Chapter 73 Only Him
I had come upstairs immediately after Tristan stormed out of the library. My hands were still shaking, the adrenaline from the argument coursing through my veins, refusing to dissipate. I had won the strategic battle but it felt like I had lost something much larger.
I stripped off my clothes, leaving them in a heap on the floor, and walked into the master bathroom.
I turned the shower on, twisting the dial until the water was scalding. I needed to wash the argument off me. I needed to scrub away the echo of his roar, the terrifying promise in his eyes.
I will kill him with my bare hands.
He meant it. He loved me with a ferocity that bordered on madness. It was the kind of love that burned down cities and started wars.
And it terrified me.
I stepped into the large glass stall, letting the hot water beat down on my tense shoulders. I closed my eyes, resting my forehead against the cool, wet tile.
I loved him. I loved him so much it physically hurt. But the line between protection and possession was blurring again, and I didn't know how to redraw it without breaking us both.
The bathroom door opened.
I didn't turn around. I knew the heavy, measured tread of his footsteps.
I heard the rustle of clothing hitting the floor. Then, the glass door of the shower slid open, letting in a draft of cool air before sliding shut again, sealing us in the steam.
I opened my eyes and stood up straight, turning slowly.
Tristan was standing under the spray. He was completely naked, his broad chest rising and falling heavily. The hot water slicked his dark hair flat against his forehead, cascading down the hard planes of his muscles.
His eyes were fixed on me. They weren't cold anymore. They were burning.
"Tristan," I started, my voice barely carrying over the sound of the water.
He didn't let me finish.
He closed the space between us in a single step. He didn't ask. He didn't hesitate. He grabbed my hips, lifting me entirely off the ground, and pressed me back against the wet tile wall.
I gasped, my legs instinctively wrapping around his waist to anchor myself.
He kissed me.
There was no tenderness, no careful apology for the words spoken downstairs.
I kissed him back with the same ferocity. I tangled my hands in his wet hair, pulling him closer, my teeth scraping against his bottom lip until I tasted copper.
He groaned, a deep, guttural sound that vibrated against my chest.
"You make me insane," he growled against my mouth, his hands gripping my thighs tight enough to leave bruises tomorrow. "You make me want to lock you away where no one can ever look at you again."
"You can't," I panted, throwing my head back as his lips moved from my mouth to my neck, finding the pulse point beating wildly there.
"I know," he said, biting the skin just above my collarbone. I cried out, my hands tightening in his hair. "I know I can't. That's why it's killing me."
He pressed his body flush against mine. I could feel him, hard and heavy against my center, demanding entry.
"Tell me," he ordered, looking up at me, his eyes blazing through the water running down his face. "Tell me you're mine."
"Tristan—"
"Say it, Mina. Because tomorrow I have to put you on a stage and let another man look at you. So tonight, right now, you belong to me."
My pride told me to fight him. My independence screamed at me to maintain the boundary.
But looking at the terror hiding just beneath the surface of his anger, I couldn't do it. He needed this anchor. And God help me, so did I.
"I'm yours," I whispered, the words surrendering to the steam.
He closed his eyes, letting out a ragged sigh of relief.
He didn't wait any longer. He guided himself to me and thrust upward, burying himself inside me in one smooth, powerful motion.
I screamed his name, my head slamming back against the tile. It was a shock of complete fullness.
There was only this. Only him.
He held me pinned against the wall, supporting my entire weight, his arms like steel bands around my waist. He established a punishing, relentless rhythm. He wasn't making love to me; he was staking a claim. He was branding me with every thrust, trying to push himself so deep into me that I would never be able to get him out.
I met his intensity, grinding my hips down as he pushed up, seeking the friction, seeking the edge. The water beat down on us, washing away our sweat, but it couldn't wash away the heat radiating between our bodies.
"I won't let him touch you," Tristan chanted, his voice raw, his breath harsh against my ear. "I won't. I'll kill him. I'll kill anyone who tries."
"Stop," I cried out, my hands sliding down to grip his broad shoulders. "Stop talking. Just... just give it to me."
He groaned, a sound torn from the very bottom of his lungs.
He moved faster, harder, the wet slap of our bodies echoing off the glass walls. He was losing control, the Titan slipping away entirely, leaving behind only the desperate, terrified man who loved me too much.
The pleasure hit me like a physical blow. It started low in my belly, coiling tight and hot, before exploding outward in a blinding rush of white light. My body convulsed violently around him, milking him, pulling him over the edge with me.
Tristan shouted, a raw, primal sound, his grip on my thighs tightening painfully as he spilled into me. He held me there against the wall for a long, endless moment, our bodies trembling, our chests heaving as we fought for air in the thick steam.
Slowly, his grip loosened. He let my legs slide down his waist until my feet touched the shower floor.
My legs felt like jelly. I leaned against him to keep from falling.
He wrapped his arms around me, burying his face in my wet hair, his chest still heaving against mine. The aggression was gone, washed down the drain, leaving behind a profound, heavy exhaustion.
We stood under the hot spray for a long time, holding each other in silence.
Finally, Tristan reached out and turned off the water.
He stepped back, grabbing a towel from the rack outside the stall. He wrapped it around me, drying me off with careful, gentle hands. It was a stark contrast to the violence of a few minutes ago.
"I'm sorry," he whispered, keeping his eyes on his task, avoiding my gaze. "I was too rough."
"I'm not broken, Tristan," I said softly.
He stopped drying my arms. He looked up at me.
"You will be careful tomorrow," he said. It wasn't a threat this time. It was a plea.
"I will be perfect," I promised.
He nodded slowly. He wrapped the towel securely around me and leaned in, pressing a soft, lingering kiss to my forehead.
"Let's go to bed," he said.