by Reinke, Sara
Tristan.
He and Mason both had suites on the same floor as hers; Mason’s was directly across the hall, while Tristan’s was further down. Mason was well acquainted with his nephew’s remarkable musical talents and had obviously offered him accommodations with a piano to use as he pleased.
While the valet walked on ahead, oblivious to the sound, Karen turned, following the soft strains until they abruptly ended and she found herself outside suite number 1721—Tristan’s. She knew the piece he had been performing: Beethoven’s Für Elise. He’d often played it for his mother on the piano Michel had delivered to the clinic for this specific purpose, and had recorded it so that when he wasn’t around, she could still hear its melancholy, haunting refrains. Lisette had been vegetative, nonresponsive at this point, with no discernable brain activity, but Tristan had been devoted nonetheless, as if through the song, he’d found some last semblance of physical and emotional connection to his dying mother.
In that moment, listening to the piano, Karen felt her heart ache for Tristan. She’d seen for herself, for more than a year, how fiercely dedicated he’d been to his mother’s care, and he’d told her many times about how close he and Lisette had been. He’d felt protective of her, and in the end, responsible for her, and even though he’d likely come to terms with the grim reality of her impending demise years earlier, it couldn’t have made the loss any less poignant or painful for him.
Oh, Tristan. She draped her hand lightly against his door—not a knock, but a caress, as if touching his face, offering him comfort. Closing her eyes, she leaned forward, pressing her forehead against the wood. I know you’re hurting. Why won’t you let me help?
After a moment, she had the strangest sensation—that Tristan had come to stand on the other side of the door, that he’d placed his hand against it just as she’d done, so that they were palm to palm, save for the panel of wood between them. She could swear that he, too, tucked his forehead against the door. He knew she was there, and he was torn inside. She could feel it somehow, feel him, and when he closed his eyes, she could see it in her mind; when he uttered a low, lonely sigh, she could hear it.
“I’m sorry,” he whispered to her, and she heard him, plain as day, as if he’d offered this directly in her ear.
“Miss Pierce?” The valet’s voice came from behind her, soft and hesitant, and she turned in surprise, eyes flying wide. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to startle you.”
Momentarily puzzled, if not somewhat disoriented, Karen looked back at Tristan’s door. The sensation of him standing on the other side—if it had really been there at all—was now gone.
“Dr. Morin is waiting,” the valet told her, sounding uncertain now.
She let her hand linger against the door for another moment, then drew away. Forcing a smile, she turned to the boy. “I’m sorry,” she said. “Lead the way.”
****
Tristan listened through the door as Karen walked away, her footsteps light on the carpet runner in the corridor outside. More than this, her fragrance faded with her, and he closed his eyes again, drawing in the last lingering hints of her sweetness from the air.
It had taken every ounce of strength he’d possessed not to open the door. Upon arriving at his suite, he’d promptly dug out the bottle of Wellbutrin from his bag and choked down another handful. His telepathy had been dampened along with any residual bloodlust again. He hadn’t sensed Karen come to his door with his mind. Instead, it had been the scent of her body, so distinctive and appealing, that had drawn his attention away from his music.
“I’m sorry,” he whispered again, wanting to throw open the door and race after her, catch her. I didn’t want to hurt you, Karen. Last night was amazing, but I fucked it all up. It’s all my fault, and I’m sorry.
Instead he retreated into the bathroom. Flicking on the bright, glaring overhead lights, he dug furiously through his small shaving kit until he found a razor. Working swiftly, he dismantled it, letting the double-edged stainless steel blade fall against the granite countertop. He took it in hand, then squatted on the floor, dropping to his knees in front of the toilet. Holding out his arms, he leveled them, bare and exposed, over the basin, and with his left hand, pressed the edge of the razor hard enough into the flesh just below his right wrist to leave a dent.
For a long moment, he sat there, poised and unmoving, his breath coming in short, ragged gasps. It wouldn’t have taken much. The radial artery wasn’t deep; even with the naked eye, he could see it pulsing beneath the delta of his thumb, marking the frantic, harried cadence of his heartbeat.
It could kill you.
Naima’s voice and words came to mind, haunting him, making him hesitate. Two nights earlier, she’d said this to him. He’d come to her house shortly before midnight, wanting her to feed from him. Usually, she obliged him because to that point, she’d been in on his secret, his sick little fetish.
He liked to bleed.
Not just have a little blood drained from him, the scant amount needed to sustain the Brethren components of his or Naima’s nature—Tristan liked to lose massive amounts of his blood, enough so that if he’d been human, he would die from hypervolemic shock. In fact, it was that state of reflexive physiological shock, an instinctive rush of endorphins through his veins, that made the experience so appealing to him. It was the ultimate high, his body’s last desperate fight-or-flight reaction.
“No, Tristan.” Naima had sat on her couch, her long legs tucked beneath her, her expression unreadable, unflappable. She’d watched him first unbutton, then shrug his way out of his shirt without saying a word, but when he’d stepped toward her, out of the shadows and into the dim circumference of light cast by a nearby lamp, she’d shaken her head. “Not tonight. Not ever again.”
“What?” Bewildered, he’d blinked at her. She’d never denied him before. In fact, she’d admitted to him that a part of her—something primal and predatory in her nature—enjoyed the chance to physically overpower him, the way she imagined a cat must find a favorite toy stuffed with catnip particularly appealing. She’d drain him nearly dry, until that surge of epinephrine would course through him like a sexual climax, and he’d fall unconscious in its wake.
“It’s not good for me,” she said. “Michel thinks it may be causing some of the violent fugues I’ve been suffering. He said something about ingesting too much Brethren blood in one sitting causing a chemical imbalance in our brains. Feral psychosis, he called it.” With a pointed glance, she added, “Not to mention, it could also kill you.”
“You told Michel?” he’d asked in dismay. Although surely not the first Brethren to discover the elusive high that came with nearly bleeding to death, Tristan was the only one he knew who practiced the habit, and it was one he had no doubt his grandfather would disapprove of. “Great. Just great. That’s the last fucking thing I need.”
Humiliated, furious, he’d leaned down, snatching his shirt in hand.
Her brows had lifted, her face softening with gentle sympathy. “Tristan, Michel cares about you.”
He’d managed a clumsy laugh. “Yeah.”
“Why don’t you believe that?”
She’d looked at him and he’d met her gaze, primarily because she’d forced him to through her telekinesis, enveloping his head in a firm but gentle bubble of energy and holding him fast, refusing to allow him to escape or avert his gaze.
Because he rules my life, he’d wanted to say. He’d wanted to shout it at her, hoarse and angry, his fists balled, his brows furrowed. What I eat, what I drink, who I fuck, my job, my house, my car. He trapped my mom here, and now he’s trapped me too. Or he thinks he has, at any rate. He doesn’t care about me. He cares about controlling me, controlling my whole goddamn life. Because I’m not like you. I’m not like Mason or Rene or Brandon or anyone else. I’m a full-blooded Brethren, but a bastard son, and to Michel Morin, that’s no better than being his bitch. His goddamn slave, Naima, and you of all people should know what that feels li
ke!
He hadn’t deliberately opened his mind to his sister and didn’t know if she’d overheard him or not, but in the end, her face had hardened again, growing as smooth and cool as stone, and she’d let him leave without another word.
Tristan’s brows furrowed as, in the bathroom of his hotel suite, he tried to summon some resolve and slash his wrist open. The bleeding would clear his mind. But even though he dug the edge of the blade deeper into his skin, he couldn’t bring himself to do it.
It could kill you, he thought of Naima saying, and he let his fingers relax against the razor. With a soft plunk, it dropped into the toilet, sinking fast, winking with light reflecting off ripples above it.
She was right and he knew it. One of the reasons he didn’t die when Naima bled him almost dry was because the coagulating enzymatic properties of her saliva prevented it. The Brethren could both naturally anesthetize their prey with their saliva, so that biting into them wouldn’t hurt, but could also stave the flow of blood by accelerating the body’s natural clotting mechanisms once their fangs had withdrawn. Within seconds after a Brethren released his or her bite from a victim, bleeding would all but cease.
With a razor blade, on the other hand, Tristan wouldn’t have that kind of benefit. He could suck on his own wrist, of course, letting his own spit affect him, but there was always the chance that he’d pass out from blood loss before being able to do so sufficiently, if at all.
And in that case, I’d bleed out all over the floor. He thought of Karen finding him like that, or Mason. With a heavy sigh, he raked his fingers through his hair. I can’t do that to them.
He heard a knock at his door and glanced over his shoulder. Although he opened his mind reflexively, the medication he’d taken had effectively muffled him, and as before, he could sense nothing discernible. Feeling strangely vulnerable because of this, he rose to his feet and went to the door, using the peephole to peer out into the corridor beyond.
“Mason.” He opened the door, feeling sheepish and ashamed. “Look, about downstairs, what I said…how I acted earlier…I was out of line.”
“Yes, you were,” his uncle agreed with a nod. “But it’s all right.” With a gentle smile, he reached for Tristan. “I loved Lisette too.”
He hooked his hand against the back of Tristan’s neck and Tristan let him pull him against his shoulder in a kind embrace.
“I know,” Tristan whispered, closing his eyes, feeling ridiculously close to tears. “I’m sorry.”
“It’s forgotten.” Mason turned his head slightly, kissing Tristan fondly on the head through his hair. “Now put your shoes on and come with me.”
As he drew back, Tristan shook his head. “Look, Mason. I appreciate the offer, that shit with the spa. Really. But…”
“But it’s not your idea of a good time?” Mason asked.
“Not at all,” Tristan admitted, and Mason laughed.
“I made the spa reservations for Karen,” he said, clapping Tristan on the shoulder. “You and me—we’ve got a tee time to keep. How does that sound?”
Tristan wasn’t much of a golfer either, but all at once, he didn’t care. “Better than a seaweed wrap,” he said, making his uncle laugh again.
CHAPTER EIGHT
Three hours later, Karen closed her eyes and uttered a long, contented sigh as she leaned back against the glass wall of the elevator. Her entire body felt liquefied, as if she’d been scraped hollow from head to toe and refilled with a thick, molten core of warm chocolate or butter.
“Are you all right, miss?” she heard a voice ask hesitantly, and she peeled back a reluctant eyelid, having forgotten she wasn’t alone in the elevator car.
“I’m sorry,” she said with a sheepish smile to the man riding with her. Her cheeks felt hot with sudden blush and she tried to laugh. “I’m fine. I just got finished at the Asiatique Spa, that’s all.”
“Oh.” Brows raised in tandem, an aha! sort of expression, he nodded. “I’m more of a baccarat fan myself.” Her puzzlement must have been apparent on her face, because he leaned toward her and, with a wink and another smile, added in a low, conspiratorial voice, “It’s a card game.”
“Oh.” She laughed.
“It’s a lot of fun,” he promised. “I’d be glad to teach you if you have the time.”
He said this last after a slight but discernable pause, his brow arched slightly to match the wry hook of his mouth.
I’ll be damned, she thought, feeling bright new blush bloom in her cheeks. He’s hitting on me.
The elevator shimmied slightly underfoot as it came to a stop. With a ding and a soft rumble, the doors parted.
“This is, uh, my floor,” Karen said. “Thank you for the offer, though.”
I’ll be damned, she thought again, pressing her hand to her mouth to stifle giggles as she followed the corridor to her room. She’d been on her own at the resort’s spa. When she’d arrived in the lobby at the impressive, multistory indoor waterfall and surrounding koi pond, she’d been greeted by a blonde woman in a formfitting cheongsam-style silk dress, who had introduced herself as Teá.
“Dr. Morin extends his apologies,” Teá had told her with a smile. “As he will be unable to join us this afternoon.”
“Us?” Karen had blinked stupidly, but Teá had continued to smile, offering her hand in invitation.
“Come with me, please, Miss Pierce,” she’d said. “We have some wonderful treatments with which to lavish you today.”
Lavish. Now there was the perfect word for it, Karen mused as she slipped her key card into the narrow slot in her front door and listened for the corresponding click. Any self-consciousness or awkwardness she’d felt once she’d stripped down and stepped into the room had dissolved the moment her masseuse draped his hands against her. Just about anything resembling conscious thought, for that matter, had dissolved at his expert touch, and from there, it had all been blissfully, wondrously downhill.
This may not be me, my life, but I could get used to it just the same, she thought as she crossed the front foyer of her suite, letting the door fall closed behind her. The sun was sinking low in the sky, and she had a nearly panoramic view of both the sunset beyond the mountains, and the neon glow of the strip as it came to life thirty-some-odd stories below.
To her surprise, she found several boxes on her bed, each fashioned with broad black satin bows. A card had been left atop the largest, the envelope unsealed, and when she pulled it out, she saw gilded Trésor stationary.
I hope you don’t mind if I took a few liberties at the resort boutiques on your behalf, Mason had written inside, his script elegantly slanted, signed only with his initial, M.
Curious and excited, Karen untied the bow and let the ribbon droop in lank folds to the ivory bedspread. When she lifted the box top and gently pulled aside the thin layer of tissue paper inside, she uttered a soft gasp.
Oh my God.
It was gorgeous—a black silk halter dress with straps that fastened behind the neck and a hem that hit her at midthigh when she held it up beneath her chin. The empire waist had been fitted with elegant gathers, while the skirt flowed with a flirty buoyancy. The label read Badgley Mischka, the price tag, $650.
“Oh my God.”
In the smaller box, she found a pair of shoes, black satin stilettos with a price of $200.
“Oh my God,” she whispered again, and this time, a laugh escaped.
She heard a knock at the door to her suite, and when she turned, saw another small envelope whisk suddenly beneath, pushed through from the hallway. Intrigued, she set the shoes aside and went to retrieve it—another note from Mason on a second Trésor letterhead card: A few more liberties.
She squinted through the peephole, then drew back in surprise to find four young women waiting patiently in the corridor just outside, each carrying several large, cumbersome cases.
“May I help you?” Karen asked, opening the door, bewildered.
“Dr. Morin sent us, Miss Pierce,” s
aid one of the women with a bright, enthusiastic smile.
“Wh-what for?” she stammered, at a loss.
“I’m from the Cartier pavilion downstairs,” said a redhead dressed in a smart black pantsuit, carrying what looked like a locked briefcase.
“Cartier?” Karen blinked. “You mean, like the jewelry store?”
”I’m from Petite Coquette, our in-house lingerie boutique,” said another.
“And we’re from the resort salon,” said the last, indicating the girl standing beside her. “My name is Andi. We’ll be doing your hair and makeup for this evening.”
“Hair and makeup?”
Andi’s smile remained patient and bright. “Yes, ma’am. We can get started just as soon as you let us in.”
Karen blinked as if she’d been pinched, realizing that she’d been standing in her doorway like an oak tree, immobilized and gawking. Blushing, she drew back, managing a laugh. “Of course. Please come in. I’m sorry.”
“No need to apologize.” Still beaming, Andi and the other women strode briskly past her, trundling their cases and bags into the suite. “It’s our pleasure, Miss Pierce.”
****
“My God, you have a beautiful swing,” Mason remarked as Tristan brought his four-iron around in graceful follow-through after a hearty approach shot on the final green. To the man sitting next to him in the golf cart, he said, “Look at him. Back arched, hips squared, feet perfectly planted. It’s like Michelangelo sculpted him.”
“Beautiful,” the other man, Jaime, agreed with a nod. Once upon a time, Mason might have introduced him to Tristan as “Uncle” Jaime.
Then again, maybe not, Tristan thought. Those Mason had dubbed “uncles” in Tristan’s youth had been men with whom he’d been romantically involved for several months, sometimes years. There hadn’t been a person like that in Mason’s life for a long time, at least three or four years. Jaime was obviously someone Mason had met before, as he’d been waiting for them upon their arrival at the golf course, and Mason liked him well enough to bother introducing him to Tristan—as close to a nod of acknowledgment or approval from his family as he would seek or receive—but even so, they’d done little together except share a bench in the golf cart. It had also been Tristan’s uncomfortable observation that Jaime’s eyes had been riveted with unflinching interest on his ass, not Mason’s, throughout the duration of their game.