Tristan
Ren calls me ten times before I pick up the phone.
“She’s fine,” I grunt, locking the door after the doctor leaves. Jane got Isolde to eat, and they took her off the IV. She’s quiet but says she’s comfortable.
We’ve yet to really speak, and I don’t like Ren monopolizing my time now that I’ve got Isolde alone.
“What in the fucking fuckery, Trevino. Do you not know how to answer your fucking phone? Jesus Christ. Isolde gets shot. What the fuck am I paying you for?”
“You aren’t paying me.”
“I am totally—”
“Did you sign a contract?”
There’s a beat of silence. “Who the fuck are you working for?”
“Guess. What the fuck have you heard?”
“I talked to Dima of all people, because you couldn’t answer your goddamn phone. A Spider, really?”
“I need your help figuring out who might come calling.”
“Dima asked me to look into it. I’m calling everyone I can think of, but no one knows a goddamn thing.”
“When are you back in town?”
“I’m trying. A storm’s fucked everything up, but Roma’s sending a plane.
The Russians are on high alert. The only intel Dima could give me was they believe the original Spider once worked for the KGB.
Yelena and Lev are still in their ‘will they or won’t they get a divorce’ phase, and her mom just passed away.
Lev is making her come back quicker than she wants. ”
“They’re scared of this guy,” I say. “Or guys.”
“Yeah.” The word sums everything up. This is some deep shit if the Bratva is going underground. “Is Isolde going to be ready?”
“When is she not?”
“Then why isn’t she picking up the phone when I call?” she murmurs.
“I don’t think she remembers she has a phone.”
“Len told me she cried at the dress fitting. A dress Len tried on reminded her of her sister.”
Lennie’s text now makes sense.
“I know she’s sad,” Ren says. “And I know Abe caught you two hugging in the alleyway.”
Despite everything, I smirk. “We do a lot more than hug.”
Ren makes some incoherent noise. Her voice is soft, though, when she asks, “You’ve got her?”
“Always.”
Ren signs off. I take a shower and walk into the bedroom in just my towel.
“Baby.” I smooth her hair back. She’s on her back, which isn’t how she normally sleeps. I lift the sheets slightly, spotting the fresh bandages on her side. Her head shifts on the pillow. “Can I sleep with you?”
She nods. I slide into the bed, careful not to touch her. But her hand slides across the duvet, grabbing mine.
The next time I open my eyes, sunlight streams through the window. The sheets rustle as I stretch, my movements stilling when I spot Isolde’s big blue eyes.
“Hey,” I whisper.
She blinks tiredly but never looks away. The air around us tightens.
“Does my nose look really ugly?”
“When has anything about you ever been ugly?” I ask.
Her shoulders shake.
“Iz.” I reach out, scooting closer.
She makes a noise under her breath, a sob mixed with a whimper.
“Iz, baby.” I cup her cheek. My lips graze hers, the pair of us barely touching. Like, we might break if we make too much contact.
The air stirs around us.
I’m keenly aware I haven’t touched her in almost three days. The apartment is finally empty. When Isolde eventually gets out of bed, everything will have changed. We’ll both be dealing with a brand new world.
My fingers slip under the sheets, trailing under her large T-shirt. She’s got on basic white underwear.
She lets out a little whimper when my fingers skim across her inner thighs. Her hips buck, and she bites down on her lower lip.
I tug her underwear to the side, running my fingers over her slit. Two fingers sink into her tight cunt. I press a soft kiss to her lips again, pumping in and out. My body hovers over her, aware that her left side is still injured.
“Let me hear you,” I tell her, grinding the palm of my hand against her clit. I receive a strangled moan, her hips bucking. “Come on, baby.”
Tears drip down her cheeks as I rub her clit, my fingers pumping. I’m desperate for relief, but I’m careful. So fucking careful.
But it’s hard. I’m hard.
“P-please.” The word twists, and Isolde’s back arches.
She clenches around my fingers, drawing a groan from me. My fingers slice through her arousal, spreading it around, marking her.
I start to fall back, but she stops me, her eyes honing in on my hard cock.
“Now you,” she mumbles. The hungry expression she wears makes me harder.
I pull the covers completely off her and settle between her legs. I fist myself, my strokes furious. Her chest heaves as she licks her lips. There’s a spark of pain, my fingers wrap so hard around my cock, jerking faster. The ropes of semen go on forever, covering Isolde.
Isolde is crying again, her shoulders shaking when I sit back on my heels.
“Come on.” I help her out of bed, her body thinner and paler than just a few days ago.
“Where are we?”
I flip the bathroom light on and turn on the shower. “Queens. We brought some of your stuff, though.”
Luis brought the framed photo of Isolde and Sammie normally kept on her nightstand.
“I want to go home.”
I peel her shirt over her head, making sure my semen doesn’t accidentally touch her skin.
“How is your side?” I ask.
Like she’s just remembered, Isolde’s hand goes to the wound. A quiver runs through her.
“Hey, you’re here with me,” I tell her.
I guide her into the shower, but I know it’s too late. She’s already thinking about it. About what happened on the tarmac. Her body falls into me, and I keep her upright as I wash her skin. She shivers while I shampoo her hair despite the hot water.
“Did Hadrian tell you about the Spider?”
“Dimitri did.”
“Oh.”
“You have anything you want to add?” I slide under the stream of water, washing quickly.
Isolde studies her toes against the white shower. Her tears flow freely.
“Baby?” I ask, holding her again.
She trembles through everything. When I wrap her in a towel. When I apply a new bandage to her injury. She’s shivering like a leaf when I pull a fresh T-shirt over her torso.
“Underwear,” I warn when she walks out of the bathroom. I never give a damn when she wants to walk around without panties, but I know visitors will show up whether I like it or not. “Put on some shorts.”
She ignores me and finds a patch on the rug in front of the TV and sits down.
Wet hair in her face, she stares off at the TV like it’s on. Goose bumps run down my skin.
“I’ll make you breakfast,” I say. No response. It’s like that all morning. Notifications come in quick.
Every single person in Isolde’s life either texts or calls me, trying to see what they can do. Even Elijah calls, informing me his wife needs a status update or else.
“Isolde.” I sit down next to her at one point. “Baby?”
An empty vessel stares off into the distance.