Chapter 65 Comfort
For the first few hours after I woke up and surrendered to Tristan’s embrace, the exhaustion kept the demons at bay. I slept deeply, anchored by the weight of his arm across my waist and the steady thrum of his heartbeat against my back.
But at 3:00 AM, the anchor slipped.
I didn't wake up. But Tristan did.
I was pulled from sleep by the sudden, violent jerking of his body. He was thrashing beside me, the duvet kicked off, his breath coming in short, panicked gasps.
"No," he muttered, his voice thick with sleep and terror. "No. Stop."
I sat up. The room was still pitch black. I reached out and found his shoulder.
He was drenched in sweat, his muscles locked tight.
"Tristan," I said softly, shaking him gently. "Tristan, wake up."
He didn't wake. The nightmare had him by the throat.
"Mina!" he shouted, throwing his arm out as if reaching for something that was falling. "Don't! The glass—!"
He was dreaming about the van. About the shattered foyer. About losing me.
"I’m here," I said, my voice firmer now. I grabbed both of his shoulders and shook him harder. "Tristan! Open your eyes!"
He gasped, a loud, ragged sound, and his eyes snapped open.
In the faint light creeping around the edges of the blackout curtains, I saw his pupils dilated with absolute terror. He stared at me, uncomprehending for a second, lost somewhere between the dream and reality.
Then, he blinked.
"Mina?"
"I’m here," I said again, my hands still on his shoulders. "You were dreaming. You’re safe. We’re safe."
He let out a sound that was half-sob, half-groan.
He grabbed me.
He didn't pull me against him like a lover. He clung to me like a drowning man grabbing a piece of wreckage. He buried his face in my chest, wrapping his arms around my waist.
He was shaking.
"I saw it," he choked out, his voice muffled against my t-shirt. "I saw him hit you. I saw you under the tires. There was so much blood."
My heart broke for him.
The Titan was gone. The billionaire was gone. This was just a man terrified of losing the one thing he loved.
I wrapped my arms around his head, threading my fingers through his damp hair.
"It was just a dream," I murmured, rocking him slightly. "I’m right here. I’m whole. I’m untouched."
"I couldn't stop him," Tristan cried, his tears soaking through my shirt. "I’m supposed to protect you, and I couldn't stop him. I can't stop her."
The grief poured out of him. Not just the grief of the nightmare, but the accumulated grief of the last five years. The guilt of throwing me out. The horror of his mother’s death. The sickening truth about his sister.
It was all breaking loose.
"Shh," I said, kissing the top of his head. "You don't have to carry it all. Not tonight."
I held him until the shaking slowly subsided, until his breathing leveled out.
He didn't let go of my waist, but he lifted his head to look at me.
His face was streaked with tears. He looked impossibly young and devastatingly sad.
"I don't know how to do this," he whispered. "I don't know how to keep you safe without suffocating you. I don't know how to love you without ruining you."
"We’ll learn," I said softly.
I reached down and wiped the tears from his cheeks with my thumbs.
He leaned into my touch. He turned his head and kissed the palm of my hand.
Then he looked at me.
The terror in his eyes was fading, replaced by a deep, profound need. It wasn't the aggressive, dominant lust of the Paris hotel room or the desperate submission of the apartment.
It was a need for connection. For proof of life.
He reached up and touched my face. His fingers were gentle, tracing the line of my jaw, the curve of my lips.
"Are you real?" he asked, his voice trembling.
"I’m real."
He leaned in. He kissed me.
It was a soft, searching kiss. It tasted of salt and sorrow.
I kissed him back, opening to him, letting him in.
He moved his hands from my face to the hem of my t-shirt. He didn't rip it off. He slowly pulled it up and over my head, tossing it onto the floor.
I helped him pull off his own sweat-soaked shirt.
We lay down together on the tangled sheets.
He touched me with a reverence that made my breath catch. He mapped my body with his hands, his fingertips tracing every rib, every scar, every inch of skin, as if he were trying to memorize me.
"Beautiful," he whispered against my collarbone. "Perfect."
I ran my hands down his back, feeling the tension still knotted in his muscles. I massaged his shoulders, pulling him closer.
Our bodies aligned perfectly, fitting together like puzzle pieces that had finally found their match.
When he finally moved over me, he stopped. He hovered above me, looking down into my eyes.
"Mina," he breathed.
"Yes," I answered.
He entered me slowly.
I gasped, my eyes fluttering shut at the intense, overwhelming fullness.
"No," he said gently, pressing his forehead against mine. "Keep your eyes open. Look at me."
I opened my eyes.
He was staring down at me, his gaze locked onto mine. A single tear escaped his eye and dropped onto my cheek.
He began to move.
I wrapped my legs around his waist, pulling him deeper. I wanted to anchor him. I wanted to be the earth beneath his feet, the sky above his head.
"I love you," he whispered with every stroke. "I love you. I love you."
I touched his face, my thumbs wiping away the tears that continued to fall silently from his eyes. He was crying, mourning the past while holding onto the present.
The pleasure built slowly, a warm, golden tide rising within me. It wasn't the sharp, explosive climax of our previous encounters. It was a deep, resonant ache that spread through my entire body.
I kept my eyes on his.
I watched the exact moment he let go.
His face contorted, a mixture of exquisite pleasure and profound relief. He stopped moving, his body shuddering violently as he emptied himself into me.
"Mina," he sobbed, collapsing onto my chest.
I held him tight. I felt the tears prick my own eyes, slipping down my temples into my hair.
We lay there in the quiet darkness, our breathing synchronized, our hearts beating a steady rhythm against each other.
The nightmare was over.
The sun would come up. The world would demand answers. The stalker would still be out there.
But for tonight, in the wreckage of the Johnston Estate, we had found something stronger than the walls we were trying to build.
We had found each other.