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To his credit, Tristan doesn’t try to make excuses. Instead, he sighs, “Well, I can’t hear you, but I can feel whatever you’re feeling, yes.”
“And you didn’t tell me?” I shriek, drawing some concerned scowls from fellow patrons. I drop my voice into a hiss, “Real respectful, Senator!”
He cringes. “I did try to tell you, that first night, when I said you shouldn’t lie to me about how you feel. But you were so upset, I didn’t want you to feel worse. And then, sometimes, it almost felt like you knew I could feel whatever you were feeling. Like you maybe liked it, even.”
Is that true?
Oh God.
What does it say about me if that’s true?!
I never get a chance to decide. Because he isn’t done.
With complete, honest humility, Tris looks into my eyes and admits, “I liked it. And I hate myself for that. Because I was so wrong, biting you, and I haven’t done one single goddamn thing to deserve you. But having you with me like this—even though it hurts—it’s been the first time in as long as I can remember that I haven’t felt alone.”
I’ve been keeping a catalog of Tristan Thorne’s secret traits. How he’s much quieter than I ever expected a public figure to be. So smart and deep. Calm. Kind. Unyielding in his dominance—without ever needing to show his teeth.
Now, a new word joins my list. One that fits him better than I want it to.
Lonely.
He spends his life working for everyone else. Fighting for the rights he thought his brother might not have; making sure all of his packmates had their dreams come true.
Who does the same for him?
No one.
He watches me realize the truth. Unflinchingly honest and humble, even in this.
Better than me. Because I spent years surrounded by people, knowing I was completely alone—but I don’t know if I would have had the courage to tell anyone that.
Especially him.
I don’t understand one thing, though. “M-me? I don’t—I’ve basically been a hot mess this whole time. Scared and confused and”—falling in love and fucking nonstop— “everything else. How could that possibly be a good thing?”
He lifts his shoulder, smiling softly. “It hasn’t always been easy,” he concedes. “But it’s always been good. It also made it a lot easier to make sure you always had what you needed.”
He taps his phone, sending a cold wash of realization through me. My mind skips back to that day at the nest store—the way the guys’ phones went off every time I started to freak out.
He’s been texting them. Checking on me.
Our eyes lock again as he adds, “I didn’t want you to feel alone, the way I used to.”
It doesn’t matter that I have no words to reply to that. He feels the bittersweet amazement swelling in my center and reaches over to clasp my hand again.
When I sniff back a rush of emotion and squeeze him back, he flashes the soft smile again. “Mind if I try something?”
I manage a shaky nod, losing the battle with one of the droplets clinging to my lashes. He watches it roll halfway down my cheek before reaching his free hand over, moving his chair close enough to swipe it away.
Something shifts in that indistinct place that somehow feels like the very center of my being, even if I can’t pinpoint where exactly it is. The feeling slowly fills me. Bright and gentle, with shaky edges.
It feels… a lot like hope.
His hope, I realize.
He’s showing it to me; so carefully, I know it must be something he practiced after the night he accidentally knocked me out.
I suspected as much after his rut, when he somehow sent me that one little beat of gratitude. This time, it’s more than one feeling, though. It’s a swirl of typical Tristan and the completely unexpected.
