Chapter 64 Protective Custody
The police arrived in force. They taped off the foyer, dusting the abandoned van for prints, taking statements. Vane arrived an hour later, flanked by a team of private security contractors who looked less like guards and more like a small army.
Through it all, Tristan didn't let go of me.
We were sitting in the kitchen, away from the chaos. I had a cup of tea in my hands, though I wasn't drinking it. I was just staring at the steam.
"He left the engine running," Tristan said. He was pacing the length of the kitchen island, his phone pressed to his ear. "And the steering wheel was locked. He knew exactly what he was doing."
He hung up the phone and turned to me.
"Silas says the surrounding was breached at the north fence line. They cut the cameras ten minutes before the attack."
"So they knew the blind spots," I said, my voice sounding distant to my own ears.
"Yes." Tristan walked over and crouched beside my chair. "Mina, look at me."
I tore my gaze away from the tea. I looked at him.
His eyes were burning with a fierce, terrifying intensity.
"You are not leaving this house," he said. It wasn't a suggestion. "Not for the office. Not for your apartment. Not for coffee. You stay here."
"Tristan—"
"No," he interrupted, placing a finger over my lips. "Don't fight me on this. The man in the woods... the man who just tried to run you down... he is hunting you."
"He’s hunting us," I corrected. "He drove into the front door of your house."
"He drove into the door you were standing next to," Tristan said grimly. "He knew you were there. He called you."
I shivered, remembering the hollow voice on the phone.
"So what’s the plan?" I asked. "I stay locked in the Master Suite while Silas turns the estate into a military base?"
"Exactly," Tristan said. "We lock it down. Vane is moving his team in. We sweep the house for bugs again. We check every contractor, every delivery person."
He stood up, running a hand through his hair.
"And you sleep in my bed," he added.
I looked up at him.
"Tristan, I told you—"
"I don't care what you told me," he said, his voice hard. "I am not sleeping in a different room while a psychopath is trying to kill you. I need to know you’re breathing. I need to be able to reach out and touch you."
"That’s exactly what I’m afraid of," I whispered.
He stopped. The anger drained out of him, replaced by a deep sadness.
"I won't touch you," he promised, his voice softening. "I swear to God, Mina. I won't cross the line. But I cannot... I will not let you out of my sight tonight."
I looked at his face.
"Okay," I said quietly. "Your bed. But I sleep on the right side."
He nodded, a jerky motion of relief. "The right side. Done."
The move to the Master Suite felt different this time. The massive four-poster bed sat in the center, an island in a sea of tension.
Tristan walked in behind me. He locked the door. Then, he went to the window and pulled the heavy blackout curtains shut, plunging the room into darkness save for the small bedside lamp.
"Silas is stationed in the hall," he said. "And there are two men on the roof."
"Good."
I walked to the closet. Marco had brought my bags up from the temporary office. I pulled out a t-shirt and sweatpants.
"I’m going to shower," I said. "I have glass dust in my hair."
"Leave the door open," Tristan said instantly.
I shot him a look. "Tristan."
"Just a crack," he amended. "So I can hear you."
I sighed. "Fine."
I went into the bathroom. I left the door open an inch.
I stripped off my clothes, shaking out the tiny shards of glass that had embedded themselves in the fabric. I stepped into the shower and turned the water as hot as I could stand it.
I let the water beat down on me.
Who was he? Julian Thorne? A hired thug? A crazy fan of Ida’s?
The unknown was worse than the danger itself.
I finished my shower. I dried off, put on my clothes, and walked back into the bedroom.
Tristan was sitting on the edge of the bed. He was holding his gun. A black, sleek Glock 19.
"Is that really necessary?" I asked, knotting a towel around my wet hair.
He looked up. He didn't put the gun away. He placed it on the nightstand on his side of the bed.
"Yes," he said simply.
He stood up.
"Your turn," he said, gesturing to the bathroom.
While he showered, I sat on the right side of the bed. I pulled my knees to my chest. I stared at the closed curtains.
Maybe the voice on the phone was right. Maybe the Johnston Estate was cursed. Maybe too much blood had soaked into the soil for anything good to grow here.
The bathroom door opened.
Tristan walked out. He was wearing sweatpants, his chest bare, a towel slung around his neck. He looked tired.
He walked over to his side of the bed. He looked at the gun on the nightstand. Then he looked at me.
"Are you okay?" he asked.
"No," I admitted.
He sighed. He got into bed, pulling the duvet over his legs.
He lay on his back, staring at the ceiling. I lay on my side, facing away from him.
"Turn off the lamp," I said.
He reached over and clicked off the light.
I squeezed my eyes shut, trying to force myself to sleep.
I saw the headlights of the van.
I heard the glass shattering.
I jerked awake, gasping.
"Mina?"
Tristan’s voice was alert. I felt the mattress shift as he sat up.
"I’m fine," I lied, my voice shaking. "Just a bad dream."
"You’re shivering," he said.
I was. A cold sweat had broken out over my body.
"I’m just cold," I said.
I felt the sheets move.
Tristan slid across the bed. He pulled me against his chest.
I stiffened, remembering the rule.
"Don't," he whispered, his voice vibrating against my back. "Don't fight it. Not tonight. Let me hold you."
He wrapped his arm around my waist, pulling me flush against his body.
"I promised I wouldn't touch you," he said softly. "But you’re freezing. And I need to know you’re real."
I lay rigid for a long moment. My mind screamed at me to push him away, maintaining the distance.
But my body betrayed me.
My body remembered the comfort of his arms. My body remembered the safety of his chest.
I let out a shaky breath.
And I relaxed.
I let myself sink into him. I let his warmth seep into my bones.
He let out a sigh of relief, tightening his grip just a fraction. He buried his face in my damp hair.
"I’ve got you."