Rhapsody (The Teplo Trilogy #2)

by Ayden K. Morgen

  "How ya doing, kiddo?" He lowered himself into the hard plastic chair beside her with a soft grunt. Lillian laid her head on his shoulder, closing her eyes. "That bad, huh?" He shook his head before wrapping his arm around her shoulders.

  "I just want to go home," she whispered. She was so tired. God, was she tired. Numb. Not numb. She didn't even know how she felt since she'd run from Tristan's room. All she knew was that he'd opened his eyes and a brick wall of emotion hit her right in the chest. She couldn't breathe through the resulting pain.

  She'd made it as far as the waiting room before falling apart.

  How long ago had that been? An hour? Two? It felt like a lifetime had passed. And the entire thing had been one agonizing minute after another. He needed her and she couldn't be there for him.

  Is this how he'd felt when his parents died?

  Wrecked and ruined and useless?

  God, she hoped not.

  "I can take you back to the house."

  "No." She shook her head. "I want to go back to Oregon."

  "Lily." Her dad shifted beside her. "You know how I feel about that, but you know you don't belong in Bend, kiddo. You were miserable there."

  "I can't be here right now, Dad. I can't…." She blew out a breath. "He almost died." She shook her head again, trying to dislodge the memory of him bleeding in the cellar of Teplo. "I just can't."

  "You can't run from it either, Lillian."

  She opened her eyes to find Zoë standing over her, looking as tired and strung out as she felt. They stared at one another, not saying anything until her dad patted her on the back and mumbled incoherently before practically racing from the small waiting room.

  "How is he?" she finally asked, fearing the answer but wanting to hear it anyway.

  "Sleeping," Zoë answered, pushing her hair back out of her face. "How are you?"

  "Has it ever been Jason?"

  Zoë shook her head, relief flickering through her eyes. "No, it's never been Jason."

  She nodded. "I kept telling myself that so long as he was okay, I would be. That nothing else mattered so long as he was okay." She laughed, the sound seeming to stick in her throat. "But it does matter. He nearly died because of me."

  "It's not your fault," Zoë said. It had the ring of something she'd said a thousand times.

  She probably had; Lillian had lost count days ago of how many times they had said those words to her. They could say it all they wanted, it didn't change the way she felt. Maybe he would have been in exactly the same position if she'd never gotten involved, she couldn't say for sure. But she had gotten involved. He'd gone in there alone because of what they'd tried to do to her. Nothing anyone said would change that.

  "Maybe not," she said, sorrow in her voice.

  Zoë sighed heavily. "You know he doesn't blame you for any of it."

  "I know. He'll blame himself." That was part of the problem. He'd blame himself. She blamed herself. No amount of talking would change that for either of them. Instead, they'd end up hurting each other more. Maybe not today or tomorrow, but the guilt was already wearing on her. How long until it wore on him, too? How long until it became one of those wounds that festered constantly, causing tension to boil over and wound all over again? She couldn't stay and do that to him. Not when he'd done so much for her already.

  Space, time, distance.

  They'd probably kill her, but she didn't know what else to do. The longer she stayed, the harder it would be for both of them. He deserved better than spending his life trying to protect her, and feeling guilty when he failed. He was an agent. Nothing would ever change that. As much as she wanted to belong in this world with him, the cost wasn't worth it. He'd already paid too much because of her.

  "I have to go," she said, staring blankly at his cousin.

  "Are you coming back?"

  "I don't–" She broke off and shook her head. "Maybe. Someday."

  "Lillian," Zoë pleaded. "Don't do this to him."

  "I have to." She blinked, bringing Zoë back into focus. "He's given me so much already. I won't let him give his life to protect me. If I stay, eventually we're going to be right back here. He'll do something like this again and I can't do that to him. I won't…I won't be the reason he dies."

  "So you're going to walk away from him instead?" Zoë demanded. "That's not fair."

  "I know." She swallowed hard. "But it's what I want."

  "Lillian," Zoë said, as if she were going to argue.

  "It's what I want," she repeated the lie. This wasn't even close to what she wanted, but the alternative? She'd rot in Bend, Oregon before she let him sacrifice his life trying to protect her. And he would never stop trying. He'd probably never work undercover again, thanks to her. There was no way she could stay here and take the rest of his future away from him, too.

  When Tristan came to, he did so slowly, praying to God it'd all been some horrible nightmare. He knew it hadn't been though. Even in his sleep, he'd hurt. His arm almost felt disconnected from his body, except for the fact that it burned like wildfire, anyway. His ribs didn't feel much better. Nor did any other part of his body. Mostly though, the pain in his heart was what threatened to fucking killing him.

  It hadn't been a nightmare. Lillian had left him, and this time, she wasn't coming back. Not even sleep had taken that knowledge away. And not even in his sleep could he blame her for it. He'd put her through too much. He couldn't make that right.

  "Tristan? Son?"

  Tristan turned his head and blinked up at his uncle.

  "Hey." John smiled, but it didn't come close to erasing the concern in his eyes. "How are you feeling?"

  Tristan blinked again, not sure how to answer that question. "Hurt," he said. The word cracked, his throat too dry to really force it out. "Water?"

  John nodded and fumbled for the pitcher on the bedside table, pouring a glass and popping a straw in. He helped lift Tristan's head before slipping the straw past his lips. Tristan drank greedily, sucking it down as fast as he could. The cool water soothed the burn in his throat some, made it less tight.

  "Slow down, son," John admonished gently. He didn't pull the cup away though, instead holding it steady as Tristan continued to drink.

  He didn't stop until he'd drained the small cup, panting.

  "Better?" John asked, easing his head back down to the bed.

  "What…happened?" he asked instead of answering. He didn't really have an answer for his uncle anyway. Sure, his throat felt better. But the rest of him? Not even close.

  "What do you remember?"

  "Elijah." He frowned as the blond's face popped into his mind. He'd gone looking for that damned entrance and been ambushed, tortured. Elijah and Paulo had forced Lillian to come after him. "She's okay?" he demanded, his voice breaking.

  "She's fine, son," John assured him, avoiding his gaze.

  So that definitely hadn't been a nightmare then. She'd really been here, but she wasn't anymore. "Jason?" he asked, trying to think of anything but how much that hurt.

  "Also fine. Michael Kincaid sustained some injuries, but he's already out of the hospital. He was here earlier, actually."

  Kincaid? Tristan frowned. He couldn't remember Kincaid being there.

  "Jason and Lillian went in after you," John explained. "Two of your suspects went out the back entrance and met up with him. He killed one of them."

  "We got them?"

  "Yeah, you got them." John frowned. "All but one of them."

  "Elijah," Tristan guessed, the relief he'd felt at hearing they'd gotten them taking a sharp right turn. He didn't even have to see John's nod of confirmation to know Elijah was still out there. Anger wormed its way through him. He remembered exactly what Elijah had done to him. The real bitch was that every kick, every hit, had come nowhere close to messing him up as much as knowing that the bastard had forced Lillian to walk into a trap. The things he'd said about her—for the second time in his life, Tristan had been rendered helpless. Unable to do a single
fucking thing to save the people who mattered to him.

  "Where's Jason?" he demanded, his heart rate increasing as he realized how much worse it could have been. His parents. Lillian and Jason. He sent up a silent prayer of thanks that she'd walked away unharmed. She was alive. Didn't matter that she was gone. He'd live with that if it killed him.

  "Ah, he's around, somewhere."

  "Where?"

  "He's down the hall, son, taking care of some things with Daniel Maddox."

  "Lillian?" he guessed. His mind moved too slowly. He was so tired.

  "I'm sorry, son," John sighed and then nodded. "She's having a really hard time right now. You nearly died."

  "I know." Tristan swallowed painfully. He didn't know how bad he'd been, but if the way he felt was any indication, he could guess. "She's okay?"

  "She's not injured," John answered.

  This time, Tristan sighed.

  "Zoë is trying to talk to her."

  For a second, Tristan let himself hope Zoë could convince her not to leave him. But she had to go, now more than ever. He couldn't protect her, not like this. And he couldn't ask her to watch him go through this after what she'd already been through because of him. He couldn't give her safety or peace of mind, and she deserved both. She deserved more than he could give her.

  "Let her go," he said painfully.

  "Son–"

  "Let her go."

  John cursed under his breath, but didn't argue further.

  Tristan closed his eyes, letting the pain take him.

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  "Tristan?" Zoë whispered.

  He cracked one eye open to find her watching him. "Hey," he mumbled. He wanted to smile at her, but couldn't force one. He felt like hell. Worse, actually. Physically, he felt numb, the pain distant. John had doped him up on enough morphine to ensure that. But emotionally? Hell didn't even come close.

  How many days had it been since Lillian left him? Three? Four? He'd lost count. He didn't really suppose it mattered though, since she left him repeatedly every time he closed his eyes. Jordan had shaken his head in disbelief that she hadn't even said goodbye. Tristan got it though, completely. Hearing her say goodbye, watching her fall apart when she did it…that would have been more than he could handle. She'd put him first one final time and left quietly, probably thinking he wouldn't even remember her being there.

  Unfortunately, he remembered it all too clearly. Her expression haunted him.

  He'd known weeks ago that it'd kill him when she walked away. He'd also known that eventually, she would walk away. She was brave as hell, but she'd lost enough in her life. Staying with him, knowing what he did, he never should have asked it of her in the first place.

  Even someone like Lillian—someone so selfless, courageous, and fucking beautiful inside and out—could only take so much. Losing her career, her mobility, nearly being kidnapped, watching him almost die had been too much. He didn't know anyone that would have handled it any better than she had.

  Still, he'd thought he'd been prepared for the reality of her leaving. He'd thought it couldn't get any worse than watching her walk out of the penthouse. He'd been wrong. Every day, it got worse. Every day, it shattered him all over again. She was gone and not a fucking thing he had to offer her was good enough reason to ask her to come back.

  Good God, she'd risked her life to save his, not once but twice. There was no goodbye to soften that reality. She'd walked in to Teplo to save him, and then the fucking building had exploded with her inside, because she'd sacrificed herself so Jason could get him out. It'd taken almost an hour to pull her out of the rubble. That would always be his fault.

  "She called again," Zoë said, wrapping her arms around herself. "She said–"

  "Don't," he whispered hoarsely, squeezing his eyes shut. "Please don't."

  "Tristan."

  "Zo, don't." He shook his head, trying to dislodge her voice. Trying to forget. It didn't help. Nothing did. Not the morphine. Not sleep. Not the pain that came when the morphine started wearing off. None of it made any difference at all.

  Lillian was gone.

  "I'm sorry," his cousin said, reaching out to clutch his good hand in hers.

  He clutched her hand like a lifeline, his jaw clenched tight to keep the tears at bay.

  "Tristan," Zoë stood across the room, her hands on her hips as she glared daggers at him. "Why are you doing this?"

  "Doing what?" he asked, playing dumb as he shrugged his way into the shirt she'd thrown at him. He had hell working it over the cast, and his ribs hurt like a son of a bitch, but he got it on. "I can't leave in a gown, Zo."

  "You shouldn't be leaving at all!" she shouted, throwing her hands up.

  "Zoë–" Jason started.

  "Don't," she snapped, swinging to face him. "Don't you dare tell me it's his decision, Jason Aaron Ames. He's not ready to go home yet!"

  "I know that, darlin'," he said, "but you can't force him to stay either."

  "He," Tristan interrupted, cursing as he fumbled with the buttons on his shirt. The damn things were impossible to close one-handed. "Is right here. Stop fucking talking over my head."

  "Don't you curse at me, Tristan," Zoë snapped, whipping around to face him. "You almost died and now you're going to walk out of here like nothing happened?" Tears brimmed in her eyes.

  He sighed and stopped fumbling around with the buttons. She meant well, he knew she did. But damn. He couldn't stay here. He just fucking couldn't. And he couldn't very well tell her that every time he opened his eyes, he saw Lillian walking away from him, that broken expression on her face. Every single time. Eight days of that hell was all he could take. If he didn't get out now, he was going to lose his mind.

  Zoë sighed, her shoulders slumping. "Why are you doing this?" she asked, starting across the room toward him. She pushed his hand out of the way and set to work on his buttons. "You love her, Tristan."

  "Yeah," he said, the hole in his chest shredding around the edges. "I do."

  "Then go after her, for God's sake." Zoë jerked on his shirt in frustration, pulling a hiss of pain from him. "Sorry," she said, loosening her grip on the fabric.

  "I can't." He shook his head. It fucking pounded. Actually, every inch of him still hurt, but he wasn't about to tell her that. He had to get out of here. John could oversee his care equally as well from the penthouse as he could from this room. "As you pointed out, I'm barely well enough to leave here. I can't go chasing after her."

  "You are such a stubborn jackass!"

  "Zoë, enough!" Jason barked. "Leave him be."

  She spun to face her husband, but didn't say anything further.

  Tristan glanced at Jason, surprised. Two hours ago, he'd called him an idiot and threatened to strangle him for not going after her. Now he was on his side?

  "I haven't changed my mind," he muttered as if guessing exactly where Tristan's thoughts had taken him. "You're still a fucking idiot for letting her go, but I get it." He rubbed his temples. "Neither of you are in any shape for a heart to heart right now. Christ, Tristan, I never should have involved her. I'm sorry, man."

  "Are we blaming you now?" Rachel asked from the other side of the room.

  Tristan, Zoë, and Jason all three turned to look at her.

  She held her hands up. "Just checking." She shook her head, snorting as they continued to stare at her balefully. "Look, all I'm saying is that you're both so busy blaming yourselves that you're overlooking the obvious."

  "And what's that?" Tristan demanded, fed up with her attitude. She'd been pissy all day, and he could really do without her glowering at him.

  "Don't look at me like that," she snapped, narrowing her eyes at him as her hands fell to her belly as if to protect her baby from his attitude. "You weren't the ones killing people with some drug that never should have been made. Nor were you the ones who blew that club up with the three of you still in it."

  "What's your point, Rachel?" he asked, not wanting to hear her
take on things, either. He and Jason had gone over it a thousand times in the last week, but talking changed nothing. Yeah, Mariah Jeffries and Paulo Vetrov were dead, and Anton and his crew were going to prison, but Elijah had gotten away. And, sooner or later, the drug would hit the streets. Cartels would fight over it. Innocent people would die for it.

  Christ, he was tired of this shit.

  They couldn't win. It didn't matter how hard they tried, they were always two steps behind. They worked their asses off on cases for years. When they were really lucky, they saved a few people. And God only knew how many others died. Murder. Overdose. Disease. It never stopped. Not ever. And wasn't that realization the icing on a really shitty cake? He'd nearly killed himself for years trying to make a difference. Trying to save people like his parents. And now? Now he wasn't sure he'd ever actually made a difference.

  He'd been idealistic.

  Funny thing about that though, he still wasn't ready to let it go. Lillian had been right. This is who he was. It didn't really matter if the blinders had been ripped off or not. He still wanted to be out there, doing what he could to find Elijah Noel and bring Francisco down. His efforts were a Band-Aid on a bullet hole, but when Band-Aids were all you had, you made do.

  "My point, jackass," Rachel said, her hands still on her belly, "is that while you're in here blaming yourself, the people you should be blaming are still out there. Do you think they care that you're feeling sorry for yourselves? They don't. And neither does Lillian."

  Tristan growled in wordless warning, but Rachel cut him off before he could tell her not to go there.

  "You know what she cares about? She cares about the fact that you almost died. She cares about the fact that you wouldn't have if it weren't for her."

  "Rach–" Jason started.

  "Don't blame her," Tristan snapped, cutting him off as anger rolled through him in a dark wave. "None of this is her fault."

  "Says you," Rachel snorted. "But have you bothered to think that maybe she doesn't feel the same way?"

  "What in the hell are you talking about?"