Chapter 33
Chapter thirty-three
Tristian
“Darragh is going to kill you after that performance you put on at the last fight.”
Kane leaned against the sofa, his eyes tracking the way I looked down at Ingrid. She was out cold, her head heavy against my thigh, apparently deciding my lap was the safest place in the world for a nap.
I shrugged. “He might.”
James had come by too, tattoo parlor closed for the afternoon.
He was at the kitchen island, nursing an energy drink.
He shook his head. “This isn’t a he may or he may not situation.
You beat one of his fighters when he told you to lose.
You’re still with Ingrid. And she just told us he cornered her at a coffee shop. ”
So she had. After Samuel’s arrest, I’d called the guys here to discuss things, make sure everything was fully out in the open as we tried to work out what to do next.
I had come clean to Ingrid about my history with Darragh: how he’d approached me as an up-and-coming fighter and lured me in with money to throw fights, manipulate betting odds, before trying to drag me deeper into his world.
Understanding had crossed her porcelain face. “So that’s what he wants with you. Why didn’t you tell me?”
“Same reason you didn’t tell me about your father, doll,” I’d rumbled back. “Didn’t want you anywhere near my mess. But Darragh went after you anyway. Least you can do now is know what you’re dealing with.”
And she did know. Most of it. I hadn’t gone into the full detail… the beatings, the threats, the sting of that belt, the silver fang of the buckle tearing welts into my back that I’d buried under ink. She didn’t need to hear that. She’d been through enough already.
She’d told me about the coffee shop after: Darragh cornering her, the threats, all of it. It had been a long, awful conversation, and I wasn’t surprised when she put her head down on my lap and didn’t get back up. After everything these last few days she was running on empty.
My thumb traced the line of her jaw before I tucked a stray lock of hair behind her ear. She was so fragile, so broken by the people who were supposed to love her.
“So what’s the plan?” asked Kane. “That’s what we’re here for, right?”
“Plan is to protect Ingrid, keep her safe, no matter what it takes.”
“That’s… not a plan,” he countered.
I felt Ingrid stir against me, her small hand clutching the fabric of my jeans in her sleep.
Kane let out an irritated sigh. “Only good thing right now is her father’s locked up.”
“We don’t know for how long,” James countered. “You said he’s not on bail, but how long is it until he convinces one of his business partners to pull some strings and get him out anyway?” He glanced over to me. “Your dad could do it. He’s done it for you before.”
My jaw clenched. He wasn’t wrong. I’d been arrested—how many times?—and Noah had always found a way to get me loose. The police weren’t immune to the right kind of pressure from the right kind of people, and Noah had every reason to keep Samuel free. Their business together depended on it.
I ran a hand down my face, the exhaustion of the last forty-eight hours finally starting to seep into my bones.
“If we speculate, we won’t get anywhere,” I muttered. “We do need some kind of plan... but for now, I’m gonna lay low.”
They didn’t push it further; they knew me well enough to know when I’d hit my limit.
This whole situation was going to blow eventually.
Every time I thought I had a handle on it something else lit up.
But Darragh was a problem for another day.
Right now, my world was reduced to the girl on my lap and the mountain of medical bills for my mother that I still hadn’t figured out how to pay.
And my father. If I had any energy left I’d go to his office and break his legs just for being the reason any of this started. But I wasn’t leaving Ingrid. Not after spending days pushing her away.
The guys stood to leave. “It’s getting late,” Kane said. “We’ll talk tomorrow.”
When they’d gone, the apartment went quiet except for the sound of Ingrid breathing. I moved to pick her up and carry her to the bedroom, but her eyes opened. She looked up at me, gaze hazy and soft.
“You’ve had a long day, doll.”
She didn’t move away. Instead, she turned into me, snuggling her face into my shirt as if trying to crawl inside my skin. I stroked her hair, feeling that familiar, possessive ache inside me.
“Do you really think he’ll be out of jail soon?” she murmured.
“Someone’s been listening,” I mumbled. “You were supposed to be asleep.”
“I was. I kept drifting in and out, only caught bits and pieces.” Her face grew serious. “You think your father will pull strings to get him out?”
I sighed. “I don’t know, doll...” Her abuelita had connections, sure, but our fathers dealt in a different kind of currency—influence and favors that could bypass the law entirely.
“Let’s focus on what we can control.” The words felt forced coming from my lips given there was little in my life I actually had control over.
Ingrid sat up slowly, her eyes red-rimmed and exhausted. She gave a soft nod, then whispered the words that always managed to undo me.
“Kiss me.”
I looked down at her, a wry, dark smile tugging at my lips. Then I leaned down, capturing her mouth in a brief, soft kiss before pulling back enough to see her eyes.
There was something else there. A hunger, a desperate need for connection that made her blush and squirm. She started toying with the rings on my fingers, her movements restless.
She trusted me. Completely and without question and in a way that had no business feeling as good as it did.
“You trust me too much,” I said, the thought slipping out before I could stop it.
She bit her lip, moving closer. “Is that a bad thing?”
I groaned, threading my fingers through her hair, tilting her head back to kiss her again. I couldn’t get enough of her lips—pink, plush, and always tasting like an innocence I didn’t deserve.
“Not always.” My mouth moved to her jaw, her throat, felt her breath catch under my lips. “When I need to keep you safe, it’s a good thing,” I murmured against her skin. “Other times, like right now… it’s a problem.”
Her hand began to inch up the hem of my shirt.
“Right now?” she whispered.
I didn’t give her a chance to speak again. I pushed her back onto the cushions, hovering over her until her cheeks burned red. My hands found her waist, the heat of her skin radiating through her clothes.
“I want to be good to you tonight,” I said, my voice a low rasp against her throat. “Hold you. Let you rest.” My hands pressed harder, and my jaw tightened. “But you keep making that real fucking difficult, doll.”
My mouth dragged up to her ear.
“You have no idea what you do to me, do you?” It wasn’t a question. More like an accusation. “Sitting there with those eyes, touching my hands like that... trusting me like I deserve it, like you’d trust me to do anything with you.”
She let out a soft, broken moan as my hand slid up, cupping her breast through her shirt. I squeezed, harder than I should have, and watched her shudder. Her thighs tried to snap shut, but I was already there, positioned between them. Inches away from what was mine.
My other hand slid down, tracing the curve of her hip before settling over her pussy. I pressed my thumb against her clit through her yoga pants, feeling the heat of her through the fabric.
“Tristian...” she whispered.
My vision darkened. I looked up to see her eyes glazed, heavy with lust.
“Ingrid...” I let go of her chest, my fingers hooking into the waistband of her pants. “I’ve been neglecting you, doll baby, haven’t I?”
She nodded, her hips lifting instinctively, begging for the contact.
“Let’s fix that.”
I didn’t waste time. I stripped her bottoms off and tossed them somewhere across the room before I looked at her, hungry.
Seeing her spread out in my apartment, in my space, wearing nothing but a thin scrap of fabric between her thighs.
I placed my hand over her panties, feeling the dampness already soaking through the fabric.
“Tell me if you ever want to stop...” I promised her.
She shook her head, her voice firm despite the tremble in her breath. “... I trust you.”
I hummed, a low sound of approval. I pushed the flimsy fabric aside, getting my first real look at her. She was perfect. All soft and wet and mine. I dipped my middle finger into her, and she immediately clamped down on me so tight it felt like a vice.
When I moved inside her, her breathing shattered into soft moans. I slipped a second finger in, using my thumb to circle her clit, watching her body fight between tensing up and opening for me. She was trying to hold herself together. I wasn’t going to let her.
She let out a high, needy whine.
“You have to let me stretch this little pussy, baby... How else am I going to fit my cock into you, hmm?”
She sat up on her elbows, watching my hand work between her legs. I kept my other hand flat on her stomach, feeling the way her muscles jumped and twitched. I quickened the pace, and she threw her head back, her hands flying to my wrists as her orgasm moved through her.
Her whole body went rigid, thighs snapping shut around my hand, and I worked her through it without mercy, kept the pressure on her clit while she shook apart, wringing every last second out of her until she was whimpering and overstimulated and trying to squirm away from my hand.
I worked her through every last tremor, kept the pressure steady.
Then I eased off, letting her catch her breath.
Leaning down, I pressed a kiss to her stomach. Felt her muscles jump under my mouth.
When she finally looked at me her eyes were glassy, unfocused, still coming back to herself. I pulled my fingers free slowly and brought them to my mouth without looking away from her.