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“This is why I backed out,” he said. “I couldn’t…look, you weren’t exactly excited to marry me. And I’m a Callahan.”
“You didn’t kill that guy,” I said, mad at myself for instinctively trying to make him feel better.
He gave me a long look. “But I have killed people,” he said. “You know that, right?”
I nodded. “Tristan, I’m not some innocent naïve delicate flower,” I said. “I keep my father’s books. He’s just as ruthless as Malachy.”
He sighed, his gaze lingering on me before returning to the road. “Adriana, there’s a difference in knowing something intellectually and experiencing it firsthand.”
I didn’t respond immediately, pondering his words as the car sped down the deserted highway. He was right; before tonight, I had known about the Callahan family’s reputation. I had known about the violence and bloodshed but it was always from a safe distance. Tonight, I had witnessed it firsthand and it was more terrifying than any rumor or hearsay.
“You might keep your father’s books, but I can tell you’re scared of me.”
“You almost killed a man right in front of me.” I replied, struggling to keep my voice steady. “How am I supposed to react?”
He sighed, taking a moment before speaking again. “I don’t expect you to overlook what you saw. I just…I want you to understand why I did it.”
“I don’t doubt that you felt you had reasons,” I shot back. “But how long until those reasons include protecting me from people who aren’t actually threats? Or, God forbid, from myself?”
The silence that followed was deafening. I could almost hear the gears turning in Tristan’s head as he contemplated my words. “I would never hurt you.”
The words were spoken with conviction, accompanied with a sideways glance that held a hint of vulnerability I had rarely seen in him. However, the statement did nothing to ease my agitation. “You’re missing the point, Tristan. It’s not about you hurting me, it’s about you making decisions that affect me without considering my feelings or consent.”
A sigh escaped his lips as he guided the car around a curve in the road, breaking our eye contact. The headlights illuminated the darkness ahead, casting long shadows on either side of the deserted highway. “I’ll try,” he said after a long pause, his voice barely above a whisper.
“Try?” I scoffed. My patience was wearing thin and I could feel my anger boiling beneath my skin again. “Is that supposed to comfort me? You’ll ‘try’ not to be violent?”
“I’ll try to talk to you before I defend your honor again.”
“From someone leering at me? Grow up, Tristan. It happens.”
“Yes, but it shouldn’t,” he replied flatly, his voice threaded with unyielding conviction. The sudden intensity of his tone caught me off guard, and I found myself taken aback by the raw emotion in his eyes as he glanced at me, his blue gaze glinting in the dim light.
“It’s not about my honor, Tristan,” I retorted, “It’s about my right to defend myself when and how I see fit.”
He snorted, casting me a skeptical glance before refocusing on the road, “And how exactly would you defend yourself, Adriana? With harsh words and an icy glare?”
His condescending tone struck a nerve and I bristled at his comment. “You’d be surprised what I can do,” I snapped back.
A moment of silence passed as we continued down the deserted highway, save for the soft whirring of the engine and the rhythmic thud of the tires against the asphalt. Then suddenly, out of nowhere, he stopped the car next to an empty lot and looked into my eyes. “Fine. Show me.”
“What?” I asked, taken aback by his unexpected request.
“Prove me wrong,” he challenged softly, eyes not leaving the road. “Show me how you’d defend yourself.”
For a moment, I was struck silent, the audacity of his demand ringing in my ears. Then, with a sudden jolt of determination, I unbuckled my seatbelt and turned to face him. “Fine,” I said, my voice steady despite the uncertainty fluttering in my stomach. I got out of the car and faced him in front of the headlights of the car.
He watched me silently as I stripped off my jacket and shifted into a stance I hoped looked moderately intimidating. Tristan’s gaze bored into me, his icy blue eyes narrowed in anticipation.
“Remember, this is your idea,” I warned, not breaking eye contact. He simply nodded in response, waiting for my next move.
Taking a deep breath, I launched myself at him. My plan was simple: surprise him and catch him off guard. As my fist hurtled towards his face, he sidestepped smoothly, grabbed my wrist and twisted it behind me in one fluid motion. Pain flared and I cried out.
“Lesson one,” he said, his voice soft but the iron grip on my wrist unyielding. “Never telegraph your movements.”
I gritted my teeth against the pain and fought back a sharp retort. Tristan could be infuriatingly condescending, but he was also right. I had approached him head-on, making my intentions clear with every step.
“Lesson two,” he continued, releasing my wrist and taking a step back. “Never engage in a physical fight unless you absolutely have to.”
