Page 27 of Prince of Wrath

If Tristan and I were to become…more.

A sense of peace gathers around me for a moment, and as ephemeral as it is, I hold on to it, squeezing his hand tight and shifting until what was back-to-chest becomes both of us facing each other.

Me, naked.

Him, dressed.

His eyes are closed hard, as if he did not trust himself enough to open them. I rise onto my tiptoes, chanting encouragement in my chest, applauding every milestone, as small as they are. Because normal girls kiss their boyfriends and steal kisses every chance they get, but for us, things have to be different. Tristan is tall and massive in this marble shower that seems to shrink by the minute. My lips hover above his, and I sense the shift in him, almost imperceptible. His feet move slightly to face me fully. His chest rises and falls until there it is, his lips parting just enough for me to understand that he wants this too. Fear loosens the cord around my throat. It gives me respite from the pain, even if I know it will come back as quickly as it disappeared. It is still watching me from the corner of the room, daring me to indulge in the softness life has to offer, as if choosing tenderness in the presence of pain is the ultimate act of courage left after all the violence I endured.

When I rest my lips on his, it feels like an inevitable collision I have been trying to avoid. Only the crash is sweet as sugar and addictive as a drug, and his hand rises around my wrist, turning into a vise, as if he cannot believe it either. We kiss until kissing is all we can do. His eyes are still shut. Mine stay open, drinking in the moment, choosing it to rewrite my story, to take back control. Unrushed, our lips find the same wave, breathing in sync, letting us connect through what had been stolen from us.

There you are, it says. I miss you. I want you. I, too, suffer the pain of not touching you.

Water drips over us, his shirt sticking to his muscular chest, translucent, mesmerizing me. And he is still holding my wrist, eyes closed, treasuring me.

I love you, our kiss says, but we do not stop to confirm it.

We do not break the perfection of it all.

Tristan

Even with all the money in the world, the mental conditioning of private coaches, and the stubborn will of a thousand soldiers stitched into my bones, I am, after all, only a man. With a pulse, needs, and dark cravings. A mortal, standing beneath a shower stream with the woman he almost lost pressed close enough to ruin whatever remained of his restraint. My shirt is drenched, sticking to my chest, and I feel Ella moving. What is she–I keep my eyes shut, not because darkness saves me from temptation, but because I have already seen enough to condemn myself. I have already accepted more than she meant to offer, already allowed the shape of her nearness to carve itself into the most starved parts of me, and I hate myself for the hunger that answers before my conscience can. My eyes remain closed, though it does nothing to spare me.

The images are merciless.

I do not need sight to imagine the droplets of water tracing her shoulders in crystalline strokes, or the cotton-soft scent of soap clinging to her hair, or the delicate slope of her collarbone beneath the steam. I do not need to look at her skin to know where it is, creamy and fragile and impossibly alive beneath the water, calling to every ruined instinct in me. She sighs, and it takes everything in me not to bite my fist. Lord have mercy, I’m trying. I really am. Those sounds slip between us like confessions, betraying a hunger I recognize too well because I suffer from the same sickness.

She is close now. Much closer. Breathing against my lips, and I⁠—

What is she⁠—

Keep your damn eyes closed.

Having no control feels like stepping into a room with no ground, so I focus on her, on the cues she’s giving me, on everything I can grasp so I do not ruin this. So I can be the man she deserves. Her lips touch mine. Soft, cherry-sweet, addictive lips, and my world expands into a kaleidoscope of wonders. Every disciplined part of me begins to fail with embarrassing, terrifying ease. I should be thinking only of her breathing, her limits, the fragile architecture of her courage as she stands here choosing something that was stolen from her and daring to make it hers again. I should be counting seconds, cataloguing each tremor, ready to stop before her body has to ask. Instead, for one selfish moment, the thought that rises in me is not noble.

Mine.

Primitive and unvarnished, it hammers at my brain from the animalistic part of me that has spent twelve days pacing behind my ribs, bloody-mouthed and frantic, promising God and the devil the same bargain if they gave her back breathing. I crush the thought before I can act on it. My hand tightens around her wrist by instinct, and shame cuts through me the instant I feel the delicate bones under my fingers. I loosen my grip at once, but she does not pull away. She stays, lips soft and searching, pulse fluttering beneath my touch like something wild that has chosen, for reasons I will never understand, to land in my open palm. Water runs over us in lukewarm sheets, threading through her hair, sliding over my closed eyelids, dripping from my jaw and into the collar of my shirt. The sounds we create should be blasphemy, but I welcome them as sacred, and if she were a religion, I would be her most faithful disciple. She kisses me again, deeper this time, and my spine goes rigid from the sheer, catastrophic force of wanting her.

“Ella,” I breathe against her mouth. Her fingers press into my chest. Bold, bold Ella. The contact burns through my wet shirt, and then I make the biggest mistake: I open my eyes.

“I’m sorry,” I say quickly, dragging my gaze away. “I’m so sorry. I didn’t mean to.” But the sight of her hooded eyes is already photographed into my bones, and I know it will haunt me until my last breath. I look away, battling desire and shame, only to feel her lips drop a chaste kiss against my jaw. My eyes close in a wince. I’m holding everything back. Every impulse. Every urge.

“Forgive me,” I murmur. She answers with a squeeze of my hand. My thumb rests near her racing pulse, barely touching. I should tell her now that I love her. I should tell her that every cell in my body rearranged itself the moment she disappeared, that I would have sold every building, every share, and clothes on my back to bring her home. I should tell her that my world did not crack when she was taken. It clarified. Yet all I can do is stand beneath the water, half-turned away as if restraint is noble, when in truth it is all I can do to calm the animal in me enough not to pounce. She turns off the water and steps away, her movements wet and rushed as she puts distance between us and gathers a towel.

I stay where I am, drenched and out of breath, staring down at the square marble tiles until she knocks gently twice against the countertop with her fist. I look up. A ghost of a shy smile tugs at her lips, heat moving between us, her body covered by a long towel that falls to her ankles.

“Get dressed,” I tell her calmly, because I get the sense that this is what she needs from me. Direct, clear, gentle command. If it is what she needs, I will provide. She disappears into the bedroom, closing the door behind her.

In front of me, my reflection waits in the mirror, blurred by steam as it begins to disperse. I need to calm down. Then I will join her. But it seems regaining Ella’s trust is turning into an exercise in self-control that may take everything from me.

Chapter Nine

Ella

It is one thing to ask your, well, I guess…boyfriend, to comfort you. It is another thing entirely to ask him to support you while you tell your father his world will never be the same again. I have seen Dad in every state. I have fed him. Helped him into his wheelchair. Held cups to his lips and pretended not to notice when his hands shook too much to hold them himself. But the shine of worry in his eyes as he wakes to find me sitting beside him is a look I know I will never forget. I asked Tristan to wait outside the door, but I wish he could hold my hand right now. Especially since holding his hand has returned to the familiarity of us.

“Ella,” Dad murmurs. His voice is shaken down to the bones, carrying the imprint of sickness and age all over it. Mara did this or hired someone to do so. How could his condition have worsened this fast? “You’re here,” he says with a weak voice. “I was starting to wonder where-” he blinks. “Where’s…Mara?” His fingers play piano over the sheet, his body static as steel, each bone seeming to fold into the next, the disease spreading day after day and turning him into one single, immobile person. “Where…were you all this…time?”