Page 34

THIRTY-FOUR

LYDIA

T he steady beep of the heart monitor is the first thing I hear. Slow. Steady. A quiet rhythm that echoes in the sterile stillness of the hospital room. My body is heavy, every muscle aching with a dull throb that pulses in time with the pain blooming beneath my ribs.

I blink, my eyes adjusting to the dim light filtering in from the blinds. The faint scent of antiseptic fills my nose, mixing with something darker, something familiar.

Leather. Smoke.

Him.

My heart squeezes, and I turn my head slowly, my body protesting the movement.

And there he is.

Trip.

Asleep beside me.

He’s crammed into the tiny hospital bed, his body pressed close to mine, his arm draped protectively over my waist like he’s afraid I’ll disappear if he lets go. Even in sleep, his jaw is clenched, his brows furrowed like he’s still fighting.

Dark circles shadow his eyes, his skin paler than I’ve ever seen it. His lips are parted slightly, and his breaths are deep and even, but there’s tension in every muscle. Even asleep, he’s on guard.

Protecting me.

My chest tightens, a soft ache blooming that has nothing to do with the wound beneath my ribs.

He hasn’t left me.

“Good morning, sweetheart.”

The voice startles me, making me flinch as I turn toward the sound.

A nurse stands by the doorway, a kind smile tugging at her lips as she steps inside. Her eyes flick to Trip, her expression softening as she takes in the sight of him curled up next to me.

“He wouldn’t leave,” she murmurs, her voice quiet as she approaches. “Not even when security tried to make him. Gave them a hell of a time, too. I think one of them might have cried.”

My lips twitch despite the dull throb of pain in my chest.

“But then he called someone. Don’t know who it was, but our boss got a call not five minutes later, telling us to let him stay.”

I blink, my heart pounding a little harder.

“Your man must know people in high places,” she adds with a knowing smile. Trip barely stirs, but his grip on me tightens even in sleep.

“He really loves you,” the nurse whispers, her gaze flicking back to me. “He hasn’t left your side. Not once. He’s been eating that nasty hospital food for four days now. Refuses to leave to get anything better.”

Four days.

My throat tightens, emotion clawing its way up as I look at him again. Four days. He stayed. For me. Tears burn behind my eyes, but I blink them back.

“Do you need anything, sweetheart?” The nurse’s voice is soft, pulling me from my thoughts.

I shake my head, my throat too tight to speak.

“All right.” She pats my arm gently, her smile warm. “Press the button if you need me.”

I barely register her leaving, my focus entirely on Trip as he shifts beside me, his body pressing closer like he can feel me waking up.

I lift my hand, brushing my fingers gently through his hair, and his eyes flutter open instantly.

Dark.

Sleepy.

But alert.

“Lydia…” His voice is rough, a broken whisper as his eyes lock onto mine.

“I’m okay,” I murmur, my voice barely above a whisper as I cup his face, my thumb brushing over the rough stubble on his jaw.

He exhales a shaky breath, his eyes closing for a moment before he leans into my touch.

“Don’t ever scare me like that again.” His voice is low, raw with emotion.

“I’m sorry,” I whisper, my heart twisting painfully.

His hand cups my chin. “Don’t you dare apologize for something a deranged fucking man did to you.”

The weight of his gaze pins me in place. “I thought I lost you, killstreak.”

My throat tightens, and I pull him closer, pressing my lips to his in a soft, lingering kiss. “I’m here,” I murmur against his lips.

But as his warmth surrounds me, as his scent fills my senses, Patrick’s words echo in my mind.

“The others.”

“The ones before you.”

My stomach twists.

I have to ask.

“Trip…” My voice is hesitant, barely above a whisper, but he feels the shift immediately.

His body stiffens, and his eyes meet mine, dark and unreadable.

“Killstreak, what’s wrong?”

I swallow hard, my heart pounding.

“Patrick…” I can’t say it. My throat closes around the words, but Trip’s jaw clenches, and I know he already knows.

Of course, he knows.

I force myself to breathe, my fingers trembling as I trace the lines of his jaw.

“He said… he said there were others.” My voice cracks, the words barely above a whisper. “Before me.”

The silence is suffocating. Trip’s eyes darken, his body going impossibly still.

“Lydia…” His voice is strained, like he’s fighting something.

“Tell me,” I whisper, my heart pounding so hard I can feel it in my throat.

His jaw clenches tighter, his eyes closing for a beat before he finally speaks.

“Patrick and I… We worked together.” His voice is low, rough. “Private security for some high-profile clients. We handled things that most people didn’t want to touch. The ugly shit.”

My fingers tighten in his hair, but I don’t interrupt.

“At first, I thought he was just… brutal. Efficient. But then I started noticing things. Women would go missing. Clients’ mistresses. Escorts. Women who got too close. And every time, Patrick was involved.”

My stomach clenches, bile rising in my throat.

“I reported him.” Trip’s voice is harder now, anger bleeding into every word. “I told them what he was doing. Gave them evidence. But instead of taking him down, they fired me. Said I was making shit up. That I was trying to cover my own tracks.”

I can’t breathe.

“I tried to stop him.” His voice cracks, his hands shaking where they grip me. “But he always slipped through. Every time I got close, he found a way to disappear. And when I got too close…”

His eyes meet mine, and the darkness I see there steals my breath.

“He tried to kill me.” My heart stops.

Patrick.

Trip.

They’ve been trying to kill each other for years.

“Lydia…” Trip’s voice is barely above a whisper, his forehead pressing against mine. “I never hurt those women.”

I believe him. I know he’s telling the truth. But the weight of it all presses down on me, threatening to crush me. I don’t realize I’m crying until Trip’s thumb brushes gently under my eye, wiping the tears away.

“I need you to believe me.” His voice is raw, broken.

“I do,” I whisper, my lips trembling as I press them to his. “I do.”

But I need air.

“Trip… I just…” I swallow hard, my head spinning. “I need a minute.”

His jaw clenches, but he nods.

“I’ll be right here.”

I watch him move toward the bathroom, his body tense, his shoulders tight as he disappears behind the door.

My heart is pounding, my chest too tight as I reach for my phone with shaky fingers. I need a distraction. I open social media, scrolling mindlessly until I see the notification.

One new post.

From his private page.

The one, only I follow.

My stomach flips as I tap the notification, and the video fills my screen.

Patrick.

Bound.

Bleeding.

Trip.

Towering over him, his voice low and lethal as he speaks words I can’t hear. But I don’t need to hear them. I see everything.

Every. Fucking. Thing.

Trip didn’t just kill Patrick.

He destroyed him.

My breathing quickens, my pulse pounding as I watch Trip’s movements–calm, methodical, brutal. His knife carved into Patrick’s skin with precision, his hands steady as he marked him one last time.

And then the adrenaline. The slow, torturous death. My throat tightens, my entire body buzzing with something I can’t name.

Trip did this.

For me. My heart pounds harder, my thighs pressing together as heat pools between them.

Fuck.

I’m falling.

Deeper.

Harder.

Completely.

Trip killed for me. And I’ve never loved him more.

Does that make me the monster here?