Chapter 47
FORTY-SEVEN
KEIRA
It's the day before we leave for New York City, and there's a heavy tension that follows me everywhere.
Everyone seems on alert. New guards patrol the grounds, staff are preparing for the trip. And Ewan is on edge, which is unusual. He's normally neutral, even careless. But today he's been snapping at staff, checking his phone constantly, like he's waiting for bad news.
It's unnerving. But thankfully, he's too distracted to bother with me.
Which gives me the confidence to visit Hale.
He's not in his room, but his suitcase sits in the corner, still unpacked. I open it and start filling it with care, not forgetting his favorite blanket, the stuffed elephant he can't sleep without, the books he likes me to read before bed.
Everything else we can replace later.
I head to the nursery next. The nanny tells me he's in morning classes and cannot be interrupted. I ask if I can just peek through the door.
She shuts me down.
I want to slam my fist into her smug face. But I give her a smile and turn to leave, not wanting to cause any issues this close to the trip.
Tristan is nowhere to be found, which sends my mind spiraling through a thousand catastrophic possibilities. But letting my thoughts run wild won't help anyone. If Ewan had discovered us, I'd know. I'd be his opening act.
When I pass Ewan's study around noon, my heart nearly stops.
Tristan is stationed just outside the door—face blank, posture perfect. The ideal soldier.
Our eyes meet for half a second, and the look he gives me says everything his mouth can't.
It's late. Our flight leaves around ten tomorrow morning, though that's loosely set since Ewan will make the final call. He likes playing God with his pilots the way he does with everything else—adjusting schedules on a whim just to watch people scramble.
My bare feet are silent on the marble as I make my way toward the laundry room. A dress Ewan wants me to wear on the trip needs mending—a small tear along the hem. I noticed it an hour ago, and I have a few things that need washing before we leave.
The light is already on when I push through the door.
Lotte is standing at the folding table with a stack of white towels. Mid-fifties, short black hair, thin lips that have never curved into a smile in my direction. She decided she didn't like me the day I walked in with Ewan and has spent every interaction since confirming it.
She doesn't look up. "Mevrouw, you shouldn't be walking the halls this late. It's not appropriate."
She's the only one who calls me that.
"Last-minute trip prep." I hold up the dress. "Can you help me with this? There's a tear along the hem."
She glances over her shoulder—a look that takes in the dress, then me, then dismisses both.
"No, I can't. It's late, and the seamstress is gone for the night."
"Okay. No problem."
I turn toward the washing machines and hear her mutter something under her breath in Dutch. I don't catch all of it, but one phrase lands clearly.
Nutteloze hoer.
Useless whore.
The old version of me would swallow this. Tuck her chin and leave before the shaking in her hands became visible.
But that version didn't have a flight to New York tomorrow. Didn't have a man waiting in the shadows with an extraction plan. Didn't have a reason to remember she used to be someone who bit back.
"Wat zei je?"
What did you say?
Lotte's hands freeze on the towel. Her head turns, eyes narrowing at me.
She didn't know I spoke Dutch.
Nobody here does. There's a lot they don't know about me.
I switch back to English, keeping my voice cool. "You wouldn't want Mr. Calder to know how you speak to his wife."
She smooths down the last towel and places it gently on the stack.
"Mijn excuses, Mevrouw."
The apology is meaningless. She even delivers it with a dipped chin and doesn't meet my eyes again as she walks past me toward the door.
I stand there for a few seconds after she's gone—heart hammering. Half proud. Half terrified.
Because what if she goes straight to Ewan? What if that small act of spine costs me something I can't afford to lose?
I close my eyes.
Breathe. Everything is going to be fine.
Tomorrow we fly to New York, and everything changes.
I push off the cupboard and turn to toss my clothes in the wash.
The door opens behind me.
Before I can react, there's a body against my back, pressing me into the industrial machine. Big hands grip the metal on either side of me. His scent hits before his voice does.
"Fuck, I missed you."
"Tristan." I spin around inside the cage of his arms. "How did you—"
"Watched her leave. Who was that?"
"Lotte. One of the live-in cleaners."
"She was here when I came to find you." His hands are already working the buttons of my shirt. "I had to wait in the fucking hallway for four minutes while she folded towels at midnight."
He says it like she was committing a felony.
"We leave tomorrow. I don't know when I'll get you alone again before everything goes down." He tugs my blouse open. "And that woman stole four minutes from me."
The anger in his voice is so disproportionate to the situation that I can't help but laugh.
He stares at me. "What's funny?"
I shake my head. "Nothing. Just…the irony. You're here, about to rail me against a washing machine, and she just called me a useless whore. I was furious, but now that I think about it—"
Every trace of warmth drains from his face.
"She said what?"
"In Dutch. She didn't know I understood. It's fine. I handled it."
"Where did she go?"
"Don't be ridiculous."
"Which direction?"
"You're not going after her."
"Give me one good reason."
"Because we're twelve hours away from getting on a plane, and you murdering a housekeeper would complicate that."
He looks at me, letting out a reluctant exhale. "I hate this place."
"I know."
"I hate that people talk to you like that."
"I know."
"When we get out…" His voice drops. "No one will ever speak to you that way again. I'll make sure of it."
I rise on my toes and press my lips to his.
He responds immediately, hands tightening on my waist, pulling me flush against him. The kiss starts soft but doesn't stay that way.
Not tonight.
He lifts me up onto the machine. The metal is cold through my thin sleep shorts. I breathe through it as he tugs me to the edge, thumbs pressing into the soft skin of my inner thighs.
His hard cock strains against his pants.
My fingers fumble with his belt. He helps, shoving everything down just enough. His hand slips between my legs, pushing my panties aside. Two fingers slide through me, and he groans against my neck.
"Always so ready."
"Always." I pull him closer by the back of his neck. "Now hurry. I need you."
There's no buildup tonight.
He pushes inside me in one firm stroke, and my spine arches off the machine. His hand covers my mouth before the sound fully forms, holding it in while he buries himself to the hilt.
"Quiet, Red."
I nod against his palm.
He starts to move—fast and deep, one hand gripping the machine for leverage, the other still clamped over my mouth. My legs lock around his waist, pulling him deeper with every thrust.
The machine rattles beneath me. His breathing is ragged in my ear. Mine comes in sharp bursts against his fingers.
Euphoric. Electric. Exactly where I'm meant to be.
Until the door opens.
Everything happens in fragments—frozen, yet lightning-fast.
Lotte in the doorway. A forgotten towel in her hands. Her mouth falling open, eyes going wide as she takes in the scene. Me on the machine, Tristan between my legs, his hand over my mouth. The unmistakable position of two people caught in the act.
She opens her mouth to scream.
Tristan moves faster than I've ever seen anyone move.
One second he's inside me. The next he's across the room—one hand over Lotte's mouth, the other catching the door before it swings wide. He pulls her inside and kicks it shut in a single motion.
She claws at his arm. Her legs kick at the wall. Muffled sounds fight against his palm.
Her eyes find mine over his shoulder, begging.
Tristan is eerily calm as he looks down at her. "If I let you go, you walk straight to him and tell him what you saw. By morning, everything I've ever loved will be gone."
Lotte thrashes harder. A guttural sound pushes past his fingers.
"So this isn't personal. You understand that, right? This is just how the numbers work out."
He pauses, glancing at me briefly.
"Actually, I lied." He shrugs. "It's a little personal."
His free hand moves to the other side of her neck.
One sharp twist, and her body goes slack.
Tristan lowers her to the floor, easing her weight down until she's crumpled against the baseboard. Eyes open. Lifeless. Staring at nothing.
He straightens, rolling his shoulders.
"She had sharp nails. Wasn't expecting that."
I'm still sitting on the machine. Legs open. Frozen in place, shock holding me there as everything unravels.
I've killed like that before, when the job required it—but this isn't like that.
Tristan protected me without hesitation or remorse. With the brutal efficiency I used to possess before Ewan stripped it away.
Watching him move like that awakens something dormant inside me.
The adrenaline coursing through my veins isn't fear.
It's something wilder, mingling with the ache still throbbing between my legs.
Tristan reads my face. A flicker of surprise crosses his expression.
"Are you okay?"
I nod.
He reaches for Lotte's ankles, ready to drag her toward the supply closet. Ready to shut this down and get me out of here.
"No."
He stops, glancing up at me with concern.
"I need you to finish what you started."
He pauses for three full seconds, staring at me as he processes my words.
Then he drags Lotte's body across the floor, opens one of the larger supply cupboards, and folds her inside. He shuts the door, locks it, and pockets the key.
When he turns back to me, his gaze sharpens—territorial.
He's across the room before I can take a breath, his mouth already on mine.
There's something wrong with both of us. A darkness that feels familiar in a way nothing else ever has.
Two ruins built from the same disaster.
That's why gravity keeps dragging us together.
"Who's insane now," he growls against my lips.
"Still you. You just killed a woman and locked her in a cupboard."
"And you still want me."
"Nothing could ever change that, Tristan Hale Barlowe."
He pushes back inside me.
The machine bangs softly against the wall with every thrust. His breathing is shot. Mine is worse. His hand grips my hip hard enough to bruise, and I welcome it.
Wanting the evidence. Wanting to look at my body tomorrow and see proof of everything we've become.