Rhapsody (The Teplo Trilogy #2)

by Ayden K. Morgen

  "How to proceed? We arrest all of them is how we proceed, Jase."

  Jason's expression blanked. "Tristan, listen to me, man."

  "No!" He ripped his arm out of John hold, his fists clenching again. He already knew what Jason was going to say and screw that. "They tried to kidnap her, Jase. The redhead pulled a gun on her and let Malachi drag her off, and you want me to let it go? Fuck that!"

  "With Malachi taking the blame, we can't prove anyone else on Anton's payroll was involved right now. You know we can't," Jason answered calmly.

  "Bullshit," Tristan yelled. "Hannah got a fucking text message in the bathroom right before she started acting like Lillian's best friend. After the redhead saw Lillian alone. Don't tell me we can't get those phone records! We're the DEA, for Christ's sake!"

  "That's not what I meant." Jason held his hands up.

  "Then what the hell do you mean, Jase? Because I fail to see what the holdup is. Everyone knows they were in this shit together. And you're saying we pretend it didn't happen? They. Tried. To. Kidnap. Her. What part of that aren't you understanding?"

  Jesus Christ, he wanted to take a swing at Jason. The only thing stopping him was John's hand on his chest.

  "We don't even know who the redhead is, Tristan, let alone where to find her."

  "You'll find her with Elijah!" They all knew who that sorry son of a bitch was, too.

  "If we're lucky," Jason snapped. "Look, Simon is going through schematics on tunnels, sewers, and whatever else he can find for the area. Give me until Sunday and we can take them all down at once. For all of it. They messed up, Tristan. You just have to give us time to connect it all together, find that entrance, and cement the entire case."

  "Right, because looking for the lab has worked so well for us thus far," Tristan sneered.

  "Goddammit. Will you stop reacting and think for a minute? He was taking her somewhere, and he certainly didn't have a car stowed around back, which means he had a place to hide her. If the lab isn't in the club, and we aren't sure it is at this point, I'm going to guess wherever he planned to take her is where they took all of their victims. And that's the same place we've been trying to find for weeks."

  If they found that entrance and could place any of the victims there—a drop of blood, a hair, a fucking fingerprint on something would be more than enough—they could take out every single one of the motherfuckers for all their crimes…the drugs, the murders. All of it. But Vetrov wouldn't wait around for the DEA to descend on them now. Malachi could make up whatever bullshit story he wanted—and goddamn him for even thinking that shit about Lillian—but they all knew he was lying. Vetrov would have that lab cleaned out and be gone in twenty-four hours or less.

  "Three days, Tristan. Give me three days," Jason said, his voice quiet but firm.

  "I'll think about it," he lied.

  "Do more than think about it."

  "Or what, Jase? She's in there, bruised all to hell because these twisted fucking psychos told her they were going to kill me if she didn't walk out that door and let a serial rapist and murderer drag her away. It's my fault." He took a deep breath, trying to find a thread of calm through the furor in his mind. "And you're asking me to wait and hope they don't clean up and disappear in the meantime? That's bullshit, and you know it."

  "I'm not asking you, Tristan. I'm telling you that you are not going in there yourself. You will wait until I tell you otherwise." Jason glared at him, his jaw clenched and his arms crossed. "If you don't, I will pull your badge. That's not a threat. I've already asked Davis to draw up the paperwork to suspend you," he said calmly, making it clear he wasn't bluffing.

  Not that Tristan doubted him. This shit had become too personal for him and everyone knew it. He'd have done the same exact thing if he were in Jason's shoes. But he wasn't in Jason's shoes. And it wasn't Jason's reason for being sitting in there with vicious bruises on her body and tears staining her face. If it'd been Zoë, he knew damn well that Jason wouldn't let it ride and hope shit came together before Vetrov and his people disappeared into the sunset with the drugs.

  "You do what you have to do," he finally answered. "And I'll do what I have to do. But I promise you, I'm not waiting three days, and they aren't walking away from this. I don't give a fuck if I have to kill every single one of them myself, Jase. They aren't walking away."

  "Tristan, no!" Lillian cried out from behind him.

  He turned to find her and Zoë standing side by side in the doorway. For a split second, he glared at her, not really seeing her there at all. All he could see was Jason's stony expression. As the naked fear stamped across her pale face finally registered through the dim haze of anger, his expression softened.

  She looked so lost, so afraid. He didn't know how to fix that. All he could do was promise that Malachi, the redhead—every single one of those bastards—wouldn't have the chance to come at her once more. And they wouldn't. Not if he had anything to say about it.

  He cursed—at himself, at Jason, he didn't know—and started across the room toward her, shaking off John's restraining hand. Lillian shook her head as he approached and took a step backward, away from him.

  "Don't," she said, her voice a thin whisper.

  "Beautiful."

  "Don't," she repeated and took another step back.

  He stopped advancing toward her, his chest aching when she continued backing away from him as if frightened. As soon as he stopped moving, she stopped, too. It killed him to realize she was afraid of him.

  Zoë slipped past him, leaving him to face Lillian alone.

  "Beautiful," he said a second time, not really sure what to say.

  "No." She shook her head. "No, you can't do this."

  "I can do this," he corrected. "I can and I will."

  "I won't let you," she whispered, blinking rapidly as tears filled her eyes.

  He wanted, desperately, to cross the remaining distance between them and pull her into his arms, but she'd told him no. That hurt more than he would have believed possible. Not that he could blame her for not wanting him to touch her. Now that she was through the shock, he wouldn't blame her even when she told him she never wanted to see him again. And soon enough, she would say those words. The bruises on her arm, her red-rimmed eyes, the tear tracks on her cheeks…every bit of her pain was his fault.

  He'd promised her that he'd keep her safe; fucking swore to her that she wouldn't be hurt.

  How could she forgive him for failing her? Why would she?

  "It's not your choice, Lillian," he said, far more calmly than he felt. Inside, he was dying. "It's mine, and I've already made it."

  "You aren't a murderer, Tristan."

  He might as well be. His parents. Elizabeth James. Emma Buford. How many other innocent people had died because of his failures? How many people like Lillian had to suffer because he was a selfish prick?

  "This isn't right," she said, her bottom lip trembling. "None of this is right."

  "When was it ever?" he asked quietly.

  Her eyes met his and then bounced away, focusing over his shoulder. He wanted her to argue with him, and tell him to stop being stupid. Wanted her to reassure him that they were fine, and that she wouldn't learn to hate him for this. But she didn't. She couldn't even look at him.

  "I need to speak to Tristan. Alone," she announced, her voice trembling. Guilt flickered in her expression, as if she knew she was about to break his heart and regretted having to do it.

  No, baby, he wanted to tell her. Don't do this to yourself. Not for me.

  "Of course," Jason drawled. "We're going to…." He didn't finish the sentence.

  "Thank you." Lillian nodded before turning back to Tristan, her face a careful mask.

  He wanted to beg her to tell him what she was thinking, but he couldn't find the will to open his mouth. Maybe he was a complete coward, but he didn't want to hear her say that she was leaving him. That he never should have believed he could ever be good enough for her.

  S
he hadn't even said anything yet and he already felt eviscerated.

  How the hell was he supposed to deal when she walked out of his life?

  How long did he have left? An hour? Less?

  The door closed with a startling ring of finality as everyone exited, leaving them alone for the first time in more hours than he cared to count. Any other time, he would have welcomed the silence. He didn't this time. She didn't make a move toward him, didn't open her mouth. For long minutes, she stared at him. The silence tortured him.

  If this was the end, he'd rather get it over with now than keep waiting in limbo. He wanted a clean blow. Maybe then his mind would stop racing, trying to imagine the rest of his life without her. Maybe that's what they both required.

  A clean blow.

  "Tristan, I–"

  "You're leaving," he said, hating the way his voice cracked on the words. Just saying them…God, he wasn't going to survive this.

  "What?" She blinked at him.

  He was too caught up in his own mind to respond, in analyzing what he should have done, could have done, in everything that would have made this different, made it hurt less. Except he couldn't do any of that now. All he could do was let her go, and hope Vetrov's people put him out of his misery when he went after them because he wouldn't survive this. But that didn't matter. So long as she didn't blame herself, that was all that mattered.

  "Promise me you'll take care of yourself," he whispered hoarsely.

  "Tristan–"

  "Promise me," he demanded. Before he could do what he had to do, he had to know she would be okay. She was the only thing that mattered. God, he loved her. And he'd been right all along.

  Love was fucking torture.

  Lillian stared at him, her heart breaking at the tortured expression on his face. She'd only thought he looked broken earlier. She knew better now. He seemed completely torn apart, as if somewhere between the time she'd fallen asleep an hour ago and waking up to him and Jason yelling at one another, he'd lost everything. Lost himself.

  How could he ever think she'd leave him?

  "Tristan, I'm not going anywhere," she said, tears leaking from her eyes.

  "I promised to keep you safe, and I didn't. I failed–"

  "I'm not going anywhere."

  "I'm so fucking sorry, beautiful. So fucking–" He shook his head back and forth as his voice broke. "You were so brave, and I–"

  "Tristan! Goddammit!" she shouted, desperate to get through to him.

  He blinked at her, his mouth still open as if he intended to say something else.

  "I'm not going anywhere," she repeated. "I'm not leaving. Not ever. Why would you think that? How could you…?" She couldn't finish the question, couldn't ask him how he could think so little of her to believe she blamed him for Malachi. Because she knew it wasn't her he didn't have faith in. It was himself. He didn't think he deserved to be loved, didn't think he deserved her. And that was a damn tragedy, because no one deserved love more than he did.

  "I love you, Tristan," she told him. "Don't you get that? I love you."

  "Beautiful, I–" He broke off, bowing his head.

  She crossed to him as a low, broken groan fell from his lips, and wrapped her arms around his waist, burrowing into his hard chest. For a long, intolerable minute, he stood there, not touching her. And then he wrapped his arms around her, burying his face in her hair on another broken groan.

  "I love you," she said as he hugged her hard, his breath coming in sharp inhalations and shuddering exhalations. "I love you." She chanted it over and over, trying to make him believe it as he fell apart in her arms.

  "Oh God, baby," he whispered. "I'm sorry. I'm so sorry."

  Her tears soaked his shirt as they clung to one another.

  "I'm so fucking sorry," he groaned, finally lifting his head to look at her. His eyes were dry, but the overwhelming guilt lingering in their depths sent another wave of pain through her.

  "It's not your fault, baby." How was she supposed to make him understand that? He hadn't forced her to walk into Teplo. He hadn't made her follow the redhead. He hadn't been the one to drag her away. She was a big girl. She made her own decisions, her own choices, and she'd chosen her path. She'd chosen him.

  "It is my fault," he argued, brushing away her tears. The tender action tugged at the ragged edges of her heart. "You wouldn't have been there if it weren't for me. You wouldn't have been hurt." Another shudder raced through him, causing his hands to tremble where he cupped her face. "They tried to kidnap you, Lillian."

  "And they failed," she pointed out, her voice a gentle murmur.

  "Because we got lucky. If Kincaid hadn't been there…."

  "But he was there, Tristan. He was there because you did everything you could to make sure I would be safe when I went in there tonight, exactly like you have every other night we've walked through those doors. You didn't know they were planning this. You couldn't know."

  "I should have known."

  "Stop," she demanded, placing her fingers over his lips. "Just stop. I'm fine."

  "You're not fine." He reached out and grabbed her arm in a gentle vise, lifting it carefully. She grimaced as she caught sight of the angry, swollen bruises ringing her upper arm like a bracelet. "This isn't fine! He could have killed you. He wanted to–" His expression crumbled.

  Her stomach roiled at the thought of what Malachi might have said he wanted from her, but she forced the nausea back, refusing to dwell on the subject. Malachi wouldn't get near her anytime soon. And neither would anyone else who worked for Vetrov. Tristan simply needed to give Jason time to get things together so they could put them all into cells right alongside Malachi.

  "But I wasn't." She pulled her arm away from him and placed her hand on his chest, over his pounding heart. "And now you have a real chance to take them all down, just like you wanted."

  "You think I wanted this?" A harsh laugh of disbelief burst from his lips.

  She grimaced, cursing herself for her poor choice of words. "That's not what I meant."

  "No?" he asked and then paced away from her, the fight leaving him. "Christ, Lillian, I never wanted this. All I wanted, all I could see, was you. You're all I've been able to see from day one. You consumed me. And now–" He exhaled sharply. "And now…."

  "And now what?" She whispered the question, her heart lodged in her throat at the way he said it, as if something had changed for him. As if he no longer felt the same, no longer wanted her the same way.

  "And now it's over," he said, turning back to her. His expression was blank, the walls she'd so recently toppled once more firmly in place. "I can't…I can't do this anymore."

  He wanted out.

  She shook her head as his words hit her hard, fracturing her from the inside out. Placing a hand over her heart, she fought for breath, refusing to accept that he meant it. "No," she mumbled.

  "I can't do this with you anymore," he said again.

  For a minute, she believed him. Believed he meant it, that he was done. That she'd been right, and he couldn't forgive her for tonight. Her plan to help him had instead broken him, and he couldn't see past it. And then she saw the flash of pain in his eyes, the one he tried to hide from her, and knew he didn't mean what he'd said. He was trying to make her hate him so she'd run somewhere safe and never think about him or what could have been. Because he'd rather break her heart and his than put her in harm's way anymore.

  Well, screw that. She wasn't going to let him do it.

  "I don't want you here, Lillian."

  "You're lying." She took a step toward him and then another.

  This time, he backed up. She didn't stop advancing though.

  "I'm not," he lied, retreating until his back hit the glass window.

  She stopped directly in front of him, refusing to let him throw their relationship—throw them— away.

  "I don't want you here anymore."

  "That's not true, and you know it isn't. You don't want to want me here, but you do
."

  "No." He shook his head in denial.

  "Do you love me, Tristan?"

  "That's not…." He shook his head again. "That's not the point." Even now, trying to make her leave, he couldn't deny how he felt about her.

  She wanted to thank God for that. She also wanted to slap Tristan for this, to shake him and scream at him. He'd told her so many times that he couldn't let her walk away. And now he tried to push her into doing exactly that because things hadn't gone as planned tonight? No.

  Maybe she should have taken her gun tonight. Maybe she shouldn't have demanded he let her approach the blond in the first place. Maybe a thousand different things should have gone a thousand different ways, but she wasn't walking away because tonight had been a disaster, and neither was he.

  "Tell me you don't love me and I'll go," she lied, knowing full well she wasn't going anywhere, no matter what he said. She'd told Rachel that she would fight for him, she'd promised herself that she'd fight him if that's what it took, and she'd meant it. She would fight for him. Until she couldn't fight anymore. "Tell me, Tristan."

  "I don't…" He licked his lips nervously and glanced away from her. "…love…" He couldn't finish that lie either.

  Even so, she barely contained the full-bodied flinch hearing him try to say it sent through her. Hearing him try to push her away, even knowing he couldn't do it, hurt. But it was a lie and he couldn't force the words out.

  "Tell me you don't want me," she demanded.

  "I don't." He avoided her gaze.

  She reached out and wrapped her hand around the bulge in his pants. He groaned, his head smacking the window hard. "Liar," she whispered, squeezing when his gaze flew back to hers. Even now, when the situation spiraled out of control, he was hard for her.

  "You want me," she challenged him. He swallowed harshly when she rubbed him through his jeans, causing his cock to twitch against her palm. "You're dying for me, Tristan. Standing there, not touching me, is fucking killing you."

  "No," he groaned, muscles tightening all over his body as he tried to hold himself in place.

  She tugged at the zipper of his jeans. "You do want me. You want me so badly you're ready to beg me for it." He groaned wordlessly as she popped the button. "Don't tell me that's not true. I can feel it." She pressed her palm to him through the fabric of his boxers, indicating exactly what she meant. "You ache for me."