Page 74 of Bloody Vows
“I want you to admit that you want me. That even though this marriage wasn’t your choice, there’s something undeniably strong between us. That I turn you on as much as you turn me on. That, together, we could be a force.”
I glare at him. “Fuck you.”
Tristan shrugs. “Fine. I’m not giving you a mile when you won’t even give me an inch.”
“That’s not?—”
“It is,” he interrupts. “Can you imagine what Konstantin and my father would say if I let you in on our meetings? If I brought you along? If I suggested that you not only get to know all that’s happening but have a say? I would have to stand up for you, go to bat for you, fight for your right to be a part of all of this. Why thefuck would I do that, Simone, when you can’t even admit what is plain as fucking day between us?”
“I can help,” I bite out, ignoring everything he’s just said. If I don’t, I’ll have to admit that he’s right. That I’m giving him nothing and asking him to take a huge step for me.
Buthe’sthe one who stole me. Who burst into my life and took it over without warning. Why do I have to give him anything?
“How?” Tristan braces one hand on the side of his desk, looming over me. “How can you help, Simone?”
“You can use my knowledge of these families, my understanding of the politics and the history and the grudges. I'm suggesting that you stop treating me like a liability and start treating me like an asset."
Tristan waves a hand. “Konstantin knows all of that. My father and I know a lot of it.”
“You don’t know Sal all that well. Or Enzo.”
“We know enough.” Tristan’s jaw is tight. “You haven’t shown me why I should let you in, Simone. Especially when you won’t let me in.”
We stare at each other like that for a long moment, neither of us giving an inch. Tristan shifts to one side, moving me toward the desk, and when I turn, I feel myself bump against it, my ass hitting the side. Tristan cages me in instantly, his hands on either side of my hips, gripping the wood as he leans over me.
“Let me in, Simone, and then we can talk.”
I swallow hard. I know what he wants. It would be easy to make him believe that I’m giving it to him. I could sink to my knees in front of him, I could sit on the edge of the desk and spread my legs for him. But the problem is that if I do that, I don’t know that it’ll be pretending.
It’s getting harder and harder to fight my desire for him every time he touches me. Harder to pretend that he’s not telling thetruth when he reminds me that I want him just as much. An ache spreads through me as I look up at him, dark and forbidding, his jaw tight and his green eyes drilling into mine, and I know I can’t give him the inch that he wants.
I might lose myself if I do.
“You first,” I whisper, and I see Tristan’s teeth grind together, feel the muscles in his arms tense on either side of me. Neither of us moves, or speaks. There’s nothing but the sound of our breathing and the building tension in the air, and I wait for him to do something—to kiss me, to force me down to the floor, to pick me up and move me where he wants me so that he can use his cock to remind me that I’m his.
He does none of those things. He breathes in, deeply and out, and then shoves himself away from the desk, running one hand roughly through his hair. Against the front of his suit trousers, I can see the thick, hard ridge of his cock, his erection straining to be free.
And then, exactly as I did after our last fight, he turns on his heel and stalks away, leaving me there.
—
It takesme several minutes to shake myself free of the shock from him walking out on me. Tristan doesn’t walk out on our fights—he pushes them to some kind of conclusion. The thought that maybe I’ve pushed him to his limit, that he’s done with me, ignites a new fear in the pit of my stomach that I don’t entirely understand.
I stand there in his office for a long moment, staring at the door he disappeared through, my heart hammering against my ribs. The silence feels different now—not oppressive like it hasbeen for the past three days, but charged. Electric. Like the air before a storm breaks.
I should leave. I should go back to my room, or find something else to occupy my time, or at least give him space to cool down. But instead, I find myself moving toward the door, my feet carrying me forward before my brain can catch up and tell me what a terrible idea this is.
The mansion is quiet as I make my way upstairs, my guards for once nowhere to be seen. Maybe Tristan told them to fuck off. Maybe they’re just making themselves scarce. Either way, I don’t care, because I’m not done with this fight.
Just because Tristan has decided he’s finished with our conversation doesn’t mean I am.
I take the stairs two at a time, heading all the way up to the master bedroom that Tristan once thought we would share and now sleeps in alone. I throw the door open, expecting to walk in on him, but he’s nowhere to be seen. The bathroom door is closed, and I approach it, reaching for the handle, only to stop before I open it.
There’s a sound on the other side of the door. A harsh sound of flesh against flesh, hard and furious, and then a low, masculine groan.
Awareness prickles down my spine as I realize what I’m listening to.
I should turn around right now. I should go back downstairs, or to my room, or anywhere but here.
