I opened my eyes to the sound of my bedroom door being opened.
Not a knock. Not on a request to enter. Nothing but the squeak of the door as if i wasn't entitled to privacy or self determination or simply just fucking human dignity.
It was not even 7 a.m. and Tristan Aresco stood arms crossed in the doorway, uniformly awakened in gray suit, the man who looks like he's been up for hours. Probably had been. I had a feeling men such as him simply didn't sleep.
I sat up in bed, shrugging as I peeled back the layer of silk I'd been balling-up to my chest. I had crashed at this place in nothing but my undies, too exhausted by the previous night's horrors to dig around for any actual sort of pajamas here.
"Get out," I snapped.
"Morning to you too, principessa." He locked the doors and closed it behind him. "Rule number one. You are in no position of Privacy. I own this house. I own you. So I could drop in however and whenever I wanted."
"I'm barely dressed."
"I'm aware." I exchanged stories with women who'd experienced what it's like to be helpless in front of a powerful and wealthy horny man—how I heard about how the man looked me up and down, clinical, evaluating; not that hot look of a man looking at a woman he wants but that cool appraising look someone makes when they're checking something out they might want to purchase.
"You've got 20 minutes to shower up and clean off. Breakfast is at seven-thirty. Don't be late."
He turned to leave.
"You didn't even knock," I yelled after him, my rage causing my voice to shake.
He stopped, looking behind him. - For what I am gonna go knock on the door when its my room. A woman who is mine?" His smile was cruel. "Now take yourself at home there, mouse-ling. Your old life had privacy. You've got no private life in your new life."
A moment later, I heard the door click shut behind him and fought the urge to throw something at it.
Twenty minutes. Fine.
I had the fastest shower of my life in hilariously opulent bathroom that "belonged" to "me." All luxury marble counters, waterfall shower, fancy soaps that probably cost more than my old car.
But it was a golden cage, plain and simple.
I was fitting in clothes from my closet. Of course it had. Tristan was AND thorough. I played it safe and went for the most conservative style I could find black trousers, cream silk blouse, low heels. Armor disguised as business casual.
I pulled back my long black hair into a ponytail and glanced at the door. The one connecting my room to his.
I opened the door and stepped through.
It opened.
All was a bedroom, on the contrary, larger than mine. All dark, the colors charcoal gray walls, black furniture, a ginormous bed like fit for a king. Or a tyrant.
Tristan was by the window without a shirt.
I took a deep breath; I couldn't help it. His back is toward me, muscular and very scarred. Old and new tattoos covering his flesh like a map of violence. But it was his tattoo that had me gaping: a snake coiling around a rose, twining up from the left shoulder blade in loving little arcs and thorns. Beautiful and deadly. Just like him.
He turned, and our eyes met. No surprise in his expression. As though he knew that was the door I'd open. As though he'd been waiting for this.
"Like what you see, principessa?" His smile was pure sin. "You're welcome to watch. Or join. I guess the door swings both ways, huh."
I slammed it closed and felt my face go red.
He barked from the other side.
Bastard.
Breakfast was in a formal dining room that could accommodate 20 people, though only five were present. Tristan was at the end of course.
Across the table to his right sat a man who must've been his brother—same olive skin, same height—but he had gentler eyes and friendly smile even the young Tristan never received or still might have yet from anyone while whatever variation of hell abroad he'd evidently been through.
On my left, a leathery chain-smoking old guy covered in scars practicallly oozing danger and menace a mile away. And then way up at the other end of the spectrum: a gorgeous blonde with creepy, piercing blue eyes that looked me over as though I were some sort of bug she might want to squash.
"Iris," Tristan said as I entered. Let me introduce my posse. My brother, Trent." The warm-eyed one. "My second-in-command, Victor." The hostile one. "And Gia Orlov, our… consultant."
Orlov. Like the Russian Bratva family who they say broke the truce and killed my father.
"Sit," Tristan commanded and pointed to the chair beside him.
I kept feeling all the eyes on me while I was sitting.
'So, this'll be Iris Russo,' Trent declared, his grin broadening, while eyeing me up and down – it was a look that I recognized he liked. Now I know why my brother was prepared to go to war over you. They didn't do you justice in all those rumors."
"Trent" Tristan's voice went down to something murderous. "Careful."
"What? I'm just being friendly. We're all family now, right?" Yet, beneath Tristan's searching eyes Trent 's smile faltered.
"She's mine," Tristan said softly. "Not family. Not your friend. Mine. Touch her and lose the hand. Don't speak to her without authorization. Miscellaneous liquid bullet! Am I clear?"
His glibly violent tone made my stomach clench.
"Crooked too," Trent muttered, though when he glanced at me no Tristan was watching.
"She's Russo," came a raspy voice from Victor. "You really gonna trust her, boss? Her father has the biggest empire of all we oppose. She could be a spy for all we know. Kill you in your sleep."
"Then she better make sure I am truly asleep," Tristan muttered in a cool monotone. "And not expecting her."
Gia hadn't spoken yet. Just watched. Calculated. Those ice-blue eyes missing nothing.
As we ate the silent staff brought breakfast eggs, toast, fruit, coffee. I couldn't eat. My insides felt too tightly wound, with all the fear and pissy anger I carried around for the whole world all of the time, and Tristan right there beside me, flooding my senses.
"You will eat," he whispered, and now none of the others heard what he was saying. "You need all your strength for to-day.
"For what?"
"Training." His fingers met my knee beneath the table and I struggled to remain still, despite the wince. Last night you killed three men. Impressive. But sloppy. "If I'm trusting you back around weapons, it's high time you learned the right way.
Let me. Like I needed his permission.
However, I also forced myself to eat a couple of eggs, since I'd known since long before the epidemic that Rule One in staying alive was to keep your strength.
Breakfast over, Tristan dismissed them. "Iris, come with me."
The basement housed a weight room. Of course it was. A vast, packed wasteland filled with gym equipment, a ring for boxing matches, weapons racks and what looked like a shooting range at the other end.
"Strip," Tristan said.
"Excuse me?"
"Not completely. You need to be able to move."
"They're too confining for what I want to do. He'd already shed his suit jacket, sleeves rolled up.
"I need to see how you move. What you can really do vs. what you did last night by accident." I didn't bring workout gear. "I don't have one."
He threw me a tank top and some athletic shorts. "Change. Behind that door is a bathroom."
Five minutes later, I emerged in the suit that should have been comically oversized, but instead fit me all too well. More of his thorough preparation.
Tristan was now in a t-shirt with the sweats, and he still looked dangerous, even in casual wear. Predatory. As if violence was his resting state.
"Come over here," he said, pointing to the middle of the room where mats had been placed.
I approached warily.
"Show me what you've got," he said. "Attack me."
"What?"
"You heard me. Attack. "Let's consider what Domenico learned from his little girl."
There was a snap inside me under the derision in his tone. I lunged, tried a shot at his croch.
He caught my wrist mid-strike. "Predictable. Again."
I tried a kick. He blocked it effortlessly.
I followed instructions, like Papa had taught me. Every move, every combination. Tristan blocked or sidestepped each one in the most insufferable manner.
"You're overthinking," he says. "And you're distracted."
"I'm not."
He moved. Fast. The next thing I knew, I was on my back on the mat with Tristan's body pinning me to the ground.
He grasped both my wrists in his hands which he held above me there. His thighs straddled my hips. He was heavy on top of me and I had no way to relieve myself of him.
"You're not paying attention, mouse," he hissed in my face. "I can feel your pulse!" Feel you trembling. You are too busy hating me to fight me. Fatal mistake."
"Get off me."
"Say please."
"Never."
It was just about the extent of his wickedness, a smile. "How long that lasts, we'll see.
His body shifted a micro-inch, pulling mine closer to his, and every place we touched became an exquisitely sensitive point. His chest against mine. His hips against my hips. His breath was warm in my face.
"Get off me," I repeated, but now my voice sounded wheezy. Weak.
"Your body doesn't want me to let you go,'' he observed, and God help me, he wasn't entirely wrong. I could feel my treasonous body reacting to his proximity, heat coiling low in my belly and breath quickening into shallow pants. "You're breathing hard, principessa. Why is that?"
"Because you're crushing me."
"I'm barely putting any weight on you." He gripped my wrists a little harder.
"This is something else. Maybe something you're a little embarrassed about."
His face lowered closer. Close enough to see the gold flecks in those black eyes. Doesn't actually shave his face, because he is so baby-faced that we hardly even notice. I could feel his heat, his clenched muscle and power, violence there too.
"Tell me to go fuck myself and get up and go," he murmured, his mouth a breath from mine.
"I hate you," I muttered, but even to me it seemed weak.
"Say it like you mean it."
"I–" He mouthed, and for a heart-stopping moment I thought he was going to kiss me. I thought finally I would find out if his lips tasted the same as they did five years ago.
If kissing him would be a way to come home, or a trip straight into hell.
A whisper of his lips against the corner of my mouth A splash, next to nothing at all, nowhere near enough to make me gasp and stumble over myself … no way even close to being enough of a distraction for lose track that I was trying to fight him.
And then he pulled back.
Shifted his weight. Released my wrists. I got up and left myself out on the mat breathing as if I had just ran some marathon, my body trembling from this ugly heat.
He leered at me, actually fucking leering, like he was relishing the shit out of my bewilderment.
"We'll see how long that holds," he added, menace in his voice. How much longer do you think you can continue to lie to yourself that I'm repugnant when your body is crying out for my kiss. You're this wet from just being held down."
My face burned. "You're."
"Honest?" He extended a hand and helped me to my feet. I didn't take it. I got to my feet of my own slow crawl, but I had no strength in my legs. "Don't worry, little mouse. I'm patient. I will wait for you to beg me.
"That will never happen."
The window exploded.
The window burst inward as a body flew through and hit the floor in a crouch. A man in black tactical gear, gun drawn.
Tristan moved. Faster than should be possible. His hand snatched at a knife on the weapon rack and sent it flying in one fluid throw.
The blade sunk itself right into the assassin's throat as he was about to pull the trigger.
The man went down, choking, clawing at the knife.
Tristan was on him in an instant, extricating the blade to let the man bleed out on his expensive training mats.
"Who sent you?" Tristan demanded.
The assassin tried to speak. Blood bubbled from his lips. "She knows about the ledger."
"What ledger?" Tristan pressed.
"The Cardinal's ledger." The man's eyes turned to the back of his head. "She knows where it is."
And then he was dead.
With a painful wince, Tristan rose off the ground, knife still in his hands and met my eyes. "What ledger, Iris?"
"I have no idea what you're talking about."
"Don't lie to me."
"I'm not lying!" Panic was rising in my chest.
"I don't know, I don't even know what a ledger is. I haven't a clue who the Cardinal is!"
But as I said it, even something tingling at the back of my mind. A memory. Papa in his study late at night, on something. Saying he'd found proof. Evidence of something big.
But he'd never told me what.
Tristan's phone rang. He answered, still watching me. Then his expression darkened.
"Lock down the estate," he ordered. "Full security protocols. Now."
He ended the call. "There are three more bodies. Assassins who breached the perimeter. All dead now, but..." He paused. "They were professionals. Well-funded. And they all came for you."
"But I don't know anything about."
"The Cardinal believes you do. So you're not safe here. Not anymore."
"What are you saying?"
"I'm saying we're leaving. Tonight. Someplace where they won't be able to find you."
He seized my arm and hauled me toward the door. "And you're going to tell me everything your father said about the ledger. Every detail. Somebody thinks you know something worth killing for."
He stopped at the door and looked back over his shoulder at the dead gunfighter. "Or in their situation, worth killing for."