All I knew was that I wasn't ready to let her go.
CHAPTER 10
Luna
Tristan’s face seemed softer in sleep, almost innocent if you ignored the hard set of his jaw and the lethal aura that clung to him even in slumber. But I knew that this glimpse of vulnerability was nothing but an illusion.
Or was this the real man underneath the cold façade?
I thought he would tie me up again when I came out of the bathroom, or send me back to the cell, and I knew he’d considered it. What happened here tonight had shaken him. Even I could see that. But after running his eyes over my naked body, he'd turned away, sitting on the side of the bed closest to the door. Grabbing my shirt off the floor, I put it on and crawled under the blankets on the opposite side. God, the mattress felt like heaven. Holding very still, I tried to make myself as small and unobtrusive as possible.
Eventually, he laid down on top of the blankets on his side of the bed, as close to the edge as he could.
As I watched him lying there so stiffly, staring at the ceiling, something inside me gave a little. I almost felt bad for making him so uncomfortable in his own bed, but I wasn't about to offer to go back to the hard, cold floor in the cell.
I was starting to understand him a little better, though. Underneath the cold stares and unyielding demeanor—walls he'd built to protect himself from further pain—he was more damaged than any person I'd ever met. And I'd met some fucked-up people. We all had walls, though. Some were just higher than others.
He wasn't just a killing machine for Luca. He was a man. A man with a past as horrifying as the scars that marred his skin. I'd only seen a glimpse of them, but I knew they were there. Secrets Enzo had only touched on. I'd felt the rough texture of them against my breasts and stomach when he'd fucked me.
I wondered what it was like to live with such violence etched into your flesh? To relive all that pain every time you looked into a mirror?
The thought made my heart clench. A part of me longed to slide over to his side of the bed and hold him. But I knew he would never allow such compassion. Such intimacy.
Still, something between us had shifted tonight.
After an hour or so of tossing and turning, his breathing evened out, and he finally drifted off to sleep from what I could only imagine was pure exhaustion. I closed my eyes and tried to enjoy the feeling of the soft mattress cradling my sore bones, but after what seemed like only a few seconds, they snapped back open again. I must've dozed off for a bit, though, because Tristan hadrolled closer to me. He was now on his stomach with his arms bent near his head. His face was turned away.
My eyes traveled along his strong arm, bent at the elbow with his hand shoved under the pillow. The sleeve was shoved up, revealing his bare forearm.
Taking a deep breath, I reached out a tentative hand and, ever so lightly, I brushed my fingertips along his scarred skin, tracing the ragged, ropey texture.
Tristan tensed at my touch, but didn't wake.
I knew I should stop before I woke him, but I couldn't. Even in the darkness, I could see the raised, jagged edges of old wounds. What had caused them? A knife? A cigarette? I drew in a ragged breath at the thought of someone being so evil they'd hurt a young boy this way, leaving such permanent reminders.
My fingers continued their feather-light exploration, tracing along the ridges and valleys of the scars. I wondered if he'd ever known a gentle touch before. From what Enzo told me, physical affection or comfort hadn't been part of Tristan's childhood. Just cruelty and pain.
My heart ached for the little boy who’d never had the chance to be a child. I wondered who he'd be if this hadn't happened to him. Or, for that matter, what kind of woman I'd be if I hadn't been thrown into the foster system and forced to use my body to appease my guardian so he wouldn't throw us out onto the street. Would we have still found each other?
Lost in thought, I almost didn't notice when Tristan's arm tensed under my fingertips. I froze, holding my breath, worried I'd woken him. But after a moment, he relaxed again, his breathing deep and even.
Letting out a quiet sigh of relief, I continued mapping the terrain of his arm. I traced along a particularly jagged scar near his elbow, feeling the ridge of toughened skin.
I only knew what Enzo had told me about what Tristan had been through. And honestly, I didn't know if I wanted to understand more. But I wanted to believe that underneath the violence, underneath the darkness, there was something more than a cold-blooded killer.
My fingers drifted down to his wrist, then the back of his hand. I softly outlined his knuckles. So strong, yet capable of surprising tenderness when he touched me. These hands had squeezed the life from a man right in front of me, but they'd also carried me away and shielded me from harm, in his own fucked-up way.
I was playing with fire, I knew, touching him like this. If he woke up, he'd likely throw me back into the cell. Or worse. But I couldn't make myself stop. This was the first time I'd been able to touch him so freely, and I was going to take advantage of the opportunity while I could.
Continuing my exploration up his forearm, I kept my touch feather-light. His skin was warm, almost hot, beneath my fingertips. I could feel the coiled tension in his muscles, despite being relaxed in sleep. He was always on guard, ready to strike.
Suddenly he moved, rolling onto his side as his hand struck out, quick as a snake, and clamped around my wrist in a vise-like grip.
I cried out in pain and surprise.
His eyes flashed open and fixed on me with a predatory intensity that made my heart hammer in my chest. "What the fuck do you think you're doing?" he snarled, his voice low and dangerous.
I sputtered for an answer, but couldn't seem to say anything coherent. "I…I just…"
