Marked Heart (Ruling Love #4)

1. Isolde

Isolde

THE NIGHT HER BEST FRIEND HIRED HER A BODYGUARD

Tristan Trevino doesn’t appear amused by Love Island.

I’m not one to judge. I personally like Naked Attraction better, but if Love Island is causing the guy to clench his jaw, I can’t imagine what he’d make of six competitors being lined up with the sole intent that one of them will eventually end up buck naked.

“I’ve got a text!” a woman squeals on the screen. She’s cute with blonde hair and blue eyes.

We share those two traits, except this blonde looks great in a thong bikini. Plus, she’s capable of creating a smoky eye look every night. And most importantly, she can speak to men.

My sister Sammie was good at that, too. She was good at talking to anyone she ever came across.

Me, though? I’ve currently got a man in my living room, and I can’t formulate one fucking word.

I reposition myself in the corner of my green sofa. I’m not one for interior design. It’s all a bit beyond me, color scheme and stuff. But this sofa is made out of dark green velvet. Sometimes I smooth my hand over it just because I like how it feels.

Tristan sits in a brown leather chair, caddy corner to the sofa. The chair is almost too small for him. He’s got his knees spread wide and his arms crossed. His brown eyes stay trained on the telly, except for the few times he’s looked down at his phone.

He sighs—a lot.

It’s not like I asked him to become my bodyguard.

That’s all on Ren. She thinks she’s being helpful, hiring me a bodyguard. It’s payback for when I hired Tristan in the first place—when the bodies of her ex-boyfriends began to show up.

Except, I made a mistake. When a man showed up with a gun right outside her flat, I believed the bullet was meant for her. Turns out I’d been the intended target.

Only one person has ever tried to kill me before. Looks like he hasn’t stopped trying to kill me.

It’s all been taken out of context, though.

Tristan didn’t need to follow me home from the warehouse where Ren had orchestrated a shootout among her closest competitors.

I tuck my elbow closer to my side, holding still. If I don’t move, I don’t hurt.

“You’re in pain.”

“Huh?” My voice sounds weird even to me. But I’m just tired.

And so is Tristan, based on the shadows under his eyes and the way his lips draw down.

Thank fuck this flat is a two-bedroom. Where would he have slept otherwise? When he watched over Ren, he camped out in the flat next to hers. But that’s not an option since this building is full.

Tristan leans forward in his chair. “Why are you holding yourself like that?”

My arms are crossed, one hand cradling my elbow, a makeshift human swaddle.

“No,” I reply belatedly, realizing that doesn’t actually answer his question.

He frowns, his entire face dipping as his eyebrows furrow together.

Fucking beautiful. Even when he’s angry, it’s like he’s golden. If Tristan Trevino were a contestant on Love Island, he’d get panties sent to him in the post.

“Get a hold of yourself, Isolde Matheson.” Sammie’s ghost snorts.

I swallow, my throat dry. My older sister is visible in my periphery, in the chair beside Tristan. She smirks, her nose curling up as she bites back laughter. Her eyebrows wag as she continues to taunt me.

“Tell him you’re in pain,” she teases. “Tell him you need him to make you feel better.”

“You want anything to eat?” I ask Tristan for the third time, keeping my gaze on the TV. All the lights are on, the flat bright against the dark sky just outside the wall of windows.

“No,” he replies for the third time.

So much for trying to be hospitable.

“You need me to get you something?” Tristan asks.

I shake my head.

“Don’t bullshit me, Matheson.”

The group of Love Island contestants cheer. It’s too bright and noisy, but I keep watching, ignoring the tension headache I’ve been fighting for the past hour.

Tristan props his elbows on his knees, leaning forward in his seat. It’s too much, his gaze. I don’t know what he wants me to say.

“He just wants to help,” Sammie’s ghost says.

“I don’t need help,” I silently reply and then ask aloud, “You ever see those videos of slime?”

Tristan’s eyes narrow.

I should keep my mouth shut. But my body is overloaded. My spine presses into the back of the couch. I can’t catch my breath. It’s all shallow inhales as pins and needles course down my chest.

Instead of focusing on my breathing or asking for some paracetamol, I do what I always do—make a fool of myself.

Holding myself tighter, my lips twist as I chew on them. “You know slime? There’s all these videos on TikTok. You can make them look pretty and they smell good. People play with them for relaxation and stuff.”

Social awkwardness hates to see me coming.

“You ever seen them? Slime videos,” I ask.

“No.”

“Oh.”

I ordered some a couple of days ago. Ren never mentioned him sorting through her post, but I should probably intercept the package so he doesn’t see it. Now that I think about it, I’m not sure grown women are supposed to be buying slime on the internet.

The group chat lights up, offering me a lifeline. It’s much cooler to be texting than sitting around discussing the merits of slime.

Lennie: Isolde, are you okay?

I thumbs up her message. A full two minutes go by before someone else chimes in.

Abe: holy shit, you’re not okay.

I frown, not understanding why he’d think that. Jostling my arm slightly, I reread Lennie’s message.

Abe: See!!!

I really don’t.

Abe: Isolde Matheson does not simply like a message and leave it at that. Where is our paragraph of randomness? What has happened since I saw you last? I want a play-by-play of what it’s been like the past two hours with Mr. Hunk of a Man.

My fingers tap against the side of my phone.

Trevino doesn’t move an inch. Other than the few weird glances my way, he’s not moved all night. The moment he sat down, he took up a stoic position.

It makes me think of those statues. The fancy Greek or Italian ones that are always in art museums. Where they take a block of marble and craft it into something incredible.

What if someone were to carve Tristan? He’s sitting still enough that they could. Imagine what the artist could call it: Man Enduring Love Island.

Tristan doesn’t move his head, but his brows furrow together again like he knows I’m watching him. I quickly go back to my phone.

Abe: Seriously, Matheson. What are you two doing right this second?

Russet:

Ben: Russett get your mind out of the gutter.

Ben: Unless you are in fact doing each other right this second?

I think I’m running a temperature because the room is way too hot. Summer has just begun, but either I’m coming down with something or my basal body temperature is signaling a change in my menstrual cycle.

Abe: Maybe that’s why she’s not replying like normal. . .

Lennie: I mean Tris is very attractive so. . .

Ren: EXCUSE ME!!!

Ren: Tristan Trevino has been hired for his bodyguard services.

As such he will be focusing on keeping Isolde safe.

And I better not get any responses with further innuendos, okay?

Because I’m being serious. Someone tried to kill our friend tonight.

Her sex life needs to take a backseat for a second until we get this all sorted.

All sorted.

My chest grows even heavier. The shallow breaths aren’t helping.

I want to go to bed, but the TV continues to drone on. Tristan has his phone out too, texting. Should I just tell him I’m ready to go to bed? If I stand up, he’ll look over at me, and it’ll be awkward.

Russet: In all seriousness, Isolde, how is it going? Are you okay?

She and Lennie didn’t come to the warehouse tonight. Russet had needed to go home to her daughter, Sailor, and Elijah is possessive as fuck when it comes to Len. But I’m sure by now they know what happened.

This is from Cade.

Tristan had killed the guy. The body had landed with a thump. But he’d gotten a shot in, the bullet grazing my side. Tristan had pulled me off the ground, his arm tight around me as he forced me to safety.

This is from Cade.

Russet: Isolde?

I’m slower to type, using only my right hand while I shift my left elbow closer to my side.

Isolde: Yeah, I’m all right.

The TV ripples with firelight, a preview of the next episode flashing. Tristan’s chest lifts with a sigh when he realizes the streaming service is going to automatically play the next episode.

Isolde: I don’t think he really likes me.

Fuck’s sake. That sounds whiny.

I prepare myself for a barrage of my friends telling me how great I am. It’s not that I need their support in this endeavor—I can’t think of a time when people haven’t thought I’m weird.

But I don’t want anyone to think it’s like I need or want Tristan to like me.

Ren replies first. Ren, who usually takes five business days to respond to anything unless you’re one of her paying clients.

Ren: Nah. He always looks bored. It’s just his face.

Ren: Offer him a sheet mask. He loves those.

She gave me some a couple of months ago, so I have some. I can’t really imagine him using them, though. I wonder if he has a better skincare regimen than me?

I touch my cheek. My skin is rather dry.

Tristan pushes himself out of his chair, phone in his hand. “The doctor is here.”

“Doctor? Wait, what?” I try to stand up, but my legs give out. My fingers curl into the armrest of the sofa, ready to try again.

But Tristan stops right in front of me, and my head tips back so I can gaze up at him.

The one time he came to my flat with Ren, he stood outside on the landing, grumbling under his breath. I’d offered to let him in, but he wouldn’t budge from where he leaned against the wall. And Ren hadn’t really wanted the Ghost as her shadow, so I’d shut the door.

Now the only reason he’s here is because he’s being paid.

His shoulders are tight, his brown eyes dark as he stares down at me. For a second, I no longer see Tristan Trevino. Instead, it’s the Ghost I’m looking at.

Killing men is not that hard.

Hold your weapon steady, aim, shoot.

There’s always a thump when the body falls. And if done right, there should be no further movement.

Aim, shoot, done.

Rinse and repeat.

There’s a rhythm to killing men. A pattern. A schedule.

I’m silent when I approach my target. It’s like a game, how quiet can I be? A good kill means they don’t notice me until it’s too late. There’s not enough time for them to choke on a scream.

I don’t struggle to find the men I kill. Most of the time, I’m paid to do it. I’m a triggerman, a mercenary. A gun for hire.

But money isn’t my only motivation. It annoys Ren, but I kill other men simply because I want to. Because someone needs to help balance the world.

I think the Ghost was like that. Trevino’s alter ego.

The masked vigilante who took out Marissa, a vile woman who pimped pregnant women. He caused waves a few years back when the Ghost began to hunt Marissa and her operatives. He almost made an enemy out of Lev Zimin—Russet and Len’s father-in-law.

The head of the New York Bratva.

Some sort of truce has settled over the city since.

It helps that the Ghost is seemingly gone. Tristan Trevino is simply a business owner these days—a bodyguard for hire, working for corrupt men who need protection and aren’t afraid to splash out on the service.

Ren shouldn’t have hired him. I don’t need protecting.

Tristan’s head cocks to one side, those dark eyes seeming to hear my thoughts.

Chest burning, I frown harder. “I don’t need a doctor. Tell them to go away.”

His thumb and finger pinch my chin before I finish the sentence. I’m lightheaded, breathless. And it has nothing to do with my injury.

His eyes burn into mine. They aren’t just a dark brown. They’re various shades of caramel, swirling into a molten hue.

“Don’t be a brat, Matheson. You’ve sat here, in pain all night, and I’m done with it. I’m letting Tyler through that door and you’re going to let him examine you. Understand?”

I don’t shake my head because he’s still holding it in place.

Slowly, he retracts his hand, his brows lifted in a silent reminder before stepping to the door.

“Fuck me.” My sister’s ghost exhales from her spot across the living room. “We’re both thinking the same thing right? That was hot.”

Air enters my lungs at the same time, butterflies erupting in my belly.

It’s one thing to be haunted by your dead sister. But I really don’t need her ghost to become preoccupied with my love life. Or a distinct lack of one.