Chapter 4 Tristan
TRISTAN
Rain hammers against the tin roof of the loft, a relentless drumbeat drowning out the rest of the world.
Twenty hours since I found her broken on that ridge, and the storm has only grown teeth.
It settled over Grizzly Peak like a shroud six hours ago, sealing us in.
The road down to Pine Valley is a graveyard of mud and rock now, a slurry that would stop anything short of a tank.
Good.
Sitting in the worn leather armchair in the corner, I work a piece of wood in my hands, my knife shaving off thin, curling strips of pine. I’m not making anything, just giving my hands something to do so they don’t reach for her.
Alexandria is asleep on my bed. The second syrette of morphine I gave her five hours ago has finally started to lose its grip, though it knocked her out cold for the better part of the afternoon.
Her head turns on the pillow, dark hair fanning out like spilled ink against the white cotton.
Every few minutes, a soft sound escapes her throat—a whimper of pain or a fragment of a dream.
Every time she makes a noise, the knife pauses.
My muscles lock. I force myself not to cross the room and wake her up just to see her eyes, to confirm she’s still breathing.
This feral, clawing need to hover is foreign territory.
I’m the Tracker. The Road Captain. I value silence and distance, the ability to disappear into the tree line.
But since I found her broken on the ridge, since I carried her warmth against my chest, the idea of distance feels like a physical threat.
She shifts, her good leg kicking at the heavy quilt. The oversized hoodie I put her in rides up, exposing a stretch of pale, creamy thigh.
My mouth goes dry.
I stare, my eyes tracking the way her skin flushes in her sleep.
I have no right to look, but I’ve already claimed her, so I don't look away. She’s too fucking soft for a place like this—a world of grease, cold steel, and men who take what they want.
She belongs in a library or a lab, tucked away from the dirt.
But she isn't there. She’s in my bed, under my roof, and the predator in my gut is already mapping out every inch of that softness I'm going to own.
And the terrifying truth settling in my gut is that she’s safer here than anywhere else, because I am the only thing standing between her and the dark.
She groans, louder this time, eyes fluttering open. Hazy, confused, they scan the unfamiliar timber beams of the ceiling before landing on me.
I stop carving. Setting the knife and the wood on the side table, I stand. Floorboards creak under my boots as I walk to the bed.
"Tristan?" Her voice is a wreck, raspy from sleep and dehydration.
"I’m here." My voice drops into that low register that seems to soothe her. Sitting on the edge of the mattress, I’m careful not to jostle her splinted leg. "Pain?"
She blinks, taking stock of her body. "It’s... a dull throb. The sharp stabbing faded."
"The morphine is doing its job. But it’s wearing off."
She tries to push herself up, arms shaking. I reach out instantly, hands encompassing her shoulders. She feels fragile beneath my palms, bones delicate like a bird’s, but I know there’s steel in her spine. She didn’t cry when I set the bone. She screamed, but she didn’t break.
I help her sit against the headboard, rearranging the pillows behind her back. My knuckles brush the nape of her neck, and a jolt goes through me—heavy, hot, instantaneous. She stiffens, oxygen stalling in her chest, but doesn’t pull away.
"Thirsty," she whispers.
I grab the mason jar of water from the nightstand and hold it to her lips, tilting it slowly. She drinks greedily, a little stream escaping the corner of her mouth and tracking down her chin.
The droplet falls. It traces the line of her jaw, slips down her throat, and disappears into the collar of my hoodie. My eyes follow it, hungry. I have the sudden, insane urge to lick that path clean.
"Slow down," I murmur. "You’ll make yourself sick."
She pulls back, gasping for air, chest heaving. The movement presses her breasts against the fabric of the shirt. Gritting my teeth, I focus on her face. Her cheeks are flushed, eyes bright with fever and fatigue.
"I feel gross," she says, wiping her mouth with the back of her hand. "Sticky. How long have I been out?"
"Most of the day. The storm isn’t letting up."
She looks toward the darkened window, where the rain slashes against the glass. "My research... my team in town..."
"They aren’t looking for you yet." Maybe it's the truth. The storm would ground the rescue choppers anyway. "Marcus won’t send anyone up here in this weather. You’re staying put."
"I need to wash," she says, looking down at herself. "I feel like I’m covered in mud and sweat."
"You can’t walk to the bathroom. Not yet."
"So what? I just rot here?" Her eyes flash. There’s that fire. Even broken, she challenges me.
"No." I stand. "I’ll help you."
Her eyes widen. "You... no. I can do it myself if you just get me a bowl."
"You can’t reach your back. You can’t reach your legs without twisting that break." I turn toward the small kitchenette area. "I’m not asking, Alexandria. I’m telling you."
I fill a basin with warm water from the tap and grab a clean washcloth and a bar of soap—sandalwood and grit. When I return to the bed, she watches me with a mix of apprehension and curiosity. She’s realized she has no leverage here. She is entirely at my mercy.
The thought makes my blood run hot.
Setting the basin on the nightstand, I wring out the cloth. Steam rises from it. I sit back down on the edge of the bed, my thigh brushing against her good leg. The contact burns.
"Take off the hoodie," I say quietly.
She freezes. "Tristan."
"I’ve already seen everything, Allie. I cut your clothes off you yesterday. There’s nothing to hide."
The nickname slips out—Allie. I haven’t called anyone a nickname since I was a kid. It tastes intimate on my tongue.
Her hands tremble as she reaches for the hem of the sweatshirt. She struggles, movements clumsy. I sigh, a rough sound in the quiet room, and brush her hands away.
"Let me."
Gripping the hem, I lift it slowly. She raises her arms, wincing as the movement pulls her ribs. I pull the fabric over her head and toss it aside.
She is breathtaking.
She is pale, her skin marked with the violent blooms of purple and blue from her fall—bruises on her shoulder, a jagged scrape along her collarbone. I hate the marks. I want to lick them until they disappear, replaced by the red heat of my own brands.
"This stays on," she says quickly, her hands crossing over the flimsy pink lace of her bra.
"Fine," I rumble, though the lie tastes like copper. I’m going to see every inch of her before the storm breaks.
Taking the warm cloth, I start with her face, watching her eyelids flutter as the heat hits her skin.
I move the cloth down the column of her neck, scrubbing away the salt of her fevered sweat.
I move over her shoulders, tracing the bruises with the steaming rag.
I clean her arms and her palms, my eyes fixed on the way the heavy hoodie hangs open, exposing the way her tits strain against the thin lace, the dark circles of her nipples already hard and tempting.
I wash each of her fingers with a slow, grinding focus, letting her feel the weight of my presence.
I'm not just cleaning her; I'm erasing the mountain and replacing it with the scent of my soap and the heat of my hands.
Her hand relaxes in mine, small and soft against my calloused, scarred palm.
The contrast jars me. I am destruction; she is creation.
"Why are you doing this?" she whispers, eyes still closed.
"Doing what?"
"Taking care of me. You barely know me. You’re... you’re scary, Tristan. Everyone in town says the Gunnars are dangerous. But you..." She opens her eyes, searching my face. "You handle me like glass."
My hand freezes on her wrist. I look at her. Really look at her. "Maybe you are."
"Why?" she breathes.
"Because you're here." My voice is a low rumble, vibrating in my chest. "Because when I saw you lying on those rocks, something in me snapped. You’re not just a stray I picked up, Alexandria. You’re my responsibility now."
"Responsibility," she echoes, her voice dropping an octave.
"Don't twist it," I warn. Dropping the cloth into the basin, I lean closer. "I take care of what’s mine."
Her breath hitches. Pupils dilate, swallowing the hazel of her irises. "Yours?"
"You think I’d let anyone else touch you right now?" I ask, my voice dropping to a predatory growl. "You think I’d let a doctor put his hands on your skin? You think I’d let Marcus or anyone else carry your weight?"
Her gaze remains locked on mine, trapped in my orbit. "No."
"Exactly."
I retrieve the cloth, wring it out again, and move to her chest. I wipe the skin above the lace of her bra, careful of the bruises.
Then, boldly, I hook my finger under the pink silk strap and push it aside, exposing the pale, unblemished curve of her upper breast to the firelight.
My thumb brushes the pulse point at the base of her throat. It’s hammering. Rabbit-fast.
"You’re afraid," I state.
"Not of you," she whispers.
"You should be."
"I’m not." She lifts her hand, fingers hovering before touching my face. Her fingertips graze the rough stubble on my jaw. "You saved me. You carried me for miles. You gave me your bed."
"That doesn't make me a hero, Allie. It makes me territorial."
She traces the line of my jaw, her touch feather-light, searing my skin. "Maybe I like that."
The admission snaps the last thread of my restraint.