Page 60 of Shattered by Grace (The Locke Empire Duet #1)

Chapter Fifty

V ictoria lay sprawled across Tristan, her body utterly spent, her cheek pressed to the steady rise and fall of his chest. His heartbeat, a deep, rhythmic thrum, was the most perfect sound in the world.

She traced idle patterns over his skin, her fingers gliding over the ridges of muscle, the warmth of him anchoring her in the moment.

Tristan’s hand rested against the small of her back, his thumb tracing slow, lazy circles. Neither of them spoke. There was no need. The silence between them wasn’t empty, but full. Full of warmth, like the air between them had taken on its own breath.

She sighed, nuzzling closer, letting her eyes drift shut. This was bliss.

She felt his body shifting beneath her, his muscles tensing slightly. A beat of hesitation before his voice, low and teasing, rumbled through her.

“I guess I need to get my suit. Red or black?”

“Hmm.” Victoria hummed in response, not even bothering to lift her head.

Tristan chuckled, the vibrations of his laugh reverberating through her. His hand slid up her spine, fingers slipping into her hair, gently massaging her scalp. “The ball is this weekend.”

“Oh, don’t remind me,” she groaned, finally tilting her head to look up at him.

“Come on, love. You don’t want to see me in a suit… or should I just show up in my birthday suit?” Tristan smirked, his dark eyes glinting with amusement.

She narrowed her eyes, lips twitching. “I think we both know the answer to that.”

“Alright, no to the birthday suit.”

“Tristan.” She poked him in the ribs, feigning offense.

“Okay, okay,” he laughed, holding his hands up. “Then what’s the problem?”

Victoria exhaled, rolling onto her back beside him, staring up at the ceiling. The weight of reality was already creeping back in, threatening to disrupt the perfect cocoon of warmth and contentment. “It’s not exactly my scene.”

Tristan’s fingers brushed her arm, grounding her in the present. When she turned back to him, the teasing in his expression had faded.

“I’ll be there,” he murmured, his voice a promise.

She searched his face, her fingers absently tracing the lines of his jaw. “Will your father be there?”

Tristan hesitated for a fraction of a second before shaking his head. “He doesn’t usually attend. He has too much to set up since the Grand Reaping is the same night.”

Victoria stiffened. Her body went cold. “What?” She shot up, pushing onto her elbows before fully sitting up, the blanket slipping down her bare back. “What do you mean the Grand Reaping is the same night?”

Tristan sighed, scrubbing a hand down his face. “It always is. The ball is just another cover.”

Her stomach twisted. “Are you fighting?”

His jaw tensed, a flicker of regret flashing in his eyes before he schooled his expression into something annoyingly neutral. “You already know the answer to that.”

She inhaled sharply, her pulse hammering. “Why do you have to fight? Why does it have to be you?”

His lips quirked into a smirk, but there was no humor behind it. “Because that’s how it works, love. The heirs fight.”

Her hands clenched into fists against the sheets. “So Tyson will also fight?” The question unsettled her more than she expected.

“Yes.”

"That’s bullshit, Tristan." Her voice wavered, but her anger burned through it. "You’re not just some pawn for your father?—"

"That’s exactly what I am," he interrupted, voice like steel as he pushed himself up to sit beside her. His gaze locked onto hers, sharp and unyielding. "You think I have a choice?" He met her gaze, unflinching. "This is just how it works."

She shook her head, frustration bubbling to the surface. "So what? You just accept it? You go in there and risk your life because he says so?"

"I don’t risk my life, Victoria. I win."

Her breath hitched, the arrogance in his tone making her want to shake him. Or kiss him. "That’s not the point."

"That’s exactly the point." His voice dropped lower and leaned in, his presence wrapping around her like a storm on the horizon. "You want me to tell you I’m scared? That I hate it?" His jaw clenched, his breath sharp. "I can’t."

His gaze darkened, danger simmering behind his eyes.

"Because I don’t hate it. I like fighting.

The strength it takes. The control. The power.

" He exhaled sharply, shaking his head. "Reading my opponent, knowing their next move before they make it and making damn sure I make the right call before they do. "

He dragged a hand through his hair, his frustration bleeding into the movement. "I’ve been fighting these games since I was eighteen. I’ve only gotten better. Stronger. More ruthless." His voice dipped lower, cold and unyielding. "Because that’s what it takes to survive. To win."

His lips curled, not quite a smirk, not quite a grimace. "And I always win."

She rolled her eyes and punched him in the arm. "You’re a cocky bastard, aren’t you?"

"Hey," he laughed, rubbing his arm from the soft blow. But then his gaze locked onto hers, dark and unrelenting. The amusement faded. "But you want to know what scares me more?" His voice softened, but it wasn’t gentle. It was raw. "You."

Her chest tightened, her pulse a frantic rhythm against her ribs, but he didn’t let her look away.

"I’m scared of losing you. I’m scared of the ways you could hurt me before anyone on that mat even gets the chance to try.

" He let the words settle, let her feel the weight of them.

"But none of that changes reality. If I refuse to fight?

" He huffed a bitter laugh, shaking his head. "Then I might as well be dead already."

Her chest ached, torn between anger and the gut-wrenching truth of his words. She wanted to scream, to tell him there had to be another way. But she knew better.

Instead, she settled for one last whisper. "I hate this."

His fingers brushed against her jaw, tilting her face up to his. "I know."

Silence stretched between them, heavy with everything left unsaid.

Victoria exhaled, forcing herself to focus on something, anything else.

Her gaze landed on the dress hanging on the closet door, its deep red fabric gleaming softly in the dim light.

A necessary illusion. One she’d have to wear, a role she’d have to play, just like every time she stepped into Cassian Locke’s world.

"And to answer your question—black. It’s classic and sexy."