Chapter 69 Letter
"I've got him, Mina," he said, his voice dropping to a low, steady rumble, entirely for my benefit. "I've got him. We're going."
He stood up, carrying the cat against his ruined white shirt, and grabbed my hand with his free one.
We ran down the grand staircase, our footsteps echoing off the marble. The construction crew stood frozen, staring as the billionaire owner of Veridian Designs sprinted through the dust-filled foyer with a foaming black cat clutched to his chest, pulling his sobbing architect behind him.
The armored SUV was idling at the front steps, the back doors thrown open. Silas was in the driver's seat, gripping the wheel.
Tristan shoved me into the back seat and climbed in next to me.
"Go," he barked.
The heavy tires spun on the gravel, and the SUV launched forward, throwing me back against the leather seats.
The ride was a blur of speed and terror. Silas drove like a demon, blaring the horn, swerving violently through the city traffic.
I kept my eyes fixed on Nero. Tristan had laid him on his lap, keeping the cat's airway clear, his large thumb gently stroking the black head. The spasms were slowing down, but not in a good way. His golden eyes were rolling back. The wet rattling in his chest was fading into a shallow, terrifying silence.
"Don't die," I whispered, pressing my hands over my mouth to stifle a sob. "Please don't die. He's all I have. He's all I had."
Tristan looked up at me. His face was pale, a muscle ticking violently in his jaw.
"He's not going to die," Tristan vowed, his voice vibrating with absolute authority, as if he could command death to back down through sheer force of will. "I won't let him. I promise you, Mina."
The SUV slammed to a halt outside a sleek, modern glass building. A team of people in scrubs was already rushing out the sliding doors with a stretcher.
Tristan carried him out. He handed the limp black body over to the vet.
"Toxin ingestion," Tristan snapped, rattling off the symptoms with icy precision. "Convulsions, hypersalivation, pinpoint pupils. He went from normal to critical in under an hour."
They rushed Nero through swinging double doors.
We were left standing in the sterile, brightly lit waiting room.
I looked down at myself. My jeans were covered in cat hair and dust. My white shirt was stained with yellow bile and smeared with blood from where his claws had broken my skin. I was trembling so violently my teeth were chattering.
Tristan was in worse shape. His custom-tailored shirt was ruined. His hands were stained.
He didn't care.
He walked over to me, wrapping his arms around me and pulling me tightly into his chest. I buried my face in his neck, breathing in the scent of his cologne mixed with sweat and fear, and I finally broke down. I cried until my ribs ached, until I couldn't breathe.
He just held me. He stroked my hair, murmuring soft, meaningless words of comfort.
We waited for three hours.
Three hours of pacing. Three hours of staring at the swinging double doors. Three hours of wondering if the only innocent thing in my life had just paid the price for my proximity to the Johnstons.
Finally, a veterinarian walked out. She looked exhausted, pulling a surgical mask down around her neck.
Tristan and I practically threw ourselves at her.
"He's stable," she said immediately, holding up a hand to stall our questions.
My knees gave out. Tristan caught me around the waist, holding me upright.
"He's alive?" I gasped.
"He's alive," the vet confirmed with a tired smile. "It was close. Very close. His heart stopped once on the table, but we brought him back. We pumped his stomach and administered activated charcoal and a heavy dose of Atropine."
"What was it?" Tristan demanded, his voice dropping to a dangerous, low octave.
"Ethylene glycol," the vet said grimly. "Antifreeze. Mixed with a high concentration of Lily extract, which is highly toxic to felines. It causes rapid, acute kidney failure. Given the concentration in his stomach... this wasn't an accident. He didn't lick a puddle in a garage. Someone fed this to him."
Tristan's grip on my waist tightened until it was almost painful. I looked up at him. His face was a mask of pure, lethal fury. The protective lover was gone. The man standing next to me was a warlord who had just realized his fortress had been breached.
"Can we see him?" I asked, my voice cracking.
"Briefly," the vet said. "He’s heavily sedated. We need to keep him for at least forty-eight hours to monitor his kidney function, but... he's a fighter. I think he's going to make it."
She led us into the back room.
Nero was lying in a small, heated metal cage. He looked incredibly small. An IV line was taped to his shaved front leg. His chest rose and fell in a slow, steady rhythm.
I reached through the bars, gently stroking the soft fur between his ears.
"I'm sorry," I whispered to him. "I'm so sorry I brought you into this."
Tristan stood behind me. He didn't speak. He just watched the rise and fall of the cat's chest.
"Let's go," Tristan said finally, his voice devoid of all warmth.
I didn't argue. Nero was safe here. But we had a war waiting for us at home.
The ride back to the estate was silent. A heavy, suffocating silence.
We pulled through the heavily fortified gates. Silas parked the SUV.
"Silas," Tristan said as we got out of the car. "I want the security footage from the last twelve hours. I want every single contractor interrogated. I want the house swept again. Wall to wall."
"Already on it, boss. The men are tearing the west wing apart looking for the breach."
We walked up the grand staircase.
Tristan didn't let go of my hand. He gripped it like a vice, leading me down the hall to the Master Suite.
Two armed guards were standing outside the splintered door. They stepped aside as we approached.
The room looked exactly as we had left it. My tablet was still glowing on the desk. The stain on the floor where Nero had vomited was still there.
"How?" Tristan muttered, scanning the room. "The door was locked. The windows were locked."
I walked slowly toward the French doors leading to the balcony.
I reached out and pulled the fabric completely aside.
"Tristan," I whispered.
He was beside me in an instant.
The iron grate had been unscrewed. It was lying on the floor.
On the saucer were the remnants of a piece of raw, high-grade salmon. The kind Marco kept in the downstairs freezer.
Tristan knelt down. He didn't touch the saucer. He picked up the card by the very edge.
He stood up, reading it.
I watched the blood drain entirely from his face. His eyes widened.
"What does it say?" I asked, my heart hammering against my ribs.
He didn't answer. He just handed me the card.