Page 80 of Bloody Vows
“What do you want to drink?” Tristan is already walking toward the bar cart at the far end of the room, and I pause, knowing I should stick with wine—or better yet, not drink at all.
“You pick,” I say instead, surprising myself. “What are you drinking?”
Tristan doesn’t say anything, but I hear the clink of crystal and the shake of a cocktail glass before he walks back toward me a few minutes later with two cut-crystal tumblers in hand, filled with a clear liquid. “Tequila with simple syrup and grapefruit bitters,” he says, holding it out to me. “A good summer drink.”
“I haven’t tried tequila often before.” I take a hesitant sip, expecting it to be harsh, but it’s surprisingly not. Instead, it’s cool and crisp, with the bitter taste of the citrus, and I like it more than I thought I would.
“You like it?” Tristan looks at me appraisingly, and I nod.
“It’s good.”
He walks to one of the grey velvet couches, sinking onto one end. After a moment’s debate, I go to sit at the other end, leaving a good bit of space between us.
“What did you expect?” he says suddenly, and I blink at him, startled.
“Expect from what?”
“Your arranged marriage.” He gestures toward me with one hand. “You always knew that was how your husband would be picked—for you, not by you. And you didn’t expect me. So whatdidyou expect?”
I swallow hard. I hadn’t expected this line of questioning—but then again, Tristan has never made anything easy on me. “Coolness,” I say finally. “Distance. A polite, respectful distance. Clinical sex. Order and rules, and tradition. But nothing… more.”
“More.” He echoes the word, a small tilt at the corner of his mouth as he takes another sip of his drink. “And there’smorewith me.”
“We’ve talked about this before.” Irritation flashes through me. “I’m not going to bolster your ego—it’s big enough already.”
“It’s not the only thing, as you know.” He raises an eyebrow, and this time I don’t resist the urge to roll my eyes.
“I’m going to bed if you’re just going to bait me.”
“No, don’t.” He pauses. “So you expected a marriage of tradition and mutual benefit, one you’d agreed on, and got an unsanctioned one of passion instead.”
I snort. “More like insanity.”
Tristan laughs. “They might be the same thing.”
Something thrills through me at the implication in his words—that I drive him insane. I take another quick sip of my drink, hiding my expression as I try to gather my thoughts.
“What about you?” I ask when I’ve swallowed, turning the question back on him. "What did you expect marriage to be like?"
Tristan swirls the ice in his glass. “I hadn’t thought very much about it,” he admits finally. “Like I said, I’m the secondson. There wasn’t the same expectation for me to get married as there was for my brother. He’s the one who inherits, who needs to make heirs, all of that. I wanted territory of my own, to not just be relegated to second place all of my life, but I didn’t really think about the marriage that would necessarily come with that.”
I shake my head, tipping back the last of my drink. “Lucky,” I tell him, and I hear a slight slur to my words that tells me I’ve drunk more than I should. I’m tipsy now, and I know that’s not a state I should be in around Tristan.
“Let me get you another drink,” he says, reaching for my glass, and I shake my head.
“I should go to bed?—”
“One more drink.” He smiles at me, plucking the glass from my fingers, and I don’t say no the way I should. I don’t get up or leave the room, storming back up to my bed. I don’t do any of the things I usually would, as Tristan makes us two more drinks and returns to the couch. This time, he sits a little closer to me.
“So.” He taps the edge of his glass against mine before taking a drink. “The one who overthought the entire marriage process and the one who didn’t think about it at all. What a pair we make.”
“I did notoverthinkanything,” I start to protest, but before another word can come out of my mouth, Tristan is leaning forward, and his lips graze against mine.
They’re cool from the ice in the glass, slightly damp, tasting of bitter grapefruit and the sharp sting of tequila. I know I should pull back, but I don’t, letting his mouth linger on mine until he’s the one who breaks the kiss.
Yet another thing I know he’ll never let me live down.
“You overthink everything, Simone,” he says, his voice low and husky. “What if, for a night, you just stopped thinking?”
