Page 72 of Bloody Vows
No one knows that as well as I do.
We eat meals together, and I catch him watching me sometimes, when he thinks I'm not looking. There's something hungry in his gaze, something that makes my skin feel too tight and my breath catch in my throat. But then our eyes meet, and he looks away, his jaw clenching like he's biting back words he doesn't want to say. I feel the same, but anything I say will only spark another fight, and I know how those end.
I’m not ready for him to show me how weak I am when it comes to what he does to me again.
I’m grateful one morning when Tristan doesn’t show up for breakfast—probably because of some meeting he needed to be up early for. I go to sit in the kitchen with Nora, nursing a cup of coffee as she makes me French toast and sits down to eat with me, a bowl of fresh fruit between us.
“You look tired,” she says softly, taking a sip of her own coffee. I swallow hard and meet her eyes across the table.
“I’m tired of this.” I toy with a piece of strawberry, trying to work up the appetite to eat the breakfast she clearly made with love. “I don’t want this marriage. I really don’t. And now… now it’s all become so confusing.”
“What do you mean?” Nora looks at me patiently, and I know I can talk to her. I’ve always trusted her, always let her be that older female figure that I would never have had otherwise—a mother, an aunt, an older sister.
“I thought about… finding a way to get rid of him.” I press my lips together, looking up at Nora and waiting for some sign of shock. There’s none, only an amused smirk on her face. “What? You don’t think I’m an awful wife?”
Nora chuckles. “I had a great-grandmother you would have loved. She dosed her husband with arsenic and ran off to Mexico afterwards. Family stories say she became a famous dancer, then met my great-grandfather and moved back to California. Who knows how much of those stories are true, though.” She shrugs, that smirk still on her lips, and I sigh.
“I’m being serious.”
“So am I.” She shrugs. “Men like Tristan have a tendency to get themselves killed by their wives. Of course, sometimes they prove that they deserve a second chance. Has he yet,mija?”
I bite my lip. “He did come to my rescue,” I say softly. “Twice now, I guess, if you count him marrying me so that Konstantin didn’t have me killed. But I don’t know if that’s enough. He’s so—” I struggle to find the right word for it, and how to explain, especially since there’s plenty that I can’t imagine telling Nora.
“I can see very clearly how he is.” Nora reaches out to pat my hand. “But, Simone, you must understand that you are very much… you, as well. I love you like my own daughter, but you are a handful. And a man like Tristan does not always know how to handle being told that he’s not the one in control.”
I narrow my eyes at her. “So, what? I’m supposed to make him feel good about his position in life? More manly? Some stupid shit like that?”
Nora laughs. “No. Of course not. But be aware of your own failings too,mija, and how you might egg him on. Don’t let him take advantage of you, of course. He needs you as much, if not more, than you need him. It’s your father’s money, your father’s empire that he wants. You are a treasure, and he should treat you as such. But don’t be so quick to bite him, if he tries to offer an olive branch.”
I sigh, cutting a piece of my French toast. “You have no idea how insufferable he is.”
“I can imagine. Just think about it,mija. You have a long life ahead of you. A bad marriage will make so much of it harder than it needs to be.”
“So I should have him killed. Got it,” I mumble through a mouthful of syrupy bread, and Nora laughs, the sound instantly relaxing me.
For all the chaos and the confusion that my life is right now, Nora feels like home. I’m grateful that I have her, at least, even when everything else is such a mess. I don’t know what I would do if it was only me and Tristan, with no one else for me to really talk to.
Over the days that follow, Tristan throws himself into work with a single-minded intensity that would be admirable if it weren't so clearly a way of avoiding me. He spends hours on the phone, coordinating with his men, gathering intelligence on Sal's movements and plans. I hear fragments of conversations when I pass by his office—mentions of safe houses and weapons shipments and alliances. His father and Konstantin come to the mansion, meet with him, or he goes to them.
I know he’s trying to prevent a war that I’ve egged on. And I know he’s angry with me because I’ve put everything he’s strived for at risk. I’ve heard enough snippets of conversation between him and Konstantin and his father to know that they blame him for not being able tokeep me in line.
But I never asked for any of this. I never asked for how he makes me feel or the way all of this has snowballed out of control. And I feel like a caged animal, because no matter where I go in the mansion or on the estate grounds, I’m constantly guarded by at least six men, drifting after me to keep an eye on me, some more noticeable than others. Men who make it nearly impossible for me to have a single moment of privacy, a single breath of freedom. The only respite is in my bedroom, andeven that doesn’t feel like a sanctuary, because it’s filled with memories of Tristan.
Tristan, fighting with me. Tristan, putting me on my knees. Tristan making me come up against the door, overriding my hate to flood me with unwanted desire.
I understand the necessity of it, deep down. Sal made his intentions clear in that alleyway. I'm a target now, a weakness he can exploit to get to Tristan. But understanding the logic doesn't make it any easier to bear.
By the third day, I'm ready to climb the walls.
I find Tristan in his office around noon, staring at his computer, his hair disheveled like he's been running his hands through it. He looks tired, and for a moment I feel a stab of something that might be sympathy.
Then I remember the armed guard currently stationed outside the door, and any sympathy I might have felt evaporates.
"We need to talk," I say, closing the door behind me.
He doesn't look up from his screen. "I'm busy. So, unless you’re in here to apologize thoroughly—which would involve you under this desk—you might as well leave."
"I don't care."
