Page 83 of The Contract

“He just needs time,” Noah says. “He’s in shock.”

“I know.”

“You need time too.”

No, I don’t. I need Tristan. I realized it the morning that I woke up on the floor of my trashed bedroom after I threw him out.

I knew it as I set things in motion with Fiero to bring everything to an end. All of it already felt empty, my revenge hollow.

I knew it would never soothe me again, not in the same way. Only Tristan can do that.

And without him …

I’ll deal with that later, figure out what that means later. I have Fiero to deal with first.

TWENTY-EIGHT

Tristan

I have Noah drop me off. I already knew I would be safe here, but the fact that he’s willing to leave me confirms it. He’s clearly the anchor in this … family.

I’ve never really had one, so I guess I have a loose sense of what family means, but I think the bond between him and Dante and Rafael counts.

Rafael’s Maserati is parked next to Dante’s Jag in the warehouse loading bay. They would be in danger of being stripped if not for the security cameras and the fact that two dangerous and armed men could be out here to deal with thieves and vandals in mere seconds.

I try the door and find it unlocked. I take a deep breath and go inside. The steel door at the bottom of the steps is also unlocked. I take another deep breath.

When I walk into the basement, Dante, obviously alerted to my arrival, is standing by the desk, facing the doorway. Facing me. His expression is almost always intense, but it’s usually intensely aggressive. It’s something else right now. Wary. Worried. Like it was as hard for him to hear my approach as it was for me to make it.

He’s so damn beautiful. His black jeans mold to his thighs. His black t-shirt skims his powerful torso and chest, and hugs his biceps. His face is so strong and so fucking gorgeous. And his eyes hold so much. I see it now, the thousand complexities. I don’t understand all of them, but I know they’re there, all those layers. A lot of them are dark.

I sensed that before, but I know it now on a much deeper level. This place is part of that darkness. It’s part of him.

He doesn’t say,I didn’t expect you. He doesn’t need to; I can see it in his face. He doesn’t ask,How are you?He knows I’m not ready to answer that.

He says in a rough, strained voice, “Hi.”

“Hi,” I say back.

“I’m sorry,” he says.

“For what?” I ask, confused. He saved my life last night.

He huffs, sounding exasperated. He gestures around. “Where should I start?”

I swallow hard. “You mean, for what you are.”

“Yes. And for what I did. I scared you. That night. After my … dream. I don’t remember what I said or did, but I’m sure it was awful. I’m sure you were right to leave.”

“You told me to leave.”

He winces. “I’m sorry.”

“You didn’t even call me.”

His chest starts heaving. “I know. I was—never mind. It doesn’t matter. I’m sorry.”

“It does matter. You were what?”

---