Chapter 34 Tension
The library or what was left of it was still boarded up, but the rest of the house felt suspiciously calm. It was Friday, two days after Ida’s arrest. The media storm had moved from Scandal to Tragedy, painting Tristan as the victim of a deranged sister and me as the brave ex-wife who saved him.
It was a good narrative. It was clean.
But inside the house, nothing was clean.
The tension between Tristan and me hadn't dissipated with Ida’s departure; it had mutated. It was no longer fear or shared trauma. It was something heavier, hotter.
We were in the unfinished library. Silas had finally cleared the structural hold, and I was inspecting the damage. The roof was tarped, but the walls were still blackened, the floor a mess of charred wood and water damage.
I was standing near the fireplace, checking the masonry. Tristan was pacing near the door. He had been pacing for an hour.
"Stop moving," I snapped, running my hand over the soot-stained stone. "You’re making me nervous."
"I can't help it," he said. "Vane just called. Ida pled not guilty."
I turned. "Not guilty? We have a video of her pulling the trigger."
"Her lawyer is claiming temporary insanity. Induced by grief. They’re saying the renovation triggered a psychotic break."
I laughed. A harsh, metallic sound. "So it’s my fault? Because I painted a wall yellow?"
"No," Tristan said, walking toward me. "It’s not your fault. But it means there will be a trial. A long one. She’s not going away quietly."
"Good," I said. "Let her scream. Let the world hear her."
"I don't want the world to hear her!" Tristan shouted. His voice echoed in the empty, ruined room. "I want her gone! I want this to be over!"
He was unraveling. The stoic mask he had worn since the fire was cracking. He looked wild, desperate.
"It will never be over, Tristan," I said softly. "Not completely. She’s your sister. She’s in your blood."
"Don't say that."
"It’s true. You have her eyes. You have her stubbornness."
"I am nothing like her!"
He crossed the distance between us in two strides. He grabbed my shoulders, pinning me against the cold stone of the fireplace.
"I am nothing like her," he repeated, his face inches from mine. "She destroys things. I want to build them. I want to build us."
"There is no 'us'," I whispered, though my heart was hammering against my ribs.
"Stop lying," he growled. "You admitted it. In the hotel. You said you loved me."
"I said I loved you. Past tense."
"And then you slept in my arms," he reminded me. "You let me hold you. You let me comfort you. Does that feel like the past to you?"
He pressed his body against mine. I could feel the heat of him through my clothes. I could feel the hard line of his chest, the tension in his thighs.
It was overwhelming. It was intoxicating.
"Tristan, let me go."
"No."
He moved one hand to my neck, his thumb tracing the pulse that was betraying me.
"I’m done letting you go," he said. "I let you go once, and it almost killed me. I’m not making that mistake again."
"This isn't healthy," I gasped. "This is trauma bonding. This is adrenaline."
"Call it whatever you want," he murmured, leaning in until his lips brushed my ear. "Call it madness. I don't care. I just need you to stop running."
I shivered. "I’m not running."
"Then why are you trembling?"
He pulled back to look at me. His eyes were dark, dilated. He looked hungry. Not for food, but for something much more dangerous.
"You want this," he whispered. "You want it as much as I do."
"I hate you," I said. It was a weak defense. A crumbling wall.
"Good," he said. "Hate me. Scream at me. Fight me. Just don't leave me."
He kissed me.
It wasn't gentle. It wasn't a promise. It was a collision.
He crushed his mouth to mine, his hand tangling in my hair, pulling my head back to deepen the angle. It tasted of smoke and desperation and five years of starvation.
I should have pushed him away. I should have kneed him in the groin and run.
Instead, I made a low, needy whimper and grabbed his lapels. I pulled him closer.
I kissed him back.
I kissed him with all the anger I had stored up. I bit his lip. I dug my nails into his shoulders.
He groaned, a guttural sound that vibrated in his chest. He lifted me up, pressing me harder against the stone. My legs wrapped around his waist instinctively.
"Mina," he gasped against my mouth. "Mina."
He moved his hands down my back, gripping my hips. He ground his hips against mine. The friction was electric. It sent a shockwave through my body that made my toes curl.
"We can't," I panted, breaking the kiss for a second. "Not here. Not now."
"Why not?" he demanded, attacking my neck. "The house is empty. The ghosts are gone."
"Because I’m still angry," I said. "I’m still furious with you."
"Then use it," he growled. "Take it out on me."
He bit the sensitive skin under my ear.
I cried out.
It was too much.
I shoved him.
"Get off me!"
He stumbled back, his chest heaving. He looked at me, his eyes wild, his lips swollen.
"Minerva..."
"Don't," I warned, pointing a shaking finger at him. "Don't look at me like that. Like you own me."
"I don't want to own you," he said, his voice ragged. "I want to be owned by you."
He walked toward me again.
"Stay back," I said.
"Make me."
He stopped right in front of me. He took my hand. He placed it on his chest, right over his heart. It was beating like a trapped bird.
"Feel that?" he whispered. "That’s yours. It’s always been yours. Even when I signed the papers. Even when I was with Lorelei. It beat for you."
I looked at his hand covering mine. I felt the rhythm of his life under my palm.
I wanted to rip it out. I wanted to protect it.
"Tristan," I whispered. "If we do this... if we cross this line... there is no going back. We can't be partners. We can't be friends."
"I don't want to be your friend," he said. "I want to be your husband. Again."
He leaned in.
"Let me show you," he said. "Let me show you what we wasted."
He kissed me again.
And this time, I didn't push him away.
I surrendered.
I let the anger turn into fire. I let the hate turn into heat.