Chapter 210 Washing Blood off My Husband
"I told you I would resurrect you just to kill you myself," I said.
Tristan leaned against the steel frame of the private elevator. The doors slid shut behind him, sealing us inside the quiet foyer of the penthouse.
"Give me ten minutes to catch my breath," Tristan replied. "Then you can try."
His gray eyes locked onto mine, and the fire in them burned bright.
"You came back," I breathed.
"I promised twenty-four hours," Tristan reminded me. He took a single, agonizing step forward. "I am two hours early."
I crossed the marble floor. I threw my arms around his neck and buried my face in his chest.
He let out a harsh sigh. His massive arms wrapped around my waist, crushing me against his ballistic vest. He buried his face in my neck. He inhaled my scent like a drowning man finding oxygen. The warlord melted away, leaving the desperate husband clinging to his anchor.
"Alexander?" I asked against his collarbone.
"Safe," Tristan murmured. He kissed my shoulder. "Diego took him to the underground clinic. He took a bullet to the thigh and a graze to the ribs, but he will live. We got him out."
"And you?"
"I need my wife."
I pulled back. I grabbed his hand and led him down the hall. We passed the nursery. The door remained cracked open. Tristan stopped. He looked into the dark room, watching Elias sleep under the blue glow of the star nightlight. A shudder wrecked his frame. The reality of Julian's hit list hovered between us, a toxic ghost.
"He is safe.” I promised. I squeezed his hand. Tristan pressed a kiss to my temple.
We entered the master suite bathroom.
"Sit," I ordered. I pointed to the edge of the large soaking tub.
Tristan sat. He let his head fall back against the wall, his eyes slipping shut.
I unbuckled the heavy ballistic vest. The ceramic plates clattered against the tile floor. I pulled the ruined tactical shirt over his head, wincing at the friction against his skin. Bruises painted his ribs in dark shades of purple and black. A shallow graze cut across his left bicep. The dried blood looked stark against his pale skin.
I took a warm, wet cloth from the sink. I stood between his knees. I pressed the cloth against his chest, washing the jungle dirt away. My hands shook. The sheer terror of the last two days caught up to me. I commanded an empire, but watching the water turn pink in the sink stripped my defenses away.
Tristan opened his eyes. He reached up and covered my trembling hands with his own.
"I am here," he swore. "I am breathing."
"You read the hit list." I said. I met his gaze.
"He will die trying," Tristan stated. The lethal edge returned to his eyes. "I will hunt him. I will not stop until he is a memory."
"No," I corrected.
I dropped the cloth into the sink. I framed his face with my hands.
"What is your move?"
"I scheduled a press conference for tomorrow morning," I told him. I rested my thumbs against his cheekbones. "I invited the board. I invited the media. I invited Julian."
"Why?"
"I am stepping down."
Tristan froze. Confusion knitted his brow. "You fought for three years to claim that seat. You cannot surrender to a scavenger."
"Thomas Whitmore told me Julian’s weakness," I explained. I let my hands slide down his neck, resting on his bare chest. I felt the steady, reassuring beat of his heart. "Julian wants validation. He wants to be the savior. If I fight him, he hides behind his mercenaries and his federal injunctions. If I offer him the crown in public, his ego will force him into the open. He will drop his guard to claim the victory."
I watched my husband process the strategy.
Tristan grabbed my hips. He pulled me forward, sliding my body flush against his. The rough denim of his jeans rubbed against the thin silk of my robe.
"You are the most terrifying woman in the world," Tristan whispered.
"You married me," I reminded him.
"Best decision of my life."
He stood up. He backed me against the cold marble wall of the shower enclosure. The hot water cascaded down his broad back, washing the last of the blood down the drain. He trapped me with his arms, caging me in.
The space between us vanished. He crashed his mouth against mine.
The kiss held nothing back. I opened my mouth to him, matching his desperate need. He tasted like rain and absolute devotion. My fingers tangled in his wet hair. I pulled him closer. I needed to feel the weight of him.
Tristan dragged his lips down my jaw, kissing the pulse point on my neck. He undid the tie of my silk robe. The fabric slipped off my shoulders and pooled at my feet, leaving me bare against the cold marble.
"Mine," Tristan groaned. The word vibrated against my skin. It was a claim he earned in blood.
"Yours," I answered.
He lifted me. I wrapped my legs around his waist. He pressed me against the wet glass. His hands roamed my body, charting familiar territory with a renewed, possessive fire.
He drove into me, and a shattered gasp ripped from my throat. He held me tight, anchoring my body to his. The world outside the penthouse disappeared.
"I have you," Tristan breathed against my mouth. His chest heaved against mine. "I have you."
Later, we lay in the center of the massive bed. The city outside remained dark.
Tristan slept. His arm was thrown over my waist, a heavy, protective weight. His chest rose and fell in a steady rhythm. The man went to hell and back to keep his family intact. His breathing grounded me.
I stared at the ceiling. I did not sleep. The exhaustion lost its grip on me.
I traced the outline of his jaw with my fingertips. He stirred, pulling me closer in his sleep, burying his face in my hair.
Julian Whitmore thought he could break my husband with mercenaries. He thought he could break me with a leaked DNA test. He thought he was playing a game of corporate chess against a fragile target. He thought the law shielded him from the consequences of his ambition.
Tomorrow morning, the sun would rise. The cameras would flash. Julian would step into the Johnston Group headquarters believing he won the empire. He would take the stage, ready to accept my surrender.