by Everly Frost
He said we would experience each other’s darkness but all I feel now is calm. Peace. Maybe trusting each other was the hardest part…
My senses suddenly scream at me and I can’t stop myself from tensing up again.
A new wave of pain washes through me and… oh, damn…
It burns.
I gasp, my breathing becoming wild as the sensation of flames rushes through me, spreading through my body, making me shiver and sweat. At the same time, Tristan groans behind me, a sound of pure agony. His fingers splay against my chest, stretching and clawing again, more dangerous than before.
“What’s happening?” I gasp, trying to understand this new pain.
“Our wolves,” he groans. “They’re experiencing each other’s pain now. The darkness will follow. My wolf is tearing itself up like yours was. But now yours—” He writhes behind me, all the hard planes of his chest and thighs pressing up against me. His fingernails drag through the top of my bra, cutting through the padding, scratching across my chest.
He moans against the back of my neck. “Your wolf will feel what I feel when I’m near you.”
He said his wolf was slowly burning up.
But there is so much about burning up that he didn’t tell me.
It’s a different kind of ripping apart—not self-destruction from hurt and rejection, but two desires raging against each other. My senses fill with darkness and the recognition of a threat greater than any I’ve encountered before. I struggle against its pull, even though my mind screams at me that the darkness Tristan perceives is me.
I am the threat.
But on the other side of the battle is a wildfire, a burn that spreads through me and it doesn’t want me to fight the darkness. No, it wants the darkness. To become part of the darkness. To lose myself in it.
I pull air into my chest. Close my eyes. Let the heat wash through me in waves. Let the seductive pull of the dark drag me down.
Gripping Tristan’s hand, I twist, scissor my legs, shove his upper shoulder to push him onto his back, and straddle him, while somehow managing to keep his palm pressed against my heart.
On top of him now, I rest on his hips, ignoring the fact that he’s naked and that for the first time, he’s in too much pain to overpower me.
His breathing is shallow, his gaze unfocused, his stomach muscles clenched. The pain that was ripping me apart is destroying him. My own inner darkness, forged from rejection and pain is tearing him apart.
The fire rising inside me whispers to me to take whatever I want from him while he’s vulnerable. Take my pleasure from his body. Take control of his pack. Take his life. Succumb to the dark, know that I am stronger than anyone else, and do whatever I wish.
His biceps tense as he reaches up with his free hand to push my hair back—to see half of my face, the other half hidden behind the remaining curtain of my hair.
“Your eyes,” he says. “They show me everything I don’t want to see about myself.”
Gripping his hand, keeping it pressed against my heart—the only anchor I have—I lean close to him, balance myself on my fist beside his head on the pillow and fight the desire that rages through me, the overwhelming sensation of my heated skin against his. “What do you see now?”
“You’re going to kill me,” he says.
The rising fire inside me tells me to do it.
Do it now. Claim your freedom.
I shake my head, denying the burn.
It feels like power, but it’s just another form of destruction. Right now, Tristan is feeling what I was feeling, all my rejection and hurt. He warned me that our minds could be lost in each other’s darkness. If I give in to the impulses to dominate him, I’ll only be killing myself.
Slowly lowering my torso to his chest, I trap his hand between us and dip my head to his shoulder, turning my ear to listen to his heartbeat. It’s thready. Dangerously weak. Despite the power that thrums through me, I sense my own heartbeat slowing with every passing second. My heart is giving out.
The power I thought I felt is an illusion.
We’re both dying, drowning in pain and darkness, while our minds deceive us.
I refuse to accept that this is the end of me.
Sliding my right arm up along Tristan’s chest and neck without lifting my head, I brush my fingers across his jaw and into his hair, holding on to his head, the same way he’s holding on to mine.
“Breathe with me,” I say, my voice muffled against his chest. We got into sync once, we can do it again. “Breathe in… breathe out…”
For a moment I think he’s going to push back—the same way I wanted to lash out—but he shudders and relaxes beneath me.
For the next ten minutes, we do nothing but lie together and breathe. Our chests rise and fall in unison, deep or shallow, but always in the same rhythm, the same speed.
Slowly, my head begins to clear. The burn recedes a little, but with every space it leaves behind, my former destruction fills it until I sense both sides of us pushing at each other in equal measures. A final struggle—my destruction and his fire—testing each other’s resolve, as if we’re both part of each other, fighting the same battle now.
His breath hitches, just the slightest, and I squeeze his hand tighter, press his palm as hard as I can against my heart, urging him to fight the pain with me. To survive with me.
Until finally… finally… the pain recedes, draining out of me.
I sense the moment he becomes himself again—it’s the same instant that I become myself again.
Deep relief fills me, but I don’t move. I stay right where I am, plastered against him.
His breathing is deep. Even. “We’re equals now, Tessa,” he whispers, his voice ragged. “Our wolves understand each other. We’re melded. Neither one of us can dominate the other.”
He keeps referring to ‘my wolf’ because that’s what he knows—a wolf that has its own needs and wants.
But she isn’t ‘my wolf.’ She’s me.
I understand him. At least the part of him that sees my darkness.
I don’t get up. Understanding him means knowing, instinctively, that this is where I need to stay.
“Sleep now,” I say to him.
His deep breathing tells me he’s already drifting off.
Seconds later, I sink into oblivion.
Chapter Twenty-Two
I’m cramped and stiff when I wake. My arms and legs ache like I ran a marathon and my fingers are numb where I hold Tristan’s hand squished between our bodies. He lies beneath me and me on top of him in exactly the same position that we fell asleep. The shade of light in the room tells me it’s early morning, but that would mean we slept for nearly twenty-four hours straight. It could be the case, judging by how hungry I feel.
Carefully tipping my head back without lifting my body from his, I check Tristan to see if he’s awake.
He’s fast asleep. His free hand rests on my upper back while his arm remains curled around me.
Neither of us has moved.
If he’s normally a restless sleeper, he wasn’t last night.
I find myself matching my breathing with his again, finding it scarily easy.
Our relationship has changed. Yet again. When I first laid eyes on him, he was an aggressor in my life. Then he was my captor. Then he placed me with Helen and gave me a strange sort of freedom. Then he was my captor again.
Now, his presence is as strong as it was before, his power all-encompassing, but it’s a constant simmering burn in my senses instead of an overwhelming wave like it was before.
I’m controlling my reaction to him for the first time since I met him. How much I soak in is up to me and, for a moment, I soak it all in. His body beneath mine, every muscle, the tilt of his head, the growth across his jaw, the lips that are more relaxed in sleep than I’ve ever seen them. Not snarling or growling.
His breathing doesn’t change, but he opens his eyes, his gaze just as fierce, just as crisply green. More than two
day’s growth shadows his jaw now and it makes him look wilder than yesterday. His fingers curl into the strands of my hair, brushing my scalp in a way that relaxes me, making me sigh out my next breath.
A faint smile touches his lips. “Good morning, Tessa.”
“Tristan.”
With a groan, he drags his trapped hand upward, taking my arm with him so that I stretch above my head. The movement serves to plaster my breasts against his chest. His smile grows, his eyelids lowering.
If I didn’t know better, I’d say he looks contented.
Testing his resolve to keep a hold of my hand, I tug, gratified when he slowly opens his fist. Drawing my hands down his arms and chest, I arch my back like a cat, stretching out my spine before rising to a sitting position to roll my shoulders and stretch out my neck, swaying side to side to ease the cramps in my back and shoulders.
A quick assessment tells me that my bra is a little torn, but my underwear is otherwise intact.
Tristan observes me with a lazy smile, one arm still resting above his head, the other at his side. “Fuck, I wish you’d chosen option two.”
I laugh, and it feels easy. The longer I stay in his presence, the more I feel an intoxicating liberation, a freedom with my body and mind. “Keep wishing.”
My laughter dies when he twists and rolls me onto my back beneath him, his hips pressing into my thighs. It’s a quick move, like his wolf wanted to pounce, but he keeps his animal in check, handling me lightly.
A smile plays around his mouth as he lowers his head to nudge my jaw before trailing soft nudges down my chest between my breasts and across my stomach. I can’t call them kisses, they’re more like brushes, but the second he reaches my pelvis, he strokes his flat palms all the way from my bent knees to the crease at the top of my legs, stopping before he touches any part of my body that would ease the sudden ache inside me.
I fight the impulse to reach down, pull him back to me, and urge his lips to mine, not sure if he’ll come back on his own.
His smile grows as he continues on his downward path without a word and slides off the bed, immediately turning his back on me and prowling to the closet to throw it open.
I take a second to get up, studying Tristan with a different view. From the outside, he and his wolf are in constant unity, but I’ve seen the messy turmoil within. Somehow, it makes his ability to control every second of his body’s movement even more impressive.
It’s hard not to admire the chiseled lines of his back, all the way down to his backside and thighs, but I tell myself to get up before I do something reckless, like inviting him back to his bed. We’ve just reached a tenuous truce. Nothing is worth risking that.
The open door leading out to the living area reveals the dawn light shining through the far windows. It’s hard to believe that we slept all that time.
Without asking his permission—I don’t feel like I need to—I stalk to the bathroom, close the door, and turn on the shower. It’s been nearly two days since I felt the soothing sensation of water. Stripping off, I step under the spray and close my eyes.
My sense of Tristan’s power isn’t overwhelming like it was before—an overpowering force that was a threat to me—but it’s heady if I dwell on it. I sense him moving about in his room and then the kitchen. I’m suddenly sorry to wash his scent off my body, but damn, it’s nice to shower.
Quickly washing my hair, I leave the bathroom wrapped in a towel to find a fluffy bathrobe laid out on the bed. I pull it on while the scent of coffee wafts through the open door, tugging me like a rope.
When I enter the room, Tristan stands at the far window opposite the kitchen table. He’s dressed in a new pair of jeans. He has assumed the same pose he took up yesterday morning at the gym. I wasn’t sure what he was doing then, but today, I understand that he’s checking the status of everyone in his pack.
I shiver at the realization that I can sense his intentions more quickly than my own.
“The pack was unhappy about my absence, but there were no attacks last night,” he says without turning, the tension in his shoulders easing.
A phone rests on the table. It’s still lit up as if he checked it only seconds ago. Before the screen goes blank, I see a string of notifications. All missed calls from Jace.
I suddenly realize how challenging it must be for Tristan to close his eyes at night, not knowing if he’ll be woken to the distant cries for help from his pack. I guess that’s the reason for the dark rings under his eyes and his twisted bedsheets.
“You were worried,” I say.
He pauses, rolling his shoulders. “Not until I woke up. It’s the first night in a long time that I’ve slept through until dawn.”
“A day and a night,” I murmur. “We slept a long time.”
I consider the cup of coffee resting on the kitchen table. Assuming it’s for me, I nurse it in my hands. “What happens now, Tristan?”
He turns and gives me a slow smile. “I’ve never had an equal.”
I roll my eyes at him. “Arrogant asshole.”
Approaching the table, he leans on his elbows, the muscles in his shoulders and biceps bunching. “When I took you to Hidden House, I considered you a threat,” he says. “I’m sure you felt the same way about me. In fact, I made sure you considered me your enemy.”
I acknowledge his statement with a nod. “We aren’t a danger to each other anymore.”
His eyes meet mine. “Actually, Tessa. You’re a significant threat to me.” He rises from his lean on the table. His incisors peek between his lips. “As I am to you. That hasn’t changed.”
My heart thrums in my chest, but I accept the truth in his statement without allowing my defenses to rise.
He rounds the table, but he stops and folds his arms across his chest before he reaches me. “However, you’re more of a threat to my enemies,” Tristan says. “Until I experienced your wolf, I didn’t fully comprehend just how badly you want revenge on Baxter Griffin and your half-brother, Dawson. Peter Nash too. Your family hurt you, but I thought I’d have to force you to help me. Now I realize that you want to destroy them more than I do.”
Tristan is a mere pace from me. His statements draw out memories I’d rather forget, but it’s easier to face them today. The coffee is warm in my hands, comforting, and Tristan’s presence is—remarkably—soothing. “What do you propose?”
“Baxter Griffin is hosting a celebration for his son, Cameron’s, birthday in a week. Their security will be vulnerable because of all the people coming and going. We can strike at the heart of them.”
“We’d go into their territory?” I ask. “Is that wise?”
He grins and I’m mesmerized by the way he makes a smile look threatening. “Short of luring each of them here, it’s the best opportunity we’ll get.”
Taking Baxter Griffin out was never going to be easy. Striking in his territory is exactly the sort of inflammatory act that will beg his pack to retaliate. “We can’t fail or they’ll retaliate with force.”
“Then at least we’ll have a fight that ends this feud once and for all,” Tristan says. “Right now, they’re picking us off one by one. Random, unpredictable attacks that demoralize my pack.”
I’m quiet. “You could have killed Peter Nash on the night you took me. Why didn’t you?”
“With five other alphas and their betas standing nearby waiting for a reason to kill me?” he asks. “I’m ruthless. But I’m not a fool.”
He leans forward, switching back to the problem at hand. “You have to decide if you’re in or you’re out, Tessa. I can show you my city today. Then I can give you all the tools you need to end everyone who’s ever wronged you. I’ll give you the means and the opportunity. It’s up to you whether you carry through.”
“You’re going to light the fire and watch it burn,” I say, raising my eyes to his.
Tristan’s forehead creases and I remember that I was an eavesdropper on his conversation with Jace two nights ago when Tristan first menti
oned the three-headed wolf.
Revenge is a fire I want to burn, but I also need to test how much control I really have over my future now.
“What if I don’t accept your proposal?” I ask.
He tips his head, eyeing me. “Then it gets complicated.”
“How so?” I place my coffee cup on the table and close the gap, challenging the space between us. “You said we’re equals now. Explain to me why I can’t walk out of here right now.”
His eyes darken. “What we did yesterday hasn’t been achieved in hundreds of years, Tessa. We bonded at a higher level—”
I jolt away from him. “That’s impossible. I can’t bond.”
“I’m not talking about being true mates.” His voice remains low, but his hands rise. “I’m talking about a connection even purer than that. Your wolf and my wolf stepped into the heart of the other. We experienced each other’s darkness. It’s nearly impossible to survive that kind of darkness that hungers for death.”
A growing storm fills his eyes as he speaks and I sense his inner turmoil.
“You didn’t care if you survived,” I whisper, my eyes widening with the surprising realization. “You’re living on the edge of death and you would have welcomed your own end. You say you’re not reckless, but I’m not so sure about that, Tristan. That’s what makes you so dangerous. You’re unpredictable.”
His lips press together, his expression hardening, but his green eyes gleam like emeralds. “Do you see, Tessa? You can sense my emotions now. Mates can communicate by speaking into each other’s minds, but you and I don’t need to use words.”
“You mean you can read my thoughts?” I ask, suddenly anxious that he knows about my encounter with the white wolf—and about my ability to separate from my wolf.
“No, I can’t read your thoughts. It’s more primal and instinctive than that.” He steps forward with a rapidity that takes my breath away, but I’m just as fast, anticipating the reach of his arms as I twist away from him. It’s difficult to move agilely in the thick bathrobe, but I manage it. He predicts my evasion and steps into the space I’m aiming for. Except that I sense he’s going to do that, so I step in the opposite direction. For a few seconds, we chase each other along the table, each predicting the other’s moves.