Chapter 21 Tristan
TRISTAN
The storm hadn't broken.
Tristan stood at the window watching daylight fade to dusk, then dusk to full dark, while snow continued its relentless assault. They'd lost their window. Lost the entire day waiting for weather that refused to cooperate.
Tomorrow was the deadline and Emmett would call another Council meeting, amd they would be without evidence, without the locket, without anything concrete to show for the three days he'd been given, the decision would go against Maren.
Exile. Binding. Worse.
"We could try anyway," Maren said from behind him. "Go now, in the dark."
"Visibility's almost zero. We'd be stumbling blind while that thing has perfect awareness of every shadow." Tristan kept his voice level despite the frustration building in his chest. "That's how people die."
"People die from waiting too."
"Not tonight they don't."
She didn't argue, which somehow made it worse. Just moved to the fire and added wood with mechanical precision, her shadows spreading across the floor in restless patterns that mirrored his own agitation.
The day had passed in uncomfortable quiet after their morning conversation. Tristan hadn't meant to tell her about his mate, hadn't planned to excavate wounds that had barely scabbed over. But something about Maren made honesty feel necessary, like hiding would only make the inevitable hurt worse.
His back ached where the doppelg?nger had struck. The salve had helped, but movement still pulled at healing wounds.
"I should make dinner," Maren said, breaking the quiet.
"I'm not hungry."
"Neither am I. But we should eat anyway."
She prepared something simple from their dwindling supplies. Tristan forced himself to help, needing movement, needing distraction from the growing certainty that he'd failed before even getting the chance to properly fight.
They ate in silence. The food tasted like ash, but he choked it down because she was right, they needed energy for whatever tomorrow brought.
"Tell me about her," Maren said suddenly.
Tristan's hand stilled on his mug. "Who?"
"Your mate. Your wife. You told me how she died, but not who she was." Maren's silver eyes caught firelight. "What was her name?"
"Lena." The name came out rough, unused. "Lena Ash."
"What was she like?"
"Strong. Stubborn. Laughed at things that shouldn't have been funny." Tristan stared into his tea. "She was a combat medic. Met her overseas. She patched me up after a mission went sideways, and that was it. Knew immediately."
"The mate bond?"
"Yeah. Felt like everything clicked into place for the first time in my life." His jaw tightened. "She wanted to come back to the States, settle somewhere quiet. We chose that town because it seemed safe, peaceful. Normal."
"Until it wasn't."
"Until someone got scared and decided fear was enough reason to kill." He set down his mug with controlled force. "I should've been there. Should've stayed instead of taking another deployment. But I thought one more mission, one more paycheck, and we'd be set."
"It's not your fault."
"Feels like it."
Maren was quiet for a moment. "Is that why you're so determined to save me? Because you couldn't save her?"
Tristan wanted to say his protection came purely from duty and professional obligation. But that would be a lie, and they'd already moved past pretending.
"Partly," he admitted. "But it's more than that."
"What do you mean?"
He couldn't answer. He didn't know how to explain something he barely understood himself. The way her shadows responded to him shouldn't work, different magical signatures didn't blend that seamlessly. The way his instincts screamed to protect her went beyond guardian duty.
None of it made sense. All of it felt inevitable.
The power flickered and an outlet popped.
Maren's shadows reacted instantly, surging outward in protective waves. They wrapped around Tristan before he could move, dark tendrils winding up his arms, across his chest, anchoring him in place.
"Sorry," Maren said, standing abruptly. "They're still on edge."
The shadows tightened, pulling him toward her.
Not aggressive. Not threatening. Just insistent, like they'd made a decision their mistress hadn't consciously commanded.
Tristan found himself moving, closing the distance between them until he stood close enough to feel her heat, close enough to see the way her pupils dilated in the firelight.
"I don't know why they're doing this." Her voice came out breathless. "I'm not controlling them."
"I know."
The shadows wound tighter, bringing them closer still. Her hands came up, bracing against his chest, and he felt the tremor in her fingers. Fear or want or something in between.
Tristan's control, carefully maintained for days, cracked. His hand lifted, cupping her face, thumb tracing the line of her jaw. Her skin was soft, warmer than he'd expected, and she leaned into the touch like she'd been waiting for it.
"This is a bad idea," he said.
"Terrible idea." Her hands fisted in his shirt. "We're under too much pressure. Too much stress. Tomorrow everything might change."
He kissed her.
Slow at first, testing, giving her time to pull away. She didn't. Instead she rose on her toes, pressing closer, her mouth opening under his with a sound that shot straight through him.
Heat flared between them, sharp and consuming. Her shadows wrapped tighter, holding them together like they were afraid of being separated. Tristan's hands found her waist, pulling her flush against him, and she made another sound that destroyed what was left of his restraint.
They stumbled backward toward the fire, mouths never breaking contact.
Her fingers tangled in his hair, nails scraping his scalp and making his erection even harder each time.
He walked her back until her shoulders hit the wall, pinning her there with his body while his hands mapped curves hidden beneath layers of clothing.
"Tristan." His name across her lips sounded more like yearning than words.
He kissed down her throat, feeling her pulse race beneath his tongue. Her head relaxed back, exposing more skin, and her shadows wound around his wrists like silk restraints. Not binding, but guiding, encouraging, showing him where she wanted to be touched.
His hands slid beneath her shirt, finding bare skin that felt like fire against his palms. She arched into the contact, her own hands working at his shirt buttons with frustrating slowness.
He pulled back just enough to yank his thermal shirt over his head, hissing as the movement pulled at healing wounds. The pain barely registered. Maren's hands immediately found his chest, fingers tracing muscle and scars with reverent attention that made his breath catch.
She lifted her arms and he peeled the fabric away, revealing pale skin and the simple undergarment beneath. His mouth went dry. She was beautiful. All soft curves and strong lines, her shadows dancing across her skin like living tattoos.
Tristan kissed her again, harder this time, walking her back against the wall.
Skin met skin and the heat between them became almost unbearable.
His hands explored her bare back, her sides, the curve of her waist. She pressed against him, feeling the hard length of him through their remaining clothes, and made a sound that was half gasp, half moan.
Her shadows encircled them both now, creating a cozy cocoon of darkness and heat.
They danced across his skin like physical touch, adding sensation on top of sensation until he could not tell where her hands ended and her magic began.
One tendril traced down his spine while another curled around his bicep.
Her actual hands mapped his chest, his shoulders, his abdomen, fingers exploring every ridge and plane.
His hips pressed forward involuntarily, grinding against her. She rolled against him in response, her body fitting perfectly against his hardness, and coherent thought became increasingly difficult.
He kissed down her throat to her collarbone, then lower, while his hands explored the curve of her breasts through fabric. She leaned into his touch, her fingers digging into his shoulders hard enough to leave marks.
"Tristan," she breathed, and the sound of his name nearly undid him.
His hand slid down to her hip, fingers finding the waistband of her pants. He paused there, giving her a chance to stop this before it went too far.
Instead she rocked against him again, her own hand sliding down his stomach toward where he was hard and aching for her.
"We should stop," Maren gasped against his mouth, even as her hand kept moving.
"Do you want to stop?"
"No. Yes. I don't know." Her hands traced his chest, fingers following the lines of muscle, then dipping lower to palm him through his pants. The touch sent fire through his veins. "This complicates everything."
"Everything's already complicated." His voice came out strained, his control hanging by a thread.
"More complicated then."
Tristan forced himself to step back, catching her wrist before her touch destroyed what remained of any restraint.
His body screamed protest, wanting nothing more than to close that distance and finish what they'd started.
But she was right. Tomorrow might bring exile or worse, and starting something they couldn't finish felt cruel.
They stood breathing hard, half-dressed, staring at each other across three feet that felt like miles.
Her shadows slowly unwound, retreating back to her with obvious reluctance. She grabbed her discarded shirt, pulling it on with shaking hands.
"We can't do that again," she said.
"Probably not."
"Definitely not." She wouldn't meet his eyes.
Tristan retrieved his own shirt, wincing as fabric caught on healing wounds. The pain helped clear his head, reminded him why distance was necessary even when every instinct screamed otherwise.
Maren climbed to the loft without another word. Tristan positioned himself near the fire, staring into flames and trying not to think about how her skin had felt beneath his hands, how her mouth had tasted, how perfectly they'd fit together.
His mate bond had felt like that once. Like recognition and inevitability wrapped together. But that was impossible. You didn't get two chances at that kind of connection. Yet, he knew, especially after tonight, he was.