20. Evie

I cap the last glass bottle, labeling it calendula with a Sharpie before setting it aside with the others. I’ve been in the sunroom all day, making tinctures. It was time—I had a huge box of jars containing arnica, goldenseal, and calendula in the maceration stage. That’s when the herbs infuse into the solvent. Usually, this process only takes a few weeks, but the herbs sat longer this time around because I’ve been so busy. Timmy helped me strain liquids for a while, mildly fascinated by the process, but eventually he wandered back to his video games.

I don’t mind. Working with herbs on this level requires a certain degree of concentration. Take goldenseal. Its antibacterial and anti-inflammatory properties make it great for treating colds and infections, but too much can cause seizures or even death. Like any medicine, herbs can either heal or harm.

Outside, the drizzle turns to a downpour, drumming against the windowpanes as I wash out my equipment. I’d hoped Tristan would stay home today, especially after that awful-sounding meeting with my father yesterday, but he left early this morning. Said that he wanted to work out for a while and that he had a load of stuff to do afterward. It didn’t seem like he wanted company, so I let him go.

Maybe it was the talk we had in the garden yesterday, but I’m really missing him today. I wish that wasn’t the case. Tristan and I didn’t get married for love, but we’ve fucked our way into some pretty big feelings. On my end, at least, but I think on his end, too. Things feel more complicated now than ever.

Timmy’s in the living room, playing some uber-violent video game when I find him. He pauses it when I walk in, looking up at me expectantly. He’s so young and angelic looking, which is funny, because he’s such a bad kid. They all are.

I drop onto the couch, grabbing a pillow to squeeze. “Tell me about him,” I say on a whim.

Timmy looks longingly at the screen, his knee bouncing. “Who, Tristan?”

I chuckle. “Who else?”

“You probably know him better than I do by this point,” he quips, giving me a sly look. “If you know what I mean.”

I squint disapprovingly at him. Of course, they’ve figured out that Tristan and I have gotten physical. Doesn’t mean I want to talk about it.

Shaking his head, he resumes the game. “You wanna know something, you need to ask him yourself.”

“How long have you known the Kellys?” I press.

“My whole life, pretty much.” Timmy shrugs a shoulder as he maneuvers his gun-toting character around a burning car. “My dad works for his dad.”

“Like, legally, or …?”

“Seriously, just talk to Tris yourself,” he mumbles. “I’m sure he’ll tell you anything you wanna know.”

“Why hasn’t he, then?” I ask, sinking back into the cushions.

Timmy kills two guys on screen in quick succession. “Have you asked him?”

“No,” I admit. “Have you ever killed somebody, Timmy?”

He points to the screen with a smirk. “Yeah, just now. Didn’t you see?”

When Maribelle’s name comes up on my phone, I let her call go to voicemail. It’s been so long since she called, I wasn’t sure she still had my number. I wait a few minutes before listening to her message .

Hi. I talked to Daddy this morning. He said the distillery now officially belongs to the Kellys. I don’t care how y’all figure it out, but you need to go ahead and give me my share, Evie. Call me back.

Putting my phone aside, I empty a box of fettuccine into a stock pot of boiling water—one of the few things I can cook. Maribelle’s not wrong. We do need to handle what would have been her inheritance. But what a headache. As the pasta bubbles, my thoughts drift to yesterday when Tristan told me the distillery was finally ours, or rather, his. He’d won the first and most significant battle of this war, but I thought I saw a flicker of regret in his eyes for what winning it costs everyone involved. I wonder if Maribelle understands that.

I’m sure she does. She just doesn’t care. This isn't just about her share, which she is absolutely entitled to; it’s about power. Winning . She’s just as ruthless as Tristan—maybe worse. It’s no wonder she tried to seduce him into partnering up with her when all of this started. Snorting derisively to myself, I reach for the colander and toss it into the sink. Maribelle’s affectionless voicemail was a cold reminder of how anemic our relationship has always been. She hates that I’ve “won” this round. I got the distillery and the guy.

Because yes, I think part of her does still want the guy. She accused me of pining for Tristan when we were younger, but I remember those days and she was just as bad. The difference was, he paid attention to her because she was pretty. But now the tables have turned, and it’s me that he’s chosen. Our marriage is kind of a sham, but our friendship isn’t. There is something real between us, even if it’s just mutual, platonic respect with a side of great sex.

I’m sautéing garlic in olive oil to toss the noodles in when the front door opens, and a cacophony of loud, male voices fills the house. My heart squeezes. I never thought I’d be the kind of girl waiting at home for her hubby, but somehow here I am.

But it takes Tristan so long to find his way into the kitchen that by the time he finally does, my giddiness has evaporated. Why do I feel so far away from him? And why do I have to care? He’s given me so much more than I ever could’ve imagined, but it’s never enough.

I must not be the only one feeling the distance because he doesn’t say anything as he walks over to watch me stir the pot of garlicky noodles. “How was your day?” I finally ask.

“Busy.” When I don’t respond beyond a nod, he shifts a little closer. “You okay?”

“Yeah, just thinking.”

“About?” He leans against the counter, and I look up to find him watching me closely. Rainwater is dripping from his hair and his t-shirt’s all wet. He looks like the main love interest in a romantic music video.

I look away. “You should go dry off.”

“Evie.”

“Where do I even start?” I try to smile, but it comes out more like a grimace. “Everything. Us. This pretend-marriage. For all the time I’ve known you, I don’t actually know you. I don’t know what your life was like before you came to Savannah, or what your past relationships were like—the real ones—or what you want when this one’s over. All I have is this outdated understanding of who you are based on when we were kids, and even that’s falling apart.” Swallowing, I grab a wedge of parmesan and begin grating it with gusto. “I don’t know what you do all day. I’m an accessory to you and your life, and I can’t even be mad because that’s what I agreed to.”

His fingers are cold when he touches my arm. “That’s not true.”

“It is.” I shake my head, furiously squeezing back my stupid tears. “I’ve been telling myself I had no choice, but I did. I said yes to you because I saw a chance to have you for a little while and I took it.” My hand slips, and the grater scrapes against my knuckles, drawing blood. “Shit,” I whisper, bringing my hand to my mouth.

Grabbing my hand, Tristan turns on the faucet and begins rinsing my fingers. “You got Band-Aids upstairs?”

I nod, tugging, but he holds fast and leads me out of the kitchen. We pass the living room which is full of guys I don’t really know and go upstairs, where Tristan leans me against the bathroom counter. “Under here?” he asks, opening the cabinet beneath the sink.

“Yeah, there should be a box somewhere.”

Locating the Band-Aids and a tube of antibiotic ointment, he dries my hand and proceeds to bandage the tiny wounds. I stare at him as he works, my heart throbbing at how sweet he’s being. At how far away I feel from him, even though my hand is in his. “You’re good at this,” I say quietly .

He glances up, one side of his mouth crooked in a smile. “Lots of experience.”

“That makes sense.” I examine my fingers, now barely feeling the sting. “Thanks.”

“Any time.” Tristan settles his hands on either side of the sink, looking at me.

“What?” I turn my face with a self-conscious laugh. “My pasta …”

“Forget the pasta.” Squeezing my hips, he lifts me onto the counter and stands between my knees.

“But it’s the only thing I know how to cook,” I whisper to his shoulder.

“Timmy said you were asking about me,” he says.

I huff, betrayed. “Timmy has a big mouth.”

“Timmy’s loyal,” he corrects, one hand curving around my waist. “And he’s right. If you have questions, you need to ask me.”

“Have you ever killed someone?”

He lifts his chin. “Don’t ease in slowly or anything, Detective.”

“Fine.” I back off, not sure I want to know the answer to that anyway. “What did you do all day?”

“Meetings, mostly. We brought on an independent accounting firm to handle the distillery’s bookkeeping, and today was their first day.”

“You don’t waste time,” I say, impressed.

“Had to act fast. I didn’t trust your dad not to tamper with the records. The firm’s starting with an audit of the distillery’s current finances so we can get an idea of where it’s at. Then I met with the security team I hired.” He looks down at his phone suddenly, quickly typing something before putting it away again. “As of today, we got guys posted in the distillery parking lot and at the West Saint Julian Street warehouse.”

“I see.”

“And then I had a meeting with our local broker, Kenny. He’s been working on this deal with us—and your dad—for a couple years now.”

“A couple of years, really?” I say in surprise. “So, my father was on board with giving up the distillery at one point.”

“I don’t know.” He grabs his towel from the rack, giving his rain-soaked hair a quick rub. “He could’ve been trying to buy himself some time by telling us what we wanted to hear. Or maybe he was gonna go through with it, but then something changed.”

“What do you think would’ve changed?”

“Honestly?” he says. “His relationship with the Deschamps family.”

Like a lot of the influential people in this town, the Deschamps have always been on the periphery of Daddy’s social circle. He’s motivated by status, and they have plenty. I’d had no idea that they were business associates, though, so their closeness had come as a genuine surprise the day he told me I was to marry Cole. “You think he was already trying to form an alliance with them?” I ask.

“Possibly,” he says slowly. “The timing of his pulling back from our deal is a little suspicious. Maybe he thought he found a better offer, or protection.”

“Protection from what, though? He made it sound like me marrying Cole was purely transactional. Just business,” I say. “Like the marriage would give them a share in the distillery and that they’d take care of any outstanding debts to other people. Including y’all.”

“I think it was more like if he got their support, he wouldn’t need to honor his deal with us anymore. He’d have enough backing to try and wipe his debt clean off the board. Forcefully if necessary. But I doubt it would’ve played out the way he was expecting.” Tristan tosses the towel aside, returning to me. I try to focus on him and not the friction of his damp jeans against my thighs. “You know how that family rolls. They would’ve owned the distillery, him, and you.”

A queasy feeling arises, a disconcerting loss of equilibrium. Had Tristan not offered to marry me, my life would have turned out a lot differently. “I’m not surprised my father was playing such dangerous games, but it still hurts knowing he’d use me to win.” I touch Tristan’s face, running my thumb over his newly shaved chin. “Like I was nothing more than a pawn.”

He’s quiet for a moment. “Do you play chess?”

I shake my head.

“A lot of people see pawns as expendable. They’re of little value, so it’s easy to sacrifice them for positional advantages. But skilled players recognize the value of the pawn.” He takes my hand, kissing one of my bandaged fingers. “See, pawns can block enemy pieces. They can capture them.” He kisses another finger. “And if a pawn manages to reach its opponent’s back rank, aka enemy territory, it can be promoted to a queen.”

Something small, warm and bright sparks in my chest.

“The queen’s the most powerful piece on the board. She can move in any direction and go anywhere she likes, but most importantly”—he leans in and whispers in my ear— “she has the power to checkmate the king.”

“Wait, are you the king in this scenario or is my dad?” I ask, raising an eyebrow.

Tristan leans his head back, his laugh echoing off the bathroom walls. “Your dad would be the enemy king, and you checkmated him when you married me,” he says, eyes shining in amusement. “But if I’m your king in this little analogy, then I’m both the most important piece and the most vulnerable. You have to be smart and make the right moves to keep me safe.”

“I think I can do that.” I lock my ankles around his legs, bringing him in a little closer.

“I know you can,” he says.

If I thought there were a lot of Boston boys before, it’s nothing compared to the cavalry that arrived earlier. Alex—Lucky’s best friend, apparently—came over with the guys that drove down yesterday. They’re staying close by; Tristan says they’ll be in town for as long as it takes to stabilize Doyle Whiskey’s new management.

There’s not enough fettuccine to go around, so I make the other two boxes in the pantry while Tristan sautés the rest of the garlic. Everyone lauds my culinary skills, which is hilarious, and there are no leftovers. Not one noodle.

We stay up late, drinking beer and playing cards while the boys talk shit and reminisce. It’s an interesting dynamic. Some of them are closer than others, but they all seem to have shared history. They have the kind of bond that comes from being on a team, being in the proverbial trenches together. Lots of inside jokes and references I suspect they keep veiled because of me.

They defer subtly to Tristan, but I infer by their conversations that Lucky’s the ringleader back home. Lucky kind of intimidated me with his snarky confidence when we were kids, but I liked him. Whereas Tristan was accessible and talkative, Lucky kept some distance. I remember feeling like he was more reserved with Maribelle than he was with any of us. Like he could see right through her.

I’m loading the dishwasher when the guys finally call it a night. Tristan and Malachi help me clean up, and then everyone goes their separate ways. I take a shower—solo, regrettably—and put on pajamas before climbing into bed with a book.

Tristan wanders in eventually, seeming distracted as he settles into bed with his phone. I try valiantly to read, but my mind is too busy and eventually I give up, putting down my book. Instead, I stare shamelessly at the man I married, admiring the topography of his profile. The plush curve of his lips; his slightly crooked nose, which may’ve been broken at some point; his long, dark eyelashes. His body. I’ve never been with a man that looks like this. I know it’s superficial, and beauty is skin deep, and it’s what’s inside that counts, but damn. I thrill every time I look at him. If he feels me staring like a creep, he doesn’t say anything. Who told him to come in here without a shirt?

“Maribelle called,” I say.

“What did she want?” he asks, keeping his eyes on the screen.

“She wants her share. What she would’ve gotten had Daddy not fucked everything up.”

“That can probably be arranged,” he agrees calmly. “She’s entitled to it.”

The stone of tension that lodged itself in my chest after Maribelle’s phone call dissolves. I didn’t realize how anxious I’d been about telling him. I shouldn’t have been. We might not be on the best terms with my sister, but Tristan understands family.

I reach up, tracing my finger along the scarred skin on his upper bicep. It’s hard to see with all of his tattoos, but once you notice it, it’s impossible to ignore.

“Tell me about this,” I say.

He sets his phone aside, silent as he seems to consider. “About a year and half back we had beef with a local Bratva outfit. It’d never been a problem, but then all of a sudden it was one thing after another,” he says, running his hand through his hair as he stares at the ceiling. “ Interference in our operations, shipment losses that weren't making any sense, that kind of thing.”

He pauses, his eyes sliding to mine.

“Who are the Bratva?” I ask, because I think I know but I need him to be explicit.

“Russian mafia.”

My heart jackknifes as reality sinks in. I give a slow nod. “Okay.”

“It was getting more intense by the day, fights and shit. Anyway, Bria was Liam’s nanny back then, and Lucky had a security detail for them.” Tristan looks at me meaningfully. “He’d have had one for them even if nothing was going on, just because of who he is.”

Just like he insists on having one for me—he knows what could happen otherwise. It’s weird to think of Timmy as my detail, but that’s exactly what he is.

“Anyway, one morning they were ambushed outside Liam’s school. The bodyguard was killed, and Bria and Liam were taken.”

“Oh, my God,” I breathe, my heart in my throat. It’s so much worse than I could have imagined. “How old was Liam?”

“Four. But he had a smartwatch with a tracker, so the second they left the school, it alerted Lucky’s phone. He could see exactly where they were going.” Tristan scrubs his hand over his face. “He knew something was wrong, even though he wasn’t sure what. I’ve never seen him as scared as he was that day. It was fucking awful. I was scared.” He shakes his head. “Anyway, we rounded up a crew and tracked ‘em down. Surrounded the house, shot our way in, and got Bria and Liam back.”

“And you got shot in the process?”

Tristan nods slowly, his eyes holding mine with an intensity that makes my heart race. I knew him when we were kids. What if the last time I saw him had been the last time, period? What if he’d been taken from this world and I’d have nothing but old memories of someone I knew way back when? People die every day—every second—I know that. But to die like that? So young, and so violently?

“Did you …?”

“Did I what?”

“Have to shoot anyone yourself?”

“It’s kill or be killed, Evie,” he says evenly, but his eyes darken.

“It must have been terrifying, having to make a choice like that. ”

“It wasn’t the first time,” he says. “And it wasn’t really a choice. When your people are at risk, you act first and think later.”

“Did they hurt Liam?” I ask. “And Bria?”

“Liam was okay, but Bria got a little beat up.” He sighs heavily. “It was a really bad time.”

Seeing the shadow that crosses his face, I link my pinkie with his. “Sounds like it. I’m sorry.”

“The worst part is that in the end it wasn’t even just the Bratva,” he adds. “One of the other families had turned on us.”

“Another family?”

“There are five families that make up Saoirse. Well, four now.” Tristan turns onto his side so he’s facing me. “Our grandparents came over from Ireland in the seventies with four other families, people they’d been connected to back home. They pretty much ran Boston until there was a big mess with the Feds in the nineties, and anyway. We still do what we do, but you know. Quietly. For the most part.”

I search his eyes. “What do you do?”

“We make money,” he says, tucking his hands beneath his cheek. “We provide goods and services for the community. And we deal with those who step out of line.”

His words seem intentionally cryptic, leaving my imagination to fill in the blanks with silly, movie-grade images of shadowy figures and illicit deals. Part of me saw this coming, though. From the moment Tristan sat Daddy down that first morning, I knew something was different about him.

Why am I always drawn to the bad boys? Cole was into all sorts of shit too. But in the end, it wasn’t his criminal activity that drove me away. It was his cruelty, his lack of honor, like the shadow in his soul was nourished by other people’s pain.

Tristan might be ruthlessly efficient and unapologetic about his choices, but he lives by a code, an unwavering force that guides his actions and decisions. There’s something steadfast and true in him, a light I can trust.

“A real civil servant, huh,” I kid.

“Sometimes the line between right and wrong gets blurry,” he says with a shrug. “And sometimes, the only way to protect what’s yours is to get your hands dirty. ”

Sounds like a world with different rules, one I’m not sure I want to be a part of but can’t seem to turn away from, either. Nervous energy hums beneath my skin like I’m teetering on the brink of something huge and scary and thrilling and awful. “What happens when you cross that line?”

“You find out what you're made of.” He reaches for me, running his hand over the curve of my hip. “You find out how far you'll go to protect the people you care about.”

I catch his hand as he pulls it away. “I guess that answers my question.”

“Which one?” he asks with a wry smile, a hint of vulnerability in his eyes.

“All of them.”

He allows me to lock our fingers. “You seem okay with that.”

“I’m okay with you ,” I clarify.

“Yeah, but for how long?” Tristan huffs softly, those long, pretty eyelashes dusting his cheeks as he looks down.

“Forever,” I say honestly. “Besides Opal, you’re the only person I trust.”

If ads affect your reading experience, click here to remove ads on this page.