Chapter 72 Fight
The tension in the library was thick enough to choke on.
Silas had left to execute the plan. The heavy oak doors clicked shut behind him, leaving Tristan and me in a silence that felt entirely too fragile.
Tristan was still standing by the fireplace, his back to me. He was staring at the cold hearth, his hands shoved deep into the pockets of his slacks. His shoulders were rigid, the line of his back telegraphing a furious, barely contained energy.
I took a deep breath, trying to steady the flutter of nerves in my stomach. The plan was set. The trap was baited. Tomorrow night, we would catch him.
"Tristan," I said softly, stepping toward him. "It’s going to be okay. Silas knows what he’s doing."
He didn't turn around.
"Silas isn't the one standing on a dark stage waiting for a killer," he said. His voice was dangerously low. "You are."
"I won't be alone. You heard him. The entire building will be wired. They'll drop him before he gets within fifty feet of me."
Tristan spun around. The controlled facade he had maintained in front of Silas evaporated, leaving behind a raw, volatile fury.
"It only takes one bullet, Minerva! One knife throw! One second of lag in the comms!" he roared, closing the distance between us in two long strides. "This isn't a blueprint! This isn't a calculation you can double-check! This is your life!"
"I know it's my life!" I shouted back, refusing to back down. "That's exactly why I'm making this choice! I am taking control of my life instead of letting some psycho dictate how I live it!"
"You're not taking control, you're being reckless!"
"I'm being strategic! If we just sit here behind these walls, waiting, he wins. He keeps us terrified. He keeps us paralyzed."
"I would rather you be paralyzed and alive than brave and dead!" Tristan grabbed my upper arms, his grip tight, almost bruising. His amber eyes were wide, dilated with a mixture of rage and terror. "Do you understand me? I don't care about strategy. I care about you breathing!"
"You're suffocating me!" I pushed against his chest, trying to break his hold. "You're doing exactly what Ida did, Tristan! You're trying to lock me in a box to keep me safe!"
The comparison hit him like a physical blow.
He flinched, his hands dropping from my arms as if he had been burned. He stumbled back a step, a look of profound horror washing over his face.
"Don't," he whispered, his voice cracking. "Don't ever compare me to her."
I immediately regretted the words. They were a low blow, a weapon forged from his deepest trauma, and I had used it to win an argument.
"I'm sorry," I said quickly, reaching out for him. "Tristan, I'm sorry. I didn't mean that. I know you're not her."
He stepped away from my outstretched hand, shaking his head.
"You think I want to control you?" he asked, his voice hollow. "You think I enjoy this? I hate this, Mina. I hate looking at you and seeing a target. I hate walking through this house and checking every shadow. But I can't turn it off."
He ran a hand through his hair, pacing away from me, his chest heaving.
"Five years ago, I didn't protect you," he said, turning back to face me. "I threw you out. And the guilt of that... it eats me alive every single day. And now, someone is actually trying to hurt you, and you want to walk right into his line of sight?"
"Because it's the only way to end it!"
"It's the only way to get yourself killed!" he bellowed, his fist slamming against the back of the leather sofa. "Why can't you just let me handle it? Let Vane handle it? Why do you have to be the hero?"
"Because I'm not a damsel in distress!" I yelled, my own anger flaring up again. "I'm the one he's hunting! I'm the one who had my cat poisoned! I'm the one who almost got run down in the foyer! This is my fight, Tristan!"
"You are my wife!" he roared, the word echoing off the high ceiling.
The silence that followed was deafening.
The word hung in the air, heavy, loaded, and completely inaccurate.
I stared at him, my chest rising and falling rapidly.
"I am your ex-wife," I corrected, my voice dropping to a deadly calm. "We signed the papers, Tristan. You signed them. You don't own me. You don't get to dictate my choices."
He stared back, the color draining from his face.
"You're right," he said softly, the anger draining out of him, replaced by a cold, bitter resignation. "I don't own you. You made that perfectly clear when you rejected me in the kitchen."
"That's not fair," I argued. "I rejected your proposal to pretend the last five years didn't happen. I didn't reject you."
"It feels pretty damn similar," he muttered.
He walked over to the desk, picking up the blueprint of the Opera House. He stared at it for a long moment, his jaw clenched tight.
"You want to play bait?" he asked, not looking at me. "Fine. Play bait. But understand this, Minerva."
He looked up, his eyes devoid of warmth, devoid of the frantic, protective love that had fueled his anger just moments before. He was the Titan again. Cold, detached, and utterly terrifying.
"If this goes sideways," he said slowly, enunciating every word. "If Silas misses a step. If that man gets within ten feet of you... I won't just drop the net."
He walked toward me, his presence dominating the space.
"I will tear him apart," Tristan vowed, his voice a dark, lethal promise. "I will kill him with my bare hands. And I won't lose a second of sleep over it."
I shivered, the chill settling deep into my bones. He wasn't exaggerating. He meant it.
"And then," Tristan continued, stepping into my personal space until I had to tilt my head back to look at him. "When it's over. When the threat is neutralized. We are going to have a very long conversation about boundaries."
"My boundaries?" I challenged, refusing to back down from his intensity.
"No," he said softly, his amber eyes burning into mine. "Mine."