Page 11 of Captive Bride

David extended a hand, a silent invitation for Tristan to take it. There was a moment of hesitation—barely noticeable to the untrained eye before Tristan reached out and clasped David's hand. The shake was brief, firm—a subtle exchange of power, a test of wills.

"Good to meet you, David." Tristan's voice was affable, his words etched with caution. He withdrew his hand, resting it back over the arm of his wheelchair.

Amber leaned forward, her eyes sparkling with the kind of hopeful light that could make even the darkest corners seem less menacing. "We're delighted to meet you both. We've heard so much about this neighborhood.”

“What brought you to Delaware?” Tristan asked.

“My sister,” Amber replied, tucking a strand of coppery blonde hair behind her ear. "She lives a couple of blocks over. When we heard this home was up for sale, we just couldn't resist. She just had a baby a year ago, and we want to be close to her and the little one.”

We listened, our attention rapt as she painted pictures of her sister's life in this neighborhood. Stories filled with family gatherings, baby giggles, and the simple pleasures of suburban living. Tristan reclined slightly in his wheelchair, his expression guarded yet attentive.

"The little one has just started walking," Amber shared, her face lighting up with a proud aunt's glee. "He's such a handful now, but we absolutely adore him."

David chimed in, his voice carrying a fondness that mirrored his wife's. "He's quite the explorer. Every week there's a new adventure that he drags us into."

Amber’s hands fluttered like birds as she spoke, painting the air with her excitement. "I don’t envy you, by the way. Do you know what you’re having?”

“Twins,” I said, my hand on my belly. “A boy and a girl.”

Amber's eyes widened in surprise, a bright smile spreading across her face. "Twins! How wonderful! You must be so excited."

Her enthusiasm was infectious, and I felt a bubble of joy rise within me. "We are," I admitted, placing my hand on my rounded belly.

David chuckled, his gaze warm as he exchanged an affectionate look with his wife. "Double the trouble, double the joy."

“Your pregnancy must be so hard. My sister had a horrible time, but she was nine months pregnant and convinced she could still fit into her skinny jeans!" She threw her head back, laughterspilling from her in a melody that seemed to resonate with pure joy. “My nephew was so big.”

“I can’t imagine,” I said, joining in her laughter. "Being pregnant with twins is hard enough without trying to squeeze into skinny jeans."

"Wait till they start running around," David chimed in, a note of mirth lacing his voice. "Then you'll see what real chaos looks like."

"Can you believe it?" she continued, eyes bright with amusement, touching my arm lightly. Her voice was warm and inviting, almost too perfect, as if each syllable had been dipped in honey just for this moment of storytelling. It was hard not to be drawn in by the genuine spirit of her narrative, by the sense of connection she wove effortlessly through the room.

Amber and I might have been laughing, but Tristan wasn’t.

He was watching us.

Quietly.

Thoughtfully.

The afternoon light knitted golden patterns on the living room walls as I hovered near Tristan, a silent observer to his guarded world. He sat, an immovable presence in our sunlit space, his wheelchair not diminishing the weight of his command.

"Nice collection you've got there," David said, nodding toward the mahogany bookshelf that housed an array of leather-bound classics and modern thrillers alike. This was Tristan’s doing: Idid read some of his books, because there wasn’t much else to do, but the bookshelf was stocked this much because of him. David’s attempt at camaraderie didn't miss the fact that right beside it stood a set of dumbbells, their metallic surface gleaming with use. "Do you lift? You look like you lift."

Tristan's gaze flickered toward the shelf, then back to the man standing too close for comfort. "Sometimes," he replied curtly, the words slicing the air with precision.

The neighbor, undeterred, leaned in, his smile broadening as if he could bridge the distance with sheer cheerfulness. "I'm more of a runner myself, but I've been looking to mix things up. Maybe get some tips from you on strength training?"

"Perhaps," Tristan answered, though the flat tone of his voice betrayed the politeness of the word. It was clear, even to an outsider, that each syllable was pruned of any warmth, cut down to leave nothing but the bare bones of conversation.

His scrutiny remained unbroken, a barrier neither charm nor friendly overtures could penetrate. As I watched the exchange, I knew that while the daylight bathed us in its glow, Tristan's suspicion cast a longer, far-reaching shadow.

But right then, I didn’t care.

Right then, all I wanted was a friend.

Chapter Five: Tristan

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