Eventually, the tears slowed and then stopped altogether. I lifted my head and swiped at my face with the back of my hand.
Rising to my feet, I moved to the small sink in the bathroom and turned on the tap, splashing cool water on my face. I avoided looking at my reflection in the mirror, knowing I must look like hell.
As I patted my face dry with a soft towel, my gaze landed on the mess I'd made. The remnants of the meal Tristan had brought me.
A wave of guilt washed over me, surprising me with its intensity. Even in the condition he was in, he made that food for me. And I'd thrown it back in his face like a spoiled child.
I shouldn't feel that way.
I should despise him.
And yet, beneath the shock and hurt and anger, there was something else. A gaping hole in my chest when I pictured him pale and bleeding, struggling to stay on his feet, injured by my own hand.
What the hell was wrong with me? How could I feel anything but hatred for this man who had destroyed my family? A man who was holding me prisoner?
But even as I asked myself the question, I knew the answer. Despite everything, despite the horrible things he'd done, I couldn't seem to stop the way I felt about him. The way my heart raced when he was near, the way my body responded to his touch.
Because no one else had ever cared about me the way that he did.
I hated myself for it. For being so weak, so twisted, that I could still want him after learning the truth. But I couldn't deny it, no matter how hard I tried.
Restless, I pushed myself to my feet and paced the small cell, careful not to walk over the broken glass with my bare feet.
I suddenly felt cold and alone. What was going to happen now? Would he keep me locked up in here forever? Would he even survive the gunshot wound I'd inflicted on him? The thought made my chest tighten with fear.
"Tristan?" I called out, my voice trembling. "Tristan, are you okay?"
I knew he couldn't hear me. The room was soundproof. But I couldn't stop myself from screaming his name over and over again. I didn't even have a phone to call for help.
The only reply was a suffocating, terrifying silence.
CHAPTER17
Tristan
Istumbled into Luca's house, my vision blurring at the edges as I clutched my side. The fucking thing was making me bleed out slowly. I needed somebody to stitch me up and check the back. The makeshift bandage I'd hastily wrapped around my torso was soaked through with blood, and each step sent a fresh wave of agony rippling through my body.
As I passed by the kitchen on my way to Luca's office, I saw Sera and Veda sitting at the table, their eyes widening in shock as they took in my appearance.
"Holy shit." Veda leapt to her feet, her chair clattering to the floor. "Stay there. I'll get Luca," she told me as she ran out of the room.
I leaned heavily against the doorframe, trying to catch my breath. Sera started sliding a chair over to me, but I held up my hand.
"You should sit down, Tristan."
"I'm okay," I told her.
Moments later, Luca and Enzo came barreling into the kitchen, their faces etched with concern and disbelief. "What the hell happened to you?" Luca demanded, rushing to my side.
"Luna shot me."
Luca stilled, and his voice was as cold as a glacier when he said, "She did what?"
"We've got to get you to a bed," Enzo said. Unlike Luca, it was quite obvious he was angry.
But I shook my head. "I just need someone to check the wound. It's not serious, but it won't stop bleeding."
Enzo disagreed with my analysis. "That sounds pretty fucking serious to me."
