Page 44

CHAPTER 44

Tristan

At five in the morning, the house is silent except for the faint wind and waves sneaking in from the beach, but sleep continues to elude me. Images keep flashing through my mind—Birdie laughing at something Torrance says, his lips lingering too long next to her ear as he whispers his bullshit, the unmistakable spark in her eyes that screams she’s into his crap.

I toss aside the covers. There’s no point in trying to get some shuteye. Might as well make myself useful and let Marcus sleep. I get dressed and make my way out.

“Sir,” Brandon says. He’s outside Birdie’s bedroom, not Marcus. “Is everything all right?”

“Where’s Marcus?”

“He asked me to take over until morning. He wasn’t feeling well. Probably something he ate.”

“Okay. I’ll make some coffee and take your place. You can go back to sleep when I come back up.”

“Thank you, sir. I was worried she’d wake up and see me. She doesn’t like me very much.”

I stare at him in question.

“She said I looked like someone she hated. Maybe a replacement will be best.”

“Don’t be silly. You’re one of the best details in the firm. You’re needed here.”

His brows hitch, but he nods like the obedient soldier he is. “Yes, sir. Thank you for your trust.”

Downstairs, I enter the kitchen. As soon as I turn on the lights, I freeze. There, taunting me on the countertop, is a crystal vase filled with a dozen purple and golden tulips—Torrance’s last-ditch effort at winning Birdie’s approval. My jaw tightens as I approach them, each lush petal smug at my inability to reciprocate such a romantic gesture.

It’d be so easy to sweep the vase to the floor. Despite the churning urge to obliterate the evidence of another man’s attempt to steal her for himself, I settle for glaring at the flowers as if looks alone could shrivel the cocky blooms.

Why did she agree to go on that date? When we went home, she said she suspected Torrance was lying about the case. Pretending to like her and asking her out were tricks to get information from her. She went along with it to find out his intentions, but it turned out she was wrong.

Her motives are legitimate—I’ve suspected the same. That’s not the whole truth, though, if there is any honesty in her words to begin with. There’s something else only she knows that drove her to accept the detective’s invitation.

Is it just an attempt to reclaim some sense of normalcy amidst the madness? It doesn’t make watching her drift further from me any easier.

Is she trying to move on from what we have with someone she can be with when Abel and Butterfly Man are gone? Does she like Torrance? Her soft smiles and blushing cheeks say she does. My fingers curl inward until blunt nails bite into my palms.

“No, this can’t be it,” I say to the fancy ass coffee machine as I press its buttons. I know her well enough to realize she’s neither reckless with her emotions nor trusts easily. Even if she likes him, she’s too smart to put her secrets at risk for a juvenile crush. She’s too mature to have a juvenile crush in the first place.

God, she’s driving me crazy. I should have never made her that promise. What was I thinking?

That Birdie does not belong to you, no matter how your traitorous heart might wish it so? That if you can’t excise this jealousy entirely, you can at least force it to silence until you’ve ensured her freedom to pursue happiness—whatever that might cost you?

“Well, I didn’t think I’d have to watch her date someone else. I didn’t think I’d be tormented by visions of another man taking what’s mine.”

She’s not yours.

“Shut up.” On my phone, I check the security feed of her bedroom. She’s sound asleep. How could she be after what she did to me? I want to tie her to her bed and punish her until she learns never to make that mistake again. “Your wholehearted laughs and sweet whispers don’t belong to him. They’re mine. All mine.”

She’s not yours!

“Shut up!” I smash the cup. The glass shatters against the tile floor with a piercing crash, shards scattering in every direction. Searing pain lances through my hand as the scalding liquid splashes over my reddening skin. I groan a curse, cradling my throbbing palm.

Reports of the noise I’ve made and requirements for immediate situation check come in over the radio. I wash my hand and lift my sleeve to my mouth. “Morra here. I broke a cup in the kitchen. Damages are minor. No need to engage. I’ll handle the situation myself. Back to your positions.”

Three chuckling ‘copy’ and one ‘yes, sir” come through as I clean myself up.

What the hell was that? Lashing out like some unhinged maniac? I squeeze my eyes shut, drawing in a shuddering breath as I wrestle for control. I’m better than this, stronger than whatever this pathetic jealousy is trying to reduce me to. If I let these volatile emotions consume me, I’ll be of no use to anyone, least of all Birdie. She deserves far better than some unraveling hothead watching over her, than to be trapped in the crosshairs of his possessive darkness.

A long, resigned sigh flees my chest as I peel off my stained shirt and make my way over to the supply closet to grab cleaning supplies. I must get rid of the mocking evidence before Birdie sees it in the morning light.

I kneel amid the shards, the stinging in my palm dulling to a throbbing ache. A fitting punishment for allowing my weaknesses to make me unworthy of Birdie’s trust.

A muffled thump from my phone grabs my attention. I glance over at the live feed from Birdie’s bedroom. One second, her sleeping form is bundled under the comforter, the next, she suddenly bolts upright, her body rigid.

I snatch up my phone, snag my gun and sprint towards the stairs. My feet pounds over the hardwood. Adrenaline spikes through me as I reach the hallway. I ignore Brandon and burst through Birdie’s bedroom door. The click of his gun follows mine as I sweep the muzzle right to left.

“Tristan!” A sheen of sweat glistens on her brow in the dim light filtering through the windows.

“What’s wrong? Are you hurt?” I demand, searching the room for any signs of danger.

“No.” Her eyes, wide and wary, dart between me and Brandon. “But you scared the hell out of me. What’s going on?”

Just a nightmare then. No external threats. I nod for Brandon to leave and holster my gun. “You were sleeping, and then you bolted upright terrified. I thought there was a breach.”

As Brandon exits, she turns on the light on her nightstand. “You were watching me sleep?”

“Don’t make it creepy. It’s my job.”

Her gaze sweeps me from head to toe and lingers on my torso. “And you like to do that part shirtless?”

“Jesus Christ. I poured coffee on my shirt. I was cleaning the mess when you woke up in the middle of your sleep looking like you were about to be murdered. Next time, I’ll get fully dressed before addressing a situation where you could end up dead.”

She doesn’t take her eyes off my half-naked body and licks her lips.

“Stop,” I hiss. “You can’t look at me like that.”

“Like what?”

“Like you want me, after you made me watch you date someone else. I’m sick of your games.” Is that the purpose of going out with the detective? A cruel game she’s forcing me to play to watch me burn? For vengeance? For punishment? Or is it a competition, may the best man worthy of her attention win?

“Now who’s making this creepy?” She frowns at my hand. “I was looking at that. Did you burn yourself?”

“It’s nothing. Go back to sleep.”

“It’s not nothing. It’s flaming red. I have ointment in the bathroom.” She pushes out of the bed, the spaghetti straps of her lavender nightgown falling down her shoulders, her pebbling nipples almost popping out of the satin.

My blood pounds in my temples at the idea of anyone seeing her dressed like that. I move and block her from the camera range. “Could you put a robe on or something?”

She arches a brow at me.

“Please.”

Laughing under her breath, she rounds the bed and grabs the robe lying on one of the armchairs in the corner. She disappears inside the bathroom for a minute and comes back, covered up, with an ointment tube and bandages in her hands. “There.”

“Thank you.”

“Do you want me to take care of it?”

I grit my teeth. “I can handle it. You get some rest.”

“I can’t.”

“I’ll make you some anise tea. It’ll help.”

“No. I need to go get the mail. Now.”

My face scrunches in confusion as I check the time. “Excuse me? It’s five forty-seven a.m.”

She swallows, her eyes haunted. “Have you noticed I don’t have a mailbox here? I only use a P.O. box, and it’s Gia’s job to pick up my mail and bring it to me. With Gia being detained , it’s been a week since I received any correspondence. I could be missing very important messages here.”

Butterfly Man’s notes. It’s been a week since he sent the last one, and she’s been anxiously waiting for a move he hasn’t made yet. Or has he?

I’ve turned this house into a fortress he can’t infiltrate. He can’t come anywhere near it, her car or her. The only viable solution to send her more notes is the mail. “Shit.”

“Yeah, shit. I don’t know how I could forget something like that.” She stalks to the dressing room. “Fix your hand and put on a new shirt while I get dressed. We have no more time to waste.”

“I’ll sit this one out. I’ll get a team ready to take you there, though.”

“What? Tristan, I don’t know what I’m going to find in the mail. You have to be there with me. You’re the only one I can trust with this.”

“Then don’t open anything until you return.”

She crosses her arms over her chest. “Is this some sort of payback?”

“Payback? For what?”

“You know what.”

In two strides, I close the distance between us until the warmth of her exhales ghosts over my skin. “You mean for going out with another man, laughing at his silly jokes and blushing at his dirty whispers?” I shrug, enjoying the sight of her flustered. “That’s your thing, Birdie, not mine.” But maybe I should start punishing her for her mistakes from now on. I glance at her throat, picturing my hand around it. How red will her face turn when I choke her? What sounds are she going to make? How long will it take her to beg? What will she beg for?

Gulping, she squirms. “Then why would you not come with me?”

I let her sweat a little more, my mind swimming in images of what else I can do to her in punishment. That pretty head is full of potential.

“Tristan?”

I blow out a breath and retreat from her proximity before I lose my mind. “Marcus has food poisoning from eating at your favorite restaurant, and my hand is burnt. If there’s a chance of facing any kind of danger on your trip to get the mail, it’s best if the details protecting you aren’t compromised.”

Because even when she infuriates me the most, I’ll still do what’s best for her. Even when she provokes my demons out to play, I’ll always put her safety first.