Total pages in book: 144
Estimated words: 133138 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 666(@200wpm)___ 533(@250wpm)___ 444(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 133138 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 666(@200wpm)___ 533(@250wpm)___ 444(@300wpm)
“No, it’s not. Tristan—”
“Non! One time, just one fucking time!” he snarls, tears slipping down his cheeks. But he’s backed me up against the wall—literally—and he pounds a fist against it, just over my head. “One time, I want something nice like Simon! He doesn’t know what he has! He can have a pretty girl every week, every night! He gets anything, everything! Like that!” He snaps his fingers, and I flinch.
Tristan leans toward me again, as though he’s going to kiss me. I’ve been dealing with him as though Tristan is a boy in need of help, sympathizing with his pain. But the reality is . . . he’s a young man who’s much larger than I am and who’s lashing out in anger, and I’m the only target in front of him.
“Tristan . . . no. Please, no!” I push at his chest, lifting my knee.
But it’s too late.
A presence emerges behind Tristan, filling the hallway. In a single movement, he grabs Tristan and pulls him away from me, shoving him down the hallway.
It’s then that I realize it’s Simon, and he is furious. He steps into Tristan, grabbing his shirt and twisting it in his fist. Though Tristan is slightly taller than Simon, it’s obvious who will win this battle. “You will never touch her!” he growls, his French so tinged with anger I can barely understand him. “Never!”
“I . . . I wasn’t going to hurt her!” Tristan says, trying to peel Simon’s hand off his shirt, but Simon’s grip is iron hard. “Simon—”
“I trusted you! I gave you my time, my brotherhood!” Simon continues. “I put myself out there for you, and this is how you . . .” I lose some of the words, but I get the gist. This is how you repay me.
Tristan sobs, and I step forward, putting my hand on Simon’s forearm. “Simon.” When he doesn’t let go, I sharpen my tone. “Simon! Let go. He’s a boy. A scared and angry boy. He needs love, not violence.”
I can see it. Tristan is big—a young man in truth—but he’s also a boy. A boy who’s never known love, kindness, or acceptance. A boy who’s raging against the hand he was dealt and feels like Simon was given the winning lottery ticket out of hell at a time when he’s getting shoved out the door of the only home he’s known and into an even worse existence of post-orphanage life. It doesn’t excuse what Triston’s done, not in the slightest. And there will need to be consequences, but not this. Not a beating at the hand of the one person who’s shown him kindness. I’m afraid that would only reaffirm Tristan’s trust issues.
Simon’s eyes cut to me, and for a moment I’m worried, but Simon lets go, shoving Tristan back. “Go! Get out of here!”
Tristan stumbles backward, his eyes shooting fiery, pain-filled hate. He smooths the wrinkles of his shirt harshly with his palms and then spits out something in French that I think roughly means ‘fake’ before turning and storming off.
Simon grabs my hand, pulling me down the hallway the opposite way from where Tristan went. He tries a door, growling when he finds it’s locked.
“Simon?” I ask, not sure what’s going on.
He was so angry. I really thought he might hit Tristan. Not that Tristan didn’t deserve it, but still . . .
On the third try, Simon finds an unlocked door and pushes me inside, slamming the door shut behind us. He’s panting hard, and when he flicks on the light, I can see that his eyes are bright and wild, and we’re in some sort of small linen closet.
“Simon?”
CHAPTER 22
SIMON
My pulse pounds in my temples, my rage barely held back by more pressing matters such as Autumn’s safety. When I came around that corner with plans to surprise Autumn and heard her plea of ‘no’, I saw red. My vision actually blurred, and while I’ve never been one for violence, I very nearly hit Tristan. I could’ve beat the shit out him for what he was doing . . . or trying to do.
I have to remember that. He tried. I stopped him, but I need to be sure.
I push Autumn into the first available room that I can find and then face her. I force myself to gentle my touch to cup her cheeks in my palms. “Did he hurt you? Are you okay?” I bite out, holding onto myself with sheer will.
She lays her hands over my forearms, her eyes imploring mine to hear her. “I’m okay. He didn’t hurt me, just . . . scared me.” The confession feels forced, like she didn’t want to tell me but it slipped out anyway.
“Ah, Princesse, no one is to touch you. No one but me.” The proclamation is a bit caveman-ish, I admit. But I feel quite like a Neanderthal. I need to mark her, wipe away any trace of Tristan’s touch. I swipe my thumb over her bottom lip—a lip he wanted to steal from me—watching the plump flesh bend to my touch.