Page 58 of Corrupt Me

This time, I didn’t resist when he lifted me into his arms. I saw no point, not when all I wanted was to get somewhere dry, strip out of these clothes, and wrap up into a mountain of blankets.

Tristan could offer me those things a hell of a lot faster if he carried me.

The rain turned into a steady stream that showed no signs of letting up. With my arms secured around his neck, he dashed us across the parking lot and into the lobby of an exquisite condominium building.

“Whose place is this?” I asked, glancing around as we dripped water all over the gleaming floors.

He strutted to the elevator, hitting the call button. “My parents. They got it recently for when they visit Prest—” His voice cut off, tightness forming at the corners of his mouth.

“You can say his name. I won’t fall apart,” I assured, and because my body still trembled from the cold, the assurance came out weaker than I liked. Or perhaps I wanted it to be true. I wanted to be strong.

Tristan stepped into the elevator. “Do you want to talk about what happened?”

“I’m not sure it’s a conversation we should have with me in your arms.”

“Now I’m not giving you a choice. What happened, Shortcake?” he demanded, his tone sharpening as the elevator started to ascend. “If you don’t tell me, I’ll only think the worse.”

“Do you really want to talk about your brother cheating on me? Or how I found him with a pregnant girl in his room?”

“She’s pregnant?” Either the elevator dropped, which didn’t make sense since we were going up, or Tristan wavered, something he rarely did.

My surprise turned to indignation. “Afraid so. You’re going to be an uncle next year. You didn’t know?”

His stare grew colder. “I’ve been a little preoccupied lately to keep tabs on the shit my brother is getting himself into.” The elevator doors parted.

“Why do I get the feeling you’re talking about me? I’m not your problem, Tristan. I don’t need you to take care of me.”

He stopped at the end of the hall, readjusted his hold on me, and keyed in the code on the door. It clicked open. “It’s not weak to lean on someone else for a change,” he said, walking over the threshold and flipping a switch on the wall. Light flooded the spacious room, giving me my first look at the Malones’ condo. Penthouse was a better term, but I expected nothing less from Blaine and Anna.

The walls were a creamy white accented by the trim, cabinets, and built-in shelves in honey wood. It had a modern yet cozy aesthetic I found pleasing and comforting. Anna had furnished the place with beautiful light fabrics and rich leather.

In our current state, Tristan and I were going to wreak havoc on this place. I doubted Anna would appreciate us ruining the rugs, but she also wasn’t one to care about material things. She’drather us be safe. It would be better if neither she nor Blaine knew we were here—fewer questions. I wasn’t ready to face them.

Hell, I wasn’t ready to deal with Tristan, yet here I was.

Alone.

Tristan set me on my feet. “Stay here,” he ordered as he was so fond of doing, leaving me dripping on the tiled entryway.

“You ever think about taking your own advice?” I yelled after him as he disappeared down the hall.

I stood shivering, keeping weight off my injured foot and cursing Tristan inside my head. I was dying to get out of my clothes. My soggy sneakers and socks would have to do for now. Bracing a hand on the door, I shimmied my shoes off one at a time. The socks came off next. I left them in a pile on the welcome mat.

I thought I heard running water, but it was difficult to tell over the rain hitting the windows.

Tristan returned in fresh clothes, a pair of gray sweatpants and a T-shirt, carrying two towels. He didn’t hand me one as expected but set them on the back of the couch. Wearing his perpetual frown, he moved to me, his fingers going to the hem of the borrowed hoodie. Our eyes met right before he lifted not just the sweatshirt but my shirt as well, tugging them over my head and leaving me in my bra.

With a plop, the clothes hit the floor. Tristan’s fingers went to the button on my jeans. “What are you doing?” My question was slowed by my shock.

“What does it look like? I’m getting you out of these wet clothes. I need to get you warm.”

He hadn’t saidyouneed to get warm. ButIneed to get you warm as if my freezing to death was his problem.

“I can do it,” I insisted, but my protest landed on deaf ears.

“Put your hands on my shoulders,” he commanded in a tone that expected no argument.

I opened my mouth to argue, but he had already flipped the button undone and begun working the material suction cupped to my curves, leaving me no choice but to hold on to him.

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