Chapter 10 #6
“Ella?” Tristan’s voice pulls me out of memory lane as I accept his hand and step toward his car.
“It’s a car I keep here for late nights,” he explains.
“Most of the time I have a chauffeur so I can work on the way to work, but sometimes I prefer to drive myself.” I sit as he leans in, catching the seat belt and draping it over me. What is he…
“Safety first,” he mutters, his forest-green eyes landing on my lips before he clicks the belt into place, closes the door, and circles the car to sit behind the wheel. How come he still has not asked me where I live? Why does it reassure me that he already knows things about me?
Silence surrounds us as the car starts, the engine humming low beneath us, the dashboard casting a faint glow over his profile.
Tristan drives with one hand on the wheel, the other resting between us, palm up, like an offering.
His index finger roams over his lower lip, as if he is playing a chess move he is not entirely sure will end well.
Seeking his touch, I slide my hand from my thigh and cover his.
A light sigh leaves him as he laces our fingers, his thumb brushing over my knuckles while his gaze remains fixed on the road.
Who knew holding hands could set me on fire?
I often hear Valeria and Emily talking in the living room about their boyfriends and all the things they do, which seem to require quite a lot of stretching and sweat, along with expensive lingerie sets and daring pictures sent to one another.
We drive for fifteen minutes, light opera music playing in the background, the night swallowing us into another reality.
When we arrive in my neighborhood, I straighten in my seat.
There is a car parked in front of the gates.
One I have never seen before. Yet I have the itching sensation that it could belong to the men who came to visit Mara, and a strange sense of protection takes hold of me because I do not want to pull Tristan into whatever shady waters Mara is stepping into.
Squeezing his hand to catch his attention, I let go and sign, his eyes dropping to my hands before returning to the road.
“Could you please drop me here?” I pause, checking once again, then notice the car’s lights flicking on as it begins to pull away.
“I didn’t...” The car slows, his eyes shifting to me. “I’m sorry, sweetheart. I was focused on the road. Can you repeat, please?”
Frowning for extra emphasis, I repeat, “Could you please drop me…here?” His eyes follow my brows, reading more than my hands.
I often sharpen my facial expressions when I sign, especially when I need to make a point.
I try not to do it too much with strangers who have no idea what I am saying, but Tristan seems far more familiar with the subtleties of sign language than the average person.
“Wait.” His voice hardens. He slows the car at the beginning of the street, his arm rising in front of my chest, shielding me from the road while he looks at the black SUV departing.
The car stops. Pulling out his phone, he types fast, his attention moving between the road, the SUV, and the screen.
His phone vibrates a few seconds later, and he pinches the bridge of his nose.
“Brenton, search this license plate immediately.” He says on the phone, then enumerates plate numbers, his hand lowering again afterward, resting near my thigh.
What is he doing, who is this Brenton, and how is he relevant?
His voice catches my attention as I linger too long on the thickness of his hand and the veins dancing beneath his skin.
“How can I make sure you are safe in there?”
“What do you mean?” I sign. Something passes across his face, but it is guarded, unreadable.
“I want a guarantee of your safety.”
“Why?”
“Because you have a bruise on your face, Ella, and because…” He pauses, running a hand through his hair. “Never mind.”
“I can text you once I am in my room. Would it…help?”
“Actually, yes. Could you give me your phone ? I will add my number.” I nod and give him my not-so-tech-savvy phone, unlocking it and watching him type before handing it back to me.
“If you do not text me in five minutes, I will break in.”
“What? Why…”
“Just-could you…do that for me?”
“I… Yes, okay. Thank you for driving me back.” A second stretches as he looks at me, an unmistakable hunger in his eyes.
“When can I see you again?”
“Tomorrow, after my shift, but it means you would have to be up at one o’clock, and…”
“I’ll be there,” he says with the calm tone I have become accustomed to.
My mouth turns dry, and I reach for the door, noticing his hand twitch as if I have committed a felony by opening it myself.
I step down, small raindrops falling on my hair like a veil.
We exchange a look, the same one we did in his office when he cupped my face and pierced through me with daggers of truth.
I almost run to the house. Unable to look back.
A terrifying feeling settles inside me that if he commanded me to come back to him, I would in a heartbeat.