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Webster said nothing, but his eyes were round with fear. Dylan released Webster and stood upright, fury etched on his face, and he kicked him hard in the groin.
Webster screamed and buckled, prostrate on the floor, grasping himself.
No! Dylan! What! No! This was not the man I knew.
“That’s for being in her room, you fucker,” Dylan seethed through clenched teeth.
Tristan, impressed, nodded at Dylan with approval.
“Stop. Please,” I whispered, and Dylan was in front of me in a moment while Webster groaned on the floor. Wintry blue eyes met mine that all at once revealed his desperation, his contrition, his fury, and his fear.
“Spook,” he addressed the room. “Can you keep him here?”
Tristan looked at me and nodded.
“He says yes.”
“And keep Emily safe?”
“Of course, you son of a bitch.” Tristan glowered at Dylan. “Where the fuck were you when she needed you?”
“He says yes,” I said hurriedly.
“I’m going to find something to restrain him.”
“You fucking bastard—” Webster was cut short once more, though I didn’t see what Tristan had done to him.
“I’ll be a minute.” Dylan ducked out of the bedroom, and I sat down on the bed gazing at Tristan as Webster continued moaning on the floor.
Tristan checked on Webster, then strode toward me, green eyes blazing. He crouched down when he reached me.
“Chin up, Beauchamp. This will be over soon, and this fucker will be put away,” he said, aiming for levity, and for his benefit, I managed a weak smile. But his eyes told a different story. He was suffering.
“I’m okay,” I whispered. “Thank you for coming back when you did. I don’t know what would have happened.” I trembled. “You saved me.”
He closed his eyes as if in terrible pain and was about to say something, but Dylan returned brandishing a length of red cord. Tristan materialized on the other side of the room and pursed his lips with disapproval.
“Webster.” Dylan nudged the still-groaning man with his shoe. “On your front, hands behind your back, or I’ll kick you again.”
Webster complied with no protest, resigned to his fate, and with dexterous efficiency, Dylan tied Webster’s wrists together.
“Good at knots, isn’t he?” Tristan said.
I gave Tristan a puzzled look as Dylan stood and withdrew his phone from his jeans pocket. He dialed three numbers. “Police, please,” he said into the phone.
During the call, Tristan kept his eyes on Webster.
“What did you mean?” I whispered while Dylan was on the phone informing the police of our address.
“Mean?”
“About knots.”
Tristan shook his head. “Forget it.”
Dylan hung up, and now that Webster was secure, he turned to me. “I’m so sorry,” he said, and it was my undoing.
The dam burst, and I cupped my face in my hands to still the tears as I finally acknowledged what might have happened if Tristan hadn’t appeared. I began to tremble, and my stomach roiled with nausea.
