Page 54 of Prince of Wrath

“Yes,” I answer silently. “But stay with me,” I add.

“Always.” His left hand stays at my back as he beckons Mara closer with a cold look.

“Ella,” Mara stumbles out, breathless. “I was so scared.” I lift my hand, palm facing her. Do not even try. Pain has a way of sharpening the mind. I sign clearly, without fear.

“Tristan, tell her…” It’s all I manage before the dark night starts spinning, dizziness stealing what little clarity I have left. Tristan’s face hardens.

“We have proof of what you did to Ella’s father. Blood work. Medical reports. A deposition from the nurse who cared for him while Ella was gone. Deputy Garron has everything now.” Mara’s face loses a fraction of its performance. “I would highly recommend you put your affairs in order sooner rather than later, because you’ll be on every front page by tomorrow morning.” She gasps, covering her mouth.

“Consider yourself lucky,” Tristan adds, his voice dropping. “I wanted to cut your throat, but Ella was merciful, so we opted for social downfall instead.”

“What?” Her voice pitches higher. “That is outrageous. I would never hurt my husband.” Tristan holds her stare as I lie back down, watching my man stand up for me.

“Mara Brooks,” Garron calls, “you are being detained on suspicion of poisoning Grant Brooks, as well as parental neglect and conspiracy charges. You have the right to remain silent. Anything you say can be used against you in court. You have the right to an attorney. If you cannot afford one, one will be appointed for you.” Mara’s mouth parts in disbelief as the officer pulls her arms behind her back.

“After everything I gave you,” she sneers while the cuffs close around her wrists. “I gave you a roof. A family to take care of. A place in this world.” Her eyes turn vicious. “I lost everything because of you. I never loved you, Ella. Never.”

I know.

And I never loved you either.

Tristan does not interrupt us. He simply stays beside me, holding my hand, as I watch Mara leave in handcuffs, screaming, thrashing, still dressed like royalty while the truth drags her down from her throne. A paramedic helps me sit higher. Another offers to lift me onto the stretcher, but I shake my head and look toward Cole’s body.

Tristan understands before I sign. After checking with the medical crew, they let him carry me in his arms as he steps closer to Cole. He lies on the gravel, no longer smirking, barely moving, his red mask cracked beside his head. His chest rises once, then hesitates before rising again.

“We did everything we could,” a paramedic says, assuming we were on Cole’s side. Tristan shot the man who tried to kill me. I look at him for a long moment as death does its work, and together, we watch Cole fade. There’s no dramatic punchline or final threat. It’s slow and hard to watch, as he fights for air, living his last seconds on this earth. We stand above him, watching him go.

“He’s gone, Ella,” Tristan murmurs. “You’ll never have to fear him again.” I take a deep breath, resting the side of my face against his shoulder. “You’re okay. You’re okay now.”

Pawn takes queen.

Knight takes king.

I sob silently against him, relief washing over me.

“I love you,” I keep saying, even though he cannot hear me.

“I love you,” he murmurs, kissing my hair. “I’ve got you.” His arms tighten around me.

“I’ve got you.”

Chapter Fifteen

Tristan

Ten minutes have passed since we came home from the hospital, after Ella’s checkup and the doctor’s permission to leave. A familiar silence settles around us, one I did not realize I had been craving since the moment we were separated. This one carries a different quality, contrasting with the stillness that haunted these walls when I waited for news of her, or the one that followed me from room to room after I brought her home from captivity, wondering whether she would ever truly feel safe under this roof.

Ella has changed out of the elaborate blue gown, the blonde wig long abandoned on the bathroom counter, and now she is curled into the corner of the sofa in black leggings and one of my oversized white T-shirts that nearly swallows her whole. I have changed into black sweatpants and a T-shirt. Her damp black hair frames her face, still carrying the scent of her shampoo after I washed it for her beneath the shower because she asked me to. And because, frankly, staying away from her after tonight was out of the question. Halfway through rinsing her hair, she looked over her shoulder and signed that, this time, I could keep my eyes open.

God help me, I did.

I kept my eyes open and watched water slide down the length of her hair, watched trust return to me, and committed every second to memory with the reverence of a man standing before something sacred.

Afterward, I attempted to cook. Attempted being the operative word, since the functions of my oven remain a mystery and, apparently, I am the sort of man who can negotiate hostile acquisitions before lunch but cannot be trusted with instant noodles after midnight. She managed a shy laugh when I overcooked them. Breathless, careful of the bandage at her throat, but real enough to nearly put me on my knees. Hard to believe that only hours earlier, I fired a gun so close to her body in an attempt to stop Cole that fear almost gave me a stroke.

Now we are on the sofa with some kind of reality show murmuring in the background, both of us pretending to watch it and failing miserably. It’s late, and we should both be in bed by now, but perhaps this capsule of normalcy is necessary before either of us can let go of what happened tonight. The bandage wrapped around her throat keeps dragging my attention back to the obvious. She almost died. My woman, the one whose calves rest across my lap while I massage slow circles into her skin, almost vanished from this earth because I took a shot I had no choice but to take. Every time my eyes drift toward the white gauze, I have to fight the urge to gather her close and check her pulse like a lunatic.

“What…what happens now?” she signs. I look up from where my thumb is smoothing over the delicate bone of her ankle. She catches her lower lip between her teeth, the soft cherry tint of it darkened by the marks she keeps leaving there. I’m not proud of where my mind goes, but I’m too exhausted to pretend it doesn't.