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“No, it doesn’t,” he says suddenly, his expression stern and filled with unexpected understanding. “I still wish you hadn’t gone alone, but I can understand wanting a clean slate.”
But there are stains on my skin that will never fade, and suddenly, I’m overcome with the need to know if he knows that too.
“When you found me... was I.... could you...?” I can’t find the right words, and I stare down at my lap to avoid his gaze. “How much did you see?”
There’s a tense silence that follows that threatens to swallow up my question, but then Tristan shifts slightly from where he’s sitting on the edge of the bed, and I watch wordlessly as he clenches his hands into fists as if it takes a physical effort to hold back the full wrath of his reply.
“Enough,” he says, at last, his eyes distant and unfocused. “I saw enough.”
I’m not sure what to do with that, so I just nod. He still won’t look at me, and for some reason, I can’t stand the quiet pain that darkens his gaze, the quiet anger that clouds his face.
“My mother never mated,” I blurt out, desperate to fill the silence. “She went crazy before she had me, so my birth was a source of shame for the Bane pack. After I was born with violet eyes and no father, my uncle decided I was a mutant mutt. Things only got worse when... when I didn’t manifest a wolf.”
There it is. My terrible secret. My fatal flaw. My disgrace.
But Tristan does not shy away from it. After a long moment, he turns to look at me, and the compassion in his eyes is enough to bring tears to mine.
“You have the scars of a survivor, flower,” he says gently, his voice barely above a whisper. “The only ones who should be ashamed are the ones who gave them to you.”
Silent tears trickle from my eyes, streaming down my cheeks, and when he reaches out to brush them away, I let him.
“You cannot blame yourself for what you didn’t choose. Don’t punish yourself for what you can’t control,” he adds, and I feel myself shatter beneath him when he presses a feather-soft kiss to my forehead.
I am a mosaic, shards of myself glued together by his words until the pieces of me are remade into something new. Not clean or pure, but broken and beautiful.
“But if anyone ever tries to hurt you like that again,” Tristan goes on, his voice husky and hot against my skin, “I will tear their heart out.”
And for the first time in a long time—perhaps the first time ever—I am not afraid.
Chapter Twenty-Five
I gaze up at my mate, feeling as if I'm seeing him for the first time. The way his eyes blaze with fierce protectiveness makes my heart flutter. He looms large and rugged, but I'm struck by the realization that neither his size nor his strength frightens me.
He's a King forged through hardship and heartbreak, and in this moment, seeing the fire in his eyes over the harm that's been done to me, I truly believe he would burn the world to protect me.
I didn't understand it at first, but I should have seen it the second he shielded me from Oscar's blow and offered me his hand. He built this entire pack from the ashes of what his parents left behind and made his territory a safe haven for those who were unwelcome everywhere else.
"I really wasn't trying to run away," I whisper, and he frowns slightly, confused by my words.
"I know."
"No," I insist. I need him to understand why I said it. "I mean, I don't want to go back to the Banes. Ever. I want to be here, and I don't want to be scared anymore."
He leans closer, his hand still cupping the back of my neck, his fingers tangling in my damp blonde hair.
I am lost in the intensity of his gaze, which seems to search mine for something I cannot place.
"I will never run away from you, my king," I say, looking into his eyes.
He leans even closer, and for a moment, he seems torn between kissing me and saying something. But then there's a splashing sound in the bathroom, and he pulls away. Cursing under his breath, he quickly goes to turn off the running water, which I can only assume overfilled the tub and flooded the bathroom.
When he comes back, his expression has changed. He seems more composed now, like the interruption was a cold splash of reality that once again grounded him.
"Your bath is ready, flower," he says simply, walking over to me to hand me a towel. "I'll leave you to wash up and warm up. Call out if you need anything."
As he turns away from me to head for the door, I slip out from under the covers, wrapping the towel around my chest.
"Wait," I say suddenly, not ready to let this feeling slip through my fingers just yet. He wavers, seeming as uncertain as I feel. "Maybe... maybe you could stay?"
