Mateus rests his empty glass on the table beside him and spins it rhythmically.
“People are always wishing away their bad memories. Meu Deus, I wish I could forget. Make it go away. Ah!” He flicks his hand. “They only wish away the pain it brings them. Me? I would rather die than live as you have, Tristan. Nothing but death to drive you forward. If hers will keep you on this path, you have nothing to live for.”
I hold my teeth together, bearing down against the impact of his words. “And what do you live for? Vengeance? How is that life better?”
Mateus’s expression relaxes a fraction. “Tristan… You are vengeance for hire, for those who don’t have the heart or the colh?es to pull the trigger themselves.”
I down the rest of my drink and rise to my feet. I pace around the room, chasing the flurry of thoughts that accuse and contradict and provide no true answers. Mateus is perhaps my only friend, and he could be right. If Isabel dies, by my hand or any other, her memories of my life die with her.
I shove my hands through my hair with a pained sound. Why do I fucking care? Living with darkness might not be a life worth living, but it was vastly simpler. Nothing is simple now.
“Tristan.”
I turn as Mateus speaks. His eyes are soft with understanding, but everything else—his posture, the tension that lines his shoulders—speaks of his newfound determination to guide me through this.
“Go to her. She has the answers.”
CHAPTER FIVE
TRISTAN
A small click and the pelt of rain against the windows are the only sounds as I enter the room. Isabel is asleep. Her body lies diagonally on the bare bed. The satin bedspread and sheets have been kicked to the floor. Suspended by the restraints, her arms are stretched above her, obscuring her face.
I switch on the lamp beside the couch. The tray of dishes remains untouched, and I’m momentarily grateful Karina didn’t return for them while I was gone. Isabel would have begged to be freed, unknowing that Karina is also Mateus’s lover and would never betray him.
I circle the bed without a sound, gaining a better view of Isabel’s face. Dried tears streak her cheeks. Her lips and eyes are puffy. I don’t enjoy the misery that’s only just begun for her. She’s trapped here, but so am I.
Every hour that passes with her in my world awakens compassion I didn’t know I possessed. I resent her for it, even if I can’t deny it.
I retrieve a knife from my pocket and cut through the plastic bonds. Her eyes open wide. She scrambles away from me the second she’s free enough to move. She glances around the room and then down at her wrists, which are red and will likely bruise by morning. She rubs them but says nothing.
“I’m sorry,” I finally say.
She laughs roughly. “You’re sorry?”
“If you understood the danger we’re in, you’d know leaving here without me is impossible.”
She swallows but doesn’t meet my eyes. “If you explained why we’re in danger, maybe I wouldn’t have wanted to leave.”
I reach for her, but she flinches back. She slides her stormy gaze to mine. Slowly, I take her hand, tracing the grooves at her wrist with my thumb.
I slide my hand into hers. I don’t know why I do it. But the contact, palm to palm, sends a shockwave over my nerves. It’s not the vague familiarity I’ve experienced before with her. It’s something more…something primal…deeper.
Her gaze settles there. Her lips part, as if she feels it too.
“You have something valuable of mine,” I say. “I have to protect you, even if that means protecting you from yourself sometimes. You’ll have to forgive me because I’m not in the business of protecting anyone. You’ll just have to learn to trust me.”
She doesn’t show acceptance in any way. She only stares at me. The mix of concern and devotion passing over her features is troubling, making me feel like a stranger in my own skin.
Exhaustion tugs at my body. Knowing she could run, or worse, will make it difficult to drift off, but the thought of lying down beside her promises something soothing.
“Come on. Let’s get some sleep.”
I get up and replace the blankets on the bed. I kick off my shoes and untuck my gun, placing it on the bedside table nearest to me. I hear Isabel’s sharp intake of breath before I catch the fear in her eyes.
“For protection,” I say, reassuring her. And myself.
I take life day by day, hour by hour. Everything could change tomorrow. But right now, she’s safe with me.
I move around the tiny kitchen. She’ll be home soon, and I’ll have food ready for her before I head to school. She’s been working all night.
That’s when I hear it. Gunshots. The familiar sound freezes me in place. My heart stops beating. They’re too close.
I fly to the door. Her car is parked in her usual spot, a few spaces down from the entrance to the house. The driver’s-side door is wide open, but she’s not getting out.
The distant sound of shoes scuffing swiftly on pavement tears my attention from the car. Gray sweatpants and hoodie… Running down the street. He’s too far away, going too fast. There’s no time if…
I run to the driver’s side of the car.
I can no longer feel my body. I’m dead inside, because in that instant, I know she is too.
No hope. No praying. Her body is punctured with wounds. All I can see is red. Her neck is twisted awkwardly, no longer able to support the weight of her head.
Her purse hangs from her lifeless arm. The possessions of her purse are scattered on the street.
She wouldn’t let it go.
I reach for her and pull her into my arms. Her weight is too much. I fall to the ground with her. She’s gone, but she’s still warm. The last of her life weeps from the holes he shot through her body. For the contents of her purse.
I hold her. I can’t let her go. I can’t leave her when this is all we have. Seconds…
Our silence gives way to sirens in the distance. Shouts and cries of people who mean nothing to me. Because she was everything. The beginning and the end.
Then all I can hear are screams. The screams are mine, and even as they pierce the air, I know they’re not enough to bring her back.
“Mom! Mom!”
ISABEL
Tristan’s low, painful moans cut through the night.
The lamp is off, so the faint moonlight through the window reveals just the basic outline of his still-clothed body. We’re only inches apart on the bed.
I’m afraid to move or touch him. The past several hours in Tristan’s presence has taught me at least one thing. He’s unpredictable. Even though he’s asked for my trust, I’m not sure I can give it. Not until he proves to me that he’s capable of being the Tristan I once knew. With his memory gone, I fear that’s an impossible dream.
I toyed with the prospect of escape as we fell silent in the darkness hours earlier. But I thought better of a renewed attempt, and eventually sleep overtook me once more. Now, no matter what logic and self-preservation shout at me, my heart is breaking at Tristan’s nightmare.
His voice belongs to the old Tristan. The boy who shared his tears and racking sobs only with me in the days after his mother’s tragic death. I know the source of his pain. The thought that in consciousness he may not tugs at my growing pity for him and his situation.
To the point where I can’t stay away.
I roll slowly toward him so my front is barely pressed to his side. His breathing catches, and then he stills. Unsure if he’s awake and aware of me, I don’t dare speak. I press my nose against the collar of his shirt. I couldn’t forget that smell in a million years. The smell of Tristan in my arms, in my bed.
As his breathing evens out, I ease my arm across his torso. As soon as I’m there, his hand is wrapped over mine, tucking me tight against him. I tense at the sudden contact and then relax, melting into his warmth and unexpected affection.
“Sleep, Isabel.” The command is almost tender in his sleepy rasp.
“You were dreaming.”