Tristian leaned in, his hands caging me in on the sofa before his lips found mine. The kiss that followed was desperate but slower this time than the office, more deliberate as my hand wrapped around his neck, pulling him closer.
It made the rest of the world—the police, my sister, my fear—vanish into the shadows. When he finally pulled back his forehead dropped to mine, his breath uneven.
“Stay tonight,” he commanded more than asked.
I hesitated. “I can’t. I—”
His face darkened. But he relented, withdrawing. I felt a rush of disappointment, displacing the thrill that had gone through me at his request to stay.
“I’m sorry,” I breathed. “I—” My voice came out smaller than I meant it to.
I wanted to say why… part of me aching to tell him. But then, something moved across his face as he was already pulling away.
The silence sat heavy for a moment, but then he broke it.
“There’s a painting that needs finishing,” he said finally, voice even. “How about you stay a while for that?”
I’d expected him to push. Part of me had wanted him to. Instead he offered me the painting and I told myself that was enough for now. It had to be.
So in response, I forced a smile, hiding the disappointment of having to leave him soon. “I’d like that.”
Chapter fifteen
Ingrid
At some point as Tristian painted me, I fell asleep.
When I woke, he was gone. The room was silent, his canvas abandoned.
I blinked, bleary-eyed. “Tristian?”
I rose from the chair I’d dozed off in. Tugging Tristian’s hoodie tight to my shoulders, I padded through the studio, past the canvas. A palette covered in globs of oil paint sat on a stool nearby, blobs marred by impressions of the brush dabbing, taking, mixing new colors.
The painting had come on a lot in the hour or two Tristian had worked this evening. The first layer of colors, the shape of me, was beginning to fill with detail and shading. Lines arced, forming the basis of what would be my eyes and nose. The crimson shadow of my lips was a distinct pout. I’d have to call Tristian out on that:I don’t really look that miserable, do I?
His voice drifted to me from somewhere else in the apartment—the lounge, maybe, or his bedroom.
I moved into the hallway, opened my mouth to call out to him.
“It’s bullshit really, Kane… Noah is a fucking hypocrite,” came Tristian’s drifting voice. “He tells me that my job isn’t real and that I need to get into his business. Yeah, fucking right… we all know it’s a cover-up.”
I froze, my breath catching. Acover-up?
“What’s worse?” Tristian continued from the lounge, unaware that I stood in the hall, wide-eyed and listening. His voice dropped into a dangerous register. “Laying low, fighting, and being a tattoo artist—or bribing judges, cops, and politicians to do your fucking dirty work?”
My brows furrowed. Bribing? Noah Locke? The picture of respectability, a man of all things business… It didn’t make sense. But in a sense… it almost did.
“I know he’s still dirty,” Tristian muttered. “There’s no way he could get this much shit done while being a lawyer.” He paused, and then his voice softened in a way that made my skin prickle. “She’s fine… she’s asleep. I don’t know why Noah is getting her involved… It’s not with good intentions.”
Then, the words that turned my blood to ice: “We need to look into her father… figure out what the hell is actually going on. A lawyer and an accountant can’t be moving up in this city this quickly.”
My heart felt like it was about to give out. My father? Involved with bribery? I backed away, my mind spinning with images of me somehow being in the middle of this. Of me beinginvolved.
Tristian’s footsteps thudded. He was coming my way. Panicking, I ran back to the studio quietly. Then, I fought to smooth my face out.
He was coming up the hall. “All right, see you tomorrow.”
I took a breath. Forced down my fear. Then, as Tristian was about to round the corner, I stumbled purposefully to the doorway. Hoodie slipping down my shoulders again, I rubbed my eyes, stifling a fake yawn.
