Chapter 66 Matters
The morning light was a soft, bruised purple when I finally opened my eyes.
I didn't move immediately. I lay still, my cheek pressed against the heavy, coarse linen of the pillowcase, letting my senses catch up to my consciousness.
The first thing I felt was the heat. Tristan’s body was a furnace against my back. His arm was draped heavy over my waist, his hand resting flat against my stomach. I could feel the steady, rhythmic rise and fall of his chest, the slow thrum of his heartbeat against my spine.
The second thing I noticed was the silence.
It wasn't the suffocating, tense silence that usually hung over the Johnston Estate. It was a thick, insulated quiet. The kind of quiet that only exists when the rest of the world has been deliberately locked out.
I shifted slightly, trying to ease the cramp in my shoulder.
Tristan’s arm tightened around me instantly. His breath hitched, the rhythm of his sleep breaking.
"I'm here," I whispered, keeping my voice low and even.
He exhaled a long, shaky breath, burying his face in the crook of my neck. His morning stubble scratched against my skin.
"Don't move," he mumbled, his voice rough with sleep. "Just... five more minutes."
"I have to check the site, Tristan. Silas needs the updated schematics for the foyer."
"Silas has a perimeter to secure," Tristan said, pressing a soft kiss to my shoulder blade. "The crew isn't coming today. I called it off."
I turned over, facing him. The movement caused the duvet to slip down, exposing the chill of the room to my bare skin.
"You called off the construction?" I asked, frowning. "We're already a week behind schedule because of the marble delay."
Tristan opened his eyes. They were clear, the amber catching the faint morning light. The terror of last night's nightmare was gone, replaced by a stubborn, quiet resolve.
"The house can wait," he said. "The schedule doesn't matter. Not today."
"Then what matters?"
He reached up, brushing a tangled strand of hair out of my face. His fingertips traced the line of my jaw, light as a ghost.
"This," he said simply. "Us. I want three days, Mina. Just three days where we don't look at blueprints, we don't read the news, and we don't talk to lawyers. We lock the doors, and we just exist."
I looked at him. I saw the desperate need for normalcy in his expression. We had been running on adrenaline, grief, and terror for weeks. We were both bleeding out, and he was asking for a tourniquet.
A three-day ceasefire.
"What about the man in the van?" I asked, the memory of the shattering glass making my stomach tighten.
"Vane’s team is tracking the plates," Tristan said, his jaw hardening for a fraction of a second before he smoothed his expression. "Silas has thirty men on the grounds. A fly couldn't land on the grass without him knowing. We are safe in here. I promise you."
He pulled me closer, burying his face in my hair. I breathed in the scent of him.
"Three days," I whispered into his chest.
"Three days," he echoed.
The first day felt like holding my breath.
I kept waiting for the illusion to shatter. I expected the phone to ring with bad news. I expected Silas to knock on the door with an emergency. I expected the air to suddenly turn toxic.
But nothing happened.
We spent the morning in bed. Not talking, not rushing. Just relearning the geography of each other’s bodies without the frantic urgency of hate or grief. It was slow, lazy, and profoundly intimate.
By noon, my stomach growled so loudly it echoed in the large room.
Tristan laughed. It was a sound I hadn't heard in five years—a genuine, deep chuckle that started in his chest and lit up his eyes.
"Come on," he said, rolling out of bed and tossing me one of his oversized t-shirts. "Let's feed the architect."
We went down to the kitchen.
The house was eerily empty. Tristan had given the domestic staff the weekend off, sending Marco and the maids away with double pay. The only people on the estate were the security detail, and they were strictly ordered to remain outside.
The massive, state-of-the-art kitchen, usually bustling with Marco's chaotic energy, was quiet.
"I have absolutely no idea how to use that stove," Tristan admitted, staring at the eight-burner gas range as if it were an alien artifact.
I walked over, tying my hair up in a messy knot.
"Move over, billionaire," I said, bumping my hip against his. "Let a professional handle this."
I opened the commercial-sized refrigerator. Marco had left it fully stocked. I pulled out eggs, thick-cut bacon, a loaf of sourdough, and a block of sharp cheddar.
"Grab a pan," I instructed, pointing to the hanging rack. "The heavy cast-iron one."
For the next hour, we cooked. Or rather, I cooked, and Tristan got in the way.
He was terrible at it. He burned the first batch of toast because he got distracted watching me crack eggs. He nearly took off a finger trying to chop a tomato with a chef's knife that was entirely too large for the task.
"Give me that," I scolded, taking the knife from him. "You’re going to bleed all over the marble, and I just had it polished."
"I was doing fine," he protested, leaning against the counter and crossing his arms.
"You were murdering a vegetable," I countered, deftly dicing the tomato.
He didn't argue. He just watched me. The silence stretched, but it wasn't heavy. It was warm. I could feel the heat of his gaze on the side of my face, a physical pressure that made my skin tingle.
I finished cooking, plating the food and bringing it to the small wooden table in the breakfast nook.
We sat across from each other.
We ate. We drank dark, bitter coffee that I brewed in a French press. We talked about trivial things. He told me a story about a disastrous board meeting in Tokyo; I told him about a contractor in Milan who had accidentally painted an entire villa the wrong shade of yellow.
It was utterly mundane.
It was perfect.
I lifted my coffee mug, taking a sip, and let my gaze wander out the large bay window next to the table.
My heart stumbled.
Standing just beyond the glass, positioned behind the edge of the rose bushes, was a man in tactical gear. He was holding an assault rifle across his chest, his eyes scanning the tree line. The black fabric of his uniform was a stark contrast to the bright green leaves.
The coffee turned to ash in my mouth.
"Mina?"
Tristan’s voice pulled me back. I looked at him. He was frowning, his eyes darting from my face to the window.
He saw the guard.
His jaw tightened. He reached over and gently pulled the blind down, cutting off the view of the garden. The kitchen was plunged into a slightly dimmer, artificial light.
"Eat your eggs," he said softly.