She wanted to believe him, but somewhere between exploring his home and arriving back at the penthouse, the uneasy voice in the back of her mind had grown louder and more disquieted. Seeing the parts of his life he had hidden away in the cottage made her want to cry. He was so incredible, and he didn't even realize it. He'd shut himself away from everyone, even keeping the mementos he cherished the most locked up far away from him. He punished himself by withholding the things he cared about and the people who made him vulnerable.
She had a feeling he'd been that way since his parents died, and that broke her heart. The tenuous, unguarded look she'd seen on his face as she explored his home had wrecked her. So had the flicker of hope burning in the depth of his blue eyes. He wanted so badly to reclaim the parts of his life he'd denied himself for so long.
Lillian was terrified something would happen to keep him from it. Something would go wrong, and Tristan would be trapped in the same hell he'd been in since he was a teenaged boy. He deserved peace and happiness, perhaps more than anyone. She could not express how much she did not want to be responsible for ruining that chance for him. During the drive back to the penthouse, the fear that she would do exactly that had grown exponentially.
Peace became more and more elusive the longer she waited for him to emerge from the shower. Resting her forehead on the cool glass, she admitted to herself how much she needed him. Being wrapped in his arms was the only thing that could keep her from falling apart. She doubted that would ever change, and that was okay with her, even if it did feel a little strange. Had anyone told her a month ago that she would be here now, so far in love she didn't ever want to find her way out, she wouldn't have believed them. But here she was. And truthfully, she couldn't really even pinpoint precisely when or where she'd fallen so hard for him he'd become vital to her.
He was the strength and safety that had been so fleeting since Marc attacked her on stage. For so long, she'd been afraid. Terrified that the few pieces of her former life she still clung to would be ripped away, and she'd end up as alone as she'd felt since that night. He hadn't simply destroyed her career. He'd destroyed her. He'd taken her sense of self, and left her cowering in Oregon.
Those she'd thought were her friends had shown their true colors and abandoned her, all save Jennie and Tony. The Company had distanced themselves long before she'd been discharged from the hospital. They hadn't wanted the scandal she had suddenly become because of him. The endorsements vanished in a puff of smoke, with lawyers acting as if she should have been grateful they were merely releasing her from her contracts instead of suing her for a breach she hadn't caused.
And then she'd been alone, unable to dance to the music calling to her. Unable to defend herself against the lies they spread about her, and the pain those lies brought her. Trapped in a body as unfamiliar to her as everything else had suddenly become. She'd been desperate when she walked into Teplo, dying to find even a little piece of the person she used to be. She'd wanted to prove that she wasn't the pathetic thing they'd tried to turn her into, but someone stronger, braver, and more powerful. She didn't want to be broken anymore.
But she had been.
Until Tristan swooped in to claim her.
He had been breaking down her walls since the first time he touched her, wriggling his way into her heart like he belonged there. It'd been only a matter of time before every defense she had against him ruptured and she fell. And dear God, had she fallen. A few short weeks had changed so much, sweeping her along in a whirlwind. And she'd do it all over in a heartbeat. Without hesitation, question, or reservation.
She would never perform again. Because of Tristan, that truth no longer shattered her heart. He'd shown her that there was life after ballet. There was passion and love and hope and so many things she'd thought were forever beyond her reach. They weren't. Not any longer. And if something happened to jeopardize that, to take Tristan away, she wouldn't survive.
"Hey," he murmured, his fingertips brushing across her shoulder.
She jumped, lifting her head and catching his reflection in the window. His hair was a damp riot on his head, standing up every which way. His jaw was scruffy where he'd forgone shaving. She swallowed as her eyes traveled down his body, taking in his bare torso, the dark sweats resting low on his hips, and his bare feet.
God, he was gorgeous, all soft, olive skin over hard, defined muscle. Her fingers twitched on the glass with the compulsive urge to reach out and trace the contours of his abs and the V right below. He was hard everywhere, a perfect representation of male strength.
"Hi," she said. Even through the window, the heat burning in his blue eyes captured her gaze, holding her hostage. His expression was so gentle, and so hungry. So much emotion roiled in his eyes, it took her breath away. She didn't know if he would ever say the words, if he could ever love her like she loved him, but the look in his eyes made it clear that he belonged to her as thoroughly as she belonged to him.
He stepped closer, the heat of his body beckoning to her. She leaned into him, her body melting into the strength and security he offered. His hand slipped down her shoulder to encircle her waist. He dipped his head to press a soft kiss to the side of her neck, never once breaking eye contact in the glass.
"I missed you," she said.
"You could have joined me." He slid his other arm around her body to rub soft circles across her stomach.
His touch made her ache to shed her clothing and feel his hands upon her bare skin. She relaxed further into his embrace as desire unfurled low in her belly. "I needed a minute," she said, turning her head to brush her lips across his jaw. Instantly, they warmed, heated by the feel of his skin beneath them. She always felt that way with him. Even when he couldn't quiet the storm entirely, he took away the chill it left behind, replacing the icy cold with aching, driving desire.
His expression morphed into one full of worry as she watched his reflection.
"What's wrong, beautiful?" he whispered the question against her ear, sending another wave of warmth rushing through her.
She bit her lip, knowing they had to have this conversation before anything else happened between them tonight. "If I ask you a question, will you be honest with me?"
"Always," he promised, hugging her a little tighter.
She turned herself in his arms until they were chest to chest. His eyes were so captivating this close. How had she ever been unable to read him? Right then, she could read his every raw emotion in those eyes. Worry, desire, fear, self-doubt…adoration.
"Why?" she asked.
He sighed as if he'd expected the question and knew exactly what she meant, his breath fanning across her face. "What do you see when you close your eyes?"
"What?"
"What do you see when you close your eyes?" he repeated, lifting a hand from her waist to gently close her eyes for her. "Tell me," he encouraged when she stood there, not speaking.
"I see dancing," she answered, not sure what he wanted her to say. "Some I've seen, some I've performed." Before him, she'd seen the night it all came crashing down, too. It had replayed over and over in her nightmares, never changing.
"What else?"
"You."
His lips pressed briefly to her forehead as if in gratitude for that answer before he pulled back, letting her go. She opened her eyes to find him staring out the window, his hands in loose fists at his side, his head bowed.
"When I close my eyes, I see death, Lillian. I see my parents and the bullet holes and blood in my father's SUV. I see Elizabeth James and Emma Buford and every single person I've ever visited in a morgue. I see the film of death covering their eyes, and their gray, lifeless skin." He sounded so sad, so defeated. "I remember everything about them; their names, ages, where they were killed, how they were killed, and how it could have been prevented—how I could have prevented it. I know the names of their children if they had children." He raked a hand through his hair before lifting his head, his gaze so somber and mournful. "It'
s not something I can forget. And every time someone else dies on one of my cases, the list of people I see grows. When I close my eyes at night, I see them. At random moments during the day, I see them. For years, I've seen them."
"Oh, Tristan," she breathed sadly, tears welling in her eyes at the thought of what that had to be like for him. He cared so much. To see those people every day, to feel responsible for so much death and destruction…she could not even imagine what that had to be like for him.
She wrapped her arms around his waist and held on as tight as she could. He stood tense for several seconds before his body relaxed and he wrapped his arms around her, holding on to her as tightly as she held him. His heart beat strong and steady beneath her ear. She was certain her own was cracking, fracturing apart for him.
"I'm so sorry," she said.
"Me too, beautiful, but the thing is…" He trailed off, his entire body moving as he expelled a pent up breath. "The thing is, it's always been that way for me. I got used to it. I accepted it. I dealt with it. Hell, I sought those details out." He laughed humorlessly, making her cringe. That's what he'd been doing at the morgue last night, burning Emma Buford's death into his subconscious.
"And then there was you," he whispered.
"Me?"
"You." A small smile ghosted across his lips when she gaped at him. "When you touch me, it all flies away. My mind is quiet." Wonder filled his eyes, giving him a faraway look, like a little boy who'd just won his heart's desire. He pulled her to him, wrapping his arms around her. "Even the worst of the memories disappear when you're near me."
"It's the same for me," she confessed, oddly grateful that they were matched tit for tat in this way as well. That's how it always was with them, she was quickly coming to realize. Her inner scars were comparable his. His fears were the same as hers. Maybe it came about in different ways, through different means for each of them, but they fit together like interlocking puzzle pieces displaying parts of the same scene. You couldn't see the entire picture looking at one piece, but when you put them together you knew instantly what sat before you. And you knew those pieces belonged together, even if you couldn't see it when looking at them individually.
"I thought so," he murmured and gave her another small smile. "You were made for me, Lillian. And being with you made me realize that life doesn't have to be so fucking hard anymore," he continued, rubbing distracted circles on her back where his hands were looped together around her waist. "I don't want to see an endless parade of victims anymore. I don't want to keep punishing myself for what happened to my parents. When I'm with you, all I see is you. And I want that. I want a future and happiness. You give me…" he trailed off, searching for words.
"Hope," she finished for him, knowing exactly what he struggled to say.
"Hope," he agreed and leaned forward to kiss her. His lips were gentle on hers, warm and giving and so good. Always, his kisses were perfection. "I want that," he continued when he pulled back to meet her gaze, slightly breathless. "I want you and peace and dinners with my aunt and uncle and stupid arguments with Zo and Rachel, or target practice with Jordan. I've done this shit for so long because torturing myself with memories of people I couldn't save is what I felt like I deserved. But last night–"
"Last night?" she prompted when he fell silent without finishing the thought.
"When I went to the morgue last night, for the first time ever, I didn't walk through those doors to memorize every detail about Emma Buford. I walked through those doors because I was fucking terrified that it could have been you. I wouldn't survive that, Lillian."
His jaw clenched as something dark and volatile flared in his eyes and then died out. She wrapped her arms a little more securely around him in an attempt to offer him comfort, strength…whatever assurance he required to realize that it would never be her he went to visit in a morgue.
"Doing this shit isn't worth it anymore," he said into her hair. "This life, this job, is killing me. I want out before it takes anything else from me," he finished.
"I want that for you, too," she admitted and then hesitated. "But what if you change your mind, Tristan? What if working behind the scenes isn't enough for you?" She understood where he was coming from, she really did, but she wasn't blind to reality either.
He needed a battle to fight. He needed to save lives and make a difference and do all those things that only someone like him could do. He'd dedicated every day of his adult life to this because he wasn't the kind of person who could sit around and not do everything in his power to keep someone else from losing a family member like he'd lost his. The world needed heroes, and he needed to be one. That's just who he was.
If he did this, she didn't want it to be because of her. She didn't want him to wake up one morning and resent her for letting him think the choice was between his career and her. God, she would never do that to him—make him choose—not when she'd lost her own career because of someone else.
He was a force of nature, all strength and courage and emotion. He required an outlet for all that energy and passion. And she doubted she would ever be enough to fill the void walking away would invariably leave behind for him.
"Don't do this for me."
He cupped her face in his hands and rested his forehead against hers again. "I may never have realized how much I want this without having met you, but I do want it, baby. Last night was hell, and I'm tired, Lillian. It never stops. It never ends. People like Emma Buford, innocent people, keep dying and they always will. You told me that I can't save everyone and you're right. I can't. But I can save myself."
She flinched, hating when he talked about dying as if it were an inevitable end to what he did. Even though she knew he'd been headed in that direction, she hated hearing it. She didn't want that for him. But this wasn't about her and what she wanted. This was about what he needed.
"Promise me something," she demanded.
"Anything." He smiled that crooked smile at her.
"Promise me that you won't quit because you think it's what I want from you."
He frowned, opening his mouth to argue.
"I mean it," she said, cutting him off. "If you do this, you do it for you and only you. And if you decide later you want to go back, promise me that I won't stand in your way. That you won't try to suffer through it because of me."
His frown morphed into a scowl. "Why do you think you're standing in the way?"
Because she knew him, and she knew how much it worried him to think she could be hurt because of him. And she feared this decision was more about him wanting to keep her safe than it was about what he wanted for himself. He'd said himself that it terrified him to think about her in that morgue. Without that fear guiding him, would he make the same decision? Could he?
"I don't want this to be about me," she explained. "I know what it's like to have your entire life change and have no choice, Tristan. I don't want that for you. I won't let that be you," she added, her voice forceful.
"You won't let it be me?" he asked.
She gave him a sharp, emphatic nod. "I love you too much to let you give up something important to you because you think it's what I want. All I want is for you to be happy. And I'm not so sure you'd be happy working behind the scenes. That's not who you are."
His scowl remained for a full five count before it slipped and his lips sought hers. He kissed her hungrily, crushing her body to his as he devoured her lips before breaking away, panting. His eyes were dark, powerful desire stamped across his face. "You have no idea how much I love when you fight me, do you?"
She shook her head, feeling like she might vibrate apart soon, she wanted him skin to skin so badly.
"It drives me fucking crazy," he admitted. "You're so stubborn."
"So are you," she said, voice hoarse.
"I want to consume you, Lillian." Vivid, burning blue bored into her as he spoke, stripping her bare. "I constantly want you aching for me. But when you fight me?" A wicked smile curved his lips, some
thing dark and predatory flashing in his eyes. She shivered, not in fear but in want. She wanted that side of him. God, did she want it. "When you fight me, it makes me so goddamned hard. All I can think about is making you beg for my cock because when you do? When you plead with me to fuck you or let you come? That's when I know you need me as much as I need you."
She swallowed, her stomach bottoming out at his confession.
"I've never wanted anything as much as I want you. As much as I need you." He pulled her forward and nipped a trail along her neck. "You own every single thought I have." His teeth sank into the shell of her ear and pulled before his mouth retreated, teeth nipping the same line they'd traced to her ear. He pulled back and cupped her face. "I'm crazy about you, beautiful."
A shudder raced through her as he smiled that crooked, heart stopping smile. She felt like she was drowning in the depths of his eyes. There was so much emotion there. So much hope. His lips brushed like butterfly wings across hers.
"You are fucking perfect, Lillian. You have no idea how wild you make me, how happy." His cock was rock hard against her stomach. "Just being near you makes me a better person. I love you," he said, his eyes blazing with sincerity. "So fucking much, I can't breathe when I look at you."
His confession hung in the air between them, echoing.
Neither moved. Neither blinked. Neither breathed. They merely stood still as his words hung between them, wide, warm brown locked on blazing, fervent blue. His heart thumped hard in his chest, as if finally saying those words, finally telling her how completely he belonged to her, had set free every emotion that had seemed so damned torturous before. They didn't feel that way any longer. The hard thump of his heart didn't hurt. Each pump sent little sparks of light shooting through his veins, burning out every fear that he wasn't good enough, that she deserved more.
He loved her. Every breath. Every beat of his heart. Every moment.
All that he had, all that he was, was hers.
Rhapsody (The Teplo Trilogy #2) Page 11
