Chapter 32
Chapter thirty-two
Ingrid
Iwoke slowly, the morning light too bright as I squinted against it. My eyelids felt swollen from the days I’d spent drowning in my own tears.
As the room came into focus, the reality of my surroundings settled in. I was in Tristian’s bed. The sheets beside me were pristine, pulled taut and cold. He hadn’t slept in here.
The guilt came back immediately.
I had invaded his space, hidden my trauma until I broke, and then practically forced him to witness my collapse. And it felt like I was a burden.
Now that the truth about my father had finally spilled out, I was caught in a tug-of-war between relief and regret. Had I broken us? Had I shoved too much onto Tristian just to keep him from walking away?
The terrifying truth was that I had become fused to him.
I’d always known I could be needy, clingy, even…
with the people I trusted, but this was different.
It was visceral. The thought of his rejection left me paralyzed.
I craved his reassurance like air, terrified of the moment his attention might flicker elsewhere.
I was leaning on him so hard I feared I’d push him away any second.
And yet, I couldn’t let go. He was my only safety net. Even when he told me he was no good, I didn’t care. Because I needed him to stay. I needed him in a way that scared me.
I pushed the heavy duvet off my legs. I was wearing one of his hoodies—it smelled like him, a warm, heady musk I could drown in—and my boyshorts. I padded toward the door, the silence of the apartment ringing in my ears until I heard the faint rasp of a razor from the bathroom.
I found him there, staring into the mirror, meticulously shaping his beard.
He’d only trimmed it slightly, thank God, keeping the rugged line of hair that defined his jaw.
His eyes met mine in the reflection, but he didn’t say a word.
He set the razor down, his knuckles white as he gripped the edge of the counter.
He lowered his head, his shoulders tense. I moved toward him, shyly wrapping my arms around his waist from behind and pressing my face into the broad expanse of his back. We stayed like that for a long time, the only sound our synchronized breathing.
“How did you sleep?” he finally asked.
I shrugged against him, my fingers tracing small, nervous patterns over his skin. “Fine...”
“We have to talk about last night, doll...”
“I know,” I whispered. I squeezed him tighter, as if I could anchor him there forever.
Tristian let out a long, ragged sigh and placed his hand over mine.
“I should have never made you feel pressured to tell me about your father.”
“T-Then how would you have known?”
“I would have known when you were ready. But… when I saw the makeup covering the bruises I just lost it… because I wasn’t there to protect you from him.”
“You were worried. It’s not your fault,” I whispered.
He turned in my arms, forcing me to let go of his waist. Before I could process the movement, he buried his face in the crook of my neck, pulling me flush against him. His grip was almost bruising, desperate.
“And it wasn’t your fault. None of it. I should’ve been the one protecting you instead of making it worse. I don’t deserve you. No one does.”
I wrapped my arms around his neck, inhaling him. The scent of his skin and his musk engulfed me.
“Sometimes...” he groaned, low, “I want to push you away. So you’ll be away from my fucked-up mind. But I can’t.”
I pulled him closer, the same desperation echoing in my own soul.
“Then don’t.”
A few hours later, I sat by the front door, watching Tristian pull on his jacket, check his phone as he moved through the apartment.
He’d decided that I wasn’t going home again—that I was going to stay here, where I was safe.
We’d head by shortly to grab some of my things, and then I was out of the house and away from my father for good.
The thought terrified me. The thought of walking back into that house, seeing my father, made my stomach churn, but I didn’t voice my fear.
I was so accustomed to rolling over and doing whatever he commanded that part of me wanted to talk Tristian out of it.
Go home, grovel, accept it, stay small. That was the version of me I knew how to be.
But another part of me, the part that had gotten louder since Tristian… knew I couldn’t go back. My father had terrorized me for too long. It was time to do what Camila had already done. It was time to get out.
I was also afraid of what Tristian might do when we got there.
Every time he looked at the faint bruise on my cheek, the slowly healing gash across my eyebrow, his jaw tightened and his eyes turned predatory.
It made me nervous. Tristian wasn’t a man who valued restraint in a fight; Brandon and The Killer had both found out what happened when someone crossed his line.
Everything else was still a mess. The meeting we’d skipped. Noah cutting the hospital payments. Darragh still out there with his threats. None of it had gone away just because we’d found our way back to each other. And now, Tristian wasn’t going to let me out of his sight.
A hand under my chin tilted my head up, breaking my spiral.
Tristian looked down at me, and just like that, the darkness retreated.
His thumb brushed over the bruise on my cheek with agonizing tenderness before moving to smooth over my bottom lip.
I toyed with my fingers, my heart hammering against my ribs at the sheer intensity of his gaze.
His eyes were silent pleas for forgiveness. “I will never let him or anyone else hurt you, doll. Never again...”
I nodded as he pulled me to my feet, his words warming my heart.
As we reached the door of the apartment, I tugged his hand. He stopped, looking at me with immediate concern. My face burned with a sudden, shy heat.
“Kiss me,” I breathed, my voice barely a thread of sound.
A smile ghosted over his lips before he leaned down and captured my mouth. My mind buzzed with a sudden, electric peace. I wound my arms around his neck, drawing him in until there was no space left between us. He groaned into the kiss and lifted me effortlessly, my legs hooking around his waist.
When he finally pulled away, his eyes were a storm of relief and heaviness. I pressed my forehead to his. He needed this as much as I did. Maybe more.
The drive to my house was a blur of anxiety. As we pulled up, I saw my father’s car was missing from the driveway. My mother’s car was there, but she never got involved.
Remembering my father’s warning about the man in the driver’s seat, I’d asked Tristian to park a few houses down and he took my shaking hand. “We’re just going to grab a few things, and we’ll be out before you know it. If he’s home, we’ll do it some other time.”
I nodded, breathless, as he kissed my knuckles and stepped out to open my door.
We walked to the entrance, my hand locked in his.
I reached for my key, but the door was ripped open from the inside.
“Ingrid, mi nieta, you’re home.”
It was my abuelita. I threw my arms around her, a sob of relief catching in my throat. I hadn’t seen her in days. She’d been at doctor’s appointments she refused to talk about, adding to the pile of things that kept me awake at night.
“Hi, Abuelita...” I whispered.
She pulled back and smiled at the man beside me. “Tristian. It’s good to see you.”
“It’s good to see you too, Mariana,” Tristian replied.
I blinked, momentarily distracted by the fact that they were apparently on a first-name basis.
We stepped inside, but as I turned to lock the door, Abuelita’s hand caught my wrist. Tristian tensed instantly. I looked at her, my heart racing, as she reached out and touched my face.
She didn’t say a word as she grazed the reddened skin of my cheek with her thumb, her eyes narrowing into something sharp and dangerous.
I felt the shame immediately. Guilty that I should have told her, should’ve let her in. She’d always been the one person who would have listened.
Tristian broke the silence. “Mariana, I thought it would be best for Ingrid to stay with me for a short while... just until things are a bit more under control here.”
Abuelita’s eyes stayed locked on mine. “Thank you, Tristian. I definitely need to work on controlling a few things around here myself. You two can go upstairs. I’ll catch up with you both before you head out.”
She led the way, and I followed, leading Tristian up to my room. Camila’s door was open, the room empty, and my mother was nowhere to be seen.
Inside my room, I moved quickly, stuffing a tote bag with essentials: clothes and toiletries to start. I looked at my recently acquired art haul, wishing I could scoop it up, but I just didn’t have the space for it all.
Catching sight of my gaze, Tristian rumbled, “It’s okay, doll. We’ll be back for the rest in no time. You can make use of my things until then.”
I nodded gratefully. One last check of the room, a quick kiss on Tristian’s lips, then I ducked into the bathroom to change out of his oversized hoodie and into my flare leggings and a soft modal long sleeve.
When I stepped back out, Tristian was sitting on the edge of my bed. His eyes tracked me, slow and possessive. He beckoned me over with a single finger. I went to him, biting my lip as he placed his hands on my hips and pulled me between his thighs.
“I’m proud of you, you know,” he said, his voice low and rough.
I placed my hands on his shoulders, shaking my head. “I haven’t—”
“You have,” he argued, his grip on my hips tightening. He pulled me onto his lap, and I wrapped my arms around his neck. “And I don’t deserve your bravery or your strength.”
“I-I wouldn’t have been brave if it wasn’t for you...”
“You’ve got to stop giving me so much credit, doll.”
“But you know it’s the truth...” I whispered, my heart in my throat. “If it wasn’t, I wouldn’t still be so happy to have such a caring, overprotective, and loving boyfriend.”