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The bleeding got worse, and the life slowly drained out of him, his eyes growing vacant and glazed-over. All around us was a shocking tableau of violence I’d never forget — our sanctuary turned into a battlefield.
“Adriana,” Tristan said, cutting through the aftermath of chaos, his voice sounding foreign in the heavy silence hanging over us. He turned to me with a look on his face that wrenched my heart--a mix of frustration, relief, and something darker. Fear? Guilt?
“I told you to stay upstairs,” he whispered harshly as he moved towards me. The gun in his hand was still smoking slightly. It was surreal watching him come closer to me, his broad shoulders tense, chest still heaving from exertion. He was here; he was safe.
I forced myself to swallow back the lump in my throat. “You said this was my house too.”
Tristan shook his head. “For fuck’s sake, Adriana,” he said, setting his gun on the side table in the living room. “You have to listen to me. You need to listen.”
“It seemed like you needed help,” I defended myself feebly. I could see the fury in his eyes.
“What would have happened if I hadn’t managed to pin him down?” Tristan asked. “What would have happened to you? What would have happened to the twins?”
His words stung worse than a physical blow. My gaze shifted from his hardened face to the lifeless form on the floor, the grisly scene a harsh reminder of the danger we were in. I glanced down at my stomach, the reality of my pregnancy suddenly hitting like a lead weight.
Our children. The thought was staggering. We were bringing new lives into this dangerous world, this treacherous game we played. Not for the first time, I doubted our decisions, doubted us.
“Tristan, I...” I began, but the words faltered in my throat.
He took a step toward me, closing whatever space was left between us. His hand was on my cheek, his eyes wide and blue and his pupils expanding as soon as he looked at me. The palm of his hand felt…cold, clammy. Where had he dropped his gun?
I didn’t want to think about it.
I didn’t want to think about anything.
And when I looked at his face, I noticed that his expression hadn’t softened. “I can’t lose you. Any of you,” he said. “Do you understand that?”
“I...” The words stuck in my throat, choked by the harsh reality of the situation. My eyes filled with tears, a mixture of fear and frustration. I was not a damsel to be saved; I was used to fighting my own battles.
Tristan’s grip on my cheek tightened slightly, his thumb brushing away a stray tear. “Adriana,” he said, his voice thick with emotion. “This is not up for debate. “
“Tristan–”
“Adriana. This is not up for debate,“ he repeated. “How can I make you see this?”
I sighed. I knew where he was coming from, I genuinely did. But I was finding this so difficult, this undeniable sense of helplessness that didn’t come from just being pregnant but also being effectively locked away like I currently was. “I don’t know.”
He grabbed my waist, spinned me around, pushed me against the wall. “Fuck,” he whispered, his breath shaky against me.
His eyes raked over me and I felt a shiver creep up my spine. Not of fear, but of the raw intensity that radiated from him. His grip was firm, desperate even, as if he was afraid I’d fade away if his hold loosened. “I’m never letting anything happen to you. I’m never going to let anyone hurt you.” His hands were on the hem of my nightgown, his breath hot against my ear as he kept whispering assurances that felt increasingly hollow.
“I’m not a porcelain doll, Tristan,” I said, my voice barely a whisper. “And I can’t live like this.”
My hands wrapped around his wrists, holding them still against my waist. He was shaking now, and I could feel him crash as the adrenaline seemed to be leaving his body.
“I know,” he admitted quietly, his eyes burning into mine. “I know you’re strong. And I trust you more than anything...or anyone else.”
“But—“
He cut me off with a harsh kiss, his mouth moving fiercely over mine as if he was afraid it would be our last. His hands moved up to cradle my face, holding me steady as he poured all his anger, fear, and desperation into the kiss.
I couldn’t help but respond to him; my fingers dug into his arms as I kissed him back just as fiercely.
“Only I get to touch you,“ he said when he pulled away, his fingers quickly finding the waistband of my panties and sliding them down my legs.
Frozen by his intensity, I didn’t protest as he lifted me off the ground with an ease that sent a shiver down my spine. I wrapped my legs around his waist, my fingers clutching at his shirt tightly.
His mouth was back on mine once again, this time softer, more urgent. His hands were everywhere — roaming across my skin, tugging at the fabric of my nightgown, trailing fire wherever they went. He pressed me against the wall, pinning me with his body as his kisses grew wilder, desperate.
