Chapter 15
Chapter Fifteen
Tristan
Ten minutes have passed since we came home from the hospital, after Ella’s checkup and the doctor’s permission to leave.
A familiar silence settles around us, one I did not realize I had been craving since the moment we were separated.
This one carries a different quality, contrasting with the stillness that haunted these walls when I waited for news of her, or the one that followed me from room to room after I brought her home from captivity, wondering whether she would ever truly feel safe under this roof.
Ella has changed out of the elaborate blue gown, the blonde wig long abandoned on the bathroom counter, and now she is curled into the corner of the sofa in black leggings and one of my oversized white T-shirts that nearly swallows her whole.
I have changed into black sweatpants and a T-shirt.
Her damp black hair frames her face, still carrying the scent of her shampoo after I washed it for her beneath the shower because she asked me to.
And because, frankly, staying away from her after tonight was out of the question.
Halfway through rinsing her hair, she looked over her shoulder and signed that, this time, I could keep my eyes open.
God help me, I did.
I kept my eyes open and watched water slide down the length of her hair, watched trust return to me, and committed every second to memory with the reverence of a man standing before something sacred.
Afterward, I attempted to cook. Attempted being the operative word, since the functions of my oven remain a mystery and, apparently, I am the sort of man who can negotiate hostile acquisitions before lunch but cannot be trusted with instant noodles after midnight.
She managed a shy laugh when I overcooked them.
Breathless, careful of the bandage at her throat, but real enough to nearly put me on my knees.
Hard to believe that only hours earlier, I fired a gun so close to her body in an attempt to stop Cole that fear almost gave me a stroke.
Now we are on the sofa with some kind of reality show murmuring in the background, both of us pretending to watch it and failing miserably.
It’s late, and we should both be in bed by now, but perhaps this capsule of normalcy is necessary before either of us can let go of what happened tonight.
The bandage wrapped around her throat keeps dragging my attention back to the obvious.
She almost died. My woman, the one whose calves rest across my lap while I massage slow circles into her skin, almost vanished from this earth because I took a shot I had no choice but to take.
Every time my eyes drift toward the white gauze, I have to fight the urge to gather her close and check her pulse like a lunatic.
“What…what happens now?” she signs. I look up from where my thumb is smoothing over the delicate bone of her ankle.
She catches her lower lip between her teeth, the soft cherry tint of it darkened by the marks she keeps leaving there.
I’m not proud of where my mind goes, but I’m too exhausted to pretend it doesn't.
“Tomorrow morning,” I sign, repressing a yawn, “we give our statements. Deputy Garron said the investigation should be straightforward. After that…” I shrug lightly. “I suppose we live.”
“I feel…” She searches for the right sign, then smiles faintly. “…lighter.”
“I know.” She tucks one leg beneath herself, absentmindedly smoothing the fabric over her knee.
“I still want to keep seeing Dr. Voss.”
“Of course.” She deserves every hand willing to help her heal.
Running a hand through my hair, I then look at the automatic fire crackling beneath the television screen, a ridiculous luxury I had only used three times before her.
“There is something else I’ve been thinking about,” I sign.
Her eyebrows lift. “I want mornings with you,” I sign.
“Evenings. Weekends. Birthdays. Terrible movies. Books everywhere. You reorganizing my kitchen because apparently my system is wrong.” Her mouth curves.
I let my gaze drift over her damp hair, her bare face, the T-shirt slipping slightly off one shoulder. What a beauty.
“Showers,” I add, the undertone heavy and unmistakable.
Her breath catches as a blush spreads slowly across her cheeks, and the spark in her eyes nearly undoes me.
“And I think this future, our future…” I swallow, watching every flicker of emotion cross her face.
“I think you want that too.” She does not look away, and that is an answer enough.
“I realized something tonight,” I admit.
“When he took your hand.” My words scrape on the way out, and I have to glance toward the empty wall near the fireplace.
It suddenly seems unfinished, like a place waiting for photographs and memories.
One day, if life decides to stop baring its teeth at us for five uninterrupted minutes, perhaps for our family.
“It has always been about revenge, year after year.” I pause.
“I thought tonight would be the same, but…” Cole’s closed eyelids come back to me.
“All I could think of was you. For one second, I imagined him getting away with you again, and- and the only thought that entered my mind was that I would have spent every last breath searching you.” I look back at her.
“There’s not a place on this earth I wouldn’t search.
” Her eyes fill immediately. “We’ve always been it, Ella.
” My voice catches. “From the moment I first saw you, you were just…there, standing in my office, and the next day, I just… I couldn’t get you out of my head.
” She crosses the space between us, climbing into my lap and hiding her face against my neck.
My arms close around her slowly, mindful of her injuries.
We stay like that for several minutes, neither of us in any hurry to disturb the peace.
Eventually, she leans back just enough to sign.
“I’ve decided what I want to do.”
“About what?” She touches the scar beneath her shoulder.
“A tattoo.” I nod once, keeping my face still despite the wrath growing inside me.
“What are you thinking?”
“A butterfly.” I look at the place where the letter has been carved into her skin, then back at her.
“A butterfly,” I repeat. Of course. Freedom. “I think it’s perfect, yeah… Perfect.” She traces the outline of invisible wings over her shoulder. I kiss her forehead, overcome by her ability to take horror in both hands and shape it into beauty. “I’ll come with you.”
“You don’t have to.”
“I wasn’t finished.” I give her a wicked grin as her eyes narrow suspiciously.
“I’m getting your name tattooed somewhere too.” She stares at me, her lips parting in a little oh.
“Absolutely not.”
“Why not?” I chuckle.
“Because you’re…you.”
“I fail to see the issue.”
She laughs, then signs, “Gang members get names tattooed on themselves, not men like you.”
“I was a delinquent once. Perhaps I am reconnecting with my roots.” She laughs harder, then stops abruptly, resting her palm against the bandage at her throat with a slight wince.
All humor drains out of me. Although the doctor said the wound was superficial, and that most of the blood on her skin had been Cole’s, I still hate the idea of a scar there.
She deserves to look at herself in the mirror without one more reminder that he once existed.
“You are a chess-playing businessman who wears tailored suits and complains when there is dust on bookshelves,” she signs. I place a hand dramatically over my heart.
“Wait…are you suggesting I am not cool enough for a tattoo?” She dissolves into silent laughter again, careful and breathy, and I join her, feeling the pressure of the past hours finally leaving our bodies.
“So that’s a no?” She nods emphatically.
“Definitely no.”
“What if I ask nicely?” Leaning forward, she presses a featherlight kiss to my lips.
When she pulls away, I cup her face between my hands and kiss her again, deepening it slowly, letting myself savor her mouth.
Her fingers curl into my shirt. And I hear her breathing quickening.
I inhale the air she exhales, and vice versa, until the room gets so heated I struggle to breathe normally.
I break the kiss first because one of us has to remember she has stitches, bruises, and a throat wound, and apparently that unfortunate responsibility has fallen to me.
“Ella…” Her eyes open, dazed and dark. A man could build a religion around that look and still not feel he had worshipped enough.
Brushing my thumb along her cheekbone, I fight the urge to bite it.
“We don’t… We don’t have to do anything.
” Her gaze drops to my mouth before lifting again, and I notice how dilated her pupils are.
Jesus. She touches my chest, right above my heart, then signs with trembling hands.
“Today was a terrible day,” she signs, her jaw clenching.
“It doesn’t have to end badly too,” she continues, running her fingers through her lush hair, folding it to the side and uncovering the other side of her throat, bare of any wound.
With the grace of a princess, she lifts my hand and rests it against the side of her neck, embracing my touch as she closes her eyes.
There are moments in a man’s life that make him understand exactly what kind of creature he is.
This is one of mine, because I want her with a desire so fierce it almost frightens me.
Pressing my forehead to hers, I whisper, “We’ll go slow. Promise me you will tell me if you want to stop, if it hurts at any point, or if you change your mind.”
“Promise,” she mouths against my lips, her features so relaxed and secure in what she is seeking that it takes my breath away. Ella slips her fingers through mine and glances toward the staircase. I search her expression carefully.
“Are you sure?” Tired of my questions, she kisses me again.
If only she knew how many days I have spent imagining this very moment.
Lifting her into my arms, I am careful of the healing bruise around her neck and carry her upstairs while she keeps her face tucked against my throat, breathing against my skin.
At the bedroom door, I hesitate because I have imagined bringing her here a thousand ways, and none of them involved the kind of fear she had to endure tonight.
Once inside, I set her gently on her feet.
“Ella…” She looks up. “There’s still something I need to tell you.
” She tilts her head as my heart jumps from the top of a mountain.
“I’ve spent weeks thinking about the right speech, the right ring, but…
” I smile despite myself. “Sweetheart, I don’t have any of those on me tonight, but…
I feel like there will never be a better moment than this one.
” Kneeling, I catch her hips in my calloused palms. I am about to ask her the question when she points at me.
“Husband,” she signs, then points at herself. “Wife.” So I was not the only one thinking about marriage.
“Yeah, sweetheart,” I murmur. “I can’t imagine us any other way,” I confess, taking in the weight of this word on my shoulders.
“Would you do me the honor, Ella?” I ask.
“Will you become my wife?” She bites her lip, her eyes shining with tears as she nods several times, then covers her mouth, her little brows frowning in that adorable way.
Overwhelmed but happy. Catching her hand, I kiss the knuckles of her wedding finger, then rise.
Cupping her face, she leans into my touch, awakening currents of electricity through my entire body.
“I will ask you properly,” I promise. “With a proper ring, and flowers, and…” She cuts me off, rising onto her toes and crushing her lips to mine, devouring me just as much as I am devouring her, our bodies lighting up to the monumental step we are taking tonight.
And I tell her, “I,” then bite her lip, “love,” then kiss her jaw, “you,” trailing my lips along her throat, then her collarbone, and into territories that are becoming my favorite place on this earth.
Carefully, constantly checking on her, reading her lips and body language and signing, we make it to our bed and to kingdoms we have not explored before, discovering together mountains and rivers and sensations I will never get tired of coming back to.
Outside, it’s still dark as we take our time, learning each other in this whole new way. And when she looks at me, unsure and vulnerable, her cheeks deliciously pink, panting, I tell her how much I love her, how proud I am to be hers, how safe she is now and how loved she will always be.
Later, with the shy morning light peeking through the massive windows of our bedroom, she rests against my chest, fighting off sleep.
I kiss the top of her head, running my fingers along her back.
“I love you, Ella.” I smile even though she is almost fast asleep.
“Now.” I kiss her hair again. “And forever.” I lie awake listening to the rhythm of her breathing.
One day, the mark on her shoulder will become a blue butterfly.
The nightmares will visit less often. Perhaps years from now, we will sit in this very room surrounded by photographs above the dresser, holiday memories, newborn pictures, objects she will have collected, ordinary evidence of a life we fought like hell to create.
“Goodnight, sweetheart,” I murmur, kissing her forehead as she snuggles closer to me. To think that, at some point in my existence, I believed the limits of my life ended at the heights of the skyscrapers outside my office.
If only I had known.
There, hidden in plain sight, she was waiting for us to find each other.
She was just there…all along.
My silent princess.
My Ella.