Chapter 204 Kissing the Warlord Goodbye
"If you come back to me in a body bag," I said, the words cutting through the quiet of the master bedroom, "I will find a way to resurrect you just so I can kill you myself."
Tristan paused. He stood near the edge of the mattress. The ambient light from the city skyline illuminated the hard, sharp lines of his face. He held a black canvas duffel bag in one hand and a heavy ballistic vest in the other.
"A fair compromise," Tristan replied.
He tossed the bag onto the mattress. He dropped the vest beside it. The heavy ceramic plates inside the carrier hit the mattress with a dull thud. He did not look like a corporate executive. With his jaw covered in dark stubble and his eyes stripped of all civilized restraint, he looked like the apex predator he kept hidden beneath his bespoke suits.
We left the war room ten minutes ago. The penthouse remained silent, a glass fortress suspended above a burning city.
I sat on the edge of the bed. The exhaustion weighed heavy on my bones, but the adrenaline refused to let me sleep. My husband was flying into a Colombian jungle to extract a ghost, and the illegitimate son of my worst enemy was trying to steal my empire in the morning.
Tristan stepped into my space. He reached out and cupped my face. His hands were calloused and warm.
"I hate leaving you right now," Tristan confessed. His voice lacked the gravel of the titan. It held the raw, fractured truth of a man leaving his heart behind. "Julian is circling the building. The board wants your head. My place is here. Standing between you and the fire."
"I am the fire," I reminded him. I leaned into his touch. I closed my eyes and memorized the feel of his skin against mine. "I do not need a shield in the boardroom. Alexander needs an army in the jungle. Go get your brother."
Tristan dropped to his knees.
He rested his hands on my thighs. He pressed his face into my stomach. A shudder wrecked his large frame. I tangled my fingers in his dark hair. I held him. The silence in the room stretched, pregnant with the things we refused to say out loud. Mercenaries did not play by corporate rules. A stray bullet in the brush did not care about a billion-dollar bank account.
"I spent three years trying to forget the smell of your skin," I whispered. The tears burned the back of my throat. I refused to let them fall. "Do not make me learn how to live without it again."
Tristan lifted his head. His gray eyes met mine. The fierce, absolute devotion in his gaze anchored me to the floor.
"You are my compass, Mina," Tristan swore. He moved his hands up, tracing the line of my jaw. "If I get lost in the dark, I look for you. I will always find my way back to this room. You are the only home I have."
He leaned forward and captured my lips.
It was not the desperate, angry collision from the living room. It was a slow, agonizing promise. He tasted like coffee and salvation. I wrapped my arms around his neck, pulling him closer. The kiss deepened, a sweet, aching bond forged in the middle of a war zone. He worshipped my mouth, committing the moment to memory.
He broke the kiss. Our foreheads rested against each other. We breathed the same air.
"Twenty-four hours," Tristan promised.
He stood up. The tender husband vanished. The warlord took command. He pulled a black tactical shirt over his head. He strapped a shoulder holster over his chest. He checked the magazine of his sidearm, the metallic clack severing the quiet intimacy of the room. He shoved the weapon into the holster and zipped a dark jacket over the gear.
"Let us go see him," Tristan said.
We walked out of the master suite. We moved down the carpeted hallway. Two armed guards stood outside the nursery door. They stepped aside.
I pushed the door open. The room was dark, save for a small blue nightlight shaped like a star.
Elias slept in the center of the bed. He clutched a plush brown bear against his chest. His dark hair stuck up in all directions. The steady rhythm of his breathing filled the room.
Tristan walked to the edge of the bed. He knelt on the floor. His massive, lethal frame looked foreign in the soft, innocent space of the nursery. He reached out and brushed a stray lock of hair from Elias’s forehead.
"Be good for your mother, buddy," Tristan whispered.
He placed a kiss on his son’s cheek. He lingered for a fraction of a second, committing the feeling to his soul. Then he stood up. He did not look back. If he looked back, he would never leave.
I followed him out of the room. We walked to the private elevator at the end of the hall.
Diego waited by the steel doors. He wore black tactical gear. He held a rifle across his chest. He gave me a single nod. He promised to bring my husband back, and Diego never broke a promise.
"The helicopter is on the roof," Diego announced. "The jet is prepped on the tarmac. Flight time is five hours."
The elevator doors slid open.
Tristan turned to me. He grabbed the back of my neck and pulled me in for one last, hard kiss.
"Burn Julian to the ground," Tristan ordered against my lips.
"Consider him ash," I replied.
Tristan stepped into the elevator. Diego followed. The steel doors closed, cutting off my view of the man I loved. The mechanical hum of the elevator echoed in the shaft, carrying him away.
The cold void settled over my chest. I was alone.
I did not have time to cry. I did not have time to break.
I turned and walked toward the penthouse kitchen. The sun began to crest over the city skyline, painting the glass windows in shades of gold and blood-orange.