Chapter 79 Help
"She stole you," Ida said, her voice dropping back to that terrifying, conversational tone. "You used to look at me, Tristan. You used to need me. When she came into the house, she started changing the curtains. She started changing the paint. She started changing you."
"I am not yours," Tristan said, stepping sideways, trying to put himself between the laser sight and me.
Ida immediately shifted her aim, keeping the dot pinned on me.
"Don't block my view, Tristan," she warned. "I want to see her face when she realizes she can't design her way out of this."
"Ida, please," Tristan begged, holding his hands up in a gesture of surrender. The Titan was gone, replaced by a desperate, broken brother pleading for the life of the woman he loved. "I'll do whatever you want. I'll give you the company. I'll sign over the estate. Just let her go. Let her walk out of here, and I'll come with you."
My heart shattered.
He was offering himself to the monster. He was offering to go back into the cage, to endure the cycle of abuse and obsession, just to keep me breathing.
"No," I said, stepping out from behind him.
"Mina, stop!" Tristan shouted, grabbing my arm.
I shook him off. I stood fully in the light, facing the woman who had ruined my life.
"He's not a prize to be won, Ida," I said, my voice echoing in the silent auditorium. "And he's not a substitution for the father who abused you."
Ida’s face contorted into a mask of pure, unadulterated fury. The mention of her father—the root of her twisted, incestuous obsession—was the trigger.
"Shut up!" she shrieked.
"You don't love him," I continued, pushing the knife deeper, needing to break her focus. "You just want to own him. But you can't. Because he chose me. Even when you lied, even when you poisoned the well... he chose me."
"I SAID SHUT UP!"
Her finger tightened on the trigger of the rifle.
Time slowed down to a crawl. The air grew thick and heavy, like swimming through molasses.
I saw the muzzle flash before I heard the sound. A bright, jagged burst of orange fire in the darkness.
I braced for the impact, preparing for the tearing pain of the bullet tearing through my chest.
But the impact didn't come from the front.
It came from the side.
A massive, heavy force slammed into me, hitting me with the momentum of a freight train.
Tristan.
He didn't just step in front of me; he tackled me, throwing his entire body weight against mine, driving us both down onto the hard, dusty wooden floorboards of the stage.
The deafening crack of the rifle shot echoed through the Opera House, a violent, terrible sound that bounced off the walls and shattered the silence.
We hit the ground hard. My head snapped back, smacking against the wood. White lights exploded behind my eyes, disorienting me.
I lay there for a second, the breath knocked out of my lungs, my ears ringing with a high-pitched whine.
I wasn't shot. I felt no pain, only the blunt ache of the fall.
The heavy weight of Tristan’s body was pressing me into the floor. He was covering me completely, shielding me with his tactical vest and his broad back.
"Tristan," I gasped, trying to push against his chest.
He didn't move.
The ringing in my ears began to fade, replaced by the chaotic sounds of shouting police officers and the heavy thud of boots rushing the stage.
But beneath it all, close to my ear, I heard a sound that made my blood run cold.
A wet, ragged, rattling intake of breath.
"Tristan?" I pushed harder, panic lending me strength. I rolled him slightly off me.
He slumped to the side, his head lolling onto the dusty floorboards.
The tactical vest he wore was intact.
But the vest didn't cover his shoulder.
Right below his collarbone, the dark fabric of his shirt was torn. A massive, expanding circle of dark, wet blood was spreading rapidly across the material, pooling onto the stage beneath him.
He had taken the bullet.
He had taken the bullet meant for my heart.
"No," I screamed, a raw, primal sound of absolute agony.
I scrambled to my knees, pressing my hands frantically against the wound, trying to stem the violent flow of blood. It was hot and slippery, welling up between my fingers faster than I could stop it.
Tristan’s eyes fluttered open. They were hazy, unfocused, the bright amber dulling to a muted brown.
He looked at my face. He looked at my chest, checking for blood that wasn't his.
A faint, bloody smile touched the corners of his lips.
"Safe," he whispered, the word bubbling up on a weak exhalation.
His eyes rolled back, and his body went entirely limp against the floorboards.
"Tristan! TRISTAN!" I shrieked, pressing my entire body weight onto the wound. "Somebody help me! HELP HIM!"