Chapter 47

CHAPTER FORTY-SEVEN

LAYLA

"I hate telling you no, but you know I don't have time this morning," Tristan huffs as he steps from the sauna and pads into the bathroom to find me naked in a bubble-filled tub. "The club opens tomorrow night, and there is still so much to do."

He bends down to kiss me, the tips of the towel resting around his neck dragging along the surface of the sudsy water. I eagerly accept his lips on mine as I wrap the towel around my hands. I give it a firm tug. "Get in the tub, Tristan," I insist.

"Are you telling me what to do, mo cuishle ?" He cocks a playful but inquisitive brow.

"I'm serious, Tris. If you meant what you said last night, you need to get in the tub," I press. "I need to know the man I'm in love with."

I have so many questions. So many things that I'm near certain I don't actually want to know the answer to .

With his hands firmly pressed against the opposing sides of the tub, he stares down at me. I hold his gaze, refusing to back down on my demand. Not bothering to shed the towel wrapped around his waist, Tristan slides over the edge and lowers himself into the water on top of me.

"I meant every fucking word." He places a chaste kiss on my lips before sliding to the other end of the tub. He pulls the sodden towel from beneath him and plops it on the gray tiles surrounding the tub. Getting comfortable and resting his arms along the lip of the tub, he prompts, "Ask. No more secrets. I'll tell you anything you want to know."

I hesitate for a moment—knowing I can't close this box once I open it. "You've killed people."

"Yes," he answers matter-of-factly.

"How many?"

"I don't know." He lets out a heavy sigh. "A lot of them. Enough to earn the name Balor ."

The word means nothing to me, and I repeat it back to him.

"It means the Demon King." He takes a heavy pause. "The God of Death in Celtic mythology. A creature so evil he could kill men just from looking at them."

I stare at him— hoping my mouth isn't agape— struggling for something to say and trying to decide whether his tone is pride or shame. Or a bit of both.

"Bad people?" I try to justify his actions to myself.

"Most of them," he answers honestly .

"Women?"

"No." He tenderly rubs his hand along my calf resting between his legs.

"Children?"

He adamantly shakes his head. "Never."

"You said you've killed for me," I try to recall our conversation from last night.

"I have."

"Why?" I ask, not understanding.

"Because he came for you. To hurt you because they know it's the only way they can really hurt me."

"When?"

"The night you called because you were scared, asking me to come be with you?—"

"I heard something." I try to remember that night. "Were you in my apartment?"

He nods. "And so was he."

"Quinn," I exhale, my stomach dropping when I realize that it was the same night.

That could've been me.

He firmly grips my legs as his eyes lock mine. "Nothing like that will ever happen to you. You might not bear my name, but you are an Evans now. My brothers and an army of men will protect you. "

We sit in silence for a moment as he gives me time to process the things he has shared. As he waits patiently, he lightly massages my feet beneath the tepid water.

"Why did you ask me to come stay with you?"

"Because it was best for you," he responds. "Every decision I have ever made for you is for your best."

"That's a bullshit answer."

"This was the safest for you," he admits as his fingers rub over the pruned skin of my toes. "But selfishly, because I got to have you here with me."

Our conversation moves from the cooling tub to the bed. Ignoring his responsibilities at the club, he lays beside me for hours and continues to answer question after question, not once deflecting a single answer, ensuring that I know every last thing about him.

I still love him.

I don't love him in spite of who he is. It's for who he is. All of him. A man that loves me enough to share the darkest parts of his soul with me.

And fuck are they dark.

But if Tristan Evan is the devil, I guess I'm going to burn in hell.

Because I couldn't stop loving him if I fucking tried.

Staring at me from his pillow, he strokes the side of my face with the back of his hand. "Anything else, mo cuishle ?"

"Just one more question." I purposely take a long, dramatic pause, "Who is Savannah McIntyre? "

"Fucking Finnigan!" he exclaims as he rolls on top of me and pins me to the bed. He stares down at me with a genuine smile spreading across his face. "I love you."

"I love y—" His lips crash against mine and he claims my mouth, telling me without words how he's going to claim my body.