Chapter 26 Tristan
TWENTY-SIX
TRISTAN
Marchand summoned me to the front hall this morning.
No specific instructions. Just a curt nod toward the door and the assumption I'd follow like the trained dog he thinks I am.
"You'll be taking Mrs. Calder into town this morning. She has an appointment."
Alone with Keira.
"Anything I should know?" I lean into the French accent, letting it roll off my tongue thicker than usual.
"Routine checkup." He doesn't look up from his tablet. "Women stuff, I think. I don't know. Just don't let her out of your sight and make sure she's good and healthy. That's all the boss said. Otis will be your second."
Good and healthy.
Like she's a mare he's checking for breeding potential. To confirm her body is functioning the way he needs it to for a baby?
Over my dead fucking body.
She can't even see a doctor when she needs to. Can't make a single decision without his permission, his schedule, his approval. She's not livestock, but he treats her like she is. Another asset in his portfolio. Something to be maintained, monitored, and eventually used.
The need to kill is getting harder to ignore as the days pass.
I focus on keeping my jaw loose, my hands still, and my expression perfectly blank. Wearing a mask this tight is proving nearly impossible here.
The anticipation builds until it's time to leave. The hunger growing stronger—and I'm about to be alone with her for the morning.
I'm not supposed to want her.
Now I'm behind the wheel of the SUV, knuckles bone-white against the leather, unable to stop myself from looking at her.
In the rearview mirror, Keira sits perfectly still. Hands folded in her lap. Gaze fixed on the window. The morning light catches the angles of her face, illuminating the shadows beneath her eyes, the tension in her jaw, the careful blankness she wears like armor.
She's so close.
You're Henri right now, not Tristan. Henri doesn't know her. Henri doesn't want her. Henri is just doing his job.
But Henri is a lie, and the truth is sitting in my backseat.
I force myself to focus on anything else. The gray sky, heavy with clouds. Iceland in autumn—cold enough that your breath fogs the glass, bleak enough that the landscape feels like it's in mourning. The hills roll past in shades of moss and slate, beautiful in a way that feels indifferent.
Otis rides shotgun.
He's young—early twenties, maybe. He talks to fill the silence and misses everything that matters. Not great at his job, from what I've seen. He does the bare minimum and thinks he's clever for it.
I'm going to use that to my advantage today.
Keira's eyes are on the window, but I realize she's not looking at the hills or the sky. She's somewhere far away.
I won't pretend I understand what she's going through.
I've seen combat, been tortured close to the breaking point, escaped things that should have killed me and came out the other side with scars that'll never fade. But none of that compares to this.
This is slow death by a thousand cuts, delivered by the man who claims to be her husband. And she has to smile through it. Lie beneath him and pretend she's not dying on the inside.
The image alone makes me want to drive this SUV off the nearest cliff with Calder bound and gagged in the trunk.
I watched her push through physical pain without flinching. Then I watched her shatter when they took Hale away.
I've never felt so fucking helpless.
The shadows under her eyes are darker than yesterday. She's clearly not sleeping.
I want to know which thoughts keep her awake. I want to crawl inside her mind and pull them out one by one. Burn the ones that hurt her and replace them with everything good she should have been given from the beginning.
I will.
I just need more time.
"Beautiful day," Otis offers, gesturing at the sky pressing down on us like a migraine. "You know, for Iceland."
When neither of us responds, he shifts in his seat, drumming his fingers against his thigh.
"My girlfriend back home would love this. She's really into nature and stuff. Hiking, camping, waterfalls."
Keira doesn't blink or acknowledge him. I'm not sure she's even aware he's talking. And I don't have the energy for a conversation right now.
The silence stretches—not because we hate it, but because Otis does. He clears his throat and shifts again.
I'm considering throwing him out of this moving vehicle.
"She's always sending me pictures of places she wants to visit. Mountains and shit. I keep telling her, babe, I'm literally in Iceland right now, and she's like, yeah but you're working, it doesn't count." He laughs at his own story.
I keep my eyes on the road, focusing on the hum of tires against asphalt.
"You got a girlfriend, Henri?"
Guess I can't ignore him now. My eyes flick to Keira. She's still pretending to stare out the window, but her head tilts slightly, her gaze dropping to her lap.
"No."
"No? A guy like you?" Otis sounds genuinely surprised. "What, are you one of those married-to-the-job types?"
"Something like that."
"Man, that's depressing," he says, shaking his head. "You gotta live a little, you know? Find someone. Settle down. Have some kids."
I have a kid with the woman sitting in the backseat of this car, and he has no idea I exist at all.
"I'll keep that in mind," I grit out.
Otis misses the edge in my voice completely. "I'm telling you, once you find the right person, everything changes. Like, I used to think I was fine on my own, but then I met Maren and it was like—boom. You know? Like everything just clicked."
I don't respond.
He keeps talking anyway. The guy has negative social awareness.
The clinic appears fifteen minutes later, and I've never been more grateful to see a plain building in my life.
I pull into the gravel lot and kill the engine.
The small, stone-faced clinic sits quiet in front of us. I wonder if it's a legitimate doctor's office or someone Calder pays specifically for his use.
Otis's phone buzzes. He glances down, reading the message.
"Shit."
"Problem?"
"Supply run. Marchand needs me at the depot before they close, or we're not getting the shipment until next week." He's already unbuckling his seatbelt. "You good here on your own?"
I keep my expression flat, but I'm practically celebrating inside. "I think I can manage."
"Don't let her out of your sight," he says, trying to sound important.
I could break your neck in less than ten seconds.
"She's not going anywhere."
He climbs out, jogging around to the driver’s side. The engine turns over, and then he's pulling away, gravel spitting beneath the tires until the SUV rounds the corner and disappears.
Now we're alone.
No cameras. No second guard. No one watching, reporting, documenting every glance and gesture.
Just me and Keira.
I don't know why I'm suddenly nervous.
She doesn't look at me as she heads toward the clinic entrance. I fall into step three paces behind her, close enough to intervene if something goes wrong, far enough to maintain the fiction that I'm here on Calder's orders.
Inside, the air is thick with antiseptic and the cloying sweetness of artificial flowers—someone's failed attempt to make a sterile space feel welcoming.
Plastic chairs line the walls in neat, soulless rows.
A stack of magazines sits on the corner table, covers faded and corners dog-eared from countless patients.
Looks like a real doctor's office.
The receptionist glances up from her computer, checks Keira in, and tells her to take a seat.
I stay near the door.
"You can sit, you know." Keira's voice cuts through the quiet.
"I'm fine."
"Standing there like a palace guard isn't necessary." She flips open a magazine. "There's no one here to perform for."
Risky move, talking to me like that. I wonder if this kind of boldness has gotten her in trouble before.
I hesitate.
Then I push off the wall, cross the room, and lower myself into the chair directly across from her. The row is narrow, and our knees nearly brush. Close enough to catch the soft scent of lavender in her hair.
Fuck.
Her eyes lift above the magazine. Pale blue. The same ones that used to strip me bare with a single glance, dismantling every wall I'd spent years building like they were made of paper.
I hold my breath.
She's studying my face. Tracing the beard I've let grow thick along my jaw. The cropped hair. The brown contacts that bury the man I used to be.
For fuck's sake, Keira. See me.
Her gaze lingers for a moment longer, then drops back to the magazine.
She doesn't recognize me.
I don't know if that's mercy or a knife sliding between my ribs.
Maybe I wanted her to know. Maybe some desperate, self-destructive part of me wanted her to look up and gasp and say my name like it still meant something.
It doesn't.
Not anymore.
"You're different than I imagined."
My pulse stumbles. "Pardon?"
"Without your mask, I mean." She tilts her head, studying me like I'm a puzzle she can't quite solve. "I don't know. I pictured you differently."
I let out a quiet breath that almost passes for a laugh.
She's talking about Henri's face without the balaclava.
"Ah. Sorry to disappoint."
It shouldn't bother me. I'm the one who put the mask on. I'm the one lying to her face every day. And still, the idea of her wanting a version of me I invented grates.
Because Henri is supposed to be forgettable, and she's already thinking about him?
That's a problem.
Her cheeks turn pink. "I didn't mean it in a bad way."
"Non?" I say lightly. "Let me guess. Less hair. Nicer. Less intimidating."
Her mouth curves before she can stop it. "More chatty, actually. But you do look at me when I speak."
I arch a brow. "As opposed to…?"
"The others." She shrugs like it doesn't matter. "They prefer not to see me. Easier that way, I suppose. If I'm not a person, they don't have to think too hard about what happens to me."
I should let this conversation die before I say something that gives me away.
But I can't.
I need to know what she'll tell a stranger that she'd never tell me.
"And what happens to you?"
It comes out too soft. Too invested. A guard wouldn't ask like that.
She blinks, surprised by the question. That I'd even bother asking.
I want to know everything. Every bruise. Every tear. Every nightmare he's ever given you. I want to carve them out of you and carry them myself.
"Nothing worth discussing," she murmurs finally, shaking her head. Closing the door.
I know exactly what happens to her behind closed doors. I've seen glimpses. Heard whispers. Imagined the rest until it drove me half-mad.
But I can't tell her that.
"Mrs. Calder? The doctor will see you now."
The moment shatters.
Keira rises, smoothing her hands down her coat, and walks toward the hallway without looking back.
I watch her the whole way. At the door, she pauses. One hand on the frame. Then she turns, finding me over her shoulder.
"Will you be here when I come out?" she mouths.
She knows guards don't leave. That's not what she's asking.
She's asking if Henri will stay. The man she's allowed herself to notice. The one who looks at her like she's real.
This is a door cracking open. An invitation to trust, despite everything she's learned about what trust costs.
"Yes," I mouth back. No hesitation.
I hold her gaze and let her search. Let her look for the lie, the catch, the inevitable betrayal everyone in her life has taught her to expect.
She won't find it.
I give her the only thing I can offer right now—steadiness. A promise without words.
I'm here, Red. I'm not going anywhere.
Not this time.
She turns and disappears through the door, but I just sit there like an idiot, staring at an empty hallway.
What the hell is happening to me?
I've spent my entire adult life training myself to compartmentalize. Burying every feeling deep enough that it can't compromise an operation or get in the way of my success. I'm good at it. I'm excellent at it.
Attachments are weaknesses. Caring about someone—really caring, the kind that makes you stupid and reckless and willing to throw away everything you've built—was never something I wanted.
And yet here I am.
Coming undone because a woman with a broken heart asked me if I'd wait for her.
I didn't account for any of this.
For the way she looked at me just now—searching, desperate to believe, terrified to try.
For the way my whole body leaned toward her without permission, like she's gravity and I'm just debris caught in her pull.
For the way I would've said yes to anything she asked.
Would've promised her the moon. Would've torn apart anyone who tried to take her from me.
Why is it always like this with her?
Why is she the one person who can unmake me with a glance? Who slips past every defense like they're made of water?
I've tried to forget her.
God, I've tried.
I've buried myself in work, in violence, in the kind of darkness that's supposed to kill everything soft. I've gone months without thinking about her. Convinced myself I was free.
Lies. All of it.
She ruined me without even trying. And the worst part?
I'd let her do it again.
I catch the thought before it can fully form and shove it down deep where it can't do any damage.
This isn't love. It's residue. Muscle memory. The ghost of something that ended years ago.
Except it doesn't feel like a ghost.
It feels like a wound that never closed. A hunger that never faded. Like standing at the edge of a cliff, knowing you're going to jump—and not caring because the fall is worth it if she's waiting at the bottom.
Oh, for fuck's sake.