At His Mercy

by Shelly Bell

  “Then why do you believe I’d think any less of you? You may not be my son,” Isaac said, tearing up, “but I couldn’t be any prouder of the man you’ve become.”

  Tristan laughed, the act making his throat feel as though he’d swallowed sandpaper. Any other time, he would’ve happily eaten that line of bullshit. “How can you say you’re proud of me? My life is in shambles.”

  “Once you’re cleared—”

  “Being arrested is just the rancid icing on the poisoned cake.” There was an ocean full of differences between himself and his mentor. “Look at me, Isaac. I’ve failed at everything.”

  “You’re only twenty-eight years old, Tristan. Did you really believe you wouldn’t make a few mistakes along the way to greatness?”

  The damage Tristan had caused to everyone who cared about him was more than a few mistakes. Like a black hole, he sucked them into his gravitational pull without the chance of escape. Because of him, Morgan had been given the opportunity to blackmail Isaac. Because of him, Ryder couldn’t grow Novateur into the company he deserved. Because of him…

  “Isabella is in the hospital because of me.” His throat thickened with emotion. “She could die, just like my—”

  “Mother,” he said softly, reaching out to cover Tristan’s handcuffed hands with one of his own. “You didn’t put Isabella in the hospital. Chloe did that.”

  Chloe may have been ultimately responsible, but he’d set the pieces into motion. “If I’d just been stronger, stayed away from her…”

  “You’re a Dom, not God,” Isaac quipped.

  He knew?

  “Don’t look at me like that. I make no judgment when it comes to sex. Or love.” His tired eyes softened. “We can’t help who we love. You couldn’t have prevented yourself from falling in love with Isabella any more than I can keep it from snowing. Some things are out of our control. Including your mother’s death.”

  “Ryder said something similar,” he said.

  And Tristan disagreed with them both. No, he didn’t blame himself for falling in love with Isabella. Anyone who really knew her would have fallen just as easily. But if he’d done something—anything—differently, Isabella wouldn’t have been injured. If he’d stayed home instead of going away to college, he would’ve noticed his mother was sick.

  Isaac was wrong.

  The commonality between the two women was Tristan’s failure to protect them.

  “I lost a married friend to pancreatic cancer,” Isaac said, patting the top of Tristan’s hand sympathetically. “He went as quickly as your mother, even having a wife by his side the entire time. Your being there wouldn’t have changed anything.”

  It would have changed everything. “She wouldn’t have died alone!” How could she have kept that from him? While she’d been wasting away, he was having the time of his life. “She should’ve told me she was dying!”

  “I can’t pretend to know what was in her mind, but I could guess what was in her heart. You were happy at Edison. She didn’t want to take that away from you. If you’d known she was dying, you would’ve spent every day at her side, watching her grow weaker and weaker, mourning her before she was even gone. She didn’t want that for you.”

  He’d always loved his mother, but after receiving a call from hospice about her passing, he’d hated her as well. “What about what I wanted? She made the decision for me.”

  She’d stripped him of control and had sent his life into a tailspin that he’d never recovered from.

  “Like you did with Isabella?”

  Tristan’s jaw dropped. How did he know that he’d broken things off with her when he shouldn’t have even known they were together in the first place?

  Isaac shrugged. “Ryder.”

  Fucking prick. “He shouldn’t have told you.”

  Isaac nodded. “I agree. You should have told me.”

  If only it were that easy. But just like now, handcuffed and under arrest, he’d had no choice. His hands had been tied. “My relationship with Isabella broke the university’s rules. I couldn’t tell you.”

  Something glittered in Isaac’s eyes. “You could always tell me. It was your decision not to.”

  “To protect Isabella.”

  Isaac didn’t pull any punches. “And yourself.”

  “At first.” He’d always worried about Isabella’s future, but yeah, he’d worried about his own ass too. “I didn’t want to risk my job or my chances at qualifying for a business loan.”

  “And now?”

  “Nothing matters but Isabella.”

  For her happiness, he’d give it all up.

  No matter what it cost him.

  Isaac leaned back in his chair and exhaled. “It’s time you let people in, Tristan. Ryder. Me. Isabella. You might be surprised at what happens.”

  Thirty

  Time crawled in a jail cell, each minute lasting an hour and each hour lasting a day. It was nothing like it was portrayed on television. He wore gray not orange. Ate meals with plastic sporks. No one threatened him with a shank. And he didn’t have a cell mate named Bubba who wanted to make him his teddy bear. No, instead he got Buddy, who smelled as if he’d never taken a shower in his life.

  The cell he called his temporary home was smaller than any Edison dorm room and came with two single beds and a toilet. In jail, prisoners were tortured by boredom. Tristan had never read so many magazines in his life. Ones on golf and weight lifting, entertainment, a year-old Time and decade-old National Geographic. If this was going to be his life, he’d definitely need Ryder to bring him better reading material.

  But reading filled only so many hours. The rest of the time, he spent thinking. Thinking so much he’d swear his brain would explode.

  It was as if he was playing home movies of his life in his head. All he needed was popcorn, a Coke, and a package of licorice to make it complete. Some memories made him laugh, several memories made him cringe, and a few memories almost brought tears to his eyes. Those were the ones that lingered with him well after lights-out, when he lay on the thin mattress with a scratchy excuse of a blanket over him and tried to sleep.

  He wondered about why Isabella had been on that tower and why Chloe had stabbed her.

  But mostly, he thought about what Isaac had said to him in the interrogation room.

  Was he really not to blame for his mother’s death?

  When he’d gotten into Edison, his mother had been so proud. After all, his father had also graduated from there, and look at how successful he’d been. Why his mother cared about anything to do with the dishonorable Winston Kelley, he had no idea. If anything, it made a stronger argument to go somewhere else for his education. He could’ve stayed local and lived at home, or at least have gone to a school closer to home. But the truth was he was eighteen and seduced by the idea of being on his own for the first time in his life.

  No one would’ve ever called him a mama’s boy—at least not to his face—but with no other family, he and his mother had always been a team of two. But he was tired of always worrying about her, and he wanted the opportunity to spread his wings.

  Four months after he’d started at Edison, he got the phone call that had changed his life. He’d learned later from her physician that she was diagnosed shortly after he’d left, when she was taken by ambulance to the hospital because of severe back pain.

  And she had never uttered a fucking word of it to Tristan. Every phone call had been the same. I’m fine, everything’s fine, tell me about you.

  Already at stage four at the time of her diagnosis, there had been no option of chemo or surgery. Only treatment for the symptoms. Lying in her casket four months after the last time he’d seen her, she must have lost thirty pounds off of her petite frame. No wonder she hadn’t wanted him to come home for Thanksgiving. One look and he would’ve known. He never would have returned to school that semester. And he would have stayed and cared for her until the bitter end.

  But she’d taken that right from him. />
  She’d taken his control.

  Was that why Ryder had asked about Tristan’s reasons for being a Dom? Why Isaac had made a point of telling him he was only a Dom and not God?

  Tristan lay back on his cot and put his arms behind his head.

  Before now, he’d credited BDSM with helping him quit the drugs and get his life back on track, but he’d never wanted to think about what had made him jump the rails in the first place.

  Were they right? Had he actually become a Dom to regain the control he’d lost because his mother had kept his illness from him and to do what Ryder had suggested? Keep women at arm’s length?

  If it wasn’t so tragic, he could’ve laughed. Ten years of beating himself up and it was all because he had mommy issues.

  He’d been content to stay with Morgan because he’d never really cared about her in the first place. If he had, he would’ve seen through her shiny veneer to the cold, calculating bitch underneath. She had given him what he’d needed at the time…

  The illusion of control.

  But he’d never been happy with her. How could he have let himself be when he didn’t feel he deserved it? If anything, Morgan had been his misguided repentance for failing his mother. He’d married her because he knew deep down that he could never love her. And that had kept his heart protected and his conscience clear.

  Because if you didn’t love someone, they couldn’t disappoint you and you couldn’t fail them.

  A BDSM exchange of power between a Dom and sub required honest and open communication on both sides. Over the years, he’d negotiated dozens of scenes with dozens of subs, but until Isabella, he’d always kept his guard up. Honesty had only gone as far as sexual limits and boundaries. But his first night with Isabella had been different. She’d challenged him. Even with her shyness, she’d demanded as much honesty from him as he demanded of her. And he’d given it, at least as much as he was able.

  It had been easy that night because he wasn’t supposed to see her again. But then she’d turned up here in Edison, and honesty became harder to come by. After all, if he let her in as Isaac and Ryder had suggested, she would see him, warts and all. She’d see that he wasn’t worth the effort. Even worse…he’d destroy her.

  He’d done everything in his power to keep her safe. Taught her self-defense. Shown her to find her strength through submission. Broken up with her. And still, she’d been injured.

  It was as if no matter what action he had taken…no matter what he’d decided…even if he and Isabella had never met…Isabella would have still been hurt.

  Despite what he’d told himself, there were some things out of his hands. For some unknown reason, Isabella had made the decision to go up to the top of the tower, and Chloe had chosen to commit suicide. His mother had kept him in the dark about her cancer.

  People had the right to self-determination.

  Ultimately, the only person he could control was himself.

  Whether those things were a result of destiny, fate, or a series of random acts, he didn’t have the power to stop them. So why then was he holding himself responsible?

  The bars of his cell slid open and a cop waved a hand. “Tristan Kelley, please come with me.”

  Not needing to be asked twice, Tristan rolled out of his cot and followed the cop down the hall. Isaac had promised to visit him today to go over the details of his upcoming arraignment and, more importantly, to bring news about Isabella.

  The officer ushered him into a tiny room and then left, closing the steel door behind him. Inside the dim room, there was a single chair bolted to the floor and in front of it, was a window.

  And on the other side sat an angel with fiery red hair and a smile that lit up the darkest night.

  * * *

  “Isabella.” Tristan stared at her in shock with bloodshot eyes.

  She hated that they were separated by a pane of glass. In an awful pale gray jumpsuit, he looked haggard, as if he hadn’t slept in weeks. In the couple of days since she’d seen him, he’d grown a short beard and the beginnings of a mustache. But the facial hair couldn’t mask the deep lines etched around his eyes and mouth.

  She wanted to wipe away those lines with her fingertips and put the light back into his eyes.

  He didn’t deserve to be in jail.

  But if she got her way, he’d walk out with her today.

  “Why aren’t you in the hospital?” he asked, his voice carrying through the windowpane. The sound rolled over her like a caress, working better than her prescription medicine at alleviating the pain in her side.

  “I just got out.” She saw the worry for her in the rigid set of his jaw. “I’m fine. A bit fatigued, a lot sore, but otherwise unharmed.” Her doctor had told her that on the tower, she’d gone into shock from the blood loss and had been dead for nearly a minute before the EMTs had revived her. “And I needed to see you. There are some things you should know.”

  “If this is about us, I’ve done a lot of thinking in here, and—”

  “Chloe killed Morgan,” she blurted out before Tristan could say another word. Before he made any decisions, he deserved to know the truth about what had transpired on the tower. For the next ten minutes, he sat quietly, giving away nothing as she filled him in about everything Chloe had admitted to her. When she finished, there was a long silence.

  His gaze slid away from her, and he sighed with his whole body.

  She waited for him to wrongly take the blame.

  For him to thank her for visiting before dismissing her.

  For him to lie to her about what he’d told her when he thought she was dying.

  But she remembered. Those words had been her lifeline as she fought against the darkness of death to get back to him.

  He turned his head to look her straight in the eyes, with his nostrils flared and his lips parted. “I love you,” he said. “And my life doesn’t make sense without you in it. Chloe, Morgan, the university, Novateur, none of it matters anymore. What matters is you and me and where we go from here.”

  Damn this wall of glass.

  Tears slid down her cheeks. “I love you too. Which is why I wanted to talk to you before I give my statement to the police. I can’t be with you unless you’re willing to give me everything, so I need to know…Do you trust me?”

  He lit up the dim room with his smile. “Yes. Without a doubt, yes.”

  “Then you have to let me tell them the whole truth. I won’t have you making stupid sacrifices on my behalf anymore. I’ll give you my submission, but I can’t agree to you making decisions for me that haven’t been negotiated. I know your heart was in the right place when you said those awful words to me on the bridge, but from now on, I deserve your honesty.” She put both hands against the window. “Because your fight is my fight, Tristan.”

  Making his pledge, he matched her motion, placing them palm to palm. “From now on, we fight together.”

  Epilogue

  Isabella set the cookies on the cooling rack and bumped the oven door closed with her hip. The scent of brown sugar and vanilla made her mouth water, but these weren’t for her. After baking for Professor Weaver’s party, she’d scheduled enough events to keep her busy for the rest of the school year. These were for the students of Edison Elementary School’s Springtime Celebration. She wouldn’t make any money on them, but after learning that the school had eliminated parties because it put an undue financial burden on parents to supply treats for the kids, Isabella had volunteered to bake for the event.

  A pair of arms wrapped around her waist from behind to grab a cookie. She slapped his hand. “Those are for the kids.”

  “They won’t miss one,” Tristan said, nibbling on her neck.

  She relaxed against him and closed her eyes, bathing in his heat. “You’re insatiable.”

  “For you.” He turned her around and claimed her lips, kissing her passionately before pulling back.

  She glanced at the oven clock. They had less than an hour before they’d pl
anned to leave, and she still needed to drop off the cookies before she and Tristan headed down to the city. “Are you packed?”

  “Mm,” he answered, chewing on his cookie as he leaned against the counter. “Are you sure your parents are okay with my staying at their home for the holiday? I could always sleep at Ryder’s.”

  For the last several months, Isabella had made a concentrated effort to repair her relationship with her family. She called home weekly and text messaged with her mom almost daily. After Isabella had revealed to them everything that had occurred leading up to her stabbing, they’d begged Isabella to return home for college, placing the blame on the university and the man who’d “seduced” their daughter. She’d left the decision to fate. If she were expelled, she would’ve moved back.

  But thanks to some creative maneuvering, Dean Lancaster had been able to negotiate a deal that allowed her to remain a student at the university. She’d had to drop her Intro to Business class, but luckily, she was able to take it at the local community college this semester. As for her work-study, Dean Lancaster had taken it over temporarily until Professor Weaver had gotten an available opening. Unfortunately, she’d probably lost any chance to get into the business administration program.

  Her parents hadn’t been pleased with her decision to stay at Edison. To say it was tense during her visit home at Christmas would be an understatement. Her parents had refused to consider even meeting Tristan, much less invite him to Christmas dinner. So, she’d divided her winter holiday between her family and Tristan, spending Christmas in the city and New Year’s Eve with Tristan in Edison.

  But over time, her parents’ anger had ebbed, especially after Dean Lancaster had paid them a visit. She didn’t know what he’d said to change their minds, but from that point, they’d been more receptive to the idea of her and Tristan being a permanent couple.

  Isabella swiped the tins from the pantry and scooped the cookies into them. “I told you, they want you there. Mom has already cleaned out a room for you.” She snorted. Poor guy. “Hope you don’t mind sleeping on Super Mario bedsheets.”