Chapter 26
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
DAPHNE
My shoulders and hamstrings ache as I tread down the stairs. There are slight red marks where the knots bit into my skin last night, but they should fade quickly. With Hawkeye at my heels, we check the living room. Empty. No bag. No shoes. No sign of Tristan.
He didn’t come back.
My heart plummets to my stomach. Did something happen to him? He said he would be gone for a few hours, but he’d be home by the time I woke up. And I’m not an early bird. No worms for me. I squeeze in every second of sleep I can.
Hawkeye bounds past me and into the kitchen when I hear Tristan’s voice. “Hey, fluff butt.”
Relief settles into my muscles like a drug, making my limbs weak. Tristan is crouched on the floor, his large hand splayed over Hawkeye’s belly as he gives our puppy belly rubs.
“Aren’t you a good boy? Yes, you are.” The cooing in Tristan’s voice melts me.
Tristan’s multicolored eyes snap up, and he grins. “Morning, Princess.”
“You’re home.” I can’t hide the relief in my voice, which only makes him smile wider as he scoops up Hawkeye from the floor.
“Of course. I made a promise.” Something silent exchanges between us. A comfort. A change.
Without a word, I close the distance and fling my arms around him, careful not to dislodge Hawkeye.
Tristan presses a kiss to my lips, but retreats when Hawkeye tries to join in.
“Not you, buddy.” Tristan settles Hawkeye back on the floor.
“So, did you?” I can’t say the words. My stomach hardens like quick-dry cement.
“Like I said, I made a promise.” He nods, and that movement is all the reassurance I need that my world’s a little safer now.
“Thank you.” My throat tightens on the words. Brent’s dead… because I asked someone to kill him. He’s gone.
Tension layered through my muscles fractures, giving way to release. The world’s brighter now that Brent’s no longer walking the Earth. My vision blurs behind a window of tears.
Tristan tugs me fiercely into the safety of his arms. “You’re alright, Princess. He’s never going to hurt you again.”
I don’t know how long I cry as he cradles me against his firm chest. He’s silent as the shock works its way out of my system.
“What… what did he say?” I choke out between fading sobs.
Tristan stiffens under me and cradles me even harder. “He admitted he drugged you.” His voice goes soft, as if that might cushion the blow of the truth. “You were drugged so heavily, you couldn’t speak. He did it twice. Without a condom. I’m so sorry, Daph.”
He presses a tender kiss to the top of my head.
I should cry more. Harder, knowing what Brent did to me.
But there’s an eerie sense of peace knowing what happened.
It’s like being handed a missing piece of a jigsaw puzzle you’d been trying to solve for months—one you thought was forever lost, only to feel whole again.
“I made him suffer for it,” Tristan says, his own voice strained like he wants my approval.
“Good.” I don’t know what else to say. But knowing that Brent died suffering closes a door that has let nightmares slip into my dreams. One that let the voice in the back of my mind tell me that what he did to me wasn’t wrong. That I deserved it.
Those ghoulish things slink back into the shadows of my mind, and I finally get to close that door on the worst night of my life.
Once the sobbing reduces to sniffles, Tristan presses another soft kiss to the top of my head. “I hope you don’t mind, but I used your shower,” he rumbles into my hair. “Your shampoo smells gross, by the way.”
A laugh escapes, and I lean back, grateful for the distraction. “It’s designed for fine hair. It helps with volume.”
“Does it?” His eyebrow arches. “So that’s why my hair looks voluminous this morning?” He shakes his head like he’s in a nineties Maybelline ad, and I laugh so hard, my gut aches.
“Don’t pick on my shampoo.” I slap his chest as a tease, but he captures my hand and interlaces my fingers in his.
“I promise, I won’t pick on your shampoo that smells like mint and nail polish remover.”
“Bite me.”
“You know,” his voice dips in a husky vibrato. “If you keep asking me to do that, Princess, one day I might.”
“Is that a promise too?” The challenge in my voice doesn’t match the softness in my muscles as my body softens against his embrace.
The devilish smirk on his lips wakes a throbbing need in my core as he leans lower.
His breath tickles my ear. “Careful what you wish for, Princess.”
Before I can speak, his lips cut me off in a fierce kiss. There’s no teasing or foreplay. It’s raw and carnal. He killed someone last night. For me.
That shouldn’t turn me on, but God, it does. I don’t know the details, but the thought of Tristan gliding a knife coated in my cum across my rapist’s throat sets my blood on fire.
He scoops me up by the backs of my thighs, depositing me on the kitchen island. My legs wrap around his waist, ankles locking in place. My fingers clutch the strong muscles along his back.
His tongue slips against mine, tasting me as his hands push my tank top up. His rough fingertips skate across my round stomach to the underside of my breast before shoving the fabric over my chest.
Tristan pulls back and groans in reverence, his eyes zeroing in on my nipples puckering under his gaze.
He dips his head. His tongue flicks across my nipple, sending sensation skittering across my chest. He captures it in his mouth and sucks.
God, the things this man can do with his tongue should be illegal. My core throbs.
My front doorknob jiggles.
Tristan abruptly stops, my nipple slipping from between his lips as the faint jingle of keys echoes outside the house.
“Daphne?” Mom’s voice calls out.
Shit. No. Why the fuck is she here?
I shove my shirt down as Tristan steps back, his eyes darting around.
I hop off the counter, trying to catch my breath, but it’s like someone’s tossed an icy bucket of water over me. I can’t think. My mind’s still in a fog as I try to bring myself back to Earth.
“The basement?” he asks.
But it’s too late.
Mom unlocks the door and pushes it wide open. Her heels clack along the floor.
We’re trapped in the kitchen as she moves closer and rounds into the room.
Her eyes widen as she takes in the sight of me in a tank top and pajama shorts with Cookie Monster on them.
My hair’s an unbrushed, rumpled mess, and a man she’s never met is here.
His T-shirt is a wrinkled disaster, with distinctive dents where my fingers were just a second ago.
“Daphne?” Mom’s eyebrow rises in judgmental distaste. “I didn’t know you’d have company.”
“That’s why most people have the decency to call first.”
Her perfectly laminated eyebrow raises. “I need to call to come visit my daughter? In the house that I pay half her rent to live in?”
“Yes, you need to call to visit,” I say.
Mom shakes her head at me. “Don’t be rude, Daphne. Introduce me to your friend.” She sneers at the word. It’s her Southern Belle way of suggesting Tristan’s a fuck-buddy.
“Mom, this is my boyfriend, Tristan.” Shit. How do I not know his last name?
“Tristan Sinclair, ma’am.” He holds his hand out, but Mom stiffens as if he might mug her.
“It’s Mrs. Fox,” she corrects him. “Daphne, we decided that you need to attend the next State Dinner and your father’s East Coast rallies. I’ve already given his campaign manager your contact information.”
“You did what?” Un-fucking-believable. “First, you threaten to leave me on the hook for a house you forced me to live in, so I would be close to a job you put me in, then fired me from. Now you want my help?”
“Excuse me?” Tristan chimes in. “Mrs. Fox.” Tristan imitates her tone oh-so-subtly. “This is a big conversation to have on an empty stomach. I was about to make pancakes. Would you like some?”
She shakes her head. “No, thank you. Shouldn’t you be watching your carbs, Daphne?”
“Shouldn’t you be minding your own business, Mrs. Fox?” Tristan retorts. He turns his back on my mother as he retrieves two coffee mugs from the cabinet.
My God, I never thought any man would stand up to my mother. If she weren’t here, I’d drop to my knees and thank him.
I can’t help it. My eyes flick down to his sweatpants. He’s gone soft. I can’t blame him. I think if I had a dick, hearing my mom’s voice would make it shrivel into a raisin.
“Excuse me, young man?” Mom hisses. “I don’t know who you think you’re speaking to, but I will not have some lowlife messing around with my daughter and speaking to me in such a disgusting tone.”
“Lowlife?” Tristan laughs as he starts to boil a jug of water for coffee.
“Mrs. Fox, since you’re so obsessed with Daphne’s weight and your husband’s votes, you clearly have an affinity for numbers.
” Tristan clears his throat. “So, let me set the record straight. I know your family’s net worth to the penny. Mine is more than double yours.”
Tristan dumps coffee grounds into the French Press, his back still to her as he makes us breakfast. “There’s a reason I’m a private person who doesn’t give a fuck about what people in your lower tax bracket think.
So please, have some decorum and stop throwing your money around like it’s important.
I could buy this fucking house for Daphne if she asked.
Hell, I could buy her the entire damn block if she wanted.
” Tristan tips the boiling water into the French Press, more concerned with coffee than with wasting time looking at my mother.
Mom’s body shrinks while her eyes widen in fury. “You… you…”
I’m as speechless as Mom, mostly because I’ve never seen Mom speechless.
“You have no leverage here,” he reminds her. “If Daphne chooses to help you, it will be her choice. You have nothing to blackmail your daughter with. Nothing to hold over her head. So, if you need her help, I suggest you choose your next words carefully if you want her to say yes.”
“Are you threatening me?” she hisses. “I can call in one of my agents and—”