As he cocked back for another blow, droplets flung from his hand and her stomach plummeted.
She didn’t give a thought as to what she was wearing—or not wearing—as she dashed out of the bedroom, down the stairs, and into the chill night air.
“Tristan!”
He slumped his shoulders, his fists dribbling blood onto the lawn. But he didn’t turn.
“Tristan,” she murmured, maneuvering around his wings and placing a hand on his cheek.
“Don’t,” he begged, breathing raggedly, his bare, muscular torso glistening with a sheen of sweat. He shrugged her off. “Please…don’t.”
She examined his torn knuckles. The tattered, bloodied pieces of fabric wrapped around his palm suggested he’d started this exercise with protection but had ripped it to shreds with the force of his punches.
How long had he been out here tearing himself apart before she’d woken up? Guilt tightened her chest.
“Why aren’t these healing?” she asked, tapping a wound and drawing a wince from him.
He didn’t answer, merely jutted his chin towards the wrought-iron patio table where a glowing, half-empty bottle of Delirium beckoned like a duplicitous lover.
“That shouldn’t make a difference,” she mumbled, more to herself than him.
Other than offering a feeling of euphoria—or deepening feelings of sadness and rage, in Tristan’s case—Delirium couldn’t alter a Fae’s ability to heal.
“It does when you spike it with healing suppressant,” he whispered, his voice splintering. Like he’d been screaming for hours.
She cradled his hands. “Why would you do that, Tristan?”
His weary, bloodshot eyes popped open, the lively golden-brown dulled with pain. “Because I needed tofeelit.”
“Come inside.” She tugged him through the double-doors and into the kitchen, then sat him at the dining table and stepped to the sink to collect a towel and bowl of hot water.
His head drooped onto his chest as she settled into the chair next to him and laid his palms down on the table. She dipped the towel into the bowl, then pressed it against his battered knuckles.
He hissed in pain through gritted teeth, but didn’t move away.
She flipped his hands over and sucked in a breath at the blood crusted into his left palm.
He’d sliced open his scar.
“Basket case, remember?” he said with a scowl. “Time for you to run away screaming.”
“I’m far too dignified to scream.” Tristan’s lips twitched upwards. “And I’m not going anywhere. All the most interesting people have tortured pasts. Though I will admit, yours does have a few unexpected layers. I’m all ears when you’re ready to tell me.”
He dragged her into his lap and crushed his arms around her, trapping the dripping towel between them. It soaked her nightshirt as she let him hold her. She knew he needed the contact, knew the touch was a lifeline for him. She rested her head against his tense shoulder muscles.
“I’m a mess, Daredevil,” he groaned. “Youshouldrun.”
“Don’t tell me what to do,” she whispered. His breathy laugh stirred her hair. “Why didn’t you tell me, Tristan?” She rubbed her cheek against his blazing skin.
“Because I’m a coward hiding beneath charm and swagger.” His raw honesty bruised her heart. “And I didn’t want to scare you away.”
“Who else knows?”
“Most of the Fae who live here in the colonies. All the Vestian Guards, including Cael. Reena and Hadriel know too.”
“Why did they never say anything?”
“They’ve moved past it, I guess. I thoughtI’dmoved past it. I lost my title two hundred years ago. Many things have changed since then. They probably barely remember.”
