Chapter 25 Rainstorm
I stood on the front steps of the Johnston Estate, watching the sky bruise into a deep, violent purple. A storm was coming. A real one. The kind that knocked down power lines and turned roads into rivers.
Tristan was standing next to me, his arms crossed over his chest. He was wearing jeans and a t-shirt, looking less like a billionaire and more like a man bracing for a siege.
"It’s going to be bad," he said, watching the clouds churn.
"Good," I said. "Maybe it will wash the soot off the library."
The charred remains of the east wing were covered in tarps, flapping angrily in the rising wind. The smell of wet ash was still there, faint but persistent, like a bad memory.
"The crew left early," Tristan noted. "Russo said they didn't want to get stuck on the mountain road."
"Smart man."
"Are you leaving?" he asked.
I looked at him. "Where would I go? My hotel is forty minutes away. If the storm hits now, I’ll be driving blind."
"Stay," he said. It wasn't a question. "The generator is full. We have food. And... I don't want to be alone in this house during a storm."
I looked at the house. The windows were dark eyes staring back at us.
"Fine," I said. "But I’m taking the master suite. You’re on the couch."
He smiled, a small, tired quirk of his lips. "Deal."
By 6:00 PM, the storm hit with the force of a hammer.
Rain lashed against the windows, sounding like handfuls of gravel being thrown at the glass. The wind howled around the corners of the house, a mournful, high-pitched scream that made the old timbers groan.
We were in the kitchen. It was the warmest room in the house, thanks to the massive Aga stove that Marco kept running.
Tristan was making grilled cheese sandwiches. It was absurdly domestic.
"You’re burning it," I said from my perch on the island stool.
"I like it crispy," he argued, flipping the sandwich. It was definitely black.
"You like it charred. Freud would have a field day with that."
He laughed. "Maybe I’m just trying to match the décor."
He slid the sandwich onto a plate and handed it to me.
"Eat," he said. "It’s not poison."
I took a bite. It was burnt, greasy, and delicious.
"Thanks."
Suddenly, the lights flickered. Once. Twice.
Then, darkness.
The hum of the refrigerator died. The kitchen plunged into a gloom lit only by the flashes of lightning outside.
"Generator should kick in," Tristan said.
We waited.
Five seconds. Ten.
Nothing.
"Damn it," Tristan muttered. "Russo said he filled it."
"Maybe the storm knocked out the transfer switch," I suggested. "Or maybe Ida chewed through the wires."
"Don't joke."
He pulled out his phone, using the flashlight to illuminate the room. The beam cut through the darkness, casting long, jumping shadows.
"I have to go check it," he said. "The generator shed is out back."
"I’m coming with you."
"No. It’s pouring. Stay here."
"Tristan, I am not staying in this dark house alone. Not with her out there."
He hesitated. The lightning flashed again, illuminating his face. He looked worried.
"Fine," he said. "But stay close."
We ran through the rain. It was cold and brutal, soaking us to the skin in seconds.
The generator shed was a small brick building behind the garage. Tristan wrestled the door open against the wind.
Inside, it smelled of diesel and damp concrete.
He shone the light on the generator. It was silent. A massive, yellow beast that was currently sleeping on the job.
"The fuel line," Tristan said, kneeling down. "It’s... cut."
My heart stopped.
"Cut?"
"Clean slice," he said, running his finger over the rubber hose. "This wasn't weather. This was sabotage."
I looked at the door. The darkness outside seemed to press in.
"She’s here," I whispered.
"No," Tristan said, standing up. "She wouldn't dare. The security team..."
He shone the light out the door toward the gatehouse.
It was dark. No floodlights. No movement.
"The security team runs on the main grid," I realized. "If the power is out... and the generator is dead..."
"The cameras are down," Tristan finished. "The gates are unlocked."
We were blind. And we were open.
"Get back to the house," Tristan ordered. He grabbed a heavy wrench from the workbench. "Now."
We ran back. The mud sucked at our boots. The wind tried to push us over.
We burst into the kitchen, slamming the door and locking it. Tristan dragged a heavy oak chair under the handle.
"We need to barricade," he said. "The library is boarded up, but the front door... the windows..."
"The Master Suite," I said. "It’s defensible. One door. Second floor."
"Go," he said. "I’ll check the perimeter."
"I’m not leaving you!"
"Mina, please!" He grabbed my shoulders, water dripping from his hair onto my face. "If she’s here... if she brought help... I can't fight them if I’m worrying about you. Go upstairs. Lock the door. Don't open it unless you hear my voice."
"Tristan—"
"Go!"
He pushed me toward the stairs.
I ran.
I reached the second floor. The hallway was pitch black. I fumbled for my phone, turning on the light.
The beam swept across the walls. The yellow paint of the Master Suite glowed faintly.
I ran into the room. I slammed the door. I turned the lock.
Then, I backed away, staring at the wood.
I heard noises downstairs. Heavy thuds. Shouts? Or just the wind?
I waited.
Five minutes. Ten.
My phone had no signal. The storm must have knocked out the cell tower too.
We were cut off.
Then, I heard footsteps.
Slow. Heavy. Coming up the stairs.
They stopped outside the door.
The handle turned.
Locked.
"Mina?"
It was Tristan’s voice.
I let out a breath I didn't know I was holding. I ran to the door.
"Tristan?"
"Open up. It’s me."
I unlocked it.
He pushed the door open.
He was soaking wet. He was holding the wrench.
But his face...
He looked terrified.
"She’s not here," he said.
"What?"
"I checked the perimeter. No sign of entry. The security guards at the gate... they’re gone."
"Gone?"
"The booth is empty. Their car is gone. They left."
"They abandoned us?"
"Or they were paid off," he said grimly. "Ida has money. She has access to the accounts I haven't frozen yet."
He walked into the room, locking the door behind him. He dragged the heavy dresser in front of it.
"We’re alone," he said. "Completely alone."
He turned to me.
He looked at me shivering in my wet clothes.
"You’re freezing," he said.
He dropped the wrench. He walked over to me.
He reached out to touch my arm.
I flinched.
It was instinct. A reflex born of five years of trauma, of poison, of fear.
He froze.
His hand hovered in the air.
He looked at my flinch. He looked at the fear in my eyes.
And he shattered.
He pulled his hand back slowly. He stepped away, putting distance between us.
"I’m sorry," he whispered. "I... I forgot."
"Forgot what?" I asked, my voice trembling.
"That you’re scared of me."
"I’m not scared of you, Tristan. I’m scared of this. The house. The dark. Her."
"No," he said. He shook his head. "You flinched. When I reached for you. You expected me to hurt you."
He walked to the window, staring out at the storm.
"I realized something downstairs," he said quietly. "When I was checking the doors."
"What?"
"That I am the reason you’re in danger. Again." He turned to look at me. "If I hadn't brought you back... if I hadn't insisted on this renovation... you would be safe in Milan. You would be with Lonnie. You wouldn't be trapped in a dark house with a madwoman hunting you."
"Tristan..."
"I am the danger, Mina," he said. "I am the curse. Everyone I love gets hurt. My mother. You. Our baby."
His voice broke on the word baby.
"I shouldn't be near you," he whispered. "I should leave. If I leave, she’ll follow me. She’ll leave you alone."
He started walking toward the door.
"No!"
I ran to him. I grabbed his arm.
"Don't you dare," I said. "Don't you dare leave me here."
"It’s the only way to protect you!"
"It’s suicide!" I shouted. "She’ll kill you, Tristan! If she can't have you, she’ll kill you! That’s how obsession works!"
"Then let her!" he yelled back. "Better me than you! I deserve it! I let it happen!"
"You didn't know!"
"I should have known!"
He tried to pull away.
I wouldn't let go. I wrapped my arms around his waist, burying my face in his wet chest.
"You are not leaving," I sobbed. "You are not leaving me alone in the dark again. You did that once. You threw me out. And it broke me. Don't break me again, Tristan. Please."
He went still.
He looked down at me. He felt my shaking. He heard my plea.
Slowly, his arms came around me. He held me. Tighter than before. Desperate.
"I won't," he whispered into my hair. "I won't leave. I promise."
We stood there in the dark, yellow room, holding each other while the storm raged outside.
Two broken people, trying to keep the pieces together.
"We need to get warm," he said eventually. "Hypothermia is a real threat."
"The bed," I said. "It has the duvet."
We moved to the mattress.
We didn't undress. We were too scared, too raw. We crawled under the heavy down duvet, fully clothed, wet and shivering.
He lay on his back. I lay on my side, facing him.
"Come here," he said.
I moved closer. He wrapped his arms around me, pulling me against his side. His body heat seeped into mine.
"Better?"
"A little."
We lay in silence, listening to the wind.
"Tristan?"
"Yeah?"
"If she comes in..." I whispered. "If she breaks the door down..."
"I have the wrench," he said. "And the bat. She won't touch you."
"I have a knife," I admitted. "In my boot."
He let out a short, surprised laugh. "Of course you do."
He tightened his hold on me.
"Sleep, Mina," he said. "I’ll watch the door."
"You need sleep too."
"I can't sleep," he said. "Not when I’m holding my world in my arms."