Ravished (The Teplo Trilogy #1)

by Ayden K. Morgen

  Pushing the door to the studio open, Lillian drew to a stop.

  Tristan was inside, his chest bare and a pair of dark sweats low on his hips. He had ear buds in his ears and his iPod tucked into his waistband. Sweat drenched his hair. Little beads rolled down the tattoo on his chest, too.

  He looked so fierce, so beautiful.

  The sight of him took her breath away.

  Lillian's heart stuttered.

  The nunchucks in his hands spun fast, slicing through the air in neat arcs. She leaned on the doorjamb to watch as he worked his way back and forth across the room, his step never faltering or slowing. She'd never get used to how gracefully he moved, or to the raw power he exuded. Even without the weapon in his hands, he moved like a leopard. But when he worked through the kata, he was something else altogether. Something feral, beautiful, and dangerous as all hell.

  He noticed her standing in the doorway and dropped the nunchucks to the floor.

  "Hi," she whispered when he pulled the ear buds from his ears.

  He panted, his chest rising and falling in rhythmic exertion. "Hey," he answered.

  She slid her hand along the wall for support, and moved into the room.

  His gaze roamed across her body, taking in every step she made. "You're hurting. How bad is it?"

  She started to lie to him, but couldn't. "It's pretty bad."

  He stepped toward her, regret rippling through his eyes. "I'm sorry."

  "It's not your fault." Despite the ferocity in his claiming the night before, he hadn't hurt her.

  He didn't answer, instead reaching out to pull her into his sweaty arms. She melted into him, clinging to his sweaty body. "God, I missed you," he whispered as if he had not seen her in weeks.

  "I missed you, too."

  He pressed his face into her hair, breathing deeply.

  "How long have you been up?"

  "You need to stretch." He pulled back and unwound her arms from around him, avoiding her gaze.

  She let him help ease her down to the floor, hurt whispering through her. Even when he settled her down, he didn’t look at her again.

  "What's wrong?" she asked.

  "Nothing's wrong."

  "No?"

  "Nothing," he reiterated in a monotone.

  "I'm sorry," she whispered, her voice cracking under the strain of guilt settling down around her. Tears stung her eyes. She closed them. Took a deep breath.

  Why was he so mad at her?

  "Lillian…."

  She waited for him to say something else, but he didn't.

  When she opened her eyes, he was no longer in the room.

  "Lillian, wait."

  Tristan reached out and grabbed her arm as she started to limp by him into the hallway. She stopped, but didn't look at him. She hadn't really looked at him since she'd emerged from her bedroom half an hour before, her eyes red-rimmed and puffy. She'd kept herself locked up in there all day, hadn't even come out to eat breakfast with him after she'd finished stretching and showering. She hadn't eaten lunch, either.

  "I'm sorry," he whispered, hating that he'd made her cry. "Christ, I'm sorry."

  "You have nothing to be sorry for." She turned toward him, her expression carefully blank.

  "No?"

  She shook her head. Took a deep breath. "I'll call Jason. Just let me do it alone, okay?"

  "What?" He gaped at her, blindsided. "You think I want you to-? Why?"

  "You know why." She shrugged as if it didn't matter, but her mask crumpled. Hurt swam in her big, brown eyes.

  "Beautiful, no." He tugged on her arm, forcing her to step into his arms.

  She stood rigidly, her head lowered.

  "Please don't do this," he whispered. "I need you here. I want you here."

  "Tristan, you haven't talked to me all day," she pointed out. "You're angry with me."

  "I'm not angry, Lillian." He made soothing circles on her back, trying to reassure her. He wasn't angry. He was just an idiot. He'd stared at her closed door all fucking morning, trying to work up the courage to open it and tell her… he wasn't sure what he needed to tell her, actually. That he was falling in love with her. That he couldn't keep dragging her into Teplo every night. That he was on the verge of doing something monumentally stupid. He had a thousand different things he needed to say to her, and he didn't know how to say any of them. The words caught in his throat, choking him.

  "No? Then what's wrong? Talk to me, please."

  "I had a nightmare. Shit I've seen. Shit I've caused. Shit I don't want to see." A fucking army of mortuary freezers sucking the life from him. Her lifeless eyes staring up at him.

  "You had a nightmare?"

  "Yes."

  Pure skepticism crossed her face.

  "You scared me last night, beautiful," he said. "The thought of you approaching him, of him hurting you…. I need you safe, Lillian."

  "So you've said," she murmured without heat.

  "You don't understand," he muttered. "Of course you don't understand."

  "Then explain it to me." She shook her head, frustrated. "Talk to me."

  "When I was thirteen, my dad's brother started using," he blurted out. "I knew, but I didn't say anything. I didn't know what to say. And I didn't know how bad things were, but he was in deep. He owed money – a lot of money – to the wrong people. My parents… fuck." He took a deep breath and raked a hand through his hair. "I was a pain in the ass as a kid, always in trouble, always fucking around. When I found out that he was using, I blackmailed him instead of telling my parents… told him I'd keep quiet if he'd hook me up. Nothing hard, just pot. I was just a fucking kid, but I knew what I was doing, and I didn't care. So long as he kept handing over pot for me and my buddies, I didn't give a shit what happened."

  "Tristan-"

  "Wait, okay? Just, wait." He needed to explain before that look in her eye – so soft and uncertain – broke him. "I got into a fight at school and was suspended the day my parents died. My uncle was with them when they got the call that they needed to come and get me. One of his dealer's people drove up on them at a stoplight half a block from the school. He killed them, and they didn't even fucking know why."

  "Oh my god," Lillian whispered, her eyes wide.

  "But I knew. And I never said a word to my parents about it. They died, and I could have stopped it." He blew out a sharp breath. "I heard the shots and took off running. There was blood and glass everywhere. My dad was dead by the time I made it there, but my mom, she wasn't. She was hurt badly, and she was screaming my name. I fought so fucking hard to get to her, but my teacher was holding me back, refusing to let me go.

  "I watched them load her into the ambulance, and then I sat in the fucking waiting room with a bunch of strangers while she died in the OR. All I could hear was her screaming my name. My uncle – the one who caused it – he hung on for a week before he died. I didn't even go see him. I was pissed off at him, so I just let him die alone. And it wasn't his fault, not really. His dealer never should have kept giving him drugs when he knew he couldn't pay, but he did anyway so he could make an example of him. My family died, and he's still out there somewhere, free. People like my parents – people like you – get caught in the middle. They were there because of me; they died because I was a stupid fucking kid. And now you're here because of me, caught in the middle because of me, and I don't know-"

  He broke off, shaking his head. The motion didn't clear his mind. Didn't make the words come any easier. "I went into this knowing what I was doing. I knew what I'd see, what I'd have to do. I knew what people like Anton Vetrov were capable of, but it didn't matter because I didn't have anything left to lose. But I do now. Because of you. And I can't – I don't want you to get hurt because of me. I don't want you to – fuck. I don't want you to die because of me."

  "Tristan, I'm not going to die," she whispered. "I just wanted to help you."

  "I know that." He looked up at her to see that same soft, uncertain look in her eyes. The one
that made him want to crawl inside of her and stay there. "I know you just want to help, but I can't lose you. If he works for Francisco… it's not because he's merciful. He will kill you without hesitation. I can't lose someone else I care about because I fucked up. I just can't." He didn't know how else to explain it to her. To make her understand that he wouldn't survive that shit.

  Losing his parents had torn a hole in his heart. One that had never gotten any smaller until she'd appeared in his life like a fucking dancing angel. She'd changed everything without even trying. Changed him. And if she got hurt because of him, it would destroy him.

  "I'm not going to put myself at risk for no good reason, and I'm not going to do something in the club that you tell me not to do. I know I'm just a ballerina. I know I don't know what I'm doing. But I want to help you. You shouldn't have to do this alone. You already carry so much weight, already blame yourself for so much, and that's not fair to you. You were just a kid, Tristan. It wasn't your fault."

  "Christ, beautiful," he groaned, hugging her to his heart. "You're killing me. You say things like that and I– Fuck." He gave up trying to explain something he didn't even understand. The way she made him feel, the things she made him want… no matter how hard he tried to sort it out and put it into words, he couldn't.

  He kissed her until he couldn't breathe, couldn't think, and couldn't see. And then he eased himself down into the floor and just sat there, trying to calm down.

  "Tristan?"

  "Yeah?" He reached out and tugged her gently down beside him, readjusted her until she was in his arms.

  "Thank you for telling me about your parents."

  He pressed his lips to her forehead.

  "I've never told anyone about them before."

  "Never?"

  He shook his head.

  "Oh." Lillian paused. "Can I say something?"

  "Yeah."

  "I know I'll never be an agent or be able to do a tenth of what you do, but I'm not a child either. I'm not going to run and hide under the bed if I hear something I don't like. But when you don't say it…." She swallowed hard. "I thought you'd changed your mind. That I pushed you too far last night and you were going to-"

  "Beautiful, no," he whispered, turning her until she sat facing him. "I don't want you to go. I know that's messed up, but I want you to stay with me. I…."

  "You what?" she asked when he fell silent, not sure how to say I'm falling in love with you.

  "Really don't want you to go," he said instead. "I – ah, Christ, Lillian. I'd probably do just about anything to keep you here and keep you safe. Don't you know that already, sweetheart?" He pressed his forehead to hers, unable to deny the truth, even if it did damn them both. "Don't you realize how utterly incapable I am of letting you walk away now?"

  She shook her head, looking dazed. "I don't think I could walk away, Tristan," she finally whispered.

  He drew a deep breath and kissed her hard.

  "You aren't just a ballerina, you know." He settled back against the wall. "You're fucking amazing."

  "So are you," she responded.

  He snorted. "I'm a pain in the ass, beautiful. I have no clue what I'm doing when it comes to you, and I seem to fuck it up more often than not."

  "I don't know what I'm doing either," she murmured. "I've never really been in a relationship either."

  "Yeah?"

  Lillian nodded.

  "We'll figure it out together," he promised, tilting her head toward his for a kiss.

  She kissed him back freely, her hands in his hair holding his face to hers.

  When he reached for her top, she groaned.

  "We have to go soon," she reminded him.

  He shook his head, denying her. "We're staying right here tonight," he whispered, brushing his lips across hers again before reaching for the hem of her shirt, fire in his eyes. "Right here."

  She didn't argue further.

  When the phone rang early the following morning, Lillian groaned in protest and rolled toward the sound, too blissed out and exhausted to lift her head from the pillows Tristan had placed beneath her at some point during the night. She had no idea when he'd done so.

  The last thing she remembered was his forehead pressed to hers and his eyes locked on hers as he sent her flying apart in the middle of the night. The pillows hadn't been beneath her head then. His hand had been, protecting her head from the headboard as he thrust into her slowly. So, so slowly.

  She shivered, remembering the way he'd looked at her as he took her. All night long, he'd taken his time with her, demanding she keep her eyes open even when she was sure they were going to roll back in her head and stay there.

  "Good morning," he groaned as she reached over him, trying to find her phone. His arm snaked around her waist, pulling her up against him.

  "Mm," she mumbled in response, warmth spreading through her at every place their bodies met. "Morning." She stretched a little further over him and still couldn't reach the phone on the table. She had no clue how she'd ended up on his side of the bed, either. Another mystery.

  "Lay down, beautiful," he whispered when she grumbled as the phone rang again. "I'll get it."

  She flopped back down gratefully as he stretched to grab her phone from the table. He was warm. Blissfully warm. She sighed in contentment and burrowed back down into the pillows, already on the verge of sleep again.

  "Hello?" he mumbled into the phone as he brushed his lips across her shoulder blade. "Ah… good morning, Mr. Maddox."

  Lillian's eyes flew open.

  "Yes, sir," Tristan mumbled, shooting her an apologetic look. "She's right here."

  Oh, crap!

  She took the phone reluctantly when he held it out to her with a mouthed apology.

  "Hello?" she whispered.

  "Lil, is there something you'd like to tell me?"

  "Um…." She blinked over at Tristan, cursing herself for having avoided telling her father anything about him. Bad plan, obviously.

  "Who is he, Lillian Elise?" Ah, crap. There was no way he'd believe her if she made something up now. He had that tone, the one he pulled out when he wanted answers. Plus, he'd used her middle name.

  "Tristan Riley," she finally mumbled. "His name is Tristan Riley."

  Her father huffed out a breath and then another. "Are you dating?"

  "Yes."

  "How long?"

  She sighed, not sure if they were really counting from three weeks ago, from Trinity a week ago, from when they'd decided on a label two days ago or if they should be counting from some other defining moment.

  Were all relationships so complicated?

  "Lillian?"

  "Three weeks."

  Tristan sat up against the headboard and dragged her up until she was between his legs with her head against his chest.

  "He treats you okay?" her dad asked.

  "Yeah, dad. He's… amazing," she answered.

  Tristan pressed his lips to her crown.

  "If he's not-"

  "He is, I promise."

  Her dad huffed into the phone again. "I'd like to speak with him."

  "Dad."

  "Just hand the boy the phone, Lillian."

  "Fine, but you'd better be nice to him," she muttered, knowing full well that he'd brush off her warning if he felt like it. She held the phone out to Tristan, mouthing an apology.

  He brushed a hand down her cheek, offering her a reassuring smile, before taking the phone from her. "Hello, sir."

  Lillian burrowed back down onto his chest, refusing to stress over this. It was too late to panic now, and her dad hadn't exactly sounded angry. Besides, it wasn't like he would shoot Tristan for answering her phone at – she glanced toward the clock on the bedside table – ugh, not quite eight o'clock in the morning.

  If he tried, she'd just have to tell him that he couldn't shoot a DEA agent.

  Ah, hell.

  He really would shoot Tristan if she told him that part. He'd been a cop for a long time
. The last thing he'd want was for her to get tied up with one, especially if he ever found out what Tristan really did for the DEA.

  Please, don't start poking around, she prayed silently, knowing full well her father would do exactly that if his conversation with Tristan didn't satisfy him.

  "Yes, sir," Tristan murmured into the phone. "No, sir. Very much, sir."

  Lillian could just imagine the questions her dad was asking him. Are you employed? Are you involved in any sort of criminal enterprise? Do you care about my daughter?

  "Of course, sir," Tristan answered, his chest rumbling beneath her ear as he spoke in that low, velvety way of his, not in the least fazed by her father or his inquisition. "Mr. Maddox," he said, "she deserves nothing less."

  Lillian snuggled closer, sighing when he started rubbing lazy circles against her cheek.

  "Yes, sir," he laughed abruptly and hung up.

  She exhaled deeply. "Was it bad?"

  "No," he murmured as he sat the phone back down on the table. "He worries about you."

  She grimaced. "I should have told him about you already."

  Tristan scooted around until they were curled up together again. "Why didn't you?"

  "I hate lying to him," she confessed, peeking up at him.

  "Would it help if he knew the truth?"

  "Hell no. He's… protective since everything happened with Marc." She could just imagine how he father would react if she told him that Tristan was a DEA agent and she was helping him try to stop a group of drug dealers from hooking up with a drug cartel. He'd be on her doorstep in a matter of hours, and nothing she said would stop him from dragging her back to Oregon.

  "I gathered as much," Tristan said. "He wants you to call him later."

  She cringed again and then nodded. "He's going to want to meet you, you know."

  "Okay."

  "Okay?" Lillian lifted her head only to find his eyes closed, not a hint of worry to be found on his face. "That doesn't bother you?"

  "Are you kidding?" He cracked one eye open and looked at her in disbelief. "He's your father. It scares the shit out of me."