Page 30 of Illicit Throne

I could see him through the gap in the wall separating the kitchen from the living area. His short, dark blonde hair glinted under the soft glow of dim lantern light, his strong back turned towards me while he worked on who knows what.

Closing my eyes momentarily, I took a deep breath and tried to focus on the scents filling up our temporary sanctuary. The rich aroma of tea still permeated the room, now accompanied by the faint scent of something being heated. My stomach churned at the thought of food, but I knew I needed to eat.

I was caught off guard when I heard a soft clatter and a low curse from the kitchen. I opened my eyes just in time to see Tristan bend over to pick up a can he’d apparently dropped. It was strangely normal, this domestic scene in an otherwise surreal situation. It felt…cozy, even homey, despite everything.

A few minutes later, Tristan returned with two bowls of what smelled like canned soup and bread that looked like it had seen better days. “It’s not gourmet,” he said, a wry smile playing on his lips as he set down the bowls on the coffee table.

“The service is top notch,” I replied. “I’ll make sure to tip you.”

He laughed, sitting next to me on the worn sofa. We ate quietly, the silence filled only by the clinking of metal spoons on ceramic bowls and the occasional crunch of stale bread. Tristan had braced his elbow against the back of the couch, his gaze focused on his soup as he ate. The lantern light illuminated half of his face, casting a stark contrast of light and shadow across his features. His blue eyes glanced up at me under his dark blonde lashes, and I felt something stir within me.

“You good?” he asked after a while, setting aside his finished bowl. His brows furrowed in silent concern.

“I will be,” I replied honestly.

“I said I was handy,” he said. “Not a good cook.”

I laughed. “That was delicious,” I said. “All things considered.”

He smiled at me. “You don’t have to lie.”

For a moment, the tension seemed to ebb away. We were two people, lost in a maelstrom, seeking solace in each other. As I looked into his piercing blue eyes, I knew that he was just as scared and uncertain as I was. I felt a strange and unexpected comfort in that shared vulnerability.

“Why this house?” I asked.

“It’s a safe house,” Tristan replied, his voice low and reflective, “It’s off the grid, untraceable. I keep it for emergencies…”

I appreciated the information, but it didn't make me feel any better. “I know what it’s for. But why this house?”

He looked at me, his eyes glinting in the low light of the lantern. “It was my mother’s,” he said. “She left it to me, then my dad sold it. I bought it back when I could. My dad doesn’t know.”

“Do your brothers?”

He shook his head, a wistful smile appearing on his face. “Only Kieran,” he answered. “He helped me fix it up when we were teens. Helps me do supply runs every month. We have to keep the place stocked, at least a little, if one of us needs to get away quickly.”

A soft silence settled over us, pooling in the corners of the room like gathering shadows. I didn’t know what to say—part of me wanted to comfort him, to reach out and reassure him that this was the right thing to do. But another part of me held back, unsure of how he would react.

I watched as his gaze softened, the blue of his eyes deepening as he looked at me. His shoulders relaxed, and for a moment, he looked less like the guarded mafia prince and more like a young man burdened with too many responsibilities.

“So what happens next?” I finally asked.

“I don’t know,” he said. “But whatever happens…we keep you safe.”

Chapter Twelve: Adriana

The bedroom in the cabin was bathed in light. The pale morning sun streamed in through the single window, painting everything in soft, hazy colors. I woke up to the distant sound of water running–Tristan must have been up early. I buried my face into the pillow for a moment longer. The linen smelled freshly washed.

I reluctantly pushed the covers off and swung my legs over the side of the bed, stretching my arms above my head as a yawn escaped me. After last night’s conversation, sleep had finally claimed me, but it had been filled with fitful dreams and constant tossing and turning.

My stomach grumbled in protest. The soup from last night was a distant memory now. I hastily buttoned my shirt and made my way towards the sound of water.

“Tristan,” I called out as I entered the small kitchen area. “Do you need any help?”

He stood by the sink, his back to me as he rinsed something in the sink.

“Sure,” he said, not turning around. “You can help by making the coffee. The pot’s over there.” He gestured towards a corner of the room with a nod of his head.

“There’s electricity?” I asked.

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