Chapter 68 Dying
I stood by the window, pulling back the heavy velvet curtain just an inch. Below, the driveway was swarming with men in high-visibility vests. Trucks were unloading lumber. The air was already thick with the smell of diesel exhaust and pulverized plaster, completely erasing the scent of the rain from the day before.
A heavy, warm weight rubbed against my shin, accompanied by a low, demanding rumbling sound.
I looked down.
Nero looked back up at me with wide, unblinking golden eyes. He was a Bombay cat, sleek and entirely black, save for a small nick in his left ear. I had found him half-starved in an alley behind my apartment in Milan three years ago. When Tristan had demanded I move into the estate, Marco had been dispatched to pack my clothes, but my only non-negotiable demand had been Nero.
He was my shadow. He was the only piece of my independent life that had survived the transition back into the Johnston orbit.
"I know," I murmured, crouching down to scratch him behind the ears. His fur was impossibly soft. "It’s loud. I'm sorry."
He bumped his head against my knuckles, purring louder, a steady engine of comfort in a house that felt increasingly like a war zone.
The bedroom door opened.
Tristan walked in. He was no longer the man in soft sweatpants who had burned toast and held me while the rain fell. He was back in his armor. A dark, tailored charcoal suit, a crisp white shirt, the tie knotted perfectly at his throat. His jaw was locked, his eyes sharp and guarded.
The Titan had returned.
"Vane is here," he said, adjusting his cuffs. His voice was clipped, efficient. "He’s in the dining room with Silas. They have an update on the van driver."
I stood up, crossing my arms over my chest to ward off the sudden chill in the room. "Did they find him?"
"No," Tristan said grimly. "But they traced the vehicle. It was stolen out of a long-term parking lot at the airport three weeks ago. Untraceable plates. The guy is a professional."
Nero trotted over to Tristan, sniffing his polished leather Oxford shoes before winding his black body around Tristan’s ankles.
Tristan didn't kick him away. Despite his rigid posture, he reached down and stroked the cat’s long, arched back. Nero leaned into the touch, his tail hooking the air like a question mark.
"I have to go down there," Tristan said, his eyes meeting mine. The softness was gone, replaced by a fierce, terrifying focus. "I need you to stay in this room until Silas clears the west wing for your crew."
"I have blueprints to review with the foreman," I argued automatically.
"The foreman comes to you. In here. Under guard." Tristan stepped closer, his hand dropping from the cat to grasp my shoulders. "The perimeter is tight, Mina, but whoever is doing this is getting creative. I am not taking chances."
"Okay," I said quietly. There was no point in fighting him. Not when the memory of the van crashing through the foyer was still a raw, jagged wound in my mind.
He kissed my forehead and walked out, locking the heavy mahogany door behind him.
I was alone again.
I spent the next four hours sitting at the small writing desk in the corner of the room, reviewing the electrical schematics for the library. The house was a cacophony of noise. Sledgehammers thudded against drywall. Men shouted over the din. Every sudden crash made my shoulders flinch, my heart stuttering against my ribs.
Around noon, the noise died down. The crew was breaking for lunch.
The sudden silence was almost worse than the noise. It left room for the anxiety to creep back in, filling the corners of the massive bedroom like rising water.
I rubbed my eyes, feeling the strain of staring at the bright screen of my tablet.
"Nero," I called out, pushing my chair back. It was time for his midday feeding.
Usually, the mere sound of my voice or the rustle of his food bag sent him sprinting across the hardwood floors.
But the room was silent.
"Nero?" I said louder, standing up.
I checked the closet. I checked beneath the heavy velvet curtains. I walked into the attached master bathroom, looking in the massive soaking tub where he sometimes liked to sleep on the cool porcelain.
I walked back into the bedroom. The French doors leading out to the second-story balcony were closed, locked from the inside. But the heavy drapes were pulled slightly ajar.
Then, I heard it.
A wet, horrible sound. A gagging, choking noise that made the blood freeze in my veins.
It was coming from under the massive four-poster bed.
I dropped to my knees, pressing my cheek against the cold hardwood floor to peer into the dark space beneath the mattress.
"Nero?" I whispered, my voice trembling.
Two golden eyes reflected the dim light. But they weren't wide and alert. They were half-closed, glassy, and unfocused.
He was lying on his side. His body was convulsing in sharp, violent spasms. A thick, white foam was bubbling from the corners of his mouth, dripping onto the floor.
"No. No, no, no."
Panic, visceral and blinding, ripped through me. I reached under the bed, grabbing his warm, limp body and pulling him out.
He felt wrong. He felt like dead weight. His breathing was rapid, shallow, and rattling wetly in his chest.
He let out a weak, pitiful yowl that tore my heart entirely in two.
"Tristan!" I screamed. I didn't care about the noise. I didn't care about the guards. "Tristan! Help me!"
I scrambled to my feet, holding the convulsing cat to my chest. His claws, unsheathed in pain, dug deeply through my shirt and into the flesh of my arm, but I didn't feel the sting. All I felt was the terrifying, fading thrum of his heartbeat against my palms.
The bedroom door was thrown open with such force that the wood splintered around the lock.
Tristan burst into the room, his gun drawn, Silas right on his heels with an assault rifle raised.
Tristan scanned the room in a fraction of a second, ready to kill whatever was threatening me. Then his eyes fell on me. He saw the blood dripping down my arm. He saw the foaming, twitching animal in my hands.
He dropped the gun on the bed.
"He's dying," I sobbed, sinking to my knees, unable to hold myself up. "Tristan, he's dying. Help him. Please."
Tristan didn't hesitate. He stripped off his expensive suit jacket, tossing it to the floor.
"Silas, get the SUV to the front door. Right now," Tristan roared, his voice shaking the walls. "Tell the gate to clear the road. Call the emergency veterinary clinic on 5th. Tell them we are coming in hot and we need a toxicology team waiting."
"Boss, the perimeter—" Silas started.
"Fuck the perimeter!" Tristan snarled, his eyes blazing with a feral panic. "Move!"