2. Isolde
Isolde
“This the patient?” Tyler Mulligan enters my flat and takes in the wall of windows. He’s good-looking, but not assuming. The word ‘nice’ describes Tyler to a T. He’s friendly and easy to joke with.
My ribs twinge as I turn back to the TV, sinking further into the velvet green cushions. “I’m fine.”
Tristan’s hulking figure looms in my periphery. I don’t have to look at him to know he’s scowling. “She’s lied about being in pain all night.”
I wish I could become one with the sofa. I thought I’d done a good job, hiding how much my body ached.
Tyler looks between the two of us. “Right.”
He walks in front of the sofa and plops down on the edge of the coffee table, blocking my view of Love Island.
Tyler’s eyes narrow on my ribcage. “I take it you’re not holding yourself like that because you’re cold.”
“I am cold.”
“You really going to be one of those patients?”
My face scrunches. “Don’t know what you’re talking about?”
“Tris told me you’d been shot.”
“Grazed,” I correct. My favorite hoodie is a goner, which is a real shame. “It’s fine.”
“Let me take a look and I’ll confirm that,” Tyler replies in a tone I’m guessing could be referred to as his doctor’s voice. Calm but firm.
Fuck my life.
My body refuses to comply at first; I’ve kept my arms tucked tight for so long. My muscles groan as I force my shoulders to relax so I can move slightly.
“Honestly, it’s all right,” I try to tell him.
I’m not even sure when he became a doctor.
When I first met him, he’d been working as a bartender in one of the city’s discreet sex clubs.
Then, a few weeks ago, he treated Ren when she hurt her arm.
Turns out all the contracts he used to take as a hitman didn’t just pad his savings account—he’d been paying for medical school.
Tyler delicately takes my arm, moving it to the side, making me hold my breath at the touch.
“You need help out of your shirt?” he asks.
He wants me to get undressed?
I’d thought about changing into comfier clothes when I first got home.
Some that weren’t ruined with sweat and dried blood, but it’d been awkward with Tristan here.
Obviously, I’d have shut the door when I changed, but it still felt weird.
I hadn’t planned on coming home tonight with a new roommate in tow.
Tyler rifles through a crossbody leather bag. He’s super professional, coming prepared with supplies.
“It skimmed you good,” he says, lifting my hoodie higher. He doesn’t mention taking my shirt off again, as if he saw how startled the idea made me. “I’m going to give you a tetanus shot.”
“No, it’s f—”
“Isolde.”
I blink up at Tristan. His arms are crossed, one brow lifted. Remember my warning?
When I look back at Tyler, I swear there’s a slightly amused smile on his face.
“You’ve got it with you?” Tristan asks the doctor.
“I came with everything.” Tyler digs around in his bag, using one hand to hold up my shirt. He was like that at the bar, too. Always doing multiple things at once. “I basically brought enough stuff to do surgery. You made it sound a lot worse than it is.”
My eyes snap back to Tristan. See.
The stern expression doesn’t leave his face. “If you thought you’d need to perform surgery, then why did it take you so long to get here?”
“Some of us do have actual jobs now.”
Tristan holds his hands out wide, glancing around my apartment. “I’ve got a job too. My client could be dead right now, that’s how long it took you to get here.”
Tyler glances over his shoulder. The contestants on Love Island are participating in a kissing contest.
Tristan’s lips form a thin line. He crosses his arms and takes a step back, but just one. This is as much patient-doctor confidentiality as he’s willing to give us. At least until Tyler’s next words.
“There’s some dried blood. Gunshot grazes don’t always bleed that bad but that doesn’t seem to be the case here.”
“What?” Tristan’s fingers curl into my hoodie, pulling it up higher.
Tyler shoves him away, his eyes never leaving my face. I refuse to meet his gaze, though.
I’m not sure what the doctor wants me to say. The urge to curl up in bed gets stronger with every minute.
“I’ll help clean it off.” He’s already picked up a bottle of alcohol. “There might have been some blood, but the good news is it does seem really superficial. It’ll be sore thanks to where it hit. Keep the bandage clean. Hopefully, with the tetanus shot nothing will get infected. You okay?”
“Will it be okay to shower?”
It takes him a minute to respond, his eyes scanning over me. “Yeah. I’ll leave extra bandages. Change them out frequently. I’ll assume, since I know what you do for a living, you understand how important it is, cutting down the chances of an infection.”
I nod. I’ve never suffered a serious injury while on the job, but it’s safe to say most people in my line of work avoid the hospitals.
“You ever thought about making extra money?” I ask. “Offering your medical services to people?”
By people, I mean triggermen like me. It’s not uncommon for groups to have doctors on standby. The Bratva has a full hospital at their disposal, probably.
Tyler smiles lightly, but I wonder if I’ve offended him. Nancy Mulligan’s son knows a lot of people in this city. But he’s always kept to himself despite taking the occasional contract.
“I like my hospital,” he says, and I can picture it. He’s good at putting people at ease. If he didn’t want to work in the emergency room, he’d be great with the kids in pediatrics.
I lower my shirt, my lungs expanding. My ribcage remains tight, though.
“Thanks,” I tell him after he’s given me a tetanus shot. “What do I owe you?”
His smirk is directed at Tristan. “Nah, the bill is on his tab.”
But that’s not quite true, and we both know it.
Tristan is being paid to be here.
“Thanks.” He claps Tyler’s shoulder, and I notice his shoulders aren’t as tight. Like Tyler’s set his mind at ease. I kept telling him I was fine. He didn’t need to hear it from a doctor.
Tyler hugs him, but his eyes land on me. “Text me when you need to complain.”
I try to smile, but I’m afraid it comes out more as a grimace. My arse is sore from sitting in the same position for so long, and my knees groan when I stand up. Tristan is quicker, though, opening and closing the door for Tyler like it’s his flat.
“Hey.” When he turns away from the door, I catch sight of his wrinkled brow. His voice is quieter, too. Or maybe things sound hushed in the late night, now that I’ve turned off the TV. “Uh. . .”
Tristan never searches for his words.
He runs a hand over his shaved head. Tall, with lithe muscles, I’m short and stubby in comparison.
“Ren tried to hire me.” His hand falls to his side, and he straightens. Another scowl purses his lips, but there’s something different. It’s not the blistering annoyance he usually directs my way. Something is actually bothering him.
“You don’t have to worry about Ren.” This is my way out. It’s not like Ren had time to sign a contract. Yet. “I appreciate you helping me get home, but don’t worry about this bodyguard business. Seriously, it’s all right if you leave.”
“I’m not going anywhere.”
I shuffle on my feet, trying to piece together where he was going then.
“Hadrian Hallow wants to handle the contract.”
Tristan studies me, like most people do, when they learn I’m on speaking terms with Hadrian Hallow. Which, in all fairness, is a pretty rare thing. Other than his brother, Hadrian lacks friends. And that’s coming from someone who is equally awkward around people.
Not that anyone would ever dare say Hadrian Hallow is awkward. Nah. Men like him—rich and handsome—they aren’t awkward.
They’re arrogant. Hadrian is inclined to let the world think of him as such.
It must seem weird to Tristan that Hadrian has taken it upon himself to hire a bodyguard for some awkward, blonde woman from Yorkshire.
“Uh.” I realize Tristan expects me to say something. “I’m guessing. . . He offered you double?”
Ren’s flush with money, but it’s got nothing on Hadrian. And he’s not afraid to use it.
Something passes over Tristan’s face. I’m not sure what it means.
“Look.” I stuff my hands in my hoodie pockets. The fabric is hanging on by a thread. “I don’t need a bodyguard. I really don’t.”
“Somebody shot you today.”
“It was just a graze,” I murmur. We don’t need to keep bringing it up.
“Right, and I’m sure it’d have just been a graze when he stood over you, his gun pointed directly at your head.”
My muscles twinge at the memory of falling on my arse, my tailbone screaming when it met the concrete. The ringing in my ears hadn’t been from the triggerman’s gun. I’d stared, eyes wide at Tristan, who stood there, his gun drawn.
I met him three years ago. As the Ghost. When we’d targeted the same man. If he had it his way, I wouldn’t have seen his face that night. But I had. I’d known who the Ghost was before anyone else.
Then, a couple of months later, Tyler had knocked on my door, getting into the building, thanks to someone else buzzing him in.
It made me realize the Ghost had always known where I lived. That he’d done his research on me, too.
Tyler gave me Daisy’s will. I’d gotten it to Ren, and she in turn passed it on to Russet.
The Ghost faded, but I was the one who convinced him to become Ren’s bodyguard.
I never expected it meant one day, he’d save my life.
“Yeah, all right, I owe you for that one.” I swallow a thick lump down my throat. Tristan came through for me tonight. “You’re a good shot.”
His brow lifts just the slightest. Heat licks up my skin. It’s never a good idea to kiss a triggerman’s arse, but in this case, it’s the truth.
“But all this stuff”—I hold my arms out wide and shrug—“it’s got nothing to do with you. I’m sure you’ve got other clients and stuff. There’s no reason to mess with your schedule.”
I shove my hands back into my hoodie. Time ticks. Tristan isn’t slow, but he weighs his decisions. I saw him do so when he was the Ghost, but the habit belongs to Tristan himself.
“It does have something to do with me.” The planes of his face are sharp. Hard. A serious expression on his face all night. “Since I’m your bodyguard and all.”
I clamp down on my lower lip. This is not what I signed up for.
“I brought Hallow up because I wanted you to have a say,” Tristan explains, his voice low but steady. Does he think I’m a horse, about to get spooked? “Your friends have said you’re getting a bodyguard. Who do you want footing the bill?”
“Hadrian.”
Tristan gets that funny look on his face again. “Is there a reason for your preference?”
Yeah, I don’t want Ren all up in my business. “It’ll be better for your business—him paying double—won’t it?”
Tristan’s jaw ticks. “My business is just fine.”
Great. One more misstep for the night.
Perhaps it’s the kid in me, always wondering if mum had enough money for groceries, that makes me stockpile money. Wouldn’t he want the same? Pad the coffers of his new business.
“Oh, well—”
“I’m going to take the spare bedroom. You cool with that?”
I’m more than ready to go hide in my bedroom. “Yeah. Make yourself at home. I’m going to, um. . .”
Drown myself in the shower.
I flee down the hallway, which leads to two bedrooms, the bathroom sandwiched between. When I glance over my shoulder, I see him pull out his phone again.
I grab clothes from my bedroom and take shelter in the bathroom.
“Oh, shit.” I wiggle my toes, realizing I need to trim my toenails. This is exactly why I wouldn’t make it on Love Island. Though, in all fairness, when I woke up today, I didn’t expect to find myself suddenly living with a man.
“Your crush no less,” Sammie’s ghost tells me.
I shoot her a look in the bathroom mirror. She smirks, but when I blink, her image dissipates.
Which means for the first time in hours, I’m finally alone. I take a deep breath, trying to clear my mind.
You’re gonna be fine. I repeat the mantra over and over again.
Except when I step into the shower, I realize I only grabbed a giant cotton T-shirt.
It’s so oversized that the soft fabric barely touches my skin, but it occurs to me I should have grabbed some shorts.
Hopefully, Tristan will have wandered into his room when I leave the bathroom.
Or maybe he’ll be waiting to use the bathroom.
“Shit.” The bottle of shampoo in my hands slips. It clatters against the white tub, the noise causing me to grimace. Hot water pelts my face, my hair tangling in front of me. I drop to my heels, grabbing at the damn bottle that keeps sliding around. “Fuck’s sake!”
Why hadn’t I spotted the man before he shot at me?
My palms slap over my eyes, pressing until I see color. It distracts from how my chest constricts, but it does nothing to stop the water running between my fingers. But it’s not water from the showerhead. It’s tears.
This is from Cade.