my dress.
The flush across Tristan’s nose has spread to his cheeks, and his lower lip looks bee-stung, like he’s been biting it.
“You’re welcome,” he says, his voice tight. “And congratulations to you both.”
And then he leaves without looking back, the door closing behind him with a slam. I turn back to see Mark staring at the now-closed door, his expression unreadable.
But when he looks at me, at the way I’m holding the dress to my body, I see the subtle work of his throat.
“Go change,” he says. “I’m ready to play now.”