Chapter 28 Tristan
TRISTAN
She pries my fucking chest open with the expertise of a surgeon and the gentleness of a fairy, and everything threatens to spill out. I can’t contain the poison leaking out of me, knowing it’s an endless well. There’s not enough blood I can spill to make me feel better.
Fuck if I want to have the stamp of being a victim, fully aware I am one.
It should make me proud that despite all that piece of shit put me through, I overcame it. Being a survivor takes will and strength, but he fucked me up in irreparable ways.
I am in the club’s basement, dealing with a traitor hanging on a hook. Quite fitting.
Even though I have successfully eliminated threats over the years, I knew my marriage would cause ripples in the underworld. And some cocky bastards would try to get to me through her.
My men intercepted members of a gang stalking her and biding their time. I’ll paint this city red to make the statement that she’s untouchable.
Killers are not born. They are made. I am a prime example of that.
But even among monsters, there are different breeds.
The difference between me and them is that I’m at the top of the food chain, and they’re at the bottom.
The other thing that makes the starkest distinction is my ability to withstand pain.
My father took care of that, wanting me to become someone no one could break.
Strength comes from pain. That’s the shit he would always recite right before inflicting another round of torture.
I should thank the asshole for turning me into a fucking stone. Nothing can move me. Nothing can affect me. Nothing can hurt me. Just her. My wife. I am sure neither my father nor I took her into account.
I need her.
I miss her.
Miss her simple presence soothing my battered soul.
Her instinct to nurture and her ability to anticipate those kids’ needs leaves me in awe.
They are strangers, but she’s built such a strong foundation with them that the children worship her.
Just like the little fucker who asked her to marry him.
I watched it live on the feed, one second away from driving there and staking my claim until reason trickled through the cracks of madness.
She’s mine. Damn it, I can’t believe I am jealous of a five-year-old. There’s no cure for my insanity.
I will lose my fucking mind if I don’t give her what she wants so she can give me what I need. It’s simple in theory.
She hasn’t wavered. My wife is a damn force, but maybe once she discovers the entire story, she won’t want a kid anymore.
I am not equipped to be a father, especially to a boy, refusing to fuck him up like mine did me. I would rather blow my brains out than ever hurt my child.
The muffled sounds pull me back into the present, my attention returning to the men hanging from the ceiling in the basement.
I shift from one to the next.
Whoever comes after what’s mine ends up dead—a painful yet vital lesson. Whoever dares to come after my wife will suffer infinitely worse. A quick death is a mercy I won’t bestow on them.
With lids stapled to keep their eyes open, I force them to watch the digital pictures displayed on the wall of all they hold dear in this life. Their wannabe empire going up in flames.
Dragging the knife up the first one’s front, I put it under his chin, nipping the skin. The first drop of blood coats the blade, telling of the impending gore.
Snot and tears mix into a grotesque painting of loss.
There’s not a single doubt that they’ll die, they simply wish the torture to end.
No such luck.
I carve the knife into his chest, and twisting it, I pull the blade down to his belly, gutting him like a fish.
He watches my handwork as his intestines spill out, life leaking out of him, subsiding into a murmur of death.
The other prays, a hundred apologies rolling into an endless river of regret.
I spin him around, replicating the action on his back. His wails fill my ears, but I am too far gone in violence’s haze. Only the thought that they would have captured her destroys every human part of me.
They wouldn’t have shown mercy. On the contrary. Out loud, I read their text exchanges about my wife. They would have used her holes to turn her into a fucking loose whore who they’d fuck until they had enough. Once they were done with her, they would have sent her back to me–broken beyond repair.
I follow a credo. There are consequences if you break it. Innocent beings should never be involved. Most women, all children, are untouchable.
But for some lowlifes, the shortcut proves too tempting to resist.
After I expose his entire back, I drop the knife, clattering on the floor. The sound echoes of irreparable damage, blood coating my hands like a messenger of Death. I dig my hands inside and rip his ribs out, spreading them into wings of bones.
Spinning him around, I watch the life extinguish from his eyes.
My men shift in the corners, the sight even for seasoned killers, horrendous.
I am an advocate of repeating lessons. People are forgetful, and every time an opportunity presents itself, I show my men why I am the boss. It’s not only a display of power, but a claim of control.
This lesson is even more barbaric because it’s personal.
It entertains me when people come after me, in and out of the underworld.
I enjoy a good challenge just to appease my ego—a famished beast always on the hunt for validation, so I encourage the match.
Come after my wife, and the punishment will be a hundred times worse than death.
For a moment, I thought it was Demyan, but these men showed no tattoos or any allegiance to the Bratva. The only thing in common is that they come from the slum he rules.
He’s getting sloppier, making me wonder what’s going on.
Focusing on the second man, intestines and blood smudge the floor, the air reeks with the stench of shit. Their faces are still recognizable. I always thought using your fists to be uncultured. Now give me a knife, and I will create a masterpiece.
“Deliver them to the harbor for everyone to see,” I say to one of my men, who rushes to comply.
Even the harbor I have to share with that prick. I haven’t gotten softer since I married, but more feral. I have someone to protect, and for my woman, I’d cross every damn boundary.
I don’t clean my hands, the reddish hue reminds me of why I am where I am. It infuses me with power. I lost my conscience like my innocence, long before I had any notion of what is good or bad, morally wrong or acceptable.
At the top, you don’t have to ask. You define the code of conduct.
Driving home, I let myself into the penthouse and sigh, awaiting another night without her.
I stare at my bloody hands, feeling no remorse, only pride, pondering what she would think of seeing the monster at play.
One thing that keeps me from confessing is that I don’t feel bad about my actions, but I loathe the thought that she’ll find excuses to live with and love the man I truly am.
Unlucky for her, I am not a good man and never will be.
At the bar, I pour myself a glass of scotch when the lights turn on.
Shit.
In a negligee, she crosses her arms over her chest, arching a brow at me. “Long night, husband?”
Fuck. I should have checked. This woman never ceases to surprise me. “Shouldn’t you be at the beach house?”
It’s then her eyes move down to the bloody hand holding the glass.
She swallows, eyes blinking in a frantic movement as if to convince herself I am unharmed. Running to me, she discards my jacket and rips my shirt, her rapid movement revealing her agitated state.
She cares. For me. The man who just slaughtered two men, feeling nothing but contentment.
The bottle drops from my hand, spilling just like my insides.
“It’s not my blood,” I say, my voice gentle, overcome by emotion.
Her movements come to an abrupt halt, her palms resting on my chest.
She tilts her head, looking up at me. “Did they deserve it?”
“In my eyes, yes.”
She nods as if coming to terms with something. “When was the first time?”
“Age twelve.”
Shock transforms her features, color draining from her face. The sight of me scares her. Everything I was terrified of plays out in front of my eyes.
I am about to move, giving her space to cope with reality when she grabs my hands, eyeing the reddish hue as she caresses me. “I don’t like seeing blood on you.”
Relief so potent hits me, I drag in a lungful of air filled with pure life, feeling oddly at peace as she keeps watching me. No judgment. No fear. No repugnance.
“Let’s wash it away,” she murmurs.
My insides burn up with sheer need, and I follow her as she brings me to our room and into the shower.
I blink at her, not understanding if this is happening or my fucked-up brain spun a fantasy. It wouldn’t surprise me if I lost my mind over her.
Even if I die from craving her, I will never force her. I might like to lead, initiate, and be in control, but permission must be granted and trust assured.
Forever has passed, waiting for her to accept some things, fucking me up even worse. Now that she does, it makes me question whether she’s a figment of my imagination. That I am high on the blood I spilled for her.
I cup her cheeks, and she leans into my touch as if she missed it.
“Are you sure you know what you’re doing?” I ask because, to me, this is surrender.
“No, Tristan.” The corners of her mouth arch up in a small smile. “I never know with you.”
I move forward, erasing the space between us. Lowering my face, I take her mouth in a passionate kiss that revives my insides, feeding me a shot of life equivalent to the highest dose of ecstasy.
Ever since I met her, I felt alive, but now, after months of hibernation, I enjoy the bliss to the fullest. Teeth and tongues collide to satiate a yearning that grows every day.