Chapter 39 Tristan
THIRTY-NINE
TRISTAN
She's still trembling in my arms when I feel the shift.
One second she's clinging to me like I'm the only solid thing. The next, her body goes rigid. Her fingers, still fisted in my shirt, tighten into claws.
"Are you okay?"
She shoves back from me and scrambles to her feet so fast I barely register it before she's standing over me, looking genuinely furious.
"You've been here this whole time?" she whisper-yells. "Why?"
"I needed to find you."
"You've been watching me. Pretending to be someone else."
The broken, gasping woman from thirty seconds ago has vanished. In her place stands the sharper version of Keira I fell for years ago.
There she is.
"Protecting you," I correct, rising slowly.
"Lying to me." She presses the heels of her hands into her eyes. "Making me feel…things."
I keep my movements careful. She's a wild animal right now, all flight instinct and adrenaline. One wrong move and she bolts.
"Oh my god." Her hands drop. Her face has gone pale again. "He's going to kill us."
"He's not going to touch us. I have a plan."
"Why didn't you tell me sooner?"
I take a step toward her, and she mirrors it by stepping back.
"I couldn't. It wasn't the right time."
"Couldn't tell me? Or wouldn't?" She crosses her arms over her chest.
"Both." I step closer again, and this time she doesn't move. "If I'd blown my cover before everything was in place, we'd all be dead. I couldn't risk Calder retaliating against you and Hale."
The fight drains from her posture. "He knows."
"I'm not sure how much, but if I found out, then he likely could too."
She arches a brow, looking lost.
I continue. "Six months ago, a lockbox showed up at my desk with a photo of you and a kid who has my fucking eyes."
"What are you talking about?"
Either she's genuinely confused or she's playing me again.
"You didn't send the coordinates?"
She shakes her head. "No. I had some things in a safety deposit box—the only piece of my old life I managed to keep. No one had access to it but me."
"I don't know who sent it, and I don't care. You vanished without a trace, and all I had was that box. And a photo of my son." I close the distance between us. "You didn't think I'd tear apart the world to find you?"
She wraps her arms around herself. "I didn't disappear. I was—"
"Taken by a monster who treats you like property." I put my hands on her shoulders, leaning down to look her in the eyes. "I know. I've been watching it happen. Standing in corners while he hurts you, and it's been killing me."
Her jaw tightens. "So what's your grand plan? Storm the castle? Kill everyone who looks at me wrong?"
"That's exactly my plan."
A humorless laugh escapes her. "This isn't a joke, Tristan."
"Who said it was?"
"He has an army. Connections in governments, police departments, intelligence agencies. He owns everyone. You can't just—"
"I can, and I will." I see the frantic jump of her pulse, the way her body responds even when she's trying to fight it. "Every last one of them. I'll start with the five pieces of shit in that dining room. And I'll finish with your husband's skull mounted somewhere I can admire daily."
"He's not my husband."
There it is.
That buried defiance. The part of her that used to crave the darkness. The part that knows exactly what we're capable of together.
"Good." My voice drops. "Because you don't belong to him. Never did. I don't give a fuck what papers he forged or what lies he told. You're mine."
The fire drains from her eyes as quickly as it appeared.
"Okay, Heathcliff. You're going to get yourself killed. But first he'll kill me and Hale and make you watch."
"I'd like to see him fucking try." I reach for her face, thumb tracing the tear track still drying on her cheek. "You two are the reason I'm breathing. I'm not leaving without both of you. That's not negotiable."
"Ewan will never let him go."
"He's not going to have a choice."
She searches my face. Looking for the lie. The angle. The hidden motive.
There isn't one.
"How are you going to get us out?"
"Leave that to me."
"I want to know."
"You've been through enough tonight." I brush a strand of hair from her face. "You don't need the weight of logistics on top of everything else."
"I'm not fragile."
"I know you're not. But you're exhausted. You just had a panic attack on a bathroom floor because that piece of shit threatened to take our son." My thumb traces her bottom lip. "So forgive me if I want to give you one night where you don't have to carry anything else."
Her jaw sets. "That's not your call."
"Tonight it is."
She bites her lip, that stubborn tell I remember from years ago. The one that meant she was about to argue just for the pleasure of watching me get worked up.
"You're infuriating," she mutters.
"Missed you too, Red."
The small smile evaporates, and she just studies me, as if a million thoughts are racing through her mind at once.
"You should hate me."
I've thought the same thing. Many times.
"For what?"
"For what I did." She won't meet my eyes. "For keeping Hale from you. For letting you think I chose this. You should want nothing to do with me."
"Is that what you want? For me to hate you?"
"It would make more sense."
"Since when do I make sense?"
A soft, broken laugh. Like nothing I say could convince her she deserves anything but contempt.
She peers up at me, and those glossy blue eyes knock the air from my lungs.
I'm so screwed.
"I don't understand why you're doing this." Her voice wavers. "Why risk everything—your business, your life, everyone you love—for someone who—"
"Stop."
I pull her into me until the heat of her skin bleeds through that goddamn red dress.
"You want to know why I'm here?"
She nods.
I lean down, lips brushing the shell of her ear.
"Because I spent years trying to forget you. Pretending you didn't exist. Burying myself in work, in money, in anything that would stop me from thinking about the way you taste."
Her breath catches.
"It didn't work." I pull back, lifting her chin just enough to watch her pupils blow wide. "Nothing worked. You completely ruined me, Keira. Permanently. And I've been waiting for any excuse to find you again."
"Tristan…"
"The lockbox wasn't an excuse. It was a fucking gift." My hand finds her hip, fingers pressing in. "So don't ask me why I'm here. Don't ask me if I hate you. The answer is the same as it's always been."
She swallows hard. "And what answer is that?"
I don't respond with words.
I just look at her.
Let her see everything I've been hiding—the hunger, the obsession, the barely leashed madness that ignites every time another man touches what's mine.
"You have to go back now." Each word costs me something. "Before the time is up. And if you're gone too long, he'll come looking."
"I know."
Neither of us moves.
"Tomorrow." I tighten my grip on her hip, and she leans into it. "The garden. Six a.m. Staff and guards change at six-thirty. We'll have half an hour."
She shakes her head. "I don't know if I can."
"Keira."
"I need to think." She presses her palms flat against my chest, but she doesn't push. "This is…it's too much. I can't just—"
"Look at me."
Those blue eyes lift. Red-rimmed. Exhausted. Still the most beautiful thing I've ever seen.
"Do you want me?"
I know I'm pushing. But I need to know before this becomes something more than a rescue.
Her lips press together. No answer.
"Not should you want me. Not is it safe to want me." I lower my head until our foreheads nearly touch. "Do you want me the way you used to? The way you wanted me in Croatia, in that hotel room, when you begged me to—"
"Don't."
But her fingers curl into my shirt. Holding on instead of pushing away.
"Answer the question, Red."
Her gaze drops to my mouth, lingering. And then she does something that sends every drop of blood in my body rushing south.
She bites the edge of her bottom lip—the way she used to when she wanted something she wasn't ready to ask for.
Fuck me.
I grip her chin, tilting her face up until she has no choice but to meet my eyes. "That's not an answer."
"It's the only one you're getting." Her voice has gone breathy. "For now."
A door I've been holding shut for months cracks open.
I'm so close I can feel her breath on my lips. One movement would close the gap entirely.
I've been dying to kiss her.
Her eyes flutter half-shut. Waiting. Wanting.
I stop—a hairsbreadth from her mouth.
"Tomorrow," I breathe against her lips. "Six a.m."
Then I step back.
"Go." I have to force the word out.
She stares at me, chest heaving, cheeks flushed. Looking absolutely fucking edible.
Then she turns, opens the door, and slips into the hallway without looking back.
I stand in the dark until her footsteps fade to nothing.
Then I get back to work.
The party has wound down by the time I reach the library.
Most of the guests have retired to their cars, their drivers, their private jets waiting to ferry them back to whatever circle of hell spawned them. Staff clear plates and glasses, putting away food no one touched.
But Dashkov is still here.
I knew he would stay.
He's standing by the fireplace, admiring a painting Calder almost certainly stole from a private collection. A glass of scotch dangles from his fingers.
Alone.
Unguarded.
Just what I was hoping for.
The bartender is behind the bar, restocking bottles and pretending not to exist. I position myself at the far end and catch his eye.
"Mr. Dashkov's glass looks empty." Henri's accent rolls off my tongue. "Perhaps the Macallan 25? Mr. Calder mentioned it was his favorite."
He nods, reaches for the bottle, and pours a glass.
Then turns to gather ice.
Three seconds. That's all I need.
The vial slides from my pocket. A flick of the thumb, a tilt of the wrist, and the contents vanish into the amber liquid.
I slide the glass toward Dashkov's position and melt back into the shadows.
The bartender delivers it with a murmured, "Compliments of the house."
Dashkov doesn't look up. Just takes the glass, swirls it once, and tips it back in a single swallow.
"Excellent vintage." He sets the empty tumbler down. "Tell your boss he doesn't have to keep impressing me. I already signed on the dotted line."
I watch him leave.
The compound won't hit his system for another six hours. By then, he'll be god knows where, convinced his slight headache is nothing more than too much liquor.
Then the tremors will start.
Small at first. A twitch in his fingers. A flutter in his eyelid. Nothing alarming. Just stress, the doctors will say.
But it won't stop.
It'll spread. His hands will shake so badly he won't be able to hold a glass. His legs will give out without warning. And then the compulsions will begin.
The thing about this particular toxin is that it doesn't just destroy the nervous system.
It rewires it.
Creates irresistible urges that override every survival instinct in the human brain.
In seventy-two hours, Dashkov is going to start tearing himself apart.
His tongue first—he'll chew through it trying to stop himself, but the compulsion will be too strong. Then his fingers, one by one. And finally, when the doctors have him strapped to a hospital bed and pumped full of sedatives that won't do a goddamn thing…
He'll reach for his cock.
And he won't stop until there's nothing left.
He won't die. That's the beautiful part. The compound keeps the heart beating, the brain functioning, even as the body destroys itself.
He'll be alive for all of it.
Every scream. Every sob. Every moment of agony—that's for sliding his hand between her thighs. For looking at her like she was something to be purchased. For making her feel like nothing more than a hole to be used.
I straighten my jacket.
Compose my features.
Walk out of the library and back into my role as the docile guard.
The worst kind of monster…the one with a reason.