Page 84 of Bloody Vows
I walk into the kitchen… and there, of course, is Tristan—already dressed in a dark suit, his hair still damp from his own shower. He looks up when I enter, and for a moment, we just stare at each other.
“Good morning,” he says, a touch awkwardly, as if we didn’t wake up entangled on the couch this morning already. I force my expression not to change, as if there’s nothing odd about this conversation at all. If this is how he wants to play it, fine.
“Morning.” I smile sweetly at him, heading for the coffeepot. I feel his eyes follow me across the room, and I can tell he’s trying to read my mood. The silence stretches between us, and I wish he’d just leave, but he doesn’t.
He doesn’t say anything until I’ve poured a cup, dosed it liberally with hazelnut creamer, and am searching for bread to pop into the toaster.
“Second cupboard,” he says casually, as if we do this all the time. As if we’re an old married couple that normally makes our own breakfasts.
I glance at him. “What?”
“I assume you’re making toast. That’s my hangover cure as well.” Tristan grins at me, and it’s only then that I notice the plate behind him, with only crumbs on it now.
Something about that realization, the intimacy of finding something we share, makes my chest tight. I swallow hard, stepping away from the counter.
“I wasn’t looking for bread.”
Tristan gives me a knowing look over the rim of his coffee cup. “Of course.”
“I’m not even hungry—” My stomach chooses that moment to rumble, and he smirks at me as my cheeks heat.
“Don’t you have a meeting?” I snap, taking a sip of my own coffee. “Or are you hanging around just to torment me?”
“I wasn’t planning on it, but you make it so easy.” Tristan’s smirk deepens, and I can’t help but notice that it makes him look younger. He’s not that old as it is, in his early thirties, but it makes him look mischievous and boyish, like he could be in his mid-twenties or even younger.
I glare at him. “Fine. I’m leaving anyway.”
The amusement on his face drops in an instant. "What do you mean? Where are you planning on going?"
"I mean, I need to leave the house. Go somewhere. Anywhere. I feel like I'm suffocating." I clench my teeth before I can say anything else. That already felt far too vulnerable for my own comfort.
Tristan’s face tenses. "Simone..."
I let out a sharp breath, steeling myself for a fight. Whatever softness there was between us after last night, it’s gone now. "I know it's not safe. I know Sal and Enzo are still out there. But I can't stay locked up in here forever, Tristan. I'll go crazy."
He studies my face, and I can see him weighing options, calculating risks. "Where do you want to go?"
"I don't know. The beach, maybe. Or just... around the city. I need to think."
Something flickers across Tristan’s face, but I can’t read it. "About what?"
About last night. About how it felt to let go. About whether or not I’ve been wrong to hate you when you’re right—I hate what happened, how this has all played out, not who you areas a person. About our marriage, and if I could be happier if I wasn’t so fucking stubborn.
I swallow hard. “Everything.”
I expect him to push, but to my endless relief, he doesn’t pry into what I mean by that. Instead, he gives a slow nod, and I stare at him as if he’s grown two heads.
“Was that nod ayes?”
“With conditions.” Tristan holds up a finger as I cross my arms. “For fuck’s sake, Simone, just hear me out. You go with a full security detail. You tell them where you want to go, and you don’t deviate. And if they feel or see anything off, even slightly, you leave with them without question. No fighting. No arguing. Nothing except a ‘yes,’ and you come back home or wherever they take you. Understood?”
Strangely enough, for once, I don’t feel the urge to fight with him about it. There might be the tiniest prickle of resistance, like a bad habit I can’t shake, but the fact is that he’sright. It’s dangerous out there for me right now. Leavingisa bad idea. And if I’m going to go anywhere, I need protection.
“Okay,” I say slowly, and it’s Tristan’s turn to look at me as if I’ve grown another head.
“No argument?” He clicks his tongue. “I can’t decide if I’m relieved or disappointed.”
I narrow my eyes at him. “Why would you be disappointed?”
