thirty-seven
The thunder shook the night as Effie entered Tristan’s house. After their passionate kiss in the stable, he’d asked her to come for dinner, and she’d accepted the invitation without hesitation. She hadn’t thought about changing her mind. She’d made the decision, and that was it. No afterthought. Quite the opposite. She was eager to see him.
Their deal was still going on, and she couldn’t be more pleased to fulfil it.
When she arrived, rain splattered against the windows of the dining room, distorting the view of the garden. The air was thick with his restlessness and the scent of white soup. Soft candlelight lit the room, but the atmosphere was far from calm. Tristan was pacing, raking a nervous hand through his hair. She didn’t need to ask how he was faring.
She closed the door behind her, and he came to a grinding halt.
“Talk to me,” she said.
“I know I’m ruining everything, but I want to go.” His chest rose and fell quickly. “If you hadn’t been coming, I would have left an hour ago.”
“But I’m here, and you aren’t going. Besides, your body hasn’t recovered yet. If your ribs get punched again, they might crack and puncture your lungs.” She hesitated to get closer, not sure how he would react, or if he wanted her closer.
“What triggered the need?” She removed her capelet, not waiting for him. “You were fine this morning in the stable.”
“I don’t know. I’m worried.”
“About what?”
He raised his gaze to her. “You.”
“Me? Why?”
“I fear I might lose you.” His voice quivered. “Especially after today.”
She ran to him. “I’m here. You aren’t going to lose me.”
“I can’t control this fear.” He drew in a few deep breaths. The hard lines on his face showed the battle he was fighting against his urge. “I want to go.”
She took his hand. “Do you want to go somewhere else to distract yourself? Drury Lane, perhaps?”
He shook his head, gripping her hand as a drowning man would grip a rescuer.
“Music? We can easily find a concert in Covent Garden.”
He turned his wild gaze on her. “Hit me.”
“What?”
“Punch me.” He pointed at his ribs, right over the biggest bruise. “Where it hurts the most, so you won’t have to use too much energy.”
“Tristan, don’t ask me that.”
“Just once.” His pupils were dilated, and his breathing became uneven.
“I’ve never punched anything.”
“It’s not difficult.” He took her hand and closed it in a fist. “Curl the fingers inwards and fold the thumb across the tophalves of your index and middle finger to protect them.” He touched her knuckles. “You hit me with your knuckles only.”
“Tristan, I beg you. I can’t do it.”
“Just once.” He sounded desperate.
She exhaled and withdrew her arm to get ready to punch him. He opened his jacket and spread his arms to make himself an easy target. A moment of silence passed. She punched him lightly.
“Harder,” he said. “I didn’t feel anything.”
