Chapter 45

CHAPTER FORTY-FIVE

LAYLA

"Tristan?" I call out when I wake and find his side of the bed is empty. The sheets are cool as I rub my hand over them. He hasn't been here for a while.

Climbing from bed, I throw on my robe to check the apartment for him. The wooden floors are cold beneath my bare feet as I quickly check each of the empty rooms. Each room I pass through only confirming what I already know, I wasn't going to find him.

This is the third time in the two weeks I've been living here that he's up and disappeared while I was asleep.

That I know of.

It isn't the leaving in the middle of the night that bothers me. It's sneaking in and out like he has something to hide.

The elevator dings, and when the doors open, Tristan is standing beneath the glow of the fluorescent lights. With no lights illuminating the apartment, he doesn't see me cloaked in the shadows as he steps into the foyer .

He quietly kicks off his shoes and removes his jacket before heading toward our bedroom. I follow behind him in silence, my bare feet not making a sound on the hardwood floor.

"Where were you?" I ask as I creep up behind him.

Before I have a chance to react, his hand is around my throat. He uses a deathly tight grip to throw me against the wall, pinning me to it with the weight of his body. I hit it with a silent thud. The fingers laced around my throat silence any screams or grunts I try to get out.

"Oh fuck, mo cuishle ." Tristan's voice sounds pained, and he immediately releases my throat and tenderly cups my face.

I swat at his arms, trying to push his hands away. "I'm so fucking sorry." His apology is sincere.

Refusing to let go as I shove him from me, he tips my face up to his and forces me to meet his gaze. Even in the dimly lit hallway, there is no denying that his eyes are full of anguish. "I didn't know. I didn't know it was you. I didn't know…"

"Tris," I sob, unable to hold back the tears welling in my eyes; they begin to trickle down my cheeks.

"I swear, I didn't know it was you." He shakes his head and swipes his thumbs over my cheeks, wiping away my tears. "I would never fucking hurt you."

Tristan continues to repeat himself as he pulls me into him. As much as I want to shove him away, I cling to him as I cry into his chest .

"There are a lot of things in this world you should fear, but I swear on my life, I am not one of them," he whispers against the top of my head.

"Why?" I swallow hard.

"I thought someone had come for you." He tightens his embrace.

"You aren't making any sense." Wriggling in his hold, I shove away from him. "Why would someone come for me?" There's no denying the demand in my tone.

Tristan shifts his weight, and the dim bedroom light filtering into the hallway illuminates him. I take in his disheveled appearance— blood splattered across his previously white shirt, freshly bloodied knuckles, and a small cut above his left eye —barely acknowledging the words spilling from his lips, "Because of who I am."

"Because of who you are?" I exclaim, repeating his answer as my eyes continue to roam over his body. My voice is laced with concern. "What the hell happened to you?"

"There are things about me you don't know. Things I've hidden from you. Parts of me and my life I didn't let you see."

"The blood," I ask again, dreading the thought that he's not okay.

"It's not mine." He shakes his head and begins removing his stained shirt. "That's what I'm trying to tell you."

He talks, but my mind swarms with more thoughts than I can manage at once. The entire time I've known…something .

The near-constant bruised and bloody knuckles… Massive apartment… Lavish dinners and gifts… His brothers, and how they're all always together… The way everyone bows to him…

… And now coming home covered in blood.

"Tell me who you are," I plead.

"You don't want to know who I am."

"Tell me," I beg again.

"I already don't deserve you," he mutters, avoiding my pleas.

"Tell me." My tone grows more demanding. "Who are you? Where do you disappear to in the middle of the night?"

"I can't. You'll hate me."

"I'll hate you if you don't," I exhale.

"What do you want to hear? That I'm a criminal? A fucking killer?"

"Yes!" I scream, suddenly feeling as though my world is shattering. "I want you to stop fucking lying to me. I'm giving you fucking all of me, and you've been pretending to be a different fucking person the whole time."

"I haven't pretended with you." He steps toward me. "Not for a fucking minute."

"And I'm just supposed to believe you?" I huff as he continues to close the distance between us.

"Yes," he responds. My back hits the wall, but he doesn't pin me to it or grab ahold of me. He simply stands before me and stares down at me in silence. Unsure what to say, I stare up at him, matching his reticence.

His eyes are filled with guilt as he blows a soft, deep breath over my face. He lifts his hand, and I pull slightly from his touch. But when he drags a knuckle along my jaw, I can't help but lean into it. He turns his hand, and his fingers slide along my cheek until he is holding my face in his palms.

"There isn't anything in this world I wouldn't do for you. I would kill for you. Fuck. I have killed for you," he vehemently confesses. He lets out a heavy sigh, and his tone softens. "I would give my fucking life to protect you, mo cuishle , because a life without you wouldn't be worth living."

"Don't. Don't you dare do that." I hold back tears and chew at my quivering lower lip. "Don't tell me you love me."

"I don't love you." His slow, soft words break me.