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“You promise me,” she echoed. She laughed again, another hollow sound. “Please, Nikos. Do not make me any more promises. I do not think I can survive them!”
He looked at her for a long moment, those dark eyes seeing into her, through her. Seeing far more than they should.
“I cannot pretend I did not deceive you, because I did. I do not deserve you, Tristanne, but…” His eyes when they met hers were so dark. Tortured. His hands reached out, but did not touch her. “Please believe me,” he whispered. “I cannot let you go.”
She felt the truth of things well up in her, then, despite everything. She felt that fierce, uncompromising love for him soar through her, making her feel both impossibly dizzy and firmly grounded at the same time. It moved through her like the blood in her veins. Like the air in her lungs. An irrevocable biological necessity without which she could not walk, talk, live. And so she knew why she could not run away. Why she could not bring herself to leave him here on the street, as she should. Why she would not abandon him, even when he all but told her to do so.
My dragon, she thought, and it felt like a promise. A vow.
She could not remember who she had been before him, or who she had tried to be during these past weeks. She could not imagine a future without him in it. She had…simply kept standing, because there was nothing else to do. But now that he was here, she could feel the difference singing through her, lighting her up from within, even though it hurt—even though none of this was easy, and all of it was far more painful than she could ever have imagined she could bear.
“Tristanne,” he said, as if her name was a plea. His eyes were agonized, as dark and stormy as she felt. “I tried to let you go, but I cannot do it.”
She reached over and took his hand, exulting in the feeling of his skin against hers, the heat of him, the sense of rightness that flooded through her. What else could she do? She had already lost everything, and survived it. He had already done his worst. And even so, she loved him. She could not hide from that inconvenient truth. It might not be wise. It might not make sense. But the inescapable truth of it felt like heat, like dragonfire, and burned its way through her, marking her forever. As his.
“Then do not let me go,” she said over the lump in her throat, looking at him with all she felt bright and hot in her gaze. Because she had already chosen, long ago, to be brave if she could not be safe. She had already decided. “If you dare.”
Chapter Seventeen
“WHAT am I to do with you?” he asked her much later, his voice rough. He sat next to her in the luxurious depths of his private jet’s leather seats. Far below them, North America was spread out like a patchwork quilt, and above them was nothing but blue sky and sun. He reached over and pulled a blonde wave into his hand, wrapping it around one finger. He tugged on it slightly.
“Marry me, apparently,” she said. She did not shiver away from his dark golden gaze. She leaned closer. She had wanted him when she was just a girl. She had chosen him on his yacht, so long ago now. Then in the villa. And again, just yesterday, on a street in Vancouver. She had chosen him. “That is why we are flying across the world, isn’t it?”
“And what makes you think you can handle such a thing?” he asked, searching her face with a deep frown marring his. “I warn you, Tristanne, I do not improve upon a longer acquaintance. Familiarity breeds—”
“Contempt?” she finished for him. She wanted to kiss him, though she did not dare, not when he was in so dark a mood. “Surely not. You are Nikos Katrakis. Who alive could be more fascinating?”
“I am not joking.” His voice was stark, and she understood, suddenly, that he was terrified. This strong, harsh, ruthless man. She had this power over him. She reached over and put a hand on his muscled thigh.
You must love who you love, Vivienne had said with a shrug when Tristanne had haltingly explained that, indeed, she planned to marry Nikos after all, despite everything. And it is only cowards who do not follow their hearts, Tristanne. Remember that.
“I am not from your world, much as I pretend to be,” Nikos said, almost more to himself than to Tristanne. He drummed his fingers against the polished armrest. “People enjoy my money, my power, but do not mistake it—they never forget where I came from.”
“Nor should they,” she shot back at once. His head snapped around in surprise. “You say that as if it is something shameful. There is no shame in your past, Nikos. You overcame near-insurmountable obstacles, and you did it with absolutely no help from anyone. Not even your own father.” She shook her head. “You should be proud.”
