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Bullets he used his body to shield me from.
Tiny shards of glass are speckled across the pavement, reflecting the glow of the city lights above them. Many of them being drowned in growing puddles of blood.
So much fucking blood.
Dead men lying in the middle of the street where they were haphazardly discarded as they fell. And Tristan, standing in the middle of them with his back to me.
“Tristan!” I scream, my voice pained with excitement as I run to him.
“Stop!” he demands as I cross the last few feet between us. “Go with Conor and Liam.”
“Tris—”
“Go!” He raises his voice when he repeats himself. “This isn’t the way you want to think of me.”
I stand behind him, my feet rooted in place as I struggle against my need to disobey him. Lifting my hand to reach for him, I pause upon seeing the crimson droplets falling from his fingertips.
“I told you.” He lets out a heavy sigh. “This isn’t how you want to see me.”
“Tristan Evans.” I slide my fingers through the sticky, warm liquid covering his hand as I lace my fingers with his. “Occasionally, you might have to admit that you don’t always know what’s best for me.”
Squeezing his hand, I urge him to turn to face me. Letting him be the one to expose this last piece of himself to me. He turns slowly, revealing his face to be equally as drenched in blood as his hands. His blue eyes practically glow beneath the crimson mask covering his face.
I reach for his other hand—also dripping with blood—and take it into mine. “You don’t need to hide from me. I take you as you are.”
He shakes his head, as though he’s in disbelief. I lift his hands to my face. Cupping my cheeks with his palms, I rub the blood of the dead over my skin as I continue, “I take the darkest part of your soul. Give me the parts that scare even you. I want them all… Because they’re you.”
Tristan dips his head and presses his forehead to mine, cradling my face as his eyes stare back into the deepest parts of my soul.
“How did I get so fucking lucky?” His words waft over my face.
“Declan.” I smirk as Tristan holds me against his chest, and I wrap my arms around his waist, staining my clothes and smearing blood over me as he pulls me against him.
“Tá mo chroí istigh ionat,” he whispers, his deep version of I love you.
“And mine in you.” I stare up at him.
Conor lays on the horn of the SUV parked in the middle of the street and shouts at us out of the window. “This is fucking beautiful and shit, but do you two fucking lovebirds think you could get your arses in fucking car before the cops arrive?”
CHAPTER FIFTY-FIVE
TRISTAN
Layla rides home in my lap, sharing my seat in the back of the SUV. My Balor interior and blood-soaked exterior not changing her view of me in the slightest.
On the short drive, I made two quick calls. The first to Declan as a warning. Needing to know that he and Fiona are safe in his fortress of a home. The second to Cillian, ensuring that he got Quinn home safely. Relief washes over me upon learning that both of them are fine.
Reaching home, I forgo cleaning tonight from me and head straight to my office with Conor and Liam in tow as Layla heads to the shower. The mess we left in Midtown is going to make some big fucking waves. It’s going to draw the attention of the Pakhan in ways we can only imagine.
Shoving my hand into the jacket pockets of my suit, I pull out my souvenirs of the evening—four matching sets of Thieves’ stars and the scraps of skin they’re inked in. I toss each of them onto my desk before placing them one by one into a sleek black gift box and closing the lid.
I lift a note card from my drawer and scribble a message for him. The dried blood on my hands spreads across the cream paper with every word I write.
Your men will fucking kneel for the Evans.
“Send it.” I hand the box to Conor.
“This will wage a fucking war.” Liam shakes his head.
