Chapter 9 #5
“No,” I mutter. Rain keeps hitting the windows in soft, relentless strokes. I look down at my hands, thick, dry patches staring back at me from excessive training. “I…I stopped signing to her.” Elias hums, the way someone does when they recognize the root of the issue.
“Since the rescue?”
“Yes.”
“Does she know why?”
“I don’t even know why.” I clear my throat, hearing a siren far down in the street. “Every time I try to sign, I see her on the concrete floor, covered in blood.”
“When was the last time you signed to her before she was taken?”
“The night she was kidnapped.” My gaze shifts to the chessboard. “In my bedroom.”
Elias nods slowly. “That makes psychological sense, even if it doesn’t feel rational to you.
Your body may have linked the sequence together.
” He pauses, watching me with the careful focus of a man stepping over unstable ground.
“It would make sense to avoid signing now, because your mind has connected it with the last moment you saw her before she was taken away. Avoidance often works that way. It protects you in the short term but hurts the relationship in the long term.”
“But-” I wince. “She-she needs me to sign.” He lifts one finger.
“She needs you to be honest.”
“She’s recovering. I can’t…”
“I understand,” he says, his face tilting slightly.
“But honesty is not the same as handing her every unprocessed fear you have and asking her to carry it.” I arch a brow.
Really? With both palms open and a slight wince, he corrects himself.
“We all have unprocessed fears, Tristan. That’s part of the human experience.
I’m not saying that you have more than anyone else.
I’m saying that talking to her honestly is not the same as opening every wound from your past in front of her.
Right now, she could interpret your unwillingness to sign as rejection, or distance.
Without an explanation, people often choose the cruelest one their brain can find.
” Something cold moves through my chest. Damn it.
The office stretches around me, all glass and polish and controlled luxury, every surface reflecting a version of my current state.
“Our hour is up,” he says without even glancing at his watch.
Therapist thing. Somehow he always knows exactly how much time has passed without checking.
Elias rises from his chair and offers me a hand.
A leather notebook rests beneath his arm, filled with God knows what.
Probably a detailed account of my workaholism, paranoia, and various flavors of dysfunction. On his way to the door, he pauses.
“One last thing.” I raise an eyebrow. “When in doubt, remember that she has shown herself to you vulnerable.” His gaze softens behind the rectangular frames of his glasses.
“Perhaps you should consider doing the same.” I remain where I am, hands braced against the edge of my desk, jaw locked as I stare at nothing in particular.
My phone rings. I press the speaker button.
“Kathy.”
“Everyone’s ready for you in Meeting Room 2B, sir.”
“Thank you. I’ll be there in a minute.” The line disconnects.
Elias gives me a final nod before stepping into the hallway.
I return it. The knot of chaos in my head is finally beginning to loosen.
Good. A few minutes later, I head toward a financial strategy meeting with the insurance division.
Emergency funding plans. Risk assessments.
Numbers. Things I understand and master.
The fog that had smothered me all morning is beginning to clear.
Nate falls into step beside me, joining from his office down the hall.
“Would you look at that?” he mutters as we approach the conference room doors.
“It’s almost like you’re not your usual miserable self.
” I shoot him a look. “Careful. People might start expecting you to have a personality.” His grin widens, but there is an underside to his expression, like he is trying to hold something back.
“Fuck off,” I mutter, a slight tug at the corner of my lips reminding me what it feels like to smile again.
* * *
That night, when I come back home, Ella is asleep.
According to Matt’s report, she has been resting most of the day, except for her checkup with the doctor and her appointment with the therapist. Exhaustion must be creeping into her bones now that her body no longer has to fight every second to survive.
I fold the sheet up under her chin, then leave a chaste kiss on her temple, even if the sea in me rages with lust and hungry cravings.
One step at a time. I don't let myself sleep next to her tonight, not unless she asks me to. We’re standing above a fine line in the sand, and I need to make sure she’s okay with moving forward before my body follows its own mind.
Instead, I grab the other pillow, pull a blanket from my dresser, and lie on the floor near her.
Tristan Ashford, multimillionaire, heir of an empire, sleeping on the floor of his manor. That would make a great headline. Good thing there is no place I would rather be.