Chapter 101 Breakthrough
"Mina," Tristan said, his voice a low, rough command.
He didn't reach for me immediately. He stood in the center of the foyer, the soft light from the pendant lamp casting shadows across his face. He looked at me with an intensity that pinned my feet to the hardwood floor.
I set my purse down on the console table. My heart was thumping a frantic rhythm against my ribs.
"Tristan," I answered, the single syllable a permission.
He stepped forward. He didn't pull me into his arms. Instead, he dropped to his knees right there in the entryway.
"What are you doing?" I asked, startled. I reached for his good shoulder. "Your collarbone—"
"Is fine," he interrupted gently, taking my hands and pressing them against his chest.
He stayed on his knees, looking up at me. It was a position of absolute surrender.
"I spent five years punishing you for a darkness that belonged entirely to me," he said, his amber eyes clear and burning with conviction. "I let my fear dictate my reality, and I broke the only pure thing in my life because of it."
"We talked about this," I whispered, my vision blurring with fresh tears. "Dr. Evans said—"
"I know what he said," Tristan murmured. "But I need to say this to you. Without the doctor. Without the armor."
He brought my hands to his lips, kissing my knuckles with a profound, aching tenderness.
"I am so sorry, Minerva," he vowed. "I am sorry for doubting you. I am sorry for every day you spent feeling like you weren't enough. You were always enough. You were everything."
I looked down at him, the man who owned the city, kneeling on my floor.
"I forgive you," I said softly, and for the first time, I felt the truth of it resonate in my bones. It wasn't just words anymore. It was an active release of the heavy, bitter weight I had carried since Milan.
He closed his eyes, a slow, ragged exhale escaping his lips.
"Now," I said, tugging gently on his hands. "Get up."
He opened his eyes, a slow, devastating smile spreading across his face.
He stood up smoothly, his uninjured arm wrapping around my waist, pulling me flush against his solid body.
"I have a lot of lost time to make up for," he whispered against my mouth.
"Then start," I challenged.
He kissed me. It wasn't the tentative, careful kiss of his early recovery, nor the desperate, possessive clash of our anger. It was a deep, consuming claim. It was an apology, a promise, and a worship all rolled into one.
I tangled my hands in his dark hair, opening to him completely. The taste of him—clean, sharp, and entirely Tristan—flooded my senses.
He didn't break the kiss as he guided me backward, our steps slow and synchronized, moving down the short hallway toward the bedroom.
He guided me until the back of my knees hit the edge of the mattress.
He finally pulled back, breathing heavily. He looked down at me, his gaze dropping to the neckline of my sweater.
"I want to see you," he murmured. "All of you."
I reached for the hem of my sweater, but he caught my hands.
"Let me," he insisted softly.
He was still limited by his healing shoulder, restricted to mostly using his left hand. But the handicap didn't make him clumsy; it made him incredibly, agonizingly deliberate.
He pulled the sweater over my head with slow, reverent care, tossing it aside. His knuckles brushed against my skin as he unfastened my jeans, the light friction sending a shiver down my spine.
I stepped out of the denim, standing before him in plain cotton underwear.
He didn't strip my clothes off like a conqueror claiming spoils. He undressed me like he was uncovering a masterpiece.
When I was entirely bare, he stepped back slightly, just looking at me.
"You are perfect," he whispered, his voice thick with awe.
"Your turn," I said, my hands reaching for the buttons of his shirt.
I unbuttoned it carefully, mindful of the scar on his shoulder. I pushed the fabric off his good arm, letting it fall to the floor. The heavy, raised scar on his right side was a stark reminder of how close I had come to losing him.
I traced the edge of the scar with my fingertips.
He sucked in a sharp breath.
"Does it hurt?" I asked softly, looking up.
"No," he rasped, his eyes darkening. "It feels exactly right."
He pulled me down onto the bed.
We fell together into the soft linens. The cool air of the room was immediately forgotten, replaced by the overwhelming, consuming heat of our skin pressed together.
"I'm going to worship you," he vowed, his lips trailing a line of fire down my neck.
And he did.