Ravished (The Teplo Trilogy #1) (35 page)

With the stress off her leg, the painful cramp eased almost instantly. She groaned, relieved.

"I shouldn't have just attacked you like that. Fuck, I-" He strode from the kitchen with her in his arms.

"Tristan."

"Should have fucking listened when you said-"

"Tristan!"

"Bedroom. Christ, beautiful-"

"Tristan, dammit!" she shouted to get his attention.

He stopped talking then, stopping walking, too. He focused on her, regret and worry brimming in his eyes.

She reached up and touched his cheek. Smiled. "I'm fine. You didn't hurt me." The pain was already gone, faded to a dull ache.

He cocked a brow, disbelief stamped across his face.

"Really," she whispered. "I just had a cramp. You can put me down now."

He didn't look like he believed her, but he did as requested and eased her to her feet.

Something trickled down her legs.

What the-?

Oh.
Crap.

A tidal wave of realization hit her.

"Let me carry you, beautiful," he murmured when her eyes popped open and her breath left her lungs in a rush.

"It's not that," she responded, sounding strangled.

"What's wrong?"

"Tristan, we didn't use a condom."

"Christ," Tristan whispered, stunned.

They hadn't used a condom. As a matter of fact, grabbing a condom hadn't even crossed his mind when she'd reached out and grasped his cock in her hand. She'd touched him before, but never so boldly. Never with such challenge stamped across her face.

He'd just needed to be inside her right then, right there. Had been desperate to be inside of her since the moment she'd walked into the kitchen in that leotard with his mark on her neck while Jason went on about bullshit laws being passed in Mexico.

Decriminalization.

Bullshit.

Neither here nor there at the moment though.

Lillian was his priority, and her face was bright red.

She refused to meet his gaze, looking everywhere but at him.

"I'm clean, beautiful," he said. "I haven't been with anyone else in months. I've been tested, and I've always worn a condom. Are you – ah, hell, are you on birth control?"

How had they not had this conversation already?

Fuck, how had he been so desperate that he hadn't even fucking noticed? Well, okay, he knew the answer to that one. It always felt different with Lillian. She was always tighter than he could believe, wet, and burning hot. Being with her blew his mind every time. The way she made him feel just got better and better. The desire to make love to her grew by leaps and bounds every day.

She was the only thing that calmed him anymore. He couldn't think through the clamor in his mind. Couldn't breathe through it. And then she would touch him, and everything stopped. Fell away. Disappeared beneath the electric feel of her hands on him and his on her. But Christ, they should have talked about birth control and condoms a long time ago. He didn't have an excuse for not doing so. He wouldn't try to create one now.

"Lillian?"

"I'm clean too," she mumbled. "I'm on birth control, but I haven't-"

"Haven't what, beautiful?" he asked, voice gentle when she fidgeted.

"Been with anyone else in a long time."

He stepped toward her and hooked a finger under her chin.

She met his gaze, her face still burning red.

"How long?"

"Um."

He swept his fingers along her cheeks, cupped her face in his hands. "How long has it been, sweetheart?"

"Two years," she whispered.

Holy… fucking… Christ.

"Two years?" he asked, his stomach twisting. Every part of him liked hearing her say that, liked knowing that she'd chosen him over every other motherfucker out there. That she'd wanted him enough to choose him. That part that wanted to possess, consume, and dominate? It was fucking ecstatic.

After two years, she'd chosen
him
.

Lillian laid her head over his heart.

He dropped his chin to her crown and closed his eyes, awed and humbled.

"Tristan?"

"Yeah?"

"What are we?" she asked, pulling back to look at him.

"What do you mean?"

"I mean, what are we doing here? What's – What's happening between us?" Confusion drifted through her eyes.

His chest did that aching thing again. "We're-" He broke off, unsure how to answer that question. Unsure what they were. Friends? Lovers? Dating? Something else entirely? "We're whatever you want us to be," he finally decided, leaving the choice up to her. Whatever she wanted from him, he'd give it to her.

"I'm not sure what that means," she said, searching his face, her brown eyes full of questions.

"Whatever label you want to give this, whatever I am to you… it's up to you, beautiful. I'm bad at this shit, Lillian, but I told you I'd try. I want you. Only you." He didn't care what they called it. Whatever made her comfortable, he'd accept for as long as she'd have him.

"I want you, too," she whispered.

He reached out, stroking her cheek again. "What am I to you, beautiful?"

She swallowed, her eyes tangling with his.

"Tell me, beautiful," he whispered.

"Boyfriend?" she mouthed the word, like she wasn't sure it was something she could ask of him.

It wasn't something he'd ever been before and not something he was sure he knew how to be at all. But for her? At this point, he was pretty fucking certain he'd give her anything she wanted if it meant she kept looking at him like she couldn't live without him.

"Boyfriend," he agreed.

She searched his face intently for a minute before relaxing.

He smiled, leaning forward to brush his lips across hers.

Boyfriend.

Yeah, he could figure out a way to be that for her.

Chapter Twenty-Five

"Hey, Tristan?" Lillian called from the bedroom late the following evening.

He stepped out of the bathroom, towel in hand and jeans slung low on his hips, to find her slipping a pair of ballet flats on. As usual, she was dressed in a simple and far too sexy skirt, a little flirty white number this time, and a black tank-top that flawlessly hid the gun he knew she had holstered to her back. She looked as much the ballerina as always, and as edible as ever.

"Christ, you look good," he murmured, stepping up behind her to press his lips to the side of her neck.

"So do you." She leaned back into him as he loped an arm around her waist, the towel hanging loosely from his other hand.

"You need something?"

"I have a question."

"What's up?" He turned her around in his arms so he could see her face clearly, only to find her worrying her bottom lip between her teeth.

"Why hasn't anyone tried to approach Francisco's guard?" she blurted out.

"What do you mean?"

"To identify him. Why haven't you had someone go in and try to find out who he is?"

He looked at her carefully, not liking the casual way she asked. "Beautiful-"

"Just think about it, Tristan," she interrupted before he could tell her there was no way in hell he was letting her stroll up to the bastard to shake his hand. "If he knows anything at all about me, it'll be that I was a ballerina."

He started shaking his head as soon as she started talking, little barbs of fear racing up and down his spine. "No, Lillian."

"But you need-"

"No," he said again, the word succinct.

"But-"

"Dammit, Lillian, no!" He tossed the towel aside, his heart clenching at the thought of her even attempting to get close to the blond. It was bad enough that he dragged her through the doors every night, unsure if they suspected him of being DEA. There was no way in hell he was going to let her take a risk like the one she was suggesting.

"Dammit, Tristan!" she shot right back, glaring at him. "You need to know who he is."

"And you think you should be the one who finds that out? Not happening."

"Why not?"

"Because you're a ballerina, not a fucking agent!"

She flinched and he instantly felt like a prick for yelling at her.

"Christ," he swore and took a deep breath, trying to rein in his temper. "Look, beautiful, I appreciate that you're willing to try, but it's not safe. If they're already suspicious of me, having you stroll up to the bastard to say hello isn't going to make the situation any better." The thought of one of Francisco's men having a reason to focus on her was beyond intolerable. Tristan already kept her as far away from the blond and Anton Vetrov's people as possible when they were inside
Teplo
, and he planned to keep it that way.

She continued to scowl at him for a minute before she sighed. "Fine, but I still think someone needs to find out who he is for sure."

Yeah, so did he, but it damn sure wasn't going to be her that took the risk.

Tristan leaned against the brick wall inside
Teplo
, his eyes closed and his jaw clenched tight. Lillian watched as he took long, deep breaths in through his nose and out through his mouth. His grip on her arm was tight, and the rigid way he stood gave her chills. Not one word had passed his lips since they'd made their way inside the club. He hadn't smiled at her or brushed his lips across her cheek. His hands hadn't strayed from her waist to graze across her hips, or from her arm to brush across her breasts, either.

The blond stood right beside the storage room door, propped up on the wall. He hadn't moved all night.

Lillian's heart ached at the defeated, angry look on Tristan's face.

"Tristan, let me go talk to him," she said. "Find out hi-"

"No," he interrupted, his eyes popping open. The way he focused on her made her shiver. His gaze was dark, stormy, volatile. "Don't go there again, Lillian."

"Tristan, that's-"

"Fuck." He jerked away from the wall, releasing her arm as he did so. "What part of no don't you understand? No. N-fucking-O. No. Stop being so goddamned impossible, sweetheart. I'm not letting you near him. Let it the fuck go already." He raked his hand through his hair and glowered at her.

"You're being ridiculous. I just want to-"

"Lillian, do not fucking push me," he warned her.

She growled and turned away, too irritated to just stand there and listen to him curse and rant at her. It wasn't like she was asking him to take her skydiving without a parachute, for God's sake!

He didn't even let her get half a step away before he grabbed her about the waist, reeling her in. "Don't even fucking think about it," he breathed in her ear. "I will carry you out of here kicking and screaming if you so much as attempt to get close to him."

"Then stop cursing at me," she shot right back, knowing full well she wasn't about to approach the guy without Tristan's permission. She wasn't stupid, but she wasn't about to stand there and let him bully her into submission, either.

He took a deep breath and then nodded. "Fine."

"Fine." She clenched her jaw and let him lead her onto the dance floor, too frustrated to try to argue further. It wasn't like arguing would get her anywhere anyway. He would just shoot her down again. And dammit, she'd listen to him because he was right. This was his world and she didn't know nearly enough about it to just ignore what he told her. But she wanted to help ease some of the burden resting on his shoulders before it drove him to his knees.

Apparently, that wasn't going to happen though.

She was the pretty toy on his arm inside these walls, nothing more.

That bothered her more than she cared to admit considering she'd signed up for the job.

Tristan strode through the crowd on the dance floor like an avenging angel, tugging her along in his wake. People moved out of his way without complaint, either too drugged or not brave enough to speak up. Times like this, she didn't understand how no one realized he was so much more than a cocky playboy with too much money and an affinity for partying. He was so self-assured, so damned lethal.

No playboy she'd ever met had that same dark, commanding vibe that rippled from Tristan in waves when he was angry. None looked like an angel either. Light and dark… the man was both, in spades. And dammit all, he was authoritative and autocratic enough to drive her insane.

She huffed when he turned toward her, his jaw set and his expression one of distress. That look made her heart ache. Made her feel guilty, too. Sometimes, he made it really hard to remember he wasn’t just autocratic for the hell of it. He was worried. Terrified something would happen to her because he'd dragged her into this mess. Except he hadn’t.

She'd
chosen
to come here with him. It had been her decision, made of her own free will. Though true, she doubted that argument would sway him any.

He pulled her to him. "Dance with me, beautiful."

She wrapped her arms around his neck and began to move with him, gyrating to the beat. He stared at her, scouring her face as if searching for something. She wasn't sure what he found there, but his expression softened.

"Tristan-"

"Shh," he said before she could apologize. "Just dance with me."

She sighed softly.

"I hate arguing with you," he whispered in her ear suddenly. "I fucking hate it, beautiful."

"I hate it, too." She pushed herself a little closer to him as frustration gave way entirely at his pained confession. She couldn't stay angry at him. Even when he was a domineering pain in the ass, he made it so hard to stay angry. "I'm sorry, Tristan."

"I know." He sighed quietly, his breath a warm rush across her ear, and wrapped his arms around her a little tighter. His lips skimmed across her cheek, searching for her mouth. "Open," he demanded, his tongue darting out to flick at the side of her mouth.

That's all it took for her to open for him. That's all it'd ever take for her to open for him.

Stainless steel doors, one stacked upon the other, stretched as far as Tristan could see. Up. Down. Every which way he turned, his eyes locked on identical doors, each casting his reflection back to him in odd, rippling distortions. In each of those reflections, he was half a man, cut off at the waist by the unusual size of the doors. None were more than three feet high, but they sent cold dread licking up his spine.

His heart hammered painfully. His lungs burned beneath the taste of bile clawing its way up his throat. He knew those doors, knew they signified something dark and violent, and yet he couldn't place them. All he knew for certain was that he needed to get out and find her.

Lillian.

She needed him.

He spun to his left, searching for a way out of the hellish maze, but found none.

Row after row of those doors waited, the stacks growing before his eyes. The air in the room was stifling, heavy. Growing heavier by the minute as one door after another joined the others, piling up in what free space remained.

Panic began to scratch its way through Tristan with each rasping, rattling breath he took, hopelessness and desolation tearing through him as he realized that he could not get to her. He was stuck – dying – and she needed him.

He felt her fear clawing at him like a tangible, living thing. Whatever was happening to her, whatever had her so frightened – he couldn't save her. Couldn't even save himself this time.

His eyes fell closed, his breathing labored as all those doors sucked the oxygen from the room. It was oppressive, pushing against him like a weight… a physical thing forcing him to his knees in the floor. He fell forward, slapping his hands onto the cold cement. His arms strained as he fought to remain on his knees instead of falling on his face. If he did, there would be no coming back. No getting up again.

When he fell, he died.

He fought against that truth, refusing to just let it happen.

Struggling to catch a breath, he fought to slow the ferocious pounding of his heart and the muddy thickness clouding his mind. His vision began to dim around the edges, tunneling until the squat, steel door directly in front of him was the only thing visible through the black spots caused by lack of oxygen.

He needed to open that door.

Now.

The command reverberated in his mind like the strike of a gong.

He grasped for the handle, swaying. Cold steel slipped in his sweaty palm, but he held on anyway. Wrenched it open as his heart began to race at a rate far beyond what could be safely withstood for long.

Metal screeched as the door moved outward, not in a familiar arc but in a straight line.

He moaned as it slid open for him an inch and then one more. Cold billowed out in a rush, but did nothing to beat back the heaviness hanging like a living thing in the air.

It wasn't a door at all, but a drawer.

A deep, cavernous freezer.

He swayed forward, lost his balance, and fell.

He struggled to push himself upright, his body exhausted into unwilling submission as his mind grasped what he did not want to remember. There were people in these drawers. Stiff bodies and pale, chalky skin. People he hadn't been able to save. People who had needed him.