Chapter 199 Sleeping With A Monster
I closed my eyes. The exhaustion seeped into my bones. I wanted to fight him. I wanted to throw him out and reclaim the absolute control he stole from me. But the image of Marcus bleeding out in the back of the SUV flashed in my mind.
Tristan was right.
My arrogance almost killed my protector. I walked into the eastern sector believing my intellect could defeat a bullet. Tristan recognized the reality of the dirt. He played the villain to save my life.
I brought my hands down from his shoulders. I gripped the lapels of his shirt. I did not push him away. I held him.
"You will never do it again," I breathed.
Tristan lifted his head. He searched my eyes. "Mina."
"You will never manipulate my choices," I said. I tightened my grip on his shirt. "If we go to war, we go together. You do not stage armies in the dark. You do not patronize me. If you ever treat me like a liability again, I will not ask for a divorce. I will destroy you."
A dark, possessive fire ignited in his gaze. He recognized the threat. He loved it.
"Understood," he murmured.
He brought a hand up to cup my jaw. His thumb stroked the skin just below my ear. The touch was rough, calloused, and electric. The adrenaline of the night and the sheer terror of losing each other slammed into us at the same time.
The fight drained away, leaving a raw, desperate need.
Tristan crashed his mouth against mine. There was no gentleness. It was a collision. I opened to him, meeting his intensity. He tasted like coffee and absolute ruin. I pulled him closer, my fingers digging into his back. The kiss held the anger, the betrayal, and the undeniable truth that we were bound together in this blood-soaked life.
He walked me backward until my spine hit the wall. The impact knocked the breath from my lungs. He kissed my jaw, my throat.
"Mine," he whispered against my skin. The word was a claim. A brand.
"Equal," I countered. I grabbed his hair, pulling his face back up to mine.
"Equal," he agreed, his voice a dark rasp.
We were a fractured partnership. The trust remained broken. The vows held deep, jagged cracks. But standing in the shadows of the penthouse, wrapped in the arms of the man who burned a city for me, I knew one thing.
We would survive the fallout.
A sharp knock on the front door shattered the silence.
Tristan froze. The romantic haze evaporated. The lethal instinct returned in a second. He stepped away from me, placing himself between my body and the entrance. He reached for the heavy sidearm resting on the console table.
"Who is it?" Tristan called out. He kept his weapon aimed at the solid wood.
"It is Ricardo," a muffled voice answered from the hall.
I stepped out from behind Tristan. I walked to the door and unlocked the deadbolt. I pulled the door open.
Ricardo stood in the hallway. He wore the same rumpled suit from the war room. He held a thick file folder. His face lacked color. He looked like a man who just watched a ghost walk out of a grave.
"What happened?" I asked. "Did the Vanguard fleet burn?"
"The fleet is gone," Ricardo confirmed. He stepped into the penthouse. He did not look at Tristan. He kept his focus entirely on me. "The police arrested the surviving syndicate leaders. The eastern sector operation was a success."
"Then why do you look like the world is ending?" Tristan demanded.
Ricardo set the file folder on the glass table, right next to my ruined, blood-stained jacket.
"Because we hunted the wrong ghost," Ricardo said.
I stared at him. "Oliver Pembroke is dead. We cut the strings."
"Pembroke was the puppet," Ricardo agreed. "But he was not the only one. I spent the last three hours tracing the remaining dark money. I bypassed the final encryption wall on Thomas Whitmore's offshore account."
"You found the proxy," I realized. The chill returned, settling deep in my chest.
Ricardo opened the folder. He pulled out a single photograph. He handed it to me.
"I found the son," Ricardo corrected.
I looked at the photograph. It was a surveillance shot, taken outside a high-end law firm in the city center. The man in the picture wore a tailored suit. He possessed the sharp, aristocratic jawline of the Whitmore bloodline. He had Thomas Whitmore's eyes.
"His name is Julian," Ricardo explained. His voice sounded hollow. "Julian Whitmore. He is an illegitimate child. Thomas kept him a secret his entire life. He gave him the power of attorney."
Tristan took the photo from my hands. He studied the face.
"Julian does not want the shipping routes," Ricardo finished. The words hung in the air, a death sentence for our fragile peace. "He filed paperwork with the high court an hour ago. He is challenging the Serrano Trust. He wants the Chairman seat.”