Chapter 21 Tristan
TWENTY-ONE
TRISTAN
They've moved Keira to a room. Brought in a nurse to tend to her wounds, and I'm not allowed near her since I got reassigned to night patrol while she's healing.
As if I'm just another body in rotation and didn't just watch her get carved to pieces.
The routine walk isn't doing anything to tame the beast inside me.
I go through the east wing, down the main corridor, past the locked door where my son sleeps.
Guarded by two men who have no idea who I am or what I'd do to them if they stood between me and that room.
I pause there longer than I should.
Cameras sweep the area every thirty seconds, and there are no blind spots. Two guards stationed at all times, both armed and alert.
Getting to him would require precision I don't have right now. Not with my hands still shaking and her blood still under my nails, no matter how hard I scrubbed.
He's so close.
Three floors is all that separate us. Three floors and a handful of men and a security system I could dismantle in my sleep.
But I can't do any of that until I figure out how to get them both out safely.
So I keep walking.
And I pretend the distance doesn't feel like dying.
When I turn the corner, I see Keira standing near the west staircase, speaking with a staff member.
She's out of her room too early, but even from this distance I can see she's barely holding herself together. Sleeves tugged past her wrists to hide what's underneath. Shoulders curled inward like she's trying to take up less space. Face drained of color, bruised shadows carved beneath her eyes.
When the staff member walks away, Keira's gaze flicks to the camera above her head. Then she turns and walks in the opposite direction.
I watch her count her steps. See her lips move as she maps the distance to the next hallway.
She's planning something.
Less than twelve hours ago, her captor shattered a vase and forced her to collect the shards with her bare hands. And she's already strategizing her next move.
I'm so fucking mad.
At Calder—for what he's done. What he keeps doing. What he'll do again tomorrow and the day after unless someone puts him in the ground.
At her—for needing to be strong enough to survive this. For making every assumption I've built over so many years feel like a fucking lie. For still being alive inside that shell when I spent years convincing myself she chose to disappear.
That she chose to betray me.
At myself—for caring. For standing in this hallway with my fists clenched so tight my nails are drawing blood. For wanting to follow her so badly it's become a physical ache behind my ribs.
I'm not operating like a neutral asset anymore.
I'm operating like she's still mine.
And I hate it.
I hate that some traitorous, pathetic part of me still wants to protect her. After the lies. After she carved me out of my son's life like I never existed. After she took something that belonged to us and handed it to a monster who doesn't deserve to breathe the same air.
I hate that I don't hate her.
Not even close.
Marchand finds me twenty minutes later. "Boss wants to see you," he says.
Fuck, not today of all days.
Not when I'm this close to ruining everything just to kill him.
He's standing by the window when I enter his office, hands clasped behind his back, watching the darkness beyond the glass.
He doesn't turn around. "Henri. How was your first few days on interior detail?"
"Uneventful, monsieur."
"Good." He turns, looking all too pleased. "That's what I like to hear. I wanted to thank you personally for last night. For ensuring my wife completed her task."
I want to rip out his tongue for calling her his wife. The fucking audacity of this asshole.
"Of course, monsieur."
"It must have been difficult." He moves closer, circling the desk. "Watching her struggle like that. Some men find it unsettling."
Another test.
"I'm here to do a job, monsieur. Not to have opinions."
"Excellent answer." His smile widens. "You stood very still last night. Very controlled. But it almost seemed like you were restraining yourself."
He was watching us the entire time. Maybe used her punishment as a test on me too, wanting to see how his new guard would react in difficult situations.
Fucking psychopath.
"Tell me, Henri." He stops a few feet away, close enough that I can smell his cologne. "What exactly were you restraining yourself from?"
From crossing that room in three steps. From wrapping my hands around your throat. From making you swallow every piece of glass she touched and then some.
"From interfering, monsieur. You gave explicit orders."
"I did. And you followed them. Perfectly."
He liked watching me struggle. Gets off on control—his own and everyone else's.
"Keep up the good work." He moves back to his desk, dismissing me. "My wife will need close supervision in the coming weeks. I'm relying on you to ensure she stays compliant."
"Yes, monsieur."
I'm almost to the door when his voice stops me.
"Oh, and Henri?"
"Monsieur?"
"If you ever find yourself feeling too restrained"—he draws the word out, savoring it— "do let me know. I'd hate for you to be uncomfortable in your position."
I meet his eyes. "Understood."
"I thought you might."
I walk out before I show him exactly how unrestrained I can be.
When I kill him—and I will kill him—it won't be fast.
I'll take my time. Start with the hands that signed her over to this life. The mouth that calls her wife like he owns the word. The eyes that watched her bleed and saw nothing but entertainment.
I'll make him understand what he did.
Make him feel every second of it.
And then, when he's begging, when he's crying and broken and desperate for it to stop, I'll lean in close and whisper her name.
So it's the last thing he ever hears.