Chapter 9

9

NINA

The next morning, I perch at the breakfast table, drumming my fingers, anticipation bubbling in my belly like a pot left on the stove. I’m eager to see how Tristan will react to my alarm clock vendetta.

I should be livid at him for what he said yesterday. But there’s also something else wedged in my chest that I can’t describe or comprehend. He put it there last night, as he stood outside my room whispering an apology. Munching on my toast, I reminisce about how hearing Tristan on the other side of my door rattled me. The soft knock that punched me in the solar plexus. The way he called my name as if it were a precious thing that might shatter if handled too roughly. That murmured “I’m sorry.”

What’s up with the decent person act?

“Morning,” Dylan yawns as he enters the kitchen, joining me, Mom, and Dad. He seems surprised to find me already there. I’m notoriously not a morning person. “Hey, sis. You’re up early.”

I shrug, feigning nonchalance. “Couldn’t sleep.” Not even a lie. The plan was to keep the Prince of Darkness awake all night, but I couldn’t help stirring, too, as I counted down the time to the next alarm, imagining his reaction, tensing in bed to hear any movement in the adjoining room.

Speaking of the devil… Tristan shuffles in a few minutes later, sleep-tousled but still impossibly gorgeous in gray sweatpants and a snug white T-shirt. Dark circles rim his eyes, and his hair sticks up in ten different directions.

I hide my smirk behind my coffee cup. Our eyes meet, a collision with blue fire that threatens to melt me into a puddle.

“Morning,” he mumbles, grabbing the coffee pot.

“Good morning. Slept well?” I ask, the picture of innocence.

“Like a baby,” he grunts, pouring a liberal amount of coffee into his mug and coming to sit next to me. Leaning close, he adds in a whisper, “I woke up every two hours and cried.”

His warm breath brushes my neck, sending a shockwave of tingles cascading down my arms. The goosebumps worsen when our legs come in contact under the table. The side of his right thigh plastered against my left. Tristan doesn’t move away. And, for unfathomable reasons, I don’t retreat, either.

Seeing how everyone is abusing the caffeine today, Dad stands up and makes a new pot. The aroma of freshly brewed coffee fills the air, mingling with the scent of crispy bacon and golden-brown toast. I try my best to focus on the conversation between my parents, Dylan, and Tristan, but it’s an uphill battle. The side of my thigh is slowly melting under the table. Tristan’s leg feels scorching against mine. Who knew demons ran on hot blood?

Despite the distracting body contact, my mind is racing, attempting to anticipate what prank Tristan will pull on me as retaliation for the pleasant night of unrest I gifted him.

He’s acting too casual. I’m sure he has something in store. Well, I’ve learned the hard way not to trust him with my drinks or food. I’m making an exception only for the pack of Oreos that we’re sharing and only because he opened the tube in front of me. No occasion to tamper with it.

The cookies go untouched by everyone else in the house. Mom and Dad avoid them for health reasons, but Dylan just doesn’t like them. I wonder how my brother turned out fine despite his poor taste in processed sweets.

I stuff another cookie in my mouth. I mean, they’re delicious. How could any sane person not appreciate it?

“Nina.” Dad pulls me back into the present. “Do you want a second cup of coffee, honey?”

I shake my head. “No, thanks. I’m good.” If I ingest any more caffeine, my jitters are going to explode out of proportion.

Tristan’s gaze flickers to me, amused. “You look preoccupied.”

I shrug nonchalantly. “I’m peachy.”

He arches an eyebrow but doesn’t comment further.

Dylan looks between us suspiciously. “What’s going on with you two?”

We both blink back at him like little angels, saying, “Nothing.”

My brother doesn’t look convinced. “So you patched things up after last night?”

Tristan drops an arm over my shoulders, pulling me close. “Yeah, your sister and I are all good now, aren’t we, Nina?” His tone is playful, yet there’s an underlying challenge in his eyes that only I can read. It negates everything he’s saying, promising swift revenge.

But that’s not even the most worrisome factor in this exchange. Right now, the lingering physical contact is my top concern. It sends ripples of unease through me, especially because I don’t totally hate the weight of Tristan’s arm on my shoulders. Or having more of his side pressed into me. He even smells good. A trace of spice mixing with clean soap, an intoxicating scent that whispers of temptation. After all, alluring innocent souls is his literal job.

“Yep, all g-great,” I stammer.

Dylan’s eyes narrow slightly, and I can tell he’s not buying the charade for a second. “Right,” he says, dragging out the word.

Tristan’s arm is still around me when Dad changes the subject. “So, Tristan, how’s that new software project coming along at your company?”

Tristan slides into business mode, the arm retreating from my shoulders as he turns to face my father. “It’s going well, Mr. Thompson, Greg—” he corrects himself.

With a little more personal space available and an uninteresting subject being discussed, I’m free to tune them out once again. And go back to obsessing over what Tristan’s next step is going to be.

He’s acting freakishly calm. And, okay, waking him up every hour was admittedly mean, but he basically called me Dumbo. He deserved it.

As breakfast ends with no imaginary bugs crawling into my drink or sugar turning out to be salt in my morning coffee, I’m almost disappointed. Has Tristan decided to call a truce for real? It seems unlikely. I watch as he exits the kitchen, leaving me alone with my thoughts and the remnants of our meal.

In the Thompsons’ strict organization of family chores, I always have to clear the breakfast table. Mostly because I’ve historically been the last to join and finish.

I collect the dirty dishes and rinse them in the sink before piling them into the dishwasher. I’m not one of those people willing to put everything in without a previous scrub and roll the dice to see what food scraps cling on like glitter after the wash cycle.

Uh, maybe my next prank for Tristan should be a glitter bomb. He’d never get rid of it. The iridescent dust would stick to him until he went to his grave. Which, with him, could be sooner than expected. I bet he sleeps in a coffin back at his place.

I let out a diabolical laugh in my mind as I imagine Tristan covered from head to toe in sparkly pink powder. I must look in the supply closet to see if Zoe has left any behind from one of her craft projects. My niece loves glitter. Zoe isn’t really my niece, but I don’t know what the correct degree of kinship is. I still think of her as my niece.

Once the dishwasher is loaded, I finish cleaning up the table, collecting the salt and pepper shakers, the sugar dispenser, and the Nutella jar. The creamer goes back in the fridge. And the empty Oreos pack in the trash.

“Uh, wait.” I pause as I spot the last Oreo abandoned at the bottom of the tube, a sly grin spreading across my face. I snatch it up triumphantly. That sucker must’ve missed it.

I take a bite, expecting the sweet, familiar taste of the creamy filling. Instead, my mouth is assaulted by the strong, minty flavor of toothpaste. My eyes water as I force myself not to gag on the vile concoction.

That jackass!

I sputter the crumbs into the bin, coughing madly, and guzzle water straight from the sink to rinse the aftertaste of chocolate and Colgate.

“Something went down the wrong pipe again, Thompson?” A chuckle behind me makes me spin around, my entire face red with both embarrassment and the aftermath of my half-choking fit.

Tristan leans against the door frame, a self-satisfied smirk plastered on his face that would make even a saint want to punch it. It’s infuriating how handsome he looks even when he’s being a complete and utter bastard. “No.” I flash him a mock-sweet smile, hoping there’s no black cookie stuck between my teeth. “Just sampling the latest minty Oreo fusion. You should try it; it’s… refreshing.”

He pushes off from the doorway and strolls over, his blue eyes alight with wickedness. “Glad to hear you’re refreshed.”

“ So refreshed.”

If he comes a step closer, I’m going to lose my cool and unravel like a ball of yarn—or spray him with the sink hose. That would actually be a great idea. I stare at the tube just out of my reach, wondering how fast I can grab it.

Tristan follows my gaze and shakes his head. “Nuh-uh, Thompson.” He maneuvers himself between me and the sink.

And why do I feel like my spinal cord has suddenly turned to ice? Or molten lava? I’m not sure if I’m feeling hot or cold. My temperature regulators must be malfunctioning.

Tristan is close now, close enough for me to notice the faint stubble on his jaw and a stray smudge of Nutella at the corner of his mouth. An unbidden thought crosses my mind about how it’d feel to wipe it away with my finger or to lick it off…

“What are you thinking, Thompson?” he drawls.

My eyes snap back to his, guilt flushing my cheeks. “How to put you in your place, Montgomery .”

He raises an eyebrow, his lips twitching, as if fighting a smile. “And where exactly is my place?” There’s a challenge in his voice, wrapped in that velvet tone that makes my stomach do somersaults.

“Far away from here, preferably. In a pit underground with your little demon friends,” I retort, trying to maintain a shred of composure despite the heat crawling up my neck.

Unfazed, Tristan reaches behind me for the coffee pot, effectively caging me between the kitchen counter and his hard body, with which I experienced more contact today than in the fifteen years we’ve known each other.

Still unhurriedly, he reaches for a mug on the shelf above my head and pours himself a coffee with all the calm of a vampire swirling a chalice of fresh blood.

I finally regain some presence of spirit and push him away, beelining for the door. “Wash that mug after you’re done.”

I turn back as I reach the threshold, only to find him leisurely sipping his coffee while leaning against the counter. He lifts the mug to me in a mock toast. “Sure thing, Thompson, what do you take me for? A savage?”

He’s worse than a savage. Tristan Montgomery is a Viking king come to pillage my home, defile my peace, and ruin my holiday cheer.