30. Isolde
Isolde
Saint Agnes is somber in the night.
Tristan holds the door open for me. The chapel is always open, though Father Francois has to fight other church staff. For safety reasons, they want to keep it locked down, but he’s always insisted at least one door remain open.
Most of the lights are off, and the ones that are on emit a soft yellow glow. The quiet here is peaceful, and my mind slackens. It’s no longer a whirl of crackling buzz, but true calm waves.
Part of me is surprised Tristan even let me out.
The truth is no one knows when or where the next Spider will come from, so it’s not like hiding away will do any good.
I believe he’ll strike sooner rather than later because I killed their family.
But I also know no safe house will ever truly keep me safe.
Luis smiled when he saw me. I couldn’t speak to him, but he nodded as I got into the backseat of the SUV, and that was enough. I’m the one to blame anyway. I went with the Spider all on my own.
Tristan leads me toward the candle display before pausing. There’s a man in the pews toward the very front.
Hadrian.
Based on the grumpy look, Tristan wasn’t expecting him. I think I had been anyway.
This was his spot long before I ever knew about it anyway.
Tristan stuffs some money in the donation box and hands me a match. He lights three candles, and I wonder who they’re for.
I light all the unlit candles in front of me simply because it feels right.
There’s one for Sammie. For my grandparents.
For my soul because I killed a man with my bare hands.
The rest are just for others. For the good people in my life.
I don’t bother listing them out. I just let it be, the flame flickering.
Tristan sighs when I head down the aisle.
It’s after ten at night, but Hadrian is wearing a suit. He’s forgone the tie, though, and the first few buttons are undone.
“You finally snap out of it then?” he asks, his gaze on the altar.
“Not really,” I reply honestly. “But I did put on some trousers for the first time in a week.”
One corner of his mouth turns upward.
“I’ve been really out of it, haven’t I?” I pluck at my T-shirt, knowing the truth already.
“I stopped answering your friend Callahan’s phone calls. She keeps leaving me voicemails, though, cussing me out. She says it’s a form of stress relief.”
“Sorry about that.”
“You’re not,” he murmurs, our voices low in the night. “You’re happy it’s not you.”
Okay, so maybe there’s a reason I don’t want to pick up the phone when Ren calls.
“I just don’t know what to say to people.” The pew is hard against my back, but it’s a reminder that I’m here. Out in the real world instead of holed up somewhere else. “I never have.”
“And you think I do?” The quip is more factual than sarcastic.
We stare off in silence. The vaulted ceilings and crosses are pretty. I came to a service once, after I first met Father Francois, but I’m not sure religion is for me. I’m not sure about heaven or hell. I just know I like to think of Sammie somewhere safe on the other side.
“The Met doesn’t have to arrest Cade,” Hadrian says. “We could find another way.”
I know the right call, though. “It’s about justice for the other girls.”
“What is justice?” Hadrian’s green eyes meet mine. There’d been a meeting like this once before, just the pair of us. Deciding to take a man’s life. That had been justice.
“Not everyone is like us.”
Hadrian doesn’t reply, his eyes going back to a large cross near the altar.
“Hadrian?”
He tilts his head to indicate he’s listening.
I don’t plan on asking him. The words slip out of my mouth. The least important conversation to be having considering everything that’s going on. But I have to know. “Tell me about the first time you met my sister.”
His brows lift, the only sign I’ve taken him by surprise. “I saw her around campus.”
It’s not what I’m looking for.
“I’d seen her at a couple of things,” he says after taking his time examining the stained-glass windows around him. “At a debate. Some guest lecture. We were in different fields.”
She studied philosophy and history. He graduated with a business degree.
“One day I’m in a Tesco,” Hadrian says, messing with a button on his shirt. “And in the most Yorkshire accent I’ve ever heard before—barring yours, of course—someone says, ‘Well, that’s fucking annoying.’”
Hadrian contemplates, never rushing his words.
“I look over and there’s a woman with a bottle of wine in one hand, her body basically stuck in the freezer where she’s looking for her favorite ice cream.”
The tears don’t come, but grief presses into me. “Chocolate chip cookie dough?”
“They were out.” Hadrian frowns at this injustice. “She had to make do with mint chocolate chip.”
It probably pissed her off.
Hadrian has a far off look on his face as he thinks. “‘That’s fucking annoying,’ is what she said. And then she kicked the annoyance off like it was a mere pebble. It was so different from the grumblings I was used to.”
“You mean your grumblings?”
He nods, acknowledging it. “Sam was like Harry. Good at processing things. She’d make a note about something. ‘That made me happy and sad. I can’t fucking believe the nerve of that guy.’ Then she’d shake it off and go about her day.”
So unlike us. The two people who can’t deal with shit.
“Harry never tell you to go to therapy?” I ask.
“All the time,” Hadrian replies instantly. “I told him I had Father Francois for that.”
I’m not sure what led him to St. Agnes, but Harry once mentioned Hadrian had started visiting here when they were teenagers.
“Isolde,” Hadrian says, still staring off at the altar. “It’s the right thing to do, isn’t it? Cade going to jail.”
No matter how much I want him dead. “Yeah.”
He nods, like he expected this response.
“What are you thinking?” I ask, noting the wheels turning in the back of his mind.
I agree to his alterations before he’s finished explaining. At the end of the day, Hadrian and I are fucked up people for two reasons—our version of justice is different, and we’re petty as fuck.
Hadrian’s eyes narrow in brotherly concern on Tristan's and my intertwined hands as we leave the cathedral.
I know Hadrian and my sister had a moment in time. But she wasn’t his be all, end all.
He’s always been free to move on, but all these years later he’s never made a move on the person he’s coveted the most. I really wish he would.
“You okay?” Tristan asks as we head to the car.
I nod. “We’re only left with the Spider.”
Tristan squeezes my hand.
The safe house isn’t as bad as I thought it would be, but that’s probably because Tristan moved me here after a near death experience.
I don’t miss my bed or my soft, light blue sheets I always washed with a particularly good smelling detergent.
None of those things matter, at least not as much as my sensitive ass would have thought, because Tristan is next to me.
My hand reaches out, tracing a winding tattoo around his rib cage.
He’s on his back, one arm slung over his eyes. “Don’t look at me like that,” he says in a hoarse voice.
“Like what?” I mumble, pushing my face into my pillow.
He didn’t let me have a beer earlier, and he shoots me a look but says nothing when I slide closer.
When we kiss, I realize just how long it’s been without feeling his lips. There’d been a quick interaction during my foggiest time, a moment to relieve the most basic urge.
It wasn’t nearly enough.
His tongue slides into my mouth, his head lifting as we kiss. I lean back, thinking I’ve done enough to tease him into something more enticing. He doesn’t follow my movements. He remains on his back, his arm tugging me back toward him.
I make a little noise, dissatisfied he won’t go with my plan.
“You started this,” he replies, forcing me upright until I straddle his waist. He tucks one hand under his head, staring up at me expectantly.
I pout, but he only lifts an eyebrow and then forces my T-shirt over my head. Vulnerable in my nakedness, I lean over, kissing him everywhere. His lips, his cheeks, down his collarbone. His cock hardens, one of his hands running over my waist, but otherwise he lies back and lets me do all the work.
When I make an annoyed noise under my breath, he merely smirks. But he does run his hand over my pussy, grinding his palm against my clit.
“Come on,” he orders. His hands run up and down my ribcage, careful over the bandage on my side. His fingers graze my nipples, which demand attention.
He helps me position myself, and when I sink down on his cock, it’s worth it to see his reaction. He throws his head back and hisses under his breath.
“I’m sorry,” I blurt. “I’m really sorry.”
He forces my movements, his hands directing the way I roll my hips. “For what, Isolde? Running off with a guy you knew wanted to kill you. For killing him? For being out of it the past week? What are you sorry about, Iz?”
I bite my lips, the piercings on his cock rubbing my insides. “Please, play with my ass.”
He raises a brow at the demand.
“P-please,” I beg, head bowing as my hips canter and I grind myself on his cock.
His hands tease my pussy, spreading my arousal. His thumb circles my ass, stretching me. “Tell me what you’re sorry about.”
Heat burns through me. Love and devotion and a sense of shame. “I’m sorry, I struggle to let you in sometimes.”
He lifts, his cock hitting the right spot, and my mouth tumbles open. His finger in my ass and his cock filling me up make my head spin.
“Sometimes I just struggle,” I admit. The sadness I feel as I speak has nothing to do with him. I want him to know how much I love him, how much I want to let him in. “But you’re my person, I know you are.”
My hand slides over his bare chest, over his heart. I don’t care how sappy I am.
“I love you,” I say, my mouth tumbling open again when his cock surges inside me.
His fingers wrap in my hair, pulling tight. The fast thrusts are slowly tearing me piece by piece.
“Say that again.”
“I love you, Tris.”
His fingers pinch my clit, and the jolt sends me freefalling. Pleasure is still curling around me when his spine stiffens and he fills my cunt.
He settles back on the pillows, his cock still inside me as I lie on top of him.
His hand hovers over the bandage on my side.
“It’s okay,” I promise. I’m sure Tyler the doctor would totally approve of our strenuous activity.
Playing with my hair, after a while he says in the dark, “This is how it’s going to go, Iz. We’re in this together, always, okay?”
I nod against his chest.
“I love your mind, Isolde. The weird, random things you come up with. But please, for the love of God, the next time an assassin that makes even the Russians shit their pants—fucking tell me.”
That’s fair.
“Iz, I love you.”
My chest sparks. I smile like an idiot.
“We’re going to get married, okay.”
His arms keep me trapped when I try to lift up. He forces me back where I was, his hand running down my spine.
“One day. And we’re moving in together as soon as this shit is over.”
“You always did like coming up with a good plan.”
“Says the woman with a chore chart on her fridge.”
That I may never see again thanks to the Spider.
“Baby?”
I hum.
“Speaking of plans.” He pushes hair off my face. “Want to tell me how you plan on dealing with the Spider?”