I hadn’t been able to peel my mind away from what had happened last night. It all felt so unlike me—yet it was so exciting, so electrifying too. I wanted more, the hot weight of him in my hand, my mouth—and the warmth of him as he came over my stomach.
Fighting to distract myself from the thoughts that’d taken deep root in my brain, I forced myself to focus on my art haul, drawing out items from the package to show Tristian over the camera.
At some point, though—after maybe the sixth or seventh, “Mmm,” from him, I looked up properly. Tristian’s eyes were hard, yet alight with something familiar, the same fire I’d seen last night when I asked him to experience another first:need.
“Tristian, you, ah… you don’t seem to be paying much attention to my art haul.”
Tristian blinked. He responded in a growl, “Of course I’m not. All my attention is on you, doll.” He added in a low undertone, “You look so fucking pretty.”
The words hit me as my face burned brighter. I cleared my throat, my pulse thundering in my ears. I started frantically rifling through my piles of art supplies, suddenly blind to what they even were, all the allure and excitement gone as heat rose deep in my stomach, and images of last night flashed through my mind—
Tristian loosed a deep chuckle. “Am I making you blush, baby?”
I squeezed my eyes shut, my face feeling like it was on fire. I couldn’t stop it.
And then—a knock.
“Ingrid.”
My father’s voice cut through the warmth. My blood turned cold in my veins. Without a second thought, I slammed my finger onto the end-call button, plunging the room into a terrifying silence. I cleared my throat, trying to find a voice that didn’t sound like it belonged to a ghost.
“Y-yes, Papa...”
The door creaked open. He stepped inside, and my heart plummeted as I heard the distinctclickof the lock turning behind him. I flinched, a small, involuntary jerk of my shoulders. My palms went slick with sweat as he crossed the room toward my desk. He looked different—his hair was a mess, his shirt sleeves were rolled up as if he’d been working, or fighting. He looked unraveled.
“Did a little shopping recently, hmm?” He loomed over the desk, his presence suffocating. He picked up one of the sketchpads, turned it over with a clinical, cold detachment before setting it back down.
I felt like a cornered animal.
My heart pounded against my ribs. “I-I d-didn’t get too much. Just a-a few things that went o-on sale...” I whispered. It was a half-truth, but truth didn’t matter in this house. Only obedience.
He stared at me. “Art supplies, huh?… Tell me, Ingrid… when exactly did I give you permission to study art?”
My mouth opened, but my throat constricted tight. I couldn’t speak, could only stare, my heart jackhammering, and my brain screaming in a frantic trill:Run.
Of course, I couldn’t though. I’d thought it many times, imagined scenarios to escape my Papa. Even supposing I could get past him and unlock the door before his hand shot out and snagged my elbow, he would quickly close the gap between us. One push from him and I’d find myself in a broken heap at the bottom of the stairs. Or maybe he’d snag me by the hair, pull me back inside and punish me for my insolence in here, in this place that was supposed to be my sanctuary. Only rarely in these awful imaginings did I get to the bottom of the stairs and the safety of my abuelita’s embrace… yet even that was hollow. Her safety was only temporary. I knew it, because last night she had shielded me from him, and now here he was.
My father’s face was hard. “You were out late last night… again,” he said flatly. He reached out, his hand tangling in a stray lock of my hair, twirling it with a terrifying gentleness. I gulped, the sound loud in the quiet room. “Who were you with?”
My memory caught on Tristian, the act in his apartment, with a sudden bolt of shame, a prudish guilt that my father had instilled in me despite parading me around at his business parties like a piece of meat as he made his deals.
Then it turned backward, to the boxing match: the metallic smell of blood, the roar of the crowd, the way Tristian had dismantled a man.
“T-the girls,” I stammered, “I was out with May and Amber...”
Papa nodded slowly, but his eyes stayed sharp. “Who else were you with?”
“No one,” I lied.
His eyes flashed. “Insolent girl.” Suddenly his hand turned into a fist around my hair, pulling my head back until I was forced to look up at him. The pain was sharp, sparking behind my eyes. “You were with the Locke boy, weren’t you?”
“I—I—”
Papa squeezed tighter. I screamed. My scalp felt like it would rip right from the top of my skull.
Levering me in close, Papa drew me forward until our faces were just inches apart. The smell of whiskey came from him, thick and pungent.
“You seem to have forgotten your place, Ingrid,” he snarled, “so let me remind you of it. You are playing handler to Noah’s son,and nothing more.You manage him. You keep him calm. You control him in business hours, around your studies, and then youreport back home to me. Understand?”
